memory — the oldest memory he owned, a memory born in horror on First Night. It was a memory of being held just like this when he was a toddler less than two years old, being held tightly in Tom’s arms while his brother ran away from the thing that had been their father. And the weeping, screaming figure of their mother, who had used the last moments of her life to pass Benny through a window to Tom and beg him to run.
To run.
As Benny ran now.
Through darkness and horror, with death pursuing and no certain knowledge of a way out of the moment.
For most of his life Benny had misunderstood that memory, thinking that Mom had been abandoned by Tom, that his brother had been a coward who fled when he should have stayed to rescue her, too. But then he learned the truth. Mom was already dying, already becoming one of the living dead. She had pushed both her sons out of the window, saving them from the terror inside. And Tom had honored that sacrifice by keeping Benny safe — that night and all the other nights and years that followed.
Now Tom was gone too.
He, too, had died to save others. He, too, had sacrificed himself so that life could continue even in a world ruled by the dead.
The little girl Benny carried wept and screamed, but she also clung to him. And he to her. Even though she was a total stranger to him, Benny knew that he would die to save her.
Was it like this for you, Tom? he wondered. Was this what you felt when you carried me out of Sunset Hollow on First Night? If you were really the coward I used to think you were, you would have run off and left me. Wouldn’t you? You would have saved yourself. Alone, without having to carry me, it would have been easier for you to slip away. But you didn’t. You carried me all the way.
Was it a memory? Or now that Benny stood at death’s fragile door, was it easier for Tom’s ghost to whisper to him from the darkness on the other side?
“I know that, Einstein,” Benny growled back as he ran.
A zom fell into the ravine directly in front of them, and the little girl screamed even louder. But Benny leaped over the awkward form before the zom could struggle to its feet.
“You died, Tom!” Benny snarled.
“But—”
“Tom,” Benny said again as he wheeled around a sharp bend in the ravine. “Tom…?”
But Tom’s voice was gone.
The ravine sloped down, becoming deeper, and soon he realized that even the gnarled tree roots clinging to the edge of the cleft were too far above his head. He’d hoped for just the opposite, figuring once they were well clear of the zoms he could pass the kid up and let her pull herself out, then scramble up himself. That plan was hopeless now.
They rounded another bend, and Benny slowed from a run to a walk and then simply stood there. Ten feet away was a solid wall of dirt and rock. The entire ravine had collapsed beneath the weight of a massive oak tree whose root system had been undercut by runoff. There was no way through it, and the sides were far too steep to climb. He and the little girl were trapped. He had no sword, no carpet coat. Only a knife, and that would not stop the mass of dead things following them.
“Now what, Tom?” he demanded, but there was only silence from the shadows in his mind. “Really? Now you’re going to shut up?”
Nothing.
Benny glanced down at the girl. Could he lift her high enough so that she could grab one of the roots and climb up? It would be her only chance, but doing it would use up the last seconds he had and give him no chance at all. Even so, he thought, he had to try. Better to die trying to save a life than share a hideous death down here in the fetid darkness. He listened for some trace of Tom’s voice, but there was still nothing.
The first of the zombies rounded the previous bend. Five of them, with more behind. One of them broke from the pack and started running along the ravine.
It was horribly true. Lately some of the zoms they encountered were different. Faster, able to run. Maybe even smarter.
Benny set the girl down and pushed her behind him; then he drew his knife. It was hopeless, but he had to try. For the child, he had to try.
The zom raced toward him almost as fast as a healthy human could run. Its teeth were bared and its hands were outstretched to grab. Thirty feet, twenty.
Ten. Benny gripped his knife with all his strength.
And then a voice cried, “BENNY!”
Everyone turned and looked. Benny, the girl, the zoms; even the fast zombie slowed to a confused walk as it cast around for the source of the shout.
Suddenly something pale and lithe dropped into the ravine. There was a fierce war cry and a flash of silver at the end of a long pole, and then the head of the fast zombie leaped into the air and bounced off the wall.
“Lilah!” cried Benny.
The Lost Girl had found him.
A moment later another form dropped from the edge of the ravine above. Smaller, rounder, with masses of curly red hair and freckled hands that clutched the handle of a well-worn wooden sword with deadly competence. A long jagged scar ran from her hairline down her cheek almost to her jaw, but it did not mar the beauty of her face. Instead it made her look like a warrior princess out of an old legend. She looked at the zoms and then at Benny, and she grinned.
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute without you doing something stupid, can I?” asked Nix Riley.
FROM NIX’S JOURNAL
Ever since Tom died Benny seems to think that he has to BE Tom.
Is that normal grief? Or should I be worried?
I asked Chong, but for once he didn’t have any answers. I think he’s worried too.
8
“Took you long enough,” said Benny, wiping sweat from his eyes. “I was getting bored down here.”
He tried to make it sound cool and casual. It didn’t.
Nix snorted and started to say something else, but then she caught sight of the tiny figure cowering in the shadows behind Benny.
“What—? Oh my God! Where — where — where—?” Her words disintegrated into a baffled stammer.
“Long story,” said Benny.
