The guard looked from the boy to the zom and back again.
“Then what’s she to you?”
The teen didn’t answer. He sat down on his chair and rested his elbows on his thighs and looked through the fence. The zombie in the faded party dress shuffled clumsily through the tall grass, ignoring the guard and turning her dusty eyes on the boy. She stopped a foot from the fence; her arms hung limply at her sides, fingers twitching every once in a while. Her mouth opened and closed as if trying to speak. Or chewing on some imagined meal.
“Jeez, kid . . . haven’t you ever seen a zom before?” asked the guard.
The teenager nodded. “One or two.”
“So, what’s the fascination?”
The boy almost smiled. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Minutes passed slowly. Flies crawled over the zombie’s face. Sun-drowsy bees droned by, looking for flowers in the shade of the guard tower a hundred yards along the fence line. Five crows settled on the top bar of the fence and cawed to one another in their own ancient language.
The boy and the zombie stared at each other as if the guard, the fence, and the rest of the world did not exist.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” the guard said. “Ain’t safe.”
After a long, thoughtful moment, the teen said, “I know.”
“There’s been a lot of trouble lately, and not just with the zoms.”
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The teen nodded.
“Bunch of bounty hunters got themselves killed up in the hills last month.”
Another nod.
“Charlie Pink-eye and the Motor City Hammer. Their whole crew. Got ambushed. Someone killed the whole bunch of them.”
“Yes,” said the boy. “I heard.”
“If you heard, then you know it ain’t safe out there. Weird stuff happening out in the Ruin, too. Zoms are all stirred up. People been seeing stuff. Wild animals and such, stuff nobody’s seen for years, and I’m not talking about wolves and bears. There’s talk about animals out of old zoos and circuses from before First Night. Tigers and lions and—”
The boy took a breath and exhaled it slowly and audibly. He turned to look at the guard. “Is there a town law about sitting here?”
“Probably,” the guard said bluntly. “Especially for underage—”
“I’m not underage,” said the boy. “I’m fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Then how come you’re here all the time? Shouldn’t you be working, earning your ration dollars?”
Another ghost of a smile flitted over the teen’s mouth. “I am working.”
“Gimme a break. You’re just loafing out here.”
The teen shrugged.
“Okay,” said the guard in a challenging tone, “what kind of job are you working at, sitting out here looking at zoms all day?”
The boy’s eyes burned with green fire. Cold and distant. “I’m a zombie hunter,” he said.
That made the guard laugh. “Oh really?”
“Really. An apprentice, but, yeah . . . that’s what I do.”