by Lia Habel
Looking into Bram’s eyes, I could see that he understood. “I’m getting to that point myself. Somehow I’ve ended up a grunt on the ground again. Still fighting people. But I am not army anymore. Don’t want to be. Problem is, now is not the time to pitch a fit about it. We’ve got to stick together. Do what needs to be done.”
Putting my head in my hands, I tried to think. Bram patted my back, wiped his mouth, and said, “Look, I did get some info.” Lifting my head, I saw that he was cleaning off the fork and knife he’d used to eat with. “Here—I get to do the medical briefing this time.”
“Go for it.” It was better than nothing. I pillowed my cheek on my folded arms, turning my head to watch.
“So, you know the illness that makes zombies is fluid-borne, and caused by prions.”
“Yes.” I knew that prions were proteins, technically the same as other proteins already located in the human body—simply shaped differently, and thus diseased. They were wont to bend healthy proteins to look just like them, causing a deadly chain reaction that, in the case of the Lazarus, reanimated the dead.
Bram held up his knife and fork. “So imagine these are prions. They’re made of the same stuff—both metal, in this case—but they’re different shapes.” He stuck the tip of the knife through two of the fork tines. “Let’s say the knife is the ‘bad’ one. So the knife sticks to the fork, and reshapes it. The fork turns into the knife.” He spirited the fork under the table, leaving the “new” knife. “And it goes on to stick itself into another fork and change it, etcetera, etcetera. Eventually the infected person hits the ground—and in the case of the Laz, sits up again.”
“And we’re all terribly grateful for that.”
Bram chuckled, and brought the fork back out. “Now, proteins are made of amino acids. The way the antibodies created by your father’s vaccine are supposed to work is …” He used the fork to spear a leftover glob of tofu—just on two tines. “They stop up the gap by sticking to a specific amino acid chain. They plug up the hole.” He mimed the tip of the knife trying to connect to the fork and encountering the blasted tofu. “The bad one can’t bond with the good one, so infection can’t take place.”
“So what makes the new form able to bypass that?”
He slid the base of the knife between two other, unprotected tines. “The connection is made between a different set of unprotected amino acids.”
“How?”
“Prions are capable of evolution, even though they have no DNA of their own. The question is, when did this mutation come about? Why haven’t we seen it before? Is Patient One the only one with it, or is it present in other zombies? Did he get it from someone else?”
“Patient One?”
Bram lowered his educational cutlery. “That’s what the researchers are calling the biter. They haven’t managed to identify him yet, and word is he won’t talk. Both infections trace back to him. The zombie who bit your dad all those years ago is the first zombie on record, and they call him Patient Zero. They never found the ‘first ever’ zombie, the one who made Patient Zero—he has to be dead by now.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No.” Bram frowned. “Salvez did say they’ve already put your samples under the microscope, though.”
“And?”
“You’re still immune.”
“Goody. Let’s hold a parade.” I knew my nigh-miraculous immunity stemmed from my own stubborn genetic makeup, not antibodies. Still, I asked, “So what happens if there are other strains out there?”
Bram didn’t respond immediately, studying his plate. “I don’t know right now,” he decided. “We have plenty of options, but none of them are good.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “What if we have t—”
“You stupid, rotting fool!”
Jerking my head up, I looked over at the kitchen door just in time to see Dr. Richard Elpinoy, my father’s top geneticist, stalk past. A door slammed and my father hobbled up behind him, supporting himself with a mahogany cane. The dark-skinned, white-haired Dr. Elpinoy’s trench coat gaped in front, the buttons barely connecting over his stocky frame.
“Come back here!” my father bellowed. “Come back here and look me in the eye when you say that!”
“I’ve said enough!” Elpinoy turned and glared at my father. “You’ve spent the entire day moping about, practically praying for death, as if you suddenly agree with Wolfe! That traitor! I’m half inclined to give you what you want!”
I’d never heard my father or Elpinoy speak like that. I was so shocked that I momentarily forgot to exclaim over the simple fact that Papa was home, or even leave my seat. Bram appeared absolutely dumbfounded.
“Are you threatening me, you pompous piece of—”
“Threatening you? Hardly! I’m telling you that your behavior’s unacceptable! And I think you know it, too!” Elpinoy dared to put a finger in my father’s face. “I’ve been with you since almost the beginning on this—you asked for me by name. We were colleagues at school. You trusted me once, and I’ve been telling you for years that the final cure to this whole hellish mess lies in genetic engineering! In substituting a new protein for the original Zr-068 protein, thus rendering the diseased prion impotent. You have one last chance to turn your research in the right direction!”
“And I told you,” my father roared, swinging his cane at nothing in particular, “that solution would be too difficult and expensive—oh, not to mention stupid as hell! What are you going to do, change the genetic makeup of everyone on earth because of one illness?”
“When that illness causes the dead to come back to life and hunger after the flesh of the living? Yes!”
“Vaccination is the easiest and most robust method of combating the Laz!”
“It took us years to come up with a vaccine! We do not have years to come up with another! And what happens if a new strain arises? And another, and another? What do we do then, Dearly? Tell me!”
I started to stand up, and Bram followed suit. “Why is Dick challenging him all of a sudden?”
Elpinoy heard Bram, and finally turned to look at us. “I’ll tell you why!” He stormed into the kitchen and got right up in Bram’s face, forcing him back. “That bastard is going to get us all killed, that’s why!” Fido slipped from under the table, slicking his ears back and growling at Elpinoy. Bram caught him by the collar.
For the last few minutes I’d been numb. Now my entire body went hot. “Don’t you dare call him that!”
“I’ll call him whatever I like, missy!” Elpinoy rounded on me. “I’m leaving. I’m not about to march to that man’s insane drumbeat anymore. Unless drastic measures are taken, the Laz is just going to keep mutating until it’s turned the entire world into a graveyard. I’m not about to let that happen!” He turned to my father, who was entering after him. “I quit.”
Bram’s mouth dropped open. “Dr. Elpinoy, you can’t do this!”
“Oh, I can. I quit. Do you hear me, you stubborn rotter? I quit!” With that, Elpinoy started to stomp away. “I’m clearing out my room! I’m leaving this accursed house!”
“Go!” my father thundered a few steps closer, almost getting my foot with his cane. “I never want to see your face around here again, you hear me?”
“Papa!” I reached out to capture the sleeve of his coat. “Calm down. Please, just calm down and talk to us?”
“Nora?” My zombified father looked at me with his dark, milky eyes, his entire body going still.
“I’ve been trying to call you for days.” I traded his sleeve for his wrist, and felt how tense he was. Consciously or not, he was prepared for the hunt, for the fight. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I could tell he was trying to disguise his anger, but he wasn’t fully successful. “Go to your room, NoNo. I’ll be there soon.”
I shook my head. “Come with me. You need to rest.”
My father tossed off my hand. “I’m fine. And you don’t need to worry about
me. You have Mr. Griswold to look after you.” He looked at Bram and uttered a short, phlegmy laugh. “I won’t be here forever, after all.”
Bram let go of the dog and stepped forward. “Sir, she’s right. You need—”
“I will tell you what I need if and when I need it!” Papa shouted. We were both taken aback, and said nothing in response. For a moment I saw despair wash over my father’s aristocratic features, before they hardened once more. He marched out without another word.
Bram took my hand again. I didn’t even feel it.
Bram didn’t ask questions. He knew that I needed to get away. He went upstairs and got a gun for himself and a hat for me, and took me outside. There he tucked me into Aunt Gene’s carriage, and together we headed for the surface.
The drive was slow and quiet, apprehension thickening the air between us. I was still trying to decide if I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen, or if I was only frightened by how easily I could believe it. Papa’s anger reminded me of Samedi’s fight with Wolfe. During that final encounter Samedi’d gone about his violent business so easily, so passionately—his reanimated mind and body aligning, like a series of dark stars, to the task of beating and biting Wolfe. The idea that my father might be capable of the same thing made my skin crawl.
Compared to what I’d seen on the news the city had quieted down significantly, though parts of it still appeared on edge. Even through the closed windows I could hear sirens in the distance. Bram chose a route that took us off the main streets but kept us close to the EF, and we ended up driving through an upper-class neighborhood—nothing like the dominions of the very rich in the countryside surrounding New London, but nice enough—where several houses stood with their front entrances thrown open to reveal lavishly lit interiors, the fences surrounding them bedecked with flowers and strings of electric bulbs. Competing parties—maybe debuts. Well-heeled ladies and gentlemen walked past, laughing, seemingly ignorant of the current state of the world. The Season was on.
Seeing them actually gave me some hope, though it was impossible for me to enjoy the sensation. More smothering mourning crepe had been sold in the last few months than snowy debutante satin, and yet some people were still celebrating, carousing, living. The entire city should look like this.
After allowing me a few silent minutes to marvel, Bram started back, turning onto West Herbert Avenue. The lights were on in the police station there, and people were still tramping in and out—most of them clad in black. Everybody was in mourning for somebody. Shops were closing down for the day, peddlers packing up their street carts, and the few people abroad seemed to hurry from one pool of lamplight to the next, wary of the shadows. Living people either tried to stay close to the zombies accompanying them or attempted to avoid the zombies they passed entirely.
I finally rubbed at my eyes, and Bram reached over and touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. I felt like I should cry, but I was too confused. “He’s never spoken to me like that. I mean, I half think I deserve it for some of the things I’ve done, but still …”
Bram pulled the carriage over to the side of the road and took my hand once more. I gave in and let myself tear up. He leaned over and kissed my clothed right shoulder, where he’d once bitten me, and my cheek.
Shutting my eyes, I tried to concentrate on the sensation of his touch. “He’ll come home to scream at Elpinoy, but he won’t answer my emails.”
“He’s scared,” Bram said, his deep voice right in my ear. I could almost feel it in my bones, more nourishing than my own blood. “Like you said, he has everything riding on him. But he loves you.”
“I know. He’s done this before—thrown himself into his work. After my mother died, he did the same thing. I know I have to think of it that way. It just hurts.”
Bram looked down at my hand at the mention of my mom. “Yeah.”
Releasing a shaky breath, I said, “I still keep wishing things would just go smoothly. For everyone.”
“Chances of that happening?”
“Slim to none.” Doing my best to convert a hiccup into a sigh, I wondered how much I ought to rant—for I knew half the things I wanted to complain about were petty. I wasn’t so consumed by my own drama that I couldn’t see it. “He didn’t even see me. He didn’t want to deal with me. And he thinks he gets to tell me what to do? That he knows what’s best for me?”
“If it’s worth anything, I need you.” Bram wrapped me up again, and tangled his fingers in my hair. “You guys aren’t the only ones feeling the pressure. I lost it, for a few seconds. Beat up some guys spouting conspiracy theories that sounded an awful lot like Averne’s. They said your name, like they had any right to, and I went off. That’s what Coalhouse was talking about.”
This statement didn’t offer me any comfort. It caused me to hook my chin worriedly over his shoulder and loop my arms around him, eyes on the carriage window. He’d told me he had maybe three years left before he gave in to his illness, lost his self-control, and so three had become a mantra of mine, my lucky number.
I didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d quoted that figure four months ago. So two and two-thirds left. Or less than that?
“You’re the only thing around here that makes sense sometimes,” he whispered against my temple. “You remind me of what’s important. What I have to lose. I feel safest when I’m protecting you, caring for you—I feel at peace. So whatever you need me to do, tell me. I’d put a bullet in my own head for you.”
I clutched him with renewed intensity, another tear escaping my eye. This was never going to end. Even if we did leave New London.
Behind Bram the window of the carriage exploded with a suddenness that threatened to stop my heart. A pistol—though to my panicked mind it resembled a cannon—was thrust through it, and for a moment I thought I’d been shot, my cheek stinging. As Bram turned, roaring, I saw the air glittering and realized I’d been hit by broken glass. The gun hadn’t been fired.
“Bram!” I screamed.
Behind the gun—seemingly miles behind it—stood a figure wearing a mask crafted of some sleek black material. It looked as if it’d been modeled after a crow or raven, with an enormous downward-curving beak and eyeholes filled with smoked glass. It would have been comical if whoever wore it hadn’t had a weapon trained on me.
“Careful, Brother!” I heard someone else shout, the voice electronic and ghostly. “They’re insane!”
Terrified, caught off guard, it took my brain a moment to make sense out of what the gunman yelled. His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, warped, distorted—like Chas’s. “Get out of the carriage, necroslut! Do it now! Take your dead man and get out of the goddamn carriage!”
Watching the Delgados from my bedroom window had become something of a bad habit of mine.
Emanuel Delgado was no longer a fishmonger. No living person would willingly buy food from a zombie—truthfully, you couldn’t blame them. I don’t think even Mr. Delgado blamed them. But to make ends meet his wife had been forced to resume her job as a charwoman, and he had to take whatever work he could get, at whatever hour it happened to come. My brother, Isambard, helped his fellow zombies deal with their unpredictable schedules by looking after their dead five-year-old daughter, Jenny.
He was picking her up now. I watched him speaking with her father in the shadowy courtyard between our buildings, the little girl clinging to his pants leg, ecstatic to be reunited with her babysitter. As I worked on braiding half of my straight brown hair into a bun, I wondered what they were saying. Someone in a nearby building was listening to the wireless, and I couldn’t hear over the sound of it.
“Come to me, or my dream of love is ov’r!
I love you, as I lov’d you when you were sweet,
When you were sweet sixteen.”
Now that my little brother was undead, I treasured him in a way I hadn’t been fully capable of before. I wanted to know what he was up to every moment of the day—and
when I didn’t know, I started to imagine the worst. I longed to protect him, to shield him.
Until the bitter end. Until he finally—
Stop it, I told myself. You can’t change anything. Stop it. You’re safe. You’re safe.
Hurriedly, I turned back to my schoolwork. St. Cyprian’s was still closed, but our teachers had been doing their best to keep after us via email and Aethernet conferences. To hear them gripe, I was one of the few students who routinely responded. A lot of the girls were apparently blowing their studies off, but I was a scholarship student; I couldn’t afford to slack, even in the face of the Apocalypse. So I’d spent the afternoon studying geography, doing my best to distract myself from news of the emergent Laz strain. I willed myself not to worry about it too deeply, especially after talking with Nora.
Worry was something I needed to avoid.
After the Siege was over and my family had returned home, I’d been fine. For weeks I’d existed in a calm, capable state of super-heroineishness—a help to my parents, a guardian for Isambard, a shoulder for Nora to cry on via telephone. Every time I tried to reflect on what I’d been through, it was like I couldn’t even remember it.
Then the nightmares started.
It all came back to me in dreams—the flight through the city, the monsters hunting us, being unable to save my brother. The horrible things I’d had to do to survive—killing people, chopping up body parts. The nightmares always woke me, surges of irrational terror putting my body and senses on high alert, even though there was nothing around to be afraid of. Sometimes it felt as if I was having a heart attack at only sixteen years of age—my chest on fire, my breath short, my limbs tingling.
I knew it was anxiety. I’d been anxious and prone to worry my entire life—about Nora’s math homework, about my mother’s plans for me, all things great and small. And so I hid it. I told no one. Because my brother was dead, and my parents were traumatized enough, and Nora had been through the wringer, too. There were a thousand reasons. But now all it seemed I did was remember. The memories and the fear were constantly with me, constantly intruding, turning my every thought into a heart-twisting regret or a terrible prophecy. I found that the only way to stop the worry, the only way to pop the bubble of building, nameless anxiety, was to force myself to pay attention to something else. Like schoolwork.
