Jonathan Maberry - Fire & Ash

He leaned his head against the ladder and sighed.

The last of the propane tanks had blown up. The Freedom Riders at the fence line were still firing, but there were only so many bullets.

Benny knew this would happen.

He had planned for this failure.

But he dreaded the next stages, knowing that with each step he was venturing into darker and darker territory. Even in the slim chance that he lived through this… could he ever find his way out of the abyss?

He doubted it. Joe’s advice about becoming the monster they were afraid of did not come with a suggestion for how to reclaim his humanity.

He already felt lost.

Benny climbed down from the tower. The pain in his back was like a constant scream, but he didn’t care. Everything was screaming. The very air seemed to cry out in pain.

Nix and the others ran to meet him. They still held their torches. Chong climbed down and joined them, picking up a torch from the bonfire.

They stood for one moment in a circle.

“Go,” said Benny, and everyone turned to run.

All except Nix.

“Benny…,” she began, but he gave a fierce shake of his head.

“Not now,” he begged.

“I have to tell you in case—”

“No! Don’t, for God’s sake,” he said. “If you say it, I think it’ll kill me.”

Nix saw something in his eyes, and she took a step backward. Then with a flash of wild red hair, she turned and ran.

Benny hurried over to Solomon.

“They’re killing all the zoms,” said Benny.

The bounty hunter laughed. “Yeah, shows you what a little cooperation can accomplish.”

“We could have used a little more of that cooperation.”

Solomon drew the two machetes and gave them a quick twirl. “What’s that thing you kids keep saying?”

“Warrior smart.”

Solomon nodded. “Warrior smart.”

Benny drew his sword and began running along the fence line.

The Red Brothers and the army of reapers tore the gray people apart, but they took heavy losses to do it. Fewer than half of the forty thousand who had followed Saint John from the sack of Haven could still fight. However, half of those were injured. Some had bites from runners, and when their own fellow reapers saw those injuries, knives flashed and bodies fell.

Saint John allowed no infection among his people.

When the field was clear of the dead, Saint John walked out, Brother Peter’s knife still clutched in his hand. His cadre of Red Brothers fanned out behind him. The sergeants shoved and growled their men into tight divisions. Sixteen thousand of them stood in ordered lines before the gates of Mountainside. Every eye on both sides of the fence watched Saint John walk across the red-stained field. Now the stench of blood was nearly as strong as the stink of bleach.

Saint John walked to within a thousand yards of the fence. Well within rifle range, but no gun fired. He stopped and pointed his knife at the town.

Behind the gates, the men and women in red sashes suddenly turned and bolted, running in disordered panic from the fence line.

The reapers goggled for a moment, and then laughter rippled through their ranks. It swelled and swelled until they were all laughing hysterically. It was the sight of the defenders fleeing after all their tactics had failed, and it was the release of fear and tension from each of the reapers.

“They flee!” cried Saint John. “They flee!”

The laughter was like thunder.

Saint John bellowed out two words that floated above the laughter.

“Take them!”

The reapers began marching forward. First in orderly ranks, then faster and faster until they broke into a flat-out run. They hit the fence line, and the sheer weight of their surge tore the fence apart and ripped the poles from the ground — even at the cost of many in the front ranks being crushed at the moment of impact. The reapers flooded into the town, crossing the red zone that separated the fence line from the first rows of shops and homes, smashing through doorways of every building and house they reached. It was like a tidal surge bursting over a levee. The mass of the surge hit the town hard enough to knock walls down and uproot small trees. The thunder of all those feet shattered windows and knocked the frames of doorways out of true. The reaper army flooded into the town, knives ready, spears ready, bloodlust ready.

And they found… nothing .

The front ranks split apart to follow smaller streets. Knots of reapers burst through doors and ran down the halls of the school and the town hall and the hospital. Every closet door was yanked open, every cellar and attic was invaded.

But there was no one in the town.

As the last of the reapers ran across the fallen fence, the interior mass of them slowed near the center of town. They looked around, confused, frightened by the strangeness. There had been an army here minutes ago. Two or three hundred people in red sashes had fired volley after volley at them.

Where were they? The back of the town was a steep mountain wall. If any of the defenders had climbed the winding goat paths, they’d be as visible as black bugs. There was a massive reservoir near the end of town, but no one was hiding in the silent pump house.

Runners came to report this to Saint John as he walked without haste toward the shattered gates. He frowned at the news.

“There’s no one there, Honored One.”

“Then they’re hiding. Find them.”

Saint John stopped at the entrance of town and looked around. The guard towers appeared empty too. Except for…

“There,” he said, and his aides looked up at the closest tower. A single figure stood by the rail.

The boy with the Japanese eyes.

“Bring him to me,” said the saint. “Alive and able to scream. I will tear the answers from him.”

Four of the Red Brothers hurried toward the tower, but before they could reach it, the figure far above raised the bullhorn and spoke. His eyes streamed and burned from all the chemicals in the air. The bleach burned his throat and made breathing difficult. But Benny’s rage shaved all thoughts of pain and discomfort away.

“Listen to me,” he roared. “This is Benjamin Imura, samurai of the Nine Towns.”

The reapers laughed and jeered. Some threw rocks at the tower, though no one could reach the observation deck.

“ Listen to me ,” bellowed Benny. “While you still can.”

That chilled some of the laughter, though a few rocks still banged off the structure.

“I made you an offer before,” said Benny. “It still stands. Lay down your weapons. Do it right now. Lay down your weapons and tear those stupid angel wings off your shirts. The Night Church is a lie, and most of you probably know it.”

The rest of the laughter died away.

“Look at what happened already. More than half of you are dead. Whose fault is that? Saint John forced you to fight us. He forced you to die for him . I’m giving you a chance to live. To have lives again.”

One of the Red Brothers stepped away from the rest of the army and pointed at Benny.

“I think you’re about played out, son,” he said. He had a leather-throated voice that carried his words to everyone. “Right now you’re all alone up there. Your friends at least had the smarts to run off… though we’ll catch ’em. But you, sonny boy, you’re just a little kid playing in a tree house.”

“Not exactly,” said Benny. “What I am is a kid playing with matches.”

He pointed with the bullhorn, and everyone turned to see figures emerging from the ground as if by magic. They rose up from camouflaged spider holes outside the fence that had been hidden by plywood trapdoors covered with mud. A massive and improbable figure in a bright pink carpet coat rose up just outside the fallen gates. He held a smoking torch in his big fist. Fifty yards away another figure — a dark-haired young man with a pair of baseball bats slung over his shoulder — stood up. He, too, held a torch. All around the outside of the town, just beyond the fence line, figures rose up, each of them holding torches.