The zom stepped toward Benny, reaching with its broken fingers, and still Benny was frozen into the moment, rooted to the rain-slick kitchen floor. It was only when the very tips of the zombie’s cold fingers brushed his cheek that Benny came alive again.
He screamed.
It was terror and it was rage. The terror was for what was reaching for him—this dead and shambling thing; and the rage was for what had been taken from him—a friend, a person he knew.
Benny backpedaled away from those clutching fingers, his feet slipping and sliding on the floor until his back struck the edge of the doorway that led to the middle room. The impact galvanized him, and he spun off the frame and bolted toward the living room. He crashed into a small table and then flung it behind him, not bothering to look as he heard it crack against the zom’s shins. The monster fell over it, and Benny heard the thump of kneecaps and elbows on the hardwood, but no cry of pain. Nothing normal like that.
He burst into the living room and dove for the bag of training equipment. The best weapons were in the kitchen—knives, hammers, a toolbox. He had the wooden swords. They would have to do. Benny pulled at the rough canvas, his fingers clumsily scrabbling at the zipper, pulling it down, half tearing one of his fingernails, cursing, not caring about the pain. The bag opened, and he reached inside just as Sacchetto lumbered into the living room. Benny flicked a glance at the front door. It was locked, and he knew that he would never get the locks opened before the creature could get him. It was the reverse of what he had imagined for Tom.
Fingers brushed his hair and tried to grab hold, but Benny threw himself over the couch, dragging the bag with him. The wooden swords spilled out with a clatter. He grabbed one and spun around on his knees as the zombie bent over the couch to grab at him.
Benny rammed the tip of the sword against the zom’s chest. The impact had all of his fear behind it, and it was harder than he expected, sending shock waves up his arms. He almost dropped the sword.
The zombie swiped at his face, and Benny could feel a fingernail slice him across the cheek, from ear to nose.
He shifted his grip on the bokken, holding it like a quarterstaff, and used the span between his clenched fists to drive into the zom’s shoulders, shoving it back and knocking it off balance. It was more powerful than he thought, and he realized that Sacchetto could only have been turned recently. Just before, or during, the storm. He wasn’t decayed, hadn’t lost his mass. Maybe hadn’t even lost all of his mind. Maybe that was why he could turn the doorknob. What had Tom said?
Very few zoms can turn doorknobs, and most of them don’t have the coordination to climb out of a window. Very few could. Not “none. ” Maybe it was the recent dead who could do this.
The realization gave him clarity, but not one shred of comfort. It meant that Sacchetto was even more dangerous. Stronger, faster, maybe smarter than the image of a zom that Benny had in his mind.
The zom lurched toward him again and began clambering over the couch.
Benny jumped to his feet and backed away, and as he did so, he almost unconsciously took the handle of the wooden sword into the proper two-hand grip. Fists apart for leverage, raising the sword, elbows slightly bent.
The zom reached for him, trying to grab his wrist.
“I’m sorry,” Benny said.
And he brought the sword down on the top of the artist’s head.
The creature did not stop.
Benny hit him again and again.
And again.
His arms rose and fell, rose and fell, slamming the hard wood down on the zombie’s skull. Benny could hear screams as he struck. Not the zombie’s. They were his own.
“STOP!”
Tom’s shout cut through the air, and Benny froze in place, the wooden sword raised high, his hands slick with blood and brain matter. Benny turned his head to see Tom, standing in the doorway to the middle room. His brother was covered with blood and mud and rainwater; his steel katana was in one strong hand, a thick-bladed bayonet in the other.
“Benny,” Tom said, “it’s over. You won. ” Tom laid the bayonet on a table and stepped close. He reached up to take hold of the bokken. “You did it, kiddo. You killed the monster. ”
“‘Monster’?” Benny said in a soft and distant voice. He looked down at the shattered, lumpy mass that was all that was left of Sacchetto. It no longer looked human. It no longer looked like a zom. All it was now was dead meat and broken bones and stuff that glistened and dripped. Benny let Tom take the sword from his hands. In truth he could barely feel his hands. They were icy, detached, alien. Those hands had just done things that he could never have done. Benny looked numbly at them; at the bloody hands of a killer.
Benny suddenly turned and threw up into a potted plant. Tea and muffins and burgers. He wished he could vomit up the last few moments of his life, to expel these memories and experiences.
Tom stood apart, a sword in each hand, panting.
“Are you hurt, Benny?” he asked. “Did he … ?”
“Bite me?” Benny wiped his mouth and shook his head. “No. He didn’t. ”
Tom nodded slowly, but his eyes ranged up and down Benny, looking for injuries. The only injuries Benny had were a scratch on the cheek and a torn fingernail. However, Benny understood Tom’s caution, and he wondered what Tom would have done if he had been bitten.
Finally, Tom put down the wooden sword and used a cloth to wipe the gore from his katana.