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it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.
—WASHINGTON IRVING
12
THE ONLY THING ABOUT BEING sixteen that felt different to Benny Imura was that fewer people—living or dead—tried to kill him. He put that in the win category.
He sat in the shadow of a massive black oak with his best friend, Lou Chong. They both had bottles of root beer, and the remains of a big lunch were scattered around them like the leavings of hungry wolves. Chong held up a finger and Benny, attentive, listened to a very long, complicated, and deeply noxious belch. Benny nodded approval. They said nothing for a long time.
The tree stood in a corner of one of the newer fields in the town of Reclamation. The tree was nice, the town itself was nice, the name of the town was stupid. Benny and Chong agreed on that, as did pretty much everyone they knew. Sure, sure, it had all sorts of meaning because the people who lived here, in fact, had reclaimed all this land from what had once been called the Rot and Ruin. Now, instead of the cramped old town of Mountainside—which had been burned down after a war with the Reaper army—with its population of eight thousand people, the new town was home to twice that many, and more came in all the time. There was room for all the newcomers, too, and that had been part of the plan, to not only reclaim the land, but reclaim the concept of civilization.
Benny was cool with the concept. He’d fought very hard to make that a possibility. He’d sacrificed a lot, and Chong had sacrificed more. All his friends had.
But the name was still stupid.
“How about Kingstown?” suggested Chong, coming back to the topic they had been discussing off and on since breakfast.
“Why?” asked Benny. There were a few crumbs of hamburger meat on the plate and he was on a search-and-destroy mission, leaving no bite behind.
“?’Cause we saved the town and maybe the whole freaking world, man. We’re kings. There wouldn’t even be a town if it wasn’t for us.”
“Yeah,” said Benny, “no. I pretty much don’t see anyone going for that.”
Chong gave a philosophical sigh. “Small minds.”
They watched their girlfriends, Nix Riley—she of the countless freckles, devious green eyes, and fiery red hair—and Lilah—the snowy-haired killer with a to-die-for smile. When she smiled, at least, which was rare, but always like a burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. They were throwing a Frisbee back and forth. Benny and Chong had bailed out of the game to eat, but the girls never seemed to tire. They whipped the flying disk at each other with incredible force, and it always looked like they were trying to commit murder. Benny’s hand still stung like crazy from catching—or trying to catch—the throws.
The game was typical of the way those two always were, whether it was Frisbee, softball, touch football, or recreational sparring with bamboo swords. They were friends, but there was some kind of weird tension always bubbling below the surface that neither Benny nor Chong could figure out. Maybe it was competitiveness, or maybe they were both a little crazy. Chong said a case could be made either way. No one who watched the intensity of the game ever asked to join. The fun was likely outweighed by potential crippling injuries.
Benny looked for more scraps of food, found none, made a disgusted noise, and sipped his pop. “Boringsville,” he said. “Tell me that isn’t the best name for this place.”
Chong thought about it, lips pursed judiciously, then nodded. “I like it.”
“Or, how ’bout Mindnumbinglydullistan?”
“That could work,” agreed Chong.
A few sun-drowsy bees flew past, buzzing close to the pop bottles, then flew off in disappointment.
“What I don’t get,” said Benny, “is why, or even how, we’re bored. I mean . . . wasn’t peace and tranquility and all that stuff why we went out into the Ruin in the first place?”
“?‘All that stuff,’?” echoed Chong, a half smile on his lips.
“You know what I mean. We fought Saint John and Preacher Jack and Charlie Pink-eye and all those guys to get this, to get what we have now. No hordes of zoms trying to break in. No armies of religious nutbags who think the best way to serve God is to kill everyone. No maniacs forcing kids to fight in the zombie pits. I mean, we stopped that. Us. A bunch of teenagers. We stopped it and now aren’t we supposed to just kick back and enjoy the peace and quiet?”
“That,” said Chong, “was the actual plan.”
Benny sighed. “Peace is boring.”
Chong shrugged. “Peace is safe, man.”
“Safe is boring too.”
The boys drank. Chong belched again.
“Okay, you’re not even trying now,” said Benny.
“Fair enough.”
