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“No,” said Ford, “because they can remember.”
“What do you mean?”
Urrea turned away from the window. “They were soldiers once. Probably good soldiers. They fought the dead in a losing battle from Western Pennsylvania all the way to San Antonio. They fought an enemy that people didn’t really understand. Not at the time. And while they fought, many of them were bitten and became infected. The scientists at the lab that’s somewhere around here were supposed to try and help those soldiers. They gave them treatment after treatment that they swore would save their lives. But the scientists lied to those poor soldiers. They had no cure. All they had were a series of radical and experimental treatments. Many of those soldiers died. Badly. Screaming in agony, turning wild, attacking their fellow soldiers. It was a bloodbath. It was horrible, because they couldn’t understand what was happening to them. All they knew was that after getting a series of shots they were different from the other infected.”
“The later generations of the treatments upset the chemical composition of the soldiers’ bloodstreams,” said Ford. “Somehow the attempted cure merged with the original plague and totally warped their brain chemistry. They developed tumors and cysts that corrupted their minds. The soldiers became incredibly violent, uncontrollable. It turned them into homicidal maniacs with an unbearable need to kill and consume.”
“The treatment drove them mad,” said Ford, “but it didn’t kill them. Eventually those test subjects revolted. They slaughtered most of the medical staff and broke out of the lab. The chemicals in their systems continued to warp their personalities. Now there are hundreds of them out there, and there are crazy rumors that one of them has emerged as a leader among them.”
“The Raggedy Man,” supplied Urrea. “Not sure who or what he is, but the ravagers are reported to worship him like a god. And that, young lady, is a truly terrifying thought. A god of the living dead.”
“Raggedy Man . . . I heard that name,” said Gutsy. “The Rat Catchers seem to be scared of him. Is he a ravager too? And how is he a ‘god’ to them?”
“Urrea’s being dramatic,” said Ford. “From what I’ve heard, he’s more like a king or a general.”
“Equally terrifying,” said Urrea, and Ford didn’t dispute his statement.
“We don’t know anything reliable about him,” continued Ford. “As for the ravagers, though, either they learned how to manage their madness, or the disease mutated further still. In either case, there have been reports that they can communicate with the shamblers and other mutations. They attack settlements and camps, but they also attack the soldiers from the base. All they want to do is kill anything that is not like them.”
Urrea sighed and shook his head as if unbearably weary from all of this. Gutsy couldn’t blame him.
“The soldiers at Mama’s grave,” she said slowly, “they were afraid of the Night Army.”
“Yes. The Night Army is real, and they’re the ones following this Raggedy Man. It’s his army. We have our walls here in town to protect us, and the base is hidden, but the Night Army is looking for a way in to both places. They won’t give up because they can’t. We’ve left them nothing else worth having. All we’ve done is give them a reason to want to wipe us all out.” He paused and closed his eyes. “We damaged this lovely green-and-blue wonder of a world, we squandered this beautiful gift. But our extermination is not because of nature rebelling, it isn’t Mother Nature’s revenge. No. We’ve done this to ourselves. We created our own boogeymen, and now they’re hunting us.”
“Was it the Rat Catchers who made Mama sick?” asked Gutsy. “Could they have done that?”
“I don’t know,” said Ford, “but we have to accept the possibility.”
“And their lab is around here somewhere?”
“Yes. Urrea and I know people who swear it’s still in operation. The Rat Catchers never stopped their work, even after what they did to their own soldiers. They are still trying to find a cure, but now they’re using the people in New Alamo as their lab rats.”
She stared at them and the tilting room began to spin.
“My mama died from tuberculosis,” she said.
“Yes,” said Ford.
“I didn’t catch it.”
“No,” said Urrea.
“They killed her, didn’t they?” she said in a voice that was no more than a hoarse croak. “They killed her because they knew she’d come back as one of the living dead. They killed her so they could try a cure on her.” She looked at them. “Didn’t they?”
Neither man answered. Which was answer enough.
Gutsy looked at them, and away, and around, as if she could see the whole town and the endless miles of the Broken Lands. Nothing looked right. None of the parts that made up the places she knew seemed to fit anymore. The day was the same, but the world had changed.
She walked over to the window. Stumbled, fell against the sill. There was not enough air in the room. Not enough in the whole world. Then she bent and laid her face atop her balled fists. She did not cry. The horror was too great to allow that. The rage was too cold to allow it.
Sombra stood up behind her. She heard his nails on the floor.
He did not whine or bark.
He howled.
After a moment, Gutsy threw back her head and she, too, howled.
