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"You're turning it into a business?"
Julio Richter is staring at Jamie so incredulously that Jamie is actually mildly offended. Jamie says, "Look, it's a solid business venture. I've got good people on board – Guido, Terry Cassidy, Monet –"
"Seriously?" Julio, slouched in his chair, cracks a smile. "Monet St. Croix deigns to associate with mere mortals for something as mundane as a zombie-killing agency?" He pauses for a second, then adds, "Okay, maybe not so mundane, but..."
Jamie rolls his eyes. "Not the point."
"Then what is it?" Julio folds his arms across his chest. "You seriously want to kill zombies for money? You want people to pay you to kill zombies. This is what I'm hearing."
"Until such time as civilization collapses, I intend to be civilized." Of course Julio would take it this way. Jamie isn't worried – he'll come around eventually, but Jamie had hoped it would involve a lot less questioning of his morals.
"We used to be soldiers, man," Julio says, his expression dangerously close to wistful. (Jamie's not going to point out how ridiculous it is to be nostalgic for what had seemed, for all intents and purposes, like the end of the world.) "We were heroes."
"We were kids, Ric. We were fighting for humanity's continued existence. We were fighting because they let us have guns." Jamie remembers the beer in front of him for the first time since the conversation began, so he takes a swig and stares at the ceiling for a second. "It's not war anymore. We'll never be rid of 'em, but at this point, on a global scale, they're more of a nuisance than anything. We don't need soldiers anymore, we need –" Jamie considers it, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He gestures towards Julio when he thinks of the right words. "We need pest control," he says.
Julio sighs. "Let me think about it, okay?"
Jamie nods, and Julio takes a drink, muttering something that Jamie can't make out (although he's pretty sure he hears the word "capitalism" in there somewhere).
-
"Where're we goin' today?" Guido, enormous and imposing, looks less so slumped on the couch, but Jamie's seen him psyched up. It's something to behold, really.
Jamie looks over at Layla, who rolls her eyes. "Virginia, Jamie. We're going to Virginia."
Looking back at Guido, Jamie says, "I guess we're going to Virginia."
Layla stands up and pats Jamie on the shoulder. "Don't worry, sweetheart. If you remembered anything, I might be out of a job."
Sweetheart? Guido mouths the word, eyebrows raised, and Jamie shakes his head dismissively.
"C'mon guys," he shouts. "Pack it up."
"Girls are with me," Monet says, swooping by – the way she moves can only be described that way, like she's flying instead of walking, overwhelming the attention of everyone she passes.
"Oh, so we're segregatin' the genders now?"
Monet narrows her eyes at him, demonstrating her mastery of the now is not the time, Guido expression. They load into cars, them and their weapons, and start driving south.
By the time they get there, it's almost sunset. The man that greets them in the town scratches his head, says, "I ain't seen 'em today, but they'll be back." He stares into the woods anxiously. "They come back every night."
Terry squeezes the man's shoulder and smiles sweetly. "We'll take care of them, sir, don't you worry. Your town's in good hands."
Split into teams, they patrol the edge of the woods and wait. Jamie watches the moon rise above the treetops and then sink slowly, and their marks don't show up until the sun is already turning the sky pink, obviously not familiar with monster etiquette.
The team converges. It's easy for them now, almost second nature. They're all good shots, and some of them, Jamie is convinced, could kill a zombie barehanded if it came down to it. Maybe they have. He isn't sure.
It's practically a horde, but they handle it. Jamie takes his shots, but he still finds time to be impressed by his teammates – Monet and her calm determination, Gav swinging a machete like a fucking samurai sword (crazy bastard, Jamie thinks fondly).
Jamie observes the mess, wipes his forehead on his sleeve and smiles wearily. "Good job, guys. As always."
-
On the way back, Jamie keeps his forehead pressed to the window, exhausted and hypnotized by the passing scenery. Of course, it can't just stay trees and power lines, and the others see it too – Jamie's practical, but he's not an asshole, so he sits up straight, tells Guido to pull over and reaches for his gun.
Gav and Julio are out of the car as quickly as Jamie (quicker, really), and it's Julio's shots that do it – one, two, and the ghouls are down. Jamie takes another shot at each of them for good measure.
The pounding of Jamie's heart slows, but he can feel the ache in his gut that comes with knowing that even if it hadn't been too late, it would have been too late. The man – the victim – is already dead. To be honest, he's a lucky bastard. Since they're here, they can take care of it, burn the bodies.
They can't save everyone, but Jamie's pretty damned sure they've saved a few people. Maybe he's sold out, but that thought still warms the cockles of his cold, capitalist heart.
And yet, he can't look at the man's body (ravaged as it is, covered in blood) and feel successful. It's not a new sight, but death isn't really something a man gets used to, no matter how long he's surrounded by it. He just can't stop staring – they came upon the scene pretty early, apparently, because the dead man still has all of his parts, but Jamie is a little nauseated by how easily he can pick out marks from teeth and fingernails grown and warped into lethal claws.
A voice in the back of Jamie's head is mocking him, saying pest control, and he tries to ignore it. It's never over, he thinks, as long as the danger is there, as long as he remembers.
He can't help but remember. He remembers a girl, already aged beyond her years by fear and by gunfire (she is even older now). He remembers being abandoned, the two of them, surrounded by death, by the once-dead and the dying. He remembers a narrow escape, coated in blood (some of it theirs, some not), carrying brand new nightmares in place of their lost supplies.
He remembers watching his friends laughing and then dying. He remembers watching them find solace in one another, knowing that their next kiss might be their last. He remembers that – the kiss that feels like the end of all things. He remembers a lot of those.
It's one dead man for the lives of others, and Jamie knows the things that can't be helped. He knows, but he remembers all the same.
In what passes for peace, he remembers war.