“My rations,” he barked. “I know, I know. Geez.”
Nix fell silent. Morgie pretended to kick her foot, but she kicked him back for real, and they got into a loud argument. Benny, disgusted with them and with everything, got up and stalked away, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched under the August heat.
4
SEPTEMBER WAS TEN DAYS AWAY, AND BENNY STILL HADN’T FOUND A JOB. He wasn’t good enough with a rifle to be a fence guard; he wasn’t old enough to join the town watch; he wasn’t patient enough for farming; and he wasn’t strong enough to work as a hitter or a cutter—not that smashing in zombie heads with a sledgehammer or cutting them up for the quarry wagons was much of a draw for him, even with his strong hatred for the monsters. Yes, it was killing, but it also looked like hard work, and Benny wasn’t all that interested in something described in the papers as “demanding physical labor.” Was that supposed to attract applicants?
So, after soul-searching for a week, during which Chong lectured him pretty endlessly about detaching himself from preconceived notions and allowing himself to become part of the cocreative process of the universe (or something like that), Benny went and asked Tom to take him on as an apprentice.
At first Tom studied him with narrow-eyed suspicion.
Then his eyes widened in shock when he realized Benny wasn’t playing a joke.
As the reality sank in, Tom looked like he wanted to cry. He tried to hug Benny, but that wasn’t going to happen in this lifetime, so they shook hands on it.
Benny left a smiling Tom and went upstairs to take a nap before dinner. He sat down and stared out the window, as if he could see tomorrow and the tomorrow after that and the one after that. Just him and Tom.
“This is really going to suck,” he said.
5
THAT EVENING TOM AND BENNY SAT ON THE FRONT STEPS AND WATCHED the sun set over the mountains. Benny was depressed. He looked at the sunset as if it was a window into the future, and all he saw was forced closeness with Tom and the problems that went with it. He also didn’t understand Tom. He knew Tom had run away and yet he now made his living killing zoms. Tom never talked about it at home. He never bragged about his kills, didn’t hang out with the other bounty hunters, didn’t do anything to show how tough he was.
On one hand, zoms were not supposed to be hard to kill in a one-on-one situation—not against a smart and well-armed person. On the other hand, there was no room for mistakes with them. They were always hungry, always dangerous. No matter how he tried to work it out in his head, Benny could not see Tom as the kind of person who could or would hunt the living dead. It was like a henhouse chicken hunting foxes.
Over the last couple of years Benny had almost asked Tom about this, but each time, he’d left his questions unspoken. Maybe the answers would somehow show more of Tom’s weakness. Maybe Tom was lying and really doing something else. Benny had worked out a number of bizarre and unlikely scenarios to try and explain chickenshit Tom as a zombie killer. None of them held water. Now, with the reality of what they were going to do tomorrow morning as clear and real as the setting sun, Benny finally put the question out there.
“Why do you do this stuff?”
Tom cut a quick look at him, but he continued to sip his coffee and was a long time answering. “Tell me, kiddo, what is it you think I do?”
“Duh! You kill zoms.”
“Really?”
“That’s what you say,” Benny said, then grudgingly added, “That’s what everyone says. Tom Imura, the great zombie killer.”
Tom nodded, as if Benny had said something interesting. “So, far as you see it, that’s all I do? I just walk up to any zombie I see and pow!”
“Uh … yeah.”