Rot & Ruin (Rot & Ruin, #1)(33)

Who is … the Lost Girl?’”

“Doesn’t tell you much,” said Chong.

Morgie grunted. “Charlie Matthias said she’s just a myth.”

Benny’s head whipped around. “You’ve heard of her?”

“Sure. Everyone’s heard of her.”

“I haven’t,” said Benny.

“I haven’t,” said Chong.

“Do you guys even live in the same town as me?” said Morgie with exasperation. “We heard about her years ago. Little girl with snow-white hair, hiding out in the Ruin, eating bugs and

stuff. Completely wild. Can’t speak English or nothing. What’d you call it? Feral?”

Benny shook his head, but Chong said, “Yeah … that’s ringing a faint bell.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Back in the Scouts. Mr. Feeney told us about her. We were, like, nine or

something. It was that weekend we all camped out in Lashner’s Field.”

“I was sick,” said Benny. “I had the flu, remember?”

“Riiight,” said Chong slowly.

“What’d Feeney say about her?”

“Nothing much. He told a spooky story about people trapped in a farmhouse with zoms all around. Everyone died, but the ghost of the youngest daughter keeps haunting the hills, looking for

her folks.”

“Uh-uh,” said Morgie, “that wasn’t how it went. The people in the farmhouse kept going out, one by one, to try and get help, but no one ever came back until only the little girl was

left. She’s supposed to still be there.”

“I heard she died,” insisted Chong.

“Not according to Mr. Feeney,” said Morgie.

“I remember that she was a ghost. Everybody died in the story I heard.”

“Everybody dies in every story,” said Morgie.

“If everybody died,” said Benny as he turned the card over to look at the picture again, “then who told the story?”

They thought about it. “Maybe one of the trackers found the place and figured it out,” suggested Chong. They considered it. There were several trackers in town, some of whom used to be

cops or hunters before First Night.

“No,” said Benny, shaking his head slowly. “No, if she died as a little girl, then why draw her as a teenager?”

Morgie nodded. “And why give her boobs?”

“Jeez, Morgie,” said Chong. “Don’t you think of anything else but boobs?”


“No,” Morgie said, looking genuinely surprised. “Why would I?”

Benny turned the card over and stared at the back. In the lower left corner was the artist’s name. “Rob Sacchetto.”

“Hey,” said Chong. “Isn’t that the guy you tried to get a job with? The erosion artist. Has the blue house by the reservoir.”

“Yeah.”

“So go ask him. If he did this, then he must have talked with someone who saw her. I mean … if this is real.”

“It’s real.” Benny shuffled through the rest of the cards. There were only three others that had been painted by Sacchetto. Charlie Matthias. The Motor City Hammer.

And Tom Imura.

“Are you two …,” Morgie began, but before he could finish, Benny was on his feet and heading toward the reservoir on the far side of town. He left the Zombie Cards behind—except for the

one with the picture of the Lost Girl.

“What’s his malfunction?” Morgie asked. “What, he fall in love with this chick, just because she’s built?”

Chong said, “Do yourself a favor, Morg. Next time you’re staring at a girl’s boobs, look up. You’ll be shocked to learn it, but there’s going to be a face up there. Nose, mouth, eyes.

And behind the eyes is an actual person.”

“Yes, Confucius, I know. Girls are people. Wisdom of the ages. Nix is a girl and therefore a person. I know that.”

“Really?” said Chong as he watched Benny vanish around a corner. “Maybe if you looked her in the eyes, she’d know that you know.”

He got to his feet, shoved his hands down deep into his pockets, and headed home. Morgie watched him go, wondering what the hell had just happened.





16


THERE WAS A SIGN ON A POLE THAT READ ROB SACCHETTO—EROSION ARTIST. It hung from two lengths of rusted chain and creaked in the hot western wind. The outside of the house was painted with

murals of lush rainforests filled with exotic birds and brightly colored frogs. Benny had barely glanced at the murals when he’d come to apply for a job, but now he lingered to look. The

paintings were filled with life—monkeys, insects, flowering plants—but no people.

The artist opened the door on the second knock. He wore low-slung jeans that seemed to be held together by dried paint, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off. His feet were bare, and he

had a steaming cup of coffee hooked on one multicolored finger. He peered down at Benny.

“You’re that kid,” he said.

Benny nodded.

“I thought I told you that I couldn’t use you.”

“I’m not here about the job.”

“Okay. Why are you … ?” the artist’s voice trailed off as Benny held out the card. Sacchetto looked at the image and then at Benny.