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Something occurred to Gutsy. Sergeant Holly was only about ten years older than she was. “Were you raised down here?” asked Gutsy.
“Oh, sure,” said Holly. “My folks were both staff here. I went to a local school until the outbreak, and then grew up in the base with the other kids.”
“Wait… other kids?”
Holly met her eyes for a moment, then looked away. “Of course there were other kids.”
The word “were” hovered in the air, and Gutsy did not want to pursue it. They finished packing the thumb drives into the cooler and Gutsy stepped over to cabinet 009, but Holly touched her hand.
“Wait a sec,” said the sergeant. “These units run off a generator, but to transport we’ll need to keep the stuff cold. Let me get some ice packs.” She hurried across the room to a big gray metal box that, when opened, exhaled a frosty breath of refrigerated air. Holly removed four blue plastic bricks and brought them back. “These will keep the samples secure for six hours.”
Gutsy took one of the blue bricks and almost dropped it. The brick was made from plastic but was as solid as ice. She watched as Holly placed the other bricks securely in the cooler and then added the one she held. They turned to cabinet 009. Despite looking identical to the others, this one hissed open, and icy mist wafted out.
Inside there were rows and rows of small, clear vials filled with liquid that ranged in color from lemonade yellow to pumpkin orange. Most, though, were a golden hue, and each of these was marked with DM, which had been on the list.
Dòmi.
“Is that everything?” Gutsy asked.
“I think so.”
“Then let’s go. We need to—”
A sound cut her words to silence. They both spun toward the door. Outside in the hallway there was a noise so strange, so alien, that it chilled Gutsy to the bone. Not a moan, or a yell, or a howl.
This was much, much worse.
“Oh God…,” Holly breathed as she backed away from the open airlock. “Oh God, they found us.”
The sound that floated through the polluted air was the high, sweet, evil laughter of children. And it chilled Gutsy to the bone.
Interlude Eight Brother Mercy and the Raggedy Man
TWO YEARS AGO
SAINT JOHN LEFT THE TWO young reapers in the care of the king of the dead.
They remained with him for over a year, becoming his apprentices, as they had once been apprenticed to Brother Peter and Saint John.
It was a strange time. On one hand, they were required to sit and listen to the Raggedy Man ramble on and on about his plans for the world. Much of it was incoherent, though, and the dead king would throw out references to people and things from the old world that Brother Mercy did not understand—Sith Lords and CSI and supervillains and cable news. He laughed a lot, even though he was often the only one who understood the jokes.
However Brother Mercy privately wondered if the rambling was some kind of test, because the Raggedy Man’s eyes were always sharp and alert. He always seemed to be enjoying some enormous private joke, and occasionally threw out comments or questions that required a good memory for things that had been said. Brother Mercy and Sister Sorrow learned to be very alert, and in their private moments often went over the details to make sure they would not be caught short.
It was clear that the Raggedy Man was not as educated as Saint John, but he was highly intelligent and very sly. Much more subtle than he appeared. It would be to his great peril, Mercy knew, to underestimate this creature.
After the first few weeks of merely being with the Raggedy Man, Brother Mercy finally summoned the courage to ask, “How can we be of service to you?”
The king of the dead grinned his wormy grin. “I was wondering when you’d stop being so afraid of me and get ’round to asking that.”
The reapers shared a glance. So this had been a test.
As if he could read their minds, the patchwork king said, “You kids are supposed to be sharp. Fine. Let’s see how sharp. Here’s what you’re going to do for me. First, you’re going to start recruiting more of you breathers.”
“For what reason, lord?” asked Sister Sorrow.
“Because I’m going to need a strike force. Call it special ops. Reapers like you can go places my ravagers can’t. So, you are going to recruit and train as many as you can. Make ’em kneel and kiss the knives, or whatever it is you do. They need to be one hundred percent loyal—or they’re lunch for my friends over there.” He jerked a thumb toward the hordes of the dead.
“We can do that,” promised Sorrow. “What else?”
