"All right, thank you." Salvez released a breath as the guard stepped away, then rolled up the window. "My G.o.d, 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. For just 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.u.t.tons. 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 him 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 speed, moving in front of us. When we pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ation 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.

"They're going to try and take the van!" Tom yelled as I joined the others in the back of Salvez's carriage, sandwich wrappers crinkling below me.

"What!" Salvez yelped.

"Just keep her steady, Salvez!" I shouted. "Lower the back windows!"

He did as I said. Cool air rushed in, causing sc.r.a.ps of wax paper to skitter about the rear of the carriage. The two rusty, convertible carriages were now flanking the van, matching its speed. Each carriage was filled with zombies, most shooting at the van windows, targeting the driver and the guard riding shotgun. I recognized a few of them from the protest we'd just pa.s.sed, and felt my neck tightening in anger. They'd been scouts. G.o.d knows what had happened to the constables manning the protest line.

Keeping myself low, half hidden by the door, I let off a few rounds. I managed to tag one zombie in the chest, which at least knocked him off-balance and resulted in him losing his own gun. The other shot went nowhere. Coalhouse, meanwhile, downed two zombies in a row, their bodies slumping over the sides of their carriage. He might only have one eye, but that one eye made him an amazing sniper.

As I lined up another shot, the van's windshield shattered. One of the zombies in the open-topped carriage on the left stood up and leaned into the wind, gripping one of the grated, raised headlamps, and I recognized her as the girl with the half-shaved head I'd seen the night we went to the campsite. Before I could blink, she launched herself at the newly vulnerable van. She managed to snag the exposed windshield mounting, the muscles under her ruined skin bulging as she struggled to pull herself inside. The driver screamed and let go of the wheel, elbowing her in the face. I heard bone crack, and she snarled, snapping at his arm.

With little time to lose, I fired again. I got her right above the ear, and down she dropped, her legs crushed beneath the right front tire as she landed. The van bucked upward, but the driver, to his credit, rapidly recovered.

Just then the rear police escort roared forward and rammed into the carriage on my right. It was enough-both vehicles circled around one another at a nauseating speed, went careening toward the trees, and crashed. Almost immediately two living guards crawled free of the police carriage, only to be descended upon by escapees from the other. Frantic shots were fired; screams echoed through the trees.

"G.o.dspeed," I said for the living guards. That side taken care of, I leaned farther out the open window, targeting the remaining convertible. Tom moved to join me. I managed to get in a couple of shoulder shots, but the driver remained untouched. He saw me, though, and his almost lidless eyes narrowed, his expression full of disgust. Maybe he thought I should be right there alongside him.

Luckily, for me this type of situation was extremely cut and dried.

Tom capped him right between his eyebrows, finally getting into his own stride. The rusted-out piece of crud the enemy zombie was driving caught a rut in the soft road and very neatly turned sideways, veering toward the trees. It crashed head-on, smoke erupting from its front end. My eyes rocketed back to the van and I was relieved to see that while the guard on the pa.s.senger side had taken a bullet in the arm, the driver appeared unharmed. He waved at me and groped around the dashboard. Next thing I knew his voice was booming at me from an exterior speaker.

"Nice work! Keep going, everyone! Floor it!"

Nodding, I withdrew and secured my weapon before crawling back into the front seat, taking a second to calm my rattled mind. Salvez stared at me, his arms locked on the wheel.

"Keep control of the vehicle," I told him. "We can't go back. We've got to stay with P One." Especially when the zombies targeting him were organized, and we didn't know how many of them there were.

That was the scary thing. Those zombies were organized.

"Why the h.e.l.l would a bunch of zombies target the cops?" Tom demanded, working on his own gun. "Do they have a final death wish?"

"I think those were the protestors," Coalhouse said. "Maybe they finally decided to take matters into their own hands."

"I saw them, too," I said. "And a girl from last night. The one you were talking to."

"The one with the cigarettes, yeah. I saw her."

"We ... we ..." Salvez looked forward and stepped it up, almost edging his b.u.mper against the carriage in front. "We were just ..."

"Shot at. Almost hijacked. Again. I'm starting to think it's me."

"But ... but ... we ..."

"Have to keep going." I unb.u.t.toned my waistcoat and fumbled within for my phone. I pushed the b.u.t.ton Nora'd programmed to instantly dial hers, before lifting it to my ear.

"Where are you?" she asked upon picking up. "What's going on?"

"Safe." I glanced back at the bullet-riddled prison van and informed her, "But we've got problems. On top of everything else, someone just tried to steal Patient One."

16.

NORA.

I stayed by Pamela's side all day, but by nine o'clock I'd had it. A quick glance outside told me that all of the carriages were gone, which left only one option. Chas and Ren were about, but I had to go higher. I was doing my absolute best to avoid skipping blithely out the door-causing more worry. Papa could keep his mouth shut.

So I climbed the attic stairs to ask Father Isley if he'd accompany me on the trolley. The priest, Company Z's former chaplain, looked up from his papers when I approached. He was a man who radiated kindness even in death, his features doughy and his eyes warm. A bullet hole marred his cheek. "Of course, child. Where do you need to go?"

"The ships," I said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I have to. I'll explain on the way." I wasn't about to wait around this time. I'd had it up to my eyeb.a.l.l.s with waiting.

Responding to the urgency in my voice, Isley rose and removed his duster and scarf from their nail on the wall. He ran a hand over his thin gray hair before donning both. "At your service."

Chas volunteered to take my place, and I ducked into Aunt Gene's room to let Mrs. Roe and Pam know where I was headed-and that it was with an adult. They looked unhappy at the idea but wished me well.

Once we were seated in the EF special service trolley and headed for the surface, I unloaded everything Bram had told me on Father Isley. The priest responded with a low whistle. "I'm rather glad to be going, then," he said as we neared the gatehouse. "It might prove interesting."

"To say the least."

Isley chuckled. "Well, interesting from the point of research."

"For your book, you mean?" I knew he'd been working on some sort of book about zombie religion.

"Ah, yes. Right now I'm working on a chapter about cognitive dissonance and the phenomenon of postdeath atheism." And with that he launched into his thesis. His facial expressions were often a tad wobbly, due to lack of muscle control. Sad to say, I didn't find the talk very interesting.

For the moment, I was fixated on Patient One.

The city appeared unusually quiet and empty as we traveled through-though that was probably an improvement, all things considered. The streets grew darker as we neared the port, the air heavier with the scent of burning coal and oil. Soon I could see nothing but shacks and warehouses, and the occasional night-bound ship. The recycling trawlers, laden with hunks of salvage hacked off of the semicontinent of plastic that had formed in the Atlantic hundreds of years ago, always came into port at night.

We disembarked near the port authority and walked to the docks. Noticing the reporter-thronged barricade, Father Isley removed his checkered scarf and wound it over my hat and the lower part of my face. I'd been all over the news in December, so it was a good move. He then braved the crowd, allowing me to follow in his wake, my fingers curled into the back of his coat.

Upon reaching the barricade, Ben Maza caught sight of us. He said nothing, but I could see the recognition in his eyes-and some amus.e.m.e.nt. He got us through to the other side, and Isley and I hurried on board the Erika, pa.s.sing a few more patches of security along the way. They'd stepped things up.

Inside the ship technicians and scientists were rushing about like mad. As we pa.s.sed through, headed for the lower levels, I heard one quizzing a colleague. "Why do you keep personifying the Laz in your hourly reports? It's not doing anything other than existing. It's not plotting, it's not attacking, it's not evil. It's not alive. Why do you keep treating nonliving things as if they have some agency?"

Isley eyed the man, his head pivoting slowly to follow him as we walked. The tech coughed and said, "Right. Carry on, then."

"Before you do," Isley said, "we could use directions. Miss Dearly here is looking for her father and Mr. Abraham Griswold."

The doctor nodded weakly. "Of course."

He took us down to B Level, where a hospital unit was set up. A few techs waved at us, though their faces looked drawn and worried. From there we went down another level, into the very guts of the ship, pa.s.sing the engine room and coal bunkers on our way to the makeshift laboratory.

Frankly, I wasn't sure what we'd find. My shoulders started hunching up as we neared the lab, and I felt Father Isley's hand settle down between them. "All is well," he told me as the doctor led us to a heavy door and opened it.

The lab was a large, square room, its walls reinforced with metal shingles. Equipment of the same sort ma.s.sed in our house, but on a grander scale, was arranged in long, narrow rows that could be traversed by foot or wheeled stool. Large screens had been hung from the ceiling, the walls left empty for the projection of virtual rat cages. At least thirty government scientists were currently at work, all of them living.

Beneath the nearest math-filled screen sat my father's a.s.sistant, Dr. Salvez. I ran over when I spied him, my footsteps echoing off of the metal floor. He frowned in mild alarm. "Miss Dearly! What are you doing here?"

"I just want to see the others," I told him. "That's all."

Salvez ran a hand over his beard. "They're in your father's office." He gestured to a nearby interior doorway. Isley urged me on, and Salvez added, "I'll join you shortly."

This was it.

The dead boys, Evola, and my father were gathered in the office we found beyond the sheet metal wall. The room was long and narrow, and home only to some computer equipment and a single desk, no medical or chemical supplies. When he saw me, Bram came over. He wrapped his arms around me, the edge of the valve installed on his wrist digging into the small of my back. "It's okay."

"I know," I said, trying to play it off as I slid out of his arms and approached my father. He embraced me, too. "Before you start lecturing, I had to come."

"It's all right. I'm sorry I haven't been home."

"Where's Patient One?"

"Right behind you." I turned around, focusing my attention down the length of the harshly lit room. Sitting on a stool in a rectangular metal cage about eight yards away was a stooped, sad figure. He appeared conscious of nothing; he didn't even look up when the stony-faced soldiers flanking the cage moved preemptively closer.

Slowly, I moved toward the cage. Isley followed. The guards watched us but made no move to interfere. There was a line of red tape on the floor about three feet in front of the zombie's improvised cell, and I stopped when the hem of my red dress just touched it.

Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't this depressed, slimy fellow. His skin looked like rain-soaked clay, and his eyes and exposed teeth were stained yellow. His bones were visibly pressing against his flesh in a few places, as if they were actively attempting to burst free. He looked like a zombie who'd been rotting for years, not someone who was recently turned-the closest I'd seen to his level of rot was news footage of Lord Ayles from last December. It looked so painful I had to remind myself that while zombies could feel many sensations, their ability to feel pain was lessened by the disease that'd made them. Not that I should have cared, in this guy's case.

"h.e.l.lo?" I tried. He didn't move.

"He won't respond," Bram said, coming up behind us. "To light, noise, anything. I even tried poking him with a stick. The height of scientific research. Nothing."

Confused, I said, "But he bit those people ... do you think he became like this afterward?"

"No idea. Imagine my joy when we got here after being shot at and almost run off the road, and there he is. As forthcoming as a b.l.o.o.d.y rock. We're still waiting on the computers. Running some tests. After all this time the police still haven't managed to figure out who he is."

"He looks so old. The people he bit didn't look like this, did they?"

"From what I've heard, no. It's impossible for anything to rot that fast."

"Someone wants him, whoever he is." Isley made the sign of the cross. "Poor gent."

I turned fully toward Bram. "Do you really think it was the-"

Bram grabbed my arm and escorted me away from the cage before I could complete my sentence. I held my confusion until we were about halfway across the room. "What?" I whispered.

He cast his eyes back at the cage, where Isley remained, before saying softly, "I haven't told anybody the Changed might be involved. Not specifically."

"Why not? On the phone, you said you guys recognized one of the people from the camp."

"Yeah-one of them. We still don't know if the entire group is involved. Laura swore their group is pro-everybody. I don't want to send the authorities after innocent zombies-especially ones that have lashed out in fear before. If something goes wrong they might mow them all down, ask questions later."

My stomach went cold at the idea that I'd almost let everything slip. "Oh G.o.d, you're right."