Dearly, Departed

  Renfield thought about this for a moment, then reached for the bowler hat he’d hung over a nearby oil lamp. He put it on at an angle. “All right. I’m in.”

  Bram held up a hand. “Whoa, you don’t go on missions.”

  Ren spun his chair about. “You don’t usually take my airship.”

  “Your airship?”

  Renfield started tapping on the keyboard again, ignoring Bram. “I set this system up for voice chat a few months ago, before I was barred from getting on the ’Net at all,” he explained, for my benefit. “Wolfe was afraid I’d get online and find a sympathetic ear and tell them my life story. Maybe mail them some coordinates?” He rolled his eyes. “He knew a password wouldn’t keep me out, so he confiscated everything. I just picked the lock and got my equipment back the next night.”

  “I should have asked you about calling out,” I said regretfully.

  “Trust me, Wolfe spoke to me about that. If I’d let you and I’d gotten caught, my head would currently be decorating a tree somewhere, done up like an extremely morbid bird feeder … Here we go. And here’s the moment where the rules fly out the window for all of us. Have you got a number?”

  I found my legs and walked over, resting my hand on the back of Ren’s chair. I recited the information, slowly. Ren keyed it, then flipped a few switches and brought out a set of old brass headphones, which he handed to me. I put them on.

  “Here goes,” he said, clicking a button on the screen that said, INITIATE WIRELESS CONTACT.

  I held my breath. I heard the phone ringing through the headset. No one picked up. The ringing stopped after half a minute or so, and a message popped up on the screen: Wireless tele/phone/graph out of range of service.

  I felt like screaming. Bram sat on the edge of the desk and said, “Again.”

  Renfield looked at me and I nodded, cupping my hands over the headphones. “Again.”

  And there we stood, dialing. C’mon, phone. Work.

  Please, Pam.

  Pick up.

  I let them have Christmas Day.

  I’d already gotten my gift (and ruined it), and succeeded in alienating my family, so I didn’t join in the festivities. I wasn’t hungry, or thirsty, or even tired. I wondered if it would last, this sensation. I felt like a nun must feel after coming out of a particularly intense session of prayer. I was high on purpose.

  I waited until after supper, when I could hear they were gathered together in the parlor, before taking one last good look at my archery awards and heading for Issy’s room.

  My brother’s bedroom was decorated in more masculine colors, all of his things put exactingly away. I tore the place apart looking for what I wanted, tossing the contents of his dresser drawers on the floor and ripping things out of his closet. I’d clean it up later, if I lived to care.

  I dressed in a pair of linen trousers, a wing-tipped shirt, and one of his older, smaller waistcoats. I tied my hair up in a bun. It took a few seconds to get used to the sensation of walking in pants rather than a skirt, but I reminded myself that now was not the time to be embarrassed. I strapped my archery harness and bracers on and took a deep breath.

  I made my way to the parlor.

  “You’d think they’d have the power on by now,” Isambard was complaining. “Or at least have brought out the town criers.”

  “Might be dangerous for the criers on the streets,” Dad responded.

  “How else are we supposed to get any news?”

  “They would find some way to tell us, if there was anything to know,” Mom said.

  With this statement as my introduction, I entered the parlor. “Let’s talk about that, Mother.”

  Mom looked up from her library book. “What on earth?” My father was lighting the candles on the tree. He put down the lighter and made as if to approach me, but then apparently thought better of it and stayed where he was.

  Issy boggled at me. “Are those my clothes?”

  “Listen to me, all of you,” I said. My body was engulfed by a raw, nervous energy. I was taking my first baby steps as a leader. The entire situation felt more theatrical than I knew it to be—I was deadly serious.

  “Pamela, what’s going on?”

  “A lot.” I looked at my family members, each in turn, holding their eyes with my own until they looked away. “Because you seem to be incapable of seeing it, I’m going to presume that I’ve been given some sort of gift. They thought Joan of Arc was crazy, too.”

  “Pamela—” my dad tried to interrupt.

  I pointed right through him, to the window. “Our streets are filled with the ill and the dying. The disease responsible for this apparently makes some of its victims attack people and attempt to eat them.” I pointed to the side of my head. “Is this sinking in at all? Do you just not see it? Or are you waiting for the screens to come on and for some disembodied head to give you permission to panic?”

  “Pamela,” my father tried again, “calm down. There’s no use panicking.”

  “There are cannibals in the streets, Father!”

  “Your father is right!” my mother interjected. “Besides, where would we go? Who knows if those who did leave are even safe? Maybe there are more ill people out there in the countryside! We’d be told what to do if there was anything we could do!”

  “I’ve thought of something for us to do.” I looked at my hands. They were shaking, moving in small, wild ways. “We need to get into hiding. And I think I know of a place.”

  Dad stepped closer. “Now, wait just a minute—”

  “You have a better idea, sir?” I raised my voice, just a tad. “I would love to hear it.”

  “Yes!” His hands balled into fists and he gestured at the window, too. “My idea, as crazy as it sounds, is to leave the handling of this situation to those who are actually equipped to handle it! If everyone turns into a vigilante, the city will fall apart! What has gotten into you?”

  “This isn’t about being a vigilante.” My voice faltered. “This is about surviving.”

  “Right now we’re fine! We’re safer than most people!”

  I didn’t want to have to do this. I was frightened and desperate, but I didn’t want to have to do this.

  But it didn’t seem I had a choice.

  “You are my family. I love you. But let me remind you that I have a weapon on my back. I will march you out of here if I have to, because I love you.” I reached back, as if to unhook my bow.

  That was the moment when my family fully perceived, in their minds, that I had broken from reality. I could see it settling over them as they stared at me. I had prepared for this possibility. I didn’t care if they thought I was insane.

  I didn’t care if they hated or mourned me, so long as they remained alive to do so.

  “Pamela,” my mother said, her voice trembling. At the sound of it, I almost relented. I almost threw myself at her feet and begged for forgiveness. You never want to hear your own mother sound like a bewildered child.

  I almost did, but I didn’t.

  Before I could say anything else, the power came back on. I started a little. The screen on the wall fizzed angrily with static, before it found a signal.

  The man on the screen was a well-known reporter, his dark hair matted with sweat. He was broadcasting from outside the Elysian Fields. The cameraman was having trouble holding the camera steady, and it was hard to get a read on what was happening. All of us seemed to momentarily forget where we were and what we were arguing about, universally compelled to watch the frightened face on the screen.

  “They’re out! The infected are everywhere! What the devil? Man, get back! We need to fall back! This is Marcus Maripose, broadcasting from the Elysian Fields, where—”

  The sound cut out at that point, and all we had was the image—the ill shuffling, crawling, sometimes running out of the gatehouse. The cameraman managed to focus in on the broken gates, and my entire body felt like it wanted to vomit itself up through my skin.

  There were
so many of them, a literal wall of them pressing themselves against the gates, snapping them apart. It was like watching a ball of ants floating on the waters of a flood, a tangle of limbs and bodies.

  “Good God,” my father whispered.

  “I don’t think He’s listening right now,” I replied, still staring at the screen. “We need to go. Now.”

  “Where?” my mother asked helplessly. Finally.

  “To the cathedral,” I said, divulging the idea I’d been working on since the night before. “It used to be a bank. There are still two vaults in it—the one behind the altar and another in the basement, where they hold Sunday school. I remember, a priest told us once that the vaults are made of two feet of solid metal.”

  “There’s no way they’d let us hide in there,” Isambard argued.

  Mom stood up. “There’s got to be another way. Maybe they’ll tell us—”

  “Look how many of them there are!” I said, pointing to the screen. “Look what’s been hidden from us! Are you going to sit there and wait for the government to make an emergency broadcast? Or are you going to get up, get some supplies, and come with me?”

  “If we lock ourselves in the vault, we won’t know when to come out,” my father said. He was finally turning, mentally, in my direction.

  “There’s nowhere else to go,” I said. “There’s no better option I can think of. But even if we have to hide somewhere else—we can’t outrun them now.”

  Dad ran his hand over his mouth and nodded. “Malati, get up. Get some food and water, come on. As much as we can all carry. It will take the infected a while to get here, they’re not in the streets yet. Get up. Isambard, go down into the bakery and get some empty flour sacks.”

  Satisfied that they were starting to move, I headed in the direction of the back door.

  My father called out, “Pamela, where are you going?”

  I opened the door. The lights were on in the buildings around us, but not in the building across the way, where the Delgados lived. Perhaps the power wasn’t on in Halperin Street yet.

  “You know where, Father!” I said as I stepped out and shut the door behind me. He’d been there when I made my promise.

  I ran across the courtyard. I let the striking of my body against the Delgados’ back door announce my arrival, and followed it up with frantic pounding. Thankfully, Mr. Delgado opened it quickly, candle in hand. He appeared even more haggard than before, the circles around his eyes quite black. “Miss Roe?”

  No time to mince words. “Do you have power?”

  He shook his head, his eyes widening. “No. Is there news?”

  “It’s on. It’s on, and the EF is filled with the infected, and they’ve just broken out.” I tried to think. “Lock yourselves inside. If you go anywhere, you’ll probably be attacked or killed, I’d imagine. If you need to move somewhere else, come to our house. My family is leaving.”

  Emanuel nodded swiftly. “Is your family healthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck, then.” He held back a moment, then said, “We’re all ill. We’re … not in good shape. But we’re not like the ones they were telling stories about. I heard, in the market, these stories … I would never harm anyone, I swear. I never would.”

  I stepped back. “Hold onto that, and hide.” I took a breath. “Good luck, Mr. Delgado.”

  When I got back to my house, the broadcast’s sound was back on. There was screaming, crying, the correspondents yelling as they tried to keep reporting. Mother was packing supplies into a flour sack, her cheeks wet. I felt a pang of remorse. I hadn’t meant to make her cry. But then again, no part of this situation had been my doing. I had to keep telling myself that.

  I couldn’t stop it. I could only try to make it better.

  With everyone’s help, we were ready to go in perhaps five minutes. Just as we were strapping the last bag on Issy, who was quiet for once in his life, the broadcast changed. The seal of the Territories flashed upon the screen and there was a very quick, “We now introduce the Prime Minister of New Victoria, Aloysius Ayles.”

  “Wait, wait,” my father said, adjusting his own load so he could slip through the parlor door.

  “Father, we don’t have time!”

  “Just wait!”

  I sighed. We all followed.

  The PM looked frightened out of his wits. His eyes kept darting off-camera, and he couldn’t find it in him to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he eventually tried, although his voice lacked its usual bombastic flair. “I—”

  “Just let me get up there! It’s out of the bag now, you fools!” said a voice from off-camera. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. My family and I exchanged looks. What was this?

  There was a lot of arguing, bumping, and crashing, and it was clear that the PM was watching someone come nearer. Still, he tried to continue. “I have … ah … gotten on here to—”

  “Aloysius, tell the nice people why you’re leaving.” The voice was very close now.

  Mr. Ayles swallowed and stammered, “I … I will address the people of New London in short order, but … my father would like to speak now.”

  “Good man. Get up.”

  “Father?” Dad said. Even now he was dissecting political shows. “Lord Ayles? He hasn’t been seen in public in years.”

  The PM rose shakily from his chair and stepped out of the way. Lord Ayles didn’t take his place immediately, but said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my son likes big fancy speeches. Now is not the time for such things. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to you myself, for reasons that will become abundantly clear once I actually take my seat. I ask you not to react in fear, although I am bloody ugly, it’s true. Just listen to what I have to say, because time is running out.”

  “What’s going on?” Issy asked. I had absolutely no idea.

  Another interminable beat passed, and then Lord Ayles sat down. I almost fell to the ground. Mom cried out.

  Clearly, he was ill.

  I mean really ill.

  The man had no nose or lips or hair, his head horrifyingly streamlined. His rotten brown skin was stretched taut over the bones of his skull, and his recessed eyes glittered, dark points in the caves of his eye sockets. His entire chest cavity was hollowed out, and there was some sort of machinery mounted within, screwed to his spine. The back of his clothing was visible through him. He wore only trousers and an open silk shirt with blousy sleeves, and I could see his ribs and the bones in his neck hidden beneath a thin mossy layer of blackened skin.

  He looked like a monster from a fairy tale.

  “Pretty, eh?” he said, gesturing to his frame. “I’ve been this way for nearly a decade now. Ever since Dr. Victor Dearly saved my life, and in the process infected me with his blood. This disease we’re currently facing has been around a while, my good people. It is not a weapon of war. And it was wrong of us to keep it a secret from the public—but we honestly thought we could battle it, contain it, and not have to trouble your sleep with the knowledge that the dead can come back to life. Yes, I’m dead. No heartbeat, rotting away, dead, dead, dead. Any of the infected you see are probably dead, too, or will be shortly.”

  My chest was wracked by a dry sob. The Delgados—little Jenny Delgado—they were dead?

  “Look, there’s no time to explain everything. I’m going to arm you with some basic facts. The reanimated dead are known as zombies. Not all of the zombies you will encounter are, as you can see from Exhibit A here, evil or insane, but there is no time to sort them out now. If you have infected loved ones who are acting as well as they can be expected to, given their circumstances, keep them inside. But if they turn on you, kill them. Kill any you see on the streets. Aim for the head. Destruction of the brain is the only way to get them to drop. If you don’t think you can fight, hide. We’re recalling more troops for the sole purpose of battling the dead, but it’s going to take awhile.

  “And if you see any zombies on the streets with guns, wearing fla
shing red badges, don’t target them. Those are our boys and girls. It’s … I’ll explain that one later.” He nodded at the camera. “Good luck.”

  The seal of the Territories went back up for a moment, before the station returned to the news broadcast. My family and I stood there, the rapid-fire light from the screen playing over our faces.

  “Our former Prime Minister is a … zombie,” I said.

  “Indeed,” my father said. Mom nodded.

  We all processed this, each in his or her own way. I gave myself thirty seconds or so to silently scream and furiously pray, and they passed like lightning.

  They didn’t make me any safer, though.

  I curled my hands around the straps of my pack. “Let’s go.”

  The streets were a mess. Everyone was fleeing in the direction we were going, and we had to struggle to keep up. This, combined with the fear that someone, anyone, in the crowd might be running after you, not with you, made for an exhilarating and terrifying experience. We did our best to cling onto one another, our hands sweaty and cold. Several times I had to let go of Dad, or Issy, and then spend a frantic few moments searching for them, begging God above that I would find them. Luckily, I did.

  Some citizens had decided to try and drive to the other end of town, but their carriages were going nowhere. One, pastel pink, was caught on the curb against a fire hydrant. A woman and her child were crying within as a top-hatted gentleman equipped with a pearly cell phone pushed at the carriage with one arm. I saw another carriage tipped over, its dazed occupants standing on the side of the road.

  Some of the advertisement boards were working again, and they were all showing the same thing—the rotting form of the former PM. Bullet points flashed beneath him. Aim for the head. Disease is transmitted via body fluids.

  About four blocks away from our house I finally registered a constant beeping in the background. I looked over my shoulder and saw Michael Allister’s enameled blue carriage crawling through the crowd. Without even thinking about it, I stopped.

  “Come on, Pamela!” my mother called back.

  “It’s Mr. Allister!”

  She pulled on my hand. “Let him catch up!”