XOM-B (25 page)

But he’s not dead again. He’s running. On his side. Spinning in mad circles.

It’s a disturbing sight; unnerving, but not nearly as much as when he springs back to his feet and sprints toward Luscious, who is largely defenseless against a fast-moving soldier like this.

Luscious scrambles away as I persue, but neither of us are moving quickly enough to prevent what now seems inevitable.

The scout closes in. A hungry gurgle rises from his throat, sliding out between his teeth. Jaws snap open.

A splash of red explodes into the air, stopping me in place.

But I’m not the only one.

The scout has halted, just feet from Luscious. He paws at his face, trying to wipe the red fluid out of his eyes. Failing to do this, he snarls and snaps at the air, trying to bite anyone nearby.

That’s when a massive, black armored fist caves in his head and sends him flipping lifelessly, spraying a spiral of liquid red, until he crashes into the grass.

When I pull my eyes away from the dead again soldier, I find Luscious being helped to her feet by Harry, who’s holding a now-empty can of red paint. The four of us just stare at the scout for a moment, the silence finally broken by Harry, who laments, “That was my favorite shade of red.”

“Thank you,” Luscious says to him.

He smiles and nods. “It’s nice to have my application of paint appreciated … even if the end result is”—he looks at the body—“horrid.”

Heap motions to the door with his head while shaking red paint from his fingers. “Inside. Now.”

Harry hurries over to his painting. Looking at me, he says, “The other side, quickly.”

I shoot Luscious a concerned look and she waves me off. “Go help him.”

I’m not convinced she’s fine, and I don’t think Harry needs help carrying the big painting, but lingering to figure out what everyone is really thinking is probably a bad idea.

I take hold of the painting and lift. It’s not at all heavy. Just a little awkward. Navigating the big plywood sheet into the house through the back door is quite simple. Easily a one-man job. But I suspect Harry has been lonely out here. He might not have realized it until now, but he smiles and laughs every time he backs into something, despite the fact that he’s just dumped a can full of paint onto a soldier’s head moments before it was punched inside out.

I barely see the home’s interior as we work the long painting into a hallway and carry it to the far end, but I get the distinct impression that it’s as pristine as the outside. We place the painting down on a rug while Harry opens a wooden door.

“This was her bedroom,” Harry says. “Mrs. Cameron’s.” He bends down and lifts the painting on his end, waiting for me to do the same. Once I have it in my hands, we shuffle into the bedroom. “I kept her things in here for seven years until I needed the space for storage. I’m not really sure why.”

“Where is she now?” I ask.

He pauses, looking around the painting at me. “Dead. Of course.”

“I know that,” I say, and we place the painting down, leaning it against a stack of other finished works. “But is she
still
dead?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Because … You know about the dead. The living dead, I mean.”

Harry waves his hand at me. “Mrs. Cameron is under orchids. Very dead, though her upgrades might still be functioning.”

“But what about the dead—”

“They’re like us,” Harry says.

“Like us?”

Harry squints at me. “You’re a peculiar fellow.”

“I’m young,” I say. “A child, I think.”

Harry’s expression flattens. He turns to Heap, whose crouching form fills the door. “A child?”

“Only in age,” Heap says. “Harry.” Heap’s voice is authoritative, but carries a strangely familiar tone normally reserved for rooftop conversations with me. I suspect he’s trying to put Harry at ease. “Could we speak for a moment? About the dead.”

After a quick clap of his hands, removing flakes of dry paint, Harry says, “Certainly. I believe the sofa will accommodate your girth rather nicely.” He motions toward the living room and we file out, one by one.

Luscious is already sitting on a bench that gleams from polish. Behind her is a large wooden … something. It appears to be furniture, but I cannot guess at its function.

While Heap gently lowers himself onto the flower-patterned sofa, Harry directs me to a matching chair. While I realize they were likely meant to be appealing, I find the colors and images close to revolting. They’re nothing like Harry’s painting. He must notice my displeasure because he says, “The chairs were Mrs. Cameron’s. I never had a use for them until today. I suppose I should have reupholstered them at some point to be more fashionable.” He turns to Luscious. “What
is
more fashionable these days?”

She shrugs. “No one really thinks about things like that.”

Harry frowns. “A shame. I find the visual arts to be—”

“Harry,” Heap says, looking almost comical atop the sunken-in couch.

“Right,” Harry says. “The dead. You have questions.”

“First…” Heap looks at the clear bay window with a view of the sunset-lit street.

“Ahh yes.” Harry picks up a small white device, pushing buttons. “Mrs. Cameron was always worried about prying eyes. It would seem her paranoia came thirty years too early.” The windows darken until only a dim view of the exterior remains. “There. We can see out, but no one can see in.”

Satisfied, Heap wastes no time launching into his interrogation. “When was the last time you saw one of them?”

“Them?” Harry asks.

“The zombies,” Luscious says, clarifying. “Undead. Living dead.”

“If you know so much about them,” Harry says, “why do you need to ask me anything?” He’s not being defensive. Just curious.

“Please,” Heap says. “People are dying.”

“Who?” Harry asks, suddenly worried.

Heap looks to the floor. It’s what he does when he’s carefully considering his reply. He does it with me a lot. Luscious, on the other hand, has no such tact.

“Everyone,” she says. “The virus is spreading—”

“Virus!” Harry puts a hand to his mouth. “Not another.”

I’m not sure what he means by “another.” If there had been a zombie outbreak in the past, I’m sure Sir would have been better prepared, not to mention less dumbfounded. Whatever he’s talking about, it’s history and not a concern. “Harry,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “Our job is to prevent that from happening. If you can tell us anything…”

“Of course,” he says. “Of course. They were last here two nights ago. More than before.”

“How many more?” I ask.

“More than I could possibly count without going outside and taking a census. Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?” Harry shrugs. “They wandered past, heading south. Before that, I only encountered them infrequently. They never seemed dangerous. More confused. They paid no attention to me, but I find them … disturbing, so I avoid going outside at night.”

“Did they seem different last time you saw them?” I ask. “Other than their higher numbers.”

He thinks for a moment and then nods. “Yes. Indeed. They were focused. Moving quickly. With purpose. In lines. Organized. Am I correct in the assumption that they did something horrible?” His eyes widen suddenly. “Luscious mentioned a virus. Are they infected? Could I be?”

“Only if you were bitten,” I say. “But it’s obvious you weren’t.”

“What if I was?” he asks.

“You’d become one of them,” Luscious says.

“Egad.” Harry stands and paces.

“You didn’t see them last night?” Heap asks, returning us to the more important subject.

Harry shakes his head. “After they flooded past, the worst off of them struggled to follow behind, and then nothing. The day was peaceful, as was the night, but that’s not unusual. In the two years they’ve been coming and going, it would sometimes be weeks between sightings.”

“Two
years,
” Heaps says. “And you told no one?”

“They did not seem to pose a threat,” Harry says.

“They’re living dead,” Luscious says. “That didn’t strike you as odd?”

Harry straightens himself, raising his chin. “I am skilled in household duties, yard work, home maintenance and medical assistance, not in the determination of danger, plagues or other such horrible things.”

“You forgot painting,” I say.

“What?” Harry and Heap say together.

“He’s proficient in painting,” I say. “He left that out.”

The room seems to stare at me for a moment. Then the conversation carries on as though I have not spoken.

“Besides, I have no way to contact anyone. Mrs. Cameron’s E-screen is no longer functional and the network that provided her cable access to the Internet was disconnected long ago. Frankly, I was happy to see them go. The reports of doom and gloom from around the world were deeply saddening.”

“Doom and gloom?” Luscious asks. “We won.”

Harry turns to her. “As I told Mrs. Cameron before she perished, it’s not the way I would have chosen to handle the situation. It’s not the way
most
of us would have handled the situation.”

Luscious is on her feet in an instant. She looks ready to pulverize Harry. Instead, she leaves the room, heading down the hallway. I start to stand, but Heap shakes his head. “Let her cool down.”

I sit back down, trusting Heap’s instincts. If she can forgive Heap for protecting the Masters, she will forgive Harry for his doubts. Though I must confess, Harry’s admission that he disagreed with the vanquishing of the Masters has left me confused and wondering how many people really wanted to end the Grind through extermination.

A question pops into my mind. “Where do they come from? The undead.”

“I’m not sure,” Harry says, his posture relaxing. “Always from the north.”

I turn to Heap. “Mohr was right.” Then to Harry. “What’s to the north?”

“The capped city I told you about. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”

“How long will it take to get there?” I ask. “To the city.”

Harry thinks for a moment. “On foot it took me nine hours. Seven if I set a brisk pace. But I’m also prone to stop and admire my surroundings.”

I stand to my feet. “We should leave. Now. There isn’t time to—”

Heap shakes his head. “The journey will take far longer in the darkness and light will attract the dead. Arriving later is better than not arriving at all.”

A shout leaps from my throat. “Stop trying to protect me!”

Heap just stares at me, the white glow of his four eyes as unwavering as his confidence. “There is far more than your life currently at stake, Freeman. I’m doing what is best for all of us.”

I’m deflated by his calm rebuttal. “You’re right. I just … don’t like waiting.”

“Excuse me,” Harry says. “May I ask why? The rush, I mean.”

“We have three days to find the source of a radio transmission,” I tell him.

Harry sits straighter. “A radio transmission? I didn’t realize any stations were still on the air. Did they play music?”

“It’s not that kind of signal,” Heap says. “It’s…”

“Secret,” I finish. “Subtle. And it’s somehow directing the dead’s movements.”

“Dear me, how?”

This is a question I’ve been asking myself. I can’t detect radio signals—I’m not sure anyone can, not without some kind of upgrade—so I’m fairly certain the dead can’t, either. “I think there is someone on the receiving end. Someone … living, who then directs the dead somehow. That part doesn’t really matter as much.”
Or does it?
If there is a person receiving orders, couldn’t they just continue autonomously after we find the source? The kind of intellect required to guide an army of undead would have certainly thought of that. But perhaps we can transmit new orders? To stop. To make peace.

Heaps nods. “A logical conclusion.”

“But,” I say, “we’re really not sure.” Assuming we understand how the dead are being controlled and what the signal’s purpose is, could be a mistake. “But the point remains the same. Every hour … every
minute
we delay, more people are being killed … torn apart.” I shake my head at the memory of all those people in the city streets. Running for their lives. Being murdered. Infected. The explosions. The chaotic sound. It feels so far away now, here in Mrs. Cameron’s living room. “According to Councilman Mohr’s projections, by morning half of the city will be dead … and then not. The rest will fall by tomorrow night. And then, shortly after … civilization will end. There will be no one left. Not even us.”

“Oh…” Harry leans back in dismay.

In the silence that follows, I’m struck by a thought. “The capped city…” I purse my lips for a moment, then ask, “What did they smell like? The dead.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise. “
Smell
like?”

While I already know what the dead smell like from personal experience, if Harry noticed anything different about their odor, perhaps we can glean some new information. “Did you ever get close enough to smell the undead?”

He thinks for a moment. “Twice.”

“What did they smell like?”

Harry’s eyebrows drop, furrowing deeply. “I—I—” He blinks rapidly for a moment and then he whips his head toward me. “Paint.” He stands. “Among other things. But paint.”

“They’re coming from the city,” I tell Heap. “We need to—”

“We leave at first light.” Heap turns to Harry, his voice commanding. “You will show us the—”

“Absolutely!” Harry says, quickly followed by, “Sorry. It’s just that, an adventure would do me well.” He looks around the living room. “I think, perhaps, my time here has come to an end.”

“What about your paintings?” I ask.

He ponders this for a moment. “A gallery in the city, perhaps.”

I’m about to nod, but then realize I’ve momentarily forgotten the true state of the world. I can’t fight the frown that takes over my expression. “If there is a city left.”

32.

Ten minutes later, I decide that Heap doesn’t know any more about women than I do and tiptoe down the hall. I stand by the closed door for a moment, listening. I hear nothing. The house is silent except for the subtle buzz of electricity.

My hand hovers by the doorknob, but I don’t take hold of it. Something tells me it would be rude to just walk in on her.
Knock,
I think. That’s the appropriate thing to do.