Still of Night (Dead of Night 3)

Awful, but true. And this was war.

Two branches suddenly broke free of their tethers and slashed at her, but Dahlia stepped into them, bashing one down with her left forearm so that the paint spattered the ground; and catching the other with her right hand and shoving it backward. She twisted it and broke the branch. Broke its neck. It sagged down and she moved. She had paint droplets on her, but not an impact splash. Not a bite.

“On your six,” yelled Church, and Dahlia whirled to see three Pack members in white boiler suits come rushing out of the woods. This was new. They reached for her with hands that dripped with fresh paint. The attackers looked weird, too big, and she realized that they were wearing padding under their clothes.

Dahlia darted to the right so that she was on the outside of the line rather than letting them all come at her like a wave. She slap-parried a reaching arm and then stepped in and shoved the outside attacker with all of her considerable weight. Although she wasn’t as heavy as she used to be, Dahlia carried a lot of mass, and beneath the fat there were newly trained and very tough muscles. The outside “zombie” crashed into the others and they all went down. As they fell she spotted a wrapped bundle on the ground. Not the prize, but a tool. She dove for it, rolled with a measure of grace, ignored the thump of her shoulder on the ground, and came up with the prize, whipping off the rags as she did so. Inside there was a plastic water pistol but it was nearly empty. How many squirts? Two? Three?

She brought it up and almost fired it, but stopped. Three squirts meant three bullets. Not a lot of ammunition but a lot of noise. With a growl she thrust the water pistol into her pocket, snatched up a piece of broken branch and ran over to where the three faux zombies were trying to untangle themselves. She jabbed the closest one twice on the back of the skull.

“Dead,” she cried, and the zombie collapsed down.

Dahlia knelt on him and reached over his bulk to repeat the action with the second.

“Dead.”

The third was thrashing and she hit him four times before she got good placement on the temple.

“Dead,” she cried.

“Miss!” called Church. “The temple is lethal to humans, not to the dead.”

She cursed. Church was always a stickler for accuracy. It wasn’t just any part of the brain that killed the zombies; only a few specific areas would work. So she climbed over the two “dead” ones, ignoring the grunts and cries of the Pack-members inside the padding, pushed the third zombie’s head down and stabbed really hard on the brain stem.

“Ow!” cried the zombie.

“Dead,” yelled Dahlia.

“Don’t wait for applause,” said Church. “Move!”

She moved.

Everything in the Arena seemed to be in motion and she tried not to focus on any one part. Mushin no shin.

“Thirty,” yelled someone, and suddenly Skye wheeled on Pepe and grabbed him. She bent forward to try and bite his neck, making it look way too real. Pepe howled in pain and surprise as he shoved her away, and then the Pack mem

bers began a new count. For him.

Then Bailey was there, and she had a ten-inch length of plastic garbage hose that was taped at one end. A training knife. She stepped up behind Skye, grabbed her paint-smeared hair, pushed her head forward and stabbed her four times in the back of the neck.

“Dead!”

Pepe was still standing there, a hand pressed to his neck. Red leaked between his fingers. Skye had actually bitten him. From the ground, Skye cried out, “God, I’m sorry.”

Then another branch was released, smacking Bailey and Pepe both with gobs of paint. The Pack members howled and began counting in total confusion. Dahlia started in that direction, then spotted a large bundle on the ground.

Fuck, she thought, torn for a split second with indecision.

The War is the War.

She dove for the bundle as another branch whipped a paper plate at her. It painted a skunk-tail of white along her back, but there was no straight impact. Still no bite. She dropped to her knees by the bundle and snatched it up, surprised at how heavy and awkward it was. When she tore off the wrapping her heart nearly froze. Inside the bundle was a waterproof canvas bag filled with water balloons, and tied to the front of it was the plastic face of a doll. A baby. The water in the balloons was warm, and Dahlia immediate understood. This was a child. Alive.

God.

In that moment the bundle in her arms was alive. The part of Dahlia that was the ironic and caustic chubby girl in high school wanted to scoff at the feelings that rose up in her. The aspect that was Dahlia, who created the Pack and survived the apocalypse, wanted to dismiss the bundle as a burden, as a liability.

But the version of Dahlia who was here now? The part that had chosen to step away from Trash and stand with Mr. Church had a completely different take. It wasn’t any maternal gene kicking in. No, that wasn’t her, and she knew it. Instead, she was feeling an urge that was both older and newer at the same time. It was the core survival instinct of the Pack needing to protect its own, particularly the young, because without babies the Pack died. Any pack, which is why everything from whales to wolves raised and cared for their babies. That was part of it.

The other part was the world was being emptied like a broken hourglass. If all the sands ran out there was nothing left to fill it. Time, at least for humanity, would end. Babies were proof of the potential to rebuild, regrow, reclaim.