“Remarkable,” Dr. Cerveris murmurs as he studies the wretched hole where my heart once beat.
“Take a photo if you like it that much,” I grunt.
“I’ve already seen lots of snapshots of it,” he says.
I frown, wondering when the photos were taken, but I don’t ask.
Dr. Cerveris sits again and Josh turns his chair around.
“You’ve taken to this like a duck to water,” Josh notes.
“You mean being dead?”
“Yeah. Most revitalizeds struggle. It takes a lot of counseling before they begin to adapt to their new circumstances. But you…” He whistles admiringly.
“Shit happens,” I sniff, not telling him that of course there are times when I want to scream and sob, but that I don’t plan to give these bastards the pleasure of seeing me crumble. “So are there a lot of revitalizeds?” I ask casually.
“A few,” Josh replies vaguely.
“We haven’t been able to establish an estimated ratio of revitalizeds to reviveds,” Dr. Cerveris says. “But from what we have witnessed, only a fraction of the undead populace appears to recover consciousness.”
“Any idea why?”
“We have some theories,” he says.
“Care to share them with me?”
“No.”
I scowl at the doctor, then glance at Josh. “How long have I been here?”
“In this cell?”
“No. Here.” I wave a hand around, indicating the entire complex. “How long since the attack on the school?”
“Six months, give or take,” Josh says.
I process that glumly. Half a year of my life that I can never get back. This is one of those times when I feel very small and alone, but I don’t let them see that. “Do all revitalizeds take that long to recover?” I ask instead, acting like the gap in my life is no big thing.
“No,” Dr. Cerveris says. “Most revitalize sooner.”
“My teachers always used to tell me that I was slow,” I grin. “Have I been here all the time since I was killed?”
Josh nods. “We brought you here directly from the school. You were in a holding cell with other reviveds before your senses kicked back in.”
“There were more attacks that day. My dad told me it was happening all over London.”
Josh sighs. “Yeah. It wasn’t a day any of us will forget in a hurry.”
“Have there been more assaults since then?” I press. “Are zombies still striking or have you put a stop to it? What’s the world like out there?”
Josh shakes his head. “I can’t discuss that with you. All I can say is that the situation is currently stable.”
“That doesn’t tell me much,” I huff.
“I know, but that’s the way it is. There are limits to what we can discuss. If it’s any comfort, we don’t tell the other revitalizeds any more than we’re telling you.”
“Is there a reason why you’re being so secretive?” I ask.
Josh rolls his eyes. “You’re a flesh-eating member of the walking dead with the ability to convert as many of the living as you can get your hands or teeth on. You scare the living hell out of us. If some of our staff had their way, we’d tell you nothing at all, only incinerate every damn one of you.”
“Why don’t you?” I challenge him.
Dr. Cerveris answers. “We want to learn more about you, understand what makes you tick, why your memories return, if your current state is sustainable.”
I stiffen. “You mean it might not be? I could… what’s the word?”
“Regress.” He nods somberly. “It has happened to a couple of others.”
“That’s why I came packing,” Josh says, tapping a gun that hangs by his side. “You’d better pay attention and stay alert. If you start to zone out, the way you might in a boring class, I’m not going to take any chances. If I think there’s even a slight chance that you’re turning back into a revived, I’ll put a bullet through your head.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I snarl, and Josh laughs.
Dr. Cerveris asks lots of questions, about my past, how much of the day of the attack I can recall, if I can remember anything since then. Somebody opens the door and hands him a folder–he didn’t call for it, so others must be watching this on hidden cameras–and he subjects me to a Rorschach test, then word-association games and other psychological crap. I play along patiently, answering honestly, in the hope that if I help them, they can find a way to help me.
The doctor asks about my sense of taste and smell. I tell him I can smell even better than before, but I can’t taste anything.
“Is that strange?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “The others are the same. We’re not sure why. What about your ears? Have you noticed any difference where sounds are concerned?”
“I dunno. There hasn’t been much for me to listen to.”
A machine is rolled in and Dr. Cerveris tests my hearing. He puts headphones on me and I have to raise my hand when I hear a high-pitched noise in either ear.
“How’d I do?” I ask when he takes them off.
“Admirably,” he says. “Every revitalized has an improved sense of hearing. The reviveds do too. Your sense of smell is probably sharper as well, as you have noted. We’ll test that some other time.”
I grin ghoulishly. “So I’ve turned into a big bad wolf. All the better to see, hear and smell you with, my dear.”
“Not see, I think,” he mutters, and lo and behold, an eye chart is duly carried in by a soldier. The test tells me what I already knew, that my eyesight has deteriorated. It’s not as bad as I feared. I can still make out most of the letters, even on the lower lines, but they’re more blurred than they used to be.
“Would I go blind if I didn’t put the drops in every day?” I ask.
“No,” Dr. Cerveris says as he jots down the results. “We haven’t observed any of the reviveds losing their sight completely. But they suffer irritation and infection. It gets so annoying in some that they scratch their eyes out.”
I wince and immediately try to push the image from my thoughts. I’m glad I can’t sleep because I’m sure I’d have nightmares about that if I did.
“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” Josh chuckles. “That’s another reason we prefer not to tell you too much about yourself.”
“I’d rather know than live in ignorance.” I lean forward. Josh pats his gun and I stop and raise my palms. “Easy, boss. I wasn’t trying to freak you out.”
“Like I said before, I won’t take any chances.” The light tone is gone from his voice. “Any move towards us will be interpreted as an aggressive gesture, so just hold on the way you were and everything will be fine.”
I ease back, hands still raised. “I just wanted to ask if you knew what caused the attacks, how this is happening, why the dead came back to life.”
“That’s classified,” Josh says shortly.
“I figured as much, but if you don’t ask…”
There’s silence while Dr. Cerveris writes up his findings. A couple of soldiers enter and remove everything that had been brought through, except the TV and DVD player.
“What now?” I ask, trying to sound chirpy but failing.
Josh raises an eyebrow at Dr. Cerveris. The doctor stares at his notes, hands flat on the table. Then he looks at me. “I think it will be safe to introduce you to the other revitalizeds soon.”
“The kids I saw dressed in leather?”
“Yes.”
“The ones who were torturing the zombies?”
Dr. Cerveris smiles icily. I thought he’d deny the charge and say that wasn’t what they were doing. But all he says is, “Yes.”
“But don’t refer to them as revitalizeds,” Josh warns me. “They prefer to call themselves zom heads.”
“Dig that crazy new slang,” I mutter witheringly. “What happens after I’ve joined the merry gang? Where do I go from there?”
Josh frowns.
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“What’s an average day like for a zom head? Do we torment zombies all the time? Go on picnics? Hang around looking cool in our leathers?” I start to lean forward, recall Josh’s warning and stop myself. “What does the future hold? Do I have any chance of being set free?”
Dr. Cerveris and Josh share a smug look. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for me to ask that question. Without a word, Dr. Cerveris turns to the TV and switches it on.
As the TV flickers to life, Josh turns on the DVD player and presses play. A grainy black-and-white image comes into focus. It’s a corridor in my old school. Kids in uniform run past what must have been a security camera. Others follow, but although these look the same as the first lot, I can tell that they’re zombies by the way they move. They don’t shuffle along like zombies in movies, but move intently, swiftly, surely, like hunters.
Josh rewinds. He lets it play again, then pauses as the pack of zombies comes into view. “Spot anyone you know?”
“I didn’t realize we were playing Where’s Waldo?” I snap.
“Actually it’s Where’s Becky Smith?” he corrects me, and points to the lower left of the screen.
I stare hard, but with my weakened eyesight I can’t be sure. It looks like me, but the picture quality isn’t great and I’m not used to seeing myself in black-and-white.
“This next clip is from a helmet camera,” Josh informs me. “I wasn’t one of those who stormed your school, but I was part of the control team coordinating various units across London. One of my guys captured this charming footage.”
He hits play again and the black-and-white clip gives way to a shaky color shot. The person with the camera is moving swiftly, jerking his head from side to side. I glimpse a rifle in his hands.
Horror images. Blood sprayed across walls. Limbs and corpses scattered across the floor. There’s a blur. The rifle kicks in the soldier’s hand. The camera goes out of focus for a few seconds. When it steadies again, I find myself looking at a kid whose head has been blown apart. Hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl. It’s just scraps of meat now.
The soldier pushes on, then pauses. He focuses on a number of bodies to his left. I thought they were all corpses, but someone’s moving in among the dead. The soldier takes a few steps forward, stops and adjusts the camera. It zooms in on the face of a zombie hunched over the remains of a dead boy.
The zombie has cut the boy’s head open and is digging out bits of his brain, spooning them into its mouth with its bone-distorted fingers. It looks like a drug addict on a happy high. The boy’s arms are still shaking—he must be alive, at least technically. The zombie doesn’t care. It goes on munching, ignorant of the trembling arms, the soldiers, everything except the slivers of brain.
The zombie is a girl.
The zombie is me.
“We don’t know how many you killed that day,” Josh says softly, “but by the variety of flesh and blood we picked out of your mouth when we were hosing you down later, we’re pretty sure that boy wasn’t the first.”
“We can never release you, Becky,” Dr. Cerveris says with just a hint of gloomy satisfaction. “You’re a monster.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. All I can do is keep my eyes pinned on the girl–the monster–on the screen. And stare.
SIX
Reilly leads me out of the cell. I’ve gotten so used to the cramped room over the last few weeks that I feel strange at first, almost afraid. The corridor outside isn’t huge, but it feels like I’m walking down the middle of a motorway.
Four soldiers trail us, rifles at the ready. They’re mean-looking sons of bitches. I think they’d love an excuse to let rip. I keep my hands tight by my sides, head down, mincing along like a lamb.
Reilly wanted to let me out several days ago, not long after my meeting with Dr. Cerveris and Josh. He was stunned when I asked if I could stay in the cell a while longer. After what I’d seen on the TV, I needed some time by myself. I felt dirty and twisted, not fit to mix with anybody else, even zombies.
I spent the last few days lying on my bed or squatting in a corner, fixating on what I’d seen, the way I’d feasted. It shouldn’t have come as a shock–I know what I am and what zombies do–but it did. I’d imagined what I thought was the worst, lots of times, but nothing could have prepared me for the cold, hard reality of that film footage.
I could have tried to wipe the memory from my thoughts, turned my back on it and pretended I’d never seen the macabre film. But I remember something my teacher Mr. Burke once said. “There are lots of black-hearted, mean-spirited bastards in the world. It’s important that we hold them to account. But always remember that you might be the most black-hearted and mean-spirited of the lot, so hold yourself the most accountable of all.”
After throwing Tyler to the zombies, I vowed that I’d change, that I’d spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I’d done. But I can’t do that if I don’t accept the truth about myself. I’m a vicious, cannibalistic killer. I’ve done plenty to be ashamed of, and I owe it to my victims to face that shame and live with it, to never forget them or what I did.
After a lot of thinking, I came to terms with my guilt and… No, that’s not right. I wasn’t comfortable with what I’d done, and I hope I never will be. But I found a place within myself to house the horror, somewhere close to the surface but not so close that it would get in the way of everything else. Once I’d done that, I figured I was ready to face the world again. So when Reilly offered a second time to take me to see the revitalizeds, I agreed to tag along.
We wind through a series of corridors. They all look the same, white or gray walls, fluorescent lights, lots of windows and sealed doors. I peer through some of the windows and catch glimpses of soldiers, doctors, nurses, but nothing revealing.
By the control panels set in the walls next to the doors, I can tell that they’re operated by scanners, one at waist height for fingerprints, the other higher up for retinas. Some of them require a security code too.
Reilly finally stops at a door, opens it with a quick scan of his fingers and an eye, then gestures for me to enter. I step in, expecting a load of leather-clad, teenage zombies, but it’s only a shower room, several vacant cubicles, towels and clothes laid on a bench across from them.
“What gives?” I ask suspiciously.
“You’ve been in isolation for three weeks,” Reilly says. “You haven’t changed your clothes. I thought you might want to freshen up before you meet the others.”
“Are you saying I smell?”
“Yes.”
“No peeking,” I warn him.
He laughs. “Zombies don’t do it for me. But others will be watching.” He nods at the ceiling. “Cameras all over this place, as I’m sure you’ve figured out already.”
“Yeah. But I thought they’d leave the bloody showers alone.”
Reilly shrugs and closes the door. I gaze around, trying to spot the cameras, but they’re masterfully concealed. “Sod it,” I mutter and undress. If some creep gets a buzz from watching a one-boobed zombie in the buff, more power to him.
The shower’s lovely, though I have to turn it up to the max to truly appreciate it. My nerve endings don’t work as well as they used to. I have to crank the heat up close to boiling before I feel warm.
I scrub carefully around the hole in my chest. I pick at the green moss and try to wash it away, but it must be rooted deeply. If I pull hard, strands come out like hairs, but I’m worried I might injure myself–I don’t know how deeply the moss is embedded and I’m afraid I might rip an even bigger hole in my chest if I persist–so I stop. I rinse down the rest of my body, smiling sadly as I rub the old c scar on my thigh. I used to hate that, since it was my only real physical blemish. Now, with a missing heart, it’s the least of my worries.
I massage shampoo into my scalp and try to close my eyes, forgetting that I can’t. Scowling, I tilt my head back and do my best to keep the suds
away from my unprotected eyeballs.
Stepping out, I towel myself dry. The moss stays damp, except for the light layer on my right wrist where I was scratched shortly before Tyler clawed out my heart—that dries up nicely after a good bit of rubbing.
Giving up on the moss around my chest, I slip into the new clothes. Once I’m cozy, I sniff the old set and grimace. They’re not as bad as I thought they’d be, but I’m surprised I didn’t notice the odor before. Reilly should have told me.
I rap on the door and it opens immediately. “Any deodorant?” I ask.
Reilly cocks his head. “Are you being funny?”
“No.”
“Didn’t they tell you…?” He smiles. “No, I suppose it’s not the sort of thing they would have thought of. Well, it’s good news, B. You don’t ever have to worry about your pits again. The dead don’t sweat.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” I chuckle. Then a thought hits me and I ask with fake innocence, “What about bad breath?”
“There’s a slight smell that will always be there,” Reilly says. “But it won’t get any worse than that.”
“And farts?” I ask.
Reilly laughs. “No. You’re clear on that front too.”
“A pity,” I sigh. “I loved a good fart.” My eyes narrow and I murmur sweetly, “What about my period?”
Reilly blushes furiously. “Without a regular flow of blood? Hardly!”
“But are you sure?” I press.
“Well, not a hundred percent,” he says uneasily.
“Can you ask one of the nurses and find out for me?” I tease him.
“Ask them yourself,” he huffs, ears reddening at the thought of it.
Typical bloke—so easy to embarrass!
SEVEN
A large, white room. No windows, but there’s a long mirror in one of the walls. I’ve seen enough films and TV shows to guess that it’s a two-way observation point. I bet there’s a team of soldiers or scientists on the other side, watching everything.