“No,” said the artist. “No, it sure as hell isn’t. Mostly because neither of us really thought we were going to live. We just didn’t want to be the next to die. ”
“You won?”
“No,” he said. “I lost. I was the one who had to try. George stayed back there with the two kids. I tore up a throw rug and wrapped strips of it around my arms, and put on a thick winter coat I found in the closet. When I told Tom all this, he joked that maybe I invented carpet coats. Whatever. I wound five scarves around my face. All I left free were my legs. I found a bag of golf clubs in a closet and took two metal putters, one for each hand. George went through the same ritual, banging on the front door. Zombies are as dumb as they are dangerous. They came lumbering around to the front of the house, and I went out the back. I heard the baby crying and George yelling, but I didn’t look back. I ran. Kid … I ran for my life, and that’s what chews me up every day and night since. ”
“I don’t understand. ”
The artist gave him a bleak smile. “I ran for my life. Not theirs. Not for George or the little kid or the baby. I ran to save my own sorry ass. I ran and ran and ran. On good nights, when I can find a little scrap of self-respect, I tell myself that I ran so far because I couldn’t find anyone alive, closer to the cottage, but that’s not entirely true. At least, I don’t know if it’s true. I saw smoke a couple of times, and I heard gunfire. I could have gone there and maybe found some people who were still alive and fighting, but I was too scared. If there was gunfire, then they had to be firing at the zombies, and that scared me too much. I was crying and talking to myself as I ran, making up lies to convince myself that the little kids back in the house were safe, that the hunters or soldiers or whoever was firing the guns would find them in time. I ran and ran and ran. ”
He stopped and sighed again.
“At nights I slept in barns or in drainage ditches. I don’t know how many days I ran. Too many, I guess. Then one morning I heard voices, and when I crept out of my hiding place, I saw a party of armed men, walking down the road. More than sixty of them, with a couple of soldiers and a few cops leading the way. I rushed out at them, screaming incoherently. They nearly shot me, but I managed to get out a few words in time. They gathered around me, gave me some food and water, and grilled me on where I’d been and what I’d seen. I don’t think I made a whole lot of sense, but when I was finally able to get myself together enough to tell them about the cottage, I realized that I had no idea where it was. I wasn’t familiar with this part of California, and I sure as hell hadn’t paid attention to the crazy path I took. They had a map, and I tried to figure it out, but it was hopeless. ”
“What happened?”
He shook his head. “They never found the cottage. Not while I was with them, anyway. A party of about a dozen went to look for it, but they never came back. The main group pushed on, and after a week of fighting and running, we found a reservoir with a high chain-link fence and mountains behind it. It was defensible, and it became a rallying point for survivors. ”
“You mean here? That’s how this town was started?”
“Yes. I helped reinforce the fence and dig earthworks and build shelters. I worked as hard as I could each day, every day. … And except for a couple of very short trips into the Ruin with Tom, I never left this town again. I don’t think I ever will. ”
“What about the little girls? What about Lilah?”
Sacchetto sat back. “Well, kid, that’s where I left the story of the Lost Girl, and it’s where Tom entered it. You’re going to have to get the rest from him. ”
Benny got up and fetched the coffeepot. He poured the artist a fresh cup and set the bottle of whiskey down next to it. The artist stared at the bottle for a while, then poured some into his coffee, sipped it, then got up and poured the coffee out in the sink.
“Thanks for telling me all this,” said Benny. “Most people don’t want to talk about First Night or what happened after. And those that do … They always make it sound like they were the heroes. ”
“Yeah, I sure as hell didn’t do that. ”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Benny.
The artist sneered. “I ran away and left an infant and a little girl in a house surrounded by the living dead. I sure as hell didn’t do anything right. ”
“Could you have carried them out? Both of them?”
Sacchetto gave a single wretched shake of his head.
Benny smiled at him. “Then at least you tried to do what you could do,” he said.
“Kid, I appreciate the effort, but that thought doesn’t even get me through the night. ” He closed his eyes. “Not one single night. ”
18
“TALK TO TOM,” SAID THE ARTIST AS HE WALKED BENNY TO THE DOOR. “If he’s willing to talk about it, then he can tell you the rest of it. ”
“I will. ”
“You never did tell me, though. … What’s your interest? You don’t know her. What’s she to you?”
Benny was expecting the question but hoping it would slip by unasked. He shrugged. He took the card from his pocket and held it up so they could both look at the image. “It’s hard to put into words. I was sorting through the new cards with my crew, and I saw this one. There was something about it, something about her. I …” He stopped, fishing for the right words, but he came up empty. He shrugged.
However, Sacchetto surprised him by nodding. “No, I get it, kid. She kind of has that effect on people. ”
Sacchetto opened the door to a bright spill of September sunlight. The light was clean and dry and seemed to belong to a totally different world than the one Sacchetto had talked about. They lingered in a moment of awkwardness, neither of them sure if this was the whole of their relationship or the first chapter of an acquaintanceship that might last for years.
“Sorry it didn’t work out with the job,” Sacchetto said with a crooked smile.