1
BENNY IMURA COULDN’T HOLD A JOB, SO HE TOOK TO KILLING.
It was the family business. He barely liked his family—and by family he meant his older brother, Tom—and he definitely didn’t like the idea of “business. ” Or work. The only part of the deal that sounded like it might be fun was the actual killing.
He’d never done it before. Sure, he’d gone through a hundred simulations in gym class and in the Scouts, but they never let kids do any real killing. Not before they hit fifteen.
“Why not?” he asked his Scoutmaster, a fat guy named Feeney who used to be a TV weatherman back in the day. Benny was eleven at the time and obsessed with zombie hunting. “How come you don’t let us whack some real zoms?”
“Because killing’s the sort of thing you should learn from your folks,” said Feeney.
“I don’t have any folks,” Benny countered. “My mom and dad died on First Night. ”
“Ouch. Sorry, Benny—I forgot. Point is, you got family of some kind, right?”
“I guess. I got ‘I’m Mr. Freaking Perfect Tom Imura’ for a brother, and I don’t want to learn anything from him. ”
Feeney had stared at him. “Wow. I didn’t know you were related to him. He’s your brother, huh? Well, there’s your answer, kid. Nobody better to teach you the art of killing than a professional killer like Tom Imura. ” Feeney paused and licked his lips nervously. “I guess being his brother and all, you’ve seen him take down a lot of zoms. ”
“No,” Benny said with huge annoyance. “He never lets me watch. ”
“Really? That’s odd. Well, ask him when you turn thirteen. ”
Benny had asked on his thirteenth birthday, and Tom had said no. Again. It wasn’t a discussion. Just “No. ”
That was more than two years ago, and now Benny was six weeks past his fifteenth birthday. He had four more weeks grace to find a paying job before town ordinance cut his rations by half. Benny hated being in that position, and if one more person gave him the “fifteen and free” speech, he was going to scream. He hated that as much as when people saw someone doing hard work and they said crap like, “Holy smokes, he’s going at that like he’s fifteen and out of food. ”
Like it was something to be happy about. Something to be proud of. Working your butt off for the rest of your life. Benny didn’t see where the fun was in that. Okay, maybe it was marginally okay because it meant only half days of school from then on, but it still sucked.
His buddy Lou Chong said it was a sign of the growing cultural oppression that was driving postapocalyptic humanity toward acceptance of a new slave state. Benny had no freaking idea what Chong meant or if there was even meaning in anything he said. But he nodded agreement because the look on Chong’s face always made it seem like he knew exactly what was what.
At home, before he even finished eating his dessert, Tom had said, “If I want to talk about you joining the family business, are you going to chew my head off? Again?”
Benny stared venomous death at Tom and said, very clearly and distinctly, “I. Don’t. Want. To. Work. In. The. Family. Business. ”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then. ”
“Don’t you think it’s a little late now to try and get me all excited about it? I asked you a zillion times to—”
“You asked me to take you out on kills. ”
“Right! And every time I did you—”
Tom cut him off. “There’s a lot more to what I do, Benny. ”
“Yeah, there probably is, and maybe I would have thought the rest was something I could deal with, but you never let me see the cool stuff. ”
“There’s nothing ‘cool’ about killing,” Tom said sharply.
“There is when you’re talking about killing zoms!” Benny fired back.
That stalled the conversation. Tom stalked out of the room and banged around the kitchen for a while, and Benny threw himself down on the couch.
Tom and Benny never talked about zombies. They had every reason to, but they never did. Benny couldn’t understand it. He hated zoms. Everyone hated them, though with Benny it was a white-hot consuming hatred that went back to his very first memory. Because it was his first memory—a nightmare image that was there every night when he closed his eyes. It was an image that was seared into him, even though it was something he had seen as a tiny child.
Dad and Mom.
Mom screaming, running toward Tom, shoving a squirming Benny—all of eighteen months—into Tom’s arms. Screaming and screaming. Telling him to run.