Twice they encountered Beaters: once, they pulled off the road at an orchard, the dead trees eerie with their clinging brown leaves and withered fruit. A pair of long sheds seemed like a reasonable shelter for the night, especially after Dor and some of the others went in to clear them and found nothing more vexing than a corpse lying next to an open refrigerator surrounded by empty beer cans. But as the group was settling in, a pack of four Beaters came sprinting from the tiny farmhouse that had been nearly hidden by the trees. Since the travelers had taken to posting sentries the moment they arrived at a new shelter, two of them were killed before they could enter through the open metal doors, and the others after they tripped, screaming with frustration, over their comrades. They were all old Beaters except for one, who had been a young man in his twenties recently enough that he still had all his hair and tattoos, elaborate colorful skulls and roses on both arms. He was the last to die, exhaling for a final time with what Cass imagined was a flicker of regret in his bright eyes.
The other Beater encounter was more disturbing still. Late on a warm day, when they were looking for somewhere to shelter, they passed by a tiny town, really nothing more than half a dozen small bungalows and a brick general store. All were abandoned, windows cracked and debris spilling from doorways. A stench rose from several cars parked in the middle of the intersection, and the group gave it a wide berth, walking through the field on the other side of the road.
They passed this site by because it would be too risky to try to check the buildings. Anytime there were more than two or three buildings clustered together, they generally stayed clear. The paucity of Beater sightings on the journey confirmed what they’d heard from the handful of settlers and freewalkers they’d encountered: the Beaters were generally concentrated in the larger towns and cities still, though with their quarry more and more elusive, as survivors dwindled and reinforced their shelters, it wasn’t unheard of to find a nest in a tiny town or ranch, especially near the roads.
Still, nothing stirred in the dusty streets as the group rolled silently by, the horses’ hooves clopping hollowly alongside the cars and trailers and wagons. They’d gone perhaps twenty-five yards past the edge of the town, far enough for a collective sigh of relief, when a frightened yell pierced the air and a figure came sprinting toward them.
As he gained ground, Cass saw that it was Shane, his long hair flopping on his forehead, his baggy pants sagging below his stomach. A second later a pair of Beaters came loping after him. One of them had something wrong with its leg, which dragged along behind it, and Shane quickly outpaced it. But the other one had managed to get a hold of Shane’s flapping jacket before it tripped and let go as it staggered, trying not to fall. A bullet from Smoke’s gun dropped it instantly, but Shane kept running, gibbering with terror, until he was in the midst of the group.
Cass didn’t like the boy, but he was still a child, as much as any sixteen-year-old can still be called a child. She wasn’t the only one to feel that way, it was clear, because several of the women surrounded him, checking for injuries, exclaiming over him, as Smoke walked to the injured Beater and shot it in the neck.
“Let’s keep going, let’s just keep going,” Shane repeated, his voice thin and terrified.
“What the hell happened, son?” Dor demanded. Shane was not a big kid, and he had to look up to meet Dor’s eyes. “What were you doing back there?”
“I was, I was, I just saw, I thought I saw, uh, cans, like food cans.”
“Where, through a window? On a porch?”
Bart and Nadir had their weapons out and had flanked Smoke on either side. Neither of the downed Beaters stirred, and there were no further sounds from the camp.
But there was smoke and, as everyone turned to stare, a small popping sound.
Shane turned away, muttering, as Dor exclaimed softly under his breath.
“Stay here, everyone,” he ordered as he joined the other armed men.
It didn’t take them long to find the fire. The shabbiest of the bungalows was in flames all along the back, where the paint had long ago flaked off the siding and a porch railing made excellent tinder.
They were back in moments.
“I smelled kerosene or something,” Dor said, cuffing Shane on the shoulder. The boy kept his head down, his face burning.
“I said something to you, boy.”
“It was there. It was sitting out. And it wasn’t kerosene, it was deck stain.”
Dor cursed and spun Shane around in the street. Cass was torn-like the others who kept walking, she trusted Dor to handle it. But her father, who had been walking next to her, had backtracked to join the pair, and Cass followed.
“So you found deck stain sitting on the street? I don’t-”
“Didn’t say it was in the street. In the garage.”
Two of the houses had detached garages behind them. Both were missing doors and windows.
“Boy,” Red said softly. “You like watching shit burn?”
Shane flicked a glance at him but didn’t answer.
“Check his pack,” Red said, as he hooked a large hand under Shane’s chin and forced him to look at him.
A quick search turned up a Ziploc bag full of small boxes of matches, a motley collection of knives and a cheap imitation throwing star.
“That’s a lot of matches, son,” Red said softly. “Anything else you might want to be getting off your conscience?”
Shane shook his head as Red squeezed his jaw, finally wrestling free and stumbling off at a jog.
“I think you just found your firebug,” Red said.
Chapter 40
EVERYONE WAS TALKING about Shane, and Sammi wanted to talk to him, ask him if it was true, if he’d really done the things they were saying. They’d taken everything sharp or flammable or conceivably dangerous away from him, and spread the word among the entire group. Bart suggested leaving him behind at the next shelter they passed, but he was quickly voted down. Watching the boy trudge along behind the group, face flaming and an expression of utter dejection on his face, seemed like punishment enough.
Besides, they had another problem to worry about. Jasmine had gone into labor that morning, and it wasn’t going well. She’d been riding in the panel van with Sun-hi all day, and when they came to a long, low-slung cinder- block building set at an angle on a giant gravel lot, broken neon signs spelling out TRIPLE-X GIRLS LIQUOR COORS LIVE NUDE, it was decided that she and Sun-hi would stay in the van while everyone else made camp inside.
Twenty yards behind the building was a surprisingly pretty creek. The water was shallow and murky, but grasses grew along its banks, and butterflies and water bugs flitted among them, the first anyone had seen Aftertime.
A fire was built along the bank and dinner served there as the sun set. People waded into the water, the first chance for a bath or laundry in many days. There was laughter as people emerged shivering and stripped behind blankets, hanging their clothes from the branches of a sycamore tree.
Sammi was helping to dry the little boys after a dip in the creek, toweling Dane off and smoothing his damp hair, which had grown long enough to hang into his eyes.
“Sammi, oh my God, Sammi.” Kyra came running up, holding her side, wincing.
“Kyra, what are you doing, you’re not supposed-”
“It’s Jasmine. Sun-hi sent me. It’s bad. The baby won’t come and-”
Sammi exchanged a look with Sage, who was trying to get a struggling Dirk back into his clothes.
“Go ahead, we’ll watch them,” Sage said, her face pale.
“Who does she want?” Sammi asked. “Does she want you to get Zihna?”
Kyra nodded, gulping air.
“Yeah, I just, I can’t catch my breath-”
“I’ll go.”
She ran over to a clump of people sitting on the ground on the stream bank. Zihna was sitting and talking with Cass, slightly apart from the others. Sammi skidded to a stop with her arms wrapped awkwardly around
