“Could we?” Pamela looked up at her mother, her sweet, liquid eyes suddenly filled with longing. For some reason, it pained me to see. “Could we really go away? All of us?”
Mrs. Roe smoothed her hands over her face. “I don’t think so,” she said, so softly that I had to strain to hear. “But it was an exceedingly kind offer.”
“Why not?” Pamela asked. “It might be safer there.”
“We have no idea who this gentleman truly is, Pamela,” her mother said. “He has presented himself very honorably thus far, but after young Mr. Allister treated you so abominably? I’d rather not owe an aristocrat anything.”
Pamela flushed and went silent. I spoke up. “Mr. Allister treated everyone abominably, Mrs. Roe. Please don’t judge anyone else by his standard.”
She didn’t hear me. “We shouldn’t even be discussing this.” Mrs. Roe looked at Issy, a tear finally slipping free of her right eye. “I don’t care if the very sky tumbles down around my family, so long as we’re together. But if worse comes to worst, we’ll send Isambard away. The idea tears me apart, but if it would keep him safe …”
Pam sat back against the seat, the word “oh” writing itself across her face without escaping her lips.
Mrs. Roe sniffed and steadied herself. “But to simply live with a complete stranger, a bachelor, any of us—it would not do. It’d be far more prudent to stay with your aunt and uncle.”
“He’s not really a stranger,” Isambard said. “I mean, you let Dr. Evola stay with us, and he was a stranger before the night he helped me.”
“True.” Mrs. Roe smiled at her son, and moved to take him into her arms. “You’re such a good boy, do you realize that? You’re my little earthbound angel.”
Isambard lowered his eyes, clearly mortified. After a moment he said, “Do you think all of this is my fault, though? Because of what I am?”
“Not your ‘fault.’ Don’t use that word,” Pamela said, looking toward the window. Her tone was dull. It worried me.
A few minutes later we entered the Elysian Fields guardhouse and started down the long tunnel that led underground. As we descended, Issy’s phone rang. He answered it, before frowning and handing it to his mother. “It’s Mrs. Delgado.”
“Oh, is she ready to pick up Jenny?”
“Yes, but she also says her husband hasn’t been home all night.”
Mrs. Roe took the phone. The conversation picked up steam as we entered the Elysian Fields proper, her eyes filling with worry. “No, we haven’t seen Mr. Delgado. When was he supposed to be back?”
Casting my eyes over the vacant, darkened subterranean streets, I realized that Papa was right. The city wasn’t safe for anyone. Pamela should go. I thought this even as I understood that no matter how ugly it got, I wasn’t leaving just yet.
Not without doing a few things first.
Upon waking, I wasn’t surprised to find that Isambard wasn’t in the room. He was a good kid, and that meant he’d be looking after his mother and sister in their hour of need, or helping his father. I quietly made up my cot, letting everyone else catch a few more minutes of shut-eye. As I did, I started mentally racking up jobs for the day. Foremost among them was going after the bastards who’d targeted the Roe family.
Issy and Lopez had mentioned the masks. It wasn’t hard to do the math.
I’d hated leaving Nora last night, but I figured Pamela probably wouldn’t want me around—and besides, I wanted to talk to Lopez while he was available. Our brief meeting had gone well. He seemed like a stand-up guy, asking, even in the midst of our current crisis, whether any of my men had been able to make it away the night of the Siege. When I told him many had, he seemed relieved. We traded numbers.
Bed made, I opened my trunk and started gathering clothes—and uncovered Jack’s old camera and my teddy bear in the process. Well, my little sister Emily’s teddy bear. Compelled to pick it up—mostly because I didn’t want to think about the fact that the digital camera might’ve been smuggled south by none other than Samedi—I examined the patch of corduroy my sister Adelaide had sewn on the back, the wood button eyes. It was her parting gift to me. I’d been lurking outside her house, a monster keeping her family imprisoned. A monster her mother had shot in the leg.
Did she somehow know the monster thought he had no one to turn to? Did she think if he had a friend he could find the strength to walk away? I’d never figured that out.
Before I could shut the bear away in the trunk for another day, my phone went off. I found it in the pocket of the trousers I’d worn yesterday and opened it. “Hello?”
“Mr. Griswold, would it be possible for you to meet me outside the house in a few minutes?” It was Dr. Horatio Salvez, Dr. Dearly’s assistant.
Standing up, I dropped the bear back into the trunk. “Why?”
“Because … they’re moving Patient One. And I’m being sent to fetch him. Alone.” Salvez’s quiet voice betrayed his realistic assessment of himself, and echoed my initial thoughts—he was a taciturn gent, weak in body and gentle of character. And he was supposed to pick up a cannibalistic prisoner all by his lonesome?
And why was the prisoner being moved at all?
I decided not to grill him about the chain of events that must have led to this decision, because I was fairly certain I didn’t actually want to hear about it. Instead, I shut the phone and raised my voice. “Guys—we have work to do.”
I slammed the trunk shut, hoping the sound would rouse them.
Salvez swung by to pick us up in his food-wrapper-filled, mud-splattered carriage. He was a skinny fellow with gray-sprinkled brown hair and a beard, perhaps a decade younger than Dr. Dearly. His eyes were red, and enormous bags sagged under them.
On our way to the EF guardhouse, we passed the Rolls headed in the opposite direction. Nora was in the front seat and turned to look at me, all eyes. I saluted and sent her a tight-lipped smile, hoping she’d understand that nothing was immediately wrong and that she shouldn’t worry.
Hopefully.
“Where are they moving him?” Tom asked Salvez once we were on the road.
“To the Erika,” he told us, eyes trained forward. “I just learned of it half an hour ago. The military’s finally taking him into custody. He’s been deemed a national security risk. They’re not telling many people. Trying to keep it quiet. Hence, me.”
“So what, the Erika’s a prison now?” I asked.
“That’s what I said.” At a red light he opened the glove compartment and grabbed a wrapped sandwich. “Apparently, protestors started gathering at the jail after his arrest a few weeks ago. Zombies who wanted him out on bail—like they’d let him walk right out the door? Then the politicians and lords started complaining, saying it was madness to keep him in the city proper. So they moved him to the prison. Drike’s Island.”
Tom leaned forward from the back. “And the problem is?”
“One of the wardens attempted to kill him last night.” Salvez got the sandwich unwrapped and took a nervous, squirrely bite as the rest of us exchanged glances. “And the prisoners know what he is, that he’s different. The guards are afraid a riot’s brewing. They want Patient One out.”
“Great.”
“I’m not happy either. But at least we’ll be able to study him in person.” He sighed. “Thank you for coming, lads. Dr. Dearly is busy. It felt odd going alone, even though they promised guards on the return trip. Safety in numbers and all that.”
“Sure. Anytime.” I felt for the guy, and had to respect the way he was at least trying to keep it together. “You know, as long as I get a few hours of sleep in, enough to keep sane, I can almost function twenty-four hours. You call whenever you need me, okay?”
“That goes for me, too,” Coalhouse added. His socket was empty, and I was glad to see him putting himself out there. Capable as he was, he had a tendency to take stuff personally and to seize onto perceived insults like an enraged monitor lizard, refusing to let them go. Sometimes it worried me
.
Salvez smiled. “You boys are officers and gentlemen.” He exited onto the highway that led north along the eastern Nicaraguan coastline, and fell silent.
Drike’s Island hove into view before I saw any signs for it. It loomed in the distance, a dark building divided from the land by a stretch of deep gray water. I’d read in one of Dr. Dearly’s books that it was one of the first completely New Victorian buildings anywhere, constructed well after the founding of the nation—fitting that one of the first things they built should be a prison. But its fanciful window casements, intricately carved buttresses, and multiple turreted towers made it look more like a castle than a place where murderers and rapists were housed.
“Any of that holographic?” I asked. “It’s beautiful, in a way.”
“Oh, no. Not a bit of it. They wouldn’t waste holographs on prisoners,” Salvez said. “In fact, most of that was carved by prisoners. Hard labor meets occupational therapy.”
This info stunned me into silence. One of the first real, solidly crafted buildings I’d seen in months was a gigantic monument to backbreaking punishment.
Nora’s people were truly messed up.
We turned onto a sandy, tree-lined road leading to an iron drawbridge, and encountered protestors. Evidently moving Patient One to Drike’s hadn’t taken care of the first problem either. Zombies shouted at our carriage as we rolled past and hobbled after it long after we were gone, carrying the same sorts of signs I’d seen during the riot a few weeks ago. WE ARE PEOPLE. THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A LIVING AND A DEAD HUMAN BODY. A skeleton crew of living constables tried to corral them behind wooden barricades set up for their protest, guns and electrified billy clubs on their belts.
I felt the weight of Hagens’s words as we turned onto the bridge. A living man in a corpse.
Maybe I should have been out there with them. There was no real difference between a living and a dead human body, and there was no difference between me and the thousands of other functioning zombies out there. We were all survivors, and we all had the right to do as much surviving as we possibly could, as much living as we possibly could.
But that didn’t mean we had the right to dismiss or harm those who still drew breath. No one had the right to hurt anyone unnecessarily. I hated to think that these masked bastards, whoever they were, were a sign of things to come. We did not need this right now.
“Here we go.” Salvez rolled up to an exterior guardhouse and lowered his window. A guard came out to scan his subdermal ID chip, and preliminary information was exchanged. It was all very professional. The guard let us in with little fanfare, and we continued the drive up to the prison itself. After making our way past three more gates in like manner, we parked in a gravel lot enclosed by stone walls and barbed wire, where a final guard came out to speak to us.
“No need to go inside. He’s already halfway to the van,” he said. “You’ll be signing for the prisoner and then accompanying the armored van back to your ship.” He signed off on several digital documents on a flat screen. “Officers will make sure the prisoner is secure, and then he’s yours. Good luck and good riddance.”
“Very well,” Salvez said as the guard handed him the screen for his own signature. As he signed, the guard sized me up. I eyed him right back. “Has he been violent since he’s been here?”
“No,” the guard said. “But he still creeps me the hell out.”
“How many guards do we have coming with us?”
The guard took the screen back from Salvez. “Ten.”
“Ten? For one nonviolent zombie?”
The guard cut me off with a grunt. “Look, it’s mostly so the guards will feel safe. They’re as freaked out as the prisoners. Things still haven’t calmed down in there, even though the dirt-bags are getting what they want. Hell, I think they put Warden Tomas up to it.” He turned his back to us. The conversation was apparently over. “Wait here. When you see the white van accompanied by two carriages, that’s your cue. You can lead them right out.”
“All right, thank you.” Salvez released a breath as the guard stepped away, then rolled up the window. “My God, this is a mess.”
“Ten guards is insane,” Tom pointed out. “I mean, yeah, he’s a threat, but he’s also one zombie. And we still have Ye Olde Headshot option. I don’t see why they haven’t just killed him already. He’s no different than the ones we used to gun down.”
“If we went by that logic, Tom, we should have killed you when you showed up at base.” It was all I needed to say; the bald zombie shut his mouth. He’d actually tasted human flesh—relished it, in fact. “There’s more to it than that.”
“Yet, Patient One is both incredibly precious and incredibly dangerous. We have our safety in numbers, they can have theirs.” Salvez laughed nervously and held up his hand. It was trembling. “Look. Just for being here. I was never a very confident fellow around authority figures.”
“How’d you get into the army, then?” Coalhouse said. “Sounds like the last place you’d want to be.”
“Oh, it was a pathway to education. My family was very poor.”
“Do you know what he looks like?” I asked, trying to get everyone back on track. “There haven’t been any clear pictures of him on the news. Just some grainy riot footage. Why?”
“Yes. I originally came to take tissue samples,” Salvez admitted. “He’s extremely … well, you’ll see. Perhaps the press didn’t want people attacking other zombies who look like him? Perhaps they chose the responsible course of action for once?”
“The press doesn’t work that way.” The docks had taught me that. “They can’t have a good picture of him, or they’d show it. And everyone up here has a camera in their mobile phone—you’re telling me no one recorded the riot and put it on the Aethernet? It’s just weird. There’s security, and then there’s security.”
“Maybe it’s the army.” Coalhouse’s voice darkened. “Maybe they’re not being as honest as they say they are. Like usual.”
Before we could delve further into any potential conspiracies, an alarm sounded, shrill and haunting. It faded away after a few seconds, and a heavily fortified iron door opened at the far end of the gravel yard. A white police van idled there, its back doors open. Four officers in full riot gear exited the prison, leading a manacled zombie, guns at the ready. Patient One. I leaned forward to get a better look.
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t what I ended up seeing.
Patient One was a zombie of indeterminate age and ethnicity—because he was a bloody ugly mess. He was of average height and slight build, his movements painfully slow. His skin hung in rotten black hunks from his flesh, like old banana peels, and his skull, stained by wear, was already showing through the muddy meat on his forehead. He was clothed in a pair of drawstring prison trousers and an open shirt with toggle buttons. A clear plastic muzzle was locked over the lower half of his face, designed to let him talk without allowing him to bite. He didn’t look at anyone or struggle, his eyes trained on the ground. For all the horrors he represented, he looked completely helpless. I actually felt bad for him.
“That’s him?” Coalhouse sounded almost disappointed.
“I told you.” Salvez cleared his throat. “Let’s not forget—he could start everything all over again with a bite. He attacked people.”
As he spoke, the guards led Patient One to the van, locked it up, and took their positions on board. A few seconds later the van approached us from behind, two police carriages on its tail, their sides and tops alight with rows of blue LEDs. “I guess that’s it,” I said.
“All right, then.” Salvez took the carriage out of park, turned it around and drove slowly back toward the gate. “This is actually going much more efficiently than I expected.”
The two guards waiting at the gate opened it for us immediately. The van and the police carriages trailed behind us, evidently content to follow our lead. Once we were past the gates and over the bridge, the carriage in back picked up sp
eed, moving in front of us. When we passed the spot where the protestors had been gathered, I noticed they’d dispersed. The constables weren’t there either, and I figured they must have cleared the area in anticipation of Patient One’s approaching escort. Still, something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t quite sure what it was—for once, everything appeared to be going well.
“Would you like to turn on the wireless?” Salvez said. “I don’t have in-cab Aethernet, unfortunately. The news is depressing of late, I’ll own, but there must be some music, perhaps an audio play. Ever listen to The Shadow? Great pre-ice stuff.”
As Salvez reached for the wireless controls, I heard shots being fired.
I reached out and stayed his hand. The carriage before us swerved, and Salvez gasped, wrenching his hand back to devote to the steering wheel. Turning in my seat, I saw dark shapes popping up alongside the young trees on either side of us. We were going so fast that their faces seemed to fly by, part of the scenery, but a few interesting colorations and extraneous holes convinced me they were undead.
Cursing, I reached under the seat for my rifle. I should have known. My unconscious internal monster, the part of my being that wanted me to hunt, must’ve picked up on a sign, a scent, something—but I’d been blind.
“Keep pace with the men ahead of us,” I said, cracking my window to better hear. Engines were roaring in the distance, and I figured they didn’t belong to anyone on our side. The zombies in the brush had to be a distraction.
The carriage in front of us sped up, and Salvez followed suit. I lowered my seat back and undid my seat belt, my friends doing the same. The dead men in the tree line continued to shoot, and I heard a few shots connect with the exterior of the carriage. They were shouting something, but I only made out a few words—something about “smoke” and “our brother.” When a pair of old open-topped carriages raced up onto the dirt road behind us, I knew for certain they were referring to Patient One.