Dearly, Beloved (5 page)

The last zombie cleared the barricade. “Finish getting everyone through, then come back me up,” I ordered my friends, who raced off. Until they returned, I
was
the fallback line on the
Christine’
s dock. I pulled off my rifle and raised it so it was easily seen. “Only zombies and authorized personnel allowed through,” I cried, lending my voice to the calls of the soldiers.

The living mob didn’t slow. I could hear them shouting, yelling foul things about the dead. What few soldiers there were
didn’t stand a chance. The mob was out for blood. Within another few seconds they’d breeched the barricade; I could hear Norton screaming at his men to continue to hold their fire. I lowered my weapon and pointed it in the direction of the living, though I didn’t touch the trigger. I didn’t want to have to do this.

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone much longer. Soon Coalhouse was at my side, then Tom. “They’re raising the gangplank!”

As a unit, we backed up—rather quickly, all things considered. Halfway down the dock we turned and ran, the living fast closing the gap. It was by the skin of my teeth that I managed to leap up and grab the plank as it rose, and I hauled myself up before turning around and helping my friends. Tom came quickly, but just before I could give Coalhouse my hand, his right eye slipped out. His left eye widened in panic and he ducked down to collect it as Tom screamed,
“You have got to be kidding me!”

Anger shooting through me again, I leaned far over and caught Coalhouse by the collar the moment he straightened. Tom held me by my trousers as I pulled Coalhouse up as far as his own arms, allowing him to help himself. A few of the living attempted to jump for us, and ended up hitting the water. Bullets pinged off the ship’s metal hull. Someone down there had a gun, and was willing to use it.

I thought how one of those bullets might’ve ended up in my head, and pulled my gun’s strap over my shoulder again. “We’ll talk about this later, Coalhouse.”

“Everyone belowdecks.” It was Dr. Charles Evola, one of the younger medical technicians. His golden hair was in disarray, his monocle out and swinging from his waistcoat on a length of cord. Behind him, members of the crew dashed out of the ship with weapons in hand, preparing to take up guard. “Come on, Bram. I need you.”

I turned around, just in time to get a flash in the face. He’d
nearly died, and Mr. Curious was still story-happy. “This report is going to be amazing.”

“What’s your name?” I managed to grind out.

“Havelock Moncure,” he said grandly. “Editor and sole reporter for
Pheme
, the Aethernet’s top rumor rag. You are going to be
famous
.”

Wait. This kid wasn’t even a real reporter?

The boy gasped when I snatched his device away. Opening it, I pulled out its storage card, dropped it on the deck, and crushed it underfoot. I then thrust the thing back into his hands and grabbed his cravat, dragging him close. “I want to know your name because I owe you a card. You stay up here. If I hear about you hounding anyone, I will throw you overboard.”

That threat worked. The beaten young man nodded furiously.

I let him go, and followed Evola inside the ship.

As Evola and the other doctors worked on making room for the newcomers in the med bay, I went to get a head count and see how many needed attention. When I had the chance to continue with the medical training I started back at base, it’d been aboard the
Christine
, so I knew the ropes.

Ben and Franco’d already managed to isolate the injured living on A Level; several techs raced past me, headed there. I found the zombies gathered on B Level, most of them shouting or crying hysterically. Inside the metal ship, the noise was incredible. Tom and the others were busy trying to calm them down and keep them together—for the safety of the living staff, if nothing else. They were a ragtag lot—an equal mix of men and women, of all ages, maybe fifty in total. Some were dressed in worn but colorful finery, diaphanous shawls and candy-striped skirts and shiny top hats decked out with feathers and glass jewels. Others wore ratty
street clothes. One man was seated in a wooden cart. For some reason, I could smell flowers.

The ones contributing the most to the din were two women. They stood in the middle of the crowd, part of it and yet seemingly blind and deaf to it. One of them—tall, with tangled rust-colored hair and a face that could be best described as “mushy”—was taking the other to task. Her back was to me; all I could make out was long hair the color of red wine, part of it twisted up with a silver comb.

“I told you this would happen! They’re turning against us again. We have to move, we have to protect our own!”

“This is a misunderstanding,” the other woman replied.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The red-haired woman turned, and I found myself staring at her perhaps longer than I should’ve. Her skin was as pale as marble, her eyes inky and almost unearthly. Her black dress set both off. “Who are you, sir?”

“Name’s Bram Griswold. I’m here to help.”

The rusty-haired woman seemed not to notice me. “We weren’t even
doing
anything for once. No big show, not stealing anything, not running any scams. Just carrying out your little utopian idea. Free clinics. How nice. Until one of them gets freaking
ambushed
!”

The woman I’d spoken to lifted a hand. “Claudia, hush.” She returned her eyes to mine. “I’m Mártira Cicatriz. Leader of the Changed. This is my sister.”

“The Changed?” Tom asked from the edge of the crowd, narrowing his eyes.

“We’re a group of zombies interested in peace,” Mártira said. “We raise funds, sometimes we picket against anti-zombie injustice. We were providing medicine for the poverty-stricken undead in the Morgue when those people came.”

“Why were they chasing you?”

Claudia cut her way in front of Mártira, glaring at me. She wore trousers and a shirtwaist. “Because they were the
living
. What more explanation do you need?”

“Claudia.”
Mártira shook her head, and tried to engage with me again. “We’d been there not an hour. Suddenly, those
people
,” she stressed, looking at Claudia, “started gathering, yelling. Eventually they attacked. So we ran for the port. And thank God we did. Thank you—all of you.” She did her best to take in my men with her hands—before they faltered and she ended up pressing them to her chest. “I didn’t know some of us would attack. Those poor living souls.”

“Those living people
targeted us
for no reason! There are more of us out there, still!” Claudia argued. “Groups that broke off. If the whole city is like this, we can’t just stay here. In a
government
boat, no less. We have to go help them!”

Tom pointed out, “You can’t leave the ship yet. For your own safety.”

“You guys haven’t heard the news?” Coalhouse’s eye was back in. He sounded sulky.

“News?” Mártira’s innocent expression told me they hadn’t. “What news?”

Before I could launch into an explanation, Evola came up behind me. “What’re we looking at?”

“Look, any of you need medical attention?” I directed my question to Mártira.

“Yes,” said a voice I hadn’t heard before.

“Laura!” Mártira cried, looking around frantically at the sound of it.

Another zombie girl materialized from within the crowd, her arm curled about the shoulders of a young dead boy. At first I thought she was wearing some sort of fanciful circus costume, something from a play or show. It wasn’t until she reached Mártira’s
side, the smell of flowers intensifying, that I realized what it was.

The girl was a walking garden. Flowers and vines had sprouted from within her very flesh, and were looped through hundreds of buttonholes and slits made in her shabby maroon gown for their passage. Once outside they were wrapped around her limbs and waist. The otherwise baggy dress was thus almost grafted to her, stems and thorns pinning the excess material to her body. A kerchief partially covered her apricot-hued hair, but her gentle, blood-bronzed features were readily visible. She might’ve been extremely pretty when she was alive. She looked about fourteen or so.

“Whoa,” I heard Coalhouse breathe, sulkiness gone.

“Dog was hurt.” The boy huddled closer to her at the sound of his name, refusing to look at any of us. “He won’t show me.”

“Bring him.” Even Evola seemed to be transfixed by her.

“You see?” Mártira said to Claudia. “Our sister knows what’s important.”

Claudia opened her mouth to continue arguing, but then just shook her head and stormed away.

“Brief them,” I told Tom and Coalhouse. “And stay with them.”

We took Laura and Dog to one of the cloth-partitioned makeshift hospital rooms, walking by a few other repairs in process—a dead man’s leg being laced shut, a woman having a pump installed in her wrist for medication. She’d probably get a matching valve in her thigh for drainage. It took a lot of work to keep us going, work that Dr. Dearly had largely pioneered.

“I need a better address than ‘by the fire hydrant in the Morgue,’ ” one tech said to her patient, pulling a curtain in front of us as we passed.

Once we were alone we sat the boy, soon to be the latest recipient of Dr. Dearly’s work, on a stainless steel table. There we discovered his hand dangling from his wrist, useless, the bones crushed.

“Oh God, Dog.” Laura turned her troubled eyes on us. “He never says anything. I didn’t know he got his hand under it. We were separated by a carriage for a minute. When I got to him he’d fallen down …”

“It’s all right.” Evola started digging about in a nearby crash cart. “We could stabilize it with pins, or a splint. It won’t work, but it won’t do him any harm. Or …” He looked at the boy. “We could cut it off. Might be cleaner.”

Dog appeared around ten years of age. He was dressed in a patchwork silk jacket and faded blue trousers, with a turban of dirty cloth wrapped about his head. At Evola’s suggestion he pulled the turban down over his eyes and tried to grasp onto Laura’s skirt again.

“Dog.” Laura moved to hug him. “They’re trying to help.”

It was a horrible decision, but one that had to be made. “Dog, I know you don’t know us, and I know it’s hard to think about. But a hand that doesn’t work is just going to get in your way. Doesn’t matter if it’s floppy or stiff. I think if we just set it, a couple weeks from now you’ll be so annoyed by it you’ll try to cut it off yourself. Might make it worse.”

The boy shook his head violently.

“Mr. Griswold is probably right,” Evola said. “Besides, maybe we could make you a replacement. We’ve done that before. Why, the young lady my friend here is courting? Her father’s got a whole fake leg made of metal. It is a thing of beauty, let me tell you.”

The boy peeped out with one eye.

“I bet Doc Sam would love to make a hand for you.” Probably
not, but maybe Dr. Chase could persuade him. I smiled at Dog. “C’mon. You’re a big guy. What’s it going to be?”

It took him a few minutes, but in the end he nodded before burrowing his face into Laura’s shoulder. She shut her eyes and held him.

To Evola, I whispered, “Do it fast.”

He nodded and withdrew a circular saw from the cart, before removing his monocle and replacing it with a pair of goggles. Then, with all the speed of a highly skilled nurse delivering a shot to a child, he darted in, grabbed the boy’s useless hand, and flicked the saw on.

The second the saw started whirring, Dog rebelled. He started thrashing against Laura, who gasped and struggled to hold him closer. He bit her in retaliation, swift, scared strikes born of blind panic, managing only to earn himself a couple of mouthfuls of what was essentially salad.

Quickly, before he could do any real damage, I pulled Laura away and took him into my own arms. His silent fit continued, but I was stronger. I managed to get a grip on his forearm and hold it out, steadying it so Evola could get to work.

As the saw dug into the boy’s flesh, I encouraged him. “Go ahead. Bite me. I know you’re scared, and that’s okay. But you can’t bite the living, so bite me.”

He did. He didn’t get through my clothes, but every nip brought back memories of being cornered and bitten in the mines down south—of the day I died, and got up again, and kept walking. Normally these were not memories I liked to dwell on, but today they offered me a strange sort of comfort. A sense of grounding. A reminder of what I was.

I needed to remember what I was. What I was capable of if I forgot.

When it was done, Evola wrapped up the stump. The boy
eventually calmed down. The procedure couldn’t have hurt him badly—we could feel many things, but not a lot of pain, thankfully. All the ways it changed our bodies for the worse, the Laz at least extended us that one kindness.

Laura looked at me. “Thank you.”

I released Dog and stepped back. “No problem.”

“Let’s get some meds in him before he goes,” Evola said, going for his faithful syringes. “He doesn’t have a wrist valve, and I don’t want to bother with one before the hand situation is resolved, so it’s going to have to be through the neck.”

“I have some.” Laura reached into her pocket and drew out a vial of some purplish stuff. “At least we won’t use up yours.”

Evola took the vial from her and squinted at it, studying its contents, before popping the rubber cork off with his thumb. He touched a finger to the liquid, then to his tongue.

“What are you
doing
?” The sort of stuff that routinely went into all of us—preservatives, hydrating solutions, antibacterial fluid, the things Dr. Dearly had developed to keep us fresher, longer, as well as socially acceptable in terms of smell and texture—could
not
be good for living consumption.

“It’s water, a little alcohol,” Evola declared, smacking his lips. “We’ve never used anything this color. Where did you get it?”

The girl looked afraid, almost abashed, as if the situation was her fault. “A living person sold it to us. A lot of it—all he had. Mártira used almost all of the money we’d saved up to buy it. We’ve been going to the Morgue and giving it away.”