“A sniper would not swagger. A sergeant might, an aviator certainly. A general, without doubt. A sniper? Never. The sniper is quiet, calm, without vanity and drama. This fellow would not swagger.”

“They call this irony. Actually, if I understand irony, it’s not irony, it’s coincidence. But Americans love irony for some reason and they misuse the term promiscuously, as perhaps we do ‘honor.’ Irony is saying something but meaning the opposite, usually for the sake of mischief or wit. Thus, they love the fact—those who know him or of him—that his name is one thing and his character and skill another.”

“I suppose I understand. I would not have until I had reached this stage and achieved so many infidel kills. In mannerism: sedate; in action: bold. It is the best way for a man to be. Now I know him a little, know what created the man he is today. Bobleeswagger. He has delivered much death and knows it always sets him apart—even from his children. He knows he is used, sometimes cynically, by his masters for ends of which he has no knowledge and in which he has to believe on faith alone. But he adheres to duty nevertheless and will die doing it.”

“Is it him you are discussing or yourself?” asked Alberto.

“We are much the same, even if our gods are at war. I should have seen it earlier, as I now see its signs everywhere. And it explains everything. This isn’t an operation. It’s a game—the game—to be played out to the end. His death or mine.”

Alberto nodded. “Or both,” he said.

48

Zombieland, a clarification

Sleep. Dreams utterly incoherent, full of odd scenes, outliers, and rogues. Aches of old wounds and new—the cracked ribs, the spells of dizziness, for example—came and went at random. Sometimes his phantom hip screamed in pain, though in his wakefulness it was perfect. Old man, pins wobbly, struts bent, needs oil, lube, and some adjustments.

But worse: every so often, the face of one of the lost ones—there were so many—and things that went along with them. Regret, isolation, despair, nihilism, memories of pain, memories of the comforting blur of the bottle, memories always of folly, stupidity, cowardice, ugly words, once issued, never recalled, all the times the obvious had been missed and the impossible selected as a goal, the center not holding, all systems exposed, in their illusory nature, the cheapness of their fraud, the tawdriness of their window dressing—a night, really, without much actual rest. Then, almost a mercy, the phone.

He swam toward it.

“Swagger.”

It was Nick. “I want everybody in. We’ve got something.”

That got his attention. “Has it broken?”

“Well, I’m hoping the breaking process has started. Get in here.”

“On my way.”