The last thing Tom strapped on was a sword. Benny watched with interest as Tom slung a long strap diagonally across his body, from left shoulder to right hip, with the hilt standing above his shoulder so that he could reach up and over for a fast right-handed draw.
The sword was a katana, a Japanese long sword that Benny had seen Tom practice with every day for as long as he could remember. That sword was the only thing about his brother that Benny thought was cool. Benny’s mom, who was Tom’s adopted mother, was Irish, but their father had been Japanese. Tom once told Benny that the Imura family went all the way back to the samurai days of ancient Japan. He showed Benny picture books of fierce-looking Japanese men in armor. Samurai warriors.
“Are you a samurai?” Benny had asked when he was nine.
“There are no samurai anymore,” Tom said, but even back then Benny thought that Tom had a funny look on his face when he said that. Like maybe there was more to say on the subject, but he didn’t want to say it right then. When Benny brought the subject up a couple of times since, the answer was always the same.
Even so, Tom was pretty damn good with the sword. He could draw fast as lightning, and Benny had seen him do a trick once when Tom thought no one else was looking. He threw a handful of grapes into the air, then drew his sword and cut five of them in half before they fell to the grass. The blade was a blur. Later, after Tom had gone off to a store, Benny counted the grapes. Tom had thrown six into the air. He’d only missed one. That was sweet.
Of course, Benny would sooner eat broken glass than tell Tom how impressive he thought it was.
“Why are you bringing that?” he asked as Tom adjusted the lay of the strap.
“It’s quiet,” Tom said.
Benny understood that. Noise attracted zoms. A sword was quieter than a gun, but it also meant getting closer. Benny didn’t think that was a very smart idea. He said as much, and Tom just shrugged.
“Then why bring the gun?” Benny persisted.
“’Cause sometimes quiet doesn’t matter.” Tom patted his pockets to do a quick inventory to make sure he had everything he needed. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”
Tom tipped a couple of fence runners to bang on drums six hundred yards north, and as soon as that drew away the wandering zoms, Tom and Benny slipped out into the great Rot and Ruin and headed for the tree line.
Chong waved to them from the corner tower.
“We need to move fast for the first half mile,” cautioned Tom, and he broke into a jog-trot that was fast enough to get them out of scent range but slow enough for Benny to match.
A few of the zombies staggered after them, but the fence runners banged on the drums again, and the zombies, incapable of holding on to more than one reaction at a time, turned back toward the noise. The Imura brothers vanished into the shadows under the trees.
When they finally slowed to a walk, Benny was sweating. It was a hot start to what would be a scorcher of a day. The air was thick with mosquitoes and flies, and the trees were alive with the sound of chattering birds. Far above them the sun was a white hole in the sky.
“We’re not being followed,” Tom said.
“Who said we were?”
“Well … ever since we left you keep looking back toward the fence line.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Or are you looking to see if any of your friends came to see you off? Other than Chong, I mean. Maybe a certain red-haired girl?”
Benny stared at him. “You are completely delusional.”
“You’re going to tell me that you don’t have a thing for Nix Riley?”
“A world of no.”
“How come I found a sheet of paper with her name written on it maybe a million times?”
“Must have been Morgie’s.”
“It was your handwriting.”
“Then I guess I was practicing my penmanship. What is it with you? I told you, I don’t have a thing for Nix. Let it go.”
Tom turned away without another word, but Benny caught his smile. He cursed under his breath for the next mile.
“How far are we going?” Benny asked.