Domino Falls (9 page)

The cans were about thirty feet away. Wind gusts from the southwest tickled his ears. “Ladies first,” Darius told Dean.

Dean gave him the finger, and the watching boys laughed. The day felt amazingly good-natured, considering what a bad mood the rest of the world was in. Even the boys they'd considered shooting were smiling again, ready for entertainment.

“Watch this, Kimosabe,” Dean said, and aimed.

He took three of the five cans, enough for Jackie to clap and cheer. Dean cursed to himself, his eye flinching with annoyance. Without the wind, he might have hit four.

Dean took it all too seriously, was too tight with it; to Darius, shooting was like feeling energy flow to the trigger. Only a small part of him was thinking about it. Instead of fighting the wind, he rode it.

Gunfire pummeled his ear. Six in a row went down.

The crowd hooted.

“Definitely seen worse,” Jackie said, eyeing him up and down.

“You boys can shoot,” Tom said, impressed. “You want work, you've got it. Shooters are the eyes and ears. If you're good at it, you're sure to get in. The hours can be rough, but the pay is good—at least what counts for pay here. Nice house. Plenty of food. You'd have your pick of the Threadie chicks.”

Jackie made a face. “Wait'll you see them. That's a punishment.”

The crowd laughed.

“Thought you were all Threadies out here,” Darius said.

“No way,” one of the boys said. “My family's lived here since before Wales.”

“Never call a townie a Threadie,” Jackie said. “By local custom, someone might give you a black eye.”

“Try to, anyway,” Dean said.

There were always layers to learn. Threadville looked like
paradise from the outside, but up close it was easier to see the blemishes. Domino Falls's nickname saluted the Threadies, but it wasn't just a company town. That felt better to Darius—less like they'd be joining a cult, pledging to believe in something, or anything, if they stayed.

The tallest and oldest of the teenagers stepped forward to bump Darius's fist. “I'm Eric. Call me E.J.” His cousins Sean and Warren introduced themselves next. If someone had fired some franks on the grill, they could have been at a barbecue.

“We've got twenty miles of fence, all told,” Tom said. He grunted, carefully unspooling a roll of fence with nasty barbed-wire accents alongside the poles they had all pounded in. “If these things could climb, we'd all be shambling and moaning.”

“They can't climb?” Dean said.

“It's smartest not to put anything past 'em,” Tom said. “Sometimes one'll do something different from the others. Six might run right past you when you're in a tree—and the seventh stops and looks straight up.”

Darius wondered if one of Tom's men had learned that from experience.

Jackie shook her head. “They can't climb. The fast ones, maybe a little. Up a few steps. But the slowpokes? Come on.”

Tom met Dean's eyes. “Like I said, don't put anything past 'em. That way, you're never surprised.” He took his pliers and brought up a section of metal fence, demonstrating how to join two pieces of wire. “See how you have to twist?”

Darius fought to keep from wondering about Trinidad, the town they'd heard about from the reverend at the checkpoint. What had made a town fall? Had it been as big as Threadville?

“We heard some freaks got in,” Darius said.

“Bad day,” Tom said, his face iron. He didn't want to talk about it.

“Then what do you guys do around here for fun?” Darius said. When he asked, he was staring straight at Jackie, and she smiled. Dean didn't have a chance.

Suddenly, playfulness sparked across E.J.'s face. He ran up to Jackie to ask her something privately, and she shook her head. “Count me out,” she said.

“What is it?” Darius said.

E.J. and his cousins grinned. “You guys ever heard of . . . freak tipping?”

A quick word to the crew leader, and Tom led them toward the side of the
property closest to the woods. Dean and Darius never took off their ghillie suits, and once in a while one or the other flopped to the ground, testing his camouflage.

The rest of the fence crew was drawing farther and farther away, except for Tom, who had his Remington a few yards back, watching for movement. Tom had told them to pay attention to his cover to see how shooters worked.

Jackie watched them from the hood of her pickup with binoculars, which looked like a sensible place, and Darius wished he'd stayed behind with her.

The woods were awash in mid-afternoon shade, full of hiding places. The closer they drew to the outer stand of sycamore trees, the more Darius wanted to be somewhere else. Freak tipping? Was it some kind of town rite of initiation? An intelligence test?

Darius edged close to E.J., who was bounding ahead. “They're not that easy to sneak up on,” he whispered. “They smell us.”

“Shhh,”
E.J. said, stopping to drop to the ground. “Here.”

Darius and Dean dropped too. Act first, ask questions later.
They were virtually invisible in their canopy of green. They stank of hard work and adrenaline.

E.J. pointed toward his two o'clock. “We spotted these two day ago. We let 'em alone to get a
little
bit riper.” He spoke in a singsong, delighted with himself.

Terry followed Tom's pointing finger. Two withered freaks stood only ten yards from them, eyes facing forward. Their eyes were sunken so deep in their sockets, they stared out from shadows. Their faces were crusted by something red that grew like moss. The smell of rotten oranges was stronger, sickening. The closer one was wearing a Las Vegas T-shirt dirtied nearly beyond legibility; the second one, maybe a female, had lost her clothes and all recognizable body shaping. In her former life, she must have weighed three hundred pounds. A mountain of loose skin sagged from her. Or . . .
him.

The two freaks swayed in the gusts, arms dangling limply at their sides. They were staring straight toward them with dry, unseeing eyes.

Darius's heart knocked in his chest in a way it hadn't since Vern woke him from sleep at camp to show him the world had ended.

E.J. chortled. “Look at 'em. Can't move. Don't even know we're here.”

Says who?
Darius thought.

“Make a wish,” E.J. said, and charged the freaks with a yell. Darius ignored his knocking heart and a
nononono
roaring in his head, giving a scream as he chased E.J. He heard Dean screaming beside him, an unspoken agreement between them that made Darius wonder if they were both crazy together. E.J. went for his freak at full speed, like a football tackle. Darius took the huge one, pushing with all his might.

Darius was careful to avoid the freak's mouth, but the lips
seemed sewn shut. The freak felt like a soft ball of cooling skin, crumpling beneath them.

“Don't get that crap all over you!”
Tom called to them.

The freaks fell over without attacking or struggling. They hardly moved, except to flop like scarecrows. E.J. and his cousins were laughing like maniacs. Even Tom was laughing. The laughter was contagious. Dean gave him a wide-eyed I-can't-believe-we-did-that look, as if he'd been liberated, and his face made Darius laugh until his ribs stabbed him.

“You idiots are sick!” Jackie's voice yelled from the distance, and Darius laughed harder because she was so right.

Dean wasn't laughing; he was studying the freaks, brushing red dust from his jacket. The freaks had fallen, but their ankles had literally snapped, exposing bone and blood the texture of corn syrup. The soles of their ragged shoes were sprouting with something that resembled vines. Dean squatted to stare at the odd, viscous red puddle ensnaring the freak's feet with a bed of tightly woven pink vines, rooting them. Something was growing into them, or out of them. When freaks planted themselves, they planted for real.

What the hell were they supposed to be growing into? And were there enough scientists left to figure it all out?

Darius's heart started hammering again. He suddenly felt like he might throw up. The freaks weren't getting up, but Darius backed away. Two gunshots made Darius jump. Smoke curled from the muzzle of Dean's rifle. He'd shot the freaks in the head.

“They used to be somebody,” Dean said. And he walked away, head down.

The whole walk back to the farmhouse, Tom, Darius, and E.J. were laughing until their faces were bright red, streaked with half-crazed tears.

T
hey
all agreed to meet in front of the town hall before dinner was served at five-thirty, and no one minded waiting an extra half hour for Darius and Dean. The weather was turning cold, with a misty drizzle. Terry looked forward to the group's reunion so they could compare notes on their training day.

The local citizens gave them long looks as they climbed the steps to the dining hall, not overly friendly, but not unfriendly either.

“. . . shot six cans in a row . . .” a farmer muttered as he passed.

“Seen 'em on those bikes?” another said.

Everyone in town had heard of the Twins already. It didn't take much to pass for news in this place.

“The Legend of Darius and Dean,” Piranha said, and they laughed.

“Maybe it'll help us get in here,” Terry said.

“Yeah, if the Twins remember us tomorrow,” Sonia said, only halfway kidding.

Finally, the bikes roared up, accompanied by everything short of a light show. Darius and Dean ran wide, lazy circles in the street before parking neatly side by side. Kids and girls flocked up to them as if they were rock stars.

“Someone please explain this to me,” Terry said.

“Motorcycles,” Ursalina said. “Simple.”

Kendra and Terry were holding hands again, and he wasn't sure who had reached for the other first. Their hands fit together. “They're a spectacle,” she said. “Entertainment. Look at them: matching good looks, long hair, and style for miles. They're a whiff of fresh new air.”

Kendra was a poet whose words seemed to flow across Terry. She saw details that he missed, giving him new eyes. Sharper eyes.

Speaking of eyes . . .

Terry tried to glance at Piranha's eyes while they climbed the town hall's steps, but Piranha turned his face away. Last time Terry had caught a glimpse, Piranha's eyes looked as if he'd just walked out of a smoke-filled room. Something was wrong, worse than he'd let on. At least twice during that day's training, Terry had been sure Piranha couldn't see where the crew leader was pointing. Guessing at things. And scav crew would be intense, like a combat mission in the old army, except with less time for training.

Their first patrol left at four-thirty in the morning. If they couldn't go, they had to tell somebody. Every crew needed six men. The training was specific.

“What's up with your eyes?” he whispered to Piranha as they walked to the doors.

“Hurt like hell.” Piranha walked ahead, and the din swallowed them.

“You the Washington group?” said a burly, bearded man at the door. The man smiled. “I'm Miller. Welcome to Threadville.”

Miller led them toward rows of rectangular folding tables, brightly covered with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. A banner over the front stage read
WELCOME
. A huge Christmas tree on the stage, sparkling with lights and garlands, looked like an exhibit in a museum, so beautiful that Terry forgot to breathe.

About eighty people were bustling in the hall, maybe about half of them townies. Clusters of girls wore tights or were draped in black. Threadies, Terry guessed. He recognized them from the high school hallways, although these women were all ages. He could tell the Threadies by their smiles; the townies looked more tired, less giddy. The large room's walls were lined with paintings like the ones he and Kendra had seen.

“Take a seat anywhere,” Miller said. “We have group dinner every night. Helps the newbies meet folks, frees up people from cooking after a long day. Helps us be good neighbors. It's fried chicken night, so you got lucky.”

Terry's stomach growled as he was assailed by the scent of frying meat. Had anything ever smelled so good? His mouth flooded as if he were starving.

Miller was huge, with a lumberjack's massive forearms, so Terry tried not to notice the way his eyes were enjoying Sonia . . . and Kendra. Miller's eyes seemed lost somewhere in them even while he was talking. For the first time, he was glad Piranha couldn't see. He might say something that would get them thrown out.

“Let me know if any questions or concerns come up,” Miller said. He walked on, towering above the room. He made one last look over his shoulder, toward the girls.

“Ewwwwww,”
Kendra murmured, pretending to smile.

“As long as they only look and don't touch,” Ursalina said to the girls, shrugging. “Young and cute has worked since Adam and Eve. If you got it, use it.”

“It is good to be a god,” Darius agreed.

They'd all had a good day. Even Kendra, so eager to contact Devil's Wake, admitted she'd had a memorable day at the school. Terry saw the glow in her face. Ursalina's too—her cheeks had color, maybe from laughing, maybe from crying.

The kitchen doors opened and the food train began. It was plentiful, simple food for hardworking people, but it was clean, and hot, and there was plenty of it. A pile of golden fried chicken. Mashed potatoes. String beans. The hall howled with pleasure at the chicken, with calls for the chef.

“I wasn't sure I'd ever say this again,” Piranha said reverently, “but pass the chicken and biscuits!”

The dinner felt good enough to be worthy of a last meal. No one talked at first, concentrating on their plates, cramming their stomachs. Terry sat next to Piranha so he could talk to him. “You can't go out like that, P,” Terry said finally.