Rot & Ruin (Rot & Ruin, #1)(57)

them, even in this world, it was slightly unreal. Zoms were out there, real life was here in town, and deep inside, in a flash of understanding, Benny realized he had been just as detached

from the realities of the world as everyone else. Even with people talking about quieting a relative who’d died. Even with all of the incontrovertible evidence in his face every day, Benny

realized he never quite equated zombies with people. Not even his trip into the Ruin had done that, not completely. But now, as this zombie—this person—reached for him, the horrible truth

of it hit him with full force.

For a dreadful moment Benny was frozen to the spot and frozen into this state of awareness. The creature’s eyes met his, and for a moment—for the strangest, twisted fragment of a moment—

Benny could swear that there was some splinter of recognition, that some piece of Sacchetto looked out in blind panic through the eyes of the dead thing that he had become.

“Mr. Sacchetto,” Benny said again, and this time his voice was full of cracks, ready to break.

The zom’s mouth moved, trying to form words, and against all evidence and sense, Benny hoped that somehow the artist was in there. That he had been able, through some unimaginable way, to

fight the transition from man to monster. But all that came from the dead throat was a low moan that possessed no meaning other than that of a hunger it could never understand and never

assuage.

It nearly broke Benny’s heart. To see the husk of the person and to know that what had made him human was … gone. Benny felt like his head would break if he tried to hold that truth

inside.

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.