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Rags, Ghoulie, and the people dressed as heroes stood their ground.
One by one, the dead fell.
It took a long, long time.
Behind the town, beyond the trees, the last of the sun melted down into the west and darkness took possession of the world.
9
Now
Doylestown
They stood for a long time.
Bodies trembling with fatigue. Clothes streaked with black blood. Chests heaving, sweat running in lines down faces and arms and legs. Eyes bright with shock and the fires of destruction.
Around them, spread outward like some mad sculpture created in hell, lay the bodies of fifty-seven zombies. Not whole bodies. Limbs and heads, torsos and pieces were scattered in a pattern of artless slaughter. In the center of the debris field stood the survivors.
Rags and Ghoulie.
The child dressed as Batgirl.
The heroes.
The woman in red.
For a while all they could do was stare at what they had done. And then, slowly, they lowered their weapons and turned to look at one another. To confirm that others had survived, as they each had survived. To look at the living and remember that this was what they had fought for.
Rags watched them. She knew that she was often aloof, that she considered herself a warrior rather than merely a fighter, and with that came some elements of snobbery that she chose not to eliminate from her disposition. She waited to see if these people celebrated their victory, and if so, how they celebrated. If they mocked the dead, then they were of a kind she had seen too many times. People who had come to enjoy killing.
She wanted to see if they were mad. After all, they were dressed as comic-book characters.
She watched to see if they were the kind of people that Rags had spent so many years avoiding. And in that moment she remembered why it was that she’d never settled anywhere. Despite her loneliness, people had disappointed her too many times. So she waited. And watched.
She did not lower her weapons, and Ghoulie—alert to her moods—stood wide-legged and ready to do whatever she asked of him.
The woman in red sheathed her sword, went over to the little girl and checked her for bites, found none, and pulled her into a fierce hug, kissing the girl’s face, her hair, her cheeks. Then Thor came over and snatched the girl up and held her to his chest, burying his nose in her hair.
“Oh my God, Charlotte—why did you do that?” he demanded.
“But—but—you said to!” insisted the girl as she burst into tears.
“No, honey,” said the woman in red gently. She came over and touched the child’s hair. “Sweetie . . . don’t you remember what Mommy told you? We went over and over it. All you were supposed to do was walk to the barrier and back. That was it. We just wanted them to see you so Donnie could let one of them inside. But you went outside, honey. You left the gate open.”
Tears ran down the child’s face. “No, Mommy, Donnie said he’d close the gate. I didn’t go outside. I didn’t leave the gate open. I—I’m sorry. . . .”
Rags cleared her throat. “The gate was open when I came through,” she said. “Your man Donnie must have been sleeping on the job.”
The woman in red studied Rags as she stroked her daughter’s hair. “Brett,” she said to the man dressed as Thor, “take her back. I want her to write out the rules fifty times and then she can have supper.”
“But Mommy, I—”
“Shh, now, baby,” said the woman in red. “It’ll be okay. You do your lessons and we’ll talk before bedtime. Go on now.”
The big man—Brett—carried Charlotte away toward the other end of town.
Rags held her ground, waiting.
