Benny thought that their exchange had the cadence of a church litany, as if it was something the two of them had said before and would say again.
Brother David bent toward Benny. “Tell me, young brother, do you come here bringing hurt and harm to the Children of God?”
“Um … no?”
“Do you bring hurt and harm to the Children of Lazarus?”
“I don’t know who they are, mister. I’m just here with my brother.”
Brother David turned toward the women, who were using gentle pushes to steer the zombie back around the far side of the building. “Old Roger there is one of Lazarus’s Children.”
“What? You mean he’s not a zom—”
Tom made a noise to stop him.
A tolerant smile flickered over Brother David’s face. “We don’t use that word, little brother.”
Benny didn’t know how to answer that, so Tom came to his rescue.
“The name comes from Lazarus of Bethany, a man who was raised from the dead by Jesus.”
“Yeah, I remember hearing about that in church.”
The mention of church brightened Brother David’s smile. “You believe in God?” he asked hopefully.
“I guess. …”
“In these times,” said Brother David, “that’s better than most.” He threw a covert wink at Tom.
Benny looked past Brother David to where the girls had taken the zombie. “I’m, like, totally confused here. That guy was a … you know. He’s dead, right?”
“Living dead,” corrected Brother David.
“Right. Why wasn’t he trying to … you know.” He mimed grabbing and biting.
“He doesn’t have teeth,” said Tom. “And you saw his hands.”
Benny nodded. “Did you guys do that?” he asked Brother David.
“No, little brother,” Brother David said with a grimace. “No, other people did that to Old Roger.”
“Who?” demanded Benny.
“Don’t you mean ‘why?’”
“No … who. Who’d do something like that?”
Brother David said, “Old Roger is only one of the Children who have been tortured like that. You can see them all over this county. Men and women with their eyes cut out, their teeth pulled, or jaws shot away. Most of them missing fingers or whole hands. And I won’t talk about some of the other things I’ve seen done. Stuff you’re too young to know about, little brother.”
“I’m fifteen,” said Benny.
“You’re too young. I can remember when being fifteen meant you were still a child.” Brother David turned and watched the two young women return without the old zombie.
“He’s in the shed,” said the black girl.
“But he’s agitated,” said the other, a pale-skinned redhead in her mid-twenties.
“He’ll quiet down after a spell,” said Brother David.
The women stood by the gas pump and eyed Tom, although Tom seemed to suddenly find something fascinating about the movement of the clouds. Benny’s usual inclination was to make a joke at Tom’s expense, but he didn’t feel like it. He turned back to the bearded man.
“Who’s doing all this stuff you’re talking about? To that old man. To those … others you mentioned. What kind of dirtbags are out here doing that stuff?”
“Bounty hunters,” said the redhead.
“Killers,” said the black girl.
“Why?”
“If I had an answer to that,” said Brother David, “I’d be a saint instead of a way-station monk.”
Benny turned to Tom. “I don’t get it. … You’re a bounty hunter.”
“I guess to some people that’s what I am.”
“Do you do this kind of stuff?”
“What do you think?” Tom asked, but Benny was already shaking his head. Tom queried, “What do you even know about bounty hunters?”
“They kill zombies,” Benny said, then flinched as he saw the looks of distaste on the faces of Brother David and the two women. “Well … they do! That’s what bounty hunters are there for. They go out here into the Rot and Ruin, and they hunt the, um, you know … the living dead.”
“Why?” asked Tom.
“For money.”