

The War On Horror II: Return Of The Undead Menace

By Nathan Allen

Copyright 2019 Nathan Allen

Smashwords Edition

nathanallen10101@gmail.com

Cover image by Monira Mussabal@99designs

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ALSO BY NATHAN ALLEN

The War on Horror: Tales From A Post-Zombie Society

All Against All

Hollywood Hack Job

Chapter 1

Jack Houston had just settled into his seat when an email alerted him to an unexpected windfall.

"How about that?" he said, his hirsute face breaking into a wide grin. "It appears I may be eligible for a compensation payout due to a loss of earnings caused by undead beings. All I have to do to claim my entitlement is click on this link they sent me."

Miles sat opposite and said nothing. He wasn't sure whether Houston expected a response, or if he was just thinking out loud. He opted to play it safe and go with a non-verbal reaction – a knowing smile and a slight raise of his eyebrows.

He rubbed his palm and opened and closed his hand a couple of times. His fingers were still smarting from the bone-pulverizing handshake he had been greeted with a minute earlier. The Z-Pro boss was the kind of guy who filled a room, in every sense. A bear of a man with a booming voice and a personality to match.

"You think anyone ever falls for these scams?" Houston said.

"I guess a small percentage does," Miles said. "If they send it out to a million people they would only need a few responses for it to be worth their while."

"Hey, you know what I should do? I should write back and string them along." Houston let out a wheezy laugh that grew to a sharp cackle. "I'll tell them my business has been running at a loss for the past five years due to all my undead-related expenses."

Miles laughed along, partly because the notion that the undead had adversely affected Jack Houston's business interests was absurd – Z-Pro was the country's only remaining undead management and control firm, and zombies had made Houston a millionaire – and partly because this was a job interview, and it would be unwise not to laugh at a potential employer's jokes.

Houston's finger jabbed at the keyboard to delete the email. His attention turned to Miles. "Enough fun and games. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

He sifted through the jumble of papers and miscellaneous documents in front of him. The desk, like the rest of the office, was as messy and unkempt as the man whose name was on the door. Bins overflowed with a month's worth of trash, shelves groaned under the weight of old manuals and files, and the remains of a half-eaten days-old sandwich sat neglected on the windowsill. A musty smell of dampness and body odor hung in the air. He was the opposite of Miles' previous boss; Steve kept neither a hair nor a paperclip out of place.

Houston discovered the résumé beneath a racing guide and one of the many disposable coffee cups he had strewn across the desk. He shifted around in his seat until he was comfortable, then ran his index finger across the text as he speed-read the first page. He was doing what all employers did in job interviews – scanning through the key points as if he was so pressed for time he didn't have a spare two minutes to read the whole thing prior to this moment.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. The only sound now was the ticking of the wall clock and Jack Houston's unusually loud breathing. He wheezed like he had just sprinted up ten flights of stairs.

The two bushy caterpillars resting above his eyes shot up. "You ran your own business?"

"Uh, yes. That's right," Miles said. "Me and a friend. We ran it together for a few years, until we sold it."

"Good for you," Houston said, in a tone Miles couldn't decide was encouraging or patronizing. "That shows real initiative."

Another silence. A draft brushed against the back of his neck. It came from a window that hadn't been shut properly.

"Ah. I see you were at Dead Rite prior to that?"

He swallowed. "I was there for about two years."

He hoped Jack Houston hadn't detected the nervous tremor in his voice. He had fudged the timeline on his work history slightly by moving the end date forward by one year. The dissolution of Dead Rite had been a messy affair, and he thought it would be best to avoid the sorts of questions that would inevitably crop up if he told the truth. He gambled that Houston wouldn't be making any follow-up phone calls to verify these dates. In any event, it was unlikely he could check even if he wanted to – the business no longer existed, so there was no one left to contact. He felt he was on safe ground with that lie.

"Probably a smart decision to get out when you did," Houston said. "The two guys running the joint, Steve and Adam. I don't know how much you knew about them."

"I didn't really know them at all," Miles said. Another lie. He'd gone this far, he may as well keep going.

"Well, anyway. They were nice enough fellas I suppose, but pretty clueless when it came to running a business. Didn't know the first thing about the UMC industry, either. Ran up huge debts, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth. They got caught breaking the law, and then vanished off the face of the earth once it all got too much for them. They ended up owing money all over town."

"Oh, really?" Miles said. He spoke as if he was hearing this for the first time.

"They weren't an isolated case, either. Not by a long shot. The industry attracted its share of crooks, especially in those early days. A lot of people just out to make a quick buck. Things have changed a lot since then, though. Much better regulated, less of a free-for-all. At least compared with what it was. All the cowboys and shonky operators have been shut down."

He flipped over to the next page and read some more. Miles noticed a fat bead of sweat forging a path down the middle of his forehead. This was despite the cool weather outside, the lack of heating inside, and the fact that Houston was wearing nothing heavier than a short-sleeved polyester shirt.

"It's strange you and I never crossed paths before," he continued. "A lot of my staff actually got their start at Dead Rite. You must have made your escape before I had the chance to recruit you."

Miles answered with a tight smile. This wasn't actually his first face to face encounter with Jack Houston. They had met once before, in a pub a few years ago. That was the night Houston tried to lure him away from Dead Rite by offering him a job with Z-Pro. The night that Miles, fueled by the kind of bravado and certitude that only a half-dozen whiskey shots could provide, flatly and rudely turned him down. Fortunately for him, Houston was probably just as inebriated on that particular occasion, and he appeared to have no recollection of that night.

"So tell me." Houston dropped the résumé onto the desk. He sized Miles up with his beady eyes. "It's obvious you have the experience, and just by looking at your work history I'm confident you're more than qualified to do the job. But in your own words, tell me why you're the applicant we should select for this position. Why would you be the best fit for Z-Pro?"

As soon as he heard the question every synapse in his brain ceased to function, and all the answers he'd spent the past few days rehearsing disappeared. Why would he be the best fit for Z-Pro? More to the point, why did he even want to work for them at all? When he left the industry years ago he assumed it would be for good. As far as he was concerned, that chapter of his life was closed. He was grateful to have escaped relatively unscathed when he did. Others weren't so lucky. But now here he was, doing something he never thought he'd do, attempting to return to a job and a life he had left behind long ago.

He silenced the doubting voices chipping away at the back of his mind, took a deep breath, and he rattled off an answer with as much forced enthusiasm as it was possible to fake. He spoke of his passion for the industry, and his unwavering belief in helping people and performing his civic duty. He emphasized his desire to work for a respected organization with the potential for long-term career advancement. All the usual hot air usually spouted in a job interview. Stuff that sounded good, but was essentially meaningless.

It was exactly what Jack Houston wanted to hear, judging by the way he nodded along with everything that was said, but Miles could feel his soul slipping further and further away with every word that left his mouth.

Chapter 2

The title of the video was "sk8r dude gets head krushed by zombie". It was accompanied by an extreme content warning. Devon Spooner debated whether that was something he really wanted to watch. His cousin had sent him the link. He clicked on the thumbnail and waited for it to load.

He viewed the first fifteen seconds before shutting it down. He immediately regretted doing that. There was once a time when he would scour the web for the goriest and most depraved zombie videos he could find, but not any more. He'd had some bad undead experiences since then. After seeing some of the things he had seen, they weren't so funny anymore.

The clip delivered on what the title promised. Some idiot had ventured too close to a rabid zombie and had his skull opened up like an Easter egg. He should have known better than to click on anything his cousin had sent him. That guy wasn't right in the head.

There was a knock at the door. He closed the laptop and pulled on a t-shirt.

He wasn't expecting visitors today, and his customers knew never to turn up unannounced. He checked to make sure his baseball bat was within reach. He didn't think he'd need it, but he felt safer knowing it was there.

He pressed his eye to the peep hole. A young girl, probably mid- to late-teens, waited on his doorstep. It was no one he knew, although she did look vaguely familiar.

"Yeah?" he said. He tried to convey a kind of belligerent toughness.

"Um ... I'm looking for Devon?" the girl said. "Devon Spooner. Is that you?"

"That depends on who's asking."

"M-my name's Brianna." Her voice was shaky, her words coming with reluctance. "Brianna Goodman. I live a few blocks over. On Fountaineer Parade. Opposite the park."

The name wasn't ringing any bells. He still didn't know what to make of this. "Is that right?" he said.

He studied the girl through the peep hole. She didn't appear to be particularly threatening, and if someone was planning on ripping him off it's unlikely they would knock first. But he also knew he could never be too careful, especially with the amount of cash he kept around the house. The moment you let your guard down, that was the moment you found yourself face down on the floor with someone's foot pressing against the back of your neck. And if he was thinking about robbing someone, sending a pretty young girl to get inside and lower your defenses would be one way of doing it.

But something told him this girl was genuine. She seemed especially nervous and upset. Her eyes pinballed from side to side, and her face twitched with involuntary tremors. If this was all an act, it was an impressive performance.

"Please ... can you let me in?" she said.

"Alright. I'm opening the door. But don't try anything. No sudden moves, and keep your hands where I can see 'em at all times. Got it?"

She gave a quick nod to show that she understood. Devon flicked open the deadbolts.

Brianna forced a smile of gratitude as she stepped inside and followed him into the lounge room.

"So, Brianna Goodman." He lowered himself onto the sofa. "What can I do for you?"

The girl stood awkwardly near the lounge entrance. She looked for a place to sit. The chairs were covered in old pizza boxes and empty cans and other random junk. The only available seat was on the sofa, next to Devon. She chose to remain standing.

"I'm here because –"

She faltered when the words didn't come. She cleared her throat and tried again.

"It's my father ... it happened last week ... we, we noticed he had this nasty cut on his arm ... it looked really bad, like it had become infected ... he told us he came off his motorbike, I don't know why he said that ... maybe he was embarrassed, or in denial ... we told him he needed to get it checked out, but ... you know ... I think he thought maybe if he ignored it, it might go away ..."

Devon nodded. "I know what you mean. Some men won't go to a doctor unless their toes are about to drop off."

Brianna was silent for a moment before continuing.

"We woke up in the middle of the night to find out he was undead." Her voice cracked as she sniffed back tears. "We've looked into treatment options, but it's all so expensive. His insurance won't cover it, and there's no way we could ever afford it ourselves. We have nothing to sell. We live in a rented house, so we can't take out a second mortgage. I don't know what we're going to do. You're our only hope."

"It's okay," Devon said. He was doing his best impression of what he thought a compassionate person might look like. "Maybe I can help. Wait here, I'll be right back."

He considered offering some sort of comforting gesture, such as a light pat on the shoulder, or maybe even a hug, but he worried that might come across as too forward. Instead, he fetched her a can of Mountain Dew from the refrigerator before retreating to his bedroom.

He yanked off his t-shirt and tossed it on the floor. It had stopped being wearable at least four days ago. He drenched his chest in a liberal spraying of deodorant, and added another burst when he couldn't remember if he'd showered that day or not. He slipped his gold chain around his neck, the one with the diamond-encrusted Uzi-shaped pendant, and he threw on a clean t-shirt. It was his new Metallica shirt, the one with the snake from The Black Album on it.

"Who are you getting all dressed up for?"

The voice startled him. He spun around. Oh, no. She was still here, in his bed. The psycho hose beast he had tried unsuccessfully to break up with for the past three months. He assumed she had left hours ago. This chick was harder to shake than a venereal disease.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" he said. "It's two in the afternoon."

A pile of dirty laundry sat in the corner of the room. Devon pushed it aside with his foot. He got down on his hands and knees and peeled back a section of carpet.

"Who were you talking to out there?" the woman said, speaking through a yawn.

"No one." Jesus, she looked rough when she had just woken up and he was sober.

He lifted up a loose floorboard and reached into the floor. He pulled out a brown shoebox.

"Doesn't sound like no one," she said.

"It's no one you have to worry about, alright? Just a customer. Go back to sleep."

"Make up your mind. Do you want me to leave, or do you want me to go back to sleep?"

"Either. Both. Whatever, just don't bother me when I'm doing business."

He slotted the floorboard back into place and moved the carpet over the top. He pulled the bedroom door closed on his way out.

Brianna was where he had left her, standing rigid by his shelf of BluRays as if she was afraid to move. The can of Mountain Dew remained unopened in front of her.

"Now, has your father been safely secured?" Devon said, reverting back to his sympathetic voice.

Brianna nodded. "We managed to tie him up. He's in the tool shed, at the back of the yard."

"That's good. That's the most important part. How long ago did this all happen?"

"He transitioned, um ... four, no, five days ago now."

"Five days shouldn't be a problem. His organic material will still be in fairly decent condition. There won't be too much decay yet. If you leave it too long they sometimes need organ and tissue transplants, but he should be fine. He'll probably require a blood transfusion, but that's easily arranged."

He removed the lid from the shoebox. Inside were several smaller white boxes, each containing a dozen clear vials.

"First thing you'll need to do is set up an IV. You'll have to give him a large dose of Nembutal to sedate him. That will put him in an induced coma. Once that happens he'll need to be injected with one vial of Zaracaine-9, three times a day."

He held up a single 10ml vial between his thumb and forefinger.

"This is Zaracaine-9, and this is what destroys the infection. One of these, three times a day, and in about two weeks he'll be ready to be brought back to life. You do that with a shot of adrenaline and a series of shocks with a defibrillator."

He searched around for a pen. He found one in between the sofa cushions. He tore off a piece from a takeaway food menu.

"That's usually done by a medical professional, but I know a guy who can do it for about a hundred bucks." He scrawled a number on the scrap of paper. "He has his own homemade device. It's basically a car battery hooked up to these two pads, but the end result is the same. The body gets shocked back to life and the organs start working again."

He wrote a second number below the first.

"And this is the number for the guy who can do the transfusions. You'll probably need three or four in those first two weeks. He keeps a small supply of blood on hand, all different types, so you can buy it from him. He charges less if you can find someone with a matching blood type who can supply it for you."

He handed the piece of paper to Brianna.

"He should emerge from his coma within four to five days. After that, he'll need to keep up a steady dose of Zaracaine-9. One injection in the morning, one at night, for the first three months, then one a day after that. This information is all available online, by the way. I'll send you a link to this page that has all the dosages and step-by-step instructions, so you won't need to memorize –"

Devon's mouth stopped working mid-sentence as he became lost in thought. There was something strangely familiar about Brianna. He didn't know what it was, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. He thought he recognized her when he first saw her. He assumed their paths must have crossed around the neighborhood at some point. But there was more to it than that. He didn't just recognize her; he knew her. They had a shared history, somehow. It was her mannerisms, and the way she spoke. The way she twisted her hair around her middle finger and chewed on her lower lip between sentences. It gave him the weirdest feeling of déjà vu, as if they had met in a previous life.

"Sorry, what did you say your name was?" he said.

"Um, Brianna?" She spoke as if she wasn't sure this was the correct answer. "Brianna Goodman?"

Goodman. A name he had heard before, but not for a long time. Distant memories were prodded somewhere in the recess of his brain. A bolt of lightning struck.

"Are you related to Alison Goodman?" he said.

"Um, yeah? That's my mother."

A wide smile appeared on Devon's face. That was it. "I thought I knew you from somewhere."

"What, you know her?"

"Yeah, I actually ... yeah. I mean, I used to. Kinda. Haven't seen her in ages, though."

Devon had known Brianna's mother when he was younger. They had attended the same high school, although this was a fact he hesitated to divulge at this stage. He was trying to conceal his true age from Brianna for the time being.

Alison Goodman was two years ahead of him at Golden Hill High, as well as several rungs higher on the school's social hierarchy. The last time he saw her was just before she dropped out, aged seventeen. No official reason was ever given for her sudden disappearance, but with her cravings for peanut butter and Cheetos sandwiches, multiple reported incidents of projectile vomiting in public, and a belly that was visibly expanding by the day, it wasn't too hard for everyone to figure it out for themselves.

Seventeen and a half years later, Alison's teenage mistake stood in his lounge room, fidgeting with her bracelet and compulsively tapping her foot. She was a near-replica of her mother at the same age, just with a nose ring, purple streaks in her hair, and a much slimmer waistline. He didn't know who she was really buying the medication for, but it certainly wasn't her father. Not her biological father, anyway. No one ever found out who knocked up Alison Goodman all those years ago. Even Alison was said to not be one hundred percent certain of the parentage. There were multiple rumored candidates, ranging from a married thirty-eight year old nightclub owner to the school's art teacher to the bassist for a touring nu-metal band. In any case, the culprit hadn't bothered to stick around to help out with the raising of his child. Brianna was probably buying the medication for whoever it was her mother had shacked up with. She would have told Devon it was for her father to play up the whole sympathy angle.

He chuckled to himself and shook his head. "Small world, huh?"

"I guess so," she shrugged.

"So anyway, I've had to raise my prices a bit." Devon switched back to business mode, speaking in his professional voice. "It's unfortunate, but unavoidable. Getting this stuff through customs has become a total ball-ache. They're really coming down hard on it."

"I understand," she said.

"So with that in mind, I can offer this to you today for six-fifty."

Brianna's mouth fell open an inch. She looked at Devon, trying to figure out if he was playing some sort of cruel prank on her. The regeneration process was prohibitively expensive. This medication would have cost close to thirty grand had she gone through the official channels. He was offering it to her for a small fraction of that price.

"Six-fifty? You mean six hundred and fifty ... dollars?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is that for ... does that ...?"

"That covers everything you'll need for the initial regeneration, plus enough Zaracaine-9 to last three or four weeks after that. You can come back for more refills as you need them."

Brianna hurried to get the money. Her hands trembled as she counted out the bills. "I honestly ... you don't know what this means to us. I don't know how we can ever thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. I'm happy to help out someone when they need a hand. It just infuriates me to see these huge corporations exploiting desperate and vulnerable people. That's the main reason why I do this."

He kept a straight face as he said this. Devon was in it for the money and nothing else.

Brianna handed over the cash, and she shoved the package into her backpack. He gave her his phone number and told her to call if there were any problems. She thanked Devon several more times before leaving.

He returned to the lounge and opened his laptop. He logged on to an online poker site. He had promised he wouldn't do this anymore after gambling away a sizable chunk of his savings a couple of months back, but he figured a few quick games couldn't hurt. He was in a good mood, and he was feeling lucky. His hunch was justified fifteen minutes later when he found himself eight hundred dollars ahead.

Today's transaction had netted only a small profit. The real money would come through repeat business. Brianna would have to keep coming back for refills, and his prices would gradually rise – unforeseen supply issues, danger money, inflation, or some other invented reason. She would have no choice but to keep on buying through him, over and over, for as long as the old man needed the meds. He was the only one in the area selling it, so it wasn't as if she could take her business elsewhere. And if she had trouble coming up with the cash – well, he was sure they would be able to come to some sort of arrangement.

For years the devastating and apparently incurable contagion known as zombism had destroyed innocent lives and plunged the world into a state of chaos. The sheer magnitude of the epidemic was bewildering, tearing a path of destruction and inducing mass panic on a scale not seen since the Spanish flu a century earlier. More than sixty million people had been affected since it emerged, initially in Germany, before spreading throughout Europe and beyond in a matter of days. The threat subsided after the first few tumultuous weeks, but by then the world had been irreversibly altered.

Despite having some of the greatest scientific minds working together to study the contagion, no one really knew anything about it. It didn't behave like a typical disease, or a virus, or a plague. It was unlike anything they had ever encountered; a mutant man-made strain that did not fit comfortably into any pre-existing category. Even though the existence of zombism and the potential for large-scale outbreaks had been known for decades, biologists and epidemiologists were still no closer to knowing what it was, let alone how to treat it. It was eventually given the official title of the BNBO-511:17 pathogen, although most continued to refer to it simply as "the infection". Transmission occurred through blood and saliva, which typically came after one infected carrier sunk its teeth into the flesh of the uninfected. A short incubation period followed, after which the victim metamorphosed into a dangerous and ravenous savage.

Debate still raged as to whether infected humans should be categorized as alive or dead. Some of the characteristics exhibited were consistent with that of the deceased; primarily a lack of heartbeat and limited brain activity. But they also displayed several traits not commonly found in the dead, with aggressive movement and an insatiable appetite for human flesh being the most obvious examples. They were eventually classified as being undead – not alive, not dead, but caught in a state of limbo, inhabiting both states simultaneously.

The military were deployed in those first few weeks to round up the hordes of infected. Once that had been taken care of, they next had to figure out what to do with them. Many believed the undead should be euthanized, both for compassionate reasons and to prevent further spread of the infection, but this was met with strong opposition. Families and friends of undead beings objected to the slaughter of their loved ones, especially as they were still moving and behaving in something resembling a lifelike manner. A grass-roots movement formed that campaigned for their protection and demanded the undead be treated humanely.

The various governments and world bodies eventually reached a compromise whereby any infected humans would be quarantined and held for an indefinite period of time in the hope that a way of reversing the condition would soon be found. The National Law to End Violence Against the Dead Act (NEVADA) was introduced, prohibiting civilians from causing unnecessary harm toward any undead being.

While the public accepted these measures to begin with, support soon fell away once the spiraling costs associated with capturing and housing the undead mounted. There was a growing animosity, helped in no small part by a scaremongering media and opportunistic politicians, both of whom sought to exploit the tragedy for their own benefit. A significant number of people regarded the entire process as a waste of money, while others claimed that by not putting them out of their misery they were prolonging the undead's suffering. The consensus was that a cure was unlikely to ever be found, and they were simply delaying the inevitable.

But against the odds, a stunning breakthrough came when Zaracaine-9 hit the market courtesy of Elixxia Pharmaceuticals. The drug was hailed as the greatest medical achievement of the twenty-first century, a scientific milestone comparable to DNA mapping, the cure for polio and the discovery of penicillin.

Zaracaine-9 was labeled by some as a miracle cure, but this was inaccurate as the medication did not completely rid the body of the infection. Instead, it worked to suppress the majority of the debilitating symptoms, and returned the patient to a state of health similar to what they experienced prior to becoming infected. While some after-effects continued to linger, it allowed sufferers to manage their condition and enjoy a reasonable quality of life.

It was far from perfect, and there was still a great deal of work to be done in developing a permanent cure, but after years of being terrorized by this malicious and insoluble scourge the world was finally given a glimmer of hope.

Chapter 3

An array of conflicting emotions tumbled around inside Miles' head during the drive home from Z-Pro. He didn't really know how he should feel about this. The interview went fine, as far as he could tell. He was confident in the responses he gave, and Jack Houston seemed to take a liking to him, if the bone-mashing, shoulder-dislocating handshake he left him with was anything to go by. But still, did he actually want the job? He needed the job – or he needed a regular income – and after close to a year out of work he was eager to avoid the stigma associated with long-term unemployment. Just not in undead management and control. Anything but that.

Three years ago, shortly after the collapse of Dead Rite, he and Felix started their own business. Felix had used his time at Dead Rite to build a small catalog of inventions and innovations that could be utilized in the UMC field. He had a handful of products ready to go, along with sketches and blueprints for several more. It was Miles who came up with the idea of using their Dead Rite payouts to develop and market these products on a wide scale.

Their success was almost immediate, and they were turning a profit within the first six months. They scored contracts to supply several government agencies, both locally and around the world, and were soon hiring extra staff to keep up with demand. There were long hours, high stress levels and a steep learning curve, but Miles was more than happy to be there. Compared with what he had to deal with at his previous job, this was a walk in the park. There was none of the dysfunction and chaos that marred Dead Rite's final few months. The threat of bankruptcy was not constantly hanging over their heads, and at no point did anyone have a near-death experience. He would have been content to continue on like that for the foreseeable future.

Felix had other ideas, however. After a couple of years, the daily grind of running the business had worn him down and drained his creativity. He found himself with less time to tinker away in his workshop and develop new ideas, which was what he really loved to do more than anything else. He also had the foresight to see that demand for their products was likely to drop off sooner rather than later. Undead populations had peaked, and a sharp decline was predicted for the coming years. Recent developments in treatments to combat the infection was likely to reduce these numbers even further. Now would be the best time to sell. The two of them had taken the business as far as they could on their own, and it was time to hand the reins over to someone else. Miles resisted the idea at first, but he soon came to see that the numbers didn't lie. If they wanted the best price they needed to strike while the iron was hot.

The business was purchased by a German conglomerate, and Miles received fifty percent of the payout, collecting more than seven times his original investment. He thought Felix was being overly generous by agreeing to divide the proceeds equally, especially since Felix could take the majority of the credit for their success, while he mostly handled basic ordering and administrative duties. He felt guilty for accepting more than he deserved – although not guilty enough to suggest he receive a smaller share. Any residual guilt he may have had disappeared soon enough once the new owners re-hired Felix to join their product development and innovation division, with a hefty six-figure salary to go with it. Miles used his money to take a well-earned break.

He enjoyed his time off for a start. The funds were enough to allow him to relax and consider his options for the future. He didn't need to rush into anything just yet. He wasn't rich exactly, but he was comfortable, and for the first time in years he was free from all commitments and responsibilities. The mortgage had been taken care of, and his sister Shae had left for college. The money wouldn't last forever, but it was a nice buffer. He stretched it out further by moving into a smaller apartment and renting the house out to bring in some extra income.

But the months flew by fast enough, and he saw that he would eventually need to look for a regular job. He wasn't panicking quite yet, but his indefinite vacation had already created a small dent in his savings. His years of financial hardship were still fresh in his mind, where he existed pay check to pay check and the fear of losing the house was constantly hanging over his head. That was a period of his life he had no desire to ever revisit. In any case, he had to find something to fill in his days, if only to maintain his own sanity and sense of self-worth. It didn't have to be his dream job. Anything would do. He applied for dozens of positions, and he asked friends and former work colleagues to let him know of any potential leads, but he never heard back from anyone.

Last month he learned that Z-Pro was hiring. Ordinarily he wouldn't have given it a second thought. After everything he had been through at Dead Rite, a job that had almost cost him his life, this was the last avenue he should be considering. But at that moment, for reasons he still didn't fully understand, he contemplated making a return to the UMC industry. It may have had something to do with the fact that his twenty-seventh birthday was now only a month away, and he had been thinking a lot about what that meant for him. The infinite possibilities of youth were growing distant, and the world was no longer his oyster. He had to face up to reality – he had very few marketable skills, his options were diminishing with every year that passed, and he was in no position to be selective about the type of work he would or would not do. He applied for the job before he had the chance to talk himself out of it.

He arrived home just after four p.m. His new living quarters were far from glamorous, and a little cramped, especially after spending most of his life in a spacious three bedroom house with a large backyard, but he didn't mind too much. The rent was reasonable, it was close to the city, and – most important of all – he could afford to live there by himself. After years of being trapped in that madhouse with inmates coming and going at all hours and never getting a moment's peace, this was bliss. Some people craved the company of others, but he knew it would be some time before he grew tired of living alone.

The rest of his evening was spent watching YouTube clips of rare live performances from obscure bands he hadn't listened to since he was a teenager. It wasn't his intention to waste hours in front of the computer. It just kind of happened that way. He ate a bowl of cereal and half a box of crackers for dinner. The guilt kicked in soon after. He made a promise that, starting tomorrow, he would try to live more like an adult.

He was jolted awake the next morning by his phone buzzing a few inches from his ear. He flung an arm out and swatted it off the bedside drawer.

He pried his eyes open. Daylight was peeking in from behind the curtains. His alarm clock told him it was almost nine. He never slept that late.

His throat was like sandpaper, and his pillow was cold and damp. It was that dream again. The one where he was trapped in the back of the Range Rover. Rotting flesh pressing against the glass. Dead arms clawing at windows filled with hairline cracks, seconds away from shattering. He had been abandoned in a small town in the middle of nowhere, with no one knowing where he was. It was so vivid he almost had to check himself for bite marks. The dream had tormented him on and off for the past few years, although it had been a while since he'd last had it. He thought maybe he was over it. He didn't need an expert dream analyst to tell him what might have prompted its ominous return.

He waited a moment to let his mind settle before reaching down to pick the phone up from the floor.

It was a message from Jack Houston. He was offering him the job.

A head filled with nagging doubts and a knot in his stomach prevented him from getting more than a few hours' sleep the night before the first day of the new job. He had tried over and over to rationalize his actions and convince himself that he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life. This was nothing more than a temporary arrangement. It was a placeholder, something to keep himself occupied until a better opportunity came along. It would prevent difficult-to-explain gaps from appearing in his résumé, and it would ease some of the concerns he had about money. For the first time in his adult life he was financially comfortable, and he would prefer to keep it that way. Working a crappy job would give him the necessary motivation to find something more meaningful to do with his life. But no matter how many times he told himself this, he was never really able to believe it.

Morning came around in the blink of an eye, and he found himself entering the foyer of the Z-Pro building, fighting off insomnia-induced butterflies and a chronic case of anxiety perspiration.

"I'm Miles," he managed to croak at the woman at reception. He swallowed, then forced out the words he really did not want to say: "I'm starting work here today."

The woman lifted the phone handset and dialed a number. "Take a seat. Somebody will be with you soon," she said.

He settled into one of the white plastic chairs lined up against the wall, in between two artificial pot plants. A poster hung opposite, directly in his line of sight. It was a community service announcement that had been left up from last Halloween, warning of the dangers of dressing as undead beings for that year's festivities. There had been numerous reported incidents in previous years of revelers in costume being mistaken for actual zombies. Not only did this cause unnecessary alarm among the community, it also placed a huge strain on UMC services when they were called out to false alarms. Worse, it often ended with the person in costume being attacked by members of the public who may have believed they were in danger.

As well as creating a nuisance, many considered dressing as a zombie to be insensitive and disrespectful toward former humans and survivors.

An older man in a green and white checkered shirt and wire-framed glasses appeared a few minutes later. He introduced himself as Dr. Sloan, the company's on-site medical officer. He took Miles into a small room near the back to undergo his pre-employment physical and medical examination. The test consisted of straightforward stretching and lifting exercises to gauge his strength and flexibility, as well as hearing and eyesight examinations, to determine if he was capable of doing the job. It was similar to the one he undertook before commencing work at Dead Rite several years back. The only difference now was that this one required him to submit a blood sample. New laws were introduced last year that gave businesses the right to screen all current and prospective employees to determine if they were or had ever been undead. Anyone returning a positive test could be refused employment or instantly dismissed, with no legal recourse available.

He was given a clean bill of health, pending the results of the blood test, and he returned to his seat in the foyer. The woman at reception advised him the team leader would be with him in a few minutes.

Those few minutes stretched out to ten, then to twenty minutes. Then to thirty. The longer he waited the further his mind drifted, and the more he began to question just what he was doing here. He was already regretting his decision. By accepting the job he felt like he had regressed five years in life. He flirted with the idea of getting up and walking out the door with no explanation, simply leaving and not looking back. He soon dismissed this as a stupid idea; he was a grown man, and he couldn't just run away from every difficult or unpleasant situation he encountered throughout his life. But as the minutes ticked over, the more appealing the notion became. He could go now and this whole episode could be laughed off, a terrible lapse in judgment before he came to his senses.

Finally, after forty-five excruciating minutes, a door opened behind him and he heard a voice. "Michael?"

"Uh, Miles," he said.

He rose from his seat and put on his best fake smile. It took all his strength and willpower to hold that smile in place when he came face to face with his new team leader.

Oh, no. Not her. Anyone but her.

"Sorry, Miles," she said, holding out her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Erin?"

"Yeah. I know."

Erin. His colleague from Dead Rite and, prior to that, his classmate at Acacia Hills Secondary College. In addition to the humiliation of returning to the UMC industry, he would now be subservient to his high school nemesis. Just when he thought this couldn't get any worse.

Despite his misgivings about working for Z-Pro, not once did it cross his mind that he might encounter people he knew. He should have run out the door when he had the chance.

"My reputation precedes me, does it?" Erin said with a heavy laugh.

"Your ... I'm sorry, what?"

"Whatever you heard, don't believe a word of it. Less than eighty percent of it is true." She headed toward the automatic doors leading to the building's main area. He hurried to catch up. "Sorry I'm late, by the way? My fiancé cracked a tooth trying to open a bottle this morning and I had to take him to the dentist."

She laughed again, and it soon dawned on him exactly what was happening here. Once again, Miles had been erased from Erin's memory. They had attended the same high school for six years, but when she first came to work for Dead Rite she appeared to have no recollection of ever meeting him. They worked side by side for a further two years, and now she was speaking to him as if this was their first ever meeting. As far as she was concerned he was a total stranger.

He wondered if he had really changed that much since they last saw each other. He didn't think he had, although he probably wasn't in the best position to judge. Erin was more or less how he remembered her. She had a new bright fuchsia hairstyle and several more visible tattoos, but apart from that she was the same. She still had a speaking voice pitched at a volume that suggested everyone around her was hard of hearing. She still made every second sentence sound like a question. A more likely explanation for her lack of recognition was that Miles just wasn't that memorable.

"I haven't had the chance to look at your application yet," Erin said. She swiped her access pass across a scanner to unlock a door. "Jack told me you've done UMC work before?"

"Yeah, I used to work for Dead Rite," he said.

He thought that might jog her memory, but she remained oblivious. "Oh, I worked there too. With Steve and Adam, right? A lot of us at Z-Pro started off at Dead Rite, actually. Kaylan, Nathaniel, Alex. And Brock, that's my fiancé, he also worked there briefly? You must have left before I started."

"Right. I must have."

He decided to leave it at that. There was nothing to be gained from dredging up the past, other than further discomfort. If Erin thought they were meeting for the first time it would probably be better if he allowed her to believe that.

"Anyway, I'll introduce you to the rest of the team?" Erin said.

She led him down a corridor and toward the main staff area. Miles' career as a UMC agent had officially resumed.

Chapter 4

The first few hours of the new job served as a reminder of just how tedious being a UMC agent could be. Erin spent about twenty minutes showing Miles around the site and introducing him to the other team members on duty that day. All were strikingly similar in appearance – shaved heads, Viking beards, neck tattoos and perma-scowls. After that it was on to the break room, where he sat around and waited for the work to come in.

Lunch time came and went, and he had still done nothing more than watch TV and regret his life choices. He listened to Erin as she recounted all the funny things that happened to her during her Dead Rite days. He laughed along and pretended he didn't already know these stories, and in some cases he was directly involved with the incidents she described. He also heard her mention her fiancé a further four times, in case he'd forgotten she was now engaged.

The first job for the day finally came in at around 3:45 p.m. It was delegated to Brandon, an employee whose one point of difference from all the other bearded and tattooed guys with shaved heads was that he was also the size of an ox. Miles was assigned to accompany him to the location.

They climbed on board the company truck. Brandon fed the address into the sat nav, and they took off.

At least the Z-Pro vehicles were more comfortable and modern than the rattling carbon monoxide-spewing sweatboxes he was forced to ride along in at Dead Rite. This one in particular was impressive. It was the newest addition to their fleet, and had quickly become the most popular one for staff to take out on jobs. With its car fridge, leather seats, heating and cooling, and state of the art sound system, it was about as close as a work truck could get to being a luxury vehicle. The front section had space for the driver and three passengers, with an area at the back separated by a glass partition that could hold as many as fifteen former humans. It was all-white with giant Z-Pro logos airbrushed on both sides.

The staff had christened this vehicle the White Tiger. An army-obsessed former employee had come up with the moniker, inspired by an indestructible tank from one of his favorite war movies. Miles had to agree the name was appropriate – riding in the front felt like cruising the streets in a military vehicle. He suspected that if they were T-boned by another car they would barely even feel it.

The address was about ten minutes away, situated in a neat upper-middle class neighborhood. This in itself was unusual. Zombie sightings in this part of town were rare. They drove past an antiques store and a café, and they turned into a quiet residential street.

"This looks like us up ahead," Brandon said.

A half-dozen vehicles surrounded a property, a few houses down from the corner. Most were police cars, and there was one ambulance. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the front.

Miles could feel his pulse accelerate, and it wasn't just first-job nerves. The number of cop cars was a sure sign this was more than a routine capture and collect job. Something serious had gone down here.

The truck pulled over a few houses up. They stepped out of the vehicle and onto the road.

Police officers knocked on doors of neighboring homes to collect statements from the residents. Several more photographed the scene. Two paramedics pushed a body bag on a gurney into the back of the ambulance.

At least one person was dead. This explained the police presence.

They crossed over the road. Two cops stood guard out the front of the property. "You guys UMC?" the older of the two said.

Brandon nodded. "How many you got for us today?"

"Just the one," the cop said.

"Or a bit less than one," his partner said. "About nine-tenths."

The younger cop lifted the yellow tape for Brandon and Miles to duck under. They were led down the driveway and into the backyard.

"Over there." The older cop pointed to the rear of the property. "He's all yours. Good luck."

Brandon and Miles took two steps in that direction before coming to a complete stop.

"God in heaven," Brandon said as he laid eyes on their target for the first time. "What the hell happened here?"

The corpse was propped up against the back fence. It was upright, slumped forward slightly and surrounded by a plague of insects. There was no sign of movement.

A wide broom head protruded from the middle of its torso, just beneath the sternum. The rest of the broom wasn't visible. They could only assume the handle had impaled the former human, going all the way through its body and wedging in between the fence boards. This was what held it up. The zombie was pinned to the fence like a flier on a bulletin board.

They each took a few cautious steps forward to get a closer look at the extent of its injuries.

Its neck had a gash several inches deep, displaying glimpses of windpipe and vertebrae. The skin around its face and neck was charred black. Its lower lip and most of its left cheek had been ripped clean off. It had a mouthful of broken teeth. Its jaw hung several inches lower than normal, like a mailbox with a busted latch. Its left eyeball bulged from the socket. Its rib cage was exposed, showing rapidly decomposing internal organs.

Brandon shook his head with disgust. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

Miles went to speak, but he was hit by the stench as soon as his mouth opened. He had forgotten how putrid these things could smell, especially ones that had spent hours baking in the sun. He needed to step back to compose himself and allow his stomach to settle. He was grateful to have skipped lunch today. He would probably be skipping dinner as well.

He didn't know what had happened here, but it wasn't too hard to imagine. Someone, or most likely a group of people, had tortured this zombie for no other reason than they were bored, or they thought it would be funny. Judging by the body bag Miles saw being loaded into the ambulance a few minutes ago, the zombie managed to dispatch a small amount of payback.

He had encountered some disturbing situations during his time at Dead Rite, back when anti-zombie sentiment was at its peak, but never anything quite this shocking.

"Anyone seen it move yet?" he said.

"Don't think so," the younger cop said. "I haven't, anyway."

Brandon came to within a few feet. He studied it for movement. It remained perfectly still, hanging there like a repulsive scarecrow. He gave it a gentle poke in the side with his snare pole. There was no response. He poked it again, harder, with the same result.

He gave it a quick jab to the face. The zombie's head jerked up. It belched out an angry howl and lurched forward, arms flailing as it tried to claw at Brandon. The broom lodged in its midsection prevented it from moving more than an inch or two.

Miles flinched in fear, then immediately felt embarrassed. He looked around to see if anyone noticed. He didn't think they had.

"Ah, that's disappointing," Brandon said. "I was kind of hoping they'd finished it off for us."

He returned to the truck to collect two sets of protective workwear. There was no way they were getting anywhere near that thing wearing just their regular clothes.

They pulled on the disposable polyethylene suits, the masks and the latex gloves, and then set about the delicate task of securing and removing the zombie from the property. They couldn't handle it like a regular undead being. It was in such a fragile state that any rough treatment could result in body parts dropping off and internal organs spilling out. That would only prolong the process, and nobody wanted to have to clean that up.

Brandon positioned the snare pole's prongs around the zombie's neck. He was careful not to exacerbate the deep wound. Miles put the cable ties around its wrists and slipped the grill over its face. Snapping the muzzle shut took several attempts due to its broken and misshapen jaw. He dislodged the broom from the fence and gently removed it from the zombie's midsection. The handle came out coated in a thin layer of green-brown sludge.

"Enjoying the job so far?" Brandon said with a smirk.

Miles tossed the broom to the ground. "What do you think they do with cases like this?" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, when the condition is so severe that nothing can be done for them. Like this guy. There might be treatment available to help reverse the symptoms of zombism, but I'm not sure there's much they can do to fix the gaping hole in the side of his neck."

Brandon paused to consider this for a moment. "I never really thought about it. To be honest, I think that's one of those things I'd prefer not to know."

The zombie was loaded into the holding area at the back of the truck. Brandon held it still while Miles activated the automatic restraints. Few words were exchanged during the completion of this task, or on their journey to the processing center.

Brandon was an impatient driver. He revved the engine as he waited for the lights to change. He sounded his horn at cars driving side-by-side on a two-lane stretch. Stop signs were treated as a polite suggestion rather than a directive. Miles didn't know what the rush was. It wasn't like they were paid any more for completing the job faster. The previous arrangement, where UMC agencies were paid for every undead being captured, had been abolished. Z-Pro now received a fixed amount annually for services rendered.

They were five minutes away from their destination when Brandon next spoke.

"There was this one job we did, about six months ago," he began. "A zombie had wandered out into the middle of a freeway, straight into the path of a semitrailer. Slammed into him at full speed. We turn up and it's as messy as all get-out. All that's left is a one-legged torso with a smashed up face. The rest was spread a quarter of a mile down the road. But it was still moving and everything, so we had no choice but to scoop it all up and take it in."

"Do you know what happened to it?" Miles said.

Brandon shook his head. "I have no idea. I can only pray to the almighty Lord that they showed some mercy and put it out of its misery."

Police spent the remainder of the day making enquiries into the circumstances surrounding the maiming of the undead being and the civilian death that occurred at the property. Several neighbors claimed to have witnessed four teenagers using SlamCore music to coax the former human into the backyard of the house. One onlooker said they appeared to take great pleasure in taunting it, as if they were using it for their own amusement. Footage obtained from security cameras positioned directly opposite the crime scene corroborated these eyewitness accounts.

What happened inside the property would have likely remained a mystery had one of the teens involved not filmed the entire incident and posted multiple videos online. In one of the clips, the group can be seen and heard tormenting the undead being by lobbing projectiles and pushing it around with a broom. Midway through, part of the broomstick snapped off and the broken handle was used to impale the zombie against the back fence.

With the zombie now stuck in place and unable to move, the situation quickly escalated. The teens filmed themselves placing M-80 firecrackers in its mouth and lighting the fuse. The result was an undead being with its face blown apart.

A failed attempt to replicate the stunt ended with the zombie latching on to one of the group and ripping his head open.

A media firestorm erupted once these videos were made public. There was widespread outrage that a young person should lose their life in such a reckless and easily avoidable manner, and there were calls for the surviving three to face criminal charges for the harm they inflicted upon the undead being. Even though the CADAVER law (Citizens Against Death And Violence Entering Our Residence) had been in place for three years since replacing NEVADA, and the rights of landowners now took precedence over those of the undead, something about this case struck a nerve with the public. This was in part due to the ages of those involved – all were sixteen or seventeen years old – but mostly because of the unbridled glee the teens took in attacking the zombie. They had lured it onto the property with the sole purpose of torturing it. They appeared to know the law protected them, and they could do whatever they wanted without consequence. In the days and weeks that followed, the opinion pages were filled with endless thought pieces and editorials bemoaning the state of today's youth, the impact of violent media on young minds, and the breakdown of the family unit.

The surviving teenagers all went into hiding shortly after the story broke. The majority of the public's vitriol was directed toward Tyson Mueller who, despite having watched his best friend die a horrific death, continued to film rather than lend assistance, and who later uploaded the grisly footage to his YouTube channel. The parents of the deceased teen sought legal advice to determine whether a civil suit could be brought against the three for the role they played in the death of their son.

On the question of whether they should face criminal charges, opinion was sharply divided. Many believed the youths absolutely should be charged, claiming their behavior was unnecessarily violent and sadistic, and that the boundaries of common decency and good taste had been transgressed. They had ample opportunity to alert a UMC agent but instead chose to behave in an anti-social manner. It was said that with the treatment options now available, along with the many positive developments in this area, there was no reason for anyone to commit an act of violence against an undead being unless their own immediate safety was being threatened.

The opposing side insisted they should not be charged because, in accordance with the CADAVER law, as soon as the undead being sets foot on private land the occupants were within their rights to take pre-emptive measures to defend themselves, using whatever level of force they deemed appropriate. The circumstances of how the zombie came to be there was irrelevant, and it was not up to the courts to determine how far was too far. Charging the teens would set a dangerous precedent and open the floodgates for future cases.

Before the police could decide what action should be taken, prime minister Bernard Marlowe intervened. He called an urgent press conference, which was broadcast live on television.

"When I was elected, I made a promise to the citizens of this great nation that I would protect them from the undead menace," he told the assembled media pack. "This is a promise I fully intend to keep. So let me state, once and for all, that no one will ever be charged for defending themselves against an undead being on their own property. Mark my words. No citizen will ever be charged for defending themselves against an undead being on their own property. This is an unambiguous iron-clad guarantee with no exceptions. It is necessary for the good of the country. If we start turning innocent law-abiding citizens into criminals we run the risk of returning to the chaos and dysfunction of the previous administration, where the zombie death beasts were allowed to run riot and were afforded more rights than the living. That will never happen under my watch."

The press conference lasted eighteen minutes. The prime minister repeated his pledge that as long as he remained the country's leader no one would face charges for anything that happened to a former human on private property. He declared victory in the ongoing war on horror, insisting the country was much safer now than when he first came to power. He reiterated his belief in democracy, and stated that it was the people who ran the country, and not the undead.

Members of the press shouted their questions, asking if it was appropriate for a prime minister to interfere with a case that was still under police investigation. They wanted to know if placing explosives inside a former human's mouth constituted self-defense, and requested statistics to back up his assertion that the country was safer now compared with three years ago. Marlowe exited the stage without offering any response.

Amendments were rushed through parliament in the days following, and Marlowe's words were enshrined into law. One week later, the government's approval rating fell a further two points, plummeting to a new low of thirty-four.

A survey released the same day as the poll showed the undead was now the fourteenth most pressing issue facing the country today, down from number one a few years ago. Many commentators observed that the heat had gone out of the debate, and passions were not as inflamed as they once were. Respondents to the survey nominated unemployment and economic issues as their number one concern, followed by the environment. Corruption in politics had risen to number three.

The former human found impaled on the fence was later identified as Matthew John LaSalle, thirty-nine, unemployed.

Mr. LaSalle first became undead fifteen months ago following an incident that occurred during an early morning run. He came across what he initially believed was an injured cyclist lying on the side of the road. Upon lending assistance he was attacked and sustained a small abrasion to his right forearm. He transitioned several hours later, and was transported to the nearest processing center.

After spending more than three months undead, he was approved to undergo regeneration to transform back to his pre-zombie state.

His treatment was initially successful but, as was the case with many re-lifers, he encountered numerous obstacles in his attempts to reintegrate back into society. Despite having twelve years' experience as a high school teacher he was unable to obtain employment, since his condition prevented him from working in an environment that required contact with children. His lack of income made it difficult to cover his ongoing medical costs. Suitable housing was hard to come by, and in recent weeks he had been staying at a charity-run crisis accommodation center. He was believed to have transitioned back into an undead state sometime during the past three days.

Chapter 5

Despite his best efforts, Miles couldn't help but feel slightly self-conscious as he navigated his second-hand eight year old Nissan Pulsar with two missing hubcaps and a cracked side mirror through the narrow and winding streets of this ultra-exclusive, ultra-ultra-wealthy neighborhood. As far as he could tell, his was the only vehicle on the road that wasn't a Mercedes Benz or BMW or Bentley, or some other variation of European luxury he could only ever dream of owning. The properties he passed were all hidden behind twelve foot high granite walls crawling with ivy. He felt the suspicious gaze of the locals as he drove by, as if his relative poverty might somehow rub off on them, or he was a criminal scouring the area for potential robbery targets. He saw at least one old lady take down his license plate details.

After driving in circles and doubling back several times, he eventually found his way to the address. He stopped in front of the wrought iron security gates with the name "Beechwood Heights" spelled out in three foot high letters. He wound his window down and pressed on the buzzer. The gates parted and he entered the property.

Towering palm trees flanked both sides of the paved driveway. A small crew of landscapers toiled away to his left, spreading pitchforks of mulch over flowerbeds and tending to the perfectly manicured lawns.

The driveway kept on going and going, until a mansion the size of a small resort came into view. He pulled into a parking space near the front and got out of his car. Elliott was waiting for him at the top of the steps.

"You finally made it," Elliott said, a wide grin spread across his face.

"I'll be honest with you, this wasn't the easiest place to find," Miles said. He chose not to reveal that he drove past the front gates three times before realizing this was the address he was looking for. "Some directions might have been useful."

"Directions? You've been here before, haven't you?"

Miles shook his head. "Not to this house."

"Really? I thought you had."

"You're probably thinking of your last place. The pale blue one. The one with the infinity pool and the waterfall. I've been there a couple of times."

"Huh. I haven't lived there for almost six months." Elliott stared off into space for a moment. "Has it really been that long?"

"I guess it must be," he shrugged. "So, you sold that other place?"

"No, I still own it. I probably will sell it eventually, since I don't really use it anymore. I prefer to live in this one for now."

Miles cast his eye over the Moroccan-style colossus before him. It was the kind of dwelling he had only ever seen on movie screens, or in the pages of glossy wish-fulfillment magazines. A house so big you could easily get lost in it. The sound of crashing waves in the near distance provided the background ambience.

"I can't say I blame you," he said.

"Well, if this is your first time here I suppose I should show you around," Elliott said.

"Lead the way."

Elliott's tour of the house took in all the main features – the twelve bedrooms, the ten bathrooms, the two story guest house, the gym, the glass-enclosed dining area, the cinema, the outdoor area that backed onto his own private beach. He pointed out his celebrity neighbors; the successful music mogul next door, and the five-time Olympic gold medalist further on down the street.

They moved on to the garage. This was where Elliott housed his fleet of luxury automobiles – Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maybachs, Teslas. His collection currently numbered eleven, and was expanding at a rate of approximately one every twelve weeks.

Miles took this in with a sense of wide-eyed wonder. Even though it had been almost three years since Elliott's unexpected and extraordinary windfall, he still hadn't fully come to terms with it. In his mind, Elliott was someone who had never held down a job longer than six months, and who lived on a diet of ramen noodles and frozen pizzas. The one detained by police a few years back for attempting to cash a fraudulent check sent to him by Nigerian scammers. That same person now employed a full-time chef and had a helipad on his property.

The tour concluded in the basement, about an hour after it started.

"They've just finished the renovations down here," Elliott said as they descended the stairs. "This is my new recreation room. It's where I hang out, mostly."

They reached the bottom step, and Miles saw a fifteen year old's fantasy room brought to life. There were two pool tables in the center of the room, and an air hockey table next to those. A dozen vintage arcade games and pinball machines were lined up along one wall. Movie and sporting memorabilia hung from another. There was a jukebox in the corner, a fully-functioning bar, and a television the size of a cinema screen. The room looked like something from a hip hop video, or an episode of Cribs.

A number of guests were already over. A group of five reclined on the furniture, with another four engaged in an intensely competitive foosball game. Miles had never seen any of these people before.

One man sat in a black leather armchair, separate from the rest of the group. He wore dark sunglasses and silently watched the soccer game playing on the TV. Miles did a double-take – this was Blériot, a moderately famous French DJ, producer and fashion designer. He didn't know what he was doing here, or how he and Elliott knew each other. No introductions were offered.

"I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a drink," Elliott said.

He stepped behind the bar and reached for a square decanter on the top shelf. He set out two crystal tumblers and poured a small amount of the walnut-brown liquid into each glass.

"Here. Try this." He pushed one of the tumblers toward Miles.

"What is it?"

"Just try it."

Miles looked up at the clock on the wall, behind where Elliott stood. It was a few minutes past eleven. "Kinda early to be drinking, isn't it?"

"What do we care? It's not like we have to be anywhere today. Or tomorrow, for that matter."

Elliott took a sip from his glass. Miles got the distinct impression this wasn't his first for the day.

"If it's all the same, I think I'll pass," he said, pushing the glass away. He had to be at work in a few hours, although he withheld that information for the time being.

"Come on. Just have one drink," Elliott said. He nudged the glass closer.

"Thanks, but I'd rather not."

"We haven't seen each other in months and you won't even have one drink?"

Miles stared into the glass for a moment. "I don't drink anymore, Elliott."

"You don't drink?"

"No."

"Since when?"

"Since, I don't know, I guess it's been about two and a half, maybe three years now."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I was at a point where I was drinking far too much, and far too often. It was becoming a real problem, so I decided I should stop for a while. And I guess I haven't found a good enough reason to start again."

"Oh, right." Elliott was silent for a few seconds. "You've told me that before, haven't you?"

"I have. Once or twice."

"Sorry, I just forgot."

"It's no big deal," Miles said. It was kind of a big deal, but he didn't want to let on.

"Well, anyway ..." Elliott tipped the contents of the glass back into the decanter. "I wanted you to try it because this bourbon, it's actually my own brand."

"What, you made it yourself?"

"Well, no. I didn't make it. It takes years for a batch to be ready. But there's this small boutique bourbon label I heard about. They're called Liquid Goya. The opportunity came up to purchase the business, and, I don't know, I guess I thought it would be a cool thing to do. Have my own bourbon label or something."

"What do you know about running a business?"

Elliott dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "I have people who do all that for me."

A loud cheer erupted from the other side of the room. Miles looked across to see two of the foosballers jumping up and down with their arms raised in triumph. The other two let fly with what sounded like a string of French expletives and accusations of cheating. Blériot barked something at them, and the group fell silent.

"Don't mind them," Elliott said. "Hey, I'll mix you a drink if you like. I know how to make raspberry mojitos. I think I have everything I need."

"I told you, I don't drink anymore," Miles said.

"I know, I'll just make it without the rum."

He took a highball glass from the shelf before the offer could be declined. He began collecting the necessary ingredients and set it all out on the bench.

"Oh yeah, something else I forgot to tell you," he said. "I'm being sued."

"What, again?" Miles said.

"Uh-huh. I only just found out." There was a discernible lack of concern in Elliott's voice. Another lawsuit appeared to be nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

"So who is it this time?"

"Take a guess."

"I have no idea. I would have thought anyone who wanted to sue you would have done so by now."

"Just guess. I bet you won't be able to."

He took a moment to consider the possibilities. "I don't know. Susan Pasakos?"

Elliott gave him a funny look. "Susan Pasakos? You mean the old lady from my parents' church group?"

"She's not that old," Miles said.

"She's about sixty."

"I wouldn't call a sixty year old an old lady. It's not like she's elderly. She still plays tennis."

"Okay, but why would she be suing me?"

"I don't know. You said I'd never guess, and for some reason that was the first name that popped into my head."

"Honestly Miles, your mind goes to some unusual places at times. No, it's Trent."

"Trent?" Miles spluttered a laugh. "You're kidding me?"

Trent was Elliott's one-time friend, although it had been some time since the two had last spoken. This was partly due to the fact that Trent had spent a significant portion of the past few years undead, and partly because he had been seeing Amy, Elliott's then-girlfriend, behind his back.

"My lawyer called a couple of hours ago," Elliott said, placing the raspberries and mint leaves in the glass, followed by the soda water. "He told me he's just been served the papers."

"Why would Trent be suing you?"

"For the alleged distress he claims to have suffered at my hands when I assaulted him."

"You mean when he was a zombie?"

"Yes, when he was a zombie. I hadn't assaulted him before then. Or since, for that matter."

"Would he even have any memory of the incident?"

"I guess that's what the court will determine. The general consensus, according to the people who know about this sort of thing, is no, you wouldn't remember anything from that time. But I'm sure his legal team will dig up some quack with an online degree who's willing to testify that he's endured some irreversible trauma dredged up by his subconscious. The kind of trauma that can only be healed with a hefty financial settlement."

He dropped a chunk of ice into the glass and placed the finished drink before Miles, who took a small sip. It tasted pretty terrible. It was far too sweet, but Elliott had gone to so much trouble that he didn't want to say anything.

"And he's suing you even though you paid for all his treatment, and if it wasn't for you he'd still be languishing in a holding facility somewhere?"

"That does seem ungrateful, doesn't it?" Elliott smiled, more at the absurdity of the situation than from actual amusement. "After everything I did for him. I don't know, I assume some ambulance-chaser convinced him that he could get some money out of me. Maybe I'll fight it, maybe not. It might be cheaper and easier to settle. Toss a bit of cash his way so I don't have to worry about it anymore."

"I gotta say, I'm surprised at how blasé you are about all this," Miles said.

"Hey, what can you do? This is what happens when money comes into your life. Everyone tries to get their piece if they think they can."

"And what about Amy?"

The words were out of his mouth before Miles could think about what he was asking. As soon as he saw Elliott's face change, he knew he had touched a nerve.

In addition to paying for all of Trent's expenses, Elliott had also covered his ex-girlfriend's regeneration treatment costs, as well as taking care of her ongoing medical bills. He never explained why he chose to do this, and Miles never asked. It might have been that there was some lingering guilt about how things had ended between the two of them, and this was his way of making amends. Or it might have been something else.

"What about her?" Elliott said, his words laced with tension.

"Is she involved in any of ... I mean, have you heard from her too?"

Elliott shook his head. "Um ... no, I ... I haven't."

He grabbed a cloth from the sink and busied himself by wiping down the bar top, even though it was spotless. Clearly, this was a subject he was eager to avoid.

"So anyway," Miles said, attempting to move on from the awkwardness. "The reason I wanted to drop by today was I saw Steve and Adam the other –"

He was cut off by a sharp buzzing noise. Elliott looked across to the TV. The bottom right-hand corner of the screen displayed the feed from his security camera. A transit van had pulled up in front of the gate.

"That'll just be a delivery. Hold on, I'll be right back," he said.

He disappeared up the stairs, and Miles waited by the bar. He picked at the bowl of nuts next to him. They had a strong stale taste, like he was eating compacted dust, and he wondered how long they had been out. He sipped some more of his virgin mojito to wash away the taste.

His eyes fell on the bourbon, sitting just a few meters away from him.

He reached across for the decanter. The top was still off. He swirled the liquid around and caught a whiff of the fumes. He could practically taste it, even without drinking any. The temptation was there. This was a test of his willpower, just like every other day for the last few years had been a test of his willpower. From social expectations to the pervasiveness of liquor advertising, he hadn't realized how deeply ingrained alcohol was in society until he tried to give it up.

The moment passed, and a sense of calm came over him. He replaced the stopper and returned the bottle to the shelf behind the bar. He took another sip of his syrupy cocktail.

Elliott had two parcels in his arms when he came down the stairs a few minutes later. He grabbed a sharp knife from the sink and sliced through the tape on the smaller of the packages.

"What's all this?" Miles said.

"Just a couple of things I've ordered," Elliott said.

He tore through the brown wrapping paper to show Miles his purchase: a box of hand-rolled Montecristo Cuban cigars.

"Flown over direct from Havana," he said, beaming with inordinate pride.

"But you don't smoke," Miles said. "I remember you telling me how much you hated the smell of cigar smoke."

"I do, it's just something good to have around. You know, to offer guests after a meal. That sort of thing. Nobody will be smoking them inside the house."

He placed the box to one side, and he moved on to the larger package. He cut through the plastic wrap and pulled open the flaps. He was like a kid on Christmas morning. His hand disappeared into the foam peanuts and came out clutching a vintage handgun.

Miles took a backward step. "Whoa. You bought a gun. A mail order gun, by the look of it."

"This is not just any gun, alright?" Elliott said. "This gun belonged to none other than Lee Harvey Oswald."

"It ... what now?"

"It's not that gun. Obviously. That one's not for sale, as far as I know, and even if it was I probably still couldn't afford it. But this was his. Lee Harvey Oswald used to own it."

A large envelope was taped to the side of the box. Elliott opened it up and took out the certificate of authenticity, verifying the item's previous owner.

"You mean it was owned by the Lee Harvey Oswald?" Miles said, inspecting the document. "Not just some guy with the same name?"

"Trust me, I made sure it was the famous one. Or the infamous one, I suppose. It's a Ruger Single Six Shooter, like the ones they used on shows like Bonanza and The Lone Ranger. Oswald was a huge fan of TV westerns. Apparently he owned a whole bunch of these." He made an attempt at twirling it around his finger, but he couldn't quite get the hang of it. "Not as easy as it looks in the movies, is it?"

"Where did you find this?" Miles said.

"There's this website that sells really bizarre and esoteric memorabilia. You can find some cool stuff on there. Some real sketchy stuff, too."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Like mementos from celebrity death scenes, or anything to do with famous serial killers. Nazi stuff. This one piqued my interest, for some reason."

"This might be a dumb question, but why would you want to buy something like that?"

"I know, kind of a weird thing to throw your money away on, right?" Elliott let out a guilty laugh. "I don't know, I thought it would look good mounted and hung behind the bar, that's all. Like it could be a conversation starter. An interesting piece of history."

"Bit small to mount, isn't it?" Miles said.

Elliott studied the weapon in his hand for a moment. "Yeah, it looked bigger in the photo. I'm not sure what I'll do with it now. It still works, or at least the seller claims it does. Not that I'll be firing it. I should probably get the pin taken out."

He offered the gun to Miles, who declined with a shake of his head.

"So anyway, what I was about to tell you was that I went to see Steve and Adam the other day," Miles said.

"Oh yeah?" Elliott stashed the gun back in its box. "How are they doing?"

"That's kind of why I wanted to come here today."

"Is everything alright? With Steve, I mean?"

"Oh yeah, everything's fine. He's doing really well, all things considered. Most of the time you can't even tell there was ever anything wrong with him."

"That's amazing. I'm so happy to hear that," Elliott said.

"But they're still kind of struggling. Financially, I mean. It's this new business they're trying to get off the ground. I think the stress is taking its toll."

"Steve and Adam have started a new business?"

Miles was about to say something, but he held back. He had told Elliott about Steve and Adam's plans on at least three occasions. Each time it went in one ear and out the other. A complete lack of interest in the lives of people other than yourself appeared to be a side-effect of sudden extreme wealth.

"They're opening a new health food store," he explained. "It's a shop that sells organic food, gluten free products, stuff for people with allergies, supplements for re-lifers. That sort of thing."

"Bit of a cliché, isn't it? Two gay men running a new-age health food store."

Elliott laughed at his own joke. Miles ignored it. "They've been putting it all together for the past six months. They have a business plan and a location picked out and everything. I sent you all the details a few months back."

"Really? I don't think I got it."

"And because of Steve's ... you know, his condition, as well as all the problems they had at Dead Rite, they're having trouble securing a bank loan. They're using their own savings, so I was wondering if it's not too much to ask –"

Elliott jumped in before Miles could go any further. "Oh, of course. Of course. I'm happy to help out. It's the least I can do."

"Thanks. They'll really appreciate it. Just remember, don't say you're giving them money. Tell them you want to invest in the business."

"Sure, sure. Absolutely."

"And don't mention any of this, either. They didn't ask me to come here today. They don't know I'm here."

"Whatever they need. Send me the details again and I'll sort it out first thing tomorrow morning."

Miles allowed himself to relax now. That was the difficult part out of the way. Elliott may have had more money than he could spend in a hundred lifetimes, but he was still apprehensive about asking for handouts, even if it was on someone else's behalf. He didn't want to treat him like some sort of never-ending money tree that could be pruned any time he ran into financial trouble.

He had already borrowed a significant amount of money from Elliott, shortly after the big windfall came through. He used it to pay off the mortgage, and to cover Shae's college tuition and several other expenses. He still hadn't made any repayments on the loan. When he and Felix sold the business Elliott told him not to worry about it until he found a new job, and he still hadn't told him, or anyone, about working for Z-Pro. But it was a point of pride with Miles. There were enough people leeching off Elliott already, and he didn't want to be another one.

He stayed on at the house for another few hours. He didn't want to hang around too long, and he had to get ready for his shift that started in a few hours. But it didn't feel right to just turn up, ask for a favor, and leave. He played a few games of pool against Elliott and some of the others there. Miles knew he was just an average player, but he managed to win a couple of games due to the fact that he was the only one sober.

The afternoon rolled on. Blériot's soccer team triumphed, and the Frenchman became a little more gregarious. He and his entourage ventured out onto the private beach to kick a ball around on the sand and sing football chants at full voice.

At around three, some more of Elliott's new friends turned up unannounced to join in the fun. It was no one Miles knew, so he decided this was a good time to leave. He slipped away and returned to his car.

Chapter 6

"So, what do you think of the job so far?"

Miles didn't offer an immediate response. He kept his focus firmly on the road in front of him. It was Friday morning, the last day of his first week at Z-Pro. Five days that felt more like five months. He was back in the White Tiger, heading out to the first job for the day. Brock, a UMC agent with a cage fighter's body and a drill sergeant's haircut, and who was also the fiancé Erin so frequently referred to, was behind the wheel this time.

What did he think of the job so far? Brock's question bounced around inside his head for a while. He was back working in a job he hated; a job that had almost got him killed once already. His first day involved cleaning up after a bunch of teenage psychopaths after they skewered a zombie with a broom handle and stuffed explosives in its mouth. The days that followed weren't any more enjoyable. He still hadn't told anyone he was doing this. Every morning he woke up wondering if today was the day his shameful secret would be exposed to the world.

"It's alright. I'm still readjusting after so long away," he said.

"You'll get used to it soon enough," Brock said.

"Yeah. I know." That was what bothered him. He didn't want to get used to it.

Brock scanned the radio dial until he found one playing throbbing EDM. "You've been out on a few jobs with Brandon, haven't you?" he said over the pulsating beats.

Miles nodded. "I've worked with everyone now, I think. But most of my jobs have been with Brandon."

"So how long was it before he started badmouthing me behind my back?"

"Um ... what do you mean?"

"Did he start on the first job, or did he wait a day or two?"

"Well, I'm not really sure that ..." Miles cleared his throat to hide his discomfort. "I, um, I don't think I've ever heard him ..."

Brock let out a laugh. "It's okay, you don't have to answer. I know he does it. He does it with everyone. Every new guy we hire, he tries turning them against me."

"Oh, really?"

He tried to sound as neutral as possible. The last thing he wanted was to get caught in the middle of a workplace feud during the first week of a new job.

He should have guessed there was tension brewing between the two of them. On his first day, when they were returning from the processing center, Brandon had warned Miles to be careful around Brock. He didn't give any specific reason, only saying that he was someone who could never be trusted. Two days later, Brandon advised him to store any valuables in the locker provided. He claimed that employees' personal belongings had gone missing in recent weeks, and although nobody had any proof just yet, Brock was regarded by many as the prime suspect. He also intimated that Brock was prone to wild and violent mood swings, which may be a side-effect of habitual steroid use.

Judging by Brock's imposing physique, Miles imagined there might be some truth to that last one. He was as big as Brandon, plus another ten percent.

"It all started over a woman," Brock said. "Big surprise, right?"

"What, you mean Erin?"

As soon as the words left his mouth he worried he might have sounded a little too incredulous. He had, in effect, expressed shock that Brock's fiancée was worthy of having two men fighting over her.

"They used to date, Brandon and Erin. It was a long time ago now. They were actually engaged for a short time. Only a few weeks, and they'd been together for about two months prior to that, so it wasn't as if they had this epic romance going on. Long story short, she broke it off with him and now she's with me. Everyone has moved on with their life, except Brandon."

"Huh," Miles said.

If there was one thing he could say about Erin with any degree of certainty it was that she definitely had a type. Brandon, her former fiancé, and Brock, her current fiancé, were so alike they could easily pass for brothers. They both looked like standover men or amateur wrestlers, with necks as thick as tree trunks and unusually dark tans. They both walked as if they'd just climbed off a horse. They dressed identical, and wore chunky rings and gold watches. Both liked to talk about their workout routines and protein-heavy diets, often in excessive detail. Miles had called each one by the wrong name on at least two occasions already.

"So now you know," Brock said. "Anything Brandon says about me can be taken with a fistful of salt."

"Got it," Miles said.

The truck made a turn at the next intersection. The undead being came into view a minute later. It was a specimen of considerable size, one that fell comfortably into the category of orca. Its hair was long at the back and thinning at the front, and it wore nothing but loose-fitting sweatpants that threatened to drop to its ankles at any moment.

It was trapped in the middle of three vehicles that had been parked in a triangular formation. A group of local residents stood by to keep watch until further help arrived.

"Look at these good law-abiding citizens," Brock said. "Most people would run it over and claim it was an accident."

"They probably didn't want to damage their vehicles," Miles said.

The zombie made a bumbling attempt at clambering over one of the cars, but a lack of mobility and coordination meant it had little chance of escaping. Given its size, it looked as if it might have had trouble climbing out even before it became undead.

A little further up, a group of a dozen people congregated around a small yellow van and three late-model sedans. The four around the van looked to be part of a film crew, and were unloading cameras and other equipment. The other eight wore professional attire and didn't appear to be doing much of anything.

"What is that? A news crew?" Miles said.

"Too many people for a news crew. And too well-dressed." Brock drove closer and pulled into a space on the side of the road. "Oh, I know what this is. Those are government cars. They must be getting footage for one of their commercials."

A feverish chill passed through Miles as soon as he heard this. If he thought his situation could not get any worse, he was sadly mistaken.

Since coming to office, the Marlowe government had burned through hundreds of millions of dollars by funding a series of commercials. They insisted these were vital public service announcements, but most dismissed them as shameless propaganda pieces and an obscene waste of taxpayer dollars. The ads, which detailed Bernard Marlowe's many achievements in fighting the war on horror, were inescapable. They played up to ten times an hour on television, as well as on electronic billboards, at cinemas and sporting events, on public transport, and on various social media platforms.

Now they were collecting footage for their next one. Miles was struck by the horrifying realization that today could be the day his private humiliation became very public.

"Do we really have to do this?" he said with a slight quiver in his voice.

"It's no big deal," Brock said. "We went through this a couple of months back, and it's real simple. You just do your job as normal, and they film you while you're doing it. Last time they asked us to let the zombie go and recapture it so they could shoot from different angles. There's nothing to it. It's actually kinda fun."

"It's just that I'm –" Miles choked on the air. He could feel his face and neck burning up. He took a short breath. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable appearing on TV, that's all."

"You'll be fine. They get tons of footage for these things. Hundreds of hours, probably. Chances are they won't even use any of it. They didn't use the stuff they shot of me, anyway."

"Okay then," Miles said. Brock's words failed to provide much assurance.

The doors opened and they stepped out of the truck. Brock wandered over to speak with the group, while Miles stayed back to unload the equipment.

He noticed that, in addition to the four-man film crew, eight people had been dispatched in three cars to oversee today's shoot. Each had their phone in one hand and a hot beverage in the other. Typical government waste, he thought to himself. Eight people sent out to do a job that one or two could easily cover.

He placed the equipment on the ground and leaned against the truck as he waited for Brock to return.

The zombie made another attempt at climbing over the cars. It made it halfway across before one of the men standing guard gave it a hard shove with a swimming pool leaf rake. It tumbled back to the ground. The scene might have been comical if it wasn't so sad.

A voice appeared from behind. "Miles?"

He turned around. It was one of the government employees. The voice was familiar, but the face took longer to place. He was seeing her in an entirely different context to how he had known her previously. A couple of seconds went by before his brain finally made the connection.

"Clea?" he said.

She smiled at him. "I thought that was you," she said.

This was the first he had seen of his old roommate in years. She looked like a completely different person. Her previously braided and dyed hair was now straightened and shoulder length, and had returned to its natural strawberry blonde color. Her clothing was smart and neat, and her piercings were gone. She looked older too, and more like a proper grown-up. She could easily be mistaken for a school teacher.

"Wow, it's been a long time," Miles said.

She stepped forward to greet him with a hug. It felt kind of awkward; they were never really on hugging terms before this. They were friends, he supposed, and they mostly got along fine when they lived under the same roof, but they weren't exactly close.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here today," he said.

"I could say the same about you," Clea said.

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

"So. You're with Z-Pro now?"

"I'm with Z-Pro now," he nodded. "Just a temporary thing, until I find something else."

His eyes went to the ground for a moment. He felt as if he had been caught doing something illegal. His discomfort was only alleviated by the fact that Clea appeared as mortified as he was to be recognized under these circumstances.

"So, you're probably wondering what I'm doing working for the Marlowe government," she said.

"I assume you're plotting to take them down from the inside," Miles said.

"Ha. If only. No, this is something Amoeba arranged for me. Sorry, I mean Sebastian. He set it all up. It's easy money, and it looks good on your résumé, so I thought I'd give it a shot."

"Wait, so Amoeba works for the government too?"

"Oh, yeah. Although it's Sebastian now, not Amoeba. He's trying to move on from his past. He's right over there."

She nodded toward the group of suits. In the center, a full head taller than everyone else, was Sebastian Devereaux. His makeover was even more drastic than Clea's. The last time Miles saw him, he was an eccentric cross-dressing performance artist who dumpster-dived for food and performed fire-twirling routines in the backyard. Now he was clean-shaven with a sensible haircut and a tailored suit. He looked respectable. Normal, even. Two adjectives he never thought anyone would apply to Amoeba.

"That's him?" Miles said.

"That's him," Clea said.

"I can't believe that's the same guy."

"I have trouble believing it myself at times."

"If I walked past him in the street I would never have known it was him."

"Yeah, well he could hardly turn up to a job like this wearing fishnets and a jester's hat, could he?"

"What did he do to his ears?"

"His ears?"

"Yeah, remember he had those gauges in them, those big black discs? They would have stretched his earlobes out like crazy. Now they look normal. How did that happen?"

"I don't know. I never thought to ask."

"He must have had surgery to fix them."

"Anyway, Sebastian's pretty well-connected in parliament. He works as a junior staffer in his dad's ministry."

"Oh, of course." Miles had forgotten that Sebastian was actually the son of Lawrence Devereaux. His father was the Federal Minister for Undead Affairs, and one of the most powerful and influential figures in the Marlowe administration.

"It's not a bad job, all things considered. I've had worse. As long as I don't think about how much of a sellout I am, it's tolerable."

"I guess we all have to make a living somehow," Miles said.

"That's what I keep telling myself. It would be nice if I could hold on to my integrity, but I have student loans. As far as I know, they don't accept integrity as a form of payment."

Clea cupped her hands around her mouth as she lit a cigarette.

"You wanna know what my job title is?" she said, blowing out a plume of smoke. "I'm the executive assistant to the senior minister."

"Wow. That sounds impressive," Miles said.

"I know. It sounds impressive, but it's meaningless. I'm just a lowly assistant. My job mostly involves fetching coffees and shredding files. But they gave me an important-sounding title in case they have to fire me."

"Why would they fire you?"

She looked around to make sure none of her colleagues were within earshot. "It's something they've been doing ever since they were elected. They hire a bunch of inexperienced graduates for this one specific purpose, and that's to be scapegoats during emergencies. We're basically their insurance policy. If anything goes wrong, if a major scandal erupts and someone needs to take the fall, that's where we come in. One of us accepts full responsibility and takes one hundred percent of the blame. We publicly admit that we were acting on our own accord, and that no government minister had any prior knowledge of our activities. With any luck, the whole thing blows over without inflicting too much damage."

"They really do that? I know politicians can be a shifty bunch at times, but that seems pretty sneaky, even for them."

"Oh, you have no idea. Every department has at least one or two of us, and we don't do any real work. You don't need special qualifications or anything, so if you're interested let me know and I'll see if Sebastian can pull some strings for you."

"I'll keep it in mind," Miles said.

"Hey, remember that story from a couple of months ago about how they were caught out buying likes for their social media posts?"

Miles recalled hearing something about this, where it was discovered the majority of likes and positive comments on the government's official Facebook page came from accounts based in Manila and New Delhi. It was later revealed the likes had been purchased to make their policy announcements appear more popular than they actually were. A twenty-two year old press secretary admitted he was responsible for the scheme and offered his resignation.

"So the guy who took the blame, he wasn't the one behind it?" he said.

"No, he had nothing to do with it," Clea said. "He didn't do anything except collect ministers' dry cleaning and take their lunch orders. It was Lawrence Devereaux's idea from the start."

"Whoa. That's brutal."

"Don't feel too bad for him, though. Anyone who has to leave under those circumstances gets a decent payout, since it might be some time before they become employable again. But that's why they give us these hifalutin job titles. If they fire the 'executive assistant to the senior minister' it sounds like someone important was sacked."

"Rather than someone who shreds files and fetches coffees?"

Clea dropped her cigarette to the ground. "Exactly."

Miles could only shake his head. "Should you be telling me this?"

"No, but what are they going to do?" she said, stubbing the butt out under her shoe. "They can't fire me yet."

They chatted some more. Miles asked about her studies. She told him that she had finally completed her master's degree at the end of last year. Clea asked after Shae. He told her about the English literature course she was undertaking, and how he had moved out of the old house and got a place of his own. Neither one brought up the circumstances surrounding Clea moving out of his place three years ago, and the drama that followed.

Brock returned a few minutes later, just as they were close to exhausting conversation topics. "They're ready for us to start now," he said.

Chapter 7

The ten foot armored stretch limousine gathered speed as it made its way down the empty four-lane highway, ten minutes from the television studio where the nightly current affairs program Our Nation was filmed. The vehicle was the size of a bus and could have easily accommodated a dozen or more people, but today the prime minister had only two other passengers to keep him company. One was Lawrence Devereaux, the Minister for Undead Affairs and his most trusted adviser within the government. The other was Rebekkah Barclay, a twenty-three year old New Media and Dynamic Branding consultant.

"You need to be mindful of your posture and body language," Rebekkah told the prime minister. "Sit up straight and lean forward slightly when you want to emphasize a key point. But don't lean forward too much. That may be interpreted as aggressive and overbearing, especially with a female host. Try not to be seen drinking from your glass of water either, otherwise you'll look like a defendant being cross-examined in court. If you think you're about to have a coughing fit, wait until the host asks a question, because the camera will be on her. And remember to speak slowly and clearly when giving your answers. Don't rush your words." She paused before repeating this last point. "Do not rush your words."

Bernard Marlowe shot a glance at his ministerial colleague. Lawrence Devereaux responded with a slight raising of his eyebrows, but he didn't say anything. No words were needed – they were thinking the same thing. They were both wondering whose brilliant idea it was to pay this woman five thousand dollars a week of taxpayers' money to advise the country's most powerful man on how to do something he'd successfully done hundreds of times already. It was hard to take much of what she said seriously, especially when she compulsively read and replied to text messages as she addressed him.

Rebekkah had been recruited to remold Marlowe's image and broaden his appeal after feedback from their focus groups demonstrated a sharp decline in support for the prime minister among female and younger voters. It had fallen across all demographics, but those two in particular were the most alarming. The youth of today regarded him as a backward-looking out of touch multimillionaire, while many women found him to be cold and abrasive, and said he gave off an unsettling vibe.

Tonight's interview was Rebekkah's first big test. She had spent weeks preparing him for this moment, doing everything from quizzing him on policy details to selecting the color of his tie. She settled on royal blue with red pinstripes. She believed this would make him appear both strong and compassionate.

A lot was riding on tonight. This would be Marlowe's first live prime time television appearance in more than six months. His only recent press had been with The Daily Ink and talk radio, speaking with people he knew would give him an easy ride and not challenge him on anything he had to say. His handlers shielded him from serious journalists as best they could, mostly due to his tendency to go off-script, and the alarming regularity in which his foot would become wedged in his mouth. But they couldn't keep him hidden forever, as much as they'd like to. Their new tax reform policy was a key component of their re-election strategy, which meant they needed to get him out there to spruik it to the public.

An election was scheduled for later in the year, and every poll pointed to a wipeout. Should this happen, it would cap one of the most remarkable implosions in modern political history. The government had come to power three years earlier in a landslide. Their popularity had increased even further in the months following, only to go into dramatic free fall almost as quickly. Bernard Marlowe had the dubious honor of being both the most popular and least popular prime minister of the last century. Everyone was hoping tonight's interview would mark a turning point. A strong performance in front of a large television audience could provide the momentum they desperately needed to kickstart their campaign for re-election.

"Don't be distracted by any off-hand remarks," Rebekkah continued. "Olivia Perry will try to goad you into saying something outrageous. That's what she does, but don't take the bait. Remember, you're here to discuss tax reform, the proposed cuts for small- and medium-sized businesses, and the flow-on effects that will bring to the wider economy. What you're not here to talk about is poll numbers or the ongoing leadership speculation."

"I'd say there's a very high chance of both those topics being raised at some point," Devereaux said.

"Yes, that's likely. But if it does happen be sure to give a succinct response, then pivot the conversation back toward tax reform. Something along the lines of 'The small business operators of this country don't care about poll numbers. They're worried about being able to compete on a global stage and pay their staff's wages.' Don't say anything that might end up as a headline in tomorrow's newspapers."

The motorcade slowed as a set of traffic lights approached. A group of twelve and thirteen year olds on bikes watched the convoy of vehicles pass as they waited to cross the road. Their middle fingers all went up when they figured out who was riding in the limousine.

"I appreciate the pep talk Rebekkah, but Olivia Perry and I have spoken many times before," Marlowe said. "We have a good relationship. We get along fine."

"She hasn't interviewed you since you became prime minister, though. You got an easy run in opposition because you hadn't made any mistakes yet. Don't expect her to be so accommodating this time around. She won't tolerate bumper-sticker slogans or evasive non-answers. And don't keep talking about the undead, either."

Marlowe glared at Rebekkah as if she had just made derogatory remarks about his eighty-four year old mother. "You're asking me not to talk about the one subject responsible for my election?"

"I'm just pointing out that times have changed. Our analytics indicate the undead is no longer an issue at the forefront of the public's mind. To tell you the truth, most people are sick of hearing you talk about it."

This message was reinforced a week after Marlowe made his public declaration that no homeowner would ever face criminal charges for anything that happened to an undead being on private property. His bold stance failed to win much support in the community outside of his rusted-on base. Instead, he was widely criticized for interfering in a police matter, and he angered his colleagues for failing to consult with them prior to the announcement.

"So what is he supposed to do if she raises the subject?" Devereaux said. "Refuse to answer the question?"

"Just reiterate what we already know," Rebekkah said. "Tell her the government's record speaks for itself, that we are the party with a proven track record of keeping the country safe, and then move on. What I don't want you to do is hype up the threat to absurd proportions, or refer to the undead as 'death beasts'. It's a fairly transparent attempt at scaremongering. People have caught on to it, and you'll just come across as desperate."

The prime minister's fixation on zombies, and his endless warnings about the danger they posed, had become something of a running joke. A recent episode of a satirical news program featured a compilation of interviews where Marlowe steered every topic of conversation into a rant about the undead. In one, he began discussing his plans for Christmas and what the festive season meant to him, which then segued into a monologue about how much tougher he was on undead issues than his opponents. The clip had been viewed millions times, spawning countless memes and parodies.

"Constant negativity only works in opposition," Rebekkah said. "When you're in government, you no longer have anyone to blame. You need to present yourself as more prime ministerial. Bluster and rhetoric will only get you so far."

Marlowe could feel his blood pressure rising the longer the journey lasted. It wasn't so much the advice she was giving. It had more to do with her tone and delivery, and the way she came across as a smug know-it-all. He decided not to waste any more time arguing about it. He needed to preserve his energy for the main event.

The motorcade turned into the grounds of the studio's headquarters. The limo passed through the gates and pulled up in front of the main building. A camera crew was already set up and rolling. Rebekkah looked aghast.

"What do these people think they're doing?" she said.

"It's probably just B-roll footage," Devereaux said.

"Oh, no. We did not consent to this." She moved over to the door. "I'll find out what's going on. Don't move until I give you the all-clear."

"Don't worry about it. It's fine," Marlowe said, but she was out the door the moment the limo's wheels stopped moving. He watched her march over to the camera operator, covering the lens with her hand and shouting demands for everyone to immediately cease filming.

He reached for his briefcase on the seat in front of him. As soon as he leaned forward, a jolt of pain shot down his spine. He winced.

"Neck still giving you trouble?" Devereaux said.

"Uh-huh." Marlowe pressed his fingers against the sore spot, in between his shoulder blades. "I think it's getting worse."

"I keep telling you, you should go to that massage therapist I told you about."

Marlowe selected a bottle of water from the mini fridge. "And I keep telling you that if I wanted a stranger's hands all over my body I'd use public transport."

He retrieved a small packet of painkillers from his briefcase, swallowing two with a mouthful of water. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat, enjoying a brief moment of solitude inside his hermetically-sealed environment.

The vehicle had been cleaned that morning. An odd chemical smell hung in the air.

"Can I offer you a word of advice?" Devereaux said.

"Go ahead," Marlowe said, his eyes still closed. "Everyone else seems to be telling me what to do these days."

"Yes, except I know what I'm talking about. And I want you to forget everything Rebekkah has just told you."

Marlowe heaved out a lungful of air. "I don't know. Maybe she's right. Maybe it is time for a new approach."

"You're not serious, are you? You know this girl doesn't have any proper qualifications. They only hired her because she has a popular blog, or a video-thing, or ... whatever it is people do with the internet these days."

No matter how many times it had been explained to them, Marlowe and Devereaux never really got their head around what Rebekkah did or why she had been hired, other than some vague notion of helping them "tap into the zeitgeist".

"I know some of what she said might sound crazy," Marlowe said.

"Only some of it sounds crazy?"

"Fine, most of it. But we can't keep doing the same thing over and over and expect it to start working for us." He absentmindedly fiddled with the window's controls, lowering and raising them as he waited for Rebekkah to return. "The election is less than six months away, and we've just lost another poll. Another one! We're further behind now than we've ever been."

"Ignore the polls," Devereaux said. "They're meaningless. They exist just to fill newspaper columns, and newspapers exist just to keep the homeless warm at night. The only poll of any relevance is the one on election day. Remember, whenever you have such a huge lead, like you did when you first came to office, it's inevitably followed by a fall. That's the basic gravity of politics. What goes up has to come down."

"I understand all that. It just feels like we've been coming down for an awfully long time. I'm beginning to wonder if it's ever going to stop."

Devereaux unclipped his seat belt. He moved into the seat next to Marlowe. "Let me ask you something. You were elected prime minister with a record seventy-one percent of the primary vote – true or false."

"Another lifetime ago, true."

"And during that campaign – the most successful election campaign in history, I might add – how many New Media and Dynamic Branding consultants did you employ to tell you how to behave and what color tie you should wear?"

"Zero."

"Precisely. You didn't need her help then, and you don't need it now. You got to where you are by trusting your instincts. All she's doing is stressing you out, getting inside your head and making you second-guess yourself. She's building this into something bigger than it needs to be."

Marlowe glanced out the window. Rebekkah was in the middle of an animated discussion with the network's producer that was becoming increasingly heated.

"It's not just that," he said. "What about all those stories of a leadership challenge? I know you told me to ignore it, but when you hear the same rumor over and over you have to question whether there might be some truth to it."

"Trust me, that's nothing more than a bunch of desperate journalists making stuff up to try to save their dying industry. If there was anything going on, if you had any reason to be concerned, I would know about it. As for tonight's interview, it's just two old friends catching up for a friendly chat. A free ten minute ad on prime-time television to sell the new tax policy."

For the first time today, Marlowe managed a smile. "You're probably right."

"I am right," Devereaux said, giving his boss a friendly punch on the arm. "You got this."

The door opened, and Rebekkah stuck her head inside. "They said they want to shoot something called B-roll footage," she said.

Marlowe nodded. "Alright then. Let's do this."

"You don't have to, you know. I can order them to leave if you're not comfortable."

"It's fine, Rebekkah. I've done this a thousand times before. It's standard practice."

"I'm just thinking about the optics, that's all. We're trying to re-brand you as a man of the people. I'm not sure vision of you stepping out of a limousine will help us in that department."

Marlowe buttoned up his suit jacket. "I think by now the whole country knows I'm rich," he said.

The zombie was tangled up in a barbed wire fence when Brandon and Miles arrived on the scene. It was a woman in her mid- to late-thirties wearing black leggings, a bright pink t-shirt and box-fresh white sneakers that were now dotted with red splotches of varying sizes. Deep scratches crisscrossed her arms, and dried blood stained her neck and chin. A small wound on the side of her face had claimed the lower part of her ear. She appeared to have been on her morning run when she was attacked.

"So what did Brock say about me?" Brandon said as they approached the former human.

"Brock?" Miles said.

"Yeah. The guy you went on that job with this morning. Did he mention me at all?"

He acted like he was giving this some thought as he clasped the snare pole's prongs around the zombie's neck. "No, I don't think he did."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm pretty sure. Why would he be talking about you?"

"Long story," Brandon said, slipping the cable ties around the zombie's wrists. "Just remember to be careful around him. That man harbors some serious issues. I pray for him, but I don't anticipate his salvation anytime soon. Don't say you haven't been warned."

"Duly noted."

Brandon clicked the muzzle shut over the zombie's face, and he set about trying to disentangle it from the fence.

The more time Miles spent with Brandon, the more obvious his intense fixation on Brock became. What he first thought was a simple workplace love triangle now appeared to be more of a weird and potentially volatile obsession. In his five days in the job, Brandon had referred to Brock on at least a dozen separate occasions.

He was also beginning to suspect that Brandon's frequent references to God and Jesus and prayer were more than just figures of speech. The crucifix tattoo on his forearm, and the bible verse inked on his neck, appeared to confirm deeply-held religious beliefs. The Christian rock stations he listened to as they traveled to and from jobs was also something of a giveaway. It seemed like an unusual combination; that someone so devout could also become so consumed with jealousy and vindictiveness. He figured the smartest thing to do would be to stay out of it.

Brandon gave up trying to de-snag the zombie and simply yanked it away from the barbed wire, creating large tears in its clothing. Miles held the snare pole with both hands as he guided it toward the back of the truck. This was no easy task, since this one was particularly feisty and uncooperative. He tried not to let on how much he was struggling, especially as the woman was half his size, and he'd seen Brandon maneuvering much larger zombies around with just one hand on the snare pole.

The truck's hydraulic lift lowered, and he pushed the undead jogger onto the platform. It was raised up to the holding area and moved into one of the bays. Brandon flicked the switch, and the automatic restraints locked it into place.

This was the second former human they had collected in the space of twenty minutes. They were attending to a job a few streets over, working on getting an undead man of about sixty under control, when the call came through alerting them to another zombie in the area.

The old man was found with a small amount of blood around his mouth. Fresh blood, by the look of it. There was a high chance that the victim and her attacker were now side by side in the back of the truck.

The two passengers were transported to the processing center. Brandon assisted the center staff with the unloading, while Miles completed the relevant documentation in the office. They were done after about ten minutes.

"What time is it?" Brandon said as he climbed back behind the wheel.

"It's almost three," Miles said.

"Yeah, close enough." Brandon gestured to the car fridge behind them. "Go ahead, help yourself."

Miles opened the fridge door. Inside was a small selection of cold alcoholic beverages. "What's this?" he said.

"This is Friday afternoons at Z-Pro, my friend. Our weekend starts here." He gave a friendly nudge that felt more like a minor assault. "Bet you never had that at Dead Rite, huh?"

"Oh, right."

This was something he had forgotten about Z-Pro. These people liked to party. A lot. Work hard, play hard was more than an unofficial motto for them. It was a way of life. Tales of their exploits were legendary, and Friday night benders were more or less compulsory for all staff.

He peered into the fridge to search for a soda or mineral water. He couldn't see any.

It had been almost three years since he took his last drink, and he had no real desire to throw that away just to fit in with his new surroundings. Or maybe he did. If he was being honest with himself, there was a part of him that wanted to do exactly that. It would be his reward for the discipline and restraint he had exercised over the last few years, and for making it through to the end of the week without quitting. There had been some bad experiences with alcohol, but he'd enjoyed just as many good times. Besides, he was a different person now. He was more mature, and he was confident that he could enjoy a drink or two without allowing it to take over his life.

A jolt of common sense snapped him out of it. He closed the fridge door before he could do something he might later regret.

"Thanks, but I'm good for now," he said.

"Don't worry bro, nobody cares if you have a drink or five on a Friday afternoon," Brandon said. "They're all paid for. It won't come out of your wages or anything."

"Really, I think I'll pass," he said, hoping Brandon would accept this and move on.

"If you're worried about Jack finding out, trust me, he doesn't care. He's probably drunk already. He starts before lunch most Fridays."

"Yeah, but I, uh ... I can't drink anything at the moment. Doctor's orders. I had this ear infection and I'm still taking antibiotics for it."

"Oh. Okay then. No problem." Brandon climbed back out of the front seat. He hurried around to the other side of the truck. "Move over. You can drive back. There's no point both of us being sober."

Chapter 8

The misshapen creature Bernard Marlowe saw in the studio monitors shortly after taking his seat on the set of Our Nation bared little resemblance to the image he had of himself in his head. It was only moments like this, when he caught an unexpected glimpse of himself, that he realized the true toll the job had taken on him. His face was so puffy and bloated it looked like he was suffering an allergic reaction. His hair sported large patches of gray, even though he'd had it dyed two weeks ago. He had aged twenty years in less than three. He looked elderly. The girls in makeup did the best they could, pancaking on the product and emptying half a can of hairspray, but this only gave him a weird kind of Madame Tussauds appearance.

His wardrobe was in dire need of an upgrade, too. He had been in denial about his weight gain, but the camera didn't lie. His suits no longer fit, with unsightly bulges sticking out and buttons that threatened to go flying across the room if he inhaled too quickly.

The program's host arrived on set a minute later. "Welcome back, prime minister," Olivia Perry said, greeting him with a warm smile. "Good to see you again."

"It's good to be back, Olivia," Marlowe said, trying to sound like he meant it.

"You're not feeling too nervous, I hope?"

He gave a friendly-if-insincere chuckle. "Not at all. I always look forward to speaking directly to the public. To be perfectly honest, it's a relief to be away from the circus of parliament for a few hours."

Olivia brushed a stray hair away from her face. She checked the monitors to make sure it was gone. Even though they sat only a short distance apart, Marlowe noticed the studio lighting was much more flattering to her than it was to him. She looked like a princess from a big budget fantasy film, while he was the deformed ogre she would ultimately slay.

"Too bad about the opinion poll," Olivia said, shuffling her notes and arranging her pens on her desk. She was referring to the poll released that morning showing the government's approval rating had slipped even further. "I really thought this would be the one where you turned it around."

"Ah, you know how politics is. Once a government reaches its peak, as we did, a natural correction soon follows." He was trying to brush it off like it was no big deal, reciting a line he had parroted many times before as a way of explaining their dramatic slide. "It happens to everyone, irrespective of performance."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," she said. "Once you get more exposure, your fortunes will undoubtedly improve."

"That's what we're counting on," he said.

"Besides, I hear you're still very popular on social media."

Marlowe responded with a forced smile. He didn't know what to make of that last comment. It was obviously a reference to the so-called pay-for-likes scandal from a few months ago. But was it just a bit of friendly banter, or was she trying to throw him off his game?

Before he had time to think about it any further, a producer was counting them down. The opening titles rolled, and they were on the air. Olivia Perry began her introduction.

"It's nearly three years since Bernard Marlowe came to power in a landslide election victory that lit a fuse under the establishment. His story is well-known by now – the outsider who gatecrashed a stagnant political scene at a time when a nervous public demanded strong leadership in the wake of the global undead catastrophe. His popularity skyrocketed, and at one point he appeared almost infallible. But after a period where it appeared nothing could go wrong for the prime minister, it now seems nothing can go right. With cabinet ministers caught misappropriating taxpayer funds, accusations of conflict of interest, constant infighting among colleagues, a string of disastrous opinion polls and numerous broken election promises, it's safe to say the honeymoon is over and a tumultuous marriage is now underway. Tonight, for his first in-depth television interview in six months, Bernard Marlowe joins me live in the studio. Prime minister, thanks for talking to Our Nation."

The camera zeroed in on Marlowe's face. He was trying not to appear too stunned. That was not the introduction he had been expecting. Which meant this would probably not be the type of interview he was expecting. A few seconds of dead air passed before he managed to put some words together.

"It's a pleasure to be with you," he said.

He had barely finished his sentence when Olivia Perry launched into attack mode.

"Prime minister, your critics have described your government as ill-equipped to lead, and one that formulates policies based predominantly on focus groups," she began. "Others have accused you of treating your position as your own personal fiefdom, using your power and influence to dish out favors to your friends in the corporate world at the expense of those who put you there. One thing that is certain is that your popularity continues to decline, almost on a daily basis. So with an election on the horizon, what do you say to the people watching at home questioning whether you deserve a second term?"

It was around this time that something in Marlowe's brain snapped, and a crimson mist descended. This woman had no interest in discussing government policy, or the state of the nation. She didn't want to talk about tax reform. This was an ambush, plain and simple. A shameless ploy to generate controversy. Well, if she wanted a fight she was going to get one. The gloves were coming off. He wasn't going to just sit there and take it.

Rebekkah Barclay sat alone in a backstage viewing area. A live feed played on a monitor. The interview had been running for only four minutes, but she was already brainstorming serious damage control strategies.

She knew before she took on the job that rehabilitating Bernard Marlowe's image wouldn't be easy, but she never expected anything like this. The prime minister had done just about everything she had explicitly asked him not to. It was almost as if he was willfully sabotaging the interview purely to spite her.

Train wreck didn't come close to describing what was happening here. This train had well and truly derailed, injured passengers had crawled over broken glass and dead bodies to pry themselves free from the wreckage, and now a jumbo jet had fallen from the sky to land on the crash site. All survivors and first responders were incinerated.

The plan was so basic that any simpleton could have followed it – stay on message, don't get sidetracked, and don't take the bait when the host tried to provoke you. That was it. Evidently, that was far too much to expect. She didn't know whether his ego was to blame or his infinitesimal attention span, but the ease in which he could be tricked into saying something undisciplined was staggering. It was a performance so inept and so petulant she wondered how he'd managed to make it as far as he had.

The millions watching at home witnessed a man trapped in a reality distortion field. They heard multiple references to the undead emergency, and repeated warnings that a catastrophic zombie outbreak was "not only possible, but probable" if immediate action was not taken. He produced a string of "facts" that could easily be disproven with a five-second Google search. When challenged on some of his more outlandish statements he declared he "would not be confined by the straightjacket of political correctness". His face was reddening and his makeup was melting. He gesticulated wildly with his hands every time he struggled to make a point. He was supplying comedians and satirists with untold weeks' worth of material.

It only got worse when he moved on to his new favorite subject – the constant media bias he claimed to be a victim of. So far, he had twice referred to himself as history's most unfairly maligned prime minister, declaring he was the target of a malicious smear campaign, and labeling his critics traitors who should be held accountable for the damage they inflicted on the country. Those in the press, he believed, had a vendetta against him because they couldn't stand to see someone like him succeed. It took all of Rebekkah's willpower not to storm the studio and clamp her hands over his mouth – or around his throat – to prevent him from saying any more.

She prayed for the torture to end, but it was unrelenting. The segment seemed to be going on for much longer than what they had agreed to. No doubt a producer was in Olivia Perry's earpiece, ordering her to keep on supplying Marlowe with all the rope he needed to hang himself with. They knew what great television they were getting, and they were going to milk it for all it was worth. This was destined to be replayed over and over for years to come.

After what felt like an aeon she finally heard the words she had been longing to hear: "Prime minister, we're out of time. Thank you for speaking with Our Nation."

The studio lights dimmed, and the station cut to a commercial break. Bernard Marlowe ripped off his microphone and stormed out without shaking the host's hand.

Rebekkah didn't move for a few minutes. She was in a state of shock. It would take a lot of time to process everything she had just seen. This really could not have been any more of a debacle. As well as ignoring every one of her directives, he failed to make even one mention of the government's plans for tax reform.

A knock at the door startled her. She looked up to see a young intern in a blue shirt and clip-on tie.

"Um ... are you Ms. Barclay?" he said.

"I am," Rebekkah sighed.

"Mr. Marlowe wanted me to tell you he's leaving now."

Rebekkah nodded. "I'll be right there."

"No, I think he meant he's leaving right at this moment. Or he's probably left by now, and that you, um, you might need to find another way home."

"Oh. I see. Thank you."

The intern quickly dematerialised. Rebekkah stared at the floor for an indeterminate period of time.

She then took out her phone and began drafting a resignation text message. Stepping down would be a much better look than being fired.

Chapter 9

The front passenger window of the silver Porsche Cayenne lowered. Elliott leaned forward and let the cool night air brush against his face. He sucked in a deep breath. Top shelf booze, consecutive late nights and minor blood loss all contributed to a feeling of wooziness and a loss of equilibrium. The hit of oxygen sobered him up marginally.

He leaned back in his seat and undid the top button on his shirt. This allowed him to breathe a little easier.

James Pridham glanced across from the driver's seat. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. A bit light-headed, but I'll survive," he said.

"How about the hand?"

He held up his left hand. It was wrapped in a white bandage. He could feel it throb.

"It's okay now. I know it looked like a lot of blood, but it doesn't really hurt that bad."

"It doesn't hurt because the cut wasn't too serious, or because all that alcohol has numbed the pain?"

"Maybe a bit of both," Elliott said with a smile.

James Pridham was CEO of Elixxia, the world's largest pharmaceutical company. He and Elliott didn't have a great deal in common – Pridham was almost twenty years his senior, he had a private school education and a masters in economics, and he moved in social circles that included billionaires and world leaders. But despite these differences, they had grown to become good friends over the past few years.

The two had just attended an art exhibition and auction. Elliott knew next to nothing about art, but he was eager to expand his horizons and soak in some of the culture. The exhibition was to showcase the work of Erik Mackintosh, aka Generik, a provocative street artist whose audacious and satirical works were being snapped up by celebrities and serious collectors faster than he could produce them.

Elliott had no intention of purchasing anything tonight. His plan was to go in with an open mind, check out the works on display, meet some new people and maybe learn a thing or two along the way. But that was before he had the misfortune of firstly crossing paths with a man by the name of Richard Locraine, and then committing the irredeemable sin of not knowing who he was. Richard Locraine, he would soon learn, was a world-renowned collector, critic and galley owner. He was also notorious for his colossal ego and hair-trigger temper. Locraine was already in a combative and antagonistic mood when he arrived – something to do with a mix-up with his VIP pass – and for some reason he decided to take his frustrations out on Elliott. He immediately took perverse delight in mocking his naiveté and limited knowledge of the art world. He complained to anyone within earshot about the ignorant scenesters who had clambered aboard this latest bandwagon because some pop star had purchased a Generik piece and posted it on Instagram, or some model wore a Generik-designed t-shirt for their latest fashion shoot. "The minute the great unwashed show up to these things," he announced to the room, "that's when you know for certain a movement has run its course."

Elliott had no idea how to respond to this. He was already feeling out of place and self-conscious, struggling to fit in and not really knowing how to behave in this company. Now he was being belittled by some tweed-wearing, red-faced drunk he had only just met. But it didn't take long to think up the perfect comeback.

The auction began midway through the evening. The first Generik piece under the hammer was a canvas with "ゥON$UMEョ" stenciled in neon pink across a black background. The auctioneer described it as an ironic commentary on the intersection of art and commerce in a capitalistic society, although to Elliott's untrained eye it looked like something a high schooler put together in ten minutes. The bidding began, and the price soon climbed to $270,000. Richard Locraine was moments away from owning the piece when Elliott stole it away from him with the winning bid. The hammer fell, and the artwork was his.

The warm applause from the crowd imbued him with a feeling of acceptance, but it was nowhere near as satisfying as the filthy look he received from Locraine. That was all it took to inspire him to keep going.

Locraine bid on the next piece up for auction. Elliott swooped in at the last minute with a winning bid of $390,000. The applause this time was louder, and more enthusiastic.

"I don't know what you think you're doing here," Locraine spat at Elliott, shortly after he had made his fifth purchase for the night. "But these bids are legally binding. If you're unable to pay for them, and if you're just here to waste everyone's time, the gallery will take you to court, and they will pursue damages."

Elliott taunted him with a smile. He was enjoying this more than he thought he would. "Thanks for the advice, old timer," he said. "But I could buy this entire collection if I wanted to. And who knows? Maybe I will."

He didn't quite go that far, but he did end up snatching another three pieces away before the pompous windbag finally gave up and stormed out in disgust. It was a moment of great triumph, and Elliott was feeling on top of the world. It wouldn't occur to him until much later on, when the buzz had worn off and he had sobered up some more, that it was something of a Pyrrhic victory, and he had spent close to three million dollars to spite some guy he had only just met and would probably never see again.

But at the time he was in a celebratory mood. Strangers were coming up to him to shake his hand and compliment him on his impeccable taste. They assured him the works were sound investments and were likely to multiply in value within the coming years. Drinks appeared from nowhere as everyone clamored to introduce themselves to this mysterious young man who had livened up what might have otherwise been a fairly staid auction process. He was the most popular guy in the room, and he didn't want the night to end.

Unfortunately, it was brought to an abrupt conclusion when he clumsily tripped over a step and tumbled to the floor. He put his hand out to break his fall, which happened to be holding a champagne glass at the time. Pridham decided that it might be a good time for Elliott to call it a night. Since he was in no condition to drive, he bundled him into his Porsche and got him out of there.

Elliott pulled back the bandage to inspect the cut. The bleeding appeared to have finally stopped.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the emergency room?" Pridham said.

"Nah, I'll be fine," Elliott said. "I don't think it'll need stitches. And I'll do my best not to bleed all over your car."

"Eh, it's no big deal if you do. It's only a rental. The Roadster though, if you got blood on that I might not be so understanding."

Pridham was the proud owner of a classic 1968 Series 1.5 Jaguar E-Type Roadster. It was one of only thirty in the world, and his most prized material possession. Elliott had never seen it himself, although he had seen photographs. He agreed, it did look like an amazing vehicle.

"So why didn't you take the Roadster out tonight?" he said. "If I had a car like that I don't think I'd drive anything else."

"That's actually kind of a sore point with me right now," Pridham said.

"Oh. I'm afraid to ask."

"It's nothing too bad. It's just that a couple of months ago I took it out for a spin one Sunday morning. I was stopped at a red light when out of nowhere this Volvo-driving senior citizen, some Mr. Magoo who should never have been on the road in the first place, he slams right into the back of me."

"Oh, no. What a tragedy."

"Really, you wouldn't believe this guy. He had glasses as thick as oreos, and he could barely see over the steering wheel. He was that old I'm not even sure he knew he'd hit anything."

"So how bad was it?"

"The damage wasn't catastrophic, thank god, because he wasn't traveling that fast. Just a few minor indentations, and they weren't too hard to buff out. The only problem now is that the trunk won't stay shut. Sometimes if you just bump it, it pops open. Other times it does it on its own accord. I think the hook bit inside the lock is bent, or it's snapped off or something. And a vehicle like that, it's not like I can drop it off at the local repairer to get it fixed. It has to be sent to specialists, and they have to import the parts from Europe. It's a nightmare. Whenever I get it back it's fine for a few days, or a few weeks, and then it starts happening again. Once a car has been in an accident, even a minor one, it's never quite the same."

Elliott shook his head in sympathy. "Drivers that old are a menace. They shouldn't be allowed out on the road."

"Exactly!" Pridham said. This was an issue he was clearly passionate about. "The government really needs to look at changing the laws. At the very least they should have to reapply for their license once they turn seventy."

The Porsche slowed as they took a left turn. Elliott unfurled the bandage, which was now tie-dyed with large red splotches. He was surprised by the amount of blood that had come from what looked like a fairly superficial wound.

"Make sure you dispose of that correctly, by the way," Pridham said.

Elliott scrunched the bandage up in his hand. "Oh, yeah. I'll throw it out as soon as I get home."

"I don't mean that. I mean you'll need to burn it."

"Burn it?"

"Yes, Elliott. Your blood is an extremely valuable commodity, in case you'd forgotten. In fact, any blood outside your body is technically the property of Elixxia Pharmaceuticals. You were aware of that, weren't you?"

"Well, I'm not ... I wasn't ..." He struggled to recall what was said to him back when he signed all those contracts. His legal team tried explaining everything to him in layman's terms, dumbing it down and using simple language that he could understand, but there were so many clauses and conditions that it was just too much information to retain.

"Elixxia holds exclusive intellectual property rights to your blood," Pridham said. "If one of our competitors got their hands on a sample it could be hugely detrimental to our future earnings. If that bandage fell into the wrong hands there's a strong possibility that you could be sued."

"Of course, of course, I'll get rid of it as soon as I get home," Elliott said.

An uncomfortable few seconds passed before Pridham burst out laughing. "Relax, I'm only joking."

Elliott laughed along. "Oh. I know. I was joking too," he said, unconvincingly. He stuffed the bandage into his pocket, and he undid another button on his shirt. He noticed he was sweating all of a sudden.

"But still, it's a good idea to make sure you do take care of that," Pridham said. "Just to be on the safe side. You wouldn't believe how sneaky some of the people in our industry can be."

Three years ago Elliott was one of a number of UMC agents working in the rural community of Graves End after it had become inundated with thousands of undead beings. This was a dangerous and highly illegal undertaking that was supposed to have been reported to the relevant authorities. Dead Rite went ahead and did it on their own anyway; they were in deep financial trouble, and they hoped the potential windfall would help dig them out of the very deep hole they found themselves in. It didn't take long for things to spiral out of control.

During the course of the job, Elliott sustained a minor zombie bite to his right shoulder. For most people this would result in them transforming into an undead being within a matter of hours. Instead, thanks to a combination of blind luck and an improbable series of random events, it transformed him into a multi-millionaire.

He didn't recall much of what happened after being bitten, other than the terrifying realization that he was about to die. What he did remember was waking up in a hospital bed two months later, his body severely weakened and his head feeling like a lump of chewed gum, to be told that he was showing no sign of the BNBO-511:17 pathogen. He had miraculously defeated the infection that had stumped the planet's greatest scientific minds and ripped a hole through the world's population. The pathogen had caused death, and then undeath, in one hundred percent of reported cases, and yet somehow he had beaten it. Every blood test came back clean. Not only was he free from the infection, he was actually immune.

This stunning turn of events left doctors scratching their heads. No one could begin to explain it. Elliott was just as flabbergasted. Of all the people this could have happened to, he had no idea why he should be so fortunate while everyone else in his situation met with such a cruel fate.

But over time the pieces of the puzzle came together. He remembered in the weeks leading up to Graves End, when he was unemployed and short on cash, he participated in two clinical trials to test for a potential vaccine. These two separate doses of experimental medication combined to produce an unexpected reaction to combat the infection. But there was more to it than that. One crucial ingredient was missing. It was something the doctors weren't able to put their finger on.

It wasn't until he recalled the incident that occurred the night before they were due to start the Graves End job that it all fell into place. He had left work at Dead Rite after spending the day preparing for the big job when he was set upon by two unidentified assailants. They forced him to the ground, and his skin was punctured by a syringe filled with zombie blood. To this day, the identity of the men behind the attack remained a mystery. He had his own private suspicions of who it might be, but he could never be certain. It was most likely retaliation for his much-publicized assault on Trent, and the people responsible may have been connected to one of the militant pro-zombie groups, but beyond that he had no solid proof.

This should have been a death sentence. Infected blood polluting a healthy body typically turned that person into a moving cadaver within a matter of days. But that didn't happen to Elliott. What happened instead was the tiny amount of tainted blood reacted to the cocktail of medication in his system, and it combined to fight off the infection he had sustained during the bite. It soon became apparent that Elliott's blood was one of the most valuable and sought-after resources on earth.

His first course of action upon learning this was to retain the services of a lawyer. It was a cynical move, and he felt a little dirty for doing it, but he wanted to make sure he was covered. He had heard stories of naïve people being fleeced out of what was rightfully theirs simply because they were too trusting or lacked the foresight to seek legal advice beforehand, and he didn't want to make the same mistake.

The International Biodefense Laboratory, a non-profit organization headed up by Dr. Martin Bishop, pleaded with Elliott to make samples of his blood available to their researchers. The more infection-resistant blood there was to study, and the greater number of scientists working in collaboration, the faster a cure could be found. Elliott believed that was the correct and responsible thing to do, and for a moment he considered doing just that. But before he had the chance to do anything so altruistic his legal team intervened and arranged for him to meet with representatives from the world's leading pharmaceutical and biochemical companies. He was soon bombarded with offers of obscene wealth and endless opulence, which could all be his if he relinquished just a small volume of his bodily fluids. Deep down he wanted to do the right and honorable thing, but once these promises of incredible riches were dangled in front of him he was helpless to resist.

He ended up signing the exclusive rights over to Elixxia Pharmaceuticals, a mid-sized company that had been in operation for less than a decade. Led by James Pridham, their ambitious new CEO, they pulled out all stops in an effort to snare his prized signature. In return, he received an upfront payment of ten million dollars, along with stock options that made him the company's third-largest shareholder and ongoing quarterly royalty payments.

Elixxia had convinced Elliott they could develop the new treatment and get it on the market faster than their competitors. They assured him during negotiations that they would do everything in their power to make any product accessible to as many people as possible across the world. Elliott nodded through all of this, but by this stage his mind was well and truly occupied with other matters. With the amount of money about to come his way they could have told him they were planning on using his blood to produce an army of Hitler clones and he still would have been okay with it.

Zaracaine-9 was released to the world less than a year later, and it was instantly hailed as a wonder drug. It suppressed the infection's worst effects, and it brought patients back from their zombie-like state. The drug was not without its drawbacks; it was not a permanent cure, its excessive cost kept it out of reach for many on lower incomes, and if the patient ceased taking the medication the symptoms would return. But it gave hope for the future, and Elixxia promised they were making great strides in the development of a product that would be both affordable and have lasting effects.

The medication had been on the market for two years now, and it was yet to come down in price. In the same period Elixxia had seen its share price – and Elliott's net worth – increase thirteen-fold, and the company grew to become the largest in its sector. They aggressively protected their product, launching legal action against anyone that tried to manufacture or develop a version of the drug that was similar to their own, and they were rumored to employ the use of force when shutting down rogue laboratories that had sprung up in locations across the globe.

For Elliott, the thrill of having near-infinite riches faded after a while. He did his best to enjoy his extraordinary good fortune. He went on shopping sprees where he would drop $50,000 in a single store. He traveled first class around the world, and he holidayed in exotic locales. He made regular additions to his ever-expanding fleet of luxury automobiles. This all gave him a brief dopamine rush, but it was only ever a fleeting sensation. It wouldn't allow him to forget about those directly affected by his actions – the people forced to work two or three jobs just to cover the costs of the medication; the families who had to take out second mortgages to pay for a loved one's treatment; the re-lifers begging on the streets, trying to scrape together enough cash to pay for their next dose and live to see another day. He had more money than he knew what to do with, but he had unwittingly created a whole new underclass, and he had turned Elixxia into the world's most powerful drug cartel.

He had raised the issue with James Pridham on a number of occasions. Pridham agreed the current retail price for Zaracaine-9 was much higher than what he'd like it to be, and he assured him the costs would eventually come down. He explained that Elixxia were yet to recoup the money invested at the research and development stage, and that it might be four or five more years before the company turned a profit. He placed most of the blame for the ongoing high costs on the unauthorized medication in circulation.

Elliott tried to convince himself he had done nothing wrong, and that the heartless corporation was the real villain here. Elixxia had misled him from the start. They told him everything he wanted to hear in order to secure his signature, and then backtracked on their assurances about making the treatment accessible to the widest possible market. But that wasn't the full story. The truth was that he only heard what he wanted to hear. If he really wanted to make the medication affordable he would have done what others had pleaded with him to do and made his blood freely available for all researchers to study.

Now he handed out his money to anyone who asked in an attempt at assuaging his chronic guilt. He didn't care. He had more than he could ever spend. The interest from his investments alone far exceeded his monthly expenses. He paid off all of Dead Rite's debts – the least he could do given he was responsible for a large proportion of them – and he covered the costs of Steve's regeneration and ongoing treatment. He donated to charities, and he helped out anyone he knew who had fallen on hard times. An observer might think he was trying to do something positive with his good fortune, but Elliott knew he was really trying to buy back his conscience.

Chapter 10

It was early Saturday morning. The rain from the previous night had cleared, and the sun's rays were peeking through a gap in the clouds. Miles pulled into the driveway of his former residence. This was the house he had lived in for most of his life, but now he was just the landlord.

The place still looked decent, all things considered. The lawns and gardens were much neater now; he rarely bothered to do any work around the place when he lived there. He was lucky to have found tenants who looked after the place and contributed to its upkeep. He only had to look at some of the other houses on the street to know how fortunate he was. Many looked like they were about to be swallowed up by the overgrown vegetation.

A figure appeared in his rear-view mirror. It was an older white-haired gentleman with a walking stick in his left hand and a dog leash in his right. The other end of the leash was attached to a Rottweiler the size of a mule. The dog was an ugly beast, with thick strings of drool hanging from both sides of its mouth and large patches of fur missing from scrapping with other dogs.

The man's name was John Barrett. He was the street's longest-serving resident, as well as the most bitter and miserable human being Miles ever had the misfortune of knowing. This was someone for whom complaining was as natural as breathing. The world had inflicted an endless parade of injustices upon him, and he never hesitated to share his viewpoint with anyone who entered his orbit. Legend had it that no one had ever seen him smile. The man wore a frown like a permanent facial deformity.

Miles moved his hand away from the door. He was going to wait a minute before stepping out of the car. It had been a pleasant morning until now, and he didn't want to ruin it by having to speak to or interact with the neighborhood curmudgeon.

His eyes followed Barrett as he passed behind. He looked no different from when he last saw him. In fact, he had barely changed at all in the twenty-plus years he had known him. He still wore his everyday uniform of tan corduroy pants hiked halfway up his chest and a garish canary yellow polyester shirt. He was never seen in anything else, regardless of the season. When Miles was a teenager he and his friends used to speculate as to how this may have happened. They decided that in the mid-seventies Barrett had somehow come across a bulk purchase of heavily-discounted brown trousers and yellow shirts and decided that, from that day forth and until the day he died, this would be his permanent look.

The dog stopped at a power pole to mark its territory. Barrett looked around as he waited, casting a jaundiced eye over his surroundings. A breeze tousled his wispy hair, giving him the deranged look of a cartoon scientist.

His gaze landed on the car. The dog finished its business. Barrett marched across the road.

Miles was hit with a shot of dread when he saw the old man coming his way. His limbs locked up. He wanted to jump out and make a run for it, but there was no time. He was caught in two minds, paralyzed by inaction. He had left it too late.

As a last resort he held his phone to his ear and commenced an imaginary conversation.

"Uh-huh. Okay. Yep, sure. That sounds great," he said to no one in particular. He nodded and kept looking straight ahead, focusing on the garage door. He had never acted before, but he thought he delivered a passable performance.

Barrett and the dog stepped into his peripheral vision. He pretended not to notice. He hoped that if he ignored him for long enough he might go away.

"Sure, I can be there by three," he said.

"Hey! TV star!" Barrett's arthritic knuckles rapped against the window. Tiny flecks of spittle dotted the glass.

Miles grimaced. Only now did he realize what a dumb idea that was. He should have known his former neighbor wouldn't have suddenly developed the necessary social graces to care about interrupting someone in the middle of a phone call. If only he had trusted his instincts and jumped out of the car when he had the chance.

"I'll have to call you back," he told the non-existent caller. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and put on his best face. "Mr. Barrett!" he said, stepping out of the car. "Long time no see."

"Huh?"

"I said it's been a long time since we last saw each other."

"What are you doing letting vermin live in your house?" he bellowed.

Another of John Barrett's peculiarities was that he would often blurt out whatever happened to be on his mind, with no preamble or context, rather than wasting time with pleasantries or pointless small talk.

"I'm sorry, vermin?" Miles did his best to look confounded. He also tried to ignore the Rottweiler sniffing his leg, starting at the ankle and working its way up.

"The ones you have living in there." A crooked finger on a withered hand pointed in the direction of Miles' childhood home. "Those people living in your house are carriers."

"Really? You're sure about that?"

"Huh?"

"I said are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure! I looked it up on the register! At least two of them are carriers. Maybe more. Maybe they all are! We just don't know."

"Oh, I'm so sorry about that." He wasn't sure why he was apologizing to the rudest man he had ever known, especially when he had done nothing wrong. "Really, I had no idea."

"Huh?"

"I said I had no idea about any of that. This is the first I've heard of it."

"I'm paying for them to live there, you know?" Barrett said.

"You're ... paying for them?"

The Rottweiler's sniffing became more aggressive and invasive. He tried holding it off with one hand, but this did nothing to discourage it. He noticed Barrett used a length of old twine to walk it rather than spend six dollars on a regular dog leash.

"Yes, I'm paying for them. You, me, all of us! We're all paying for them! They get given these benefits, they get everything handed to them on a silver platter, and the taxpayer foots the bill."

The fact that John Barrett only ever had fleeting associations with regular employment throughout his working life failed to dampen his rage. He was a one-man talk radio station, broadcasting his unsolicited and unhinged views to the world at large.

"Every second house on the street now has filthy carriers living in them!" he continued. "They're turning this place into a third-world country. These people, they come in here, they don't work, they drive down the property prices, and nobody asked us if we wanted it. They just went ahead and let it happen."

He emphasized each point by jabbing his walking stick into the air. Miles had to lean away to avoid losing an eye.

"They might be dangerous. They might be spreading disease around. We just don't know!"

"I understand your concern. I'll see what I can do about it," Miles said.

"Huh?"

"I said I'll see what I can do." He took a few small steps toward the house, making a move to exit the conversation in increments, as if this was a more polite way of leaving rather than simply walking away. "The thing is, I'm not sure I can evict them for no reason. Legally, I mean. I think they still have rights."

"Oh, of course they'll have rights," Barrett muttered as the dog yanked at its leash, panting and gasping for air as the twine tightened around its neck. The canine had either picked up the scent of some nearby pheromone, or it was attempting to strangle itself to avoid having to live with such an insufferable misanthrope. "Everyone has rights these days! Squatters have rights, criminals have rights, lesbians have rights. They give these handouts to the parasites and deviants who have never done anything to help anyone, and those of us who obey the law get trampled on over and over."

A set of ugly gray bars now obscured each of the three windows facing the street. They were intimidating and uninviting, and they made the house look like an asylum or a juvenile detention facility, but they were sadly necessary. In just the past six months, Miles had paid to replace cracked or broken windows on three separate occasions. Shatterproof glass was an option, and it would look better aesthetically, but it would also cost a lot more than he wanted to spend.

The house was now occupied by the Talleys, an extended family of nine. There were four adults and five children ranging in age from six to eleven. Conditions were a little on the cramped side, although it probably wasn't too different from what Miles put up with when he lived here with Clea and her endless parade of house guests.

In all, the Talleys were model tenants; a nice quiet family who never caused any trouble and always paid their rent on time. There was one married couple, Warren and Claire, plus two other women, Trisha and Elise. They were Claire's sisters, both single mothers, although he could never remember which child belonged to which parent. He didn't ask, but he got the impression Trisha and Elise were widowed. Their husbands, he assumed, had both met with undead-related demises.

Even though they did their best to hide it, it was obvious at least two of the adults were re-lifers – former zombies who had undergone treatment to transition back to a human state. The signs were fairly easy to detect. He could tell Elise was due to the fact that she was never seen without a full face of makeup, something she did to add some color to her pallid complexion. Warren always wore a cravat around his neck, covering up what Miles assumed were scars from where he had been bitten.

Living arrangements similar to this were common among re-lifers. The formerly-undead faced numerous challenges in finding suitable housing, partly because many were unemployed and their options severely limited, but also because landlords were often reluctant to rent their homes out to them. Miles didn't have a problem with it, although he was in no position to be selective about his choice of tenant. This was a property where the violent slaughter of four former humans had taken place, which had a significant impact on demand.

Financial constraints were also a factor in the Talleys' decision to cram nine family members into a three-bedroom house, with only Claire and Trisha currently bringing in an income. Re-lifers often struggled to find employment, and any jobs they did manage to secure were usually low-skilled and low-paid. The cost of treatment also consumed a large portion of their income.

Animosity toward re-lifers – or revitalized humans, as they were also known – had been an issue almost from the moment the first group of undead beings underwent successful regeneration. Many regarded them as untrustworthy, and there was still a great deal of resentment from those who had lost loved ones in undead attacks. Re-lifers were often shunted off to live in low-income areas where ghettos soon formed and property prices plummeted. They may have no longer been undead, but they were still viewed by many as subhuman.

The Marlowe government was more than happy to exacerbate the situation, grateful to have a new minority group to use as a punching bag whenever they needed to deflect from their own failings. They had established an online register detailing the names and addresses of all known former zombies. Government departments were ordered to cease referring to these people as "re-lifers" in their communications, and to use only the dehumanizing term "carriers". They had also made multiple attempts at introducing laws preventing them from living near schools, as well as a requirement that all re-lifers be fitted with ankle monitors. So far, they had been unsuccessful in getting these proposals through parliament. Civil liberties groups and the Former Human Defense League decried this as a gross invasion of privacy, saying that vulnerable and innocent people were being treated like criminals. Bernard Marlowe dismissed these concerns, stating the public's right to safety was far more important than the hurt feelings of a small minority.

For the Talley family, the online register meant harassment and intimidation was now a part of their everyday life. As well as the occasional rock through their window, they had endured threatening phone calls and letters, verbal abuse from strangers on the street, and the house had been pelted with eggs.

The tradesman packed his tools away into the back of his truck. "That should do the job," he said. He handed Miles the invoice for the work carried out. "You sure you don't want bars over the back windows as well? It'll be cheaper if I do them all at once."

"I think this will be fine for now," Miles said.

He looked at the bill. It came to $550. He was glad he now had a regular income to cover these kinds of unexpected expenses.

"Give me a call if you change your mind," the tradesman said as he climbed into his truck. "I have a few more jobs in the area today and tomorrow, so I'll be around if you need me."

"Will do," Miles said.

He reversed out of the driveway. Miles went over to each window to give the bars a quick shake and evaluate their sturdiness. They seemed secure enough. He knocked on the front door to let Claire know the job was finished.

"Thanks for organizing all this for us," Claire said. "Again, I'm really sorry it's had to come to this."

"You don't need to apologize," he said.

"I know, I know. It's just ..." She trailed off for a moment. "I really wish this wasn't necessary."

"Yeah. Me too. Maybe we should think about installing security cameras as well."

"Oh, I wouldn't expect you to do that. Besides, I doubt security cameras would be much of a deterrent for some of these people."

"Maybe not, but it might help catch them the next time they do it."

As soon as he said this, Miles regretted his choice of words – speaking of the next attack as if it was an inevitability, talking about "when" rather than "if". He didn't really want to have to pay for cameras either, but he could see how much the ongoing harassment affected the whole family, even if Claire did her best to put on a brave face.

"We'll keep it in mind," she said through a stoic smile. "See if the bars do anything to help."

The sound of screaming children soon dragged her back inside. Miles stayed around a bit longer to fix up a few minor issues. He had to change a globe on the security light and replace some screws on a wonky handrail. He wasn't the most competent handyman, but he at least had the basics covered.

He was heading back to his car when he heard someone call out to him. "Clive! Is that you?"

He glanced over his shoulder. His eighty-seven year old neighbor was on the other side of the fence, inching her way down the driveway with the aid of a walking frame.

"Oh, hi there Mrs. Jensen," he said.

"Fancy seeing you here, Clive," she said, her voice a little shakier than the last time they spoke. "It's been too long since you were around. You need to visit more often."

"I know, I know," Miles said. "I've just been busy, that's all."

"Oh, I don't doubt that. Especially now that you're a big celebrity. It must be hard finding time for yourself."

He nodded in agreement, and pretended that what she had just said made sense. He knew Mrs. Jensen's mind could take some curious detours from time to time, but it was beginning to sound like she was losing her grip on reality. He wondered how much longer it would be before she would have to go into a nursing home.

"I do what I can to manage," he said.

He stayed around to talk for a few more minutes. Mrs. Jensen brought him up to date on all the gossip and goings-on in the neighborhood – who was new to the street, who had moved out, which houses were causing trouble, which residents played their music too loud on weeknights. She told him about the woman she had spotted sneaking into another house when her husband was at work, and she asked about Miles' sister and his non-existent wife. He assured her they were both doing well.

He left after making up an excuse about some pressing engagement he had to get to. He didn't really want to stay around the old house any longer than he had to. The costs associated with maintaining the upkeep already ate up a significant portion of the rent he received each week, and he didn't want it to consume most of his free time as well. He had been giving serious thought to selling the place recently. Finding a buyer would not be easy, especially now that the neighborhood was rapidly turning into a re-lifer ghetto, but he was considering just cutting his losses and taking whatever price he could get for it.

He had been on the road for only a few minutes when, out of nowhere, the most peculiar thought announced itself.

Mrs. Jensen referred to him as a celebrity when she saw him. That in itself would not be unusual – she was often away in a world of her own – were it not for the fact that John Barrett had earlier greeted him with a gruff "Hey! TV star!" That may have been nothing more than an odd coincidence. Or it may have been something else entirely.

"Oh no," he said to himself.

A wave of panic rippled through him. The accelerator hit the floor.

He felt a growing sickness as he weaved in and out of traffic. He told himself to calm down. He didn't know for sure what had happened. Maybe he was overreacting. There was every chance it was all in his mind, and he had nothing to worry about. There was still hope.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not think of an alternative explanation for all this. There was only one likely outcome. The one thing he feared the most had happened.

He made it home eight minutes later. He burst through the door and switched on the TV, flicking through the channels until he came across one showing commercials. It was an ad for breakfast cereal. The next was for health insurance, then coffee, then another for breakfast cereal. Then back to the program. He changed channels again. An ad for shampoo. This was excruciating. Anxiety burned a hole in his chest. The worst part was not knowing.

It had been several weeks since the film crew turned up to one of their jobs to collect footage for the government commercial. He hadn't spent any time worrying about it, since he was confident they weren't able to obtain anything usable of him. He was conscious of where the camera was the whole time they were filming, and he made sure he was always just out of shot or facing the other way. They might have filmed the back of his head or part of his arm, but no more than that. Once they were done he scribbled his name across a waiver, and he hadn't given it a moment's thought since. Until now.

He was put out of his misery half an hour later when the new government-sponsored advertisement finally appeared on the screen. He saw the same images that typically made up these propaganda pieces – men and women in army uniforms patrolling the air and sea, friendly police helping out everyday civilians, armed security officers subduing a violent hooligan. The voiceover assured the viewing public that Bernard Marlowe was working tirelessly to keep the country safe from every insidious threat, alive and undead. He was building a better future for the next generation despite the daily opposition he faced from vocal special interest groups and traitorous media organizations.

Miles' cameo appearance came toward the end of the commercial. He was shown smiling and laughing. His face and his Z-Pro polo shirt were clearly identifiable, filling seventy percent of the screen. One-eighth of Clea's head was also in shot, although no one could tell it was her.

He had kept his face hidden throughout the shoot, but none of that mattered in the end. They hadn't used any of that footage. They had filmed him when he was talking to Clea, completely oblivious to the fact that he had a camera pointed at him. His total screen time amounted to less than two seconds, but that was enough. His secret was out.

Chapter 11

Sebastian Devereaux hurried through the empty hallways of parliament, moving as fast as he could without spilling the thick bundle of documents in his arms. Sixty-plus reports had to be on the desks of every government minister by sunrise, and he had been assigned the unenviable task of printing, collating and distributing them all before he left for the night. He had become accustomed to this sort of treatment ever since he began working here. His father was Lawrence Devereaux, the Minister for Undead Affairs and one of the prime minister's most trusted allies, and so his colleagues made an extra special effort to ensure he earned his place and was afforded no preferential treatment. This meant that sooner or later every menial and laborious task worked its way down the chain of command until it finally landed in his inbox. He accepted this without too much complaint, but from time to time it could get a little tiresome.

A janitor, an amiable immigrant worker in his late-fifties, pushed a floor polisher up and down the corridor. These days only the cleaning staff stayed back as late as he did. He was on a first-name basis with most of them by now.

"Easy there boy," the janitor said in his heavy Venezuelan accent. "I just put a fresh coat down. You slip and break your neck, they'll hold me responsible."

"I'll take the risk, Michel," Sebastian said as he scooted around the corner. "I move any slower, I'll still be here after midnight."

He came to the prime minister's office. He pushed down on the door handle with his elbow and performed a kind of awkward dance, clutching the reports to his chest and nudging the door open with his foot.

He stepped inside and froze. Someone was in there, when they definitely shouldn't be. They were sitting in the prime minister's chair, directly beneath the giant portrait of Bernard Marlowe that hung on the far wall. In the low light, only their silhouette was visible. A soft glow from a laptop screen illuminated their face slightly.

The door slammed shut behind him. Sebastian jumped a little.

He did a double-take. He thought he must have been seeing things. This wasn't some intruder – it was the actual prime minister, still in his office at ten o'clock on a Thursday night. This was a Bigfoot sighting. Bernard Marlowe never stayed back late. From what he had observed, he could barely tolerate the place.

A video played on the laptop. He couldn't see the screen properly, but the audio was all too familiar. It was the previous night's interview on Our Nation with Olivia Perry. Considering how ferocious her evisceration was of him and how inept he came across, this felt like an especially masochistic exercise.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir. I didn't think anyone was still here," Sebastian said.

Marlowe did nothing to acknowledge his presence. He wasn't even sure if he had heard him. His eyes were fixed on the screen. Sebastian tiptoed across the room and gently slid a copy of the report on the desk, as if trying not to awaken a hibernating bear.

A moment of awkwardness passed as the interview played. The prime minister sat there watching himself drown in front of an audience of millions on live television. Sebastian remained mute. From where he stood, he could see the screen in the reflection of the glass cabinet directly behind. The clip was from YouTube. He prayed that Marlowe hadn't scrolled down to read the comments.

He couldn't help but feel just a scintilla of sympathy for his boss. As far as he could tell, when Marlowe first launched his campaign to become prime minister he had no real idea of what the job entailed. He didn't know about the punishing schedule, the round-the-clock scrutiny of his every word and action, and the endless criticism surrounding his performance. He hadn't taken into account the impact it would have on his jet-setting lifestyle, or that he would have to give up many of his cherished extracurricular activities. If he had known all this beforehand it's doubtful he would have considered running. Being prime minister, it turned out, was a lot like being an astronaut. It was something many people said they'd love to do without really having any idea of how much work was involved. Marlowe already appeared nostalgic for the heady days of the election campaign from three years earlier, back when his profile was closer to that of a Hollywood megastar than an aspiring politician. Those were the days when his loyal followers filled entire stadiums, and when he graced the cover of just about every magazine and newspaper across the nation. Television, radio and social media couldn't get enough of him. He was one of the most discussed, debated and dissected people on the planet. It was exhilarating; he was like a big-wave surfer riding the crest of a tsunami. But that would be the high point. He won, and his life had been on a downward trajectory ever since.

One image in particular was burned into Sebastian's memory. It was on election night, moments after it became obvious Marlowe was going to win in a landslide. He was about to step up to the podium to deliver his victory speech to a roomful of ecstatic supporters. The mood was one of unrestrained jubilation. And then, for a split-second, a deer-in-the-headlights look flashed across his face. It was a look that revealed him as being overwhelmed and terrified. He didn't have the slightest idea what he was doing here. It was only brief, but it was there. He was like Dustin Hoffman in the final scene of The Graduate; he had got what he wanted, the one thing he had pursued with sociopathic fervor for the past two years, and now he was questioning whether he really wanted it at all. He was someone who had craved power for power's sake, for the prestige feeling of holding office. He had no real desire to do the actual job.

Sebastian was about to tiptoe back out when Marlowe spoke up.

"Look at her. It's patently obvious what she's doing. She's trying to make a name for herself."

He froze. He was unsure if the prime minister expected him to respond. "I-I'm sorry?"

"Olivia Perry." Marlowe shifted the laptop around to show Sebastian the screen. "Her ratings have plummeted twenty percent in the past year, and her contract with the network is due to expire. She knows they'll get rid of her if things don't improve, so she attacks me in a shameless attempt at generating publicity and saving her job. Pathetic."

Sebastian nodded without saying anything. He remained stranded in the middle of the floor, halfway between the desk and the door, in two minds about whether to stay or go.

"I did okay though, didn't I?" Marlowe said.

"Uh ..."

"In last night's interview. I held my own. I gave as good as I got, and I didn't let her get the better of me. Wouldn't you agree?"

Sebastian thought long and hard before offering a response. The prime minister had phrased his question in a way that implied he was looking for positive reinforcement, not the unvarnished truth. Marlowe and his team would have seen the day's media coverage by now, with commentators and pundits dissecting every facet of the interview like it was the Zapruder tape. He would have seen the political cartoonists depicting him as Chicken Little, warning the world that the sky really was about to fall this time. The repeated predictions of electoral wipeout, and the growing speculation of an imminent leadership challenge. His opponents' jibes of "One-Term Bernie". Right now, he just wanted to be told he was doing a good job, despite all available evidence to the contrary.

"I think you handled yourself admirably," he began. "Olivia Perry came at you with an aggressive line of questioning. In fact, I believe the way she spoke to you was quite disrespectful. But you didn't let her get to you. She tried all her sneaky journalistic maneuvers, throwing out provocative questions and using weasel words to get a reaction, but you refused to take the bait. You came across as a strong leader."

As soon as he said this he heard the audio of Marlowe ranting about his online critics, describing them as "cyber terrorists" who specialized in "electronic graffiti". He hoped the prime minister didn't notice him wince.

"That's right," Marlowe said. "That's right. It was a strong performance from a strong leader. The people will see through the media's bias. They know who I'm working for. I'm answerable only to the electorate. I don't have to answer to some has-been TV star with an ax to grind."

A slur had crept into Marlowe's voice, as if his tongue was growing in thickness the longer he spoke. Sebastian's eyes fell on the World's Greatest Dad mug in the center of the desk. He didn't know what was in it, but if he had to guess he'd say it was something a little stronger than coffee. He was also confident that if the prime minister had been imbibing on the job, it wasn't an isolated incident. Whispers of his habitual drinking had grown so loud in recent months that it was more or less an open secret. Many in the government's senior ministry had privately voiced their concerns, believing this contributed to his regular faux pas and his numerous undisciplined public statements.

Alcohol was also believed to have been the catalyst for the bizarre email he sent out late one night a few weeks back. In it, he outlined his strategy to bring down an opposition politician whose profile had risen significantly over the past year, but who also had a reputation for his wandering eye. The plan involved hiring two high-class escorts to lure the politician into a hotel room, filming the subsequent encounter with hidden cameras, then leaking the footage online and eventually forcing his resignation. The memo was only meant to go to a select group of government ministers that Marlowe knew he could trust, but, in his tired and emotional state, he mistakenly sent it to the entire staff. Lawrence Devereaux spent the next day standing over every single employee in the building and watching them delete the email to prevent it from reaching the press.

Marlowe exhaled a lungful of air. "What's happening here, Sebastian?"

Another elongated silence trickled by. Sebastian wished he could be anywhere but here. He opened his mouth, but before anything could come out Marlowe continued speaking.

"Two months after the election I had an approval rating of seventy-nine. Seventy-nine! That was a record. Now it's more than halved. I just fail to understand it. I've done everything I promised to do when I was elected. I've put a stop to the undead menace. I've repealed the NEVADA law and pushed through CADAVER. I've made the country stronger and safer for future generations, but no one seems to appreciate it. What more do these people want from me?"

He took another sip from his mug, and he swiveled his chair around to face Sebastian. This was his invitation – or command – to speak.

"Well ... I don't think the fall should be entirely unexpected," he said. "No leader holds an approval rating that high for a long period. Seventy-nine was extraordinary, it was unprecedented, but it was also unsustainable. It's only natural to expect some drop-off –"

Marlowe silenced him with a raised palm. "Sebastian, I've been hearing that same speech for the past year. Anyone with a functioning brain can see that our problems run deeper than that. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it, but no one seems to want to acknowledge it." He lifted the mug into the air and shook out the final few drops. "Now, I asked for your opinion because I wanted to hear your opinion. If I only wanted to hear nice things said about me I'd call in one of the many yes men we have mincing around this place and ask them for advice."

Sebastian was thrown by this unexpected candor coming from the prime minister. For a brief moment the mask had dropped. This was the person speaking, not the politician.

He mentally shuffled through the various criticisms he had heard others say about Marlowe – his autocratic leadership style, his volcanic temper, his reluctance to listen to advice, the fact that he blamed everyone but himself for his failings, his complete lack of interest in doing the job he had been elected to do – before settling on an answer that wouldn't result in his immediate termination.

"Okay. This is my take on what I think is happening here."

He dumped the stack of reports onto the floor and pulled up a chair. His suspicions about the drinking were confirmed. He could clearly smell it, even from a distance of several meters.

"The public have short memories," he said. "Once the undead problem was dealt with, everyone forgot about it and moved on with their lives. They went back to complaining about other issues, like traffic congestion and interest rates and slow internet speeds. With every government there's this attitude of 'what have you done for me lately'. You get a brief period of gratitude, and then it's over."

Marlowe listened closely to what Sebastian was saying. "People are just not as concerned about undead issues as they once were."

"I'm afraid not. The average citizen doesn't sit around saying, 'Isn't it great we don't have to worry about those pesky zombies anymore?' That's all in the past. They only care about what affects them this week."

"So what was once my greatest strength ... it's now useless. Isn't it?"

"Well, I wouldn't say it's useless. But ..." He took a moment to consider the best way to articulate his concerns. "It's kind of like what they said about Winston Churchill after World War II."

Marlowe's brow furrowed, and Sebastian realized his error. It was widely known that the prime minister had a limited knowledge of political history, and next to no interest in expanding that knowledge. If it didn't appear in the pages of The Daily Ink or on his Twitter feed, it was safe to assume it was not on his radar.

"Which, uh ... what quote in particular about Churchill are you referring to?" Marlowe said.

"Historians believe his career was effectively over once the Second World War drew to a close. He may have been an outstanding leader during a crisis, and a strategic genius when it came to fighting Nazis, but once that was finished he was all at sea. He just couldn't adapt to the day to day humdrum of everyday political life. And that's where I think you are at now. You're a wartime prime minister in a time of peace. The war on horror is over, which means the tactics that worked for you two or three years ago won't work for you now. If you want to succeed going forward you'll have to adapt."

As soon as he finished speaking, Sebastian worried he had been a bit too blunt with his assessment. He was still relatively new to this place and hadn't quite mastered the art of the diplomatic response, knowing when to speak candidly and when to sugarcoat his words. Laying out your boss's shortcomings so nakedly was not a known path for career advancement.

But Marlowe didn't appear to take umbrage. On the contrary, he seemed to appreciate such unfiltered feedback.

"So you're saying we have to refocus our efforts on whatever the hell the general populous happens to be complaining about in that particular week?" he said.

"I'm afraid so, because zombies are yesterday's news," Sebastian said. "But who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky. There's always the chance we'll have a second big outbreak one of these days."

As soon as he said it, he realized how distasteful his words sounded. Hoping for another undead outbreak was not something that should be joked about. He tried to cover it up with an unconvincing laugh, but it hardly mattered. The prime minister didn't seem to pick up on it.

"That would be ideal," he said, closing the laptop as the clip finally ended. "But sadly, it's unlikely to happen for us."

Chapter 12

Thwack thwack thwack.

Devon Spooner woke up with his head wedged inside a vise. Someone was chipping away with a mallet and chisel, over and over and over. Every nerve in his body felt displaced.

It was Sunday morning. The hour was unconscionably early. The incessant pounding at the back of his skull was so severe it was almost audible. Any trace of feeling had vanished from his right arm after falling asleep on top of it. He tried rolling into a more comfortable position, but the slightest movement sent flashes of pain shooting to a dozen different areas of his body. He had a swollen upper lip and a left elbow the size of a billiard ball. His neck was so stiff he could barely turn his head.

Glimpses of the previous night came to him in fragments. There was the gig he attended for a godawful speed metal band calling themselves Nordic Flesh. He recalled some overzealous security thug shoving him in a headlock and tossing him out on the street, even though he had done nothing wrong other than a bit of fighting and sieg heiling in the mosh pit. There was the over-40s retro bar he somehow found himself at, before moving on to a party at an abandoned warehouse across town. That ended with him hurling bottles and rocks at the cops after they were called to break it up. Or did the party come before the bar? Hedonism had taken a carving knife to his memory, and the night's chronology was all scrambled. It was a typhoon of ingested substances and poor life choices, and now he was paying the price.

Something pressed against his spine. It was round and hard. Like a knee. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck. He had company, but he had no idea who. He strained to think. His mind was an empty void. It had gone into survival mode by repressing his worst mistakes from the previous night. That was probably a good thing. The more he drank the more his decision-making faculties faltered, and his standards plummeted faster than a skydiver with a faulty chute.

Thwack! Thwack!

His eyes snapped open, and full consciousness returned. The pounding wasn't confined to the inside of his head. It was real. Someone, or something, was outside his bedroom window.

He crawled out of bed and felt his way across to the other side of the room. He pulled the curtains back. Daylight flooded the room and maced his eyes. Everything became white. It took a few seconds to blink away the pain.

His pupils adjusted. He saw the outline of a body clawing at the window.

He recoiled and stumbled back. He tripped over a stray high heeled boot and landed on his coccyx. More pain, everywhere. The swamp donkey in his bed rolled over and groaned.

Devon's arms felt around for something to defend himself with, until he remembered a solid pane of glass protected him from any immediate danger.

A muffled voice filtered through from the other side of the window. "Hello? Devon? You in there?"

It spoke. Not a zombie, then. Ever since that one time out at Graves End a few years back, the job where the whole town was besieged by the undead and he only just managed to escape, he had been seeing zombies in places where there were none.

"Who is it?" he managed to eek out.

A round shape pressed against the glass. A face trying to peer inside. "It's Carlos."

"Carlos?"

"Y'know me. I'm a friend of Jared Van Houten's."

An indistinct mental image formed. Carlos. Carlos Kil-something. Kilmartin or Kilroy. Kilpatrick, maybe. Some guy he had met once or twice, a friend of a friend of an associate. Liked to laugh at his own jokes, and had an irritating habit of calling everyone "bitch".

"What do you want?" Devon said.

"Can y'let me in, please?" His words were barely intelligible, a hodgepodge of vowels and vague sounds.

Devon's tongue pressed against his upper lip. It stung and he could taste blood. "Now's not a good time, Carlos. Come back later."

"I can't wait 'til later! I need y'help now!"

The sharp rise in volume was like a knitting needle through his temple. He squeezed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, alright. Just give me a second. Um ... go around the front. I'll be there soon."

He stayed on the floor for another minute before summoning the energy to push himself to his feet.

He was halfway to the door when he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror and saw that he was completely naked. He doubled back and crawled into last night's jeans. The damp patches were most concerning.

He flicked open the locks on the front door. "Why don't you try ringing the doorbell next time instead of banging on my bedroom window?"

Carlos pushed his way in without waiting to be invited. Both hands were stuffed in his pockets. His face leaked moisture.

"I did try the doorbell. There was no answer," he said.

Devon closed and locked the door. "So what do you want?"

"Why else would I be here?" Carlos removed his right hand from his pocket. An old brown sock was wrapped around it. Dark splotches stained the fabric. "I need some Zaracaine-9."

Devon's vision came into focus, and Carlos's condition became apparent. His skin was the color of mucus, with dark veins crisscrossing his neck and face. The sclera of his eyes was more red than white. Now everything clicked into place. What he initially mistook for heavy inebriation was in fact the early stages of the infection. By his estimation, Carlos had less than twenty minutes to get a shot. Any longer and it would be too late.

"How did that happen?" Devon said.

"It doesn't matter how it happened," Carlos snapped. "I just need a shot. Kinda urgent too, if you don't mind."

Devon moved to the lounge. Carlos trailed a few steps behind. "How stupid do you have to be to get bitten these days? Did you pass out on a park bench or something?"

"Yeah. Somethin' like that. Now can you hurry up'n get it for me?"

"Wait." Devon stopped. "I think I know what happened. You saw a zombie and you tried to rob it."

"What?"

"That's it, isn't it? You mugged a zombie."

"No. No! Of course not!"

"Stealing from someone at their most vulnerable." Devon shook his head with mock disgust. "A poor, innocent, defenseless former human. Some might say you got exactly what you deserved."

Undead victims that turned in public were easy targets for opportunistic thieves, and often had their money and other valuables stolen. Prosecutions were rare, mostly due to the period of time that elapsed before the crime was discovered.

"That ... that's not what happened," Carlos said.

"So where did the watch come from?"

A silver TAG Heuer hung from Carlos's left wrist. He instinctively covered it with his bandaged hand. "That was ... that's mine."

"Oh yeah? Where did you get the money for a watch like that?"

"It was a gift. Someone gave it to me. For my birthday."

"Who?"

"Just a friend. No one you know."

"Come on, Carlos. I've seen the kind of people you hang out with. Which one of them is buying you expensive watches?"

"I just said you don't know him."

"Him? That's a strange gift for a man to give another man. And anyway, that's a ladies watch."

"No, it's ... I got it ..." The trauma of Carlos's injury, in combination with his escalating panic, meant he could barely wrangle his words into a coherent sentence, let alone improvise a convincing cover story to explain his ill-gotten gains. "Can you ... can you just get me the stuff?"

"Stealing from the undead. That's a low, low act. Basically one step away from grave robbing."

"Please ..." Carlos's voice cracked, like he was on the brink of tears. "I don't know how much longer I have here."

"Alright, alright, keep your girdle on." Devon settled into the sofa. "I'll get you what you need. But we need to talk about the price first. It's now a hundred and eighty."

"What, dollars?"

"No Carlos, a hundred and eighty roubles. Of course it's dollars."

"A hundred and eighty dollars for just one shot?"

"You only need one, don't you?"

Carlos coughed in astonishment. "I'm not paying that. I could get it from a pharmacy for less than half that."

"Fine, go to a pharmacy," Devon shrugged. "Of course, once they give it to you they might have a few questions – like how did you get bitten, what were you doing at the time, why didn't you report it, where did you get that watch. Those kinda questions."

He stretched out on the sofa, resting his head on one armrest and his feet on the other. He was feeling a lot better now. Whenever there was business to discuss he managed to drain the sludge from his head pretty quick.

"But Van Houten buys it from you all the time! He said you only charge ten bucks!"

"I charge him ten because he's a regular. I know him. I don't know you from Adam Ant. You could be a cop for all I know. Or an undercover informant, working for Elixxia. I'm taking a risk just by letting you in my house."

"Yeah, right. As if anyone would let me be a cop. I couldn't even pass ninth grade."

Devon reached for the coffee mug on the shelf next to his head. "That's my price. One-eighty. Take it or leave it."

"But where'm I gonna get that kinda money from at short notice?" Carlos said.

"Don't know and I don't care," Devon said.

He took a sip from the mug – just as he remembered he hadn't made coffee that morning. The mug had been sitting on the shelf for at least a day. Maybe two. There was also a high chance it had been used as an ashtray at some point during that period. He discreetly deposited the repulsive cold liquid back to where it came from.

"This isn't right, you know." Carlos's desperation was growing. "You can't just throw me out on the streets to die. It's ... illegal. Or immoral, or something."

Devon took a moment to consider the situation. "So what do you have on you?"

Carlos fumbled for his wallet. He pulled out a handful of small bills. "I got, like, sixty bucks."

He held the money out. Devon leaned forward. He took the bills with his right hand and snatched the wallet away with his left. The early hour and his seedy condition meant his reflexes were not all that sharp, but he was still fast enough to outwit Carlos.

"Hey!" Carlos said.

Devon flipped the wallet open. "Odette Marie Hillman," he said, reading from the driver's license inside. "Born 8 February, 1977. Registered organ donor. Well, she's probably not any more."

"Give it back, bitch!"

Carlos made a lunge for the wallet. Devon pushed him away with one hand. It was like fighting off a toddler.

"You took her money as well as the watch?"

"No ... it wasn't nothin' like that."

"I bet you kept stealing from her after you got bit. Didn't you?"

"Look, you have the money. Just get me the shot before it's too late."

Devon stuffed the notes into his pocket. He tossed the empty wallet back at Carlos. "The watch," he said.

"What about it?"

"I want it."

"Instead of the money?"

"No. As well as the money."

"But why –"

Carlos's throat closed up before he could say any more. His condition was deteriorating, and he was losing control of his speech and motor skills. Delirium was fast taking hold. Just getting his words out was an effort.

"What d'you want a ladies watch for?" he managed to say.

"Doesn't matter what I want it for. I just do. If you want the medication, and if you want to live to see tomorrow, you'll have to give it up."

Carlos shook his head. "Uh-uh. No way. You're not getting the watch as well. You already ... you have all the money. That's more than enough."

"Suit yourself," Devon shrugged. He picked up a junk mail catalog from the floor and pretended to flick through it.

"You ... you're just being greedy," Carlos said.

"I know, but what choice do you have? Realistically, you have only two options. Option one is that you give me the watch – a watch that doesn't even belong to you, I might add – and I'll give you a shot of Zaracaine-9 that will save your life. Most people would call that a fair trade."

Carlos scratched at his arm. "So what's option two?"

"Option two is I wait for you to turn, which I'm guessing won't be too much longer. As soon as that happens I'll smash your head open with a baseball bat. Since you're on my property I'll legally be allowed to do that. And before I call Z-Pro to have them haul you away to the crematorium, that's when I'll take your watch, as well as whatever else I find on you. So either way, I'm getting that watch."

Devon picked himself up off the sofa and moved to the kitchen.

"Hey, I'm starving. You want something to eat?" he said.

He emptied a box of cornflakes into a bowl. Seven heaped spoonfuls of sugar were added to counteract the milk that was a few days beyond its best before date. He kept an eye on Carlos as he did this, watching him become more and more distressed. It was only a matter of time before he caved in. He had to. There was nowhere else for him to go.

He returned to the sofa and started on his breakfast. He flicked on the TV. Neither one spoke for some time.

"Fine. You win, bitch." Carlos took off the watch and slammed it down on the coffee table. "Keep it. Now can you get the shot?"

Devon grinned as he put his cereal to one side. "I'll be right back," he said, slipping the watch into his pocket.

He knew he should feel guilty about taking advantage of a man at his most desperate, but he didn't. Nor did he feel guilty about exploiting his own people for financial gain. He was simply doing what anyone with a sense of ambition would do in a similar situation. He had invested his money in this speculative asset – Zaracaine-9 – and now he was maximizing his return. Like the pharmaceutical monolith that produced the product, he had wholeheartedly embraced the capitalist system.

Besides, it made good business sense. If he just handed the Zaracaine-9 over for the usual price, that would be his one and only transaction with Carlos. Unlike his repeat customers, Carlos wouldn't be back – unless he was stupid enough to get bitten a second time. He had to squeeze as much as he could from this single transaction.

He opened the door to his bedroom. Last night's peroxide catastrophe was still where he had left her, in his bed snoring like a faulty lawnmower. She had to be at least fifty. Devon felt the shame ripple through him. He prayed no one saw them leave together.

He pulled the carpet back and reached into the floor. His box of vials felt light. He opened it up and found there were eleven left. He knew he was running low, but he thought he had more than that. He made a mental note to give Rizzo a call to arrange to pick up some more stock.

Chapter 13

The further the White Tiger moved away from the city and into the depths of the outer northern suburbs, the more decrepit the passing scenery became. Every block had at least one house that was nothing more than a fire-ravaged shell. Piles of junk sat uncollected on every third street corner. A few dwellings looked like they could pass for semi-habitable, but the majority displayed the symptoms synonymous with dereliction – rotting wood, peeling paint, boarded-up windows, weed-infested lawns. Some looked like a strong gust of wind might cause them to topple over. Others you couldn't tell if they were abandoned or just neglected. Here was another once proud community, now a dumping ground for the kinds of people the rest of society would prefer to forget about.

It was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, and it was day twenty-seven of Miles' return to the UMC industry. He was riding along with Brandon for what was to be their fourth job for the day. It had been unusually busy after a relatively quiet couple of weeks.

The upside to this sudden spike in activity was that it made the day pass a lot faster than when they had to wait for work to be called in. The downside meant having to spend hours listening to Brandon complain non-stop about his sworn nemesis. He had been hearing different versions of the same story for the past month now – how Brock was conniving and duplicitous, how he was a traitor who had committed the irremissible sin of moving in on a friend's girl, and how he could never be trusted in a job where your partner needed to be looking out for you at all times.

Miles didn't say much at first. He sat there and listened, and he allowed Brandon to vent in the hope that he would eventually get all it out of his system. That didn't look like happening anytime soon. If anything, the longer he ranted the angrier and more animated he became. He decided he had to say something.

"Can I make a suggestion?" he said.

"Go ahead," Brandon said.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but isn't it time you moved on with your life?"

Brandon shot a sideways glance in his direction. "What do you mean?"

"I just don't think it's healthy to stay hung up on someone for this long. I know it must be painful, but I think it would be best if you just accepted that it was over between you and Erin. I mean, she's engaged to Brock now, isn't she? She's moved on. Maybe you should too."

"You're saying I should just accept what Brock did to me?"

"I'm saying you should at least consider forgiving him. You know what the bible says about forgiveness, don't you?"

"You tell me. What does the bible say about forgiveness?"

"Well ... I can't quote a direct passage. But I believe it's generally in favor of the concept."

A roundabout approached. Brandon's foot barely lifted off the accelerator as they sped through. "You know Miles, I really don't think this is any of your business."

"If it's none of my business then why do you keep telling me about it?"

"Okay. Here." Brandon reached for his phone in his back pocket. He swiped his finger across the screen. "You wanna see something?"

"Um ... eyes on the road, please?"

He held the phone up in front of Miles' face. "Does this look like she's moved on?"

Miles immediately looked away. "Whoa! Brandon, I don't want to see that!"

"Why not? What's wrong with it?"

"There's nothing wrong with it, I just don't think Erin would appreciate you showing photos like that to other people. And it's really not appropriate for the workplace, either."

"But this isn't an old photo. She sent this to me three nights ago. What does that tell you?"

"I ... I'm really not comfortable discussing –"

"I think it's pretty obvious she hasn't made her mind up about Brock. I think she's having second thoughts. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Honestly, I couldn't tell you what that means." He was eager to drop the subject, and regretted bringing it up in the first place.

He didn't know how it happened, but somehow Brandon and Brock had both decided he would be their new trusted confidante. Any time he found himself alone with either one of them for more than a few minutes they would begin unloading their personal issues onto him like he was their therapist. By now he was well aware of Brandon's feelings regarding Erin's decision to leave him for his one-time friend and gym buddy. He also knew all about Brock's relationship hassles; about how jealous and overbearing Erin could be, how she never trusted him when he was out with friends, how she always demanded to know where he was and who he was with, right through to how much debt they were accumulating in the lead-up to their wedding. Whenever either one began speaking he would show as little interest as possible in the hope that they might take the hint, but they never did.

A pack of stray dogs was up ahead. The truck slowed as they approached. A garbage can had been knocked over, and the dogs had dragged one of the bags out onto the road. Six or seven flea-bitten mongrels now rifled through the contents.

Brandon shoved his phone back into his pocket. "Ugh. Can you imagine living in a place like this?"

He drove around the pack when they refused to move out of his way. They took the next right and turned into a cul-de-sac.

The offending creature was spotted near the end of the street. It was a male, tall and slim, early to mid twenties. It was barefoot and dressed in ragged clothes. It stumbled around the place like a village drunkard.

"There's our guy," Brandon said.

He found a place to park and pulled on the handbrake. Miles reached into the space behind him for the snare pole and equipment bag. He had one foot out the door when Brandon held him back.

"Wait a second," he said, grabbing him by the arm. "I think our job is about to become a lot easier."

He nodded toward the last house on the street. A fifty-something woman in a linen bathrobe stood at the edge of her yard. A lit cigarette dangled from her mouth. In her hands was a shovel the size of an oar.

The zombie lumbered toward her, one slow step at a time. It remained oblivious to the imminent danger the woman posed.

"What do you say we wait this one out?" Brandon said.

"What are you suggesting?" Miles said.

"I'm suggesting we give it a few minutes. Let's see what happens."

"Are you serious? You're just going to sit here and watch?"

"I just think it might be better if we leave these two to resolve their differences on their own, that's all."

Miles looked at Brandon to see if he was joking. It was obvious that he wasn't.

"I'm going." He opened the door and jumped out of the truck. "You can come too, if you feel like doing your job."

"Come on, Miles. Don't you think we've done enough for one day? We deserve a break."

The door slammed shut. He tucked the snare pole under his arm and hurried off in the direction of the zombie.

The truck's window lowered behind him. "God be with you, Miles!" he heard Brandon call out.

"Shut up, moron," he muttered to himself.

The zombie edged further toward the property. He could hear the woman's coarse fifty-a-day rasp as she beckoned it closer. "Come on. That's right. Just a few more steps. Keep coming."

He broke out into a jog.

The zombie made it onto the nature strip. Five more steps and it would be on her land. Once it crossed that threshold there would be nothing he could do to stop the woman from crushing its skull. He increased his pace.

"Ma'am, I'm a UMC agent," he shouted.

The woman looked up. She shielded her eyes from the sun. "What?"

"I'm with Z-Pro." He held up the lanyard around his neck to show his identification. "You can lower the shovel."

"Oh, look who it is. Look who's turned up to save the day. Mr. Big Shot Action Man off the TV."

Miles could feel his face burning up. It wasn't just the afternoon sun, or the short burst of running. That wretched commercial was becoming the bane of his existence. Ever since he unwittingly became the public face of the government's strong anti-zombie stance, barely a day had gone by where he wasn't recognized at least once. The feedback he received from the public was rarely positive.

"Yes, that's me. I'm that idiot off the TV. Now if you could please step aside and allow us to do our job, me and my colleague will take care of it from here."

"My colleague and I," the woman said.

"Right, right." He paused to take in a few deep breaths. He knew it had been some time since he last engaged in any form of physical exercise, but he hadn't realized just how out of shape he had become. "Please return to your home. My colleague and I will have this all under control in a few minutes."

"Listen boy, this isn't none of your business," she said, her ill-fitting dentures giving her a pronounced lisp. "Who told you to come out here, anyway?"

"I'm afraid we don't have that information," he said

"I bet it was that busybody in number thirty-eight. It was her, wasn't it? She's always sticking her nose into places it doesn't belong. Probably why her husband walked out on her. Took off with that harlot in number eleven, he did."

"We don't know who makes the calls," Miles said. "We just respond to them as they come in."

"Well I didn't ask for your help and I don't need it, either," she said, amplifying her voice and directing her words toward the alleged busybody's house. "You can be on your way now. I was handling this just fine until your ugly face showed up."

A gust of wind blew through, and the woman's robe lifted to waist height. She didn't seem too concerned about preserving her modesty, much to Miles' mortification.

The zombie was now only a few steps from the driveway. It was also much younger than he had first assumed; a beanpole of a kid who couldn't have been a day older than twenty. He looked like the type who spent most of his pre-zombie existence indoors reading comics and playing X-box. His face was pockmarked with acne scars, as if he had taken a shotgun blast of rock salt at close range. His pallid complexion was probably not all that different now to what it had been when he was alive.

The woman cocked the shovel back, ready to strike.

"Ma'am!" he said, employing a lot more force than he was accustomed. "I'm going to have to insist that you put the shovel down and go back inside your house."

He moved forward another two steps, maneuvering into the space between the woman and the zombie. He looked back to the truck, trying to get Brandon's attention and have him come across to lend a hand. Brandon either didn't see him, or he was choosing to ignore him.

"I know my rights," the woman said. "I've seen the news. The law says I can do whatever I damn well please if one of those wretched death beasts comes anywhere near my land."

"Wrong. The law explicitly states that if a UMC agent is present and you are not in any immediate danger, you must step aside and allow them to do their job."

The zombie came for Miles. He shoved it in the chest with the blunt end of the snare pole. It stumbled back a few steps. He continued speaking without missing a beat.

"If you hinder, interfere with or in any way prevent an agent from doing their job you will be fined, jailed or both."

He didn't know how much of what he said was accurate. In fact, he was fairly certain most of it wasn't, especially after the events of recent weeks. As soon as the prime minister publicly guaranteed that no home owner would ever face criminal charges for attacking an undead being on their own property, regardless of circumstance, he gave every nutjob with a grudge and every bigot with sadistic impulses the green light to do what they wanted with impunity.

But he must have sounded convincing enough, or he at least spoke with sufficient authority to make her believe what he said was true, because she tossed the shovel to the ground and backed away.

"Just hurry up and get this bucket of scum out of here," she said.

The White Tiger hurtled down the freeway like its brakes had been cut. Inside the truck, a noxious feeling of discomfort lingered. Miles drummed his thumb against the dash to give himself something to do. Brandon chewed on his fourth protein bar for the day. The shackled zombie in the back let out the occasional murmur. No one had uttered a word in the ten minutes they had been on the road.

The radio droned at low volume, with some forgettable pop song rattling through the speakers. This did nothing to make the trip any more bearable.

"I know you're only new to this job, Miles," Brandon said when he finally broke the silence. "But let me give you some advice. If you ever find yourself in a situation where on the one hand you're dealing with a crazy old woman waving a heavy gardening tool around, and on the other you have an unrestrained zombie that wants to bite your face off, it's a good idea not to put yourself right in the middle of them. You know, for future reference."

"I worked at Dead Rite for three years," Miles said.

"What?"

"You said I was only new to this job. I'm just pointing out that I've been in the industry longer than you have."

"Well, whatever. I don't know what they taught you over there, but at Z-Pro we're careful not to put ourselves in harm's way."

"I was never in any real danger."

"You might think so, but when you rush into something like that without taking the necessary precautions, that's when things can go wrong. UMC agents still do get bitten from time to time. It's rare, God willing and the creek don't rise, but it does happen. When it does it's usually due to carelessness."

"What did you expect me to do?" Miles said. He was trying not to let his anger show, but Brandon was testing his patience. "Did you want me to stand back and watch while she cracked its head open? I noticed you weren't much help back there."

"Come on. She was never going to crack its head open."

"Really? Because I think she made her intentions pretty clear."

"What, with a shovel that weighed more than she did? She was like a hundred years old and four foot two. She could barely lift the thing off the ground."

"It would only take one hit to do some serious damage."

"And like I said, it would have made our job easier if she had. Messier, sure, but ultimately safer and easier."

The minivan ahead of them braked without warning. Brandon pulled at the steering wheel and veered into the next lane. He came within half a foot of side-swiping a white hatchback. He leaned on the accelerator, paying no attention to the orchestra of horns blaring behind him.

"What if the old woman had been bitten?" Miles said. "Did you think about that? How would that have looked, if a civilian was attacked and we did nothing to prevent it?"

"Hey, if she was bitten it would have been her own fault. Our job is to protect the public from the undead. We can't do a lot to protect them from their own stupidity."

"But it is our job to protect the undead from half-senile vigilantes, isn't it?"

"I don't know if it is. It's certainly not worth putting ourselves in danger for, just to protect a zombie. We don't get paid nearly enough for that."

Miles felt his left eyelid spasm. He blinked a few times to try to make the twitching stop. It was a symptom of stress. This used to happen all the time, but it hadn't bothered him for a few years.

"Maybe you'd have a different opinion if that was someone from your own family," he said. "Especially with the treatment options available nowadays. There's no excuse for letting that happen."

"Ha." Brandon snorted a laugh. "Good one."

"What do you mean, good one?"

"Look at where this guy lives, Miles. Look at how he's dressed. Do you really think he has a spare two grand a month for treatment?"

"That's beside the point. We can't pick and choose who we'll help based on whether or not they look like they have adequate health cover."

"Sure, but he was already a re-lifer. They're everywhere around this area. They beg on the streets, and they squat in abandoned homes. This guy didn't get bitten; he turned because he couldn't scrape together enough money to pay for his medication. I don't know about you, but if you gave me the choice between rotting in a zombie prison for the rest of eternity and someone putting me out of my misery, I'll take a shovel to the cranium any day of the week."

The truck slowed as a turnoff approached. Brandon poked at the radio settings to change stations. His ears were assaulted with a cacophony of chainsaw guitars and guttural throat singing. He switched it back.

"I swear, someone keeps messing with my presets," he muttered under his breath.

Every morning for the past two weeks, Brock had been sneaking into all the company vehicles to replace Brandon's Christian rock stations with ones that played the most unholy types of metal. Miles knew this, but he chose to keep it to himself. There was enough animosity between the two love rivals already. He didn't see the point in dumping any more fuel on that fire.

"I just think we have a responsibility to protect the undead if we can," Miles said quietly.

Brandon shoved the remainder of the protein bar into his mouth. "You'll learn," he said, in between chews. "Sooner or later. When you've been out on a few more jobs and seen how it really is, you might have a different outlook. The world's changed since you last did this."

He decided not to waste his energy arguing any further. There was nothing he could say to change Brandon's mind. He turned away to look out the window, at the blur of trees and vacant land passing by. There would be no more talking for the remainder of the journey. Just a simmering hostility.

Fifteen minutes later the truck pulled up to the gate at the processing center. A small band of protesters were out picketing today. Maybe twenty or twenty-five in total, and mostly the same group that turned up every day. Nothing like the crowds of hundreds that would congregate here a few years ago. The group waved their placards, and one enthusiastic young man pounded away on a drum, but no one could summon the energy required to start a chant.

The influence of zombie protection groups had waned in recent years, and they were now little more than a fringe concern. The issue was no longer at the forefront of people's minds, and passions weren't as inflamed as they once were. Undead rights had been overtaken by more fashionable movements, and only the most ardent dead-heads remained committed to the cause.

Brandon flashed his UMC accreditation to the guard on duty. The boom gate lifted and they drove inside.

The undead youth was unloaded from the back of the truck before being taken away to the holding pens where he would be shackled, stripped, hosed down and clothed in a regulation orange jumpsuit. He would be allocated an identification number, then pumped full of artificial blood and anesthetized to the eyeballs.

Miles pushed dirt around with his shoe over by the truck as he watched the zombie being led away by the center staff. He felt an ache of melancholy as he conceded that, as much as he hated to admit it, Brandon was probably right. The odds of this kid getting the treatment he needed for a normal life were practically nil. No one was coming to collect him. He was a number now, and he would join the millions more just like him in one of those giant undead prisons constructed in undisclosed locations somewhere in the desert. In all likelihood, this would be the last anyone would ever see of him.

Chapter 14

Bernard Marlowe took a slow, deep breath. The warm late-summer cut grass-scented air filled his lungs. He relaxed his limbs and straightened his posture. There was a moment of intense laser-like focus and concentration, before he pulled back his newly-purchased TaylorMade M2 driver and swung at the ball. A crisp, satisfying crack sailed through the air as the head of the club connected flush with the sweet spot.

The white Titleist Pro V1 disappeared into the brilliant blue sky.

With the week he'd endured, a round of golf at a casual pace was just what the doctor ordered. He needed to sneak away for the afternoon to forget about the pressures associated with being the country's most powerful man. Despite what all those buttoned-up squares in the press gallery claimed, the ones constantly mocking him for the amount of time he spent on the course, like any other civil servant he was entitled to the occasional time-out. Besides, the day was far too nice for him to be stuck in the nightmarish labyrinth of beige corridors and sterile offices that made up parliament, like a lab rat in a Skinner box, being verbally assaulted every five minutes by buffoons shoving cameras and microphones in his face.

His ball reappeared after a few seconds, almost two hundred meters down the middle of the fairway.

"Nice shot," said James Pridham, his golfing partner for the day. It was a compliment tinged with envy. "You know, it's funny. When you became prime minister I assumed your game would suffer as a result. But you might end up becoming the first leader in history to actually lower their handicap while in office."

Marlowe fought to suppress a smirk. He and the Elixxia Pharmaceuticals CEO had been golfing rivals for years, and friends for decades prior to that. This kind of banter was a common feature of their games; an attempt at putting an opponent off by getting inside their head and under their skin. This may have been a social hit, an excuse for two old comrades to catch up, but Pridham was as fierce a competitor on the course as he was in the boardroom. He despised losing – especially when the stakes were ten thousand dollars a hole – but he was sorely out of practice, and he had fallen several shots behind. Mind games were his best hope at saving his money and clawing back some respectability.

"Golf is the best form of stress relief," Marlowe said as the two strolled over to their cart. "The more hours I put in here, the better I perform back there. Consider it an investment in the future. The country needs its leader operating at his peak. If my handicap happens to improve in the meantime, well, I suppose that's a bonus."

He returned the club to his bag and slid behind the wheel of the cart. Pridham settled into the seat next to him. The motor started up.

The Willoughby Point Golf and Country Club was Bernard Marlowe's preferred golfing destination. Not only were the links among the finest he had ever played on, its ultra-exclusivity and tight security meant he could enjoy a leisurely hit away from the prying eyes of the public and the press. When Pridham called late yesterday to ask if he wanted to join him for a quick eighteen holes, he didn't hesitate to jump on his private jet and fly halfway across the country to take him up on the offer.

"You might have assumed as much already, but I did have an ulterior motive for inviting you out here today," Pridham said as the cart made its way down the fairway. "It wasn't just a social catch-up, or to help with your stress relief. I was hoping to discuss an issue that's of great concern to me."

Marlowe groaned quietly. "You're not going to bring up that whole mandatory license tests for drivers over seventy again, are you?"

"No, it's not that –"

"Because, look, I'm sorry about what happened to your Jaguar. Really, I am. But there's no chance of that ever happening. The elderly are the only demographic that still vote for me in overwhelming numbers. If I lose their support I may as well start writing my concession speech now."

"It's not the license tests, although I still think that's a law that needs to be looked at. But there's something else I want to talk to you about. It has to do with the scourge of drugs that are taking over our streets."

The cart rocked from side to side as it passed over a bumpy patch of ground. "Oh. I see. What's on your mind?" Marlowe said.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but it's been a serious problem for a long time and it's only getting worse. The past year has seen it rise to epidemic levels. It's out of control. Every day as I drive to work I see people dealing drugs right out in the open. They don't even try to hide it. Like they're not ashamed of what they're doing. It makes me sick to my stomach. Something needs to be done to put a stop to it."

"You'll get no argument from me on the matter, Jim. Society does have a significant drug problem, and it's been that way for a long time. Believe me, the government and the relevant law enforcement agencies are doing all they can to fight this. But you have to understand, the narcotics trade is such a behemoth of an industry that it's incredibly difficult to make any significant headway –"

"Oh no, I wasn't referring to illicit drugs," Pridham interrupted. "That's of no concern to me."

Marlowe had become distracted by what he thought might be a drone hovering in the sky above him. He kept a close eye on it for a few seconds, until he was satisfied it was just a seagull. "You've lost me. What are we talking about here?"

"I'm talking about the illegal prescription drugs that are all over the streets. Specifically, the unauthorized Zaracaine-9 available on every corner. There's tons of it coming into the country. Literal tons. It's rampant. They sell almost as much of that stuff on the black market as we do in pharmacies."

"I see. I imagine that must be frustrating."

"Damn right it's frustrating. That's my company's property these people are profiting off, and we don't receive a cent in compensation. Every time some cheapskate buys their medication from their local neighborhood dealer instead of through the correct channels, they're breaking the law and they're ripping off our shareholders. They may as well be sticking their hands into my own pocket and stealing my money."

Marlowe swung the steering wheel around and pulled up next to a tree. "I agree that's an unacceptable situation," he said. "It's unethical and it's immoral. But I'm not sure what you expect me to do about it."

"For a start, I'd like to see a more visible police presence on the streets," Pridham said. "I want a dedicated task force established to target the illegal prescription medication trade. I also want anyone selling Zaracaine-9 without proper authorization arrested, and I want the maximum prison sentence increased from six months to five years. Above all else, I want to stop it coming into the country in the first place. That means boosting the budget for border security. Enforcing stricter controls at customs. I want more guards conducting a greater number of searches on anything that looks even the slightest bit suspicious. That's the only way we can defeat these parasites. Cut them off at the source."

Marlowe responded with a small laugh. "You are aware that I'm only the prime minister, and not a wish-granting genie? I can't just snap my fingers and make all that happen."

"Are you telling me you can't arrange a few small favors for one of your largest donors?"

"Hey, I'd love to help you out. You know I would. But realistically, I can't do all of that. Or any of it, for that matter. Not yet. Not with the way things are. The budget is out of control, spending has blown out to catastrophic levels, and the debt ceiling is at an all-time high. We simply can't afford to splurge like that. Treasury would never allow it."

"What do you care what Treasury thinks? You're the prime minister, if I'm not mistaken. You call the shots here, not a bunch of bureaucratic bean-counters."

The duo disembarked from the golf cart. Marlowe took a moment to consider his next club. He reached for his 8-iron.

"You have to look at it from my perspective," he said. "Right now, I have a huge target painted on my back. The opposition are looking for any excuse to drag me down. The press are rifling through my garbage, trying to dig up whatever dirt they can find. I don't even know who I can trust in my own cabinet anymore. So we have to be smart about how we do business from now on. Everyone knows you and I are friends, and they know Elixxia is one of the government's biggest donors. If I'm seen to be handing out special favors, they'll tear me to shreds."

"That doesn't seem to have stopped you in the past," Pridham said.

"Sure, but that was a different time. Our popularity was surging, and we could get away with murder. Now we have to be a lot more careful. The next misstep could be our last."

The first three years of Bernard Marlowe's prime ministership had been mired in an endless series of scandals and controversies. There had been accusations of nepotism and reports of ministers claiming expenses they were not entitled to. Allegations of bribery and revelations of illegal surveillance and wire-tapping. Secret payouts to cover up sexual harassment claims. Most damaging of all was the numerous broken election promises. Initially, these scandals had little impact on his popularity; his approval rating had climbed to record highs, and the public were willing to overlook just about any transgression. But the indiscretions slowly mounted up, and an inevitable tipping point was reached. In the end, it was hubris that caused his downfall. Marlowe had been on a high for so long he had started to believe he was unassailable.

"This isn't about the prime minister doing favors for one of his donors," Pridham said. "This is a national security issue. There is an avalanche of unauthorized medication coming through our borders every single day. Nobody knows what it is. It could be poison, we just don't know. You're not doing this for your friends or your donors. You're doing it for the good of the country."

"That may be the case, but in this game it's all about appearances," Marlowe said. "Maybe I can consider it further on down the track, but as it stands, when my approval rating has a three in front of it, there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry. My hands are tied on this one."

Marlowe went over to his ball. He made a short chip shot onto the green, and then sunk an easy putt to claim his second birdie for the round. Pridham spent several minutes searching for his ball in the rough. He took three shots to get out of it and finished with a double-bogey.

The final four holes were completed, and they retired to the clubhouse for some drinks and a spot of post-game bragging. Marlowe's initial high spirits following his comprehensive victory – he finished with eighty-two, seven over par and one stroke shy of his best-ever round – faded after his first six or seven gin and tonics. The more he imbibed, the darker his mood became. As it often did, the alcohol brought out his morose side. Pridham could tell he was still simmering over his disastrous performance in the interview earlier in the week. He told him not to worry about it, that it was just some lightweight journalist from a TV show nobody watches trying to get people to take her seriously, and that everyone else had already forgotten about it. This did nothing to lift his mood.

After several more drinks Pridham wrote a check for $140,000 to cover what he lost in the golf game, and he took care of the tab. They left soon after.

"What would you say if there was some way for me to help you in the polls?" Pridham said.

They were in the car park. Pridham loaded his clubs into the back of his vintage Jaguar, while Marlowe waited for his limo to take him to the airport.

"What do you mean?" Marlowe said.

"You said before that you can't do anything for Elixxia until your approval rating gets back to what it was. I'm saying, what if I could make that happen?"

Marlowe peered inside Pridham's golf bag. "You're not hiding a magic wand in there, are you?"

"No, but I might have something even better. I have an idea."

He was silent for a moment. "I'm listening."

"Okay, so I'll be the first to admit this might be considered extreme." Pridham's voice had fallen to a whisper. "And I'm only telling you because I trust you more than I trust my own wife. If you're not interested, that's fine. We can walk away and pretend this conversation never took place. But it's something I believe could be beneficial for both of us."

Marlowe's shoulders slumped, and he let out a weak sigh. "Jimmy, I'm six months away from electoral annihilation. This time next year I'll be the country's first one-term prime minister in more than half a century. Right now, I'd wear a pink tutu and dance around on national television if I thought it might improve my chances."

"As much as we'd all love to see that." Pridham closed his trunk. It popped back up again. He slammed it down harder. This time it stayed shut. "Goddamn idiot driver," he muttered to himself.

"So let's hear it," Marlowe said.

"Not out here." Pridham's eyes darted back and forth, as if spies might be hiding in the bushes. "Let's talk some more in my office. I'll have Sheradyn set up a meeting for next week."

Chapter 15

Another Friday night meant another glitzy party for Elliott to attend. Tonight was the launch of a startup he had poured some of his money into. The name of the company was Xyyx, and the venue was packed out with the young, the glamorous, and the ultra-wealthy. Pro athletes mingled with reality TV stars, and tech nerds downed shots at the bar with Stephanie and Madison Marlowe, the prime minister's twin daughters. Runway models had been hired as "atmosphere and ambience guests" to add to the illusion of exclusivity. Representatives from luxury brands were on hand to give away freebies in the hope that their products would make their way into prestige Instagram feeds and paparazzi snaps.

It was nights like tonight that caused Elliott to reflect on what a seismic shift his life had undergone in such a short space of time. It wasn't too long ago that he lived with his parents and could barely scrape together enough cash to pay for a bus fare. Now he had a nine-digit net worth. It was a dizzying sensation at times, like he had stumbled into someone else's life by mistake.

From somewhere above the music and the din of the crowd, he heard his name being called out. "Hey! Connors!"

The voice was immediately familiar. It was someone he knew well. Also someone he would prefer not to speak with tonight, if he could help it. He pretended he hadn't heard and discreetly moved in the opposite direction.

"Connors! Connors!!" the voice continued.

He tried to get away, but the density of the crowd increased the further he went.

The door to the stairwell was only a short distance away. This led to the main party area on the floor above, with the DJs and the dance floor. If he could just make it through he could easily disappear into the darkness and the crowd. The only thing preventing him from doing this was the twenty or so people crowded around the doorway, oblivious to the bottleneck they had created.

"Um, excuse me, can I just get through –"

A hand latched onto his shoulder. "Connors!"

The hand belonged to Preston Dumont, known by many as Preston the Pest. Preston was a budding young businessman notorious for turning up to these sorts of gatherings and haranguing the guests. He harbored big dreams and entrepreneurial ambitions, but he lacked the requisite funds to make these dreams a reality. This meant he was forever loitering around the people who did have money and hassling them to invest in his latest grand scheme.

They first met around six months ago. That was the night Preston had talked him into writing a check to invest in this innovative new app he had told him about. Elliott didn't put a great deal of thought into it. It just seemed like something people were supposed to do when they had a lot of money. One unexpected consequence was that Preston now cornered him every single time their paths crossed to badger him for more cash, the way charities hounded people for years after making a donation.

"Oh, hey Preston," he said. "I didn't know you were going to be here tonight." He knew this was a strange thing to say, given that Preston was the one who got him involved with Xyyx in the first place.

"Are you trying to avoid me or something?" Preston said.

Elliott did his best to feign innocence. "What makes you say that?"

"I called out to you at least five times."

"You did? When?"

"Just then!"

"Huh. I probably didn't hear you. It's pretty loud in here." It wasn't that loud, but Preston seemed to buy it.

"Hey, amazing party, right?" He was close enough that Elliott could smell the eye-watering insecticide-scented cologne he had poured over himself. "You know this whole thing cost eight hundred grand? That fact alone tells you everything you need to know about Xyyx. No half-measures with this company. The guys running it aren't afraid to dream big. They're going to make their mark on the world."

"They spent eight hundred thousand dollars just on this party?" Elliott said. That happened to be the exact amount he had invested.

"You know what they say – you have to spend money to make money."

"Sure, but that only applies if the money is spent on something that generates revenue, doesn't it?"

Preston threw his head back and laughed. Elliott wasn't aware he had made a joke.

"You worry too much! Worrying is for the timid and unambitious. If you want to create something spectacular you have to dive in head-first, and to hell with the consequences."

"Right, right, that makes sense." He wasn't really listening anymore. He was trying to figure out the most effective way of extracting himself from the conversation. "Anyway, it's good to see you again, but –"

Preston grabbed him by the upper arm, almost as if he could read Elliott's mind. "So, have you given any more thought to my proposal?"

This was the reason he wanted to avoid Preston tonight. "Uh, you see, the thing is –"

"Elliott, you need to hurry up and get on board or you'll miss out! Trust me, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"I understand completely," he said. He decided not to point out this was the seventh once in a lifetime opportunity Preston had now presented him with in the short time they had known one another. "Send all the details through to my financial adviser. He'll look it over and tell you what he thinks."

"I have sent it to your adviser."

"What? When did you do that?"

"Two weeks ago." Preston screamed the words into Elliott's ear, even though he could hear him just fine. "At least two weeks ago."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious! Hasn't he mentioned it to you yet?"

"He hasn't told me anything." Elliott shook his head, making a big show of how frustrated he was. "That's it. I have to fire this guy. He's beyond hopeless. He never tells me anything."

Preston's latest money-making escapade involved buying up acres of cheap land in what he believed was the city's next big growth area, where he would erect a series of complexes incorporating shopping centers, gyms, nightclubs, restaurants, luxury apartments and more. It was an ambitious undertaking, especially for someone who had only recently turned twenty-four, but confidence was the one thing Preston Dumont had never lacked. He had already purchased and renovated several houses, financed by his investment banker father and retail executive mother, which he sold for a tidy profit. He believed this short time in the property market had taught him everything he needed to know about spending $150 million of other people's money to kick-start his career as a real estate tycoon.

But while Preston had an endless amount of self-belief in his business ventures, others were harder to convince. Elliott's financial adviser was one such skeptic. He took one look at the proposal and fed it through the shredder. He told Elliott he would be better off smoking his money than giving any more to this guy.

"You know what I'm going to do?" he said, sensing an opportunity to escape. "I'm going to call my adviser right now and demand to know what's going on. I don't care that it's a Friday night. This is unacceptable."

A more obvious course of action would be to tell Preston that he wasn't interested, but he never did. He was a newcomer to this whole scene. He was still an outsider, while Preston was an insider, and he needed to stay on his good side if he wanted to gain their acceptance.

"Hold on a second," Preston said.

The grip around Elliott's arm became firmer. Now there was no way he could leave without physically prying Preston's hand off him. It was a tactic he was known to employ, latching onto his targets and not letting go until he received at least a verbal commitment that money would be forthcoming.

"I want to introduce you to one of my other investors. You know, in case you need any more convincing of what an amazing opportunity this is."

"No, really, there's no need –"

"Come on!" Preston said. He dragged him over to a group standing in a semicircle formation. Elliott didn't put up any resistance. He figured it would be easier to go along with it and sneak away once Preston was distracted.

Stephanie Marlowe was part of this group. Preston moved past her to her boyfriend, standing next to her. He was a tall, slim guy in a navy Dolce and Gabanna suit, with blonde streaks in his hair. Just by looking at him, Elliott could tell he was swimming in money. Everything about him screamed inherited wealth.

Preston tapped his friend on the shoulder, and he said something that Elliott didn't catch. The investor turned around and greeted Elliott with a smile. He held out his hand.

There was an immediate feeling of recognition. Elliott knew he had met this person before, or he had at least seen him somewhere. He couldn't remember where, though. He had crossed paths with so many people over the past couple of years at events like this, people he'd meet once or twice and never see again. The names and faces all blurred together after a while.

He reached out to shake the man's hand. Only then, at the exact moment of contact, did his subconscious throw up a name. He knew who this was. Preston confirmed it a second later.

"Elliott Connors," he said. "I want you to meet Fabian Turner."

For a brief moment the blood stopped in Elliott's veins. He was shaking hands with Fabian Turner.

This was the guy who broke into a processing center and filmed him assaulting Zombie Trent. He was responsible for the scandalous footage that pushed Dead Rite to the brink of bankruptcy, forcing them to take on the Graves End job. The footage that turned him into one of the most reviled people on the planet for a short period of time. Despite the immense influence he'd had in shaping Elliott's life, this was actually their first face to face encounter.

"I ... believe we've met," was all Elliott managed to say.

It took Fabian a little longer to catch on. Elliott knew the exact moment when it finally clicked for him. It was when the smile vanished, and a slight tremble went through his hand. Fabian pulled out of the handshake like he'd received an electric shock.

"You know each other?" Preston said.

"We, uh ... we ..." The words became caught in Fabian's throat. "We ... we ..."

"We have mutual friends," Elliott said. "Although I don't think we've ever been properly introduced."

"Ah, so what does that tell you?" Preston said, oblivious to the painful awkwardness simmering between them. "Two old friends, reconnecting like this. It's a sign of great things to come. Planets are aligning, fortune is smiling upon us. This was meant to be."

"Um, yeah. Like I said, I'll get back to you," Elliott said. He wanted nothing more than to get as far away from here as possible, but he couldn't figure out a way to do that without looking like he was running away.

"Of course you will." Preston slapped him hard on the back. "Unless you have a problem with making money?"

He picked up a random glass from the mantle behind him and held it in the air.

"Hey everyone, we need to mark the occasion with a toast. Remember this moment, because in years to come we will look back at tonight and ... hey, are you okay there, Turner?"

"Hmm?" Fabian said.

"You really don't look so good. You look even paler than you usually do." He gave Elliott a nudge. "Doesn't he look pale?"

It was impossible not to notice the drastic change in Fabian's appearance, even in this light. His face was clammy with sweat, and he had turned the shade of a corpse.

"I ... think maybe it was something I ate," Fabian said. His eyes went to the floor. "I need to sit down. Excuse me."

He stumbled off in the direction of the bathroom and disappeared from sight.

Chapter 16

Miles didn't want to admit it, but he was lost. He had been wandering up and down this same stretch of road for close to an hour now. Writing the address on his hand was not the smartest idea. The ink had smudged, and the light around here was poor. He moved further on up the street, stopped, looked at his hand again, and then he walked some more. He was too embarrassed, as well as too stubborn, to call Elliott and ask for directions.

He came to a pedestrian crossing. He looked left and right as he waited for the lights to change. He listened out for music, or for any other clue as to where this party might be, but he only heard traffic.

"Hey brother, do you have any spare change?"

The voice made him jump a little. He hadn't noticed the man until then, sitting cross-legged in a dark corner of the street, no more than a few meters from where he stood. He looked awful, almost inhuman. He was impossibly thin, like a hunger striker days away from death. A tattered sleeping bag was all that separated him from the hard pavement.

"Whatever you have on you, anything at all," the man said. "It would be a real help."

"I, um, I don't have any change on me," Miles said. This was his usual response whenever strangers asked for money, but on this occasion it happened to be true. "Sorry."

The man climbed to his feet, which took some effort. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?" he said.

"No, I don't think you do."

He was able to get a better look at him once he stepped into the light. There were dark rings around his eyes, and most of his teeth had fallen out. His skin had a gray tinge. His face was stamped with coin-sized sores. He didn't have any fingernails. All signs of a re-lifer without access to the proper medication.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure I've seen you before." The man moved a step closer. Miles tried not to bristle when he came close to his personal space. "You're the guy from those ads, right?"

This comment almost made him fall over. "How could you have seen those?" he said.

"How could I not see them? They're on those screens in the subway. They play on every second billboard. They're everywhere. I'm sick of seeing them, to be honest."

Miles nodded slowly. "I know exactly how you feel."

An uncomfortable silence followed. He willed the lights to change so he could cross the road and bring this encounter to an end, but they refused to. The stranger remained where he was, never taking his eyes off him.

"So as I was saying, if you have anything at all," the man said. "Whatever you can spare. It would be a huge help."

Against his better judgment, he found himself reaching for his wallet. He knew he wasn't supposed to give to the homeless; the local council requested that people donate to charities instead, since they didn't want to encourage begging. But this guy was desperate, and he already knew who Miles was. If he ignored him and walked away he would probably tell the world how selfish and cold-hearted the guy from those government commercials was.

He only had bills on him. Large bills, too – twenties and fifties. He thought about running into a shop to ask for some change, but instead of appearing selfish he would have looked incredibly cheap. He handed the man a twenty.

"Oh, thank you sir," the re-lifer said. "Thank you for your generosity, and for your ongoing service to our country."

"Yeah, yeah," Miles said. The lights finally changed, and he was able to walk away.

Twenty dollars would buy a dose or two of black market medication, and the stranger's life would be extended for a few more days, but that was delaying the inevitable. Miles knew that if they ever crossed paths again, it was likely to be in a professional capacity.

It was another half an hour before he finally located the address. It was a four story brick building that had at various points over the past few years been a bicycle shop, an accounting firm and a Nepalese restaurant. It had been vacant and dilapidated in more recent times, where it then became a notorious junkie hangout. Now it had been cleaned up and co-opted to host tonight's pop-up party. Pop-up, as far as he could tell, was a fashionable term that just meant temporary.

A few stragglers and hangers-on loitered around the front, and there was music coming from inside, but there was no obvious entrance. He wandered back and forth several times before spotting the narrow alleyway off to the side.

Two hulking men in black stood on either side of a red door at the end of the alleyway. Their eyes narrowed as Miles approached. The look he received was far from welcoming.

"I'm here for the Xyyx party," he said. "My name is on the guest list."

Saying those words out loud made him feel both ridiculous and a tiny bit special.

The first bouncer gave him a once-over. He felt silent judgment being passed on his outfit. "I don't think it is," he said. His face remained blank, but there was a sneer in his voice.

"No, really. I'm here for the party," he insisted.

The other man produced a small tablet. "Name," he said in a bored monotone.

Miles told him, and the bouncer swiped his finger along the screen. His eyebrows elevated slightly when he saw that his name was indeed on the list. His fist rapped against the door.

It opened a few seconds later, and Miles headed up a narrow staircase.

As much as he tried to look forward to tonight, he just wasn't able to summon the necessary enthusiasm. He assumed it wouldn't really be his scene. He only came because Elliott had talked him into it, and he only agreed to that because he couldn't think of an excuse quick enough when he invited him. Still, he tried keeping an open mind. It would be a new experience, and it would at least get him out of the house for the night.

He had avoided parties, and social situations in general, ever since he stopped drinking. It wasn't that he was worried he might give in to temptation, although that thought was never too far from his mind. It had more to do with the fact that he was more likeable when he had a few drinks in him. Alcohol enlivened his personality, and it made him fun to be around. Drunk and happy Miles was a lot more popular than sober boring Miles. Upon reflection, he could see that was where most of his trouble with the bottle stemmed from.

He passed through another door and came to the main area. As soon as he stepped inside he felt out of place. The room was brimming with wealth and glamour, two things he definitely lacked. Most guests looked like they had stepped straight off a billionaire's yacht or out of a fashion shoot. He felt both over- and under-dressed. He did his best to act like he belonged there, but the more he tried to blend in the more conspicuous he felt.

He scanned the room for Elliott, but he couldn't see him anywhere. He moved through the crowd, trying not to feel like he had every pair of eyes on him.

A short time after he arrived he found himself talking with someone who said he was involved with Xyyx, the company responsible for tonight's party. The guy spoke with the speed and energy of a race caller, the words tumbling out of him as he bombarded Miles with the Xyyx sales pitch.

"They've developed this new app that facilitates investment in innovative and cutting-edge start-ups," he said. "You don't need to know anything about the companies, or the industry. You don't even need that much money. You can start with as little as a hundred dollars. You just nominate how much you want to invest, the number of companies you want to sink that money into, and your desired level of risk. The app figures out the rest. Its algorithm determines the best places to direct your money. From there, you just sit back and watch as the next Facebook or Amazon turns you into a millionaire."

He then segued into his own plans to erect a series of luxury apartment and lifestyle complexes in a part of the city where he had just purchased some land. It was the most ridiculous idea Miles had ever heard, especially coming from someone who looked like they should be at home studying for their high school exams, but this guy was convinced that this project would be like building your own money-printing plant. Miles made several attempts at excusing himself, and each time he was grabbed by the arm and pulled back. He was only permitted to leave once the stranger figured out he wasn't rich and had nothing to contribute to his project.

Another twenty minutes was spent wandering from room to room and floor to floor, before he decided he'd had enough. He had seen all this party had to offer, and now he wanted to leave. He pushed his way toward the exit sign, only to find the door there sealed off. The only way out was the way he came in, all the way on the other side of the room. This place was one frayed wire away from multiple fatalities and million-dollar lawsuits.

He was halfway across when Elliott spotted him. As he so often was these days, he was completely blistered, and surrounded by the usual opportunistic hangers-on who had attached themselves like barnacles once they figured out how much he was worth. He stepped away from his new friends and hurried over to him.

"You made it!" he said, grabbing Miles by the shoulder.

"I made it," Miles said, trying to mirror his enthusiasm.

"Oh man, I was starting to think you weren't going to show."

Elliott filled him in on everything he had missed so far, telling him what an amazing party this was, and grabbing a round of drinks from the bar. It was some murky green concoction served in a cocktail glass. One was shoved in Miles' hand. He had to explain once again that he no longer touched alcohol, and he put the drink to one side.

Next he was dragged around the party and introduced to the brains behind this new company. Most came across as arrogant tech geeks, trying to buy their way into the cool crowd. He noticed how desperate Elliott appeared to be accepted into this new world. It was hard not to cringe through it all. He now seemed like a completely different person. Having that much money was always going to mess with your head, and he expected Elliott to go a little crazy for a while, just until he got it out of his system, but the opposite seemed to have happened. He had developed a taste for the lifestyle.

Miles tolerated this for as long as he could with a strained smile, before he decided to call it a night.

"But you only just got here!" Elliott said when he told him he was leaving.

"I know. I just don't think this is really my scene," he said.

"It's not your scene? What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Miles shrugged. "It just isn't for me, that's all. I'll talk to you later."

He made a move to step away. Elliott stopped him. "Hang on, before you go, I need to ask you something."

"Sure, what is it?"

"I want to know why you're doing UMC work again."

This caught him by surprise. He hadn't breathed a word to anyone about working for Z-Pro. Only Clea knew, as far as he was aware, and he doubted he'd heard it from her. But it didn't take long for a more obvious explanation to present itself.

"You saw the commercial." He felt a small part of himself die as he said this.

Elliott shook his head, momentarily lost for words. "I just don't understand. Why would you even think about returning to a job like that?"

"Don't worry, it's only temporary," he said, employing his now-standard justification. "It's just something until I find a better job. I'll do it for a month or two, and then I'll quit."

"But you know what happened last time. Do you really want to risk putting yourself in danger like that?"

"I understand your concern, but the job is completely safe. What happened with Dead Rite will never happen again. We got greedy, we put ourselves in a reckless situation, and –" He stopped talking mid-sentence. His attention was on the other side of the room. "Is that Fabian Turner over there?"

Elliott glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, yeah. Fabian. He's here too. He cut his hair."

"He's done a lot more than that, by the look of it. And he's with Madison Marlowe?"

"No, that's the other sister. That's Stephanie Marlowe. They're dating, apparently."

"Fabian and the prime minister's daughter? I swear, nothing makes sense to me anymore."

"But listen, if it's money you need I'm always happy to help out," Elliott said.

"I know you are, but I don't need another loan. I need a job. It's been almost a year since I last worked, and I already owe you a lot of money. I don't want to borrow more."

Elliott waved him off. "You don't have to worry about that."

"Sooner or later I will have to worry about it. If I don't start making repayments soon, it will be decades before I pay it all back."

"I didn't mean it like that. I mean I don't want the money back at all. It's yours. You can have it."

"I thought you said it was a loan?"

"I only said it was a loan so you'd agree to it. Come on, I know what you're like. If I said I wanted to give you the money you would have objected, I would have insisted, and it would have turned into this huge issue. I just thought it would be easier that way."

"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I have to manage on my own." It took every morsel of Miles' pride to resist accepting his offer. "I need a job, not a handout. Not every problem can be solved by throwing money at it."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help. If you're not interested, that's fine." Elliott gulped down the rest of his green sludge cocktail. "Just remember, I didn't force you to take it or anything."

"I told you I'm happy to pay you back as soon as I'm in a position to do so."

"And I said I don't need you to. Really, it's not a problem for me. I have a lot of money now. Too much, if I'm being honest. I thought the right thing to do would be to share it with family and friends who might need it."

"You mean like you did with Amy and Trent?" Miles said.

He wasn't quite sure where that remark had come from. He just blurted it out without thinking. It was something that had been on his mind for some time now, but he didn't think he'd ever be so blunt to come right out and say it like that. He couldn't even use alcohol as an excuse.

"What about Amy and Trent?" Elliott said, his entire demeanor changing in an instant.

Miles silently debated whether he wanted to get any further into this. He had a natural inclination to avoid confrontation, but he was getting tired of biting his tongue. He had seen a lot of changes in Elliott in recent years, and not always for the better. As a friend, he felt he had a duty to say something. He was about the only one who could. None of his other friends were prepared to tell him something he might not want to hear.

"Why did you really pay for their regeneration and treatment costs?" he finally said.

"I don't know. I thought it was the right thing to do, I suppose," Elliott said.

"Uh-huh. You don't think there was an element of revenge in what you did?"

"You think giving someone a second chance at life is revenge?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of that old saying, 'living well is the best revenge'. You wanted Trent to see how rich you were, and you wanted Amy to see what she had missed out on. That couldn't happen if they were zombies."

Elliott's mouth opened as he went to respond, but he reconsidered before he could say anything. He looked into his empty glass for a moment. "Can we talk about something else?" he said quietly. "This is a party. We should be having fun."

He headed back to the bar. Miles remained where he was. There was a slight feeling of remorse, but it needed to be said. More importantly, Elliott needed to hear it.

Chapter 17

It was a quarter past one in the morning and, as incredible as the past few hours had been, the party was only just starting to come alive.

At around eleven, Elliott and a couple of the Xyyx software engineers ventured up onto the roof of the building, where they spent half an hour launching surprisingly powerful miniature rockets into the stratosphere. Just before midnight, he took part in a high-stakes poker game. He won twenty-five grand in ten minutes, only to lose it all again in two. Soon after that, a teenage rapper he had never heard of, but who everyone insisted was currently burning up the internet, stopped by to perform an energetic twenty minute set that had the crowd in raptures. He left immediately afterwards, taking several of the ambience and atmosphere models with him.

Miles wasn't around to see any of this. He left about thirty minutes after he arrived. Elliott had tried to talk him into staying longer, but when his back was turned for just a minute he made a beeline for the exit.

Elliott would be lying if he said he was disappointed to see him go, especially as he appeared determined not to have a good time. This wasn't an isolated incident, either. It seemed that every time he tried to include Miles in his new life by introducing him to new experiences and new people, he would look past any positive aspects and find something or someone to complain about. Here he was tonight, at a party many people would happily give up a finger to score an invite to, and he did nothing but sulk. He had always been kind of uptight, but lately he had become intolerable. Even when Elliott had tried to do the right thing by offering financial assistance he still found a way to turn it around and make him feel guilty for even suggesting it.

Miles had developed some serious hang-ups about all the money he now had. He had been like that right from the start. A few years ago, when he told him that he was about to become an instant millionaire, instead of being happy for him his first response was to warn of all the opportunists that would swarm around him as soon as word got out. These warnings became louder and more frequent the more his net worth increased. He referred to the people he now hung around as bloodsuckers and parasites, which seemed slightly disingenuous given that Miles was more than happy to accept an interest-free $80,000 loan a few years back. A "loan" that he must have known was never expected to be paid back. Of course, he made all the right noises about wanting to pay it off as soon as he could – his way of differentiating himself from all the other freeloaders looking for a handout – but at no point did he ever press the issue. He seemed happy to go on indefinitely without making a single repayment.

Then there was the comment he made earlier. The one about Amy and Trent, where it was implied that he'd had some sort of ulterior motive when he paid for their medical costs. He was a bit tipsy at the time, so the impact of these words didn't immediately register. It wasn't until later on that the full implications of what he was suggesting sunk in, and now he could think about little else. That one remark was stuck in his brain like a stone in his shoe, constantly aggrieving him and unable to be removed no matter what he did. This was classic Miles; the passive-aggressive throwaway comment that sounded innocuous but was designed to cause maximum irritation.

He had to get to the bottom of this, if for no other reason than to put his mind at rest. He needed to prove Miles wrong. There was only one way to resolve this issue.

He slipped away from the party and stepped out onto the balcony, pulling the sliding door closed behind him. He was alone – or at least he thought he was, until he noticed Preston Dumont slumped in the corner. He was dead to the world, with a small dribble of vomit on his chin, and a much larger one down the front of his shirt. The rest of it was in and around the pot plant next to him. Preston often had trouble holding his liquor.

He took out his phone and dialed Amy's number before he could talk himself out of it.

He began to have second thoughts as soon as he heard it ringing. This felt like a spectacularly bad idea. It was a spectacularly bad idea. He didn't have a clue what he was going to say to her. But some unseen force compelled him to stay on the line.

It rang four times. There was a click, and then a voice.

"Hello?"

Hanging up without speaking was still an option.

"Amy?" he heard himself say. It was an option no more.

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"This is ..." The inside of his throat swelled up like he had gone into anaphylactic shock. He struggled to force anything out. "This ... is Elliott," he managed to say.

There was no response. That was worse than an angry response. The silence expanded into what felt like minutes. He checked the screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped out.

"Elliott?" she said.

"Elliott Connors."

"I know it's you. I don't know any other Elliotts."

"Oh, right." Her tone was inscrutable. He couldn't tell whether or not she was pleased to hear from him. "Oh no, I just realized what time it was. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was still up. I had the TV on. I couldn't sleep."

"Okay. Anything good on?"

There was a pause. "Anything good on?"

"Yeah, well, um ..."

"Is that why you called? To see what was on TV in the middle of the night?"

"No, I ..." He took a breath, and he hit the reset button on his brain. "I was just thinking about you. We were talking about you earlier, or Miles was. He mentioned you, and it occurred to me that it had been ages since we last spoke. I ... I suppose I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Another excruciating silence.

"Well ... I'm fine now," she said, her voice softening. "It varies, you know? Some days are better than others. But I'm doing alright, all things considered."

"That's amazing. That's so good to hear," Elliott said.

"So where are you?"

"What, right now?"

"I can hear music. Are you at a party?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. It's this thing for a new tech company I'm kind of involved with. It's not that great, to tell you the truth. I'll probably leave soon." He didn't know why he had to pretend like he wasn't enjoying himself. He was getting cold feet now. The best course of action would be to wrap up the call before he really made a fool of himself. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you or anything. I shouldn't have called this late. I'll talk to you later."

"No, wait ..." Amy was silent for a moment. "I want to thank you for what you did for me. With the regeneration expenses, and everything else. You have no idea what that meant for us. My family, everyone, we all really appreciate it. I really appreciate it."

"Oh. Oh, that was nothing. I was happy to help out," he said.

"I've been meaning to tell you that for the past year, but ... I wasn't sure if you wanted to hear from me."

"No, I did. I do. I thought about calling you too, after you had your treatment. I wanted to see if you were doing okay. I was just worried you might have had the wrong idea about it."

"The wrong idea about what?"

"You know, about me paying for your treatment. I thought you might have been suspicious of my motives or something."

He hadn't intended on raising the subject so early in the conversation. His plan, if he could call any of this a plan, was to dance around the topic and delicately extract the information, but that was far beyond his present capabilities. Instead, he just blurted out whatever happened to be on his mind.

"Your motives? What are you talking about?"

"I just ..." He leaned against the balcony railing and rubbed his forehead. "I don't know what I'm talking about. I didn't really think any of this through. Between you and me, I might be a little bit drunk."

Amy laughed. It was the kind of deep, throaty laugh he used to love hearing. "I thought that might be the case. I wasn't going to say anything."

Elliott managed a laugh too. "I thought I did an okay job of hiding it."

"You called me from a party at one-thirty in the morning. That's kind of a giveaway."

"Oh, yeah. I suppose it is."

"So you said Miles was there too?"

"He was here, but he left a while ago. Wasn't really his scene, apparently."

"No, it doesn't sound like it."

They both laughed at the same time, and an enormous sense of relief came over him. She wasn't mad. She was happy he'd called. He had nothing to worry about. It was all in his head. More to the point, Miles was way off with his remark. Paying for her treatment had been the right thing to do.

A boorish cheer came from inside the party. He turned around to see Madison Marlowe performing her now-obligatory table top dancing routine. She had a captive audience of male Xyyx employees, most of whom were filming her with their phones. The Xyyx CEO, a twenty-two year old college dropout, tossed hundred dollar bills into the air like confetti. Madison was one misplaced stiletto away from a painful tumble to the floor.

He experienced something of an epiphany as he watched this all unfold. He decided this wasn't really his scene either. He didn't want to be here anymore, with these people. He would rather be with Amy.

Chapter 18

Miles didn't expect to stay too long at Z-Pro. It was only a temporary job, after all. Four to six weeks at most. So it was something of a surprise for him to wake up one morning and discover that three months had passed since his first day. He had fallen into a comfortable routine, his life now following a predictable work-home-eat-sleep pattern that made the days go by fast enough.

There was enough variety in his job to keep his interest levels hovering marginally above the bare minimum. Some days he would attend four incidents before lunch. Other times, two or three days might pass where he did nothing more than try to top his high score in Tetris. Most of the call-outs were so straightforward he could do them on autopilot, barely having to think about what he was doing. At the end of each day he was out the door the second his shift finished, and he never stayed back to socialize with his colleagues. He continued to make excuses as to why he couldn't join them when they hit the bars, until they finally stopped inviting him.

His bank balance began accumulating funds. For the first time in ages he had disposal income and, unlike his previous employer, he was paid on time every week.

His twenty-seventh birthday came and went with little fanfare.

In this time he had devised something resembling a life plan. He would spend another six to twelve months doing the front line UMC work. After that, he would push for a behind the scenes desk job. He definitely didn't want to be out on the streets chasing stray zombies when he was thirty. Opportunities were always coming up in the office around Z-Pro, so he didn't think this was a goal he would have too much trouble achieving. Staff here were promoted on the basis of longevity rather than ability, and anyone who remained with the company for more than two years was automatically regarded as having management potential.

It may not have been the life and career he envisioned for himself when he was younger, but the older he got the more he came to realize that very few people ever see their dreams come to fruition.

Thanks to the commercial in which he had a starring role, all his friends now knew he was working for Z-Pro. His sister Shae called him up to shout at him and tell him what an idiot he was for taking on this job. Felix, Adam and many others got in touch to express similar concerns. He did his best to reassure everyone that he was in no danger, and that what happened at Dead Rite could never happen again.

He hadn't spoken to Elliott since the night of the Xyyx party. They had exchanged a few texts, but that was it. There was no big falling out or blow-up. They were just living very different lives now, and it was natural that they would eventually drift apart.

After six weeks on high rotation, the commercial was now shown only seven or eight times a day. Strangers still recognized him occasionally, but the amount of heckling he received had reduced significantly.

Devon pulled into a secluded spot at the rear of the grain shed, just behind the trunk of a sprawling cottonwood tree. He made sure he was fully obscured and not visible from the road. Even though he was in the middle of nowhere, he still took precautions.

He locked up his car and headed toward the shed.

For someone who had lived in the city his entire life, the isolation of this place sometimes messed with his mind. Nothing but flat empty paddocks as far as the eye could see. The nearest two-horse town was a further twenty minutes down the road. There was an unnerving silence, broken only by the occasional cawing of crows. It just didn't feel right. If someone wanted to bump him off they could easily ambush him and bury his body in the fields without anyone ever finding out.

He rapped his knuckles against a side door. A narrow slot opened up. A pair of puffy eyes peered back at him, squinting as if they were glimpsing sunlight for the first time in weeks.

"It's just me," Devon said.

"Yer late," Rizzo said.

"Sorry. Got stuck in traffic."

"Oh. Okay, then."

The slot closed and the door opened.

Rizzo had aged decades since Devon last saw him. His face was bloated and covered in dirty gray stubble. His hair looked like it had been used to mop up an oil spill. He wore an old linen robe over top of sweatpants. His right hand was in a cast, and his left gripped the top of a walking stick.

The shed was the size of a soccer pitch. Devon stepped inside, and Rizzo slammed the lock shut on the door. The place smelled like a rat infestation.

"This way," Rizzo said, speaking in a rasp that sounded like he'd just taken a punch to the throat.

They crossed the cracked and oil-stained cement floor. Rizzo moved at half-speed, walking with a noticeable limp. Devon followed wordlessly behind. There was a distinct bulge beneath the robe; the unmistakable outline of a handgun.

His mind whirred as he tried to figure out what had transpired in the two months since he last visited this place. Rizzo was arming himself, he had a busted knee and a broken hand, and he looked like he existed on a diet of opioid smoothies. His already healthy paranoia had ascended to Howard Hughes levels. If he had to speculate, he'd say that Rizzo had some sort of disagreement or falling out with a business associate, and he came off second best.

He always knew to tread carefully whenever he came out here, and not only because the place was booby-trapped. He made sure never to do or say anything that might get Rizzo worked up. It was obvious the guy had some sort of major personality disorder, and he could never be sure just how sane he was on any given day. He seemed fairly amiable today, but that could change as quickly as the weather.

A commotion of some sort played out on the other side of the building. Two rail-thin Sudanese men were midway through unloading heavy wooden crates from the back of a rental truck. One of the crates had toppled over, and a Komodo dragon large enough to swallow a chihuahua was on the loose. The two men shouted at each other in their native tongue as they attempted to recapture it, using nothing more than a stick and a burlap sack. Rizzo carried on without looking up, as if this kind of thing was an everyday occurrence.

Smuggled exotic animals was the latest commodity Rizzo traded in. He wasn't at all selective about what he chose to sell. Prescription drugs, pirated software, illegal tobacco, imported weapons – if he could make a buck from it, he was happy to handle it. He wasn't involved in the trafficking of human organs, but that was only because he didn't have the knowledge or contacts.

They came to a wooden box. "I might as well show you this while you're here." Rizzo jemmied it open with a crowbar. "Top quality product, if you want a piece."

He reached inside and pulled out a sample of the contraband. It was a roll of cling wrap.

"What is this?" Devon said.

"What does it look like?" Rizzo tore the pack open and unfurled a length about a meter long. "I have three more deliveries scheduled for later on in the month. A guy I know knocked off a whole shipping container full of the stuff. You want some, let me know."

Devon looked at him like he was expecting a punchline. "You're asking me if I want to sell cling wrap?"

"Huge market for it. Massive. Virtually unlimited."

"For cling wrap?"

"Do you use it?"

"Well, yeah ..."

"Do you know anyone who doesn't use it?"

Devon considered this. "No, I guess I don't."

"Exactly my point. So how many rolls you wanna take?"

"You know, I think I'll stick with the Zaracaine-9 for today. Maybe next time."

"Suit yourself." He tossed the roll back into the box. "But don't drag your feet or nothin'. As soon as it's gone, I don't know when I'll be getting more in."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Devon's first encounter with Rizzo (just "Rizzo" – he still didn't know his first name) took place during a brief stint in prison several years ago, back when he was doing a six month stretch for looting during the undead outbreak. Rizzo called him up a few months after he was released, inviting him to come work for him on consignment. Devon had no idea what prompted the call – they weren't exactly friends, and it wasn't as if Rizzo owed him any favors after their brief time together on the inside. But he didn't spend too long thinking about it. He appeared well-connected, and Devon hadn't exactly been inundated with job offers since he got out, so he agreed to give it a go.

The first products he sold for him were steroids and human growth hormones. He offloaded those to gym rats, bodybuilders and scrawny teenagers wanting to bulk up. He had no trouble shifting these, and he collected a tidy profit. Next came Vicodin and Percocet pills, most of which were sold to rich college kids and professional types. A month of dealing those paid for a two-week vacation in Bali. There were other one-off products from time to time – smartphones, designer sneakers, electronic gear – and Devon was happy to move them if he thought the demand was there. The only things he refused to touch were the smuggled animals, which were way more trouble than they were worth, and the weapons, which came with a much larger prison sentence.

Rizzo lifted up a dusty brown tarpaulin behind the crate of cling wrap. Underneath were eight small boxes spread across a wooden pallet.

"What's this?" Devon said.

"This is all the Zaracaine-9 I have left," Rizzo said. "Each box is now nine hundred bucks, by the way. I'm not sure if I mentioned that already."

"No. You did not mention that already."

"Right. Well, they're now nine hundred."

"Up from five-fifty since I was last here?"

"Considering what's happened since you were last here, be grateful you can get it at all."

"Why, what happened?"

"Are you for real?" Rizzo propped himself up against a work bench to give his aching knee a rest. "Seriously pal, it doesn't hurt to open a newspaper every once in a while. You might even learn a thing or two about what's happening in the world."

He pulled a blister pack from his pocket and popped out five pills. Rizzo liked to road test any new pharmaceutical shipment before doling them out to his distribution network. This, along with the apparent beating he took, likely contributed to the drastic change in his appearance, giving him an extra ten kilograms of junkie bloat and the mental alertness of a dementia patient.

"The Elixxia bigwigs cottoned on to the scheme," he continued, tossing the pills in his mouth. "Launched their own covert investigation. Bunch of people arrested."

He went on to explain what had gone down, and the impact this would have on their operation.

The unauthorized Zaracaine-9 was being smuggled out of Elixxia's Southeast Asian factories and sent over to be sold on the black market. This all started when a group of enterprising factory workers discovered how much the drug was being sold for in rich western countries. A single vial cost more than what they earned in a week, so they devised an elaborate scheme where they would take some of that profit for themselves. It began with the occasional quantity going missing, a few boxes here and there, that were shipped off to relatives living overseas. The operation soon expanded, and within a few months they were paying off stock controllers to make entire truckloads vanish with a stroke of a pen, and handing security guards cash-stuffed paper bags to look the other way. Shift supervisors, drivers, exporters, customs officials and more all took their cut. Despite these added expenses, they still managed to put the product in the end consumer's hands for a fraction of what they would have paid had they gone through the official channels.

Elixxia Pharmaceuticals had long suspected the Zaracaine-9 sold illegally on the streets came from one of their Bangladeshi plants, but they didn't know which ones, or how it was getting out. A lengthy investigation was launched involving hidden cameras, undercover officers and tracking devices slipped into random shipments. A breakthrough finally came last month that resulted in sixty people being arrested. Tighter security protocols were now in place to prevent similar breaches from happening in the future.

"So that's the situation as it stands," Rizzo said. "Our main source of supply, decimated in one fell swoop."

"One fowl swoop," Devon said.

"What?"

"You said 'one fell swoop' just then."

"I know I did."

"It's one 'fowl' swoop. It means to swoop in on something, the way a fowl swoops down on its prey from above."

"A fowl is a chicken, or a turkey."

"Yeah, I know."

"How many flying chickens you ever seen?"

Devon thought about this for a moment. "Well, whatever. The fact is I'm not paying nine hundred bucks for one box. That's extortion."

"It's not extortion, drama queen, it's basic economics. When you have less of something, the demand increases and the price goes up. When there's less demand the opposite happens. I really shouldn't need to explain this to you. That's something they shoulda taught you in school."

"But nine hundred for a single box is ridiculous."

"That's the going rate," Rizzo shrugged. "I charge the same for everyone, so don't act like you're being victimized. The supply will pick up soon enough. It always does. It just might be a few months."

Devon stood with his hands on his hips before taking his frustrations out on an empty cardboard box, kicking it as hard as he could. His foot went straight through the box, and it became stuck around his ankle. He hopped around on one foot for a few seconds while he pulled it off.

"Got that out of your system?" Rizzo said.

"So what am I supposed to do now? I drove all this way for nothing," Devon said.

"Hold on, don't get your tinsel in a tangle. I have something else that might interest you. Follow me."

"It's not more cling wrap, is it?"

"Follow me," Rizzo repeated.

He was led to a smaller room at the rear of the shed. A light flickered on. Devon was faced with a wall of boxes stacked almost twice his height. Each box had Arabic and English writing along the side.

"What's all this?" he said.

"This is Zaracaine-9. Well, not exactly, but it's a close approximation of it. It's a Zaracaine-9 knock-off. It came in a couple of days ago. It should tide you over until we get some more of the proper stuff."

Devon opened one of the boxes. He took out a vial. "It's green," he said.

"The vials are green, but the stuff inside is the same. Identical to what's sold in the pharmacies. And I don't mean it's sorta like it, like it kinda does the same thing. I mean it's exactly the same, one hundred percent chemically identical. Only difference is these ones are made in some lab in the Middle East, and the other ones come from some factory in Bangladesh."

Devon inspected the vial by holding it up to the light. He couldn't tell a thing just by looking at it – the vial could have been filled with tap water and he wouldn't know the difference – but he at least wanted to pretend he knew what he was doing.

"This came from the Middle East?" he said.

"Somewhere in Dubai, I'm reliably informed. Apparently these science guys figured out a way to make it themselves. They, uh, what do you call it? They rewind-engineered the stuff. Then they shipped it over – listen to this – they packed it inside frozen shark carcasses to get it through customs. Must be churning out gallons of it too, 'cause the guy I got it from sold it to me for almost half of what I pay for the other stuff. I can let you have it for two seventy-five a box."

"Two seventy-five?" Devon slipped the vial back into the pack. "You sure it's as good as the other stuff?"

"I'm telling you, it's exactly the same. It's just the markup they put on it is obscene. Elixxia charge seventy bucks for a single vial that costs them fifty-five cents to produce. And they have the nerve to call us criminals."

Rizzo then launched into a lengthy rant about how corrupt and duplicitous Elixxia Pharmaceuticals were, and how a cure for the BNBO-511:17 pathogen had already been developed but had been suppressed since it was more profitable to charge people for ongoing treatment.

"Wait, wouldn't it be more expensive if it was sent from the Middle East?" Devon said. "That's a lot further away than Southeast Asia."

"Yeah, but the Bangladesh product has to be smuggled out of factories. Everyone involved takes their cut along the way, and only a limited amount can go missing at any one time. This stuff though, they can pump out as much as they want. Plus, there's not a lot of illegal stuff coming out of Dubai, so it sails through customs unmolested."

"I guess that makes sense," Devon said.

"So. How much can I put you down for?"

Devon cast his eye over the tower of boxes stacked against the wall. He had only intended on picking up his regular allotment today, enough to get by for six to eight weeks, but if the price was reduced by this much it made sense to take advantage. He didn't know if this cheaper version would be available next time. Supply sources in this line of work were notoriously unreliable, and they could be shut off without warning. If he stocked up now he could double his profit margins for the next six months.

"I'll take as much as I can fit in my car," he said.

Two weeks earlier, in the car park of a rented warehouse situated in one of the anonymous asphalt-gray industrial suburbs on the city's outskirts, two men stood in drizzly rain beneath a flickering security light. One was James Pridham, CEO of Elixxia Pharmaceuticals. The other was Dr. Li Jun Xu, a world-renowned Chinese chemist.

Pridham used a penknife to slice open the box Dr. Xu had handed him, the first of many to roll off the production line. Inside were ninety-six lime-green 10ml vials. The ones that, within a matter of days, would be covertly distributed to hundreds of unauthorized prescription medication dealers across the country.

He held one of the vials in front of his eyes and gave it a shake. "You're confident you can deliver the full order by the end of the week?"

Dr. Xu nodded. "You give us what we need, I supply you full amount. End of week."

"Outstanding." Pridham returned the vial to the box and pushed the flaps closed. "Outstanding," he repeated.

When James Pridham first considered potential candidates to oversee this one-off top secret project of his, Dr. Xu's name immediately sprang to mind. Two days later he was on a flight to Shanghai with a briefcase filled with cash and an offer impossible to turn down. The proposition was simple – if Dr. Xu could manufacture this one small batch of medication he would receive an immediate five million dollar payment, and he and seventeen family members would be granted permanent residency.

Two points on Dr. Xu's CV made him ideal for this assignment. The first was his extensive knowledge and experience in the pharmaceutical research field. He had been a highly-lauded chemist in his native country, graduating with honors from Huazhong University of Science and Technology, and he headed up one of Elixxia's research teams involved at the R&D stage during the development of Zaracaine-9. He was a rare talent, as knowledgeable in his field as anyone Pridham had ever encountered.

The second point was his lengthy history of unethical and often criminal behavior. Over the course of his career he had accumulated multiple convictions, ranging from DUIs to fraud to the trafficking of controlled substances. He was known to have serious gambling issues, and was reported to have run up large debts with bookmakers tied to organized crime syndicates. Despite being married for eighteen years, he had fathered at least three children with women who worked under him. His fall from grace had been a spectacular slow-motion car crash.

As far as Pridham was concerned, the negative points on Dr. Xu's CV were just as important as the positives. His limited career prospects meant there was a much greater chance that he would be receptive to an offer like this. It also meant that, in the unlikely event of him developing a conscience and going public with potentially damaging allegations against Elixxia, his checkered history meant he could easily be portrayed as an unreliable witness, and his claims would immediately be dismissed.

Pridham could tell the disgraced doctor had many questions regarding the whole enterprise. He didn't know why he was being asked to manufacture this batch of Zaracaine-9, made to these specific instructions, nor did he know what Pridham planned on doing with the batch once it was finished. But he did know that when a proposition this extraordinary was put before him, and under such a heavy cloak of secrecy, it was prudent to ask as few questions as possible. As someone who was otherwise unemployable he wasn't about to receive another offer this good anytime soon.

"If you tell anyone what I'm about to tell you, I'll deny it and spread the most malicious counter-rumor you can imagine."

These were the first words to come out of James Pridham's mouth when he welcomed Bernard Marlowe into his office at Elixxia's headquarters, three days after their golf game. The two may have been friends, colleagues, and business associates for the better part of twenty-five years – both had attended the same ultra-exclusive private school, albeit a decade apart, and Marlowe served as a professional mentor to him early on in his career – but Pridham still could not predict with any degree of certainty just how the prime minister might respond to such a proposal. He warned that what he was about to pitch was drastic, and their careers would be damaged beyond all repair should the details of this meeting ever be made public. Criminal charges were not out of the question. But the potential benefits, he promised, were astronomical – to the government, to Elixxia, and to the country at large.

He outlined exactly what he wanted to do, and he went over the reasons for it. He said Elixxia had cautioned the public innumerable times about the dangers of using the illegal medication, but many still refused to do the right thing. He'd had enough of his company being taken advantage of by freeloaders and opportunistic hucksters. It was time to take a stand. As far as he was concerned, if people were willing to jeopardize their health and wellbeing just to save a few dollars they had no one to blame but themselves for any adverse effects that may result.

He then explained to Marlowe how his plan would help the government.

"The public have become complacent over the past couple of years," he said. "They appear to have forgotten everything your government has done to protect them from the undead. They're taking you for granted. If you can't reverse this trend you could find yourself voted out after just one term, and who knows what will happen then? The opposition will be back in charge, and they'll bring with them the chaos and dysfunction that marred their previous administration. The country deserves better. They need stability, they need someone with a vision. Most of all, they need a leader prepared to do whatever it takes to protect them."

A controlled one-off small-scale zombie outbreak, Pridham argued, would serve as a reminder that the undead threat still existed. This would be a warning against complacency. It would also emphasize the importance of respecting intellectual property rights. It was a tough love approach. A small minority may initially be affected, but in the long run it would be for the betterment of society. On balance more lives would be saved than sacrificed, and the effects could always be reversed. In most cases, anyway.

"Remember, you have been warning the public of the increased likelihood of an undead attack for the past three years," he continued. "That hasn't happened. It might never happen. You're in danger of becoming the boy who cried wolf. So the next time you open your mouth, you better make damn sure there's a wolf around."

He punctuated this statement by slapping his palm against his desk. The displacement of air was enough to blow several loose documents to the floor.

Pridham expected Marlowe to be, at the very least, somewhat reluctant to go along with such an audacious plan. He was prepared to spend a significant amount of time arguing his case by laying out the facts and opportunities of such an endeavor, and assuring him he had the capacity to pull it off without either one of them getting caught. He was about to suggest he go home and sleep on it before making such a momentous decision.

But Marlowe had made up his mind, almost from the moment Pridham began speaking. He was so desperate to reverse his ailing fortunes he barely required any convincing at all. Maybe this was because he had been spending more time of late contemplating his legacy. He wondered what historians would make of his leadership, and how future generations would regard his brief reign at the top. Right now he would probably be remembered as the prime minister who had the world in the palm of his hand before squandering all his good fortune in less than three years. Now, his old friend was giving him the chance to re-write his own narrative.

"Just to be clear, this is not something I take any pleasure in doing," Marlowe said as the meeting drew to a close. "But it needs to be done. And I believe we've earned the right to remind the public of what we have sacrificed for them."

Pridham smiled. "Leave everything to me."

The two parted with a handshake, and Pridham immediately went to work setting his plan into motion. He recruited Dr. Xu and set him up in the makeshift laboratory that had been hastily assembled under a veil of secrecy. He went to great lengths to ensure there was no trail to connect either himself, Elixxia or Marlowe to any of this. Everything, including Dr. Xu's five million dollars, was paid for in cash. The warehouse and equipment were leased under assumed names, with the whole operation masquerading as a manufacturing plant for laundry detergent. A small team of workers was assembled to assist with production, the majority of whom were members of Dr. Xu's extended family. In a week's time, everything would be packed up and gone as if they were never there.

Pridham didn't need the prime minister's approval to do any of this. He could have carried it all out on his own volition. But Marlowe would be his insurance policy. If any suspicion was ever cast in his direction, or any malicious accusations were leveled against him, the most powerful man in the country would have his back. Any subsequent investigation, in the unlikely event it would come to that, would be headed by a sympathetic body hand-selected by the prime minister himself, and Pridham would be completely exonerated.

"Now I'm sure I don't need to remind you of this, but everything that goes on here has to remain confidential," Pridham told Dr. Xu. He enunciated his words carefully to ensure there were no misunderstandings. "No matter what happens, no matter who you talk to, you don't breathe a word of this to anyone. Ever. Not to your priest, not to your psychiatrist, not under the threat of torture. Do you follow?"

Dr. Xu nodded. "I follow, yes."

"I hope you follow. Because it took only one phone call for me to arrange permanent residency for you and your family. It'll take only one phone call to have them all sent back on the next –"

The street lit up, and he fell silent. The sound of an approaching motor vehicle roared in his ears. A pair of high-beam headlights had appeared from nowhere and was drawing nearer. A cop car.

Pridham threw the box of samples into the back of his car and slammed the trunk closed. He regretted his actions almost immediately. It looked like he had something to hide.

He stood there, his feet anchored to the ground, praying for the car to pass without incident.

The trunk popped open. His heart dislodged from his chest and worked its way up into his throat. He again cursed the blind old pensioner who rear-ended him several months back, as well as the incompetent repairer who couldn't seem to fix anything as basic as a busted lock.

The car decelerated as it approached the warehouse.

Pridham's burning anxiety was replaced with a wave of eternal gratitude when he saw that it was a car from a private security company patrolling the area, and not a police car. Not that it really made any difference. Two men standing in an empty car park at three o'clock on a Tuesday morning might have looked suspicious, but they weren't doing anything obviously illegal. Still, it was enough to remind him that it was probably not a good idea to hang around the scene of the crime any longer than necessary.

The car pulled over to the side of the road. It executed a quick u-turn and headed back the way it came.

Pridham instructed Dr. Xu to carry on with his work, then he slammed the trunk closed and drove away.

Chapter 19

The day after he called her from the party, Amy agreed to meet up with Elliott at a nearby café. It was one they used to frequent together, the one that still had her favorite chocolate, peanut butter and banana pancakes on the menu. It would be the first time they had seen each other in three years, and it was the most nervous he had ever felt. He'd only managed a few hours' sleep the night before. Meeting up with an ex-girlfriend after such a long time apart was intimidating enough. The fact that she had spent much of the intervening period as an undead being only intensified his anxieties, to say nothing of the tumultuous and very public circumstances surrounding their break up. Discovering her in Trent's backyard that fateful morning was by far the worst moment of his life. It was such a devastating double-whammy, almost like losing her twice in the one day.

He arrived at the café fifteen minutes early to find that she was already there waiting for him. The first thing he noticed was her change in appearance – or the lack of a change. He had expected her to look drastically different – he had in fact braced himself for that possibility – but any changes she may have undergone were only subtle ones. Her face was slightly thinner, and her skin was maybe a shade paler. But other than that, she was more or less how he remembered her. She looked older, but that was to be expected given the time that had passed. He probably seemed older to her, too.

There was an initial feeling of awkwardness when he first approached, and the small talk was strained to begin with, but the nerves subsided after about ten minutes. Soon, they were talking and laughing as if the last three years had never happened. They were surprised at how easy it was to fall back into a comfortable rapport. There was so much shared history between them, and they felt at ease together since they knew each other so well.

As they talked, a picture gradually formed of what life had been like for Amy in recent times. While her transition from former human to re-lifer had been successful, the bigger adjustment came when she tried to step back into the real world. She confessed she was now worried that strangers were looking at her whenever she went out in public, and that people would keep their distance if they knew about her condition. She managed to cover up most of the visible signs, but she remained deeply self-conscious. Glimpses of her old personality still shone through, the vibrant and outgoing girl that Elliott remembered, but that was buried beneath several deep protective layers. She had struggled with self-esteem issues and endured bouts of depression. The shift from someone who was once the center of attention in any situation to someone who felt invisible and ignored had not been an easy one.

They stayed on at the café for three hours. Plans were made to meet up again the following weekend. That led to another date, and before long they were spending most of their days together.

Amy was blown away by the change in Elliott's lifestyle, not to mention the change in Elliott in general. She had heard he was rich now, but it was impossible to grasp the scale of it all until she saw it with her own eyes. The massive house, the fleet of luxury vehicles, the nonchalance with how he threw his cash around. None of it seemed real. Those first few weeks together were dizzying, like she was living in a dream.

But as with all dreams, reality had to intrude sooner or later. Things didn't feel quite right to her, even if it wasn't anything she could put her finger on. Something seemed off. She told Elliott they needed to slow things down and spend some time apart.

He didn't see this coming. It started with Amy telling him she wasn't sure if she was comfortable with the way things were progressing. She wasn't ready, and it was just too much, too soon. She needed to take some time out for herself, and suggested they wait a while to see if they wanted to continue on like this. Elliott tried to be understanding, and he told her he fully supported her decision, but he had no idea what he had done to make her pull away so suddenly.

There was no contact between them for two weeks. He made a tentative attempt at reconnecting toward the end of the second week, sending out a couple of text messages to check in on her. These received only curt replies at first, and then no reply at all. He tried calling during the third week, but each time it went straight to her voicemail. He didn't like where this was going. He needed to find a way of turning it around.

They finally spoke again during the fourth week, when she called him early one morning. As soon as he answered he could tell she was not happy.

"So, is there a reason why my insurance has suddenly been canceled?" she said, bypassing any niceties and getting straight to the point.

"Why, what's happened?" Elliott said. He rubbed his eyes. He'd been awake for only a few minutes, and his brain was still in a deep slumber.

"Are you telling me you don't know? I went to collect my medication today, and they told me the coverage had lapsed."

"I don't know how that could have happened," he said, immediately assuming a defensive position. "There must be some mistake."

"So you didn't do this so I would be forced to call you up and ask for your help?"

He swallowed. "Look, I'm sure it's nothing. It's probably just an oversight."

The line went dead for a long time before Amy next spoke. "Is this what I have to look forward to from now on, Elliott? Will I have to do exactly what you tell me or risk being cut off?"

"Of course not!" He tried to express the right amount of concern and outrage. "Why would you even think something like that?"

"What else am I supposed to think? I only asked you for one thing. I needed some time for myself. Just a few weeks to work through some of my own issues, but you weren't able to accept that. You couldn't stand to have someone not do exactly what you wanted them to do, and so you tried to manipulate me into seeing you again."

Elliott was about to continue his denials before he decided he'd done enough of that. He would rather hold on to what remained of his dignity. "You know what, I'm not going to bother arguing any more," he said. "I've done more than enough to help you out without asking for anything in return. More than what a lot of people might expect me to do, considering what's happened between us in the past."

"Ah good," Amy said with a mildly sarcastic laugh. "You've finally managed to come out and say what's really bothering you here, even if you couldn't bring yourself to say Trent's name out loud."

His chest tightened. That name triggered a violent reaction inside him. "What does Trent have to do with this?" he said, taking care to measure his words.

"I think you know what, and since you brought him up we may as well get it out in the open. Yes, I cheated on you, with Trent, twice. That's it. If you're looking for a reason, and I know you are, even if you're too scared to ask, it's simple. I was going to break up with you, and I was using him as an excuse."

This news hit like a brick to the face. In his mind, he had imagined Amy and Trent had been sneaking around behind his back for years prior to him finding out. And she was planning on breaking up with him around that time? This was making his head hurt. Everything he thought he knew from that time was probably wrong. It was far too early in the morning to have to deal with this.

"You were impossible to be around back then," she continued. "You've always had a jealous streak, but it had reached a point where you were consumed by it. I found out you had gone through my phone, and you were going through my stuff. I don't know what you expected to find, but you definitely didn't trust me. You kept trying to guilt-trip me, and wanting to know where I was all the time. So I suppose I thought I'd give you a reason to be jealous. I'm not proud of what happened, but at the time that was the only way I knew how to deal with it."

He felt a steady sense of anguish build. None of this was going the way he thought it would. "Look, that all happened years ago," he said. "We've both grown a lot since then."

"Have we? I'm not sure you have. If anything, money has exacerbated your worst qualities. Before, you would turn up to my house or my work unannounced, just to see what I was doing or who I was with. Now you're paying people to follow me around."

"Come on Amy, that's ridiculous," he heard himself say. He could only hope he sounded genuine, but he doubted it. He was having trouble finding the right balance between protesting his innocence and not protesting too much. "I would never do anything like that."

"I don't expect you to admit it, but it wasn't hard to figure out. The guy you hired wasn't exactly subtle. And you didn't need to hire a private investigator to find out what you really wanted to know. You could have asked me, and the answer is no. I haven't seen Trent, and I don't want to see him. The last time I saw him was also the last time you saw him, three years ago."

He was fighting a losing battle here. He needed to retreat and regroup. "Look, can we just meet up somewhere and talk about this? It'll take ten minutes to sort out the problem with the insurance."

Another drawn-out silence followed. Amy sounded more fragile when she next spoke. "Do you think you can answer one question honestly for me?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"You seemed so determined for us to get back together," she said. "But you never explained why. Why were you so hell-bent on making this happen?"

He needed a moment to think about it. His brain just didn't want to work properly this morning. It was a simple question, but he drew a blank.

"I ... I don't know," he began. "Because I missed you? I wanted to see you again."

Nothing he just said came out with any degree of conviction, and he knew it.

"Is that it?"

"What else do you think it would be?"

"Honestly, I can never really be sure what goes on inside your head anymore. But I'm not stupid. I doubt you intended on staying with a re-lifer for any length of time. Not when you could have anyone you wanted, more or less." She needed a moment to collect herself. "And I can't help but wonder if this was all some sort of plan to get your revenge. That your ultimate aim here was to hurt me because of how it ended between us. You may not have known you were doing it. Maybe it was a subconscious thing. But maybe you felt like you had to do that in order to restore your pride, and to make things right in your mind."

Elliott was adamant that Amy was miles off with her assessment. He babbled out repeated denials, and he assured her that he would never do anything so callous, but this did nothing to change her mind. She was steadfast in her belief that they should not continue to see one other, at least for the time being. A clean break would be healthier for them both. Piecing her life back together was an ongoing process, and it was one that would need a lot more time. She now received an income from the part-time job she had managed to pick up, and she was living in a place of her own, an investment property her parents owned. She didn't need his money, especially if it came with certain conditions.

"That's your decision," Elliott finally said. "If that's what you want, I won't stand in your way."

In fact, he was looking forward to it. He didn't say it, but if she was going to do this on her own she might begin to appreciate everything he had done for her up until now. She would discover what life was really like without someone there to bail her out every time she found herself in trouble. He would give her all the time she needed, but he doubted it would be too long before he heard from her next. He gave it a month, at most.

Chapter 20

Erin had made a decision that, while necessary, was still quite reckless. She had sent Brandon and Brock out on a job together.

It was a reckless decision because the two men had been at one another's throats for months now, engaged in an endless campaign of backbiting and one-upmanship that threatened to spill over into physical violence any day now, precipitated by the fact that Brandon was Erin's ex-fiancé and Brock was her current fiancé.

It was necessary because a call had come through reporting up to seven former humans at the one residential location. Any more than five meant there was a legal requirement to have at least three UMC agents present. An unexplained spike in activity over the past couple of days had left Z-Pro short-staffed, and on this occasion Brandon and Brock were the only agents available to take the job. Miles was the lucky third worker selected to accompany them to the address.

This whole endeavor was fraught with danger, but Erin believed they could both behave like adults and put their differences to one side for an hour or two without anyone getting killed. Miles didn't share her confidence, and he grew even more skeptical when the friction began almost as soon as the truck left the Z-Pro parking lot.

"Let's stop and get some lunch first," Brock said a few minutes into the journey. "There's an Aqua Bar up ahead. Pull in there."

"We won't have time for that," Brandon said. He planted his foot, and they rocketed through a set of lights a fraction of a second before they turned red.

"Brandon, I'm really not in the mood for this. I'm starving. It's three o'clock and I haven't eaten all day."

"None of us have had our lunch break yet. You don't hear us complaining."

Miles was caught in the middle, both figuratively and literally. The day had been grueling enough without having to endure all this. He made a gentle attempt at playing peacemaker. "Why don't we go through the drive-thru?" he said to Brandon. "It'll take two minutes."

"Maybe. We'll see." Brandon spoke as if he was actually considering this, but thirty seconds later the truck flew past the Aqua Bar without stopping.

"Alright, this has become an OH&S issue," Brock said. "I'm hypoglycemic. If I don't eat, and my blood sugar falls below a certain level, my pulse rate increases, I get migraines, and my hands start to shake. I won't be able to do my job properly."

"I don't think that's a proper medical condition," Brandon said, his voice heavy with mockery. "That's just getting cranky when you're hungry. You can eat when we've finished."

Brock scowled, and he turned to look out the window. A minute of silent driving followed. Miles hoped that would be the end of it, but he knew that was wishful thinking. Brock wasn't about to let Brandon have the final word.

"It's my own fault, really," he said to Miles. "I should have brought my own lunch today. I usually make it myself. Or Erin makes it for me, if I don't have the time."

Miles felt his whole body become tense. This was the last thing he wanted – Brock steering the conversation into precarious territory while all three were trapped in a confined space.

"Uh-huh" he said, as quietly as he could.

"She's been real busy lately. I've just been lazy, so I don't really have an excuse. But Jack's been making her come in to the office earlier over the past couple of days because we've been so busy. And of course the rest of our spare time has been taken up with preparations for the wedding."

The mood inside the truck immediately shifted. Miles said a silent prayer for this torture to end. God ignored him as punishment for his years of irreligious beliefs.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"Really, who knew how much time and effort went into planning a wedding? I thought all you did was book a venue, hire the caterers and rent a tux. But there are so many little things to take care of. I'd be happy if we just eloped, but Erin wants a big celebration, so you know what they say. 'Happy wife, happy life,' and all that."

He carried on like this for some time, going over the ins and outs of wedding preparation and potential honeymoon destinations. Miles experienced visions of the truck being steered into oncoming traffic. He could feel his body being pushed back in his seat as they accelerated. They had already been traveling well in excess of the speed limit, and now Brandon was driving like they had just robbed a bank.

Brock smirked, satisfied he had won this round. Miles checked to make sure his seat belt was properly secured.

They arrived at their destination earlier than expected. The house was a pile of crumbling brick and faded weatherboard that would have been slated for demolition in any other suburb.

The front door was locked. There was no answer when they rang the doorbell. Miles pressed his face against a front window.

"See anything?" Brock said.

"There are four, no, five cats," he said. "No humans, though. Former or otherwise."

They moved to the rear of the house. The back door was also locked, but the window next to it was open a few inches.

"Try reaching the lock," Brock said.

Miles peered into the gap. He saw darkness and not much else. He knew that sticking your arm into unfamiliar places when there could be as many as seven zombies on the loose was never a good idea.

"Why do I have to do it?" he said.

"Because your arms can fit, that's why."

He checked through the gap again. He listened for movement. He couldn't hear anything. He gently slid his arm inside. There were several failed attempts before he finally managed to flick the lock around. The door opened, and six mangy-looking cats scuttled out.

Brock was first to step inside. Miles followed close behind.

Like so many other residences in this area, the house could barely be considered fit for human habitation. The floorboards had been devoured by termites, and the walls were coated in dangerous levels of mold. The place had a smell like an infected wound. Miles felt the urge to take a shower as soon as he set foot inside. He didn't know how one person could live like this, let alone seven.

The first four obits were located in a rear bedroom. Brock pulled the door closed to hold them in there for the time being. Two more were discovered in the laundry. That brought it to six in total – four men and two women, their ages ranging from mid-twenties to late-forties.

"We're still one short," Brandon said. "You two make a start. I'll take a look through the rest of the house."

He traipsed off in the direction of the lounge, and Miles and Brock returned to the master bedroom to begin the process of capturing and restraining the undead beings, one at a time. It was a relief to finally have those two separated.

Brock stood in front of the bedroom door with the snare pole in his hands. Miles moved over to one side.

"Ready?" Brock said.

He responded with a quick nod, and Brock burst through the door. The nearest zombie was a few meters in front of him. He grabbed hold of it and dragged it into the hallway. It offered some token resistance, but Brock had no trouble overpowering it. Miles pulled the door closed before any more could follow.

Brock held the zombie still, while Miles placed the grill over its face. "Kinda strange how they all turned at the same time," Miles said as the muzzle snapped into place.

"Is it really that strange?" Brock said. "Maybe one of them was bitten and ended up infecting the others."

"I don't think they have been bitten. At least, I didn't see blood or open wounds on any of them."

"Lounge is clear!" Brandon shouted from the other side of the house.

"They're probably re-lifers then," Brock said. "A lot of them live around this area. This is what happens when they can't get their medication."

Two of the cats returned through an open window. They brushed up against Miles' legs, trying to coax some food out of him. He pushed them away with a light tap of his foot.

"You think they all turned at the same time? That would be a pretty big coincidence," he said.

"If they ran out of medication, it's possible they all turned within a short time frame," Brock said.

"Bathroom's clear!" Brandon called out from another part of the house.

"But transitioning back is a process that can take days, sometimes even weeks." Miles pulled the cable ties tight around the zombie's wrists. "These people don't look like they've spent the past week bedridden. They look like they were living their lives as normal before they turned."

"Hey Miles, our job is just to collect them." Brock was tiring of the constant questions. "You can play detective if you want, but you won't get paid any more for it."

He swung the snare pole around, and the now-restrained zombie was led toward the front door. Miles hurried ahead to clear a path, shifting furniture out of the way and shooing the cats that were still hanging around.

The zombie was loaded onto the truck's hydraulic lift, just as Brandon called out once more. "Garage is clear!"

Brock groaned. "I think we can do without the running commentary," he said, moving the zombie into one of the bays and activating the automatic restraints.

"It's just a safety thing. He likes to be thorough," Miles said.

"No, he does it because he likes to pretend he's part of a SWAT squad. He watches all those stupid police procedurals on TV. He always wanted to be a cop, but Erin told me he kept failing the entrance exam."

Miles considered the pros and cons of saying something versus remaining silent as he stepped down from the back of the truck. He really did not want to get involved, but he also didn't want to put up with any more of their bickering. He decided he'd held his tongue for long enough.

"Can I make a suggestion?" he said.

"Lay it on me," Brock said.

"I know this is none of my business, but don't you think it's time you and Brandon put this whole feud behind you?"

"Hey, I'd be happy to. I have moved on with my life. He's the one who refuses to let it go. You've seen what he's like, the way he's always needling me and pushing my buttons, going out of his way to antagonize me."

"He's only joking around when he does that. He doesn't mean anything by it." Miles knew this was far from the truth, but he had to try something.

"You really believe that?"

"Of course. There's no malice to any of it."

Brock climbed down from the truck. He closed the back door. "What about before, when he wouldn't even stop for two minutes so I could get something to eat? I'm still starving, by the way."

"Well, okay, I suppose that could have been handled better," Miles said.

"Today is my carb-loading day. He knows it's my carb-loading day. I have a heavy workout session planned for tomorrow. If I don't carb-load today, that throws out my entire schedule for the rest of the week. And I assume you've seen the photo, too?"

"What photo?"

"The one Erin sent him a couple of months ago."

Miles hesitated before answering. Only a fraction of a second, but enough to give himself away. "No, no, I don't think he –"

"Ha. Nice try. I know you've seen it," Brock said.

"Well yeah, I did. But it wasn't on purpose. He just held it up in front of me without –"

"I know, I know, he's been showing it to everyone. The worst part is he thinks it means something. Like he's still in with a chance."

"Honestly, I didn't see anything. Not really. As soon as I realized what he was showing me I looked away. I told him it was inappropriate –"

"And she sent it to him by mistake, in case you were wondering. Erin uses that voice command function on her phone, so when she said send it to Brock, the phone thought she said Brandon. You know, because our names are kind of similar. It's no big deal. We both laughed about it afterwards."

"Alright, I'll concede he provokes you a lot more than you provoke him. But can't you be the bigger man here? I mean, you won, didn't you? You're with Erin. He's not."

Brock mulled this over for a moment with his hands on his hips. "Maybe you're right," he said.

They returned to the house and headed back to the master bedroom. Brock stepped into the hallway. The first thing he saw was Brandon next to the bedroom door, eating from a large box of chocolate chip cookies.

"Kitchen's clear," he said with a full mouth.

The death stare Brock directed at him might have reduced a weaker man to a quivering wreck, but Brandon just responded with a smug grin.

Miles was ready to run in the opposite direction. If those two started throwing punches, he wasn't going to attempt to pull them apart.

"Oh, these were in the kitchen," Brandon said, putting on an innocent act. "Sorry, Brock. I forgot you said you were hungry. I suppose the polite thing would have been to offer them to you first."

He stuffed the last two cookies in his mouth and tossed the empty box on the floor. Brock stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. A door was slammed so hard it nearly flew off its hinges.

Miles let out an inaudible sigh. He knew this battle was far from over. He also knew getting involved was a waste of time. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

"So, no sign of the missing resident?" he said. He was eager to move on from what just happened and finish the job.

Brandon wiped his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his clothes. "Probably wandered off somewhere. We'll take a drive around the block once we're done here."

He grabbed the snare pole, and the process was repeated. The next zombie was dragged out from the room. The cable ties were put around its wrists, the face grill snapped into place, and it was loaded into the truck. Then back to the bedroom to do it all again.

The third zombie wasn't as easy as the first two. Dragging it into the hallway was simple enough, but this time they had trouble with the face grills. They came in two sizes; small and large. There were only smalls left in the equipment bag. All the larges had been used up over the course of the day.

"Just use a small. Maybe you can force it shut," Brandon said.

Miles tried this, but it soon became obvious that no matter what he did it was never going to fit. This guy's head was the size and shape of a watermelon.

"Do we have any tape?" he said. "Maybe that can hold it in place."

"Don't worry about it. We'll just have to be extra careful handling that one," Brandon said.

Normally Miles would object to such an egregious breach of safety, but by this point in the day he was beyond caring. The sooner they got this done the sooner they could leave, and the closer he was to going home.

He pulled the grill away – at the exact moment the zombie let fly with a hacking cough. A gray mist of phlegm and bile sprayed across his face.

Time slowed to a crawl. Miles became paralyzed. Every fiber of his being ordered him to freak out, but he could only stand there and feel his consciousness leave his body.

"Oh, dude," Brandon said. "No."

Then the smell hit. If anyone ever took the time to catalog history's most repulsive odors, from rotting seafood to the liquid that collects at the bottom of dumpsters, they wouldn't come close to what Miles could smell now. It was almost supernaturally vile. An avalanche of fear descended, and he was seized by an all-consuming panic.

"Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god!" he screamed "What do I do?"

There was an old t-shirt on the shelf in the corner. Brandon handed it to him. "Calm down, you'll be alright," he said.

"But ... what if I contract it? What if it got in my mouth?"

"Did any of it get in your mouth?"

"I don't know! I don't think so."

"Trust me, if it went in your mouth you'd know."

Miles wiped his face over and over with the t-shirt, stopping every few seconds to retch. "I need a shot! Quick, get me a shot! Get the first aid kit!"

Brandon shook his head. "Not yet. It's unlikely you've been infected, but if you have the first symptoms will begin to show in ten to fifteen minutes. If you feel anything then you can take a shot."

This blasé attitude bothered him almost as much as the rancid zombie puke seeping through his pores. "Can I take one anyway, just to be sure?"

"Zaracaine-9 is expensive, Miles. Jack won't be too pleased if we start wasting our shots just because we think we might have contracted something."

"You can deduct it from my pay if cost is the issue!" He was seconds away from becoming hysterical.

"Relax, you'll be fine. Trust me. It's really, really hard to become infected without actually being bitten. It virtually never happens."

Miles threw the t-shirt away, and he stormed off to find the bathroom.

He splashed water over his face and wiped it off with a hand towel, a process he repeated a further four times. He rinsed his mouth out with water from the tap, then with the mouthwash he found in the cabinet beneath the sink.

Next to the mouthwash was a small container of moist towelettes. He used five of these on his face, scrubbing until he was satisfied every last molecule of zombie filth had been wiped clean.

He felt a slight itch in his throat. He drank a mouthful of water directly from the tap. It was like trying to swallow sand. He noticed he was sweating like crazy. Was this the early stages of the infection? He had trouble focusing. The room tilted. He steadied himself by holding onto the sink with both hands.

Calm down, he told himself. Today was a warm day. Unseasonably warm, in fact. He had been working non-stop without a break, and he was tired and hungry and dehydrated. Not to mention a terrible hypochondriac. The dizziness passed after about a minute.

He gave his face one final wipe down, and he collected up the used moist towelettes. There was a small trash receptacle beside the door. His foot pressed down on the lever, and the lid popped up.

He stopped. Something at the bottom had caught his eye. He reached in to pick it up.

He found Brandon in one of the empty bedrooms. Brandon had discovered a plastic container filled with a variety of medications, which he had tipped out and spread across the bed. He was sorting through it all, trying to read the labels and pocketing any that took his fancy.

Pilfering items from the homes of the undead was more or less an accepted practice at Z-Pro. Workers would swipe anything that caught their eye without the slightest hint of hesitation or shame. Miles was appalled the first time he saw staff helping themselves to strangers' personal belongings. That was until he spotted a phone charger at a job he was on, identical to the one he had lost a day earlier. He was less judgmental about the practice these days.

"Feel better now?" Brandon said. He didn't look up, nor did he sound too interested in the answer.

"Look at this." Miles held up his discovery from the trash. It was a small lime-green vial, one of several he had found.

"What is that?" Brandon said.

"I'm not sure, but these were at the last place, too. What do you think they could be?"

The job before this one had been at a small semi-detached house, only a few minutes' drive from where they were now. Two women lived in the house – one in her sixties, the other in her thirties, probably a mother and daughter. There was a small collection of green vials on the bathroom recess, identical to the one in his hand. Two were empty, the rest unused. He recalled seeing something similar at another house he was at yesterday.

Brandon looked at him for a few seconds before turning his attention back to the medicinal lucky dip. "I've claimed most of the good stuff here," he said. "You can have whatever's left. There's some Paxil and Sonata, as well as –"

The sound of ceramic plates and cutlery crashing to the floor prevented him from completing that sentence. Next came a wordless cry for help. The terror in Brock's voice was unmistakable.

A second or two passed where Miles and Brandon just looked at each other, almost as if they needed to confirm that they really did hear that. Miles was first to bolt from the room. Brandon followed close behind. Neither one gave much thought as to the danger they might be running toward.

The first thing they saw when they reached the kitchen was the freshly-made sandwich on the counter. Brock had raided the fridge and crammed just about every item of food he could find in between two slices of bread. But he would never get to take so much as a bite out of it, as he was now flat on his back on the checkered linoleum, doing everything in his considerable power to hold off a ravenous former human.

The zombie's yellow teeth were clamped around Brock's forearm. He screamed like he was about to give birth. The zombie pulled its head back, and the skin and ligaments on Brock's arm stretched out like a lump of gum stuck to the sole of a shoe.

Chapter 21

Devon popped two more aspirin in his mouth and washed them down with half a can of Red Bull. That made it eight tablets and four Red Bulls for the day so far, although the effect they were having was negligible. Nothing he did could shake this stubborn hangover. He would give anything to be able to turn back the clock to when he was twenty-two, back to when he had the constitution and stamina to stay out all night and wake up ready for more the next day. But those days were long gone. Now he needed a minimum of forty-eight hours' recuperation, even after a relatively tame night.

He buried his head in the sofa cushions and scrolled through the TV channels. He was hoping to find something to take his mind off this self-induced malaise. So far there was nothing suitable. The sports channels were far too frenetic and made his head hurt. The cartoons were too bright and made his eyes ache. The music channels had too much noise and movement and made him nauseous. The news just confused and depressed him. He flicked the TV off, but somehow the silence was even worse. The last thing he needed was to be alone with his thoughts. He switched it back on.

He eventually landed on a nature documentary. Something about giant bugs in the Amazonian rainforest. That would do for now.

The commercials came on a few minutes later. The first was a public service announcement sponsored by Elixxia Pharmaceuticals. It featured a gravel-voiced narrator cautioning the public against the dangers of consuming illegal medication. Dark, foreboding music played over the soundtrack. The ad warned that any prescription drug obtained through unauthorized channels was likely to be hazardous to your health, and that by purchasing them you were depriving hardworking pharmacists of an income and supporting international crime syndicates. Ads similar to this one ran on a regular basis about a year ago, although they were taken off the air after only a few weeks. They were said to have virtually no impact on the black market Zaracaine-9 trade. If anything, they increased it. For many patients who had been purchasing their medication through the approved channels, it had never occurred to them to buy it illegally. Once they were made aware that it was possible to obtain their medication through other means – and for significantly less than what they had been paying – they actively sought it out.

Devon's dark mood had lifted by the time the commercials ended. If they were broadcasting those ads again it could only be good for his business. He was glad he had stocked up back at Rizzo's. He was going to need it.

His appetite was also showing signs of life. He climbed up off the sofa and tossed last night's leftover Chinese take-out into the microwave.

His phone buzzed with an incoming call while the food was heating. He ignored it. His customers knew to text rather than call. It was probably just another telemarketer.

He returned to the TV a few minutes later with the warmed-over food. The documentary cameras followed a spider the size of a baseball mitt as it prepared to pounce on an unsuspecting hummingbird.

His phone rang again. This time he checked the screen. He quickly forced his food down when he saw who was calling.

"Hello?" he said.

"Devon?" came the shaky voice at the other end.

"Brianna? Is everything okay?"

"It's Garry. He's ... I don't think he's well."

Garry, he now knew, was the guy currently living with Brianna's mother. The one who had sustained a nasty zombie bite a while back but, thanks to Devon's help and an inexpensive supply of his black market medication, had returned to a semi-normal human state.

"What's the matter?" he said, hoping to sound genuinely concerned.

"I don't know what's wrong with him. He took his shot earlier today. I think he's having a bad reaction. We gave him another one an hour ago but that only made him worse. I'm really scared. I don't know what to do. Should I call an ambulance?"

"Don't panic," he said, reaching for a pen. "I'll be right over. Everything will be alright, I promise."

He scribbled her address on the back of an old McDonalds bag, and he went for his stash of industrial-strength caffeine pills in the bathroom cabinet. Rizzo had given him a small quantity of pills to sell a while back, but they failed to garner much enthusiasm from the college students and bodybuilders he tried hawking them to. He didn't like taking them himself since they tended to play havoc with his gastrointestinal system, but he'd make an exception today. He swallowed two down with a mouthful of tap water and dived under the shower.

Devon had been making slow but steady progress with Brianna Goodman over the past few months. He was taking his time with her, careful not to come on too strong. This gentle and non-threatening approach appeared to be working, too. The first few times she came around for Zaracaine-9 refills, she would stay for only a short while. He would give her the meds, and she would pay him and leave. But in recent weeks she had started hanging around longer. They would watch TV together, and he would order in pizza. He gave her the occasional freebie if she didn't have the money on her. She seemed to have taken a liking to him – or a liking to his lifestyle, at least. This was no doubt helped by Devon shamelessly flaunting his wealth at every chance he got. He never passed up an opportunity to demonstrate just how well he was doing, showing off whatever new hi-tech gadget or piece of bling he had recently acquired, often conveniently forgetting to remove the price tag beforehand. He let her have the TAG Heuer watch he extorted from Carlos, as well as an iPhone another of his customers had traded for the meds.

One time, when he knew she would be stopping by, he left several shoe boxes filled with loose bills out on the floor to make it look like she had interrupted him in the middle of counting his money. When he saw her reaction upon laying eyes on that amount of cash, he could tell he was in with at least half a chance.

Devon knew he wasn't much to look at. Enough ex-girlfriends had likened his features to that of a weasel for him to assume there had to be at least some truth to it, and no matter how many hours he clocked at the gym he could never add an ounce of muscle to his sickly gulag-prisoner frame. But he also knew these things mattered less if you could make up for it in other ways. Alison was like that back when he knew her, availing herself to any guy with a fat wallet and a hot set of wheels. Going by what he had observed with Brianna, the apple had fallen very close to the tree.

He had done okay with women over the past couple of years, helped in no small part by his increasing wealth and rising social status brought on by his profession. He'd enjoyed a lot more success than when he worked as a UMC agent, that's for sure. But Brianna was a different story altogether. She was so far out of his league that, had they encountered one another under normal circumstances, she probably would have run through heavy traffic to get away from him. Adding her name to his growing list of conquests would be a watershed moment. It would be a measure of how far he had come.

He had, once or twice, questioned the morality of pursuing someone he first encountered when she was a fetus, but that bothered him less than he thought it would. He was more excited by the possibility of enacting the ultimate schoolyard revenge – defiling the teenage daughter of the bitchiest and most stuck-up girl he had ever known. If only he could travel back through time to tell his younger self what life had in store for both Alison and himself, it would have made his high school years a hell of a lot easier to endure. And while he had no interest in having children of his own, turning Alison Goodman into a grandmother at the ripe old age of thirty-five was a prospect simply too delicious to pass up.

He toweled off and doused himself in Paco Rabanne cologne, and he threw on some clean clothes. He locked up the house and opened the roller door to his garage. A gleaming jet-black Pontiac G8 was in there waiting for him. This was his most recent purchase, and by far his most indulgent. He had got it for a steal at a police auction a few weeks back. It had been seized by the tax office after the previous owner was convicted of insider trading.

He slid behind the wheel and pressed the ignition button. The engine roared to life. His hangover had all but evaporated. Those caffeine pills worked fast.

Brianna and her mother lived several streets away, on Fountaineer Parade. Devon pulled up next to the park, directly opposite their house. A silver Harley-Davidson sat in the driveway. He presumed this belonged to Garry.

The front door was already open. He announced himself with a light tap. There was no answer.

"Hello?" he called out. "Brianna? Anyone home?"

Nothing. He stepped inside.

The place looked like a pack of wild dogs had rummaged through it. A coffee table had tipped over, spilling dirty dinner plates and fast food containers across the floor. One of the windows had a crack down the middle. Framed photographs had been knocked over, and a shelf of DVDs had collapsed. A trashy magazine, the one announcing the prime minister's daughter's engagement to some millionaire's son on the cover, sat undisturbed on an armchair.

There were three green vials on the mantlepiece. They were the ones he had sold to Brianna earlier in the week. Two were empty.

"Brianna? Alison?" Still no response. "Uh, Garry?"

He heard a soft thump. Like something had hit the ground, or somebody had fallen. It came from the back of the house.

"Hello?" he tried again.

He took a few tentative steps down the hallway. The door at the far end had a DO NOT ENTER sign and was covered in stickers. This must be Brianna's bedroom. He pressed an ear to the door. He couldn't hear anything. He nudged it open with his foot.

At first glance the room appeared empty. Then he heard movement, somewhere. A kind of rustle. He took a step inside. Then another step.

The rustling, shifting sound again, followed by another noise. A kind of sucking or gurgling.

A pair of feet poked out from behind the end of the bed. Someone was on the floor. Another step. He saw the top of Brianna's head.

"Brianna? Are you –"

Her head snapped up. Fresh blood covered the lower half of her face. It spilled down her chin and soaked the front of her shirt. A chunk of raw flesh hung from her mouth. Her azure eyes were now a murky cataract-white.

He caught a glimpse of the inert body lying beneath her. It was Alison Goodman. She was dead on the floor with half her face chewed off.

He could feel last night's Hokkien mee pushing its way back up his esophagus.

Zombie Brianna clambered to her feet. Devon's limbs turned to blocks of ice. He had fantasized about this very scenario many times before – he enters Brianna's bedroom, she's wearing her school uniform, she lusts after his body, unable to suppress her primitive desires a moment longer. But what he had imagined was markedly different to what was playing out right now.

Movement returned to his legs and he fled the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He felt the force of Brianna's undead body as she slammed into the other side. Next came the jarring sound of fingernails clawing at the wood, like nails down a blackboard, as she tried to get at him.

He backed away from the door. Adrenaline raged through his veins like a hot fix. The scene he had just witnessed, and his excessive caffeine intake, meant his heart was a sharp jolt away from capitulating. His mind bounced all over the place.

If he wasn't so bewildered he might have sensed he had company sooner than he did. Instead, he only saw the bearded zombie a fraction of a second before it launched itself at him.

There was no time to evade his attacker. All he could do was throw his hands up in a defensive stance, the way people instinctively put their hands in front of their face when they're being shot at. It was a reflex action, albeit a completely ineffectual one.

Zombie Garry's jaw clamped shut like a bear trap. There was a crunch, a sickening sound, like someone biting into a carrot. A white hot burning sensation surged up his left arm. Devon screamed out. He prized his hand free with a kick to the zombie's chest and sprinted down the hallway.

The excruciating pain blurred his vision. There was every chance he would pass out.

He made it to the kitchen, holding his right hand tight around his wrist in an effort to slow the spread of the infection. Blood trickled from the wound, dripping down his hand and arm. The world shifted before his eyes. He lost his balance and his face hit the floor.

A few seconds later, when his head had settled and he could see straight, he discovered his left hand had several fingers fewer than when he woke up that morning. Garry's teeth had ripped through his flesh and bone as if he was made of butter.

There was no time to mourn this loss of digits. The undead biker was still hot on his trail. Only now did Devon realize he was in a room with just one way in and one way out. He scrambled under the kitchen table and emerged on the other side. Safe for now, but trapped. The door was so close he could almost reach out and touch it, but there was no way past Garry.

The zombie clambered over the table in an effort to get to him. Cutlery went flying, followed by a bowl of fruit. Devon used his good hand to feel around for something, anything he could use to fight him off. It landed on a solid object. It was round and heavy. A motorcycle helmet. That would do. He gripped it by the visor and swung as hard as he could. It slammed into the side of Zombie Garry's face. He barely flinched. He hit him again, harder. And again. The fourth hit knocked him back, momentarily. This was his chance. He flipped the table up and made a break for the door. He ran from the kitchen and kept on going.

He tripped over his feet as he stumbled down the front steps. He got up and continued running. He moved faster than he ever thought possible and did not risk looking back.

Chapter 22

The orange soda was spat out from the vending machine. Miles collected it from the receptacle and held it against the back of his neck. Fatigue was bearing down on him, and the strain behind his eyeballs was worsening. The coldness of the can provided some temporary relief.

The break room at Z-Pro was empty. On a typical day there would be at least five or six other members of staff in here, whittling away the hours as they waited for the work to come in, but the longer the day dragged on the more obvious it was that today would be anything but typical.

The one consolation was that it was almost over. Ten more minutes and he was out of here, just so long as he wasn't sent out on any more jobs. He had to stay out of sight until six o'clock.

He collapsed into a chair, grateful to finally give his back and his legs a rest. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, before jerking his head away. A stomach-churning stench was embedded in the shirt's fabric. Only then was he reminded of the zombie spraying its rancid bile all over him at the last job. Incredibly, with everything that happened next, he had forgotten all about it. He wasn't experiencing any obvious ill-effects, so he assumed that meant he was in the clear.

Undead management and control could be dangerous work. He always knew that, even if none of the agents really thought about it too often as they went about their daily duties. But the risks hit home when something shocking happened – like with what happened to Brock today. It was a sober reminder that in this job you could never let your guard down.

When Miles entered the kitchen and saw the zombie with a large chunk of Brock's arm between its teeth, his instinct was to run in the opposite direction. He never thought of himself as being particularly courageous. Bravery, in his opinion, was not natural. Cowardice was the normal human state, and the best option for ongoing survival. The only reason anyone would ever do anything heroic was purely for reasons of self-interest – in this case, he wanted to avoid the shame that would be inflicted upon him if he ran away. Somehow, his brain overrode his body's natural desire to flee, and he willed himself to move.

He charged forward and forced the zombie off Brock with a hard kick to the middle of its torso. It rolled away, before immediately crawling back to its feet. This time it bypassed Brock and came straight for him. He used the snare pole to hold it off and push it away from Brock and out of the kitchen. There was another room, a small office, further on down. He shoved the zombie in there and slammed the door closed.

He scrambled back and pressed a tea towel over Brock's wound, while Brandon ran for the first aid kit in the truck. He did what he could to stop the bleeding, desperately trying to remember what he learned in the first aid course he took five years ago, all the while assuring Brock that everything would be alright. He didn't know if this was true, but he repeated it over and over in the hope that he could make it happen through sheer force of will.

Brandon hurried back with the first aid kit. Miles went for the Zaracaine-9 – only to find there was none in there. This was just getting worse. He tipped it upside down to empty it out. The vials had to be in there, he told himself, as he sorted through the contents. But they were gone.

Brock was bundled into the truck and they sped to the hospital, but by this stage they all knew his chances were slim. Too much time had elapsed. He had lost too much blood, his body had gone into shock, and he had passed the point where he could be saved. He was unconscious by the time they arrived, which meant that, barring a miracle, he would be undead the next time his eyes opened.

Miles had barely taken a sip of his soda when the door swung open like it had been hit with a battering ram. Jack Houston appeared, looking sweatier and more red-faced than usual.

"Get moving. Six more sightings have been reported," he said.

Miles looked at his watch. It was 5:57 p.m. "My shift is about to finish," he said.

"I'm going to need you to stay back for some overtime," Houston said, in a tone that implied this was an order and not a request. "Calls are coming in every five minutes."

Devon snatched a pink polo shirt from the nearest clothesline and wrapped it around his mauled hand. He tied it in a knot and pulled tight at both ends. That would stop the bleeding, he hoped, or at least slow it. Now a much greater challenge lay in front of him. He needed to get to his car and administer a shot of Zaracaine-9.

The Pontiac was on the other side of the road; only a short distance, but given his present state it may as well be parked in the next suburb. The loss of blood and the excruciating pain made his world turn fuzzy. His head was growing lighter with every step. It was a herculean effort just to remain conscious. He focused all his energy on placing one foot in front of the other, and he willed himself not to pass out.

He had taken only three steps when he stopped in his tracks. Another zombie prowled the street, a few doors down from where he was now. It was an old man in pyjama pants and a stained white undershirt. His wife tried in vain to usher him back into the house. She opened and closed an umbrella in his face, doing everything she could to get him inside before anyone noticed him, but she wasn't having any luck.

Devon waited until the elderly couple had moved further on down before he hobbled across the road. He did his best to remain inconspicuous. He fumbled for his keys. The door opened and he dived behind the wheel. The locks snapped shut.

He was safe, at least for now. He took a moment to breathe. His entire body vibrated like a tuning fork.

He needed a couple of minutes before he could work up the nerve to remove the bloody shirt from around his hand. The damage was there to see in all its gory detail. It looked like a lawnmower had run over it. The wound had already turned septic. It had blackened around the edges, and it smelled like a three-day corpse. It was as if he had been attacked weeks ago. He couldn't stand to look at it for more than a second or two without feeling like he needed to puke. He had seen people bitten before, but never up close like this.

Most distressing of all was the fact that only the index finger and little finger remained attached. The other three digits – his middle finger, ring finger and thumb – were missing, presumably chewed up and making their way through whatever was left of Zombie Garry's digestive system. They were gone forever, and he would be deformed for life. The fact that he was a lifelong fan of heavy metal music, and he now had a left hand permanently displaying the devil's horns sign, did not make his loss any easier to bear.

He opened the glove compartment with his good hand and rummaged around inside until he found what he was looking for – a Zaracaine-9 vial and a syringe. He tore open the plastic wrapper with his teeth, pierced the needle into the top of the vial, and pulled back the plunger.

There was a second of hesitation. He had never injected himself before. He hated needles. He never got flu shots, and he once refused a tetanus injection after he was bitten by a stray dog. He wasn't even sure where it was supposed to go. In his arm? His leg? Near the wound? Did it have to go in a vein? He figured it didn't matter too much as long as it ended up in his bloodstream.

He pushed up his sleeve and squeezed his eyes closed, and he stabbed the syringe into the fleshiest part of his bicep.

Given the condition of his hand, he assumed his tolerance for pain would have increased significantly and he would barely feel the needle go in. This proved to be an incorrect assumption. It was many times worse than what he expected. He didn't know if he had hit a nerve, or if he was just extra sensitive right now, but it felt like he had jammed a rusty nail into his arm. The needle went in so much deeper than what he thought it was going to.

He gritted his teeth and pressed down on the plunger until every drop of liquid was expelled. He withdrew the syringe and tossed it aside. As traumatic as that was, he could at least console himself with the knowledge that the worst was over.

Minutes passed, and the panic gradually receded. He knew that, despite his injury, he would be alright. The medication would take effect. He would rest here for a short while, and he would take himself to a hospital as soon as he felt well enough to drive. He was safe from the infection, but his hand still required urgent treatment.

He leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. This wasn't easy with everything going on around him. By now, another two or three shambling corpses had ventured out onto the streets. Or maybe they were there all along and he had only just noticed. One was a well-dressed professional woman of about forty. She drunk-walked down the middle of the road and lurched at passing motorists. Garry had joined the commotion too, staggering around in front of his house. A cyclist was forced to take swift evasive action to avoid becoming his next victim.

What the hell was going on here? There hadn't been anything like this in years. Public zombie sightings were a rarity nowadays. It must have been more than a year since he last encountered one. Even at its peak, shortly after the outbreak of six years ago, he still might only see one or two a month.

Right then another flashback came. It lasted only as long as it took to blink, but it was real enough to make him whimper in fear. Graves End. Three years earlier. The job that had been going so great, until it all went so wrong.

He had been lured to this one-off job on the promise of quick and easy cash. Ten grand for two weeks' work was what they told him. It was supposed to be the easiest money he had ever made, and for a while there it was. To this day he had no idea how it managed to go south as fast as it did. One minute everything was fine, the next he was behind the wheel of a bus, maneuvering through an ocean of dead flesh and contemplating his impending mortality. He managed to escape with his life, but he didn't know if any of the other agents did. He didn't see how they could.

The pain in his hand receded, and a numbness had taken over. It had spread up his arm and was creeping across to the rest of his body. He had to admit, it was not an unpleasant feeling. In fact, despite everything happening around him, he was more relaxed now than he had been in some time. A soft narcotic haze enveloped him, and he felt the pull of sleep.

He reclined the seat back until he was close to horizontal. He would be safe enough in here for the time being. Despite the number of zombies in the immediate vicinity, none were showing an interest in him, and even if they did it would take only a few seconds to start up the car and make a quick getaway.

Directly ahead of him, the old man in the pyjama pants overpowered his wife. He grabbed her by the head and chomped down on her face. Devon saw this all, but it caused him no real alarm. Even when he heard her shrieks of terror as she staggered around with blood gushing from where her nose used to be, it barely registered.

He closed his eyes, and the world around him faded to nothing. He disappeared into a dark void.

Chapter 23

Bernard Marlowe took his seat behind his desk. Three dozen others were crammed into his office. A makeup artist swooped in for a last-minute spray-and-touch-up before cameras started rolling. A second assistant ran a lint roller over his suit jacket. A third topped up his glass of water and placed it just out of frame.

"We're on air in two minutes," a producer announced to the room.

Sebastian Devereaux stumbled over a stray cable as he burst through the door. His phone was in his hands, his eyes affixed to the screen. "Outbreaks confirmed in six more locations, prime minister," he said, the words tumbling out of him at twice the normal speed. "That brings the total to thirty-eight. They're now saying that number could rise to as many as eighty by the end of the day."

Marlowe nodded as he absorbed the news, but he displayed no overt sign of emotion. The same could not be said for Sebastian. All trace of color had disappeared from his face. His eyes had the faraway look of a man who had just crawled out of a car wreckage.

"Are you feeling alright?" Marlowe said.

Sebastian considered the question for a moment. "What do you think is happening here?" he said. A haunted tone had entered his voice. "How serious do you think this is? Could it be as bad as last time? You know, from six years ago?"

Marlowe sipped his water. "We don't know how widespread it is yet, but rest assured we're taking all the necessary precautions. We're doing everything within our power to keep the country safe. Nothing will be left to chance." His speech was calm and measured. Despite the enormous pressure he must have been under, he still managed to give the impression of being the most composed person in the room. "People are looking to us for strong leadership and resilience in the face of these challenges. It's up to us to show everyone that we won't let it defeat us."

Sebastian took this all in. The prime minister's words and remarkable stoicism was having a noticeable effect on him. He may have underestimated Bernard Marlowe's capabilities all along.

A man with a set of headphones clamped around his neck came in from the side. "Thirty seconds, prime minister," he said.

The cameraman set his focus. The boom operator moved the microphone into position. All assistants and hangers-on retreated.

Only Sebastian remained where he was. "Sir, you know I already have a tremendous amount of respect for you. We all do." He paused, grasping for the best way to verbalize the thoughts galloping through his head. "But to see how calm and in control you are, at a time like this, with the country in the grip of such a devastating crisis. It's ... well, I believe we're lucky to have you as our leader right now."

Marlowe nodded. "Thank you, Sebastian. I appreciate you saying that."

The countdown began. "In ten ... nine ..."

The man with the headphones counted down on his fingers. Marlowe took another sip of water and straightened his posture.

Sebastian stepped out of frame to rejoin the entourage at the rear of the office, before hurrying back. "Oh, and sir?"

"Yes?"

"Remember not to smile."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're delivering serious news to the nation. Through the monitors, it kind of looked like you had a smile on your face."

"Five ... four ..."

"Oh. I see. Thank you, Sebastian."

Marlowe adopted a somber expression, one more appropriate for a situation of such tremendous gravity. He cleared his throat.

The countdown reached one, and the light above the camera flashed red. They were going out live.

The words of the script scrolled up the Teleprompter, and the prime minister's face filled every television screen across the nation.

As they had a habit of doing these days, a quiet gathering at Elliott's place had devolved into a debauched days-long party. It was a mystery to the owner as to how this continued to happen, for they were never planned in advance. This one began a few days ago as an impromptu get-together with a small group of friends. Some more who happened to be in the area dropped by later on that same night. Word soon spread, and the place would play host to a steady influx of friends, associates, casual acquaintances and complete strangers in the days following. For the last three mornings, Elliott had woken up to discover a different set of people racing his golf carts around the lawns and riding his jetski in the swimming pool than the night before.

At one point there were as many as seventy people here. The numbers had now dwindled to less than twenty, most of whom were down in the recreation room in the basement, shooting pool, listening to music, playing arcade games and sampling his latest delivery of Liquid Goya bourbon. A Formula One Grand Prix played on the television, although no one appeared to be paying too much attention to it.

The longer any party lasted, the greater the chance there was of Preston the Pest making an inevitable appearance. This happened sometime in the last four to six hours. No one was able to pinpoint the exact time, or figure out how he got in, or even how he found out about it in the first place. Most knew by now not to divulge this kind of information to Preston, but that never seemed to deter him. He possessed a near-psychic ability to turn up at random moments, appearing from out of nowhere to hassle people for money.

His current target was Fabian Turner, who was in the middle of attempting to reclaim his Street Fighter II high score after Blériot destroyed it the day before. Fabian did his best to block out Preston and focus on the game, hoping that if he appeared to show little or no interest he would eventually take the hint and leave him alone, but Preston just kept on talking.

"I'll think about it, but right now the wedding is eating up most of our spare cash," Fabian said when he was given the chance to speak.

"Turner, once this thing takes off you'll have enough money to get married at the Taj Mahal!" Preston said. He grabbed Fabian by the arm as he said this. It was enough of a distraction to cause his Blanka avatar to be KO'd. The game ended well short of Blériot's high score.

"Yeah, I'll have to get back to you," Fabian said.

He had good reason to be wary, given how some of Preston's previous business ventures had panned out. His ambitious plans for the luxury apartment complexes had been placed on indefinite hold after tests revealed a high level of toxins in the soil. Preston insisted this was only a minor setback, and he said construction was still scheduled to commence in the coming months, but others claimed this made the land he had purchased virtually worthless.

Of a more serious concern was the fate of Xyyx, the seed capital investment app currently under investigation following allegations of illegal and unethical business practices. The founders of Xyyx declared that all funds pledged by its users would be distributed to a wide range of emerging startup firms, but it had since been reported that as much as eighty percent of all contributions were funneled directly back into the company's coffers. Despite the business losing hundreds of thousands every week, the directors rewarded themselves with massive salaries and outlandish expense accounts. Several prominent industry observers described the fledgling company as nothing more than a shameless Ponzi scheme.

Xyyx issued a statement assuring its stakeholders that this was all a misunderstanding, and any problems would be resolved in due course. Elliott wasn't so easily convinced. He assumed that was the last he would ever see of his $800,000 investment.

Fabian gave up on the idea of conquering the game's high score for now. He made his way over to the bar, where Elliott mixed him another drink. Preston trailed close behind. Recognizing that he wouldn't be getting anything out of Fabian today, he repeated the entire pitch to Elliott. It was for some kind of virtual reality-meets-online dating enterprise that was about to launch. He was adamant that by the end of the year it will have revolutionized the way singles meet one another.

Elliott listened to the entire spiel without interruption, nodding along and pretending like he was giving it proper consideration. "Sounds intriguing," he said when it was finally over. "Send the details through to my financial adviser. He'll take a look at it and tell you what he thinks."

Another drink appeared in front of Preston, which was gratefully accepted. Elliott had been steadily plying him with booze ever since he learned of his arrival. This was a deliberate strategy; if Preston became drunk enough, it wouldn't be too long before he forgot all about his crackpot schemes. This wasn't too difficult to accomplish, since he rarely turned down anything free.

The clack-clack-clacking of heels on the basement steps preceded Stephanie Marlowe's entrance to the room. She spotted her fiancé at the bar with a Giro d'Italia in his hand. "Make that your last one," she said to Fabian. "We have to be at Asylum in one hour."

"Sure, sure," Fabian said, already sounding like a henpecked husband.

"What's happening at Asylum?" Elliott said.

"We might be having our engagement party there." There was a lack of excitement in Fabian's voice. Asylum was a popular club, but it had a reputation for the very common and non-exclusive clientele it usually attracted. It was the kind of place that weekend warriors flocked to for cheap drinks, non-stop commercial dance-pop, and the chance to catch a glimpse of a local celebrity. It was not the type of venue a society princess and first daughter would usually select to host such an important event.

"The Lava Lounge was our first choice, but that's booked," Stephanie added, referring to an establishment with a much higher degree of prestige and glamour. "So were our second, third and fourth choices. We left it too late, and Asylum is pretty much the only one left. If we can't get that I don't know what we're going to do."

"Have it at an Aqua Bar?" Fabian said. It was his attempt at a joke, but the look on Stephanie's face suggested it was one she didn't find funny. Still, he kept going. "They do kids' birthday parties. I'm sure an engagement party shouldn't be too much trouble."

"Well look, if you find yourself stuck you can always host it here," Elliott said.

As soon as he heard himself say this, he wondered where it had come from. He opened his mouth and the words had come out. He didn't give any thought as to what he was offering. Just filling a gap in the conversation.

Fabian and Stephanie looked at each other, and then back to Elliott. "Do you really mean that?" Stephanie said.

"Sure, why not?" he shrugged, like it was no big deal. He'd said it, so it was probably too late to take it back. Besides, this was a large house on a huge property, so he might as well put it to use.

"Oh my god, this would be perfect!" she squealed.

She leaned over the bar to throw her arms around Elliott, before racing upstairs to decide what she wanted to do with the place. A reluctant Fabian was dragged behind her.

Elliott still wasn't quite sure how he managed to befriend Fabian Turner and Stephanie Marlowe – especially Fabian, given their history. It wasn't deliberate or anything; it just kind of happened over time. It was sort of like being back at school, where you were paired up in class with the bully who used to push you around, and after a couple of weeks you end up forgetting there was once a time when you used to hate each other.

Their first encounter at the Xyyx party was excruciating and uncomfortable, but three days after that they ran into each other again at a housewarming for a mutual acquaintance. A few polite words of small talk were exchanged before they again went their separate ways. The following week they both attended the launch of a new clothing line, and they ended up talking properly for the first time. To their mutual surprise, they got along just great. There appeared to be an unspoken agreement to leave their differences in the past now that they moved in the same social circles, rather than continually avoiding one another. Fabian was completely different to how he remembered him, and Fabian would probably say the same about him.

This all coincided with a conscious decision Elliott had made to embrace his new life and stop trying to be someone he wasn't. He'd heard some people from his past life say that money had changed him, and he didn't necessarily disagree with those sentiments. It would be impossible not to change, given everything he had been through. But what those people failed to acknowledge was that they too had changed. Friends he had known for years now treated him differently, and had started acting weird around him now that he was rich.

This was who he was, he decided, and there was no point pretending otherwise. If that meant shedding a few old friends along the way, so be it. People like Amy and Miles may want him to feel guilty for the way he lived his life now, but he wasn't going to do that. That was their problem, not his.

"I still can't wrap my head around the fact that Fabian is about to become Bernard Marlowe's son-in-law," Elliott said once they had left. He cleaned a glass with a towel, the way barmen did in films, even though he had a dishwasher to do that. He felt comfortable on this side of the bar, and had been giving serious consideration to opening a place of his own. "Really, who would have seen that coming?"

"I don't know, they seem suited to each other," Preston said, propping himself up on a stool.

"Sure, they do now, but you don't know what he was like a few years ago. He was one of Bernard Marlowe's most outspoken critics. He used to stage these protests against him. I mean, meeting your girlfriend's father can be a tense affair at the best of times. I can't imagine what it must be like if you've burned effigies of him in the street."

A knowing smirk appeared on Preston's face. "Fabian did a lot more than burn effigies," he said.

"Oh, you mean the stink bomb attack at the party conference?" Elliott said. "Yeah, I heard about that."

"Uh-uh. Much worse than that."

"Why, what did he do?"

Preston looked around the room to make sure no one was listening in. He lowered his voice. "After the stink bomb attack, the whole group was arrested and detained by police. Do you remember that?"

Elliott nodded, although that was a hazy period for him. This all happened around the time he was hospitalized, and he remained in a coma for months afterwards. It wasn't until much later on that he learned of their arrest, and the subsequent fallout.

"Anyway, it turned out one of them was an undercover cop." The constant bourbon refills were taking effect, and Preston's lips were loosening by the minute. "He had gathered all this intel about everyone in the group, including recordings of Fabian talking about some of the stunts he was planning. One of these stunts involved injecting prominent people with infected blood to turn them into zombies. Stephanie and Madison Marlowe were at the top of his list."

"Are you serious?" Elliott said. He felt a jolt pass through him.

"Oh yeah. He denied it, of course. Said his words were taken out of context, or something to that effect. His lawyers somehow managed to prevent it from becoming public. But he definitely said it. Whether or not he meant it, well, that's another story."

Elliott took a step back. He felt around for the chair behind him. His legs had weakened all of a sudden.

He didn't remember much of the next few minutes. There was a feeling of vertigo bearing down on him, a disorienting sensation of the walls closing in. He became short of breath. At some point the motor race on the TV cut out, and was replaced by the giant face of Bernard Marlowe. He heard Preston's remark that the prime minister was just like Beetlejuice: "We said his name too many times and now he's appeared!"

By the time his head had finally settled, Preston was helping himself to another drink and Bernard Marlowe was gone. Two stern-faced news anchors had taken his place to discuss the ongoing crisis engulfing the nation.

"Looks like you're stuck with us for the foreseeable future, Connors," Preston said.

"What?" Elliott said. He still couldn't say for sure what was happening here.

"You know." Preston nodded toward the television. "Because of the curfew."

Chapter 24

The White Tiger pulled up outside a high school. Four obits were immediately sighted. One wandered around the school grounds, between the bicycle racks and a portable classroom. Two more were in the front yard of a residential address on the other side of the road. The fourth stumbled through a nearby intersection, forcing passing motorists to take swift evasive action to avoid a collision.

Another six were locked up in the back of the truck after Brandon and Miles made a number of unscheduled stops along the way.

The two UMC agents stepped out of the truck. There was a moment of disbelief as they surveyed the area and took in everything going on around them. Neither one had any idea what was happening here. There was no explanation for any of this.

"Where have they all come from?" Miles said.

"It doesn't matter, we need to hurry," Brandon said. "We don't want to lose sight of any of them."

He was doing his best to maintain a tough exterior, it wasn't hard to see that he was rattled. This was all new to him. He had never seen anything like this during his time at Z-Pro. He grabbed the snare pole and headed for the school's front gates, toward the zombie nearest to them.

Miles trailed a few steps behind, before his conscience brought him to a sudden halt. "Brandon, wait a minute."

"What is it?"

"We need to talk about something before we go any further." A slight hesitation followed as he worked up the nerve to say what was on his mind. "I want to know what happened today."

"What do you mean?"

"Back at the last house. With Brock."

Brandon folded his arms across his chest, something he often did to accentuate his rippling arm muscles. He huffed out a long breath in a forced display of annoyance. "I don't know what happened there. An accident happened, as they sometimes do. This is a dangerous job, and every now and then things go wrong. But don't worry about Brock. Z-Pro provides great medical coverage for all its staff. He'll be fine."

"But it doesn't make any sense," Miles said. "I know how careful you are when you do a sweep of a house. You wouldn't normally miss something that obvious."

Brandon threw up his hands. "I don't know what else to say. Maybe I did miss it. Or maybe Brock was just careless. We already know he's a likely steroid abuser, which affects your judgment. If he'd been a little more aware of his surroundings this whole episode could have been avoided."

He continued on toward the zombie, and Miles thought he would leave it at that. Despite the bad blood between the two co-workers, he didn't really think Brandon would do something as callous as deliberately putting Brock in harm's way. But he couldn't completely rule out the possibility, either. Not after everything he had witnessed over the past few months.

"I just want to hear you say it," Miles said. "Did you really not know about the zombie lurking in the kitchen before you told Brock it was safe to go in there?"

Brandon stopped again. This was a topic he clearly did not want to discuss. "Look, I understand you might be freaked out by what happened today, but can we talk about it later? We need to stop wasting time and get to work."

"If it's all the same, I'd rather get it all out in the open now. I'd like to know the same thing won't happen to me if I ever get on your wrong side."

"Okay, fine. If it makes you feel better, I swear I had no prior knowledge of the zombie that attacked Brock. There, I said it. Happy now?"

"Would you be prepared to swear on a bible?"

"Whoa. Way out of line with that question, Miles," Brandon warned.

"So that's a no, is it?"

"It's not a no, I'm just telling you it's highly inappropriate to bring a man's faith into a discussion like that. And for your information, it's actually illegal to ask someone to swear on a bible."

"Oh, come on Brandon."

"I'm serious. Only a judge has the power to do that. Look it up if you don't believe me."

"So what about the Zaracaine-9 in the first aid kit?"

"What about it?"

"It was in there this morning. I know, because I checked. There were three vials. When you go to get it, suddenly it's disappeared. What else am I supposed to think?"

"Those vials are worth about seventy bucks a pop. I don't know what happened to them, but if I had to guess I'd say someone stole them to make a bit of money on the side."

"You're telling me they were stolen hours before the first time we ever needed to use them? Kind of convenient, don't you think?"

"Miles, you can ask me the same question over and over, but you won't get a different answer. I didn't take the vials. I don't know who did take the vials. I knew nothing about the zombie in the kitchen. What happened to Brock was a tragedy, but it was an accident. There's nothing more any one of us could have done to avoid it. And if I'm lying, if I'm deviating from the truth even slightly, may God strike me down."

The words had only just left his mouth when an undead being dropped from the sky and landed on top of him.

A short period of time followed, no more than a few seconds, where Miles questioned his own sanity. He knew what he thought he saw – he thought a zombie had materialized out of thin air and flattened Brandon – but there was no way that could have actually happened. That was simply not possible. The laws of nature and physics did not allow it. This had to be a dream, or some sort of bizarre hallucination.

There was a ladder propped up against the side of the building, just behind where Brandon was now. An open toolbox was on the roof above. It was only when Miles noticed both of these that a more obvious explanation came to him.

"Miles! Help!" Brandon screamed.

The zombie was a man of about seventy. He was short in stature, less than five and a half feet tall, mostly bald and dressed in blue overalls. He looked like he might have been the school's caretaker.

Brandon thrashed around on the ground as he struggled to free himself from the zombie's death grip. His elbow slammed repeatedly into its face with a level of force that would render a living person unconscious, but only appeared to make it more aggressive.

Miles came across as fast as he could. He grabbed the zombie by the overalls and dragged it back. This required every ounce of his strength. Brandon managed to roll free.

The zombie made another lunge, and Miles couldn't hold on any longer. It dived forward, and its hands wrapped around Brandon's ankle. Its mouth latched on to the lower part of his calf. Brandon screamed a pained yelp.

Miles snatched the snare pole from off the ground. He clamped the prongs around the zombie's neck and yanked it backwards. Brandon kicked and kicked until it finally let go. He scrambled to his feet and hobbled away. Miles forced the zombie's head into the grass and held it, face down on the ground until Brandon was a safe distance away.

He let go, and he made a breathless sprint for the safety of the truck.

He dived into the front seat and pulled the door closed behind him. Brandon was already there with both hands clutching his leg, just below the knee. Miles went for the first aid kit.

"Hold it tight to slow the spread of the infection," he said, dumping the contents of the kit onto the seat. "I'll get a shot ready."

He tore the wrapping off a syringe and searched for a Zaracaine-9 vial. There were none in there.

He looked at Brandon, ashen faced. "Oh, no. We forgot to restock before we left."

He knew he had to act fast. Hesitating would lead to overthinking, and that would inevitably lead to panic. He pulled on his seatbelt and started up the truck's engine. "We need to get to a hospital."

"No, wait ... wait." Brandon's hand went into his pocket. He pulled out three vials and dropped them into the center console.

The engine was shut off. "What are those?"

"Get the shot ready," Brandon said.

Miles picked up one of the vials. "Is this from the first aid kit?"

"No. They're spares."

"Spares?"

"My own personal ones. I carry them with me in case of emergency."

"So when Brock was bitten a couple of hours ago – you didn't consider that an emergency?"

"Just hurry up and get the shot ready!" Brandon shouted.

"Alright, alright." Miles pulled the cap off the syringe with his teeth. He stabbed the needle into the top of the vial, and he pulled back the plunger until the barrel was full. He had never done this before. He could only hope he was doing it right.

The caretaker zombie, the one that fell on Brandon a few minutes ago, appeared behind him. Its face pressed against the window. They were not in any danger – the truck was fitted out with reinforced glass, and designed specifically to withstand attacks from undead beings – but that didn't make it any less intimidating to have it leering in such close proximity.

Miles offered the syringe to Brandon, who shook his head. "I can't reach that far," he said. He hiked up his trouser leg. "You'll have to do it. Around there. Just above where I was bitten."

He twisted his body around and stuck his leg out. Miles pressed on the top of the plunger. A tiny droplet of the clear liquid seeped out from the tip of the needle. He didn't really want to do this, but he didn't have much of a choice.

He looked at Brandon's leg, trying to determine the best place to inject. "Where do I put it?" he said.

"Just above the bite," Brandon said.

"I can't see the bite."

"It's right there! Just above the ankle."

Miles leaned in closer. Still nothing. "Brandon, I don't think you were bitten."

"Of course I was bitten!"

"If you were, it didn't break the skin."

He turned to the old man behind him, still pawing at the glass in an effort to get inside. He looked at Brandon's leg again, and then back to the old man. The zombie's face was only inches away from his own. He saw a mouth missing a set of false teeth.

"I'm telling you, there's no bite," he said. "You're in the clear."

"So where did all the blood come from?" Brandon said, once he'd worked up the nerve to look at the affected area.

"There's not a lot of blood, and I think that came off him. He already had some around his mouth." A leftover fast food napkin was on the dashboard. He used it to wipe away the blood, showing the clean unbroken skin underneath. "See? No bite."

The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Brandon fell back into his seat and breathed out a cathartic sigh.

Miles looked at the shot. "So I guess you won't be needing this –"

Before he could finish, the syringe had been snatched from his hand. Brandon stabbed it into his arm and pushed down on the plunger. "No point wasting it," he said.

He closed his eyes and exhaled as the Zaracaine-9 entered his bloodstream. The panic receded, and the chaos from the past few minutes was replaced with a difficult silence. Brandon caught his breath, while Miles' heart rate went from dangerously high to something closer to normal. Neither one wanted to acknowledge what had just transpired, and the implications for what that meant.

The toothless old man continued to scratch against the window, determined to somehow claw his way through the glass.

"So I suppose you're going to tell Jack about this?" Brandon said when he finally ended the silence.

Miles didn't respond. He was at a loss for words. He couldn't tell if Brandon's question was an admission of guilt, or a warning to keep quiet. It was only when he noticed the bible verse tattooed along his forearm – For we walk by faith, not by sight – that an appropriate response came to him.

"I don't think Jack is the one you should be worried about," he said.

These words slowly sunk in, triggering a slight tremor in Brandon's lower lip. Miles thought for a second he was about to burst into tears. That was one thing he definitely did not want to be around to witness. His hand moved to the ignition.

"Come on, we should get out of here," he said.

He re-started the engine and shifted into gear, just as a thick spray of black-ish blood hit the driver's side window.

Miles almost jumped out of his seat in shock. It had come from out of nowhere. The old man's bald head was now divided into near-symmetrical halves.

The zombie collapsed to the ground, and Miles saw a young man in his early twenties standing behind. He wore a backwards baseball cap and carried an ax that now dripped with blood.

"Oh, you haven't heard?" the man said, once he noticed Miles and the stupefying look on his face. "The prime minister has just made the announcement. Undead protection laws have been suspended, effective immediately. Now we can do what we want."

He gave the ax blade a quick wipe along the grass, and he moved across the road toward his next set of targets.

Further on, a group of four had piled out of a nearby residence. Each one carried a crow bar or a monkey wrench, or some other form of improvised weaponry. The zombie at the intersection was in their sights.

"We need to get out of here," Miles said, disengaging the handbrake.

"Good idea," Brandon said.

The truck sped off. Miles slowed as he approached the crossroads before taking a sharp left. He floored it.

The past few minutes had left Brandon in a haze of perplexity. It was some time before he noticed they were not traveling in the direction he thought they were.

"What are you doing?" he said. "Shouldn't we be heading back to Z-Pro?"

"I have to check on some people first," Miles said.

Chapter 25

Late afternoon passed into early evening. A thick blanket of gray darkened the skies, making it appear much later than it actually was.

An unnatural silence had fallen over Fountaineer Parade, a residential street in one of the city's lower class north-western suburbs. There were no kids riding bikes and chasing one another through the streets. No young mothers pushing strollers, or couples walking their dogs. None of the typical sounds one might expect to hear in the hour before sundown. The recently announced curfew had kept most sane people barricaded inside their homes for the evening. It was like the aftermath of, or the prelude to a nuclear attack.

Five former humans loitered near a playground. Another three congregated around a bus shelter.

A battered navy Landcruiser crawled into view. The vehicle slowed when the driver spotted the rogue creatures.

Sitting behind the wheel was a thirty-eight year old pastry chef by the name of Leon. He had traveled forty-five minutes to be here, summoned by the notifications he received via his social media accounts. In the back seat were his two cohorts Dann and Jake, fraternal twins who shared Leon's penchant for violence and retrogressive world view. All three were self-described model citizens and law-abiding patriots who were prepared to do whatever it took to protect their country, their freedom, and the values they held dear from any insidious threat. They were part of Bernard Marlowe's core base, members of a small but loyal demographic who offered unwavering support throughout the ups and downs of his tumultuous prime ministership.

No curfew was going to prevent these men from making the most of this opportunity. They had been waiting years for sanity to prevail, and for the restoration of their right to defend themselves. Those ridiculous politically correct laws that classified the death beasts as a protected species had finally been suspended, albeit temporarily. It could all be overturned tomorrow, so they couldn't afford to waste any time.

The Landcruiser came to a stop in the middle of the road. The driver's side window lowered. Leon's head poked out. "Hey! Zombie!" he shouted.

An undead straggler in a leather vest and red bandana looked across. He was a solid specimen, almost as wide as he was tall, with a long biker beard and squat torso. He took a few awkward steps in their direction.

"Over here!" Leon's fist slammed against the horn. "Come and get us!"

The zombie's pace picked up marginally. A few of the other creatures took notice and trailed behind.

The window went back up, and the engine revved. The back tires screamed and smoked. Leon waited for the zombie biker to amble closer.

"Come on ... that's it, big fella ..."

The zombie shuffled across the nature strip and onto the road. The handbrake was disengaged, and the accelerator pedal was stomped on.

The Landcruiser was almost double the speed limit when the bull bar and zombie met. Its bones instantly liquefied, and its decomposing body shifted as if it was built from plasticine. Limbs were twisted and contorted in opposing directions. A clump of hair and a splash of blood hit the windscreen. The zombie remained stuck to the front for a short distance before falling under the wheels.

The vehicle screeched to a stop. The others continued on like helpless lemmings, irresistibly drawn to the noise and movement.

The men waited for them to come closer. Leon flicked on the windscreen wipers to clean the grimy residue off the glass. He glanced in the rear view mirror. Behind them, a detached arm sat in the middle of the road.

After about a minute the first few had almost caught up to the Landcruiser. Leon turned to face the back seat. "They're all yours," he said. "Light 'em all up."

The sun roof slid open, and Dann emerged. In his hands was an M77 bolt-action rifle. The nearest target was twenty meters away. He took his time to line the creature up in the scope before he pulled the trigger. A cracking shot erupted.

It was a direct hit. The bullet struck right between the eyes. The zombie, previously a middle-aged mother of three who worked as a part-time crossing guard and volunteered at a local church-run charity shop, had the upper third of her skull taken off. Her head disintegrated into a violent chunk of pink and red, and her limp body fell to the ground.

It was a powerful weapon, the type that fired finger-sized bullets and was capable of felling a rhinoceros. A rapidly decaying head stood no chance.

Dann rotated the bolt handle down and chambered another round. He shouldered the rifle and took aim at the next closest wandering corpse, about thirty meters from the Landcruiser. It was an elderly woman in a green cardigan holding an umbrella. The tip of her nose was missing.

He steadied himself and fired. The shot sailed by, a few inches to the left of her head. His second and third attempts were also wide of the mark. The fourth connected just below the ear. A fist-sized hole opened up the side of her head. A glob of putrefied brain matter sprayed across the asphalt.

Dann's skills as a rifleman left much to be desired, but a plentiful supply of ammunition and a range of slow-moving targets meant it wasn't long before he had punched holes in all eight of them. He was gleefully living out his long held sniper fantasies, nurtured by a lifetime of classic war films and untold hours of combat-themed video games. Enlisting in the army had been a childhood dream of his. Military service, he believed, was an outstanding way for a man to give back to his country, as well as an opportunity to develop the discipline and life skills required to become a respected and upstanding citizen. The only obstacles preventing him from doing this were his chronic asthma, an aversion to physical exercise, and a pathological fear of enemy combatants shooting back at him.

The final zombie received a bullet to the throat. Its head snapped back, hanging on to the body by little more than skin and tendon, and it slumped into a heap.

"I think that about does it," Dann said.

The three disembarked from the SUV to evaluate their handiwork. A feeling of great accomplishment swelled inside them as they surveyed the lifeless bodies surrounding the vehicle. In the space of a few minutes they had made the country just that little bit safer. None of them appeared concerned by the recklessness of opening fire in a suburban neighborhood.

"Hold up, we got another one over here," Jake said.

A sleek black Pontiac G8 was parked further up the street. Jake peered through the back window. A feral-looking zombie was inside. It pawed at the glass, trying to make its way out.

Dann hurried across with the rifle. "Fish in a barrel," he grinned.

"Whoa, whoa!" Jake stood in front of him with both hands up. "What d'ya think you're doing?"

"What, you wanna shoot it yourself?"

"No, I want the car for myself. And I don't wanna have to pick bits of shredded zombie out of the upholstery."

"Hmph. Fair enough."

Dann leaned the weapon against the side of the vehicle while his brother sprinted back to the Landcruiser. The trapped zombie's face pressed against the glass. It was a particularly ugly specimen, even by zombie standards. Rail thin, with a face like a rat, and three fingers missing from its left hand. Ghastly to look at.

"Got it!"

Jake returned with the lug wrench. He assumed his position next to the door.

"Ready?" Dann said.

"I'm ready," Jake said with a toothy smile.

Dann pulled the door open. The zombie crawled out, and the wrench was brought down on its crown. The first hit knocked it to the ground. The fourth cracked the back of its skull open. It finally ceased twitching after the twelfth.

"Phew." Jake ran an arm across his forehead. "So much easier to just put a bullet in 'em."

He pushed the corpse out of the way with a few solid kicks and climbed inside the vehicle. The seat was reclined all the way. He brought it back to an upright position.

On the front passenger seat was a syringe, an empty green vial and a bloodied polo shirt. He wound the window down and tossed it all out onto the street.

He took a moment to look over the interior. The leather trim, the cushy seats, the state of the art audio system, the myriad features. This was one sweet ride. Much nicer than any car he'd ever owned.

There were several reasons why they were doing this tonight. Primarily, it was because they felt duty-bound to rid the streets of this undead vermin taking over the world. Another reason was because it was fun. They weren't going to deny the pleasure they took in doing what they did. And while they weren't in it for the material rewards, if an unexpected bonus happened to come their way during the course of their mission they considered it fair compensation for a job well done.

The engine purred when Jake started it up. He pulled out onto the road. Leon and Dann followed in the Landcruiser. They were on their way to find the next neighborhood to liberate from the undead menace.

The wheels on the left side of the truck almost caught air as Miles barreled around the corner, far too fast for a vehicle of this size. He momentarily veered onto the wrong side of the road before he regained control and corrected himself. It seemed Brandon's kamikaze style of driving was contagious.

He pressed hard on the accelerator. A zombie flew by his window, one of about a dozen he had passed in the last ten minutes.

The truck screeched to a stop opposite a small red-brick house. He pulled on the handbrake and opened the door.

"I'll be right back," he said, throwing the door open and stepping out onto the road.

"Where are we?" Brandon looked around. He was in a semi-daze, his mind still foggy. "What are you doing?"

"I have to check on some people. Wait here, I won't be long."

"Miles, we need to go. This looks like a –"

The sound of a door slamming cut off the rest of Brandon's words.

He sprinted across the road and came to the door of number seventeen. There was no answer when he knocked. He tried again, harder. This time he heard the shuffling of footsteps, followed by a voice.

"Who is it?"

"It's Miles," he said.

"Who?"

"Miles."

"Who?"

"It's, uh, it's Clive."

"Clive?" Mrs. Jensen slid the chain off the hook, and the door opened. "Clive! I wasn't expecting to see you tonight."

He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. "I'm sorry to turn up unannounced like this. I was just driving past and I wanted to make sure everything was alright over here."

"Everything's fine, Clive. Why, is something wrong?"

He took a deep breath. "This looks like another undead outbreak. A widespread one, I think. At this stage I can't say how serious it is, but it might even be as big as the first. The best thing you can do right now is lock the doors and keep out of danger until it's safe to go out. You might have to stay inside for a few days."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Jensen said.

She appeared concerned, but Miles could tell most of what he'd said hadn't registered. He knew he would have to try a different approach to get through to her.

"There's also a wild outdoor street party happening tonight," he said. He pulled a window closed and drew the curtains.

"A street party?"

"Uh-huh. A German street party, I'm told."

Mrs. Jensen looked aghast. "Germans? Coming into our neighborhood?"

"I'm afraid so. Some kind of Oktoberfest celebration. You can imagine how rowdy those things become, and the kind of people they attract. Sometimes they go on for days."

"Oktoberfest?"

"Crazy, right?"

"But it's not even October."

"Hey, that's what Germans are like. You think they need a reason to get drunk and start causing mischief?"

He carried out a quick sweep of the house to make sure all the other doors and windows were secured. He switched off the lights, leaving just a single lamp in the lounge room on. He returned to find Mrs. Jensen looking slightly perturbed by everything that was going on.

"Now, don't open the door unless it's someone you know and trust," he said. "Keep all the lights off. You can leave the TV on if you like, but make sure it's turned down low."

"Oh, I don't think I'll be watching much TV tonight anyway," she said. "For some reason they're showing the same program on every channel, over and over. It's nothing I'm interested in."

The television was in the corner of the room with the sound off. Coverage from the outbreak played, the images flashing up on the screen illustrating the scope of the danger. Aerial shots of urban centers showed what appeared to be hundreds, possibly even thousands of zombies wandering the streets in packs. The nation's freeways were choked with vehicles as a mass exodus was in progress, with terrified residents fleeing known trouble spots for someplace safer. There was cell phone footage taken from the inside of a car in another part of the country. The driver cowered in the back, her hands quivering as she held the phone to the window. Zombies wandered through the mass of abandoned vehicles, while other drivers and passengers ran for their lives.

The crawl across the bottom of the screen informed of the latest developments: outbreaks confirmed in seventy-one locations. A state of emergency declared, and a curfew in place. All protections against the undead lifted until further notice.

If Miles had been in any doubt as to the severity of this latest outbreak, he wasn't any longer. This was happening everywhere and was only going to get worse.

He switched the TV off. He turned to back Mrs. Jensen. "Do you think you'll be okay in here?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I'll be fine," she said. "I have my knitting to catch up on, and a letter to write to the council about tree branches hanging over the fence and into my property. I'll give them a piece of my mind about allowing German celebrations in residential areas while I'm at it."

He did one final check of the house to make sure he hadn't missed anything. He left when he was satisfied the place was safe and secure.

The sun was minutes away from setting when he stepped back outside. The first thing he saw was the two slow-moving zombies a few houses down. They posed no immediate threat, but their mere presence was a reminder to exercise extreme caution. He had been around the undead long enough to know they were a lot like cockroaches – if there was one or two you could see, that usually meant there were many more you couldn't.

He hurried along to the next house in the street. It was his old house.

As soon as he saw that civilian bury the ax into the zombie's head about twenty minutes ago, and he learned of the lifting of the protections against the undead, the wider implications became clear. It wouldn't be long before there were others out on the streets to indulge in a spot of zombie-slaying. And while only the undead were vulnerable at the moment, there were plenty who made no distinction between zombies and re-lifers. He needed to make sure the Talleys were safe.

The initial signs were troubling. Shattered glass was spread around the front of the house. It looked like broken bottles. The front lawn and garden was all torn up. The lights were off, and there was no movement inside. He peered through the windows, in the gaps between the metal bars. He couldn't see anything. He knocked, but there was no answer. The security door was bent and buckled, as if someone had tried kicking it in.

"Anyone home?" he called out. "Warren? Claire?"

He was greeted with silence. He thought about leaving it and returning to the truck. Maybe they had left for somewhere safer. Or maybe he was too late.

He moved around to the back of the house, to his old bedroom. There were no bars covering these windows, only on those facing the street. He removed the flyscreen, and he pressed his palms against the glass and jiggled it from side to side. The window nudged up incrementally until he was able to slide the tips of his fingers underneath and lift it up. This was something he used to do when he was younger, sneaking into his room in the middle of the night without his parents finding out.

He pushed the window up as far as it would go. He poked his head inside and hoisted himself up. He was halfway through when he found himself unable to move any further. His belt buckle was snagged on the windowsill. He tried pushing, but he was stuck. Only then did it occur to him that it had been at least ten years since he last attempted this. He was a bit slimmer then, as well as a lot more nimble. He also realized that while it was acceptable for teenagers to be climbing through bedroom windows, it was less so for grown men.

He leaned his body forward as far as he could go, putting all his weight on it. Gravity took care of the rest and he tumbled inelegantly to the floor.

The bedroom door flew open as soon as he hit the ground. He looked up in time to see a dark figure charging at him with a baseball bat. He had less than a second to react.

"Get out!" the voice screamed at him. "Leave us alone!"

He saw the bat coming for his head. He turned at the last moment and was struck across the back. It stung, although not as much as he anticipated. The attacker went for a second hit.

"It's me, it's me!" he shouted. "It's Miles!"

The figure stopped. They took a step back and reached for the light switch.

The light came on. Claire was standing over him. The baseball bat was actually a length of metal tubing from a vacuum cleaner.

"Miles! What are you doing here?" she said.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, catching his breath. "I just wanted to make sure everything was alright over here."

He felt like an idiot as soon as he said it. Everything was not alright. That much was obvious. He only had to look at Claire to know what sort of day she'd had.

Chapter 26

It was some time before Claire was calm enough to collect her thoughts and speak with any sort of clarity. Only then was she in any state to tell Miles about the worst day of her life.

Late morning was when everything started to go wrong. That was around the time her sister Elise first began displaying signs of ill-health. Elise was one of the two re-lifers living at the house, the other being Claire's husband Warren. Initially, it was a general feeling of fatigue and flu-like symptoms; nothing to get too worried about, but this was soon followed by a rapid decline. Her temperature soared, and she was struck down with incapacitating headaches. Nobody wanted to believe what was happening to her, but the symptoms had hit so fast and Elise had deteriorated so quickly they knew it could only be one thing. She had taken her daily Zaracaine-9 injection, but in desperation they gave her another. They had no idea this was the cause of her condition.

Warren experienced identical symptoms about an hour after Elise. He too was administered a second shot, which did nothing to help. Claire tried to keep a level head as best she could and not panic, but she was at a loss as to what to do next.

The situation intensified mid-afternoon when news filtered through that the government had temporarily suspended all protections against former humans. For some in the community, this was a call to arms, an excuse to roam the streets in packs and unleash their pent-up anger and resentment on anything undead. Any zombies they encountered were dispatched with in a brutal and clinical fashion. When the zombies were taken care of, or when none could be found, many decided re-lifers would be an acceptable substitute. There was a plentiful supply around these parts and, thanks to the online register, they were easy to locate.

It didn't take long for one of these packs to set their sights on the Talleys' place. A group of about a dozen agitators began by lobbing bottles, rocks and other missiles at the house. When this failed to provoke the desired reaction, they became more aggressive. A few tried kicking in the front door. Some more shredded the front yard by doing donuts in their car. A garbage can was emptied across their driveway before being hurled against a window.

Claire and her other sister Trisha rushed to secure every entry point, making sure all the doors and windows were locked. They gathered up the terrified children and barricaded themselves in a back room.

The attacks stopped after an indeterminate period of time when the mob grew bored and finally moved on. Everyone held their breath and prayed the worst was behind them.

A brief respite followed. They ventured out in the early evening to find that, despite the minor property damage, they appeared to be in the clear. The group outside was nowhere to be seen. But the peace didn't last. A shocking high-pitched scream, one that could have only come from a small child, reverberated through the house.

Claire's initial fear was that someone had broken in. She grabbed the first thing she could find to arm herself with – a kitchen knife – and she hurried to the bedroom at the other end of the house. Here, she discovered something much more frightening than an intruder. She found that her sister had fully turned. A small amount of blood was smeared across the floor and walls, the back door was open, and Elise's six year old daughter Emily was now missing.

As soon as they emerged from the back room, Emily had slipped away from the rest of the family and gone straight for her mother's room. Now she had vanished, and was most likely suffering a serious zombie bite. Everyone rushed out to look for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. This all happened over an hour ago. She could be anywhere by now.

Claire was a complete wreck by the time she finished telling all this to Miles, and virtually incoherent. After holding it together as best she could for as long as she had, everything caught up with her at once. In retelling the events of the past twelve hours, it was like she was reliving the experience all over again.

"I have no idea what I'm supposed to do now," she said in between sobs. "I should be out there looking for her, but I can't leave the house. There are five more children to take care of, as well as a sister who's undead and a husband who's probably not far behind."

"Of course you can't leave them," Miles said. "You need to stay here and watch over the house. I'll go look for Emily."

Claire looked up. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I've lived around here for the better part of twenty years. I know this area as well as anyone."

"Oh, that would be ... if you could ..." She tried speaking, but the emotion got the better of her.

"It'll be alright," Miles assured her. "I'll bring her back. I promise, I'll find her."

The final traces of daylight had begun to dissipate when he stepped out of the house, but the heat of the day remained. The heavy cloud blanket ensured the temperature would remain high tonight, at least until the first drops of the forecast rain fell.

He opened the door to the truck and tossed the keys on the front seat. "It's all yours," he said.

Brandon was jolted from his trance. "What's going on?" he said. His eyes took on a haunted quality. The events from earlier still weighed heavily on his mind.

"You can go back if you want, but I have to stay here," Miles said.

"Jack has sent us a message." Brandon scrambled to pull out his phone. "He says he wants everyone to come back immediately."

Miles reached behind the front seat for the snare pole. "Go on without me."

"That's really not a good idea. It's not safe out. Especially not around here."

This sudden undead resurgence had obviously affected Brandon. Miles had encountered situations similar to this before, but for him this was a new and disturbing experience.

"I know it's not safe, but I'll be okay," Miles said, adopting a veneer of stoicism. "I've survived worse."

He gave a brief rundown on what the Talley family had suffered through in the past day. He touched on everything they had endured, all the pain, trauma and terror, and how one of the children was now missing. She was frightened and alone, and more than likely nursing a zombie bite. They had to find her before the unthinkable happened.

"Tell Jack I'm sorry, but I can't just leave them," he said.

He shut the door and headed back up the driveway. A few seconds later he heard the door open and Brandon's footsteps hurrying to catch up.

"Look, Brandon, don't try to stop me –"

"Let me help," Brandon said.

This caught him off-guard, since it was about the last thing he expected him to say. "Are you sure you want to do that? Don't feel like you have an obligation to stay back, just because I am."

Brandon waved him off. "It's not that. Ever since that last job ..." He trailed off for a moment, as he grasped for the right words. "I can't stop thinking about it. I should have been bitten. It was a miracle that I wasn't. In fact, there's really no other explanation. It was a miracle. God was watching over me. He was protecting me, and he was sending me a message. He wants me to atone. I have a chance to make things right."

"You mean for what happened to Brock?"

"Yes, for what happened to Brock. I need to right that wrong. Plus, I have a shot of Zaracaine-9 inside me. That means I'm good for at least the next six hours."

Miles knew there was much a simpler explanation for what happened today, but he thought it would be impolite to interrupt someone in the middle of an epiphany. Such an intense spiritual experience had a transformative effect on Brandon. He was like a completely different person from an hour ago.

"You're doing the right thing," he said.

They returned to the house, and a brief strategy was devised for how the search was to be conducted. Brandon would take Trisha in the truck and drive around the surrounding streets to look for Emily. Miles would scour the acres of vacant blocks and parkland at the rear of the property on foot. He believed there was a much greater chance of finding her out there than anywhere near the roads, since she was more likely to run away from noise and other people than toward it. Claire would stay back at the house to watch over her husband, her sister and the children.

Miles slipped through the gap in the fence and cut through the backyard of the neighbor's property. The sliver of yellow light peeking out from behind a curtain was the only sign that anyone was home. He scaled the next fence along and landed in another backyard.

No one was home at this address. He could tell by the empty carport, which usually had a light brown Mitsubishi station wagon parked underneath, and by the plates and bowls of food spread across the outdoor table on the patio. The owners appeared to have been in the middle of dinner when they decided they had to flee.

Seeing the banquet laid out like this was a reminder that it had been at least ten hours since he last ate anything. There was no time to waste, but he couldn't help himself. He went straight for the bowl of pasta. It was still slightly warm. He shoveled a couple of large forkfuls into his mouth and swallowed as fast as he could. He moved on to the potato salad, and he stashed two dinner rolls in his pocket.

Three glasses were set out on the table. He reached for the one nearest to him and took a large gulp. He spat it out straight away. What he thought was water was actually white wine. He wiped his mouth, and he looked to see if there was anything else. Each glass was filled with the same wine. The half-empty bottle sat in the center of the table.

A peculiar feeling passed through him. Even when he drank, he didn't really like the taste of wine. But the small amount he just swallowed – he liked that. He liked the feeling it gave him. It was cold enough, and it tasted good.

The voice of reason at the back of his head told him it would be grossly irresponsible to drink any more, considering what he was facing right now. But that voice was shouted down by a chorus of louder ones telling him that wine was exactly what he needed. This was a world without logic, the voices insisted, a world that no longer made sense, which meant the only reasonable course of action was to take a drink. For all he knew, this could be his last night alive. If there was ever a moment to give in to temptation, it was now.

The first glass was gone in a matter of seconds. He emptied the second immediately after that, and then the third. He expected to be filled with remorse, but he wasn't. He was filled with exhilaration. There was fire in his veins. He wanted more. He finished the bottle.

He held in a deep breath. The alcohol surged to the receptors in his brain and gave him a heightened state of awareness. Any trepidation he may have had was obliterated. Now he was ready to face whatever the night could throw at him.

Chapter 27

Darkness had arrived in a hurry, and an unsettling atmosphere now permeated the neighborhood. It was a strange mood, somewhere between the tumult of a natural disaster and the jubilation of a street carnival. The air hummed with a palpable electricity, and the anticipation that a moment in history was playing out tonight. The expectation that anything could happen at any time.

Voices came at Miles from every direction. Some in the distance, others closer. He heard a scream, or a shout, from a few blocks over. Whether this was one of terror or exhilaration he couldn't say.

Despite the inherent dangers, human beings were naturally drawn to excitement. They slow down to gawp at car wrecks, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gory aftermath. A suicidal person standing on a ledge will draw a crowd, and while everyone prays for a safe and happy ending, in the back of their minds they know there's a very real chance they're about to watch someone plummet to their death. Whenever tsunami warnings were issued, the sensible ones fleeing for higher ground were outnumbered by those flocking to the coastline hoping to witness the spectacular carnage.

A small path ran along the back of the row of houses. It had been years since Miles was last around here. This was a fairly bland and unremarkable pocket of working class suburbia, but there were still plenty of places for kids to discover and explore if they had an excessive amount of boredom and insufficient supervision.

He stood at the end of the path and tried to visualize the way in which a terrified six year old might run. To his right was a patch of vacant land that backed onto a soccer pitch. A cyclone fence had been erected since he was last here, blocking off access to the pitch. Not that way, then. The dirt track leading to the golf course was to his left. He tucked the snare pole under his arm and headed in that direction.

A gunshot crackled through the air. It echoed for seconds afterwards. Next came a frenzied barking. It couldn't tell which direction it came from. It was far enough away that he wasn't immediately fearful for his own safety, but it was still close enough to make him jump.

He navigated his way through the scrubby vegetation, trampling through the weeds and overgrown grass, and emerged somewhere near the fourth hole. He noticed a warm glow in the near-distance. He moved toward it. Next he heard voices; a group of people.

A small fire blazed over by a sand bunker. Another one smoldered nearby, almost completely extinguished. About eight or nine people loitered around the course, most of them encircling the larger of the two blazes. They all appeared quite young, in their teens or early twenties.

A light breeze blew, and he inhaled the harsh chemical odor emitted from the fire. Smoke stung his eyes, and the stench of charred flesh turned his stomach. His hand covered his mouth and nose.

The fire moved. It rose up and shifted a couple of meters along the ground. It was a living, moving thing. Or whatever was underneath the fire was living and moving.

The group jumped back, except for the one with the golf club. He waited for the ball of flame to come within striking distance, then lifted the club into the air and brought it down hard. The fire collapsed. It remained on the grass for a few seconds before rising again. There was a second hit, and a third. Each one provoked gales of laughter.

Another zombie staggered around near the tee-off area. One of the group doused it with liquid from a plastic bottle. His friend lit a roll of toilet paper. The flaming roll was pelted at the zombie, igniting the accelerant and turning it into a giant fireball. It staggered around the course all ablaze, making wild lurches at the group, much to their delight. They taunted it mercilessly with kicks and blows from the golf club, until it finally capitulated to become just one more burning pile of remains.

Miles watched on from a distance, helpless. He wanted to put a stop to this, but there was nothing he could do. These people were beyond reason and, aside from the minor damage the fires had caused to the fairway, they weren't breaking any laws. But he had no comprehension of what could inspire such sadistic impulses, or how anyone could derive pleasure from watching anything, even zombies, burn to death. This was simply a manifestation of human cruelty and mob madness.

He had no choice but to move on with his search. He passed through a small thicket of trees. None of the group appeared to notice him.

He looked behind every shrub and tree as he went, and checked inside every crevice that a small child might crawl into. He made as little noise as possible. His ears were primed for the slightest movement. He gripped the snare pole with both hands, ready for anything that might leap out at him.

Another gunshot startled him. This one felt closer than the last. He picked up his pace.

He emerged somewhere along Coopers Lane, an unsealed road. The local cemetery was opposite. Under normal circumstances, being around a place like this on a night like tonight might have been unnerving, but his first taste of alcohol in years, along with his body's natural adrenaline, had given him a surge of bravado. He had to keep going before the feeling wore off.

He came to the flood control channel. This was a place he knew well. Many summers of his youth had been wasted around here. The channel was made up of smooth surfaces perfect for riding skateboards and racing BMXs when he was a kid. He'd also spent plenty of Friday and Saturday nights down here when he grew a little older, the numerous tunnels and small pockets ideal spots for carrying out typical teenage anti-social behavior, hidden from view from adults and other authority figures.

He climbed down into the concrete basin. It was bone dry. Barely any rain had fallen in the past few months.

He made his way along, holding the snare pole out in front of him like a cane to avoid tripping over anything. He was moving through near-blackness now, with no nearby homes or passing traffic to provide any light.

He walked a few paces along. He stopped when he thought he heard something and listened for movement. Nothing – the air was still. It was probably his imagination. He kept going. He repeated this process several more times; creeping forward along the channel, stopping and listening, then moving on again.

After about twenty minutes he saw the bridge up ahead. This marked the end of that section of the channel. Still no sign of Emily. He came to a stop and stood there for a moment, before turning around and heading back the way he came.

He had no idea what he was doing out here. This was a completely futile mission, a needle in a haystack endeavor. He was only here because he had told Claire and Trisha he would find Emily. Worse, he had promised them. He didn't know what possessed him to do that, other than it was all he could think to say in the moment. He now realized it was about the dumbest thing he could have possibly done. He wanted to comfort them, but instead he had peddled false hope. He had made a promise he had no hope of keeping.

So now here he was, feeling his way around in the dark, on a night when the living dead were lurking in the shadows and ready to pounce at any given moment. He moved at a snail's pace as he headed back. He dreaded the thought of returning to the house with no news.

He had taken only a few steps when a low growl stopped him in his tracks. That definitely wasn't the wind. It was the unmistakable call of the undead.

He spun around one-eighty degrees, then again, choking the snare pole with a white-knuckle grip. He couldn't see anyone, or anything. But it was there, somewhere nearby. He took out his phone and switched to flashlight mode. He scanned the area for signs of movement. Nothing.

The noise grew louder. The channel's acoustics carried the sound to his ears, as if the source was standing right behind him. He moved forward, against his better judgment, in the direction of where he thought it was coming from.

There was a tunnel directly beneath the bridge. It was a short distance from where he stood. The sound was coming from somewhere inside there, the grunts and groans bouncing off the walls. It was drawing nearer to him, moving toward the light.

He braced himself. He didn't know who or what he was about to encounter. He only knew the opening of the tunnel was little more than four feet high. Much too small for anything adult-sized to clamber into.

The undead child emerged a few seconds later, and Miles felt his heart turn to lead. He couldn't see her clearly, but it couldn't be anyone else. This whole time he had been praying for a miracle, hoping that somehow everything would work out. Maybe he could get to her before she turned. Maybe he could give her a Zaracaine-9 shot in time. He now saw how naïve these thoughts were. This was never going to end any other way.

He took a gentle step forward.

The loudest barking he had ever heard scared him half to death.

A monstrous canine was on the precipice of the channel, snarling and yapping at the zombie girl. It raced back and forth along the bank, searching for a way down the steep incline, before stopping and barking some more when it couldn't find a way.

The dog's owner arrived a few seconds later. John Barrett. He hobbled along the side of the channel, to where the rabid Rottweiler directed him. A shotgun was in his hands.

He lifted his weapon as soon as he spotted the zombie child.

"Hey!" Miles shouted. He ran toward Emily. "Don't shoot!"

The old man glanced up for a brief moment before resuming his aim.

"Don't shoot!" Miles said again.

Barrett steadied as he zeroed in on his target.

Miles pulled the snare pole back as he reached Emily. She looked at him and let out a guttural snarl. He swung with all the force he could muster.

The snare pole struck Emily across her chest, and she went flying. Miles felt the air explode. He was shoved to the ground. The world turned black.

Chapter 28

There were two types of contagions sweeping the nation that night. The first was the BNBO-511:17 pathogen. This was transmitted via live viral particles entering the bloodstream, either through a bite from an infected being or a dose of unsafe medication, and it transformed its victims into primitive, bloodthirsty monsters. The second contagion was the mob rule and group madness. This was spread through the medium of television, the internet, text messages and good old-fashioned word of mouth, and it contaminated the minds of otherwise sane and rational people, turning them into impetuous vigilantes.

The curfew was in place, but this was more of a suggestion than a directive, and due to the police having more pressing matters to deal with, it was not being strictly enforced. The majority of the population had sensibly confined themselves to their homes for the night, but a significant number felt compelled to prowl the streets and revel in the chaos. They were invigorated by it. This was like a moment in history, and the most exciting thing to happen in years.

In one rural community, a band of locals rounded up every former human they could find, and they proceeded to tie ropes around their necks and hang them from street lights along the main road. Their bodies swung back and forth like macabre Christmas decorations, their legs kicking and arms clawing in mid-air. This served as a clear message to other re-lifers to stay away.

In an urban center on the opposite side of the country, an army-green Ford Ranger pick-up plowed into a fifty-plus plague of zombies at high speed. The first seven or eight were knocked down like bowling pins. Another two went flying over the hood. Five more fell underneath the vehicle, one of whom became caught in the front wheel. The driver soon lost control. The vehicle mounted the curb, and the front chassis became snagged on a bollard. He tried reversing out, but the wheels spun in mid air. The driver was swallowed up by the herd and torn apart like fairy floss.

In a small coastal town, a seventeen year old youth patrolled the area with his fourteen year old brother. He carried with him the flare gun he had swiped from their parents' yacht. After wandering the streets for hours in search of action, the brothers finally encountered an undead being. It was a neighbor, a local mechanic they had known for most of their lives. The teen wasted no time firing at the zombie from a close distance. The flare was embedded in its chest cavity before the strontium nitrate explosion engulfed it in blinding red smoke. It staggered around in a daze as it was cooked from the inside out.

Across the country, houses belonging to known re-lifers were broken into. Occupants were dragged out, many were beaten, and their homes trashed. Police did their utmost to protect the victims, but often found themselves hopelessly outnumbered.

Similar scenes of mass hysteria played out six years ago during the first outbreak, but in many ways that was understandable. Back then, no one had any idea what was happening. For all they knew the world was coming to an end, and under those circumstances losing your mind was a perfectly natural response. The world's leaders implored the public to remain calm, insisting that everything would be under control as soon as possible, but it was several weeks before anyone believed them.

This time was different. Most were aware that strong contingency plans were in place for situations like this, and they knew life would probably return to normal within a week or two. But that did nothing to subdue the chaos. If anything, it exacerbated it. People wanted to make the most of it while they could.

Free will has a tendency to evaporate during group madness. Human beings shed their inhibitions, and a contagious psychosis takes over with a complete lack of restraint. Normal people find themselves doing the kinds of things they would otherwise never do. The new day would eventually come to shine a light on the mass debauchery and destruction, like the five a.m. ugly light at closing time in a nightclub, and everyone would be forced to confront what they had done. But nobody was thinking about that just yet. They had been given a free pass to behave in whichever way they pleased and enact their long-suppressed desires.

It only ever took a slight nudge for humans to regress to a primal state. This was their default setting, the mode they reverted to with minimal coercion.

Miles opened his eyes. He pulled some air into his lungs.

He was on his back, looking up at the stars. A small pocket of clear sky had opened up above him for a few brief seconds before being swallowed up by the cloud. The sounds of the night were distant. Everything seemed muted, like he was submerged in water. He didn't know how long he had been like this.

He tried sitting up, but this was impossible. His body protested every movement. He tried again. His head lifted an inch or two off the ground, but no further.

He saw a shadow hobbling away in the distance, a monstrous canine galloping beside him. John Barrett was fleeing the scene of the crime as fast as his hip replacement would allow him. This hardly came as a surprise. Barrett had only intended on shooting an undead being, which tonight he was legally allowed to do. Instead, he had shot an unarmed civilian. That was something the law still frowned upon, regardless of circumstance.

His hand moved to his side, to the space between his hip and his rib cage. He felt like he was on fire. He tried to pull out the burning hot poker he had just been stabbed with, but all he grasped was a handful of warm liquid. He pressed down on the affected area. A bolt of pain surged through his body, but the hemorrhaging continued. This was not good.

He had to get help, fast. Blood was gushing from him at a terrifying rate. He pushed himself onto his side. This was an excruciating ordeal. He made one concerted effort to sit upright, but straight away he knew this was not going to happen. His strength was completely sapped. Parts of his body that worked a minute ago no longer did what he asked of them. He could do little more than lie there and bleed.

His mind strained as he attempted to formulate some sort of strategy. He had to think and act fast if he was to have any chance of making it to sunrise. He was stuck out there, all alone. No one knew where he was. There were no passers-by he could call out to for help. He was unlikely to be discovered anytime before daylight returned.

He still had his phone on him. He forced it out from his pocket. Now he had to figure out who to call. An ambulance was out of the question. Emergency services would be stretched to their limit tonight, and it would be hours before anyone came for him. He had to think. Someone else. Brandon, maybe? He was in the area somewhere. But he was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, and this was not an easy place to describe or give directions to. Especially not at night, when the streets were overrun with zombies and lynch mobs. And especially not in his present condition. He might find him eventually, but time was one thing he did not have a lot of.

It had to be someone who knew about this place. Someone who had been here before and could get here fast. He sifted through the list of potential candidates in his mind. It was not a long list. In fact, there was only one person he knew of who could feasibly get here tonight.

He tapped out a hurried text and hit send.

But still, it would be some time before help arrived. He tried to maintain a positive outlook, but he wasn't at all confident of surviving that long.

He laid there on his side as the energy left his body and the sheer terror rose. His breathing grew labored. This could very well be his final moments. There was a greater than average chance of him dying out here, alone in a storm water drain, shot by his cantankerous zombie-despising former neighbor. Just one of many thousands to lose their lives tonight.

A salty copper taste filled the back of his throat.

For some reason his mind went back a few months, to the moment he decided to apply for the position at Z-Pro. He was fully aware of the dangers that went with the job. He had narrowly escaped death once before, and there was no reason why something similar couldn't happen again. If he was being honest with himself, he didn't really care that much. Maybe it was recklessness, or maybe an unconscious death wish, but he somehow knew that sooner or later he might end up like this. He just didn't think it would be a living, breathing human who put him here.

There was movement behind him. He heard footsteps dragging along concrete. It could be someone nearby. He twisted his head around to look, as far as it would go.

It was Emily. She was back wandering inside the tunnel, her zombie brain oblivious to the chaos surrounding her just a few minutes ago.

Out of nowhere, inspiration struck.

He didn't know where the idea came from. He didn't know if it was a good idea. In his present condition he was in no position to view the situation with any degree of objectivity. But at that moment, with his consciousness fading and the life rapidly draining out of him, it seemed like it might be his last remaining option.

"Hey ..." He tried calling out, but the words refused to come with any volume. "Em ... Emily ..."

His voice was barely a wheeze.

"Over here ..."

He remembered the phone, still in his hand. He lifted his arm as high as he could, about a foot off the ground. He flashed the screen on and off. Then again. On and off, on and off.

This caught her attention. Her head turned, and she ambled toward him with a lopsided walk.

Within a few seconds she was standing over him. The light from the phone illuminated her face. For the first time Miles could see the creature she had morphed into. Her skin was caked in dirt and grime, her mousy brown hair plastered across her cheek. Her face was contorted in savagery, but still unmistakably childlike.

"That's it," he said. "Just a bit further."

He held up his arm, offering it to her. Emily needed no coercion to latch onto it. He felt a sharp sting as she penetrated the skin, then an intense rush of pain as her teeth went in deeper. She pulled her head back, taking an avocado-sized chunk of flesh with her.

Miles was no longer hurting just where he was shot. Now he was hurting everywhere. The pain was indescribable, like nothing he had ever experienced. His whole body shook with trauma. The longest minute of his life passed without relief, until a numbness grew in his arm.

He had no idea if this would work. It might be the smartest thing he had ever done, or it might be the dumbest. It didn't really matter anymore. He'd done it. There was no turning back.

Chapter 29

Bernard Marlowe stood in his luxury twenty-eighth floor downtown apartment wearing silk pyjamas and a robe with his monogrammed initials. Midnight was only minutes away, and he was alone for the first time today. As he often did at around this time, he popped the cork on a bottle of Montoya Cabernet and filled a large glass. But tonight was different from most other nights. He wasn't drinking to cope with the rigors of the job, or to numb the pain of his most recent humiliation. He was celebrating his greatest achievement since becoming prime minister. This was the most euphoric he had felt in years.

He moved over to the window, where he could look down on the city below. The normally bustling streets were empty, the only traffic being the occasional police car or ambulance that came screaming past. The few pedestrians out tonight were the ones stumbling around without a pulse. Not even the country's wealthiest districts were immune from the undead resurgence.

Any initial doubts or misgivings he may have had about this whole endeavor were overwhelmed by sheer exhilaration. A tremendous Atlas-like weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had endured a lot over these past three years, incredible highs one minute, crushing lows the next, but this made it all worthwhile. It was a sensation close to godlike. He was already the most powerful man in the country, and now he was the most respected. Plenty had taken delight in mocking him – those in the media, his rivals in opposition, even some within his own party. They had underestimated him, dismissing him as an imposter who was in way over his head. But no one was laughing now. Anyone who dared to doubt him from this point on did so at their own peril.

Elliott was unlikely to set foot anywhere near an actual war zone, but what he had witnessed tonight on the streets, from the precarious safety of his Chevrolet Tahoe SUV, probably wasn't too far removed from the real thing. Sirens wailed as he navigated the suburban back streets, a short distance from where he grew up. Red and blue lights strobed in his peripheral vision. Pools of blood collected in the gutters. Every few minutes a chopper flew overhead, their spotlights sweeping across the terrain below.

The presence of helicopters didn't worry him too much. It was the jet fighters he was looking out for. He had heard rumors that, in the event of a catastrophic zombie uprising, the government was authorized to nuke highly-infected areas as a last resort. He doubted there was much truth to that, but at the same time he wasn't prepared to completely rule it out.

He drove past an ambulance parked by the side of the road. He saw an undead paramedic feasting on a patient that moments earlier she had been trying to save. Two blocks further up, a terrified taxi driver pummeled his zombie customer with its own prosthetic leg. The looting had started almost as soon as the sun went down. The rule of law had been abandoned and anarchy reigned.

He knew he shouldn't be on the road right now given he was probably well over the legal driving limit, but he had to take his chances. He assumed that pulling over drivers to perform random sobriety tests would be fairly low on the police force's list of priorities tonight.

He turned off from the sealed road and parked in a secluded spot behind the golf course. He waited until he was satisfied the coast was clear before stepping out.

He held his breath and listened for movement. The infection was of no real concern to him – as far as he knew, he remained the only person in the world completely immune – but he still wanted to avoid anything undead. His immunity status would only protect him if he suffered a minor zombie-inflicted abrasion. It wouldn't be much help if he found himself cornered by a swarm intent on tearing his limbs off.

He was alone. He quietly exhaled.

He followed the dirt road that ran parallel to the golf course. Across from him, on the other side of a row of boxthorn shrubs, four or five smoldering piles lay dotted along the fairway. Judging by the repulsive smell, these were the remains of recently-cremated former humans. He put his head down and picked up his pace.

The text message from Miles was the first contact he'd had with him in months. It was brief in its details, and it wasn't immediately obvious what was happening: need help. shot bleeding at place you broke wrist. please hurry. At first, the words didn't make much sense. The shock of what he was seeing on the TV, the images and eyewitness accounts of the outbreak taking place across the country, combined with the sleep deprivation and general overindulgence from the past few days, meant it took a sustained effort to keep his mind in focus. He had to re-read the message several times before the true meaning emerged. Miles had been shot, and he was asking him to go find him. Elliott skipped out on his own party without telling anyone, although he doubted his absence had been noticed.

He came to the old stormwater drain. He couldn't remember the last time he was around here. It must have been ten years or more. Much of his youth had been spent here, hanging out with friends after school and on weekends, using it as a makeshift skate park and inscribing their most creative obscenities in spray-paint along the walls. It was the place where, at age fourteen, he came off his bike while attempting a trick and fractured the scaphoid and trapezoid bones in his wrist.

The channel stretched several kilometers in both directions. The message gave no indication as to where exactly he might be. He could be anywhere along here.

He knew he couldn't waste any time, so he climbed down and made his way along the concrete basin. He had to hurry. Miles might not have much time left. He could only hope he was heading in the right direction, but he had no way of knowing this.

It was now mostly silent. The commotion he drove through earlier had faded into the distance.

It was after only a few minutes of walking that he spotted the figure ahead. It was someone sitting upright, leaning against the wall of the basin. From this distance they appeared relatively unharmed. Only when he came closer did he see that this person was undead. Their clothes were drenched in blood. The sound coming from their mouth was a primitive rumble. This was Miles.

He wasn't alone. A second, smaller zombie was with him. It was a child, a young girl. They were bound together at the wrist. She had a dark ring of red spread across her chin and cheeks. Miles had a deep hole in his forearm. A snare pole, like the one he used when he worked for Dead Rite, lay on the ground a few feet away.

The majority of the blood on Miles was around his side and his back. This must have been where he was shot. How or by whom, he would probably never know. He tried to arrange the likely sequence of events in his head. Had Miles been bitten, and then shot at after he turned? No, that couldn't be right. The text message had been sent after he was shot. Besides, he doubted anyone would shoot a zombie and leave without finishing the job. It must have been the other way around. He was shot first, he sent the text, and then he was bitten by the girl. Or ... he let the girl bite him? Had he suffered a life-threatening injury and, in one final act of desperation, allowed himself to be bitten to buy some time? This was either a brilliant strategic maneuver, or it was utterly insane. And the fact that he had bound their wrists together with cable ties. What did that mean? Was Miles telling him to take care of her too? In any case, it wasn't as if he had much of a choice. He could hardly cut her free and leave her alone out here to fend for herself.

He picked up the snare pole and moved toward the two former humans. It had been a few years since he last did this, but the process came back to him soon enough.

He guided the two zombies, first out of the channel, and then back on to the road by the golf course. He held onto Zombie Miles with the pole. The girl followed a step behind. She made the occasional attempt at taking a bite out of him, but she wasn't too hard to swat away. He was careful not to let her get too close, though. She may have been missing her front teeth, but she still managed to remove a decent chunk from Miles' arm.

He led them further up the road to where he'd parked. Only the Tahoe wasn't in the spot he'd left it.

A cold wave of panic struck. It had been stolen. No, that was impossible. The SUV was fitted with a range of hi-tech anti-theft devices, even if he didn't know what they were or how they all worked. At the very least he would have heard the alarm go off. Maybe it was further up. He walked another five minutes, but still no sign of it. His stomach turned inside out. If anyone saw him out here, pushing two zombies around, they would all be in a world of trouble.

The answer came to him just as he was close to being overwhelmed with despair. He must be on the wrong road. That could be the only logical explanation.

He pushed the two zombies out of sight and into some thick shrubbery, and he sprinted back to the stormwater drain to retrace his steps. This was a surreal, borderline-nightmarish feeling. He was in a part of his neighborhood he once knew so well he could find his way around blindfolded. Now he was getting lost and forgetting where he was.

He found the right road a few minutes later, and his vehicle soon after that.

He sped back, and he bundled the two zombies into the back of his car. He strapped on the seat belts to secure them both in place.

He jumped behind the wheel, with no idea of what to do next. His own place was overrun with people, so that wasn't an option. Taking them to a processing center or handing them over to a UMC agent was what he was legally obliged to do, but that too was out of the question. He still had his other house, the one he had been planning to sell. That would do, at least until he figured out his next move.

He felt his palms moisten as he gripped the steering wheel during the journey back. He stayed well below the speed limit. His foot hovered just above the brake pedal. He knew he had to be prepared for anything tonight.

The radio informed him that the number of confirmed outbreaks now exceeded one hundred. There were reminders about the nationwide curfew, and that citizens were permitted to defend themselves against the undead menace using whatever measures they deemed appropriate. There were multiple warnings that any black market Zaracaine-9 was likely to be harmful to your health.

He was about ten minutes away from the address when, out of nowhere, a troubling thought entered his mind. His foot hit the brakes, and the SUV skidded to a stop.

Amy. In all this insanity, he had completely forgotten about her.

He fumbled for his phone and dialed her number. He heard it ring, hoping and praying for her to pick up. Five rings became six, then seven. Then eight. Then voicemail.

That didn't necessarily mean anything was wrong, he assured himself. Amy had been ignoring his calls for weeks now. Maybe she didn't want to talk to him. Or with everything that was happening right now she may have been too preoccupied to answer. But at the same time, it could be something much worse.

James Pridham evaluated his appearance in front of the hotel room's full-length mirror. He was in a suite somewhere in downtown Yokohama, away on a business trip. He made sure he was camera-ready, smoothing down the lapels on his tailored Gieves & Hawkes jacket and fixing a stubborn tuft of unruly hair poking up at the back of his head.

In twenty minutes' time he would be standing before the world's media, where he would once again warn of the dangers of consuming Zaracaine-9 that had not been obtained through the approved channels. Words to this effect had been communicated by Elixxia innumerable times over the past two years. Now, people might finally start taking these warnings seriously.

He went over the speech again, mouthing the words as he readjusted his shirt collar. He had been rehearsing it nightly for the past two months, so he could more or less recite the whole thing backwards by now, but he wanted to review it one final time to keep it fresh in his mind.

The TV behind him continued its rolling coverage of the outbreak back home, now entering its tenth hour. He still couldn't quite believe what he had managed to accomplish here. This was so much bigger than he ever imagined. He assumed it would remain on a fairly limited scale, with maybe a few thousand affected in total. Evidently, a lot more people were using the illegal medication than he initially suspected.

Pridham had aimed high, and it had paid off big time. The potential benefits for Elixxia, and for his career, were limitless. Not only would this eliminate the scourge of unauthorized Zaracaine-9, it also meant he would wield unprecedented power within the Marlowe administration. His actions had single-handedly thrust them into a winning position for the forthcoming election. If the government was rewarded with a second term there would be no more crawling to Bernard Marlowe to beg for favors. He would have a direct line to the prime minister's office, and he would dictate policy to him as he saw fit.

He knew one day he would look back and recognize this as his finest achievement. His only regret was that he could never publicly take credit for it.

Chapter 30

The needle on the fuel gauge hovered just below the quarter-tank mark. That should be enough to get to Amy's and home again. At least he hoped so. This was not an ideal time to have to stop and refuel.

The SUV moved at a slow crawl with the lights off, never shifting out of second gear. Elliott remained on high alert, his eyes darting in every direction. The window was down a couple of inches – low enough to hear what was happening outside, but not so low that anyone could see the two undead passengers riding in the back.

He drove in a way that would draw as little attention to himself as possible, and he was ready to plant his foot at the first sign of trouble. The Tahoe was a solid construction – it was basically a military vehicle with a few consumer features added on – but this didn't make him feel any less vulnerable. In his view, modern safety features on vehicles were often counterproductive since they tended to increase complacency and give drivers a false sense of security. All the horsepower in the world wasn't going to do him much good if he inadvertently drove into the middle of a nest of zombies. He might be able to plow through six of seven, but any more than that and he would find himself in a world of trouble.

There was movement on the road ahead. He came closer and could see a small crowd, about seven or eight people, kicking and stomping on a lifeless body. Men and women of all ages had come together to participate. The aggression they exhibited was terrifying. Nobody paid any attention to the Tahoe as it passed behind them. There was a lurid crack as the heel of a steel-capped work boot decimated the zombie's skull.

Elliott wound the window all the way up.

He had hoped that perhaps this side of the city – the good side, the neat and respectable side – had somehow avoided the violence and bloodshed that had contaminated the other parts, but this appeared to be wishful thinking. The people who lived here liked to consider themselves part of a progressive and diverse community, and they believed they were open and welcoming of all types, but even the most tolerant citizen could find themselves swept up in the madness as quickly as the next person. Tolerance was easy when living in a safe and comfortable area. The moment they had ugly, frightening reality permeating their world, they were out there on the streets brandishing pitchforks and torches alongside the common folk from the lower classes. Fear and anger were emotions that transcended the class divide.

An upturned bus and a small fire in a trash can prevented him from turning into Amy's street. He would have to travel the remaining distance on foot. He drove a little further along until he came to a quiet side street. He found what appeared to be an unoccupied house and pulled into the driveway. This would do for now. It was secluded and dark enough, and it was largely obscured from passing vehicles and foot traffic.

The immediate vicinity was clear. The two zombies in the back would be safe for a few minutes. There were no nearby street lights, and the dark tint on the windows meant it was almost impossible to see inside. Just to be sure, he threw a beach towel over Miles' head, and a jacket over the girl.

The stifling humidity hit the moment he stepped out of the Tahoe's air conditioned comfort. Fatigue was kicking in as the alcohol left his system, and the first stage of a pre-hangover announced itself.

More than two months had now passed since he last had any contact with Amy. He had tried calling her a few more times, but she never picked up, nor did she reply to his messages. He wanted to apologize, and to tell her that he was still willing to cover her treatment costs, but she appeared determined to do this on her own. He eventually decided the best thing he could do was give her some space. He knew he had messed up, again, and he wanted to do everything right from now on. But he would have to wait for her to reach out to him, and not the other way around. He figured that was only a matter of time; he was no longer paying her bills, and he doubted she was in a financial position to hold out for too much longer. Her parents were reasonably well-off, and she received a small income from the part-time clerical work she had managed to pick up, but sooner or later she would have to swallow her pride and accept his help. The costs associated with maintaining a constant Zaracaine-9 supply were far beyond what the average person could afford.

There had been several occasions where he questioned why he was doing this, and why he was so intent on rekindling their relationship. She had even come straight out and asked him, and he couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer. It was only after a period of deep reflection and a lot of soul-searching that he was able to see the truth. This was all some kind of ham-fisted attempt at turning back the clock, and returning to a happier time in his life. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, to a time before all the money and craziness. Back then, even though he was constantly broke, he was still happy. Getting everything he wanted, at the expense of millions of others, had only made him miserable. This wasn't looking at the past with rose-tinted glasses, either. He knew he and Amy had their share of ups and downs, but that was still the happiest he had ever been. It was only now that he fully appreciated what they had.

It had never really crossed his mind that Amy might be sourcing her Zaracaine-9 through non-approved channels. Only poor people did that, not someone from a respectable upper-middle class family. But the more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder. He doubted she would throw away two grand a month if she didn't have to. Especially not when the black market stuff was just as good as the officially-sanctioned product – or at least that's what everyone thought.

The night was quiet now. There was an ominous rumble of thunder, and the first few drops of heavy rain fell.

He had no idea what he was going to do once he got there. He was making this all up as he went along. He was hoping he wouldn't have to do anything. There was every chance that Amy was fine, and she wouldn't need his help. She was smart, and she always prepared for the worst. He was certain she would have made plans in case something like this happened. He was doing this mostly to put his own mind at rest.

He rounded the corner. Her place was now within his sights, several houses along. He hurried across the road. From here he could see her front door was wide open, and the lights were still on. He sprinted the rest of the way.

The lock on the front door was broken. Elliott stepped inside. He went from room to room, but found nothing but an empty house. Other than the busted door there was no sign of a disturbance.

There were several green vials resting on the top of the refrigerator.

Outside, the sky opened and the downpour began.

Chapter 31

It took just over a week for the PUMAs to make their way to every identified undead hotspot around the country and contain the threat. Processing centers were filled to capacity, and sports grounds were used as temporary containment zones to handle the overflow. In some of the hardest-affected areas, the fire department deployed their hoses to wash the blood from the streets.

In total, twenty-two locations experienced mass outbreaks – significantly less than the one hundred-plus stated in media reports. Many of the incorrect reports turned out to be either false alarms or hoaxes perpetrated by internet trolls. Multiple news organizations were once again forced to issue apologies for the unnecessary panic created by overstating the severity of the threat. They promised to review their processes for news-gathering and fact-checking, and in future would rely less on unverified accounts on social media.

Several days after the PUMAs finished up at their final location, the government reluctantly agreed to reinstate the laws protecting undead beings from unprovoked violent attacks.

Exact numbers were still to be determined, but it was believed at least seven thousand lives were lost during this one forty-eight hour period. Some were killed by injuries sustained when they were set upon by undead beings, but the majority of the deceased were re-lifers who had transitioned back into former humans and were subsequently targeted by members of the public.

It was later confirmed that a contaminated batch of counterfeit Zaracaine-9 was responsible for the outbreak. This was believed to have been manufactured in Dubai and smuggled into the country by a seafood importer, hidden inside frozen shark carcasses. An investigation was currently underway to determine how such a large quantity was able to pass through customs undetected, and what measures could be implemented to prevent a similar breach from happening in the future. There was also much conjecture as to whether the medication had been contaminated with the BNBO-511:17 pathogen by mistake, or if this could be classified as a deliberate act of bioterrorism.

Police carried out raids on those suspected of distributing the toxic substances to the public. Seventy-four people were arrested, and over thirty million dollars in cash and assets was expropriated. Tens of thousands of vials were also seized and destroyed.

The government took advantage of the prevailing national mood and strong anti-zombie sentiment to rush a number of emergency bills through parliament. The first was a law prohibiting re-lifers from living within five hundred meters of a school zone. Another was a blanket ban on immigrant re-lifers entering the country. A law proposing that all carriers be required to wear ankle monitors was currently being debated. It was likely to pass within the coming days.

Despite previously criticizing the government's hardline anti-undead policies, describing them as regressive, opportunistic and blatant scaremongering, the opposition did not object to any of these proposals. After such a catastrophic event no politician wanted to risk putting morals, principles and decency ahead of the public's perceived safety.

Bernard Marlowe also announced plans to establish a dedicated task force focused solely on taking down the black market Zaracaine-9 trade. He promised a more visible police presence on the streets, which would specifically target anyone suspected of trafficking medications they were not authorized to sell. Maximum prison sentences would be raised to five years, and the customs budget was increased by $700 million for the next financial year. These measures were welcomed by Elixxia Pharmaceuticals CEO James Pridham, who declared them essential to the nation's continued safety and prosperity.

Tensions between re-lifers and the public were now at an all-time high. The Former Human Defense League reported over nine hundred instances of re-lifers being targeted in the two weeks following the outbreak. Many complained of intimidation, verbal harassment and assaults, and some were forced to leave their homes and seek refuge elsewhere. In one disturbing incident, an angry mob of residents chased a re-lifer from their home, which they then attempted to set on fire. The FHDL pleaded with the prime minister to denounce these attacks and tone down his inflammatory anti-zombie rhetoric. He was yet to respond to this request.

As an undead management and control agent who had sustained an infectious attack during the course of his employment, Brock's application was fast tracked and he was allocated priority treatment. He underwent successful regeneration several days after being admitted to one of the country's top medical facilities, with all costs covered by Z-Pro's employee assistance plan. Despite experiencing some minor health issues in his first few weeks as a revitalized human, doctors expected him to make a full recovery.

The situation with Miles was a lot more complicated due to the life-threatening injuries he had suffered prior to becoming infected. He was placed in an induced coma and given controlled doses of Zaracaine-9 to slowly drive the infection from his body. Doctors knew that while the zombie bite may have prevented his immediate and irreversible death – or at least postponed it for the time being – returning him to a human state too quickly could still have fatal consequences. He had so far undergone two organ transplants and multiple blood transfusions, and was likely to require further surgery. His chances of survival remained a day-to-day proposition.

Following his spiritual awakening, Brandon tendered his resignation at Z-Pro in order to devote his life to his church and his faith. He was due to commence his missionary work in Cameroon in the coming weeks.

Elliott scrawled his signature across the bottom of the eighth and final legal document for the day. He didn't know what he was authorizing here. He never did. He just did what he was told and signed in the places his lawyers pointed to. Sometimes they would try to explain what this was all for, but he rarely retained this information for any longer than it took to write his name. This was partly due to a lack of interest, but mostly due to his legal team's habit of being unnecessarily verbose with their briefings, favoring complex terms and technical language over plain English. He suspected this was a deliberate strategy to make themselves appear indispensable.

This was a task he was required to perform every few months. He would travel to Elixxia's headquarters to put his name to a new stack of contracts and submit another blood sample for their research teams to study and monitor. In return, he would continue to receive his regular dividend and royalty payments, and this would allow him to live the indulgent lifestyle he had become accustomed to.

"Last one." He let go of the pen, and he pushed the contract across the table for his legal team's appraisal. "So, we're done here?"

Lawyer Number Five – he never made enough of an effort to remember names – flicked through the pages to check that everything appeared in order. "I think that's all we need from you today, Elliott." He glanced around the room, to the other eight in attendance. "Unless anyone else has something they would like to discuss?"

Elixxia Representative Number Three cleared her throat. "Our annual shareholders' meeting is due to start in an hour," she said. "You're welcome to attend."

"No, I don't think I'll be doing that," Elliott said. Normally he would have made up an excuse for why he wasn't able to go, or at least found a more polite way to decline, but that required a level of mental energy beyond him today. His one and only objective was to get out of there as soon as possible.

"Oh," she said, taken aback by his bluntness. "I just thought since you are one of our largest shareholders, it might be of interest to you –"

"Yep, we're done here." He rose from his seat and made a move for the door. "See you all at the start of the next financial quarter."

He stepped out of the boardroom and went straight for the elevators. He couldn't stand to be in there a moment longer. It almost felt like the room was suffocating him.

The elevator was taking forever to reach the ground floor. He took out his phone to pass the time while it slowly descended.

Whenever he went for his phone there was a period of a few seconds, just before he saw his messages, where he allowed himself to hope that maybe some news had come in about Amy. By this stage it didn't matter if it was good news or bad news; he just wanted to know. But there never was, and each time the disappointment crushed him that little bit more. He knew that after three weeks the odds of finding out what happened to her were basically zero, but he still couldn't quite face up to reality and accept that she was gone. Not until he heard for sure.

After finding her house empty, he spent the rest of the night driving around the streets to look for her. He continued doing the same the next day, and the day after that, along with the countless others searching tirelessly for friends and family members still missing after that night. Her family checked at the processing center, and he helped them put up posters around her neighborhood, but they all knew this was a million to one shot.

Any time he was foolish enough to hope for a miracle, and that she might have somehow escaped the violence unscathed, he only had to cast his mind back to the scenes he witnessed that night to know what her fate was. Those images and sounds would stay with him for life. The unbridled glee with which the undead were attacked told him that, in all likelihood, Amy had suffered a senseless and needless demise.

In the days following, the unidentified remains of many thousands of former humans were gathered up by sanitation workers and taken away for immediate incineration. No attempt was made to identify any of them. There was a high probability that was where Amy ended up. But he would never know for sure, and there would never be closure.

He was off in a world of his own when the elevator reached the ground floor. Even when the ping sounded and the doors parted, he was still oblivious. It was only when a group of Elixxia executives piled in that he realized this was his stop. He pushed his way past and stepped off.

"Elliott?" he heard James Pridham say. He was part of the group that had just boarded.

"Oh. Hey there." Elliott smiled as a reflex action, a little embarrassed to be caught out in the middle of a daydream.

"You guys go ahead. I'll be with you in five," Pridham said to his colleagues. He stepped back out, and the doors closed behind him. "We have the shareholders' meeting today. You better get out of here before someone tries to drag you in. Unless you've been having trouble sleeping, in which case I can't recommend it highly enough."

"Thanks for the warning," Elliott said.

"So anyway, how are you holding up?" Pridham said, his demeanor becoming serious. "I know it's been a tough couple of weeks for you."

"I'm getting by. It's a day to day thing. To be honest, a lot of it is still sinking in."

He had no real desire to share his true feelings with anyone; the chronic pain and vast emptiness that stalked him from the moment he woke up. He found it much easier to speak in clichés. As long as he did this, most people accepted it and moved on.

"I understand," Pridham said. "These things take time to process. But I want you to know we're all thinking about you. If there's anything you need from us, we're here for you."

Elliott nodded. That too sounded like another meaningless platitude said to someone grieving, with no real expectation of the offer being accepted. He would have let it go, but a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Now that you mention it, there is one thing you might be able to help with," he said.

"Of course, just name it."

"There's this family I know. They were terribly affected by what happened. Their daughter, she's only six, and she was infected. Her mother and her uncle also need treatment. They could really use some help."

He eventually discovered the identity of the girl zombie he found with Miles. Her name was Emily Talley, and her family was living in Miles' old house. They were enormously relieved and grateful to have Emily returned to them, but understandably distraught by her condition. Elliott promised he would help out in any way he could, but the unprecedented surge in demand meant it could be months, or maybe even a year, before they would be eligible for regeneration treatment. Until then, the three would remain quarantined at the processing center.

Pridham had his phone out before Elliott had finished telling him about the family's plight. He summoned his assistant Sheradyn, and in less than a minute she was at his side.

"Elliott knows of some people affected by the recent tragic events," he said to her. "He will fill you in on the details. Make sure they're taken care of. Priority treatment, lifetime coverage. Whatever they need, just make it happen."

"I'll get right onto it, Mr. Pridham," Sheradyn said. She was already taking down notes.

"Let me know if you encounter any trouble and I will deal with it personally," he added.

Elliott couldn't help but be touched by this display of generosity. It was only a small gesture, at least as far as Pridham was concerned, and the cost to him and the company would be a drop in the ocean. But it would mean everything for the Talleys. This one act was their best hope of leading something close to a normal life again.

"I have to go now, but remember, if there's anything else you need, you know how to reach me," Pridham said. "Even if you just need someone to talk to. We're here for you. You're part of the Elixxia family."

"Thanks. I appreciate it," Elliott said. It was another cliché, but this time he meant it.

The elevator doors re-opened, and Pridham stepped inside. "So, I guess I'll see you next Saturday?" he said.

"Saturday?"

"At the engagement party. I assume you'll be there."

"Oh. Yeah. Saturday."

Elliott stepped into the executive car park. It took only a few seconds to locate his vehicle, due to the fact that it stood out like a fly on a wedding cake. He had taken his brand new McLaren 12C Spider out for a spin today and parked it here with the Elixxia executives' Bentleys and Benzes. Those cars were all tasteful shades of black, navy, charcoal or silver. His was salamander orange.

He had purchased this garish attention-seeking obscenity three days ago. The events of recent weeks were still raw, and it was an ongoing struggle just to make it through each day. Blowing some of his not-so-hard-earned cash on a brand new sports car was an attempt to cheer himself up and take his mind off other matters. And it worked, at least initially. His spirits were lifted for a few hours as he used the city's streets as a racetrack and attracted admiring glances from strangers. But reality caught up with him when the day ended, and the dark cloud of depression returned. Another quarter-million well spent.

Seeing the McLaren in this context, in the center of a matrix of sleek and stylish vehicles, highlighted the deep chasm between someone like Elliott, who had been rich for only a couple of years, and the Elixxia top brass, most of whom had been surrounded by wealth their entire lives. To an outsider observer, spending money the right way may seem simple enough, but it was a skill that took years to acquire. It was still a novelty for him, and he hadn't quite worked out the nuances just yet.

He pressed on the key fob. His car chirped and the doors unlocked.

Like he always did when he came to Elixxia, he had parked in a space reserved for senior management. Anyone else who tried this would have their car towed before the engine had the chance to cool. Anyone who did it more than once would find themselves looking for a new job. Elliott was the only one who could get away with such a stunt. He was the company's third-largest shareholder, so there wasn't a lot anyone could do other than politely remind him of the ample visitor spots available for him to use. It had been explained to him, on more than one occasion, that an executive parking space was one of the perks of the job for those in the upper levels of management, and that parking in their spot was akin to taking part of their salary. He would always apologize and insist it was an honest mistake, and he promised to be more considerate in future. Three months later he would do it all again. He knew it was juvenile, but infuriating some big shot executive by occupying their precious patch of reserved cement remained one life's small pleasures.

Four spots down from where he had parked sat a cherry-red 1968 Series 1.5 Jaguar E-Type Roadster. This was James Pridham's pride and joy; the one he had heard so much about, and Pridham's most beloved material possession. He went over for a closer look.

Pridham had shown him photos before, but this was the first time he had seen it with his own eyes. It was without a doubt a stunning automobile; a thing of beauty that had been lovingly restored as if it had just rolled off the production line. He almost sighed, he was so taken by it. This was the kind of car he should be sinking his money into, not some overpriced adolescent fantasy. The saying about how money couldn't buy class never felt more apt. He ran an index finger along the side, then pulled it away, as if a vehicle this precious should never be contaminated by human contact.

It was only when he was about to return to his own car that he noticed the trunk was open slightly.

Chapter 32

A Cyclops in Ray-Bans and a Hugo Boss suit stepped into the path of Elliott's McLaren with a raised palm, ordering him to stop. "I'm afraid I can't let you go any further sir," he said through the front window. "This is a private event."

"I know. I live here," Elliott said.

"Nevertheless, I'm going to have to ask you to turn your vehicle around and make alternative parking arrangements." The security guard's right hand hovered above his holstered weapon, a stance Elliott believed was both unnecessary and ridiculously provocative.

"I live here," he repeated. He stretched his words out in case this philistine had trouble understanding basic English. "This is my house."

"That may be the case, but we are under strict instruction from Ms. Marlowe not to allow any vehicle to pass through these gates without the proper authorization"

"I can show you the address on my driver's license if you want. Will that be enough to convince you to let me into my own place?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. You will not be given permission to enter unless you can produce an official invitation. Now I'm going to ask you one more time to turn your vehicle around and park your car somewhere else."

Five minutes of fruitless arguing passed, followed by ten more minutes of phone calls and walkie-talkie conversations and negotiations, before the all-clear was finally granted and Elliott was permitted to pull into his own garage.

He stayed in the car for fifteen minutes after he parked. He wasn't quite ready to face the circus waiting for him out there.

With everything that had gone on over the past few weeks it had completely slipped his mind that on the night of the outbreak, moments before they learned the end of the world may be imminent for a second time, he had offered up his place to Fabian and Stephanie as a venue for their engagement party. This was a fact he was only reminded of when he arrived home a week ago to find Stephanie and her platoon of party planners commandeering his lawn, debating where best to position the cocktail bar and measuring out the space for the marquee. He had tried dropping a few hints to Stephanie that, after the traumatic events of recent weeks, he might not be in the mood to host such an extravagant soirée. These hints were far too subtle for this Bridezilla-in-the-making to pick up on. He did everything he could to weasel out of it, short of retracting the offer, but eventually came to accept that the party was going ahead whether he liked it or not. The best he could do now was grin and bear it. Stay out of the way and wait for the whole thing to be over.

This felt like some sort of karmic retribution. At a time when all he wanted was to be left alone to wallow in his own self-pity, an army of strangers was invading his home at all hours of the day and night.

To the surprise of nobody, the party's unofficial theme appeared to be indulgence and excess. No expense had been spared in an effort to make the event as over the top and ostentatious as possible. The photo booth had already been set up, as had the karaoke stage and the champagne fountain. The LED panels for the light-up dance floor were being shifted into place, and the stage and lighting inside the marquee was being assembled for the DJ set to be performed by Blériot. The personalized cupcakes had arrived, while the finishing touches were being added to the party's centerpiece – life-sized ice sculptures of the bride- and groom-to-be. The evening would culminate with them pumping a half-ton of fireworks into the atmosphere to illuminate the night sky in an awe-inspiring display of thunderous pyrotechnics. This was to be Fabian and Stephanie's final act of extreme fiscal irresponsibility before settling down to become semi-responsible adults.

The aggressive and overzealous security came courtesy of a private firm that had joined the fray three days ago. They had the job of evaluating the property from top to bottom in an exhaustive effort to identify and eliminate any potential threats, no matter how small or insignificant. This was necessitated by the high-profile guest list, which included the bride's father – the prime minister – and several senior government figures, as well as a menagerie of models, socialites, and other notable VIPs from the world of entertainment and high society. There was also the fact that Stephanie had negotiated a six-figure deal with a tabloid magazine for exclusive coverage of the event. Her demand that no one be allowed inside without an official invitation was more to prevent paparazzi from sneaking in and taking unauthorized photos than for the safety of the guests.

Six hours later, the social event of the year was in full swing. A parade of limousines passed through the front gates to ferry the VIPs to the party. A dozen armed guards patrolled the perimeter of the property, scanning the guests with metal detector wands and holding each invitation under a black light to verify its authenticity. Those who made it inside enjoyed a selection of the finest gourmet food prepared by a popular celebrity chef and sipped on an extensive range of cocktails, microbrews and champagnes. A jazz quintet supplied the musical ambience in the main area, while renowned French DJ Blériot entertained the younger crowd in the marquee with an eclectic mix of modern-day anthems and old school classics.

Elliott spent most of his time around the outer fringes of the party. He chose to keep an eye on proceedings from afar rather than mingle with the other partygoers. It was an odd feeling, having so many people in and around his house. The whole time he had lived here, he had never come close to filling it. Now the place was teeming with activity, and so full of life and movement.

He wasn't around to see the prime minister arrive, but he first spotted him just after eight p.m. He was over by the fountain with a cocktail in his hand, surrounded by a phalanx of important-looking people. They were all lining up to offer their congratulations for his daughter's engagement, as well as to heap praise on him for his deft handling of the recent undead crisis.

James Pridham was in his usual position, standing just to Marlowe's right, never any further than an arm's length away. Elliott saw this as his way in. He took a deep breath and made his way over.

"Prime minister." He held out his hand and maintained strong eye contact. "My name is Elliott. I'd like to say what an honor it is to have you here tonight. Welcome to Beechwood Heights."

Marlowe smiled as he shook Elliott's hand. It was a genuine smile, not the phony one he adopted for the cameras. "It's a pleasure to be here, Elliott. I've heard a lot about you."

"You have?" Elliott said, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Don't worry, only good things." Marlowe gave Pridham a soft nudge with his elbow. "For instance, I believe you've helped make this guy a lot of money. Not enough for him to afford professional golf lessons mind you, but he hasn't done too bad."

The surrounding sycophants all laughed like this was the funniest quip they had ever heard.

"I think I've done okay out of the arrangement, too," Elliott said.

"I'd say you've done very well for yourself, if this spectacular estate of yours is anything to go by," Marlowe said.

Elliott smiled and shrugged. "I have no complaints."

A waiter passed by balancing a tray of champagne flutes on his hand. Marlowe emptied his glass and replaced it with a full one. Some of the other guests accepted a glass as well. Marlowe took a second one before the waiter departed.

"What the hell. I'm paying for all this, so I may as well get my money's worth," he said with a sly chuckle.

More laughter followed. The drinks were enjoyed by all, and plates of canapés soon appeared. The night air had begun to cool, but no one seemed to mind.

Another wave of partygoers came over to congratulate the prime minister on his stunning comeback in the polls. He accepted the compliments, although he insisted he wasn't here to talk politics tonight. "I'm just here to enjoy himself," he announced to the crowd. He certainly appeared to be doing just that; both of his drinks were finished in a matter of minutes.

Elliott sidled up to Marlowe a short time later. "Just so you know, if you're looking for something with a little more kick to it, I have my own bar set up in the basement," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "There's a selection of spirits and liqueurs, if you get tired of drinking this fizzy French stuff."

Marlowe grinned as he clamped his hand on Elliott's shoulder. "You know, I think I'm starting to like you already."

Elliott unlocked the door leading to the basement and descended the stairs. Bernard Marlowe and James Pridham followed a few steps behind.

The prime minister and the Elixxia CEO pulled up a stool at the bar. They took a look around to see what Elliott had done with the place, noting the pool tables, the arcade games and the obscenely large TV. It wasn't hard to see that wealth was still new for Elliott. It looked more like a college kid's fantasy dorm room than anything a self-respecting multimillionaire might have in their home.

Elliott set out three napkins on the bar and placed a crystal tumbler on top. He dropped a chunk of ice into each glass and filled them halfway from a decanter.

"Here, try this," he said, pushing a glass toward both men.

"What do we have here?" Pridham said, his eyes lighting up.

"It's a new bourbon that's about to hit the market. I won't tell you the brand just yet. I want to see if you can guess."

"Challenge accepted," Marlowe said. The three clinked glasses and he took a small sip, followed by a larger one. Pridham did the same.

Elliott watched them both and waited for a reaction. "So?"

"I'm guessing it's something like Old Crow," Marlowe said.

"I was going to say Elijah Craig," Pridham ventured.

"Uh-uh," Elliott said, shaking his head.

Marlowe held the glass beneath his nose. He breathed in the aroma, and he sipped some more. "I want to say it's Four Roses, but I don't think that's right."

"I may as well tell you since you're never going to guess," Elliott said. "The name of this brand is Liquid Goya."

"Liquid Goya? I can't say I'm familiar with it," Marlowe said.

"Not yet, but you will be. It's actually my company. I purchased it about six months ago. It's a small boutique label, but we're looking to expand."

"You bought your own distillery?" Pridham said, seemingly impressed. "You never told me that."

"Yeah, the opportunity came along so I thought, why not? It seemed like a fun thing to invest in. A lot more fun than keeping all my money in the bank, anyway."

"Looks like we might have the next Jim Beam here," Marlowe said with a laugh. "Or perhaps the next Al Capone, brewing up moonshine and hosting illicit parties down here in his own private speakeasy."

"No, for that to happen they would have to bring back prohibition," Pridham said. "Not much chance of that happening with you in charge, is there?"

Marlowe laughed out loud. "Touché," he said, grabbing the decanter and refilling his glass. He topped up the other two while he was at it.

Elliott couldn't help but be amazed by the way the prime minister could throw down his liquor. In the short time he had been here he must have had at least eight or nine drinks, with barely any sign of inebriation.

A call was made to the kitchen, and the caterers sent down a plate of crab cakes and vol-au-vents. More drinks were poured. Marlowe accepted Elliott's offer of a Montecristo Cuban cigar, although Pridham declined.

"So, prime minister, I know you're off the clock tonight, and you probably don't want to spend the evening talking about work," Elliott said. "But there is one question I've been meaning to ask you. It's about last month's outbreak. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. By all means, go right ahead," Marlowe said.

"It's something that's been playing on my mind lately, and I just wanted your perspective on the matter. See, the outbreak was devastating for so many people. It destroyed thousands of lives, it tore families apart, homes were trashed, businesses were looted. The damage bill alone will be in the billions, to say nothing of the personal cost. But it wasn't bad news for everyone, was it? Take Elixxia, for example. They have definitely benefited from what happened."

Pridham and Marlowe traded uneasy glances. Neither one was sure where he was going with this.

"I'm not sure 'benefited' is the appropriate term here," Pridham said.

"Really? Because the company's share price has gone through the roof. The black market problem has been eradicated, and your potential customer base has increased by almost twenty percent. I'd say you've done pretty well out of it. In fact, this whole thing couldn't have gone any better if you'd planned it yourself."

There was a deathly silence. He now had their full and undivided attention.

"Which got me thinking," he continued. "What if you did plan this whole thing yourselves?"

The two men stared at Elliott with knives for eyes. Both were clearly unamused. The remark had come so casually, and completely without preamble or forewarning, neither one was sure they had heard correctly.

"It sounds like you want to ask us a question but can't quite bring yourself to come out and say it," Pridham said. He remained calm, but the friendliness had left his voice. It was more like a stern teacher admonishing a troubled student.

"Okay then. Did the two of you conspire to release a batch of toxic Zaracaine-9 to the public?"

Pridham maintained his hard stare a few seconds longer before speaking. "You really want us to dignify that with a response?" he said.

"I would very much like you to dignify it with a response," Elliott said.

"Very well then. The answer is no." Pridham set his glass down on the bar. "Nothing like that happened. Nothing even remotely close to that. I doubt anyone would ever do something so heinous. And look, I understand this has been an emotional time for you. I know you've been through a lot these past few weeks, and it's natural to look for someone to blame for what happened. But that is a very serious accusation, and one that should not be tossed around lightly. To be honest, it's quite insulting that you would even think such a thing, much less ask it."

"That's what I thought you might say. And I agree with a lot of what you said. I didn't think anyone would ever sink to those depths either. But there was one thing I couldn't get past. Maybe you can explain it to me."

Elliott's hand went into his pocket. It came out clutching a small lime-green vial. He held it between his thumb and forefinger for Pridham and Marlowe to view.

"What is that?" Pridham said. His face gave nothing away.

"Are you telling me you don't know what it is?" Elliott said.

"It looks like one of those vials that had the contaminated medication in it. I suppose what I'm asking is why are you showing it to me?"

"I'm showing it to you because I found this one in the trunk of your car. In fact, I found a whole box of them. So I'm just trying to figure out why the CEO of Elixxia Pharmaceuticals would have something like that in his possession."

Pridham expelled a long breath. "Elliott, I take product samples home with me all the time," he said in a weary tone. "Sometimes they come in green vials, sometimes blue vials, sometimes clear ones. Just because the container is the same color doesn't mean the same substance is inside. And, setting aside the fact that you were snooping around inside my car, I can assure you that whatever you have there, it's perfectly safe for human consumption."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that. And I do hope it's safe for human consumption. You should hope it's safe, too."

"And why should I do that?"

Elliott tapped his finger on the top of the decanter. "Because this batch had a little something extra in it."

He waited for a reaction, but it didn't come. Not even a twitch. A minute ago he was certain he had caught them red-handed, but now he was considering the possibility that he had made a huge error in judgment. They may be completely innocent. That, or they were such accomplished liars and con artists and had the best poker faces known to man.

"Are you implying that you put the contents of those vials into the bourbon we just drank?" Pridham said.

"Yes," Elliott said. "That's exactly what I'm implying."

Pridham twisted his glass around on the bar top. A fraction of a smile appeared on his face. He lifted the glass and swallowed down the rest of his drink. "I don't think you did," he said.

"You think I'm bluffing?"

"I just think that if you did believe those vials were toxic, you wouldn't have put them in a drink and served it up to us. Partly because you don't seem like the type of person who would do something like that, but mostly because you drank from the same bottle we did. Anything that went into our bodies went into yours."

"Ah, you got me there. Of course I wouldn't risk my own health by knowingly ingesting contaminated substances, just to prove a point. Would I?"

A moment passed where nobody spoke. Marlowe had a face like murder, but Pridham appeared barely affected by any of this. He had a natural born confidence that never wavered.

Elliott held his nerve and pressed on.

"Unless, of course, the substance in question would have no effect on me." He used the cloth from the sink to wipe up a small spill on the bar. "Say, if I was the only person on earth immune from the pathogen. Then maybe I would do something like that. But if everything you told me is true, and those vials are harmless, I'll be happy to offer you both sincere and heartfelt apologies. I guess we'll know soon enough."

He stepped away from the bar and headed for the stairs. He didn't need to stick around to see what would happen next. He already knew when he saw Pridham's façade crack. The signs were subtle, nothing more than a clenching of the jaw and a slight widening of his eyes, but they were there. He was left in no doubt about what they had done.

Chapter 33

Elliott knew it was wrong to snoop inside someone else's car, but when he saw the trunk of Pridham's Roadster jutting up slightly he couldn't help himself. He was a naturally curious person, and a quick peek inside wouldn't hurt anyone. He wasn't expecting to find anything earth-shattering in there, but at the same time he didn't completely dismiss the possibility. Pridham was such a straight-laced clean-cut kind of guy that it was just as likely to be a front to hide some inner deviant. Maybe he would discover a whip and a set of handcuffs. Or perhaps a shovel and a roll of duct tape.

He nudged it open and saw nothing of the sort. Just a spare tire, a jack, and an emergency roadside kit. It was all neatly arranged, and a little anticlimactic.

He pressed down on the trunk to close it. It clicked shut, then popped back up a second later. This time it opened the whole way. He was struck with a mild panic, worried he might trigger the alarm. He looked around to make sure no one else was watching. He was alone.

He was about to close it again when he spotted something else in there; something he hadn't noticed the first time. A small cardboard box, nestled in the far corner. He reached inside and opened it up. Inside were four dozen lime-green vials. He immediately knew what they were.

The next seventy-two hours were spent trying to conjure up a logical explanation for what he had found. There had to be a perfectly innocent reason for why James Pridham would be in possession of what appeared to be a quantity of toxic medication. He knew Pridham was ambitious; that was hardly a secret. Nobody becomes CEO of the world's largest pharmaceutical company on nothing more than a solid work ethic and a can-do attitude. Only the most ruthless and pertinacious of the pack will ever make it that far, the type of person willing to do absolutely anything to get ahead. But did that extend to unleashing a deadly strain of medication on an unsuspecting public? Elliott didn't want to admit it. He spent days performing Olympic-level mental gymnastics trying to discredit his suspicions, but the evidence pointed to only one possible conclusion.

Prior to the discovery, it had crossed his mind that the sudden zombie resurgence had been incredibly fortuitous for Elixxia. Not only did it create tens of thousands of new Zaracaine-9 customers overnight, it also decimated the black market trade that was costing them hundreds of millions annually. This good fortune was reflected in the share price, which had soared to astronomical levels in recent weeks. He wondered if they had somehow played a part in all of this, before dismissing the idea as ludicrous.

Now his suspicions were all but confirmed, and he had solid proof. He just had to figure out what he was going to do with it.

His first instinct was to confront Pridham with what he had found, but he knew this would ultimately achieve nothing. Pridham was a world-class CEO, a seasoned debater and master manipulator with decades of experience arguing and negotiating in boardrooms across the world. He was far more intelligent and articulate and persuasive than Elliott could ever hope to be. He would have no trouble talking his way out of this, either by pleading his innocence, justifying his actions, or threatening Elliott into submission. The issue would disappear, and he would learn to be more cautious next time.

Another night went by spent staring at the ceiling. He had to do something. He didn't know what, but he knew he had to take action. This was too big to let slide. And although he was clueless about what to do or where to start, he did know someone who might be able to point him in the right direction.

Morning came around, and he called up the one person he never expected to speak to again.

Later that day, he arrived at the café where they had agreed to meet up. He didn't recognize her at first. She was nothing like how he remembered her. With her conservative professional attire, she could have been any other office worker on their lunch break.

He cleared his throat and stepped up to the booth where she waited for him.

"Clea?" he said.

She glanced up as she sipped her chai latte. "Take a seat," she said, nodding to the space opposite.

Elliott slid into the booth. The seats were hard. The table provided only limited leg room. A passing waitress stopped by the table, and he ordered a chicken and avocado sandwich. He wasn't the least bit hungry, even though he had barely eaten over the last few days.

"So. My break finishes in ten minutes. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Straight away he could sense a definite weariness in Clea. This was most likely the after-effects of the mini-scandal she had been engulfed in a couple of months ago. Judging by her body language and the way she spoke, she was still dealing with the fallout. It all started when a government memo was leaked to the press detailing a plan to entrap a rival politician; a sordid plot that involved high-class hookers, hotel rooms and hidden cameras. Clea, who was employed as the executive assistant to the senior minister at the time, took full responsibility for the scheme. She apologized for her actions and stated unequivocally the idea was hers and hers alone, and that no one else in the ministry had any prior knowledge of her activities. She tendered her resignation, and now she worked part-time at her father's law firm.

Elliott let out a quiet breath. "Where do you want me to start?"

He covered as much ground as he could within the space of a few minutes, beginning with his initial dealings with James Pridham and Elixxia Pharmaceuticals three years ago, and ending with the discovery of the suspect vials in Pridham's car. He put forth his theory about what he believed had transpired – that Pridham was somehow responsible for the recent undead outbreak, that he was possibly even the architect, and the one who manufactured the contaminated batch of Zaracaine-9 that was distributed to unsuspecting re-lifers.

"I know this probably sounds far-fetched, hearing it all for the first time," he said. "But if you knew him like I do, you'd understand. Stopping people from using that unauthorized stuff had become an obsession. I really do believe he would resort to something this extreme in order to boost the company's profits."

Clea's nails tapped against her cup as she took this all in. If the revelations came as a shock to her, it didn't show.

"He wouldn't have acted alone," she said.

"Who? Pridham?"

"Yeah. I have no doubt believing he's sociopathic, but he's not stupid. He would never attempt anything that risky without some sort of back-up plan, just in case he was ever accused of anything. He would have had someone powerful ready to come to his defense."

"Do you have any idea who that might be?"

"I don't know, Elliott. Who does James Pridham know in a position of power that would be willing to do him a favor at the drop of a hat?" She emptied a sachet of artificial sweetener into her drink and stirred. "I'll give you a clue – whoever it is, I'm guessing they're fairly high up in the government."

Elliott mulled this over with a slightly bovine look on his face, until the truth finally dawned on him. "You think the prime minister was in on it too?"

"You tell me. Do you really think he would have done any of this without telling Marlowe first?"

"Well, I'm not sure –"

"Come on, I think you know how close those two are. When I was working for Marlowe's office they were always off playing golf together, and scheduling secret dinners and meetings. That would have given them ample opportunity to hatch their plan."

"But that's a pretty huge step for a nation's leader to take. I mean, I don't doubt Bernard Marlowe does favors for his friends in the corporate world from time to time, but launching an attack on his own people just to help out a colleague ... I don't know if I buy that."

Clea's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen before shutting it off and stashing it away in her pocket. "He wouldn't have gone along with it just to help Elixxia."

"Why else would he do it?"

"To help himself. Have you seen the news lately? Bernard Marlowe's popularity is the highest it's been in years. A few weeks ago he was dead and buried. Now he's on track for re-election. If anyone benefited from the outbreak more than Elixxia, it's him. He had means, he had a motive, and he had an opportunity. Look at the facts and draw your own conclusion. This was a false flag attack."

Elliott paused for a moment. He stared at the salt and pepper shakers in front of him. So much information was coming in at once that he had to wait to allow his mind to catch up.

"So now what do we do?" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's our next move? How do we let everyone know about this?"

Clea shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't help. There's really nothing I can do."

"I know we've had our differences in the past, but this is something far too monumental –"

"I'm not saying I don't want to help you. I'm saying I can't. No one can help you."

"But we have proof that serious crimes have been committed. Poisoning your own people – that's something dictators do. We could be sitting on one of the biggest scandals in history."

"Except you don't have actual proof. Not in a legal sense, anyway. It's all circumstantial. You have a strong suspicion and nothing more. Even if your allegations ever went anywhere, in the unlikely event of an enquiry or an investigation into the matter, Marlowe would make sure that a sympathetic body would look into it. He would basically write the findings himself. Any witnesses or co-conspirators would have been paid off already. Trust me, every loose end here has been tied up."

"But surely you have the knowledge or the contacts to make something happen?" Elliott was growing more desperate. "Can you at least refer me to a journalist, or someone who can help investigate this further?"

"You need to listen to what I'm saying here, Elliott. I'm telling you that no matter what you do, no matter how hard you fight, no matter how damning your evidence, you can never beat the system. It just can't be done. The odds are stacked against normal people like you and me. Even with all the money you have now, that's no use to you. If you try to expose them, if they see you as a threat, pretty soon you'll discover how inconsequential you really are. Taking on the federal government and the world's largest pharmaceutical company? That's a suicide mission. They'll hit you with everything they have. You'll be sued into oblivion. They'll smear your reputation and exploit every last legal loophole to bury you. And if you think they'll play by the rules, you're sadly mistaken."

The door swung open. A group of older men in suits entered the café. They moved to an adjacent booth. Clea's voice fell to a whisper.

"I found this all out the hard way," she continued. "Remember what they did to us? The raid, the interrogations, the trumped-up terrorism charges, everything else they threw at us. The Tribe of Zeroes weren't even that significant, really. We were just a minor irritation, but that didn't stop them from dragging us through the mud to put us back in our place. A lot worse will happen to you if you actually threaten them."

"So what am I supposed to do now? Forget about it and pretend none of this ever happened?"

"That's what I'd do. Move on with your life and enjoy your millions. Trust me, that's the way the world is, and there's nothing you can do to change it."

Elliott was more dispirited now than when he arrived. As far as Clea was concerned, it didn't matter that he had almost incontrovertible proof that two of the country's most powerful men had conspired to orchestrate a deadly attack against their own people for financial and political gain. He was just supposed to accept this as the way of the world. The ruling class, those with all the money and influence, were allowed to do whatever they wanted and get away with it. The most depressing part was that she was probably right. There was nothing he or anyone else could do to change that. The ones with power and wealth were immune from punishment and would never face the consequences of their actions. No matter how hard you fought, the Bernard Marlowes and the James Pridhams of the world always triumphed in the end.

He left the café and returned to his mansion, and he did exactly what Clea advised him to. He tried to forget what he knew and move on with his life, but that was easier said than done. The more he tried to push it out of his mind, the more he kept thinking about it. He felt betrayed by Pridham, who for so long had pretended to be his friend, but in hindsight was really just protecting his investment. This was something far too immense to let go. The thousands of innocents affected by the outbreak deserved real justice. Amy and Miles and Emily deserved real justice. The people responsible had to pay for what they had done.

Chapter 34

The basement door nudged open a crack. Elliott peeked through to make sure the area was free from witnesses. He stepped out and carefully pulled the door closed behind him.

Part one had gone as planned, more or less. Now he had time to kill before part two.

He passed through the main living area before taking a short cut through the kitchen, dodging the wait staff and caterers in starched uniforms as they balanced trays of food in their hands and hauled bags of garbage outside. He emerged somewhere near the dining hall.

He spotted Fabian alone over on the far side, standing before the artwork hanging on the walls. His shirt was rumpled and untucked, and his sleeves were rolled up. An empty beer bottle dangled from his left hand. Judging by the way his body swayed back and forth, he had emptied quite a few more prior to that one.

Elliott strolled across and stood next to him. "So what do you think?"

Fabian looked at Elliott, and then back to the paintings. "Are all of these real Generiks?"

"I hope they're real, considering what I paid for them," Elliott said.

"Wow." Fabian was impressed, and more than a little envious. "This is quite a collection."

"Yeah, I kinda got carried away at an auction a few months ago. Let me give you some advice: if you ever find yourself at one of those things, steer clear of the open bar. At least until the auction's over. You might think you're getting a great deal with all these free drinks, but that only lowers your inhibitions and makes you susceptible to ridiculously expensive impulse purchases. I found out the hard way."

Fabian moved along the wall, casting his eye over each portrait. "I can think of worse things to blow your cash on."

He stopped in front of one piece. It was a Looney Tunes-style artwork depicting Elmer Fudd and Yosemite Sam in the aftermath of a mass shooting.

"He's such a phenomenal artist," he said. "So subversive and provocative. Just look at the way he exaggerates the proportions ever so slightly, and the innovative use of light and depth. It sort of implies a heightened reality."

He went on to deliver his critique of Generik's work, dropping references to "visual metaphors", "sublime beauty" and "deconstructing his subjects" in an effort to come across as cultured and erudite.

"I had no idea you were such a fan," Elliott said.

"Oh, I'm totally a fan. I would love to own one of his pieces. You know, if I ever had a spare three hundred grand lying around. And if Steph would let me."

"She's not interested in art?"

"I wouldn't say she's not interested. It's more that she doesn't see the point in throwing away that much money on something that just sits there and does nothing. Especially when we have a wedding to pay for." He paused for a moment, before adding a quiet afterthought. "Although she doesn't seem to have a problem with spending tens of thousands of dollars on jewelry every so often."

A crashing sound came from the direction of the kitchen as a stack of plates fell to the floor. The chatter around the party cut out for a few seconds, before resuming again as if nothing happened.

"What if I said you could have one of these for nothing?" Elliott said.

"Yeah, right. I'm not sure how that's ever going to happen," Fabian said.

Elliott nodded toward the eight framed artworks on the wall. "Pick one that you like. It can be your engagement present."

Fabian let out a sharp laugh. "You're joking, yeah?"

"Not at all. I never got around to buying you two a present. You can have one of these instead."

"I just assumed letting us use your house tonight was our present."

"No, don't be ridiculous. I'm more than happy to host it here. And anyway, I'm looking to free up some wall space. You'd be doing me a favor."

Elliott was joking, of course – there was no shortage of empty walls inside the many rooms of his sprawling mansion – but the joke sailed right over Fabian's head.

"You're serious about this? You're really going to let us have any one of these?" he said.

"Whatever one takes your fancy. It's up to you," Elliott said.

Fabian stood before the eight canvases. This was a lot to take in all of a sudden. "Hang on, I should get Steph. We can decide together."

He made a move for the door. Elliott grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back. "Forget about Steph for one minute. You just said she's not really into art. Do something for yourself for once."

Fabian stopped. "You know what, you're right."

He stepped back and took in all eight artworks at once. He stepped forward again, moving from one end to the other, taking his time to evaluate each piece along the way.

He came to the final one.

"Now this one I love," he said. "To be honest, I don't really know what it all means. It's just kind of eerie and unsettling. The way he's taken an image of some random dude, and the obtuse non sequitur he's added to the bottom. The composition, the juxtaposition of the words and visuals. It really challenges the viewer. It's like he's showing us this totally banal image, this otherwise ordinary and unremarkable person, but he's hinting at a darkness lingering just beneath the surface."

The print he described featured Mark David Chapman's mug shot. The words "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" were printed beneath. Elliott had shelled out $430,000 for it at the auction. Fabian appeared to have no idea about the significance of the words, or what they alluded to.

"An excellent choice," Elliott said. "I'll have it packed up and sent over to your place next week."

"Wow, I really don't know what to say," Fabian said, both overwhelmed and deliriously happy. "Thank you. Thank you so much. That's so generous."

"Hey, it's the least I could do after everything you've done for me. You might not be aware of this, but the only reason I have all this money is because of you."

Fabian laughed and nodded along. It took a moment for the words to register, and the confusion to set in. "I, uh, I don't quite follow," he said.

"It's a funny story, actually," Elliott said. "It all started the night you tried to kill me."

This statement was met with a stony silence. An uncomfortable few seconds went by before Fabian attempted to deflate the tension with a burst of forced laughter. "I tried to kill you, did I?

"That's right. I'm not sure how well you remember this, but it happened about three years ago. I was leaving work one night when these two guys came from out of nowhere and attacked me. One of them held me down, and the other pricked me with a syringe filled with zombie blood. Their faces were covered so I couldn't properly identify them. But that was you, wasn't it? It was your idea, and you were the one that injected me."

Fabian's eyes moved from side to side as he tried to find a way out of this. He was trapped. "I ... really can't tell if you're joking or not," he said. He took a sip from his beer bottle, even though it was empty, just to give him something to do.

"It's not a joke, Fabian. I think you know that."

He couldn't say for sure how long he had known this about Fabian. He had always considered him a prime suspect, but he was one of many. The attack took place a few weeks after his much-publicized assault on Trent, at a time when he received daily death threats, so there was no shortage of people wanting to cause him harm. But over time a number of small pieces of information came together in his mind which led to this revelation.

Two moments in particular stood out. The first happened a few months ago. It was the night of the Xyyx launch party, when they were introduced by Preston. Elliott watched the color vanish from Fabian's face in a matter of seconds. At the time he assumed Fabian was so distressed because he had been caught unawares, and he never expected to run into Elliott under those circumstances. They had a history, and he was worried Elliott might humiliate him by bringing up his previous life and past behavior in front of this new crowd. Only now did he realize what was really going on inside his head – Fabian had no idea Elliott was still alive. He assumed the zombie blood had caused his demise years ago.

The second moment, and the one that really set off alarm bells, came to him a few weeks ago. It was the day of the outbreak, when he learned of Fabian's plan to inject several prominent figures with infected blood to further the cause of the Tribe of Zeroes. He dug a little deeper into the facts of the case and discovered that everything Preston told him was true. Fabian's lawyer claimed none of these threats should be taken seriously. They were just the ramblings of an immature young man mouthing off to impress his friends. His words were taken out of context, they claimed, and the recordings had been made illegally. But Elliott knew there was more to it than that. Fabian, at that time, was so hardcore with his beliefs. He was the one member of the group pushing the limits, going places no one else would dare.

The more thought he devoted to it, the less doubt there was in his mind that Fabian was the one behind it. His memories from that night were as clear as the day it happened. The guy who jabbed him with the needle was the same height and build as Fabian, and he spoke with the same private-schoolboy-turned-fake-street-thug accent. Even looking at him now, he could tell he was guilty. His face was the color of severe sunburn. His ears looked like they were about to produce steam.

"Anyway, irony of ironies, you actually ended up saving my life," Elliott said. "Three days later I was bitten by a zombie, and by some miracle I ended up surviving. At first no one could tell me why, but they eventually figured it out. The small amount of tainted blood that I was injected with played a part in fighting off the infection. I became immune, which then led to the development of Zaracaine-9. So not only did you inadvertently save my life, you also made me extremely wealthy."

The panic was written across Fabian's face in billboard-sized font. He had no idea how the conversation could have taken such an unexpected turn to end up here. One minute he was being gifted expensive artworks, the next he was accused of attempted murder. He looked around the room to see if anyone else had overheard. There were others nearby, but no one paid any attention.

"So why don't we drop the charade for a moment and just tell me the truth?" Elliott continued. "I'm not going to retaliate. I won't go to the police. If I was going to do any of that I would have done so by now. I just want you to admit it."

There were several abortive attempts before Fabian was able to speak.

"You have to understand something," he said in barely audible tones. "Whatever may have happened, whatever I did or did not do – that all took place another lifetime ago. I was a completely different person back then."

"It was only three years ago," Elliott said. "Believe me, you haven't changed that much."

"But mentally, I was in a weird place. The Tribe of Zeroes ... that was an unhealthy environment for me to be in. It was more like a cult. Things had started to escalate, everything got so out of control, and none of us knew where to draw the line. Trust me, I'm embarrassed by so much of what I did. Every time I think about that period of my life, I cringe."

"Hey, I'm sure you had your reasons for doing what you did. For a long time I had trouble getting my head around it. I just couldn't understand how someone could deliberately infect another person." Elliott gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and he headed for the door. "But now, I kind of get where you were coming from."

Bernard Marlowe stared up at the red mahogany wood paneling on the ceiling above him. His body rocked gently from side to side. He was stretched out in a hammock, and he was doing everything he could to remain calm. He felt his stomach lurch. The taste of regurgitated crab cakes pushed at the back of his throat.

The sounds from the party filtered down to the basement; just the bass line and the beat from the music playing, and the faint chitchat of the crowd. Everyone sounded like they were having a wonderful time, oblivious to the act of treachery that had just occurred.

Marlowe had tempered his breathing, but his pulse still jackhammered away like he'd swallowed a dozen double espressos with methamphetamine sweetener. The infection was hijacking his body. Cell by cell, microbe by microbe, he could feel the nano-sized insects crawling through his blood. His head grew heavy, and his eyes ached. The lights now seemed far too bright. His regular self was slipping further away with every breath he took.

"How could you leave a box of evidence in the back of your car like that, James?" he said, his voice now a low whisper. "After going to such great lengths to cover your tracks, you end up doing something so careless? Were you trying to get caught?"

James Pridham was a few feet away, sinking slowly into a giant bean bag.

"I put those in there months ago, and I completely forgot about them," he said. His mind returned to that night in the car park outside the warehouse with Dr. Xu, where he shoved the box of vials into his trunk after being spooked by what he thought was a police car. He had only driven the Roadster a handful of times since. "I don't know what else to tell you. My bad, I guess."

"Your bad what? Your bad judgment? Bad memory?"

"It's what the kids say these days: 'My bad'. It's kind of a faux apology. You admit wrongdoing without actually taking responsibility." Pridham pressed his fingers to his neck to measure his pulse. "Maybe one of your ministers could use it the next time they get caught doing something they shouldn't."

Marlowe would have thrown something at Pridham if he was in any way capable of doing so. "I have no idea how you can joke around at a time like this," he said.

"Bernie, you need to relax. Take it easy. Deep breaths, free your mind, and all that. Your heart rate increases when you panic, and that accelerates the spread of the pathogen. I understand this is stressful, but it will be alright. I promise."

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't share your confidence."

Pridham looked across to the prime minister. "Listen, I got us into this, so I'll get us out of it. Okay? Sheradyn will be here in half an hour. We'll each get our shot, and we'll be fine. By tomorrow morning it will be like none of this ever happened."

The first thing Pridham did after Elliott left was contact his personal assistant. He ordered her to bring an urgent supply of Zaracaine-9 to this address. She was sending through regular updates about her progress, as per her boss's instruction.

"And what if she doesn't get here in time?" Marlowe said. "Have you considered that possibility? What if she comes down here and finds two zombies?"

"That's not going to happen," Pridham said.

"But what if it does happen?"

"It won't."

"But what if it does?!"

"If that happens, Sheradyn will know what to do. She'll make a few calls, and my people will come around to take care of it. We'll be escorted from the premises after everyone else has left. No one needs to find out about any of this."

"Okay, and then what?"

"Then we get taken in for regeneration, and in a couple of weeks we'll be as good as new."

"And then we're both carriers for the rest of our lives, suffering through the indignity of daily injections and having our names added to the public register."

"Relax, none of that's going to happen," Pridham said.

"Stop telling me to relax, goddamn it!" Marlowe's ribs ached as his voice rose.

"Well, stop not relaxing."

"I just don't think you fully appreciate what this will do to me, James. If any of this becomes public, I'll have no choice but to resign. I've based my whole brand around my hardline anti-undead policies. If I lose that advantage, I'm finished!"

Pridham expelled a weary sigh. "Look, I can't say too much at the moment. Not even to you. But let's just say Elixxia have developed a number of products that, for reasons I won't get into right now, haven't been made accessible to the public just yet. Products significantly more advanced than Zaracaine-9."

"How much more advanced are we talking here?"

"I'm talking about a permanent solution. A cure, for all intents and purposes. Four or five rounds of treatment and that's it. No more injections, no risk of relapse, no chance of passing it on. Once you go through the treatment it won't even show up on a blood test."

Marlowe tried sitting up. "Wait, how long has this –"

His words became stuck. He could feel his windpipe close up. Breathing now required a sustained effort. He did his best not to panic; that would only make it worse. He tried visualizing something peaceful. Waterfalls. Rainforests. A round of golf on a sunny day. Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1. Sipping Cognac at his French chalet.

Air filled his lungs a short time later, and he resumed inhaling and exhaling at a normal rate.

There was a drawn out silence as neither one spoke. Marlowe's eyes followed the rotating blades of the ceiling fan directly above him. This had an unusually calming effect.

"I have no idea what my daughters were thinking, associating with someone like that," he muttered to himself. "Really, how does he expect to get away with this? Even if we do turn, he knows it can be reversed. Does he think we'll just laugh it off, and there won't be any consequences?"

"Worry about that later," Pridham said. A kind of lethargy had entered his voice for the first time. "We need to hold tight and ride this out."

"One thing I'm certain of is that he's going to prison. Deliberately infecting someone carries a twenty year sentence. I'll see to it that he gets the maximum. No, I'll double the maximum, and then I'll make sure he gets that."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Pridham warned.

"What do you mean it's not a good idea?"

"We need to keep everything that's happened here tonight under wraps. For obvious reasons."

"So you're going to let him get away with this?" Marlowe's voice was rising again. Despite his best efforts he couldn't stop the anger from bubbling to the surface.

"I didn't say he was going to get away with anything. I just said we don't need to bring this into the public domain."

"So what do you suggest we do?"

"Don't worry, I'll handle it. I'll make it my personal mission to see him destroyed. I hope he hasn't gotten used to being rich, because those days are over. His Elixxia stock, his royalty payments – gone. By the time I'm done with him, I'll own this house and he'll be living in the cardboard box his TV came in."

"You think you can do all that?"

"Please, Bernie. Remember who you're talking to here. Elliott Connors is hardly a Mensa candidate. He'll sign anything you put in front of him without even reading it. It'll be like taking candy from a baby."

They lapsed into silence once more, until Pridham's phone buzzed a few minutes later. He smiled when he looked at the screen.

"Sheradyn has the medication," he said. "She'll be here in fifteen minutes."

Chapter 35

Elliott spent the next hour wandering around the grounds of his property, socializing and carousing with the invited guests. He introduced himself to anyone he was yet to formally meet and welcomed them to his home. He listened to stories and laughed at jokes, and he graciously accepted compliments about how magnificent his house was. He refilled glasses before they could be emptied, and he offered Cuban cigars to anyone who wanted one. He went out of his way to ensure the party ran smoothly and everyone was having a great time.

Those he encountered would have thought he was playing the part of the perfect host. It would never have occurred to anyone that he may have had an ulterior motive, and that he was making himself visible in order to create three hundred solid alibis.

At 10:05 p.m. he entered the house to open up a few doors. He shifted a table and some chairs out of the way to create a clear path from the basement to the back door.

He ventured outside and stepped out onto the beachfront, where he inadvertently stumbled across a senior government minister in a compromising position with a well-known morning TV host, a woman who was half his age and most definitely not his wife. He backtracked before his presence could be noted.

He returned to the party, passing the karaoke stage along the way. Sebastian Devereaux had taken control of the mic and was giving his best rendition of a Leonard Cohen ballad. Elliott never did see any of Sebastian's performance art pieces, back when he went by the name Amoeba, but if they were anywhere near as surreal as what he was witnessing now they would have been a sight to behold.

Sebastian's father, Lawrence Devereaux, kept away from the rest of the crowd, as he had done for most of the night. He had his phone glued to his face, unable to leave work alone for just a few hours.

Near the front gates, he saw an undercover paparazzo wearing the shirt and baseball cap of a local pizza outlet, arguing with two security guards.

"I'm just trying to do my job here," he heard the man say. "We have an order for twenty pizzas for this address. They're sitting in my car. The longer we talk, the colder they get."

The larger of the two guards folded his arms across his chest. "Does this look like the type of party that serves up cheap fast food?" he said.

"How should I know? I'm just here to drop them off. I'll be in and out in two minutes."

"How stupid do you think we are?" the other guard said.

"Come on fellas, I'm just trying to do my job," the phony pizza man said.

The first guard took a step forward, moving into his personal space. "And we're doing ours. No one gets past us without an invitation. Understand?"

At ten-thirty, Elliott decided the time had come to put the final piece of his plan into action.

He headed over to the marquee. About a hundred writhing bodies moved in time to the hi-energy remix of a current chart-topper. He pushed through the crowd.

A hand grabbed hold of his wrist. He looked up to see Madison Marlowe beaming at him. She held onto him the way a drowning man grasps a floatation device.

"Come and dance!" she shouted at him.

He tried declining, but "no" was not a word Madison was used to hearing. Her sister's engagement had filled her with a desire to settle down and finally lay her party girl image to rest. As a result, she now had Elliott firmly in her sights. He had spent the past few weeks gently deflecting her not-so-subtle advances.

"Come on!" she said.

He reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged into the middle of the dance floor. He stayed there for a couple of minutes and tried to make it look as if he was having a good time, before slipping away into the crowd as soon as her back was turned.

He made his way to the podium and climbed up to the raised platform where the DJ booth was set up.

"You take requests?" he said, tapping Blériot on the shoulder.

"Huh?" Blériot cupped his ear, struggling to hear over the music.

"I said can you play a request?"

The DJ wrinkled up his nose. "Later. Maybe. No promises."

Elliott took out his wallet. He removed a wad of bills half an inch thick. "How about now? Can you play a song for me?"

The Frenchman's eyes doubled in size. "Are you being for real? You'll give me all that to play just one song?"

"Yep. Just one song."

Blériot smiled. "That can be achieved. What is it you want to hear?"

Elliott leaned forward and shouted the name of the song into the DJ's ear. The smile vanished, and was replaced with a pained look.

"Oh, no no no. Please, no. Anything but that."

"Hey, you agreed."

"But that song is an aural travesty! A desecration of decency! I have a reputation to uphold."

"You want the money or not?" Elliott waved the cash in front of his face.

"You are not even joking about this?" Blériot looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses. "You really want to use your one request on that terrible song?"

Elliott nodded. "Correct."

"You understand it will empty the dance floor?"

"Probably, but I'd still like to hear it."

Blériot let out a sigh. "It's your money, my friend."

"It's your money now."

He slapped the bills into Blériot's hand, then climbed down from the booth and moved to the corner of the marquee. He stood in the semi-darkness and psyched himself up for what was about to go down.

The song ended a couple of minutes later, and the opening bars of the request kicked in. Blériot didn't bother attempting any beat-mixing or smooth transition between the two tracks. He just faded one in and the other out.

Several seconds passed before the revelers were able to identify the song. The reception it received could be described as mixed; some in the crowd lifted their beverages in appreciation of the airing of this past hit, but the majority responded with groans and eye rolls. As Blériot predicted, a dance floor exodus soon commenced. It was a few of the women at first. Their partners followed shortly after. Some of the older guests used this opportunity to take a breather and top up their refreshments.

Sixty seconds into the song, when the screechy vocals kicked in, the marquee was at least seventy percent less crowded. A small number of inebriated partygoers had taken their place and were enjoying this blast of recent nostalgia, but they more or less had the entire floor to themselves.

The song was "Acid Reflux" by Chemikal Ali. It was a multiplatinum single from four years ago, and one of the biggest hits from the briefly-popular genre of electronic dance music known as SlamCore, but its reputation had diminished with age. SlamCore had become deeply unfashionable and was rarely played these days, to the relief of many. It was temporarily made illegal due to reports that its frequencies attracted the undead. An unintended consequence of banning the music was that it became even more appealing to the youth, who would host ultra-secretive raves as a form of rebellion and a middle finger to the older generations. The prohibition was later reversed. The genre quickly became passé, and SlamCore died a natural death soon afterwards.

A few more drunks limped onto the dance floor. Some started a small circle pit. Others tried to execute the kind of break dancing moves they hadn't attempted in years, with predictably calamitous and injurious results.

Midway through the song, just as the slam hit and the air vibrated, a chorus of ear-splitting screams cut through the party. Despite the volume of the music it was audible to all in attendance.

Two well-dressed zombies staggered around the lawn area, and were coming straight for the marquee. Their outlines were illuminated by the flickering strobe, their grotesque faces contorted in bestial hunger, drawn in by their involuntary reaction to the primitive sounds pumping through the speakers.

A mad scramble for safety followed. Tables and chairs were upturned, and other guests were trampled on in the frenzied panic.

Elliott hurried back to the DJ booth. "Hey! Blériot!" he shouted.

The DJ was counting his money and remained oblivious to the commotion taking place right in front of him. He looked up and saw people tripping over one another as they tried to escape.

"You see?" he said, gesturing to the commotion before him. "What did I tell you? This song is atrocious!"

"Turn the music off!"

"What?"

"The music! Turn it off! Look!"

He pointed to the entrance. Blériot froze at the sight of the two undead beings charging toward him like crack-fueled baboons.

"Blériot!" Elliott shouted. "The music!"

The DJ snapped out of his trance. He made a lunge for the console and pulled down the volume sliders.

The noise cut out, and the zombies were brought to an immediate standstill. The feral beasts of a few seconds ago were nowhere to be seen. They were now like two defective humanoids restored to their factory settings, slowly restarting and powering up for the first time.

The guests unable to make it out cowered beneath lighting rigs and behind speakers, or in any other spot they could take cover. What they saw was like something out of a 1950s horror movie. These two monstrous beings stood in the middle of a silent and empty dance floor, a blanket of dry ice and the swirl of the mirrorball producing eerie and unsettling atmospherics.

Elliott made his move. He took five steps forward to bring himself face to face with the two undead interlopers. His hand went inside his jacket. It came out gripping a small handgun.

With nothing in the way of emotion or hesitation, he aimed the weapon at the zombie to his right and squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out. The guests screamed and dived for cover.

He moved his arm thirty degrees to the left and squeezed again. Another shot. Both zombies hit the floor, felled point-blank by the Ruger Single Six shooter previously owned by Lee Harvey Oswald.

Outside, the sky exploded in a kaleidoscopic spectacle of light and color as the fireworks display began.

The tension in and around the marquee was nearing hysteria. Nobody had any idea what the hell they had just witnessed. Due to the low light, the speed with which everything played out, and the fact that many were heavily intoxicated by now, the gatecrashers' identity was not immediately obvious. No one knew that the bodies of two of the nation's most powerful men were lying immobile on the light-up dance floor with thick black syrup leaking from their shattered skulls.

Elliott stashed the weapon back in his jacket. He adjusted his tie, and he turned to find a sea of faces staring at him. He felt this was an appropriate moment to say a few words.

"I guess the party's over now folks," he said.

Chapter 36

The guards on duty the night of the party did not respond immediately to the sound of the gunshots as they assumed they were part of the fireworks display that had just commenced. Several minutes passed before panic-stricken guests rushed out to inform them of the incident that had taken place inside. They entered the property with their weapons drawn and discovered a scene of pandemonium – hundreds of shell-shocked partygoers, several guests in need of urgent medical attention, and the remains of two undead beings in the center of the dance floor. Elliott was nowhere to be found.

Police arrived eight minutes later – two squad cars initially, followed by a dozen more once the gravity of the situation became apparent. A sweep of the property located Elliott in a bedroom on the second floor of the guest house. He surrendered without incident and was taken in for questioning.

A media scrum gathered outside the station, having been tipped off that a monumental story may be brewing. The term "political assassination" made its first appearance on social media a short time after midnight.

Reporters on the scene scrambled to piece together conflicting statements and unconfirmed eyewitness accounts, separating known facts from the absurd rumors circulating online, in an effort to decipher some sort of clear narrative. They found getting a straight answer from the police was next to impossible. The police had a similar problem when speaking with the witnesses. What had taken place in those frantic few minutes was so unexpected, so improbable and so out of left-field that many guests were left wondering if what they saw really did happen.

At six o'clock the following morning the news was confirmed, and a stunned nation learned of the deaths of Bernard Marlowe and James Pridham. By nine, Lawrence Devereaux had been elected unopposed as the party's new leader. He was sworn in as prime minister later that day.

After twenty-four hours in custody, Elliott was released without charge. This decision was met with howls of outrage. The families of the two deceased men, members of the federal government, the board of Elixxia Pharmaceuticals, and many other high-profile supporters all demanded the police take action, but after reviewing the available evidence and interviewing key witnesses it was determined that no crime had been committed. This was an open and shut case of a landowner exercising his right to protect himself from the undead menace. The CADAVER law stated unambiguously that no citizen would ever face criminal charges for defending themselves against a former human encroaching on their own property. This was backed up by multiple legal precedents, while Bernard Marlowe himself had gone on record innumerable times to reiterate this guarantee.

In the week following the party, the share price for Elixxia Pharmaceuticals plummeted forty percent.

Autopsies were carried out on the bodies of Bernard Marlowe and James Pridham in an effort to determine how they contracted the infection. Results were inconclusive; their skin displayed no evidence of bites, puncture marks or other abrasions, and their most recent medical records indicated neither one was a carrier prior to that night. The possibility was considered that they may have ingested a substance contaminated with the BNBO-511:17 pathogen, maliciously or otherwise, but there was insufficient evidence to support such a theory.

Sheradyn White, James Pridham's personal assistant, later claimed that her boss had called her in the hours leading up to his death and instructed her to deliver an urgent supply of Zaracaine-9 to the party. She collected the medication from a nearby pharmacy and arrived at the Beechwood Heights address a short time later. However, she was unable to enter the property as security were under strict instruction not to admit anyone without a valid invitation.

The latest opinion poll was released the day after Lawrence Devereaux was installed as prime minister. The government's approval rating had shot up to fifty-four, its best result in over eighteen months. The poll had been conducted several days before the shooting, with the spike largely attributed to the recent undead resurgence. Eighty-nine percent of respondents said they trusted the government to protect them from further outbreaks, compared with just fifty-one percent for the opposition.

Several weeks later, a small package arrived at the headquarters of the International Biodefense Laboratory. It was addressed to Dr. Martin Bishop, the center's director of operations. Inside was a cylindrical container and an anonymous handwritten note. The container held a small volume of blood.

The note read: "This blood sample is immune from the BNBO-511:17 pathogen. It may assist you in your search for a cure".

On the same day, an artwork by the prominent street artist Generik was delivered to the home of Fabian Turner and Stephanie Marlowe. This also had a note attached: "Wishing you all the best for a long and happy life together. Enjoy your gift. Think of me every time you look at it. Love, Elliott."

Elliott Connors went into hiding after his release from custody. Attempts to contact him by family, friends, and members of the press were unsuccessful. His current whereabouts is unknown.

The paint had barely dried on Lawrence Devereaux's newly-commissioned portrait when the two workers mounted it on the wall of the prime minister's office. The country's new leader supervised from across the room with an indescribable feeling of immense pride swelling in his chest. He had been in the job for almost a week, but it wasn't until this moment that it all felt real. The drama had finally subsided, his predecessor's belongings had been unceremoniously hauled out, and his own had been brought in. The reality of the situation was sinking in. He had made it. This was the highest office in the land, and it was his name on the door.

Devereaux's elevation to the top job had come a lot faster than even he expected. He had always dreamed of ending up here, but never in a million years did he think it would happen the way it did.

The workers departed, and he settled in behind his desk. He had work to do, but he granted himself this one moment of quiet reflection to soak it all in. He was now the most powerful man in the country. One of the most powerful in the world. This was a job he had coveted for as long as he knew of its existence. He had achieved his life's ambition, something very few men ever do.

Six days into his tenure and things were already looking up. He had appeared on Our Nation the previous night where he spoke with host Olivia Perry for a full uninterrupted hour. The program attracted over eighty percent of the viewing audience, and Devereaux received unanimous praise for his poise and composure in a time of crisis.

The government now held a solid lead in the polls after trailing for well over a year. Their approval rating had shot up to sixty-six, almost double what it was a month ago. The country was still reeling from the twin traumas of the widespread undead resurgence and the untimely demise of Bernard Marlowe. Tragedies will shake a nation to its core, but they can also galvanize the people and bring them closer. Everyone casts their differences aside and comes together to grieve as one.

This time, he vowed, they would not squander their lead. He would make certain of that. They would ride this wave of goodwill all the way to the election in a few months' time, where the overwhelmingly positive sentiment should see them easily returned to power. All he had to do until then was not say or do anything stupid, and they were all but guaranteed victory. That shouldn't be too difficult; his political instincts were exponentially sharper than his predecessor's. If he kept a level head and didn't lose focus there was nothing to stop him from leading the country for years to come.

A phone call came through. His official biographer was on the line. She wanted to schedule another interview for sometime this week. He told her to stop by his office later on in the afternoon.

He leaned back in his chair, and his mind drifted back to the exact moment he conceived of his master plan to become prime minister. It was five short years ago, when he was traveling home on Bernard Marlowe's private jet after helping him facilitate a lucrative business deal with a Chinese media company. By the time they landed he had managed to dupe the millionaire businessman into believing he had what it took to become the nation's next leader. It was a ludicrous prospect – he could think of few people less qualified to run the country than Bernard Marlowe – but with enough flattery and duty-free ouzo he wasn't hard to convince. Marlowe already harbored serious delusions about the extent of his talent and influence, and had often hinted at a possible foray into politics in the past. Devereaux was confident that Marlowe's high profile and his own political nous could combine to form an unstoppable election-winning machine.

From that moment on he became Bernard Marlowe's puppet master. He coached him on exactly what to say and how to behave. It was his idea to exploit the zombie situation for political gain, at a time when everyone else was afraid to touch it. The lines that cut through and struck a chord with the public – I believe in democracy! The undead don't run the country, the people run the country! Together we will emerge victorious in the war on horror! – all sprang from the tip of his pen. Marlowe's star was soon on the ascent while Devereaux worked tirelessly behind the scenes, calling the shots and pulling all his strings.

The first part of his plan worked better than anyone expected. Marlowe was a natural communicator with the masses, simultaneously stroking their egos and stoking their fears, just as he did when he edited the nation's largest tabloid newspaper. They hit the lead in the polls early on, and from that point on they never looked back. The election was won in a landslide.

This concluded part one of his plan – the fairytale rise of Bernard Marlowe. Now he just had to sit back and wait for the inevitable fall.

He didn't doubt for a second that it was coming. Marlowe may have had the populist touch to help the party gain power, but he lacked the talent, discipline and interest necessary to succeed in the role he had been elected to do. He stood by as Marlowe floundered from one fiasco to the next, exhibiting as much competence in the job as a chimpanzee attempting brain surgery. Meanwhile, as the Minister for Undead Affairs, Devereaux would continue to bolster his own credentials as he diligently performed the duties relevant to his portfolio. He kept the country up to date on how they were slowly but surely winning the war on horror – a fictitious crisis he had willed into existence and sold to the braying public – as he patiently bided his time.

Everything was falling into place. He would wait for Marlowe to bottom out, when his popularity had sunk to the low-thirties – a historic low for a first-term prime minister – before completing his Machiavellian masterstroke by challenging for the leadership, which he would win easily. The takeover would be swift and clean.

That was until a javelin-sized spanner was thrown in the works in the form of the second major zombie outbreak.

Bernard Marlowe had no idea how close he had come to being toppled, or how lucky he was for the outbreak to have happened right when it did. It was the one variable that Devereaux had failed to account for; an event so unlikely the thought had never once crossed his mind. The timing was so fortuitous he might have suspected Marlowe of orchestrating the whole thing himself if he only had the intelligence and resourcefulness to pull it off.

Devereaux was less than a week away from staging his planned leadership coup. Now he would have to wait months, or maybe even years. There was simply no way he could mount a challenge during such a tumultuous time. His supporters within the government would never go for it, and the public would never forgive him. He would have no choice but to put his leadership ambitions on ice for the time being.

But then last Saturday night happened, and this chain of events would reach its extraordinary conclusion. It was the night Bernard Marlowe would discover that, while he may have just dodged a metaphorical bullet, the real ones were a lot harder to avoid.

It began just after ten thirty. Devereaux had slipped away from the party to take a phone call when he heard some sort of commotion taking place. First there were raised voices. Then came the screams. There was a stampede as dozens of terrified guests evacuated the area. The music abruptly cut out.

He popped his head into the marquee in time to see two immobile undead beings standing in a cloud of dry ice on the now-deserted dance floor. Once he got past the initial shock of seeing the zombies up close – even though he had been the Minister for Undead Affairs for almost three years, he had never actually been in close proximity to one – he realized these weren't two strays that had somehow wandered in off the street. These two moving gargoyles were dressed in tailored Armani. One was James Pridham. The other was Bernard Marlowe.

With everyone else scrambling for safety, a lone figure strode calmly toward the two gatecrashers. He didn't recognize him at the time, but he would later learn this was Elliott Connors, the owner of the property where the engagement party was being held. He watched his hand disappear into his jacket as he came within spitting distance of the former humans.

In a flash, he was able to envision the entire sequence of events before any of it happened. He didn't know how, but he saw the whole thing play out in his mind. He knew what Elliott would have in his hand when he removed it from his jacket. He knew what he planned on doing with it. He also knew he was perhaps the only one who could prevent this from happening. This was all taking place less than ten meters from where he stood. Elliott was unaware of his presence. It would take only a few seconds to sneak up from behind and tackle him to the ground. He played sports when he was younger, and he was still reasonably fit. Elliott may have had youth on his side, but Devereaux had a decent height and weight advantage, as well as the element of surprise.

But the moment soon passed. Lawrence Devereaux's feet remained firmly in place, as if he had waded into quick-drying cement. He stood by and watched as Elliott dispatched with the two zombies, one after the other.

He didn't fully understand why he chose to act, or not act, the way he did. It could have been that the shock of the situation threw him into a state of temporary paralysis, or it may have been the four or five White Russians he had knocked back over the course of the evening that affected his instincts and decision-making capabilities.

Or maybe this was his destiny. It was the hand of God holding him back while he was elevated to the highest office in the land. He couldn't come up with a rational explanation. The only thing he knew with any certainty was that he was yet to experience a moment of regret or remorse for his inaction.

It wasn't quite the bloodless coup he had envisioned, but it would do.

ALSO BY NATHAN ALLEN

The War on Horror: Tales From A Post-Zombie Society

All Against All

Hollywood Hack Job

A short prequel to this novel is also available:

The Decline of Morality and Impact of Violent Media on Impressionable Minds in a Post-Zombie Society

Email: nathanallen10101@gmail.com

Twitter: @NathanAWrites

