“Where do we go now?” Zeke asked, nearly in a panic when he realized they weren’t alone down there—that men were running back and forth around them, some of them friends, some of them foes. “We’ll get shot!”
“We can’t stay here, or we’ll get shot anyway! Or burned up,” Rector added, as if the second option were a better one. “Back to the crack in the wall—they know us there.”
“But that’s where the rest of these men are going…” Zeke pointed out, and it was probably true—Rector could see that now. The ones who weren’t holed up shooting inside the hulking white mansion were making a beeline for the exit, a strategy that wasn’t altogether idiotic, in Rector’s considered opinion. So what the heck—he figured he’d join them.
“Four blocks down,” he said.
“But they won’t see us! They’ll shoot us!”
“No, we’ll go this way,” Rector informed him as he took him by the wrist and dragged him in the opposite direction of what Zeke had clearly expected. “One block over the other way, then four blocks down. We’ll have time to announce ourselves, and join the fight if there’s a fight to join.” It dawned on him just then that this was why armies wore uniforms, so you could tell your side’s fellows from the other side’s.
They dashed to the left and found the edge of the nearest block, then hunkered down long enough to light a lantern outside spotting distance of the park; but when it was lit, they didn’t take time to catch their breath. They only gathered their strength enough to begin another dash, this time downhill—and only one street over from the mayhem that was spilling down that same hill, hoping to escape.
“Rector!” Zeke gasped. “Rector, do you hear that?”
Rector gasped back, “What?”
“I hear … I hear…”
And then Rector heard it, too. They weren’t the only two people who were wheezing their way along the hill. Something else was nearby, something rather close and very sudden. It charged up out of the fog and straight at them.
A rotter. An old one.
Zeke screamed outright, and Rector would’ve joined him if he’d had the time to do so—but he didn’t. Rector was out in front, and the rotter seized him first. He shoved it back, and it pushed forward, moaning and grunting as its jagged rows of broken teeth snapped for Rector’s face.
The dead thing struggled with strength it shouldn’t have had. A thing so skinny, so far decomposed … it shouldn’t wield a grip like that; it shouldn’t have been able to grasp, hold, and bite with such ferocity. It clung to Rector, pinning his arms and knocking him to the ground where they rolled together, the rotter clamping its jaws over and over, and Rector swinging his skull—his only free weapon—in an attempt to headbutt the thing away from him.
A second rotter loomed up out of the fog, revealed by the light of the dropped lantern. Rector tried to call out and warn Zeke, but bless the kid, he was already on it.
The pick was in his hands, its handle slung over his shoulder like a baseball bat. Zeke shook with terror but he held his ground, his feet planted to the spot as if he’d grown roots there—and when the rotter came in close, running up with no idea of anything except that it was hungry, Zeke swung and hit a home run. The pick went through the rotter’s left eye and came out the back of its head. Through sheer centrifugal force, Zeke swung around and ripped out the eye, the temple, and part of the brain, which splattered against a boarded window and dribbled downward.
But there was no time to call it a victory.
Rector had leveraged his knee up between himself and the rotter. He threw the creature back, but only a bit; it snapped for his arm, almost caught it, but didn’t quite. Then Zeke was on top of it, taking another swing. His second shot wasn’t as clean as the first, but he clipped it heavily with the side of the pick, knocking it off balance. The rotter fell away, letting Rector climb to all fours so he could retrieve his ax … if he could find it. It’d been strapped to the pack he wore on his back, which had fallen off when the rotter hit him. Where was it?
There.
He seized it and threw it, almost in the same motion. From his position on the ground, Rector lacked the room and the leverage he would’ve liked, but this was a rotter, so when the ax caught it in the throat, it still tumbled backwards, largely without its head.
Zeke reached the twitching rotter first. He yanked the ax out of its throat, dropped it down on the thing’s face once for good measure, and then handed it back to Rector. As he helped Rector up, Zeke asked, “Are you all right? It didn’t bite you, did it? Is your mask still on tight?”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah to all of that,” he said, but he sounded drunk. He felt drunk. His head hurt and everything was spinning. He was reasonably certain he was going to faint.
Zeke shoved the ax back into his hands. “I hear more of them—we have to run for the Sizemore House! We’ll get down in the cellar!”
“How will we … how will we find it?”
“We’re two blocks down and one block over. I’ve been counting. Two more blocks, and we ought to hit it.” He retrieved the lantern. “If not, we turn back for the wall and try again. You’re sure you ain’t bit?”
“I’m sure.” He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to pat himself down. There wasn’t time. He shook his head and it still hurt, but it would have to work whether it wanted to or not. “I’m fine. I’m fine, I swear. Let’s go.”
This time when he ran, it began as a wobble, but he picked up speed as the slope worked in his favor. One more block down, and he asked, “How much farther? Was that one block or two? I can’t tell where the break is, in the dark.”
As if someone on high had heard his complaint, a billowing blast of vivid orange flame erupted to his right. He could actually feel the warmth of it radiating outward in a roiling thunder of superheated air, slapping against him and rippling his clothes.He and Zeke shielded their eyes from the wall of flame, for the amazing light burned through the fog like nothing they’d ever imagined. It was a perfect, steady flare, a pure barrier that closed off the crack in the wall so that nothing would enter, and nothing would leave. Nothing would survive the passage.
“So that’s what Houjin wanted the diesel for,” Rector mused.
“What?”
“Diesel. It’s fuel. We stole some from the tower. He said it burns.”
“He wasn’t half kidding,” Zeke agreed. He lowered his hand and squinted into the light. “They won’t let any of them go, will they? All those fellows are going to die.”
“One way or another. If there are any survivors, I bet you we’ve got new rotters in the morning. Yaozu will see to that.”
“And we helped kill them.”
Rector did not say that he expected that he’d helped kill more than a few people, given how long he’d been selling sap, and how many people he’d watched it kill. “It was us or them, you know.”
“I know. But still. It feels…”
“Don’t worry about how it feels, ’cause that don’t matter right now. What matters is we routed ’em, and they can’t touch us—or the Vaults, or the Station, or Chinatown either. Maybe it’s dark and wet, and maybe it’s full of hungry dead things, and maybe it smells bad and the food tastes weird and the place is falling down around our ears. But that don’t matter, Zeke. It don’t matter because Seattle is ours, and they can’t have it.”
Rector sniffed and wiped a smudge of sooty sweat from under his chin.
“Now help me find the Sizemore House before any more rotters find us. Let’s go home, all right?”
Twenty-nine
Come morning, everyone was battered, bruised, singed, and uninterested in getting out of bed … except for Zeke, who shoved at Rector’s stiff, unhappy shoulders. “Get up, you. Come on, we’ve got to go get the inexplicable.”
Into his pillow Rector mumbled, “I don’t have to go do shit.”
His head ached. His arms ached. His knee ached, and he wasn’t even sure why. He had a deep-seated suspicion that if he pulled his face off the pillow, he’d see that Zeke was holding a far-too-bright lantern that would blister his eyeballs. This did not encourage any rising or shining on his part.
“Fine then, I’ll just go by myself and tell everybody you were too chicken to come along.”
Still facedown, Rector complained, “You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
Even though Rector didn’t care—and he didn’t—what Zeke did or didn’t tell anybody, he rolled over. The blanket twisted around his legs; he kicked his foot free and cracked open one eye. He was right about the lantern.
It burned.
“Tell ’em whatever you like.”
“You’re already awake,” Zeke noted. “Might as well get yourself up and do something useful.”
He opened the other eye. “Why don’t you drag Huey out to play with the inexplicable, if it’s so damn important to have company?”
“He didn’t want to come. He didn’t say that, but I know him well enough. It scared him, and he don’t want to see it again. I can’t blame him, except that I do.” Zeke gave Rector another shove for good measure, then withdrew—holding the lantern higher and farther away, thank God.
“He’s no dummy.” But he sat up, rubbed at his itching eyes, and yawned.
“He’s pretending he’s got work to do. He’s sticking close to the fort and pretending like he can’t leave. But the captain’s not even over there—he’s off someplace with my mother. I bet.”
“That must be strange.”
“Yeah, but what am I going to say about it? He’s all right, and even if he wasn’t, he could toss me over the wall with his pinky finger.”