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window into the future, and all he saw was forced closeness with Tom and the problems that went with it. He also didn’t understand Tom. He knew Tom had run away and yet he now made his living killing zoms. Tom never talked about it at home. He never bragged about his kills, didn’t hang out with the other bounty hunters, didn’t do anything to show how tough he was.
    On one hand, zoms were not supposed to be hard to kill in a one-on-one situation—not against a smart and well-armed person. On the other hand, there was no room for mistakes with them. They were always hungry, always dangerous. No matter how he tried to work it out in his head, Benny could not see Tom as the kind of person who could or would hunt the living dead. It was like a henhouse chicken hunting foxes.
    Over the last couple of years Benny had almost asked Tom about this, but each time, he’d left his questions unspoken. Maybe the answers would somehow show more of Tom’s weakness. Maybe Tom was lying and really doing something else. Benny had worked out a number of bizarre and unlikelyscenarios to try and explain chickenshit Tom as a zombie killer. None of them held water. Now, with the reality of what they were going to do tomorrow morning as clear and real as the setting sun, Benny finally put the question out there.
    “Why do you do this stuff?”
    Tom cut a quick look at him, but he continued to sip his coffee and was a long time answering. “Tell me, kiddo, what is it you think I do?”
    “Duh! You kill zoms.”
    “Really?”
    “That’s what you say,” Benny said, then grudgingly added, “That’s what everyone says. Tom Imura, the great zombie killer.”
    Tom nodded, as if Benny had said something interesting. “So, far as you see it, that’s all I do? I just walk up to any zombie I see and pow !”
    “Uh … yeah .”
    “Uh … no.” Tom shook his head. “How can you live in this house and not know what I do, what my job involves?”
    “What’s it matter? Everybody I know has a brother, sister, father, mother, or haggy old grandmother who’s killed zoms. What’s the big?” He wanted to say that he thought Tom probably used a high-powered rifle with a scope and killed them from a safe distance; not like Charlie and Hammer, who had the stones to do it mano a mano.
    “Killing the living dead is a part of what I do, Benny. But do you know why I do it? And for whom?”
    “For fun?” Benny suggested, hoping Tom would be at least that cool.
    “Try again.”
    “Okay … then for money … and for whoever’s gonna pay you.”
    “Are you pretending to be a dope or do you really not understand?”
    “What, you think I don’t know you’re a bounty hunter? Everybody knows that. Zak Matthias’s uncle Charlie is one too. I heard him tell stories about going deep into the Ruin to hunt zoms.”
    Tom paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips. “Charlie—? You know Charlie Pink-eye?”
    “He gets mad if people call him that.”
    “Charlie Pink-eye shouldn’t be around people.”
    “Why not?” demanded Benny. “He tells the best stories. He’s funny.”
    “He’s a killer.”
    “So are you.”
    Tom’s smile was gone. “God, I’m an idiot. I have to be the worst brother in the history of the world if I let you think that I’m the same as Charlie Pink-eye.”
    “Well … you’re not exactly like Charlie.”
    “Oh … that’s something then …”
    “Charlie’s the man .”
    “Charlie’s the man,” echoed Tom. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Good God. What could you possibly find interesting about a thug like Charlie?”
    “Because he tells it like it is,” Benny said. “I mean, it’s kind of weird that we’re surrounded by, like, a zillion zoms, we learn about First Night and zombies in school, but they just talk around it for the most part. They don’t tell us about it. It’s crazy.We have all those salvaged textbooks from before First Night that tell us about the world—politics and cars and