The Undying Apathy of Imogen Shroud
Author: Ben White
Date: 2011-04-14 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Zombies; Young Adult; Fiction; Lgbt
Description: Imogen Shroud is the unhappiest seventeen year-old in all of existence. The world offers her nothing, and so she offers nothing to the world. Given the choice she'd just lie in bed all day every day, a stack of books beside her, locked safely away from the uncaring outside. But reality intrudes on even the most sedentary life. Imogen is forced out of her room and halfway across the city, to the ultra-modern Phoenix Convention Centre and the comic convention it hosts. On its own this would be bad enough, but strange weather is blowing in, bringing with it death--and undeath. Dealing with depres

For my sister; my weaknesses are your strengths.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Testament
so yeah, I guess I died

Chapter One
two years is forever when you're seventeen

Chapter Two
there's a young girl trapped in here with me

Chapter Three
today the wind sounds like bees

Chapter Four
send me over to the darker places

Chapter Five
we can't run but you can't hide

Chapter Six
say something that you wanted to

Chapter Seven
do your numbers give you comfort

Chapter Eight
find me a heart killed with hope

Chapter Nine
all the while you learn

Chapter Ten
comes the time and you still don't know

Chapter Eleven
find the place we linked to the past

Chapter Twelve
all my words are never enough

Chapter Thirteen
goodbye my love

Chapter Fourteen
chemical glow takes me apart

Chapter Fifteen
music sounds better with you

Chapter Sixteen
in heaven everything is fine

Chapter Seventeen
we the living

Chapter Eighteen
did I ever promise you I'd never

Chapter Nineteen
can't always get what you want

Chapter Twenty
the undying apathy of imogen shroud

Chapter Twenty One
but if you try sometimes

Codicil
postcard from the underground

Hey. I'm Imogen Shroud, and I'm speaking to you like this because I'm dead. The living can't first-person narrate, they're stuck in subjective third-person—sucks to be them, I know. Except it doesn't, because they're alive and I'm dead, and believe me, as much as being alive sucks, being dead sucks way harder. First-person narrative isn't exactly adequate compensation, is what I'm saying.

But anyway. You may be wondering why I'm talking to you. Or if you're anything like me then you're not wondering that at all, you're actually wondering something like 'when is this dead girl going to tell me something interesting?'. Fair enough. So what's interesting to you? Pain? Is that 'interesting'? Heartbreak? Depression? Death gore mutilation—

I'll tell you a story. Stories are interesting, right? So long as they've got enough hurt in them. That's what my old English teacher used to say, "grab 'em with hurt, everything else comes later". And there's that bit in that comic that's like 'start with the saddest thing you can think of' ...

Know what the saddest thing I can think of is?

When I was fifteen, I was the happiest girl in the whole entire world.

Why? Because of Glenda Tracy. I should've listened to my grandpa, "never trust a girl with two first names", he told me that at least a dozen times, although that's probably because of his brain thing (ie he doesn't have a brain). But I was fifteen. I was stupid. I thought I was in love. No, you know what? I WAS in love. We met at Kendo, she moved like silk against skin and her ears were so tiny. She beat me in our first match, and afterwards she gave me some cream for the bruising. Ten minutes later I experienced my first kiss, and I knew I was in love. But for her ... for her it was 'just a phase'. Just a phase until Glenn Barksdale finally noticed her. Why did he finally notice her, you potentially ask? Because he thought it was hot that she'd made out with another girl. That's right, she got with me because it turned him on. It wasn't even a deal they had, just a screwed up little plan of hers to maybe catch his attention, frankly I'm amazed it worked. At the time I wasn't particularly 'amazed' by the situation, though. More like 'crushed'. I didn't even know what was going on at first, just that I hadn't seen her for a week and she wasn't returning my calls or IMs or anything. I thought she was dead. Then I found her in the park near our school, with him, doing stuff that I'm now quite certain I'll never do. Dead girl here, remember? Not a lot of sex in the afterlife, let me tell you. Anyway. Know what they did, when they noticed me? Invited me to join in. Glenda was so sweet about it, 'Oh Imogen, we'd really love you to be a part of this, I think it'd really help you grow as a person'. She should write a book, 'Threesome-ing Your Way To Emotional Maturity', the best-selling follow-up to 'I'm A Horrible Selfish Bitch So Screw You, Imogen'. Know the worst part? I almost said yes. I was this close, then Glenn said ... you know what, it doesn't matter what he said. I didn't join them, I just ran away. I ran away and I hid in my room for two years.

Cue title card.

Imogen Shroud was the unhappiest seventeen year-old in the whole entire world. As a reflection of her mental state her room was adequate, dimly lit with horrible wallpaper, criss-crossing patterns of blue and purple diamonds against a pale green background. If you stared at it too long the patterns sucked at your eyes and began to slowly spin and bend, diamonds orbiting diamonds orbiting diamonds in an eternal dance of tasteless asymmetry.

Imogen spent a lot of time staring at her wallpaper. Usually from her bed, which was a futon crammed into the corner, a patch of allegedly harmless mould slowly working its way towards sentience beneath it. She had two duvets, one thick, one thin, the thick one's cover patterned like a chessboard of mauve and black, the thin one with no cover at all. Sometimes she stared at the wallpaper from the stool in front of her dresser, which used to be white, or sometimes from the chair in front of her closet, which used to be full, or sometimes just from the barely carpeted floor, for those days when she couldn't be bothered walking even those three extra steps to slump onto the futon.

Today was one of those days. No, worse than 'one of those days'; she wasn't even staring at the wallpaper. To muster the will and energy necessary to move her head seemed an impossible task, and so Imogen simply lay there, flat against the floor, her face smushed against the carpet, breathing in dead skin and the dusty scent of long-deceased moths with each long inhalation, sighing out all the weariness and troubles of the world with each long exhalation.

"Imogen? Hey?"

On a better day Imogen might have replied, said something like 'go away' or 'get lost' or 'what are you doing in my room, Spack?'. Today, though, she simply lay there breathing.

"Mum said you have to go out today. She said you have to return your library books. She said she's not paying any more of your late fees."

Beside the futon bed lay a scattered heap of books.

"Um ... oh, Fayette Eve is on soon, it's just a repeat but do you wanna watch?"

There was a poster on the wall opposite the door, depicting a leather-clad woman holding a large pistol. The poster had a tear down the middle and one corner drooped heavily.

"Mum's got the TV on View/Point but she's not really watching, she's got her new magazine. We could get her to change the channel, I bet she'd do it if you asked her."

Near the door the wallpaper had been partially torn away, revealing the cheap fibreboard beneath. There was a small but noticeable dent in it.

"Can you get up? Please? Mum said—"

Imogen pushed herself over just enough to fix her little brother with a dull-eyed stare. There was nothing particularly malevolent about her expression, but he immediately took a step back.

"I'm eating your muffin if you don't get up!" he cried as he fled, a feeble parting shot.

Oddly enough, it worked. Imogen knew that this was no idle threat, that leaving her muffin unguarded for too long would inevitably result in it being eaten by someone other than herself—although far more likely her mother than her brother. With an unhappy grunt Imogen pushed herself up to her hands and knees. She stayed like this for a long moment, weighing the importance of her muffin against her desire to simply let herself fall back against the floor.

Eventually, perhaps inevitably, the muffin won. It was dark chocolate with a bitter caramel centre. Imogen didn't like dark chocolate, neither did she enjoy bitter caramel, but as far as fitting her mood went this muffin was king.

After pulling her dressing gown tight Imogen dragged herself out of her room and into the narrow hallway, and from there through to the lounge/dining room/kitchen/laundry. The thin curtains were drawn so the sun didn't reflect off the TV screen, upon which three women and one man were all shrieking.

"—did NOT just do that, you did NOT just DO that!"

"Girl, you are CRAZY, you are CRAZY!"

"I know. I know! You don't—"

Imogen forced herself to stop listening, fearful of brain cell loss. Opposite the TV, in the sunken centre of a pale yellow couch, was her mother, half-smoked cigarette in one hand, remote in the other—although she wasn't actually watching. Her attention was on the magazine laid open in front of her, its glossy pages shining in the reflected light of the television. As Imogen shuffled her way through to the kitchen area, her mother reached out to turn the page, ash from her cigarette falling onto the couch.

"Aiieee," she said flatly, not looking up. "The ghost that walks."

Imogen ignored her mother and made for the fridge. There wasn't much in it; a two litre bottle of milk with the tiniest amount left in the bottom; a wilted stick of celery; two cartons of yoghurt, both strawberry; a white paper bag with 'IMOGEN' written on it in flat, broad script. Inside this unassuming paper bag was Imogen's muffin, safe and unconsumed.

She took it from the fridge, then let the door swing shut by itself.

"Close it properly," came her mother's voice.

Imogen considered rebelling, but decided she couldn't be bothered. She nudged the heavy fridge door with her foot, then pushed her knee against it to force it to seal properly.

"Good girl." Imogen's mother looked up and around at her. "Are you taking a shower today? You've got to—"

"Don't," Imogen said, the first word she'd spoken in three days. Her voice was low and tired and flat. "I already took one."

"This week? This month?"

"This morning," Imogen said, her voice just as flat as before. "You were still unconscious."

Imogen's mother raised her cigarette to her lips and took a thoughtful drag, her eyes upon her daughter. Then she made an unimpressed noise and returned to her magazine.

"Get dressed and take your books back. I'm not paying—"

"They're not due until tomorrow—"

"It's raining tomorrow. Do it today."

Imogen took a breath. When she spoke next her voice had lost a little of its flatness:

"Don't just order me—"

"If I didn't order you, you'd never do anything."

"I ... you ... just shut up."

"I'll shut up once you're dressed and out that door. Remember our deal, Imogen."

"We don't have a 'deal'. All we have are your—"

"Out of the house at least once a week."

"Why should I do—"

"End of story."

Imogen's teeth clenched. She hated those three words, more than anything else. Once her mother had said them she switched off completely—already Imogen could see that her attention was fixed solely on her magazine. With a quiet hiss Imogen stomped back to her room, tossed the muffin bag onto her desk, then threw scattered books into a bag and scattered clothes onto herself, before yanking open a drawer of her desk.

She froze.

For almost a minute Imogen stared down, unmoving, then she gritted her teeth together, scooped the muffin bag into the drawer, and slammed it shut so hard it hurt her hand. She picked up her book bag and just stood for a moment, breathing harshly in and heavily out, then she roughly pushed her hair away from her face and stomped back into the hallway, colliding heavily with her brother.

"What the HELL, Zack! Get out of my way!"

"Sorry!"

Imogen pushed her brother away, then bent to pick up her book bag—he went for it at the same time and their heads hit together.

"ZACK!"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

"You're SUCH a spastic—just get out of my way! Now!"

Zack backed away as Imogen snatched her book bag from the floor, his big blue eyes wide.

"I was trying—"

"Do NOT care."

Imogen walked away, leaving her brother to stare helplessly after her.

"Be nice to your brother," Imogen's mother said, as Imogen stalked past.

"Whatever," Imogen muttered, before wrenching the door open and shoving her way out.

It was a brightly overcast day, the low clouds silver-white, the glare of them blinding after the dimness of indoors. Imogen squinted her eyes almost shut as she made her way to the stairs, passing dozens of doors before she reached them. Once there she glanced back, then pulled a flat packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of her jacket. She took a cigarette out as she walked down the stairs, along with a scratched black lighter, and by the time she reached the concrete below her lungs were full of thin smoke.

There was no one in the wide central courtyard. Eight apartment complexes surrounded it on three sides. The fourth side was bordered by mounds of compacted dirt, and beyond that a parking lot filled with an absence of cars. Imogen started off away from the stairs, her eyes on nothing in particular. After taking a few dozen paces she stopped, as she always did, and looked back. She could see the door of the apartment she reluctantly called 'home', up there on the ninth floor, one among hundreds.

She turned away and started walking again.

There were hardly any people on the streets and paths between Imogen's apartment building and the library, just a mother out with her three children, all of whom avoided eye-contact with practised comfort. The incongruence between the build-up of great towering apartment complexes and deserted streets was nothing new to Imogen, and as such she didn't even notice it.

The library was an old building made of metal and glass. The entrance sat beneath two curving arcs of tarnished metal, perhaps meant to represent a stylised heart. The glass windows that looked into the library were almost opaque with all the grime and graffiti that covered them. One had been broken, and was covered in newspapers and duct tape. There were beds of grey soil and black wood chips surrounding the building, presumably once planted with something more than the sad but sturdy flax plants that clung to life every few metres or so, the space between them filled with discarded fast food wrappers, empty booze bottles, and bulging plastic bags. What they bulged with was something that was, perhaps, best not dwelt upon.

Imogen straightened, still a little short of breath, and pushed her hair away from her eyes. She dumped the contents of her book bag into the 'returns' slot, then went in through the double doors.

The inside of the library wasn't quite as deserted as the streets around it, but it came close. There was an old woman dozing noisily at one of the reference desks, shopping bags piled around her legs. There were two young boys running here and there in the stacks, their faces serious. There was a tall, awkward-looking man browsing the Ancient Cultures - Languages section. And there was Imogen.

Once upon a time there would have been a librarian, but they were thought of as unnecessary these days—by those in charge of funding libraries, at least. Instead there was a row of automatic check-out stations near the exit. All were broken, except one.

"Afternoon."

There was a security guard, of course. Imogen didn't acknowledge his presence with anything more than a roll of her eyes as she passed, her book bag held loose at her side.

She spent a productive half-hour wandering through the shelves, shoving a dozen likely-looking books into her bag—she wasn't picky, anything with a remotely interesting title was fair game. Once her bag was sufficiently heavy she headed for Romance, the 'hot' section. With a look of faint disgust she plucked three from the shelf at random, holding them between two fingers before dropping them into her bag.

The two boys she'd seen before were using the sole working check-out station, so Imogen took advantage of the library's bathroom—the only part of the library that was always clean. She glanced up at the mirror as she washed her hands, but couldn't meet her own gaze.

The two boys had left by the time Imogen was out of the bathroom, and she walked briskly to the check-out station, trying to ignore the way the security guard was leering at her. Someone had smeared something thick and sticky over the station's screen and scanner plate, so it took even longer than usual to get through all her books—by the time she was finally done Imogen was feeling hot and tight, her hands shaking as she dropped the last book into the bag and hoisted it over her shoulder.

"Abble daba dum, badumba mangle fish?" said the security guard as Imogen made for the exit, or at least that's what she could make out through the fuzz clouding her head.

Outside the air was thick and hot, the heavy clouds above glowing as the sun did its best to burn through them. Imogen brushed her hair from her face as she walked, stumbling a little as she crossed the empty parking lot across from the library. There were three young men loitering against a brick wall a block away, and they called out when they noticed her, their voices rough and expectant. She put her head down and tried to ignore them, the tightness in her chest and her stomach growing stronger, a sick feeling in the back of her throat threatening to overwhelm her as she shambled along the path. The men called out again, and one of them started walking towards her. Imogen shivered and kept walking. After five steps he stopped. Imogen kept walking. The man threw up his arm and yelled something harsh. Imogen kept walking. The man spat on the ground, then turned to walk back to the others.

Imogen kept walking, past a building that put the three men out of sight, her hands squeezed into tight fists.

It was a little more than ten minutes later that Imogen reached her destination, a squat, long building surrounded by leafless trees. There was a flat-faced woman sitting behind a desk near the entrance, but she didn't so much as look up as Imogen walked past. The building stank of burnt cabbage and sour disinfectant, a thick, pervasive odour that caught in the throat and refused to leave. There were a lot of people here, many of them old. Some of them smiled at Imogen as she walked past. She didn't smile back.

By the time she neared room thirty-seven Imogen was exhausted, but she knew her hardships were far from over. She took a small breath, hardened her expression, and walked in.

"You're late, you mad bitch! You're late, you promised to come!"

"Shut up, old man," Imogen growled, thumping her book bag down on the room's only flat surface, a tiny table shoved up against the wall. "Sit down and look at me."

The old man in the room glared defiantly at her. He had scraggly brown hair laced with white and a face that was not so much 'weathered' as 'dead of exposure'. He wore thick square glasses, which he jiggled back and forth on his large nose before an expression of surprise crossed his face.

"You're not her!" he said. He sat down on the bed. "You're not her. You're NOT her!"

Imogen suppressed a sigh as she pulled the three romance novels from her bag and tossed them at the old man. "There," she said. "Your filth."

The old man cackled as he scrabbled for the books, gathering them greedily and running rheumy eyes over the covers—one of them depicted a man and a woman in a physically unlikely embrace, both of them impossibly perfect and utterly naked. He cackled again.

"Done good this time, m'darling!" he said, grinning up at Imogen. "Got a kiss for your old grandpa?"

Imogen rolled her eyes as she sat down, lumping into the only seat in the room, a rickety old vinyl thing.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello, lovely. Didn't bring your girlfriend, did you? She's not waiting outside, is she? Get her in if she is! There's room enough for one more if we all squeeze together!"

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Shame!" the old man said, with another vicious cackle. "Could do with a couple of fresh young schoolgirls hotting it up in here." He patted the precious romance novels beside him. "Better than this lukewarm tripe!"

"Two things," said Imogen, her voice a little less flat than usual. "First, I'm not a schoolgirl. I haven't been to school for almost two years now. Second, I'm your granddaughter."

"I'm not picky!"

Imogen looked away and took a breath. "You're so gross."

"I'm not gross," said her grandfather. "I'm kinky."

"When you're as utterly ancient as you are, it's not kinky any more. It's just gross."

"You'd know," said her grandfather, with yet another cackle. "Being the lezzer in the room and all—come on, give us some details, I'm not fussy—"

"If you keep going on like this I'm leaving."

Imogen's grandfather shut his mouth and put his hands in his lap. "I'll be good," he said. "Don't leave just yet. Not before the nurse comes around at least, you can see, there's one of 'em, nasty little pillow biter with beady little eyes, he's got it in for me—"

"Grandpa, the nurses aren't trying to kill you."

"They are! They're out for my blood! Here, look at this ..."

Imogen watched as her grandfather furtively scuttled across to his dresser, the top of which was covered in tiny but detailed model soldiers fighting an eternal battle against the dark forces of dust and grime. After a moment's fumbling beneath the dresser, he brought out something shiny and heavy.

"Grandpa. Is that a gun?"

"You're damn right it is! Got it off young Smitty, he won't be needing it any more—heart attack, turned out he was porking one of the nurses, his dicky ticker couldn't take it. Lucky bastard!"

Imogen was still staring at the revolver in her grandfather's thin hand—he could barely lift the thing. "Put that down. No, actually, give it to me—"

"No fear!" said her grandfather, cradling the gun to his chest protectively. "This here's my insurance, my protection, my only hope against these scheming bastards—"

"They're NOT trying to kill you."

"Ssh!"

There was a noise from outside, the trundling of a trolley stopping outside the room.

"Frank, I'm coming in."

Imogen's grandfather hurriedly thrust the gun under his pillows and sat on the bed.

"Go on and get in here then, you scheming little rat!"

The door opened and a broad, short man came in, a plastic cup in his hand.

"This here's my granddaughter, before you get any ideas!" said Frank. "Hands off, squinty!"

The nurse didn't sigh, but it was clear he would have liked to. "Just take your pills and we'll be finished."

"I'd like to finish you, piss midget!" Frank said, but he took the cup and the glass of water Imogen poured him, and he downed the pills in one gulp. The nurse shook his head as he left—he hadn't so much as glanced at Imogen, to her quiet relief.

"That—"

Frank held up a hand, and Imogen fell silent. From outside there was the sound of the trolley trundling away.

"Good," said Frank, lowering his hand. "Sneaky little bugger's off away. Good riddance. Good riddance!" he yelled, raising his voice to an embarrassing level.

"Calm down, Grandpa."

"I'll calm you down, missy! What are you doing here? You're part of it! You're all part of it—"

Imogen's grandfather collapsed into tears, weeping into his hands. He feebly waved Imogen away as she came closer, but he allowed her to sit on the bed beside him and put an arm around his frail shoulders.

"I'm not part of it," she said. "I'm here to visit you. I'm your granddaughter, Imogen."

"How do I know?" he sobbed. "How do I know?"

"Because I'm telling you. Do I ever lie to you?"

Imogen's grandfather stopped crying and looked up at Imogen. "You did once."

"Just once."

"I remember. I remember that."

"See? Your memory's not gone yet."

"'Yet', she says," Frank said, shaking Imogen's arm off and pushing her away. "I know it's going, though. I'm not so far gone that I can't see the end coming! Promise me," he said, his voice suddenly urgent, his eyes wide as he stared at Imogen. "Promise me you'll put a bullet in my head if I can't remember you. I don't want to go on like that. I don't want you to see me like that."

"Grandpa."

"I don't want that! I don't want it! I DON'T WANT—"

Imogen slapped her grandfather on the arm. He clutched at the point of impact and looked up at her, bottom lip trembling, eyes filled with hurt outrage.

"You hit me!" he said. "You hit an old man, oh, the callousness of modern youth—"

"Stop acting, I can see right through you."

Imogen's grandfather grinned. "You always could," he said, and he cackled. "You remember your grandmother? Tall woman, lots of black hair, delicious little arse—"

"Yes, I remember her," Imogen said. "It's only three years since she died."

"What a year ... what a year ... you're nothing like her. Nothing. Same hair. Nothing else, though! Not a thing else!"

"I know, Grandpa."

"Good. Good girl. Good girl not wearing her glasses. Eh? Why?"

"I never wear them. I hate them."

"Hate 'em, good girl. You're strong, that's good! Strong arms! Ah, your stick fighting, that's why. Heh, I remember you beating the snot out of that big slant-eyed girl—"

"That was a long time ago, Grandpa. I don't do that any more."

"Lost your taste for the old violence, eh? Happens to the best of us. Not to me, though! But I'm not the best, that's for sure." A sudden look of panic crossed the old man's face. "No. You're Imogen. Yes, you are. And I'm Frank. Frank Shroud. Frank Shroud sitting talking with his granddaughter Imogen Shroud who is ... who is ... she's ..."

"Seventeen years old," Imogen said.

"Seventeen years old," her grandfather repeated, with an air of satisfaction. "Seventeen and gorgeous, except for her messy hair and silly clothes and big arms and stocky legs and odd little ghost eyes—"

"Grandpa."

"—too pale, not blue, not grey, what are they? Like your mother's eyes, never liked 'em, not even when she was a baby, never liked being alone with her, never visits, just sends her daughter to do it, what's her name, odd name, not a good name, Margaret, that was it—"

"Margaret is Mum's name," Imogen said. "I'm Imogen."

"And you're seventeen years old and I'm very proud of you," said her grandfather, staring straight at her. "Very, very proud. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful girl." He winced, then tears came to his eyes. "Promise me you won't let me forget! Promise me I won't forget you! Promise me you won't let me die!"

"No."

"Cruel! Too cruel, oh ..." Imogen's grandfather began crying again, quietly this time, staring at his bony old hands where they rested on his knees. Imogen just looked at him, her mouth a thin line.

"I won't promise you'll never forget me," she said. "I won't promise you'll never die. Everyone dies. Everyone forgets. Grandpa. Grandpa. Grandpa!"

Imogen's grandfather looked up at her, his eyes still wet and his face blank.

"I don't lie to you," she said. "I never lie to you."

"Except once," he said, his voice small, and his mouth twitched into a smile. Imogen didn't smile back.

"Except once," she repeated. "Keep sitting there and I'll bring the table over. We can play backgammon for a while."

*

The clouds had started to shift by the time Imogen left the retirement home, enough to show patches of pale blue sky behind. Imogen was too tired to notice.

"Took your time, didn't you."

Imogen didn't look at her mother as she dragged herself through the lounge. Zack was in the hallway looking at the books in the cupboard there, but he pressed himself against the wall as flat as he could when he saw Imogen coming, and stayed there even after she'd passed.

"It was a really good episode!" he said, as she headed for her room. "Fayette Eve I mean, she beat up EVERYONE and—"

There was a sharp click as Imogen closed the door of her room behind herself, and then a scrabbling noise and a tiny 'clunk' as she locked it.

"I put a sandwich on your desk!" Zack called from the hallway. "I didn't go into your room, not properly, I just took one step, that's okay, right? Imogen? Did you see the sandwich? It's cheese! I went and bought cheese! And bread!"

Inside, Imogen had dropped the book bag and slumped onto the stool. There was a sandwich on her desk, a thick slice of cheese poking out one side. It had been cut, rather inexpertly, into triangles.

"It's diagonal!" came the cry from outside. "I went and bought spread!"

"I'm eating it now," Imogen said flatly, not so much as touching the sandwich. "It's delicious."

She could almost hear her brother beaming outside.

"I can make something—"

"Go away, Zack."

There was the usual moment of hesitance, then the usual sound of his sneakers against the floor as he scurried off to his room.

Imogen stared at herself in the mirror.

After a minute, she pushed her hair away from her face and held it there, leaning forward to stare herself right in the eyes.

Ghost eyes. That's what her grandfather had said. She'd never heard the expression before, but it fit perfectly. Ghost eyes in a ghost face, a nothing face. Not ugly. Not pretty. Nothing. Totally flat. Totally plain. Totally devoid of any interesting features whatsoever. The kind of face instantly forgotten, never remembered.

Imogen looked down, a cold shock going through her as she realised she'd opened her desk drawer. She pushed it closed again, or tried to—it stuck and she was forced to try to work it shut, the paper bag inside covering—

"Imogen. Come out and eat, we're having steak."

Steak. That's what the packet said, anyway. Imogen didn't reply, just left the stuck drawer as it was and kicked her boots off against the wall and fell heavily against her bed. The impact was hard but welcome. If she'd had the energy, she would've done it again. She didn't have the energy. Instead she rolled over to tip her book bag on its side. Books slid out onto the floor. Imogen spent a few minutes neatly stacking them from biggest on the bottom to smallest on the top, spines all in a row. During all of this her mother was calling to her, through the door, her voice getting louder and louder, but eventually she gave up. She always did.

Having stacked her books, Imogen was content to simply lie there staring at them. She wasn't smiling, but her expression was nonetheless satisfied.

Inevitably this faded. As what little light was let in around the curtains dimmed and the voices from outside the room faded into irrelevance, Imogen's eyes dulled. Her breathing became slower and heavier.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

Imogen opened her eyes. She had the vague sense that she should get up, but couldn't find her motivation. What's compelling me to get up? What reward is there?

Nothing.

Except ...

With little noise and less fuss, Imogen rolled onto her side. She stayed like that for seventeen seconds, then twisted herself up into a sitting position. She had on her brown pajamas, the loose ones with the long cut through the midsection.

She waded through the scattered books surrounding her bed and opened the cupboard. Pushing aside clothes and shoving aside boxes, she found a long, slim black case, battered and dirty.

Inside, it waited.

An hour later saw Imogen lying against the floor, cold sweat covering her body, her hair an even bigger mess than usual, exhausted and yet somehow deeply satisfied. After some time she pushed a book out from under her stomach. To her surprise she found that she wanted to do more than this, so she sat up and then stood up, blinking as she looked around her room. There was light coming in from around the curtains, and she could see perfectly well—or well enough, at least. Dirty clothes covered the floor; she kicked the majority of them towards the hamper near the door. On her desk was a plate, and on the plate was a sandwich. The sandwich was growing a thin green beard of mould. Imogen pushed both plate and sandwich into a bin already overflowing with paper and tissues and food scraps. The smell wafting up from it was both sweet and repulsive. For a few seconds Imogen considered doing something about it, then she realised that her desk drawer was open.

Inside, it waited.

Imogen squeezed her eyes shut and pushed hard at the drawer. It didn't move. She wriggled it from side to side, managing to work it in an inch before it jammed tight. Now she couldn't even wriggle it.

It was patient.

Still with her eyes shut, Imogen reached into the drawer and took out a bulky paper bag.

"Muffin," she murmured, as she opened the bag and looked inside.

The muffin seemed fine.

Imogen poked it.

The muffin failed to react in any way.

Imogen closed the bag and dropped it in the bin. It rolled off the top and fell to the floor, taking with it a miniature avalanche of tissues and paper and a plate and a fuzzy sandwich.

Imogen wasn't looking at that. She was looking into the drawer.

It should have been shiny, but it wasn't.

It shouldn't have been inviting, but it was.

With a sudden, almost violent movement, Imogen turned and made for the door, thumping hard against it as she reached for the lock with a shaking hand. She couldn't get the hook out of its latch. It kept slipping back in. Four times. Five times. Again and again, it slipped and fell back with the tiniest of sounds. Such a tiny sound, but it filled the entire room.

Imogen did not scream in frustration. She let out a long breath, closed her eyes, breathed in, opened her eyes, breathed out, and lifted the hook from its latch with perfect precision.

After that the door presented no challenge whatsoever, and Imogen was soon outside, in the hallway, heading towards the lounge.

Her mother was in her usual spot, eyes fixed on the television, remote in one hand, cigarette in the other—as well as a piece of chocolate popcorn. As Imogen passed, her mother made a sour face.

"You smell disgusting," she said, not looking away from the television. "Take a shower."

Imogen didn't reply. Instead she went to the fridge. There was a sliver of cheese in a plastic wrapper; she ate this. There was a limp and discoloured piece of celery; she ate this. There were five cartons of yoghurt, all strawberry; she did not eat these. There was a jar of marmalade; she took this out.

"Hungry, are you?" came her mother's voice, as Imogen searched for a spoon. "Not surprised." There was the click of a lighter, then a pause as Imogen's mother took her first puff of her latest cigarette. "Nothing much there. Nobody's done the shopping."

Imogen was sitting at the kitchen table, eating the marmalade.

"It's good you're up, Imogen."

There was a letter pinned to the tiny noticeboard beside the door. Imogen couldn't make out what it was about, but it looked like something from the council.

"I was just about to come wake you."

Imogen squinted and leant forward. The letter had a section outlined with a black box. It looked important.

"You're going to the job centre today."

At this Imogen turned, both marmalade and letter forgotten.

"I'm not."

Imogen's mother took in a lungful of smoke and released it before replying:

"You are. I'm sick of you stinking away in your room doing nothing. You need to contribute."

Imogen stood, her mother's eyes on her as she walked through the lounge.

"Stop there. Not another step."

Imogen wouldn't have obeyed, except for something unusual happening; her mother had risen from the couch, all of her weight on her left leg.

"I've made the arrangement. You have an appointment. They're expecting you."

"Then they'll be disappointed," Imogen said, still facing away. "I'm not going."

"You are."

"There's no point. There aren't any jobs."

"Trying's better than not."

Imogen's hands clenched into fists, and she turned to fix her mother with a cold stare.

"I'm not going," she repeated. "I don't want to go."

"Too bad. You'll be in that part anyway, it's on the nice side of the bridge."

"Why would I be 'in that part anyway'?"

"Because you're taking your brother to his thing."

Imogen brushed her hair away from her face then let her arm fall limp to her side.

"What."

"His convention. Comics and that other rubbish he's interested in. You're taking him. It's all he's been talking about all week."

"I never—"

"He needs you to go with him. You're going."

"I ... I'm NOT going with him. I refuse to."

"Imogen, you are taking your brother to his convention. You are going to the job centre. You are going to present yourself as well as you can. But before any of that, you are taking a long shower, you are letting me cut your hair, and you are returning your books to the library. They're due back today."

"That—"

"End. Of. Story."

Imogen took a shuddering breath, then turned away. For an instant she considered turning back again, but then she simply clenched her hands into fists and stalked towards the bathroom.

She showered for twenty-nine minutes. It didn't feel like that long.

The haircut was mercifully quick. Imogen's mother wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a professional, but then there wasn't much that even a professional could have done with Imogen's hair—it was thin and long and straight, given to fluffing out and tangling itself at the slightest provocation. The most Imogen could ever hope to get from a haircut was 'slightly shorter hair'. She did not, however, allow her mother to cut it TOO short. She liked the heavy feeling of it draping over her shoulders, and the way it covered her face.

After the cut was over with Imogen spent another half-hour in the bathroom. She hadn't dyed her hair for weeks, and her blonde roots were showing—this was a sight that she always found vaguely disgusting.

Once she was finished Imogen spent some time staring at herself in the mirror, at her black satin hair with the startling violet streak.

She didn't smile, but her reflection was not displeased.

After she'd dressed and gathered the sprawling books into her bag, Imogen walked into the lounge. Her mother was back in her spot, reading one of her appalling magazines, but at least the TV was off.

"You look nice," she said, not looking up. "Don't be away long, you leave with your brother at eleven."

Imogen snorted out a breath through her nose as she walked to the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. She half-turned to regard her mother with narrowed eyes.

"Why are you letting him go? You never—"

"Read about that rich boy, Finley Crayman. He used to go to those things. Said it was his first networking. Could be good for Zachary, he needs more than one friend."

Imogen opened her mouth to reply, then shook her head with a look of disbelieving disgust and left the apartment.

Outside it was cloudy, but nowhere near overcast. The sun shone bright from a deep blue sky, and there were dozens of birds swarming above. Imogen stood and watched them for almost a minute, until they dove down and then up and then down again, and then suddenly, like magic, they all vanished into the sky.

Imogen took out a cigarette as she walked to the stairs, and she lit it on the way down. By the time she'd reached the bottom she was already taking out another—the last in the packet. She smoked this in the alley near the stairs, leaning against the wall, appreciating the shade before braving the sun once more.

"There's Imogen, IMOGEN!"

Imogen let out a sigh as her brother's shrill voice pierced her head. For a few seconds she just kept walking, then she stopped and turned to look back. It wasn't just her brother. He had his best—only—friend with him, a dark, scrawny kid named Curtis. The two of them stopped a respectful distance from her, stood there, and stared.

"What?" she snapped.

"You look SO COOL," said Curtis. Zack nodded in fervent agreement.

Imogen frowned. She was wearing her usual knee-length boots, black and heavy and scuffed, with black stockings and a dark mauve skirt, thickly ruffled. Over that she wore a grey top and her ever-present leather jacket, old and soft and covered in rough repairs, worn at the elbows and too tight across the shoulders. Curving embroidered patterns covered it, the blue and purple stitching attractively bright against the worn dullness of the jacket itself.

"Whatever," she muttered.

"Your hair is wicked," said Curtis. "I wish my mum would let me do that!"

Curtis's dark hair was neatly cut in the 'college' style, short and safe and dull. Quite similar to her brother's, in fact, although Zack's was blonde and irrepressibly spiky.

"Maybe you can show us how sometime," Zack said. "That'd be fun, right?"

"Mum's never going to let you dye your hair," Imogen said flatly. "You're her special boy."

Zack winced and glanced at Curtis, embarrassed and shamed.

"Um," he said. "Um. Um did Mum tell you that we needsomeonetotakeusto—"

"Yes," said Imogen, crisply. She pushed her hair away from her face. "You'd better be ready by the time I come back."

"YES!" said Zack and Curtis together, and the two boys high-fived. Zack grinned at his sister. "That's SO awesome, Imogen! You're awesome! This is gonna be so much fun, you're gonna have fun too, we're all gonna have fun—Curtis, come on, let's go do our costumes!"

Imogen didn't watch as her brother and his friend ran off. Costumes, she was thinking. Great.

Despite the pleasant weather and the fact that it was Saturday, Imogen hardly saw anyone on her way to the library, and she was the only one inside—apart from the security guard.

"Nice hair."

Imogen shrank into herself as she walked past him, heading straight for the romance section—out of the last lot she'd chosen for herself none had remotely satisfied her, and she wasn't in the mood for further disappointment. She grabbed a pair of romance novels for her grandfather, checked-out as quickly as she could, and left. The security guard didn't try to talk to her on the way out, which was the best thing to happen to her all day.

The wind had picked up by the time she left the library, hotter than before. It blew straight and steady and tingled on the skin. Imogen couldn't decide whether she liked the sensation or not, and so erred on the side of caution; she hated this wind.

By the time she reached the retirement home Imogen was dragging her feet and staring down, barely aware of anything around her. The man at the front desk said something as she passed, but she didn't even hear him.

"What's this? Late again! I'll teach you—"

"Just take the stupid books, you ungrateful old idiot."

"I won't be talked to like that! I won't—"

Imogen let her grandfather rant while she gathered up the three books she'd given to him a fortnight ago. She also checked the gun under the dresser, easily fending off his feeble attempts to pull her away. There weren't any bullets, just like last time. Imogen didn't feel completely comfortable leaving the gun with her grandfather, but when she'd tried to take it away he'd worked himself up so badly that she was worried he might hurt himself. There's not much he can do with a gun and no bullets, she rationalised. It makes him feel safer. Besides which, I can't be bothered caring.

"Give it back! Give it back! Give it back!"

Frank was chanting now, slapping his hands down on his knees with each sharp word, halfway between righteous anger and childish enjoyment. Imogen rolled her eyes as she thrust the revolver at him. He grabbed at it like a starving gibbon snatching at a banana, eagerly holding it against his chest.

"Can't get me while I've got this, eh?"

"Grandpa, I don't want you to play with that—"

"Who's playing? This isn't games, Margo, this is deadly serious! Life or death, me or them—and it's not gonna be them!"

"I'm Imogen, not Margaret," Imogen said, deep weariness in her voice. "Just put the stupid gun away before someone sees you with it."

"No! Have to keep it close, that's how they get you, they wait until you let your guard down then bam! It's a shiv in the gut or a coathanger up the arse—"

"Grandpa."

"You don't listen to me! You never listen to me! I tell you and I tell you and I tell you but it's all about you, isn't it! Always about you! You're selfish! You're a selfish little cow, I see it in your eyes, those horrible eyes of yours—"

Imogen had picked up her book bag while her grandfather ranted. She fixed him with a firm gaze that shut him up in an instant, then huffed out an angry breath and left. He shouted after her but she was no longer listening. With tears in her eyes she left the retirement home, wiping her face on the leather sleeve of her jacket, the embroidery rough and comforting against her skin.

"You all right, love?"

Imogen wasn't sure who had said this, didn't register the words until minutes after they'd been said, and by that time there was no one around. It didn't take her long to get to the library after that; she shoved the three romance novels into the returns slot and left without incident.

A minute later she stopped and glanced up and around. This was where she'd been yelled at by the three young men. They weren't here now. She hurried on.

It was six minutes before eleven when Imogen reached her apartment complex, and two minutes before eleven by the time she got to her apartment. Her mother wasn't in the lounge, but Imogen didn't wonder where she might be; the sound of running water solved that particular mystery. Zack wasn't in the lounge either, but that left only one other possibility. Imogen went straight to her little brother's room and yanked open the door.

Zack jerked around guiltily, an open clothes pin in his hand. His head was covered from the nose up by a sheet of red flannel, eyeholes cut out to make it into a mask. An awkward length trailed down his back. The black pajamas he wore were at least three sizes too large, drawn on with orange and red fluorescent markers, childish floral patterns that meant nothing to Imogen. She was about to say something like 'what are you wearing?', but then she realised that she didn't care.

"We're leaving."

"I just need to—"

"Now."

"But—"

Imogen started towards Zack, and he yelped and shrank back before darting around her—she made a grab for his arm but he was too quick for her, evading her clutching hand and speeding into the hallway.

"Zack—"

"Okay! Okay, let's go now, I'll fix it on the way."

Imogen walked after her brother and did not sigh, nor did she roll her eyes. She was past such petty expressions of discontent; she had sunk into the familiar, comforting arms of nihilism.

"Bye Mum! We'll be back before dark!"

Zack was already halfway towards the stairs by the time Imogen left the apartment. Their mother had left four monorail passes on the kitchen table surrounded by dozens of bright pink and yellow sticky notes with arrows drawn on them, all pointing towards the tickets. There was also an address carefully printed on a piece of notepaper, along with a time, and a name, and a warning.

The warning was this:

Imogen. Go to the job centre. Talk with this man. Give a good impression. Or else.

When Imogen's mother emerged from the bathroom, half an hour later, she was displeased but not surprised to see the monorail passes gone and the note exactly where she'd left it.

The monorail was one of the few things in the city that worked. It was cheap to ride and got you where you were going without fuss, the automated ticket system hardly ever broke down, and for those rare occasions when something did go wrong there was a group of contracted maintenance workers on hand to ensure inconvenience and delays were kept to a minimum. It ran smoothly on its elevated track, and being raised up meant the view was good—even the windows were kept clean.

Imogen sat with her hands clasped between her knees, staring down at the ring she wore on her right index finger. It wasn't anything fancy or expensive, just a cheap bit of dark metal with a regular, angular pattern down its centre—like the crenellations of a castle. Imogen didn't often wear it. She didn't know why she'd slipped it on today.

Down the carriage and on the opposite side sat—or knelt—Zack, staring out of the window with no-doubt wide eyes. He had sulked at first because Imogen hadn't allowed him to put the tickets in the slot, but once the monorail got moving his dark mood had quickly dissolved. Ten seconds out of the station he'd gotten up onto his seat, kneeling with his hands pressed against the window, gazing out in rapt attention at the city going by, and like that he'd stayed.

"Those clouds are moving. Going to be a lovely afternoon."

"Oh, yes, you're right, there they go."

"Must be some high winds up there—hey, if you were standing on one of them clouds you'd know all about it!"

"I'm just glad it's not another awful, overcast day. We've had far too many of those lately."

"You'll not find me arguing! Look at this sky, gorgeous—now this is what you used to get, before they started mucking about with things. Good old-fashioned proper sky, is what this is."

Imogen tried to shut her ears against the banality of the conversation going on beside her, but found it impossible. In silence, she sat and she suffered, her eyes closed and her chin against her chest.

"Now look at that, something's got into them lot."

"Goodness, you're right. Oh, I don't like to look at them when they're like that, all those little black specks, it makes me feel all wrong inside."

"Mm, mm, mm, something's definitely got into them lot. They know, you know? They bloody know, don't ask me how, don't ask me why, but they bloody well know."

To Imogen's immense relief a young man sitting on the opposite side of the carriage turned on his music player, the chicken scratchings of some unidentifiable song providing a much-needed distraction from the conversation going on beside her. With her eyes closed tight and all her focus spent, Imogen tuned out the old man and the old woman blabbering away beside her and instead allowed the tinny half-music to enter her head. She didn't listen to music much, just about the only time she heard any was on one of her rare visits to shops, but the song the young man was listening to seemed strangely familiar. Dum dah DUM, dum dah DUM, dah-dah-dah-dah-DUM-dah-DUM—it repeated like this, over and over, hypnotic in its regularity.

After a minute of this Imogen realised something strange. The monorail made little sound beyond a whining thrum, but this rose and fell with a constant rhythm that was, somehow, perfectly synchronised with the young man's music.

That's so unlikely, Imogen thought, trying to examine the young man without looking up from her ring—an impossible task. She shifted on the bench seat and focused on her arm, then cautiously glanced at a point on the carriage's floor near him—almost immediately a panicky feeling rose up inside her and she returned her gaze to her ring, but she'd caught a brief impression of him—dirty sneakers, baggy brown shorts, green t-shirt with something on it, small scraggly goatee.

It's still synced, Imogen thought. It shouldn't still be synced like this, they should've pulled apart already. They're going to stay together until the song ends.

The song is going to end.

This realisation struck Imogen so harshly that she let out a tiny gasp. The song has to end. The train has to stop. Or even if it slows down, once we're across the bridge it'll turn, it has to slow to turn, doesn't it? Won't that affect the noise it makes? Won't that desynchronise the train and the music? Doesn't anyone else on this stupid thing realise what's going to happen?

Imogen's hands gripped tight together, and she thought of her desk and the stuck drawer. She squeezed her eyes shut and found she couldn't quite bring herself to open them again, she could still hear the music, she could still hear the train—

"Never get tired of this, every time, just stare out the window like your young lad over there and wonder at how grand it all is."

"It is pretty."

"You know something else? It's never the same colour twice! I've ridden this train hundreds of times, thousands, that water out there has never once repeated itself. Miracle, I call that. Grand bloody miracle."

The music was gone. Even the train noise was just that now; noise. The inane chattering of the two beside Imogen melted into everything else, there were dozens of people in the carriage and so many of them were talking but none could be understood, and even if they could be it wouldn't be worth the effort, they weren't saying anything of any importance to anyone, it was just garbage, it was all garbage, it was—

There was a soft impact beside Imogen, and she became aware of a sweet, soft scent; mint.

"Hey, you okay? You want some gum?"

The music was back, distant and yet closer now and still so strangely familiar, and then suddenly it was gone—but Imogen felt no sense of loss. He's sitting beside me, she thought. He's come over to sit beside me.

"Don't like spearmint?"

Imogen forced her hands to unclasp and accepted the gum with shaking fingers. She didn't put it in her mouth. She didn't even unwrap it. All she did was hold on tight, the hard stick slowly warping between her fingers.

"I like your hair. You just do that?"

Imogen managed a nod.

"That jacket's cool too. Is that hand-stitched?"

Another nod. Then a pause. Then, "I did it myself. Ages ago."

"Yeah?"

Another pause followed. Imogen could feel his eyes on her, looking at the stitching on her jacket, quietly appreciating it.

"That must've taken weeks."

"Thirteen days," Imogen said. Her voice was flat and low. "At nights."

Silence followed. Imogen wanted to let her eyes close, but didn't dare.

"Almost all the clouds are gone. The sky's real clear."

Imogen's eyes closed. Her mouth was thin and tight.

If the young man said anything further during the rest of the trip, she didn't hear it.

After the monorail glided to a gentle stop Imogen waited while the other passengers got off. Maybe the young man said something to her in parting. Maybe he didn't. Whether he did or not, Imogen didn't particularly care.

"If we don't get off soon the train'll go to the next station!"

Zack recoiled back as his sister stood—the movement had been startlingly swift and sudden.

"Come on," she muttered, fumbling her hands into her pockets as she led Zack out. The main station was nicer than the one near Spring Heights—more glass, more sheets of white metal that curved in impossible ways, less food wrappers, and a conspicuous absence of vagrants. It was larger, too, or at least was attached to a larger complex, filled with shops and restaurants and far too many people.

"You were talking to that guy, right?"

Imogen didn't respond to her brother's question, just led him down another stairway.

"Why were you talking to him?"

Further down they went, the lights on the walls long and thin and soft on the eyes.

"Because you like girls, right? Just girls?"

It got dirtier the further down you went. Not excessively so, but to those sensitive to this kind of thing it was impossible not to notice.

"Or do you like guys too now?"

Three floors above street level now. Traffic noise was already beginning to filter through, along with the spark smell of ozone.

"Or do you just like guys now?"

Imogen stopped, and her brother ran into her and fell on his backside. He stared up at her as she turned to regard him.

"Shut up," she said, and then she turned away and started walking again. It only took Zack a few seconds to recover and scurry after her.

His silence lasted less than a minute.

"I don't mind if you like girls or guys or girls and guys, I mean it's fine whatever you like. Um. Whoever you like. Um. Right?"

They were at ground level now, the stairwell opening onto the street itself—it was covered over by the complex above, and the wide road was crowded with slow-moving cars.

"Wow. Is this the way to the convention centre? I don't think this is the way to the convention centre. I think the way to the convention centre is over there. Are we going to the convention centre?"

Foot traffic was light, and the pavement was wide. The wall was solid black plastic, covered in cheap fliers for a local electronics store. Here and there a long-faded missing person poster showed through. The supports for the roof above were old and cracked, made of dark stone and rusted metal.

"Did you know it's called the Phoenix Convention Centre? Are we going to the job centre first? Is that first? Or is it after? Hey, we have to meet Curtis. He's riding the monorail by himself! Do you think Mum would let me ride the monorail by myself? Can you imagine me doing that? Do you think they'd let me drive it? It just goes one way so it must be pretty simple. Don't you think? Imogen? Don't you think?"

At the end of the not-quite-a-tunnel everything opened up. The station complex was behind, a huge intersection was in front. Cars were everywhere. The noise was intense.

"Why are we here? Imogen, why are we here? Whoa, that crossing is so long—look, Imogen, it's so long it's two crossings! You have to stop in the middle and press another button and—oh! I remember Curtis told me that you don't have to press the button! Because it's automatic? The button doesn't do anything! Are we gonna cross? Do we need to cross? Is that the job centre over there? Imogen, I think that's the job centre over there. Are we gonna cross to get to the job centre? If we cross can I be the one to push the button both times?"

There was the frighteningly wide road to the left and the complex to the right, protected by a chain-link fence that seemed short compared to the building itself, but tall compared to the average nearly-twelve-year-old named Zack. Eventually there was a break in the fence, and a stone stairway leading down.

"Imogen where are we going? Imogen you can't just take me places, Mum's gonna get mad. We're supposed to be meeting Curtis!"

The stairway was narrow, stone walls painted shining black to both left and right. Numerous brightly coloured showbills had been pasted to these walls, many of them fresh. Zack stared at them as they passed, his mouth still going:

"He'll be waiting I bet. He'll be waiting and—oh, I got a message! Imogen, I bet it's Curtis saying he's waiting, I bet it is, what do you want to bet? Imogen? What do you want to bet?"

The bottom of the stairway opened onto a wide corridor, smooth tiles underfoot, grimy ceramics covering the walls, the entire ceiling formed of glowing chemical lights. They were the cheap kind that lent a greenish tinge to all they illuminated; Zack's face looked sick and pale as he pouted at his phone.

"Aw, no! Aw man! Imogen, guess what terrible thing happened? You'll never guess. Curtis can't come! Aw, his stupid parents said it was a waste of time. Just because they want him—aw, this sucks!"

The corridor led to an underground thoroughfare, wide with a low ceiling, with the same cheap chemical lights tainting everything with green. Shops lined its sides but almost all were permanently closed, thick metal shutters jammed in place, most of them covered in hastily scrawled tags. There were people here, mostly young, many of them dressed similarly to Imogen. None of them looked at her, and she didn't look at any of them.

"What IS this place? Imogen? Can you tell me, please? Is it a mall? Is it a secret mall for cool people like you? Is it?"

Some of the shops were unshuttered in this part. Few of them had names, most were little more than a flimsy desk and stacked boxes. Some had clothes on metal display racks. Zack stared around at everything, still talking:

"Are you gonna get some clothes? Wow, what does THAT shop sell? Hey, that guy on the monorail who talked to you gave you gum, right? Did he like you? Is that why he talked to you?"

Imogen stopped, then headed left. The shop she'd chosen was more 'complete' than most; it had a proper counter and even shelves. The girl behind the counter looked a little older than Imogen, with narrow brown eyes and braided blonde hair beneath a bright green scarf.

"Hey, gorgeous," she said in greeting, before nodding at Zack with a sly smile. "Who's the sprite?"

"My brother," Imogen said. She pushed some money onto the counter, which the girl took.

"You want something—"

"Just cigarettes."

The girl shrugged with another sly smile, then pulled a packet from underneath the counter and slid it to Imogen.

"Anything else?"

Imogen shook her head as she turned away, the cigarettes already in her pocket. The girl waved to them as they left, and Zack waved back, hesitantly at first but then with more enthusiasm, before Imogen took hold of his wrist and shoved his arm down.

"Do you know her? Is she your girlfriend?"

Imogen glanced down at Zack, then veered off to the left, to a small alcove containing an old emergency call station. Zack followed without hesitation, his expression one of guiltily thrilled excitement.

"This is kind of fun—"

"You're not telling Mum I bought cigarettes," Imogen said. She crouched down so that she was eye-to-eye with her brother. "Okay?"

"I, um—"

"Zack."

"I guess I won't tell ... but you shouldn't smoke, it's—"

"If you do tell her, I'll break your arms," Imogen said flatly, as she straightened. She took out the packet and opened it, pulling one long tube out with her mouth as she fetched her lighter. "Both of them," she clarified, the cigarette bouncing with the words. With a practised motion she flicked the lighter open and clicked the wheel.

She barely got a spark.

It took three more attempts before a high flame appeared and she was able to actually light her cigarette. With a second practised flick Imogen closed her lighter and pocketed it in almost the same motion, then pinched her cigarette between two fingers as she took a long, luxuriant pull. For a second she held the smoke in before blowing it upwards, her pale eyes on her brother, who had been watching the whole performance with referent awe.

"What are we doing now?" he asked, after a few seconds of smoky silence. Imogen shrugged as she tapped ash from the end of her smoke.

"Don't care," she said. "Go play at your thing."

"What? No!" Zack shook his head violently to accentuate the word, the absurdly long 'tail' of his mask flicking from side to side. "You have to stay with me, you HAVE to stay with me! Mum said, she told you—Mum TOLD you—and you don't even have to pay, it's for free if you're in costume—"

"I'm not in costume."

Zack stared. "But ... but ..." He trailed off, frowned, then looked up at his sister again. "Aren't you?"

"This is how I dress," Imogen said. She blew smoke up at the chemical lights. "This is 'me'."

"But usually you just wear your pajamas or dressing gown—"

"Look, shut up," Imogen said, accidentally letting her cigarette drop from her lips—a single sad spark of ash marked its demise, before Imogen sealed its fate with the heel of her boot. "So I dressed up," she said, her eyes on her brother again. "So what? What do you care, Spack?"

"Don't CALL me that!"

The impact of Zack's fist against Imogen's arm was unexpectedly painful. She emitted a surprised grunt, then her hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"Leggo!"

Imogen squeezed until Zack yelped, then she let off the pressure—just a little. Slowly, making sure his attention was on her, she bent over until her face was inches from his. When she spoke her voice was utterly flat, not a trace of emotion showing in her tone:

"Do. Not. Touch. Me."

With that she threw down his arm and shoved him away. He stumbled but kept his footing, already nursing his wrist. There was a moment of sullen silence, then Zack spoke:

"I can't go on my own. They won't let me in unless there's an adult with me."

"I'm not an adult."

"You're over sixteen," Zack said, his tone naively arrogant. "That's okay."

Imogen took in a long breath, wishing it was smoke rather than air, then she gave up. Arguing was too much of a hassle. Without a word she started walking, back the way they'd come, Zack swept along in her wake.

"Are we going? Are you taking me there? We're going, right? We're going to the convention centre? Is that where we're going right now? To the convention centre? Imogen? Imogen? Are we going to—"

"Yes we're going to the stupid convention centre, just SHUT UP."

Zack's silence was pleased.

To Imogen's irritation, it only lasted six seconds.

"It's gonna be SO cool, SO fun, I bet everyone will be in costume, what do you think? Imogen? Do you think everyone will be in costume, maybe not EVERYONE everyone but like ... um ... eighty percent? Maybe seventy percent. Seventy percent is seven out of ten. Seven people wear costumes and three people don't. Seventy people wear costumes and thirty people don't. Seven-hundred people wear—"

"Zack, if you don't shut up right now I'm donating you to that tattooist."

Zack's eyes went wide as he stared at the tattooist in question, a broad, shirtless man with no body hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows. He had the thick outline of large jigsaw pieces inked all over his body, their appearance almost cartoonish, and when he noticed Zack staring he gave him a wide, broken-toothed grin.

With a sharp inward-gasp Zack faced forward and shut his mouth, eyes still wide.

They left the thoroughfare soon after that, a short side passage and a narrow stairway leading Imogen and her brother up to the glaring light of the street—the sun seemed to have gotten brighter during their underground sojourn. Imogen squinted and winced in distaste, then looked around to get her bearings. They'd emerged beside a long, straight road, the traffic fast and thick. Behind loomed the station complex, its sheer grey walls glowing harshly.

"Which—"

Imogen started walking, and Zack shut his mouth and followed her. Several minutes later they came to a T-intersection with a low bridge above it, its supports black with traffic filth. There was scrubby grass growing from the pavement, and a nearby fenced section was lush with pale yellow weeds.

For several seconds Imogen stood staring in at the empty section, then she started walking again, turning right and heading along the new road—there were buildings ahead, regular buildings, not the huge architecturally stark intimidation of the station complex but simple grey stone businesses—a dollar store, a karaoke box, a hairdresser, a sad old toy shop with faded posters on its soap-streaked windows. Zack slowed to look at the mystery egg dispensers stacked outside, but Imogen's pace was quick and he soon had to hurry to catch up.

"Is this the way?" he asked, a minute after they'd left the collection of businesses behind—wide, empty stretches of bare earth and tall weeds surrounded them now, punctuated with faded signs promising future developments that had never come to be. In response to Zack's question Imogen jerked her head forward.

"Oh!"

The road was straight and long, and at its end there rose a graceful curve of white against the deep blue of the sky—the convention centre was on the waterfront, beside the promenade, and although not as large as the station complex it came close. Surrounding it were clean paved parks, filled with elegant almost-circles of trees and other greenery, with inviting benches beneath.

It took Imogen and Zack more than ten minutes just to get close to the centre. Imogen had never been here before, had only seen it from a distance, and despite herself she was impressed—at its sheer scale, if nothing else. It was wide rather than tall, sprawling actually, except its curving, future-now design made the word 'sprawling' seem inappropriate. It also made it difficult to tell just how many floors it had, but Imogen guessed at over a dozen.

"Wow," said Zack, as they walked slowly through the surrounding parks, people-noise loud around them. It was close to lunchtime and already the benches were filled with dozens of men, women and children eating and drinking and enjoying the day. The clatter of a group of skateboarders sounded from the far side of the park, soon joined by high young laughter. Still further dozens—hundreds—of people, most of them wearing some form of costume, were walking through the park, in the same direction as Imogen and Zack, towards the convention centre's entrance; a wide, welcoming glass frontage up a series of short steps. Above the entrance blazed the shining metal of the convention centre's name: PHOENIX.

"Great," Imogen muttered, as the scale of the crowds swarming the entrance became clear—but there were staff at hand to guide them, over a dozen of them stationed at temporary gates outside the main doors, and they worked efficiently to funnel everyone in.

"Come on, let's line up!" said Zack, running ahead towards the crowd. Imogen rolled her eyes and followed him, already itching for another cigarette—but she knew that even taking out her lighter would attract masses of public scorn, and she couldn't be bothered dealing with that. So the pack remained in her pocket, snug beside her lighter, and she scratched her fingernails against her palms as she joined Zack in the line. His shoulders were slumped as he glanced around.

"Everyone else's costumes look great," he said, his voice almost lost in the noise of the crowd. Imogen looked down at him, then let out a quiet sigh.

"Didn't know this was such a big deal," she muttered, but loud enough so that Zack could hear. "I guess geeks rule in this town."

"They've got guests from EVERYTHING!" Zack said, his face serious as he looked up at Imogen. "From Villainesque and EFE and KokenKo and they've even got Praxis from Fayette Eve and—"

Imogen let Zack's prattle fade, which wasn't difficult considering the crowd noise all around—too many voices, she thought. Too many people all talking at once about nothing—

Awareness that someone was addressing her brought Imogen out of herself. She blinked at the large, dark-skinned man in front of her. He was grinning.

"Imogen!" Zack said, near-panicked urgency in his voice. "Tell him!"

"Tell him what?"

"That we're here together!"

Imogen looked down at her brother, then up at the man beside the entrance gate.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just here on my own, I've never seen this kid before in my life."

"Imogen! That's not true—it's not true!" Zack repeated, looking up at the gate man. "She's my brother, I'm her sister—I mean I'm her brother—look," he said, yanking his mask up almost off his head, "we have the same ears, look at our ears!"

The man pursed his lips and furrowed his brow as he examined Zack's ear with great seriousness.

"Mm," he said. "Well, that's good enough for me. Get in, you two."

"Thank you! Thanks!"

Imogen shook her head as she walked past the man. He said something to her but she wasn't in the mood to hear it.

Inside was far worse than outside. The entrance foyer was packed with people and makeshift booths—most of them little more than a cloth-covered table with a couple of metal poles supporting a banner. All manner of items were on display, comics, books, DVDs, games, plastic toys, t-shirts, a thousand forms of materialised geekdom.

Zack stared around, as wide-eyed as he'd ever been, in complete heaven.

Imogen rubbed her forehead, a pained expression on her face, in utter hell.

"Oh my god," she muttered, before shooing Zack away. "Okay, go off and do your minigeek thing. You can get home by yourself, right?"

"Imogen! We have to stay together! You can't just leave me alone!"

Imogen let her hand drop from her forehead to fall limp at her side.

"Ugh," she moaned. "Can't you just, I don't know ... how old are you now, ten?"

"I'm almost twelve!"

"What, you're TWELVE? How the hell are you so tiny?"

"I ... I haven't had a growth spurt yet! I'm gonna get bigger! And Mum TOLD you—"

"Fine, FINE, let's just, oh my god ... just, whatever, let's just go."

Zack let out an excited squeak and grabbed Imogen by the wrist, pulling her through the crowds to squee over booth after booth after booth. Imogen faded into herself and wished for nicotine. Every now and then her brother's high voice would penetrate her veil of gloomy indifference as he exclaimed about some stupid thing or another, a costume or stand or familiar branding. They went up stairs and there were more booths on the second floor, the wide corridors made narrow by their presence. They walked through rooms filled with people and noise and objects that meant nothing to Imogen. Further stairs led up to the third floor, where the crowds began to thin and the booths became more amateurish and huge blue and white sculptures made of metal and plastic looked down from above, unnoticed by all.

"—could be AMAZING right? SO awesome!"

Zack's voice cut into Imogen's head as she became aware of something nearby—she wasn't wearing her glasses and anything more than a dozen metres away was blurry, so she wandered away from her brother and towards the makeshift stage she'd noticed. In the centre of the stage, against the wide corridor's wall, was a large television screen with some kind of anime battle scene playing on it—all fast cuts and exaggerated reaction shots from the characters. There was no sound; with the noise of the crowds it would've been pointless to even try. There weren't even speakers on the stage. There were, however, five girls, all of them dressed in sprawling, elaborately gothic dresses that looked more like small towers than clothing.

"Oh!" Zack's high voice was an unpleasant interruption to Imogen's quiet. "Are you looking at the KokenKo cosplayers?"

"No."

"You could dress up like that, you'd look great—I bet you'd like the anime, too! It's called Koken-Hime Kokoto except everyone calls it KokenKo and it's about girls who are actually ancient towers and one of them can put her hands through the ground and then they come up again really far away and one can make the ground fly around and hit people and Reiko—she's my favourite—is really cool and tough and she can make holes and hit people through them! And they're all sisters except Reiko is actually only a half-sister because she's kind of half-evil except not really—"

One of the tower girls had noticed Imogen's attention and gave her a smile and a little wave. Imogen turned away, her hand around Zack's upper arm.

"Ow!"

"Next area."

"But—"

"We're getting through this stupid thing as fast as possible. Next area."

The next area turned out to be a wide room filled with weirdness—in general the costumes had seemed alien and discomforting to Imogen, but here they took on a whole other level of insanity.

"Whoa ... Imogen, do you see that guy? Do you see him?"

'That guy' was dressed in ragged, grey clothing covered in dirt and blood, his face a mass of gorey scratches, his eyes blank white. He shambled along aimlessly, pausing to sniff the air every few steps.

"That costume is WAY too good," Zack said. "I don't even wanna get NEAR him!"

"Mm," said Imogen. There was a familiar emptiness building in her chest and her palms were itching badly.

"And check that out, that devil—look at his horns, wow! Imogen, look! Oh, and wooooow, that bug guy ..."

Imogen had noticed a large banner hanging over a stage, proclaiming 'COSPLAY COMPETITION!!!' in bold Comic Sans. She shuddered quietly.

"Come on, next area—"

"Noooo I wanna look more pleeeeease—"

"Ugh." Imogen scowled in irritated disgust at her brother's whining. "Just come on. You can look while we get out of here."

Zack pouted, but he dutifully followed along behind his sister as she picked her way through the costumed crowds.

"Slow down! I can't look properly if you walk so fast!"

Imogen shook her head, but she did slow her pace a little—walking so fast was hazardous in any case, she'd almost clipped her head against a baseball player's bat a few seconds earlier.

"I wish I was wearing something like these guys," she heard Zack say, his voice low and distant. "I look so sucky."

Imogen said nothing. Despite herself, she was staring around just as much as her brother, although with approximately five billion times more restraint—she caught sight of the zombie cosplayer sniffing hungrily at an angel girl, her expression one of delighted horror. Nearby, a pair of young men standing arm-in-arm watched with aloof amusement, both dressed in elegant evening wear with white and gold masks and long black dress canes. As a tall girl wearing a bulky but smooth suit of plastic orange armour walked by, they both bowed to her in unison. She returned the bow smoothly, her smile calm and cool behind the green visor of her helmet.

More than costumes, Imogen thought. Masks.

There was a wide hallway leading away from the cosplay area, free of booths and relatively quiet—and, most importantly, with benches against the walls.

"Okay, Zachary. Time for a break. You sit here and wait while—"

Imogen's expression changed as she realised her brother wasn't behind her—or anywhere in sight, for that matter. She drew in a deep breath, sighed it out, then muttered 'whatever' and turned away—before a familiar tone of high whining caught her ear.

Off the corridor Imogen was in was another narrower one—booths lined both sides, giving just a metre of clearance down the middle. There was an air of intense purpose about the place—not much movement, just geeks of both sexes standing and staring down at the comics on display, the occasional muttered transaction sounding over the studied silence.

And, of course, the sound of Zack protesting some great injustice. Imogen stared down the gauntlet of tight-pressed people, wondering if just abandoning her brother to his fate might be an option.

"—just get lost, what are you even doing here?"

"I'm allowed to be here! There's no sign saying 'no kids'!"

Zack was half-surrounded by a small group, none of them in costume. One of them, a young man with a v-cut dreadhawk, spoke:

"This stuff isn't for you. Get out of here."

"Yeah, what the hell, kid?" said another. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"What's going on here?"

Zack and the group of older comic fans looked up at the flat voice. Imogen stood nearby, arms crossed tight across her chest, looking at them through her violet-streaked hair.

"This kid's—"

"That kid's my brother."

"This is the doujin hall," one of the fans said, a girl with her blonde hair in long pigtails. "It's not for kids."

Imogen's face was blank. "Doujin?"

"Sex comics," explained another fan, with a sneer. Imogen frowned.

"Huh?"

"Look," said yet another fan, tall and skinny with floppy black hair. He thrust a comic towards Imogen, who regarded it with suspicion—and then disgust, as she realised what the cover depicted.

"Oh, what?" she said, before turning on her brother. "Zack, what are you doing looking at this crap?"

"Hey!" said the pigtailed girl. "It's not crap!"

"I don't look at the ... at those ones!" Zack protested. "I really don't, honestly, I REALLY don't! They're not all like that!"

"That doesn't matter," said the oldest of the group, a man probably in his early thirties. "You shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, what are you?" said the fan with the dreadhawk. "Like eight?"

"I'm twelve!" Zack said. "Well, nearly! And ... and ... and why are YOU here?"

The tall skinny fan snorted. "Nice comeback, Pajama Man. You learn that at baby school?"

"This is like watching monkeys fling their crap at each other," Imogen muttered. "Zack, get somewhere that isn't filled with disgusting yet oddly intriguing porn. Come on, go!"

Zack shot his sister a wounded look, but he did as she said, heading towards the hallway with the benches. Imogen took a breath, half-glanced at the group of fans, then turned and followed her brother. The fans watched her go, but none of them said anything.

"Imogen, PLEASE don't—oof—"

Imogen had shoved her brother down onto a bench.

"Stay," she muttered, already turning to leave.

"Where are you—"

"Shut up and stay."

"You're going to smoke—"

"I said shut up, Zack," Imogen said, stopping and looking back at her brother. "Do as I tell you or I'm dragging you home right now."

Zack put his hands in his lap. "Okay," he said, his voice quiet. "I'll be good. I'll just ... read."

"Fine. Whatever. Just don't move."

Zack got out his phone as Imogen stalked off, looking for anything resembling 'outside'. There weren't even any windows in this part of the complex, but after five minutes of random corner-turning Imogen spotted a blue and white sign that read 'OUTLOOK'. Following the direction it indicated took her along corridors and up stairs and along more corridors—free of booths, apparently the convention was only on the lower levels—and around corners and again up a final set of broad white stairs, the corridors here wider and brighter than those below, with tall glass windows looking out onto a wide expanse of gleaming white. Even the carpet was nicer, dark blue and soft beneath Imogen's boots.

"'Outlook', huh," she muttered, as she pushed open the glass door leading out. The wind hit her instantly, warm and strong, blowing her hair back into her mouth. Making little 'puh, puh' noises as she spat her hair out, Imogen walked forward—the outside area was huge, ridiculously huge, made up of a plane of pure white that gleamed in the sunlight. It took half a minute to walk to the edge, tall panels of perfectly clear perspex stopping the foolish and unobservant from simply walking off. Although the perspex was thick and well-anchored, it still gave Imogen a chill to see the edge just drop away as it did. Below was the oceanfront promenade, filled with people contentedly strolling, sitting, or leaning against the balustrades and gazing at the view—something that Imogen also spent a few moments doing. She'd never seen the ocean so deeply blue and sparkling clear.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?"

Imogen glanced to her side—there was an old man there, wearing an old-fashioned brown suit and a sharp brown hat, gazing out with misty eyes. He turned to smile at her, then returned to the view. There were others out here, too—dozens, actually, spread all along the edge. Imogen had felt pleasantly alone upon first coming onto the outlook but this feeling now disappeared, replaced with a fresh awareness of the yawing emptiness in her lungs. She'd let the view distract her from her cigarette, but now was the time to indulge.

It was windy out near the edge, and it wasn't much better near the wide glass windows looking back into the hallway, but further on from that the building continued to stretch up into the blue of the sky. Here the side was white in colour, with a wide blue stripe curving its way along halfway up, ebbing and flowing with a series of 'ripples'—no doubt designed for their aesthetic quality, but they were also perfect for keeping the wind from blowing out the lighter's flame before Imogen could touch it to the end of her cigarette. With a pinched expression of intense concentration, Imogen sucked in the first blissful lungful of smoke. For as long as she could she held it inside, then she blew it out with a long, deep, satisfied 'aaaah'. With a sensation that was as close to happiness as she could hope for, Imogen spent a few pleasant minutes in the non-time of smoking, nothing to worry about except drawing out the experience for as long as possible. She managed to get an inch of ash balanced on the end of her cigarette before it crumbled and fell, and as she tapped the remainder onto the ground it was with almost perfect timing that the roar of a cheer came from inside the building. Some kind of show, she thought. Zack better not be there. Her cigarette was already half-gone now, despite her efforts to smoke it as slowly as possible, and she idly considered having a second as she gazed at the white of the outlook. Like a wing, she thought. Like a wing out the side of the building. If this wind gets stronger the whole thing could take off.

She was just taking another puff of her cigarette when something odd struck her—the cheer from before hadn't stopped. In fact, it was louder than ever and continuing to grow in strength. They're really getting worked up in there, Imogen thought, before shuddering at the mental image of a roomful of excited, unwashed geeks. Better to be out here.

Except the cheering was really getting loud now, impossibly loud, there was no way it could be coming from inside—and it wasn't, it wasn't coming from inside, it was coming from somewhere ...

No.

Not somewhere.

Everywhere.

Imogen became aware of shouts, above the sound of cheering, from the other people on the outlook—from this distance they were blurred, but it was clear they were excited about something. Most of them were against the perspex barrier, and some seemed to be pointing. Trying to see better, Imogen walked out of her shelter—and gasped in pain as her hair whipped against her face and her clothes rippled around her, hot wind harsh against her skin, her cigarette ripped from her fingers in an instant. It had only been a few minutes since she'd scuttled into the shelter, it seemed impossible for the wind to have gathered so much strength in such a short time, but—

Imogen pushed her hair away from her eyes and held it, unmoving, unbreathing—because it wasn't possible, there's no way what she'd just seen had happened—but even as she stared in horrified shock another person disappeared, just vanished from the furthest end of the outlook, and another, and another, and the people closer to her were no longer shouting, no longer pointing; now they were screaming, now they were running, and now Imogen saw what was happening, she saw everything, she watched as a desperately running woman was picked up and thrown against the side of the building by some hideous unseen force, no sound of impact audible over the painfully loud roaring of the wind—Imogen stumbled back, clawing desperately for the solidity of the building but it gave no relief, no reassurance, the smooth surface shaking violently beneath her hands, just as unstable and chaotic and terrifying as everything in the world had now become—Imogen's scream was lost in the roar of the wind as a boneless mass slammed wetly into the building above and then she couldn't scream, couldn't do anything, her body was no longer hers to control, and for the slightest of instants there was a freeing sensation of weightlessness before impossible pressure and a hideous shrieking surrounded her ...

And then there was nothing.

That creaking noise was back again. The irregularity was the worst thing about it, one time short, one time long, this time it cut itself off with an abrupt shriek, this time it drew its death out over long, lonely seconds, screeching mournfully as its life ebbed to a final halt.

Except it wasn't final. Because moments later the creaking was back again—no, 'creaking' was too weak, even 'screeching' was lacking, it could be that the word didn't exist to accurately describe this noise, except perhaps for 'horrible'.

Imogen wasn't sure how long it took her to move her arm. Doing so involved some intense negotiations, but finally her rebellious limb got the message, and she reached up to put her hand over her ear.

Except she didn't. Her arm was behaving, but there was still something stopping her from moving it. And pressure. And darkness.

I can't see, Imogen thought. I've gone blind.

Such a realisation should have been accompanied by shock, panic, frenzied screaming, any of a dozen different reactions. 'Calm acceptance' was not what Imogen would've expected of herself, but apparently today was a day for surprises.

Slowly, Imogen became aware of something else that could be considered positive; the creaking seemed to have stopped. It was silent now. All she could hear was her own wheezing breath. There was pressure from all around, especially against her legs.

I'm not blind, Imogen thought. I've been buried alive.

Again, this realisation was accompanied by a calmness that Imogen found quietly impressive. She turned her attention to an important question:

What am I buried in?

There was a pleasant clinking noise as Imogen tried an experimental wriggle—whatever it was wasn't a solid mass, but rather a collection of angular blocks. One was poking her in the small of her back, quite painfully now that she had noticed it, and she tried to shift position to—

"Oh," Imogen said out loud, immediately regretting this as one of the angular blocks tipped into her mouth. She spat and moved her head, scrunching her shoulders up to dislodge more of the blocks with further pleasant clinking sounds, and light hit her in the face.

Things became a little clearer.

This building is made of that 'smart' material, Imogen thought, as she blinked up at the crumbled remains of the building's side. At least this part of it is. I read that thing about it last month. What was it called? BioCrete!tm, that was it. Doesn't all fall down in one big deadly mass. Breaks away gradually, piece by piece. Strong but light. Easily dug through by survivors or rescuers.

I should be able to get myself out of this.

With a little more wriggling and a small amount of muttering, Imogen managed to work her head and one shoulder free of the pile—several blocks hit her in the face while she worked, but they were little more than an annoyance.

"Okay," she murmured, as she looked blearily around. She seemed to be stuck in a large pile of the blocks, a few metres above the ground, her head sticking out of the vaguely triangular heap in a way that would have probably amused a casual onlooker, if said casual onlooker had a somewhat sardonic sense of humour and a love of the ridiculous. Imogen was surprised at just how high the heap was—from this angle it was hard to judge, but it seemed to stretch up for least half a dozen metres. Despite this, the pressure was easily bearable, not much more than being pinned by someone near her own weight. Breathing wasn't as easy as it could've been, but she was in no danger of suffocation or death-by-crushing. Past the white blocks the sky was deep, deep blue, even deeper than it had been earlier in the day—earlier, Imogen thought, how long was I unconscious for? It must have been at least an hour—oh my god, what happened to the roof?

It was gone. No, not gone—from this awkward angle it was hard to see, but Imogen could make out some blurred red lines criss-crossing where the white roof had once been. The supports, Imogen thought. The plates attached to them were ripped away by the wind, but the underlying supports remain. They're so thin! How could they support anything? More 'smart' material, 'more with less', like this BioCrete!tm that I'm covered in. There's solid ground near the building, just a few metres but that's enough to walk on, to get back to the entrance, to get back inside and try to get out of here.

Better get to work.

Imogen sighed, took a few small breaths, then began trying to work herself free, moving her shoulders and arms and kicking hard with her legs—

"AAAAAH!"

Lances of agony shot through her, gripping her body and squeezing tight—Imogen choked on the pain, gagging as nausea filled her, hands clenched tight as she writhed and moaned.

My leg, Imogen thought, as she lay there gently whimpering. My right leg. There's something really wrong with it. Broken? Oh god I hope not. That's all I need, a broken leg, that's ALL I need. This is going to make getting free so much harder. Maybe I should just forget it. Just lie here and wait for someone to come rescue me. If my leg's broken then moving it would be bad, right? So just lying here would be the—

Imogen froze mid-thought, her eyes wide. The air was still and far too warm, not even the slightest trace remaining of the killer winds that had caused all of this. It was silent, eerily so ... except for a single noise.

Something thumping against the ground.

Something being dragged.

Something thumping against the ground.

Something being dragged.

It was close, and getting closer. One of the people the wind threw against the building, Imogen realised. Legs broken. Dragging themselves forward. They're coming this way, soon I'll—

A hand appeared from around a pile of BioCrete!tm and slim supports, just a few metres away. It was scratched and bleeding—no, not bleeding. Just bloodied. This close Imogen didn't need her glasses to make out details; there was a simple gold band on the index finger, and it was too delicate a hand to belong to a man. The fingers scrabbled at the ground before finding purchase on the smooth white material, then with a single powerful motion the wounded girl dragged herself forward.

There was a moment of complete stillness. Imogen had locked up, utterly unprepared for what she was seeing, unable to comprehend the sight before her.

The girl was dead. There was no question of this; she was missing half her face. Imogen could see inside the girl's skull, a thick mess of brown-grey sludge, white bone jagged and broken around it. Her left arm was stiff and her fingers were broken, the flesh torn away, sharp gore-covered bone all that remained. Her right arm had been torn off at the shoulder, nothing left but a sodden mass of cloth and dead blood.

Her right eye was missing.

Her left eye was wrong.

It bulged from its socket, no pupil or iris or anything visible except for that sickening brown goo. Some kind of thin yellow liquid trickled from the malformed organ and down the girl's cheek, staining her skin and what remained of her clothes.

While Imogen had lain there frozen, staring, the dead girl had reached out to drag herself further forward. She had no legs. In their place was a long tail of red-brown guts, thick and glistening sticky.

Something in Imogen's head changed, a switch labelled 'DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING GET AWAY RUN WHY ARE YOU JUST STARING YOU IDIOT RUN!' had been flicked, and she began struggling against the blocks covering her, thrashing her arms as hard as she could against them, working her good leg against whatever resistance she could find.

With an audible click the girl's head snapped around. Her mouth opened, strands of brown filth connecting upper lip to lower, and with a horrible lack of noise she brought her arm stiffly around to drag herself towards Imogen.

"No," Imogen breathed, hands shaking as she desperately tried to free herself, blocks of BioCrete!tm avalanching down—but she was still stuck, couldn't get a grip, couldn't find anything to push against, and the girl was coming, her broken fingers grasping against the ground, glistening entrails leaving a dead brown trail behind her, and she was making a noise, she was close enough now for Imogen to hear it, a low rumbling that came from deep in her throat, like a cat, she was purring, she was purring and that should have been ridiculous but it wasn't, it was the most terrifying sound Imogen had ever heard—

With a harsh shriek Imogen managed to wrench her right arm free of the blocks, scattering them everywhere, and with this another minor avalanche of the wretched useless things came cascading down—Imogen grabbed at them, desperate fingers clutching hard, and with a defiant cry she hurled a hunk of BioCrete!tm at the dead girl.

It bounced off her forehead and came to rest a metre away.

The dead girl didn't so much as flinch.

The purring noise was louder now, the dead girl's closeness bringing with it a nauseating sour-sweet smell that filled Imogen's head as she pushed desperately with her good leg, only managing to dislodge further blocks, she was just as stuck as ever and now the girl was reaching out, crawling up over the blocks—and then falling back. The blocks of BioCrete!tm shifted beneath the dead girl and she slid down with them, the rumbling purr growing louder as she clawed at the air, searching for solidity.

Imogen was still struggling, crying now in fear and frustration, her breath coming in ragged sobs as she tried to get her other arm out, tried to pull or push or wriggle or ANYTHING her way free, but without anything to push against it was impossible, all she could do was squirm uselessly as the dead girl found her grip, as she dragged herself up the pile of BioCrete!tm, as she slashed once more at Imogen's face—

Utterly helpless, Imogen was unable to do anything but scream as the dead girl's sharp bone stumps tore against the BioCrete!tm near her.

She missed. She missed! Frenzied hope rose within Imogen as she tried once more—

My leg. My other leg. It hurt when I kicked with it; I was pushing against something solid.

The dead girl's purr had grown into something like a snarl now, deep and raw as she clawed at the blocks, searching for the living flesh she knew was close, her head arching back as something caught her attention, as she found her prey, and her hand came around in a horribly fast arc towards Imogen's face—

Imogen scream of agony became a choking gag as she pushed as hard as she could with her right leg, a horrible wrong feeling deep inside even worse than the pain as she forced herself a few inches out of the BioCrete!tm blocks. The dead girl's hand scraped against the leather of her jacket—and found a grip. Imogen shuddered violently, near paralysed with fear and shock and pain and nausea, the stench of the girl almost a physical force, her face just inches from Imogen's, her mouth open wide as she lunged forward—

"NO!"

Imogen brought her left arm around in a desperate punch, the impact against the side of the dead girl's face sickeningly moist, and suddenly the dead girl's cheek was against hers, so hot it almost burnt, she could feel the girl's jaw moving, could hear the deep vibration of her harsh purring, and for a second they stayed like this, in this perverted embrace, before Imogen reached up and grabbed whatever she could, her fingers sinking into hot, yielding goo as she got a grip on the edge of the dead girl's exposed skull, and as the dead girl thrashed stiffly against her Imogen pulled as hard as she could, kicking with her good leg and scrabbling against the blocks, wrenching herself free of the cursed things with a wild, desperate yell. With an almost convulsive movement Imogen managed to get herself further up, the dead girl losing her grip on her jacket as she tried to claw at something soft, tried to bite at Imogen's stomach, her teeth clicking together so hard that Imogen could hear them breaking inside the girl's mouth. With no other choice Imogen pushed herself over, releasing the dead girl's skull as she rolled over her back and down, tumbling down the BioCrete!tm to the firmness beneath.

For long seconds Imogen lay there, face against the white ground, wheezing and snuffling and crying and winded, then she forced herself up, to her hands and knees as she scrabbled away, a low, raw purring coming from behind accompanied by the clinking of falling blocks, she looked back as she crawled to see the dead girl's arm raised high, clawing at nothing as she tried to turn in the unstable heap of blocks—suddenly Imogen remembered the drop, stopped herself a metre from the edge, her breathing shallow and fast now, too shallow, too fast, the beating of her heart hard and loud and frantic—

Imogen took a breath, but that didn't help. She looked back again, still on her hands and knees, at the dead girl struggling to free herself from the pile of blocks. It's okay, Imogen tried to tell herself. It's okay, she's trapped, but that didn't help either, she could feel panic and terror still inside her, suffocatingly heavy, she tried to take another breath but it wouldn't come, her throat had tightened and her lungs were empty—

Get away. Just get away. That's all I need to do. That's what I HAVE to do—stand up. I have to stand up, I can't crawl, I have to stand up, it doesn't matter about my leg, I'll deal with that, I can't be down here, I can't be like her—

Imogen hissed in pain as she tried to push herself up, the pressure on her leg too much—with clenched teeth she crawled away from the edge, away from the heap of BioCrete!tm with the dead girl clicking and purring and scrabbling within, towards the entrance, the hallway with the wide glass windows—

Except they weren't windows any more. Surrounding the entrance, the only way back inside, was a field of broken glass, shining in the bright sunlight.

There were more piles of BioCrete!tm near the rippled side—or what used to be the rippled side—of the building, but closer to the hallway the wall was solid enough for Imogen to pull herself up and slump against, panting, exhausted and hurting and with sour-sweet brain muck under her fingernails, in desperate need of comfort.

With shaking hands, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a flattened packet of cigarettes and her lighter. Trying to ignore the cold, liquid pain of her injured leg, she managed to get her lighter to catch on only the seventeenth attempt, and soon after that she was holding a lit cigarette in her trembling hand, a thin line of smoke trailing up from its end.

For some time she stared at it, almost frowning, then with a sudden, jerky movement she brought it to her lips and sucked in a welcome breath of calming fire. She held it inside her then let it out with a long, shuddering breath, coughing a little before greedily sucking in another lungful.

After half a minute of this Imogen was almost feeling sane again—her hands had stopped shaking, at least, and she was far enough away from where she'd been trapped that she couldn't hear the dead girl's purring, and her leg wasn't broken, she was almost certain of that, she couldn't put any kind of weight on it but from what she'd read if it was actually broken she should be screaming in pain from her foot even touching the ground—

And then Imogen heard the howl, and all feelings of comfort and security left her in an instant, replaced by a chilling dread.

It was deep and hard and so low it rumbled in the gut. The howl hadn't come from the dead girl in the BioCrete!tm, it had come from below, from somewhere distant—and yet in this still, warm air it had carried all the way up here.

Slowly, not really wanting to but somehow compelled, Imogen half-limped, half-hopped closer to the edge, looking down through the thin red supports to the promenade below.

There were dozens of them.

Most were crawling, like the dead girl who had attacked her, their legs missing or otherwise useless, dragging themselves along with one or both arms. Others were upright and walking—if the shambling, stiff-legged gait they used could be called 'walking'. They seemed agitated and somehow purposeful, all of them slowly moving in a single direction, towards the left, although Imogen couldn't see any reason for this. Without her glasses she couldn't make out details, but the blurriness of the scene below didn't make it any less horrific.

With a quiet, shaky exhalation, Imogen moved away from the edge, hopping towards the wall and leaning heavily against it. She noticed she was holding a half-smoked cigarette in her hand, and she raised it gratefully to her mouth and inhaled as she tried to fit her head around what was happening.

The sound of clinking from further along the outlook made her turn, but she couldn't see anything. The dead girl, she thought. Still trying to get free. Eventually she'll succeed. I have to get out of here. I have to get ...

Oh my god.

"Zack," Imogen whispered. She'd left him alone in that corridor—the outside of the building had been stripped bare, little more than the supports and piles of BioCrete!tm remaining, what about the inside? Had it held together? The wind had been strong enough to shatter the glass of the hallway here, what kind of—

Imogen's cigarette dropped from shaking fingers.

The hallway was a mess, broken glass and brightly coloured paper and the remains of potted plants strewn everywhere, scattered by the merciless wind.

Standing amongst it all, staring at Imogen, was a dead man.

He was covered in glass. Shards of it stuck out from his body at all angles, from his legs, his torso, his arms ... and from what remained of his face. Through shocked terror Imogen found a small place in herself that was grateful for her poor eyesight; what little detail she could make out was horrible enough.

No eyes, came a sudden, clear thought. He doesn't have any eyes. He can't see me. That's why he's just standing there. He doesn't know I'm here.

And instantly came another thought, even clearer than the first; so then why is he staring at me?

With great care Imogen shuffled forward, her right foot dragging behind. The dead man was in the centre of the hallway, at least a couple of metres away from the wall—if I follow it like this, Imogen thought, and if he doesn't move, I can get past him. But if I just wait here and he comes out I could be trapped.

And so Imogen made her slow way along the wall, shuffling and hopping, wincing as shattered glass crunched beneath her boot—the dead man didn't hear, or didn't move anyway, so that was something, at least—and wincing further as she dragged her foot through it—her boots were tough but that didn't make the experience of walking over broken glass any more pleasant. As she rounded the wall and got closer to the dead man a spark of hope rose inside Imogen—he's staring at where I was, she thought, not where I am now. He doesn't know where I am. I can just slip past him and inside and then—

Imogen gasped and nearly tripped over her feet as a chilling howl sounded from behind her—glancing sharply back she saw that the dead girl had managed to free herself from the crumbling blocks and had dragged herself out, that she had raised herself up as high as she could on her one good arm, that her head was arched back and that she was crying out long and low.

It was only for a second that Imogen stared, before an answering purr from the dead man made her look back at him—he was shuffling towards her, his voice jagged and weak, his movements slow and awkward. Imogen took a trembling breath as she resumed moving forward, as fast as she could, her hands against the smooth wall as she crunched through the glass. The dead man was close, just a few metres away, but he could barely move at all, the way he twitched forward an inch at a time as pitiful as it was disturbing—

With a gurgling purr the dead man pitched forward, arms outstretched, and Imogen screamed as stiff fingers and shards of glass scraped hard against her side—with a repulsed, shuddering flail she fended him away but his hand caught on her sleeve and they both went down, hard against the glass-covered ground. The dead man was still gurgling and purring, the rumble low and desperate, his hands scrabbling at Imogen as she struggled to push herself away—pain shot through her right leg as it hit against the wall and through her hands as she cut them against the glass shards, but with a final heavy push Imogen managed to get away and grab at the wall, and from there she regained her footing—the dead man snatched at her ankle but Imogen staggered away, another flash of pain almost blinding her as she was forced to put weight on her bad leg, and then she was leaving red smears against the wall as she stumbled away from the dead man and into the hallway, half-hopping, half-shuffling over bright comic book pages and spilled soil and dying plants and lush blue carpet as another howl came from behind her, weak and gurgling—

With a gasp that was almost a shriek Imogen felt the floor slide out from under her, only just managing to catch herself before falling—she'd slipped on the glossy paper of a comic book page, and she cursed all comic books as she steadied herself and continued on, along the corridor, towards ...

No. Not towards. Away. This wasn't the direction she'd come in from. She was heading away from the stairs she'd come up—

Imogen shuffled to a stop, her breathing ragged and tearful. Too hard, she thought. This is all just too hard. I can't even walk without a wall to lean on. My hands are cut. I'm bleeding. This is too hard.

The other side of the hallway had a rail along the wall. Imogen stared at it, then hopped slowly across to lean heavily against it.

She stayed like that for a minute.

Then another minute.

Awareness came, of something further up the corridor. There was a door there.

SUPPLY CLOSET: KEEP OUT.

Inside. It was dark, except for the ghostly glow of an emergency flashlight beside the door. Imogen pulled it off its holder and it burst into life, shining directly into her unwary eyes.

It went down on a shelf, its beam bright against the plastic bottles opposite.

There were a couple of large square buckets stacked up in the corner. Imogen took one of these, upended it, and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing. Nothing but breathe, ragged and uneven and wheezing and frightened and confused and exhausted.

Then Imogen put her face in her bleeding hands and her elbows on her knees and she quietly sank into despair.

Imogen didn't know how long she stayed there, in the dark little supply closet, but by the time she sat up and blinked and started thinking again her hands were gummed to her face with sticky blood, and the sound they made as she peeled them off was anything but pleasant.

There was a medical kit attached to the wall. Once Imogen figured out the unnecessarily complex push-together-then-pull-out latch system it sprang open, spilling most of its contents onto the floor. Still inside was a small blue and red bottle of spray bandage, which Imogen took out, looked at, then sprayed over her left hand.

"Ah," she moaned, as her hand lit on fire—or felt like it, at least. She spent an intense half minute waving her hand up and down with her eyes watering and her teeth firmly clenched before the sensation began to fade—except now two of her fingers were glued together by the spray, and she couldn't spread any of the others more than a few millimetres. Investigating the medical kit further revealed a small bottle of antiseptic, which—when combined with a cloth bandage—did an adequate job of cleaning the glue-like spray off her fingers.

I didn't even really need it, Imogen thought, as she examined her right hand—the one she hadn't sprayed. There were eight small cuts in it, none of them longer than an inch and none of them still bleeding. Nevertheless, she took the spray bandage bottle in her left hand and carefully applied it to the cuts on her right hand. It stung just as badly as before, but at least this time it didn't glue anything to anything else.

After her hands were dealt with and the spray was properly dry, Imogen inspected the unlikely-looking blue plastic thing in the bottom of the kit. It looked like two L-shaped brackets joined together by thin, flexible strips, and purported itself to be a 'universal brace'. To Imogen's surprise it seemed to work well—it was easy to attach to her foot even over her boot, and simple to secure using bandages from the kit. When she gingerly tested her weight on it, she found that she could put quite a lot of pressure on her injured foot before it hurt—enough to limp along with, as long as she was slow and careful. The brace pinched at her calf, but that was a small price to pay for being able to walk, however lamely.

In an almost delirious state of satisfaction, Imogen sat back down on the bucket and looked around the little closet. There were plastic mops and big bottles of chemical cleaners, a portable vacuum cleaner with a backpack for power, several clear plastic boxes filled with cleaning cloths, and a couple of pairs of blue and white overalls, neatly folded.

Imogen's sense of satisfaction faded. She took a small breath. For a moment she squeezed her eyes shut as tears threatened to come, then she took another, far shakier breath and she pushed her hair away from her face and she forced herself to start thinking; to face what was happening head-on.

Zombies. There was no avoiding the word; I'm dealing with zombies here. Clearly zombies, obviously zombies, no other explanation BUT 'zombies'.

But that's MAD, Imogen thought. Zombies are just ... they're just ...

They're just here. They're just trying to eat me. That wind came through and now it's calm and all the people who died are zombies.

Imogen realised she was shaking her head and forced herself to stop. It was no good going into denial, no good trying to pretend this wasn't happening; this IS happening. For god's sake, I have a dead girl's brains under my fingernails! It doesn't get much more real than that!

Brains. This sparked a memory in Imogen. What was it that everyone knew about zombies? How to kill them. Remove the head or destroy the brain, remove the head or destroy the brain, that's how you kill them, that's the ONLY way to kill them. What else? They're slow—but so am I, Imogen thought, even with this brace I can't run, I can barely walk, maybe I could outpace one but maybe not ... which means I have to be able to fight.

I need a weapon.

Imogen looked around the tiny supply closet again, but nothing there immediately leapt at her screaming 'I COULD BE USED TO SLAUGHTER ZOMBIES'. Remove the head or destroy the brain—okay, fine, good, I get it, but how do you actually DO that? You need a gun, or something with an edge, a sword or something, or maybe a shovel—yes, Imogen thought, a shovel would be perfect, they're nice and long and sturdy and the metal bit needs to be sharp to cut through dirt, but why am I even thinking about that? There aren't any shovels here. I doubt there's one in this entire building. Not unless someone came dressed as The Amazing Digger. That probably is an actual comic character, it's a weird enough idea.

Finally, grudgingly, Imogen selected a mop handle as her weapon. It was made of plastic and somewhat flimsy, but there was one thing about it that was extremely attractive; it was long. Engage at a distance, she thought. I don't NEED to kill them, I just need to keep them away from me.

But what if they get close? My boots are tough, I don't think they could get through those, and my jacket too, but these stockings, this top, and my hands and face ... because, yes, of course, that's another thing everyone knows, if a zombie bites you, you become a zombie—

Imogen took in a sudden, tearful breath. What if it doesn't kill you all the way? she thought, her heart beating faster, her breathing becoming quick and panicky. What if you're still inside, looking out, while you—

For several long seconds there was silence in the supply closet. Then Imogen made a tiny fearful squeak as the sound she was praying she'd imagined came again, closer this time.

Thump, drag. Thump, drag.

It was coming from the hallway outside.

Thump, drag. Thump, drag.

There's one out there, Imogen thought, trying to make herself calm, to force the fear from her body.

Thump, drag. Thump, drag.

That sounds so close, it's just there, it's just outside this door, why did I hide in here, this was a STUPID hiding place!

Thump, drag. Thump—

Imogen bit into her hand to stop herself from screaming, the hand she wasn't biting gripping tight around the smooth plastic pole of the mop.

From outside: purrrrrr.

It's making a sound like a cat, Imogen told herself, like a kitten, that's not scary at all, that's ridiculous, that's silly, that's funny, it's laughable really, a zombie that sounds like a cat, who ever heard of purring zombies?

From outside: purrrrrr.

It's not scary. It's NOT. It's just a sound, it's just like a normal living human trying to sound like a cat, in fact it's even sillier and less scary than that because it sounds so phlegmy and sick and raspy, it's like a cat with a cold, that's what it sounds like, a cat with a cold and broken metal stuck in its lungs and hideous brown filth filling its mouth—

From outside:

Inside the supply closet, Imogen held her breath. The zombie had fallen silent. What does that mean? Is it thinking? Can they think?

From outside: scritchscritchscritch.

Imogen shrank back away from the door, trembling and trying not to whimper. It can't get in, she told herself. They're stupid, zombies are stupid, everyone knows that, they can't open doors, they can't work the knobs.

From outside: scritchscritchBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG—

With a small scream Imogen scrabbled away from the door, crying out again as she put her bad foot down and pain shot up her leg—she stumbled back, hitting hard against a shelf and causing a collection of plastic bottles to fall down on her. She didn't even notice, she was too busy being terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought as the banging filled the small space, unbelievably loud, shaking the walls and the shelves and everything—

The door opens outwards.

—and as well as the banging there was still the purring, low and repetitive and desperate—

With a harsh scream Imogen flung herself forward, all of her weight on her left foot, her hand against the knob as she leant hard on the door and burst out—there was the split-second nightmare flash of a broken, scrabbling hand coming for her face and then Imogen was screaming again as she half-fell, half-pushed forward, the mop awkward and unwieldy in her hand, its end scraping against wall and floor before she could bring it into contact with her enemy, whacking it as hard as she could against the zombie's side.

The sound it made was like a towel being tossed onto a linoleum floor.

The zombie reacted by purring and swiping at Imogen's face.

Imogen screamed again as she twisted away to fall flat on her back, her head missing the wall by less than an inch. The zombie purred loudly as it clawed at the air above where she'd fallen, then its head snapped down and its swollen, dead eyes stared at her and she stabbed desperately upwards with the flimsy, useless mop as it half-lunged, half-fell towards her, the point pressing hard against the zombie's chest—

There was a loud SNAP and a sudden lack of resistance, and then heavy pressure on Imogen's legs as the zombie fell on her.

"No! NO!"

Imogen almost gagged as she pushed at the zombie's moist, too-hot head, its thin black hair loose and dry. The zombie was purring and clawing at her skirt and top, the part not covered by her jacket, she could feel its sharp broken bones scraping against her stomach through the thin fabric, and her grip on its horrible head was firm enough to keep it from biting her but it was jerking its head from side to side, its hair coming loose in clumps under her hands, its mouth open so wide, too wide, and she was losing her grip and its claws were tearing through her top—

With a scream of terrified denial Imogen wrenched the zombie's head to the side. There was a sickening crack as something gave beneath her hands, and a terrible gurgling purr rumbled from deep within the zombie's chest. Imogen panted and grunted as she pushed its lolling head hard aside and shoved with her good leg, managing to roll it partway off her before she twisted and clambered away—one hard claw scraped against her stockings and caught on her boot, but she kicked out and caught the horrible thing in its forehead, the limp way its head snapped back causing warm bile to rise in her throat. As she crawled to the wall Imogen spat onto the carpet, then again, then she retched and threw up, on her hands and knees, unable to control her body's response to what she'd just been through. It was still behind her, still trying to get to her, but she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but expel what little her stomach contained as the zombie clawed closer. Imogen felt its hand against her boot as her stomach made its final convulsion, as she spat hard and reached up with a shaking hand, managing to grip the guide rail on the wall as the zombie clutched at her foot—her good foot. She tried to shake it off but it was already reaching with its other claw, sudden sharp pain in her thigh as it grasped tight. With a shrill cry Imogen grabbed down, pulling its hand away—but it grabbed back, gurgling and purring, bone claws scraping against her bare wrist. Imogen shrieked and kicked and struggled, jerking her hand away, somehow managing to get loose of its grasp, and then she was on her back, on the floor, her grip on the wall lost, and the zombie was pushing itself up, stiff arms tense, its head dangling loose from its broken neck as it dragged itself towards her, and with a cry Imogen kicked up, the tip of her boot connecting solidly with the zombie's cheek and snapping its head up and back. She drew back her foot and kicked out again, this time the heel of her boot slammed into the zombie's head with a hard thud and an awful wet tearing sound, and with one final strong kick Imogen drove her boot forward, grunting through tightly gritted teeth as she felt impact and then emptiness. There was a soft thud as the zombie's head fell against the lush blue carpet. Thick brown goo oozed from the hole in its neck. Its arms were stiff against the carpet, quivering to keep upright.

Imogen took a sharp, urgent breath, suddenly aware that she'd stopped breathing, and she reached up to grip the guide rail on the wall with a shaking hand, barely managing to convince her fingers to grip on, and she slowly pulled—

"AH!"

The grip around her ankle was as strong as ever, the claws against the leather of her boot in no way weak. The headless zombie brought its other hand forward, clawing against the carpet as Imogen stared in dismayed shock.

"That's not fair," she whispered hoarsely. "That's just not fair."

As if in response the zombie let out a gurgling purr, red-brown filth bubbling from its neck hole, its claw still tight around her ankle—Imogen couldn't shake it off, and she didn't dare try to kick it with her injured foot. The zombie's left hand was grasping at the carpet as if searching, the motion abrupt, almost insect-like, then suddenly the clawing stopped—the zombie stopped. Its entire body quivered as Imogen tried once more to shake it loose, to no avail, and with an oozing, gurgling purr it pulled itself forward, its grip around Imogen's foot stronger than ever, the claws of its free hand sliding against the folds of her skirt. A sharp chill ran through Imogen's body as she felt them catch, felt them tearing through her skirt, the zombie's arm jerking roughly and convulsively, and she struggled to get away—but she was already exhausted, out of breath, fighting was too hard, too much effort—

Imogen let go of the railing and let herself fall, the thick carpet comfortable against her cheek. The grip around her foot, too, was welcome, and the tearing in her skirt brought with it numbly warming feelings of liberation.

She let her eyes close and fell into familiar timeless oblivion. The pressure against her cheek was all she wanted in the world, if she could just have that then nothing else mattered, not living, not dying, not food, not water, not anyone else—

The zombie was clawing through her skirt, through the tear it had made. Its claws were hard against her thick black stockings. Already one had caught, and again came the jerking, convulsive tearing, and soon Imogen's bare flesh was exposed, soon the claws came scraping against her soft skin—

With a tired grunt Imogen reached down and grabbed the zombie's hand, trying to pull it away from her stockings, but all she achieved was to widen the tear. For a moment her grip faltered, then as the zombie's claws came scraping against her skin again she gritted her teeth with unwanted effort and yanked its hand away as hard as she could. The zombie's wrist was hot and moist and yielding, a slipperiness between the skin and whatever lay beneath. Its broken fingers moved frantically, flicking down in a futile attempt to claw at the hand that held it.

The zombie's other claw was still tight around Imogen's ankle. Holding tight to its wrist, once more she pulled herself up using the guide rail, slower and more wearily than ever, taking care not to let her injured foot touch against the floor. The zombie seemed pathetic now—Imogen's hold on its left arm meant that it was half-raised off the floor in a ridiculous, awkward position, a useless creature futilely holding on to life, and yet even without its head there was not the slightest faltering of its grip, not the barest hint that it was weakening or that it would ever stop moving. Imogen gazed down at the horrible thing still clinging to her, her eyes blank, her expression neither determined nor scared. It had once been a girl. She had worn new black jeans and a red t-shirt with a logo Imogen didn't recognise; no words, just the image of a jester's skull. Through the grey mist in Imogen's head there came an awareness, a realisation of things as they must be, and with great care and patience she went through the process that would release her from the zombie's grasp. The first step involved shuffling along the wall to a bench up the corridor, where she carefully sat down. Imogen then worked to scrape the zombie's hand loose against the bench's hard plastic edging—as soon as it lost its grip it scrabbled to regain it, but Imogen had expected this and she stomped hard against its wrist. There was firm resistance, but three stomps later she felt something crack, and two stomps after that three of the fingers stopped their manic twitching, and just one further hard stomp meant that the remaining fingers moved no more.

Next was the zombie's other hand, the one Imogen had kept a grip on for so long; her fingers were aching and there was a fiery pain in her wrist. Still sitting on the bench, Imogen reached forward with her other hand and took a firm grip further up the zombie's arm, and after several experimental wrenches she managed to get it to crack. After that it was only a matter of time and effort before she'd damaged the arm enough that the fingers could no longer move.

With a quiet, weary moan, Imogen let the zombie's now-useless arm flop to the floor. It was still trying to move, still staining the carpet with dribbled brown goo from its neck, still futilely trying to claw at her.

Imogen leant back against the wall, rested her boot against the zombie's chest, and let her eyes close.

And then it howled.

Imogen stared down at the zombie. The noise was horrible, not remotely human, more like something from one of Zack's cartoons, the one with the giant insects, screeching and shaky and horrifyingly sad.

It went on for several seconds, and then it stopped.

With a heavy, wheezing exhalation, Imogen let out the breath she'd been holding. Now the zombie was purring again, gurgling and spluttering. Imogen tried to ignore it. To her dull surprise, she succeeded.

Once more Imogen's eyes closed, and she let her head fall back.

After a minute, still with her head back and her eyes closed, Imogen reached into her pocket and pulled out her smokes and her lighter. She got her lighter to catch in four goes, lit a cigarette, shoved her lighter and the pack back into her pocket, then delicately placed the filter tip against her lips.

Slowly, so slowly, she inhaled.

Th-thump.

The zombie was stirring beneath her boot, squirming hard against the floor.

Th-thump.

Imogen drew in another burning lungful of smoke.

Th-thump.

There was a pressure against her boot as the zombie managed to get its right arm up and against it, flopping hopelessly against the tough leather.

Th-thump.

With a heavy puff Imogen sent the half-smoked cigarette flying to the other side of the corridor. Then she let her head fall to the side. Then she opened her eyes.

Th-thump.

Its leg seemed damaged. With each faltering stutter of a step it only moved forward a few inches. Its right arm dangled from its shoulder, held in place by cords of useless tissue. The right side of its face was a smashed mess of gore and exposed bone.

Its left arm reached out, fingers snapping at the air.

It took another stumbling step forward.

Th-thump.

Beneath Imogen's boot the other zombie thrashed weakly. From its seeping neck hole came a gurgled attempt at a howl.

Imogen's face was blank. Her eyes were flat and lifeless. Her mind was grey and empty. If she'd had the energy, she might have thought 'just come and get me'. She might have thought 'just end all of this'. She might have thought—

With a long, weary groan, Imogen pulled herself up off the bench, her hand tight around the guide rail. She stepped over the headless, broken zombie at her feet, and she started limping back the way she had come, stopping only to retrieve her broken mop from the floor—it hadn't quite broken in half, only the last quarter had snapped off. Imogen used it to help support her weight as she continued her slow escape, outpacing the crippled zombie behind her more than thrice over even with her injured leg.

Soon it was left behind.

With nothing immediately threatening her Imogen stopped, her breathing laboured and reedy. At her feet was the cover of a comic, ripped and creased, one among many, depicting a stick-thin girl with ludicrous breasts hurling a sword at a winged beast. Behind her lightning flashed, and along the bottom of the cover blazed the legend: 'MAXINE BLADE WILL SLAUGHTER THIRTY-SEVEN HARPITES IN THIS ISSUE - GUARANTEED!!!!'.

With an irritated grunt and a flash of pain Imogen kicked the cover away and kept moving. It wasn't long before she reached the hallway leading to the outlook—to her relief there were no signs of the glass shard zombie or the crawling girl. Imogen didn't stop to ponder where they might have gone, she just kept limping on. Soon after that she reached the stairs leading down, the same ones she'd come up what felt like days ago.

The stairs were wide and relatively clear, just a few dozen burst comics cluttering the steps. Imogen made her way down with some effort, gripping tight to the rail at the side, jaw tight as she concentrated on getting down without falling. By the time she reached the bottom she was panting for breath and her face was shiny with sweat, and she had to spend a minute simply recovering. Further comics covered the floor, along with shards of glass—there was a broken window nearby, long and thin and high in the wall, and some of the light covers had shattered. That's why it's so dim, Imogen thought, the wind broke most of the lights. Fine for now, but eventually the sun's going to set ...

Putting this unwelcome thought out of her head, Imogen started forward again—she was sure she'd come this way while looking for a place to smoke, which was good for two reasons. The first was that it meant she was on her way back to where she'd left Zack. The second was that she remembered seeing a bathroom somewhere along this corridor.

Several minutes of careful progress later, Imogen spotted the toilet entrance—two doors, blue for boys and red for girls. The corridor was dim here, with no windows and only one working light. The only good point was that there were less comics littering the floor, the threat of slipping greatly reduced. Even so it took Imogen more than a minute to get to the toilet, and she reached gratefully for the handle—

Which turned on its own.

With a gasp Imogen jerked her hand back, stepping away—forgetting her injured foot. She stumbled as pain shot through her, falling hard against the floor with a loud, involuntary 'oof!', and she scrambled back, pushing against carpet and comic pages with her good foot as the door opened.

What emerged was an abomination. It towered over Imogen, dark and angular, its shape terrifyingly unfamiliar. Its legs were thick and covered in square black scales, its arms bulged with block-like nodules. Its head, if it could be called that, towered high and dark, and from its rippling extrusions dangled luminescent yellow moons and bright green stars—

Imogen blinked, and the abomination resolved itself into the shape of a girl wearing a costume that was, for whatever reason, shaped like a castle. Her face was half-hidden by a kind of mask, just the top half visible, her big brown eyes both frightened and hopeful.

"You're not ... you're not one of them, right? Answer me if you aren't!"

Imogen stared, then found her voice: "I'm not."

With some effort the girl put her hand on her chest, breathing out in a ragged expulsion of relief. "Thank goodness. Oh, thank goodness, you're the first—let me help you up."

The girl's gloved hand was rough and warm, and Imogen held it tight as she regained her footing.

"Your leg—are you okay? I'm Hana, by the way. I ... are you okay?"

Imogen was looking past Hana, into the toilets.

"They're clear?" she asked. "There's nothing in there?"

Hana shook her head. "I've been hiding in there, but I got hungry ... I didn't even know you were out here—"

"Could you stand guard?"

"Of ... of course."

Imogen felt slightly uncomfortable using the toilet while someone was outside, and Hana's chattering didn't help at all—now that the girl had gotten over her initial fear she wouldn't shut up.

"—find the others, we all got split up when the winds came through, I think it was worse higher up and better further down and we were deep 'inside' the building so maybe that helped, I tried to go down but there are so many more of them on the lower levels, I couldn't even get down the stairs so I just ran here, that was after ... that was after ... at first we didn't even think it was winds, we all thought it was an earthquake but it was just chaos, it was just awful, it was just ... just ... and the others, we got split up and then I was with a group and we were running, just trying to get out, and then the corridor ... and the glass ... the glass, it all ... they all ..."

Imogen tugged her stockings up, idly wondering just how many times she'd have to listen to variants of this story—assuming, of course, that there were other survivors. She picked up her broken mop handle, pushed open the toilet door, and hobbled over to the sinks to wash her hands. Hana had gone quiet. When Imogen glanced over at her, she saw that the girl was crying into her gloved hands.

Oh great, Imogen thought. She's a weeper.

"Did you see a boy, scrawny, stupid-looking, almost twelve but he looks more like he's eight, black pajamas, red mask?"

Hana sniffed, then looked up and shook her head. To Imogen's surprise, she smiled weakly.

"I haven't, I'm sorry." Hana coughed lightly into her hand. "Is he your brother?"

Imogen nodded, then leant down to drink some water from the tap.

"I was almost losing it. You knew that I needed to focus on something other than what happened. That's why you asked about your brother then, to force me to focus. You're really strong, aren't you?"

Imogen frowned as she drank. No, she thought, I just wanted to shut you up.

Hana was staring at her now, trembling hands clasped together in front of herself. Her face—what could be seen of it over the mask—was pale.

"We can go together," she said, desperate hope in her voice. "Right? If we're together we'll be stronger. We can get out of here."

"I have to find my brother."

"We can look for him together, I don't mind helping, I'd love to help."

Imogen pretended to continue drinking as she studied Hana's reflection in the mirror above the sink. She's sweating, she thought. Her face is shiny with it. Her hair's stuck to her forehead. That trembling in her hands, too, and there's something about her eyes ...

Her sleeve. At the back. Her costume's torn. It looks tough but it's just paper-mache.

"Thanks for guarding me," Imogen said, as she straightened. She picked up her mop handle and started towards the door. "But I don't think we should stay together."

"What? No, we have to! There's so many of them, if we're apart—"

"My brother's on the lower levels. You said it yourself, there are more zombies down there—"

"Don't call them that!"

Imogen looked back at Hana, her hand on the door.

"Why not?"

"Because ... because they're people!"

Imogen pushed the door open and looked out. It seemed clear.

"Don't leave me!"

"You've been bitten."

"No! I haven't, I haven't, it was just ... just a scratch ... no, please!" Hana stepped towards Imogen, who pushed the door further open and limped out into the corridor. "You have to help me, you HAVE to! There's one of them, he's hunting me, I'm sure he is, I keep seeing him—"

Hana interrupted herself by coughing hoarsely. She tried to recover but there was nothing she could do except cough harder and harder as Imogen limped away from the bathroom. She'd gotten a dozen metres before the door came open and Hana staggered out, coughing and sobbing as she reached out her trembling hand—

"PLEASE! Please help me, I don't—"

Another coughing fit seized her and she doubled over, clutching at her stomach. Imogen's blank expression didn't change, nor did her pace. She continued to walk away, left hand against the wall to support herself, right hand gripping the broken mop handle tight, Hana's pitiful sobbing and coughing left behind as she struggled onwards.

Even just a scratch, Imogen was thinking. Just a scratch, and you're dead. Worse than dead. Infected. She couldn't suppress a shudder at the thought of turning into one of those things. Worse than death. Much worse. I'd rather—

Imogen stopped.

There was a corner ahead, lit by two dim lights set high on the wall. Lying on the floor below was an arm, barely recognisable as such, broken and bloodied. Bright bone was visible through dark blood.

Eight slow, shuffling steps took Imogen to the corner.

There were more than a dozen of them. Maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen, maybe more, maybe less. It was hard to count.

They were all very clearly dead.

The nearest had two horribly broken arms and was missing a leg, and the way his head hung loose was disturbingly wrong. Imogen forced herself to look up, to look away; further down the corridor there was the blue of the sky.

It was easy to picture what had happened here. The group fleeing through the corridor, heading towards the light, and then the window had blown in and showered them with glass. That's not what had killed most of them, though. It was being blown back here, all the way down the corridor, knocked against walls and floor and ceiling—even without her glasses Imogen could see the wide red smears.

For several seconds she stared at the bodies.

Then she started forward again. The closest corpse was just a few metres in, lying against the wall, and Imogen limped carefully to the middle of the corridor to avoid it.

The rest were more difficult. Most of them lay heaped across the width of the hallway, limbs tangled with limbs, pressed together in death.

Imogen picked her way forward—going to the walls wasn't an option, there were too many of them piled against them, even walking down the middle one shuffling step after another was difficult, but there was a path, of sorts, where the bodies lay thinnest. Step here, Imogen thought, and then here, and then she planted the end of her mop handle firmly and hopped over a leg, and then she planted it again and hopped over an arm, expecting at any moment for the corpses to start moving—and as she hopped forward she realised that the air wasn't just thick with the rusty smell of blood, there was also that sickening sour-sweet smell, faint but present, they're turning, Imogen thought, trying to move faster, they're definitely turning—

"Soon they'll change."

Imogen looked up sharply—she'd been so focused on not losing her balance that she hadn't noticed the boy standing down the corridor.

"I thought that some might have already, that they might be intelligent enough to set a trap, of sorts. But perhaps not."

Imogen was almost clear of the bodies now. The boy watched her as she hopped over the last of them.

"Well done," he said, dryly—except now Imogen saw that it wasn't a boy, it was a girl. She had short, silky brown hair that fell over her face, almost hiding the deep, diagonal scar across her nose, stretching right to left. Her eyes were dark and narrow and slightly slanted, and her face was both angular and smooth. The open jacket she wore was black with a fluffy woollen collar, ending above her waist. Beneath was a plain white top tucked into her sturdy black trousers, which were secured with crossed brown belts. For no apparent reason, three smaller black belts were buckled around her right leg. Her boots were big and tough-looking, and in her hand was some kind of bladed weapon, bulky and thick, the grip more like a pistol's than a sword's. Around her neck was a silver medallion.

"Oh, there. They're starting."

Imogen looked back to see one of the corpses was stirring—a twitching in its fingers and a convulsive, repetitive jerking of its arm.

"Your foot is injured. Were you bitten?"

Imogen shook her head as she looked back at the girl, who now had a faintly amused expression on her face.

"Hm. Well then."

Without anything further the girl put her weapon across her shoulder, turned, and walked away, her stride long and masculine, leaving Imogen to stare after her—then follow, although she had no hope of catching up. That wasn't her intention in any case; away, Imogen thought. Not to. Just away.

The girl disappeared into a distant side corridor.

From behind there came a low purring.

Imogen limped on, her mouth tight.

The purring grew louder.

Imogen forced herself not to look back, instead concentrated on moving forward. I don't remember a window, she thought, to distract herself from what was happening behind her. If I'd seen a window I would have walked towards it. So I must have come here by one of these side corridors.

Imogen's teeth involuntarily clenched and her hand tightened around the mop handle as a long, thrumming howl sounded from behind her. Probably it was this one, she thought, heading towards the nearest side corridor. I recognise this grey stripe going along the wall, this weird yellow-cream colour is definitely familiar to me, I'm sure I've seen this comic before—wait, these weren't here when I came up. It was the wind that scattered them.

For some reason this thought brought with it a dull weariness, and Imogen let herself slump against the wall. He's probably dead, she thought. Smashed against something. He doesn't weigh anything, the wind would've just picked him up and ...

Time passed.

From behind, from within the wider corridor: purrrrr.

Imogen blinked.

Away.

This part of the complex was clear; clear of scattered comics, clear of zombies. There was shattered glass around. There was soil spread over the thick carpets.

Eventually there was an outer hallway, open to the sky, both wall and ceiling made from wide glass panels—or they had been, at least.

The crunching of glass underfoot went unnoticed.

The air was still.

No wind blew, none at all.

Imogen barely glanced out, and soon found herself in another internal corridor, this one with doors leading off it, most of them either missing or hanging off broken hinges. She shuffled along the very centre of the corridor, tensing up every time she passed an open door, glancing in as she passed but seeing nothing but wrecked furniture.

Like a dream, came the pleasantly numb thought, as Imogen limped through more empty corridors. Like a dream where you're looking for something but you never find it. Just walking and walking without ever—

For a moment Imogen stopped and squinted, then she continued limping forward. The corridor she was in opened onto a wide concourse, low and long. It had once had windows at both ends. No longer. Clothes and luggage and boxes and packaging lay heaped and scattered in the kind of mess you wanted to just turn your back on and ignore forever. The actual shops were further up—and further down, with corridors leading off the concourse in the middle, but Imogen had already spotted her target. There's always one, she thought, as she picked her way over a pile of torn dresses and ragged skirts. From this far away the sign was just a blur to Imogen, but the familiar green and gold colouring marked it as a +Health+ franchise store.

The inside was worse than the outside. The shop's shelves had fallen and in some cases shattered, partially blocking the entrance. The floor was covered, literally covered with pills of every colour and size, spilled from burst plastic containers and smashed plastic boxes. Crawling over them was unpleasant, but there was no other way through the shop; the fallen shelves had created a tight, low maze that led, after a few minutes of grunting, muttering effort, to the counter. Behind the counter was a door—or a doorway at least, the door itself was lying flat on the floor in the small room beyond. Imogen crawled through, considered standing now that she was able, then blew out a short, weary breath. What's the point, she thought, as she crawled over to a jumbled pile of boxes. Before entering the +Health+ store Imogen had rummaged through the scattered clothes, trying to find a bag, finally chancing upon a green cloth thing with a broken clasp and a rip in its side. The strap had come loose, too, so she'd roughly tied the end to the rip and called it 'adequate'.

Several of the boxes contained exactly what Imogen had been looking for; plastic-wrapped energy bars. Imogen stuffed her bag with MicroFibre Protein Logs and CarrotPLUS! Bars and Organic ApriNut Slabs and more besides. With sustenance taken care of, Imogen turned her attention to the soaking-wet pile of boxes against the far wall—even more precious than food, she thought, what's that saying? 'Three weeks without food, three days without water'? Most of the bottles had split open, but eventually Imogen found four with their seals intact, and all but one of these went into the bag on top of the bars. After that Imogen spent an industrious few minutes jawing her way through an EnergON cube, washed it down with the contents of the remaining water bottle, and then crawled back through the store.

Straight into the edge of a sword.

"Stop there. STOP there."

Imogen looked up at the owner of the ridiculously huge sword she'd just bumped her head against. He was tall and slim with improbably spiky yellow hair and bright green eyes, wearing a collection of broad black leather pads buckled over a black shirt and trousers. His right arm was bare, and he wore black gloves. Beside him was a girl, short and pouty with brown hair down past her waist, wearing a bulging white top that left her midriff bare, and black leather short-shorts with, for some reason, suspenders. Her hands were protected by bulky red fingerless gloves. She was holding a broken length of wood.

"Come on," said the boy, shaking his sword at Imogen. "Give us that bag."

Imogen stared up at him, then looked at the girl, then she pushed herself up with the aid of her broken mop handle, and she spoke, a single, flat word:

"No."

"GIVE IT!" screamed the boy.

"There's plenty more in there," Imogen said. "Go and get it yourselves."

"Just give us the bag," said the girl. She had an accent, maybe American.

"Why—"

"IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD! JUST GIVE US THE BAG!"

Imogen stared at the boy, then she put her weight on her good foot and whacked him in the face with her mop handle.

"OW!"

"Grow up," Imogen muttered, as she turned to go, before grunting and falling against the side of the store as the huge sword slammed against her. It was made of plastic and light for its size; being forced to put weight on her bad foot hurt Imogen more than the impact.

"JUST GIVE—"

The boy stopped as the girl tugged on his arm. She pointed—not far away, emerging from a side corridor, was a zombie—a girl, her arms dangling at her sides, her head drooping down, wearing a 'sexy' nurse outfit. Her left eye was bandaged, as were her arms and one of her legs.

The boy and the girl exchanged glances, then turned and started walking towards the zombie.

"What are you doing?" Imogen asked, despite herself. The boy and girl stopped and looked back at her, their expressions identically confused.

"Killing it," said the boy.

"Why?"

"Because ... because we HAVE to kill them," said the girl.

"Why?"

The boy and the girl glanced at each other again.

"The more we kill," the boy said, as if explaining something utterly basic to someone irredeemably stupid, "the better we'll get at killing them."

Imogen had already turned to limp away, shaking her head. She heard the two behind her exchange low words, then glanced back after a few more steps to see them attacking the zombie.

An hour, Imogen thought, as she limped down a side corridor. I give them an hour before they're both dead.

The corridor Imogen had chosen was decorated with a mural along each wall, bright, blocky figures dancing amidst the abstract towers of an arabesque city. Its meaning was lost on Imogen. She was more interested in what lay ahead; a wide 'main' corridor. The blue carpeted floor was covered in glass and comic pages—but not many, Imogen thought. There weren't many in the mall area either. I'm away from the convention area. I'm going in the wrong—

Purrrr.

She'd been pretty, once. Even in death she wasn't as grotesquely deformed as the other zombies Imogen had seen—at least, her face wasn't. Her body was studded with shards of broken glass, mostly in her right side. She was standing here when those windows blew in, Imogen thought, as she watched the zombie turn towards her—it was a few dozen metres away, alone in the corridor. It had on a pink and purple fairy princess costume, the wings torn to shreds.

Young, Imogen thought. Small.

And then, as the zombie shuffled towards her, Imogen added one more descriptor to her list; quick. The zombie wasn't close to running, but it was clear that it could move faster than she could limp.

Imogen had a few seconds before the zombie was close enough to attack her, which she spent limping over to the broken windows. They stretched from floor to ceiling, had made up the entire right-hand wall of the corridor, and looked down onto a small internal courtyard, two floors down, once filled with trees and bushes and benches, now filled with nothing more than broken glass, splintered wood both natural and processed, and a generous scattering of brightly coloured comic pages.

The girl was close now, purring low and constant as she shambled towards Imogen, her head cocked to the left, her mouth open wide, her arms outstretched. Her hands weren't claws, Imogen noticed. Her fingers were intact. Imogen didn't spend any time pondering the significance of this, instead braced her good foot, raised the broken mop handle, and pressed it against the girl's chest.

Quick, Imogen thought, as she tried pushing and the girl stumbled back, but light.

It took effort and patience, and several times Imogen hissed in pain as she was forced to put too much weight on her bad foot, and the way the plastic mop handle bent was quietly terrifying, but eventually she managed to push the zombie to the gap at the side of the corridor. With a final grunt of exertion and a heavy push, she sent it tumbling backwards. It made no sound as it fell, but there was a solid 'thud' upon impact. Imogen limped to the edge to look down, and was gloomily unsurprised to see that the girl was already trying to get up, apparently undamaged by the fall.

But she's out of my way, Imogen thought, as she turned to limp away. That's all that matters.

The blown-in glass walls ended soon enough, replaced by brown walls with moody concept lighting—still intact, Imogen noted. As she walked she noticed an increase in scattered comics, and piles of white cloth—the covers from the booths, she realised, after passing a couple. Which means there should also be—

Imogen froze, kneeling, her hand outstretched to pick up a thin metal pole; the support for a booth. She shivered as she heard it again, a wet, crunching, slurping sound. There was no need to crawl forward and look down the side corridor to know what it was, but she did so anyway. Two zombies were there, one kneeling, the other sitting with its legs outstretched in a way that might have been comical if it wasn't for the fact that both of them were feasting on the body of a large man.

So they do eat corpses, Imogen thought, as she crawled backwards towards the pole, her eyes fixed on the zombies—who seemingly hadn't noticed her. Or maybe they just don't care. They've got a big fat guy to eat, why would they want to attack me?

Imogen's hand shook as she grasped the metal pole. It was thin and long, a few inches taller than she was, and it didn't seem especially sturdy—but it's better than this useless bit of plastic, Imogen thought, as she discarded her broken mop handle with something resembling satisfaction.

Imogen made her way past the feasting zombies as quickly and quietly as she could manage, walking made easier with her new metal pole. The corridor stretched further ahead, but she felt somehow compelled to take the next side passage she found—this one was short, leading to an open area with bench seats arranged around the edges. They were bolted to the floor, like all of the benches in the complex, and hadn't been moved by the wind. Also untouched was the large, rounded sculpture in the middle of the room—it was made of a rough, yellow-white stone, vaguely resembled a feminine humanoid reaching for the sky, and was one of the ugliest things Imogen had ever seen. Above it the room extended through the upper floors to terminate in a glass dome, which had, predictably enough, shattered in the winds. Everything was covered in glass, including the benches. Imogen spent a minute picking a space clear, then sat down with a little puff of weary relief. The seat was hard and comfortable, but as soon as Imogen's legs were off the ground they began to ache. She contemplated having a smoke, but decided against it—not that she didn't want one, but the effort involved in reaching into her pocket, getting out her lighter and the pack, taking out a cigarette etc. just seemed like far too much of a hassle. Instead she let her eyes close and her head fall back.

And almost instantly opened her eyes again and looked around, because the sound coming from the corridor to her left couldn't have been anything but a zombie shambling over broken glass.

Imogen took hold of her metal pole and used it to push herself to her feet, wearily and reluctantly. Before the zombie even came into sight she was limping towards the corridor opposite, the corridor that led to yet another corridor—who designed this place? Imogen found herself thinking, as she squinted to the left and right. It's just corridors and corridors and corridors with no point to any of it.

For no particular reason Imogen chose to head left, staying close to the wall but mostly using the metal pole to support herself. This corridor looked familiar to her—but, she thought, that's probably because everywhere in this stupid place looks exactly the same. There seemed to be more comics scattered around, at least, which meant she was getting closer to the convention area. This is the fourth floor, she thought. I left Zack on the third floor. If I can just—

This line of thinking was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of a still body lying against the wall. It was a man, his bearded face blotchy and red, the blue carpet beneath his swollen right hand made dark by blood. He wore a costume, some kind of orange and black armour. Beside him, presumably fallen from his face, were a pair of glasses, the frames thick and black.

He's still breathing, Imogen realised, after limping a little closer. She steadied herself on her good foot and prodded the man with her metal pole. There was no reaction. She prodded again, a little harder. Still no reaction. Holding her breath, her eyes fixed on the man's still form, Imogen limped closer then crouched down to pick up the glasses. One of the lenses was cracked, but that didn't matter; they didn't fit her prescription. In fact, Imogen thought, frowning as she studied them, I don't think these are real at all. Just prop glasses.

With an irritated tut Imogen dropped the glasses beside the man, then her eyes widened as she noticed what he was sitting on—a crowbar! Imogen was just about to reach out to tug it from beneath him when she realised that, like the glasses, it was fake, nothing more than painted wood. With another tut, even more irritated than the first, Imogen pushed herself up and went to walk away.

"I know, I got excited too."

It took Imogen a moment to find the speaker—she was hiding around a corner, just her hand and half of her face visible. When she saw Imogen had spotted her, she smiled and stepped out.

"Are you bitten?" the girl asked. "Or scratched, even getting scratched is enough. Are you?"

Imogen shook her head.

"I was watching you, you didn't look like you are, but your foot—"

"It's just sprained or something," Imogen said. The girl was pretty, short and slim with an honest, wholesome face and deep brown eyes with long eyelashes. She wore a blue and white schoolgirl's uniform and had a light yellow bag at her side. Her hair was the only thing that seemed 'off' about her; it was short and dark and messy. The girl noticed Imogen looking at it and laughed a little.

"I know," she said, raising her hand to try, ineffectively, to smooth it down. "I was wearing a wig, it probably saved my life, if that thing had grabbed my real hair ..."

"Are you bitten?" Imogen felt she had to ask. "Or scratched?"

"No. No, thank goodness. I didn't ... I mean, I wasn't ..." The girl trailed off, took a wide-eyed breath, then smiled at Imogen again. "I'm ... um, call me Bailey. What's your name?"

"Imogen."

"Oh, cool name. That probably has a cool meaning, right?"

"No. It doesn't mean anything."

"Oh. Um. I'm trying to figure out the best way to say this, or ask this or whatever. Um, just, do you want to travel together? 'Travel', that sounds so lame—it's just, you're the first, um, 'survivor', I guess, that I've seen, the first one who hasn't, um ... you know. I'm making such a mess of this." Bailey looked up at Imogen, hopeful. "So ... do you? If we're together, I mean if we're not alone, then we've got to have a better chance of getting out of this alive. Don't we?"

Imogen had been silent and still while Bailey had talked, but now her eyes went down as she considered the offer.

"I'm looking for my brother," she said, after a few seconds. "I don't just want to get out."

"I'm looking for my sister, too," said Bailey. "Um, she's dressed like a harlequin—um, kind of like a clown, in yellow and black, you haven't ...?"

Imogen shook her head.

"Maybe we could look for them both together? Ugh, now I sound desperate, I just—"

"You're right," Imogen said. "Being together would be safer than being alone."

Bailey's smile was wide and relieved. "Oh, yay. Um, good, I mean. Um, just a second."

She stepped into the corridor she'd been hiding in and came back out with a metal pole—just like Imogen's.

"Snap," she said, holding up her weapon. "Maybe this is 'great minds think alike'. Or just ... grab whatever you can, maybe."

"Maybe."

"Um, do you need help walking? Maybe we should move before that guy, you know—"

"I don't need help. But you're right, we should go. Do you know where the costume competition area is?"

Bailey shook her head as she and Imogen started walking, along the main corridor. "Just that it's on the third floor, that's the one below us. I came up here to buy a bag—this one," she said, raising the light yellow bag by her side. "Then I was going to meet up with Ally later. But then—"

"Are you hungry?"

Bailey nodded. "Very. But—"

Imogen had already pulled a bar from her bag. She held it out for Bailey to take.

"Oh, thank you!" Bailey started unwrapping the bar as they walked. "I'm so relieved that I met you, I was really starting to think I was the only person left in the world!"

Imogen had hoped eating might shut the girl up, but apparently Bailey had mastered the art of walking and eating and talking all at once.

"I was in the bathroom while the earthquake was, um, happening or whatever, I just waited in there until it seemed to be over, then when I went out, well, you know how it is, I mean you can see it now—"

"Wait," Imogen said. "Earthquake?"

Bailey looked at her, cheeks bulging. "Yes?" she mumbled, through a dry mouthful of raisins and honey and oats and nuts. "The earthquake that did all this damage."

Well, if she just locked herself in a toilet the whole time then maybe she wouldn't know it was wind, Imogen thought. She almost went to correct Bailey, then decided she couldn't be bothered.

"Anyway," Bailey said, after she'd swallowed her mouthful, "if we're going to get out we need to head down, and if your brother was at the cosplay competition then that's on the third floor, so what we really need are some stairs. I think there are some up ahead."

Bailey was right; there were stairs just ahead, wide and white and with dozens of zombies shuffling around near the bottom.

"Ugh," Bailey said, looking down. There was one on the stairs, missing a leg and with only one arm. It seemed to sense the two of them because as they watched it reached up, bone claws clutching at the air. This lasted only a second before it slipped and slid down, grabbing for any kind of hold as it went.

"When you see them like this," Bailey said, "they almost seem harmless. Pitiful, even."

Imogen did not even remotely agree, but she said nothing. The zombie on the stairs was trying to pull itself up again, but couldn't get a good enough grip. As if crying out in frustration, it let out a gurgling howl.

"I hate it when they do that," Bailey said, her voice low and heavy with disgust. "It attracts the others, too, have you noticed?"

The zombies gathered below were already moving, the nearest of them stumbling forward against the stairs.

"Okay, time to go," Bailey said—Imogen was already walking away, leaning on her metal pole. Bailey hurried after her. "Don't you think it's weird that there aren't any emergency stairways around here? How did this place pass safety inspections, that's what I want to know. Even when you find one it's always locked up—"

"I think the zombies are attracted by talking, too," said Imogen, in a not-particularly-hopeful attempt at getting Bailey to shut up.

"Noise, you mean? Yes, I noticed that. But I think it's vibration that they respond to more than anything, like walking or moving. It doesn't matter how quiet you are, they still know you're there. Even if they don't have a head!"

Bailey's chattering continued as they walked down the hallway, Imogen wondering whether the usefulness of having her around was really worth all of this annoyance. But I don't have to like her, she told herself. I just have to tolerate her. She'll be useful if—

"Oh, there's one!"

Bailey wasn't talking about zombies; she was talking about emergency stairways. The door was clearly marked and easy to get to—but it wouldn't budge.

"Yep, just like the others," Bailey said. "It's so weird, you'd think after an earthquake they'd automatically open, not automatically lock! Unless someone locked them on purpose, but why would they do that? It makes utterly no sense. Unless there's something jamming it on the other side."

Imogen wasn't looking at the door. She was squinting back along the hallway. At this distance they were blurred, but the way they moved was unmistakeable.

"Oh," Bailey said, noticing Imogen's tense silence. "Okay, let's get out of here. Um, there might be more stairs over this way, maybe?"

It turned out Bailey was right—through a series of short corridors and a large conference room they found another main hallway with another set of stairs—these ones were clear. Bailey helped Imogen down, then both of them stood at the bottom, surveying the state of the third floor.

"This is even messier than back up there," Bailey said. "Look at all these comics everywhere! It's such a waste, I feel like crying when I see them. Not just comics, either, look—those are books, pages from books and the covers, and those are DVD cases and DVDs and games and, oh ..."

Bailey's voice was tearful as she trailed off. Even the window frames here had been destroyed, but there was a sad inch left at the bottom, with a red and gold comic page stuck to it. There was no wind for it to flutter in.

"This really makes you feel like it's the end of the world," Bailey said, quietly. "That all of these wonderful things have been ruined, and it doesn't even matter because so many worse things are happening."

Imogen wasn't really listening. She was looking out the shattered windows, at the sky—it was late afternoon, there were still hours of sunlight left in the day, but eventually, she thought, the sun is going to set and it's going to get dark and these zombies don't need light to find you—

"Let's move on," she said, and Bailey nodded in agreement.

Walking here was even more difficult than up above, and Imogen almost slipped more than once—but Bailey was always there to catch her, to stand her upright with an apologetic smile. Off the main hallway the comic pages and papers grew thinner on the ground, then disappeared altogether as they walked along long, narrow corridors lined with benches and high windows—curiously unshattered.

"Maybe they're internal 'light wells' or something," Bailey whispered. "The earthquake wasn't strong enough to affect them."

"It was wind, not an earthquake," Imogen said, finally annoyed enough to correct Bailey. Bailey stared at her as they walked along.

"Wind?" she said, finally. "Wind did all this?"

"Apparently."

"But that's ... that's so ... just wind?"

Imogen was silent. Bailey started chattering again, going on about how amazing it was that wind could do this and where could wind like that have come from and maybe it's all these weather control things everyone's doing now and I read an article and my friend says and—

"Mall," Imogen said, cutting Bailey off. There was a familiar-looking concourse ahead, almost identical to the one on the floor above—although in an even greater state of mess.

"Oh my God," Bailey murmured, as they neared it. She laughed nervously. "Um, do you need to pick up anything?"

Imogen was silent—she could hear a low swishing sound. The kind of sound, she thought, made by a zombie walking through piles of clothing. There was purring, too, distant but present.

"Let's not go in there," she said, stopping. Bailey stopped beside her, eyes wide as she listened, then she nodded emphatically.

"This is the wrong part of the complex anyway," she said. "We're on completely the wrong side, the convention was in the south and east parts, we're in the upper part of the west side. Upper west side, haha, um. Um, the northern part of the west side. You know what I mean. We have to kind of head along and then down, I mean I guess we'll have to cross this mall eventually but it'd be better to do it further down. Um, I think, anyway, I don't know. Um, maybe this way?"

They found another corridor to walk down, one that Bailey felt confident would lead them towards the convention area. At least her sense of direction seems good, Imogen thought, as Bailey blabbered on about how strange it was that there weren't any zombies here, not even any dead bodies—

"They probably ran away once the winds started to pick up," Imogen said. "People were smart enough not to stand around gawking while the glass blew in."

"Oh. Maybe. Um, maybe through here? I'm almost certain this will lead us pretty much directly to the convention area, with the booths. Once we're there we'll be able to easily find the cosplay hall."

The new passage Bailey had picked was narrow, with doorways on either side, most of the doors ripped off by the wind. Imogen eyed it doubtfully, but didn't complain. Bailey walked on the left side of the corridor, Imogen on the right. She kept her eyes on the open doorways as they passed—inside were long, narrow rooms with chairs and podiums, all in states of horrendous disarray.

"—so really it seems like such a coincidence, if winds like that came and then people started coming back from the dead right afterwards, that can't just be an accident, right? The winds HAVE to have something to do with it, maybe it's a virus or something that was CARRIED by the winds and they AIIII!"

Imogen jumped at Bailey's sudden, piercing shriek, looked back to see bone claws around the girl's arm, a zombie reaching forward to grab at her head, at least two more behind it—they'd been in one of the rooms on Bailey's side of the corridor.

"IMOGEN HELP ME! PLEASE!"

Imogen hadn't hesitated; as soon as she'd seen the zombies she'd turned and started hobbling away as fast as she could, leaning heavily on her metal pole as she went.

"NO! NO!"

Bailey's defiant yells became panicked sobs and then shrieks of terrified pain. Imogen tightened her mouth and kept her eyes fixed forward—except to glance in the doorways she was passing—and tried to ignore what she was hearing. Soon the narrow corridor ended, opened on to a wider thoroughfare, and the sound of Bailey's death faded behind her.

Imogen stopped, her breathing shallow and wheezy, looking around—this was the mall concourse again but much further down, near to the wide, shattered window. There were more than a dozen zombies nearby, most of them already lurching towards her, the nearest less than a dozen metres away. Imogen stared at it for a full second before she thought to move, putting her hand against the nearby wall and limping along beside it, away from the window—there were two zombies ahead of her, but going into the open would mean she'd be surrounded in a matter of seconds. Except then she saw the crawler, partially hidden beneath a pile of clothing, clawing its way towards her, further blocking her path, and Imogen froze, just froze up, because there was nowhere to go, no safe path, no clear exit, she couldn't even go back out the way she'd come in, they'd be on her before she reached it—with a shuddering breath Imogen forced herself to move, every second she stood still was another second the zombies had to close in on her, and so she gripped her metal pole tight and hobbled straight towards the zombie ahead of her, the one near the wall, and once she was close enough to hear the zombie's purring over the roar of blood in her head she planted her good foot firmly, raised the pole, and pushed it against the zombie's chest. The zombie purred at her, its arms outstretched, but the length of the pole meant it couldn't reach her, not nearly. Imogen breathed out in relief—mindless, she thought, not smart enough to grab the pole. With a firm shove she pushed the zombie over backwards, to fall against the ripped clothing and burst boxes and other junk littering the floor.

Imogen regained her balance and resumed limping forward, around the fallen zombie as it clawed at the air. The other zombies were closer now, she'd lost precious distance by pushing the first over—can't afford to do that again, she thought, as she changed direction to avoid a crawler. It moved fast, faster than she'd predicted and that changed things, meant she had to move as quickly as she could towards the centre of the mall, there was a zombie to her left—no, two, one walker and one crawler, they're easy to miss with all this junk on the floor, four to the right, two behind—

Just keep calm, just don't panic, Imogen told herself, and somehow this wasn't difficult; her mind was clear, a cold tingly feeling spreading through her body as she limped forward, glancing around as she went, marking the zombies, calculating their speed—

Once more Imogen changed direction, heading directly for a zombie to her right, there were four there but widely spaced, there were clear metres between this one and the others and if she could knock it down ... Imogen raised her pole as she walked, hopping forward to thrust it against the zombie's chest, using the resistance to steady herself before it fell backwards—she hopped again as it fell, keeping her pole pressed against its chest, leaning heavily on it, if it slips I fall and I'm dead, she thought. Do NOT slip.

It didn't, and if she'd had the luxury of freedom Imogen would've taken a relieved breath. She did not have this luxury, but the path was clear now, there was a corridor on the other side of the concourse, not so close but without any zombies around it, and Imogen hobbled towards it as the zombies purred around her, the closest a comfortable half-dozen metres away and moving slow—these clothes and things are more of an obstacle to them than they are to me, Imogen thought, as she glanced to her left to see that one of the more distant zombies had fallen—and she saw something else, something odd, there was a group of them against the far wall, clustered together and facing each other as if in conversation—

Imogen forced herself to look away from them, to glance around again, to check that none of the zombies near her were moving faster than before or lunging forward, and she was coolly pleased to see that she was gaining distance, she was quicker than them even with her injured foot, all she had to do—

With a surprised choke Imogen fell forwards, her left foot caught, and she grunted as she hit against the ground, her pole falling beside her, and there was a horribly close purr as the grip around her ankle tightened—she reached out to retrieve her pole then twisted to look at the crawler that had grabbed at her. It was still hidden under a pile of clothes, just its arm visible, then it pulled hard and suddenly its head was there, and its body was revealed—no, its lack of body, there was nothing there, just part of a torso and one arm and—and it can't do anything, Imogen thought, twisting again to pull herself away, dropping her metal pole so she could use both hands to drag both herself and the zombie clinging to her foot forward—thank GOD for my boots—and she could hear the others now, their soft purring, but even crawling and hauling two-fifths of a zombie she was faster, just barely but that was enough—

Imogen felt a sudden tightness in her chest and a jolt up her spine as a low, crackly howl came from the zombie gripping her ankle—the group of zombies against the wall began shambling towards her, they were coming at an angle but with the zombies behind and to her right it meant that she was trapped, truly trapped. Imogen looked back for her pole but it was too far behind now, and around her there was nothing, nothing but useless, useless piles of clothes, no good to her, no good for anything except for wretched stinking horrible crawlers to hide in—the zombies all around were getting closer, like a net growing tighter and tighter, she couldn't bear to think about how many, and she wondered if they'd just kill her or if they'd eat her and she found herself hoping, hoping desperately that they would tear her to pieces, that they would leave no trace of her, just as long as I don't come back as one of them ...

Imogen hadn't even been aware that she was grasping through the piles of clothes but suddenly there was something hard beneath her hands, something long and thick, and she jerked it free of the pile. She almost laughed when she saw what it was, as the zombies drew ever-closer.

Oh, a cardboard tube, she thought, that's just great, that's just perfect.

As the purring around her grew louder Imogen found herself twisting, found herself driving the tube down against the crawler's head. It was wearing a hat, Imogen vaguely realised, a ridiculous purple hat with cat's eyes on it, and as she watched the hat fell to the floor, to be lost amongst the scattered, dead clothes, and again she drove the cardboard tube against the zombie's face, and again, and again, the other zombies were so near now, one nearby fell—no, it didn't fall, it lurched forward to grasp at her, its claws scraping against her side, Imogen didn't even really notice, she was too busy screaming angry defiance as she drove the half-wrecked cardboard tube against the crawler's head, and its grip weakened, just for a moment but that was all she needed, her wildly flailing foot got free and the zombie that had lurched at her was grasping for her arm but too late, she was already reaching up, another zombie had come near and was clawing at the air above her and she grabbed at its voluminous blue trousers and yanked hard, grabbing with her other hand to pull herself further up, it was trying to claw at her but before it could get her she had her good foot planted and she was shoving it as hard as she could, it was falling backwards and there were no more zombies behind it—

Imogen screamed as her head whipped back, her hair caught, for a moment she kept her footing but then she fell, heavily, a clawful of hair ripped from her scalp as she crashed to the floor, and they were everywhere, above her and around her, the crawler and the lurcher both scrabbling towards her and even the cardboard tube was gone now, had dropped from her hands, and there was nothing. Nothing.

She was blinded, first. Her sight was what they took before anything else. My eyes, Imogen thought. They clawed my eyes out. There was no pain, except in her foot and up her leg. It felt like it was immersed in water that went boiling hot and then freezing cold and then boiling hot again, and there was pressure, pressure from above, but a soft pressure, a comforting pressure—

It was the sound of her own gasping, whimpering breath that brought Imogen back into herself. She was crawling through something—through the clothes, the piles of clothes all around, and through the clothes the zombies were trying to claw her, to get to her, but the layers were too thick, they couldn't scratch through, a claw scraped against her boot but that was all it was, just a scrape, and now she was moving forward, arm over arm, coughing and wheezing and close to throwing up as she forced her weary body forwards, blindly, desperately, no other thought than to get away ...

It wasn't just a bump on her head; Imogen slammed into the wall. Her teeth clamped down hard on her tongue and she made a pathetic blubbering sound as she reached up, tried to get a grip, any kind of grip, anything solid, and the wall was there but it felt so slippery, almost wet, but somehow she found traction enough to get herself to one knee, and from there she hauled herself to her feet, or foot anyway, her good foot down, her bad foot up, just off the ground, and she was leaning hard against the wall, crying into it, she wanted nothing more at that moment than to just stay there, the wall so cool against her cheek, but then she was moving again, pulling herself along as the purring from behind grew louder and closer—a glance back told her that the zombies were all behind her, all clumped together now, a dozen of them, two dozen, so many she couldn't help but let out a burble of uncontrolled fear, and she pushed herself along the wall as fast as she could, as fast as her good leg could take, it was already aching, aching and burning and pulsing with the unfair effort she was demanding of it, she tried to make herself go faster but she couldn't, she just couldn't, and the zombies were still behind her, still keeping pace, and sometimes she was a little faster than they were and sometimes she wasn't, and sometimes she gained, and sometimes they gained, and slowly everything melted into a horrible nightmare, this endless wall under her hands, these endless zombies behind her, this endless concourse designed by some sick madman, when does it end? When does it ever end?

"WHO DESIGNED THIS GODDAMNED PLACE?"

There was no answer. Yelling drained Imogen still-further. She had nothing left. Nothing left to give and yet still the wall stretched onwards, still the zombies kept coming, not just from behind but from ahead too, dozens more, they all knew her, they all wanted her, and she knew then that they would never stop, that they would hunt her forever, that it didn't matter what she did, where she went, who she was with, they would find her and they would touch her and they would turn her into one of them—

Imogen was beyond reaction when her hand passed through the wall and she fell into some kind of corridor, crawling now on her hands and knees, forcing each movement, there were doors along the walls, doors ripped open, rooms beyond, rooms containing things, Imogen didn't even react as a zombie lunged at her from a doorway, just kept crawling, and it was too far away, so far away, joining the dozens and dozens behind her as they funnelled into the small corridor, all of them purring together, all of them intent on catching her and sinking their claws into her back, any second now, any second now I'm going to feel them, I hope it's quick, I hope it's so quick, they'll claw out my spine and I won't feel anything and they'll surround me and make me nothing ...

Imogen was barely thinking now, as she crawled endlessly onwards, delirious with exhaustion and fear, the fleeting, dreamlike notions going through her head scattered and broken: zombies bite. Makes new zombie. Zombies eat. No new zombie. Do they know? Do they choose? When will they stop? When will they stop?

The impact was hard and jarring. Comics, Imogen thought, peeling herself off the floor. More comics. She was aware that she was crying now, as she kept crawling forward, hands and knees slipping against the loose pages covering the floor, and she fell again, her teeth clicking sharply together as her chin connected with the ground, and once more she picked herself up, once more she crawled forward, and behind her there was a horrible thudding sound, something new, some fresh terror, thudding and thudding and thudding—

Imogen realised she was looking back, that she had stopped crawling, that the zombies behind her were having as much trouble with the comics as she was, that they were slipping, that they were falling, and when they fell they fell back against others, and they fell too, and something else, something even more amazing, she'd gained distance on them, they were a few dozen metres behind her, I'm faster than them—

Crawling is faster than limping.

Imogen wanted to hit herself in the head. Of course it is. Of course crawling is faster than limping, of course it's easier—I know this place. I know this place!

Surrounding her as she crawled forward were piles of white cloth and heaps of ruined comics and dozens of long metal poles—but I don't need one of those, Imogen thought happily, I can crawl! I can crawl and zombies can't, not as good as me, I know I've been thinking of the ground ones as 'crawlers' but really they're more 'draggers' and—

I know this place, too!

Imogen's elation faded in an instant as she took in the sheer number of zombies around her. There were dozens behind, following her. There were an impossible number ahead, waiting for her. This was the wide room used for the cosplay competition, now apparently Zombie Central. The nearest turned to regard Imogen with bulging, dead eyes, then it began lurching towards her. Cursing herself for crawling like this, Imogen dragged herself to the nearest wall, I can't do anything on my hands and knees, I'm useless down here—and the following zombies were behind, and more zombies in the room were taking an interest in her, and she had nothing, nothing at all, not even a weapon—

Except then she saw it.

Blurred.

Distant.

But absolutely present—and in an area that was miraculously clear.

With her face blank with exhaustion and shiny with sweat Imogen pulled herself up against the wall then turned, and she glanced around for the slightest of moments before shuffling forward, towards the zombies that shuffled towards her, too many to even count to both the left and the right as she moved between them, forcing herself onwards, her focus absolute, her goal clear, and their grasping claws did not touch her, and when they lurched forward she was already gone and they fell hard against the floor, and then she was there and so it was, and she let herself fall to her knees, and her hand slid around cool, hard wood, and she used her fresh hope to push herself up, its blunt end against the floor, her full weight on her good foot.

Imogen focused; there was a zombie near, lurching towards her, and she gripped the baseball bat tight, and she drew it back, and the zombie shambled forward, and without a trace of hesitation Imogen brought the bat around with a force and finality as vicious as it was unstoppable. The rounded end slammed against the zombie's jaw with a deep, resonant impact, the force of the blow spinning it around and off its feet.

Imogen took a single breath.

She held it for a quarter of a second.

And then she blew it out in a hard puff.

She could see the exit clearly, through the throngs of zombies, the corridor where she'd left Zack about a hundred years ago. Her shuffle forward was slower than ever, she could barely feel her arms and wished she couldn't feel her legs, but when a zombie threatened her progress she brought the bat up in a sharp arc that caught its hand and knocked it away. She followed this with a hard shove against the zombie's chest that sent it stumbling back—not quite falling, but she didn't need it to fall, she was already past it, a pair of zombies dressed as green bears came at her from the left but she moved to the right, a zombie wearing an enormously tall purple top hat came at her from the right but she moved to the left, and always forwards, always forwards to that exit, to that place she'd left her little brother alone so that she could go and have a cigarette.

There was a zombie in front of her. It was wearing a priest's habit and a silver wig. Imogen stopped, drew back the bat, and hit it in the side of its head so hard she heard its skull crack. It went down and she limped around it, aware of the other zombies closing in on her. I can't attack, she told herself. I can't stop, not even for an instant, I've used up all the distance I have and now if I stop they'll get closer and if they get closer they'll be able to grab me and if they grab me, if even one grabs me I'm dead, just dead, and so I cannot stop. My path must be perfect. I cannot make a single mistake, however small.

This is my life; perfection or death.

For the slightest of instants Imogen became intolerably aware of just how many zombies surrounded her, of just how close she was to being caught with every moment that passed, but she pushed this awareness down, covered it with a hard focus on the ache of her arm as she swung her bat up, catching a zombie underneath its chin and delaying its progress almost exactly long enough for her to shuffle past, she was putting more weight on her bad foot now and the pain was hot and cold both at once and all around her there were grasping claws and the thudding of zombies against the floor as they lurched for her and missed by inches but none of that mattered, only getting through to that corridor mattered, that wonderful corridor, that utopian corridor—

As if willed by a greater power two zombies shambled to the right and Imogen's final steps were made clear; she limped into the corridor without further hardship.

Perfection.

There was the bench. It was still there. Zack wasn't. Of course he wasn't. And the corridor ahead, there were no zombies in it, not even one. Of course there weren't. They were all, ALL behind her. How many? Did it even matter?

Pushing her weary, aching body into further action Imogen shambled onwards, hobbling towards the next corridor, the narrow corridor, the corridor that had once held intense silence and studied paraphilia.

The word came to her mind like an unwelcome visitor; doujin.

As Imogen started down the corridor, as she saw the crumpled booths and the layers upon layers upon layers of painstakingly drawn perversion all the weariness and pain she'd been trying to ignore came back all at once, and she found herself stopping, found the hard wood of her bat loose in her grip, felt the light impact as its end thudded against the floor.

So what if I have a weapon. So what if I've come this far. So what if I'm smarter than they are. This isn't a sprint. This is a marathon, and I'm up against the untiring undead.

I can't win this.

The purring behind Imogen was light and high. Children, Imogen thought, as she turned to look back at them. The smallest of the zombies and so the fastest of the zombies. Of course they'd be at the front of the horde. The youngest girls and the youngest boys, some of them not even in their teens.

Imogen's eyes closed as she retightened her grip on the baseball bat, saving it from falling from her grasp. She took a single, weary, shuffling step forward ... and then another, and another, over the cheap paper that littered the doujin hall, not as slippery as the glossy comics but making up for it with sheer quantity. After a few metres Imogen heard the child zombies stepping on to the pages, heard the first of them slip and fall, and she might have smiled if she'd thought of doing so.

Help me, weird Japanese pornography, you're my only hope.

But not all fell and those that did were not stopped, continued dragging themselves forward or started to push themselves up as Imogen continued her long, weary shamble towards whatever lay ahead. Not 'to', she thought, as she limped between high piles of white cloth. 'From'.

She raised her weapon as she shambled onwards, and when a suspiciously-shaped pile of cloth began to move she brought the bat down hard against a grasping hand, and again as she moved past, and once more before she was out of its reach, a final discouraging whack before she was past, and safe.

Safe?

The doujin hall ended at another corridor, just as narrow, stretching to the left and to the right. There were a pair of zombies to the right.

And so, left.

It seemed Imogen had barely blinked before she was faced with another choice; straight ahead or turn right. No zombies in either direction.

Straight ahead.

Again, it felt as though taking a single step had brought her to the end of the corridor, and this time she turned right, and then left, and then left again, and then right, and then straight ahead, every impossible step a decision, and then she dared to look back and was shocked to see that she'd lost the zombies; there weren't any behind her at all.

No, she corrected herself harshly. They ARE still behind me, I just can't SEE them. They're still following. I can almost hear their purring.

Imogen let out an angry, surprised grunt as one appeared ahead of her, just a few metres away, moving quickly towards her, and she raised her bat—

"Oh shit, no! I ain't one of them—shit, this DAMN costume!"

The zombie had its hands raised, its grey palms held towards Imogen in a pleading gesture, but that's a trick, she thought, they're smarter than you think they are, of course they'd learn to speak, of course they'd say they AREN'T zombies, that's the first thing a zombie that was trying to trick you would say—

Imogen blinked.

"Shit," said the zombie. "Shit, I hate this costume. You're like the third person to almost attack me, DAMN the outstanding quality of this makeup."

There were differences; subtle, but present. The colour of his skin, for one. The other zombies were a blotchy red-brown. He was grey. The other zombies' eyes bulged from their sockets and wept a yellow pus. His eyes were blank white and wept nothing. And the way he moved wasn't 'zombie' at all.

Imogen lowered her bat. The zombie was staring down at her leg.

"Shit," he said, his tone different. "You've been bitten—get back, okay? I don't wanna—"

"I'm not bitten." Imogen's voice was flat with exhaustion. "I just hurt my leg."

"You sure?"

"I'm not bitten."

The zombie pursed its lips as it looked Imogen over. "You ain't shiny or coughing or nothing, guess I can believe you." He hesitated, then spoke again: "I'm Keenan. What's in the bag?"

"Energy health bars." Imogen looked slowly behind herself; she could hear purring. "Some water."

Keenan licked his lips. "Look, I'm supposed to be getting food—I'll get you to a safe place if you share that shit with us, deal?"

Imogen swallowed. The purring from behind was louder now.

"Before we make this 'deal'," she said, exhaustion forcing honesty, "I should tell you that I have approximately seven dozen zombies hunting me."

Keenan grinned, the effect unsettling with his zombie makeup.

"Hell," he said. "Who doesn't?"

Imogen could no longer feel her legs, not either of them. Walking on my bad foot like this must be doing damage, she thought, trying to make herself care.

"Never had any trouble finding my way," Keenan said, as he led Imogen along a wide corridor like so many others in the complex. "Even in places like this. Okay, here's the stairs."

With reluctance overruled by exhausted necessity, Imogen accepted Keenan's help in getting up the stairs.

"Hell," he grunted, halfway up. "Be a damn sight easier hauling this bag up without you attached to it. Joke," he quickly added. "Don't worry, I wouldn't do that."

Once up the stairs it was easier going. Keenan didn't chatter, for which Imogen was quietly relieved, but even through her state of near-collapse she found curiosity would not allow her to remain silent:

"Why don't you wipe off your makeup?"

"Are you crazy?" Keenan asked, glancing back at Imogen. He winced. "Don't answer that. This is Zapstik, it ain't coming off without that little gun thing."

"Zapstik?"

"Heh, obviously you're new to the scene."

"The zombie scene?"

"No, cons!"

Imogen couldn't deal with this. "Like scams?"

"Conventions, comic conventions, cosplaying—hardly no one uses temp makeup, it comes off too easy. You wanna get yourself perfect, right? And once you get yourself perfect, you don't wanna get unperfect just because you wiped your forehead or something. I mean, if you—shit, you hear that?"

They were in a back way, off the main hallways and side corridors, through an empty doorway that had once held a door clearly marked KEEP OUT. The floors were bare concrete, the walls painted cheap yellow. Keenan edged forwards, wincing as he glanced into a room.

"Damn, look at that—don't worry, when they're feeding they ain't interested in nothing else."

Imogen looked into the room without interest. Four zombies were inside, feasting on the body of an obese man dressed in bright orange and blue overalls.

"That's messed up," Keenan commented, before gesturing for Imogen to keep following. "They sure as hell weren't in there when I came through ... at least I'm pretty sure they weren't. Poor fat bastard. Not that I ain't unchunky myself, but hell, I can sure as damn move when I need to—like when some hungry undead freak's coming after me like I'm bacon-wrapped steak."

Imogen made no comment.

Less than five minutes later they turned the corner into a long, slightly wider corridor, and Keenan glanced back at Imogen.

"It ain't far now," he said, as he dug in his pocket and produced a blue keycard. "Got this off someone didn't need it no more, lucky thing too. Heh, scariest damn moment of my damned life, thought for sure she was gonna just jump up and bite my face off like in the movies. Kept expecting that, you know, dah-DANT, what's it called—scare chord, that's it. Kept expecting one of them to play." Keenan stopped as they reached a door. "One thing's for sure, though." He passed the keycard through a slot beside the door, turning back to grin at Imogen as the door beeped and slid open. "This ain't no damned movie."

"Who's that?" The speaker was inside the room, a young man with an oddly familiar v-cut dreadhawk, black leather jacket and torn blue jeans. "K, what are you doing—"

"She's cool," Keenan said. "She ain't bitten or nothing. She's got food, she's gonna share it."

"I'm surprised you're still alive."

This speaker was the girl Imogen had seen earlier, the one with the odd gun-sword.

"Although," she continued, her voice deeply unimpressed, "you look as if—"

"IMOGEN!"

Imogen almost stepped back with the force of the hug, small arms tight around her waist. She stared down as her little brother looked up at her, his eyes puffy and red from crying, his face pale, relief and exhaustion clearly fighting for dominance inside him. He'd lost his red mask, but still wore his black pajamas.

"I knew you'd be still alive, I KNEW it, I KNEW you'd be okay—see, I told you guys, I told you she wasn't dead! You're okay, right? Right?"

"Barely," Imogen managed.

"Yes, you're okay. You're okay, I knew you would be—wow, I knew it. I knew it! I told you guys, I told you she'd find me! Imogen ... Imogen, you're okay!"

One of the others in the room spoke up, a tall young man wearing an elegant black dinner suit, his face covered with a gold-and-white mask, his voice impeccably dry: "So I don't suppose there are any amongst us who can vouch for this strange girl?"

Zack released Imogen to stare back at the young man, his face a picture of shocked indignation. "ME! I'm her brother, she's my sister, this is Imogen, I've been TELLING you—"

"Now, now," said yet another of those inside the room, an older man, his face stern behind thick square glasses, his plaid shirt and beige trousers almost absurdly conservative. "I'm sure Chris was just fooling with you, just his funny way. Come in, Keenan, and you too, young lady. Let's get this door closed before any uninvited guests show up."

The room was small and functional; some kind of security station, Imogen thought. It had bare concrete floors like the corridors outside, and the same cheap yellow walls. There were two fold-down beds against the far wall, a large steel cabinet between them. To the left of the room was a desk with three large screens above it, showing feeds from security cameras. To the right was a small couch, and beside that a closed door—the sound of running water could be heard from inside.

"That leg—" the boy with the dreadhawk began, but Keenan cut him off.

"She just busted it, she ain't bitten."

"Did you check?" the dreadhawk boy challenged. "Get her to show you? Come on, yank that thing off and let's make sure she ain't gonna turn—"

"V-Cut," said one of the others—a girl, tall and blonde and pretty, wearing a bulky yet smooth suit of orange plastic armour. "If she was going to turn she'd be sweating and coughing. We've all seen the stages."

"Besides," put in another, a young man with a short red-brown wig and huge fake eyebrows, wearing a red silk shirt secured with a long gold sash around his middle, "they have to die before they come back. It's not like she's just gonna magically transform into a zombie and start tearing our throats out. Hi," he said to Imogen, with an endearing smile. "I'm HK."

Imogen wasn't really in a state to accept any of this.

"Let the poor girl alone a minute," said the older man—he took Imogen gently by the arm and led her to one of the cots. "Sit down here, lie down if you like, you're okay now, you can rest. My name's Trevor, Trevor Muncaster."

"And I'm Jen," said the girl in the plastic armour, smiling at Imogen as she sat. "I can take a look at your foot, if you like. I'm not a doctor or nurse or anything, but I know a little about ... well, about that kind of thing."

Imogen managed a nod—she noticed Zack was beside her too, hovering worriedly. She let him take her bag off, then allowed him to help her lie back.

"Is your leg really bad?" he asked. "Is it broken?"

"Probably not, but we'll see," said Jen, as she began removing the plastic brace. Imogen couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh, the release of pressure blissfully welcome. With a careful tug Jen pulled at Imogen's boot, which slid off easily, then she gently placed her hands against her foot.

"Is it bad?" Zack's voice; Imogen had let her eyes close as she relaxed back. She heard Jen respond:

"I'm not sure ... Imogen, is this okay?"

Imogen nodded, wincing every few moments as Jen touched a sore spot—she opened her eyes again to examine the girl who was examining her, her smooth, pale face, her calm blue eyes, her straight blonde hair, almost white, falling inside her armour. She looked strong, impossibly strong, the armour should have looked ridiculous, perhaps on anyone else it would have, but on her—

"It's not broken," Jen said, as she accepted a towel from Zack and began folding it up. "But I don't know what's wrong. Maybe a sprain, or maybe you've torn a muscle. Here."

Imogen allowed Jen to lift her foot enough to put the towel underneath it.

"That should help." Jen glanced back at the others, who were clustered around the couch, Imogen's bag the focus of their fierce conversation. "We're sharing out the food you brought, I hope that's okay."

"Whatever," Imogen murmured.

"You're exhausted, I'm sorry. Lie back and sleep. Nothing bad's going to happen to you here." Jen smiled somewhat sadly down at Imogen; the last thing she saw before sleep claimed her. "You're safe now."

*

Imogen's dreams were murky and indistinct, scattering in the instant she opened her eyes. The light above was too bright, the entire room harshly oversaturated, these weren't people around her, they were just ... just ...

"Welcome back."

The voice was dry and deep, for a girl. Imogen turned her head to see—

"I don't know your name," she croaked. The girl smiled thinly and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"I don't see the point in telling you," she said. "It's likely you'll be dead soon."

"We're calling her 'Null'," said HK, from where he was sitting on the floor, against the wall. He held a long, thin sword, and was working at it with a heavy file. "My idea."

Null was already walking to the couch. With her out of the way, Imogen could see that Zack was lying on the other cot, asleep.

"She's awake now," Null said, as she sat. She was addressing V-Cut, who was seated at the monitoring desk, Trevor beside him. "We can stop this ridiculous 'watch' of yours."

"It's not ridiculous," V-Cut replied, not looking back. "If she starts showing any signs—"

"There is not a scratch on her, she is not going to turn," interrupted a girl Imogen hadn't seen before—if she had, she certainly would have remembered. She was dressed as some kind of clown—no, Imogen thought, the word coming from somewhere, a harlequin. Her leather suit was patterned in black and yellow, her face pure white with black and yellow diamonds over her bright blue eyes. Her hair was covered by a kind of leather hood, tight against her scalp, twin spikes out the back—continuing the theme of her costume's colouring, one was black and one was yellow. Thin wisps of dark hair escaped the hood, over her smooth forehead and beside her ears. She was sitting on the couch, gloved hands crossed in her lap, an elaborately carved wooden staff beside her.

"And maybe you don't NEED to get scratched, you guys are making so many stupid damn assumptions—"

"V-Cut," said Trevor, warningly. "This is neither the time nor the place—"

"Shut it with your clichés, old man," V-Cut spat. He glanced at Imogen. "So what are we calling you? Pick a name."

"I'm ... I'm Imogen. What do you mean 'pick'?"

"He believes that we shouldn't know anything about each other," said the tall young man with the white and gold mask—Chris. He was leaning against the wall near the door, his weight partially upon a long black dress cane. "He feels that even knowing 'true names' may compromise resolve should one of us become 'infected'."

"That's why I'm V-Cut," said V-Cut. "That's all you gotta know about me. If I get bitten, I want one of you to put me down, no questions, no hesitation."

"If you get bitten," Null said, her voice flat, "it won't matter who knows your name."

The harlequin girl glanced at Null with amused eyes, then leaned forward to look at Imogen. "I'm Allecchina. It is not my real name but this is the end of the world, why not be who I want to be?"

"We're calling her Cheena," HK said. "Since Alle-whatever is so weird and difficult."

Cheena shrugged at this, apparently fine with the nickname, then she rose from the couch, taking up her staff as she did so, and walked over to Imogen's bed. Every movement she made was fluid and effortless, entrancing to watch. She looked down at Imogen; even from this close, it was difficult to tell whether her face was covered by makeup or a mask.

"You've been out there," she said. "Since this started, yes?" Her voice had the trace of an accent Imogen couldn't place. "I am searching for my sister. She has long brown hair, but this is a wig. Underneath her hair would be short and black. Her face is the kindest you have seen, and she would have been wearing a schoolgirl's uniform in blue and white. She talks. A lot. Have you met her?"

Imogen stared up at Cheena.

"Well?"

Imogen swallowed, her mouth dry, and slowly shook her head. Cheena tutted and turned away.

"Hey, if you wanna find her you should be out there—"

"She will be escaping," Cheena said, without looking at HK. She walked to the desk and looked at the monitors. "Probably she is already on the streets, heading for our home. As I should be doing—as we all should be doing."

"Acting rashly isn't going to do anything but get us all killed," said Trevor, looking back at her. "First we'll figure out the best way out of here—"

"You have been staring at those screens for hours now," said Cheena. "What more can you learn? Too many cameras were destroyed by the winds, what you see is nothing."

"We've learnt a lot, actually," said V-Cut. "We know that the main entrance is lousy with Z's. It's not even an option. We know that the entire first floor is packed with them, and the second isn't much better. For some reason there are dozens in the parking garage, and all the emergency stairways are blocked—"

"We haven't tried all of them," said Jen, as she emerged from the door beside the couch—bathroom, Imogen thought, as Jen glanced at her with a smile. "Some might—"

"No, they're blocked on purpose," V-Cut said. "Someone wanted us trapped in here."

"This again?" said HK. "I'm sure there's a more likely explanation than that. Why would someone wanna trap—"

"And why would the dead start rising? Why would that wind come blasting through? This isn't coincidence, people don't just turn into zombies for no damned reason, there is something BEHIND all of this—"

"Whether there is or not, does it matter?" Null asked. "We're presented with certain facts. The emergency exits all appear to be locked. How this state of being came to be is irrelevant. Thinking beyond what is happening here and now is irrelevant. Talking of anything but what we might do to escape—"

"Is irrelevant~" Chris sang. "You say that so often, I wonder what your basis for comparison is? But allow me to be serious. In my considered opinion staying here is pointless procrastination. Thanks to the lovely-yet-crippled Imogen our stomachs are full and we have supplies to last us through the night—or at least as long as it takes to escape this miserable building—"

"About that," Trevor said, turning in his seat to look at Imogen. "And I'm sorry to interrupt you, Chris, but this is important. We helped ourselves to those bars you brought, and we thank you for sharing them. But I felt uncomfortable doing anything with those left over, there are enough for each of us to take two each, with three left over—"

"Just do whatever you want with them," Imogen said. "I don't care."

Trevor stared at her. "The bottled water, surely precious—"

"Oh! I had a thought about that," HK said. "Rock-Paper-Scissors! Let's have a tournament to decide—I absolutely INSIST on this."

"Imogen, you keep one," Trevor said. "The others we'll distribute by drawing straws. Fair?"

"Rock-Paper-Scissors would be more fun," said HK, more than a little sulkily. He held up the sword he'd been sharpening, checking it, then spoke to Jen: "Your sword's ready, I don't think it's going to get any sharper. I don't know how good it's going to be—"

"I'm sure it's better than it was," said Jen, taking it from him. "Thank you." She glanced at Imogen. "It's not real," she explained. "It's not even mine, it doesn't really go with this costume, but when everything was happening ... well, I just picked up whatever I could."

"See that sword?" HK said, putting on a heavy Australian accent. "Fake. Plastic." He looked around, hopeful, then clucked his tongue. "Why's it there, then?" he asked himself. "Charm!" he replied, exaggerating the word sharply. "Adds a bit of charm."

"If I might continue?" Chris asked. He waved an elegant hand at Trevor. "Unless you'd like to distribute the water now?"

"It can wait," said Trevor. "Go on, Christopher."

"Just Chris," Chris said, a little of the grace slipping from his voice. "Ahem. As I was saying, we have no concerns for food or water, we are all rested, and the sun is but a few scant hours away from setting. These 'zombies' do not need light. We do. Thus, it seems—oh, for goodness sake."

Chris had been interrupted by a beeping from the door, which slid open to reveal Keenan, still in his zombie costume. He was holding a bunch of metal poles, which he threw onto the floor in the empty part of the room.

"There's your damn weapons," he said. "And if I draw the short straw one more time I swear I'm gonna scream."

"Thank you, Keenan," Trevor said. "We all appreciate—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Whatever, man. I'm gonna wash up."

"You did not see—"

"No I didn't see your damn sister, you want to find her, YOU go out there."

Keenan stomped through to the bathroom, slamming the door behind himself.

"Well, wasn't he tense," said Chris. "If I may conclude—"

"You think we should head out now, yeah, it's pretty obvious where you were going with that," said V-Cut. Imogen pushed herself up as he talked—the mention of 'washing up' had made her aware of the state of her hands—they were splattered with dried zombie goo. Maybe I'm already infected just because of that, she thought. I have to wash this off. As the others continued talking about their plans, she went to get up off the bed—but Jen had noticed her sitting up and was now by her side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to push her back down.

"Your brace," she said, as Imogen stared up at her. "It's not back on—neither are your boots. I'll help you with them."

Having someone else put her boots on was an odd experience, but in her current state Imogen wasn't really in a position to complain. Jen smiled at Imogen as she worked with the brace.

"I love your clothes," she said. "I meant to say before. This embroidery on your jacket, it's wonderful, and I'd kill for your boots." Jen's expression changed as she realised what she'd just said. "Sorry, I ... that wasn't ..."

Imogen said nothing, but tried a small smile. Apparently that was enough; Jen stopped trying to recover and focused once more on the brace.

"There," she said, after half a minute. "That should be more comfortable. Null, could you check to see if Keenan is almost done? I think Imogen wants to get herself cleaned up."

"He's almost done." Null hadn't so much as glanced at the bathroom door. "In any case, I'm sure that he wouldn't mind sharing."

Jen shot Null a warning look, then smiled at Imogen again. "Do you need me to—"

"I can walk," Imogen said, pushing herself up and carefully lowering herself to the floor. Testing her injured foot, she found that the way Jen had put the brace back on was more comfortable—but she couldn't put any more weight on it than before. She'd held the vague hope that resting might have helped, but if anything it was more painful now.

She could still manage a limp, though, and as the conversation between the others threatened to become an argument she knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yeah, whatever."

She opened it and hobbled in—Keenan was using the toilet as a seat, the cover down, his expression clear.

"Oh, it's you," he said, not sounding entirely displeased. "I'll get out of here—"

"I'm just washing my hands," Imogen said, although the idea of a shower did appeal. "You don't have to move."

Keenan nodded. "Okay."

Imogen closed the door with a quiet 'click', blocking the rising argument from the main room, then went to the sink. There was soap and antibacterial handwash, and she used both as she scrubbed her hands thoroughly.

"Know exactly how you're feeling," Keenan said, after watching the almost frenzied way Imogen was washing her hands. "You have to touch one?"

Imogen nodded as she scrubbed her hands for the fourth time.

"It's just wrong, ain't it? The way their skin's all hot and loose, ugh."

There was a cabinet above the sink, with a mirror on the front. Imogen avoided her own gaze as she slid it open—inside was exactly what she was looking for.

"Yeah, got plenty of that spray stuff," Keenan said, as Imogen applied some to her cut hands—they weren't bleeding, but she felt that now was not the time to be exposing herself to any kind of infection. "Help yourself."

Imogen didn't reply. As she was waiting for the spray to dry, though, she half-turned to almost look at Keenan.

"That cabinet in the main room," she said. "It's locked?"

"Yeah, we don't got the key."

"There are probably weapons in it, if not guns then maybe batons or tasers."

"Figured that. But like I said, we ain't got the key and we can't get it open."

"You got the keycard from someone. Why didn't you take his keys as well?"

"Her keys," Keenan corrected. "And I already told you, that was the scariest shit I ever done. No way was I going through her pockets looking for keys—and, man, I didn't even know this cabinet was HERE when all that went down."

Imogen considered this and found it to be fair; she made no further comment.

Zack was awake when Imogen left the bathroom, sitting up and looking around with wide eyes at the roomful of arguing adults. Trevor, V-Cut and Chris were huddled together in a corner, their conversation low and intense—they all glanced up at Imogen's appearance, then went back to talking. Cheena, meanwhile, was arguing with HK, standing over him, Null behind her.

"—cannot believe your ideas, at this time, with all that is happening, can you not be serious? You will die if you do not accept this situation—"

"I accept it fine," HK said, mildly. "I think I'm handling it better than you, now that we're talking about things."

"Better?" Cheena let out a scoff as Imogen passed her, heading for Zack—Jen was beside him, her expression worried. "That is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. In what possible way could—"

Imogen let Cheena's voice fade away as she limped up to Jen and Zack.

"Maybe you can help me with something," Jen said, her voice bright. She held up a helmet and a long rounded tube. "This goes on my right arm, and this is obviously a helmet. On or off?"

"I think on!" said Zack. "You need all the protection you can get!"

"But the blaster means I can't use my right hand," said Jen. "And I can't hear very well with the helmet on, and it restricts my peripheral vision."

"What's periph—what's that?" Zack asked.

"To the sides."

"Oh."

"Imogen? What do you think?"

Imogen shrugged as she sat beside her brother. "Whatever you prefer."

"You only need one hand to use your sword," Zack said. "Are you left-handed?"

"Actually I am," Jen said. "So maybe use the blaster, lose the helmet?"

"Does the blaster actually fire?" Zack asked, wide-eyed. Jen laughed, then stopped herself.

"No," she said. "It doesn't do anything except glow."

Zack's eyes were still wide. "Could I see that?"

Jen smiled. She held the helmet out for Zack to take—he accepted it with a gravity of responsibility that made Imogen roll her eyes—then slid the blaster on. It clicked into place against the armour on her upper arm, just past her elbow.

"Whoa," Zack said, as Jen posed with the blaster and the front of it lit up blue. "That's the most awesome thing I've ever seen."

"Yeah, I know," Jen said, with another laugh—which again she cut off. "Um, so maybe I'll keep this on. I do feel safer like this."

"Man, I wish I had armour instead of these crappy pajamas." Zack glanced up at Jen. "Um, are you gonna wear the helmet too?"

"Yes," Jen said. "Yes, for now I will. Even if it's just to help cut out—" she indicated the arguing in the rest of the room with a tilt of her head, before pushing a few loose strands of hair inside her armour and putting on her helmet. Like the blaster, it clicked into place and was held firm. Jen's face, viewed through the green of the helmet's visor, looked pure and smooth.

"It gets a little stuffy, too," she said, her voice muffled. "But it's worth it."

"You look SUPER awesome with the helmet on," Zack said. "Like just totally wicked, and I mean I know you shouldn't really have a sword but—"

"Oh, right?" Jen said, her voice, although still muffled, more enthusiastic than before. "But I need SOMETHING, and I've cosplayed as characters who use swords a few times ... it feels kind of good to hold." She reached down to pick it up, doing a quick pose with the weapon—Imogen looked away, down at her hands, at the ring she wore on her right index finger.

Something odd about her, she thought, as Jen and Zack continued their chattering. Something she's not saying.

"—better do it now."

Imogen's head jerked up—she watched as Jen walked over to the bathroom, then looked down at her brother. He was watching Jen go with open adoration on his face.

"Um," Zack said, as he noticed Imogen's cold eyes upon him. "Do ... do you think Mum's okay? And Grandpa?"

In honesty Imogen couldn't say she'd even thought about them. She'd had more immediate concerns. Now that Zack brought it up, though—

"And, like, um ... like, I was thinking too, I mean, I don't know why, it's stupid, I just ... um ... Imogen?"

Imogen didn't respond. Her attention had been caught by something else, by the way Trevor and Chris and the others were talking, and by the glances they directed at her and Zack.

"Imogen, do you think Dad—"

Imogen wasn't listening to Zack; she was standing, limping towards the group on the other side of the room, ignoring the sharp look Cheena gave her and the cool, amused glance from Null, her eyes fixed on Trevor as he and the others looked around at her.

"You don't want us with you," she stated. Trevor cleared his throat, but then didn't seem to be able to think of anything to say. V-Cut did so for him:

"We're just talking. Gotta talk about stuff before—"

"Because of my leg. Because Zack's little and useless. You think we'd slow you down."

"We know you'd slow us down," Chris said, smoothly. "That's not in question. However, we were discussing whether or not we could afford that. Personally I'm inclined to drag you along, if the worst came to the worst we could always just throw you to them as we made our escape. What's that old chestnut? I don't have to run faster than them, just faster than you? Similar concept here, methinks." He glanced around at the others and smirked. "Oh, come now, it's the end of the world! If one can't be honest at a time like this then I honestly don't see the point."

"The point of what?" Keenan snapped.

"Why, the point of anything."

"Hey, wait!"

It was HK who called out—Imogen was already at the door.

"Someone open this."

"It's that square button beside it," said Null, enduring sharp glances from HK and Keenan without reaction. Imogen pressed the button, and the door beeped as it slid open.

"Zack, bring my bag and my bat."

"Imogen—"

"Zack."

There was stillness in the room, then a light thud as Zack jumped off the bed, quickly scooping up Imogen's things and scurrying over to her. She took the bag and put it over her shoulder, then took the bat and held it tight in her right hand. Her left hand she used to take hold of Zack, hard around the wrist. He squirmed but made no sound.

Imogen glanced back, not looking specifically at anyone in the room, and she spoke, two words:

"Problem solved."

And then she limped out, dragging Zack along with her.

"Imogen, hey, you don't gotta—"

The door slid shut behind them, and Keenan's voice was cut off.

"We should've said goodbye," Zack muttered. "Especially to Jen. She's still in the toilet, she'll come out and—"

"Shut up, Zack." Imogen stopped and looked up and down the corridor, then jerked at her brother's arm as she kept moving.

"But—"

"Shut up, I said."

"But what are we doing? We should—"

"We're getting out of here."

"B-but we could do that with the others—"

"They don't want us."

Zack stared up at his big sister as she dragged him along—then looked down at her leg, at the brace attached to her boot.

"Your foot—"

"It's fine," Imogen lied. "Just keep walking."

"I could help—"

"I can walk. Now shut up."

The corridor ended at a door, which Imogen listened at for several seconds before opening. On the other side was one of the many near-identical corridors of the Phoenix Complex, utterly unremarkable.

"I hate all these wrecked comics," Zack said, as Imogen led him out. She shot him a cold glance. "Imogen, where are we GOING? Even those guys didn't know how—"

"We're heading down. Down and out."

"But the lower floors are filled with ... with ... you know—"

"With zombies, Zack, just use the word."

"Um, and the main entrance—"

"Yes, I heard."

"And even Mr Muncaster said, he said about the side exits, and how they're gonna, I mean they were gonna—I mean, how some might be clear—Imogen, HOW are we gonna get out?"

"Just follow me."

Zack stared up at his sister as they walked along the corridor. "You've got a plan?"

How can I plan? Imogen thought, her eyes fixed straight ahead. My plan is 'surviving', nothing more than that. Surviving, and ... just surviving. She glanced down at her brother and her jaw clenched at the expression on his face.

"We'll head down," she said. "Getting to the ground floor is the most important ..."

They'd come to an outer corridor. Like every other outer corridor its wide, floor-to-ceiling windows had been blown in and glass covered the carpet. This corridor looked out over the surrounding paved park, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. I'm amazed there are still trees standing, Imogen thought, as she gazed down.

"I read somewhere, I mean I remember reading, that trees are really tough," Zack said, as if reading her mind. "Like even when everything else falls down or whatever trees can still stay, um, good."

More than trees were standing. Even without her glasses Imogen could see movement, could see the shambling gait of the blurred figures down below—

Zack scurried to catch up to his sister as she moved away from the window.

"Is your leg okay?" he asked. "You can lean on me if you want, I don't mind, do you need to lean on me?"

Imogen said nothing.

"Um, where did you get that bat? It's really cool, it looks like a really good one I mean, do you think I should have a bat too?"

"No."

"Or just, um, maybe a sword?"

"You don't get a weapon."

Zack stared up at his sister, mouth hanging open in indignation.

"What! That's so unfair, why not, why do you get a—"

"You just don't, Zack, don't question me."

Glass crunched underfoot as Imogen limped along the corridor and her brother stomped sulkily along behind.

"Don't stomp," Imogen said, glancing back at him coldly. "You're only wearing sneakers, the glass could go through."

"Okay, MUM."

Imogen's teeth clenched. "Do NOT call me that," she said, stopping to turn on her brother. "Just shut up."

"I don't get WHY I don't get a weapon, what if I get attacked?"

Imogen shook her head as she turned away.

"Imogen!"

"So don't get attacked."

"Aw, Imogen!"

"Shut up, Zack."

"But—"

Zack cut himself off with a yelp—Imogen had stopped and he'd walked into her back, biting his tongue. She shot him a chilly glance then looked ahead again.

"Oh my god. Is he dead?"

Imogen ignored Zack as she limped forward. Slumped against the wall of the corridor in a sitting position, as if gazing out at the view, was a still figure dressed as a motorcyclist or car racer—all in white, from his sturdy double-strapped sneaker to his racing leathers to the white helmet on his head. The only exceptions were the helmet's black visor and the red blood the figure's right foot was covered in. There was a trail of it, a dark line against the blue of the carpet, leading away up the corridor. He was attacked, Imogen thought, the zombies managed to rip his sneaker off and they mangled his foot—but he got away somehow, and dragged himself here, and now he's either dead or dying, in any case unconscious—could zombies follow a blood trail? Would they? If they were following him, they'd have caught up by now, wouldn't they? But what if he dragged himself up stairs, or—

No, Imogen told herself, just stop. Don't think about this. It's not important.

"Stay back."

Zack stared at Imogen as she walked closer, close enough to prod the man with the end of her bat—he didn't react. She prodded harder, and he slumped to the side.

Without further hesitation Imogen held her bat out for Zack to take, then went to kneel beside the figure. Working as quickly as she could she unbuckled the helmet and got it off his head, revealing a young, bearded face beneath, ugly red where it wasn't deathly pale, and all over glistening with sweat. Yellow and brown pus seeped from his eyes—and from the corner of his mouth. Dying, Imogen thought, not quite dead. Too difficult to get his leathers off, but the gloves—they unstrapped easily and Imogen tugged them off, before standing and stepping back as quickly as she could. She thrust the helmet and gloves at Zack, snatching back her bat as he struggled to hold everything.

"Put them on," she ordered.

"They're too big!"

"Deal with it. Do them up tight—just wrap the thing around." Imogen watched Zack struggle with the glove's straps, then rolled her eyes and knelt beside him. "There," she said, tightening it, before picking up the other and putting it on his other hand.

"Ow!" Imogen was not gentle with the helmet—it was far too big for Zack and wobbled on his head, but she pulled the strap up tight under his chin. "Imogen! Too tight!" Zack pushed up the helmet's black visor. "Why—"

"You said you wanted armour."

"But not like—"

"Anything that can stop those zombies from scratching or biting or grabbing you is armour. It doesn't matter what it looks like."

"But it's heavy, it doesn't fit me, it STINKS—"

Imogen let Zack's whining fade as she gazed down at the corpse. Without looking back at her brother, she started walking again.

"Imogen—"

This time Imogen didn't even need to glance back to cut off her brother; he did it himself.

Soon after leaving the dying man behind, they came to a wide staircase at the side of the corridor. Imogen grudgingly accepted Zack's help in getting down, and the corridor below was clear—at least at first.

"Zack," Imogen said, her voice low. She'd heard an increasingly familiar sound, and put her hand on her little brother's shoulder as she looked around—it was from a side corridor that they came, two of them, moving slowly, one dressed in red overalls with a yellow nametag, the other with a bloodied blue shirt, ripped open to expose his side, the fake chainsaw attached to his right hand dragging against the ground. The shirt, Imogen thought, even as she guided Zack to walk away from the two zombies, that's what let him down—his side had been torn open, his ribs exposed, guts dangling in a glistening mass.

"Oh, gross," she heard Zack whisper—his voice shook and his body was trembling. Imogen tightened her grip on his shoulder, both leaning on him for support and guiding him forward—but less than a minute after the two zombies by the stairs had been left behind they came across another group, at least a dozen, spread throughout the corridor ahead. Zack tensed beneath Imogen's hand and she jerked him away as a few of the closer ones started to shamble towards them, heading back towards a side corridor, but down that there were another three in a close group, all of them wearing red and black uniforms with little arrow insignias—they were standing still, apparently unaware of Zack and Imogen's presence, but even as Imogen considered her options they all turned and began walking towards her, that horrible purring sounding out—

Imogen pulled Zack towards another corridor, one she hadn't wanted to use, it was one of the narrow ones with doors on either side, and the floor was scattered with more comics than usual, and as Imogen passed each doorway she tensed, expecting one of them to lunge out from within.

But none did. And the corridor beyond was clear, oddly clear, even the comics thinned out, and there was no glass on the floor, no broken windows nearby—Imogen allowed herself to relax, just slightly, as she and her brother walked slowly onwards.

Then she noticed the sound—it didn't come from zombies. It was coming from her brother. He wasn't crying, not yet, but he whimpered with every shaky breath, and his hands were trembling even with the thick leather gloves.

"This is too heavy for me, it's a hassle," Imogen said, stopping to pull off her bag. She thrust it at Zack. "You have to carry it."

Zack stared at it, then reached out with a trembling hand—Imogen jerked the bag away.

"You are NOT allowed to take anything out without my permission. Understand?"

Zack nodded slowly. Imogen eyed him a moment, her eyes cold, then she pushed the bag into his hands.

"Put it on and keep moving," she said, already walking. Zack slipped it over his head, the helmet a minor nuisance, and then hurried after her. Imogen half-glanced back, not really looking at him. "You can take ONE bar from it. ONE."

Imogen returned her focus to the corridor ahead—it was dimly lit, hardly any of the lights were broken but they were clearly meant more for 'mood' than 'illuminating deadly hidden zombies'. She could hear Zack rummaging through the bag behind her. More side corridors, she thought, and some rooms behind those doorways, we need more stairs, why do none of the stairs in this place connect more than two levels? What a stupid—

The rummaging behind her had stopped, and she looked back to see Zack was staring at the bar he held.

"There's only one nut bar," he said, his voice quiet. Imogen shook her head as she looked forward again. "Imogen, there's only—"

"So?"

There was silence for a few seconds, then Imogen looked back again—Zack's eyes were wet. She rolled her eyes as she limped away.

"Just eat it, Zack, for god's sake—"

"But it's your—"

"I don't care, I really don't care, if you want that one then eat that one, just don't—"

Imogen let out an angry, pained grunt as she slipped on a comic and fell heavily to the floor, her bat falling from her hand and rolling away.

"DAMN ALL COMICS EVERYWHERE FOREVER!" she yelled, raw emotion making her voice harsh and strange. She waved Zack away as he ran to help, then pushed him hard when he didn't step back. He looked at her, hurt, then turned away. As Imogen pushed herself up he began trying to unwrap the bar, struggling to get a good grip with the clumsy gloves he was wearing.

It took Imogen a few seconds to get her breathing under control and steady herself on her good foot, then—

Purrr.

It was soft, almost gentle, coming from inside a nearby room. The door was gone, and as Imogen stared she saw the zombie limp into sight—it had been a boy, younger and even smaller than Zack, wearing big round glasses and black and purple robes with a cheap toy owl hanging limply from one shoulder. Imogen glanced at Zack as she retrieved her baseball bat, saw that he was staring at the boy, the nut bar lying forgotten on the floor beside him.

"Come on," Imogen grunted, grabbing her brother by the shoulder and pulling him into walking, leaning on him as they limped away—the zombie boy's leg was damaged and he was too slow to catch them, and soon Imogen and Zack emerged back onto the outer corridor, further along now, past the group of zombies that had blocked their path before.

"Imo—"

"Shut up."

"But—"

Zack cut himself off with a small squeal as a panicked scream sounded from further down the corridor. Imogen pushed him into moving as another scream cut through the still air, and after a few steps they saw its source. Just in sight around the curve of the corridor there was a group of zombies closing in on someone struggling with a door—an emergency exit that wasn't opening.

Imogen was already turning away, pulling Zack along as she headed for a side corridor.

"Imogen! We have to help her!"

"We absolutely do not," Imogen said flatly, as another scream sounded from behind.

"But—"

"All we 'have' to do is keep ourselves alive. Nothing else."

"But—"

"Shut up before they hear you and come after us."

Another desperate scream sounded out, turning shrill and pained before suddenly stopping. Imogen didn't look back, just kept walking, but after a moment she realised Zack was crying. She rolled her eyes.

"Quiet."

For a few seconds Zack obeyed, then he started sniffling again.

"Quiet, I said."

Silence from beside her. This passage led straight through to another outer corridor, long and curved, completely clear of zombies—although with piles of white cloth along its sides. There'll be another staircase, Imogen thought, going down to the second floor—she gritted her teeth together as she heard a sob from beside her, and turned to hit her brother in the head.

"Ugh," she grunted—she'd forgotten about his helmet. Hitting him hurt her more than it did him—and his sobbing only got louder. "Zack, if you don't shut up right now—"

There was a soft purring from nearby, from beneath the piles of white cloth, and Imogen pushed Zack back and gripped her bat tight. The cloth began to move, and Imogen gave her brother a pointed look before grabbing him and pulling him with her as she limped away, the crawler's purring growing louder as they escaped—then turning into a long howl.

"Great," Imogen muttered. At the end of the corridor two zombies had come into view, both wearing tight purple and black kimonos and having difficulty walking because of them. Zack's hand was around Imogen's wrist now, tight and getting tighter, and she leaned heavily on him as she headed straight for the two zombies ahead.

"Stay back," she said, before shaking Zack loose and limping forward, bringing her bat up in a short arc that knocked the nearest zombie's hand away. This gave her the opening she needed to thrust the blunt end of the bat against its chest, pushing it to the ground. The other zombie wasn't close enough to hit, so Imogen resettled her good foot and regained her balance, and she gripped her bat with both hands and drew it back—timing, she thought, as the zombie shuffled closer, half of her attention on the one she'd already downed, it's just timing, that's all it is, just—

"UGH!" she grunted, swinging the bat as hard as she could at the zombie's head—an intense shock rang through Imogen's arms at the impact, and the zombie was sent crashing against the wall. "ZACK, COME ON, NOW!"

His hand was in hers in an instant and she yanked him forward, turning the pull into a push that sent him past the two downed zombies—she followed, whacking a flailing claw away as she passed, and then she was with Zack once more, in the next corridor, another outer corridor, and the stairs were in sight—surrounded by zombies, but clearly in sight, and there was a path, a clear path, and Zack put himself under Imogen's arm so she could lean on him, she could feel him trembling hard, and together they shambled towards the stairs as zombies lurched towards them—Imogen had to let go of Zack to strike out at one, then another, pushing both back, then they were at the stairs, and they could see there were more zombies down below but it was too late now, too late to do anything but head down—there was a crawler halfway up and it howled as Imogen stumbled down and Zack tried his ineffective best to help her, they were almost falling by the time they got to the bottom, Imogen's tense, nervous, irritated silence doing nothing to calm Zack's fears, he was trembling worse than ever—

"Imogen ..."

This at the sheer number of zombies all around, dozens of them, most of them ahead but almost as many behind, and one enormously fat zombie blocked a side corridor, and all of them—all of them—were hunting Imogen and Zack, lurching towards them, arms outstretched, purring, their broken fingers and bone claws twitching as if in anticipation.

Imogen glanced left and then right, and then up the stairs again—already some of the zombies from above were stumbling down, falling and sliding—

"Imogen?" Zack's voice was tight with panic. Imogen grabbed his wrist and started limping towards the side corridor, zombies closing in from all sides, the fat zombie lumbering towards them from within. She took a breath, then brought her bat up to connect with the zombie's chin, the result a horribly unpleasant clacking noise and a moment of lost momentum, and then she raised the bat and brought it down hard on the zombie's head, the result of this a hollow clonk and little else. The zombie grasped out for her and Imogen stumbled back, Zack steadying her from behind.

Impact, Imogen thought. Stopping power. Not 'damage'.

"They're close," Zack whispered, his voice choked and tearful, and Imogen planted her good foot and shoved the blunt end of the bat as hard as she could into the fat zombie's chest. It stumbled away, teetered for one horrible second, then fell heavily backwards, still clawing at the air.

"ZACK, GO!"

Imogen slammed the bat against the zombie's arm as it reached towards Zack, her brother letting out a squeal of panic as he ducked to the side and sprinted past.

"STOP!"

Zack skidded to a halt, up the corridor, a few metres away now, and the fat zombie was trying to right itself, to roll, to get up, and Imogen glanced back to see that the zombies behind were just a few metres away. She started limping, gasping out as the fat zombie's claws scraped against her boot, jabbing down instinctively with her bat but missing, the blunt end thudding uselessly against the carpet, and now it had a grip, now it had her, now she was falling—

"No!"

Zack's arms were weak and his hands were small and the comics slipped beneath his feet—but his effort in keeping Imogen upright gave her the instant she needed to push herself forward, crying out as she put her bad foot down—and falling again, Zack beneath her, the zombie's claw tight around her foot, and the ones behind were gaining, and she let go of her bat to push Zack out from under her, he was squirming free and his shoes pushed painfully into her as he got himself out—

"GO! RUN!"

But he wasn't running, he was grabbing the bat and hitting the zombie's arm—

"ZACK, RUN!"

—and it did nothing—

"JUST RUN!"

—and those behind were closer—

"RUN!"

—and closer—

"RUN!"

—and the zombie's arm jerked—

With a hard gasp Imogen kicked her foot free and scrambled forward, Zack grabbing at her arm with both hands to pull her, the bat fallen to the side of the corridor. The fat zombie howled and swiped at Imogen, its claws scraping down the length of her boot, and another zombie lurched forward to fall against her, its fingers grasping frantically at her jacket, and suddenly it was like Imogen was hearing for the first time, the horrible purring all around exploding in her head, and she was grabbing Zack's shirt to pull herself up, almost bringing him down, and then they were both limping forward, and then she was pushing Zack, pushing him away, not hard enough to send him tumbling over but enough to get him away from her—he looked back but once more she screamed at him, "RUN!", and then she was on one knee, her hand grabbing the fat blunt end of her baseball bat, the only end she could reach, and the fat zombie grabbed at her boot, and the lurching zombie clawed at her leg, and the rest were just there, a mass of too-wide mouths and gore-covered bone claws and oozing brown death—

Still on one knee, Imogen drove the handle of the bat down against the fat zombie's wrist, and this time she did not miss, this time she felt bone crunch and tendons rip, and the lurching zombie had a hold of her, had her skirt, and with a yell Imogen brought the bat up to hit weakly against its arm—then flipped the bat in her hands to get a better grip and swung again, a short, brutal blow that drove the zombie's hand away, and now she was moving, now she was crawling, there was a sudden pressure against her arm and she struggled against it before realising that Zack hadn't run, he was there, he was still there, he was helping her up—

Her precious bat gripped tight, her free arm heavy around her brother's slim shoulders, Imogen limped away from the hordes behind her. Their numbers worked against them in this narrow corridor, and many stumbled and fell, and more found themselves blocked by the fat zombie, still struggling to crawl forwards.

But the zombies weren't just coming from behind.

This new corridor must have been one of the convention's busiest; DVD cases and comics and books and games and figures and t-shirts and everything littered the floor, heaped in useless piles, and to the side there was nothing, just a sheer drop to the ground below, and above there dangled heavy black cords from which sculptures had once hung; their remains lay scattered amongst the convention debris, blue and white and metal and plastic. Glass glittered everywhere, made precious by the late sun's light.

And everywhere you looked, there zombies were.

Dozens of them, both up and down the corridor, and dozens more beyond, there were five within a few metres, and all of them were lurching towards Imogen and Zack—and there's no way out, Imogen realised, looking around with wide eyes, no clear path, no clear path. She leaned on Zack as she struck out at a closing zombie, catching its leg and knocking it down, and as she limped forward she pushed her bat against another zombie, and that one went down too—but there were more to take their places, there would always be more ...

Find the rhythm. Move and strike. Focus on the next, just keep moving, ignore the ache in your arm, ignore the pain in your legs, ignore the whimpering at your side, ignore everything but the next in line; the next to be defeated. And keep moving, remember to keep moving, strike decisively—yes, that's it, Imogen thought, as her bat slammed against a zombie's shoulder and sent it stumbling away. Be decisive. Don't move unless you have to—no, but that's not it, it's not 'unless you have to', it's 'when you know to', move when you know to move, strike when you know to strike, 'don't' has nothing to do with it, just find ... just know that ... that moving is—

Imogen grunted as her swing missed, unbalanced and falling—Zack's arms beneath her propped her up but too late, already the zombie she'd missed had her, had its claws around her right arm, she tried to shake it loose but its grip was strong—she felt Zack tugging at the bat and let it go, but his feeble strikes did nothing to help, nothing at all, and to Imogen's horror the zombie brought its face to her arm and bit down hard, she screamed as its sharp teeth pinched her flesh—the leather of her jacket was strong but already she could feel it tearing, the sheer power of the zombie's bite unexpected and horrifying, and still Zack was trying to push it away, to beat it, to do anything, and Imogen was pushing at its head, frantically trying to dislodge it before it got through—

—and from the distance came a howling, long and strangled and weird—

Every zombie in the corridor stopped. Every zombie in the corridor turned.

Except for the one clinging to Imogen's arm, its teeth grinding into her jacket to get to the living flesh beneath.

And yet ...

With a shrill cry that was part terror and part wilful defiance, Imogen shoved the zombie's head back and wrenched her arm away, bringing her free hand forward in an open punch that sent the zombie back a few vital inches.

Imogen's right hand was open.

Zack shoved her bat up into it.

Without sound, Imogen drove the blunt end of the bat into the zombie's throat, forcing it back. Supported by her brother she spun, swinging the bat in a wide arc that caught an approaching zombie in the forehead, the hollow clonking sound deeply satisfying.

The moment of hesitance caused by the distant howl was over; the zombies were once again focused on Imogen and Zack.

But so too was Imogen's hesitance gone.

Limping away from the howl, her eyes blankly focused, Imogen held her bat in a tight one-handed grip and she drove back those zombies that came near with short, measured swings; I'm not killing them, she thought. I can't kill them. I'm not even crippling them. I'm just removing them from our path, that's all, that's all I need to do, just make a path. They can't be hurt. They can't be punished. I can't do anything to them, except remove them from my path.

EXIT.

Zack saw the sign before his sister did, he pointed and yelled and Imogen changed direction and began limping towards the large red door, it seemed as if a path had been made for them, a path clear of everything, even the debris that cluttered the corridor seemed to be gone, in its place nothing but attractively twisted shards of modern art.

Blue and white and metal and plastic.

Reaching the door presented no problems. Predictably, it didn't open. Imogen didn't waste time desperately trying to make the handle work. Instead she wrenched Zack away and began walking along the wall, there were zombies close, just out of clawing reach, but with Zack's support she outpaced them, there were more ahead but both of them had seen the second sign:

CARPARK.

There was no time to use her bat now, no time for any kind of decisive action other than that of escape, Zack's breathing was heavy and so, she knew, was hers, his rapid, hers wheezing, but there again was the sign, the sign that said CARPARK, and there was the corridor, so short and so sweet, and there was a one-armed corpse at the end but it lay still—given the choice Imogen would not have gone near it but choice was a luxury she simply did not have, and the relief that flooded through her weary body as the handle turned and the door opened was powerful and welcome. With a shove she sent Zack through the door, to the stairwell beyond, and she couldn't move forward and there was pressure against her side and this one was strong, this one was so strong—

The zombie was staring up, its eyes dark brown, almost black, bulging obscenely and dripping that horrible yellow ichor. Its sharp claws dug into Imogen's side, through her jacket, its grip burning hot, and it didn't have another arm to claw with and that alone gave Imogen hope—

In pain and in terror Imogen tried to beat at its arm with her bat but the angle was wrong, it was too close, she couldn't swing properly and it was too strong, impossibly strong, the muscles in its arm were like iron, hard and tense and uncrushable, and slowly it began to pull itself up, mouth open wide, displaying jagged and broken teeth that were too long and too sharp, brown filth dangling from them in long sticky strands, and it wasn't purring, it wasn't making any kind of sound, but its dead eyes seemed fixed on her, on the thin layer of grey cotton that just barely covered her stomach—

In a state of utter panic Imogen beat as hard as she could against the zombie's arm, aware of Zack shouting her name and yet utterly unaware, she could feel herself being tugged but the thing's grip was unbreakable, and its mouth was inches from her belly, and still it made no sound, and more of them were crowding into the short corridor now, so close, too close, this one will kill me, Imogen thought as she watched her bat slam down again and again, and then the others will eat me.

Please let that be what happens. Please don't let me—

And suddenly the zombie made a noise, a violent purr, and its grip on her side slackened—more than slackened, it was coming loose, and with a short, sharp swing of her bat and a deeply rewarding CRACK Imogen sent it slumping to the side—she felt a small hand tugging at her and she let Zack pull her forward, half-falling through before shoving her bat down to steady herself and turning, helping Zack to push at the heavy door—even before it clicked shut the scrabbling against it began, the zombies on the other side desperate to get through, they'd been closer than Imogen had realised and yet now, she thought, utterly harmless.

From the other side of the door came a howl, soon joined by others, and though just as chilling and horrible as every other howl Imogen had heard this time she welcomed the sound, almost revelled in it. This time it was the sound of a victory—small, perhaps even insignificant, but nonetheless there.

Zack was tugging at Imogen's arm, and she allowed him to lead her to the stairs, and then to help her traverse them. What felt like an hour later they were standing on bare concrete, in a tiny room, two brightly lit drinks machines playing soft jingles against the wall. There was something else here too, something it took Imogen a moment to identify; a mobile 'gate', similar to those set up outside the main entrance.

We're free, Imogen thought. We're out! Because these gates, these gates mark the entrance, and an entrance is just an exit except the other way around, because—

Imogen realised her eyes were closed. She realised that she was listening. More than that, she realised that she was hearing.

Purrrrr.

It wasn't in the tiny little room. It wasn't even an 'it'. It was a 'they'.

Words that seemed to have been spoken an unmeasurably long time ago drifted back to Imogen; for some reason there are dozens in the parking garage ...

There were double doors leading into the garage. They were closed, but unlocked.

They opened easily.

There was a moment.

They shut quietly.

Zack stared up at Imogen as she pressed her hand to her face, over her eyes, quietly despairing.

"Are there—"

And once more the doors opened. Imogen limped forward, bat in one hand, brother in the other, around the nearest parked car, which she hit as hard as she could with her bat. This had no effect but to attract the attention of several zombies, joining the eight dozen whose attention had already very much been attracted by the opening of the double doors.

"Faster," Imogen grunted, as she and Zack made their way further through the garage, there were big friendly yellow arrows pointing towards the exit, finding their way wasn't a problem, and Imogen hit another car as they passed and it exploded into an electronic whine of alarm, which the zombies universally ignored.

Worth a try, Imogen thought, and she limped onwards.

"Imogen—"

"No."

Just that, 'no', but Imogen realised that Zack was pointing, that around the edge of the garage there were no zombies at all, that if they went that way—

—then two minutes later they'd be trapped.

Imogen leaned out from the wall to see better, her face shiny with sweat, the fear she was trying to hide clear in her pale blue eyes. They were still coming for them. They were all still coming for them.

"None of them howled," she muttered, as she once more grabbed Zack by the shoulder and began limping along the wall. The nearest zombies were blocked by a car, a red convertible, but this made no difference—just a few metres further there were a dozen more, and to the left a tight group of five, and behind them two others, and to the right dozens more, all of them shuffling slowly but inevitably towards the only two living humans in the parking garage.

"Imogen—"

"Don't talk," Imogen snapped, as she stopped and glanced around—then immediately started walking again. Don't stop, she told herself. Never stop. The closest group of zombies was just a few steps away, beside a large blue SUV, already reaching out, claws grasping—

The blunt end of Imogen's bat connected heavily with the leftmost zombie's ear, knocking it into the zombie to the right. Neither went down, but the ensuing tangle of dead limbs and grasping claws gave Imogen the gap she needed. Squeezing against the SUV, pushing her brother ahead, the closest zombie near to breaking its own arm stretching around behind itself in a desperate attempt to grab them, Imogen released Zack to slap its hand away, the wet heat of its wrist sickening.

"Imogen—"

"DON'T TALK."

They were heading towards the middle part of the garage now, the clear area—clear of cars, anyway. Zombies shambled towards them from the left and right, the friendly yellow arrow beneath Imogen's feet indicating the exit—an impossible exit, thronged with dead-eyed creatures. Ahead there were cars and then the walls, scattered zombies in the gaps between, and with no other choice Imogen headed for a white sedan—

"Imogen, there's a door—"

Zack was pointing. In the far wall an unmarked brown door was open—but not wrecked. No wind, Imogen thought. It didn't reach down here. So why are there so many zombies?

No time to think. They'd reached the white sedan.

"Climb," she grunted, pushing Zack forward. He started scrambling up, then paused on the bonnet.

"Where—"

"Go over the cars, get to that door, DON'T GO IN."

Imogen was limping around the car, her eyes cold and hard—she could see the line, she could see the path—

"But—"

"If one comes close, go the other way. If you're surrounded, stay on top of the car." Imogen was halfway around the sedan now, heading for a high yellow ute. "GO!"

She heard her brother scrambling forward as she turned left. Two, she was thinking. Around the edge of this—

Claws scrabbled out from beneath the blue car to Imogen's right, and she gritted her teeth—a crawler. Of course.

"Zack, don't touch the ground! Jump to the next car!"

"Okay!"

Imogen had turned, was heading back towards the white sedan—but the zombies in the clear main 'road' had almost reached the edge of the parked cars now, that way was blocked, and she turned again, saw that the crawler was almost out—it moved fast, and Imogen soon saw why; its legs were neither missing nor broken. There was another zombie behind it, a walker, lurching out from around the yellow ute, clearly intent on getting to her, it was fast, small and fast, dressed in some kind of bee costume, yellow and black—

"Imogen—"

"Keep going!"

Imogen's hands were tight around her bat, her eyes were fixed forward, and she planted her good foot and she raised her bat and she waited for just that fraction of a second that would make all the difference in the world—

CLONK.

The bee zombie went down, face first against the hard concrete. Imogen raised her bat then brought it down in a swift, brutal motion, crushing its face against the ground. There was a sudden, blaring sound from ahead, a car alarm, but Imogen's focus was unaffected; the crawler was already grasping its way forward, and Imogen smashed her bat against first its right hand and then its left, crushing them easily—hard surfaces are good, she thought, as it tried to raise its head to bite at her and she broke its chin with a violent upwards blow. This unbalanced her, and she had to recover before moving forward—a quick glance behind revealed that the hordes coming in from the 'road' were having trouble with the cars, only a couple had managed to find gaps, and Imogen almost smiled as she stepped firmly over the downed zombies, steadying herself against the ute as she hopped over their horribly yielding backs. They go soft, she thought, as her left foot thudded down against firm ground again. Their muscles go hard and their skin goes soft.

Past the ute was a clear gap, then another road—clear of zombies—and Zack was there, he was already clambering through a convertible, its piercing alarm joining the others already echoing through the garage—at least it's better than hearing them purr, Imogen thought, as she shuffled to the next group of cars, there were zombies scattered to the left, to the right as well, but between those two blue hatchbacks—

"Imogen!"

Zack was almost to the wall, atop a small green SUV, but there were zombies to his left, shuffling towards him—

"Just go to the right and RUN! They can't catch you!"

Imogen had her own problems, she'd spotted another crawler beneath one of the hatchbacks, and a large black SUV with tinted windows had hidden a walker—the path she'd picked was far from clear. Going further along then doubling back might work, but with Zack where he was—

With a quietly irritated grunt Imogen headed straight forward, the most direct path to the far wall—there were two walkers between the gaps in the cars but they were facing away—they're heading for Zack, Imogen realised. If he doesn't—

"ZACK! Why aren't you moving!"

He didn't respond—he was frozen, still atop the SUV, his face hidden by the too-large helmet he had on but seemingly just staring at the zombies as they shambled closer.

"ZACK!"

No response. Imogen took a heavy breath as she changed direction, heading for her brother—great idea, she was thinking, send him ahead, over the cars must be safer than between them, he can outrun the zombies, I can't, he'll be safer on his own, yeah, that was the best idea I ever did have.

"UGH!" The first walker's head cracked open with the force of Imogen's swing, and it scrabbled at the air as it fell forward. Imogen didn't step over it, instead turned and headed back, around the car, to attack the zombie on the other side—it didn't go down with the first strike, but as it turned to purr at her Imogen's bat slammed into its cheek and it fell hard against a car—one final strike drove its head into the glass where it stuck.

Hm, Imogen thought, as once more she turned back to take another path—some of the zombies approaching from the main road were through to the second gap now, lurching faster through the clear space.

"Zack!" Imogen called again, closer now to her brother—he was pushing himself back, away from the zombies, and as Imogen watched he slipped and fell back, out of her sight. She pushed her hand hard against the cars she was passing as she hopped forwards, her muscles aching and protesting—

"Zack!"

No reply, but she could see the zombies moving around the SUV he'd fallen from, heading towards its back, she was three cars away and even hopping like this she wouldn't be able to reach it before they got to him.

"ZACK!"

Again no answer, and one of the zombies was lurching forward to fall against the concrete, out of sight, but Imogen knew what it was doing, it was crawling towards her brother where he lay frozen, terrified beyond movement, curled into a ball just waiting for this nightmare to end—

Pulling herself forward around the edge of a white van, Imogen could see through the cars, see through to where her brother—

Wasn't.

He wasn't there, there was nothing there, just the zombies, the walkers and the crawler—

"IMOGEN!"

He was by the door, by the open door, waiting like she'd told him too—Imogen gritted her teeth and turned, not making a sound as broken fingers clutched at her left ankle, another crawler hiding under a car.

Imogen was not in the mood for this.

Her eyes cold, she drove her bat down, crushing its arm against the ground. Its grip didn't relax, but with a hard sweep of the bat Imogen managed to get it to release her ankle. She would have loved to stomp down hard on the horrible thing's hand—its arm was all she could see of it—but with her bad foot this was too risky. She contented herself with another crushing blow of her bat, grinding its wrist hard against the concrete.

Loud purring from behind, audible even over the car alarms, made Imogen realise the cost of her indulgence. She wasn't surrounded, the gap ahead leading to the wall was clear, but zombies came at her from every other direction, the closest almost within grasping distance. Chastising herself for losing focus Imogen pulled herself forward into a hopping limp, hobbling out towards the wall and reaching out, steadying herself once more—

"Here—"

Zack was there, beneath her, helping her along, she said nothing as they made their way towards the door, it was close but getting there seemed to take hours, the purring coming from behind and from ahead and from everywhere louder even than the piercing shrieks of the alarms, but then finally, finally it was there, and Imogen pushed Zack weakly in ahead of herself and limped after, turning to shove the door closed, relief washing through her as she heard a solid, beautiful 'click'—and even better, there was a lock, there was a sliding bar lock, mechanical and simple and perfect, and Imogen slid it firmly into place. The small but strong 'clack' as it settled into its groove was the single most wonderful sound Imogen had ever heard. Seconds later there came the first scratching against the outside of the door, and somehow even this was welcome; the zombies were out and they were in and that was all that mattered.

Quiet came. The car alarms and the purring of the zombies scratching against the door were dulled and distant, the only noises from inside the room Imogen's wheezing and Zack's panting and a constant, gentle fizz.

For the first time in an hour, Imogen allowed herself to relax. She shuffled forward, Zack still close at her side, to look at this new room. It was plain, the plain of a room that was strictly functional, a room that had no need for decoration. This was a room in which things were done. It was wide but shallow, just a few metres from the garage side to the far wall, but at least ten times that wide. Eight wide, solid workbenches had been set up, all of them covered in fans and heating units and air conditioners in various states of disrepair, as well as other, less identifiable mechanical and electrical items. Lighting came from long, flat chemical lights in the ceiling, the cheap kind that glowed rather than shone, tinting everything a moody yellow. There was a thin, sweet smell hanging in the air, mixing with something more familiar, the thick fug of oil.

Imogen shoved Zack away and limped to the nearest workbench. She briefly considered the logistics involved in getting herself up to sit on it, then simply slumped down to the floor, her back against the bench, her bat thudding against the bare concrete beside her. Her eyes closed and her hands dropped, and like this she remained for exactly three seconds.

That was when she felt the stickiness against her right hand. Her eyes came open and she stared down, feeling at her side, raising her hand to see the glistening red blood covering it, and then down past it at her jacket, and her top, and there were drops of it splattering her boots—

"I'm dead," she whispered, unbelieving. I got scratched or bitten and now I'm dead, nothing I've done means anything because—

Then she frowned, and she checked her other side—there were a few smears of blood on her jacket, and there were long scratches down it—

Zack put his hands behind his back as Imogen looked up at him.

"Zack. Show me your hands."

He shook his head.

"Zack."

"I—"

"SHOW ME YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS!"

Reluctantly Zack did so, displaying the backs of his hands, still covered by the white leather gloves—but Imogen could see the blood dripping to the floor, could now see the trail behind him, and the glistening smears on his black pajamas—

Zack cried out as Imogen's hand grasped around his wrist, pulling him towards her, where she still sat, and her eyes narrowed as she saw the thin line through the gloves, along his palm—

"It doesn't even hurt—"

"This isn't a scratch," Imogen murmured, looking closer at the cut—it was too straight and clean to have been caused by a zombie's claws. She looked up at her brother. "It's not a scratch, is it, Zack. Tell me it's not a scratch."

"I ... I just wanted to help—"

"How did you do this?" Imogen's voice was flat and dangerous. "What did you do, Zack?"

Zack's eyes went down to the bag he still wore, and Imogen reached out to pull it towards her—she saw it immediately, atop the bars and bottled water, a wide shard of metal, painted white with a blue stripe through it. She pulled it out roughly, her mouth tight. It was heavy for its thinness, and holding it up to the glow of the chemical lights she saw that it was shaped vaguely like a love heart. Its edges were torn, the paint flaked away to expose gleaming white metal. One edge was smeared with red, another with the dark brown rot of zombie blood.

"I ... I just picked it up, I thought ... I saw it, I saw it was, in the corridor up there, and then when that one grabbed you and you couldn't ... and it worked, it worked really well, it made it let you go, it cut real good! But ... it cut my hand, too."

For a moment longer Imogen stared at the scrap of painted metal, then she let out an angry breath and threw it to the ground, grabbing Zack to pull herself up off the floor.

"Ow, hey—"

"Over here," she muttered, dragging him to the other wall—there was a narrow bench there, which she pulled him up onto, and on the wall not too far away there was the squat blue shape of a medical kit, which Imogen wrenched open so roughly that its contents cascaded out over the bench. She caught one small red and blue plastic bottle as it fell, then swept another, larger bottle up from the bench along with a wad of bandages.

"Glove off."

Zack tried to obey his sister, hurriedly working to undo the thick straps—Imogen clucked her tongue and put down the bottle, ripping at the straps and tugging the glove from her brother's hand. It was covered in blood, the cut was shallow but long and it had been bleeding since before they'd come into the garage—

"You didn't say anything," Imogen said, as she poured antiseptic over his hand, using some of the bandages to clean the blood—Zack hissed and yelped and whimpered but tolerated his sister's actions. She leant down to meet his gaze. "You didn't say anything, before—"

"It didn't hurt! It didn't until you—ow!"

Imogen was using more of the bandages to pat her brother's hand dry. "Stop complaining. Are you dizzy? Do you feel sick?"

Zack hesitated, then shook his head. Imogen clucked her tongue again, then shook the spray bandage bottle. "Hand up. No, palm facing me, idiot."

"OWWWW!"

If Imogen hadn't been holding Zack's wrist in a crushing grip, he would've jerked his hand away. She emptied a quarter of the bottle onto his hand, then met his gaze again.

"Sit here. Do NOT move. Do NOT touch your hand. Don't do ANYTHING until it's dry. Understand?"

Zack nodded mutely, sullen and sulking. Imogen reached into the bag at his side.

"Eat this," she said, thunking an energy bar down beside him. "Drink this," she said, slamming a water bottle beside the bar. "And DON'T MOVE."

"How can I—"

Zack shut up as Imogen shot him a final icy glare, then picked up the bar with his non-injured hand.

"I—"

Without looking Imogen snatched the bar from his hand, tore it open with her teeth, then slapped it back against his palm. The water bottle's seal she broke by whacking it against the edge of the bench.

"If you move that hand an inch I'm throwing you to the zombies."

With horribly perfect timing there was a thudding at the door that made Zack jump, and a low, barely audible purring. He stared at his sister, then at the door, then down at his trembling, injured hand, then at the energy bar in his other hand, then back at Imogen.

"I can't eat through—"

Imogen's fingernails left white scratches against Zack's neck as she wrenched at the strap, and he gasped as she yanked the helmet off his head.

"Anything else?" she snapped. He shook his head hurriedly, then his face suddenly became pinched—with a deep, shuddering breath he controlled himself, but he was trembling and sniffing as he took the first bite of his energy bar.

Imogen turned away from her whimpering brother, her gaze falling on her baseball bat, lying on the floor where she'd dropped it, and on the shard of metal Zack had cut himself on, lying on the floor where she'd thrown it.

"What the hell is that thing, anyway? Why'd you pick that up?"

Zack took a shaky breath before replying: "I t-told you, I already s-said—"

"Don't flex your fingers. Just keep your hand still."

Zack was sniffling now, his voice shaking as he spoke. "I'm trying. I'm sorry. I just forgot. It's almost dry—"

"Don't poke it!"

With another shuddering breath Zack nodded, his eyes wet. The scratching and thudding at the door continued, and Imogen stared at it, almost enjoying the way it shook inwards.

"D-d-d-do you think Mum and Grandpa—"

"Shut up, Zack."

"But I can't stop thinking about—"

"Just shut up, Zack."

"What if—"

"Zack, shut UP."

His sniffling was worse now, his breathing choked and ragged, the energy bar lying on the bench beside him, just one bite taken from it, now forgotten.

"I-Imogen?"

Imogen was looking away from her brother, her mouth tight, her hands clenched.

"Imogen, do, do, do you think, do you think maybe Dad—"

Zack shrank back as Imogen glared straight at him, her eyes deeply cold. His lower lip shook and tears were already flowing down his cheeks, he was trying with everything he had to keep control but it was clear it was a losing battle, and once it starts, Imogen thought, irritated, it's not going to stop—

Imogen looked away from her brother and tugged her battered pack of smokes from her pocket, her gaze falling on the heart-shaped bit of metal. She pulled a cigarette out with her mouth, got her lighter to catch on the eighth try, and inhaled a long, thoughtful lungful of smoke. Beside her Zack continued to sniffle, a half-sob coming every few breaths. Imogen held the smoke inside as long as she could, her eyes still fixed on the white and blue shard, then she let it out in a long, thin plume.

The smoke cleared. Her gaze remained.

"Imogen?" Zack's voice wasn't quite as shaky now. "What—"

Imogen cut her brother off by moving away from the bench, limping towards the bit of metal. She carefully bent down and even more carefully picked up the jagged shard, holding it between thumb and forefinger. She looked over at her bat, still lying where she'd let it fall.

Zack's hands still trembled and his breathing was no less ragged than before, but he blinked away tears to stare at his sister, watching her limp to her baseball bat and bend to pick it up, in his eyes a brightness that had moments before been lost. He watched as Imogen limped to the nearest bench, winced as she swept her bat along it to send the broken air conditioners and heating units crashing to the floor, then frowned as she dropped both bat and shard onto the now-clear surface.

"What are you doing?"

Imogen didn't reply. There was a vice at the workbench's edge; she was unwinding it. Once wide enough she picked up her bat and shoved it in, blunt end up, then retightened the vice.

There was silence for half a minute after that, aside from the crashing thuds from outside and the purring of the zombies, Zack watching with wide, dry eyes as Imogen limped around the workshop. Finally she returned to her bat, a thin hacksaw in her hand. Several minutes of grunting, cursing labour later, Imogen had managed to make a straight cut into the end of her bat, two inches deep. She regarded this for a moment before coughing, the smouldering stub of her cigarette falling from her mouth, and she continued to cough as she ground it into the concrete floor, steadying herself against the bench, and she coughed again as she took another from the pack. Two final, hard coughs later Imogen placed the new cigarette against her lips, leaving it unlit as once more she walked away from her bench—she wasn't searching this time, though. Her target was firmly in sight.

Zack's breathing was shallow now, his expression one of fascinated awe, not even aware that the spray bandage had dried as he watched his sister lug a bulky piece of equipment across the room.

Imogen dropped the bulky thing on her workbench, the metal shard jumping at the impact. A long black cord extended from one end, parts of it covered with grubby white tape, and she bent down to plug this into a floor socket. While she was down there she picked up a stout pair of pliers, one of the things she'd swept off the bench, and after straightening she used these to pick up the metal shard and force it into the cut she'd already made. The fit was tight but with some effort she got it in, the flat edge of the shard level with the bottom of the slit.

Imogen let out a breath around her cigarette, then tossed the pliers aside.

Adjusting the bat within the vice was simple; she loosened it, levered the bat around on its side, the shard sticking from its end flat with the workbench, then screwed in the vice, even tighter than before.

Another breath, through her nose this time, in and out, then Imogen lifted the bulky bit of equipment, flicked a switch at its side, and placed the end of it flat against the wood of her bat, above where the shard lay in its slot.

Imogen tensed, then pulled the bolt thrower's trigger. There was a loud 'THUNK' followed by a sharp 'ping!', and Imogen looked past the bat at the floor below, to where a wire-thin bolt was now half-buried in the concrete. She raised her eyebrows then checked the bolt thrower, finding a kind of frame that could be positioned in front of the barrel. Getting this to fit around the bat was fiddly and awkward, but the next time Imogen pulled the bolt thrower's trigger the 'THUNK' was followed by nothing but smug self-satisfaction. Three THUNKs and a little more smugness later, there was another heavy thud as the bolt thrower was dropped to the workbench, then the click-click-click of a lighter and the barely-there sound of a cigarette tip catching.

Long inhalation; long exhalation.

The vice's catch was spun. The weapon was taken up. A cursory inspection was performed, several experimental swings were swung.

The way it swished through the air was gratifying.

Swinging it with the shard held flat caused a little drag—not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

"You are the most awesome person in the world. How did you even THINK of MAKING that?"

Imogen glanced back at her brother, who was gazing at her with open adoration, then down at her bat.

"You HAVE to give that a name, something amazing."

Imogen was still looking down at her weapon.

"Hope," she said, quietly.

"Ugh, NO! That sounds SO wussy, no way, how about Dead Meat Killer? Or SlicerDicer—no, SlicerThumper! Or .. or, um, or Home Run Slugger, or Whack-A-Zombie, or BatSlice! BatSlice, how about that? Or just ... or just Zombie Killer—you CAN'T just call it 'Hope', that's SO girly—"

"Fine then."

There was the softest of thuds as Imogen let the bat fall against her shoulder. Its weight was comforting.

"HopeKiller."

"Hmmmm ... well, I guess that's better than just Hope but I still think Dead Meat Killer is way cooler—"

"You can put that bandage on now."

Zack looked at his hand. "Oh. But—"

"Come on." Imogen put HopeKiller down on the bench, then picked up the roll of bandages.

"That's too much!"

"It'll help keep the glove on, stop complaining."

Zack shut his mouth, shooting glances at HopeKiller as Imogen cocooned his hand in the thick white bandages. After they were secured she limped away, to the far side of the room, where she'd spotted several lockers while fetching the bolt thrower. They weren't locked, and inside was just what she was looking for.

"Im-o-gen!"

Imogen ignored her brother's protests as she dressed him in the overalls—they were far too big for him, but with the legs and arms rolled up and secured with safety pins they fit well enough, and they were tough and thick.

"This is terrible," Zack muttered.

"You wanted a new costume. Now you're a maintenance worker." Imogen lit another cigarette, inhaling as she eyed Zack. "You look adorable."

"I don't WANT to look adorable—"

"Shoes next."

It took three pairs of thick woollen socks to get the heavy workman's shoes to fit.

"I feel like an elephant," he complained as he stomped around. "And it's HOT and it's ITCHY and why aren't YOU putting any armour on?"

Imogen didn't reply, just picked up Zack's right glove and then took hold of his wrist. It fit snugly with the bulky bandages around his hand, and he winced as she tightened the strap.

"Awww, not the helmet!"

"Do you want a zombie to eat your brains?"

"It doesn't even FIT!"

"It's good enough."

Zack grumbled as he put on the loose helmet, then shrank away as Imogen reached forward—"I can do it myself, your fingernails scratch!"

Imogen allowed her brother to tighten the straps, and after checking them conceded that they were adequate.

"Sit here," she commanded, after Zack was properly dressed. "Don't move. Not at all."

"Huh?"

"Just do it, Zack."

Imogen grabbed HopeKiller from the bench and limped back towards the side of the room, half-smoked cigarette tight between her lips. The lockers weren't the only things she'd noticed while fetching the bolt thrower.

He was lying against a bench, both legs clearly broken. It wasn't clear where he'd been scratched, or bitten. He had on overalls, like the ones Zack now wore, and a grubby brown baseball cap. Caretaker, Imogen thought, as the man slowly raised his head—and became an 'it'. Yellow and brown ichor dripped down its cheeks and its eyes were crusted with brown gunk, but they weren't yet bulging out. Its fingers were whole and undamaged, not yet bone claws. As she raised HopeKiller Imogen found herself wondering why the flesh of the fingers was so often gone, whether it was part of the zombification process or simply a natural consequence of clawing and dragging; maybe dead finger flesh was just that weak.

I suppose it doesn't matter, Imogen thought, and as the zombie raised a shaking hand towards her she swung HopeKiller down. There was a shivery impact as the shard's edge cut through its wrist, and the zombie's hungrily twitching fingers twitched no more. A blunt swipe against the side of the zombie's head sent it slumping to the floor, the impact dull and hard, and Imogen spat the stub of her cigarette at it before gripping HopeKiller tight with both hands. The zombie tried to pull itself around, its left hand useless even for dragging, and its right hand clawed upwards at nothing before suddenly spasming and going limp, HopeKiller's edge slicing easily through tight muscle and tendons. Imogen put her hand out to steady herself against a bench, looking down at the zombie's feeble struggles. It could still bite, she thought. But it can't move. Cripple the arms and they can't do much at all.

"Whoa."

Imogen glanced back, irritated, to see Zack staring past her at the twitching zombie.

"HopeKiller rocks," he said, grinning up at her. Then his grin faded, as he glanced back at the door, and the thudding and scratching that Imogen had been quite successfully ignoring for the past quarter-hour or so came firmly back to her attention. "Imogen, how are we getting out?"

There were two other doors in the room, one in the left wall and one in the right, but both were locked. The door back into the garage was the only exit.

"I mean, even with that—"

A piercing, wild, desperate howl suddenly erupted from the zombie Imogen had crippled. Imogen flinched, and Zack said a word Imogen wouldn't have credited him with even knowing, and the thudding and scratching from outside redoubled in strength.

"Stupid," Imogen muttered, low enough that Zack couldn't hear, and she limped away from the zombie she'd crippled, past her brother, to lay HopeKiller down on the bench of its birth.

"Zachary," she said, her voice quiet. "I need you to go to the door."

"What—"

"I need you to do exactly as I say. Go to the door."

Zack obeyed his sister hesitantly, edging towards the door as if it could spring open at any moment. While he moved, Imogen hefted the bolt thrower and pushed the frame away from its end.

"When I say 'go'," she said, "push back the bar lock and push down the handle, then run to your left, to the end of the room. Do you understand?"

Zack nodded, eyes wide.

"Tell me what you're going to do when I say 'go'."

"Push the, um, the lock and o-open the door, then run."

"Run where?"

"To the end of the room."

"Which end?"

"The one without the zombie."

Imogen smiled thinly as she limped to the end of the workbench, pushing down the desire for another cigarette, ignoring the itchiness in her chest. She put down her good foot and leant back against the bench, bracing herself, the heavy bolt thrower solid in her hands. The door was less than two metres away.

"Go."

There was a clack, and a thud, and Zack scrambled back and twisted to get onto his hands and knees, his breathing heavy and panicked as he crawled for the far wall.

Outside dozens of zombies had been pressed against the door, pushed in by the dozens behind them, and the sudden release sent one falling hard against the concrete floor, cracking its skull, purring violently as those behind it surged forward

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

Needle-thin bolts capable of penetrating wood, metal and concrete thudded into the zombies, the impact not enough even to send them stumbling back. Imogen took a short breath and kept pulling the trigger, it fired slow, at least half a second between bolts, and it wasn't doing anything, they were still coming—

There was a crash as Imogen dumped the bolt thrower, cursing herself for an idiot—oh, of course, she thought, attack the zombies with a bolt thrower, THAT'LL work, attack the zombies that don't feel pain and which can't be damaged with a glorified nail gun, Imogen Shroud is just SUCH a smart girl—

"Zack, to the back wall!" she called, as she started to limp back there herself—then stopped, grabbed HopeKiller, glanced to judge, and turned to head towards the left wall, where she'd left the crippled zombie. Claws snatched at her but she leant to avoid them, and now the zombies' numbers worked against them, those at the back were crushing those in the middle against those at the front and several had already fallen, those that were inside the room bumped and jostled by those behind—

"Imogen!"

"Just stay there! Don't say anything! Get up on the bench and don't move!"

Imogen slammed the blunt side of HopeKiller against the wall and floor as she limped along, glancing back every few steps to check that the zombies were following her. Ahead was the crippled zombie, lying forward now, its mouth opening and closing against the floor, and as she neared it let out another howl. Imogen let herself smile, just for an instant, then limped past the zombie to the far corner, then to the wall opposite the door—

And stopped. She leant against the narrow bench there, then pushed herself up to sit on it. The zombies were still spilling into the room, the flow sluggish but constant, and with a neverending source—

Except not neverending. How many were out there? Imogen guessed that there weren't many more than a hundred. This room was shallow but wide. You could easily fit a hundred people in here, she thought, as the first of the zombies reached the corner and turned to lurch towards her—it caught itself on the bench and stumbled, then fell, collapsing to the floor. Behind it was a line of zombies, two or three thick, stretching to the door, all of them following the same path. Imogen glanced to her left, saw that Zack was where she'd told him to be, on the bench, feet pulled up to be off the floor. He was looking at her, so she pointed to herself, and then to him—he started to crawl along the bench towards her, at which Imogen let out an irritated breath and shook her hand hard.

"Just stay there," she muttered, before raising her voice—I want them to come towards me anyway, she thought—"I'm coming to you!"

Zack nodded and stopped where he was, still on his hands and knees on the bench. Imogen glanced back at the zombies, several were around the corner now, just half a dozen metres away. Others had started to come up the other 'alleys', between the benches. I can afford to wait, she thought. I have a few more seconds. In preparation she let herself down off the bench, gently lowering her good foot to the ground, and she grimaced at herself as she realised that if she'd been thinking she could have moved the benches, made a real maze for them—even blocked off the ends to pen them in, she thought, as the nearest zombie purred and swiped at her, and she started to limp away. With her left hand on the bench she could move quite quickly, but she chose not to, keeping just a few steps ahead of the zombies as they purred and wiped and lurched and fell—they were coming from her right as well, up between the benches, and still more flowed in from the open door. Imogen found herself counting them, as she made her way towards her brother, as slowly as she dared, three dozen, four dozen, five dozen, six—she was halfway across the room now, she could see through the door, there were more zombies out there but not many, and behind them it was clear, utterly clear—

"Imogen, I get it, I get what—"

Imogen just shook her head at her brother and pointed down, and he hopped off the shelf to take up position beside her. She'd sped up a little in the second half of the room, and there was a comfortable gap between them and the zombies behind—but still more were coming from the door, Imogen and Zack were halfway down the side of the room, but—

"Zack, listen to me." Imogen's voice was urgent but not scared. "We're going to climb over the benches. All we have to do is get that doorway clear, you understand? All we have to do is get all the zombies out there into this room and away from that door with a clear path for us to get to it. They'll just keep coming towards us, they're not smart enough to try to trap us, all we have to do is keep enough distance between us and them and we'll be okay, do you understand? Distance is everything, distance is all that matters—Zack, do you understand?"

"Yes, Imogen." Zack smiled at her, a small, brave smile. "That's the most you've ever said to me."

Imogen didn't smile back. "Come on, then."

Although Zack climbed easily over the bench, Imogen had trouble—even with her brother's help she found it hard to get up, and by the time she carefully lowered her good foot to the ground on the other side they'd lost more distance than they could afford. Zombies were crowding in along the gaps between benches and at the sides of the room, and hollow doubt filled Imogen's stomach as she struggled to climb over the second bench—

"They've stopped!"

Zack's shrill voice made Imogen look up—he was right, no more zombies were coming in from the door—but if we can't get to it, Imogen thought, glancing around at the zombies surrounding, then none of this matters.

Except ...

Imogen pulled Zack back off the third workbench, pushing HopeKiller into his gloved hand before taking hold of a broken air conditioner. It was heavy, almost too heavy, but with a deep grunt she raised it up and flung it forward, sending it crashing against the zombie at the end of the gap. The impact was enough to send it falling back, against the zombies behind it—another fell and those that didn't stumbled, and already Imogen was grabbing another big hunk of plastic and metal, a heating unit this time, and once more she hurled it at the zombies, knocking more down—it didn't clear the way, but just slowing them, just slowing them could be enough—

"Imogen!"

Imogen looked back, saw what Zack was warning about in an instant, and the next air conditioner slammed into the zombies at the other end of the gap—wrong place, Imogen thought, I should've done this at the far end, got them all bunched up—

She winced and pushed Zack forward over the bench—while she'd been messing around throwing things the zombies in the next gap had closed in, it was too late to climb over—

"Stay near this side," Imogen said, struggling to get up behind him. "They won't be able to reach over."

"But—"

But what next, Imogen thought, shutting Zack up with a hard glance as she got up onto the workbench, on her hands and knees. The ones over there can't get us. But once the ones on this side get close ...

"Zack," Imogen said, her voice low. "Look. Down the end. There's going to be a gap."

Zack nodded, his young face serious. The zombies were moving up and around, and no new ones were coming from the door, and those at the other end of the room were too far away—

"Go now," Imogen said. "Look, there's the gap, go!"

"But you—"

"NOW, ZACK!"

Imogen snatched her bat back from her brother and shoved him forward, but he didn't run.

"No, come on!" he said.

"I can't run, you have to—"

"NO!" he yelled, grabbing for her wrist—she easily shook his hand free but he grabbed again, tugging. "Together!"

Imogen didn't have time to argue—the zombies were already closing. She swung HopeKiller at the hand of the nearest and sliced through its palm, then let Zack tug her forward, limping after him along the middle of the bench. Zombies grasped at them from both sides, claws scraping against the leather of Imogen's boots and the hybrid weave of Zack's work shoes—too far, Imogen thought, too far to grab, they can only—

She grunted and struck back with HopeKiller, nearly severing the hand that clutched at her, the fingers fell loose and she pulled herself forward, letting out a groan of pain as she put her injured foot down to steady herself—looking ahead she saw that the gap was still there, but just barely—

"Jump! Zack, JUMP NOW!"

To Imogen's relief he did, leaping forward between the hordes to the left and right, there was a crawler near the doorway that reached up as he stumbled towards it, but Zack leapt once more, clearing the zombie and disappearing through the open door.

Imogen could only glance up to see her brother's escape—as he'd leapt another zombie had grabbed at her right ankle, jarring her brace, and as she'd pulled her foot away the brace had come loose—it was still attached to her boot but now dangled free, a nuisance rather than an aid, and she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but balance there on her left foot, zombies all around, the gap was gone, Zack was gone, and more claws scraped against her foot, and one hand scrabbled for a grip and found it—

Imogen hurled herself forward. Her right foot pushed against the wood of the bench with a blinding, gut-twisting burst of pain, and then she was falling, the concrete floor coming up to meet her—

Cold agony ripped through her arm. Her right leg pulsed with burning pain. HopeKiller skittered across the floor, fallen from loose fingers. Sudden pressure against her left leg told Imogen that a zombie had lurched forward to fall upon her; others would follow, she knew. I don't have to do anything, she thought. All I have to do is lie here. No more choices. No more pain.

Imogen Shroud chose to die.

Half of the lights weren't working properly. They flickered and buzzed with an angry, disapproving noise. So what, they said. You expected us to work? Why should we? What have you done for us lately?

Except that made no sense. The winds didn't reach the parking garage. All of the cars here were fine. The doors weren't ripped off their hinges. And the zombies down here were more intact than those up above. Why would the lights be broken? Why would they refuse to work properly?

The alarms had stopped. The car alarms. How long did it take for that to happen? Or had someone switched them off? But who could do that? Who would do that?

Still there was the purring. It echoed from everywhere, cruel in its constancy.

"—so get UP, get UP!"

Imogen blinked, aware suddenly that her eyes were open. There were lights above. There were cars around. The angle of everything was far too low.

"Come ON, get UP!"

Her left leg was raised. I don't remember doing that, she thought.

Then she saw Zack, saw that he was holding her by the leg, saw that he was dragging her—

"Zack," she mumbled, pushing herself up—he dropped her leg to grab her arm, helping her. "I—"

"We have to keep going!"

The purring came mostly from behind. Imogen looked back to see the horde behind them, spilling out of a distant doorway. The room, she thought. The workshop. How did I get out?

"Imogen!"

Zack's urgent voice brought Imogen back to herself—and brought back awareness of the pain in her leg and her hand. Mostly in my leg, she thought, as she stared distantly at her palm. This isn't so bad.

"Imogen!"

With her brother's help, Imogen got up onto her feet—or foot, anyway. The plastic brace dangled irritatingly from her right boot, no use at all. It was only with Zack's support that she could walk, slowly moving forward, easily outpaced by the zombies behind them.

"They're getting closer," Zack said. "I went in and I grabbed you and I killed that one by the door, I got HopeKiller and I hit it and it was trying to get me but I got it! Just like you did, I hit its arms and it couldn't grab me, or you, I mean I had to drag you out past it, it even tried to bite you but it couldn't, then ... then ..."

Imogen saw that her bat was sticking from the bag Zack carried.

"And these yellow arrows, these arrows show the way out, so if we just follow them, all the zombies are behind us, well most of them, I saw a couple but not close, so we just ... we just have to get out, right? We're almost out, Imogen! We just need ... to ..."

Zack trailed off. They'd made their way further around the carpark as he'd talked, and the exit the friendly yellow arrows were pointing them towards had come into view.

Getting to the exit took more than a minute. The floor of the parking garage ramped up to it, and continued to ramp up past it before a sharp turn led right and towards the surface.

"But ... but ..."

Zack looked helplessly at Imogen, then reached out to touch the shutter that blocked off the exit. It was formed of criss-crossing bands of thin black plastic that made it easy to see through ... but impossible to pass. Zack tried to pull up the shutter but it didn't budge; it was locked firmly in place.

Imogen was looking around, at the walls to the left and the right, but there was no obvious way to retract the shutter, no convenient button or lever to push or pull—

"That way," Imogen said, seeing the hopelessness in Zack's eyes. "Look, it's clear. Come on. Together. We'll ... we'll go back up. We'll find another way out."

Zack was still staring at the shutter, dragging his fingers down over it again and again.

"It's so unfair," he said, before looking up at Imogen. "It's ... it's so unfair!"

So what isn't, Imogen thought, but what she said was:

"I need your help. I can't walk without you. And they're getting closer."

Zack's hand was still against the shutter, fingers curling into one of the gaps—

"Zack, I need you to help me walk."

He looked at her, then back at the shutters.

"LET go of that STUPID shutter and let's GO!"

That did it. Zack released the shutter and braced himself under Imogen, and together they began limping away. The zombies were close behind them now, less than a dozen metres away, but Imogen was trying to ignore that—

No, she told herself. NO. That's exactly what you CANNOT do, the MOMENT you ignore those things is the moment you are DEAD. They are ALWAYS dangerous. They will NEVER stop. Complacency will kill you. Never forget that.

"Imogen, where—"

"Just away." Imogen's voice was flat. So was Zack's. And behind them the zombies shambled forward, a mass of grasping claws and sightless eyes, and ahead there were more, scattered and few but just as deadly—

Despite her efforts to remain alert, Imogen's mind dulled as they limped through the garage. She and Zack found a rhythm of movement that let them walk just slightly slower than the zombies behind them, the horde gaining a fraction of an inch with every step, and the parking garage seemed to stretch on forever, no way out, no way in, just an eternal circle of torment with nothing even resembling an end, and as they walked a simple phrase repeated in Imogen's head again and again, can't find the exit can't find the exit can't find the exit—

But then there one was, a brightly lit room, the stairs within clearly visible through the clean glass walls. The zombies behind were close now, their massed purring low and hungry, and the nearest were reaching out, their claws mere inches away—

The glass door closed firmly.

It didn't lock, but it didn't need to.

Imogen slumped to the floor, Zack beside her, both exhausted.

The sound of bone claws scraping against glass was particularly horrible.

Without words spoken brother and sister began working, adjusting the brace on Imogen's right boot, trying to get it back into place.

Outside the zombies surged against the glass walls of the little room, pressing against it, smearing the clean surface with red-brown filth.

"Is ... is that okay?" Zack's voice was shaking so much he could barely get the words out. Imogen gestured for him to stand, then let him help her up. Gingerly, she tested the brace, and winced. "Should we—"

"It's good enough," she muttered. Her gaze fell on the handle of her bat, and she pushed Zack to the side to get at the bag he wore.

Gripping HopeKiller, she felt marginally better.

"Come on," Imogen said, and once more Zack let his sister lean on him, although he was near to collapsing himself, and together they made for the stairs, and together they began the long climb.

They weren't even halfway up when there was a loud slamming from above, and the sound of rapid footsteps. Seconds later someone appeared above, a young man, who gasped when he saw them.

"Leapin' lizards!" he cried. "You two going up? Tell me there aren't fifty zombies down there behind you."

Imogen and Zack just stared up at him.

"Oh, great. Would you say fifty? Less? More? I've got like thirteen up here."

"More," Zack managed. The young man grinned at him.

"Okay, cool, wanna trade? Just kidding. Guess I'm going back up, then. I'm Aaron, by the way, Aaron Gosling." He raised the hockey stick he was holding in a salute—Imogen noticed that there was an ice skate jammed over the end. He was wearing some kind of military uniform, grey over darker grey, with a thick band around his forehead. It looked padded and sturdy, even if it was just a costume. His chin was remarkably sharp, and his grey eyes were bright. "I'm a freelance journalist—I know, SUCH a coincidence, right? I'm not even here working! And I certainly didn't arrive by helicopter. Guess what? No camera, either! This must be the Wii version. You guys coming?"

Without waiting for an answer Aaron turned and ran back up the stairs.

It took Imogen and Zack half a minute to get up to the door. They found Aaron sitting beside it morosely—although he brightened when he saw them.

"Sorry," he said, "I should've offered to help you get up—you're not bitten, right? You just hurt your leg, right? So anyway, turns out they all ran away! Or maybe they weren't hunting me at all, it's hard to tell with these things. Of course, it could be that they found someone else to chase, very short attention spans, these zombies have, sometimes I—ooh, I just noticed the end of your bat, what have you done there? Is that a bit of scrap metal bolted on? Combo weapons are the best, aren't they? Never mind the extra PP, they're just so much fun. Looking at the quality of your creative work I feel almost ashamed of SlIceR here."

The capitalisation on the word dropped coldly into Imogen's head, unwanted but nonetheless there.

"Now, what should I call you two? Am I allowed to name my own party members?"

"I'm Zack," said Zack. "This is my sister Imogen."

"Zack and Imogen," Aaron repeated. "Such unlikely names. Oh, whoops, maybe I spoke too soon—you two wait here while I take care of business. Don't think I'm being altruistic, I just don't want you pinching my XP."

With a bright grin Aaron leapt out through the door, SlIceR held tight in his hands, to engage with a trio of encroaching zombies, all wearing huge afro wigs and basketball uniforms. Imogen noted the way he dispatched them—the sharp blades on the ice skate sliced easily through dead flesh, and Aaron either shoved them in the chest to push them over or hooked their legs to send them crashing to the ground.

"Oh, good!" Aaron cried, spotting a couple more coming his way—these two had on blue uniforms with white edging, one dark-haired, one blonde. "Together in death, if not in life. Cut the arms, and they can't claw! That's a basic, right?" This seemingly addressed back at Imogen and Zack. "Something to do with muscles or tendons or whatever, fingers aren't controlled by the hand! No no no!" And this as he slashed the left zombie's arm. "They're controlled by the arm—the arm I just cut! How about your friend? I'm going for a combo kill here, play along now—bam! Two points! Ba-bam! Plus four for the wrist slice—that's a skill shot, dude! Shove 'em both down and say g'night. G'night!" Aaron had darted around the side of the zombies as he'd spoken, and with a heavy shove sent one into the other, both of them collapsing in a heap. "Double kill! I say 'kill' even though it's more like 'cripple', 'double cripple' isn't as fun. Same difference. Oh, harrooo~! I didn't see you back there!"

Another zombie had emerged from a side corridor, dressed in a yellow PVC pants-and-top set, sunglasses dangling from one ear. Aaron engaged it gleefully, prodding it back with the end of his hockey stick.

"Hello!" he said, as he shoved the zombie back again—not enough to make it fall, just enough to make it stumble. "Hi! Have you met my friend SlIceR? Oh, I see the two of you are already acquainted. How do you do? And how do YOU do? The two of you seem to be getting along tremendously well, I think you were made for each other! But, alas, this dalliance is but—whoops!"

Aaron laughed as the zombie lunged forward, darting away before slashing at its left arm.

"Swish! Slice! And with a shove it's down you go. It's simple, it's repetitive, but it has served me well over these last long hours. Plus with the amount I'm using it I'm sure it'll evolve into a more powerful technique soon, I can picture the little bar now, it's almost full. Speaking of such matters, bingle-bingle-bingle, XP a-hoy-hoy! What do you think, Zack, was that worth a level up?"

Zack was staring at Aaron, caught somewhere between fascination and repulsion. Imogen was not quite so conflicted.

"Ah, maybe you're right," Aaron said, before swinging SlIceR around his head in an extraordinarily dangerous way and singing a little tune: "Doo-doo-doo-doooo-doooo-doooo-doooo-doo-doodoooo—well, you get the idea. You two look exhausted, I'm sorry to say that I haven't any potions spare—shall we go? There aren't many zombs around here, mostly thanks to me—I don't mean to toot my own trumpet but it's the truth—so maybe we could try, mmm, THAT way! Come along! I'll go slow so you can keep up, gosh I'm nice."

Imogen followed without hesitation—he's clearly insane, she thought, but he's not hesitant about crippling zombies. He'll get himself killed sooner or later, until then we can use him to get around more safely.

"Imogen—"

"It's okay," Imogen murmured.

"I know, his costume is AWESOME."

Well, whatever, Imogen thought. At least he's not close to crying any more.

Aaron's version of 'going slow' apparently meant dancing from one side of the corridor to the other, kicking comics around like autumn leaves, darting ahead then running back, and generally progressing in the absolute least efficient way possible.

"It must be absolutely terrible to have your leg like that," Aaron commented, as he walked along beside Zack and Imogen for a few seconds. "I'd just die if I was like that. Haha, maybe literally! But seriously though, not being able to take advantage of everything the situation has to offer, I'd hate that. Oops, hear that? Someone's ... oh, hello ..."

Up ahead, down a side corridor, there was a zombie, tall and thin, wearing furs like a caveman. Most of the dark hair on its head was missing, the scalp beneath raw and red, and the carpet around it was dark. As Imogen and the others watched it staggered towards them, and with a guttural belch thin yellow vomit exploded from its mouth, bubbling down over its chin and onto its chest.

"Oho," said Aaron, as the zombie staggered again, continuing to vomit down over itself. "Evolving, eh? We've got 'pukers' now. Hm hm hm. Heaven only knows what that stuff'd do to you—probably best not to find out, what do you think? Probably the XP for one of those is amazing ... but better not to risk it. Let's just move on, shall we?"

They left the puker behind, the sounds of its regurgitation following them down the corridor.

"Ah, stairs," Aaron said, pointing them out with his hockey stick. "Not what we're looking for, though. Did I mention? I've got a car! It's parked downstairs, except I'm having a devil of a time getting there. If the way down isn't blocked up it's surrounded by dozens of zombs or—well, you were there last time, you know what happened." He sighed happily. "Still, I don't mind so much being delayed from leaving. This floor's perfect, enough zombies to keep me and SlIceR happy, but not enough to 'mob'. That's the real danger, you know. Well, that and the 'sudden lunge', that'll get you every time. Beware Open Doorways, I never go near 'em myself. Or piles of cloth like that, from the booths," he added, gesturing towards some, "just don't risk it. There could be a crawler underneath, have you noticed that they'll howl after they grab you? Some kind of cooperation there, I think. Which brings me back to mobs, of course. They clump up, have you seen? Could that be referred to as 'exponential danger', do you think? One zombie is no danger at all, absolutely none. A child could deal with it—well, you'd know," he said, this to Zack. He grinned suddenly. "This is amazing, though, isn't it? I've been waiting for something like this my whole life—well, zombies, aliens, sewer mutants, anything really, but The Big Z is really the ultimate, isn't it? The ultimate test, the ultimate PLAYground! Do you have any idea how long I've spent thinking about this? Beforehand, I mean, in preparation. Hours! Literally hours. Now that it's finally happened I'm more relieved than anything, to know that all those hours spent in mental preparation for a zombie apocalypse were not in vain, even if these particular zombs don't exactly play by the rules. Remove the—whoops, here we go, this one—oh my goodness, oh my good gracious, this one's mine, this guy is DEFINITELY mine—total bagsies!"

Ahead of them, stumbling out from a side corridor, there was a zombie wearing armour—fake, of course, but quite realistic, at least as far as a kind of futuristic scale mail coloured copper-brown could be considered 'realistic'. The helmet had three visors, all of them glowing blue. How the person inside actually saw out wasn't clear—a possible clue, Imogen thought, as to how they ended up zombified.

Aaron appeared to be in zombie-killing heaven—he danced around the armoured zombie, then gasped as if in realisation and crouched low, twitching left and right, scuttling to the side then leaping forward, screeching loudly as he swung his hockey stick, the sound eerie and alien. The sharp blade of the ice skate sliced through 'armour' and dead flesh, and again, and again, and there was a thump as the zombie's arm thudded against the carpet. Aaron was ecstatic, leaping around and screeching before attacking again, slashing at the zombie's other arm—this proved more difficult to sever, and he shoved the zombie onto its back before attacking with disturbing enthusiasm, managing to cut it off with the fifth solid hack.

Panting and laughing, Aaron stepped back a few paces, glanced around to make sure Zack and Imogen were paying attention, took a breath then bellowed:

"WALK IT OFF, ISAAC!"

And then he laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Oh, that was good," he said, after finally settling down. "That was really good, I enjoyed that so much, 'walk it off, Isaac', that's a classic. I wish someone was filming this, that'd get a billion hits. Well, if there are a billion people left, which seems unlikely. Oh, I just depressed myself, now I feel sad, the world is a desolate wasteland with nobody to watch the amazing videos I shall surely OH MY GOD IT'S A ZOMBLE!"

From out of a side corridor there had lurched a true monstrosity, a shambling collection of grey fur and a long, pointy brown face surrounded by thick white hair, staring glass eyes with round spectacles, and a walking stick attached to one huge paw. It was wearing a kind of brown tartan jacket and round hat, like a tartan fez, and having trouble even moving. Aaron trotted over and pulled its legs out from under it with great glee, but then stopped and pouted, apparently unable to think of anything else to do—once on its back there was no way the zombie was getting up again, and both head and claws were hidden beneath the costume.

"I don't even know if I deserve XP for that one," he commented to Zack and Imogen, who were now sitting on a bench against the inner wall. "I barely did anything and all of its attacks were 'not very effective'."

"Are you finished?" Imogen asked, although she'd been grateful for the rest.

"Yes, let's keep going, I can't wait to see who we find—oh, here we go, more survivors. HELLO! OVER HERE! WE WILL NOT BITE YOU AND THROW YOU IN THE BASEMENT!"

Imogen leant out to see the other survivors Aaron had spotted—Zack was already up and running forward, and he waved and grinned—

"JEN! Imogen, it's Jen! And the others too, Jen!"

"Oh? Do we know each other already?" Aaron asked, as Jen and the others from the security room approached. "How pleasant. I'm Aaron, Aaron Gosling—JOURNALIST." He adopted an absurd American accent. "I've covered wars, y'know."

"Imogen," Jen said, ignoring Aaron. "Thank goodness, I thought ... it's good to see you again."

"Yeah," Keenan added. "We were worried about you—and Zack, of course."

"Whoa! What'd you do to your bat?" HK asked, from behind Jen and Keenan. "Can I have one?"

Imogen nodded at Jen coolly. She didn't so much as glance at any of the others.

"This is great," Aaron said. "Look at all of us! Okay, here's the sitch, there's a pressing need to clear out the parking garage but I can't do it alone. Now, I'm quite happy to evenly split any loot we find but if there's a boss down there I must insist upon getting the last 'hit' on him. Or her, let's not discriminate just because we're dealing with the undead."

V-Cut looked past Aaron at Imogen, who looked away. "Who is this guy?" He looked back at Aaron. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Aaron sighed theatrically. "Look. I have a car. It's splendid. But it's down in the carpark and so are like fifty zombies. I was escorting the lovely Imogen and the also-lovely Zack here to find a stairway down—there's one back there but it's a little dangerous right now. But! Now that you're all here we'd have a very decent chance at taking those pesky zombies out before they could eat us all. I mean I probably COULD kill them all myself but I'll be generous and offer this once-in-a-deathtime opportunity—"

"Imogen," Trevor said. "I'm sorry things went like they did last time. There were misunderstandings on both sides—"

"Excuse me, but I WAS talking," said Aaron. "Look at how many of us there are now, one two three four—eleven! Eleven remarkable individuals. Apart? We are nothing. Together? We are legion."

"Excuse me for raising a point that, to me, seems obvious," Chris put in, "but even if we followed your little 'plan' and got to your alleged car, how many does it actually seat?"

"By a stunning coincidence, exactly eleven," said Aaron. "At a squeeze. In any case it's more than likely at least a couple of you would get eaten on the way so really—wait, where are you all going? Come back!"

None of the others had so much as moved. Aaron grinned. "I can't resist that kind of joke," he explained. "It was just such a perfect opportunity."

"Look," V-Cut said, after a second of silence, "we're heading for a side-exit, it's pretty clear of Zs, and we figure we can fight through any that get in our way, if we're all together."

Aaron laughed. "Oh, you poor naive fools. You haven't been down to the first floor, have you? I have. It's where I was when this whole wonderful mess started. It's zombietown down there, population: plenty."

"We'll take our chances," said V-Cut. Aaron laughed again.

"You're not listening to me, there are THOUSANDS of them down there. Do you know how many people were expected to come to this convention? More than six thousand. How many do you think remain whole and unzombified? My guess is a number somewhere between eleven and eleven. So six thousand minus eleven equals certain death for anyone so much as sticking their nose down onto that deadly, deadly Level One."

"Your logic is flawed," said Null, disinterestedly. "Six thousand predicted does not mean six thousand in attendance, and in any case that number would be for the entire day, not at one time. In addition, not everyone killed by the winds was reanimated. Some bodies were too badly damaged—"

"The wind barely touched the lower levels," Aaron said, a note of irritation in his voice now. "On the first floor all it did was blow out a few windows and toss a few comics around, everyone down there was fine until the zombies came from the upper levels. Well, I say 'came', what I really mean is 'fell'. Rather amusingly, too. There's a trickle-down effect happening here, the lower you go the worse it gets—I mean, have you watched them trying to climb stairs? It's hilarious! And it's even funnier when they fall down them, which they do with endearing regularity, they have the most wonderfully serious expressions on their little faces as they tumble along. I've forgotten my point now—oh, the first floor, of course. Yes. You don't want to go down there, just trust me on that. Come with me instead! After all, I oh my GOD that is SPECTACULAR!"

Everyone watched Aaron as he danced over to the outer edge of the corridor—the object of his delight was a small plastic container of sushi.

"It's a PICKUP!" he crowed. "Do you see this? I'm not just hallucinating or something—no, you all see it too, oh AMAZING. Oh, this is just wonderful, I can't wait to see what kind of stat boost it gives me. Bwa-bwa-bwa-bwaaaa!"

Aaron scooped the sushi from the floor and posed with it, holding it up over his head. Then he crouched down to further investigate.

"How did this even GET here?" he wondered aloud, as he tore the plastic lid open. "Ooh, tuna mayo. There's nowhere in this entire complex that sells sushi, somebody must have brought it with them and carried it all through the killer winds and zombies like it was a precious baby, and then somehow they dropped it—oh, that's so tragic, I love it, I absolutely love it. Well, here we go!"

Aaron plucked one of the pieces from the container and ate it as quickly as he could, barely even chewing before swallowing hard.

"Do-weep!" he said, before adopting a rough, masculine voice: "Mmm I want some more!"

Everyone stared at Aaron as he ate a second piece of sushi, then Trevor, V-Cut and HK all started talking at once:

"We spent some time viewing all the available feeds—"

"Why are you still sitting down? Is your leg worse? Can't you—"

"Seriously, how'd you make that slicey-bat? Did you find a forge or something?"

"Everyone QUIET!"

Everyone looked at Zack, who shrank back at the attention.

"Um," he said. "Sorry."

"Imogen," Trevor said, firmly. "I apologise for everything that's happened. I'd like to offer—"

"Wait a moment," said Cheena, speaking for the first time—she'd been standing at the edge of the corridor gazing out at the surrounding parks, but now she stared straight at Trevor. "You did not discuss this with us, you cannot simply offer—"

"Hey, don't be cold, Cheens," said Keenan. "Of course we've gotta let Imogen and Zack come with us—"

"They would slow us down," said Null. "They'd be more of a liability than an asset."

"I dunno," HK said, "that bat looks killer—"

"Would you shut up about that?" said V-Cut. He looked down at Imogen. "Can you walk by yourself? Show me."

"She doesn't have to show you," Jen said. "Even if she can't, maybe we could build a stretcher or something—"

"Oh yeah," said V-Cut, "that's really gonna happen. No way—sorry, Imogen, nothing personal, really it's not, I just want to survive this thing."

"Look, let's just calm down," Trevor said, holding his hands out. "Everyone relax and let's be rational about this—"

"I don't think anyone's being irrational," Chris said. He glanced over at Aaron, who was still scoffing his way through the sushi and muttering to himself. "Well ... out of those of us not currently pretending to be video game characters, at least. Why don't we be democratic about this? It may be the end of the world but we still carry the light of civilisation within our hearts."

Keenan snorted. "Man, you talk some crap sometimes."

"But it's entertaining crap," Chris said, with a gracious smile and the lightest of bows. "You must give me that."

Trevor was nodding. "I don't think we can get fairer than a vote. I say we let Imogen and Zack come with us."

"So do I," said Jen, smiling down at Imogen, who was looking at her hands.

"I vote against," said Chris. He smiled at Imogen. "As 'V-Cut' said, it's nothing personal."

"You wanted to bring her before," HK pointed out. "You said we could throw her to the zombies if we needed to escape."

"I changed my mind," said Chris. He shrugged. "I'm fickle."

"Yeah, no kidding." HK glanced at Imogen. "Um, but anyway ... I gotta say no too. Sorry guys, just ... y'know. The crazy sushi guy over there kind of spooked me."

"I do not want her with us," said Cheena. "It is not personal, Imogen. If your leg was not injured, well ..."

"I say she comes with us," said Keenan. "Bad leg or not. Hell, hope my legs hold out, now I know how you guys roll."

Trevor looked at Null, who was standing apart with her arms crossed, regarding the proceedings with a quietly amused air.

"Null? What's your vote?"

"I don't care whether she's with us or not," Null said. "I abstain."

"Okay, so that's three for and three against," said V-Cut. "Deciding vote to me, huh? Sorry, but—"

"Forget it," Imogen said. She looked up at V-Cut, then around at the others. "Did you even ask me if I wanted to come with you?" She pushed herself to her feet, waving away Jen's silent offer of help. "I think your plan will get you all killed. I don't want any part of it."

"Well," said Trevor, his voice gruff. "I'm sorry you feel that way—"

"What a waste of time," V-Cut said. He started walking away. "Stairs are this way, I'm pretty sure. Come on, we're losing light." He stopped after a few paces, and glanced back at Aaron. "Hey, you. If you wanna come with us—"

"After the chillingly cold way you just excluded these two wonderful young people from your group? For shame."

Aaron bounded over to Imogen and Zack, offering the sushi tray—there were two pieces left.

"I saved you a piece each—go on, take them! There. Consume and enjoy." Aaron flipped the now-empty tray away like a flying disc, sending it spinning out through the smashed windows. "Come, friends, my chariot awaits."

"Imogen—"

A cold glance from Imogen silenced Jen. None of the others said anything as Aaron led Zack and Imogen away.

"What an unpleasant bunch they were," Aaron commented chirpily, after the others were out of sight. "Never mind, though, it's their loss—wait until you see my car! We'll be able to go anywhere, is there anywhere you want to go? First stop for me will be some kind of gun store, I've never even held a gun before but I'm excited to try one out."

Imogen shivered a little at the thought—she could see that Zack was also quietly horrified at the idea.

"Am I going too fast for you?" Aaron asked, concern in his voice. "Just sing out if I am. Honestly, the attitude of those people—so you've got a bad leg, so what? You're doing the best with what you have, and I applaud you for it. I wouldn't worry anyway, they'll all be dead soon enough, I wasn't lying about the first floor, it's a nightmare down there. Trickle down ... is there a better term for it? Shamble down. Lurch down. Well, whatever. Probably somebody good at statistics could make an attractive diagram showing the time-floor-zombie coefficient or whatever the real terms are. Ooh, a matched pair! I'll probably get an achievement for downing these two—back in a jiff!"

Imogen almost gasped as she recognised the zombies Aaron was going after—it was the boy and girl who had tried to mug her in the mall. She'd known they'd probably get themselves killed, of course, but seeing them in this state led her thoughts down unpleasant paths. She couldn't help but picture Zack as a zombie, or Jen in her armour—

"THIS IS MY STOOOOOOOORE! What's that? You're charging your limit break? Too bad! You're dead before you can use it, oh, I hate it when that happens, you're right back down to zero—got any Phoenix Downs? No? Shame! Ah, except of course, those wouldn't heal you, they'd kill you in an instant!"

Zack dragged his gaze away from the gruesome sight of Aaron crippling the zombies and looked up at Imogen.

"Um," he said. "Is he ... um, you know ... is he crazy?"

Imogen shook her head. "It really doesn't matter."

"Woo!" Aaron was heading back towards them now. "No achievement, but oh well. Probably I need to kill an Aerith/Aeris zombie to get it—ooh, let's go find me an Aerith-ess zombie to kill! Well I say 'kill' but I haven't actually managed to get one to stop moving yet, I spent some time trying with a pleasantly petite one up on four—no arms, no legs, no head, and she was STILL wriggling around. Really, as far as zombies go these are pretty tough. That old 'remove the head or destroy the brains' gag turned out to be a pack of lies! Still, I suppose this way it's more fun, it'd be over too soon if you could just slice the top of their heads off or whatever. Anyway, let's go find me that Aeristh—"

"There might be one downstairs," Imogen said. "In the parking garage."

"Did you see one down there?"

"I didn't not see one."

"Your use of double negatives has thoroughly convinced me; let's go! All we need now is a way down, I'm sure there should be one around here, unless this building is hideously asymmetrical, which it is, but you'd think—and BY THE WAY, could either of you tell me why all of the entrances/exits to the carpark come out on this floor? Why not the first or second floor, hmm?"

"This is the third floor?" Zack asked. "I thought it was the second, we went down on the second floor—"

"You did?" Aaron sounded genuinely surprised. "Goodness. So there ARE other entrances ... I wish I'd known that earlier. It doesn't help me now, though. Oh well. Let's just get down there ASAP, MVP, TEOTWAWKI etc."

Aaron fell silent, to Imogen's relief—she could feel the beginning of a headache in her temples—and she concentrated solely on walking. Her right leg ached—her left too, but that was just through tiredness. The ache in her right leg felt wrong, horribly wrong. I wonder if there are any doctors left, she thought. Or even nurses. Hospitals ... what will people do if they get sick? Just die?

"Do you think this outbreak is just in this building?" Imogen asked, surprising herself. "Or the whole city?"

"It's the whole country," Aaron said, offhandedly. "I found a radio on the lower levels but discarded it—didn't need it taking up an inventory slot, although I'll feel sick if they've been clever and made a seemingly useless 'info' item necessary to solve a puzzle. Apparently it's much worse up north, there's barely anything left. They think the south is in better condition. We're right in the middle here, the perfect balance between destruction and ... non-destruction, I suppose. Not too much structural damage, but plenty of deadites to beat up."

Imogen's hands were shaking. She couldn't make them stop.

"I suppose it could be the whole world, they didn't mention but it's a definite possibility. If it's to do with that wind—and why wouldn't it be—then it probably blew down from Asia. They're the ones doing all those kuh-razy weather control experiments. That probably means that China's goneburger, and Japan and Korea and Russia, and all the little countries, and if them then why not America and South America and Africa—basically all life is doomed and zombies will mindlessly wander the crumbling ruins of this once-proud world. Ooh, there's a stairway, yay! And a clear run to it, too. Lucky!"

Aaron skipped over the broken glass and scattered comics to the stairway door, pulling it open with a sweeping motion and bowing for Imogen and Zack to go ahead. He gallantly waited the minute it took them to get to the door, then repeated the bowing motion.

"After you, m'lady, m'lord."

"Thanks," Zack said. Imogen said nothing. Once inside Aaron let the door close and trotted down the stairs ahead of them.

"I'd offer to help but you don't seem the 'touching' type," he said, as Zack started helping Imogen get down the stairs. "I'll just zip ahead and see what I can see."

Imogen heard the door below open when they were at the first corner, and by the time they reached the second turn Aaron was back and waiting for them.

"No Aerisombies, unfortunately," he reported. "Mind you, I could only see a few dozen of the silly things from the door."

"Is your car close?" Zack asked. Aaron grinned and nodded.

"I have no idea," he said, still nodding cheerfully. "I can never remember where I've parked. This isn't where I came in, either. But I know it's somewhere in the middle, not up against a wall. The license plate is SOOPAH so I'll know it when I see it."

Imogen let out a small sigh.

"Oh, I know, it's not the best situation," Aaron said, as they rounded another corner, "but chin up! Tomorrow's sun shines brightest, or whatever. Anyway, I have a great plan. If it was just me on my own I'd be worried that the zombies would all mob me while I was doing my 'master of unlocking' thing with the key—this key!" he added, producing it. The mascot dangling from the key was, for some reason, a tiny cardboard box. "But since you two are here I thought that young Zack—Zack, Zack, short for Zachary? Oh, excellent. So, I'll give the keys to Zachary, like so—" Aaron held the keys out and Zack took them. "Good. Look, we're already on our way to success! He and I will go ahead, it'll be like an 'escort' mission—I know, I know, everyone hates those, but for this stage I just don't see any way around it. So, I'll protect The Zack, and The Zack will unlock my car—"

"Don't you have a remote thing?" Zack asked. "There's a button here for it."

"Yes. Yes, I really should've replaced the batteries when I had the chance, but there's no sense crying over spilled brains, is there. Ah, look, we can see the bottom already. Goodness, it's slow going when your leg doesn't work properly, isn't it? I couldn't play like this for long! Anyway, you won't have to worry about that soon, you'll be safe and comfy in my lovely car. Yes, that's right, your part of my plan, Imogen, is 'waiting'. You wait here and once we've got the car we'll come and grab you, probably picking up oodles of bonus XP for all the zombs we drive over on the way back. Then we'll all drive out the exit to glorious freedom!"

"Um," Zack said. "Um, what about the barrier?"

"Hm? Barrier? What is this 'barrier' of which you speak?"

"The, um, the barrier at the exit. Um, blocking it."

Aaron frowned. "Why on earth is there a barrier? Poor design, methinks! Well, probably we'll just drive through it—oh, of course. Yes, that makes perfect sense, it's because we NEED a car in the next part, so they make THIS part impossible to complete WITHOUT a car. Not exactly elegant but I suppose it gets the job done. So yes, we'll just drive through it. My car's quite big so I'd be surprised if we even felt a jolt."

Imogen winced as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "I'm not sure—"

"Imogen, it's okay," Zack said. "I'll be okay, I won't even get near any zombies."

"I won't let them hurt him, ma'am!" said Aaron, saluting smartly. "Me and SlIceR here will take excellent care of your brother. Hm, that sounded a little sinister, actually. But don't worry, I promise he will never die. Shall we?"

Without waiting for a response Aaron pushed the door open—Imogen could see more than a few zombies on the other side, none of them particularly close but all of them shambling forwards.

"Hm," said Aaron. "They must have noticed me peeping out before. Oh well, it'll just make it more interesting."

"Why are there so many zombies down here?" Zack wondered aloud. "It doesn't look like the winds even came down here—"

"Oh, it's easy enough to imagine," said Aaron, airily. "Probably it's exactly BECAUSE the winds didn't come down here, panicked survivors storming down the stairs trying to escape, some of them carrying their wounded loved ones, a few died, came back, bit a few more—zombies are exponential, it only takes one infected to wipe out dozens in the early stages, that's a basic fact. Nobody sees it coming. Nobody except smart guys like me, of course. The moment I saw a shiny sweaty face and that icky yellow ichor dripping from eyes I thought, oho, here we go." Aaron glanced through the door again. "Do you know, I think my car might be just over there—in fact, I'm almost certain of it, I recognise that little black thing and that big ugly yellow thing. That's not so far at all, less than a hundred metres—this'll be a snap!"

"You don't even need Zack," Imogen said. "You could handle those zombies by yourself. Having to worry about him as well would—"

"No, no, I understand what you're saying and I would gladly do it all myself, but looking now I see that there are quite a few zombies out there and only one of me—I can so easily visualise a situation wherein I find myself trapped against my car, unable to both fend off the encroaching horses AND unlock the door. Did I just say 'horses'? I meant 'hordes', of course."

"I can do this, Imogen," Zack said, earnestly. He was already tugging at his left glove. "I'll take this one off so I can use the keys more easily," he explained, as Imogen frowned at him. "I'll keep it in the bag, okay? Um, you should eat something, Imogen, and have some water too—"

"Water? You have water? I'm dreadfully thirsty, could I beg a drop?" Aaron said—he looked out again at the oncoming zombies. The nearest was still a few dozen metres away. "I'd say I have time for some liquid refreshment before doing battle with those undead horses. That time was deliberate, just to be clear. Undead horses, can you even imagine? If they're anything like the ones in RDR they'd be an unholy nightmare to handle."

Imogen already had a bottle of water and an energy bar from the bag—she gestured for Zack to give a bottle to Aaron.

"Ah, thanking you, thanking you muchly." Aaron gulped back the water within a matter of seconds, then tossed the bottle aside and covered his mouth as he belched. "Excuse ME, that was just impolite. I don't know what came over me. All right, Zackster! Ready to face those zombsters?"

Zack nodded seriously. "I'm ready!"

"Good attitude, then let's go! Imogen, we'll be back in a jiff."

Imogen limped to the door to watch them go—she could hear Aaron chattering as he led Zack swiftly forward:

"Now, my marvellous vehicle is just through there, we've got a clear path through to it. Well, except for all those cars and zombies. Oh well. Just think of it as more XP, we'll all level up by the time we're done with this section. Oh, we might even get a bonus for clearing this part—and there's almost certainly going to be an achievement for getting out of the convention centre. I wonder what it'll be called—Convention Over, maybe, or From The Ashes, this being the 'Phoenix' Convention Centre—okay, stay back while I deal with these fine fellows ..."

Imogen watched as Aaron dealt with the first zombies—she was somewhat relieved to see that he didn't play with them in the slightest, simply took them out with fast, efficient strikes. Often he used the 'hook' of the hockey stick to tug their legs out from under them before slashing at their arms. Down them first, Imogen thought. Destroy what little mobility they have, then when they try to get up or reach up to claw you, their arms are easy targets. She noticed she was reaching down to touch HopeKiller, where it lay balanced against her leg.

Aaron was singing now, as he led Zack further in, towards a larger group of zombies, and even after they were out of sight Imogen could hear it echoing back—"A little bit of THIS, a little bit of THAT, a little bit of THIS, a little bit of THAT, a little bit of uh-oh! A little bit of ... UH-oh! A little bit of uh-oh! A ... little bit of ... uh ... oh! A little bit ... of this! And a little ... bit ..."

Aaron's singing stopped. Imogen waited nervously, chewing on the energy bar, using the water to try to make swallowing it easier. Silence continued, except for the constant echoing purring of the zombies. She picked up HopeKiller and limped forward, half-eaten energy bar forgotten behind her, the precious bottle of water spilling out on the parking garage's concrete floor. The pain in her foot made her wince with every step—she could only put it down for the tiniest instant without searing pain shooting up her leg, which made walking by herself an exhausting effort. Why did I let him go, she thought, continuing to limp forward, trying to see where Aaron and her brother had gone—

"AAAHUUUAAAAOOOOOOOO!"

Howling. More than one, Imogen thought, trying to limp forward faster without any success. She couldn't see anything, just the zombies Aaron had crippled, their ruined arms flopping uselessly. Through there, she thought, that's where he pointed—

"AIIIIIIIIAAAAA—"

The sudden, high scream was cut off, then started again, even more panicked and terrified than before, then suddenly it increased in both volume and urgency, echoing through the parking garage before cutting off once more, forever.

Imogen struggled forward, her breathing heavy and wheezing, trying to force her useless leg to work, to stop hurting—without result. It was aching more than ever now, whether she was putting weight on it or not—

"IMOGEN!"

She could see now, behind one of the thick square supports crowding the garage, through an area almost empty of cars—but filled with zombies. Zack was crouched on top of a white van, zombies on all sides, clawing up at him, some of the taller ones managing to scrape against his overalls or shoes—and the pushing of the zombies was rocking the van, he was keeping his balance but just barely, and thank god he's so small, Imogen thought, as she continued to limp forward, if he was any bigger they would've already grabbed him—

—and there was Aaron, or what was left of him, a dozen zombies all fighting over his remains, the speed with which they were tearing him apart both sickening and shocking—

—and she was still shambling forwards—

—and HopeKiller was cool in her hands—

—and she was standing on a tatami mat floor, the subtle smell of seagrass filling her head, and her stance was good, she'd never had problems with that, not even starting out, and everything was slow and quiet, that liquid non-time of battle, of one-to-one combat—

—they step here—

—you strike there—

The first zombie fell before Imogen, both arms crippled, and already she was moving forward, moving past, slowly but surely, I have no need for rapidity of movement, Imogen thought, her mind an untroubled lake, for my quickness is in my arms.

There was another in front of her—three, actually, but that's a lie, Imogen thought, that's an illusion, there is only myself and my opponent, all else is a distraction, unnecessary, I don't need to run from these things, I don't need to avoid them, all I need to do ...

Weaknesses.

That's what I must exploit, Imogen thought, as she faced her opponent. Never mind their strengths. Never mind the indestructibility of my enemy. Never mind that they cannot be killed. I cannot stop them from moving; that does not mean that I cannot win.

One: Predictability.

They hesitate before they attack; they're blind and so before they strike they must guess at where I am. Movement. Vibration. They're listening, but so am I. They're feeling, but so am I. What aren't they doing?

Thinking.

But I am.

Two: Unfocused.

So easily distracted, by loud noises or movement—

—Imogen slammed the blunt end of her bat on the ground, far to her left—

—or both.

"Three," Imogen murmured, her gaze fixed on the zombie as it hesitated, and she brought HopeKiller up in a slashing swipe that opened the tight muscles of its calf. Before the zombie could fall forward Imogen pushed it away, HopeKiller's shard slicing into its belly, and she pulled her weapon free as it collapsed backwards.

Something new filled Imogen, something cold and clean, and as she gazed down at her defeated opponent, giving it a moment of respect that it did not deserve, she spoke:

"You're far too tense."

There were others around her; the closest became her focus. Another hard thump against the ground, another slice against its leg, still it could claw, Imogen knew, but already I am moving; already I am away.

The pain in her leg came back and she was aware that six zombies lay crippled behind her, crawling towards her—but I am moving forward, Imogen thought, I am the tortoise that defeats the arrow; by the time it is where I was, there I no longer stand.

A pause, and a breath, and another enemy; keep moving forward.

This was once a person. (The tiniest of pauses; no immediate threat.) No longer. (Such a small step forward, such a minute adjustment of stance.) There's no way back. (HopeKiller tore through ligament and tendon and muscle.) Only moving forward. (And stop, and choose, and focus on the next.) And when you're finished? (But you can't be finished, not yet.) Then there's only a tidying of the world. (The world is me; the world is you.)

"Imogen ..."

"Just a little longer." Imogen's voice was flat. She sliced through the grasping arm of a crawler, and it grasped no more. "I'm almost finished."

There were a dozen zombies still feeding on Aaron's remains, but they showed no interest in Imogen. Of the others surrounding the van two remained standing, both with damaged legs; far too slow to be a threat. Several still crawled, but even limping Imogen could easily outpace them.

Two crawlers lay in wait around the front of the van. Imogen shuffled towards them, waited for them to reach for her, and then she sliced open their wrists.

Perfection.

Zack slid easily down the front of the van, Aaron's key still clutched tight in his hand.

SOOPAH.

Imogen refused his offer to help her walk the dozen or so metres to the vehicle. Instead she pointed at it, and after a second he understood, and he ran forward to unlock it, and he clambered inside.

There were more zombies in the parking garage. Of course there were. To Imogen's left was a large mob, attracted by the howling of the zombies she had crippled (not all of them had howled; she didn't know why). To the right were scattered groups of threes and fours.

Aaron's car was an SUV, blue and high and long. Getting in was a chore, and by the time Imogen had settled herself and locked the doors and with great care and focus nestled HopeKiller in between the driver and passenger seats there were four zombies outside, scratching at the doors and the windows. Imogen took the key from Zack, and slid it into the ignition, and turned it, and then turned it some more, and the car rumbled into life.

Hanging from the rear-view mirror was a blue hedgehog. Imogen stared at it, then placed her hands on the steering wheel. It felt warm and comfortable.

Zack was looking at her. Imogen swallowed, and then she spoke, quietly and calmly:

"I have no idea how to drive."

"It's easy!" Zack said—he was trying to look at Imogen but his eyes kept going back to the zombies around the car—half a dozen now. "Just, um, left pedal is go and right is stop! Right?"

"There are three pedals down here."

"Just ... just try the left one!"

"I can only use my left foot."

"Just try!"

Imogen pushed the left pedal.

The car entirely failed to burst forward and knock down the zombies surrounding it.

"Right pedal?"

Imogen's sense of calm and safety was fading. She could feel cold panic rising inside her. She pushed down on the middle pedal, and the car's engine revved sharply—but nothing else happened.

"Oh, the gear! Gears? Gear? I think it's this stick," Zack said, wrenching at it. There was a hideous graunching sound, and he released the gearstick with a horrified gasp.

"Clutch," Imogen muttered. "Clutch, right? This one." She awkwardly pushed down the rightmost pedal, and then managed to wrestle the gearstick to '1'.

"One seems like a good place to start," Zack said. He glanced out again—more than a dozen zombies now surrounded the car, and it rocked gently as they pushed against it. One was at the front, its bone claws scraping against the hood as if it was trying to climb onto the bonnet. "Um, try the—"

The car suddenly lurched forward and to the right—Imogen gasped as she realised she was leaning on the steering wheel and let everything go, but not before there was a 'thu-thump' from the front as the zombie there disappeared beneath. This was followed by a scratching from below, as it continued to claw at the car.

Imogen took a deep, shaky breath. I just crippled twenty zombies using nothing but a baseball bat with a scrap of modern art bolted to the end, why is this so much scarier?

Because I'm good at fighting zombies.

After another breath, Imogen took the steering wheel firmly in her hands, and she tentatively pushed at the middle pedal. The car jumped forward, then settled to a crawl as Imogen eased off the pressure.

"You're doing it! You're driving, Imogen!" Zack was grinning at her, somewhat manically, and he waved to the zombies as they (slowly) left them behind. "So long, suckers!"

Imogen pushed a little harder on the accelerator, and they picked up speed as they drove through the garage. At first Imogen aimed for the zombies in her way, but the way they jolted the car then disappeared beneath brought little satisfaction.

"Um," Zack said, as Imogen carefully turned a corner, accelerating in fits and starts then drawing to a stop. "Um, were you ... oh. Is that the exit?"

Imogen nodded. It was ahead, down a clear stretch. Clear apart from the dozen or so zombies crowding it—with dozens more to the left and right.

"Imogen?"

Imogen tore her eyes away from the distant exit to look at her brother.

"This isn't as fun as I thought it'd be. Running over zombies and stuff."

Imogen stared at Zack.

"Maybe we should put our seatbelts on," she said, after a second. Zack nodded and hurriedly went to do his up. Imogen put hers on with more measured care, her hands shaking.

Both brother and sister looked forward. For several seconds there was silence in the car.

"Um. Were you ... I mean, did you ..." Zack frowned as he attempted to express himself, then he looked up at Imogen, his young face serious. "Aaron died."

Imogen nodded, still staring straight ahead. "Yes, he did. He very definitely died."

"Um—"

"I'd probably be more traumatised if it hadn't been so completely inevitable."

Zack was frowning. "They ate—"

"They ate him, I know. That's what zombies do. They eat people. Or bite them or scratch them and turn them into more zombies." Imogen did look at Zack now, her pale blue eyes serious. "I hate zombies."

"Me too," Zack said, his voice shaking. "I really hate them."

Imogen nodded, then looked forward again, her hands tight on the wheel.

"He ... he WAS crazy, right? Aaron, I mean."

Imogen breathed out. "Yes," she said. "He was certainly crazy."

The accelerator slammed against the floor. With a great lurch the car leapt forward, wheels skidding against concrete, nearly scraping against the parked cars to the left before Imogen wrenched it right again. The closest zombie swiped at the car as it passed, almost losing an arm for the attempt, and the next was spun aside, and the one after that was caught on the front for two horrible seconds before slipping under with a heavy thump.

Imogen's hands were tight on the wheel, and when she dared to look at the speedometer it said fifty, but that couldn't be right, that had to be a mistake because they were going at least two hundred—

The shutter grew too big too fast, the black of it filling Imogen's eyes, and then her hands were torn from the wheel and a sound like the world ending filled her head and everything went white, and there was another crash and the world was flipped on its side except Imogen's stomach hadn't been informed, and there was a sudden stark stillness and then nothing.

Here's what just happened. The car hit the barrier at approximately fifty-six kilometres per hour. The barrier was not designed to withstand impacts; it was designed to fragment upon impact. However, the pressure upon the front of the car at the moment of impact was enough for it to register a 'crash'.

Operating according to the instructions imprinted in its simple electronic brain, the car followed 'crash' protocol and deployed its airbags; driver and passenger side.

Thus, 'whiteness'.

The road beyond the barrier only went for three point four metres before terminating in a sharp right hand turn and a solid concrete wall. At this point the car was travelling forwards at approximately fifty-one kilometres per hour, and it was at this speed that it impacted against the concrete wall.

In accordance with Newton's third law of motion (in brief; to every action there is always opposed an equal reaction), the static wall exerted a force upon the car equal to its mass multiplied by its acceleration, as defined by Newton's second law of motion; the acceleration produced by a particular force acting on a body is directly proportional—

Yes, fine, thank you brain, Imogen thought, as she pushed the rapidly deflating airbag away from her face. None of that explains this horrible acrid smell.

From Imogen's brain: ...

"Zack?"

"I'm okay," came Zack's muffled voice.

"Don't open your door. Wait for me to do it."

"Okay."

Reaching tentatively for HopeKiller, aware suddenly that the edges of its razor-sharp shard were covered in zombie blood, and that cutting herself on it would probably be just as bad as being scratched by an actual zombie, Imogen was relieved to grasp solid wood rather than infected metal. She tugged it out, then tried to open her door—the moment of panic she felt turned to slightly embarrassed relief as she realised the reason it wasn't opening was that it was still locked.

She didn't bother with even a glance at the front of the car. The engine had stopped and in any case she had absolutely no desire to get behind the wheel of any vehicle ever again. Instead she looked back, inside the garage, at the few dozen zombies already shuffling towards freedom. As she made her way around the car Imogen wondered if they knew, if they realised that lurching through the broken barrier would lead them to the surface, then she chastised herself for being stupid—of course they don't know. They're zombies. 'Mindless' doesn't even begin to describe them. They can function without a head, that should tell you something. They're more like cockroaches than humans.

Zack's door didn't open, not until he'd unlocked it, and then he tumbled out into Imogen's arms. She let him squeeze her for a few seconds before pushing him back. Without speaking he assumed his position as her support, and together they limped away from the car and the broken barrier and the purring zombies, making their slow way up towards the surface.

The sunset was glorious. Thin, high, wispy clouds caught the last of the day's light, bursting into deep orange flame wherever they were touched. Beyond the clouds the sky had lightened to a calm blue-grey, a perfect reflection of the ocean's waters; smooth and untroubled.

Zack and Imogen were in no position to appreciate any of this, concerned as they were with getting through the park outside the Phoenix Convention Centre. It was easier to avoid zombies out in the open, but there were few working lights in the park and in the dimness of twilight it could be dangerously difficult to make them out—especially the crawlers.

"Imogen!"

"I see it."

Zack stumbled under Imogen's weight as they changed direction, the crawler purring as it dragged itself after them—the zombies out here were more damaged than most of those inside, nearly all of them with horrible injuries. The dim light made it difficult to see just how damaged this particular crawler was, but its single remaining limb—an arm—was torn and ragged, flesh hanging in strips, exposed muscles glistening dully.

We should have checked the car, Imogen thought, as she forced her protesting legs to take her further onwards. We should have made sure it wasn't working, it doesn't matter that driving it was terrifying, I should have tried.

Now it was too late—dozens of zombies had followed them out, but many seemed reluctant to leave the shelter of the underground. When Imogen had last looked back the entrance to the parking garage had been clogged with zombies, standing there like sentries.

There, she thought, as the glow of a streetlight in the near distance gave her fresh strength. The street. We can ... we can ...

Imogen's mouth tightened. I have no idea. Just getting out of that horrible building seemed like goal enough, but now ...

Even once she and Zack had limped onto the street—mercifully free of zombies, at least in the immediate area—Imogen couldn't see the monorail station. It can't still be operating, she thought. There's just no way. The winds would've ... but isn't that what it's designed for? 'Able to withstand typhoon strength storms', I read that somewhere, I'm sure I did. It might ... it might still be there, it might still be working, and anyway, the station is high up off the ground, zombies trickle down, if we could get up there then maybe we could at least rest ...

"Imogen." Zack's voice was small and tired and utterly earnest. She looked down at him, her expression blank. "Thank you for saving me."

Imogen looked away again. "We should head for the monorail station."

"Oh! Do you still have the return tickets?" Zack cringed at the look Imogen shot him. "Do you know which way it is? I can't even see it from here, I can't even see the track, those buildings are in the way I think—oh wow, look at the sky! Look at the sky, Imogen, look at the sunset! What time is it, do you think? I lost my phone and I always used that so I don't wear a watch, you don't wear a watch either do you? Even though you don't have a phone, Curtis said it's so weird that ..."

Zack trailed off. Imogen knew why. Thoughts of others, thoughts of uncertain fates ...

"Come on," she muttered, pulling at her brother. He trudged along beside her, staring at the ground.

The streets were surprisingly clear—there was glass everywhere, and wrecked cars, often on their sides or roofs, and the occasional oddity like a huge tree upside down in the middle of an intersection, roots sticking up into the air, foliage crushed against the ground, or a stack of three wrecked cars, one atop the other, all of them red, or a mass of brightly coloured balloons, hundreds of them, all caught up against the side of a building. There were few working streetlights but it wasn't night yet, not truly. The sun had gone but its light remained, fading but present.

As for zombies ... well, they were around, too.

"It's much better out here," Zack murmured, as he and Imogen limped down a wide street, away from a small pack of zombies lit by a bent and twisted streetlight. "You can see them. I mean, when they're still ages away. It's not like ... not like in there. Um, Imogen, are we going to your secret underground mall?"

"Maybe."

"Do you think there'll be any down there?"

Imogen shrugged.

"It goes pretty much right up into the station, right? I mean there's just that little, um, that street and then the covered bit and then the station ... Imogen, do you think the trains are going?"

Imogen shrugged again.

"If they're not then how will we get home? Is there a bridge?"

"Of course there is."

"Where?"

Imogen had little idea. On the rare occasions she'd visited this side of town she'd always taken the monorail. She could count the number of times she'd been in a car on one hand—and that included the terrifying escape from the parking garage.

"Over there," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Don't talk, you might attract zombies."

This shut Zack up for a few minutes. This was a business district, the buildings tall and many, wrecked cars banked up against them. In the dimness of twilight everything was grey and blue, punctuated by the yellow glow of streetlights or the occasional gleam through a shattered window high above.

"This isn't the way we came to the convention," Zack said, looking around. "Do you know—"

Imogen shrugged Zack away so she could get at her cigarettes—the faint points of light atop a nearby building had sparked the need for hot smoke. She ignored Zack's pointed looks as she stopped to light up, not getting a flame until click number thirteen. Lucky thirteen, she thought, as she put the cigarette in her mouth.

"They might smell the smoke," Zack said, as they started walking again. Imogen smirked. "It's true, they probably can! They're really good at smelling!"

"How do you know?"

"The ... the others said, Jen and that." Zack fell silent, then glanced up at Imogen. "Do you think—"

"Where's your glove? Where's the bag?"

Imogen had just noticed that Zack was no longer carrying it. He looked away sharply.

"I, um—"

"You lost it."

"When—"

"Forget it. Just ... forget it."

"I ... I'm sorry, I just ... it was when, w-when Aaron got—"

"I said forget it."

Zack shut up. Imogen squinted forward at a distant glow.

"What's that ahead?" she asked. "That light."

"Um, which one? Oh, I see. Oh! Is that an entrance? Like a secret entrance to your secret mall?"

The side of the street here was a wall of sorts, made of tall, wide sheets of sturdy plastic that covered the building. Some kind of construction, Imogen thought. Halfway down the block was the entrance, large bricks painted gleaming black surrounding narrow steps leading down. There was a turn at the bottom. The light from within glowed pale green.

"Um," said Zack. Imogen agreed; the stairs looked deeply suspicious. Maybe the reason there aren't many zombies on the streets, she thought, is that they've all 'trickled down' into sub-ground places like this ...

"Down," she grunted. At the worst we'll just have to climb back up again. Well, no, she corrected herself, at the worst we'll be grabbed by zombies and bitten and then—

"I don't hear anything," Zack said. "Do you hear anything? I don't hear anything."

For once Imogen was glad of Zack's shrill blathering. He was right, too—she couldn't hear anything except for the soft, almost pleasant fizzing of the underground's chemical lights. That doesn't mean it's safe down there, Imogen told herself, as she and Zack began down the steps. It just means we can't hear anything. They don't make any noise unless they're purring or moving. No heartbeat. No breathing.

No breathing ...

Which means no oxygen, Imogen thought. Without oxygen, how can their bodies work? Muscles need oxygen—but wait, they don't have blood, just that thick awful brown muck. That doesn't flow, it oozes. Even if they breathed, there's nothing to get the oxygen to their muscles or organs—if they even have organs. But they can move, they're still strong ... their muscles work without oxygen. How can that be?

And part of her said, they're monsters, they don't need to make sense.

And part of her said, there's no such thing as magic.

They were almost at the bottom of the steps now. The pale green glow felt welcoming to Imogen, familiar and soft.

The short passage beyond was narrow and low. The lights above glowed strong. Graffiti halfway down, scrawled in black marker: SHE'S LYING BIZCH.

It could be red, Imogen thought, as they shuffled past. We'd never know.

The thoroughfare itself was empty. Utterly still. The only sound was the gentle fizzing of the lights.

"Um," Zack said, then put his hand over his mouth. His voice had been low, but still sounded too loud in the empty stillness. He whispered: "Which way?"

Imogen was looking up and down the thoroughfare. Every shop was shuttered here. There were no signs of the wind; nothing to blow around. Except there aren't any cigarette butts lying against the walls, Imogen thought. That's the only difference.

She started walking, Zack beside her, to the left. Naturally they gravitated to the middle of the thoroughfare. The floor was tiled; wide squares that only appeared to be green. The walls were the same, between dirty, graffiti-covered shutters. So was the ceiling, where it wasn't covered with the wide, flat chemical lights.

The shuttered stores ended. Slowly, the thoroughfare narrowed.

Eventually they turned right into a passage. It ramped down and then up and then down again, and then it levelled off. On the walls, every seventeen steps, were frames, gold-edged. Most were empty. The posters in those that were not were old but not faded. They advertised movies that hadn't been in theatres for years. Movies that everyone had forgotten.

The passage split in two, left and right. Imogen guided Zack to the left. Three minutes later they emerged into another thoroughfare, and Imogen breathed out in relief as she recognised a particularly virulent piece of graffiti.

"Left," she whispered. "We're almost there."

The ceiling felt lower here, the walls closer. The thoroughfare dipped down and then went level. To the sides were shuttered stores. Those few that were open were a mess, still lit by bright electric lights but empty of people. Zack and Imogen kept to the centre of the thoroughfare. They didn't go near the shops.

Except one.

"Is this—" Zack stopped and winced, then tried again, lower: "Is this the same shop—"

"Yes," Imogen murmured. She was limping around the counter. Behind and beneath were seven long cartons of cigarettes. One was open, five packs missing. She looked back into the shallow depths of the shop, at the mess of clothes—not just clothes.

"What's that?"

"Your new bag," Imogen said, putting it around Zack's neck, over his helmet. The bag was long and dark red with black flames. It wasn't quite leather. It contained exactly fifteen hundred cigarettes.

Zack's eyes were wide as he looked inside.

"Come on."

"We can't eat those."

Imogen let out a snort. "You could try."

They started walking again, Zack shifting and squirming to try to get the bag comfortable.

"It's heavy," he complained. "It's too big."

Imogen said nothing. Her skin was tingling and her heart was beating fast; she'd heard something up ahead. It wasn't footsteps and it wasn't purring. It had sounded like the squeak of a chair being pushed back. Her eyes were wide as they continued forward, HopeKiller held tight.

The voice was low and warning, clear in the silence of the underground:

"Keep your distance."

Imogen felt Zack jump under her arm; her own reaction had been more controlled. Sitting behind a counter, visible from the bare chest up, was the tattooist who Imogen impersonally knew as 'Jigsaw'. He was bald and broken-toothed and had most of his body inked with thick black jigsaw pieces. From what little Imogen had heard about him he had a reputation as a gentle giant, of a fierce appearance disguising a friendly nature.

This was not now evident.

"Don't come closer than that." Jigsaw's voice was calm. "I'm not threatening you. Just being careful."

"We won't come closer," Zack said, nervously. "We're just—"

Zack squeaked as Imogen pinched his shoulder. She inclined her head at Jigsaw.

"Don't stand up," she said. "We're just walking through."

"To the station?" Jigsaw asked. He seemed to have relaxed—a little. "Think it's still there?"

"I hope it is," Imogen said. "It's worth trying."

Jigsaw nodded. "Maybe. That your brother?"

"Yes."

Jigsaw nodded again. "Good. You two okay? Not bitten?"

"We're not bitten."

"If that's true then I'm glad."

"It's true."

"Maybe." Jigsaw raised one shoulder then the other, working stiff muscles. "You've been up on the streets?"

"A little."

"Anyone around?"

Imogen shook her head. "Just zombies."

"Zombies, huh. That what you're calling them?"

Imogen said nothing. Jigsaw smiled thinly.

"Okay," he said. His eyes went to the weapon held tight in Imogen's hand. "Nice bat."

Imogen's silence continued.

"I'm waiting here for my daughter," Jigsaw said. "She knows to come here if there's trouble. Just have to wait for her."

"There's nobody else down here?"

"After the winds stopped everyone went up above. Not me. She'll come here. She knows to come here. I just have to be here for when she does."

Imogen could feel Zack tense.

"I hope she comes soon," she said. Zack shifted, and she squeezed his shoulder. "We're going now."

Jigsaw nodded again. "Good luck."

"To you too."

Imogen guided Zack away. Soon they'd left the tattooist behind; soon enough.

"Do you think—"

Imogen shook her head, cutting Zack off. He fell silent.

Several minutes after that they passed a passage leading out; Imogen turned her head to look at it.

"Oh," Zack said. "That's where we went out. To get to the convention."

"Yes."

"It feels like really ages ago."

Imogen was silent.

"Why didn't we come back the same way—"

"We got here. That's all that matters." Imogen looked down at her brother. "The station's not far now. We have to go up again soon."

"I know. I ... maybe I like it better down here, though."

Imogen breathed in and out, through her nose.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I know."

The wide road beside the station wall was lousy with wrecks. The block opposite was choked with weeds but clear of buildings, littered with cars like some bizarre experiment in vehicular agriculture. The station complex itself had been damaged by the wind; the few windows on this side had been blown out, but more obvious were the large chips and dents that pockmarked its walls. Cars, Imogen thought, looking up as she and Zack limped along. The wind threw the cars against the side.

Twice along the wearying path to the station entrance she and Zack were forced to step off the pavement and onto the road, their way blocked by a wreck. Twice they looked away, unwilling to see even a glimpse of those who had been inside the cars when the winds had come. There was something particularly awful about the thought of being trapped inside a metal box while unseen forces acted upon you.

None of the streetlights were working here, except one, far across the street, still standing straight and tall and shining bright and clear, apparently untouched by the horrors of the day. Imogen avoided looking at it as they walked along. She didn't want to be reminded.

There was a pile of cars near the covered road. There seemed to be no reason that they should be piled up here. As Imogen and Zack made their way past they heard a thumping from the pile, repetitive and dull. Not a survivor, Imogen thought, pulling Zack's shoulder to stop him from looking. No one survived that.

As they left the pile behind and approached the covered road, another sound sounded out through the still evening; distant, echoing, sharp and clear.

"Was that a gun?" Zack asked. Imogen had stopped, her head raised, her mouth a thin line. The sound did not repeat.

Imogen limped on.

It was dark along the covered road, despite the lights set above. They were too far apart and too dim. Imogen and Zack limped from dull pocket of light to dull pocket of light, the stretches between filled with imagined monsters.

But only imagined. No zombies, Imogen thought, daring to hope that perhaps, just perhaps the nightmare could be over. Maybe they just came from the convention centre, maybe the ones we saw on the streets were those who went out the main entrance. Aaron said the whole country was affected but he could've just imagined hearing that, he could've just made it up as part of some twisted fantasy, maybe that was it, maybe ...

The station was still, deserted. It seemed in a better state than the convention centre had been, but, Imogen considered, that's probably only because there was less here to throw around. Some freestanding signs, computers and monitors lay heaped behind the help desk, a few bags and other personal items were scattered over the floor. Once the winds got strong, Imogen thought, people ran. But where? They didn't just vanish. A sudden, horrible image came to her, of everyone running outside and being picked up by the wind and disappearing into the clear blue sky.

Her jaw was tight as she limped on.

Near where they'd entered the station was a door, hanging loose on its hinges, clearly marked 'NOT FOR PUBLIC'. As Imogen pushed the door open and limped through, Zack beside her, she felt neither pleasure nor satisfaction.

Beyond were narrow, starkly lit corridors leading to narrow, starkly lit stairs. The steps were high and getting up them was tiring; Imogen doubted she could have managed it at all without Zack's help. There were sounds in the stairwell, dull distant thumping and a low, intermittent creaking, and what sounded like hushed conversation muffled by distance.

"Is that people?" Zack whispered, as he and Imogen sat and rested. "That sounds like people!"

Imogen just shook her head. Seconds later the noise faded, replaced by lonely silence.

"We're ... we're going home, right?"

Imogen glanced at Zack, then reached into her pocket and brought out her cigarettes. "Where else would we be going?"

"I don't know, I just ... I just wanted to ask."

There was the click of Imogen's lighter failing to catch.

"Hey, um, if Grandpa was here what do you think he'd say?"

Click.

"I think he'd be yelling at the zombies, it'd be pretty funny I bet."

Click. Click.

"And, um, and Mum would maybe just look at them how she does."

Click.

"You know her scary look, it's, um, kind of like ... um."

Click. Click.

"Um, Imogen? What do you think Dad would do, if he was here?"

For a long moment there was silence in the stairwell, aside from a muted, repetitive ticking. A soft rustling marked the action of cigarette packet and lighter being pushed back into a pocket, then a single unlit cigarette was dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Imogen picked up HopeKiller and used the railing to pull herself up. She glanced down at Zack as he stood to support her, then let out an irritated breath:

"He'd run away."

They reached the topmost floor shortly after that, the door above closed but not locked. It opened easily, and swung shut behind them with a heavy clack.

For long moments both Imogen and Zack stared around. The ground floor had been relatively untouched. The same could not be said for this level. Once it had been protected from the elements by a high, beautiful dome. Now the dome had shattered, been ripped off by the winds, its only remnants being large, broken sheets of thick plastic that lay scattered over the open concourse. The remains of potted plants and flower beds littered the polished white floor—those which hadn't simply been blown away. The benches remained; they were bolted down. There was a wall opposite them, stretching up several metres before meeting the now-missing dome, but part of it had been ripped away, was simply gone, leaving a gaping hole and a drop down to the street below.

Why did we even bother, Imogen thought, as she and Zack made their way towards the monorail platform. Even if the train's here who's going to drive it? Me? I couldn't even drive a car. There's no one here. Not alive or dead.

It seemed that the NOT FOR PUBLIC door had been the only one undamaged by the wind. Every other doorway was open, the rooms beyond exposed; offices and toilets and a playroom for children, toys and books and bright plastic blocks scattered wildly. Imogen and Zack kept to the left side of the concourse, the side with no doorways—just a row of pay lockers, bolted to the wall. There's no sense in taking unnecessary risks, Imogen thought, as they approached the short stairs leading up and around to the actual platform.

There was no train.

There was barely a track.

It hadn't been destroyed by the winds—but the damage was close enough to make no difference. It didn't even make it out over the water before twisting violently, almost wrenched off its support pylons. Further than that was difficult to see, but Imogen guessed it got worse rather than better. In the other direction, towards the inner city, it wasn't quite as damaged—not that it made any difference.

"Well," she said, as she stood there looking at the ruined tracks. "At least—"

"Awwwwwww NO!"

Imogen looked sharply back at her brother—Zack was pulling at his helmet, struggling to get it off as he stumbled around the station. Her chest went tight and cold as she watched, as he wrenched the helmet from his head, but then she realised that this wasn't anything more than a tantrum.

"Zack—"

"It's ... not ... FAIR!" he screamed, his voice breaking shrilly as he hurled the helmet away. It made a hollow sound with each impact against the ground, bouncing away towards the concourse. "IT'S NOT—"

Zack shrieked at the impact of Imogen's hand against his cheek, then yelled out as she slapped him again.

"Shut UP!"

Zack glared balefully up at his sister, then opened his mouth to let out his angry frustration—but the sound that followed was not a high, immature scream. It was a long, croaking, alien howl, soon joined by others, from both far and near. Imogen looked up, past her brother, her eyes wide—there was no question that one of the howls had come from inside the station, on this level. The rooms, she thought. Inside the rooms—

"Come on. Now, Zack."

His tantrum killed by fear, Zack took his sister's hand and held it tight, then pulled her arm up over his shoulder to support her as they started forward.

They saw the first before they reached the concourse, emerging from an open doorway with arms outstretched, its broken fingers twitching reflexively at the empty air. As Imogen and Zack hobbled down the stairs more appeared, from the doorways, a steady stream of walkers hungry and howling, lit by the moon in blurred blue—

"Imogen, they're fast!"

The zombies weren't running, not anything close to it, but it was clear that their pace was easily a match for Imogen's limping progress. Even with Zack doing all he could to help—

"Door," Imogen said. The NOT FOR PUBLIC door was in sight now, their path clear—but the zombies coming from behind and the sides shambled forward relentlessly, dull-lit by the moon's light, grasping blindly for the living flesh they knew was near.

"They're getting closer!"

"Shut up and keep walking."

Zack fell silent and pushed up harder under his sister, the door was close now, getting closer, but with every limping step they lost distance from the zombies—

"Right," Imogen muttered, then again, louder: "Right!"

Angles, she was thinking, we can ... we can manipulate them, we can use the distance we have to buy ourselves more distance if we're just smart, if we could just SEE ...

It was hard even to count the zombies around them, probably a dozen or more, there was no time for precision, just distance and direction and speed and the door, the door that remained so far away, never quite reached, and the closest of the zombies was almost within grasping distance, once a boy, short and slim—Imogen paused to bring HopeKiller around, her arm aching with the effort, the shard slicing against the zombie's hand. Two of its fingers fell to the ground, and with a blunt blow she knocked what remained away then shoved her bat's end against its chest, pushing it back. She glanced around—the others were closing fast—then leaned hard on Zack as they continued limping forward. Mistake, she was thinking. I took too long getting rid of it, I should have ... should have done something else, shouldn't have—

"Imogen ..."

"Just keep going."

The door was closer now but so were the zombies, already others were stepping over the one she'd downed, stumbling as it grasped at their legs, and from the left came others, and from ahead too—cringing and grunting with pain, Imogen put more weight on her injured foot, trying to force herself to go faster, but after only a few steps her right leg buckled beneath her with a horribly wrong aching stab. Zack almost fell as Imogen leant hard against him, only just keeping his footing as he pushed Imogen back up—

"It's close," he whispered, both tears and exhaustion in his voice. "Come on, please."

Imogen couldn't respond, her face was pale and clammy, her eyes dull, her body numb, but Zack was right, the door WAS close, just a few metres away, and then close enough to touch, and Imogen collapsed against it, grasping for the handle—

Which didn't turn.

Imogen stared down, disbelieving, and pulled again, then pushed, then wrenched as hard as she could at the stupid thing, but it refused to budge an inch. Only from the inside, she thought. It locked behind us.

"Imogen!"

Panic gave new strength to Zack's voice, and Imogen turned to see the zombies behind them, so close and so many. Without hesitation she limped forward and raised HopeKiller, and she spoke perhaps the last words she'd ever speak:

"Zack, get behind me."

And the nearest shuffled closer, and Imogen swung, and HopeKiller's shard sliced harmlessly through nothing but air—

BRAAAAAAARP.

The noise was impossible, and yet once more it sounded out:

BRAAAAAAARP.

The zombies had hesitated. Imogen brought HopeKiller up in a slow, tired strike that caught one in the leg; it fell heavily.

BRAAAAAAARP. And then another sound, a repetitive, echoing 'tong tong tong', familiar and satisfying, the sound of an aluminium baseball bat being whacked against the ground. Imogen pushed HopeKiller against the chest of another distracted zombie, the shard sinking into resistant dead flesh before it fell backwards.

BRAAAAAAARP.

And now the further zombies were moving away, towards the blast of the foghorn, towards the tong tong tong of the bat being whacked against the ground, and a strong voice called out:

"That's right! Why don't you peckerheads try some REAL meat!"

BRAAAAR—

The portable air horn the man had been using spluttered and died, and he tossed it aside as the zombies neared him. He was tall and well built, wearing dark trousers and a tough-looking jacket with some kind of covering—a poncho, Imogen realised, and he's wearing a cowboy hat. He held an aluminium baseball bat, gripping it with both hands as the first zombie came near.

"Well now, guess you're first, darlin'," he said, his voice clear and calm. The zombie reached for him, and he brought his bat around in a strong swing. There was a firm impact and a squelching crack, and then the man was around the side of the zombie, putting the heel of his left boot against its side and giving it a hard shove, sending it spinning to sprawl flat on its face—but the man wasn't finished. He walked after the zombie, ignoring the others coming for him, and he shoved it again, his foot firm against its backside, pushing it forward across the smooth floor. The zombie scrabbled and bent its arms backwards trying to claw at him, but it was at the man's mercy, could do nothing to stop him from getting it to the gap in the station wall and kicking it over the side.

He leant over to watch it drop, then hawked loudly and spat after it.

"Okay then," he said, turning to regard the rest of the horde. "Who's next, huh? You? How 'bout you, you hungry for some of this here bat? Well now, here we go—"

The man stepped sharply to the side and gave the approaching zombie a quick tap across the back to line it up, then he brought the bat back, raised his right leg off the ground, and swung. The bat caught the zombie square in the back of the head with a hollow TONG, and it staggered forward and over the edge, flailing as it disappeared.

"YEEEEE-HAW!" the man yelled, before lining up the next zombie. "Okay now, don't let me down here, who's next, you? You gonna be my number three? Well don't be shy now, you don't step up to the counter you don't ... get ... SERVED!"

With another massive swing the man knocked the zombie off the edge.

"THREE! Let's keep on going, I ain't got all night, I got things to do, I'm a busy man! How about you, sweets? You wanna be number FOUR!"

Imogen and Zack could only stare as the man continued to bait and bat the zombies over the edge—he had to pause after the sixth, forcing the others back with the blunt end of his bat to form a kind of rough queue—"Let's get you all sorted out, form an orderly line or we ain't never gonna get this thing done, come on now"—but after that the zombies were at his mercy.

"Wooo-yeah, lucky number seven, LUCK-y NUM-bah SEV-en, come on and take a bite of peach, you know you WANT it, yeeeee-haw! Oh, you say you're number eight, do ya? Well I gotta see your ticket, no ticket no service—BAM!"

The man batted the zombie over the edge, then turned to grin at Imogen and Zack.

"No ticket," he said, before lining up the next zombie. "Number nine, where-are-you~? Is that you, number nine?" He pushed the zombie back, then lined it up and shoved it over the side. "Well hell, I sure as shooting don't see you! Aw hell, you've got something on your face there, fella, let me GET that for ya! Wait wait wait, I didn't get it, let me try again, come on, it's a damned stubborn little SPOT is what it is, one more try, gimme one more TRY—"

With the last hit there was a wet crack as the zombie's jaw shattered, and the man kicked it off the edge before turning to face the last zombie; it had once been a short, overweight woman.

"Guess you're my sweet little number eleven, darlin'," he said, grinning. "Come on, don't you be shy now, I been waiting all night for this dance, come on now, eleven eleven eleven eleven ELEVEN!"

It took a firm shove of his boot to push this final zombie over the edge, and it howled as it fell.

"Music to my god-damned ears," the man muttered, as he looked over the edge. "God-damn, what a mess." He turned to grin back at Imogen and Zack. "And you know the best part?" he said, as he put his bat over his shoulder and sauntered towards them. "The best part is I get to take 'em on all over again once I head back down. Heh, what's left of them, anyhow." He reached up to tip his hat to Imogen. "Howdy there. I'm Zachary."

Zack's eyes couldn't have been wider. "So am I!" he squeaked. "I'm Zack!"

"Well now how about that, ain't that a thing. I tell you what, little man, just so's we don't get ourselves confused or nothing why don't you go on and call me Zed, how's that work for ya?"

Zack could only nod.

"Heh, kind of fits real nice with my last name, now what do you reckon that might be, son?"

"Your ... your last name?"

Zed waited a moment—Zack was wide-eyed and silent—then laughed. "Killer! Now what do you think about that? Ever met someone called 'Killer' before?"

Zack shook his head.

"Well now you have! Zed Killer, damn if that don't sound good to me." He looked at Imogen. "How about you, little lady? What do you go by?"

"Not 'little lady'," Imogen said coldly. Zed laughed loudly, bending over with the hilarity of it all.

"I bet you don't!" he said, straightening. "I just bet you don't. All right then, let's try again. What's your handle, miss?"

"Imogen."

"Now that's a hell of a name. Imogen, huh? Matter of fact I knew an Imogen, way back when, things didn't turn out so well with her." Zed eyed Imogen, his firm gaze making her uncomfortable. "Nah, you don't look like no Imogen to me. Think I'm gonna call you Sue."

"I—"

"Anyways," Zed said, talking over Imogen's protest, "reckon we oughta head on down, just gotta get myself something first—you two don't mind waiting a tick, do you? Nah, knew you wouldn't."

Zack looked up at Imogen as Zed strode over to the pay lockers against the other wall. "Did you see him kill all those zombies?"

"He didn't 'kill' them. He just pushed them over the edge. At the most he broke a few bones."

"That was amazing! He wasn't even scared, did you see Imogen? Did you see he wasn't scared?"

Imogen didn't reply. She was watching Zed take something out of a locker—a small bag, which he slung over his shoulder. He grinned as he walked back toward them.

"All right then," he said. "Looks as if the last train's up and left, so we'd better mosey on outta here. You two coming?"

Zack nodded eagerly, before noticing Imogen's cold scowl.

"Imogen!" he said. "He's really strong, we'll be safe with him!"

"You're safe with me," Imogen said. "We don't need anyone else."

Zed laughed. "Reckon that could be true—dang if you ain't a spirited little filly! Reckon us living folks best stick together at a time like this, though, what do you say? Ain't no harm in keeping with a group."

"Imogen—"

"Fine," Imogen said. "We'll go downstairs with you."

"Heh, fair enough. Fair enough. You need some help there? Couldn't help but notice you've gone and busted your leg—"

"I can walk," Imogen said. Zack was already there to support her. Zed nodded, thoughtful.

"Reckon you can," he said, before pointing with his bat. "Stairs are this way."

The rest of the station was deserted, and the stairs went clear from top to bottom without interruption. It took them several minutes to get down just a couple of floors, and Zed glanced at Imogen and Zack as they continued to make their slow way down:

"Where were you two when all this happened? Here in the station?"

Zack shook his head. "We were at the convention centre."

"Hell if you weren't, so was I! Love all that stuff, damn comics and cartoons and all of that good sweetness—I tell you what, little man, you are damned lucky with all this new stuff, what I grew up with was crap in a blender compared to what you got now, just got back into it this year and boy-howdy do I got some catching up to do! God-damn but I envy you, son, I do honestly envy you. Hey now, who's your favorite superhero?"

Zack didn't hesitate: "Batman!"

"Ho yeah, me too! Now you know what I love about Batman? He's just a regular dude going up against these damned superheroes with all these fancy powers—he don't NEED fancy powers to take 'em down, now THAT'S a god-damn hero! Always hated that damned uppity Superman—but Batman, yeah, now there's a real badass." Zed glanced around, then ran down the few remaining steps two at a time. "You two come along behind, gonna take me a moment to get in here."

By the time Imogen and Zack got down to the ground level, Zed was busily prying at a board nailed over a shop door—the shop's frontage had been protected by a plastic shutter, but the door remained uncovered. Light shone from inside; it was the only shop that was lit.

"There we go," Zed grunted, as the board came loose. He dropped the hammer he'd been using and picked up his bat. "Come on in, looks like you two could use a rest."

The shop contained heaped clothes and racks piled against one side of the interior.

It also contained several familiar faces.

"Oh," Imogen said, as Jen stood to meet her, Trevor and the others quick to follow. "You survived."

"Thanks to my man Zachary here!" said Keenan, raising his hand for a high-five.

"I'm going by Zed now," Zed said, slapping his hand against Keenan's. "On account of us now having two Zacharies in our little posse."

"I'm so glad you're okay," Jen said to Imogen. She smiled at Zack. "Both of you."

Null was leaning back against the shop counter, arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow at Imogen. "Aaron?"

Imogen shook her head.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised," said Trevor. He cleared his throat. "But it's good that you and your brother, at least, made it out."

"You were partnered up with that crazy little critter?" Zed asked Imogen. He chuckled as she looked away. "Heh, well, can't say I'm too surprised he got himself dead. Only a matter of time with that kind of fool."

Imogen's eyes were narrowed as she looked around the room. "You're missing someone."

"He didn't die, if that's what you're thinking," said Chris. "We all got out—with thanks to Zachary-slash-Zed here. But then V-Cut decided that he'd be better off on his own, without all of our 'dead weight' dragging him down."

"We tried to convince him to stay with us," Jen said. "But ... well ..."

"I think it is we who are better off without him," Cheena said. She was sitting beside the shop counter, her back against it, and the black of the shop wall had made her almost invisible until she'd moved to talk. "He did nothing to help us fight our way out. Besides, he talked too much."

"Whoa, I better watch out then!" said HK. "Hey, uh, Imogen, sorry about the whole, y'know, voting you off the island thing. It wasn't personal, I mean, I think you're cool, I like having you around, you'd brighten up any room!"

Imogen said nothing.

"Anyways," Zed said, "as you can see we've set up camp here, cozy little spot, out of the elements—you two need some new duds?"

"Yeah, end of the world special," HK said—over his red silk shirt he had on a new black overcoat. "Everything must go!"

Zed was grinning at Imogen. "Dunno," he said, this directed at HK. "Looks like Sue here's got something going on, can't say I know what's happening from the waist on down but that'd be a damn fine jacket if it weren't covered in crap—and I ain't talking about no zombie goo, what I'm referring to is that blue and purple threaded nonsense."

Imogen gazed coldly at Zed, then limped over to the piles of clothes.

"Zack."

Zack was with her in an instant.

"Find yourself some jeans, then put them on over those overalls."

"... okay."

After rummaging through the clothes for a few minutes, Imogen looked back over her shoulder.

"Are there scissors in here?"

It was Jen who handed her a pair. Imogen accepted them without comment, then took them and her new clothes into a dressing room. She felt a little trepidation about taking off her right boot, but it came easily—no swelling, she thought, after removing her left boot and torn stockings. It looks fine. So what's wrong with it?

After a minute's further exploration, Imogen came to the conclusion that she had no idea why her foot hurt so much. And it doesn't matter why, anyway, she thought, as she pulled off her skirt and tossed it aside. Just that it hurts. Just that I can't walk on it. Those are the facts, everything else is just pointless speculation.

As she reached for the socks she'd chosen, Imogen caught sight of herself in the dressing room's mirror. For long seconds she stared at her reflection, then she brushed her hair from her face and leant forward. Exhaustion, she thought, as she studied herself. This is what exhaustion looks like.

After another few moments Imogen shook herself and pulled on the socks, wincing at a sudden stab of pain from her right foot. Black jeans were next, slits up the sides so that her boots would fit underneath, a wide black belt holding them tight around her waist.

Over the top of her thin grey top Imogen put on a black shirt, far too long for her, with the sleeves cut off. She tucked the loose tail into her jeans, shoving it well down, then tightened the belt further. It was stuffy and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't come out in a hurry.

Finally, Imogen put her jacket on over the shirt. With the new bulkiness of her clothes it was even more tight across the shoulders than usual, but she barely noticed this.

"Woo, looking good!" HK said, as Imogen limped out of the dressing room. She didn't reply, just found an empty bit of wall and slumped down next to it. She could see that Chris was helping Zack with his new jeans, tugging them up over his overalls.

"This is awful! I look STUPID!"

Imogen pulled out her cigarettes. "You always look stupid. At least this way you're stupid-looking and alive."

"It's too HOT!"

"Hot and alive."

"And it itches!"

"Itchy and alive."

Zack fell into sullen silence, and Chris patted him on the shoulder.

"There, there," he said. "We all make sacrifices for the greater good."

"I don't even get what that means."

"Join the club," Trevor said. He looked at Imogen pointedly as she tried to get her lighter to catch. "Young lady, I do hope you're not intending to light that cigarette."

Imogen snorted. "What other intention could I possibly have?"

"If you light that cigarette," Cheena said, leaning out to look coolly at Imogen, "I will knock it from your mouth. I hate those disgusting things."

Imogen huffed out an irritated breath and flicked the unlit cigarette away.

"Good girl," said Trevor, which almost made Imogen light the whole pack. She didn't, though, just sank further back against the wall and let her eyes close.

Her lighter still held in her hand, Imogen fell asleep.

It was still dark outside when Imogen became aware that she was no longer asleep. From somewhere near she could hear Zack's long, low snores, and the subtle creaking of Jen's armour, coming nearer, followed shortly by her soft voice:

"Hey."

Imogen didn't open her eyes, nor did she say anything.

"I just wanted to say sorry—"

"You didn't 'vote me off'."

"I know, but I ... I didn't do anything to convince the others. I felt terrible about that. I still do, even though you're okay. Um, would you like me to put your brace on properly?"

Imogen didn't respond. After a moment, she felt Jen moving down to take hold of her boot, repositioning the brace and making it more comfortable.

"There." Imogen felt Jen move back up to sit beside her. "I like the clothes you picked. You've got good taste."

"I didn't pick them to look good."

"Oh. No, of course not, but ... but they do, anyway."

Imogen let her eyes open, just to slits, and turned her head to look at Jen. She was sitting with her hands crossed on her lap—she wasn't wearing her 'blaster' or her helmet—and her thin, pale blonde hair hung over her face as she stared down. Around her waist she now wore a red leather belt, with a metal ring attached to hold her sword in place. Jen reached up to brush her hair behind her ear, then glanced at Imogen with a sad smile. Imogen couldn't help but notice that her smooth skin looked glossy, and that her nose was a little red.

"Oh, no," Jen said, with a small laugh. "I didn't get bitten. I have a ... a cold—honestly, I do, I'm not lying, you can ask the others."

"It's true," said Keenan, who was sitting nearby. "With that good armour, there wasn't nothing the zombies could do to her."

"I was lucky," Jen said. "Lucky to be wearing this, and lucky I wasn't ... well, dragged down. I didn't do much to help."

"You did as much as any of us," came Null's level voice. Imogen looked over at her—she hadn't changed any of her clothes, still wore the same boyish costume, still had the same odd gun-sword. "More than some."

"Hey, I'm not apologising," HK said. "All I had was a flimsy little metal stick, no way was I wading into the thick of things! Besides, OC Zed had it covered."

"What is 'OC'?" Cheena asked. HK grinned.

"Original Cowboy."

Cheena clucked her tongue sharply and turned away.

"Imogen."

There was silence for a few seconds before Imogen responded:

"What?"

"It's a nice name. I like how it sounds. Not short and curt like 'Jen'. Imogen. What does it mean?"

"Nothing."

"You mean you don't—"

"It means nothing. It's from Cymbeline, a misprint of 'Innogen', which just meant 'maiden' anyway." Imogen looked straight at Jen, her eyes cold. "So the meaning of my name is 'nothing'. Just a mistake."

Jen stared at Imogen, an odd look on her face—not disappointment, not anger, not reproach. She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Zed's loud voice:

"All right now! Reckon we're about good to go, let's head on out!"

Imogen looked away from Jen, her mouth tight. Around the little shop the others were arguing:

"What?" said HK. "I thought we were staying here! It's dark outside!"

"I agree," said Trevor. "Shouldn't we stay here until the morning?"

"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan," said Zed, his voice going high with sarcasm. "Just all stay 'round here, maybe make a little campfire, sing us some songs, and wait for every goddamn deadhead around to swarm in on us. I just been out scouting and you better believe we ain't alone here. We gotta keep moving, people. Ain't no advantage in staying put if you can keep on going, that's just common sense."

"And where would we be going?" Trevor asked. "Who's to say that those things aren't everywhere—"

"Maybe you need to clean out your ears, Mr Muncaster. I been telling you this whole time, I got my truck parked—"

"This again!" Cheena threw up her hands. "This ridiculous 'truck', how is that going to help?"

"Well now," said Zed, his voice calm as he gazed levelly at Cheena, "for a start I reckon being in a vehicle has gotta be better than being on foot."

"Hey," Keenan put in, looking at Imogen, "you went down to the parking garage, right? You got out that way, and Aaron said—"

"That car's a wreck," Imogen said. "And there are about a hundred zombies down there."

"Maybe we could fight through?" said HK. "And even if that one car's a wreck, there have gotta be others down there, one of us could hotwire 'em—"

"Do you know how to 'hotwire' a car?" Null asked. "Do any of you?"

There was a general shaking of heads. Null leant back against the counter, her arms crossed.

"I don't either," she said. "It's funny how those skills that seem so prevalent in movies are so rare in real life."

"Yeah, well, I ain't laughing," said Zed. "Look, maybe we could fight down into that garage and maybe we couldn't. This ain't the movies, like little Null there said, and these zombies sure as hell ain't no Romero ghouls. These are some tough goddamned sumbitches we're dealing with here, I tell you what."

"Yeah, he's right," said Keenan. "It takes a hell of a lot more than a tap on the head to kill these dudes."

"I don't think going back to the convention centre would help anything," Trevor said. "And I certainly don't support any plan that would deliberately bring us into contact with those things, even if it might potentially gain us transportation."

"Yeah, so," said Zed, "all we gotta do is head on over to Grove Station and we'll have us my truck."

"And why would you think Grove Station to be in any better condition than this place?" asked Cheena. "It will be just as bad, I guarantee it."

"Hell, it'll be worse, you seen all that shiny-ass mirror glass they got over there? But that don't matter, because my truck's all safe and sound in a nice little lock-up. Parked it there myself, just this morning."

"Wait," said HK. "So you drove your truck to this 'lock-up', parked it there, then took a train to here to go to the convention?"

"Yep."

"Maybe I'm missing something, but why didn't you just drive to the convention centre?"

"Because parking at the Phoenix Convention Centre," Zed said, every word deliberate, "is ten god-damn dollars a god-damn hour."

"Actually it's twelve dollars an hour now," Chris put in. "If you want to be precise."

"You see?" Zed said, pointing at Chris. "Now that's just what I'm talking about. You know how much it cost me to park my truck over by Grove Station? Two dollars. Two little dollars—and they don't do all this 'by the hour' non-sense, you pay your two dollars and if you wanted you could leave your vehicle there until the end of creation itself."

"Which might not be too far away," Chris added, with a sly smile. "If today's events are any indication."

"Damn straight. Of course, I ain't one to force no one to do nothing they don't wanna do, I'm open to suggestions if y'all got any. Come on then, anyone got some place they wanna go? Got some real good idea about where we should be headed? You gonna walk home, or you gonna ride in my beautiful truck? Any of y'all are free to wander off on your lonesome anytime, remember that."

Zed looked around, his expression calmly smug.

"All right then, let's mosey on out. Yes son, you got a question? Speak up now, don't be shy."

Imogen looked over to see Zack sitting up—apparently he'd woken sometime during Zed's speech.

"Um," he said. "Just ... um, why do you talk like that?"

Zed chuckled. "Grew up watching too many old cowboy movies, I guess."

"So you're ... huh?" Zack was frowning. "You're from away?"

"You could say that," said Zed. "Matter of fact I just came into town to see what was up with that there convention, I tell you I was not disappointed." He chuckled. "Then all this happened. But you ain't interested in my life story, you just wanna get through all this without getting eaten or turned into a big ol' ugly zombie, ain't that right little man? Yeah, 'course it is. So you just follow ol' Uncle Zed, he'll see you through this. All right, everyone get what you're getting and let's head on out, time's a-wasting."

Less than ten minutes later Imogen was limping along, Zack at her right, Zed walking on her left, the others ahead. They were heading along the street away from the station—because of the way the monorail track wound through the city it was impossible to follow it directly, but it wasn't difficult to keep it in sight.

"Like that bat you've got there."

Imogen glanced down at HopeKiller, then over at Zed. His eyes were fixed ahead, bright and alert, but it was clear that he was talking to her.

"Nice touch with the cutting edge on it, what is that, just a hunk of metal? That work good?"

Imogen was looking ahead too. "Good enough."

"Wish I could've found me a wooden one like that, I'd ask to trade you if I had something better to give. Even this shiny thing ain't bad, though. Can't beat a baseball bat for that, uhn! That good heft, ain't nothing like it. You play baseball?"

"No."

"You got the arms for it, I tell you, reckon you put even me to shame. What do you do, then? Swimming?"

"She did Kendo ages ago," Zack piped up. "She was really good at it."

"Kendo! That's that there Japanese stick-fighting, ain't it?"

Imogen shrugged.

"Why'd you give it up?"

"There was this girl—"

"Zack!"

Zed was chuckling. "No, no, I get it. Oldest story in the world, right? Don't blame you. Reckon you're damn glad you got some practice in before the real thing, though, ain't ya? That reminds me—everyone listen up! Got some ground rules to go over with y'all!"

Zed had stopped as he'd called out, and he waited for the others to look back before he continued:

"Now from what I've seen, it don't take much for these stinking creatures to infect you. I seen a guy get a teeny little scratch on his hand, an hour later he's starting to sweat, hour after that he's lying down dead, hour after that, well, I can't rightly tell you because I was long gone by then, but I reckon he stood up again and started going after tasty little morsels like you two there, armour girl and clown chick."

Cheena rolled her eyes. Jen did nothing.

"Same goes for bites," Zed continued. "You get bit, you're as good as dead—worse, 'cos you're gonna come back and start biting on the rest of us. So here's the deal. Any of us gets scratched. Any of us gets bit. We do the right thing, and we tell the others, and then we head on off by ourselves to make peace in whatever damned way feels right to us. All right? That okay with you folks? I ain't going through no damned drama about this, you get bit, you get scratched, you get yourself gone. Any objections to that?"

Imogen saw HK and Keenan exchange glances, and Cheena looked pensive, but nobody said anything.

"Okay. Second rule, as long as you ain't bit, as long as you ain't scratched, and as long as you ain't done nothing overly foolish, the rest of us'll do what we can to get you through all this. You get what I mean by that? We ain't gonna be heroes, hell, I seen a dozen 'heroes' die in the first hour of this thing, but we ain't leaving no one behind that don't deserve to be left behind. Get me? Maybe the world's ending, but I ain't gonna live with no regrets."

Zed waited for this to sink in, then once more he continued:

"Third rule, we stick together. No one's running ahead and no one's dragging behind. Sue honey, looks like you're gonna be our pace setter. Now I don't want no one begrudging her that, because I reckon we don't wanna be going too fast anyhow. You seen these mangy little crawling ones? Half the time they don't even move until you're right on top of 'em, reckon they're smart enough to set traps like that. So we move slow, we keep our eyes and ears open, and maybe we'll see 'em before we step on 'em."

Zed looked around at the others, then nodded firmly.

"All right then. Let's keep moving. Got a lot of ground to cover, I reckon. Ain't doing us no good just standing around jawing."

Everyone started walking again. Zed glanced at Imogen.

"Sure you're all right with that foot? Maybe you—"

"Maybe you should be at the front," Imogen said. "Looking out for crawlers."

"Yeah, maybe. Sing out if you're getting tired."

Zed walked ahead, and Imogen watched him go.

*

It was an hour later. They'd spotted more than a few zombies, and had taken a couple of detours to avoid bigger groups, but hadn't had any problems. Now they were stopping for a rest, in the middle of an intersection.

"Clear ground," Zed had said. "We can see in every direction, ain't no way nothing's sneaking up on us."

Then he'd headed off by himself to 'scout'—cleanly breaking one of his own rules, Imogen had thought, but it didn't seem to worry any of the others and she couldn't be bothered saying anything. Now she was sitting on the road, her back against Zack's. Some of the others were talking, but that wasn't anything special—some of the others were always talking. This time it was HK who started things off:

"Why aren't there any others out here? Any other survivors, I mean."

"You've seen what that wind's done," Trevor replied. "And that was indoors, with some protection. Out here, in the open ... I don't even want to think about it."

"That's kind of weird though, right?" HK said. "I mean, back in the centre, it was only the higher floors that got hit real bad. Down on the ground floor some of the windows were even still there. But out here the wind was strong enough to throw cars around!"

"It could be these wide streets with these tall buildings," said Trevor. "Even normally ... before, that is ... you could get some real gusts in this part of town."

"Yeah, true," said HK, before shaking his head. "But there must have been SOME people who survived. Right? In buildings, or ... or ... there must have been SOME."

"Perhaps," said Chris. "But remember that the wind came several hours before we escaped the convention centre. Any survivors would have left the area."

"To where?" HK asked.

"To their homes, of course," Cheena said. "Where else would you go in this kind of crisis? To be with those you care about, to make sure they are fine. But if you ask me, I doubt there were more than a handful of 'survivors'. We have seen many large groups, and unmoving bodies also."

"That's another thing," HK said. "Why don't they all come back? It's like ... the body has to be ... like, 'whole'. I mean, it doesn't HAVE to be whole, but ... it's JUST the body that comes back. You don't see any hands or arms crawling around on their own."

"Thank goodness," Jen said, before sniffing. "Things are bad enough as it is."

"Yeah, true that," Keenan said. "Man, you wanna even imagine?"

"The limbs 'die' when they're removed," Null said. "But the body remains mobile. Even decapitation does not 'kill' them."

"Now that does not make sense," Trevor said. "Without a brain to guide the body they should not be moving—even animals need that."

"Yeah, but some bugs don't," said HK. "Right? I read where cockroaches only die after their heads get cut off because they can't eat. They just starve to death."

"No," said Null. "They die of thirst. Water is more important than food."

"You get what I mean. They don't need their head to live, just to eat—and drink or whatever."

"This is a point," Cheena said. "Some lower lifeforms do not need a brain."

"Ah," said Chris. "You mean like HK."

HK laughed. "Nice."

"That's not quite accurate," said Null. "Cockroaches do need a brain. But it's spread throughout their body."

"Cockroaches may but other things do not," Cheena said. "Viruses and bacteria have no brain. Some parasites—"

"But these aren't simple organisms we're talking about here," Trevor argued. "They're humans—or human bodies, at least—"

"Hey now, who's hungry? I know I am!" Zed's voice cut through the conversation. "There's a convenience store up ahead, and I reckon we could all use some convenience, am I right? Gotta be a bathroom in there too—don't worry, I'm gonna be courteous and go last, because believe you me, the bathroom is the only place you do NOT want to come a-following ol' Zed."

The convenience store wasn't far away, just a few minutes even at the limping pace Imogen set. The windows had all been blown in and the shelves knocked over, but it looked safe enough.

"Hold up there, Kemosabe," Zed said, holding out a firm arm to stop Keenan from heading in. "Reckon I'd best check it out first, make sure there ain't no nasty surprises. Clown chick, you're handy with that stick of yours, wanna come with?"

"I am Allecchina," said Cheena. "Not 'clown chick'."

"That's not even your real name though, is it?" said HK. "So—"

"Whatever you wanna be called, you in or not?"

Cheena drew herself up, her back straight, her carved staff held in an elegant reverse-grip. "I will help. But it is not for you, 'Zed'."

As it turned out, all of that was unnecessary. There were no 'nasty surprises' in the little shop, and a minute later Zed called 'Clear!' from inside and the others went in, Imogen and Zack at the back.

"Take my advice, don't go eating anything that's already open," Zed said—he was sitting on a counter, chewing his way through a packet of beef jerky. "Time like this, you don't wanna risk nothing."

Most of the others relaxed and joked and even laughed as they helped themselves to snacks. Imogen limped to the back of the store and slumped down against a wall.

"Well?" she said, as Zack hovered near her. "Go and take whatever."

Zack scurried off. Imogen let her eyes close.

"You should at least drink something."

Imogen sighed, eyes still closed. She felt Jen sitting beside her.

"Do you like fruit juice? What's your favourite—there are cans here, apple and orange?"

Imogen held up her hand, and a moment later a cool can was pushed into it. She opened it and took a sip without opening her eyes, then put it down and pulled out her cigarettes.

"Ahem."

"Trevor." Jen's voice. "It's not going to kill you."

"She can go outside to smoke. It won't kill her."

Imogen was already pushing herself up—she shook Jen's hand away as she tried to help her.

"I can do it," she muttered. Imogen limped through the store, rolling her eyes at HK, Keenan and Zack having a play-fight with cans of whipped cream. Outside she found a spot clear of glass and sat heavily, wincing at a stab of pain from her leg. For a moment she just stayed like that, then she raised her lighter in front of her face, concentrated, and tried for a flame.

Nothing.

She clucked her tongue, then tried again. It took four clicks to get it to light, but after that she was soon blowing wobbly smoke rings into the night—the convenience store was the only shop around, the corner of a huge commercial building, a single pool of light in the darkness.

"I brought your drink, some bread and things too. It's kind of like a picnic."

Imogen didn't look at Jen.

"Can I, um, do you have any spare?"

"You don't smoke."

"I know, I mean it's true, I don't, but I always kind of wanted to. I love the smell of cigarettes, I don't understand people who say they smell bad."

Imogen glanced at Jen. The girl's face was earnest.

"Probably not the best time to be starting," she said, before exhaling and taking the cigarette from her mouth. She looked at it, then passed it to Jen.

"Oh, it's hot!" Jen's mouth went tight and she looked down, embarrassed at her naivety. "I just ... didn't expect that."

Hesitantly she brought it towards her mouth, then put it between her lips. Imogen watched, halfway fascinated. Jen looked good with a cigarette in her mouth. But then again, Imogen couldn't help thinking, Jen would look good with her face covered in mud, or splattered with zombie goo, or let's face it, even with a monkey on her head and spiders crawling down her cheeks she'd look good—

"Um, maybe that's enough for me," Jen said, holding the cigarette out for Imogen to take back.

"You didn't inhale," Imogen said, before doing so herself. Jen smiled.

"Perhaps I'm not as brave as you."

Imogen said nothing. After breathing a long plume of smoke up and out, she sent the cigarette flicking away. When she looked at Jen again, the girl was holding up a packaged chocolate muffin, slightly squashed but otherwise intact.

"Do you like muffins?" she asked. "Or do you prefer—"

"That's fine," Imogen said, almost snatching it. She opened the packet as Jen did the same with another. "Thanks."

"You're so welcome."

Imogen didn't really taste the muffin, or the fruit juice she washed it down with, or the large loaf of squashed cheese bread she followed that with, or the cream and strawberry sandwich she split with Jen for dessert, or even the chocolate bars she ate after that. Halfway through their shared meal Jen opened a compartment in her leg armour and brought out a tiny music player and earbuds, which she shyly offered to share with Imogen. The song wasn't one Imogen recognised and it wasn't really her sort of thing, light and high and bright, but she found herself humming along as she finished her third chocolate bar.

"Well now, look at this! I was wondering where you two girly-girls got off to, having a nice little picnic out in the open, are ya?"

Imogen rolled her eyes as she pulled out the earbud and pushed it into Jen's hand, then took out her cigarettes. After a moment of hesitation she offered the pack to Zed, who recoiled in mock-horror.

"Hell, girl, don't you point those damn things at me! Might as well aim a god-damned gun at my head, been free of those devil sticks for, man, gotta be ten years since I kicked 'em in the teeth—and if you were anywhere near smart you'd do the same."

Imogen smirked as she tried to get her lighter to catch. "Now?"

"Hell yes 'now', seems like the perfect time to me. End of the world, baby!" Zed picked at his teeth with a long wooden splinter as he watched Imogen's continued attempts to get a flame. "Having trouble? Hell, that's one of them ol' Zippos, ain't it? Used to use one of them, switched to this here Firestorm a couple of years back." Zed fetched it from a pocket and held it up for Imogen to see; it resembled a small black grenade more than a lighter. "This little beauty's what they call 'stormproof', it'll light anywhere, anytime, first click, no questions asked and no problems given."

Imogen had finally coaxed a high flame from her own lighter, and was touching it to the end of her cigarette. "So let's see it."

"Hell, it's right here—"

"Let's see you light it."

Zed looked down at Imogen as she looked calmly up.

"Well, sure," he said. "Check this out."

As Zed had claimed, the lighter caught on the first click. The blue flame, however, was so small that Imogen could barely see it. She looked away, concentrating on her cigarette.

"Mm-hm," she murmured. She could feel Jen smiling beside her.

"Come on now," Zed said, "it ain't the size of the flame—"

"Why do you even have a lighter, if you don't smoke?"

"There's more uses for fire than just lighting god-damn cancer sticks—"

"Mm-hm. I read that those types run out of fuel fast."

"Oh, you did, did you? Where'd you read that?"

"In a book."

"Ha ha ha, excuse me while I bust a gut at the dryness of you, god-DAMN if you ain't the most irritating girl I ever done met." Despite Zed's words, he was grinning. "Talking down a man's choice of lighter—"

"Zed!" came Keenan's voice from inside. "Chris found a radio!"

"Well, damn," Zed said, as he headed inside. Imogen took another puff of her cigarette.

"Do you—"

Imogen had already flicked the smoke away. She started pushing herself to her feet, and when Jen offered her hand she didn't refuse the help.

Inside, everyone was excessively excited.

"It ain't working!" Keenan was almost yelling. "Damn, man, this is some unfair—"

"It is working," Null said. She was, as usual, leaning against a wall, gun-sword beside her, arms crossed. She wasn't even looking at the radio. "It's just the speaker that's broken."

"Well what use is that?" HK exploded, surprising Imogen. "We finally find—"

"Wait," Chris said. He unclipped a small black square from his belt—some sort of music player, it blended in so well that Imogen hadn't even noticed it before. From this he pulled out an almost invisibly thin wire; earbuds. Everyone watched as Chris put in the earbuds, then plugged the jack into the radio. Instantly his expression changed.

"Oh my god."

"What?" HK said. "What are they saying?"

"They're playing Laurie Anderson. I almost can't believe it, this never happens—this is the hand, the hand that takes, oh, I just adore this song, it's such a beautiful freak, how did this ever get to be any kind of hit—hey!"

HK was retuning the radio. Half a minute later saw Chris listening seriously, reporting along with what he was hearing:

"It's not just here," he said. "It's the whole country. Both the wind and the reanimating corpses. Other countries ... they don't think other countries have been affected. Just us." Chris paused, listening, his eyes serious behind his white and gold mask. "It's worse up north. The capital ... the capital's gone."

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" HK demanded. "What the HELL?"

"That's what they—that's the word they used," said Chris, and HK sank back against a ruined shelf, lost. Chris listened for a moment to catch up, then continued speaking: "It's not so bad down south, the winds lost strength as they ... they're saying about some kind of weather experiment, but they don't know, they still ... they don't know what caused the zombies, they don't ... 'any contact potentially fatal', well, we certainly know that—"

There was a quiet 'click' as the radio was switched off. Chris looked up at Zed, confused.

"Story time's over," said Zed. He shook his head at the looks he was getting. "What's that helping? Here and now, what is listening to that crap helping? You tell me, any of you, is listening to that helping us survive? Nuh, it ain't. We gotta focus on clear and present goals, not on 'why's and 'how's."

"But we could learn something—something important," Trevor protested. Zed shook his head again.

"They don't know nothing we don't—matter of fact, I'd bet cash money that we know a hell of a lot more than any of them government folk. We're here, all of us, right in the middle of this—'scuse my language, ladies—god-damned shit."

"Don't excuse yourself on my account," Cheena said. "This situation is shit."

Imogen couldn't help but agree. Zed was continuing:

"Look, we ain't gotta think about nothing except getting to my truck. That's our goal right now, not figuring out how these damned zombies work or why any of this is happening, just getting across town to a decent damned vehicle."

"Let's go then." It was HK who spoke, a new seriousness to his voice. "Take whatever we can carry from here and just go."

"Reckon that's a good idea," Zed said. "You heard the boy, let's load up and head out."

Imogen found Zack at the rear of the store, stuffing candy bars into the bag. He scowled up at her.

"I hate carrying these things, they're so BIG and POINTY."

It took Imogen a second to realise that he was talking about the cartons of cigarettes.

"Don't complain," she muttered. "And don't just take chocolate—"

"I have jerky as well! And drinks, but I can't fit MUCH in with these STUPID cigarettes—"

"Whatever," Imogen muttered, already turning away. Jen was outside, adjusting her helmet.

"I'm still not sure if I should wear this or not," she said, her voice muffled. "It really makes it hard to hear."

Imogen barely noticed Jen; she was thinking about having another cigarette.

"Is your foot okay?"

"Stop asking that," Imogen muttered. "Every time anyone mentions it, it starts hurting."

"Sorry." Jen hesitated, then unlatched her helmet and took it off. Her face was flushed and shiny. "Maybe part of it is sentimentality. I worked so hard on this costume. I don't want to leave any part of it behind ..."

"So don't then, just keep it, what does it matter? Leave it or take it, it's not going to change anything." Imogen looked at Jen, suddenly annoyed. "You take it and wear it and you don't hear the zombie behind you, or the crawler under a car or something. You leave it here and a zombie manages to scratch your face or grab you by the hair. Either way you're dead."

To Imogen's surprise, Jen smiled. "You're right," she said, and she put the helmet back on with a firm 'clack'. "I should do what feels right to me."

Imogen breathed out, irritated, and was about to reach for her cigarettes when Zed came out of the store, leading the others.

"All right then—you two waiting on us? We're all packed up and ready to move on out, Sue darlin', why don't you go on ahead and set the pace for us, good girl."

Imogen glanced at Zack as he walked to her side, taking up his usual position as her support.

"I can take that bag," Jen said. "I'm not carrying anything except this sword, I don't mind."

"No," Imogen said. "He can carry it."

"But—"

"Or are you a wussy little weakling?"

"I'm NOT. I can do it."

"Of course you can," Jen said, smiling down at Zack. "I just thought it seemed unfair that I'm not carrying anything."

"You're sick, you don't need to burden yourself," said Keenan. "Hell, just keeping up's good enough for me. You're doing good, Jen."

"Reckon so," said Zed. He patted Jen on her plastic-armoured shoulder as he passed. "The kid's fine, he's tough. Ain't ya."

Zack nodded seriously. "Come on, Imogen, everyone's waiting for you."

Imogen's face was blank as she started limping forward. Jen stayed close, Zed walked a little way ahead, and the others trailed along behind.

Somehow, around ten minutes after leaving the convenience store, Imogen found herself limping along beside Zed, only Zack at her side—Jen was over near Trevor, quietly talking to him.

"So," Zed said, without quite looking at Imogen. "You're one o' them lesbian girls, huh?"

Imogen didn't reply. She could feel that Zack was listening intently, and squeezed his shoulder hard to stop him from saying anything.

"I ain't judging or nothin', don't you worry about that, think it's kind of sweet if you want the truth."

Imogen concentrated on walking. Zed chuckled quietly.

"I can tell you ain't one to talk much about yourself. Just got this curiosity in me, feel the need to indulge it at times. Figure this is kind of an opportunity for me to, what would you call it, 'expand my world view'. So I gotta ask, there ain't no way you'd ever look at a boy?"

"Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Ever 'look' at a boy."

"Hell no I wouldn't!"

"Then there's your answer," Imogen said, somewhat wearily. Zed laughed.

"Okay, well, guess I asked for that. Heh, you're a real, I dunno, what would you call your kind of girl?"

"Gay?"

"Nah, nah, no, that ain't what I'm talking about ... well, guess I don't know WHAT to call you. But I like you, Sue. You're a tough little matchstick."

With that Zed walked forward, back to the front of the group. Zack went to say something, but Imogen shot him a look and he shut his mouth.

"Don't," she muttered, her voice weary. "Just ... don't."

"God-damn hundreds of 'em!"

This after putting a finger to his lips, pointing ahead, then looking back and putting his hand up, fingers spread wide. And then the hoarsely whispered:

"God-damn hundreds of 'em!"

Imogen squinted ahead—the road was wide and relatively clear, most of the wrecks up against the buildings to the sides. Where Zed had pointed to seemed to be an intersection, but she couldn't make out more than a vague impression of slow movement.

"Damn me," Keenan muttered, from Imogen's right. "That is a lot of zombies."

"They group together." Null made no attempt to lower her voice, but she never spoke loudly anyway. "It makes sense that they would gather in one place."

"All just waitin' there," said Zed, his voice almost awed. "Waiting for us to walk on up and say 'hi'."

"I don't think—"

"Relax, Mr Muncaster, I wasn't suggesting we do that," said Zed, clapping Trevor on the shoulder. "Nah, we ain't going nowhere near them lot. Reckon we've gotta head on back a ways, maybe cut through that park back there."

The park in question was between two of the buildings, leading through to the next street over. It was wide and clear, many of its trees missing or blown over, and there were bright lights set in the ground that the wind hadn't been able to wrench loose. Even so, Imogen regarded it with suspicion. She wasn't alone.

"I dunno, man," Keenan said. "Could be anything waiting in there."

"Wait, though," said Jen. "If they tend to group together, wouldn't all of those in this area be over by that intersection?"

"Dangerous assumption to make," said Trevor.

"I think Jen has a point," Cheena said. She was staring at the park. "And I do not see any zombies in there."

"Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there," said Trevor. "Maybe we'd be better off retracing our steps to that last intersection—"

"Man, you serious?" said Keenan. "That's like ten minutes back at the pace we're setting—Imogen's got her foot and Jen ain't looking so hot and if we're going there then my feet ain't exactly loving me right now. I changed my mind, let's go through the damn park."

"Guess we could put this to a vote," said Zed. "Except this here group ain't a democracy. Here's what's happening: I'm heading on through that there park. Anyone cares to come with, well, I'm happy to have 'em along. Anyone don't want to, well sir, I'll say happy trails, pilgrim."

With that Zed began sauntering towards the park, his bat over his shoulder, his pace slow enough even for Imogen to easily follow—which she did, along with everyone else, without comment, without complaint.

From the road it had seemed as if the lights were close enough together to light up the whole park, but now Imogen saw that wide stretches of shadow lay between. Zed was the only one with a light—but the narrow beam of the tiny penlight he produced was near-useless.

"All right." Zed was looking through the park, at the fallen trees and the pockets of shadow and light. "Reckon ... reckon we keep tight together." He looked back, then walked among the others, guiding Keenan to a spot on the left, Chris to a spot on the right, and Cheena to a spot behind, before taking up position at the front. "This here's our circle, okay? Nobody goes further left than my man Keenan, nobody goes further right than Fancy-Pants, and nobody falls behind Allecchina." Imogen raised her eyebrows at Zed's unexpectedly perfect pronunciation of Cheena's name. "Of course, goes without saying that nobody goes further ahead than me. Everyone get the rules? All right, good. Keenan, Fancy-Pants, Allecchina, try to keep tight in together, okay? Don't get loose now! And everyone keep a sharp eye out, especially to the sides, don't want no deadheads sneaking up on us."

Imogen was near the back, oddly comfortable with Cheena behind her and the others around. Jen's right, she thought, as they slowly made their way through the park, moving around fallen trees and towards the distant street. Zombies clump, there's no reason for any to be here, it's not like they're smart enough to hide and wait—

"OOOOH!"

Imogen might have laughed at the high, foppish cry Chris let out if she hadn't known what it meant. She looked over to see him beating desperately at the arm of the crawler that had him—

"Get if off me get it off me GET IT OFF ME!"

Zed was moving to help Chris, but it was Cheena who got there first, running forward to bring her staff down on the zombie's arm with a sweeping overhead strike. There was a wet impact, and the zombie let out a chilling howl. Cheena was raising her staff to strike again and Chris was battering the zombie with his dress cane when Zed got to him.

"Calm down there, girly. Allecchina, keep back a ways."

With little fuss Zed smashed his bat against the zombie's wrist. There was a sickening crunch, and the zombie howled again. Chris was scrambling away, helped by Trevor and Jen, while Cheena pushed her staff down hard against the zombie's back and Zed calmly broke its other wrist. He regarded it for a moment, then slammed his bat into its jaw, shattering it with a squelching thud.

"Try biting now, sucker," he muttered, before driving his boot into the zombie's chin with a strong kick, driving its head up and snapping its neck. He took a breath, let it out, then nodded to Cheena, who returned the nod before releasing the zombie. Zed spent a moment scanning the nearby shadows, then walked over to Chris, who was near to hyperventilating with barely-recovered trauma.

"All right now, fun's over," Zed said. "You okay, boy?"

"I'm fine," Chris said, both voice and face utterly incongruent with his words.

"Let's just take a look at that leg, now."

"I'm ... I'm fine."

"Reckon you might be. Still gotta take a look at that leg."

Chris stared down, eyes wide behind his mask, as Zed crouched and shone his little penlight down. After a few seconds Zed looked up, his face deadly serious.

"Sure you're okay, boy?"

Chris stared.

"No, I ... I didn't even feel it—"

He was cut off by Zed's loud laughter. "Aw, hell, I couldn't keep it going, the look on your little face—nah, you're good, boy, you're good." He slapped Chris hard on the shoulder, jarring him, then straightened and went to take up his position at the front.

"Okay now, I want Jen at the side, where Fancy-Pants was, Keenan, Allecchina, where you were before. Mm, bring it in a bit tighter. That's the stuff, all right now, reckon at least a couple of those deadheads back at the intersection heard that one hollering, so's we gotta get out of here quick as we can. Sue, I'm gonna get little Null there to help you walk, you both okay with that?"

Imogen glanced at Null as the girl came close. Null said nothing, didn't even look at Imogen, but her support was strong and unhesitant.

"Let's get ourselves moving then—and for god's sake, Fancy-Pants, stop crying."

Halfway through the park Cheena spotted the first zombies coming from behind. Less than a minute later Zed saw those coming from ahead.

"Hell," he muttered. "Once one of those things starts howling every damn deadbody wants to join the party."

"What now, 'leader'?" HK asked, his voice hard.

"Settle down, I'm thinking." Zed walked on for a few steps, glancing backwards and forwards. "Can't go back," he muttered. "And there ain't that many ahead of us. Nice wide area here, too. Little Null, reckon you're the brains of this outfit, you think these deadheads are smart enough to outjig us?"

"If somebody could explain what 'outjigging' is then I might be able to answer your question."

"I mean if we head right then they're gonna head right too, yeah? They ain't gonna think 'I'll just stay on over here to the left in case they head back', are they?"

"They're not going to 'think' anything. They act according to instinct alone."

"All right then. Everyone head right! We'll get 'em all pushed up nice against the right side of this park, then we'll make a break for the left—all you point people forget your positions, we're going in a nice orderly line. Now once we start running I'm gonna need a couple of you to carry Sue there—sorry, honey, know you ain't a 'toucher' but these are desperate times. Reckon maybe Allecchina and Null could do it, any complaints there? Okay, good. Now once we start running I'm gonna go ahead, take out any of those damned deadheads get in our way, but the rest of you stay tight together, you hear? Null and Allecchina're gonna be setting the pace for you, carrying Sue there, I don't want anyone else going faster than them, you start running ahead and we're gonna have problems. Everyone understand me? Stick together and don't stop running until you get to that store on the corner there—see it? All lit up with the windows gone, reckon we'll run through and out onto the street. If I shout anything—ANYTHING—then you better do like I say, hear me? Little man, reckon you can run faster than a zombie?"

"Yes, sir," Zack said, seriously. "I won't let you down."

"Reckon you won't. Okay, right side, everyone, let's go!"

As Zed had predicted, the zombies followed them over to the right side, pushing up against the wall—but we should be going slower, not faster, Imogen thought. The longer we can stay here, the more zombies are going to be on the right. It's not like those behind us are anywhere near to catching up.

But she didn't say anything.

"Okay, RUN!"

Null and Cheena had already had a brief, almost non-verbal discussion on how best to carry Imogen, and now they picked her up, Null on her left, Cheena on her right, their arms crossed under her thighs and across her back. They couldn't manage a fast pace like this, but it was definitely quicker than her limping—and faster than the zombies.

"Get THIS!"

Zed was a dozen metres ahead, slamming his bat into dead heads and chests, knocking the closer zombies down—but more were coming, from both left and right, from the street ahead—

"Keenan! HK! Get them big-ass metal sticks over here!"

Keenan and HK ran forward, clutching their weapons, joining Zed in pushing back the zombies—but for every zombie they knocked down a dozen were behind it, constantly pushing forward, and behind them hundreds—hundreds.

Imogen blinked, she still couldn't see well, her poor eyesight was particularly bad in the darkness and being jolted up and down as Cheena and Null ran with her didn't help, but for the first time she realised just how many zombies were ahead of them. It was like an unliving tide of dead flesh, surging forward, and more kept coming, more and more until the mind rebelled and refused to process the sheer number of them—

"Come on now, RUN!"

Null and Cheena's breathing was heavy in Imogen's ears, both of them tiring, and Imogen could see that Zack was flagging, short legs pumping furiously at the ground—Trevor, too, was falling behind, older and heavier than the others, his breathing ragged and wheezing, his metal pole cutting gouges from the ground as he ran—and then lost as it caught and he stumbled and fell, only caught by Jen, and then they were behind, the two of them, trying to run forward to catch up as the zombies surged towards them—

"Damn ... you ... FREAKS!"

Suddenly Zed was there, swinging his bat so hard at the nearest zombie it ripped its head half-off, and he shoved the blunt end into the next, and he kicked another back against the purring hordes—then his arm was around Trevor's shoulders, urging him on, Jen beside them, enduring the scraping of bone claws against her armour as she kept the zombies at bay.

"COME ON!"

It was Keenan yelling, not at the zombies but at Null and Cheena and the others—Imogen suddenly noticed that Chris had Zack's hand in his, was half-dragging him forward, and HK and Keenan were ahead, desperately trying to force the zombies back to keep the path clear, the blown-in window of the brightly lit store open and inviting—

Suddenly they were there, Null stumbling over the bottom of the broken window, and before she could recover Imogen was falling forwards, collapsing with an absolute lack of grace against a shelf covered in coffee makers—but already hands were pulling at her, Cheena was there to steady her, her face cold and serious, and then Zack was there too, grabbing at Imogen's arm, pushing himself up under her to help her walk, the zombies were already at the window, Keenan and HK were trying to keep them back while Trevor and Zed and Jen caught up—Keenan yelled out as he lost his pole, as a randomly grabbing claw jerked it from his grasp, and he half-screamed as the zombies suddenly surged forward—

"Come on, son, get yourself sorted out."

Zed was there, pulling Keenan back, actually lifting him up and around and putting him on his feet as HK ran past, Trevor and Jen were already inside, already following Imogen and Zack and the others as they made for the back of the store—the only option they had, zombies were crowding in from every other direction—and Zed grabbed a boxed coffee machine from the shelf and hurled it at the pursuing zombies, then another, and another, then he was on to rice cookers as he retreated back against the neverending hordes—

"DOOR!" someone yelled, maybe Keenan—Cheena got there first, grasping for the handle—

"Locked," she said, then almost screamed, "LOCKED!"

Imogen felt a strong hand on her shoulder and then she was pushed firmly aside, HK and Chris shoved back against the shelves more roughly as Zed ran forward—he grabbed Cheena around the waist and lifted her up and to the left, the expression on her face too shocked to be appalled, and then he raised his right foot and he slammed it so hard against the door that the whole wall shook.

"ZED!" called Jen, behind Imogen, near the back, Trevor beside her, her sword held in a trembling hand, the zombies still coming forward—Imogen already had some kind of boxed chocolate fountain thing in her hands and she hurled it at the zombies, knocking them back, then Zack was there, pushing another heavy box up into her hands and she threw that, too, there was the sound of another heavy impact from behind her, Zed still trying to kick the door open, and now Trevor was beside her with a boxed waffle maker in his hands, his throw wasn't as strong as Imogen's but the box caught a zombie in the head and sent it stumbling back—but there were more behind, there were always more behind—

One final heavy slam and Zed's voice was calling, "IN! EVERYONE IN!" and Trevor had Imogen's arm and Zack was being dragged forward by Chris, and Jen was at her side, her face unseen beneath her green-visored helmet, and Zed was there, at the door, Cheena beside him, the two of them grabbing Imogen and the others to almost throw them through, and beyond the door was some kind of office, open and wide, with stairs to the right and a closed shutter along the nearby left wall—

"There's more in here!" Keenan was yelling. "Holy shit, they—"

My bat, Imogen thought, I had it a moment ago, before I grabbed the boxes—Zack didn't have it, did I drop it? Is it lost?

Then Jen was there, in front of her, holding HopeKiller—she'd ripped off her blaster, to be able to hold it—and she pushed the weapon into Imogen's hands—her helmet was off too, nowhere in sight—and her lips were hot against Imogen's as she kissed her fast and hard.

"Good luck," was all Jen said, then she raised her sword and sliced hard and clean at the zombie in front of her, she barely cut it but the force of the strike pushed it back, then Imogen was beside her, limping forward to shove HopeKiller as hard as she could into its chest, and this did cut, this cut deep, and the zombie let out a gurgling purr and Jen forced her sword against its chest, pushing it onto its back and freeing Imogen's weapon.

Left foot strong against the ground, her focus clear, Imogen glanced back, then to her right, then looked straight ahead.

Back. Zombies coming through the door; held back by Zed and Cheena. But they can't keep that up for long. We have to move forward.

Right. Zombies spread through the office. Open plan, little temporary cubicles and desks. Crawlers could be anywhere. This place is a maze. Zack with Chris; no immediate danger. Keenan and HK panicking, trying to find something to use as a weapon. Trevor no use; already exhausted. Null has her gun-sword; pushing back a zombie. The blade is blunt but the weapon is heavy.

Forward. Four zombies along the wall, between us and that shutter and those stairs, and then two more near it.

"Help me walk."

Jen was at Imogen's side instantly, and together they moved forward.

"Now stay back."

Imogen limped the final two steps by herself, the zombies ahead of her all shambling towards her. None of them were particularly damaged, no injured legs or arms, no obvious cause of death. They all looked strong. They all moved with shambolic purpose.

HopeKiller swished through air and then cloth and then skin and then muscle. The zombie fell forward—but Imogen had already reversed the strike, held HopeKiller ready and braced to catch the zombie, and with a grunt she shoved it into one of the others, and both went down in a flail of stiff limbs.

Imogen raised her left arm to catch the next zombie's strike—impossible to attack it before it could get to her, impossible to dodge—and its claws gripped hard around her arm. Even through her jacket she could feel its heat. Its purring intensified as it tried to drag itself towards her—then gained a gurgling quality as Imogen thrust HopeKiller up into its throat. Brown goo spluttered out over the shard, and its purring became a howl as she forced it away. It fell backwards and landed heavily. Immediately it began trying to right itself, but Imogen had already shifted focus, to the zombie behind it, already lurching forward to grab for her—but then Jen was beside her, driving her sword into its chest and forcing it back, and with the instant of freedom this gave her Imogen slashed at the zombie's arm then pushed it down—and immediately limped forward, there was one zombie left standing near her but it was unbalanced, had tried to step over one of those already fallen and failed, and it didn't take much to send it falling onto its back to join the others.

"This way!" Imogen called, then she glanced at Jen. "Get them, bring them this way, to the shutter."

Jen nodded and was gone, and Imogen growled low and hateful as she slashed at the grasping arm of one of the fallen zombies. Now it was just a matter of crippling them, one limb at a time, glancing up every other second at the two nearer the door—which had become five now—and then—

"SHIT, NO!"

Imogen glanced back to see Keenan and HK near the middle of the room—somehow they'd let themselves be forced back and surrounded, Keenan was struggling desperately with something unseen, HK was hitting down with a computer keyboard, and Trevor was halfway to them, something square and black in his hands, Jen beside him—

"Just get HERE!" Imogen yelled—Chris and Zack were coming towards her, Cheena behind them, she couldn't see Zed or Null—

"Imogen—"

"Keep close to Chris," Imogen told her brother, shoving him back as he went to support her. "I'm fine, we don't need to move fast—be careful going past these ones, they're still dangerous, they could still bite you."

Imogen led them forward, glancing back every few steps—she couldn't see Keenan or HK but Trevor was there, and Jen was attacking a zombie with her sword, and there was screaming, horrible screaming from—

"EAT IT!"

Suddenly Zed was in front of them, somehow just there, slamming his baseball bat into a zombie's head with a running strike, and beside him was Null, expressionless as she drove her gun-sword hard into a zombie's chest, bearing it to the ground, and from nowhere she had a knife, was calmly and efficiently slashing its wrists before moving to the next—

"Imogen!"

Imogen looked back and now Trevor was gone, she could only see Jen, further across the room, being driven back against the wall by the encroaching zombies—

"The stairs!" she yelled, as she limped towards the shutter, as Zed took down the last of the zombies near it with a crushing blow to the head. "Get to the stairs!"

Jen looked around, clearly confused—

"To your right!" Imogen called. "Then straight, just straight, just RUN!"

There was a hand on Imogen's arm which she went to shake off, but its grip was too firm—she saw Zed, and the others behind him, and only then did she realise that she'd stopped, that the zombies behind her were getting closer—but Jen was moving now, as Imogen watched she saw her leap, a long, graceful jump that sent her over some unseen threat, and then she was at the stairs, and then she was up them, then she was safe except for the dozens of zombies below—

"Come on, girl, work with me here," Zed grunted, dragging Imogen back. "You got one good leg, use that at least!"

They were at the shutter now, Null and Cheena and Chris were all struggling to get it up—it wasn't locked, just heavy, and Zed pushed Imogen against a wall before joining them, grunting in effort as he helped them work it up—Zack was first to crawl under, then HK was through as the gap widened, then Zed was tugging at Imogen as she continued to stare helplessly up at Jen, as Jen stared helplessly down at her—

And then she was under the shutter, and so were the others, and Zed was pulling it down but it was stuck, they could already hear the scratching and purring on the other side, and a claw appeared beneath—

With a grunt of effort Imogen brought the blunt side of HopeKiller down on the zombie's hand, crushing it, then she limped forward to help with the shutter, pushing down with everything she had to help seal the zombies—and Jen—on the other side.

There was a sudden release, and with an echoing metallic thud the shutter slammed down against the ground.

"Great plan, 'Zed'," said HK. This new room was a warehouse, concrete floor and high red metal shelves stretching into the distance. "Real nice leadership."

"Well now that just ain't helpful," Zed said. "Didn't exactly hear you piping up with any good god-damn ideas."

"Keenan's dead, you know that?" HK's voice was high, close to breaking. "Trevor too, he was trying to help but they both just ... they just got—"

"Yeah, I know," Zed said, his own voice lower now. "Ain't nothing no one could do about that. Just ... just some god-damn shit that happened."

Cheena was looking at HK suspiciously. "And why are you not dead along with them?"

"He crawled under the desks," said Null. She gestured with her gun-sword; more zombies were between the warehouse shelves, none of them close but all of them moving slowly forwards. "We're not out of danger."

"There is an exit over there," Cheena said. "The way is clear for now, if we move—"

"Hello? Are you guys okay?"

Jen's voice was muted, but the quiet hope it contained was clear.

Zed swore quietly, then raised his voice—"We're good, you just hang tight there, darlin'!"

"'Hang tight' for what, exactly?" Chris asked. "I'm certainly not going back in there."

"Well neither am I," Zed said, his voice low, "but what am I gonna say? 'So long, dead meat'?" He glanced at the zombies in the warehouse—most were crawlers. "Jen honey!" he called. "There a door or something up them stairs?"

"It's locked!"

"Damn it," Zed muttered. Once more he raised his voice. "How're them zombies in there?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"How many, you reckon?"

"How many were outside? They keep coming in!"

"Hm," said Null. She was looking at one of the nearer zombies—both its arms had been crushed, and it was just barely pushing itself forward with its legs. "HK," she said. "Stand in front of that zombie."

"Hell no I won't!"

"Fine." Null walked down a short ramp and into the warehouse proper, towards the zombie. It raised its head as she came near, purring gently. She prodded it with the end of her gun-sword, then took a small step closer. Its shoulders twitched and its legs kicked pitifully against the floor, and then the zombie opened its mouth wide and let out a crackling howl.

"These are simple creatures," Null said, as she walked back to the others. "Manipulating them is not difficult."

"I get it," said Zed. "Get 'em all away from the stairs, yeah?"

"Possibly. The shutter is closed so there is no threat to us—"

There was a loud squeak as Imogen wrenched at the shutter.

"Sue, what in the hell are you doing?"

Imogen didn't reply. She'd already gotten the shutter up an inch.

"How in the world are you doing that on your own?" Chris asked. "Does sullenness translate to strength now?"

"The shutter was jammed before," Null said, watching Imogen with amused eyes. "Now that it's unstuck, even one person—"

"Come on now," Zed was saying, his hand on Imogen's shoulder—she wrenched it away and glared back at him.

"Your rules," she said. "We don't leave anyone behind who doesn't deserve to be left behind. It's not Jen's fault she got trapped in there. She was trying to help Keenan."

"Look, I know you and her got a little thing going, but this is—"

"You can go ahead," Imogen said, before wrenching the shutter up another inch. "All of you can. Zack, stay with the others, do what Zed tells you. I'll follow behind."

"You can't go in there—"

"I'm not going in there," Imogen said, interrupting HK. "I'm letting the zombies through into this warehouse."

"They'll follow us!"

Imogen stopped her attempts to raise the shutter, turning to fix HK with cold, pale eyes.

"So?"

"I mean ... we're already gonna have to deal with more outside, and adding these ones—"

"So?"

"Come on," Zed said. "Before them crawlers down there get too close. Null, Allecchina, all of ya, you get on over to that exit and hope like hell it ain't locked. Maybe hold off on opening it 'til Sue and I are over with you, hear?"

Imogen had returned to the shutter. It was jammed again, just a couple of inches off the ground. Already broken fingers and bone claws could be seen beneath, scrabbling at the concrete and leaving purulent brown marks.

"Gotta say, I do admire your loyalty," Zed murmured, as he crouched beside Imogen to help her with the shutter. "Kind of surprised, though. Wouldn't have picked you to care about no one but your brother over there."

Imogen said nothing, just kept pulling at the shutter—with a screech it came up another inch. She stopped and cocked her head to the side, listening. "Jen?"

"I'm here!" came the immediate reply. "Imogen, just go, you can't come back in—"

"We're gonna try leading the zombies away!" Zed yelled. "You know where we're headed, right? Grove Station! Out the north entrance, we'll wait there until dawn, hear me? We'll wait!"

"No, don't wait! Just ... just leave me—don't open that shutter, just—"

"You can get out, Jen," Imogen called. "You're strong enough."

"Don't wait for me!" Jen repeated. "Just look after yourselves!"

"Don't matter what you say now, we're waiting, girl!" Zed yelled, before swearing as the shutter suddenly wrenched up—Imogen had given it a hard tug, was trying to push it up further before Zed grabbed her, she barely had time to retrieve HopeKiller before he was pulling her away.

"No, I'm not—"

Jen's voice became inaudible, with distance and the purring of the zombies now pouring into the warehouse. Imogen's mouth was thin and she clutched HopeKiller tight as Zed dragged her towards the others—

"It is not locked," Cheena said, as they neared. "But we do not know—"

"Just get it open, girl, we ain't thinking about 'to' right now!"

The door came open easily—but rather than the expected street, it led to a long, narrow corridor.

"Oh good," said Chris. "More corridors. Just what I wanted."

"I hear that, Fancy-Pants," Zed muttered. "Left or right, right's gonna lead us back where we—"

"We will go this way," Cheena interrupted, already heading to the left. "If you follow then we stay together, otherwise I will say 'so long, pilgrim'."

Zed chuckled as he followed Cheena, glancing back to make sure everyone was with him. Imogen looked back too, to judge how close the zombies were, and how fast they were moving—in both cases, 'not very'. She breathed out as she looked forward again, barely aware that Null had her arm and was helping her along.

The corridor led straight through to another exit door—there were other doors to the left and right, but nobody gave these more than a glance—and this led outside to an alleyway, free of zombies, which in turn led to a street, full of zombies.

"Well, crap in a handcart," Zed said, as the nearest began shambling forwards. "This neighborhood just ain't safe!"

Imogen was looking around—there were only a few zombies nearby, but dozens could be seen along the street, lit by the flickering glow of the few working streetlights. But it's not the ones I can see that are the problem, she thought. It's however many hundreds are beyond the light, waiting in the darkness ...

Null was gazing up at a nearby streetlight, as it fizzed and dimmed then brightened again. "Power," she said, before looking at Zed. "The substations are likely down, perhaps there is no one left to monitor them. The energy from solar arrays is running out; soon the lights will fade."

"Well that's just god-damn great news, ain't it," said Zed. He ground his teeth a moment, then suddenly broke into a run, slamming his bat full-force into the face of the nearest zombie, sending it sprawling to the ground. Zed stepped up, his bat raised—

"That doesn't help anything," Imogen said. She didn't speak loudly, but Zed heard her. He batted away the zombie's hand as it clawed for him, then spat on it before striding back to the others.

"Know you're right," he said. "Hell if it don't make me feel a damn hell of a lot better though—"

"We should be moving," said Cheena. "If we do nothing but stand here talking about our feelings they will eventually reach us."

Zack was at Imogen's side as they started up the street. Most of the zombies were in the middle of the road, none close enough to reach them even with the slow pace set by Imogen.

"Damn it," Zed said, after the nearest light had flicked out for two full seconds. "We should've scavenged for flashlights—"

"Where?" said Null. "There weren't any at the convenience store and we haven't seen any other shops—that electronics store may have had some, but we weren't in a position to browse."

"Guess you got a point when you put it like that—"

"We should go underground," Cheena said. "It would be safer than these streets, I am sure."

"What 'underground'?" HK said. "There IS no underground in this city—"

"Yes, he's right," Chris said. "The 'subway' plans have been floating in the breeze since I was Zack's age—"

"Fools. There is no subway, but there are the underground paths. These are very much in existence. They reach many places, walking from my apartment to my college I need only spend one minute above ground."

"I can see how that might appeal to you," said HK. Cheena shot him a sharp look.

"One other thing," she said. "The underground lights are chemical. They will stay lit whether there is power or not."

"Okay," Zed said, after a few seconds of thought—and after they'd headed down another street to avoid the pack of zombies ahead. "I can see how travelling underground could have its advantages."

"I'm not entirely sure I love this idea," said Chris. "We all know that these zombies tend to gravitate downwards—"

"There are many zombies up here, can it be much worse below?" asked Cheena. "I do not think so. In the worst possible case we will have as many zombies to deal with, but at least we will be able to see them! And I will say one more thing about the underground walkways. Near where I live they come out exactly near the station. Perhaps it is the same here."

"Well I'm sure sold," said Zed. "So how do we get down to them?"

"That, I do not know," Cheena said. "I live near the cliffs, far from here."

"So maybe there ain't even—"

"There are underground walkways in this part of town," Imogen said, quietly. "There are some near the main station. I think they might even connect to Grove Station."

"Hell," said Zed, "could've maybe used that bit of information back when we was near the main-damned-station, don't you think?"

"Don't yell at her," said HK. "She didn't know then."

Zed grimaced. "Yeah, okay, maybe not. Sorry, Sue. Still don't know how we're gonna find one of these 'entrances' though."

"In my part of town they are clear and easy to spot, especially at night," said Cheena. "For now, we should continue moving, taking as little risk as possible."

"Amen to that," said Zed. He looked around, his eyes glinting sharp in the flickering light. "Is it just me, or are these zombies thinning out?"

"It's probably just a lull before we run into a horde one thousand strong," said Chris, dryly. "We all know of their love for 'clumping'."

Zed didn't reply—he was staring down the street, and then he was running ahead, Cheena close behind, then both stopped and exchanged glances.

"Fancy-Pants," Zed said, looking back, "you ever gonna learn to shut that damn mouth of yours?"

"Don't tell me—"

"Reckon we ... hell, I dunno." For the first time since his dramatic appearance hours ago, Imogen saw Zed lost and utterly unsure of himself. Not that she blamed him. Ahead, as Chris had joked about, was a horde of zombies, standing still and silent along the width of the road. How far back they stretched was impossible to judge.

"Those behind us are coming closer," Cheena said, after running back to check. "It is hard to judge numbers but I would say close to a hundred, far and near."

"Trapped," HK said. He looked hopefully at a nearby building. "What if we—"

"Hear what you're saying, but don't reckon it's worth the risk—crap, we gotta do something, though."

He looked around, forward and back, and then he looked straight at Imogen.

"Sorry, Sue," he said. "But I reckon you're the weak link here. With you and that leg of yours our pace is just too damned slow."

"Wait," Imogen said, "you can't just—"

Zed had already pushed his bat into Zack's hand. "Hold this for me, would you son? Get your sister's too."

Zack took HopeKiller from Imogen's hand as Zed closed on her. "What?" she said. "What are you—no, don't!"

Imogen gasped as Zed swept her up, holding her in his arms like a baby.

"Put me down!" Imogen said, her voice almost panicked. "Put me DOWN!"

"Sorry darlin'," he said as he started walking, his voice too close, his smell of sweat and splattered zombie goo thick in Imogen's nostrils. "Reckon this ain't too good for ya, but I figure it's either this or leave you behind—and like I told y'all right at the start, I ain't leaving no one behind if I can help it. Don't wanna live with no regrets, y'hear?"

Imogen could hear Chris talking, too: "—off your bag and those bats to Cheena and Null and HK there, and I'll carry you a while. You're so small I doubt I'll even remember I'm carrying you after a few paces—"

"This ... I ..." Imogen trailed off, her cheeks burning with humiliation and anger, her expression one of pained distaste. She knew there wasn't any other choice, but still she couldn't help but rebel. "You left Jen behind, don't you regret that?"

Zed was focused on moving forward, weaving through the zombies crowding the road, and it took him half a minute before he could spare the concentration to reply:

"Hell yes I regret leaving that sweet girl behind, but I don't see how I could've done nothing different." Zed fell silent again as further zombies threatened him from ahead, but he broke into an easy run and was soon clear once more. Imogen had managed to look back while Zed ran, and she saw that Chris was carrying Zack, piggyback style, Cheena carrying Zed's bat, Null carrying HopeKiller, and HK lugging Zack's bag.

"Left!" came HK's voice, and Imogen almost gasped as Zed jinked to the right—there was a car nearby and a crawler had grasped out from beneath.

"That was damn sloppy, sorry about that, darlin'," Zed said. "Should know better than to get near no wreck."

The road ahead was clearer and Zed slowed his pace, the few zombies around distant and slow, easily avoided.

"Reckon that's the worst over with," he said, but he made no move to put Imogen down, just continued on, his arms strong and his stride long and steady, and Imogen had to admit—privately, of course, very privately—that having pressure off her injured foot was nice. It had been steadily growing in pain over the last hours, even now she could feel it pulsing, light but steady, and her other leg wasn't in much better condition, aching from having so much asked of it for so very long.

"—already asleep. He must have been exhausted. Poor boy."

Imogen was surprised to hear Cheena speak like that—even more surprised at how soft her voice could be. She wanted to look back, to see if her cold mask might have softened too, but the way Zed was carrying her made that impossible. He chuckled.

"What?" Imogen snapped.

"I was just thinking, out of any of us to leave behind, surrounded by who the hell knows how many zombies, I'd bet on Jen to get through it. Ain't no tooth or claw gonna get through that costume of hers."

"She wasn't wearing her helmet, though," Imogen said, her voice low. "Or her blaster."

"Hell, long as she keeps her head, I reckon she'll keep her head." Zed laughed at his own joke. "Heh, keep her head by keeping her head, that's funny."

Imogen rolled her eyes, but no one saw.

The entrance shone like something precious, a soft green gleam that spoke of hidden comforts and safe passage.

"Hot DOG, we got us a weiner!"

"I don't know about this," HK said, as they all headed towards the entrance—Zack was still on Chris's back, snoring quietly, and Imogen was still enduring the indignity of being carried by Zed—for the sake of my leg, she kept telling herself, ONLY for the sake of my leg. "We could just find a safe building—"

"Safe? SAFE?" Zed roared with laughter—Imogen winced; up close his laughing was even more obnoxious. "Hell, I'll tell you what's safe, son, 'safe' is getting to my truck and having my M1 in my hands and a bulging bagful of thirty-aught-six at my side, that's your 'safe'. Now I reckon this here entrance is gonna take us straight to Grove Station, because I'm damn near certain the track's just over yonder. All we gotta do is head on down here, walk our way along some beautifully lit underground passages, and I reckon we're home free."

The stairs led down into a series of short, narrow corridors which in turn led to a wide thoroughfare—Imogen couldn't help but notice that it was a lot nicer than the underground near the main station. Hardly any of the shops were shuttered, and most were brightly lit—although the lighting in the thoroughfare was chemical, the shops all had electric lights, and none of them were so much as flickering.

"All right now," Zed said, and to Imogen's relief he put her down. "Reckon we're out of trouble now, and to tell the truth my back's petitioning me for extradition." To illustrate this he stretched back and groaned in painful relief. "Woo-yeah, that's a hell of a lot god-damn better. And what's this over here, that looks like a god-damn map! Hell and damn, we've got some luck right here!"

"Grove Station," Null said, pointing to a spot on the map. "It's close."

"Hot damn." Zed's grin was almost scary. "Reckon all we gotta do is head along this way and we're as good as there!" He glanced over at Chris. "Fancy-Pants, how's the little man?"

"Awake," said Chris, as he set Zack down—Zack was blinking and unsteady on his feet, and he accepted his bag back from HK with trembling hands.

"That reminds me," said Zed. "Better get our weapons back, what do you say, Sue?"

Null handed HopeKiller to Imogen with a small smile. "I used your weapon while you were being carried. Interesting design."

Imogen wasn't quite comfortable with Null having used HopeKiller, but she said nothing. Zed wasn't quite so restrained.

"Yeah, that's damned better, DAMNED better, hope there ARE some damned zombies down here—mmm, boy, you know how it is, you know how you don't realise you missed something until you get it back? Damn, if this thing weren't covered in zombie goop I would plant a great big god-damn kiss right on the end."

They'd started walking as Zed had gone through this little reunion routine, and HK looked back at man and baseball bat with pity in his eyes.

"No offence, Zed, but that sounds totally gay."

"Hey now," Zed said, pointing his bat at HK as they walked along, "we got members of the rainbow brigade among us right here and now, so you best be careful what you say, boy."

"No, he's right," Imogen said. "Are you sure you'd never look at a boy?"

Zed looked between HK and Imogen, HK laughing through his nose, Imogen just smiling thinly, and he shook his head, the look of sad confusion on his face almost enough to make Imogen burst out laughing—although she knew if she did it would turn hysterical within seconds.

"Well hell," said Zed. "Hell, a fella tries to do his best, and ... and, hell, I ain't a young man. That's all I got to say, I am not a young man."

Imogen's smile vanished as she looked at her brother. He was staring at the ground as he shambled along, his eyes glassy, his face pale.

"Hey, Zachary," she said. "I'm hungry, give me a chocolate bar. Anyone else want one?"

Zack didn't really perk up as he handed out the candy, but at least he was moving. Imogen took a bite of the bar he'd given her then made a face.

"Ugh, I hate Pinky bars," she said, thrusting the bar at her brother before limping forward again. When she glanced back half a minute later, she saw that he was already halfway through eating it, and that a little colour had come back to his cheeks.

"Whoa now, hold up."

Imogen froze, along with the others. Zed reached up to take off his cowboy hat, revealing short, messy blonde hair beneath.

"Everyone stay still a second," he said, although no one was moving. "Listen. Hear that?"

Imogen strained her ears but couldn't hear anything out of place. From the looks on the others' faces, neither could they.

"Come on now," Zed said, as he put his hat back on. "Ain't nobody ever taught you how to listen before? Close your eyes now, come on. What you gotta do, is you gotta mark all them background noises you ain't even know you're hearing and listen for that one thing that's different—now you've got all of our breathing, you've got that pretty fizzing these lights up here make, you've got that kind of buzzing from the electrical lights in those shops over there ... you got all them? You hear all them?"

Imogen nodded almost imperceptibly. Her eyes were closed and she was frowning in concentration.

"Okay, now you gotta put all those outta your head. You gotta know you're hearing 'em, but at the same time you gotta be hearing that one thing that ain't a part—"

"Movement," Imogen said, opening her eyes. "Zombies." Now that she knew they were there, she could still hear them clearly. Zed grinned at her.

"That's my girl, you got it! Reckon we got deadheads in them there hills."

"I still can't hear anything," Chris said. HK was shaking his head too. Cheena and Null said nothing, but Imogen suspected they'd also failed. Zack was clearly too tired to even think about concentrating. To her surprise, Imogen felt a faint glow of pride; I did something that nobody else could.

"All right now." Zed was over by the wall—there was a break in the shops here, to allow wall space for advertising and a large map of the underground. "We're headed in the right direction at least, that's always heartening to know. From what I can make out of this here map, we got two ways into Grove Station. There's this big wide ol' passage we're standin' in right now, goes straight through them zombies ahead of us and out about a block south of the station. Then we got another one up here, that'd take us through all these littler passages, breaks off here, then puts us right in the heart of the station." He looked around at the others. "Now after all the troubles we've had getting here, I'm a mite bit leery of so-called wide open spaces. Trouble with them is, they tend to get filled up with deadheads pretty damned quick. I say we take the winding road, avoid them zombies up ahead and get ourselves right in the middle of that there station."

"I think this is a good plan," said Cheena. "Narrow corridors may seem dangerous, but it is more difficult for the zombies to surround us there. In the open they have an advantage over us."

The others agreed—except Null, who said nothing. Imogen didn't say anything either, but privately she thought the plan made sense.

"I gotta ask," HK said to Zed, as everyone started walking again, "what are you? Some kind of soldier?"

Zed laughed at that, loud and hard. "Hell, I ain't no soldier. Why'd you think that?"

"Then, uh ... like a sheriff?"

"You want to know what I am? Hell, I'll tell ya but you're gonna be disappointed, 'cos I ain't nothing but a god-damn tour guide."

HK stared at Zed. "You're kidding."

"God's truth, son. Took folks all kinds of places, jungles, hills, bush around here ain't bad."

"Oh, like adventure tours?"

"More like hunting trips," said Zed. "But that's enough about me and my exciting damn life. Reckon we'd best hush up and concentrate on getting where we're going."

The passage was marked on the map as being just up ahead, past more shops. Previously Imogen hadn't paid any attention to these, through a mixture of tiredness, apathy and habit—they were the kinds of expensive clothing and jewellery stores she'd never be able to afford to shop in. Now it was only Zed pointing them out that made her look at them:

"You girls want to pick up a little something for yourselves?"

Cheena half-smiled, Null shook her head, and Imogen ... Imogen actually considered Zed's suggestion seriously. Why not? What's stopping me? I deserve—

But what's the point, she thought. How would jewellery help me? How would a nice dress increase my chances of survival?

"Actually," Zed was continuing, "reckon we could stop a spell in one of these here shops—them zombies up ahead ain't noticed us, we ain't got nothing chasing us ... but nah, we're close now, I reckon we press on, we get through to my truck, then we can all take a good long rest until dawn—gotta wait there for Jen anyway, right Sue?"

It was Chris who replied: "If your truck is even still there." He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "I'm only saying, somebody could have stolen it, or the building it's in could somehow have been wrecked by the winds—"

"Damn, son, put a little light in your life, hear me? It's gonna be there, I told ya, it's in one of them underground garages."

"As for being stolen," Null added, "I doubt there's anyone left capable of doing so."

Which depressed everyone.

The side passage wasn't much further on, and they reached it before they even saw the zombies ahead—although they could certainly hear them. They weren't purring, but some of them were moving around, the echoing sounds of their shambling eerie in the stillness of the underground.

The new passage was narrow but clear, ramping gradually up, the smooth walls covered with brightly coloured showbills and posters for an upcoming concert that would now never be. There were no zombies, but after they'd turned a corner and made their way through a long, even narrower part of the passage, Imogen became aware of something odd—a single, muffled voice.

"Radio," HK finally said, the word bringing realisation and, to Imogen at least, a sense of relief. The corridor they were in was too echoey to make out words, not until they reached the room the radio was in—it was a wide, high space, with bench seats and a raised area, the shops around much bigger than those they'd left behind—still just clothes and accessory stores, nothing practical or useful. Off to one side of the raised area were several long tables covered in white sheets, and it was on one of these that the radio sat. Zed led them straight past it, not even glancing at the set, and when HK went to say something he looked sharply back at him. Imogen wasn't particularly interested herself—but she couldn't help listening as she limped through the room:

"—control experienced a catastrophic failure, causing the deadly winds. The Chinese Government and Baltic Federation have together pledged eight point four billion dollars as preliminary restitution for the damage caused, and are preparing—"

Another passage, and the radio's broadcast became echoey and indecipherable.

"Dang," Zed muttered, after another few minutes of passages connecting to more passages, "almost wish it weren't so empty. I'm getting all wound up waiting for one o' them deadheads to jump out at us."

"Please don't tempt fate," Chris said. "She is a fickle mistress."

"Hell, you're one to talk."

Half a minute after that they came to a set of stairs leading up, another map beside them.

"Nuh, this ain't it," Zed said, after checking the map. "Matter of fact, we took a wrong turn somewhere, now we're heading away from the station—"

"Well, GREAT," said HK. "How did that happen?"

"Now, now, let's not get ourselves worked up about this, we'll just head on back—"

"Where do these stairs lead?" Imogen asked. "Maybe we—"

"We stick to the plan," Zed said, talking over Imogen and cutting her off. "Head back, turn left here—" he tapped the map "—and get on over to the station."

"It might be more efficient to go overground," Null said, her sharp gaze fixed on the map. "There's another entrance not far from this one; we'd bypass all of these passages."

"I don't want to go back up there if I can help it," HK said. "It feels safer down here."

"I hear that," said Zed. "Sorry, Null, reckon we keep on with the plan."

Five minutes later, Zed had changed his mind.

"Okay," he said, after pulling sharply back from the passage he'd just turned down. "Got kind of a problem up ahead."

Imogen cautiously checked around the corner, along with Cheena and Chris. It extended straight for as long as she could see—which wasn't far, considering it was completely blocked with zombies.

"Clumping," murmured Chris. "And none of them are so much as moving. They're just standing there. Waiting. Utterly silent."

"Dormant," said Null. She was standing and looking down the corridor, apparently unconcerned about being 'spotted'. "A state of torpor. Conserving energy, possibly."

"Energy? Energy?" Zed laughed. "These things don't need no 'energy', honey, they're the walking undead!"

"Everything needs energy," Null said. She turned and started walking back the way they'd come. "And you just attracted their attention."

"Crap," Zed said. "Okay, everyone back down the corridor, guess we're heading up after all."

"What if we led them away?" HK suggested. "Through the corridors—"

"Don't be a fool," Cheena said. "That would be far too risky."

"Girl's right, dude," said Zed. "Maybe if we had a nice open space and some room to move, but not in these damn tight corridors."

By the time they reached the stairs the zombies behind them were out of sight—but their purring was clear and constant.

"Why do they DO that?" HK asked. "Are they talking to each other?"

"Communication," said Null, her tone thoughtful. "Possibly."

"Gonna do something you ain't gonna like now, Sue honey," said Zed. Imogen tensed as he scooped her up—he'd already passed his bat to HK. "Keep a good hold of that there weapon of yours, don't wanna get cut by that dirty damned blade on the end there."

"Young Zachary," Chris said, as Zed started carrying Imogen up the stairs, grunting at the effort, "would you like me to relieve you of your burden?"

Zack was too tired to even nod, and he limply allowed Chris to take his bag.

"I will carry that," Cheena said, snatching the bag from Chris. "You can take the boy. Look at him, he can barely stand."

Zed had stopped halfway up the stairs and was looking back down. "Got a point there, Allecchina. Reckon all of us—"

"Yes, we're tired," HK snapped, "but there are zombies behind us and we're close to where we're going so could we just all keep going? If we stop to rest everything's going to catch up with us. Let's just go. Now."

Zed nodded and continued on up the stairs, and the others came behind, Chris carrying Zack in his arms.

It was dark above ground. The half-moon shone down from above, but those street lights that remained unbroken were flickering and buzzing violently, often going dark for seconds at a time. They'd emerged into a less built-up area than they'd been in before, a wide grassy park to their left and no buildings taller than three storeys across the road to the right. Low purring came from all around, far and near—they could see the indistinct shapes of a few zombies in the park, and more along the road, but it was clear that there were many more around than could be seen. As they started along the pavement, heading towards where the next entrance to the underground would be, they heard a distant howl.

"Some poor sucker's getting hunted," Zed muttered. He looked down at Imogen, held firm in his arms. "You all right there, Sue?"

Imogen managed a nod.

"There are some ahead," Cheena said, as she walked quickly to the front of the group. "I will clear the way."

"Careful there, honey," said Zed. Cheena glanced back at him, expressionless, then broke into a light run. Within seconds she had closed on the nearest zombie, its head crunching back as her staff slammed up against its chin. Imogen couldn't see much more than that, due to her position being carried and the darkness and distance, but from Zed's low whistles and murmurs of "How 'bout that?" and "Hot damn ..." it was clear that Cheena's performance was impressive.

And then the howling started. First from nearby, in the park, but then from everywhere, all directions, all at once, and where before there had been just a handful of visible zombies now there were dozens, everywhere, and all of them lurching towards the tiny group—

"Aw, hell."

Imogen held on tight to HopeKiller as Zed ran, gripping it as close to the shard as she dared so that it didn't accidentally cut her or the man who was carrying her. Being jolted around in the darkness meant she couldn't see, could only hear the purring and the howling and Zed's breathing, and the shouts of the others—

"Cheena! RIGHT!"

"I see it!"

"Chris, keep up now, don't fall behind!"

"As you wish!"

(Shadows in the park, shadows that moved, shadows that reached out with grasping, twitching claws.)

"HK, yell out!"

"Over here! I had to go around!"

"Keep heading down the road, get down that entrance!"

"Yes SIR!"

"Bugger damn crap bollocks—"

"Mind your language there, Fancy-Pants! Just—shit!"

(The flash of a dead face, eyes bulging, and bone claws so bright in the glow of the moon.)

"Zed?"

"I'm good! Damn close, though! Where the hell'd that little booger come from?"

"I see the entrance! We are close!"

"Just keep on running!"

"You do not have to tell me!"

Light suddenly exploded around Imogen, it wasn't anywhere near bright but she squeezed her eyes shut at the shock of it, and she bit her tongue as Zed thundered down the stairs, she could hear him muttering—

"Better damn not be any down here better DAMN not be—"

And then stillness, recovery, heavy breathing from everyone—

"More!"

Zed had to put Imogen down, and Chris lowered Zack to the floor—Imogen could see her brother was near to fainting—and HK was there, leaning hard against a wall, his face pale, and Cheena ... Cheena was striding forward, her breathing measured, her staff held firm in both hands.

"Watch the stairs," she said, not looking back. "They will come down. Move forward behind me, yes?"

The corridor they were in was wide, not a thoroughfare but close to it, benches against the walls, advertising-covered supports down the centre, everything gleaming with that greenish tint from the chemical lights. Zombies lurched towards them from around the supports, more than a dozen, and Cheena called to them as she attacked:

"Do not misjudge me! I am no weak-willed girl! I am no slight little thing with no fire in my blood! I am Allecchina the harlequin princess, and I am the unhappy end to your tragic story!"

Imogen stared as Cheena whirled and leapt and struck, her staff a blur as she drove it against zombie after zombie—its length meant she had no need to get close, could keep them at a distance, and yet again and again she closed with the zombies to more effectively drive them back, to stop them from getting to the others. After half a minute spent getting his breath back Zed took his bat from HK and moved forward to join Cheena, but by then the fight was all but over; the zombies lay on the ground, herded towards the right side of the corridor. Without a cutting edge or the strength to break bones Cheena had not crippled any of them, but that didn't matter. The left side of the passage was clear.

"Feel like I'm late to the party here," Zed said, before knocking down the last zombie. "That was a hell of a show, darlin'. Hell of a show."

Cheena straightened and twirled her pole to rest behind her back. "Thank you," she said, with the graciousness of a princess.

"They're coming from behind!" Chris called, walking back from the stairs. "They've crowded the top and are beginning to fall. I wish I could say that watching them was entertaining."

"Where's Null?" HK said, suddenly. "She was with you guys, where is she?"

"Hell," Zed growled, as he looked around. "Any of you seen her? You see her come down? Aw, hell, HELL, damn it all, just GOD DAMN IT!"

Imogen and the others stared as Zed drove his fist against the wall. He breathed hard, in and out through his teeth, then pushed himself off and pointed his bat down the corridor.

"Forward," he commanded. "Keep heading forward and god-DAMN if I'm losing anyone else. NOW!"

There was silence after that, nervous silence, exhausted silence, angry silence, scared silence. Imogen limped along on her own, HopeKiller clutched tight in both hands, barely aware of the ache in her body or the pain in her legs, or even the shuffling gait she had to adopt in order to walk at all. Zed was ahead of them, striding forwards, every step taking him further apart—

"GRRRRAAAAARRR!" he screamed, charging the zombie that had just come into view, driving his bat against its face so hard that its neck tore and its head snapped loose. That wasn't enough for him, though. That wasn't near enough.

It took both Chris and Cheena to pull him away, stomping and screaming and swearing at the stricken zombie, its arms shattered, its face pulped, still twitching where it lay. Zed's boots and hands were covered in the oozing filth that served as the zombie's blood, and his face and poncho were splattered brown.

"No more," he growled, staring around at the others with wild eyes. "Ain't gonna let no more of you get left behind. And I'm gonna kill every STINKING one of these things I see, god help me I SWEAR it!"

He looked sharply at Imogen as she touched his arm.

"My leg hurts," she said, flatly. "Help me walk."

Zed stared at her.

Imogen stared back.

"Yeah," Zed said, his shoulders untensing, his eyes clearing, his voice rough. He coughed. "Yeah, sure. Just grab my arm there, Sue darlin'. Just you grab my arm."

The corridor was clear, after that—at least until they came to the main thoroughfare. The first difference was obvious.

"These are not chemical lights," Cheena said, frowning up at them. "If there is no power—"

"Then we'll be blind," said Zed. He let go of Imogen to get out his penlight; after a moment's thought he handed it to HK. "Won't give us much, but it's sure as hell better than nothing."

The thoroughfare was wide with a low ceiling, benches and flower beds and the occasional small shop at its sides—the winds hadn't reached down here at all, and nothing was disturbed. It smelt fresh and clear, and of zombies there was not a trace.

"Hold up a moment," HK called, as they passed a clothes shop. The door was open and it only took him a minute to go in and then come out again, brandishing a thick, shiny metal pole. "From a clothes rack," he explained. "I figure keeping those things from getting close is what's important—when you fight them, I mean."

After ten minutes or so they came to a 'dip'; the thoroughfare suddenly dropped away, down steep stairs. There was a flat area of around a dozen metres at the bottom, then more stairs going up, shorter than those going down. Getting Imogen down and then up was something of a chore, and Chris had to help Zack, but the first dip represented nothing more than a speed bump, a minor obstacle.

The second dip presented more of a challenge. The flat area at the bottom was crowded with zombies.

"Like a natural damn trap," Zed murmured as he looked down. "No wonder there ain't none around back there."

"I will clear them," Cheena said. She already held her staff in a combat grip. "Like before."

"I'll go down with ya," said Zed. "Figure you'll—"

"No." Cheena's voice was crisp and commanding. "You stay here. In case ... in case. I can do it myself. These things are not so frightening."

"I'll help," said HK. "I ... I want to do something to help, too. You shouldn't have to do it alone."

Cheena looked at him, her eyes cold behind black and yellow diamonds, then nodded. "Follow my commands. Do not disobey."

"No ma'am!"

Imogen watched as the two of them made their way down.

"It's so easy to forget," came Chris's voice, quiet and thoughtful, as Cheena pushed the nearest zombie over, as HK shoved another back. "So easy to forget how dangerous these things are. One bite. One scratch. That's all it takes. One claw around your—" he cut himself off with a small gasp, as HK stumbled back and fell, as zombies closed on him—but Cheena was there to drive them away, sweeping her staff around and stopping them from getting to HK before he could recover his footing. Chris cleared his throat. "One tiny mistake," he said. "That's all it would take."

Imogen glanced at Zack—he was leaning against Chris, the older boy's hand on his shoulder. He wasn't looking at anything.

"Yeah!" HK's triumphant cry came up from below. "That's how it's done! Cheena, you the man!"

Imogen looked down and almost smiled as she saw HK raising his hand for a high-five. Cheena regarded it for a moment, then she touched the end of her staff against his palm.

"It is clear," she called up. "They are herded to the left and none of them are standing."

"You know, once you get over that initial 'AH! ZOMBIES!' thing, they aren't so tough," said HK, as the others made their way down, Zed helping Imogen, Chris helping Zack.

"Don't go underestimating them," said Zed—his voice was low, soft with weariness. "Y'all know what they can do." He glanced over at the downed zombies to the side of the 'dip'. "They've done taken out more'n half of us already—hell, taken out most of the damn city. That's how tough they are."

"Yeah, well ... crap. Thanks for bringing me down."

Zed didn't reply. He was looking at Zack, at the way the boy was dragging himself along.

"Chris, go on and help Sue—"

"I will do it," Cheena said, handing her staff to Chris. Imogen looked up at Cheena as she came close.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for doing that."

"It is what needed to be done, no more." Cheena took Imogen's arm. "You have done as much as I have, with that clever bat of yours."

As Imogen and Cheena had talked, Zed had passed his bat to HK and walked over to Zack. Without saying anything he scooped the boy into his strong arms.

"Now you've done just about as much as anyone could ask of you," Zed said, as Zack stared up at him with dull eyes, "and I'm proud of you for it, and your sister's proud too, ain't ya Sue?"

"Really proud," Imogen said, smiling over at her brother. "You've done well, Spack."

That he didn't respond to the hated nickname sparked fear in Imogen, but she pushed this down.

"Matter of fact, we're all proud of you," Zed continued. "And I reckon you've earned yourself a bit of rest. So you just go on and close your eyes if you feel the need, son, ain't no one gonna think less of you for it."

As Imogen watched Zack closed his eyes, and a moment later went limp in Zed's arms, his face calm.

"Good boy," Zed murmured, as he carried Zack up the stairs. "Good god-damned boy."

The thoroughfare ahead was narrower than before, but clear. There were no shops at the sides, no flower beds, just a plain, long corridor sloping subtly upwards.

"We must be getting close," Cheena said. Imogen heard both hope and weariness in the girl's voice. "The station must be near."

"Hey, Cheens," said HK, hanging back to match Cheena and Imogen's pace. "I got to ask you, what martial art is that, with the staff? Because you are DEADLY, girl!"

Cheena glanced at HK, her expression cool, but as she looked ahead her calm mask cracked a little, and she smiled.

"Pole dancing."

HK and Imogen both stared at her.

"You mean—"

"No, not like that, you low-minded imbecile," Cheena said, her usual coldness returning. "For fitness, for exercise. As for my staff ... I take my characters seriously. You may have noticed."

"No doubt," said HK. He glanced at Imogen, then coughed. "I'll go ahead a little, maybe 'scout'. I'm, uh, I'm kind of getting into this whole thing now."

Imogen and Cheena both watched as HK walked briskly ahead.

"He is scared," Cheena said, quietly. Imogen nodded in agreement. "How old, do you think? Fifteen? Younger?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"No. It does not."

Imogen half-glanced at Cheena. "How old are you?"

"As old as my tongue. Just a little older than my teeth." She glanced at Imogen. "I am nineteen. Two months from being twenty."

"Your ... your sister, you said about her before. Bailey."

"Bailey? No, my sister's name is Kim. Why would you say Bailey?"

"I just thought ... I don't know. She's younger than you?"

"By less than one year. We are almost twins." Cheena half-smiled, and she reached up to lightly touch the yellow diamond that covered her left eye, an odd gesture. "But we do not look anything alike."

"You must—"

Imogen's words caught in her mouth. She felt suddenly, utterly hollow, sick almost to the point of throwing up.

"What is wrong?" Cheena asked. Imogen had stopped, was just staring at her. She tried to talk but nothing came out, and so she just stood there, frozen, unable to do anything but stare at Cheena's wrist.

The girl wore gloves, one black, one yellow, made of silk or something similar. Her arms were covered by tight black and yellow fabric. But there was an inch between sleeve and glove ... and on Cheena's right wrist there was a tiny red scratch smeared with brown.

"No." Cheena had followed Imogen's gaze and was staring at the wound. "No, I did not ... I could not have ..."

The skin around the scratch was dry, and the wound gently wept, thin and yellow.

"But I do not feel ... I am not ..."

"Something wrong back there?" Zed was walking back, Zack still held in his arms. Chris and HK were behind him, both stopped, both looking back. Cheena stared up at Imogen, pleading in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Imogen whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Aw, hell. Ah, HELL."

"It might not be!" Cheena's voice was high with sudden desperation, tears flowing down her perfectly made-up face. "We do not know, we don't know, we don't ... I might be ... I might ..."

She pulled away from Imogen but then did nothing, just stood there, her hands half-raised as if to cover her face, still staring at the tiny, deadly scratch.

"Allecchina, honey—"

"I have to get home. I have to. She'll be waiting for me—if I don't get home then ... then ... I HAVE to get home! I HAVE TO!"

"Look," Zed said, "I know ... I know I said—"

"No! NO! I will not be one of those things! You can't let me ... you cannot let me become ..."

Cheena sank to the floor, her face buried in her hands as she collapsed into long, heaving, desperate sobs that echoed through the corridor.

Imogen stared around at the others, at Zed and HK and Chris. Chris looked like he was going to be sick—and then he was, staggering to the side of the corridor and retching. Zed's neck was tense, his expression one of forced calm, control made possible only through the sleeping boy he held in his arms. HK looked resigned; he sighed as he stepped forward—then looked up, at the light touch on his arm, into pale blue eyes half-covered by long dark hair streaked with violet. Imogen and HK looked at each other for a long moment, then HK nodded and turned away, going to Chris's side. Chris was weeping quietly now, his hand pressed against his eyes, but he let HK guide him away, further up the corridor.

Zed caught Imogen's gaze and held it, his jaw clenched, his eyes bright, and then he turned and followed the others, leaving Imogen alone with the still sobbing Cheena.

For long seconds she did nothing. Just stood there, her weight on her left foot. Then she sat down, clumsily and heavily, grunting as she let her injured leg push against the floor. She stayed like that a moment, then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a much-abused pack of cigarettes and an old, scratched black lighter.

"Do you smoke?"

Cheena managed to control herself enough to shake her head. Imogen put a cigarette into her mouth, then opened her lighter and tried for a flame.

"I thought I'd see her again." Cheena's voice was different now, changed by her tears, low and lost. "I thought ... I thought at least that ..."

Imogen gave up trying to get her lighter to catch.

"I knew, I always knew that this was ... this could be hopeless. Like the others kept saying with their jokes. The end of the world. Maybe it is, but I thought I would have this one small thing, just to see her, to be together at the end ..."

There was a tiny impact as a cigarette bounced against the far wall, the small white tube rolling in a tight circle before coming to rest.

"She is all I have. I am all she has. And now ..."

"Your sister," Imogen said, her voice tight. "You said she was wearing—"

"You can tell her." Cheena's eyes burned as she stared up at Imogen. "You have to tell her. One four seven Green Lane, the apartment building is called Bright Landing, o-our apartment is the very first. You have to find her and, a-and tell her, if no one tells her then she will just keep trying to find me, promise me you will."

Imogen stared at Cheena. The girl took a breath, and then screamed:

"I AM GOING TO DIE, PROMISE ME!"

"I'll find her," Imogen said. She swallowed. "I promise."

"Repeat—"

"One four seven. Green Lane. Bright Landing. The first apartment." Imogen swallowed again. "I'll tell her everything. What you did for us. Everything."

Cheena was nodding, not looking at Imogen. The fire in her eyes had faded; they had become flat. So had her voice.

"Yes," she said. "You promised. You will find her."

Cheena's blank gaze went to her staff, lying fallen on the ground; Chris had dropped it when he'd gone to throw up. Slowly, Cheena crawled to the weapon—then halfway she stopped, and pushed herself to her feet, rising deliberately and calmly. After pausing for the space of a single breath she walked to her staff, and she bent with an elegant motion, and she swept it into her hand.

With Imogen limping behind her Cheena strode towards the others, her face cold, the tears on her cheeks and her red-rimmed eyes the only signs of her distress.

"You made your rules," she said, as she passed Zed. "And we all agreed to them." She stopped, ahead of everyone, facing forward, her staff held at her side. "But I refuse to be left behind."

She started walking, slower now, but no less deliberately.

"Allecchina—"

"My name is Allison. Allison Bernard. Older sister to Kimberly Bernard." She looked back, calm eyes taking in all of them, Zed and Zack, Chris and HK, and resting on Imogen. "Remember me."

And then she was gone, breaking into a run, her pace light and fast and unfaltering. She did not look back.

Imogen stared after her, feeling something dark and dense and horrible deep inside.

"Brave damn girl," Zed muttered. "Brave god-damned girl. Hope my end's half as noble as that."

"Should we ... should we give her a minute, or ..." HK trailed off and looked down, ashamed. Zed cleared his throat.

"Reckon we oughta just ... just keep on keeping on."

Chris had been trying to bring himself under control; with a long, deep breath, he succeeded.

"Imogen," he said, offering his arm. "If you need—"

"No. No, I'm ... no."

Zed glanced back at her as she started limping forward, setting the pace for the rest of them. "Reckon you ... you did good, Sue. Good as any of us."

"Better," HK murmured. "Much better."

Imogen said nothing. She just kept limping forward, her pale eyes dry, feeling as bad as she'd ever felt.

It took them almost half an hour to reach the stairs. Twice they passed small groups of zombies, most of them fallen, mostly to the sides of the corridor. Chris and HK had no trouble in forcing back those few still standing.

"Girl's been busy," Zed murmured—there were more than a dozen zombies near the stairs themselves, none of them standing. He was trying to make his voice light, but it was clear his heart wasn't in it. "Been ... damned busy."

One of the zombies was lying in a puddle of slowly spreading yellow liquid, retching against the floor.

"Oh, gross," said HK. "What the hell is that?"

"I have no idea," said Chris. "I don't think I want to find out, either. Nor do I—"

Chris was interrupted by a distant howling from above.

"Do you think ... you think that's her?" asked HK, his eyes wide. "You think she went up there?"

"This here's the Grove Station exit," Zed said. "Reckon she would've. Sounds like she's got 'em riled up, too." He stared up at the stairs, his jaw tight, then looked back at Imogen. "Sue, how's that leg? If we gotta run—"

"Then just run." Imogen's gaze went down to Zack's sleeping face, then back up to Zed's sad eyes. "Just ... run."

For a moment it seemed as if Zed was going to argue, then he just nodded.

"Well," said Chris. He took a breath before continuing: "Shall we ... shall we go up? Before these things manage to regain their footing or drag themselves towards us. Imogen, it occurs to me that, as a gentleman, I should have offered you the use of my walking cane—"

"I'd prefer to keep my bat," said Imogen. Her mouth was tight. "But ... but I'll need help getting up the stairs."

"Of course. Zed, if you'd go ahead, HK and I can help Imogen."

The stairs were long, turning sharply to the right halfway up. In the stairs themselves the lights were chemical, but up above they were electric—and barely working.

"Two seconds out of ten," Zed said—he'd gone up ahead and had apparently been timing the lights. "Real regular. Off for eight, on for two. Worse than nothing if you ask me."

The stairs opened onto a wide area, paved with dark slabs of cold stone. There was a fountain off to the right, and to the left wide stairs led up to the station proper. There were only two working lights, a large globe in the middle of the fountain and a long, thin light strip running up beside the stairs. Both of them blinked off and on in unison.

"I'll take whatever we can get," HK said. He shivered as he let go of Imogen's arm. "I don't want to be in the dark with those things."

"You still got my penlight, right?"

HK nodded, taking it from his pocket. "But this—"

"Take whatever you can get," Chris said, smiling weakly. He looked at Imogen. "Those stairs aren't as high, but—"

Imogen just nodded, and Chris kept hold of her arm. Zed was looking around now.

"Well hell!" he said—to Imogen it was clear that he was forcing himself into his 'joking cowboy' persona. "I know this place! There's a hell of a little doughnut shop down over thataways, they do the damnedest milk pudding ..."

Zed trailed off, apparently unable to keep up the act. He sighed.

"Truck's through there," he said, nodding towards the stairs. "Just past the station."

With the lack of light everything was blue and blurred to Imogen—even worse once they got up the stairs. The station building was ahead, much more attractive than the main station—or at least it had been once. It used to be a gorgeous angular construction with wide reflective glass panels, now it was just a skeleton of a building, every one of its panels blown apart by the uncaring wind.

"I tell you what," Zed said, his voice low, "I'm getting the hell tired of broken damned glass."

There were a few crawlers around, but none of them near. Imogen winced at the sight of them dragging themselves over the broken glass.

"Damn," said HK, this followed by a much stronger word as a piercing scream suddenly sounded out. He looked around at the others. "You think—"

"That wasn't her," Imogen said, flatly.

"But—"

"That wasn't her."

"How do you know?" Chris asked. Imogen looked at him, her pale eyes cold.

"She wouldn't scream."

"I repeat—"

"She just wouldn't! SHE WOULDN'T SCREAM! THAT WAS NOT HER!"

Chris had taken a step back under the onslaught of Imogen's sudden outburst.

"Okay," he said, his voice shaking. "It wasn't her. I understand."

Imogen turned away, her breathing heavy.

"Uh, so," said Zed, "reckon we got a choice—"

"Around or through, right?" HK's tone was weary. "We haven't had much luck with 'outside'."

"Yes," Chris said, weakly. "I've always been an 'inside' sort of person anyway."

"Yeah, looks like there's a bunch of damn deadheads out that way," Zed said, looking out around the building. "No lights, neither, you notice? Streetlights are all dead. At least the station's got a couple still going."

"They can mob in the open," HK said. "I don't ... inside. Let's just go through."

Imogen felt Zed's eyes on her.

"Sue?"

"I honestly don't care," she muttered.

"Well then, guess we're going through. Better in than out, huh?"

It was silent inside the building, still and dim. Mirrored glass crunched underfoot as they made their way through the entrance area and to the wide, tall main concourse. Although the lights flickered on and off, two seconds of light for every eight of darkness, most of them seemed to be intact—they were flat against the walls and ceilings and floors, their profile low enough that the wind hadn't been able to get a grip on them.

"Reckon this here goes straight through," Zed said. "Long as we don't get no surprises—"

"Hm, is that hypocrisy?" said Chris. "You talked about me not being able to 'keep my mouth shut', but now here you are, tempting fate."

"Hell, you call it tempting fate, I call it ... well, I don't know what I call it. Keeping myself going, maybe. Guess we all got our ways. HK, shine that light, yeah? Just keep it going, pointed ahead. At least we'll have something to follow if these lights shut off permanent-like."

It was less than a minute later that the two seconds of light were followed by eight seconds of darkness, and then eight after that, and then another eight—

"As I was saying?" said Chris.

It was too dark to see Zed's reaction, and he said nothing.

Grove Station had been filled with greenery, before the winds had come. Long flowerbeds had lined the walls and trees had grown along the centre of the concourse. Now the flowerbeds were torn apart, soft soil underfoot, and none of the trees remained standing.

"Still smells damned good," Zed whispered as they crept along the left wall, keeping a good distance between themselves and a heap of fallen trees. He inhaled deep. "That living smell, y'know? Love that. Love the feeling in here. Hate this still weather—hey, hear that?"

There was a faint splashing noise that grew louder as they made their way forward. To the right of the corridor the wall became a waterfall, water flowing down from top to bottom in an endless, sparkling stream, lit blue and purple by hidden globes of glowing chemicals. With no other light around the waterfall seemed more than real, almost magical; the only thing to truly exist in this quiet, dark world.

"Pretty," Chris murmured. "Perhaps we're the only ones to ever see it like this."

"First time I've felt cool since that damn wind blew in," Zed said, as they walked close to the waterfall. "Kind of lets you forget for a while, don't it? Kind of lets you feel normal for a spell."

Past the waterfall they encountered the first zombies they'd seen inside the station—a pair of crawlers, picked out by the penlight HK held, neither of them with obvious injuries, both trying to drag themselves along the floor, and a single walker, thin and wretched, almost bald but for a few wisps of ragged hair. Its head was against a wall and its arms hung limply, and it didn't react at all as Imogen and the others passed.

"Maybe I'm 'tempting fate' again," Zed murmured, as they made their way past on the other side of the corridor. "But these things here don't seem as tough as them we've met before."

"Perhaps they aren't the ever-unliving eternal monsters of our assumptions," Chris said. "Perhaps they can weaken. Perhaps they can die."

"They're already dead," HK pointed out.

"Un-die, then."

HK let out a sad laugh through his nose. "Uh, do you think Cheena came through here?" he asked. "Maybe—"

"No." Imogen's voice was small but sure. "If she'd come through here, that one wouldn't still be standing. She went around." She paused, then spoke again: "She drew them away. Away from the entrance. There would have been a horde there, I'm sure of it. Allison cleared our way."

The wide, tall corridor became even wider and even taller as it opened out into a clear mall area. Around the walls were small shops, mostly food and clothing stores, and in the centre of the open area was a large sculpture, water running down over huge glowing orbs of green and gold and pure white. Around this, visible only as silhouettes, were several zombies, all of them thin, all of them retching and vomiting.

"God damn," Zed muttered, as they made their way around the outside of the mall. "What the hell is going on there?"

"Pukers," HK muttered. "Are they some kind of ... like, evolved zombies? They don't look like they've got any hair ..."

"It could be some kind of radiation," Chris suggested. "That might explain the hair loss."

"Radioactive winds," Zed said. He tried to chuckle, but the effect wasn't quite there. "Hell if that ain't a thing."

"I don't ..." Imogen trailed off, then spoke again: "That doesn't seem likely. Radioactivity doesn't create 'mutants', not like in stories."

"Just an errant thought," Chris said. "Pay it no mind. I was—"

"Holy shit," HK breathed. "Look at that, up ahead." He shone the penlight forward—the thin beam was strong enough to reach to the station exit, almost a hundred metres away. In front of the exit was a small 'block' of food shops and cafés, gaps of a few dozen metres on each side, left and right. Both gaps were crowded with zombies.

"Now I'd call that weird," said Zed, conversationally. "Would you call that weird? Like they're just standing there waiting for us. Just when I think I got these stinking things figured out ..."

"Do we ... what do we do?" HK asked. "Go back? There's no other way out—"

"Nah, I ain't goin' back. Fancy-Pants, take care of this here brave sleeping boy for me. HK, I'll be taking my weapon back now." Zed carefully transferred Zack to Chris's arms, then took his bat from HK. He took a breath, then nodded. "All right now. Time to get some payback on these undead freaks. Sue, what do you say? You up for a little execution?"

Imogen couldn't quite bring herself to reply, but she hefted HopeKiller wearily.

"All right," Zed repeated, his voice firm and true for the first time since Cheena's departure. "Here's what I reckon we do. HK, you're our distraction man. Your job's to get 'em to follow you out from ... hell, one's as bad as the other, right side's closer, we'll go with that—get 'em out from the right side. Just lead them out into this nice big open area, use that metal stick of yours to keep 'em away from you. Okay? Now Sue here and I are gonna be the heavy-hitters, move forward slow and steady, Sue on the left, me on the right, Fancy-Pants there behind us—"

"I'd just like to say that I'm not entirely comfortable with my role in this," Chris said. "Shouldn't we wake—"

"Now just what the hell are you complaining about, boy? All you gotta do is 'carry', we're the ones doing all the hard killing!" Zed glanced at Imogen. "And I reckon it's best to just let the boy sleep. Hell, look at him. Couldn't wake him if you tried."

"I'm ready," HK said. "I'll run ahead and start drawing them out."

"Good kid. Damn, you finally grew a pair, huh? Maybe get up around to the left, then circle around that there glowing thing in the middle and catch up to us, what do you say?"

"Yes sir."

"You run on back if things start to get tight, hear me? Give 'em hell, son."

HK headed towards the exit, the beam of the penlight he still carried bouncing wildly as he ran. By the time Imogen and the others had made their way halfway to the exit HK was already around the sculpture. Before they'd walked close enough to hear the zombies' purring he was back, a little puffed but pumped up.

"I got a lot of them following me," he said, nervous excitement in his voice. "Pushed a few over, even." He looked forward, shining the penlight. "Still a lot there—"

"You did good," Zed said. "Just you take a breather now, keep behind Chris and stop any behind us from getting too close, that's all you gotta do. Sue and I'll take care of the front, ain't that right!"

"Yes." Imogen raised HopeKiller; the nearest zombie was just metres away. "I'm ready."

There were dozens still in the gap between shops and wall. Dozens between them and the exit, so tantalisingly close. And now there were others behind them, too, those that HK had drawn out, none of them close but all of them closing. Forward was the only direction; fighting the only option.

"Let's get to work," Zed growled, and he swung at his first mark. Imogen followed his lead, planting her good foot before slicing through a zombie's leg; with a lucky follow-up strike she managed to near-sever its right hand as it fell.

"Whoa, good one!" she heard HK say. "Go, Imogen!"

But then she wasn't listening, wasn't focusing on anything but the dimly lit figures before her, the obstacles in her path. She moved only when she had to; no rush, no hurry, no need to force anything. Only my enemy. Only my weapon. Only my breath and my stance.

Nothing else.

Imogen did not lose count of how many zombies she felled; she wasn't counting. It was only one. One and then one and then one again, over and over, a repetition of actions that became a natural rhythm, step and then wait and then strike and then wait and then strike and then wait and then wait and then strike and then miss—

With a hiss of failure Imogen tried to correct her stance, stop the swing in time to reverse it, she'd misjudged the distance to her mark, the dim light making it seem closer than it was, and it lunged forward, claws outstretched, scrabbling for her. It was only through luck that Imogen fended it off, bringing HopeKiller up in a desperate swing that knocked it off-balance, its weight was against her for a horrible moment before it fell to her right, and she would have joined it if it wasn't for HK grabbing her from behind and pushing her roughly forward, she grunted in pain as she put down her injured foot but then she was steady again, then she was upright, and Zed was bringing his bat down hard against the felled zombie's grasping right hand, and a swift slice from HopeKiller crippled its left—

But all of this had cost them precious distance from the hordes around them, before it had been a measured advance but now it was a desperate defence, Imogen and Zed and HK all fighting for their lives as Chris pressed up against the wall, Zack held tight in his arms.

"Gotta—UGH!—keep moving!" Zed yelled, before pushing a zombie back with the blunt end of his bat. "Can't just stay put, too many of 'em to fight!"

"If I put down Zack—"

"NO!" Imogen and Zed both yelled. Zed continued—"Just you keep hold of him, we're gonna ... gonna get through this, just you ... just ... GOD-DAMN IT, DAMN YOU ALL! Just you get ready to ..."

"IMOGEN!"

Imogen's breath caught, but she couldn't look around, couldn't do anything but keep fighting—HopeKiller's shard opened a wrist and then a leg, and then she was shoving a zombie back, and then another, and then bringing her bat around to slam into an exposed head—and then Imogen realised suddenly that she could see, that the dimness had gone, cut through by powerful light, and there was a zombie on Zed and his bat wasn't in his hands, he was jamming his forearm up into the zombie's neck as it clawed at his shoulders, and then there was something in his hand, something small, and he pushed it against the zombie's face and there was a flicker of blue and the zombie's eye exploded, just burst, and then it was howling and jerking away and Zed was on his feet and his bat was in his hands again, held out in front of him, and he was roaring as he ran forward, shoving zombies back in a reckless, unbelievably dangerous charge—

"No! NO! HELP ME!"

"AHHH!"

Zack's scream made Imogen look around, a claw scrabbled for her arm but she wrenched away and stumbled back, wincing as she put her injured foot down, then she was at Zack's side where he lay on the floor, her free hand around his wrist, dragging him, his eyes were wide and staring, and behind him were Chris and HK, Chris's arm caught by a zombie, HK was trying to push it back, and more were surging forward around them—

—and like a dream Imogen watched Chris pull himself free, his mask had been ripped from his face and she could see him clearly, lit by that powerful light, his young face utterly terrified as he grabbed HK by the arms, at first it seemed as if he was trying to pull himself away from the zombies but then it became clear exactly what he was doing, and HK's yell of anguished terror was a sound that Imogen would never forget; nor was the look of shocked betrayal in his eyes.

"MY NAME'S JA—"

HK's desperate final words were cut off, replaced by rough purring and the wet tearing sounds of his corpse being torn apart.

"IMOGEN!"

The shout came again as Imogen realised she was crying, her chest heaving with uncontrolled sobs as she dragged Zack along the wall, the weight she was putting on her injured right foot twisting her stomach with pain but it didn't matter, nothing mattered now, nothing at all, and Imogen barely saw the zombie's claw slicing towards her face—

There was a solid thud as a crowbar slammed into the zombie's arm, then Imogen felt a hand grabbing at her, felt the smooth solidity of plastic armour against her, and someone was shouting, she could see zombies everywhere, everywhere she looked, and the bright light was there and gone and then there again and then gone again and then—

Those are stars. I'm outside.

Imogen looked up at Jen's face as Jen looked down at her. She looks worse, Imogen thought, quite clearly. Worse than before. She's really sick.

But still strong enough to save me. Strong enough to save Zack. Strong enough to save all of us.

Imogen found herself on her feet, she'd thought that she'd collapsed but apparently not, and she blinked and looked to the left and saw zombies, so many of them but they weren't coming towards her, they were agitated, they were focused on something, and then she was being encouraged forward, Jen's arm was around her, Zack was gone—no, Zed had him, when did he pick up Zack?

Eventually everything stopped.

They were in a side street, narrow between tall buildings, no zombies in sight. Imogen had no idea how much time had passed since they'd left the station behind. Zed was putting Zack down, patting him on the back, and he was saying something—

"—all right, son? You feel the need to throw up you just go on and do it." Imogen saw Zed glance back at Chris, his eyes hard. "Might even join you in a moment."

"I—"

Zed said nothing as he walked up to Chris, but the look on his face was worse than any words could have been. For the first time Imogen saw that Zed was shorter than Chris, almost half a foot shorter, but it didn't matter, it didn't make any difference at all.

"It, it was him or me. Truly, it was. You would have done the same." Chris's eyes flicked to Imogen and then to Jen. "You would've done the same!"

Zed said nothing, but his breathing was hard and his back was tense. Imogen couldn't see his face; she was glad of this. Slowly, he raised his hand, pointing away past Chris.

"I ... you can't ..."

Zed didn't move. Not at all. Chris looked pleadingly at the others—Zack was noisily throwing up off to the side. Jen was shaking her head, her face pale in the moonlight.

Imogen looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes.

There was the sound of a sharply indrawn breath, and Imogen glanced back to see Chris drawing himself up, fear in his eyes but grace in his posture. He stepped back, his eyes on Zed's, and he bowed, a long, sweeping bow that was utterly controlled.

And then he turned away.

The black of his suit faded into the darkness of night.

And then he was gone.

Zed took two short, controlled breaths, then he went to check on Zack, patting the boy on the back with muttered masculine support.

"Imogen." Imogen turned to look at the chestplate of Jen's armour, not quite able to look up further. "Are you ... are you okay?"

Imogen went to say 'yes' but then she was falling forward, against the hard plastic of Jen's armour, and the girl's arms were around her, the solidity of her so comforting, so necessary, and Imogen was hugging her back, HopeKiller and Jen's crowbar both lying forgotten on the street beside them, the two of them embracing in the light of a fallen flashlight, and for that single moment it was okay; for that single moment Imogen Shroud was happy.

It was Imogen who broke the hug, tensing and then pushing away from Jen. She drew the back of her hand over her eyes before saying:

"We have to keep moving."

"Hell yes we do." Zed was by Zack, his hand still on the boy's back as both of them drank grape soda from plastic bottles. Imogen wondered what Zed had said to her brother—he looked far from okay, but also far from the quivering mess he'd been just moments earlier. "Figure my truck ain't but a few blocks away—"

Zed stopped. He was looking at Jen, and Jen was smiling sadly at him.

And then Imogen knew.

"Jen."

It was such a small word, just barely a syllable, and yet it contained all of the sadness in the world; all of the sadness a seventeen year-old girl's heart could hold. Jen was smiling at Imogen now, a helpless, weak little smile.

"It's so unfair," she said, her voice soft. "I didn't even get scratched."

Imogen could see the tears streaking Jen's cheeks.

They were yellow.

"There was a television upstairs, in the office. I ... I broke the door down, eventually, it wasn't strong. And the TV was working. And I watched ... they said, about the virus, or parasite, they weren't sure, but we've all got it, even if you haven't been scratched or bitten, they think it came with the wind. It's inside all of us."

Imogen was staring at Jen, not wanting to hear but unable to block out her voice.

"But it needs ... it needs dead tissue, to ... to get stronger. That's what happens when they bite you or scratch you, it kills—"

"Jen, honey ... you don't gotta—"

"I want to explain." Jen's voice was no less soft than before, but its strength was unmistakeable. "I want you all to understand. Knowing might help you."

Zed said nothing further. Jen took a breath then continued, her bright eyes on Imogen:

"Their blood, or it's not blood, it's ... it's a carrier, for the virus. When they scratch you, or bite you—"

"But you weren't scratched, you weren't bitten—"

"My cold," Jen said. "Only ... only it's not a cold ... it doesn't matter what it is. They s-said that anyone with a weakened immune system—"

Imogen cut Jen off by hugging her, tight, as tight as she could, her cheek against the chestplate of Jen's armour. Jen hugged her back, then gently pushed her away.

"They don't ... they didn't know about communicability," she said, in explanation. "I don't w-want to put you at risk—"

"I don't care," Imogen said. "I don't care if I—"

"Of course you do. Of course you care."

"I d-don't, I never cared—"

"Sue ... honey." Zed cleared his throat. "I ain't known you long. Can't say I'm the best judge of character in the world neither. But there's one thing as clear to me as the stars in the sky, you sure as hell do care."

Imogen wiped away tears with her right hand then her left, and she looked up to see Zack looking at her, Zed beside him, and Jen was still smiling—

"It's not fair," Imogen said. "This isn't fair."

"No, it's not." Jen's voice was harder now. "But that's nothing new."

"Jen, darlin' ... are you absolutely sure—"

Jen was nodding. "They said, about the symptoms. Sweating. Fever. And, um, your tears and saliva turn yellow, and then brown. And your, y-your organs start to die, the kidneys and—"

"Don't." Imogen reached for Jen's hand. "Don't."

Jen squeezed Imogen's hand, then let it go. "I have to."

"I'm real sorry, darlin'," Zed said. His voice was low. "I'm so real sorry. Wish it could be different."

"So do I." Jen managed a small, sad laugh. "I really do."

"You're going to die?" Zack was staring at Jen, horrified comprehension on his exhausted face. "No! That's not fair, that's so not fair, that's ... you didn't even get scratched, you were strong! You ... you're supposed to ... you can't die just because—no! NO!"

"Zack." Imogen's voice was low and dangerous.

"But—"

"It's all right, Zack," Jen said. "Really, it's ... no, it's not fair. None of this is." She looked back at Imogen. "And ... and maybe it's easier for me, because ... because ..."

She trailed off again. She'd seen the understanding in Imogen's eyes.

"I guess it doesn't matter now." Jen wiped her eyes. "None of it matters. I shouldn't stay here with you. I should ... I s-should go and try to kill some zombies. Or I could ... maybe follow behind you, and if you need a distraction, or a sacrifice—"

"Hell, darlin'—"

"No, I want to. I want to help you, Imogen, Zack, you two are trying to get home, right?" Jen's mouth went tight, and though she brought herself under control with a deep, calming breath, when she next spoke her voice shook with loss: "I can't believe you're the only ones left. But I'm ... I'm happy you're both okay. Brother and sister, still together. You'll keep each other safe, right? Zack, you'll keep your sister safe, won't you?"

Zack nodded seriously, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You're both so strong," Jen said. "I know you'll ... you'll both be okay. Zed, please take care of them."

Zed nodded. "I surely will." He hesitated before speaking again. "Listen, Jen ... I got some stuff in my truck ... you wouldn't feel a thing, I promise you that."

Jen shook her head slowly, her mouth a grim line. "All my life I've had to take meds. On the hour, every hour. I don't want the last thing I ever do to be swallowing another pill. I want ... I want it to be fighting, fighting to save someone I care about. I want it to mean something. It never did before. It was never going to, before. I never did anything important. Only in my fantasies." Jen looked down at the plastic armour she wore, then up at Zed. "Tonight, I can be a hero."

"Reckon you always were, darlin'. Reckon you always were."

Jen smiled at Zed, then calmly bent to pick up HopeKiller and her crowbar. She gave HopeKiller to Imogen, then took her arm, silently supporting her. As they started walking, up the street, Zed and Zack beside them, one of the streetlights nearby flickered into life.

"Well now, look at that," Zed said, quietly. "What's that about, you reckon?"

Other streetlights had lit up, too—just streetlights, not the buildings. Their way forward was lit. It didn't take long for the lights to shine on something else.

"Looks like you get your wish, darlin'." Zed pointed with his bat. "That there's the way to my garage, down that little street there."

Jen nodded, standing tall and straight, her eyes fixed on the pack of zombies blocking the street.

"W-we could ... lead them away," Imogen said. "Or go around, find another way—you don't HAVE to—"

"Of course I do." Jen turned to smile at Imogen, one final time, and then she gently slid her arm free. "This is me saving you."

"You already did that, you don't—"

"Imogen." Jen's voice was near to breaking. "Please."

Zed patted Jen on the shoulder. "Get us home, darlin'. You just get us home."

Jen nodded. She was shivering. "I ... I want to say something. I want to say something but I don't know ..."

"It's okay." Zack smiled up at Jen, so strong and tall in her bright orange armour. "She doesn't talk, right?"

Jen smiled back, far more bravely than she could have possibly felt.

"And ... and you're cooler than her, even." Zack nodded to himself. "Way cooler."

Jen took a breath as she raised her head, and she gripped her crowbar firmly as she strode forward, streetlights shining against her armour and her pale blonde hair. She only glanced back once, to look at Imogen, who was weeping openly, HopeKiller loose in her hand.

Don't go, Imogen wanted to yell. Don't go. Please. Please don't go without me ...

She said nothing.

She did nothing.

That was enough.

Jen's expression softened and then hardened, and she mouthed something, three words, and they struck Imogen like arrows, every one of them:

Don't.

Forget.

Me.

And as the first of the zombies began lurching towards Jen, Zed put his hand on Imogen's shoulder and guided her away.

"Come on, darlin'," he murmured. "She don't need no audience for this."

"But—"

"Come on. Let's not waste this chance she's giving us."

And nothing could be done.

There were narrow streets. Some were light. Some were dark. Jen made no noise. None at all. There were further streets. All dark. There was a ramp leading down. There was a shutter, dented badly. It opened. Inside it was dark. Zed's truck was there. He made a joke about not having his keys. They all got in. Zack sat between Imogen and Zed. 5th Generation Toyota Hilux. Best truck ever made. Impossible to kill. You see that thing? And it was STILL going! Hey, I know that dude. Owns this garage. Or owned it, anyway. I want my two dollars! Heh heh heh. Zed was out of the truck. Know much about guns, little man? This here's an M1 Garand, same kind they used in Dubya Dubya Two. Chambered for thirty-aught-six Springfield, best god-damn ammunition anyone ever made.

"—now there's some'll tell you that thirty-aught-six is too much bullet for the kinds of things I hunt—deer and pigs mostly. They'll say it causes too much of what's called 'meat damage'."

Imogen sat slumped inside the truck, her cheek pressed hard against the cool glass of the window, staring unseeing at the dashboard. The sharp clack-CLACK of a chambered round echoed in the dark garage.

Zed raised his rifle.

The zombie shambling towards him seemed to hesitate.

Zed breathed in, then out.

The zombie's shoulder exploded in a shower of brown gore. Its arm slapped wetly against the concrete floor.

"But then I ain't never been one for 'finesse'." Zed grinned down at the wide-eyed Zack. "Iron sights, never did like scopes. Just that one step too far removed, know what I'm saying?"

Zed casually blew the zombie's other arm off, shooting from the hip this time.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here. Reckon your sister there needs the drive."

The truck rocked gently as Zack and Zed got in. It took Imogen a few seconds to realise Zed was looking at her pointedly. When she spoke her voice came from the depths of an ocean trench, dark and pitiless:

"What?"

"Seatbelt, goddamnit! Safety first, girl!"

In the end Zack had to help Imogen get herself buckled in. Her hands were shaking too badly to do much of anything.

"Got that bat of yours in the back, good and secure. Don't want that there blade on the end getting loose."

Imogen stared at nothing as Zed drove them out of the garage.

Outside, past the ramp that led up and out, there was an empty space; a vacant lot. The truck's powerful headlights easily picked out the single zombie standing in it. Zed ran it over with a loud 'thump' and an even louder 'YEEEE-HAW!'. He looked down at Zack, who was grinning nervously.

"You like that, son? Yeah, reckon we all needed that. All right now, where's your poison? Where do you live?"

"Spring Heights," Zack said. "In the apartments."

Zed chuckled softly as he pulled the truck around. "Spring Heights," he murmured. "Now how about that. Ain't exactly the fanciest part of town, is it? Nah, nah, just playing with you." He glanced at Imogen. "Maybe one little detour first."

It took several minutes for Zed to find what he was looking for, and another minute after that to get the truck lined up. The headlights shone bright against ragged dead flesh and bulging red-brown eyes.

After he'd gotten the truck where he wanted it Zed just sat there, his hands on the wheel, staring forward, until Imogen spoke:

"Those aren't the ones."

"Nah. Nah, they ain't." Zed gunned the engine. "She's in there, though. They're all in there." He gunned the engine again. "This is for all of 'em, you stinking dead bastards."

Zed wrenched the gearstick and slammed the pedal down. The big truck charged forward, engine growling, accelerating hard and fast. Zed had left a long run-up and the needle was over a hundred before they slammed into the horde.

The jolt was tremendous, the shock absurd. Zombies thudded against the front and disappeared beneath. Brown goo splattered the windscreen. Tires skidded through thick filth and crushed limbs. Through all of it Zed roared, louder than his truck's engine, louder than the hideous cracking and squelching that tore through Imogen's head:

"FOR JEN, YOU BASTARDS! FOR JEN AND ALLECCHINA AND KEENAN AND ALL OF 'EM!"

Eventually, it was over. Jen's body wasn't among the twitching corpses left behind. This was not the horde she'd fought.

But that wasn't the point.

Imogen stared at Zed, at his wild eyes, at his bared teeth, at his white knuckles, at his strong arms, at his ridiculous cowboy hat, at his face, covered in dried brown splatter.

"Cheena?"

Zed let out a breath, low and long, before answering Zack. His voice was calmer than it had any right to be:

"Allecchina went the same way Jen did. Died fighting like a god-damn hero girl. You remember, son," he said, his eyes serious as he looked down at Zack. "You remember all of 'em. Don't you never forget."

And Zack nodded, and Zed nodded back, and then he backed the truck around, and they drove off in the direction they'd come from, heading towards the river; heading towards home.

And Imogen stared out the window, her cheek pressed against it, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and she mouthed three words:

I.

Never.

Will.

The truck slowed to a stop, and Zed leant forward on the steering wheel, looking out and up.

"Yep," he said, leaning back. "That's another bridge gone. Hell, way things are going we're gonna haveta head on down to Rabid Gorge to get you across this damn river. You know there didn't use to be nothing here? Whole damn thing's fake. Never think it, would you? Big ol' river like this, nah, used to just have this little ol' wussy thing. Used to be hills all, hell, all over that way, too. I ain't talking no little puny things neither, I mean hills."

He glanced at Imogen. She hadn't moved in an hour.

"Yep, them hills were something, all right," he said, before suddenly leaning forward again, then looking around and back. "Hell," he said, recognition in his voice, "I know this place. Used to come here all the time—hey, you two wanna see something cool?"

Driving wasn't easy with all the wrecks on the road, but Zed treated it like an obstacle course, tearing through and around and over the occasional zombie.

"Wham! That's another fifty points, what're we up to there, little man?"

"Um ... one thousand, two hundred and seventy?"

"Damn. Didn't think this place was so far—well hold on now, wait a minute here, things are starting to look awful familiar, the ol' Zed Killer memory's beginning to wind up—heh, yep, that's the place. God damn, it's still here. Ain't that something."

The first two floors of the building were parking; Zed stopped the truck on the second floor, near the entrance to a stairway.

"Gonna be tough getting up," he said, as he helped Imogen out of the truck. "But I promise you this, every damn step'll be worth it."

"Going up high must be safe," Zack said. "Because zombies aren't good at climbing."

"Heh, got that right, little man. Safest damn place in the city, I guarantee it."

The building was eight storeys high. It seemed to take forever to get to the top, one painful step at a time, but eventually they emerged onto the roof. It was sheltered by high walls, and most of it was taken up by a large, bean-shaped swimming pool, dry. At the far end the roof just dropped away.

"Damn. Used to be a big ol' smudged perspex screen there. Wind must've took it." Zed narrowed his eyes at the gap, then clapped his hands together. "Let's get us some seating."

Imogen stood, staring at the gaping hole.

"All right now, reckon there could be—hoo boy, jackpot! Get on over here and help me with these, son."

There was a small storage hut at the corner of the roof, from which Zed and Zack now pulled long wooden deckchairs.

"Warm still night like this, reckon we'd just be stifled under blankets," Zed said, as he set up three of the chairs beside the pool. "And these'll be a damn sight more comfortable than sleeping in my truck, believe you me. Okay now, let's go have ourselves a look at that good view."

Imogen let Zed drag her to the side of the roof where the barrier had been, where it now dropped away to nothing. Without her glasses she couldn't make out much, just a big blurry darkness with points of brightness here and there.

"Hell of a lot better view without the plastic here, I tell you what," said Zed, before grabbing Zack's shoulder and pushing him forward. "Don't fall!"

Zed laughed as Zack recovered from his near-heart attack.

"Damn, this view, though. Used to bring girls up here, way back when. Sure-fire way to ... well, heh, maybe you don't need to hear about that." Zed coughed, then pointed to something in the distance. "Some places still got power, look at that. Lot of fires, too."

"Fires?" Zack said.

"Yeah, well, figure some folks got desperate."

Zed fell silent after that, gazing out at the city.

Imogen was silent too.

She wasn't looking out, though.

She was looking down.

Just one step.

Just one tiny step ...

"Lord bless me." Zed was looking up, his face a picture of innocent wonder. "Stars in a city, god-damn. Now how could you live without seeing something like that, huh?"

After a minute of star-gazing Zed looked back down, at Zack and Imogen.

"Look at me here, though," he said. "Going on about stars and views while you two young people are dead on your feet—'scuse the expression. Why don't you two hit the deckchairs over there? I mean look at all this, stars above, nice still night, you couldn't ask for more—well, you could, but you'd be an ungrateful sumbitch for doing it."

Zack was already dragging himself over to a deckchair, asleep almost before lying on it. Imogen hadn't moved. She was still staring down, over the edge.

"Not tired?" Zed asked, after a minute.

It took Imogen a few seconds to react, to look around at him. He was gazing out at the city, his rifle settled comfortably over his shoulder, barrel pointed up.

"I ain't feeling overly energetic myself, to tell the truth," Zed continued. "But I reckon I'll take some time to unwind before I hit the chair. Lot went down tonight, need to start, y'know, getting it all straight in my head—well hell, you know, you were there."

Imogen said nothing.

"Hey, you wanna do me a favour? Go fetch me my little green bag, not the big one, the one I got from the station—you know, when we first met up."

Imogen looked blankly at Zed, then she limped off to get the bag.

"Know what's in here?" Zed asked, as Imogen handed it to him. "Bet you wouldn't never guess, not in one million years."

Imogen just stared at him.

"It's a god-damned comic book!" Zed pulled it out and handed it to Imogen—it was big and bulky, the cover showing a yellow smiley face with a splatter of blood on it. "Got this a few days ago from a real good friend of mine, first night I came into town. I tell you, the look on his face when I told him I ain't never heard of it—he told me there's only one rule with this thing. Wanna hear it?"

Imogen was silent.

"You only get to read one chapter a day—when this first came out there was a month between issues, hell if I could even imagine waiting that long, it's killing me going a day between. I'm on chapter four and damn if there ain't nothing I want more than to just read straight on through."

Imogen held the comic in her hands, staring down at the cover.

"I tell you, if I get myself killed before I finish there's gonna be a damned vengeful literary ghost around here, I tell you what!"

Imogen surprised herself by speaking: "So why don't you just read it all?"

"Hell, rules are rules. Besides, once you start with it you get what the deal is." Zed looked thoughtfully at Imogen. "You ain't one for comics, are ya?"

"I prefer real books."

Zed made a face. "Now don't you start off with that kind of crap—you read that and tell me it ain't real!"

Imogen's eyes were half-closed. Past the comic was the drop, and blurred darkness far below.

"In fact, I bet you—more'n that, I dare you to read that and tell me it's 'just a comic'. Now what do you say to that?"

It was easier to focus on the comic than the darkness.

"Just one chapter though." Imogen looked up at Zed. "Right?"

Zed was grinning at her. "Right."

The last thing Imogen saw, as the panels of the comic swam before her eyes, as sleep overtook her, was Zed standing at the edge of the roof, rifle over his shoulder, gazing out at the city.

*

It was more the breeze than the light that woke Imogen, although after opening her eyes she immediately squeezed them shut again. It was early morning and the sun was shining bright from a pale blue sky, throwing long, crisp shadows against the stark yellow of the roof.

Eventually Imogen got herself into a sitting position and had her usual morning cough, before spitting on the ground and pushing herself to her feet.

"Ugh," she murmured, three seconds later, her cheek hard against the concrete of the roof. She'd forgotten about her bad foot. It still hurt just as much as it had the night before and was just as useless at supporting her weight.

After adjusting the brace as best she could Imogen pulled herself up again, then hobbled over to the door leading down—Zed had put up a makeshift barricade in the night, just a broken bit of deckchair over the door. It hadn't moved.

Zed was still asleep, drooling lightly against the deckchair, his hat at an angle over his head, his rifle clutched protectively in his arms. Zack lay still and silent, and Imogen stood near him for half a minute before she was assured that he was breathing.

The wind blew soft, gently ruffling Zack's messy blonde hair.

Imogen took a chocolate bar and a bottle of water from Zack's bag, then she limped over to the open edge of the roof to squint out at the city. The morning light meant that she could at least make out the shapes of buildings and the lines of roads, but details eluded her. Here and there she spotted fires, thin lines of smoke trailing up into the sky. She wasn't sure, but there seemed to be more now than there had been in the night.

Imogen didn't remember eating the chocolate bar or drinking the water, but she now held an empty wrapper and an almost empty bottle. She dropped both to the roof. The bottle rolled over the edge and fell, sparkling droplets shining in the morning light. Imogen didn't remember taking out her cigarettes and lighter either, but they were in her hands now so she pulled one from the pack—six left, she thought, and then after that only fifteen hundred in Zack's bag—and she clicked away at her lighter until it caught, the soft breeze making the flame flutter, and she held the cigarette up close to her ear so she could listen to the faint sizzle of it catching.

"Got a spare one?"

Imogen glanced back, the cigarette between her lips now—Zed was standing there behind her, gazing out at the city.

"I thought you quit."

"Yeah, well ... got to thinking that maybe it don't make so much difference now."

Imogen was staring at Zed. He grinned.

"Or maybe it does. Who knows. You thinking about the others?"

"No."

"Yeah, me too. Had a dream about 'em. That's what woke me up."

Imogen sucked in smoke from her cigarette, but her heart wasn't in it. She flicked it out over the edge, the tiny white tube gone in an instant.

"What you think of that comic?"

Imogen shrugged.

"Gonna read another chapter today?"

Imogen shrugged again.

"I tell you, it just gets better. Had a peek myself, before coming over to join you, chapter five looks like a doozy."

"No spoilers."

Zed raised his eyebrows. "You're like me, huh? Don't like having the ending ruined for you?"

"I hate any spoilers. I want to experience things for myself. I hate it even when someone says there might be something to spoil. Like if a book has a twist ending, I don't want to know that. Just let me read and discover it on my own."

"Take it serious, don't you?"

Imogen shrugged.

"Well don't worry, you're not gonna hear a peep out of me about that there book."

"It's not a book. It's a comic."

"Heh, well, we'll see." Zed grinned out at the view. "Damn but damn. Being here in the morning brings back some memories. Used to bring girls up here, back in—"

"You said that last night," Imogen said, coldly. Zed chuckled.

"Maybe I did. Heh, don't you get to worrying now, darlin', even if you weren't one o' them lesbian girls you ain't exactly my type."

"I'll try to contain my disappointment."

Zed chuckled again, then glanced at Imogen. "Listen, you okay up here? I gotta go down, get something from my truck."

Imogen turned her head, just slightly, just enough to put Zed at the edge of her vision.

"Sure," she said, her voice flat.

"Be back in a jiff, don't you go nowhere!" Zed chuckled to himself as he headed for the door leading down. "'Don't go nowhere', that's funny."

Imogen looked out at the view as the door clicked closed behind Zed. And that's him gone, she thought. Not that I blame him. I wouldn't want to be weighed down with a cripple and a kid either. She sighed as she shuffled forward, the tip of her left boot over the edge. I wish I could see this view properly.

"Where's Zed? Imogen! Imogen, where's Zed?"

Imogen blinked, and moved back from the edge. When she looked back at her little brother her expression was both irritated and superior. "Where do you think?"

"What? But ... but he said ... he was ..."

The cigarette packet was back in her hands again. So was her lighter. Imogen lit one.

"Imogen? Imogen, why—"

"What does he owe us? Why should he help us?"

"He's ... he's ..."

"Forget him. What's important, Zack?"

Imogen's little brother frowned. "Huh?"

"Forget it."

Zack stared at Imogen as she smoked her cigarette at him.

"Can I have one?" he asked. "A smoke?"

Imogen half-smirked as she looked back out again. "Nope."

"But—"

"But what?"

Zack was silent, thinking, then he spoke again: "But why not? Everyone kept saying it's the end of the world, maybe everyone's a zombie now! It's just us—"

"I'd stop if I could."

Zack took a step towards Imogen. She'd spoken quietly.

"What?"

"I said I'd stop if I could!" Imogen snapped. "You think I liked puffing and wheezing every time I had to do ANYTHING yesterday? You think I like always having to be thinking about when and how and where I can have my next one? It's NOT GOOD, Zack."

"So ... so why—"

"Because stopping is hard! You have NO IDEA how hard, absolutely NO IDEA. Huh, you know the best way to stop smoking cigarettes? Don't start." Imogen flicked her cigarette away. "So don't start."

"But we'll probably die today."

Imogen looked at her brother, genuinely surprised. "What?"

"Home is ... I don't even know where it is. I can see the whole city but I don't even know where Spring Heights is."

Imogen didn't either, but she pointed anyway. "It's just there."

"Oh." Zack looked where Imogen had pointed for a few seconds, his young face serious, then he spoke again: "We almost died last night—yesterday, I mean. Lots of times. I had ... I had some dreams—"

"Zack."

"And everyone else—"

"Null might be alive. Chris too. And ... and Zed—"

"My ears are burning!"

Imogen looked back, her face blank but her eyes wide, to see Zed hauling a bulky black round thing through the door and onto the roof. Already set beside him was a blue and white chilly bin.

"Get on over and help me with this, little man, you'll be damn sure glad you did!"

Imogen continued to stare as Zack skipped over to help Zed with the chilly bin, and she watched as they worked together to transform the bulky black round thing into a portable gas barbecue.

"That's it, son, just you screw that in tight now, real tight, tight as you can! Heh, good effort." Zed grinned up at Imogen. "Now you tell me this, Sue, and you answer honest. You ever have a barbecue on a roof before?"

It didn't take long for the smell of sizzling meat to fill the air, making Imogen's mouth water.

"Use it or lose it, am I right? Hope y'all brought your appetites with ya! I was plannin' on meeting up with a couple of old buddies after the convention, but you know why that didn't work out. Don't got no butter for the bread, but everything else is good as can be—we got, hell, we got venison steaks and some damn decent hotdogs, we got marinated oriental-style pork strips, we got some de-he-he-licious prawns here, now would you look at the size of that? You ever seen a prawn that big before, son?"

Zack shook his head, eyes wide.

"How about you, Sue?"

"I'm a vegetarian."

"You're a what?"

"Vegetarian. I don't eat meat."

"Well why in the HELL not? Good god, darlin', just when I was starting to like you—well okay then, you tell me, why don't you eat meat?"

"I just ... I ..."

"Uh-huh. Here's what I reckon. I reckon you were indulging yourself. Reckon you were playing some little game, that about right?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying that this here's the end of the god-damn world, and if someone offers you a steak you don't say 'oh, I'm a vegetarian', you say 'thank YOU sir' and you eat the god-damn steak and you hope there's more behind it! Now you tell me this here don't smell good, you TELL me you don't wanna get some of this inside you, you TELL me you're gonna stand there and let all this good food go to waste when you know—yeah, when you know full well that you need every god-damn advantage you can get 'gainst these undead freaks. Food is fuel, darlin', and in the case of all this it's god-damned delicious fuel." Zed looked at Zack. "How about you, little man? You a vegetarian?"

"No sir!"

"Heh. What would you say if I offered you one o' these here steaks?"

"Thank YOU sir! I hope there's more!"

Zed laughed. "God-damn but you're a decent kid—all right then, go ahead, you get first pick."

Zack eyed the meat on display before pointing to the biggest steak. "That one!"

"Good eye, son! Got your bread ready? Okay, THERE you go." Zed grinned as he watched Zack tear hungrily into his steak sandwich. "That good?"

"SO good."

"Now you, Little Miss Vegetarian. You gonna live on candy bars and cigarettes? Or you gonna get some protein in you?"

Imogen puffed out an irritated breath. "Fine."

"Fine? How's about a 'please'? Might be the end of the world but that don't mean manners got to be abandoned."

Imogen's cold glare almost put out the grill's flames. "Please give me some of your delicious barbecued corpse."

"Barbecued corpse, that's funny darlin'. You're funny. Got your bread? There you go. Did that one special for you, the deer that steak came from was an asshole."

Imogen paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. "You killed this meat?"

"Wasn't meat when I shot it, but yeah. Hunted every bit of this myself, 'cept the hotdogs. Heh, there ain't no animal on earth'd give you anything like those. Even caught the prawns myself. Why, you don't like the idea of a man going out and getting his own food?"

"No, that ... nothing."

"What?"

"Just ... it kind of makes it a little bit more okay."

"You're a damned odd girl, anyone ever tell you that?"

Imogen shook her head and bit into the sandwich, the meat hot and tender and juicy and probably the best thing she'd ever tasted in her life.

"Umph," she said.

"Damn straight." Zed turned down the grill's flame then made himself a sandwich, eating it standing up at the barbecue. "God-damn. God-damn, that makes it all worthwhile, don't it? Everything tastes better when you're way up high, damned if I know the reason. Heh, know what I'm thinking right now? Well, it's more like hoping than thinking. I'm hoping to all hell that when I head back to my cabin I ain't gonna find all my hung meat come back to life, that'd just about ruin my week. Hell!" Zed suddenly started. "You don't think this here zombie virus works on animals, do you? Gonna get back into those hills and find damned zombie pigs running around, holy goodness that'd be a nightmare. Heh, god-damn nightmare. Anyone up for seconds?"

In the end Imogen had two steak sandwiches, about a dozen little sizzling pieces of pork, three enormous prawns and half a hotdog (after the real meat this was something of a let down). Zack struggled just to finish the enormous steak he'd chosen. Zed ate everything else.

"Ain't gonna let it go to waste now," he said, while chomping his way through the last of the hot dogs. "Hate waste."

"Why didn't you cook last night?" Imogen asked. She felt a lot better after eating, if a little bloated.

"Mm, couple of reasons," Zed said, through a mouthful of hotdog. "First, I was pretty tired, didn't want to lug all this up from the truck, didn't want to go through all that, y'know, cooking business. Second, I do like me a breakfast barbecue, gets you set up for the day right, yeah? Third, kind of thought the smell might attract a bunch of deadheads, so we'd wake up with the building surrounded by a thousand zombies all clamouring for some meat. Figure that don't matter so much now that we're moving on out. Speaking of which, we'd better get going—little man, you about done with that?"

Zack shook his head, still chewing through his sandwich.

"Well hell, just bring it along, I ain't fussy. Sue, you ready to mosey on out?"

"What about the barbecue?"

"Hell, just leave it. It's a hunk of crap anyway, if I need another one I'll loot a barbecue shop."

The truck was just as they'd left it the night before, and they drove out of the building with no problems. Zed ran over a couple of the zombies outside, but Imogen sensed that his heart wasn't in it—a feeling that was confirmed moments later.

"Y'know, running these things over ain't as much fun as I expected. Kind of just feels, I dunno ... pointless."

The roads were mostly clear and they saw nothing living on the way to the bridge—although Zack thought he spotted a moving car in the distance at one point, and Zed swore he spotted a helicopter high in the sky, and all of them heard the roaring of a powerful engine as they approached the bridge itself, although it stopped after a few seconds and the source never became apparent. There were zombies around, of course, mostly in big groups, easily avoided or, in one case, driven straight through. In the daylight, from the safety of Zed's truck, they seemed far less threatening, almost sad.

The bridge itself was undamaged; wide and solid and old.

"Heh, too big and ugly for any ol' wind to hurt," Zed commented, as they drove over it—there were more wrecks on the bridge than on the roads, but no zombies at all. "All right then, so I reckon we take a right after we get over this thing—we're heading for Spring Heights, that right?"

"Yes," said Zack, after Imogen didn't reply. "Um. Thank you for ... for taking us there, Mr Killer."

Zed chuckled. "Hell, Mr Killer was my daddy. You just go on and call me Zed, that'll do fine."

"Your daddy? Oh! Your last name really is KILLER?"

Zed chuckled again. "Nah, just fooling."

"Oh. Um, so what IS your real name?"

"Killer," said Zed, adopting an appalling Scottish accent. "Zed Killer." He concentrated as he steered the truck around the last few wrecks, then glanced at Zack again as he drove down off the bridge. "Hell, what do it matter? I been going by 'Killer' for years now, got given that handle by some real good friends of mine, kind of a group I was part of way back when. What with all this happening I figured, hell, figured I might as well take it on permanent-like. Heh, why don't you go on and pick a new name, too?"

Zack's eyes were wide. "Could I?"

"Sure, why the hell not? You tell me, who's gonna complain? Who's gonna tell you you're wrong? Go nuts, son!"

Zack glanced shyly at Imogen, who rolled her eyes and looked out the window. "Um. Well, maybe just my real name is okay for now."

"Your call, little man."

It wasn't long before Imogen started recognising buildings and streets. She straightened in her seat, then pointed as they approached an intersection. "Right here."

"You're the boss."

Imogen stared as they drove through the empty streets. It looked as if her neighbourhood hadn't been badly damaged by the winds—in fact this entire side of the bridge seemed to have escaped the worst of it. Apart from broken glass and the occasional turned-over car—they'd been wrecked long before the winds had come—everything looked just as it had yesterday morning.

"Go right," she heard herself say. "Then turn left and just go straight."

Yesterday morning. Was it really only yesterday? It seemed unbelievable that so much could have happened in such a short space of time. Twenty-four hours. No, less than that, Imogen corrected herself, it wasn't until the afternoon that we left on the train, not even a full day and in that time I've done more than I did in the last two years.

"Right here," someone said.

Imogen stared unseeing out the window as the full impact of this realisation hit her. Can that really be true? But what have I done, really, in my life? Slept. Laid in bed. Read approximately two thousand books, most of them rubbish. Stared at the wallpaper. Ate an occasional muffin. That's it. What did I ever DO? What choices did I make? And what have I done since yesterday? Fought for my life. Saved my brother. Walked halfway across the city with my leg like this. Made an anti-zombie weapon, I never even LIKED metal shop! And I met ... I met ...

Imogen wiped her eyes. "Left up here. Then stop."

Zed's expression was dubious as the truck drew to a halt. "Here? This dump? Don't look like no apartment to me."

"It's not. It's a retirement home." Imogen opened her door, then looked straight at Zed. "We're rescuing Grandpa."

The front doors of the retirement home were barricaded, covered over with wide, long planks of wood. Zed fetched a crowbar from his truck and started prying at them, while Imogen stood by and smoked and watched.

"Might not be bad," Zed said, as he pulled at the board. "Being barricaded, I mean. Means someone was alive to do that. Good sign."

"Even when the barricades are on the outside?" Imogen asked. Zed stopped and stepped back.

"Huh," he said. He glanced at Imogen. "How attached are you to this grandpa of yours?"

Imogen's response was a calm, measured exhalation of smoke, up and to the side. Zed got back to work prying off the board.

"I tell you," he said, as the board squeaked loose. "If I weren't itchin' to take out some deadheads with ol' Trusty here ..."

"Imogen?"

Imogen turned to see Zack standing behind her, HopeKiller held reverently in his hands.

"You need this, right?"

"I will." Imogen flicked her cigarette away, then took the weapon from her brother. "Thanks."

Zack beamed.

"But don't touch it again."

Zack nodded seriously. "I just thought—"

"Do me a favour and shut up. And go back to the truck, you're supposed to be waiting there."

"But I thought—"

"Could be better for him to come with us," Zed said. He grunted as he pulled at the board. "Reckon it'd be safer than staying out here."

Imogen looked around theatrically. There was no one around, living or dead.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, but my point is—"

"I ... if I can choose," Zack said, "I want to ... I mean, I don't want to—"

"Zack, you are staying in the truck," Imogen said. "Get in there, LOCK the doors, and wait for us to come back out."

"But—"

"And keep quiet."

Zack went to argue, then shut his mouth. He looked appealingly at Zed, who glanced back with an apologetic shrug, then scowled and stomped towards the truck.

"Lock the doors!" Imogen called after him. Zack's response was an angry shake of his head—but he got into the truck and he locked the doors.

"Think that might've been a bit harsh?" Zed said. "Leaving the kid alone—"

"Alone in a truck with the doors locked, or together with us in a retirement home filled with zombies?"

"... okay, maybe you got a point. Plain to see the kid's scared, though—"

"Scared and alive."

Zed chuckled as he worked at the board. "You ain't one for compromise, are ya?"

Imogen didn't reply. Zed chuckled again, and for a minute there was silence between them.

"Reckon it was worse near the water." Zed nearly had the board worked loose now. Imogen realised he was talking about the effects of the wind. "Between here and the ocean there's about a mile of big solid buildings, could've maybe acted like a shield? Dunno, just ... ugh ... thinking out loud here. Lucky break for your neighborhood anyway, huh?"

"I wouldn't say 'lucky'," said Imogen. "The force of the wind around the city centre meant a lot of people were damaged too badly to reanimate. Here, only a few people would have been killed, which means the spread of the virus—"

"Okay, okay, you don't gotta go and make me feel dumb or nothing. Let's just, I dunno, let's just head in and kill us some zombies, huh?"

The doors were locked, but Zed's crowbar soon got them open. Inside was the reception area, looking much as it always did. There was a single zombie behind the desk, standing there as if it had been waiting for them to arrive. It had no hair and much of the flesh had been torn from its face, and it purred as Zed walked closer.

"Guess this here's the welcome party," he said, raising his rifle. "Yo, puke-features!"

The report of Zed's rifle was loud in the small space, the effect of the bullet gruesome; the back half of the zombie's head exploded and what remained of its face crumpled inwards. Imogen winced and looked away ... then forced herself to look back again, watching as Zed sent two more bullets into the zombie, one in each shoulder.

"Well would you look the hell at that," Zed murmured, awe in his voice. "Still standing. How's that, huh?"

The zombie was doing more than just standing; it was still walking forward, the loss of both arms and its head apparently not a hindrance.

"Don't reckon there's much it can do to us now but damn if that ain't disturbin'," said Zed. Brown ooze bubbled from the stump of the zombie's neck and ran down its front—and down its sides, from what remained of its shoulders. Still it came forward, until Zed raised his rifle once more and squeezed off two more shots; the first missed but the second blew off its leg at the knee. The zombie fell against the desk then slumped to the floor, still moving but in no way a threat.

"Are you quite—"

One final, loud shot rang out, accompanied by an oddly satisfying 'ping!', and the zombie jerked as its foot was blown apart. Zed glanced at Imogen.

"Just so's I can reload," he said, pushing a new clip into his rifle, "no need to give me that look."

The zombie was howling now, or trying to, the sound gurgling and weak.

"It's better not to attack them," Imogen murmured, as she looked down at the pitiful, twitching remains. "Better not to cripple them, because it increases the chances of them howling to attract others."

"Reckon that wussy little gurgle ain't gonna attract jack," said Zed, as he led the way forward. "And by the way, you're starting to sound like little Null."

"I regret not talking to her when I had the chance. I hope ... she could still be safe."

"Yeah. Could be." Zed sniffed as they made their way down a long, narrow corridor, then grimaced. "Damn, man, it reeks in here. Cooped-up zombie do have a tendency to get ripe, don't it?"

"This is how it always smells in here."

"Damn."

There was movement behind some of the closed doors, shuffling, thumping and scratching.

"Just like a damn movie!" Zed said, clearly delighted. He banged on a door then let out a whoop as the zombie inside purred and scratched harder. "Hot damn, ain't that a pip! Hey, you wanna come out and eat us? Too bad, deadhead! Not until you learn how to use those damn freaky bone fingers of yours to work a door knob!"

"Zed."

"Hell, I'm just having—oh, okay." Zed raised his rifle to aim at the zombie that had lurched around the corner—even as they watched it bent over and vomited, yellow ichor splattering the wall and floor. "Damn, I hate these pukers. Dunno if I should even shoot this one, might explode or something."

"Explode?"

"Hell, I don't know! That stuff could be flammable or anything, could be there's a damn chemical factory inside those things!"

"How would a bullet cause an explosion? It's just a lump of lead."

"Well, sure, but ... I mean ... it could spark or—"

"Spark against what? Bone? Dead flesh?"

"Look, Little Miss Smartypants, I'm just saying we don't know what could happen with these things, we gotta be careful—"

"Yes. I agree. So shoot that thing so it doesn't vomit on us."

Zed raised his eyebrows at Imogen. She rolled her eyes.

"Please."

"Well now that's all you had to say," Zed muttered, raising his rifle again. "Didn't your mama never teach you the magic word?"

"I just said it, didn't I."

"That you did." Zed squeezed off a shot—it missed, as did the second, but the third was right on target, blowing apart the zombie's right knee. "That you surely did."

"Legs are hard to hit," Imogen murmured.

"Hell yes they are. There's a good god-damn reason 'aim for center mass' gets drilled into army men."

"I thought you weren't a soldier."

"I ain't. That don't mean I don't know a thing or two." Zed winced as he fired again—another miss, but he breathed calmly with the second shot and the zombie's head exploded against the wall in a splatter of yellow slime and brown muck. He glanced at Imogen then emptied the rest of the clip into the still-moving corpse, and then another, blowing off both its arms, its other leg, and tearing open its side for good measure. It was still moving as they passed it, but just barely.

"Not dead yet," Imogen murmured.

"Reckon you could probably kill one, given time and motivation," said Zed. "Doubt it's worth the effort, though."

"Mm," said Imogen, as she looked back at the pitiful remains of the zombie. "Grandpa's room is close."

The door was open and the inside of the room was just as Imogen remembered it—cramped and messy. The only thing missing was her grandfather.

"Nice collection," Zed remarked, as Imogen set HopeKiller down beside the door and limped in past him. He was looking at the dusty toy soldiers on the dresser. "Used to have some myself."

"What happened?" Imogen asked, the irritation in her voice masking the fear she felt. "Did you grow up?"

"Nope. Just, dunno ... left 'em behind. What you doing down there?"

Imogen was crouching down to reach under the dresser, grimacing as her hand closed around a hard, cold piece of metal.

"Damn, man, nice piece. That a Ruger?"

Imogen pushed the heavy revolver into Zed's hand.

"Take it," she said. "If you like it."

"Well thankee, ma'am." Zed sat down on the bed to examine his new toy. "Dang, no bullets. Would've liked to try this sucker out—hey, let's go lootin' after this, go find us a gun store!"

Zed grinned at Imogen's cold glance, then frowned. "What you lookin' for now?"

Imogen had the dresser open and was rummaging through a drawer. "Keys," she said. "Grandpa has a scooter, he's not supposed to ride it, but—"

There was a small, sad clinking noise as Imogen pulled out a bunch of keys.

"Well now that don't mean nothing, maybe—"

"IMOGEN!"

Imogen was out of the room in two hops, staring down the hall at her little brother—

Crawler. From one of the rooms opposite; the door's open. Should've checked—too late now. Its claw is around his ankle; there's no way it can scratch through his jeans and the overalls he's wearing. HopeKiller was in Imogen's hand as she limped forward, Zack was yelling out but she raised her bat calmly and judged the strike—

With a horrible belching noise yellow ichor exploded from the zombie's mouth, splattering over Zack's jeans and soaking in. He screamed as it puked again, trying to pull himself away—

Sharp metal tore through dead flesh and scraped against bone, and then Zed was there, pulling Zack away, and Imogen was slashing out with HopeKiller, almost severing the zombie's other arm, and she looked down and clenched her teeth and with four short, brutal blows she smashed the zombie's face against the thinly carpeted floor, the back of its hairless skull cracked open.

After a precious second spent making sure the zombie was no longer a threat, Imogen looked back down the corridor. Zed had his hunting knife out and had already cut away Zack's jeans, around where the zombie had puked—

"Ain't gone through even to the overalls, reckon he's okay!"

With a deep shuddering intake of air Imogen started breathing again, close to tears with relief; he's safe, he's fine—

Imogen gasped and then cried out as her head was jerked back, struggled to stay standing but it was no use, HopeKiller dropped to the floor as she scrabbled at the claws tangled in her hair, as she fell back, something stopping her—the chest of the zombie that had grabbed her, and she stared up at its horrible face, its mouth was open and as she desperately tried to get away, to fall, to do anything, it retched—

Though still in pained shock Imogen tried to close her eyes—too late. Hot, slimy filth splattered her face, her eyes, clogging her nostrils, splashing over her mouth, and the zombie was still retching, still vomiting, and she did not scream, she did not open her mouth even as she fell, as the zombie fell atop her, its claws clutching at her jacket, at her stomach, and suddenly there was a warmth there too, a terrible warmth—

"Get, OFF HER!"

Suddenly the pressure was gone and there was a crunching thud down the corridor, Imogen still had her eyes squeezed as tightly shut as she could get them but she could no longer keep her mouth closed, and she just managed to turn her head to the side before warm bile filled her mouth and she gagged and vomited, and once she'd started she couldn't stop, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but retch and retch and retch, even after she had nothing left to puke up she kept on vomiting, somehow she was on her hands and knees now, somehow there was something hard slamming against her back, and to her surprise she found that the gagging retch that was coming didn't—except then there it was—but another hard whack against her back stopped it, and she was sobbing now, over and over, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead—

"Just what in the world are you three doing?"

Imogen was still sobbing but she looked around at this new voice, this strange voice, muted like it was coming from far away but there it was, this hulking figure dressed in ... in ...

... in a spacesuit.

The shock of this was enough to bring Imogen out of her state of near-hysterics, and she stared at the figure as Zed spoke:

"What in the hell are you supposed to be? You with the government?"

There was cheerful laughter from the suited figure, and then it reached up and removed its bulky head, revealing another, smaller head beneath, this one with flushed cheeks and small steamed-up glasses and fluffy white hair—

"Oh, no, no, not for many years now—and even then it was as nothing more than an advisor. I'm Doctor James Angerness." The doctor frowned as he noticed Imogen's state of distress. "Goodness me, are you all right, young lady?"

Imogen was shaking her head, sobbing again.

"Heavens, what's the matter?"

"I ... got ... he ... got ... he ... all over ... my eyes ... my mouth ... I think ... I think I ... I think I swallowed—"

"Oh my god," the doctor breathed. His glasses had cleared enough for him to see Imogen properly, and he stared in horror at the yellow slime sticking her hair to her skin, the redness of her eyes, the filth that covered her entire face. "Oh my god," he repeated, apparently unable to comprehend what had happened. "You poor girl. You poor, poor girl."

Zed and Zack were both motionless, silent, each as lost as the other. Imogen let out another sob.

"I'm dead," she moaned. "I'm dead, I couldn't ... I couldn't even ... I can feel it inside me ... it's ... doing something ... like it's ... eating me—"

"Excuse me, it's doing what?"

Imogen stared up at the doctor as he stared back at her.

"Because ... it ... the puker, it killed me—"

"Oh, no, no, no, of course it didn't. Don't be silly. Goodness me, 'eating you from inside', wherever did you get that kind of nonsense? I think that you, young lady, may have watched too many silly movies."

Imogen was still staring. "What? But you ... you said 'oh my god', you looked—"

"I certainly did, I was imagining how utterly horrible it must have been for you, what a revolting ordeal—you say you swallowed some? Urgh! It must have tasted disgusting!"

"But ..." Zed sounded as confused as he looked. "But ain't they ... ain't them pukers the most dangerous kind?"

The doctor laughed merrily. "Oh, no, quite the opposite. Quite the opposite. The 'pukers'—small example of convergent neologism there, haha—represent the hosts at their weakest point, the threat they present almost non-existent—except, aha, to one's personal hygiene. No, young lady, all you need is a decent scrub and you'll be as good as new. Uh, unless it managed to, er ..."

Imogen shook her head, confused but cautiously relieved. "It didn't scratch me."

"Well then, that's fine! I wouldn't have expected it to, once they've reached the 'puking' stage they tend to have little muscular strength, I imagine that even were its 'claws' against your bare skin it would not be able to penetrate—not a sturdy, er, sturdy young girl like yourself, no! Nor your, er, brother? Or your father—"

"Hey, I ain't her daddy!"

"He is NOT my father."

"Ah, my mistake, I apologise, presumption is an untidy habit of mine, I do admit to it. I, well, I should probably be more upset at the three of you, you've really made a terrible mess, I suppose I should even be angry." The doctor blinked at them, then turned away. "Well, come along, then, let's get you cleaned up—it's not exactly safe here, you know!"

Zack and Zed helped Imogen to her feet, and then Zack retrieved HopeKiller for her, and then all three of them followed the doctor through the corridors.

"At least you could have knocked," he said, sounding more put out than angry. "Why didn't you come in through the proper entrance, around the back? Didn't you notice the barricades? Didn't you wonder why they were on the outside of the building?"

"Some of us did," said Imogen. She coughed and then spat. Her mouth tasted horrible and she couldn't smell anything except for the zombie's vomit, a sharp, acidic, sour stench. She badly wanted a cigarette.

"Well, I suppose it's too late to worry about that now. Hm. Too late, yes. Along here, not far to go—am I going too fast? I'll slow a little, I apologise."

Imogen could feel Zack's eyes on her.

"Imo—"

"Zack, you're not exactly my favourite person right now."

Zed cleared his throat. "Reckon your sister needs a little time to, uh ... just you walk beside me, little man, there's a boy."

"Here we are!" The doctor gestured at a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. "Just through here to my lab, please—ah, if you please."

Doctor Angerness led them through the doors into his 'lab', which looked suspiciously like one of the retirement home's recreation rooms. It was filled with threadbare old couches and understuffed easy chairs, ping pong tables with sadly sagging nets and a big old television set in the corner—it showed a serious-looking newscaster, although this soon changed to shaky footage of zombies shambling through deserted streets, the images marred by blocky digital artefacts. There were a few dozen residents sitting around, mostly clustered around the television, much as they had been before the winds had come, their lives and routines apparently unchanged by the events of the last day.

"Over here, over here."

Doctor Angerness led Imogen and the others over to the side of the room, where a ping pong table, a sideboard and a tea trolley had been set up against the wall, monitors and computers sitting atop them.

"Now, first things first, the toilets are—"

"Imogen! Imogen, you're alive!"

Imogen turned to see her grandpa scurrying towards her, and then his thin, bony arms were around her in a thin, bony hug—which he immediately cut short.

"You smell worse than a week-old fart," he said, screwing up his face. "What have you been doing? Rolling around in dog crap? Ah! I know you, you're ... no, I ... Zachary! Yes, young Zachary, my grandson!"

Doctor Angerness beamed as Frank knelt to embrace Zack tightly, Zack's eyes squeezed shut as tears ran down his cheeks.

"Frank's grandchildren," the doctor said, as if solving a puzzle. "How, how wonderful. Family reunited even in these dark times, really ... really, it's enough to ... to ... well, yes."

"And you ... you?" Frank squinted at Zed. "I know you? Do I have three grandchildren now?"

"Hell, I ain't that fresh, but I thank you for the compliment, old man."

Frank continued to squint at Zed, suspicious, as Imogen looked expectantly at Doctor Angerness.

"Aha, yes, the toilets—just that door there. Help, er, help yourself."

"I'll be back soon, Grandpa. I'm just going to get cleaned up."

"You need it! Give yourself a good scrubbing, eh? Heh heh heh!"

Imogen rolled her eyes, but as she turned to go into the bathroom her cheeks were wet with tears, and her mouth was tight in what was unmistakeably a smile.

There was a mirror in the bathroom, but Imogen avoided this. Instead she busied herself with water and soap, eventually managing to clean most of the vomit off of herself—it hadn't dried, it was just as slimy and disgusting as ever, but at least that meant she could get it out of her hair without too much trouble.

From outside she could hear talking, arguing—her grandfather, of course, but she couldn't tell who it was he was shouting at. At that moment, she didn't particularly care. Imogen reached for the still-running tap, then froze.

She stared.

Not at her hand, where it still rested on the tap, but past it, at something familiar, something ... something that could be used ...

Outside, in the rec room/lab, Zed was sitting on one of the easy chairs, leaning forward to try to listen to the news as two old ladies pecked at him.

"Oh he's lovely, isn't he? I always liked a cowboy! Always liked a cowboy!"

"Smells a bit but I'm sure he has a heart of gold!"

"Ehehehehehehehe!"

"EheHEhehehehehe!"

"Stop bothering him you bloody witches, shoo! Shoo!" Frank came stalking towards Zed and the old ladies like a vengeful scarecrow, chasing them off with long, thin arms and hard, mean eyes. They cackled as they moved away, and Frank took advantage of the couch they'd left. Zed looked back at him and tipped his hat.

"Thanks, old man. Didn't want to be impolite, but they were testing me sorely, I tell you what."

"Don't call me old man, whippersnapper. I ain't dead yet!"

"Reckon I can see that. So what should I call you?"

"Call me 'sir', it's not less than I deserve." Frank regarded Zed for a long, appraising moment, his eyes narrow behind his thick, square glasses. "Young Zachary tells me you helped get him and his sister here. Don't think I'm going to thank you! Imogen's a capable girl, she could've done it by herself. If you did anything ..." Frank trailed off, eyes once again narrowed. "I know you."

Zed chuckled. "Do you now?"

"I do. I know you, I never forget a face, I ... who are you? And you, eh? Who are YOU, shortstick?"

Zack had come up while Frank had talked, attracting the old man's attention.

"Grandpa! It's me, Zack!"

"Zack? Zack? I don't know any Zacks—and you!" Frank said, turning on Zed. "What's your name? Come on, out with it!"

"You can call me Zed, sir. Just Zed's fine."

"I'm not calling you that! You wouldn't catch me calling you that!"

"His name's Zed KILLER," said Zack, with great pride. "Except he's never actually killed a zombie, because they're too hard to kill? But he's reaaaaally good at fighting them, at shooting them or hitting them with his bat or even kicking them! I saw him kick like twenty zombies!"

Frank was squinting at Zed again. "Kicker, eh? I used to be a kicker. Then my bloody hips got up and left!" He cackled to himself, then fixed Zed with a steady gaze. "What's your poison, whippersnapper?"

"Poison? Hell, I ain't touched a drop in over ten years. Wouldn't go near that stuff if you paid me."

"Not that kind of poison, you nonce! Ah, nobody understands me, why do I try. Why do I try." A look of sudden fear crossed Frank's face. "Why do I try? Do you know, eh? Do you? Tell me! You know, I know you do, I know ..." Frank trailed off, the moment of panic gone as quickly as it had arrived. He sat back in his seat, his eyes still fixed on Zed. "I do know you. I've met you—no! No, I've seen you!"

"Sure you have, sir. Probably on the TV, that where you seen me? Shooting up bad guys in a dusty little town?"

"Oh," said Zack, as understanding came to him. "In a cowboy movie—"

"I don't watch that garbage! Filth! Rubbish! Give me The Duke any day! My father told me, he told me ... he told me—"

Frank was cut off by Zack gasping.

"Imogen!" he cried. "What did you DO?"

"Well how's that," Zed said, as he looked over at Imogen, where she stood near the toilet. "How is that."

"Who are you?" Frank demanded, launching himself from the couch and scuttling over to Imogen. He pointed a long bony finger at her. "You tell me! You—ah!"

Imogen had grabbed her grandfather's finger in her hand—not tight, but it allowed her to easily control him, guiding his hand firmly back to his side.

"It's me, Grandpa. Imogen. Your granddaughter."

"She always sends her!" Frank said, nursing his finger. "Never comes herself!"

"Imogen, your hair!" Zack said, hurrying up beside Frank. "I ... I can see your face!"

Imogen had cut her hair to her neck, the line of it jagged and uneven, and had snipped away her long fringe. Zed was behind Frank and Zack now, regarding her thoughtfully.

"Gotta say, on you it ... it works." Zed frowned, then shook his head. "Yep, definitely works. Looking good, Sue."

Imogen ignored the others and focused on Zack. "Go and clean up, your hands and face especially. You're taking a bath later, too."

"Aww—" Zack stopped himself mid-complaint. Looking down at himself, he had to grin. "Um ... well ... okay. Just this time."

Imogen watched Zack scurry off into the toilet.

"Uh, um, Sue, was it?"

"Imogen," said Imogen, turning to Doctor Angerness. "What do you want?"

"I gotta ask something first," Zed said, "because this has just been itching at my damn mind—where the hell did you get that hazmat suit?"

"Oh, this?" Doctor Angerness smiled rather shyly as he looked down at himself. "Just, er, just something I had lying around."

The look on Zed's face almost made Imogen laugh out loud. "You had a god-damn hazardous materials suit just lying around?"

"Well, er, I say 'lying around', what I mean is, of course, that it was properly stored—'packed', perhaps, would be a good word to use regarding its state prior to these, er, 'events'."

"But why'd you even have it?"

Doctor Angerness blinked at Zed. "Er ... not quite sure—ah? Oh! Well, you see, uh, when considering various hypotheticals—this in the past, you understand, past speculation—and weighing up—no, wrong term, when considering potential, er, 'events', the thing is, the important ... the important thing is that I, er, in every scenario, such as it were, I was always—I would always be very glad indeed to, er, to have one. Er, that is, to sum up ... it's better to have a hazmat suit and not need one, than to need a hazmat suit and not have one. Yes?"

"Hell, and I thought I was crazy prepared. Feel like I just got schooled by the master over here."

"Er, in any case, Sue—or Imogen, it was Imogen, wasn't it? I couldn't help but notice, your foot—that plastic thing seems hardly adequate. Could you, er, come along here? Perhaps 'hop up' onto this ping pong table?"

Zed helped Imogen up, and Doctor Angerness flashed both of them a quick, shy smile before scurrying to a cabinet then bringing something back.

"Tah-dah!"

What the doctor held was a bulky metal contraption with rounded black joints.

"It's a leg brace," he explained, at the dubious look on Imogen's face. "Senior citizen strength! Now, er, under normal circumstances I'd recommend you remove your boot, but given the need for 'protection' I think we can probably figure something out. Mr, er, Mr ...?"

"Killer," said Zed. "Zed Killer."

"Mr Killer, if you could? Help?"

Doctor Angerness removed the plastic brace from Imogen's foot and discarded it casually. Imogen felt an odd, unexpected sting of regret as it disappeared into the rubbish bin; it had taken her through so much, she most likely owed it her life, to just throw it away ...

"Hey now, reckon that little doohickey deserves more than just being trashed," said Zed, already going to retrieve it. He held it up and grinned. "Could make it into a toast holder or somethin'."

Imogen was quietly pleased to see Zed putting the brace into his bag.

"Could we, er, proceed? And perhaps I could explain a little while I, er, do so. It's rather fiddly to get these things on, but well worth the effort!"

"Explain what, Doc?" Zed asked, as Doctor Angerness gestured him into position.

"Well, these hosts, of course. The two of you have clearly been 'in the wars', so to speak, I thought it might be jolly for you to learn a little about your, er, 'enemy'. Such as they are."

"Hosts," Imogen repeated. "It's a parasite?"

"Yes, a very clever one—or 'ones', I should say. Er, Mr Killer, if you could, er, 'raise' the young lady's leg—I should admit to you now, I am not actually a medical doctor, as such. But this 'procedure' is simple enough. There, slips right on, you see?"

"What kind of doctor are you, then?" Zed asked, still holding Imogen's leg up.

"Oh, er, botanist, actually. Yes. Cacti and succulents—always had an affinity for the noble fungi also. I just love the 'fat' ones." Doctor Angerness chuckled, then checked himself. "Er, but ... yes. I wrote a number of papers around the topic of mucilage, mucilaginous substances? Some of them were, er, rather well received, if I do say so myself, you haven't ...? No, of course not, I shouldn't be so silly. Ah. So, these hosts—or should I refer to them as 'zombies'? Would that be more comfortable?"

"Hell, call 'em whatever you want, Doc. Don't make no difference to me."

"Zombies, then. There is rather a thrilling quality to the term, isn't there? Well, to put it simply, and to start at the, er, at the very most basic 'point', I believe that the parasites share similar characteristics with Escherichia coli and Paracoccus denitrificans—even with Desulfuromonadales, would you believe! Now I know you must think me crazy, as you surely would have noticed that these aren't parasites at all, but rather bacterium—aha, Proteobacteria!—but you must remember that I described them as 'clever', well, I think after you hear my theories you will surely agree that 'clever' is an understatement!"

And Imogen was lost. The doctor burbled on as he tightened straps and buckled buckles, Imogen only understanding every other word, Zed clearly not managing even that, and the two of them exchanged glances as the doctor went on.

"—anaerobic respiration!" he cried, minutes later, clearly both delighted and fascinated by the very existence of the concept. "Respiration without blood! Ingenious! Aha, but, of course, as you must now be thinking, 'if not blood, then what?'. And of course the answer—as you may very well have guessed—lies in TCA reduction, nitrate reduction—ah, yes, just up a bit further, well done—even sulphur respiration like our good friends the Desulfuromonadales!"

And again the doctor went on, and again Imogen was lost—Zed wasn't even trying to follow now, instead quietly humming the theme song to Rawhide as he followed the doctor's instructions.

"—hive community! Remarkable!" Imogen blinked and looked up at the doctor—he was focused on adjusting something on her brace, but he chattered on as he worked: "To be perfectly honest I don't have the experience or knowledge necessary to understand the complexities of the process, let alone the equipment for testing—but the basics, the 'outline' of the problem—er, not problem, not precisely, but in any case, the brain is gone! Except not gone, you see, you understand, but rather ... moved. Moved? There's a better word—distributed. Intertwined—" the doctor stopped fiddling with the brace to link his fingers together, peering over them at Imogen "—with the nervous system. How? HOW? Should be impossible. SHOULD be impossible, but clearly, er, clearly it ... isn't. Not impossible. Improbable. Improbable but existent." Doctor Angerness shook his head as he returned to the brace. "Odd. Odd things. Don't understand them, perhaps I cannot understand them. You're familiar with cloning, similar concept. Possibly. Not just once, many times. Over and over. Constantly? Possible. Very possible. Probable, even. Remade anew with every moment—and yet how inefficient, how bizarre! Nervous system in control? No, can't be. Cannot be. Copied, re-copied, imperfectly? But the evidence suggests—no, merely theorising now, not useful to you." Doctor Angerness was becoming agitated, talking faster and faster as he worked on Imogen's brace—she wondered if he was even doing anything, or just busying his hands as his mouth motored on: "Bones are weaker, you've noticed? Hair also—nails! You've seen, the fingers, the bones of the fingers? The parasites consume alpha-keratin—nails, hair, present in both, from there the flesh of the fingers ... deliberate? Would suggest artificial parasite, man-made, but why? For what purpose? Death, mutilation, horrors of the flesh, idealistically my mind rebels at the very notion but cynically I must accept the possibility—ah, you noticed, you must have noticed, bone 'claws', all the better to scratch you with, my dear, ahem—ah, muscles! Bones are weaker but muscles stronger—increase in tension, nervous system more closely bound to muscles—but perhaps I'm rambling now. Trying to understand, you see? Trying to work through the problem verbally, sometimes a fresh perspective—ah, which brings me to, er, that is to say ... well. Perhaps you'll have better luck—"

And once again Imogen was lost, utterly and completely, as the doctor launched into a series of technical terms and phrases and rapidfire posit-deduction-conclusions. Zed had finished humming the theme to Rawhide now and had moved onto a tune Imogen didn't know—except maybe she did, maybe she knew and had just forgotten—

"First stage!" Doctor Angerness said, with a certainty and confidence that brought Imogen's attention back to his words—she noticed then that he'd finished with her brace and was now pacing up and down in front of the ping pong table. "The zombie will 'hunt'—that is, actively seek out sustenance. Living flesh for preference, but no doubt you've seen them snacking on all sorts of things!"

Imogen and Zed glanced at each other, then looked back at the doctor and shook their heads.

"Oh? Hm. Really? Well ... well, in any case, zombies will not target other zombies, still not sure how they tell, possibly something to do with this noise they make, this 'thrumming', perhaps better described as 'vibratory' than 'vocal'? Not sure, no dictionary handy, going by imperfect memory—moving on, another theory, pheromones—and yet how? No air, no sense of smell, or could it be possible ... never mind, perhaps not relevant—interesting also, they will target non-infested over infested, although, aha, of course, as you both well know, they have no qualms over attacking either!"

"Infested?" Imogen said. The doctor nodded happily.

"Yes, those harbouring the parasitic infestation carried by the wind—I thought I'd explained this, perhaps I should go over it again—"

"No!" said Imogen and Zed, in unison. Imogen continued—"I mean, I understand." She swallowed hard as an unwelcome memory rose in her. "The wind carried the parasites. They infested us. But our immune systems are too strong for them to overcome."

"Yes, exactly—top, ah, top marks for comprehension! By now you should be free of them, they die off rather quickly without, er, 'dead flesh' to consume. You see—well, you know, certainly you must know that the human immune system is, ah, a 'hardy beast', able to handle a lot of what nature throws at it, but in certain individuals—most of those here, for, er, for example—it is weakened enough for the parasites to gain a 'foothold', as it were. I have to admit, once I realised what was going on it was rather a hectic race to scurry around all of my, er, my friends here, administering bolstering shots and prescribing apples and steamed broccoli." Doctor Angerness went quiet, the enthusiasm fading from his eyes. "Not, er, not quite quickly enough, in many cases. Once the parasite gains that foothold, well ... well, there's not much one can do. Er. Moving on, then! Ah—Imogen, you could, er, test that brace, if you so desired, you should find moving much more comfortable now."

The brace pushed against Imogen's calf in a dozen uncomfortable places, it was tight around her leg below her knee and pushed oddly against her foot—but she could put her full weight on it without feeling so much as a trace of pain. Doctor Angerness laughed at the look of surprised wonder on her face.

"Another, er, another 'satisfied customer'! I'd advise you to be careful, you certainly shouldn't go jogging or anything similar, a 'run' is out of the question, but, er, well ... yes, there you go, you're seeing for yourself, my words are, er, well. Unnecessary."

Imogen was walking slowly around, testing the brace—down from her foot eight little round balls pressed against the floor, so that the sole of her boot never quite touched the ground. She felt a little unbalanced, but compared to before—

"Thank you," she said, quietly, and she looked up at the doctor. "This is ... this is good."

Doctor Angerness smiled benevolently at Imogen, then clapped his hands together sharply. "Now! As I was saying—second stage! You must have noticed the heat generated by the hosts. This is caused by the chemical reactions taking place in the muscles, rather inefficient by any standard, but then that's what you get when you move away from good old fashioned aerobic respiration, eh? There's always a trade-off, that's what people seem so insistent on refusing to understand, you cannot, er, 'have everything', so to speak. Efficiency is 'traded' for flexibility and a certain robustness. Ahem. The second stage is 'dormancy'. Moving takes energy, a supply your average zombie has in strictly limited quantities. As you remember me saying most of the organs are converted into fatty 'energy' blocks, while the digestive system is massively repurposed. If the zombie cannot feed to replenish its energy then the danger of 'burning out' is introduced—and so they stop, and they wait, and they watch. Well, er, not literally 'watch', of course, as you've noticed and as I've explained they're quite, quite blind, but, er, well, you understand my meaning, I'm sure. Ah, which reminds me—an intriguing phenomenon that you may be able to confirm for me, on a, er, a wider scale, would be that of 'grouping', zombies nearing the dormant stage will seek out other zombies—"

"Yeah, we seen that," Zed said, grasping at this recognisable concept. "Dang ol' things'll clump right up, you got that right."

"Ah, good, good, that's excellent—well, perhaps not, but you understand."

"What about them puking dudes, what's their deal?"

"Ah, well, there you have the result of 'burning out'. After the fatty organs are consumed the parasites turn on other things—muscle, bones, even the rotted and infected blood that serves as their carrier. These are less 'pure' than the fatty organs and not everything can be consumed. What's left over is thin yellow bile that must be spat up—they have no other, er, 'exit', you see."

Zed frowned in non-comprehension. "Huh?"

"As I, er, as I said, the digestive system is repurposed and so, er, the 'waste disposal system' that, er, that you and I enjoy is simply not present within these zombies. To sum up, the mouth is the singular point of entry AND point of exit."

"I'll be damned," Zed said. "Zombies can't poop. That's what you're saying, ain't it?"

"Well, er, yes. They can't, er, 'pee', either."

"Good god-damn."

"As you've probably guessed, at this stage the zombie is weakened and near 'death', if it can be called that—"

"The immune system," Imogen interrupted, looking up at the doctor. "How weak does it have to be for the parasites to start 'winning'?"

"Not particularly weak, I'm afraid. It depends on the individual, I can't claim any kind of solid 'base' for this theory but it appears that some are more naturally 'resistant' to the parasites than others—and some are, unfortunately, not resistant at all. Of course, the usual factors apply when, er, when speaking of that complicated and wonderful system we call 'immune', nutrition, general fitness, alcohol, er, consumption has a negative effect upon it—"

"I have to go," Imogen said, suddenly and sharply. "I've ... I have to go."

"Ah. Ah, well ... I apologise. You have something you need to do?"

Imogen's mouth was thin. "You could say that."

"Then I—oh! Oh, yes, I have something for you! Yes, I've been so wanting to try this out—over here, over here, come come—"

Doctor Angerness led Imogen over to a tea trolley with a computer set up on it. The monitor was displaying a desktop with a photo of some kind of cactus as the background, a bright pink flower against deep, glistening green, and on top of this was a dark window with a blinking text cursor.

"Here," said Doctor Angerness, plucking a pink cellphone from a pile beside the computer. "Take this. It's a 'pre-pay', you can use it to communicate with me! Should, er, should the need arise. Oh, and vice-versa, of course."

Imogen looked down at the cellphone in her hand. "Could I have another colour?"

There were no black phones, so Imogen settled for a dark blue one. Zed chose yellow.

"What's with the computer?" he asked. "You done hacked into some government satellite or something?"

"Oh no, no, I got Dot to set all this up for me, she runs the SeniorNet group here, Dot! Dot—oh, she's sleeping. This is just a more agreeable interface for this." Doctor Angerness picked up a green cellphone that was attached to the computer by a thin cable. "I find inputting on these things to be rather a chore, you see, all that fiddling around with these tiny buttons, with this I can send a 'text' ..."

Doctor Angerness clattered away at the computer's keyboard, then a few seconds later Imogen's phone beeped. She looked down at the screen:

...in the blink of an eye!

"Uh, cute."

"This 'hub' is in the phone's address book," Doctor Angerness said. "We had quite a fun time setting them all up, everyone, er, 'pitched in'. I'm rather excited we get to test the system, I do hope I have cause to use it!"

"Where'd you get the phones?" Zed asked.

"Oh, Frank helped me loot them," Doctor Angerness said, happily. "We 'hit' a couple of corner stores shortly after the first of the hosts began reanimating, as well as the drug store down the road and the local grocer's, and there's an electronics store not too far away that was filled with treasure. He's been very useful, has your grandfather. Perhaps a case of 'hidden depths'? It seems that Frank may be more than he appears!"

"No," said Imogen. "He's less. Trust me on that."

Zed chuckled, then jerked a thumb at the bathroom. "Gotta go drain the lizard."

Doctor Angerness blinked at Zed's back, then let out a short laugh. "Oh, aha, yes. Colourful. Er, so, where was I? Ah, yes—well, this was after the staff left, of course—"

"What's that? What's that?"

Frank's head had appeared from over the back of the couch. He glared suspiciously at Imogen and Doctor Angerness.

"I can hear you, you know! Talking about me! Just you watch it, you dirty mingers!"

"Grandpa, have you—"

"Shut up! I'm trying to watch!"

The TV had been switched off the news to an old black and white movie—a handsome man with an animated face was getting worked up as he yelled at a pair of pleasant-looking old ladies.

"Twelve!" the man on the television cried. "TWELVE!"

Zack laughed—he was sitting beside Frank, watching with him.

"Grandpa," Imogen said, quietly enjoying not having to limp as she walked over. "Have you heard from Mum?"

"Mum? Whose Mum? Mine?"

"Your daughter. Margaret."

"Oh, that useless bitch," Frank muttered, turning back to the television. "Of course I haven't. She never comes to visit, just sends her daughter instead. She was around here before, go and ask her and leave me alone."

Imogen rubbed her cheek. She'd expected this. No—she'd known. But she'd had to ask.

"Don't know why I even bother," Frank was continuing, gesturing angrily at the television as he talked. "Life's nothing but misery, first the nurses all try to kill me then they bugger off without a word, now it's dirty bloody zombies wandering about the place without so much as a by-your-leave—you mark my words, Margo, it's only getting worse from here, it is only getting worse from here!"

Imogen didn't sigh. Instead she looked down at her brother.

"Zack. You're okay here. You're safe here. Stay with Grandpa and Doctor Angerness. Do what the doctor tells you, okay?"

That Zack didn't even try to argue made Imogen's mouth tighten, but she controlled herself and began walking out—

"And just where the hell do you think you're going?"

Zed was standing by the bathroom door. Imogen's face was neutral as she looked back at him.

"Out."

"Oh, 'out', huh," said Zed, as he sauntered over towards Imogen. "That where you going?"

"My mother—"

"Yeah." Zed looked around, then shrugged. "All right, reckon I'll give you a lift."

"You really don't—"

"Hell, what else am I gonna do? Sit around here with these geezers, wincing every time I think of you walking along with that there leg?"

Imogen put her head to the side as she looked at Zed.

"You could just leave," she said. "You've got a cabin, right? In the hills?"

"Reckon I do."

"You could go there."

"Reckon I could."

"So why not?"

"Reckon I ... y'know, reckon I took you and your brother on. Reckon I got a responsibility to see whatever it is you gotta do through to the end. If that's going to get your ma, well, y'know ... let's go."

Imogen gazed at Zed for a long moment, her pale blue eyes unreadable, then she reached into her pocket and took out her cigarettes and lighter. Zed watched as she took one out and put it in her mouth.

"Mind if I smoke in your truck?"

Zed grinned.

*

There weren't any zombies around outside, and Zed spent a couple of minutes banging the barricade back into place before joining Imogen in the truck. Her cigarette was still in her mouth, as yet unlit.

"Figured I'd best leave as I found," he said. "Old bushman's law."

"Bushman?" Imogen said, as she took out her lighter. "I thought you were a cowboy."

"Bushman, cowboy, what's the difference, when you get right down to it?"

"Cows?"

"Heh. You ready to hit the road?"

Imogen was clicking away at her lighter. "How's your petrol?"

"Fine and dandy, filled her up just yesterday morning."

There was a faint hiss, and Imogen touched her lighter's high flame to the end of her cigarette. She clicked the lighter closed and dropped it back in her pocket, before taking the cigarette from her mouth and holding it out in front of herself, looking at it.

"We've got a full tank of gas, a pack of three cigarettes, it's the middle of the day and I'm not wearing my glasses."

"Hit it," said Zed, grinning. "That's my favorite damn movie."

"Mine too." Imogen brought her cigarette back to her lips and inhaled. "It was the only one we had when I was little. I can't even remember the first time I watched it."

"That the cut-down one or the full thing?"

"I don't know."

"It have the bit in the cheese whiz factory? 'I'm gonna be a priest'?"

"Yes."

"Full thing, or near as you can get. Damn. You're just full of surprises, ain't ya?"

"Could be."

Zed was still grinning as he pulled the truck around and drove them away from the retirement home. Imogen thought he might talk, but he drove silently, apparently concentrating on the road ahead. That was fine with her; she sat calmly smoking her cigarette and gazing out the window. She counted seventeen zombies along the way. She'd never seen her neighbourhood so crowded.

"Hey, you and your brother. You got the same daddy?"

Imogen looked back at Zed, her eyes cold. "Unfortunately."

"So he ain't adopted or nothin'?"

"What? Of course he isn't. Why—"

"Nuthin', nuthin'. Just thinking 'bout how different you two is—"

"So of course one of us had to be adopted."

"Come on now, I didn't mean nothing by it—just forget I said anything."

"With pleasure."

A somewhat chilly silence filled the truck as they neared the apartments.

"Hell, this brings back some memories."

Imogen glanced over at Zed, then wound down the window to flick the butt of her cigarette out.

"You've been here before?"

"Long time ago. Hell of a long time ago, if you wanna ask. Weren't for long, neither. Just passing through. Visiting a friend. They ain't around no longer. Heh, reckon ..."

Zed trailed off, apparently concentrating on driving. Imogen took out her pack and looked inside. Three left. The last three cigarettes in the entire world. Of course, that wasn't true. She had thousands in the bag back at the retirement home—but that was back at the retirement home. Right here, she thought, right now, these ARE the last three cigarettes in the world.

"Well, hello there. Looks like we found our missing deadheads."

Imogen shoved her cigarettes back in her pocket and looked out at a small, blurred horde. Glasses, she thought. I should've asked Doctor Angerness. There were probably some that would've fit my prescription there.

"Hm. Well. Hell."

Zed had driven closer to the apartments, and the horde of several dozen he'd first spotted had been eclipsed by the horde of several hundred behind them. The apartment buildings were set up around a huge, flat central concrete 'courtyard', a few hundred metres from side to side. There were zombies surrounding every building.

"There's so many," Imogen murmured. "Where did they all come from?"

"Hell, you'd know. How many people you reckon live in them things? Gotta be at least a thousand in each, and you've got, let's see, two on each side, four over there, hell, you're looking at eight thousand easy. Yeah, god-damn ... god-damn lot of people, no question about that."

Eight thousand, Imogen thought. I never even considered it. You never SAW anyone! You just passed them on the stairs on in the courtyard or ...

And now so many of them are dead.

Maybe all of them.

"Hell, you count up these deadheads on the ground, I mean ... what, maybe a thousand? So you gotta think most of the people in them there apartments got out."

"But where to? Where did they go?"

"Don't ask me, darlin'! Although now that you mention it, I was kind of expecting more, I dunno, maybe like big white tents and dudes with machine guns—"

"I'm sure they'll come soon enough."

Zed laughed. "Yeah, reckon so. Reckon so." He looked around as he drove slowly forwards. "How do you get into that there courtyard?"

"You can't. Not in a car."

"Well why the hell not?"

"There were problems with boy racers."

"Ain't that just gosh darn swell. Y'know, that really gets my goat, couple of young fellas probably just having a good ol' time and WHAM goes the gate down on every damn person—"

"They were doing more than 'just having a good time'."

"—god-DAMN but I hate local government, you get the real mean sumbitches in local government, these limp-dicked little boogers think they got something to prove—"

"Just stop up here. I can walk the rest of the way."

Still grumbling, Zed stopped the truck in a car park behind a small hill of bare earth, compacted down tight. Two large trees grew from it, five leaves between the pair of them. From here Imogen couldn't see any zombies, but now that the truck was stopped she could hear them, the purring like a rumble of thunder, low and constant.

"Da-amn," said Zed. "Hell if that ain't eerie."

Imogen was busily clicking away at her lighter. Eventually it caught, and she held the newly-lit cigarette between her lips as she opened the door—

"Hey now, hold up a moment."

Imogen glanced back at Zed. "What?"

"Mind if I take a look at that there lighter of yours?"

"Now? Why?"

"Call me nostalgic. Just kind of want to feel the weight of it, if you wanna know the truth."

Imogen's dubious expression didn't change, but she fished her lighter back out of her pocket and wordlessly handed it to Zed. He held it up to the light, grinning.

"How many of these you reckon they made? Million and a half, I'd say." He flicked it open and looked down. "Butane, right? Hang on just one second."

"Hey!" Imogen's protest came too late; Zed had already slammed the lighter against the dashboard.

"Relax, Sue darlin', just gotta give these things a whack now and then, helps 'em breathe. Now what you wanna bet I can't get this thing to light first try?"

Imogen's mouth was tight, her eyes cold. Zed chuckled.

"Million bucks? You're on. Just you watch this—I mean keep a real good eye on my technique, because I'm about to show you how it's done."

Zed blew on his fingers and thumb, rubbed them together, then held up the lighter and clicked the wheel.

He barely got a spark.

"Wow, thanks," Imogen said, snatching her lighter back. "If you just broke this—"

"Sorry, darlin'—if you try again—"

Imogen had already shoved the lighter into her pocket. "Let's just ... let's just go."

The rumble of massed zombies all purring together could still be heard, but none could be seen. Imogen held HopeKiller tight in her hands and her cigarette tight in her mouth as she walked around to the front of the truck, Zed joining her from the other side—he had his rifle slung over his shoulder, his hunting knife in its sheath on his leg, and his cowboy hat firmly on his head. For several seconds the two of them just stood there, listening to the sound of massed undeath, then Zed spoke:

"Well? What're we waiting on?"

Imogen took a deep drag of her cigarette before replying: "You're still wearing that hat. And that poncho."

"Yeah? So? Hell, you think I dressed up for that damned convention? This is 'me', Sue honey. One hundred percent Zed Killer, standing tall and proud." Zed was grinning. "Now what do you say, Sue darlin'? You ready to go kick some deadhead butt?"

"No. I'm ready to attempt to get to my apartment as safely and with as little risk as possible." There was just the ghost of a smile in Imogen's eyes. "But I'm also ready to bash in the head of anything that gets in my way."

"Yeah, now you're talking! That's my girl, Sue, that's my good god-damn girl. Let's do this thing, you got a plan?"

"Yes. Don't die."

"Sounds damn good to me."

Imogen didn't have trouble getting to the hill, and to her surprise she didn't have trouble walking up it, either—the rubber balls of her brace gripped just as well to the packed dirt as they had to the concrete of the ground beneath.

"How's your walking? Doing pretty good there?"

Imogen just nodded; her eyes were on the tree furthest from them. There was a crawler beneath it, lying still.

"Damn." Zed had followed Imogen's gaze. "You reckon—"

With a jerky movement, the crawler raised its head and howled long and low.

"Figures," Zed muttered. "God-damn but I do hate it when they howl."

He raised his rifle and squeezed off two shots in quick succession, putting a bullet in the crawler's head.

"Feel better now?"

"I do, yeah." Zed still had his rifle raised, and he fired off the rest of his clip at the nearest group of zombies—every bullet found a home, but the overall effect on the horde was negligible. He put another clip in. "Don't reckon this is gonna work."

"No," said Imogen. She was standing and looking out at the blurry hordes covering the courtyard. Many of them were moving towards her and Zed. But some of them weren't. But why not, Imogen thought, why wouldn't they move towards a howl? It's not distance, some of the nearer ones aren't moving, did they just not hear it? Or are they choosing not to respond? Are they thinking, in whatever limited way? What ARE these things? Maybe I should have listened more to what Doctor Angerness said. Hive mind—but only in the individual zombie. What was it—the 'hive community'. Working together to get the zombie moving, stimulating the nervous system and the 'brain' to make the body move—but how could that work? There has to be some kind of instinct or ... or something in there controlling it all.

Hive community.

Hive mind.

If that's the case ...

... is there a 'queen'?

Zed was still squeezing off shots as Imogen looked and calculated and thought. He's got a whole bag of ammo, how many clips? There has to be at least a hundred in there. A hundred clips, eight shots each, but each shot takes so much time to aim, to fire, and then reloading isn't free, and it takes more than one bullet to take down each zombie, and he's good, he's accurate, but he still misses, he only hit three times with that last clip, and with every shot we lose distance, you can't keep walking backwards forever, eventually you hit a wall ...

Imogen's cigarette was nearing death; she spat the butt away. How do they know to 'group'? Wouldn't that be detrimental to the individual zombie? More zombies mean more chance of killing humans—but less food for each of them. Doctor Angerness said they group before they go dormant, but why? To increase the chance of killing someone? They're more dangerous in a mob, but do they know that? Why do these things exist? What PURPOSE do they have except to kill and consume and multiply? There must be more to them ... there HAS to be. Do they talk to each other? The ones I've seen, they seemed ... sometimes ... and they do seem more organised than just 'instinct' would suggest ... they must have a way of communicating. The purring? But ... but how much can you get from 'mmmmhrr'?

"Sue honey? Got an intention of moving anytime soon?"

"Distance," Imogen murmured. "That's all that matters."

"Yeah? Well we're losin' it fast, I tell you what."

Imogen was looking back now—the truck was parked away from the hill, plenty of space around it. There were no zombies that she could see behind them, in the streets or the flat concrete parks. The zombies closing in from the apartments mostly came from the right, some from the left, not so many straight ahead ... Imogen narrowed her eyes and started walking forwards.

"Sue?"

To the left, to the right, straight ahead. Imogen could picture the courtyard so clearly, the zombies arranged around its edges, clustered around the buildings—spilling from the 'alleys' between, too. She could see what would happen if she and Zed walked forward, how the zombies would close in behind them, leave them in a rapidly tightening circle that would eventually, inevitably—

She kept walking forward. If we just keep this pace, she thought, if we keep moving like this we'll reach the apartment and then ... then ...

"We'll be trapped," she murmured. "One will howl, and the others will come—there's just no way."

"Now that's just a damned defeatist attitude, that's what that is! Come on, let ol' Zed here show you how it's done."

Six shots later saw five headless zombies. Zed reloaded and relieved another six of their heads.

"Are you just showing off or is there a point to this?" Imogen asked. She could feel her heart beating fast—they were on the concrete but they could still turn back, could still get to the truck. "You know shooting them in the head doesn't do much."

"Damn, wish it were that simple though, I'd just set up somewhere high and quiet and have myself a real good time. Nah, but I'm just testing something. Reckon ... yeah, reckon this'll work."

Suddenly Zed was running, heading fast across the courtyard—first straight ahead, then to the right, then he took a sharp turn left and stopped, raised his rifle and blew off two more heads with three shots, then he was running again, further to the right—

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING ON, SUE? GET GOING, GIRL!"

Imogen stared for just an instant longer, then she was moving, walking, one foot after the other, as fast as she dared, not a run, not nearly a run but faster than she'd moved for years—

"COME ON, YOU UGLY RED BASTARDS! COME ON!"

Zed's 'plan' was, amazingly, working. Very few of the zombies to the right seemed interested in Imogen, just a couple of outliers shambling hopefully towards her, distant and easily outpaced. Those to the left were more of a threat, and those ahead, of course—but there was a way through, there was a path, and Imogen followed it.

"TAKE IT! TAKE IT!"

The sound of Zed's rifle echoed through the empty space, repetitive and rhythmic, seven shots one after the other and then that 'ping!' with the eighth as the empty clip was ejected, a tiny pause and then again, firing and firing and firing—Imogen was halfway across now, alone in the middle of the courtyard. There was a twinge from her injured leg but she ignored that. She could see Zed, he'd just blown the leg out from under a zombie and now he was taunting it, his arms held wide as he yelled, but he was losing distance, every second meant they were getting that much closer, he was near the edge and Imogen just kept walking ...

"COME ON! MAKE SOME NOISE! MAKE! SOME! NOISE!"

Every word was punctuated by a rifle shot, and as another 'ping!' sounded out it was accompanied by a howl, guttural and loud, and though Imogen's vision was blurred she could see it, could see the ripple in the hordes of zombies as some of them started lurching in different directions, as some of them kept right on towards her, as some of them stopped moving entirely, she was nearing her apartment building now, the stairs were there—there were zombies around but not many, and most of them were moving away towards Zed—

Imogen stopped, her breathing hard but measured, HopeKiller tight in her hand, the wood of the handle wet with her sweat. She carefully wiped it on her shirt then glanced around as she raised her weapon once more, judging, waiting—

"NOT GONNA BE—"

The rest was too distant to make out, but Imogen could see Zed, he was up higher than the zombies somehow, another seven shots and then again that 'ping!' with the eighth, but they were surging towards him, he was backed into one of the alleys between the buildings—

Imogen brought HopeKiller up in a swift arc that sent the blunt side smacking against a zombie's cheek; it stumbled to the side and then fell. It reached out but she was already past it, already swinging her bat low and hard to slice open a calf; this new zombie fell towards her but she stepped back and then back again, she'd checked before she'd swung and knew she was safe to do this, and as it slammed face first into the ground she walked forward again, the stairs were there, one more zombie between her and the first step and she took up a stance and let it come to her, slicing right and then left in a swift one-two reversal that left both claws useless, and she pivoted on her good foot to let it lurch forward and fall to the ground.

The brace wasn't perfectly suited to stairs, but she managed. Every step she took seemed to be punctuated by the steady sound of Zed's rifle, one two three four five six seven ping! one two three four five six seven ping! and she was on the flat before the next stairs, and then again one two three four five—

Imogen glanced sharply back, gripping the railing tight, looking down at where Zed had been, and she thought she saw him, maybe it was him but he wasn't holding a rifle, and from the alley behind and the courtyard ahead came zombies to surround him, and suddenly she realised she could hear his shouting:

"COME ON THEN! I DON'T NEED NO DAMN GUN! COME ON YOU MOTHERLESS—"

And the zombies surged forward from both ahead and behind, and the shouts stopped, and Imogen could no longer see anything human in the blur of dead flesh, and as she made her way up the stairs to the ninth floor, mouth tight, eyes hard, she did not hear Zed's shouting again.

I was always just using him, she told herself, as she walked slowly along the narrow balcony, her left hand on the railing, her right holding HopeKiller. This was always what was going to happen. Everyone else died, or ... or was lost.

All I can do is remember.

All I can care about is my family.

(To her right were the doors of the other apartments, some open, some closed, but nothing came lurching from them, and in the dim interiors she saw nothing dead and nothing alive.)

My family is all that matters now.

(From behind some of the doors there were noises, shuffling and purring and gentle, gentle scratching.)

Zack. And Grandpa.

(And here was the door to her apartment, 912, it was closed and it was locked and her hands shook as she tried to get her key to fit.)

And ... and Mum.

The door swung open.

Imogen Shroud took a breath, and then she went home.

The inside of Apartment 912 was just the same as when Imogen had left it. There was glass on the carpet and the papers on the noticeboard had been blown all around the room, and her mother's magazines covered the floor.

But still, it was just the same.

Except for the silence.

"Mum?"

Imogen walked forward, unaware that she was holding her breath, her eyes wide against the dimness—even with the door open, even with the sun shining outside it was dark inside, it was always dark—

"Mum?"

Glass crunched underfoot and glossy magazine covers threatened to slide out from under her feet and send her crashing down. Imogen noticed none of this.

"Mum?"

The lounge led to the hallway. No glass in here. The books were still in the cupboard that served as a bookcase, safe behind scuffed and stained doors.

"Mum?"

Her mother's room. The door was old, the paint peeling. Down by the floor and up by the ceiling it was covered in tiny black speckles, some kind of fungus Imogen's mother had always declared to be harmless.

"Mum?"

The door pushed open under Imogen's touch. Inside was the room she'd spent the least time in. The walls were pale pink, decorated with pages torn from magazines, shots of famous beautiful people and recipes that would never be made, and two faded pages each with a huge left eye, unnaturally blue, a decade-old advertisement for a perfume that hadn't been available for years.

The bed took up most of the room. It was big and white, the duvet fluffed up and puffy, the pillows piled high.

Imogen's mother lay in it, head to the side, eyes closed.

Unmoving.

Imogen walked forward, beside the bed, HopeKiller tight in her hand. Her mother was still, far too still, and Imogen raised her hand to her mouth as she came close enough to hear breathing ... or the lack of it.

Too late, she thought, tears coming to her eyes. Everything I did and I was—

"Imogen?"

The voice was a croaked whisper, dry and hard in coming. Imogen drew in a single, short shiver of breath through her nose, then her bat fell against the floor as she fell forwards to embrace her mother.

"Mum," she mumbled. "Mum, I thought—"

Her mother's hands were against her, not embracing but pushing, pushing Imogen away—too weak to move her, but she moved anyway.

"Why did you come back?" Imogen's mother croaked, frowning at her daughter.

"For ... for you, of course. I couldn't—"

"You're a stupid girl." Margaret shifted in bed, wincing at the movement. "I'm dead, Imogen. They had it on TV. I'm not strong enough."

Imogen stared at her mother. "No, you are—"

"I'm not," Margaret snapped—or tried to. She shifted position again, looking up at Imogen properly now, her eyes old and tired. "Don't you know what death looks like? This is it." There was the trace of a grim smile at the corner of her mouth. "Same as my mother."

"Mum—"

"You cut your hair."

Imogen stared, then raised a hand. "Because ... b-because it was—"

"Ah. Dangerous. So a 'practical' haircut. It only took zombies to get you to change."

Imogen said nothing. She couldn't think of anything to say. Margaret didn't say anything either, not for half a minute, then she sighed, not entirely unhappily.

"They said it's not so bad. You don't feel anything. It doesn't hurt. You just get weaker and weaker until you're too weak to stay awake, and then you sleep, and then you die. And I have my pills, I took twelve this morning, I thought it might be enough." Imogen's mother made a sound that might have been a laugh in a stronger person. "Apparently not. I would have taken more but without water ... and you know my leg—"

"No. No, that's not ... maybe there's—"

"Imogen. I'm dying." Margaret's mouth twisted into a weak smirk. "End of story."

Imogen sniffed, and her mother raised her head, squinting.

"Are you crying?"

Imogen nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

"For me?"

Imogen nodded again, her face suddenly pinched, her mouth tight as she struggled not to sob.

"Well, now. If I'd known it would get you to care I might have tried dying years ago."

"I ... I'll get water."

"Imogen."

Imogen stopped and looked back at her mother, her face open.

"Do you have a smoke?"

Imogen stared.

"You think you're so opaque, don't you. You think no one—"

Imogen was already fumbling for the packet, for the last two cigarettes on earth. She placed one in her mother's mouth, then went to light it—

"Use the matches there. I'll be dead before you get that useless old thing to catch. Don't think I didn't notice you'd taken it, either."

Imogen shoved her lighter back in her pocket and took the matches from her mother's bedside table. With a tiny 'scritch' one flared into life, and she touched it against the cigarette's tip before shaking it out.

"Mm. Good girl." Margaret raised a trembling hand to the cigarette and held it lightly between thumb and forefinger. Gently, so gently, she inhaled. Something like a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Good girl," she repeated, the words coming in a puff of thin smoke. For several seconds there was silence between mother and daughter, then Margaret's eyes once more found Imogen's face. "You could never leave his things alone. No matter where I hid them, you always found them. That jacket that doesn't fit you. That scratched-up old lighter. You even took his—"

"Mum. Mum, please."

"Mm? What? What is it? Do you have something to say to me?" Margaret's eyes were hard as she gazed at her daughter. "Something to ask me?"

Imogen shook her head and looked away. Her mother's gaze remained on her, unfaltering.

"Well?"

Imogen shook her head again, not trusting herself to talk. After a moment, Margaret made a small sound. Something like acceptance. Something like dismissal.

"So," she said, after exhaling a shallow lungful of smoke. "Aren't you going to have one?"

"Mum ..."

"Too late for me to be telling you not to. Is that your last one?"

Imogen nodded.

"Saving it?"

Imogen didn't respond. She was looking down at the tiny white tube in her hand. The last cigarette in the whole entire world. It should be something precious. It should be ...

Margaret raised her eyebrows as Imogen pushed the smoke into her hand.

"You take it," she said. She didn't quite manage to smile. "You never just have one." Imogen turned away, walking back towards the door. "I'll get you water, too. You'll—"

With a tiny cluck of self-reproach, Imogen turned back to retrieve HopeKiller, still lying fallen against her mother's side table.

"Always hoped you had potential," Margaret said, as Imogen headed back for the door, her bat in hand. "Always hoped that."

There were mugs in the kitchen cupboard, exactly in their places, and Imogen filled one with cold water from the hot tap. Before going back to her mother's room she stopped by the entrance to flick the light switch, but got nothing.

Her mother was halfway through the cigarette.

"Not dead yet," she murmured, as Imogen placed the water on her side table. "You haven't mentioned your brother."

"He's okay. He's with Grandpa."

"Oh. He survived."

"Yes."

"Well."

Imogen rubbed her right wrist with her left hand. "I. I want to get my glasses."

"Don't let me keep you."

"But I ... I don't want to—"

"I'll go on dying whether you're here or not. Do what you want."

"... I won't be away long."

The door to Imogen's room opened with a long, low creak. Inside it was ...

... it was ...

Imogen shook her head and walked in, discarded clothes tangling against her brace. She clucked her tongue and bent down to pull them loose, tossing them against the far wall.

"Glasses," she murmured. "Case."

She eventually found it in a pile of near-mouldering tops, hard and smooth and coloured sparkling blue. She clicked it open with a hard wrench and pulled out her glasses—they were long and square and the frames were black matte plastic and she had once thought them to be the coolest glasses in the world. She put them on, frowned, took them off again, wiped them with a loose t-shirt, and then once more, finally, put them back on.

And stared.

How long is it since I last wore these? she wondered, looking around her room, seeing everything for the first time. Edges were sharp. Details were clear. She could read the title of a book from all the way across the room.

Still looking around, Imogen reached for her cigarettes—then remembered. She smiled to herself as she straightened, stretching her back, then she looked around once more before—

—before—

Imogen was standing in the middle of her room.

Loose piles of unwashed clothes surrounded her.

Against the wall, in the corner, her futon bed sat and waited.

Her closet was closed.

Inside ...

Her desk drawer was open.

Stuck open.

Inside ...

Inside ...

Imogen wasn't sure how long she stared at the drawer, but as soon as she became aware of the fact that she was just standing there staring she hardened her expression and she took a single, solid step towards her desk and she gripped the drawer's handle and she wrenched—

Purrrrr.

The noise was so close, right by her ear.

They're quiet. You never hear them, unless they make a sound.

And the voice said, that's stupid. What does that mean?

And the voice said, it means I'm right behind you ...

The thing stood in the doorway of her room. It was tall. It had once been a man. It still wore his clothes.

It moved.

Imogen gasped and tensed as the zombie lurched at her, its hard weight pushing against her, long arms bending back up at horrible angles to claw at her, scraping against her cheek before she found the strength to push back—

But too late. Too weak.

All the air in Imogen's lungs was forced out in an instant as both she and the zombie crashed to the floor, it atop her, she was gasping and coughing as she scrabbled with it, she felt its claws against her cheek again and did not know if it had pierced her skin, did not know if she was dead or if she was alive—with a desperate wrench she knocked its arm back and managed to get its wrist, dead flesh hot under her palm, but it had another claw, tight around her shoulder, and its face was there, its horrible face and its horrible mouth, so clear, in such hideous detail, she'd never realised just how inhumanly terrifying they looked before, and its broken teeth clacked together as it lunged forward to bite at her, just inches from her face, and she summoned all the strength she had and pushed, because it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter if I'm alive or if I'm dead because I will not, I WILL NOT—

With a high shriek Imogen managed to shove the zombie away, only enough to give her an inch but that inch was all she needed, and she pushed with both legs, good and bad, to scramble backwards across the floor, away from it, away towards HopeKiller, why did I drop it? When did I drop it?

But her bat wasn't there.

The zombie purred as it clawed towards Imogen, sharp bone stubs digging into threadbare carpet, crawling forwards as she crawled back—

But you can't keep backing away forever.

Eventually you hit a wall.

Imogen let out a grunt as she bashed her head, her hand clutching at nothing, no sudden comforting hardness, except then there was something, there was a hardness but of the wrong sort, a sudden pressure, a sudden grip, and then another, and the purring grew loud and its face was coming towards her, eyes bulging and mouth snapping, its claws raking against her chest, her side, catching in the embroidered stitching and tearing at the leather and there was nothing she could do, she beat at it with her hands but she couldn't get it off, it was still dragging itself up against her body, pulling itself desperately forwards, its claws trembling inches from her terrified face because its feet were caught BECAUSE ITS FEET WERE CAUGHT—

Imogen gasped at the realisation, that she had a precious moment in which to do something, to do anything to save herself, one action, one single action, but there was no bat, no weapon, she could see HopeKiller now, to her left, just out of reach, and then the moment was over and once more the zombie was coming and it would not be caught again; the chance had come and the chance had gone.

The choice had been made.

The zombie's claw came towards Imogen's face, white bone oozing with brown filth.

Her lighter caught on the first click.

The sharp bone fingers of the zombie's hand spasmed as the high flame licked its wrist, and Imogen pushed hard with both feet, ignoring the roar of pain through her body as she reached desperately—

For something that wasn't there.

And Imogen screamed as the zombie's claws sank into her, pinching through jacket and shirt and flimsy grey top, and its other claw—

There was a cry of sick, defiant rage. The cry of the strong protecting the weak. The cry of a mother defending her young.

Imogen stared as a razor-sharp fragment of modern art plunged into her attacker's skull. The fragment was white with a blue stripe through it, stained brown with the non-blood of dozens of zombies. It was attached to a bat, wooden and strong, and the bat was being held by a woman on her knees, on her knees because she was too weak to walk.

"They told us." Margaret's voice was barely there; on the brink of oblivion. "Remove the head or—"

But before Imogen could say anything, do anything the zombie was slashing out with its claws, HopeKiller falling from its scalp, and the scream of a dying woman pierced Imogen's head as claws sank into her mother's shoulder, as they ripped through her flesh—

And hopelessly, without conscious thought, Imogen found herself lurching at the zombie, grabbing at it with her bare hands, ripping it off her mother—but the zombie purred as it swiped out at her, catching her in the head and sending her falling, the back of her skull crunching on the edge of her desk, everything once more indistinct as something fell against her face and then her chest. Imogen couldn't do anything but cough and wheeze as she fought for breath, as the zombie tottered ridiculously to the side, its balance lost—but then its hands were against the floor, and dead muscles tensed—

Suddenly it was on her, Imogen spluttering in panicked fear as she turned her head, its claws raking down against her hair, scratching, grasping, sharp pain against her skull before she felt its full weight against her, its face so near, its mouth so wide open, its claws against her shoulders in something like a twisted embrace and her hand was somewhere, anywhere, searching for anything and the zombie purred without breath as Imogen's hand closed around something hard—

And memory came back to her, not lost but ... hidden. Deliberately placed in a safe place, a dark place, a place most would not think to look.

"Like this. You have to hold it like this, the way you're holding it won't work. Are you listening? Not like that, like this."

"She's too young for that."

"What is she now, six? She's old enough. Look at her, she's a natural. I was down at the rec centre yesterday, they've got a program there—"

"No."

"What a surprise. Negativity. Just what I'd never expect—no, honey, you're holding it wrong again, it's not like that—"

It's like this.

The grasping claws went limp, and wet heat splattered against Imogen's face, and with a harsh yell she thrust her open palm against the zombie's chest.

It fell back.

Imogen followed it.

Her knee hard against the zombie's stomach, her open hand slammed flat against its chest, Imogen raised the long, dull, perilously sharp knife she held ...

And brought it down.

And again.

And again.

AND AGAIN.

AND AGAIN—

And she was screaming and punching and stabbing and slashing and she shook with every hard impact, with every deep cut, with every damning thrust, and the zombie was howling like every devil in the world was after it, not just once but constantly and louder and louder as Imogen stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

Eventually it stopped.

Imogen's arm shivered with ache, her hand was cramped and the knife's hilt had a rough, uneven part that had scraped against her palm, and her head stung where she'd been scratched and she was kneeling on something that was hot and cold and firm and soft and she looked down at the mass of red-brown gore beneath her, and at her arm, covered in filth.

Her breathing dangerously uneven, her arms trembling, Imogen pushed herself off the still remains of the zombie, crawling back on her hands and knees. She stared down at it until she could tear her gaze away.

To look at her mother.

She was slumped against the wall, her shoulder torn open, her breathing so shallow as to not be there at all.

"See?"

The word was barely audible. Imogen crawled closer, her hand going to her mother's cheek, and with a look of great concentration Margaret brought her hand up to cover her daughter's.

"You just ... have to ..."

Imogen felt something like a shiver beneath her palm, and her mother's hand dropped from her own.

Without knowing, Imogen knew.

She was about to say something like, "No".

But then she didn't.

She just didn't.

Instead she stood up, and she looked around. She put down the knife she was holding and picked up a shirt, and she used it to wipe her hands and her arms. Her head felt clear. The pain near her left ear was fading. There was an ugly brown handprint on her mother's cheek. With careful slowness, Imogen wiped it off. There was a slight frown on her face. Otherwise, she was expressionless.

Lighter. On the floor. Now in pocket.

Glasses. On the floor. Now being worn.

Mirror. Above the desk. There was a white line against her scalp, nothing but brown muck against her cheek. The zombie's claws hadn't penetrated. She wasn't dead.

Closet. Open. At the bottom. In the case. Now tucked under her arm.

Imogen took a breath.

She looked around her room for the last time.

She looked down at her mother for the last time.

She opened her mouth.

She closed her mouth.

HopeKiller.

On the floor.

Now in her hand.

Without further hesitation or emotion, Imogen Shroud left Apartment 912 for the last time.

There were zombies outside; of course there were. The one inside had howled.

It had howled like it couldn't not howl.

It had howled like it was scared.

The first of them—the closest of them—went over the railing. The second followed it.

But neither of them easily. It was too narrow here, too closed-in.

The way to the stairs was clear.

The way to the ground was not.

It was the third level that stopped her. Imogen stared down at the zombies crawling up. The one at the front moved with strength. It moved with purpose. Its claw gripped the stair above it firmly, and it pulled itself up, and then its other claw gripped ...

Above, a zombie fell over the railing and plummeted to the ground. It landed on another zombie, and both collapsed.

Soon both were lost underfoot.

Too many, Imogen thought. They're all coming here, that howl ...

She turned to walk away from the stairs then stopped, almost gasped. From a doorway there had appeared three small zombies. They had once been children. One of them couldn't walk. It crawled on hands and knees towards her. It moved faster than the others. It would get to her first.

Always an exit. Always an exit. Always an exit.

You just have to find it.

Imogen turned and threw HopeKiller to the ground below. Her long black case followed.

Then she climbed over the railing. Just three floors up, she told herself. That's hardly a drop at all. That wouldn't kill me. Not unless I fell on my head.

But with my leg ...

Imogen gritted her teeth as she lowered herself, the purring from nearby high and soft, the tiny child zombie was nearly on her, crawling desperately forward, almost dragging itself—

The railing beneath was only a few inches away from her heel, nothing. Nothing at all. Hardly even a distance.

And yet all the distance in the world.

Imogen didn't gasp as her foot slipped, didn't make a sound as the apartment doors in front of her fell away, as the sky above suddenly filled her vision, so wide and so blue and so high, and she did not close her eyes as the grasping claws of the zombies below reached up for her and caught her, as their strong arms held her ...

And then there was firm concrete beneath her.

And then there was confusion, nothing but.

And then there was a voice:

"ZED AIN'T DEAD, BABY! ZED AIN'T DEAD!"

And then ...

And then there was hope.

Focus came back to Imogen as she felt smooth, hard wood against her palm, and a firm hand gripped her wrist and pulled her to her feet, and for an instant she was staring at Zed's face and she saw the relief in his eyes, and then the hordes closed in—

Foot here. Other foot here. Not yet. Not yet. Now.

She was aware of Zed beside her, his long hunting knife in his hand, dull and sharp.

She was aware of her enemy; of herself; of her weapon; of her surroundings, those that were relevant.

She was aware of a snarling, growling, primal noise, and she was aware that this noise was coming from her—

And of impact. And of the way HopeKiller shuddered just so as its shard tore through muscle and tendon. And of howling.

Especially of howling.

Cry out, you undead bastards. Call your friends. Call all of them. I'm here. I'm ready. This time. I'm ready.

Only one enemy. One and one and one and one and one—

And then.

And then ...

Imogen glanced around sharply, searching for her enemy, for her one, but it was not there—

"Come on, Sue. Path's clear. Ain't no point in cripplin' any more."

How many dozen lay fallen didn't matter; there were hundreds more to replace them. Imogen stared back at the scattered corpses, none of them unmoving, and then her expression hardened as she looked at Zed.

"I'm not interested in 'crippling'," she growled.

Zed drew in a breath then blew it out. "So you ... guessing you got, uh ... 'closure' with your ma—"

"If you can call it that." Imogen glanced around, pale eyes deeply cold as she marked position and speed. "She's dead. She got clawed."

Zed nodded. It seemed like he wanted to say something. Instead, he said: "Here's your case."

Imogen stared at it, then snatched it from Zed's hand, tucking it under her arm—then pulled tensely away as he went to offer support.

"I can walk," she snapped.

"Of course you can, Sue darlin'. Of course you can."

"Don't call me 'darling'—and DO NOT call me 'Sue', I hate that name."

"Okay, okay."

Imogen was looking around again as they walked. Most of the zombies were still trying to get to the apartment; to the source of that howl. She spoke:

"Where's your gun?"

"Back there. Figure it ain't the time to be retrievin', seeing as there's about a hundred deadheads between me and it."

"I thought you loved that gun."

"Hell yes I do love that gun! But I love breathing more, god damn it! Reckon I'll figure out how to get it back later—hell, ain't like none of these dead ol' boys are gonna take it. Trusty'll keep."

"Hm." Imogen glanced around again. "They'll never get to us before we reach the hill. Too slow. Too far. We've got minutes spare."

"Too much distance," Zed murmured. "Reckon you're right."

Imogen stopped and glanced back at Zed. He was a few steps behind, his back to her, looking back at the apartment building she'd come from, at the zombies surrounding it. He'd stopped walking, and his shoulders were oddly hunched.

"What?" Imogen said. "If we stop for too long—"

"That apartment you just came out of." Zed's voice was low and thick. "That wouldn't happen to be up on the ninth floor now, would it?"

Imogen let out an irritated, weary huff. "What's happening up there—"

"That ain't—your name. What's your name?"

"It's Imogen—"

"Your last name!" Zed sounded almost panicked. Imogen stared at him before replying:

"Shroud. My name's Imogen Shroud."

And Zed stared back at her, the look in his eyes like nothing Imogen had ever seen.

And then he started laughing. Laughing like he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. Laughing like he'd just figured it all out. Laughing like there wasn't any reason not to laugh.

"Oh hell," he gasped out. "Oh damn me if that don't beat all. If that don't just beat all. If that ain't the damnedest thing I ever did hear. Of all the damn fool stupid god-damn nothing questions not to even ask ..."

Imogen was shocked to realise that Zed was crying, that tears were streaming down his cheeks, and still she was nothing but confused.

"What are you TALKING about?" she demanded. "Tell me!"

"And now she's dead," Zed was halfway between tears and hysteria, grinning and grimacing as he wiped hard at his cheek. "Now she's gone and I never ..."

He drew in a long, snorting breath through his nose, and wiped his arm over his eyes.

"I don't—what are you going on about? Did you know my mother or something?"

"Oh, honey. Don't you get it, sweetheart? Don't you understand who I am?"

Imogen just stared, totally blank. "Who you are? I don't ... who are you?"

And Zed laughed again, and he threw his arms wide, eyes wild as he roared:

"I'm the god-damned son of a bitch who named you Sue!"

And Imogen stared at Zed, horrified realisation dawning.

"But ... but you're American!"

Zed took in a deep, shuddery breath and he grinned at Imogen, something softer about his face now. "Nah, I ain't no American, just lived there the past decade or so—"

"But ... but you never hunted, you ... you were a cleaner—"

"Maintenance man, let's get it right."

"You were FAT!"

"Well come on now, maybe I was a little on the chubby side—"

"You ... you—"

"Come on, darlin', reckon we better keep on walking—"

"But—"

"Come on now. We ain't clear yet."

This time Imogen let Zed take her arm, let him guide her towards the hill and the truck parked behind it.

"Holy hell." Zed stopped, then glanced around and kept walking, still guiding Imogen. "How old's your brother?"

"He's ... he's twelve, almost twelve—"

"Twelve? Hell, I ain't never been no good with maths, you're seventeen now? So then ... aw, damn it, Margo. Damn you all to heaven, you proud god-damn woman."

They were near the mound of earth now, almost to Zed's truck. Imogen felt numb and heavy, like she—

"So what."

She'd stopped, and when Zed pulled at her arm she pulled back, and neither one of them moved.

"So WHAT," she repeated, hard and flat. "So you think, what, you think that suddenly ... that you can ... just ... just because you, you saved Zack and me—"

The look in Zed's eyes stopped her. Imogen shook her head angrily and walked forward, wrenching her phone out of her pocket after it beebly-booped at her, glad of the distraction:

I'd advise you to return as quickly as you can. There have been some 'developments' that are rather disturbing. Talk more when you get back, TTFN! PS If you could possibly pick up some sodium azide that would be lovely.

Dr James Angerness

"Head up, darlin'. Got some company."

They were coming over the hill. It was too soon to see how many of them there were, but it had to be a couple of dozen at least.

"Reckon that'd be that crawler's work. Brought 'em in from near and far. Heh, so, you said cripplin' weren't enough for you, yeah? You up for some slaughterin'?"

Imogen shoved her phone back in her pocket and shot Zed a cold glance. He swallowed.

"Look, I know I ain't ... I mean, the way I ... I swear I didn't even know she was pregnant, she never said—and leaving you behind was, was ... god-damn, you've grown up so damn much I can't even believe it, can't even tell you how ... how ..."

Zed trailed off. There were zombies lurching towards them from behind and the sides, too—not near, minutes distant, but present. Those coming over the hill were just a few dozen metres away.

"Okay," Zed said, his voice firmer now, stronger. "So maybe you ain't ready to call me Daddy and maybe I don't yet deserve to call you Daughter. But here's the facts, Imogen. We got about thirty zombies between us and that truck and they're in sore need of a clobberin'. And I'll tell you something right now, it ain't no accident you survived this far. You got something in you, same as me."

Imogen hadn't moved, hadn't reacted at all, except to grip HopeKiller tight in both hands, her pale blue eyes running over the line of zombies.

"Look, like I said, you don't gotta call me Daddy, not now, not anytime you don't want to. But I reckon we're in this stinking mess together. Reckon we've been through a lot, don't matter that we're blood—even before I knew I was, I mean ... I came here with you, didn't I? Hell, damn near killed myself getting you home to your ma, came closer than I ever want to come again if you wanna know the truth. And that was before I figured it out, so I reckon, yeah, I reckon that's gotta count for something. And there's something else, too, what we been through, both of us bein' here, both of us fighting side by side, relying on each other, that makes us something, even if you don't wanna call it family."

The zombies were close now. Within seconds they'd be within striking distance.

"So what do you say? You wanna take down these dead freaks? Partner?"

Imogen took a deep breath, in and out, and she looked at Zed, at the way he held his knife, firm and ready.

"Fine." Imogen raised HopeKiller and fixed her eyes on the nearest zombie. "Let's do this ... partner."

So yeah, I guess I didn't die. Not yet anyway. Kind of a way to go before that happens, actually. Lot of stuff to get through. Lot of zombies to kill—well, cripple. Killing them is hideously impractical. Not many people have managed it. Hey, though, who's got a thumb and has killed more zombies than anyone else?

Oh, wait. You can't see me, can you. That didn't work at all, did it. Look, just IMAGINE that I'm pointing at myself with my thumb. Okay? Get it now?

But yeah, killing them is usually a waste of time. Just cripple them instead, leave them there, and let them starve to death. Apparently this can take up to a year if they go dormant.

Frankly I don't think that's quite long enough.

By the way, yes, it turns out Zed IS my dad, just in case you had any lingering doubts. Kind of obvious in hindsight, I mean too many little coincidences to just be coincidence if you get what I mean, but don't feel too superior if you figured it out early. If you were actually there, going through everything I went through, the last thing you would've been thinking is 'hey, maybe this weird old cowboy is actually my deadbeat dad!'. Trust me on that one, it's just NOT something that even crosses your mind.

Something else you might not've thought much about is how messed up the Phoenix Convention Centre was. Remember that? How all the emergency exits were locked? That was weird, right? Right? Don't you think?

Hahaha.

So anyway, I guess this is where I leave you. What, you think being dead means I've got all the time in the world to just sit around chatting? I have things to do. I'm busier dead than I ever was alive. As for everything else, well, you're going to just have to wait and see. Sorry. If there's one thing I hate more than zombies, it's spoilers. Have patience. Don't be in such a hurry. Slow down and enjoy yourself. That's what I've learnt. Well, will learn. You know what I mean.

So until next time, stay smart. Keep your weapon handy, whatever it is. Don't trust open doorways. And never, ever assume that you're alone. By the way, are you sitting down right now? Did you check behind you? Because I think I hear something ...

Purrrrrr.

Hahahahaha.

I'll see you soon. Maybe sooner than you think.

Until then, keep safe.

With love,

Imogen Shroud

Copyright © 2011 by Ben White.

Cover and book design by Ben White.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Email: ben@cloverisland.co.nz

Website: http://www.cloverisland.co.nz