Ledger held still and listened to the noises, picking them apart, cataloging them. Several men. How many? Six? Ten? Somewhere in that range. A small pack. The male scream had ended when they heard that gunshot. The female scream continued, rising and falling.
The situation sucked. Outnumbered and outgunned, with at least one helpless victim and the complication of sentries and the zombies. In most circumstances this would be a walk-away, a hopeless scenario.
But not for Ledger. He knew he could never leave this unaddressed. That wasn’t who he was. The young scream made that absolutely certain. A long, long time ago, back when he was fourteen and the world was decades away from falling off its hinges, Ledger and his girlfriend, Helen, had been attacked by a group of older teens. Ledger had been stomped nearly to death and had lain there, bleeding and helpless, while the teenagers ruined Helen. Although Ledger and Helen had both lived past that day and had healed in body, neither had ever healed in spirit or mind. Helen eventually found her way out and it was Ledger who found her after she’d gone away. Found what was left of her. An empty shell from which all of Helen had leaked away. The whole process had fractured him, splitting his mind into three distinct personalities. One was the Modern man, the civilized and ordinary part of him, the one who clutched to his dwindling supply of hopes. The second was the Cop, the strong, quiet, intelligent, detail-oriented investigator and thinker. That part had been his mostly reliably dominant aspect.
And then there was the third part, the aspect truly born on that horrible day so many years ago. The Warrior. Or as he preferred to be called, the Killer. Savage, uncompromising, brutal, relentless. However it was the Killer who was, in his way, the most compassionate and protective, because he did whatever was necessary to protect the members of his tribe against all predators. Children were always to be protected. The young, the weak, the helpless. It was hardwired into the brain of the Killer to make sure they would not perish, for as they went so went the tribe itself. Basic Survival 101.
The Cop leaned out and analyzed the scene again, noting distances, placement, weapons, obstacles. However when he rose, it was the Killer who went to war.
He did not signal Tom Imura. That wasn’t necessary. Tom would either understand and be ready to function as a member of their small hunting pack, or he wouldn’t. Warning him would create a risk Ledger could not afford. Besides, Tom was smart and fast and a killer lurked in his soul, too. Ledger had seen that before. It hurt Tom to kill, but he his regrets and his humanism did not slow his hand. Not at all.
Ledger drew his Heckler & Koch MK 23 pistol as he rose from his point of concealment and held his gun out in a firm two-hand grip. He did not run but instead took many small steps to prevent the weapon from being jolted. He had twelve rounds in the box magazine and a thirteenth in the pipe. The range was good enough for kill shots, but Ledger didn’t want these men dead. Not yet. Instead he shot the closest man in the thigh, aiming center-mass to insure a shattered femur. The .45 round punched all the way through at two hundred and sixty meters per second. The man screamed and twisted and fell.
The zombies lunged up to catch him, to drag him down, their nails and teeth ripping into the man before he ever hit the ground. Ledger swung the barrel to take the second man in the hip, the foot-pound of impact knocking him backward off the pen wall. Ledger heard his screams as soon as he fell out of sight.
And then it was all insanity.
The zombies who weren’t tearing at the first man wheeled toward him, empty eyes filling with naked hunger, mouths biting the air in anticipation of fresh meat. Ledger shoved his gun into its holster and whipped his katana from its scabbard. He was not as stylish a swordsman as Tom, but he was a more practiced butcher. He cut his way to the wall of the pen and everything that reached for him fell. Nothing fell whole.
There were shouts from the other side of the pen wall, and Ledger dodged sideways and leapt onto the wall fifteen yards from where he had fired. When he reached the top he saw nine men in the center of the protected area, and every one of them was looking in the wrong direction. A naked girl of about thirteen lay bruised and beaten on the ground, her young body covered in blood. It was obvious she had been brutally used. They did not see Ledger as he drew his pistol once more and swapped in a full magazine. They did not see Tom Imura slip over the far wall, silent as death.
Ledger opened fire on the men.
This time he shot to kill.
The pistol was accurate within fifty meters. The range here was less than ten. He did not miss.
Men screamed and fell. Others tried to turn their guns — shotguns, hunting rifles, Glocks — on him, but then Tom ghosted up behind them and his sword did quick and terrible work.
It wasn’t a fight. Neither Tom nor Ledger was interested in a fight. This was slaughter. It was two against nine, and it was over in seconds.
When Ledger climbed down from the wall the last of the men was begging for his life. Ledger watched Tom’s face as the young man stood over the injured man. The girl lay six feet away, and from the way she was breathing it was clear she was on the verge of death. Her eyes were glazed and there were dreadful wounds all over her. The man on the floor was naked from the waist down and there was blood on his penis. Not his blood.
Even so, Tom didn’t kill him. Not right away. Instead he asked a question. “Why?”
The man looked at him and then turned to look at the girl. He frowned as if seeing her for the first time. Then he turned back to Tom.
“She’d… she’d die out here anyway,” said the man. He said it reasonably, as if what he and his friends had done to her was clearly okay given the circumstances.
Tom’s eyes went dead.
His sword moved and then there was fresh blood on the man’s face and body.
On the other side of the pen wall the screams had stopped and there was the wet sound of meat being torn, of chewing, of bones being cracked open for their marrow. Flies swarmed in the air.
Ledger and Tom knelt on either side of the girl.
She was a tiny thing. Emaciated, covered with infected sores, filthy.
Dying.
Tom offered her water and there wasn’t even enough left of her to remember how to drink. They dressed her most immediate wounds and covered her body with their blankets and the two men sat together, holding her between them, keeping her warm as the day wore on. Sometimes Tom spoke to her, whispering softly, making promises the world could not let them keep.
When she died, Joe took her from Tom, rolled her onto her stomach, drew his knife, and slipped the blade into the base of her skull. She would never reanimate. She would sleep.
They buried her and then the two men sat down with their backs against the pen wall.
And wept.
—8—
Top and Bunny
Owen led them down a winding path, descending the hillside to the valley road below. They followed that for about five yards, then wound into a cacti field and across a parking lot to a brick, one-story building with a worn wooden sign that read ‘Park Headquarters’ out front by the entrance off the road. American flags waved in the wind from several poles around a lot that contained RVs, official Park Service vehicles, and various civilian cars and trucks scattered throughout. Trees and landscaping decorated the land surrounding the lot and lawns leading up to the building.
Several armed men and women, as ragged and dirty as the trio, rushed to meet them, eyeing Top and Bunny with suspicion. After Owen explained their presence and fired off instructions, he left them behind with the sentries and headed inside. Within moments, Top and Bunny watched their mounts being led away, their packs removed from their backs, and were patted down thoroughly — men removing their knives, the spare Glocks they kept in their boots, and extra ammo.