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“Question is,” said Gutsy, “what do you know? I mean, do you know who these Rat Catchers are and why they’re acting like they’re in some kind of military when there isn’t any real military left?”
That seemed to jolt the two old teachers. Urrea studied her with intense eyes. “Gutsy,” he said stiffly, “you really do need to tell us everything you know. Everything.”
“You first,” she countered.
“No,” said Ford.
When she still hesitated, Urrea said, “Please.”
Gutsy folded her arms. “How do I even know I can trust you two? Because right now you’re scaring me, and I’m getting tired of being scared.” As if picking up on her emotions, Sombra stood up and glared at them. He did not exactly snarl, but there was clear menace in the way he stood—straight, ready, his muscles tense.
The dog’s high state of alertness, coupled with the marks of violence all over him, seemed to flick some kind of switch in both of the old men. Ford got up and crossed to the door, closed it, and locked it. Urrea pulled the shades down on all the windows, plunging the room into amber shadows. Then the Chess Players sat down at students’ desks and waved Gutsy to another. She pulled hers around to face them, and Sombra lay like a sphinx in the space between.
“If you’ve ever trusted us,” said Ford, “then trust us now. Tell us what you know. Leave nothing out.”
Gutsy took a while to think about it. Mr. Ford and Mr. Urrea had always seemed like good guys. Smart, insightful, fair-minded and . . . honest? She hoped so.
“Okay,” she said, “but you’d better not be messing with me.”
They gave their words, and Urrea even put his hand over his heart.
“If you think we’re lying,” he said, “then you can sic your coydog on us. I give you full permission.”
“I don’t,” said Ford, but Urrea ignored him.
Gutsy considered them both, then nodded to herself. She told them all of it, and even surprised herself by keeping nothing back. Everything Mama had said on her deathbed; the two times the Rat Catchers had brought horror back from the cemetery. The desecration of all those graves. The capt
ain, lieutenant, and two soldiers. The Night Army. The lab and the base. The bizarre question about whether Mama had told Gutsy some kind of information after she’d been brought back from the grave.
Partway through her tale, Mr. Urrea took his pipe from a pocket, cleaned it slowly, and put the stem between his teeth. As far as Gutsy knew, the old man never actually smoked the pipe. Something to fidget with, she figured. Something to keep nervous hands busy.
Mr. Ford, on the other hand, sat still and barely even looked like he was breathing. Only his eyes were fully alive.
By the time she was done the noonday sun was baking all of New Alamo.
“Okay,” said Gutsy. “Your turn.”
53
“THERE IS A BIG DIFFERENCE between what we know for sure,” began Ford, “and what we’ve guessed.”
“We have theories,” agreed Urrea. “We’ve heard things, but we can’t prove much.”
“Tell me anyway,” she insisted.
Ford nodded to his friend. “You go first. It started with you.”
Mr. Urrea took his pipe out of his mouth and studied the bowl with raised eyebrows, as if surprised to find that it was empty. Then he looked up at Gutsy. “I was a writer before the End. You know that, of course. Ford was too. We were at a writers’ conference in San Antonio when it all started.”
“What’s a writers’ conference?” she asked.
“Bunch of self-important writers trying to convince a bunch of earnest wannabes that they’re all going to make it big.” He paused. “Look, before the End people like us made a living—even a good living—writing books. That’s one of those professions that died when the world changed. Along with movie stars, web developers, nuclear engineers, airline pilots, and a whole long list of other jobs that don’t make any sense to someone like you.”
“How does this matter?”
“It matters, because Ford and I were more than just writers,” said Urrea. “We were working on a project together. Something kind of secret and something very dangerous. There’s a thing called ‘investigative journalism.’ That’s when a reporter or writer digs into something that other people maybe want to keep hidden. Stuff like crimes, bad politics, corruption. You understand?”
“Sure. Like the stories Mr. Golden writes for the paper.”
