A wedding ring.
“I don’t understand,” I tried. Oh God, what was Michael doing?
He looked at me as if I were an incurable idiot, then back at the ring. What he went on to explain was not what I wanted to hear. “Brothers who brought the corpse man tonight said he was walking with his wife. ‘Till death do us part,’ right? Said she screamed and cried till she puked. Then they knocked her out, took the zombie into the sewers. Kept him tied up, waiting, in an old underground livestock tunnel. Chopped him to pieces.” Michael took off the ring and shined it with his bare thumb. “I’m going to wear this, I think. For good luck.”
I’d never heard Michael speak so cruelly before. Everyone I knew flung knives made of words at each other, cut one another off at the social knees to remain on top of the metaphorical heap, and I happily played along with such games—but I’d never attacked someone. Ever. Not like he was talking about—had done.
Because he had done this. He wasn’t just talking. He was holding the proof.
“Why, Mr. Allister? Why would you do this?”
Michael pocketed the finger again and slid the ring onto his right hand. “Because I have to. Because Miss Roe and Miss Dearly drove me to it. I don’t care a fig about the Murder, but the way they’re doing things, they’re very useful. Somehow they’ve got underworld contacts like you wouldn’t believe. They’re my chance to do what I need to do. Then walk away, no one ever the wiser. Dad never the wiser.”
I wasn’t terribly close to Michael—he was a boy, after all, and went to a different school—but I’d met him often enough, before the Siege, to think of him as a very quiet, boring individual. He followed the rules, or at least appeared to. He never called attention to himself, and he was rarely the subject of gossip. The other boys I knew seldom talked about him, never seemed to go out of their way to include him in anything, but he had his friends. His father was so powerful, he had to have friends.
So I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was entirely unlike him. It had to be the liquor talking, the liquor making him act bombastic and brash and bold. I’d never seen any evidence for the idea of in vino veritas. With boys it was more like in vino bullitas.
Some confidence restored, I said, “This is about Miss Dearly, then? Are you going to do something to her?”
“No!” Michael laughed, the sound off-kilter and eerie. “I would never hurt her!” His voice hardened. “But she’ll learn. And Roe. Someone has to pay for the plague.”
“I agree with that, Mr. Allister.” And I did, but right now I was prepared to tell him I owned property on the moon if it would get him out of my house. I tried to steady my face, my voice. “Look, there’s a party going on outside. Is that what brought you here? Surely your driver isn’t drunk.”
Michael squinted at the curtain-shrouded windows, faded from without by the party lights. The silhouettes of the revelers outside were superimposed one over another, a congealed beast with many heads. “No. I thought of you after I got out of the city.” He flung his arms out. “This morning I was down, but now I am up! Dad’s got me pushing paper at his office, my bank account is full again—do you know how expensive drinking has become since December? Maggot-men pickling themselves, must be …”
“How did you get in here?”
Michael scoffed. “I knocked at the door. What do you take me for, a lout?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. My mother hadn’t seen him, then. “You need to go before anyone sees you. Come on, I’ll show you out.”
Michael nodded, and allowed me to take his arm and lead him forward. He reached out his free hand as we neared the doorway, strumming the strings of the instruments on the wall, stirring up a set of notes that almost seemed frightened of one another.
When I got him to the foyer he turned to me and said, voice suddenly cold, “You won’t tell anyone.”
“No. But you have to stop giving me things to tell.”
“I have to tell someone. I think that’s it. I’m tired of not telling. Not acting.” He tried to touch my cheek, and I thrust his arm away. He caught mine, pinning me. “I’m going to cut Griswold’s heart out and show it to Miss Dearly. So she can see it’s dead. That it never beat for her. And then I’m going to put a bullet in his head. And I need privacy for that. Can’t do it in front of the others.”
“Please.” Disgust aside, my patience was wearing thin. “I don’t want to hear about what you’re doing, or what you think you’re going to do. Once you sober up, you’ll look upon all of this with regret. You’re going to find that filthy thing in your pocket and—”
Michael gripped my cheek with a sudden passion, and I couldn’t help but cry out. I felt my face flush with shame—he had no right to touch me. I should hit back. Roe had once hit him! More than that, I should tell him how utterly insane he sounded. I should threaten him with the police, the asylum.
“Listen,” he said. “Just listen.”
“Let go of me and I will,” I whispered.
He did, slowly. His eyes were bright, his cheeks red. When he spoke, I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “They embarrassed you, too. Put you in danger.” He leaned close to me—far too close. “So you want to hear. Don’t you, Vesper?”
My chest tightened. “No, I don’t. I don’t want to know anything. And you’re drunk. You won’t re—”
At that, Michael actually slapped me. Shock froze my higher brain functions. I had no idea what to do, save to cup my cheek. I just wanted him gone.
“Drunk or not, I’m going to win. Like my father. My father’s even got doctors from Dearly’s side jumping ship, begging to work with him. One was at the office today, telling us how stupid Dr. Dearly is, how Dad can help. He always wins. I always win.”
Michael let me go, bowed, and staggered out into the night. His blue carriage was parked outside, and no driver seemed to await him. For a minute I thought about calling him back, taking his keys from him—but then I recalled his hands on me, and I stopped caring. Instead I shut the door and sank to the gleaming marble floor, gripping my head in my hands. I desperately wanted to unsee what I’d just seen. Not just the finger. Michael.
I should tell someone what he’d done.
I also knew that to do so would be pointless.
He was right. He would win. I’d be labeled a slut for having a boy in my house, unchaperoned; my reputation would be sullied. His actions, on the other hand, would earn a collective shrug. Even I, had he submitted everything he’d just said more soberly, would have shrugged. I didn’t care if a random dead man died or lost a finger or two. And no one would believe he was scheming, dreaming grand, violent dreams—because I certainly didn’t. The Murder? Please. Most boys I knew could barely dress themselves, much less organize an anti-zombie conspiracy.
I forced myself to think logically. Liquor obviously made him act completely out of character. He and his fellows were just playing rough and drinking too much. Probably just beat up a passing dead man on the street. That’s all. Such things had become commonplace since December.
Yes. That had to be it.
I returned to my room.
This time, I locked the door.
Late Friday night, I approached Samedi about helping Dog.
He and Beryl were in the study, as usual. The opulent, woodpaneled space was now overrun by power cords, computers, crates, and stainless steel machinery. Beryl was seated on Dr. Dearly’s desk, listlessly bobbing a tea bag in and out of a mug. Samedi stood beside her, his head off and positioned upside down on a spidery brass armature. He held up a bag of medicated saline cocktail with his left hand, which connected to a valve on his neck hardware via a long plastic tube. Talk about feeding your head.
When he heard me, Samedi’s eyes opened. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Charity.” I sat down on one of the crates, resting my elbows on my knees. “Remember the zombies I told you about, the ones we had to take on the Christine?”
“Mmm?”
&n
bsp; “One of them was a little boy. Mute. Evola had to amputate his hand.”
Beryl stopped moving her tea bag, sympathy filling her eyes. “Poor thing.”
“And we told him maybe you’d make a replacement for him.”
Beryl held up a hand to preemptively hush Samedi, who’d started to pick up his head. “Of course we will.” She peered at him over the top of her mug, wordlessly challenging him to disagree.
Sam put his head back down and tipped it so he could fix me with bleary eyes. “Fine. Schedule every second of my rapidly diminishing time on Earth. Lord knows I get into trouble if I’m left to my own devices too long.” He extended his right arm, as if he expected me to pass him something. “Do you have the hand?”
My lips separated a second before I actually formed my reply. “No. The kid was, like, ten. What was I supposed to do, tell him I was going to borrow one of his body parts and get it back to him later?”
Samedi snorted. “Well, yes. What am I supposed to do, guess at his measurements? Guess where Evola aimed?”
I offered, “We could go see them in person. Find out.”
“See who in person?”
I looked over and saw Nora standing in the doorway. “The zombies I told you about. The ones on the ship.”
“Are you sure we can trust them?” Samedi asked. “Like I said, I can’t exactly go skipping merrily through New London.”
“Fairly sure, yeah. The woman leading them is kind of spacey, but she also seems understanding. A couple of them lost it on the docks, attacked the living. Living started it, though.”
Nora made a contemplative sound. As she turned from the door, she noted, almost absently, “You’ve got Sam, then. Leave the other old codger to me.”
“You kiss our young, pure Mr. Griswold with that disrespectful mouth?” upside-down Sam shot back.
“Baldwin, honestly,” Dr. Chase admonished.
I held my tongue and tried hard not to smile.
* * *
When Dr. Dearly came home on Saturday night for a shower and a few spoonfuls of food, we circled the wagons. After managing to corner him in the kitchen, Nora started out by preparing his dinner for him while he put his remaining biological foot up. The moment he hefted his fork, she got to the point.
“If Dr. Chase and Dr. Samedi come along, can I go with Bram after church to help some zombies in need? I’m ungrounded tomorrow, and things have calmed down a little. It’s not in the Morgue.” She didn’t resort to sweetness or cajoling—her tone was direct.
Dr. Dearly looked at her, then me. Having promised to let Nora see how far she could get on her own, I said nothing—but mentally I reviewed the various arguments I’d collected. Sir, we both need direction. We want to be of use to you, we respect you, but we’ll make our own way if we have to. And honestly? Sometimes, I need her with me.
The doctor continued in heavy silence. Before Nora could bolster her argument by going into further detail, or I could open my mouth, he put down his silverware and said, “Yes.”
Nora held still for a moment, surprised—but then moved to hug her father around the shoulders. He patted her elbow. “I promise, we don’t want trouble.”
“I believe you. The others will be with you. And the dead need all the help they can get.” Looking at me, he added, “Give me an hour alone. Then, Bram, if you’d accompany me to the ships?”
I agreed, but something in his tone suggested he was going to rehash the conversation we’d had following the hijacking. That’d been a mess of safety and etiquette concerns—so half reasonable, half stupid—and it worried me to think that he might wander back there, maybe get bogged down in the mud of his own mind. He’d given in so easily.
So a little more than an hour later, when we got into his nondescript coffee-colored carriage, I decided to take the bull by the horns. “Dr. Dearly, about the trip. We’re going to go help—”
“I trust you won’t lead her to ruin. I’m just glad you’re going with her.”
Thrown slightly off guard, I said, “But a few days ago you went over all the rules again, sir. I’m just trying to do right by you. By her.”
“I know I did. I know you are.” He hushed, concentrating on his driving.
Confused, I tried to piece together a reason for this apparent waffling. As I did, I couldn’t help but look at the man. Our differences hadn’t seemed so stark back at base. Although he was a good friend, he was also my elder, my superior, and he looked it now. In the midst of a worldwide revolution, he was dressed in a full black suit and top hat. He comfortably piloted his electric carriage through city avenues, living monuments to both an era long past and the new one modeled on it. I sat beside him in my usual clothing—soft trousers, collarless shirt, suspenders, secondhand jacket, and practical wide-brimmed fedora—feeling somewhat out of place.
In time, he spoke. “I couldn’t have created a better man for her. I want you to know that. But you must understand—I was a father before I was a zombie. An older man before I was a dead man. There is so much in my life I cannot control anymore that I find myself looking for areas I can. I worry even when there should be no cause for worry. I ascribe importance to things that, in theory, should matter about as much as the dreams of a fly. And I am sorry.”
I understood perfectly. “Yes, sir.”
“I just don’t want either of you to get hurt. But I’ve been thinking about what she said for a few days—she’s right. Before long, all of this—the good and the bad—will be past. She needs to see it. Know it. Remember it when we are gone.” His voice grew soft. “Yet the world is a dangerous place, and the night has a thousand eyes that will outlive both of us. That’s all I ask you to consider.”
“Understood.”
“I fell into the habit of spoiling her when I was so often absent from her life. When I had so much to hide.” His cheek twitched slightly. “I still would, if I could.”
“Even if you did,” I assured him, “trust me—she’s not the worse for it. In fact, I’m pretty sure she loves you for it.”
Dr. Dearly chuckled. “I’m glad you think so.” After another pause, he said, “I want you with me on the Erika tonight. I’ve been chasing help away when I need it most. Salvez told me you’ve been volunteering at the barricade, but you shouldn’t be there. Leave that to the others.”
The way he phrased this request dampened the relief it might have otherwise brought me. I didn’t like the idea of leaving anyone behind, even if they were stationed only a hundred yards away from me. Still, I was ready to jump at the chance to do what I saw as more important work. To have a tool in my hands other than a gun. “Thank you.”
“We’re going to make it through this.” He seemed to remember something. “Oh, and someone dropped this off at the boats for you.”
He reached into his pocket, steering with one hand, and passed me a slip of yellow paper. It was covered with crabbed handwriting that appeared to have been done with something wide and rough, maybe a piece of charcoal.
The Changed
We are all dead, the living and dead alike.
It is no longer safe here among those who have not changed.
Be with your brothers, admire in another what you cannot have, dance and sing.
Look for the light along Country Road 6.
The Changed had apparently moved—but at least I knew where to find them. And it was out in the country. Definitely safer than the city, all things considered.
Maybe things were starting to look up.
I spent the entire night on the boats—about half that time with Dr. Dearly, and the other half helping to patch up zombies with Evola. Charles looked tired, the bags under his eyes so pronounced that he could barely wear his monocle. When I asked him if he’d taken a break recently, he shrugged and said, “Don’t like to impose on the Roes more than I have to. I’ve actually been trying to sleep here or in my carriage when I can.”
“Then why stay with them at all? There’s always room for another cot at
the house. And we could actually really use your carriage. You could carpool with the other doctors.”
Evola shook his head uneasily. “I’m sorry, but no. I prefer to be closer to the boats.” After a second, clearly ashamed, he added, “I don’t like the idea of being underground. It makes me feel trapped.”
Him and Nora both. I texted her to let her know about her father and the note, adding that if we were going to be looking for a light, we’d better set off closer to sunset. She urged me to meet her at church anyway, like we’d originally planned.
When morning arrived, I cleaned up and went directly to the Cathedral of Our Mother, the pre-ice bank turned house of worship. Nora met me in the saffron-carpeted aisle beside our usual pew, smile brilliant, dressed in what she knew full well was my favorite gown—a pistachio green silk number with horizontal strips of forest green velvet that emphasized what little shape she had. “Any bad news?”
I dared to take her hand and kiss it. A living lady in the pew behind ours glared at us, while the two young zombies sitting beside her bickered about whether accepting a communion wafer constituted cannibalism. “Not a bit.”
“Good,” she whispered, bouncing a little on her toes. “I put together a basket of medical supplies and things this morning. I barely slept last night. I feel like I can finally breathe.”
“Good idea.” As I slid into the dark wooden pew beside Dr. Chase and Father Isley, the only other members of the household I could see present, I caught sight of Pamela coming up the aisle. “There’s Miss Roe.”
Nora turned and waved at her friend. Pamela looked to her father, perhaps asking for permission, before braving the crowd of churchgoers and hugging Nora. “Morning, everyone. Where’s Dr. Dearly?”
“Still at work.” Nora scanned the pews to the left of us and appeared to be debating something with herself. “I hate to ask this, but have you seen Michael today? I still want to talk to him about Aunt Gene.”