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“That where you got the rank?”
“No. I ran with a Special Ops crew for a while. The Department of Military Sciences.”
“Never heard of them.”
“You wouldn’t have. Covert. Very specialized. We hunted terrorists who had exotic bioweapons.”
Tom looked around at the empty world. “Guess you missed one. If that’s what this was.”
“This was something else,” said Ledger. “Still working out exactly what, but it didn’t come at us as a terrorist thing. If so . . . then maybe my team would have been on the clock. As it was . . .”
He spread his hands.
It left a lot unsaid, but it also said much. There was deep grief behind that false smile. And maybe some shame, too. This man had not been able to prevent this. Maybe no one could have, but it could not be easy for a man of this kind to abide the loss of everything if it was his job to prevent it. He wondered how the man stayed sane.
Or if he was even sane at all.
A moan made him turn, and he saw two of the bikers struggling to get to their feet. Their eyes were vacant of everything, but there was clear need in the moans they uttered.
“Would you mind?” asked Ledger. “I’ve got to sit my butt down. I’m way too old for this crap.”
He limped over and sat on a swing in the yard. Tom stared at him, and then at Baskerville, who went over and sat next to him.
There were three zombies now, and another who was beginning to stir.
This is a test, he thought. He wants to see if I understand how this all works.
Tom nodded to himself, then raised his sword and did what had to be done.
“Three more in the house,” said Ledger
. “Baskerville cripples them, but he’s not allowed to bite. Don’t want him to get sick on zombie muck.”
Without saying a word, Tom went into the house. The three zoms there had been ruined by the dog and its spiked armor. They could never have risen, but he could not abide leaving them here to suffer. Or to endure. Whichever word worked for the things they had become. He ended them.
As he walked out into the yard, the soldier was swinging slowly back and forth, watching a flock of starlings fly from tree to tree. He didn’t turn to watch Tom approach.
“It’s quiet now,” he said.
Tom said nothing. He cleaned his sword and resheathed it.
“That’s what I call it when we kill those zoms,” continued Ledger. “It’s how I think of it. They’ve been ‘quieted.’?”
Tom thought about the word and nodded to himself. It was a good word for a bad thing. It was a word that changed the meaning of the act of killing.
“Sit,” said Ledger, waving him to the second swing.
After a moment, Tom sat.
“Thanks for the assist,” said Ledger.
“Not sure you needed one.”
Ledger smiled and shrugged. “Thanks anyway.”
They watched the birds. Ledger fished in a pocket and produced two energy bars and handed one to Tom. It was like being given a pot of gold. He tore it open and ate it greedily. Then he shared his canteen with Ledger. The dog came and lay like a sphinx on the grass between them.
“Tell me your story,” said Ledger, and Tom did so. Ledger then shared his, or at least an abbreviated version of his. Each story was grown from a seed of heartbreak and loss.
