The Stench

On the Feeder's right wrist hung the bracelet One-Ear had mentioned. It was a crude piece of work, and I understood at once why One-Ear had called it eye-catching. Unless the thing had been made to stand out in the first place, there was no reason for it to be that large.

I only glanced at it, but the Feeder reacted as if I'd reached for it.

"……I'm not selling the bracelet."

"Wouldn't take it if you gave it to me."

Flashy ornaments usually exist so you can tell friend from foe. A settlement's token, or a raider band's mark—that's the ordinary range. This one didn't seem to belong to either.

"What's it supposed to stand for?"

"Who I am."

His eyes rolled back toward the zombie. Maybe it was time to ask what I'd actually been curious about.

"You look half zombie yourself. You've got food to spare?"

"Mind your own business."

"You knew that zombie?"

"We're nothing to each other."

Unfortunately, he had no interest in being honest. The Feeder hauled himself up, every movement a labor.

"Do your own job, Postman."

The moment he moved, the stench came with him. It was leaking out of the sack.

"Whatever's in there is in rough shape."

"……Do your job. Like a postman."

I looked back. One-Ear and his companions had gathered, Clock-out Man among them, all of them watching. On any other day Clock-out Man would have stuck his nose in. Now he wore the look of a man who didn't care what became of the Feeder—which was to say he couldn't make sense of him at all.

The Feeder's slow approach came to a halt. He wasn't stopping to rest. Any closer and the Pink Dress might lunge, so he was only keeping his distance.

If he crawls in there on his own two feet and gets eaten, the bet ends.

That didn't happen. He drew the food from the sack and set himself to throw. It looked like meat of some kind, and the stench said it had gone off a long time ago. Well, it was zombie food. It would do. I'd never heard of a zombie with an upset stomach.

"Hoo……."

He lowered his arm again. It didn't feel like he was giving up on the feeding. He simply didn't have the strength to throw. He must have managed it from that distance before. Now he was spent, and so he edged a little closer to the zombie.

While he did, the trio packed their things and left. From the way they headed off, they were bound for the place I'd told them about, where five zombies had gathered. Once they were gone, a bored Clock-out Man latched onto me.

"Those guys said the bet's a bust again this time, and they went off to work."

The Feeder had come to feed her once more, so the wager was postponed. Nothing left worth watching, then?

"A minute ago you were talking like it was the greatest show around."

"Said they've seen it so many times they're sick of it."

Naturally.

"Ugh……. What is that smell."

The Feeder was already well away, but Clock-out Man's nose didn't miss it.

"Guess he doesn't wash."

"The hell are you talking about. That's rotten zombie meat."

So it was. A zombie's body is rotting from the moment it turns, but until it's well and truly dead, people still call the meat fresh. After death the corruption turns vicious, and a couple of days later you get what everyone means by rotten zombie meat.

"Looked like you were talking to him earlier. What'd he say?"

"That being a true postman means doing your job."

"Huh? And?"

"That's all."

"Cheap, hiding it like that."

"This time that really is all."

"……So when was it the fake version?"

The Feeder didn't merely lack a reason to live. He had no will to talk, either. Speaking to him had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been a waste. Maybe I should have just joined the penny-ante bet. In the end, all that remained was watching him feed the zombie. Might as well see that much before I went.

I'd watched zombies eat dozens of times, hundreds, but someone throwing them their meal was new. And new ground sometimes shows you a thing imagination alone never could. So nothing beats seeing it yourself.

Clock-out Man wasn't interested even in that. He went back into the ruined building—off to sprawl out and sleep on the second floor, in One-Ear's Sanctuary, no doubt. Once I'd watched the Pink Dress eat, I ought to get some sleep myself.

Even if I wait for sunrise to move, I should still reach headquarters before noon.

The Feeder tossed a single chunk of meat to the zombie, then glanced around, as if checking whether anyone was watching. The meat landed exactly at her feet. At last I saw the Pink Dress move, and what the movement told me was that she was a zombie with a broken body. She all but flattened herself to the ground, belly down, tearing at the meat with nothing but her mouth. It would have been far easier to hold it, but both arms only flailed. Either they'd failed after she turned, or she'd been someone who couldn't use them properly even before. If she'd always been like that, then even then she couldn't have survived without someone to help her.

Kyak. Agu.

Set the useless arms aside, and the Pink Dress ate no differently from any other zombie. In that moment she changed—from a special zombie who had survived alone in a dress and become a local landmark, into the ordinary kind you could find anywhere.

Agu, agu……. Glurk.

In the end I was the only one who stayed to watch the feeding, and it was an excellent choice. I got to see the Feeder do something strange.

"Boss, that postman's the guy, right?"

"Probably."

Ruins have many eyes and many ears. The Truce Zone, packed with abandoned buildings, had more of them than most, so of course a witness had been left behind—someone who had seen a postman, just beyond the Truce Zone, take down two raiders. A witness to that unbelievable fight, in which he had even dropped a sniper with a handgun. The man with only a thumb left and the sniper had been friends of the jerky merchants besides, so there was nothing strange about the news reaching them.

"We treat him like an ordinary postman. Don't go showing you're nervous."

"Ugh, I thought I was gonna suffocate and die back there."

Revenge for their dead friends never even crossed their minds. Revenge was as foolish as throwing food to a zombie. Meet someone strong, and the answer is to become their friend. That, at least, was how they saw it. And with those two dead, there happened to be room in Sanctuary's ranks—perfect for inviting the postman and his tall companion.

"Still, bringing up the bet was genius."

"Came off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠completely natural, didn't it?"

They'd never had the slightest intention of raising the stakes. The goal had been to get friendly with the postman, nice and natural. But the one with the pot on his head couldn't make sense of one thing.

"Then why'd you say the dead guys were in Sanctuary? I was nervous for nothing."

The story the boss had told—

That little speech was as good as confessing that the man with the ruined hand, the one who had been in Sanctuary, was their friend.

"Heh. That's why I said it."

"Sorry?"

"What do you figure the postman thought when he heard that? Oh, they're talking like that, so these guys don't know a damn thing about who I killed. He'd think that and relax, wouldn't he?"

"Whoa. Are you a genius?"

A way of speaking that covers suspicion. A skill they'd had to master if they meant to sell low-grade jerky.

"Anyway, be careful not to get on that postman's nerves."

"Well, obviously. So how about we take our time heading back?"

"We should. He'll probably leave once the sun's up. We'll go back after that."

While the two frightened men chattered on, the woman with a match between her lips kept her silence. Her instincts were sharp, and she doubted the postman was truly in the dark, but—

"……Good morning, Linda."

"Middle of the night, what morning. And who's Linda supposed to be?"

"Told you to ignore whatever she says."

Even so, she had no wish to trade words with fools.

It was taking the Feeder an age to throw the food and come back. With a body that struggled just to walk, could he really go out and scavenge again? All he'd thrown the zombie was a single chunk of meat. Better than starving, but a miserably thin meal.

……A quiet night.

The stillness tugged my eyes shut. He walked so slowly that just watching him brought the drowsiness on.

Maybe I'll close my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes for a bit.

I leaned back where the cover was decent and shut them. Keeping them closed was rest enough on its own. Truth was, I could go to Sanctuary right now and sleep in comfort. The feeding was over, and the Feeder had no will to talk, so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there was no reason for me to stay. Except for one thing that nagged at me, and it grew clearer the moment he passed in front of me.

There's still meat in the sack.

The stench was still thick, and it wasn't some leftover reek soaked into the cloth. Something heavy remained inside, and the smell was plainly coming from that. Maybe he thought I was asleep. He passed without much reaction. No—it probably would have been the same with my eyes open.

Why did he stop halfway through feeding her?

Spoiled zombie meat. Not something a person ought to eat. Was there another zombie he had to feed? If One-Ear had still been around, I could have asked whether the Feeder usually left with some of the food. A shame.

Step……. Step.

His footsteps were irregular. At first I thought he was stopping and starting because he was weak, but the pauses were too short for rest. I cracked my eyes. Every so often he looked back, or glanced around—checking whether someone was watching him.

Come to think of it, he did the same while he was feeding her.

Then, too, he had looked around to see who might be watching. Something smelled wrong. A stench worse than rotten zombie meat.

Maybe I'll follow him a little.

Lost him.

The Feeder was nowhere in sight. I'd been tailing him in secret, and of all things I'd run into a cluster of monsters. If he'd made a sane decision, I wouldn't have lost him. Instead of a detour well clear of them, he'd chosen the dangerous path that ran right alongside the cluster. Trust him not to do the normal thing.

Nothing left to lose, is that it.

I had plenty to lose, so I couldn't follow him straight down that road. I waited until the cluster passed, and by then he was gone.

Not that there's any profit in chasing him…….

I only wanted to shake off an unsettled feeling. An unpleasant curiosity, put another way. Thinking back, it had been that way from the start. The Pink Dress was a zombie I couldn't understand. This was a world where things beyond common sense happened every day, but I hadn't given up on understanding them. Not yet. The moment I did, I'd be a madman too.

Like the Old Man, who only ever wanted other people to understand him.

That didn't mean I meant to pity the Feeder, or the Pink Dress. Only—

Kyaaak!

A scream bored into my eardrums and cut the thought short.

Aaak…….

Ominous.

Ghk!

It was coming from behind me, and it didn't take long to see who was making that wretched sound.

"Kkhh……. Postman……."

The Feeder. I'd thought he'd gone on ahead and that I'd lost him. Turns out I was the one who had gotten in front. Had he known I was following, and hidden?

"Postman……. I……."

He was curled like a fetus in the womb, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. Beside him lay a chunk of zombie meat, giving off its stench. And from the Feeder himself came a foul reek of breath.