Rot & Ruin

imagine doing that if you’re only able to shuffle along slowly and can’t strategize. If a bunch of the dead came upon cows in a pen or fenced field, they might be able to kill them and eat. But all the penned animals have either long- since escaped or they died off in the first few months. No… the dead don’t need to feed at all. They just exist.”

“Morgie says that out here wild animals turn into zoms.”

“Nope. As far as anyone’s been able to tell, only humans turn into the living dead. We don’t have the science to try and figure out why, and I don’t know if it’s true everywhere, but we know it to be true here. Otherwise every time you bit into a chili dog, it’d bite back.”

They reached the gas station. Tom stopped by the old pump and knocked on the metal casing three times, then twice, and then four more times.

“What are you doing?”

“Saying hello.”

“Hello to…?”

There was a low moan, and Benny turned to see a gray-skinned man shuffling slowly around the corner of the building. He wore ancient coveralls that were stained with dark blotches and, incongruously, a garland of fresh flowers around his neck. Marigolds and honeysuckle. The man’s face was shaded for a few steps, but then he crossed into the sunlight, and Benny nearly screamed. The man’s eyes were missing, and the sockets gaped emptily. The moaning mouth was toothless, the lips and cheeks sunken in. Worst of all, as the zombie raised its hands toward them, Benny saw that all of its fingers had been clipped off at the primary knuckles.

Benny gagged and stepped back, his muscles tensed to turn and run, but Tom put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

“Wait,” said Tom.

A moment later the door to the gas station opened, and a pair of sleepy-eyed young women came outside, followed by a slightly older man with a long, brown beard. They were all thin and dressed in tunics that looked like they had been made from old bed sheets. Each wore a thick garland of flowers. The trio looked at Benny and Tom and then at the zombie.

“Leave him be!” cried the youngest, a black girl in her late teens, as she ran across the dirt to the dead man and stood between him and the Imura brothers, her feet planted, her arms spread to shield the zombie.

Tom raised a hand and took his hat off so they could see his face.

“Peace, little sister,” he said. “No one’s here to do harm.”

The bearded man fished eyeglasses from a pocket beneath his tunic, and squinted through dirty lenses.

“Tom…?” he said. “Tom Imura?”

“Hey, Brother David.” He put his hand on Benny’s shoulder. “This is my brother, Benjamin.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Passing through,” said Tom. “But I wanted to pay my respects. And to teach Benny the ways of this world. He’s never been outside of the fence before.”

Benny caught the way Tom put emphasis on the word “this.”

Brother David walked over, scratching his beard. Up close he was older than he looked. Maybe forty, with deep brown eyes and a few missing teeth. His clothing was clean but threadbare. He smelled of flowers, garlic, and mint. The man studied Benny for a long moment, during which Tom did nothing and Benny fidgeted.

“He’s not a believer,” said Brother David.

“Belief is tough to come by in these times,” said Tom.

“You believe.”

“Seeing is believing.”

Benny thought that their exchange had the cadence of a church litany, as if it was something the two of them had said before and would say again.

Brother David bent toward Benny. “Tell me, young brother, do you come here bringing hurt and harm to the Children of God?”

“Um… no?”

“Do you bring hurt and harm to the Children of Lazarus?”

“I don’t know who they are, mister. I’m just here with my brother.”

Brother David turned toward the women, who were using gentle pushes to steer the zombie back around the far side of the building. “Old Roger there is one of Lazarus’s Children.”

“What? You mean he’s not a zom-”

Tom made a noise to stop him.

A tolerant smile flickered over Brother David’s face. “We don’t use that word, little brother.”

Benny didn’t know how to answer that, so Tom came to his rescue.

“The name comes from Lazarus of Bethany, a man who was raised from the dead by Jesus.”

“Yeah, I remember hearing about that in church.”

The mention of church brightened Brother David’s smile. “You believe in God?” he asked hopefully.

“I guess…”

“In these times,” said Brother David, “that’s better than most.” He threw a covert wink at Tom.

Benny looked past Brother David to where the girls had taken the zombie. “I’m, like, totally confused here. That guy was a… you know. He’s dead, right?”

“Living dead,” corrected Brother David.

“Right. Why wasn’t he trying to… you know.” He mimed grabbing and biting.

“He doesn’t have teeth,” said Tom. “And you saw his hands.”

Benny nodded. “Did you guys do that?” he asked Brother David.

“No, little brother,” Brother David said with a grimace. “No, other people did that to Old Roger.”

“Who?” demanded Benny.

“Don’t you mean ‘why?’”

“No… who. Who’d do something like that?”

Brother David said, “Old Roger is only one of the Children who have been tortured like that. You can see them all over this county. Men and women with their eyes cut out, their teeth pulled, or jaws shot away. Most of them missing fingers or whole hands. And I won’t talk about some of the other things I’ve seen done. Stuff you’re too young to know about, little brother.”

“I’m fifteen,” said Benny.

“You’re too young. I can remember when being fifteen meant you were still a child.” Brother David turned and watched the two young women return without the old zombie.

“He’s in the shed,” said the black girl.

“But he’s agitated,” said the other, a pale-skinned redhead in her mid-twenties.

“He’ll quiet down after a spell,” said Brother David.

The women stood by the gas pump and eyed Tom, although Tom seemed to suddenly find something fascinating about the movement of the clouds. Benny’s usual inclination was to make a joke at Tom’s expense, but he didn’t feel like it. He turned back to the bearded man.

“Who’s doing all this stuff you’re talking about? To that old man. To those… others you mentioned. What kind of dirtbags are out here doing that stuff?”

“Bounty hunters,” said the redhead.

“Killers,” said the black girl.

“Why?”

“If I had an answer to that,” said Brother David, “I’d be a saint instead of a way-station monk.”

Benny turned to Tom. “I don’t get it… You’re a bounty hunter.”

“I guess to some people that’s what I am.”

“Do you do this kind of stuff?”

“What do you think?” Tom asked, but Benny was already shaking his head. Tom queried, “What do you even know about bounty hunters?”

“They kill zombies,” Benny said, then flinched as he saw the looks of distaste on the faces of Brother David and the two women. “Well… they do! That’s what bounty hunters are there for. They go out here into the Rot and Ruin, and they hunt the, um, you know… the living dead.”