Damage & Decay

Chapter 18

Part Two: Zombie Cards (Collect the Whole Set!)

"Everyone carries around his own monsters."

 - Richard Pryor

----

"Talk to Armin," said the artist as he walked Eren to the door. "If he's willing to talk about it, then he can tell you the rest of it."

"I will."

"You never did tell me, though. . . . What's your interest? You don't know her. What's she to you?"

Eren was expecting the question but hoping it would slip by unasked. He shrugged. He took the card from his pocket and held it up so they could both look at the image. "It's hard to put into words. I was sorting through the new cards with my crew, and I saw this one. There was something about it, something about her.  I . . ." He stopped, fishing for the right words, but he came up empty. He shrugged.

However, Pixis surprised him by nodding. "No, I get it, kid. She kind of has that effect on people."

Pixis opened the door to a bright spill of September sunlight. The light was clean and dry and seemed to belong to a totally different world than the one Pixis had talked about. They lingered in a moment of awkwardness, neither of them sure if this was the whole of their relationship or the first chapter of an acquaintanceship that might last for years.

"Sorry it didn't work out with the job,"  Pixis said with a crooked smile.

"Well, it's not like I'm invested  in killing zombies. If you're still hiring, I'm still avail--"

"No," Pixis interrupted, "I mean, I'm sorry your art kinda sucks. You're a nice kid. Easy to talk to. Easier to talk to than your brother."

"My art sucks?"

"You can draw," conceded the artist.

"I . . ."

"Just not very well."

"Um . . . thanks?"

"Would you rather I lie to you, kid?"

"Probably."

"Then you're Rembrandt, and having you around would make me feel inferior."

"Better."

They grinned at each other. The artist held out a paint stained had, and Eren shook it. "I hope you find her."

"I will," said Eren.

That got a strange look from the artist, but before Eren could say anything, a voice behind them said, "Well, well, what's that you got there?"

Eren knew the voice, and in the half second before he turned, he saw Pixis's face tighten with fear. Eren turned to see Charlie Pink-eye, standing on the street right behind him. Next to him, smiling a greasy little smile, was the Motor City Hammer.

"Whatcha holding there, young Eren?" said Charlie with the slick civility he used when he was setting up a bad joke--or something worse.

Eren was suddenly aware of the card. It was small, but at that moment it felt as big as a poster. His hand trembled as if the card itself felt exposed and nervous.

The massive bounty hunter stepped closer, and his bulk blotted out the sun. It was weird. Eren liked  Charlie and the Hammer. They were heroes to him. Or . . . had been. Since the Ruins, everything in his head was crooked, as if the furniture was the same but the room had changed. The way these men were smiling at him, the way shadows seemed to move behind their eyes . . . It made Eren want to gag. There was nowhere to turn, no way to escape the moment unless Eren actually took off running--but that was not any kind of option.

Charlie held out a hand for the cards, but Eren's fingers pressed together to hold it more tightly. It was not a deliberate act of defiance; even in the immediacy of the moment he knew that much. It was more of an act of . . .

Of what?

Of protection?

Maybe. He just knew that he did not want Charlie Pink-eye to have that card.

"It's just a card," Pixis said. "Like the ones I did of you and the Hammer. I did a couple new ones. You know, for extra ration bucks. It's nothing special."

"Nothing special?" said Charlie, his smile as steady and false as the painted grin on a doll. "Let's see, shall we?" Charlie reached for the card the same way Marco had. Familiar, as if he had a right or invitation born of a long-standing confidence. Eren was primed to react, and as the bounty hunter's fingers closed over a corner of the card, Eren whipped it away. Charlie grabbed nothing but air.

"No!" blurted Eren, and he took a reflexive step backward, turning to shield that card with his body.

The moment--every sound, every trembling leaf in the trees beside the house, even the wind itself--seemed to suddenly freeze in time. Charlie's eyes went wide. The Hammer and the artist wore identical expressions of complete surprise. Eren felt the blood in his veins turn to icy gutter water.

"Boy," said Charlie in a quiet voice that no longer held the lie of humor or civility, "I think you just made a mistake. I'll give you one second to make it right and then we can be friends again. Hand me that card, and you'd better smile and say 'sir' when you do."

Charlie did not make another grab, but the threat behind his words filled the whole street.

Eren didn't move. He held the card down by his hip and out of sight. He flicked a glance at Pixis, but the Hammer was up in the artist's face, and he had his hand resting on the top of the black-pipe he carries as a club. There was no help there.

"Now," commanded Charlie. He held out a huge, callused hand, palm open and flat to receive the card. A stiff breeze filled with heat and blowing sand suddenly whipped out of the west. The card fluttered between Eren's fingers.

"Give him the card, Eren," urged Pixis.

"Listen to the man," agreed the Hammer, laying a hand on the artist's shoulder. The tips of his fingers dug and wrinkled pits though the fabric of Pixis's shirt.

Charlie stretched his hand out until his fingers were an inch from Eren's face. The bounty hunter's skin smelled like gunpowder, urine, and tobacco.

"Boy," Charlie whispered.

Eren raised the card. He did it slowly, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and all four of them watched it flutter like the wing of a trapped and terrified butterfly.

"Give me the card," said Charlie in a voice as soft as the blowing wind.

"No," said Eren, and he opened his fingers. The hot breeze whipped it away.

The artist gasped. The Hammer cursed. Charlie Pink-eye snaked a hand after it, but the card tumbled away from his scrabbling fingers. Eren almost cried out as the small rectangle of stiff cardboard and printer's ink tumbled over and over, bobbing like a living thing on the wind. It struck the sign at the corner of the artist's property and dropped to the street where it skittered for a dozen yards before it came to a sudden stop as a booted toe stepped down on it, pinning it to the hard-packed dirt.

Eren, the artist, and the two bounty hunters had followed the card's progress with their eyes, and now--as one--they raised their eyes to look at the man who now stood in the street. The man bent and plucked the card from beneath his toe. He studied it for a moment, then blew dust and sand from its surface. He glanced over the card, then at the four people clustered together in front of the artist's door. He smiled and slid the card into his shirt pocket.

It was the first time Eren had ever been glad to see him.

"Armin," Eren said.