by Ivan Turner
Heron finally nodded. "Suzanna DeForest, right? I'm really sorry about that."
Arrick shook his head. "Ancient history at this point, mate."
Heron nodded. "You seem healthy, though. That's good to see."
Arrick pounded his chest weakly. "Can't bring down a good Scot."
Heron laughed, then turned back to Abby. "I've got to go anyway. It was good to see you Abby."
"You, too, Anthony. Please don't be a stranger."
Smiling, he said a polite goodbye to Arrick and left.
Abby turned to the Scotsman and said, "Where do you want to start?"
He shook his head. "I actually don't have as much time as I said. I came to tell you something."
Her smile faded.
"I know we don't know each other that well, but you're a good natured sort and I trust you. Last week, you told me that you were part of this group. An anti-zombie group."
She shook her head. "I wasn't happy with their methods."
"Then you've got your policeman friend." Arrick jerked a thumb out toward the door. "Either way, you've got someone to tell. And me, I barely have the strength to tell you."
She reached forward and took his hand. She was overcome by this conflicting feeling of pity and dread. Wanting so much to help him, she would shoulder any burden he dumped onto her. But she knew that her own psyche was fragile at this point. How much more could she take?
"There's a place in the Bronx where men fight zombies in a ring for sport. They pack the place and make a lot of money from the betting." Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the same battered business card that the stranger had given him. It had the address and times of the fights written on the back. He placed it on the counter.
She looked at it but didn't touch it. "Seriously? How did you get involved?"
"I went to fight."
"Fight? John, why would you do that?"
"They can't hurt me, Abby. I've had the disease and recovered. I was with Suzanna when she died and turned. We fought and she bit me."
Abby let go of his hand as if it were burning.
"I don't blame you," he said. "I suppose I could be a carrier but no one else I know has gotten sick."
"You've got to tell the police, John. You've got to tell someone."
Nodding, he began backing away. "I just did. Goodbye, Abby." And with that, he was out the door and gone.
***
IT was early for lunch and late for breakfast but Heron was hungry so he stopped at a diner and ordered a plate of eggs and toast. His appetite hadn't yet recovered from his bout with cancer and its treatment. He ate when he could.
While waiting for his meal to arrive, he gave Smith a call and checked on the status of the zombie he had found. Linda. Smith confirmed that they had transferred her to headquarters and been able to set up a makeshift cage in the basement. She wasn't hidden, though. Heron didn't care. He had his own reasons for keeping her to himself and he'd take on anyone who contested them. Ordering Smith to post a twenty four hour guard, he turned to his arriving meal.
It was all he could do to get it down. He should have known better than to mix work with meals. Paying the check, he went back out to his car and began the midday drive back to Manhattan. When he arrived, Lance Naughton was waiting there for him with a serious expression.
"Shit," Heron said. "What happened now?"
Naughton remained stonefaced. "Maybe we should talk in your office."
This wasn't going to be good.
Through all of the weeks since the beginning of the zombie plague, Heron had been unable to figure out Naughton's role. Prior to the outbreak, he'd been Heron and Stemmy's direct superior. But Heron was no longer a homicide detective. He had been given his own division and was in charge of it from top to bottom. But Naughton still kept a finger in his pie. He didn't exactly resent it. The captain was likeable enough and a good man to have as a boss. He never really asked anything from Heron except information. He didn't give orders. Maybe he was under orders himself. After all, Heron had gone from detective to lieutenant and been given a command. But he wasn't on the command track. So maybe the commissioner wanted Naughton to keep an eye on him.
Inside the office, Heron closed the door and offered Naughton a seat. Respectfully, Naughton took the visitor's chair instead of the lieutenant's chair. There were higher-ups that did that. They'd march into your office and take your chair just to demonstrate their superiority. Heron had vowed that he would never stand for it. With Naughton, he would never have to worry about it.
"What's on your mind?" he asked as he sat down in his own chair.
"I hear you have a zombie in your basement."
For some reason, he hadn't anticipated this. It just didn't seem like it would be relevant to the captain. And yet…
"Smith found her over at Angus and asked me to take a look."
"Is there something special about her?"
"Yes, Lance, there is. She was hidden when all of the other zombies were smuggled out and she remained still and docile when the guys pointed their guns at her."
Naughton chewed on this for a while. "Okay. Why not send her over to Arthur Conroy then?"
"Because I want to study her myself," Heron replied without delay.
"You're a doctor now?"
It was becoming clear now, Naughton's interest. He wasn't there for himself. He was there for Luco. But it was because of Luco that Heron had taken custody of this particular zombie. They'd held a joint press conference almost two weeks before and it had come out that Luco was hiding some things about zombies. One had screamed during an operation. She dismissed it as an anomaly but to Heron that seemed like a big deal. A week before that, a zombie with a handgun had taken shots at his men and led other zombies in an assault. Now this.
He chose his words carefully. "I think the doctors have enough zombies, don't you?"
"Anthony, I couldn't care less if you want to keep a pet in your basement, but the protocol says that any surviving zombies are to be sent to Arthur Conroy for study."
Heron nodded. "But I'm in charge of the unit, right?"
"Everyone has their superiors."
"They can't have her, Lance."
To his credit, Naughton didn't get upset or even animated. "Well, why not?"
"Because I don't want her to disappear into the Butcher Shop. I want to watch her myself."
"This isn't some twisted sexual thing, is it?"
Heron laughed. "Of course it is."
"Oh, well, in that case all right. I was afraid you might be suggesting that the people at Arthur Conroy weren't doing their job."
Both men sobered at once and looked each other in the eye.
"No, Lance," Heron said finally. "I think they're doing their job very well. Unfortunately, their job doesn't make room for special cases."
"What special cases?"
"A zombie that screams, one that shoots, and one that hides."
Drumming his fingertips on his knee, Naughton thought over what Heron was saying. "I think you've had too much exposure to the ZRA."
"I've been thinking about it. Isn't there some sort of immunity factor associated with every disease?"
"I've never known anyone who couldn't catch a cold."
"Yeah, but they're all different. You can always catch a cold, but you won't catch every cold that's going around. So why isn't anyone immune to this?"
Naughton shrugged. "Is she or isn't she a zombie?"
"She is. She definitely is. But she's different from the others. Maybe that's what there is instead of the immunity factor. Maybe the infection doesn't kill all of some people."
"Maybe," Naughton conceded. "Maybe you should let Denise run tests to figure that out."
Heron couldn't hide his opinion of that idea. "No offense, Lance, but I'm considering other options."
Naughton didn't bother to hide his opinion of that opinion. He didn't exactly scowl, but he didn't exactly not scowl. "Denise is the expert, Anthony. Why wouldn't yo
u…"
"The Butcher Shop. I told you. They all get there eventually."
"That's not fair. Zoe Koplowitz and Todd Mayfield and all of the others in the Zoo are studied by behaviorists as well as Denise and her peers."
Heron nodded. "But she'll dice this one up and find nothing different than she's found in all of the others. Look, I'm not suggesting that she's doing anything unethical. But she doesn't view the zombies as people. Not at all. She's got this tunnel vision when it comes to her area of expertise and I think it interferes with her judgment sometimes."
Now Naughton scowled. "I think you're letting your personal feelings toward her cloud your judgment."
Strangely enough, Heron found himself growing calm with the accusation. Three months before, when Stemmy had been bitten and the zombie plague had become a reality, Luco's attitude had set the tone between them. It was true, he'd never let that go. Every time he saw her, he had the inclination to bully her so that she would know who was boss. But he had confronted that ugly part of himself already. He knew it existed.
"This is different."
"Anthony, you're the last person I want to fight with. But you've got to transfer that thing over to Arthur Conroy. It's not safe to keep it here. I'll talk to Denise, make sure your zombie gets all of the treatment it deserves."
"That's not good enough," Heron replied. "She stays here."
"You can't keep it here."
"You can't order me to move her."
"I can, Anthony. I'm ordering you to move it."
"No."
"Anthony, I gave you this position, and I can take it away from you."
At that, Heron just started to laugh. It started as one of those mocking laughs, one that says, Please do me that favor. But it turned quickly into hysterics. Naughton sat by and waited for Heron to finish his fit, knowing that he had said the wrong thing. The job may have had its perks, but they were hardly worth the price. No one else would do the job the way Heron did.
"Okay, Lance," Heron said through short bouts of laughter. "It was nice talking to you. If you want to talk about this some more, bring a court order with you."
Naughton took a moment to calm himself. It was the first time in a very long time that he'd actually needed that moment. Then he rose from the chair, said goodbye, and walked out the door.
***
AFTER that, Naughton took a walk around downtown Manhattan. He seldom took walks anymore. Who had the time? But he was upset by his conversation with Heron and needed the time and the fresh air to clear his thoughts. It was cold, colder than he liked for walks, and there was the smell of snow in the air. The weathermen hadn't forecast it, but he had a nose for such things. He walked for forty five minutes. When his thoughts were organized and his head was clear, he was in the village. He grabbed something to eat and then headed for the train station. From there, he went to Arthur Conroy Memorial Hospital.
Ludlow found him almost an hour after he had arrived. Naughton was in the Zoo, just staring into the cage at one of the zombies. The Zoo had, at one time, been a ward for highly contagious patients. The rooms were sealed tight so that the patient couldn't get out. There had been a bed in those rooms, as well as a chair and a television. They had been amenable if not pleasant. Now they were bare. Zombies didn't need amenities. The room into which he was staring held one zombie. They were feeding him and he and his living space were both covered in the remains of his food. It both sickened and fascinated Naughton.
"Doesn't he ever move?" Naughton asked.
Ludlow shrugged. "I don't often come down here. I only came because Denise asked me to come."
That seemed a queer thing to say. "To get me?"
He nodded. "She noticed you on the camera a few minutes ago."
"Why not come down herself?"
Ludlow glanced over his shoulder, right at the camera, then back at Naughton. "What are you doing here, Lance?"
Naughton didn't answer for a long time. He just stared in at the zombie, who stared back at him. It didn't move. It sat on the floor in its filthy cage and just looked at him. The expression on its face was so human that he could hardly believe it was a zombie. In fact, he was sure he would have preferred the moaning, clawing thing that he saw in the movies.
"Aren't they supposed to rot?"
Ludlow shrugged. "The bacterium keeps the body intact, I suppose."
"You suppose?" Naughton looked directly at him. "You’re the doctor, aren't you? Hell, it's your bug."
Cowed by Naughton's admonition, Ludlow sniffled and wiped at his nose with his finger. "I don't know what to say to that, Lance."
"Nevermind. It's not your fault. You know that, Rudy, don't you?"
Ludlow breathed. "Human beings are stupid, arrogant animals. And doctors are the worst of the lot. I suppose this makes me the worst of the doctors. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping at night."
"How does it keep the body healthy?" Naughton asked, flipping the subject back on track.
"It's difficult to explain. It sort of…transforms."
"Into what?"
"Whatever you need," said Ludlow. "It's not as simple as that, really. It takes pockets of them to do it, but we've managed to recreate it a couple of times in the lab."
"So it essentially repairs the body."
"I think remakes the body is a better way of saying it."
Naughton paused, then looked Ludlow over from head to toe. "Has anyone caught it from you, yet?"
"Just poor Lucy," Ludlow whispered and looked down the corridor to where Zoe Koplowitz was being held. They couldn't see her from where they stood but it was enough to know she was there. Lucy and Ludlow had shared a brief affair while she'd been in London. She'd apparently contracted the disease during sex and brought it home to her family. He had destroyed that family, and countless others.
"Rudy, is it possible that they're not dead?"
"No. Denise is right about that. I've studied dozens of them, not including the animal specimens back in London. They don't show any life signs at all."
"What about their brains?"
"I'm a bit surprised by you, Lance," said Ludlow. "We've only known each other a short time, but you strike me as a very level headed chap. You're not letting the Zombie Rights Association get to you, are you?"
"It's Anthony," Naughton replied but didn't elaborate.
"Anthony?" Ludlow asked. "You mean the policeman?"
Naughton nodded.
"I don't envy him his job. If you ask me, the poor fellow needs a day off."
The captain chuckled at that. "Thanks, Rudy. I guess I'll go see Denise now."
"You be careful then," Ludlow advised. "It's a sensitive subject with her. The behaviorists won't even go near her."
Naughton laughed even harder at that, then clapped Ludlow on the back. He was a good man, Rudy Ludlow. Too bad, he didn't think so himself. After Naughton had left the Zoo, Ludlow pressed his hands and nose up against the glass. The zombie inside had been Todd Mayfield, a security guard at Sisters of Charity Hospital. Todd had been dead for three months. He didn't look it. Looking back at Ludlow, he remained motionless. They stared at each other like that for a few moments until the doctor broke contact. With a heavy head and a heavy heart, he walked down the aisle to have a visit with Zoe Koplowitz. It was time for him to apologize.
