 
### Zombiism and Other Lies

By E. A. Burns

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 E. A. Burns
**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First published in Australia, 22 December 2013 by Elizabeth Am Burns

Copyright © Elizabeth Am Burns 2013

All Rights Reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

Cover Design © Elizabeth Am Burns

Cover Image:

Grendel Khan. "My Dilated Pupil." 10 March 2007. Online Image. Flickr. 28 November 2013. http://www.flickr.com/photos/grendelkhan/418554887/

The original image was adapted 28 November 2013 by Elizabeth Am Burns.
This is for the man with Alzheimer's who doesn't recognize his own wife,

and the young girl whose reflection was shattered.

I'm sorry for your loss.

Gratitude to all the wonderful people who have helped me over the years:

Birchall for being my sound board,

Supra for confirming my plot coherence,

my brother Cameron for being an audible test audience,

Richard for being the world's fastest test reader,

Kai for creating front cover concepts,

and Louis, the man who started it all.

You changed my life that day you told me to write a book.

Thank you.
Table of Contents

Part One - Humans

Part Two - Zombies

Part Three - Sombae

About the Author

#  Part One

– Humans –

## – CHAPTER ONE –

### THE GRATE

Logan was down to his last four clips and the grate was still crawling with zombies. There had to be a whole horde out there at least. He cursed everything indiscriminately as he wrenched the empty mag off his submachine gun. Hands shaking, he shoved two more clips in.

Behind him the office phone swung off its hook, silent in the absence of a dial tone. His own phone lay on the cold marble beyond the horde, hurled in a fit of rage when the battery had died mid-dial.

Blackened hands reached out to him, grasping. He dropped the mag and pulled out his knife, slashing their wrists. His blade was back in its sheath long before they bled out.

Logan knew he couldn't lay all the blame on F.P.I.R.; he shouldn't have kept locking and unlocking his phone all night. But disconnecting the landline was just cheap.

His gun finally reloaded, he fired into the wall of filthy writhing flesh. All too soon came the haunting click of an empty barrel and he had to turn to retrieve the last two clips.

Behind his back, pushed by a crush of cold bodies, a small zombie squeezed through the grate.

Logan fumbled. The last clip slipped from his sweaty hands as the creature landed inside.

Bullets spilled in all directions. Logan chased them desperately, stuffing them into the mag. He didn't even see the zombie until he was right on top of it.

He let out a strangled cry and fell back. The remains of a toddler looked past him with its empty black eyes, blood dripping sluggishly from its shredded arm sockets. It kicked its shrivelled legs and headed slowly towards the bait, mouth open and drooling.

Logan reached for his belt and pulled out his hunting knife. He crawled toward the creature, taking care to avoid the growing pool of black saliva. With great precision he brought the knife down.

The thing jerked at the last moment and sunk its remaining teeth into his sleeve.

He yelled and slammed the butt of his knife into its head again and again until the jaw opened and it started to cry, gurgling and hiccupping like a baby.

Logan paused, the sound unnerving him. It was so human.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to ignore everything but the thud of his own pounding heart. With a deep breath, he plunged his knife into the creature's skull and twisted.

The sound stopped.

He let out a sigh of relief, only to become acutely aware of another sound clamouring for his attention. It was even more distressing than the one he had just silenced.

It was the ominous creak of the grate giving way.

Logan leapt to his feet and started hacking at the arms reaching through the growing gaps, but there were too many. It became painfully obvious that both Logan and the grate were losing the battle. He fell back and grabbed the bait with his spare hand.

Hurriedly, the dying creak of the grate ringing in his ears, he unlocked the office door.

With a mighty heave he flung the dead rat into the darkness. Before it even landed he was bolting for the exit, hoping like hell he didn't trip over a faker.

He'd almost reached the first doorway when he heard the pitter patter of something gaining on him with terrifying speed.

Logan swallowed hard. He knew only one kind of zombie that could run like that. He grabbed the handle as he ran past, pulling it shut. There was a satisfying thud as his shadow collided with the door.

Logan grinned. Zombie children had the speed, but he still had the brains.

He felt the crunch of glass beneath his feet and stopped to swipe the emergency torch from its broken case. He turned it on in time to avoid tripping over a few catatonic zombies. He gave the frozen monsters a wide berth and picked up the pace.

A trembling zombie blocked the second doorway. He dragged his knife through its chest, severing the heart. It was dead before it hit the floor. He kicked it off his knife and kept going, sprinting the last few metres.

He burst out the entrance and practically fell down the last few steps to the gravel road, safe.

He patted himself down as he staggered away from the bloody museum, checking for fatal abrasions. He was miraculously intact. His lungs burned, his back ached and his legs felt like lead, but he was alive.

There was nothing in the world that could make him come back now. Even if they changed companies, there was no way in hell he was going back to walking through every single damned room again.

No security zone, no thank you, he thought.

He ripped the flimsy facemask and zombie-splattered jumpsuit off and tossed them to the ground, enraged that nothing but cotton had stood between him and Infection.

Thank god he'd dodged that bite. Now he could die with dignity; penniless and starving in some dingy alley.

Logan stomped and fumed almost the entire walk home.

They had no right to make the Removal Technicians redundant, he thought angrily. He'd been a good, loyal employee for more years than he cared to remember. Ten times better than Amir. He should have been the one promoted. And now he wasn't even going to get their crappy little severance package, because he'd decided saving his own life was more important than logging his last timesheet.

A moan filtered through the night air, chilling him to the core. He circled, searching for the source.

The sound was coming from the other side of the steel wall he was passing. He glared up at the large plaque inscribed 'Presmort Sanctuary: Maximum Security for Registered Infected'.

Below the plaque was a heart, drawn in pink lipstick. Inside it, someone had written 'MAC'.

So this was his tax dollars at work, he thought irritably. Even zombies had it better than him.

Logan hurried away from the building, determined to put as much distance between him and any zombies as possible.

He would have run a lot faster and a lot further had he known that, in barely one week's time, he too would be inside those walls.

## – CHAPTER TWO –

### MAC

Several months before his name was found plastered on a steel wall in plastic pink, Mac had been enjoying the best party of the year. August was always crammed full of birthdays, sometimes up to three a night, but the fifth was only ever about Josh. Guys born on the same day always abandoned their plans, because everyone knew they'd only end up at Josh's thing anyway. Josh was the man.

"To Joshie!" Mac shouted above the thump of the bass.

Ten glasses smacked together in celebration, spilling froth onto the already sticky floor. Most of the boys were already too drunk to notice. One was so smashed that he missed the toast altogether. Instead, he was clinging to the bar at a forty-five degree angle while he tried to remember which way he'd started the night out; horizontal or vertical.

Mac threw back what remained of his beer and smacked Josh on the back. The boy barely shifted, his huge muscles flexing slightly as they absorbed the impact.

Josh grinned his unnaturally white grin and returned the gesture.

Mac was sent sprawling across their table. He recovered quickly but it was too late. The girls at the next table were already giggling. Their comments were mercifully swallowed by the thunderous beat.

"Take the right!" Josh bellowed near Mac's ear.

Mac nodded and prepared himself for humiliation.

The smaller girl's eyes flicked to him and the amusement was instantly replaced by wariness. Mac sighed inwardly, abandoned any hope that he might score, and let his wrists go limp.

Recognition flared in her large brown eyes and the smile returned twice as bright.

Mac circled around until she was facing only him and went in for the kill.

"I love your hair!" he yelled in her ear, reminding himself to keep his hip cocked. The girl ran a hand through her chestnut curls proudly. She said something like a brand name which was lost in the music.

He nodded enthusiastically. "Oh my god this is my song!" he screeched and led her onto the dance floor, far away from her friend. He kept her occupied, spinning and dipping her while keeping an eye on Josh's progress.

By the end of the song it was clear that his friend had the girl hook, line and sinker. Mac dismissed his small girl with a finger wave and felt a pang of remorse as she weaved her toned body back through the crowd.

On the plus side, he didn't owe Josh a birthday present anymore.

Mac shuffled his way to one side of the crowd, resigned in the knowledge that any tail worth chasing would have seen his gay act and written him off for the night. He fought his way to the front of the bar, put away a couple of shots and considered going home. It was three in the morning, his vision was starting to lag, and the music was...

Mac found himself swaying to the beat. The music was pretty good actually. He could stay for one more dance.

He weaved through the mass of technicolour girls, hands ghosting over bare backs and short skirts. At some point he stopped walking and started dancing to the throb of bass in his chest. He spun, revelling in the glow of the liquid anaesthetic that lightened his mind and limbs.

This was what he came for. The sheer joy of moving to someone else's beat in a neon wonderland thick with smoke and sweat. This moment of just being. No time, no pressure, just you and your body moving as one while the world moved around you.

His trance was interrupted by an angel. She appeared before him, her dress glowing in the darkness. Her porcelain arms slid around his waist and she danced with him, joining him in his timeless moment. He let his hands slide down her silky back and over the soft material that clung to her curves.

She pulled closer, drawing him in with her impossibly dark eyes. The swell of her breast brushed against his chest, followed by her lips.

Mac gripped her smooth arms and returned the kiss. Her lips were soft and her arms were cool to touch. She felt like she had slipped in from a winter's day where breath turned to steam and frost clung to footpaths. He wrapped his arms around her frail frame, trying to warm her body with his own.

A shiver danced along his spine as she ran her fingers through his hair. They were ice‐cold. He gasped when she touched his neck, and she took the opening to slide her tongue into his mouth.

She tasted of blood.

Mac gagged and shoved the girl away in revulsion. She stumbled back, confused, and fell into a ring of nearby dancers. He stared as they helped her to her feet.

She stood gracelessly, all knees and elbows, and started shaking uncontrollably.

Mac felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He ran to the bathroom and threw up, but it was already too late.
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20280805R1-RM

**Name:** Riley Mackenzie

**Infected:** 05/08/2028

**Type:** R

**Phase:** 1

**Institution:** Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 05/05/2029

Authority Signature:

__________________________

Witness Signature:

__________________________

## – CHAPTER THREE –

### A COMFORTABLE RUT

Twelve hours before the grate had broken and unleashed a horde of ravenous zombies, Logan had been idly flipping through channels in search of a pleasant distraction. If he had known how much running he would be doing later, he might have put down the remote and actually taken the time to stretch and limber up his long-neglected muscles.

Instead, he let a combination of laziness and morbid fascination lure him into watching another episode of Turn Around; the reality show that abused the Containment Law so men with more adrenaline than sense could follow zombies around until they Turned. Logan always promised himself that he would never watch the show again, but the sheer enthusiasm of the narrator kept dragging him back in.

On screen, a middle-aged female zombie staggered against the walls, shaking violently. The creature tried without success to pick up a saucepan. Enraged, it hurled it against the wall where it cracked the plaster. The creature was ranting, but it was an incomprehensible mishmash of moaned gibberish Logan couldn't understand. The zombie turned to the camera, yelling at the young man and his crew who just stood there, grinning like maniacs.

Logan gripped the remote tighter as the zombie advanced on the cameraman. Each step pivoted its entire body closer, like a puppet working with tangled strings. Logan recoiled as the zombie glared unseeing at him with eyes as black as coal, its sores oozing grotesquely. It screeched, revealing an incomplete set of teeth as the creature peppered the camera with black spit.

The scene cut to a montage of several clips filmed a few months before. The same zombie, with much clearer skin, dragged its feet along the carpet and shakily tried to pour tea for the camera crew. The china pot slipped from it's grasp and shattered.

The zombie tried to talk to the camera directly, stuttering and moaning, like each word was a chore to get out. Cracked lips slid over teeth slimy and speckled black with decay.

The young narrator raced the zombie down the hall, laughing like it was all a game. It followed at a lolloping run, fingernails gouging plaster as the creature tried to catch its prey.

Blood dripped down the zombie's arms as it shoved raw beef into its mouth. Logan looked away for that clip, but he still heard the awful slurping sounds the creature made.

When he turned back, the montage had finished. He shuddered at the freeze frame of the female zombie screeching at the camera like a banshee. Underneath, a caption faded in with the zombie's name and the date it had Turned. As usual, the caption was accompanied by a warning from the narrator, who claimed the people depicted onscreen were 'professionals', and not to try such idiocy at home. Unlike most warnings though, it was delivered with that special brand of enthusiasm that encouraged young fools everywhere to start zombie-hunting.

As the credits rolled, Logan chastised himself for watching. He changed to the channel he'd originally intended to watch and was pleased to discover a scientific exposé on the reproductive habits of seaweed. He returned to his task of whittling and let the tranquil seascape wash away the memory of screeching zombies.

Beneath his hands, the large woodblock became a smaller woodblock, but failed to take on any form of its own. Ten minutes into the program, he made the mistake of looking up and promptly sliced open his own thumb. Grumbling, he stuck it in his mouth and waited for the healing properties of his own saliva to take effect.

Whoever said whittling was relaxing, he thought, probably classified banging their head against a wall as a leisure activity.

Logan threw the mangled woodblock into the trash, thankful for the legitimate excuse to give up. Now he could tell his overly invested neighbour that he'd tried something different and it just hadn't worked out. Like the cocktail mixing. And the karate course. And especially the dancing.

He honestly didn't see what was wrong with his current hobbies. They had plenty of diversity. Okay, yes, they all required a screen, but he was a thinker. His hands were trained for precision movement like typing, and the most his body could handle these days was low impact exercise like walking. He was not designed to hack figures out of wood or wriggle like a horny madman.

Satisfied that he had avoided yet another of life's great trials, he applied a Band-Aid and sat down at his desk. He deftly waggled the mouse until the screen blinked to life. He stared at the screen of code for longer than he was proud to admit, and after great deliberation, typed three lines. He made a small comment to mark his progress and ran a test simulation to see if he'd finally grasped the basics of the latest language.

The computer froze.

Logan tried to shut down the program, but the damage was already done. Irritated, he employed the age-old technique of giving it a few whacks, as if the impact would zap the pixels back into life. The machine beeped at him in protest. He took it as a sign to give up.

For good measure he unplugged the whole thing, taking a moment of malicious glee from the black screen. He knew that any technical malfunction was usually a reaction to human error, but during these moments he preferred to think of the machine as a flippant bastard. It made the payback so much sweeter.

He glanced at the clock and grudgingly decided to start getting ready for work. With the great care and deliberation he afforded his appearance, Logan buttoned up a random blue shirt and cinched his old leather belt around his crumpled beige trousers. He picked up the hunting knife he'd been using to whittle and tucked it back into the sheath that lived on his belt. Karimah didn't approve of him walking the streets with such an obvious weapon, but he was damned if he was going to hide it for the sake of her sensibilities.

Rolling up his sleeves, he devoured the dinner Karimah had over-catered for her husband. She always made too much and Logan was more than happy to accept her generosity, especially when it was so well spiced. George twined around his legs as he ate, meowing insistently and dropping white fur. Logan pointedly finished his meal before emptying a cheap packet of processed sludge into the animal's bowl. The resultant purr was thunderous and quite undeserving.

As he threw the packet away, Logan caught an unpleasant glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. He sighed. His grey hair was getting worse. Most men discovered the odd silver hair before transforming into a distinguished-looking gentleman overnight. Logan just looked like someone had started colouring and promptly forgotten to fill the rest of the bits in.

He rubbed his chin experimentally, decided his stubble couldn't quite cut glass yet, and left it for another day.

He rinsed the bowl and collected his keys before journeying across the hall to return it to his neighbour. He made it as far as opening the door before he was accosted by Janine. The woman was wearing a painfully familiar look on her flawless copper face.

"My paper." she snapped, her eyes burning with the desire to eradicate him from existence through thought alone.

"What about it?" Logan asked, sighing inwardly.

"You stole it. That is my paper and I want it now." she stated, each word enunciated succinctly in the way only tightly controlled fury could provide.

"What makes you assume I have it?"

George chose that moment to poke his head out, paper scrap in mouth.

"Dammit cat! That's your toilet paper, not a toy."

Janine's eyes narrowed. "You have no right to defile my paper."

"It's yesterdays. You were going to throw it out anyway."

"How I use it or not is my business. It is my paper, I paid for it, and I do not want it used to line your animal's litter tray."

George wandered out into the hallway, purring obnoxiously as he twined around the woman's legs.

"Control your animal." she demanded.

"Lady, he's not a dog. I'm the last person he listens to."

"Then remove him. He is ruining my outfit." Fine white hairs clung to her sheer stockings as she stepped back. George followed, fascinated by the moving feet.

Logan made a half-hearted attempt to pick the cat up with his free hand. The animal took the hint and ran back inside his apartment, a fine trail of white hair floating in his wake.

"Anything else I can do for you today, Janine?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"You can leave those awful boots of yours outside, that's what else. It's disgusting, walking through the filth you leave. I've ruined three sets of heels since you moved in. You're lucky I don't demand compensation."

"Demand away. It's a wide hallway. You didn't have to walk in my footsteps. Karimah seems to avoid them easily, and her feet are a lot bigger than yours."

"Oh don't get me started on that woman. Great big fatso, pushing her addiction onto everyone else. I can't even walk down this hall without her trying to shove her food down my throat. You know what I think? I think she should be sent back to her own country."

Logan hissed, masking the sound of the door opening behind her. The woman had just uttered the one phrase that was akin to painting a bullseye on your forehead.

"You go back to my country." Karimah said icily from her doorway. "And take this with you."

Janine turned just in time to catch a face full of oily red soup. She let out a sharp yell and stomped back to her apartment, dripping with each step.

"Mind the carpet dear, we don't want to walk through your mess!" Karimah called after the woman. Janine's door shut with a satisfying slam.

"I'll take that." she said cheerfully and stacked Logan's clean bowl on top of her oily one. She paused when she saw his hand. "What did you do to yourself?"

He glanced at the Band-Aid. "Whittling is harder than it looks."

"And I suppose you're just going to give up now? Really Logan, there's more to life than that computer of yours."

"Come off it Kari, you sound like his Ma." her husband called from his favourite chair.

Karimah pursed her plum-coloured lips but said no more on the subject. "Come on in. I made pavlova last night and Frank refuses to eat even a slice."

"It's health food." Frank complained, scratching his distended gut. "Nothing but fruit and air. If I'm having dessert I wanna hear my arteries clang shut."

Karimah chose to ignore him. "I'll wrap some up for you to take to work." she said and disappeared into the kitchen.

Logan waited, hovering awkwardly in their unlit living room. Frank returned to the TV without even bothering to offer him a seat.

Logan's eye wandered over the man's collection of antique armaments, but there was nothing behind the glass that could engage him.

"What are you watching Frank?" he asked to pass the time.

"One Man Down. True story. Army blokes here," Frank pointed at one patch of soldiers that were creeping up on another identical set of soldiers, "blow the crap outta these guys and win by ambush. Best fight scene's coming up." he added and fell silent.

Logan watched for a bit but the movie just made him think of work. Not exactly what you would call relaxing. His trigger finger tensed as he remembered the sounds the creatures made when they advanced. It was so vivid, almost like there was one right here with him.

To his right, something stirred. He glanced over to see a pair of dead black eyes staring at him. Another moan sifted through the air.

With a yell he brandished his knife in the direction of the zombie. It continued to stare at him blankly, black drool rolling down its chin.

"That's just Ma." Frank said dismissively. "You alright Ma?"

"Uuurgh." the zombie Ma replied. There was the soft splat of saliva hitting the floor.

"Kari, Ma's getting it on the carpet again." Frank loudly informed his wife. He glanced over at Logan, who was still pointing his knife at the creature.

"Put that away, will ya?"

Logan lowered the knife but kept watch as the zombie just sat there, trembling and drooling on the carpet.

Karimah reappeared clad in rubber gloves and armed with paper towel. As she pulled on a surgical mask she noticed Logan's grimace.

"She can't help it." Karimah knelt down and wiped the zombie's face gently. "Poor old thing got senility when we had her Infected."

Logan stared in disbelief at the woman mopping up liquid contagion like it was orange juice.

"You had her Infected." he said slowly. "Deliberately."

"It seemed like the only sensible thing to do. We simply couldn't put her in a home, her health wouldn't qualify her. And a hospital is a dreadful place to spend your last years. So we had her Infected. Under sterile conditions of course. You know Amber Street? There's a nice young man down there who looks after his brother. He took a bit of convincing, what with the Containment Law and all, but... oh don't look at me like that! It's not like we just threw her to the Rogues or something. It's all perfectly safe."

"Perfectly safe? There is a zombie in your house." Logan said the words very carefully in case there was some misunderstanding. "A zombie. In your house."

The television volume dropped dramatically. "What did you just call my Ma?"

"I'm sorry, an Infected." Logan said sarcastically. "In. Your. House."

"We have approval." Karimah added. "She's registered to our apartment."

"Your apartment which is currently getting soaked in contagious saliva."

"It's not like we're going to start licking the carpet Logan. It's just saliva. It comes out with sugar soap like everything else."

"That's just great. And when it Turns are you just gunna take down one of Frank's antiques and finish the job?"

"Logan." Karimah hissed. "Really."

"This isn't some stray dog we're talking about here. You need a professional for this."

The room's already chilled atmosphere dropped below zero.

"A professional." Frank's voice was dangerously quiet. "You mean a killer."

"Culler." Logan corrected him automatically.

Frank ignored him. "You're saying I should get a killer. For my Ma."

"For the zombie in the middle of your room. Why am I the only one seeing the problem with this? This is about your own safety!"

"I don't care about my safety. I care about her."

"It will Turn on you!"

"Are you even listening? She's my Ma, Logan."

"That's not your Ma. It's a zombie."

"Christ, you just don't get it, do you?" Frank turned the volume up to deafening.

Logan looked to Karimah for help. She was watching her husband with an air of concern.

"You'd better leave." she said, raising her voice over the noise. "You've got work soon."

Logan nodded, fists clenched. It was all he could do not to drag both of them out and set fire to the place.

As he opened their front door the volume dropped once more. He raised his head hopefully.

"You're a heartless bastard, you know that?"

The volume rose again. The echo of machine guns ringing in his ears, Logan left.

## – CHAPTER FOUR –

### DEAN

Inside an imposing glass building poised in the centre of the city, several months before Mac had danced his way into a death sentence, Dean had been scanning a stack of proposals.

"Mr. Huong?" said a nervous-looking woman with big eyes and bigger lips.

"I did request not to be disturbed." Dean reminded her. January was always congested with loose ends from the Christmas rush and he was determined to find them all before February pounced.

Her eyes darted to the paperwork. "I'm sorry sir, but Jimmy- I mean, Mr. Devlin is here to see you. You told me to bring him to the office right away. Sir."

"Devlin?"

"He hasn't been in for three days sir. Without notice, sir."

"Ah, that Devlin. Very well, send him in Ms-" he paused. He knew that the woman had recently married, but for the life of him couldn't remember her new surname.

"White, sir." the black woman supplied.

"Thank you. And again, my congratulations. Now Ms. White, please send him in."

She smiled brightly and thanked him as she left. A few moments later Devlin shuffled in.

"Mornin'." he mumbled.

"Have a seat Devlin."

The man dropped into the nearest chair.

"Three days. No notice. Christmas was nearly a month ago. We have rules here, Devlin. Regulations I have to follow. I have no choice but to let you go."

The man didn't react.

"You have until twelve to remove your things. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Goodbye, Mr Devlin."

The man slumped like a ragdoll.

"Devlin?"

The man's chest wasn't moving.

Dean rounded the desk and leant over the prone figure. "Mr. Devlin." he said loudly.

He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. The limp body slid to the floor.

Dean took a moment to assess the situation. He felt the side of Devlin's neck. The pulse was faint.

Reaching a snap conclusion, he pinched the man's nose, opened his mouth and clamped his lips over the dying man. He blew strong breaths into the body and pulled back to listen. After three more tries he heard a faint wheezing sound and felt air brush his cheek. The chest began to rise almost imperceptibly.

He turned the man's head to the side and opened his office door. "Ms. White, call an ambulance. Devlin has collapsed. He has a weak pulse and is struggling to breath."

While the receptionist picked up the phone Dean returned to the prone man. For the first time he noticed the black flecks nestled in the man's teeth.

"Ms. White?" he called to the woman as he closed his solid oak door. "Make that the Infected Registration Hotline. Register Mr. Devlin and myself. Then cleanse my office and tell Perkins he's the new CEO of Eurcrest. If anyone wants me, tell them I've gone back home."

Just before the door closed he added, "And if you want me, I'll be in my liquor cabinet."
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20280117A1-DJH

**Name:** Dean Jian Huong

**Infected:** 17/01/2028

**Type:** A

**Phase:** 1

**Institution** : Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 17/04/2029

Authority Signature:

___________________________

Witness Signature:

___________________________

## – CHAPTER FIVE –

### REDUNDANT

A full blasphemous hour early for work, Logan crunched his way up the gravel road that led to the abandoned museum. The once magnificent marble face was now host to a myriad of cracks. Beneath the thin facade was the culprit: time-weary concrete that had fought the elements and failed. What had once housed history and culture was now home to a slowly starving horde of zombies. Or as the government preferred to call them; Final Phase Infected.

Logan took a long slow sip of his takeaway coffee and considered walking all the way back for a second one, just to pass the time. He perked up at the unexpected sound of boots on marble. Out of the gloom stepped Charlie, his fellow Culler, lost in thought.

He smiled when he saw Logan.

"Oh hey. You're ridiculously early." he commented. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"So are you." Logan noted. "Did you find a faker?"

It was rare but it happened; a zombie in a catatonic stupor would suddenly wake up and attack. The last time it had happened, Charlie had shaken the whole thing off with a laugh, but Amir had become paranoid. He refused to remove anything that wasn't clearly dead, so Charlie wasted a lot of time these days beheading corpses. Logan just increased his headshots.

Charlie shook his head. "Nah man, there hasn't been a faker for months. I think..." he rubbed his neck, "I think this is about us."

Logan waited patiently while Charlie made absolutely no sense and scratched his stubble anxiously.

"I heard something. It sounded bad but I dunno, I might be wrong. Maybe it's nothing."

Logan's stomach started to churn. "Charlie, just tell me."

Charlie took a deep breath. "I think we're fired."

Logan panicked. "What? Why? What did you do?"

"It wasn't me! It was Amir! He was pushing for promotion!"

A white hot ball of rage flared in Logan's gut. "So what, he got us fired to make room for his new salary?"

"I don't think he meant to. He just told them they could get triple the efficiency from motion sensor guns. That shit is expensive."

Logan suddenly found it hard to look at Charlie. He stared intently at the ground, mentally tracing the patterns made by the marble. "This can't be happening."

"I'm sorry man."

"Charlie, I..."

"Aw man, Julie's gunna kill me! I promised her I'd stop job hopping when Sarah started school." He turned and jabbed a filthy finger at the massive building. "You were supposed to stable! Reliable! Now look at you. I'm thirty-two and I gotta start over. Again!"

Logan just looked at him.

"Sorry man." Charlie smiled apologetically. "But hey, what're credit cards for, right?"

"Charlie, I'm maxed out." Logan lamented. "I just replaced my old motherboard."

Charlie made a face somewhere between pain and pity. "Bad timing man." He brightened up. "But you've still got that degree, right? You've got tons more options than me. You'll have a new job in no time."

"Right." Logan said slowly. He decided not to mention that his degree was worthless when he hadn't successfully coded anything for over a year.

"Great! So all we have to do is find new jobs and we're set!" Charlie said optimistically, sounding much more like his old self again.

Logan nodded and headed past him towards the building. Charlie turned to follow him.

"Uh, Logan? Fired, remember?"

"I remember. I'm not fired yet."

"Right, yeah. Gotta squeeze out those last few pay checks. Good thinking. I mean, I don't gotta tell Julie right now right now. Right?" he asked hopefully.

"Whatever works Charlie." Logan said. "Sun's setting. You don't want to miss the last bus."

"Right. Fill in my timesheet, will ya?" Charlie called as he walked away. "Catch ya tomorrow man!"

Logan waved the man off, effectively wasting his last few precious minutes of normal human interaction before walking inside. The cold blue night closed in behind him.

## – CHAPTER SIX –

### DANA

Long after Dean had emptied his liquor cabinet, and a few months after Mac had thrown up in the public toilets, two twins got ready backstage.

The sixteenth of October was the most important day of Clara's young life. It was the day that would either make or break her. She added one last coat of hairspray and struck a pose.

"Well, how do I look?"

Dana walked around her twin, stopping only to flatten the Velcro tag over her zipper.

"Like a star." she admitted.

"Perfect."

"Applicant thirty-three: Clara Owens." a man called from the other side of the curtain.

"Oh my god!" Clara squealed excitedly and practically ran for the stage.

Dana followed her, worrying the inside of her cheek when she noticed her sister's ankle rolling with each step. "Break a leg." she said, a tad nervously.

"Just watch me. I'm gunna bring down the whole damn stage." Clara declared as she stepped out into the spotlight.

"You may begin when you're ready." said a bored voice.

She flashed a dazzling smile at the three judges. "Hit it, Julian."

The elderly pianist rolled his eyes and banged out the usual four major chords that formed every pop song in existence.

Dana hid in the wings for the audition, anxious to see how her outfit would be received. When she saw how the light played across the dress she had designed, she allowed a modicum of pride to seep in. It had taken days to sew on the sequins but it had been worth it. Each sweep of her sister's small hips sent a wave of glittering light rolling across her body. The effect was like watching sunlight dance across the waves of an emerald sea. It was mesmerizing.

The intro, however, was not. Dana felt her mouth get steadily drier as the empty auditorium swallowed up each dull note. She could feel a cough forming in her throat. She withdrew from the clear view and began pacing in a jittery manner, her stomach tying itself into knots. She tried to ignore the feeling but she could feel it intensifying, ready to burst forth as a horrible hacking fit. She dived for a forgotten glass of water left on a stack of chairs, strangling the sound before it could emerge. Clara would kill her if she ruined her big break.

In her distress, she failed to notice the unusually strong coppery tang of the water.

Crossing her fingers she returned to her sister's audition as the final uninspired chord clanged into the darkness.

There was silence. Dana wrung her hands as she watched her sister enjoying the inappropriate dramatic pause. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Clara opened her mouth and began to sing.

Dana felt her spirits rise with the notes. She felt energized, invigorated, like she could take on the world. She loved Clara's voice. It was like a fever. It got into your blood. It didn't matter what she was singing. She could belt it out with such vigour that a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart after four cans of jumbo energy drink would make you feel sluggish in comparison.

In short, she had a voice.

Dana realized she was clapping her hands. She clasped them together, embarrassed, and shuffled around so she could see past the edge of the curtain. The judges were watching, stony-faced.

The song ended on a final high-pitched note that rang out across the hall. Dana clasped her hands tighter, resisting the almost overwhelming desire to applaud.

"Thank you, Miss Owens." The male judge scribbled a note on his paper. "You start Monday."

Dana screamed with joy. Clara blew them a two-fingered kiss and strutted offstage.

The moment she hit the wings she launched herself at her sister. The pair hugged and spun on the spot, nearly breaking Clara's ankle. She kicked off the awkward heels and kissed her twin's cheeks repeatedly like all those celebrities she'd watched so closely. The last kiss missed and hit Dana on the mouth. She laughed it off, too happy to care.

"I'm gunna be on TV!" Clara squealed happily with each bounce. "I'm gunna be famous! I'm gunna be a star!"

"Do you think they liked my dress?" Dana asked timidly.

"Of course they did, it was on me! Don't you see Dana? Together, we're unstoppable!"
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20290416R1-DO

**Name:** Dana Owens

**Infected:** 16/10/2028

**Type:** R

**Phase:** 1

**Institution** : Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 16/04/2028

Authority Signature:

__________________________

Witness Signature:

__________________________
– CHAPTER SEVEN –

### IN THE BEGINNING

Logan really wished he hadn't arrived early for work. He'd already filled in Charlie's timesheet, but he wasn't sure what the policy was on adding overtime before your shift began. He needed every last dollar if he was going to last the gap between jobs, but F.P.I.R. paying up seemed unlikely.

He tapped a staccato rhythm across the barrel of his regulation gun as he considered his options for the future. The job list he had compiled was depressingly small, despite the fact that he had dedicated the last few hours to it. While Charlie placed faith in his degree, Logan knew an outdated qualification like Information Technology was useless without any related employment records. He couldn't even demonstrate his skills. Each time he neared completion on one basic program, the next update was released and all his work was suddenly obsolete. It was maddening.

He sat bolt upright as he realized there was a figure hovering outside the office. Startled, he raised the gun and let loose a round without aiming. The bullets pinged off the security grate, setting his teeth on edge.

"Guhnurgh..." the creature moaned. Logan's gut tightened uncomfortably every time he heard that sound. He fired again, actually aiming this time, and sent the zombie tumbling back into the darkness. There was a thud and one last gurgle before the creature expired on the cold marble floor.

Logan watched the darkness beyond the security zone while he waited for his racing heart to settle. Only once he was convinced there were no more forthcoming did he return to the problem at hand.

He wasn't an optimist at the best of times, so he approached from the worst possible angle and worked up. From that end, he had three immediate options.

The first was to don a hideous uniform and serve greasy teens food while taking orders from equally greasy teens.

The second was to volunteer his voice for a gay phone-sex line and hope his clients enjoyed vanilla role-play.

Or third, and this was definitely looking like the most lucrative option, he could offer his services as one of those men who stood on street corners and washed windows in exchange for a handful of guilty coins. Hell, he could probably throw himself in front of bigger cars to claim compensation.

Logan winced as the thought brought back unwanted memories of his late wife. He watched in his minds-eye as she crossed the road near their brand new house, proudly showing off her latest dress. Her creamy cleavage threatened to fall out as she bent over to readjust a loose heel, her hair glowing gold in the sunlight. Her eyes, blue like a newborn baby's, widened as they both heard the truck's horn split the air. The eternal length of the out-of-control vehicle barrelled past him, taking Melissa with it.

Logan put his head in his hands, unable to stop the flood of thoughts that followed.

It had been barely an arms-length from his face. He had just stared at the shiny metal as it flew past, too numb to move.

That was what he always remembered, in the end. The way everything had shone in the afternoon light. How Melissa had glowed brightly like an angel with a golden halo. How the truck had gleamed fiercely like a polished knife. How it had all blinded him until it made his eyes weep with pain.

Logan blinked, his eyes stinging, and found himself staring at the dim bulb that swung above his head. Anger swelled in his chest until it burned in his throat. With a growl he swung the butt of his gun into its fragile shell. It missed and smacked into the table, sending his neat line of bullets flying. He threw the gun aside, his hand vibrating from the impact, and rained down punch after punch into the hard wood. The tightness in his chest eased a little. He slowed to a halt after the dead weight of depression overtook the vivacity of anger.

He hated this job. He hated the long hours, the screech of metal, the moan of zombies that wanted nothing more than to chew on his tender flesh. But dammit, it was his job. Those bastards had no right to take it away from him like this.

Logan sneezed, ruining another mask.

Most of all, he thought as he ripped off the mask, he hated that goddamned bait and its god-awful stench.

Logan wiped his nose on his sleeve, taking a moment of malicious glee as he rubbed the trail of mucus into the Company's standard-issue orange jumpsuit. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Grudgingly, he put on a new mask and picked up the fallen bullets, slotting them back into their clips.

A smattering of dead zombies later, Logan was in even lower spirits than before.

He unlocked his phone and checked his savings again. A single lonely number looked back at him. After paying the minimum on all his debts, Logan could barely cover his rent, let alone food. He was living pay check to pay check and had no investments or relatives to fall back on. He enviously remembered a time when people could actually get money for being unemployed. That had been before zombies had started appearing. Suddenly hospitals needed funding, then prison camps, and finally it was the safe houses. Taxes had risen, but not fast enough, so the government transformed the unemployment fund into the Infected Relief Fund, because anyone who spent a few nights on the street was bound to wind up Infected anyway.

Zombies, Logan thought angrily. He was damned if he saw them and damned if he didn't.

A prickle of fear rippled through him. He looked up, scanning the darkness for any signs of movement. Nothing was visible yet. Just to be safe he put his phone aside and regrouped the gun.

To think that this was what it all came down to. Just him, the bait, and one gun against an infestation of zombies. Oh and Charlie with his blades, of course. Logan knew Charlie would have better luck than him with finding a job. Everyone liked Charlie. He was a people person.

Logan stared into the darkness for a while but nothing moved. He was alone, just him and his thoughts.

He found himself wondering what life would have been like if there hadn't been any zombies to cull. He'd never have taken this job and would probably have been head of an I.T. department by now.

But for that lovely little reality to exist someone would have had to find the cure, and he knew that was never going to happen in his lifetime. They'd survived avian flu and pig flu, but fell down when it came to zombiism.

Some young scientists had proudly informed the government that the virus was being passed through saliva, probably hoping for a bigger grant, and the government's reaction had been to pour all their efforts into prevention rather than a cure. Logan had laughed when he'd seen the ban on sharing food and being intimate. He had started kissing Melissa passionately in public and deliberately drinking from her glass just to see the horror on people's faces.

But then it had started getting serious. Logan couldn't walk down the street without seeing someone wearing a face-mask to prevent spitting, and getting an appointment at the doctor became impossible. Hypochondriacs all over the country filled the slots, demanding saliva tests and whatever else they'd just heard about.

The government, geniuses that they were, eventually realized that a simple ban and the use of media scare tactics weren't going to cut it this time. Not while ignorant, generous, apathetic and just plain amorous people continued with their lives as per normal. The public was just too vulnerable to control, with everything from an improperly washed spoon to a family member considered a threat.

That was when the murders began. Everywhere Logan turned there was another article about some high-strung type killing their lover or friend on suspicion that they were Infected. The fevered and diseased were easy targets and eagerly labelled as 'zombies' by the general public.

That was before they had to be all politically correct and refer to them as 'Infected', of course. Heaven forbid someone should wound a zombie with their words.

The government had then decided that if they couldn't control the outbreak, they could at least control the people. Logan had to admit that it had sounded like a great deal at the time. They had offered protection from the masses as well as food, shelter and other essentials in exchange for people handing the Infected over to be registered and kept away from the general public. No more zombies and, best of all, no rise in taxes for the service. But what the government didn't mention was that in order to support that program they had to discontinue the unemployment fund.

It had worked at first. The scientists had subjects to study, the streets were safe once more and life returned to normal. Logan finished his degree, married Melissa, and should have lived happily ever after. But nothing ever went the way people had planned, because they never planned for other people.

Some people didn't have a family to turn them over. Others just ran for it. Bit by bit the number of zombies roaming free at the borders of civilization built up to terrifying numbers.

F.P.I.R was the government's answer to the roaming zombies known as Rogue Infected. After Melissa's death, Logan had taken stock of his own existence and chose the most dangerous occupation he could find. Fuelled by anger and testosterone and backed up by that unquenchable twenty-something belief that he was invincible, Logan had applied for the initial program as a Final Phase Infected Removal Technician. His new job gave him the right to approach and subdue any zombie he found within the designated areas, so he took it upon himself to walk through every single room of this building only armed with a knife and a torch.

He had proven surprisingly adept at dispatching zombies, even discovering the amazing trick of shining the hundred megawatt torch directly into an approaching zombie's eyes. The light sent zombies into an epileptic fit, knocking down any others nearby.

Logan had relished the way the ridiculous spectacle had got his blood pumping, because there was always the chance one of the zombies would be knocked in his direction.

That had been fifteen years ago, he realized. He had been wearing the same ugly regulation jumpsuit for far longer than the bright security zone had been implemented and his regulation gun had been approved.

He remembered how thrilled he had first been when the F.P.I.R. bureaucrats had finally twisted the paperwork to get him a ranged weapon for 'big game hunting'. In the beginning all he had needed was a double-barrelled shotgun, but as the years dragged on and the zombies increased, the laws relaxed and he eventually got to the submachine gun he now relied on. Even with the upgrade, the number of zombies that took refuge in the museum had continued to grow. Something about the cool marble and huge windowless rooms called to them, like caverns to bats.

Logan's thoughts flashed to the zombie sitting in Karimah's home. His gut twisted as he remembered the disappointment in her eyes.

She should have known what to expect from a man who culled zombies for a living. A Culler couldn't smile and nod like everything was fine after he'd seen the same creatures go for the throat of innocent employees. He would be damned if he was going to ignore the fact that her husband had a ticking time bomb in their apartment, and he sure as hell wasn't going back in there until it was gone.

Logan felt the flame of anger flash through him, pushing him to action. He stood up and paced the small office. "Come on you cowards!" he roared into the darkness. "Come and get it!"

Out of the inky blackness shuffled a hunched figure, accompanied by a legless torso. Logan waited until its face was pressed right up against the grate, so close it could touch his gun with one outstretched hand.

Logan aimed the muzzle at the creature's head. Picturing the zombie hiding in Karimah's living room, he fired. Brains splattered the museum floor.

"You see that?" he yelled. "I just saved you. Where's my gratitude?"

He aimed at the torso trying to drag itself up to the grate. Bullets riddled it's suddenly lifeless body.

"You're welcome!" he roared, his heart pounding in his throat. He sat back down quickly before his legs could give out. They were trembling with adrenaline and fear.

A few rooms away, a group of zombie rallied. As one they headed towards the loud noise.

## – CHAPTER EIGHT –

### EMILY

Less than two weeks after Dana had accidentally Infected her twin, Emily was sitting quietly in her classroom and listening to her teacher. Like the rest of the kids in Miss Barley's class, she had no idea that they were one week away from Halloween.

The teacher was planning to surprise them with a spooky story on the day, but first the woman wanted to make sure her kids had a proper grasp on the difference between fiction and reality.

"Okay boys and girls," she said with convincingly false cheer, "today's story is called Sleeping Beauty. This book lives in 'Fiction', which means it's..."

"Made-up." chanted the group of schoolchildren.

"That's right class. Now to tell this story we're going to need someone brave and sweet to be our hero."

"Emmy's the bravest!" piped up one girl.

"She made it to the top of the monkey bars!" added another.

"I saw her touch a worm and she didn't scream or nothing." one of the boys confirmed loudly.

"Okay, okay. Emily, here is your sword to battle with. Now I need a quiet and still Beauty."

"Mamu's the best at Dead Fish." Emily suggested. Comments rippled through the students at the mention of the new boy.

"He don't speak much."

"I think he doesn't know how."

"No, he speaks funny to his mommy. He just don't speak to us."

"Imamu is still learning to speak like us, boys and girls. He is very good at listening though." the teacher said pointedly above the chatter. "I'm sure he'll be talking back before you know it. Imamu, could you please come up here?" she beckoned to a dark boy in the back row. His big black eyes watched her hands carefully. "Just lie down here and close your eyes like this. Good boy. Now our story begins!"

Emily beamed and raised her cardboard sword, swinging her way through pretend brambles as her prep teacher read the story. When the dragon reared its paper face she roared right back at it.

"Oh my, that was very brave Emily! The hero made it to the tower, and inside lay the sleeping Beauty. Only a kiss could restore the land."

Emily paused, remembering how the girls screamed when the boys played kiss chasey.

"Go ahead, hero. Awaken the Beauty with your kiss."

Emily obeyed her teacher and leant over Imamu. He really was very good at being quiet and still. The other boys in the class were already screwing up their faces but Imamu hadn't flinched. Puckering her lips, she pecked the little boy's chocolate cheek.

When she pulled back she noticed there was a thin line of drool on Imamu's face.

"Oops." she giggled and wiped it away with the edge of her skirt.

Miss Barley would have been mortified to know that she had just watched her brightest student wipe away liquid Infection.
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20281228R1-EW

**Name:** Emily Watts

**Infected:** 28/10/2028

**Type:** R

**Phase:** 1

**Institution** : Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 28/12/2028

Authority Signature:

__________________________

Witness Signature:

__________________________

## – CHAPTER NINE –

### REGISTRATION

Logan had reached the point of desperation. Rent was due Monday, and F.P.I.R had refused to honour his incomplete timesheet. What's more, they'd actually had the gall to send him an official letter demanding recompense for the broken grate.

Logan had nowhere to turn. Janine didn't believe in third chances when it came to extending the rent, Karimah and Frank were on a fixed income, all of Logan's credit cards were in the red and he certainly didn't have the credit rating for a bank loan. He was all out of options and headed straight for casa de street unless he did something drastic.

Picking up his ancient landline, he dialled the Infected Registration Hotline.

With each ring his nerves jangled in reply. To distract himself he ran through the list of equipment he'd scavenged. The eye drops had been the hardest. He thanked his lucky stars that the girls at the local pharmacies hadn't looked too closely at his 'prescriptions'.

The call switched to an automated response.

"Hello, you have called the Infected Registration Hotline. If you would like to hear a list of symptoms, press one.

If you would like to register an Infected, press two.

If you know the whereabouts of a Rogue, press three and evacuate the area.

If you would like to report a Turned individual, press four and exit the building, locking all available doors on your way out.

If you are displaying symptoms and have not had contact with an Infected within the last twenty-four hours, please hang up and call your psychiatrist.

To hear these options again, press hash."

Logan chose the second option.

There were several clicks and the phone began to ring. After eight rings it switched to an answering machine.

"The person you have dialled cannot be reached. Please leave the name, address and state of the Infected individual after the tone."

There was a loud piercing beep.

Logan pretended to be a concerned citizen and left his name and address. He paused, unsure of what he was supposed to say, and settled for a comment about how he appeared disoriented but harmless. After he hung up he wondered if he was actually supposed to say the state he lived in. Hopefully it wasn't a national service.

He sat by the phone, staring into space and convincing himself his plan would work. It was a simple plan. All he had to do was sign up as a zombie and the government would have to support him until he Turned. And since he wasn't actually a zombie, he would never Turn. It was perfect.

Best of all, someone else would be taking care of all those niggly needs like food, clothes, rent and utilities. All he had to do was stay in his apartment, wear a little makeup and act like a zombie when anyone else was around. He couldn't believe no one else had thought of this before. It was a stroke of genius.

Logan jumped as the phone rang. He gingerly lifted the receiver. "Mmm?"

"Mr. Williams?" a woman asked.

"Uurgh?" he replied carefully.

"You have been listed for Infected Registration. An I.P.R representative will arrive at your residence within the next‐" her voice trailed off, distracted, "-twenty-four hours to confirm your Infection."

"Okaaay."

"Shut up!"

"What?"

"Sorry, not you. My co-worker is being disrespectful."

This time he could hear a man in the background talking.

"I'm on a call here Dan!"

The phone crunched and a man spoke. "Hey, hey, I've got one; what do you get if you take a zombie and divide by half?"

"What?" Logan asked cautiously. He could hear the woman yelling in the background.

"You get a bloody half wit!"

"This is harassment Dan! Just hang up on him mister." the woman yelled.

Logan spoke quietly. "What's mid-thirties, lives in his parents basement and will never get laid?"

"Wait, what?"

"You." Logan hung up.

Barely three hours later there was a polite knock at his door. The phone debacle had apparently garnered him some special attention.

Logan added the finishing touches to his disguise, leaving the eye drops to last. He stuffed the packaging into the cabinet and carefully squeezed a few drops of liquid anaesthetic into each eye. Light filled his vision as his pupils exploded, blinding him. Blinking rapidly, he hid the bottle and felt his way to the front door. It opened at his touch and he had to step back to let the silhouette enter. He misjudged and nearly fell over the couch when the silhouette split into two. The world started to spin as the hypertension medicine kicked in.

There was the rustle of paper in front of him, followed by a slightly muffled male voice.

"Good evening Mr. Williams. On behalf of the government, may I be the first to welcome you to the program. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, and rest assured, we will do everything in our power to make the transition into your new life a quick and painless one." There was a pause and the sound of paper shuffling.

"Allow me to assure you that this mask is merely a formality and not a reflection of the values of the Infected Public Relations Office. Our primary concern is to aid the Infected public in their new lifestyle, but in order to do so we must obey the regulations provided by the Infection Prevention Commit me. You trust we under and. Wait, what?"

There was an awkward pause. "Dammit Jenny, you had one job. Now I've got to print the whole lot again."

There was the sound of footsteps outside, followed by a horrified gasp.

"Doctor, get back!" a young man cried.

"Hello Gavin. Nice of you to join us. This is my patient, Mr. Williams."

"B-but he's a zombie."

"You don't say."

"Doctors are supposed to help people, not monsters!"

"Just two sides of a coin, lad. Now put down that scalpel before you hurt yourself."

"I don't like this. It's a biter. I can tell."

"He's barely conscious, but if it makes you feel any better we can attach the restraints."

Logan jumped as a hand touched his shoulder.

"Mr. Williams, Gavin is having trouble transitioning into the glamorous world of Infected Registration and would like to restrain you. Nothing harsh, just a precaution to make him feel better. Do you consent?"

Logan nodded his head slowly, trying not to make the world bounce too much.

"Good, good. If you would just stand against this wall..."

Logan swayed as the man steered him towards the wall. He leant against it gratefully, shivering as the ice packs stuck to his skin. He'd constructed a crude vest to hold them but there were gaps in the fabric. It was the only realistic way to drop his temperature without running the risk of killing himself.

Thick straps wrapped around his wrists and ankles, pinning him to the wall.

"Are you sure they're secure?"

"Stop worrying Gavin. Look at the man, he's practically catatonic."

Logan sucked on the black liquorice hidden under his tongue and let some saliva dribble out the corner of his mouth. He hated the flavour of aniseed but it created some pretty convincing black drool.

"Hand me the thingy. No no, the other one." Metal clinked in the background. "Now don't be alarmed Mr. Williams, there's going to be some bright light for a moment. It's just me testing your eyes."

Logan said nothing, attempting to fix his gaze on a point across the room with great difficulty. Everything beyond his nose was a blur of light and dark. He jumped slightly when everything turned white.

"Pupils dilated to maximum capacity. No response. Are you writing this down Gavin?"

"Yes doctor."

"Good. Mr. Williams, please nod for me if you have brown eyes."

Logan forced himself to nod and felt the world shift queasily in response.

"Good, that's normal then. Remember Gavin, pale irises gone dark means burst blood vessels, and that means trouble. Once had a woman with eyes like a white rabbit. Saved her sight in the end though. Most of it, anyway."

Logan became aware that his eyes were watering. He looked skywards and tried not to blink. Real zombies didn't blink.

"Where's the sphygmo? Ah, thank you. Now Mr. Williams, this is going to squeeze your arm tightly. It's supposed to do that. And then we'll know your blood pressure." the doctor said cheerfully as he wrapped a thick band around Logan's upper arm.

He forced himself to stand upright despite the mounting desire to lie down. Feeling the world spin in every direction might be fun to a toddler but for a grown man it was very disconcerting.

The cuff tightened and relaxed as the man muttered in approval. "Blood pressure significantly below recommended levels. A candidate for catatonia if I ever saw one."

He chatted to his colleague as pressed two fingers against Logan's neck. "Heart rate like a lizard."

The fingers left and the cuff was removed. "Just breathe, Mr. Williams, we're nearly done." was all Logan could make out over the loud ripping of the Velcro.

"Doctor, this building is listed." the younger man began.

"Well that makes life easier." the doctor interjected.

"Well, no, because there's no record of any living relatives in the country."

"Annoying. Alright, I'll talk to him. You may wait outside."

"Thank god. I mean, thank you doctor." There was a clatter followed by hurried footsteps as the young man left.

"Wimp." the doctor muttered under his breath. He removed Logan's restraints and led him over to the couch where he collapsed gratefully. The world dipped in and out as he listened drowsily to the clink and rustle of equipment being packed away.

"Mr. Williams." A hand shook Logan out of his twilight state. "Mr. Williams, I need you to answer a few questions. Can you do that for me?"

Logan blinked slowly and muttered something incomprehensible as he swallowed the last of his liquorice.

"Good. Do you have any friends who could fill the role of carer?"

Logan stared at the ceiling, watching it swim in and out of focus. "Uuuuuh..."

"Jesus, not another non-verbal." the man griped. "A carer, Mr. Williams. A friend. Show me a picture, address book, anything."

His thoughts moved slowly, but eventually an image of Karimah floated to the surface, wiping away her mother-in‐law's drool.

"Kaaa... Kaaariiii..." he groaned and pointed in the general direction of the front door. It was so hard to remember now.

"Carrie?"

"Ri... maaah..."

There was a long pause as the man tried to decipher Logan's moans.

"Gavin," the doctor called out, "can you check all the Registered Infected for this building?"

"The only zombie in date is one 'Margot Mancini'." came the eventual reply.

"Is the carer's name something like Carrie, or Carly?"

"Karimah Mancini." the man supplied. "Maiden na-"

"That's the one!" the doctor interrupted triumphantly. "Go see if she's home and we'll get all the paperwork out of the way in one hit."

There was a scratching to the right of the couch.

"What is that?" the man asked slowly.

It took Logan a few moments to remember that George was shut in his bedroom.

"Caaat." he warned the animal. "Nooo. Baaad."

Nguyen tsked. "You can't keep an animal, Mr. Williams. You're Infected."

Logan grunted noncommittally.

"Quarantine regulations state that any animal that has had prolonged exposure to an Infected individual must be put down."

He swallowed, an unexpected lump forming in his throat. He shook his head emphatically, his distress destroying his last vestige of balance. He toppled face-first into the cushions.

"Calm down, Mr. Williams." Strong arms pulled him back into a sitting position. "There's a twenty-four hour grace period after registration, in case of false diagnosis. No doubt your carer can palm off the animal before then."

There was the thud of something heavy hitting his coffee table. A pen was pressed into his hand and guided over to a thick wad of paper.

"Just sign here and everything will be taken care of, I guarantee. Or make a cross. Whatever mark you can manage."

Logan leant forward until his nose touched the paper. Squinting, he could just make out words wriggling like grey caterpillars on the white surface. "Whaaat is iiit?"

The man hauled Logan back into his seat again. "It's an agreement to follow the rules of the program. Just stay indoors, don't bite the jerk from the F.P.A. and don't try to remove the G.P.D."

"Geee Pee Dee?" Logan hissed the letters through his teeth.

"Global Positioning Device." the doctor explained. "Just sign it please. You of all people know what happens to Unregistered Infected."

The rattle of empty shells echoed in his memory. Logan signed.

"Thank you." The papers were forcibly dragged out from under his heavy hand. "We'll get these to your carer and the Perishables Appraisal Officer can be here within the week. Ah goddammit, no, there's one more thing. There's always one more thing." There was the thud of a stamp and the click of a briefcase.

A sharp point pressed into the side of Logan's neck. He froze.

"This may sting a little." the man warned.

A cold stab of pain was quickly replaced by a burning sensation. Logan lifted a hand to his tender flesh.

"Don't scratch." snapped the doctor. "That chip is government property. Believe me, they do not believe in 'accidental' removals."

The anaesthetic fog of his brain lifted as he felt the freshly cauterized lump of the G.P.D. in his neck. There really was no turning back now. If he confessed and revealed himself a fake, he'd be incarcerated for wasting the government's time and thousands of taxpayers' dollars. If he removed the chip, he'd be considered Rogue and hunted down like an animal by his fellow Cullers.

He was officially a zombie, branded for life.

## – CHAPTER TEN –

### GERTIE

One month after Dean had sacrificed his life in a misguided attempt to save a zombie, Gertie was driving her grandchild to soccer practice. Her daughter Adie had sounded a bit stressed lately, so Gertie had jumped at the chance to spend some time with her oldest grandchild.

The boys had just finished warm-ups when Gertie felt the first tingle at the back of her mind. She dismissed it. Lance was her priority.

The feeling intensified, niggling away at her as Lance ran up and down the field, whooping when he got control of the ball.

By half-time it was accompanied by an intense of feeling of dread in her stomach. Worried, she called Lance over and told him to call her if he finished practiced before she returned.

She hopped in the car and drove over to her daughter's house, trying to stay calm. Her intuition had played up a couple of times in the past and now was no exception. Adie had probably just sliced herself cutting vegetables or something mundane like that.

Swallowing hard, Gertie parked and climbed out of her car, practically running up the steps to the faded white door. She knocked several times and waited, breathing shallowly.

No one answered.

She hunted through her keys for the spare, struggling to see in the fading light, and unlocked the door. Her heels clomped as she crossed the wooden floorboards.

"Adie? Are you home?"

No one answered. She flipped the switch and the room bloomed into light. Her breath caught in her throat.

Wall to wall was covered in Adie's shaky scrawl. Full passages from the bible were copied carefully around the door. The passages grew shorter and shorter around the room, until Gertie could only just make out the line 'Forgive me Father for I have sinned'.

It continued into the hallway.

Dry-mouthed, Gertie followed the manic trail of ink scribbles. Words dropped off until only 'Forgive me' was left. Near Lance's bedroom the ink grew thin and at his door stopped all together.

Beyond his door were scratches in the wall, large and desperate, pleading with just one word; 'Forgive'.

Against all common sense, Gertie turned the corner and followed the word down to Adie's bedroom.

"Adie?" she called and tried the handle. It was locked. She knocked a few times, but there was no movement behind the door.

In the distance she heard the gurgling cry of the baby. She trotted over to the nursery, nearly knocking over an open tin. The room smelt of wet paint.

She leant of the cradle and smiled at her other grandson. "Where's your Mummy, Billy? Where's your Mummy?" she said soothingly.

Billy coughed. Black spittle ran down his face, soaking his ducky blanket. His face was turning blue.

Gertie scooped the child up and patted his back hurriedly, trying to dislodge whatever was choking him. He drew in wet shuddering gasps and coughed harder, his body whole shaking. She could feel something hard lodged in his throat.

She pulled him back and peered into his mouth, trying to see what the problem was. Something glinted at the back of his mouth when he coughed and a thin trail of blood dribbled down his lip.

Desperate, she reached in and tried to pull the thing out. The baby screamed wetly and bit down, breaking the thin skin on her knuckles. She ignored the pain and pried his mouth open so she could drag the obstruction out without ripping his throat to shreds.

It popped free with a slurp and Billy coughed up the last of the blood. He spluttered a few times, gulped in a huge lungful of air, and went back to crying.

Gertie laid him back down gently and took a look at the thing in her hand.

It was the cross from Adie's necklace.

Gertie stumbled back in shock and for the first time saw the fresh paint on the wall.

In big angry brushstrokes were the words 'There is no God'.
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20300714A1-GH

**Name:** Gertrude Hallam

**Infected:** 12/02/2028

**Type:** A

**Phase:** 1

**Institution** : Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 14/07/2030

Authority Signature:

__________________________

Witness Signature:

__________________________

## – CHAPTER ELEVEN –

### GOODBYES

Logan was feeling pretty good. His money problems were solved and the drugs had long ago been purged from his system. He stretched out on the couch, lazily watching the afternoon news, utterly content that whatever was wrong in the world had absolutely nothing to do with him.

Someone knocked politely at his front door. He stretched, pushed the cat off his stomach and trotted over to the tiny bathroom to insert his contacts.

"Logan? Are you decent?" Karimah called from the other side.

"Just a minute!" he replied, blinking the thin lens into place. He patted on a scavenged pot of Melissa's old concealer, making his skin unnaturally pale, and rolled down his sleeves to hide his 'bite mark'. The knife wound was already crusting over in a very un-zombie-like manner. Satisfied, he headed for the front door and pushed the handle down, but nothing happened.

There was the rattle of keys from outside and the door swung open. Karimah stood back, his key in her hand. The cold blue of her surgical mask clashed with her warm chocolate skin. Frank stood stiffly by her side wearing an identical mask, his bushy black whiskers poking out the sides.

The moment Logan stepped into the light, Karimah threw open her arms to hug him. Frank pulled her back hastily.

"Careful Kari. He's Infected." he said pointedly.

"Oh Frank! I'm his carer." she scolded, but Logan noticed that she obeyed him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him, genuinely concerned.

He grunted noncommittally.

"I just wanted to let you know that everything's been approved. I'll bring your meals every three hours, but in the meantime if you need anything, anything at all, you just let me know."

"How? How is going to let you know?" Frank snapped. "Are we going to leave the door open for him to just wander on in?"

"Frank, stop it." she hissed. She turned back to Logan. "It must be a dreadful shock."

"What shock? He knew what he was in for when he signed up for murder."

Karimah's eyes narrowed. "Francesco Mancini-"

"He wanted to kill Ma!" Frank bellowed, pointing an accusing finger at Logan.

"I wish he had!" she shouted back.

Frank fell back, speechless.

"That's not a person anymore Frank, it's a dead weight. A dribbling, incontinent, mindless burden that I have to take care of."

Frank blinked rapidly, staring at his wife with incomprehension. When he spoke again, Logan could hear the little boy whine behind his words.

"But she's my Ma."

Tears welled in her warm brown eyes. "Your Ma is gone Frank. That's just her body."

"No it isn't!" he shouted fiercely. "Ma's still in there!"

"Will you shut up?!" a woman's voice screeched from behind thin walls. The door at the end of the hall flew open to reveal a tiny woman brandishing her phone. "You're costing me five ninety-nine a minute! Some of us have still have to work for a living, you know!"

She slammed the door shut before anyone could answer. The sound cut through the stunned silence like a whip crack.

"Excuse me." a man tapped Karimah on the shoulder. "Delivery for Logan Williams."

"Oh, of course." She took the proffered pen. "Where do I sign?"

"What's in the box?" Frank asked suspiciously.

"Supplies." Karimah answered coldly. "Just like Margot's, which you would know if you actually cared for her."

She clicked the pen viciously before handing it back to the delivery man. He left quickly, displaying a good sense of self-preservation.

Logan unhooked the lid to reveal a sea of pamphlets. Logan picked one at random. It was called 'So You're Going To Be a Zombie'. He squinted at the tiny tagline and snorted. 'How to win back the love of Our Lord who has cursed you for your mortal sins in six to twelve months'.

"Oh look." Karimah picked something square out of the pile. "Chamomile tea. How thoughtful."

Logan gestured for her to keep it as he picked up the crate awkwardly and dropped it on his couch.

"We'll leave you to it then." Karimah hooked her arm through Frank's, clamping him to her side. "Again, if there's anything I can do-"

Logan nodded and closed the door in their face before they could start fighting again.

Turning back to the crate he found George trying to make a nest out of the papers.

"Cat! Get out of it." he growled and scooped the animal out along with a wad of pamphlets. Underneath the papers were stacks of frozen, bloodied meat. Gingerly, he pulled out a few packets. 'GenuSwine' was printed across the top of each one. He took one from another stack. It was covered in 'Cowthentic' branding. He turned it over. Big print instructions informed him that the meat should be stored in a cool place. He balked when he read the next instruction. "To eat, remove from plastic and insert into mouth. Chew food into small chunks. Swallow. Repeat three times daily."

He knew zombies were dumb, but that was just ridiculous.

He pulled out the stacks of meat with growing trepidation as to what he might find next. All that was left was a first aid kit, a bottle of medicinal alcohol, and a body-builder sized tin of protein powder. He took out a large patch and stuck it over the knife wound on his right arm. Bandaids and patches made his disguise a lot easier. He never had been confident in his ability to paint open wounds.

A scratching sound indicated that George was investigating the crate again. Logan dragged the curious animal away from the box and tossed him over his shoulder, patting him into submission. George purred like a maniac, pleased with the attention.

The cat was a pressing problem. As annoying as he could be sometimes, he didn't deserve to be put down. But who, he wondered, could he ask to take on the responsibility?

Karimah was already harbouring two zombies and had never really taken a liking to the cat. He could give it to one of the other apartment owners, but he didn't know any of them well enough to trust them with such a dependant animal. He could imagine the horror on Melissa's face if he accidentally left her fur baby with an abusive owner. He didn't even have any living relatives he could take advantage of in this situation. He definitely couldn't hand him over to a shelter. A full grown cat around kittens would end up in the backroom with all the other unadopted unfortunates, guaranteed.

He needed someone stable. Someone animal-friendly. Someone who wouldn't mind one more mouth to feed.

Charlie.

He dropped the cat onto the couch and went into the kitchen to use the ancient landline. George wandered in as Logan listened to the ring echo down the line and twined around his legs, demanding food.

There was a click as the receiver was picked up.

"Hello?" a young girl answered.

"Hello?" Logan echoed.

"Hello. Do you want daddy or mummy?"

"Daddy please." he said carefully.

"Okay." There was a clatter as the girl apparently dropped the phone. Logan winced. A series of scratches sounded a few minutes later and a smarmy voice said, "Hello, this is daddy speaking."

"Chaaarliiie." Logan began.

"Look mate, if this is a prank phone call I've had better. Hell I've done better."

"It's Looogaaan."

"Logan? Like from work Logan? Well I'll be damned, I never thought I'd hear from you this early. What's up? You find a new job?"

"Yooou don't knooow?"

"Know what? What's wrong with your voice? You have a stroke?"

"I gooot biiitten."

There was dead silence.

"Shit." Charlie breathed.

"Mmm."

"That's messed up man. Shit."

"I neeed a faaavouur."

"Name it man, name it."

"Taaake my caaat."

"Your cat? You have a cat? Dammit Logan, I swear sometimes I don't know you at all. Why did you never tell me you had a cat?"

Logan shrugged before he realised Charlie couldn't see him.

"Never mind, don't sweat it. Sure, I can take..."

"George." Logan supplied.

"I can take George. Goddamn that sucks! You're making me rethink my new job now."

"Jooob?"

"Mmm? Oh, I transferred to ThreeC. Y'know, the Country Cleanup Crew." he said, as though that explained it all. "So when and where can I collect the furry little man?"

"Asap. Kaaarimaaah's."

"You mean your sassy big black neighbour?"

Logan could hear the grin through the phone. "S'not sassy." he muttered.

"Sure, and I'm pure class. Hey, did I ever show you the tattoo I got when I was fifteen? Man was I drunk! He got the stars right..."

"Good-byyye Charlie." Logan said firmly.

"...but it's back to front! Oh. Right. Yeah. I guess this really is goodbye."

There was a long pause during which Logan realized how big a part of his social life Charlie had been. He felt the first pang of regret for his plan.

"It was... it was great working with you Logan. And hey, I am sorry. I really am."

Logan bit the inside of his lip. "Thanks Chaaarlie."

The guilt was just starting to eat away at Logan's stomach. He hung up the phone and dug out the cat carrier from his stockpile of mostly useless junk. George followed him everywhere, trying to point out that he was a hungry, hungry cat.

Logan poured some biscuits into a bowl and took the time to really look at the animal he had cared for all these years. The disproportionately petite paws, the overfed belly, the tail that never stayed still. Every hair on this cat had once been adored beyond all logic by his wife. Every scratch, every mess, every mewl in the middle of the night, had been cherished by her in a way he could never fully understand. He had been her baby, right down to his name; George, after her beloved father.

George.

Logan tickled the cat under the chin as he wandered away from his empty bowl. He purred thunderously and rubbed against his hand, taking the opportunity to curl up in his lap.

George, the crazy kitten that climbed the curtains. George, the insistent alarm that woke him in the morning. George, the little shit who threw his out of the litter box just to make him do his bidding.

But Melissa had loved him, so Logan had too.

Then suddenly she was gone, but George remained.

He waited for him to come home. He slept at his feet. He stayed when nothing else had. George had been his constant.

Logan picked up the limp, sleeping animal and quietly locked him in the carrier. George stretched, poking a single white paw through the grate. The light shone off his translucent claws.

Logan blinked away sudden tears. Too bright. The cat was too damn bright.

He got to his feet and staggered into the bathroom to adjust his contacts before calling Karimah over to collect the animal. For a long time after he just stood in front of the mirror, staring at his own zombified reflection, and wondering for the first time if he had done the right thing.

Lost in thought, he didn't hear Karimah enter the apartment. When he came out, the cat was gone.
– CHAPTER TWELVE –

### BARBARA

Two days after Gertie had stumbled through a house filled with her daughter's insanity, her best friend Barbara was rapping on the counter to get a busy nurse's attention.

"Excuse me," she said pointedly, "but which direction is ward five?"

The nurse pointed left without lifting her eyes from her mountain of paperwork.

"Thank you."

Barbara shuffled as fast as her stiff legs could carry her, silently cursing her age. It didn't seem to matter how fit and healthy she was, she just couldn't walk like she used to. She didn't feel that old. In her mind she was still twenty-five. Her damn body just kept getting in the way.

She stopped outside ward five and steeled herself for what she might find. She slipped on one of the disposable masks provided and walked slowly down the rows of curtained beds until she found the one she was looking for.

The old woman in the bed was asleep, mouth open slightly. Drool was drying at the corner of her mouth, its black flecks sticking to her skin. Barbara sagged with relief. There were no bite marks, no gaping wounds, not even some tell-tale trembling. She might have been slightly paler than usual, but otherwise she looked pretty good for a zombie that had been clinically dead for five minutes.

Barbara sat down on the hard plastic chair near the head of the bed.

"Hey Gee-Gee." she said softly, almost afraid to wake her best friend of forty years. "It's me, Baba."

The woman didn't stir. Barbara laid her blue-veined hand over the younger woman's.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you found her. I can't imagine what it must have been like. Your own daughter." she whispered.

"Oh, you must think me terrible. Living it up half-way around the world while yours falls apart. I did tell you to come. China was splendid though. I bought you some tea and a set of cups for your collection."

She sighed. "I guess we won't be sight-seeing in San Fran anymore. No more cute gay couples." she added, smiling a little.

She sat in silence for a while, watching her best friend breath short shallow breaths. Her hand was so cold.

The television above the woman's bed flickered, drawing Barbara's eye to the text scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

'...the alleged security breach at Koulema Sanctuary for Registered Infected was apparently triggered by a teenage girl. Police suspect the girl was aided by protestors...'

Barbara looked at the clip playing above the text. A line of protestors stood in front of the sanctuary's tall steel wall, red-eyed and distraught. A young girl in the middle was waving a sign with the slogan 'Zombees are Poeple To' scribbled in pink lipstick. In the far corner a woman huddled against the wall, clutching a board that said 'He Gave You Life and You Gave Him Death.' Above her, painted in huge relief, were two serpents wrapped around a staff.

Barbara looked down at the clipboard attached to Gertie's bed. The papers were branded with the same symbol.

Giving the woman's cold hand a squeeze, she leant over Gertie to talk in her ear.

"Gee-Gee, I know you can hear me on some level. You listen to me missy, this is very important. This was not, I mean it, not your fault. It was the sickness that did it. It got inside Adie's head and twisted everything. There was nothing you could do for her. No minutes, hours or days earlier could have changed what happened. It was already in her mind."

She patted her hand reassuringly. "Don't you worry about Lance. He never saw anything. I sent your brother to look after him. He kept asking about you."

The woman sighed heavily. "I didn't have the heart to tell him you won't be coming back. Gee-Gee..." she swallowed, tears welling at the corners of her eyes, "they won't let me be your carer. I haven't had a fixed address in five years. They're going to shut you away."

She bit her lip to stop it from trembling, but the waver was already in her voice. She let go of her friend's hand and cleared her throat.

"So it's decided. I'm coming with you."

She watched Gertie's face for some hint of recognition or reaction to what she'd just said. Nothing moved.

She sighed and stood up. Leaning over the woman who was fifteen years her junior, she swept aside a few grey strands that had fallen across the woman's lined face.

"You're as beautiful as ever, Gee. Your skin's sagging, and you drink far too much tea, but I love you all the same. I can't switch that off. No matter how far I go, you're always there at the back of my mind." She ran a hand lightly down the curve of her face, smiling.

"I know you don't feel the same. I could see it in your eyes when you looked at him. You two had something true, something real. I couldn't stand in the way of that. But I can't leave you like this."

She rested her forehead against Gertie's, listening to her breathe.

"So I'm coming with you." she said, pulling down her mask. "No matter how much it hurts."

Closing her eyes, she kissed her gently on the lips.
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20301114A1-BT

**Name:** Barbara Thiel

**Infected:** 14/02/2028

**Type:** A

**Phase:** 1

**Institution** : Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 14/11/2030

Authority Signature:

__________________________

Witness Signature:

__________________________

## – CHAPTER THIRTEEN –

### EXPOSED

Logan was celebrating his new life of luxury with a marathon of parasite documentaries. He grimaced in morbid delight as he watched a nervous surgeon remove the eggs trapped in the convolutions of a woman's brain. It was a re-enactment, of course, but there was something about the combination of gruesome biology and hints of psychology that kept him utterly fascinated. He couldn't wait to see what bizarre affliction the next person had.

A polite knock and the alarming jangle of keys preventing him from finding out. He hid the can he had been drinking from and headed for the front door. It swung open to reveal Karimah with a smile stretched so thin it could snap at any moment. Beside her was a short man groomed within an inch of his life and wearing a pencil moustache like it was a medal of manhood.

"Mr. Williams." the small man stated, his head twitching like a bird's. "I am the representative from the department of Final Phase Appraisal." He flashed a small business card so quickly Logan couldn't have read it even if he wanted to. "I will assess your current condition. Do not attempt to consume me Mr. Williams. I am bony and have no nutritional value."

Karimah laughed uncomfortably.

"That was not a joke." the man said icily.

"My mistake." she simpered. "I'll just leave the key in the door here and you can leave it under my mat when you're done."

"That is acceptable." he sniffed. Karimah hovered, unsure if she was excused.

Unable to bear the awkward pause, Logan took the initiative. "Cooome iiin."

"That would be appropriate." the man said. He took one step inside the doorway.

Logan looked at Karimah who shrugged.

"Cooome in mooore." he pressed. The man stepped into the centre of the room.

Karimah took the opportunity to scuttle back into her own apartment as quickly as polite society allowed, leaving Logan alone with the F.P.A. man.

Logan stood silently as he watched the representative slip on a facemask and pull the door shut. He was beginning to suspect the man had a social disability. He sounded like he had learnt English from a manual and practiced on a computer. Both words and hands flew in short sharp motions, forced out by sequence rather than flow.

"I will concentrate." the man declared, suddenly acting like Logan was just another piece of furniture. "I will observe and conclude."

He whipped out a notebook as his eyes darted around the room. Walking slowly through the small apartment, he took down notes at a lightning pace. Logan followed him, curious.

"Stay." the man ordered, pointing at the couch. Logan's lip curled but he obeyed. The sooner the man was done, the sooner he could watch the next episode.

The F.P.A. man's moustache twitched he muttered to himself in the kitchenette. It went into overdrive when he reached the bedroom.

As abruptly as it had begun, it finished. The notebook disappeared into his inner breast pocket and he stood to attention before Logan, hands clasped together over his sternum. He looked supremely uncomfortable, like he'd seen the pose in a book but not understood its significance.

"Speak." he demanded.

Logan was taken aback by the order.

"Uuuuh..." He had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"You will speak your name."

"Looogaaan Williaaams."

"You will speak it again."

"Lo-Looogan W-wiiilliaaams."

The man fixed him with an intense stare. Logan felt his stomach twist. The man was onto him.

A thick wad of pristine white cards appeared from another pocket inside the man's jacket. He flicked them up to face Logan, watching his face carefully.

"Tell me what you see."

Logan squinted at the black ink that wormed its way around the card. He decided to play dumb.

"Spiiilled iiink."

The man looked approvingly at him. "That is what I said. But that is not the purpose of the Rorschach test. You will tell me what image the ink creates in your mind."

Logan knew what the Rorschach test was. It was a devious way to sell ruined paper to uneducated pseudo-psychologists who perpetuated the myth of its validity and thus continued sales of aforementioned ruined paper.

He obediently replied with the most obvious answers he knew. "Snaaake."

Another card flipped up. It looked like punctuation devoid of a sentence. "Raaain."

The next card made his heart stop. A few lines rearranged themselves into a slim woman in a flowing dress. She was being consumed by a black cloud.

Blood pounded in his ears as the scream of the truck's horn filled his head.

"Tell me what you see." the man demanded impatiently.

Logan swallowed hard. "Death."

The man tucked the cards away, satisfied. Logan struggled through the mire of his memory, trying to escape it's cloying grip. That memory always returned, forever hovering at the edge of his subconscious and waiting for a chance to rise again.

"You are shaking." the F.P.A man noted.

Logan looked down. The man was right. He was shivering slightly from the ice-vest and his hands were trembling uncontrollably from the memory.

"You are not hungry." the man said, staring intently at his eyes.

Logan shook his head. His heart pounded in his throat as the man drew nearer the inevitable conclusion.

"You are not irrational."

Logan could already hear the next statement. The final blow. You are not a zombie.

He swallowed, waiting for the man to speak the dreaded words.

"Phase two, type A." the F.P.A. man declared triumphantly.

Logan blinked, the world spinning slightly. He'd forgotten to breath.

"Wha-whaaat?"

The man ignored him as he scribbled that final note down quickly and checked his watch.

"Today I am efficient." He smiled to himself, no longer interested in Logan. "Today, I have worth."

Logan blinked slowly, trying to understand what had just happened.

"The supervisor will be satisfied." the man said to himself and marched out the door. Logan followed him out into the hall. The F.P.A. man left the building without another word.

Logan waited, but the man didn't appear to be coming back. He breathed a sigh of relief. That had been the scariest moment of his life since the grate had broken. He had completely forgotten they were sending that F.P.A. representative. He was lucky the man hadn't opened his bathroom cabinet. The packet of extended wear coloured contacts would have been a dead giveaway.

He went to close the front door and heard the jangle of keys still in the lock. Logan sighed. The F.P.A. man hadn't even bothered to return the keys to Karimah.

He reached around to pull the keys out and came face to face with the woman who had yelled at them the day before. Her grey eyes widened when she saw his black ones.

"Zombiiiie!" she screeched, backing-pedalling across the hallway.

"Uuuuh..." Logan looked around helplessly as the old woman fell on her fat backside.

"Get away from me!" she cried. "Help! Heeelp!"

The door across the hall opened and Frank poked his head out. "Will you shut up! Some of us are trying to watch TV!"

She pointed at Logan, terrified.

Frank's brow furrowed. "What are you doing out?"

Logan waved the keys. They tinkled innocently.

"Bloody hell, I'm gunna kill that moron." He marched across the hall and snatched the keys out of Logan's hand. "Get back inside with ya. Go on, get."

"What are you doing? Are you insane?" the woman shrieked.

"Oh go moan down someone's ear hole you old gasbag." Frank ushered Logan inside his apartment and shut the door behind them both.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he hissed. "Not even a week and you're already breaking containment?"

"Hey I'm not the bad guy here, I was returning them when that nut job started screaming!" Logan said hotly.

Frank stared at him, mouth open. "What did you just say?"

"I said-" Logan froze mid-sentence. He'd forgotten to moan.

"Uuuugh?" he offered feebly.

"You crazy bastard." Frank breathed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I can explain."

"You know what, I don't care." Frank held his hands up in submission. "I don't wanna know what stupid shit you're pulling here."

"You won't tell, will you?" Logan pleaded.

"What, tell the government that some complete moron signed himself up for quarantine?" Frank said sarcastically. "No one would believe me. Nobody's that stupid."

Logan felt his eyes narrow of their own accord. "I have good reason."

"I had good reason too, but you didn't bother to ask me." Frank snarled.

Logan blinked. "Ask what?"

"You really think I infected Ma just to spend more time with her? You really think I'm that selfish?"

Logan decided not to say anything.

Frank sat down heavily on the couch.

"Maybe I am being selfish." he conceded. "I thought I did it for her but... I don't know anymore."

He stared into space for a long time. Logan waited.

"Ma has cancer, Logan. It's killing her faster than that virus ever could." He chewed his lip. "They put her on chemo but she'd left it too long. They made her feel like crap and took all our savings for nothing. And then she said..." he swallowed thickly. "She asked me to end it. She begged me. I couldn't. So she tried to overdose, but she didn't take enough."

"I couldn't stand it. She was my mother and she wanted to die. I got angry, and I..." he put his head in his hands, sniffing. "I just so badly wanted the problem to be someone else's. And now Kari hates me. First I blow all our savings, then I drop a zombie on her. She'll never forgive me for this."

Logan chose to say nothing on the topic of Karimah. "If you want her to be someone else's problem, why isn't she?" he asked quietly.

"Weren't you listening, you stupid bastard? I can't kill her. All I could do was stop her asking. She was breaking my heart, Logan."

"I can't pretend to understand that, Frank."

"Yeah well, I don't get what you're doing here either. I guess we're both crazy, huh?" He managed a half-smile as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"I better go. That old gasbag is probably telling everyone you ate me by now."

Logan helped the man to his feet and walked him to the front door.

"I know I'm being foolish." Frank said as he opened the door. "It's just that sometimes I'm so sure Ma still knows me. Then it disappears and all I can see is a zombie waiting to die. It hurts so much, but I just can't let her go."

Logan thought of Melissa. "I think... I can understand that." he said quietly.

Frank smiled for real at those words. "You're a good man Logan. You just got some damn fool ideas."

He stepped out into the hall and almost knocked over Janine. She tottered backward on her ridiculously high heels, eyeing Logan warily.

"You should lock him in and let him rot like the corpse he is." she declared, taking another subtle step back.

Logan saw the rage flare in Frank's eyes and just couldn't help himself. Raising his arms stiffly, he shuffled towards the woman.

"Braaainsss..." he groaned.

"Watch out, he's gone Rogue!" Frank cried, taking the opportunity to shove the woman aside as he dived for his apartment. She staggered back several steps and practically fell into her own apartment. The door slammed, followed by the rattle of a security chain and thunk of a deadbolt.

Frank turned and walked back to Logan, a big grin plastered across his face. "I guess they're not all damn fool ideas."

Logan smiled and pulled the door shut. The quiet click of the lock falling into place followed him back to the couch.

The momentary delight of scaring Janine dissolved in the heavy silence that fell over the apartment. Logan returned to his parasite marathon, determined to drown out the sadness that waited in the silence. Melissa, George, Charlie, Frank, they would all be buried under seven seasons of mind-numbing entertainment.

He never made it that far though. Halfway through season three he fell asleep, the background noise contorting his dreams.

When Logan awoke he didn't know when he was. He checked his watch, but it was analogue and gave no indication of day or night.

It was stuffy in the apartment. He staggered over to the front door and wrestled with it, determined to get some fresh air. It took him several minutes before he remembered how and why it was locked.

At that moment there was a thunk of keys from outside. He stepped back as the handle turned, untouched. The door opened to reveal a gargantuan man standing in his doorway.

He stared down at Logan, his expression hidden by a facemask. He was holding an official-looking file.

The old lady from the end of the hall peered around the man's bulk and pointed at Logan. "That's him! That's the zombie that tried to eat my brains!"

Logan stared at her, wondering at the back of his mind where that archaic idea had originally come from. Zombies usually went for easy meat, like guts. Human skulls were too hard to break.

Janine appeared from behind the man, arms crossed. "Mine too."

Logan's gut clenched.

The massive man bent down and pressed something square into the older woman's hand. "Just aim and press this to shoot." he rumbled.

The old woman squinted and pointed the thing at Logan's stomach, her hands trembling.

"Let me." Janine snatched the box from the woman and pointed it at Logan's head. A look of absolute glee painted itself across her face as electricity crackled between it's two prongs.

"Wha-" he never managed to finish his sentence. A bolt of searing pain hit him square in the forehead, sending spasms rolling across his entire body. He crumpled into a heap, convulsing uncontrollably.

"Take that, brain-eater!" the old woman crowed triumphantly.

Logan clenched his jaw as his body jerked and smacked his head into the ground repeatedly. Black fog filled his head, muffling the voices around him.

"If anyone asks, he went for me."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the spasms stopped. He collapsed on the ground gratefully, twitching and gasping for air. He flinched when a piece of paper brushed his cheek.

With immense effort, he managed to pry open one eye. The last thing he saw before he blacked out were the words 'Presmort Sanctuary'.

In his dreams he was screaming, but there was no one left to listen.
TRANSFER WARRANT

RI.20290925A2-LW

**Name:** Logan Williams

**Infected:** 25/11/2028

**Type:** A

**Phase:** 2

**Institution** : Presmort Sanctuary

**Expiration:** 25/09/2029

Authority Signature:

__________________________

Witness Signature:

__________________________

#  Part Two

– Zombies –

## – CHAPTER FOURTEEN –

### THE FIRST DAY

Logan was dragged from nightmares by the muffled sounds of an argument. Even though he was too far away to hear the words, the harsh tones made him uncomfortable. He rolled onto his stomach and dragged the pillow over his head, trying to drown them out.

Judging from the tone, the argument was about Frank's Ma again. Logan felt his stomach twist with guilt. Frank and Karimah had never fought like this before. Logan hoped Karimah won and got rid of the creature. He couldn't do anything if it Turned while he was still locked inside his own apartment under the pretence of zombiism.

At least he could take some small comfort in the fact that those F.P.I.R. bastards weren't getting a cent from him. He seethed at the audacity of that company, endangering his life and then having the gall to sue him for the damages. And they'd kept his pay!

The raised voices outside stopped. Logan shoved the pillow against the wall and rolled over, trying to sleep once more. He blinked at the darkness, wide awake.

Noisy bastards, Logan thought as he sat up grudgingly. He wasn't getting any more sleep any time soon.

He fell back against the wall as the world pitched around him. His whole body felt sore for some reason. His head pounded, his neck was stiff and his body twinged and ached in strange places. His stomach ached worse than the last time he'd attempted sit-ups.

He patted the doona, searching for the cat. He stopped when he remembered he'd had to give up George.

Carefully, he slid his legs over the side of the bed, wriggling his toes. The carpet felt rougher than he remembered. He stood up, stretching the worst of the aches out. He jumped when he felt his nose brush the wall. He tried to step back but his calves hit the bed. Confused, he reached out slowly, his fingertips touching a wall that shouldn't be there.

He sidled between the bed and the wall, searching for a light switch. He could see a sliver of light on the floor just past the dim outline of the bed. He edged towards it and after some fumbling found a door handle. He tried pushing and pulling it. The door didn't budge.

Logan rattled the handle uselessly. "Hello?" he called. "Karimah?"

No one answered.

He felt around the door until he located a switch. A small yellow light blinked into life above his head.

The light only added to his confusion. One thing was for sure, this definitely wasn't his apartment. Logan waited for his memory to stir and offer an explanation as he took in his surroundings.

The room was the size of a closet and covered in apple-green paint that was flaking onto the filthy cream carpet. The strange bed sat under a pair of thin green curtains, and on the wrong side of that bed squatted a small chest of drawers he didn't own.

The chest offered up a bouquet of lilacs, inexpertly arranged in a ceramic pot. The pot was covered in thick streaks of paint, like a child had dipped each finger into a different colour and dragged it across the surface. Next to the flowers lay a pamphlet and a single packet of tea.

Logan rolled his eyes at the token gesture of tea. God forbid anyone offer him something decent, like a sample of coffee or a chocolate mint.

Jammed in front of the chest of drawers was a tartan suitcase that looked vaguely familiar. He dragged it onto the unfamiliar bed and unzipped it. Inside sat his clothes, neatly folded.

He rifled through them and found his books neatly stacked underneath. At the bottom of the pile sat nostalgia, in the form of a long-forgotten photo album. He felt its embossed gold script fondly, smiling at the memory it brought.

It was the first thing they had ever bought together as a married couple. Melissa had spent twenty minutes picking through the albums on the shelf, trying to decide which words best described the photos they were going to put inside. Always the helpful husband, he'd put his hands over her eyes and told her whatever one she picked up would be the right one. She had laughed, the sound music to his ears, as she reached out for the album he now held.

He opened the cover and looked through the life he'd almost forgotten, buried under a decade of solitude and half-hearted aspirations.

Melissa beamed up at him from every photo. There she was, waving from a crowd of girls. Over there, standing on top of the pyramid. On the next page, falling into the arms of a muscled man. Beside it, holding a second-place trophy for the regional championships.

Logan smiled at how small her uniform had been before turning another page. His younger self looked blankly at the camera, lines of code reflected in his reading glasses. It was a stark comparison to the next picture where he was smiling ecstatically, his arm wrapped around the most perfect girl in the world.

Logan's reverie was interrupted by a muffled moan. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he recognized the tuneless cry of a hungry zombie. His hand flew to his belt only to grasp thin air.

Panic rose in his chest as he realized his sheath was empty. He tore through the suitcase, desperately searching for his knife.

The moan grew louder.

He tossed the suitcase aside and searched the rest of the room desperately while panic concocted a scenario. He could invite the zombie in for tea, let them riffle through the pamphlet, and while they were sucking a paper cut, he'd hit them with the flower pot.

Someone knocked politely at the door. Common sense piped up to point out that zombies didn't usually knock. While it was there it took a moment to laugh at panic's plan.

Logan forced himself to calm down. He didn't need a knife, he was perfectly safe as long as he pretended to be a zombie. He'd probably just heard Frank's Ma being taken away. Frank or Karimah would be at his door, ready to explain why he was temporarily locked in this unfamiliar room.

There was a polite cough, followed by the low thunk of a bolt sliding back.

Logan braced himself against the bed, watching the long handle turn and fighting the butterflies that rose in his stomach.

A figure too tall to be Frank and too thin to be Karimah filled the doorway. Black eyes bulged from its shrivelled face.

"Baaabaaa." it moaned, releasing a mouthful of black fluid onto the carpet.

"Christ!" Logan yelled and fell back onto the bed.

Everything that had happened to Logan came flooding back in one big rush. Janine and the old hag, the huge man, the tazer, the paperwork. Terror bubbled inside his chest as it all added up to one big picture; he'd been reported and dropped inside the steel walls of his local zombie safe house.

Logan raised his hands as a shield against the zombie raring to eat his flesh, and fought the urge to vomit.

There was a tutting sound as the creature was gently pushed aside, revealing a slightly less wrinkled old zombie with a horrifying grin.

"Welcome to Presmort!" the zombie declared as it flung its arms open.

Logan stared at the creature, stunned. It had talked. Clearly and succinctly, without a moan to be heard.

Recovering his senses, he slid a hand down the side of the bed to grab the doona. It wasn't much, but it could provide enough of a distraction for him to smash through the bedroom window.

Contrary to his plans, though, the zombies didn't attack. They did something much worse.

They introduced themselves.

"Oh, but how rude of me." The loquacious zombie gestured to his attacker. "This is Baba. Say hello dear."

The first zombie opened its mouth and Logan flinched as it moaned again.

"Baaabaaa." It bobbed in some mockery of a curtsy. It was wearing a baggy blue dress and clutching awkwardly at a threadbare shawl that hung off its shoulders.

"I'm Gertie." the talkative zombie continued, tactfully ignoring Logan's defensive stance. "It's short for Gertude. And if you ever call me that I'll bop you one. Only Mam was allowed to call me that, and that's only because she'd bob me one if I said she couldn't."

The creature nodded at the tea on his chest of drawers. "I see you got the welcome package. So generous, one whole packet. I get through more than that in ten minutes."

The voluble zombie turned to address the walking corpse beside it. "Speaking of which, I think it's tea time, don't you Baba?"

"Baaabaaa." it replied, bobbing it's head up and down in a mini seizure of agreement.

The shorter zombie turned back to Logan. "Why don't you join us? We don't have much of a selection until the order goes through, but there's still Earl Grey and Chamomile. And black, of course. Can never run out of that. I always say and the Mad Hatter would agree; you can't have 'society' without 'tea'."

It was grinning at him, teeth slick with black-flecked saliva.

"Ahahaha." he laughed, a tad hysterically. He didn't understand what was happening. Zombies weren't conversationalists; they didn't have the capacity for it.

His eyes flicked to the one it had called Baba. His grip on the doona tightened. She looked only seconds from Turning.

"Would you like to join us?" the zombie asked again.

Logan knew about zombies. He'd shot them, lived next to them, and done a damn good job of passing as one until Frank caught on. He ignored the freak of nature in front of him and continued to act like a normal zombie would.

"Nooo." he moaned, shaking his head vigorously.

The face watching him shifted into an expression he'd never seen on a zombie before. It looked like concern, or pity. Logan was appalled to realize that the zombie actually felt sorry for him.

"Well the offer's there if you change your mind, Mr-" it left the sentence hanging. Bait for the prey.

He swallowed.

"Looogan. Looogan Wiiilliamsss." He drew out the words like they were a shield that would save him from the clutches of little old zombies bearing offers of tea.

"Mr. Logan." It shuffled into his personal space, squinting. "I really think a drop of tea would do you the world of good. You've got some awful shakes there."

"I-I'm fiiine." he protested, shrinking away from the invasive creature. The little zombie stood on the doona, wrenching it from his grasp, and linked arms with him. Captive guest in tow, it shuffled out into the hall.

Logan shuddered as the creature squeezed his arm. Even through two layers of cloth he could still feel the slick hollow of a gaping wound pressing against him. He yanked his arm away in revulsion and tried to dive back inside the bedroom.

His escape path was blocked by a little girl peering inside the doorway. With the speed of a snake the head turned to face him, blonde curls bouncing. Logan's breath caught in his chest as a pair of large black eyes stared up at him.

He tried to retreat slowly, but he was stopped by the two zombies at his back.

He was trapped. He had no weapon, no escape route, and there was no way he could outrun a zombie child at this distance.

Lacking any other option, Logan closed his eyes and braced himself for the attack.

## – CHAPTER FIFTEEN –

### TONGUE-TIED

Precious seconds passed, but still no attack came. Logan opened his eyes to see what was taking so long.

The creature was watching him, curious. Despite the warm weather, it wore a neat pink skivvy and tights under its thin orange dress. It almost looked like a normal little girl, if you ignored the predatory eyes that bore into Logan's own.

The creature's thin cracked lips slowly parted to reveal an incomplete set of baby teeth. Logan twitched as its arm moved with lightning speed.

"My name ith Emmy." it declared, pointing to itself.

"Emily." The little old zombie behind him corrected.

"I am thix yearth old." The zombie Emily held up two open hands.

"That's ten fingers, dear." the zombie laughed. "And you're seven now, remember?"

The hands flew to its mouth. "Oopth."

Logan was pushed toward the zombie child by a sharp elbow digging into his kidney.

"Say hello Mr. Logan." The little old zombie prompted.

"Hello." he said automatically, distressed by the way the creature insisted on touching him.

"Will you play with me?" the zombie child asked.

"Uuuh..." he replied, at a loss. Logic indicated that he was staring at a zombie child, the most dangerous Infected known to mankind. Unfortunately, all his other senses were screaming at him that the creature in front of him was just a little girl. He didn't know what scared him more.

He knew how to deal with a zombie on duty, but he'd never had children and his reclusive lifestyle had prevented him from being exposed to them for over fifteen years. He didn't know how to play with kids. He especially didn't know how to play with zombie kids. They didn't cover things like that in the Removal Technician handbook.

"We can go to the moon and pick moon-melons." the zombie child declared suddenly. "You can drive the Melon-picker and I'll call the fairies to turn them pink so the moon-munchkins won't eat them."

Logan wondered if he was actually still asleep and this was all just an odd dream. He prayed he was. While he was at it he prayed for normality. He didn't expect any god to listen, but it was a simple task that was popular among the grieving, the lost, the doomed and the dying. He felt he qualified for at least one of those categories right now.

"I'm so sorry, is she bothering you?" a breathy voice asked. He turned to it instinctually, grateful for any intervention.

Gentle blue eyes gazed out from under heavy eyelids, filling him with hope. They belonged to a tired-looking woman in a long floral dress. She floated up the hall and scooped up the zombie child, balancing the small body on her hip.

"I'm afraid she tends to take to strangers a bit too well." the woman explained, making deliberate eye contact with the little creature.

"Emmy." she said slowly, distorting her face into a variety of interesting expressions with each word. "You're not to run off without Mommy. Okay? We don't go play without Mommy."

"Okay." the zombie child nodded.

"What do we not do?"

"Don't play without Mommy." the zombie child recited, throwing it's arms around her neck in a hug.

The woman hugged the zombie child back. The bags under her eyes were very dark.

"Unless Mommy says so." she added as an afterthought. "Now take Gertie's hand and go have some tea. There're some yummy cookies waiting for you."

She set the zombie child on the floor where it obediently took the little old zombie's hand. The little old zombie linked arms with the zombie Baba, and the three walked away looking like the winners of the most unconventional nuclear family contest.

The woman watched them leave, probably making sure the zombie child didn't run off.

"Just last week she was counting to twenty." she murmured quietly to herself, hand on cheek. "Now she doesn't even know how old she is."

She stirred, apparently snapping out of whatever place she had gone to in her head. "Is she still on the moon-melons?" she asked Logan.

"Uh, yeees." he answered, unsure where the track was for this new conversation.

"Mmm. Yesterday it was gentlebugs. Like ladybugs, but gentlemen." She smiled to herself. "She's funny like that."

She turned to face him properly, extending a hand. "My name is Vanessa. That was my daughter, Emily."

"Looogan." he said, completely out of his depth. He looked at her blue eyes and offered his own hand cautiously. He was half-expecting the cool kiss of zombie flesh, but the woman's hand was warm and soft. Logan relaxed, certain that she wasn't Infected.

"Nice to meet you Logan." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Emily seems to have taken a liking to you. She's usually a good picker."

Logan grunted noncommittally and took his hand back.

"If you wait here, I'll go get Dean and he can give you the tour. He's the best guide."

She drifted off down the hall, skirts billowing behind her like a fish gliding through water. Logan took a moment to wonder what another human was doing in a zombie house as he stepped back into his room and continued to hunt for his knife.

He found it hidden in a side pocket, bubble-wrapped inside a plastic bag. Testing the edge, he found it dull. Still, it was better than nothing. He slipped it into the sheath on his belt and pulled down his shirt down to cover it. Outside, he heard Vanessa's breathy voice approaching.

Logan returned to the hallway, keeping his eyes open for any other zombies. Vanessa was following a man who walked with the quiet air of command bred from the absolute certainty that no one else wanted the role of leader. His coarse black hair was neatly trimmed for maximum efficiency.

Logan held back a grimace. The man looked just like Janine would if she'd had her femininity surgically removed. He braced himself for a wall of hostility.

"Dean, this is Logan." Vanessa said quietly from behind the man's shoulder. Dark cat-like eyes inspected him.

Logan was thrown when a smile broke out on the man's face, exuding genuine warmth.

"G'day Logan. Welcome to Presmort." Dean said cheerfully. He had a strong accent Logan usually associated with cheap beer and hot pies.

"I think he might need a few explanations." Vanessa said quietly. She favoured Logan with a sad smile before drifting away.

Logan noticed that despite being donned in an immaculate suit, the man wore frayed fingerless gloves. The two details clashed horribly, dragging his attention to something far more important.

Every inch of the man's skin was covered except his fingertips and face. Just like the zombie child.

Logan recoiled internally as he realized his guide was another zombie.

"Alright, let's see what we have here." The zombie walked past Logan and pulled a piece of paper off his door. "What the hell is this rubbish? Phase two?" The zombie looked him up and down. "How old are you, Logan?"

"Fooorty-fiiive." Logan groaned.

"You a little...?" he gestured at his head, miming the universal sign for crazy.

Logan blinked a few times. "Nooo?"

The zombie gave him an odd look. "Then what's with the retard act? Your file says you were bitten less than a fortnight ago."

Logan looked at him blankly, mildly surprised the zombie could read.

"Ah! I know!" The zombie snapped it's fingers triumphantly. "You've been watching T.A., haven't you?"

Logan's brow creased. "Whaaat?"

"T.A.? Turn Around? The 'reality show'? You know they're all actors, right?"

Logan's jaw dropped. "Actors?"

"I mean, yeah, they did a pretty good job, but it kinda gives it away with the headshots. I mean c'mon, like they could really get a shot of the Turned charging at the camera every single episode without getting bitten. I won't even go into the insurance issues on that one."

The zombie consulted the paper again, hissing under his breath. "Kinda screwed yourself over on that one. But now you know, you can cut out the moaning and groaning stuff."

"But that's what zombies do!" Logan protested heatedly. "That old one moaned at me the second I got here!"

"What, Baba? Well yeah, she's actually phase two, and she's old. Don't worry though, she's totally harmless. Couldn't gum a gumboot."

"Phase two?"

"It's where everything starts to really visibly break down. Mind. Body. Personality. Memory. Y'know, the kind of zombies you see on TV. T.A. may have been totally fake, but man, they sure nailed those phase two."

Logan stared at the zombie in disbelief. There had been nothing in the Removal Technician's handbook about phases. There was just human and zombie, shoot or be shot.

"But if that's phase two, then what's phase one?"

"You're looking at it mate." the phase one zombie said. "You see, Logan, phase one of zombiism is devious. While you're still walking around thinking you've just got a touch of the flu, you've already passed the virus on through every kiss, every spoon, every sneeze on a crowded bus. That's why they bred this culture where people volunteer themselves, or friends, even family, the moment they suspect something.

"Turned are awful, don't get me wrong, but at least you can see them coming. According to the government though, we're the biggest threat. That's why they make sure we get registered, so they can lock us up behind nice thick walls before we can spread it anywhere else." The zombie said the last sentence cheerfully, but there was a bitter edge to its voice.

"I don't care what this paper says, you are clearly phase one like me." the zombie said confidently. "So I'm going to make this very clear to you. Vanessa is not Infected. It's possible she's a carrier, but we don't know for sure."

The zombie leant forward, it's eyes boring into Logan's. "So you are not, I repeat, not to spit, lick, bite, or share any food or drink with her. Do you understand?"

"O-okay." Logan nodded, even more confused about why they were protecting a human than when the zombies had started talking coherently at him.

"Good. Because if I find out you did any of those things to her, I will lock you in your room 'til the day I Turn." Its lips pulled back to reveal the predatory smile of a shark. "And then I'll lock myself in with you."

Logan stared at the zombie's mouth, the threat lost in his surprise.

"Your teeth are so clean." he said dumbly.

The zombie Dean ran a pink tongue over the little white tombstones. "Thank you. I take care of my body."

"No, I mean, why is your saliva clear?"

"Well, I brush and floss six times a day, before and after meals, and I chew slowly and carefully, and I keep my tongue in the middle of my mouth as best I can."

Logan blinked rapidly. "I don't understand. What does that have to do with anything?"

"It gets rid of anything that might stick and rot in my teeth, and since I can't feel a large portion of my mouth, I gotta chew slowly to keep from biting bits of my tongue or cheek off."

Logan stared at the zombie. "You mean that black drool is actually bits of mouth?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Well, in Baba's case it's mostly old food now. There's only so much Gertie can do for her. Most of her tongue was gone by the six month mark."

"That's horrible!" Logan cried, still stuck on the fact that zombies were continually spewing up bits of their own bodies.

"Not really, just clumsy. What's horrible is the way companies like F.P.I.R. make a living off phase two zombies." His voice simmered with a quiet rage. "After all, you can't call for help if you have no tongue."

## – CHAPTER SIXTEEN –

### INDUCTION

Logan decided to never mention that he'd worked for F.P.I.R as a Removal Technician. The zombie Dean had clearly never had to face down a horde with only a flashlight and knife before.

"Let's get this induction out of the way then." the zombie Dean declared, the bitterness buried once more under a veneer of enthusiasm.

The small hall filled with the sounds of muffled shouting.

"Hold on a sec, I just gotta go break up this little love tiff." The zombie gestured for Logan to follow as it strode quickly up the hall.

The door at the far end opened and a young male zombie backed out as an aggravated female zombie jabbed its chest. Both appeared to be testing the extent of their vocal range with and without words. The male zombie frequently lapsed into mimicking the same tone the female had just used; a time-honoured practice usually employed by three-year-olds.

"-wasting your brains on idiotic escapades-" the female reprimanded, waving a hand dangerously close to the young male's nose.

"-nehneh neh neh-" it responded, leaning back in a deceptively casual manner to avoid a blow to the cheek. A grin spread across its face as it noticed the zombie Dean leaning over to speak in the female's ear.

"Watch out, she's gone Rogue!" the zombie bellowed, the words echoing off the walls.

The female jumped and spun round to glare at him. "Jian! You scared me half to death!"

"Only half?" the blonde zombie grinned.

"How many times do I have to break you two up?" The zombie Dean asked. "At least keep the volume at deafening instead of glass-shattering."

"One hundred and fifty six times." The young male said, raising its fingers to show the math.

"You'd think after one hundred and fifty-six fights you could come up with something a little better than 'nehneh neh neh'. Even Baba could come up with a better response than that." He sighed heavily and rested an affectionate hand on the taller male's shoulder. "Gloria does have a point Mac. You've still got brains. Why not use them?"

"What's the point?" the zombie Mac grumbled and tapped his temple. "Coupla months and this'll be dog food."

"Not enough there to feed a Chihuahua." the zombie Gloria retorted loudly.

"Hows about we all use our indoor voices, huh?" The zombie Dean suggested pleasantly. "Mac, the only people with a couple of months are Baba and," it glanced over its shoulder surreptitiously "possibly Emily, god forbid. Your expiry is set at nine months. Nine! Do you know how lucky you are? You're young, you have most of your skin, and you can still walk. How many people crawled away from that 'No Legs For Brain-Deads' rally?"

"God, I could kill that moron. 'Der, heads are on shoulders, der, if they can't stand they can't eat our brains, der, watch me chop up this zombie, der.' And they followed him! Freakin' idiots."

"I hope they ate him feet first." the zombie Gloria growled.

"Now hang on, that's a bit strong. He was just trying to keep the public safe. With an incredibly stupid idea."

The other two nodded and the three fell silent, lost in thought.

"Did they ever find him afterwards?" the zombie Mac asked quietly.

"They found his axe. And his boots."

"Steelcap?"

"Yup."

"Nice."

The zombie Gloria crossed it's arms and sniffed. "Well, if you're going to talk shiny things, I can see I am no longer required. You," it pointed a jagged nail at the zombie Mac, "read that book I gave you. It has Vikings. That means lots of shiny things and battles."

With that inspiring comment, it left. The zombie Dean smiled at the blonde zombie and pretended to tousle its bristly hair. "She only ever yells at you. You must be special."

"She says it's good for me." the zombie Mac muttered and batted the hand away.

"If it gets you to stop saying 'neh' I'm all for it." the zombie Dean laughed and ducked a lazy attempt at a headlock. "Just don't try that on her."

Smiling, the zombie returned to Logan's side. "Now where were we? Right, tour time! This," it gestured to the cream corridor they were walking down, "is a hallway. Note it's hallishness. Hall-like qualities noted? Right, and now you'll see there's doors in the hall. Behind these doors are rooms identical to yours, with the exception of maybe a nice painting or a floor covered in clothes."

The zombie Dean paused. "Oh wait, you got the end room, didn't you? Okay, almost identical except doubled. Consider yourself lucky. Everyone has to share a room but us. I've got the other one across the hall. I think they were converted from closets. If you're desperate for company you can strike a bargain with one of the guys to swap. I know Mac'd jump at the chance."

The pair reached the end of the hall. The zombie Dean wandered into the middle of the room and spread his arms out.

"This incredibly well-used space is the living room slash tea room slash playroom slash whatever you want. Social central really."

Logan looked around. The living room was the same cream colour as the hallway. The floor was graced with a thick carpet that the interior designer had probably described as 'fresh with organic overtones' when what they really meant was 'mouldy broccoli splattered with hummus'.

The room was dotted with couches and chairs that had probably once been overstuffed before the weight of several bodies over the years had deflated certain areas to create dangerous dips and comfortable crevasses. One chair looked almost completely empty and bore a tell-tale hole near the base where a wisp of stuffing threatened to escape.

To one side the chairs formed a casual circle around a card table, guarding the small counter that clung to the wall. Teapots, coffee mugs and various other beverage necessities cluttered its dull pock-marked surface.

On the opposite side of the room stood a proud if skinny bookcase, littered with knowledge and entertainment of all forms. A worn rocking chair perched in front of the small television. Between the kitchenette and the bookcase hung a pair of heavy cream curtains.

The zombie Dean looked over at a couch and sighed. "And these two are Betty and Jason. Can't pry them apart with a crowbar."

Logan realized that the strange creature on the furniture was actually two zombies in such a tight embrace that he was finding it difficult to discern which limb belonged to who. He swallowed a wave of nausea at the sight of two mouths exchanging contagious fluids.

"They've been in the lovey-dovey stage for over a week now. Best just leave them to it and introduce yourself when they eventually re-emerge as two separate bodies."

The zombie Dean drew aside the heavy curtains to reveal a patio door. The creature pulled it open and slipped through to the garden beyond. Logan weaved through the furniture, carefully skirting around the amorous couple, and stepped into paradise.

Lush green grass enveloped his shoes as he sank into the moist soil with each step. All around him tree foliage wove itself in a blanket dotted with vibrant flowers. The air smelled of spring.

Wet grass, new life and the cloying scent of a dozen perfumes wafted past on the gentle breeze. He breathed deeply and recognized the mild scent of a gardenia hiding amongst the rest. It was his wife's scent. The one that had drifted from her to settle upon everything she touched. It had faded from her long ago but every now and again one of her possessions released a waft of nostalgia upon his unsuspecting nostrils.

Logan swallowed thickly.

The zombie Dean had walked over to a large fig tree and was hanging from the rope of a tire swing. As Logan approached the zombie slid back down the rope. Both feet on the tire, the zombie leant back until its body was almost horizontal. It grinned at him before swinging back upright and jumping onto the ground.

"Wanna try?" the zombie offered.

Logan eyed the rope. It was a nylon construction, weaved from smaller cords. He tugged the rope experimentally. It felt surprisingly sturdy.

Cautiously, he stepped into the middle of the tire. The rope pulled taught but held. The bough above didn't even shift.

He stepped onto the tracked top, swinging in the breeze. Not really sure what he was doing, he placed one hand on top of the other and pulled himself up. Sore muscles screamed in protest but he ignored them, reaching for the sturdy bough above. His fingers scrabbled at the smooth bark, trying to find purchase. His other hand slid down the rope, slick with sweat. He hauled himself up higher and grabbed a smaller branch for leverage.

It snapped.

Logan swung in an arc, the rope clenched tightly in his other hand. His feet pedalled, searching for the tire, and kicked the tree trunk instead. As he swung forward, the rope slipped from his sweaty grasp. He fell the short way to the ground, landing hard on his back.

The zombie Dean leant over him. "Logan? Are you alright?"

Logan grunted. His back and stomach ached with the effort of sitting up.

"No one ever asks me." the zombie Dean sighed. "I could have saved you a lot of trouble. Mac tried to climb the trees out too. C'mon, let's get a proper seat where you can rest up."

The zombie trotted over to a bench half-hidden by hydrangeas and sat down beside the cascade of tiny purple flowers. Logan winced and walked stiffly over, sitting on the far end. He was not confident about the zombie Dean's integrity, but he was in no state to run.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the zombie commented, Logan's failed escape attempt apparently forgotten. "A verdant paradise for young and old."

Logan nodded.

"What do you see, Logan?" the zombie asked.

Logan arrived at the conclusion that he was being questioned about the garden and not his potential cataracts. "Leaves. Flowers. Swing. Greenery."

"There's a lot of greenery. In fact, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find an inch of this place that isn't covered in leaves or flowers."

The zombie Dean traced the pattern carved into the edge of the bench as it spoke. The pattern was a poor attempt of the usual swirly floral mess people added to garden furniture in the ill-conceived belief that it made it more outdoorsy.

"I don't know if you know this, Logan, but there's a little girl in here with us."

Logan nodded, not liking the warm tone the zombie used to describe the zombie child.

"She doesn't know what's behind these leaves, Logan." the zombie continued carefully. "And she will never find out. If you find her digging through these plants, you stop her."

Logan watched the zombie drag its nails across the cement pattern. "I don't care if it means picking her up bodily, you stop her."

It turned to face him. Logan raised his eyes to meet its dark ones. "Okay?"

Logan held the gaze, unnerved but unwilling to show it. "Okay. Why?"

The zombie Dean scanned the garden before leaning over. "Because she doesn't know we're prisoners."

Logan looked at him blankly. "And that's important because...?"

"Look, we're adults. We can accept it's probably for the best that we're not allowed to go down the shops on the off chance we'll Turn and decide the cashier looks tastier than the stock. But how do you explain that to a kid? How do you tell a little girl that she's going to become a killer? How do you show a child their cell bars and expect them to serve their time for a crime they haven't committed yet, let alone understand? How do, how do you explain this-" the zombie ripped back the bougainvillea, exposing a steel wall painted with a homely redbrick print. "-this facade of normality they dare shove down our throats at gunpoint?"

The zombie was shaking with anger, the flowers quivering in its grasp.

Logan eyed the zombie, ready to run if that hidden rage was suddenly turned on him.

After a few moments, it released the plant. The vine lashed back into place, untouched but for a few broken flowers.

When the zombie Dean finally turned back to face him, it was wearing the same pleasant expression as when he had met it in the hall. "Just look after her, okay?"

"Okay." Logan said. He didn't even dare nod.

## – CHAPTER SEVENTEEN –

### WELCOME TO HELL

The sound of the patio doors opening slowly filtered through the leaves to where Logan and the zombie sat. The pair watched as the female zombie that had been harassing the blonde zombie earlier knelt down in a garden bed heavy with weeds. Armed with oversized gloves and a trowel, it began to remove them in a surgical manner.

"Gloria took charge of the garden." the zombie Dean explained softly. "It takes forever to get all the seeds but she makes it happen. Since she arrived this place has been a refuge rather than refuse."

Logan found himself breathing in time to the trowels movements. The hypnotic rhythm soothed his mind and relaxed his body.

He tensed when the zombie child appeared from under a cluster of rhododendron and pounced on the zombie Gloria. The child slid off the body when the zombie didn't respond.

It knelt in the dirt, nose centimetres away from the weed the zombie Gloria was removing. The female zombie pulled the small creature aside and extracted the empty trowel. Mouths moved and presumably something was said to the zombie child, but from where Logan was sitting it was as meaningless as the buzzing of the bees amongst the flowers.

As he watched, the little creature plunged its hands into the dirt joyfully and pulled out the weed, roots and all. The zombie Gloria put aside the trowel and together the two began removing weeds with a gentler and far more accurate touch.

"Emily was brought in a couple of months ago." the zombie Dean explained. "She was a bright kid, but she's losing it fast."

From this distance Logan could see nothing to indicate Emily was anything more than your average helpful child. It was deeply unsettling.

"Her mother, Vanessa, the one you promised not to Infect? She volunteered herself. Her paperwork classifies her as a carrier, but I think it was made up to stop her raising hell. You should have seen the look in her eyes after Gloria gave Emily her first jam tart. If she was Infected, we would have had a serious Moment on our hands."

Logan picked up the strange intonation. "What's a 'Moment'?"

"You know when you lapse into something that you swore, for very good reasons, you would never do? That's a Moment."

Logan looked blankly at the ground, still clueless but unwilling to ask again.

"Now what do you need to know..." the zombie Dean mused. "The TV only gets the one emergency broadcast channel. Everything else is static because the thing still runs on analogue. And we don't have any internet connection. Hell, we don't have any technology past the nineties. It's cheaper for the government to recycle things."

Logan felt the blood seep from his face. No technology. No surfing the web for the latest articles on genetic abnormalities. No updating his encryptions to shut down the latest hacker. No documentaries about bizarre biology while he pretended to be interested in whatever Karimah was forcing him to try that week.

He put his head in his hands and groaned.

The zombie Dean patted his shoulder. Logan was too distraught to even flinch.

"I know. I was addicted to cooking shows. I always watched them on my phone. And then, poof! All gone."

It was too much for him. First they made him get rid of his cat, then they dragged him away from his home, and now they'd taken away his technology.

He'd never get to see the end of that parasite marathon now.

"Mac went spastic when he saw they'd taken away everything. Mp3 player, PSP, phone, laptop, anything that could be hacked to send digital signals was removed. If he hadn't found his comics I reckon he would have Turned right then. That or had an aneurism.

"And the twins weren't much better. Clara was screaming bloody murder about losing her contacts, and Dana kept trying to use keyboard shortcuts on her sketchpad.

"Actually, if you watch her left hand during a fight you can see her fingers trying to hit control-Z. I call it the 'Undo' twitch. It's kind of sad really. Emily doesn't know how lucky she is that she never got addicted to that stuff."

Logan raised his head and stared dolefully at the female zombie still gardening. The light was streaming through its straw hat, speckling the tanned skin and gloves with golden diamonds. He distracted himself by figuring out the angle of light required for the current patterns. He was vaguely aware that the male zombie was still talking to him for some reason. He didn't see how there could anything more to say after dropping that bombshell.

"...everyone cleans their own dishes, except for group meetings and once a month the whole house is allowed to send off a list of required goods and services. The list is pinned up next to the fridge. I recommend you pre-empt damages by about three months because we're not exactly on an express list.

"Don't forget to add your points to the running total. We've got a limit per heads. If there's something really expensive you should probably bring it up at a meeting or games night. That's tonight by the way.

"Oh, and I recommend you get an eating routine, say three, maybe four times a day. Make one a snack. Maybe set a regular time for it, we've only got so much meat, and if we run out before the next delivery it will not be pretty. It's bad enough being hungry all the time without a mealtime to distract you."

Logan replayed that last line in his head to check that the error was still there. "All the time?"

"Yeah, you know- oh, right, you're type A. Okay, so it won't worry you so much, but type R's like Gloria over there got the raw end of the stick. The virus just flicks something inside, and suddenly they're hungry all the time. Without meal plans, half the house would just keep eating our entire supply until their guts burst.

"So if anyone's grouchy at you, don't take it personally. It's usually just the hunger. Well, that and the brain damage."

Logan nodded but he wasn't really paying attention. Ravenous zombies paled in comparison to technological cold turkey. Running for your life usually only lasted five minutes but boredom had a lifetime guarantee.

"So what's your story? Usually people are running their mouth off at this point, but all you've done is nod."

Logan nodded automatically. His neck prickled as the male zombie stared at him expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, how'd you get Infected?"

Logan fumbled with the truth in his mind, trying to sift through the facts and find some acceptable grains to present. Confessing that he'd cheated the system to escape debt and homelessness didn't seem like it would go down all that well. He wasn't even going to touch the Culler aspect.

He settled on a microscopic but completely pure grain. "A baby bit me."

The zombie Dean waited, until it became apparent that nothing else was forthcoming. "Right."

The zombie stood up and stretched, turning to face the sun's warmth. "Just a little observation here, and correct me if I'm wrong, but you're not exactly a people person, are ya mate?"

"No." Logan admitted, clasping his hands together. More to the point, he was not a zombie person. No one should be.

"Well then, in that case," the zombie Dean turned towards him, his face hidden in shadow, "welcome to hell."

## – CHAPTER EIGHTEEN –

### MOMENTS

Done scaring Logan, the zombie Dean disappeared back inside the house. Logan's stomach growled at him, reminding him that he hadn't actually eaten anything today.

Giving the zombie in the garden a wide berth, he trotted across the lawn and opened the patio door. The zombie Dean had already drawn the curtains. Logan flung them aside, wondering why they bothered.

There was a loud thud and high-pitched scream.

He scanned the room, looking for the victim. A girl with a mop of frizzy red hair was splayed across the floor, hands covering her face.

"That was awesome!" an identical girl cried behind her, clapping. "Do it again!"

"Shut the curtains." the zombie Gertie ordered from the corner. It was knitting beside the tongueless zombie, her yarn wrapped around the creature's trembling hands.

Logan dragged the heavy fabric closed as the girl on the floor sat up and inspected her shin. There was a small graze under her kneecap.

"Great." she muttered. She started patting the ground around the overturned footstool. "What happened to my pencils?"

Logan bent down and picked up the pencil case near his feet. "Are you okay?" he asked as he weaved through the minefield of furniture.

The girl froze when he spoke, eyes downcast. She nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scream."

"That was the best part!" her twin said excitedly. "You were all like 'woah!' and then 'eeeee!'" She stood on one leg, mimicking her twins fall. "Classic Dana." she laughed.

Logan didn't smile. He bent over and offered Dana her possession.

"Thank you." she whispered. She reached for it timidly, like she expected him to bite. As she took the pencil case her fingers brushed his. They were like icicles.

Logan let go hurriedly and backed up. The girl was another zombie.

He looked at its twin. A long haywire fringe hid the eyes in deep shadow, but he was certain they were black. Both had the same pale skin that threw their freckles into sharp relief.

"What's up?" the zombie twin asked. "Something on my face? Or you just checking me out?"

Logan shook his head. He couldn't deal with this right now.

He zigzagged over to sink, scrubbing his hands thoroughly. He looked unseeing at the soapsuds as he thought.

He'd reached out and touched a zombie, and it hadn't bitten his hand off. There'd been no tingle of terror or desperate need for a knife. No drooling or moaning to call other zombies to its side. In fact, it had seemed more scared of him than him of it. That never happened.

He moved over to the fridge and opened it, looking right through its contents.

A zombie afraid of a human, he thought. It just didn't make any sense.

"Hey old man, you gunna pick something or just let all the cold out?"

Logan looked up at the blonde zombie that had been fighting in the hallway. It was wearing a scowl and slouching against the cupboards, watching him.

"Um, what do you suggest?" he asked, gestured at the stacks of frozen meat.

The scowl relaxed, leaving the zombie looking mildly pleased.

"You want my opinion." it clarified.

"Yeah."

An actual smile broke out across its face. "Alright."

It leant over and pointed at the stacks near the top of the fridge. "Those always suck. Don't matter what they are, the fridge goes weird up there and makes them go black."

"Freezer burn." Logan supplied.

"That stuff. You wanna go for something on the second shelf. Best stuff is anything you'd see in a normal butcher. Liver, kidney, tripe. Stay away from the sausages, they are hard as. Full of chewy bits and I swear, one time I found a claw."

The blonde zombie licked its lips as it thought, leaving a thin veneer of black. Logan shrank back slightly.

"Steak can go either way, sometimes it's the toughest thing on the planet, other times it's just lots of off cuts so it's good stuff but not really what you'd call a steak. As for turkey..."

It pulled out a thin package with the label 'Turktastic' and stuffed it up the top. "Only jerks like turkey."

"I saw that Mac!" The loud-mouthed zombie girl yelled. "I'm telling Dean!"

"Okay okay, I'm putting it back." the zombie Mac replied. It pulled out the second package from the top and shoved the replacement into the middle, flashing Logan a cheeky grin. Logan fought the urge to recoil from the slimy teeth.

"You'll want this one." the zombie boy told Logan and pulled out a packet labelled 'Cowthentic'. "Trust me, it's better than it sounds."

"Thanks." Logan took the packet hurriedly, fingers sticking to the frosted plastic. "Is it safe to put straight into the microwave?"

"Just stab a hole in it and you're good to go." the zombie Mac advised as Logan wiped away some ice. "It's all written on there."

"Thanks. You've been a big help."

To his surprise, those words made the zombie smile so wide its dry lips cracked.

"Shit." the zombie hissed, licking its upper lip. "Is it bleeding?"

Logan waved his hand dismissively. "It's just a split lip. You'll be fine."

"Stupid mouth." The zombie Mac touched the tear gingerly and checked its hands. "This is what I get for helping people."

The zombie stalked away, muttering angrily to itself.

Logan shrugged and read the instructions. They were very similar to the ones he'd found on the packages in his apartment. These ones however, went the extra mile to dutifully inform him that no humans had been harmed in the process, and suggested zapping it lightly for a few minutes to achieve that natural 'recently deceased' feel.

He checked the packet to make sure there was no serving suggestion along the lines of 'roll in dirt and stab repeatedly for that authentic gored look'. It was unbelievable to think someone had sat down and written this packaging with zombie comfort in mind.

Logan threw the packet into the microwave with more force than necessary and punched the defrost button, turning it up to the highest setting.

"That's way too long." the zombie Gloria commented. "Look, it's starting to brown."

Logan jumped. He'd never even heard the creature coming.

"I don't like it bloody." he said lamely.

"Waste of time if you ask me." the zombie sniffed.

"I didn't ask you."

There was a pause.

"Other people want to heat their food too, you know."

"Well they should have been here first." he said calmly, watching the meat rotate.

There was another longer pause.

"I don't like you." the zombie decided.

"Really, because I think you're delightful." Logan replied sarcastically.

There was a sharp intake of air from the circle of chairs nearby. Logan turned to see both twins peering over the sofa, black eyes shining.

The next moment his vision was filled with the zombie Gloria. It's hands drove into his cheeks, fingers mercifully padded by gardening gloves.

"Fight, fight, fight, fight!" cheered the loudmouthed zombie girl.

Logan pushed the zombie Gloria away, surprised by how light the creature was. It bounced back, dirty gloves smothering his mouth.

"Stop it, make it stop!" wailed the other twin.

Logan breathed in soil and gagged. He held his attacker at bay with one hand while he struggled with the gloves at his mouth.

"Gloria!" The bulbs overhead flicked on and off, filling the room with short bursts of warm light. "Get a hold of yourself. You're better than this."

The zombie Gloria staggered away, arm raised as a shield. Logan blinked a couple of times, wiping soil from his face. His hand was shaking.

"You alright?" the zombie Dean asked Logan. He nodded slowly, more bewildered than harmed.

The zombie stepped away from the light switch and walked over to the couch. "You two. Gloria is not here for your sordid entertainment. You are to come get me when she has a Moment. Is that understood?"

Two red mops bounced in agreement.

The zombie Dean turned to face his attacker.

"Gloria."

The zombie dropped it's arm, blinking away tears.

"I know it's hard, but you've got to control yourself."

"Do you think I mean this?" she snarled. "It keeps sneaking up on me. One minute I'm having a conversation, and the next I'm trying to gouge his eyes out..."

Logan shook, the world around him dissolving as blackened hands clawed at him from his memory. The microwave pinged, unnoticed, as once more, the screech of the breaking grate filled his ears.

The hot packet was pressed into his hands and he was given orders to leave. Logan obeyed them automatically, carrying the meal to his room and shutting the door. He retained enough awareness to wedge the tartan suitcase between the bed and the frame before losing himself in the mental fog once more.

So this was his life now, he thought. Playing nice with the human masks, dodging attacks when they slipped, and eating meat not actually deemed fit for humans. If he played his cards right, he could die of malnutrition before any crazed zombie could get a bite in. At least then he'd fit in with those other gaunt creatures lurking through the house.

The old ones were the worst. They barely resembled humans any more, yet they sat around drinking tea, babbling and knitting like normal people. It made him sick to the stomach how they still played at human when they were so clearly monsters.

He looked despondently at his packet of overcooked liver before putting it aside. He'd lost his appetite.

He hadn't felt this way since his first day as a Culler, when his only orders had been to walk the grounds and cull anything that moved. No security zone, no submachine gun, just him, his knife and a torch. That sort of pressure wound a person's nerves tighter than a violin string, every shadow plucking at it in hopes of extracting a high-pitched note of anxiety.

Logan had graduated from screams of terror to animalistic snarls over the course of that year. The victory of shattered skulls leaking their darkened vital fluids could do that to a man.

The job was exactly what he needed at the time. It had let him unleash the wounded animal in him and turn it into a beast to be feared. He had turned predator on every creature that saw without light, walked without thought and dared breathe the same air as him. Each living corpse became a target for the agonizing rage and sorrow that tore at his heart and mind with each distressingly bright morning met without his wife.

By the end of that year he was spent, with nothing left to fill that internal void but the knowledge that he had a job to do, and the capacity to do it.

But that hadn't been enough to silence the accompanying splint of knowledge that what he clung to was the lowest rung of the ladder.

At the back of his mind he'd harboured the foolish hope that he could work his way up to something that didn't end in an ex-person's internal organs decorating abandoned buildings. In his mind he was simply waiting for recognition of his dedication. He would climb those rungs to sit in a padded chair behind a mahogany desk, where the most threatening object in the room would be his own pen.

And it had happened, only not to him. Amir had risen through the ranks in a matter of weeks while Logan remained behind, cleaning his gun and counting his bullets.

Fifteen years of his life he had given to the destruction of those creatures, with nothing to show for it but the wrinkles on his brow, the screams in his dreams, and the guts in his carpet. Except even that had been taken from him now.

Never again would he tread that indefinable sludge into those well-worn fibres for Janine to puncture with her needle-thin heels. Never again would he be woken at some ungodly hour of the day by a fluffy tail wedged up his left nostril. Never again would his tastebuds tingle as he devoured one of Karimah's dishes.

His stomach prickled with hunger at the memory of Karimah's cooking. Logan retrieved the over-done liver and dug into it, pretending it was one of her more exotic meals.

The woman had been a saint to feed him all those years, and he'd never done anything in return except eat. Perhaps that's all she'd wanted. He'd never asked for much and adjusted his expectations for the little he actually got, but now even that was gone.

Annoyingly, when he really thought about it, he could only blame himself or Janine. So he blamed Janine.

Logan's dinner of contemplation was interrupted by loud rapping. He sighed, not moving from his spot. He knew it was unlikely, but he hoped it was a phase two zombie at his door. At least they didn't generate a confusing dichotomy between fearing an attack and fending off conversation.

"Mr. Logan?" a wavering female voice called through the door.

No such luck. Bending to the pressure of societal expectations, he pulled the suitcase aside and let the door open. It smacked into his big toe and bounced back.

The old female zombie called Gertie peered around the edge to see him giving his door the finger. Its wrinkles curved into a grin.

"Meeting in the main room, Mr. Logan. Better run now if you want a good seat, or you'll end up with springs in your bum and two very giggly girls."

"I'm eating dinner." he muttered. He positioned his foot so he could kick the door closed if the slightest threat arose.

The zombie frowned. "It's barely afternoon tea time."

He shrugged. "Linner then."

"Linner sounds too much like dinner. I'd say that's Lundin."

"That's a city."

"Yes, a city that knows the proper time for tea. So come have some."

Logan blinked. "I don't get a choice, do I?"

"Not really, no." It smiled at him. "There are a lot of people interested in meeting you, and they can't all fit in this little room. You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat."

Logan blinked, not sure if it was a threat or a misplaced analogy. The zombie mistook his confusion for incomprehension.

"You know how Schrödinger's cat was stuffed in a box?" the zombie asked. "Well it died for our curiosity."

Logan tried to correct the creature. "That's not what Schrödinger's ca-"

"And Dicaprio was curious about how it worked. So he dissected the cat."

"I think you mean DaVin-"

"And the penalty for eavesdropping on private conversations was death in the middle ages."

The zombie stopped talking and stared into space for a moment. A puzzled look crossed its face.

It looked down again, and smiled when it saw him. "Oh, Mr. Logan. I was just coming to tell you..." she trailed off, looking distraught. "I already told, you didn't I?"

Logan nodded, wondering what the hell was going on.

"Oh dear. Please excuse me, I think I had a little Moment." The zombie leaned against the door heavily, looking lost.

"You were telling me about a meeting." Logan prompted, not quite sure why he did.

"Oh yes. Come along when you're done with your lundin. Everyone's dying to meet you."

The old female zombie hobbled away, shaking. Logan was appalled to feel tendrils of pity creeping in. He squashed the feeling instantly. A zombie was still a zombie, no matter how upset it looked.

After a quick moment of weighing up the potential consequences of not attending the meeting, Logan gulped down the remaining liver and felt for his knife. Satisfied that he was fed and armed, he left the sanctuary of his room and attended his first meeting as a zombie.

## – CHAPTER NINETEEN –

### THE MEETING

A small crowd of pure chaos was swirling around the living room. Kids ducked and weaved as they raced for their favourite furniture and adults jostled one another reaching for the kettle. Others clung tightly to mugs of steaming liquid as they manoeuvred their way carefully to a preferred spot. Each body wore a different onslaught of winter clothes, creating the impression of a patchwork quilt undulating with each breath.

Edging around the room, Logan managed to seize a solid leather armchair and hauled it a few feet away from the large table where a circle of furniture was gathering. A few prods of the cushion revealed nothing unusual. The cushion itself was sewn to the base of the chair.

Gently, he lowered himself and felt the leather refuse to shift to accommodate his backside. He wriggled back until he was in the groove created by multiple sittings of variously shaped people. He tried to ignore the feeling of being very close to the ground while his feet dangled centimetres from the floor.

He huffed, blowing a few grey strands from his left eye over to his nose. He swept them back with one hand and waited for the hubbub to settle. Nearby Vanessa perched on the edge of a wicker chair, the zombie child balanced on her knee. The creature, as though sensing he was looking, turned its head to stare at him. The black eyes were like two empty pits trying to swallow him whole.

Logan suppressed a shiver and broke its gaze.

On the far side of the room two waif-thin zombies were choosing cushions. He recognized them as the twins that had just watched the zombie Gloria attack him that morning. The eye-shattering colours they now wore made them look like red lollipops with technicolour sticks.

As one the pair picked up a purple pillow and threw it at the blonde zombie lounging on the sofa opposite. The zombie Mac picked it up off the floor and tucked the extra cushion behind its head.

One of the twins pouted dramatically and turned to whine at a wisp of a male zombie. The creature was almost transparent in its profuse desire to remain innocuous. It fiddled nervously with its thin silver-rimmed glasses and smiled timidly at each lollipop in turn, nodding.

If the zombie wasn't their father, Logan thought, then it was doing the world's greatest impression of a pusillanimous lump.

The zombie Dean stood up and raised a hand for silence. The group settled and gradually everyone stopped talking. There was a snort from a velvet armchair as an old male zombie sat bolt upright in response to a sharp jab from its wife's elbow.

"G'day everyone. Let me just say that it's great to see everyone here for once. Before we start the fun there's a few things that need to be cleared up.

"Any item that is not to be shared with the house must be properly labelled, and only then can a complaint be issued. I would also like to amend a statement I made last week and clarify that cups and mugs are the same thing. This means," the zombie stared firmly at the twins, "that when you have been asked to clean away the cups, that does not entitle you to leave the mugs, or vice versa.

The zombie moved its gaze to where the zombie Gertie was nestled. Logan was relieved to see it looked much perkier now, assuaging any vestiges of guilt he had.

"In accordance with the vote, one person may not be the top hat for more than three games in a row. This rule expands across days and weeks, but not months." the zombie Dean said pointedly.

"Let me remind everyone that you have exactly one week before the end of this month, whereupon I will be collecting the checklist and posting it. So make sure you've ticked everything you want and that you've printed unusual orders in clear handwriting. If you're having difficulty doing so, please ask Vanessa to help you."

The group's potential carrier balanced the zombie child on one arm and raised her other to display her remarkably steady hand.

"Thanks Nessa. Last but not least, I'd like to introduce our newest member."

The zombie Dean extended a friendly hand to where Logan slumped awkwardly. "Up you get mate."

As one, every head in the room turned to look at him. Rows of vacant black eyes pierced his heart with cold dread. He froze.

"No need to be shy, we're all friends here. Stand up and let them have a look at ya. These guys gotta put a name to a face still."

The zombies continued to watch him. Logan watched the zombies right back. Bandaids dotted some faces while others were covered in thick makeup. Their lips were dry and split, holding at bay mouths full of slowly rotting teeth, just waiting to sink into his flesh. Logan felt his foot twitch as a muscle spasm ripped through his leg, urging him to run.

"I think he's stuck." a middle-aged female zombie speculated. As it spoke he glimpsed the veneer of black slime on the creature's remaining teeth.

"Mac, haul him out."

The zombie Mac towered over him, so close he could see the thin ring of arctic blue that lined the zombie's expanded pupils. Gripping Logan's armpits, the blonde zombie lifted him up like he was an infant.

"The great Logan, defeated by an armchair. I heard you faced down Gloria during a Moment. Wish I'd been there to see it." The zombie grinned down at him. "Woulda been nice to watch for once."

"You didn't miss much. It was over in like, five seconds." one of the twins called across the table.

The zombie Mac walked back to the couch and lay down, stretching both legs over the armrest. "And yet I heard screaming. What happened Clara? Catch sight of yourself in a mirror?"

The zombie girl's brows furrowed, dragging with it a thick layer of vibrant green powder. "I'm Dana."

The blonde zombie tried to hide its embarrassment. "I thought Clara was into the orange lipstick."

"Yeah, it looks awesome." the other twin piped up. Its lips were magenta.

"So why aren't you wearing it?"

"Cos I can't see it on me, stupid." The zombie Clara turned to its quiet twin. "Told you so. Can't even tell us apart."

"Well, it is a lot of makeup..." the zombie Dana began.

"You can never have too much makeup, Dana. God, you're so dumb sometimes."

The zombie girl tried to rally. "Sam told me he didn't like girls with lots of makeup..."

"And yet, who did he end up dating? Oh that's right, me. Boys just say that stuff to sound sensitive, Dana. In the end, they always go for the girl with the gloss. Sam, T.J., Jesse, Mick, Brock-"

"But they all dumped you..."

Orange-nailed hands flew to matching lips with that last remark, the left pinkie trembling uncontrollably. The magenta twin's eyes narrowed.

"Daddy!" it screeched in an octave that should never be heard indoors. "Dana's being mean to me!"

The zombie father looked up from the window it had been gazing through. "Dana, be nice to your sister."

"I'm sorry Clara, I didn't mean it. You were just too awesome and they couldn't handle it."

"And don't you forget it."

The magenta twin plopped back into its seat and looked up at it's twin expectantly. The orange twin sat meekly. There was a moment of awkward silence before the magenta female presented a peace offering.

"Mac sucks?"

"Totally." the orange twin replied, but Logan noticed it continued to sneak glances at the blonde zombie, a look of longing on its face.

"Everyone," the zombie Dean continued as if nothing had happened, "this is Logan. He had a run-in with a Turned baby and now gets to room with us. He's a bit on the quiet side, so if you want a conversation, I suggest you do the talking. That was Logan, as in Low, and Gan. Low as is near the floor and Gan as in... I dunno what a Gan is, but you get what I'm saying. Anyway, make him feel welcome. You can take a seat now mate."

Logan fell gratefully into his seat and surreptitiously scooted the armchair back a few inches. There was a flurry of movement and a Monopoly board was plonked on the table.

The action caused instant uproar. The twins started shouting about the pointlessness of luck games, the zombie Mac picked a fight with the middle-aged female over who got to be the race car, and the zombie Dean had to explain repeatedly to the couple wrapped around each other why they couldn't both play as the iron and double their assets.

"Just like a real family, isn't it?" a voice commented near his ear. Logan jumped and turned so fast his neck cracked.

The zombie Gertie smiled at him, the Moment in the hall apparently forgotten. "Are you a monopoly man, Mr. Logan?"

"Not really." he muttered, trying not to think about the fact that the creature inches from his face was a scatter-brained flesh eater. He stared determinedly at the harmless cottonwool bun perched atop its head.

"Oh it's great fun, especially when you get their backs against the wall and then take them to the cleaners. Of course, I always play best when I'm the top hat. Would you be a dear and get it for me?" it asked sweetly.

Logan leapt out of the chair gladly, determined to get as much distance between himself and the zombie as possible.

He had already picked up the metal icon before he realised he had placed himself in the centre of a crush of more zombies. He shrunk into himself and tried to back away hurriedly, but he was stopped by a hand pulling at his trouser leg. Looking down, he met a pair of large pleading eyes and a minute pout.

"I wanna be the fimble." the golden-haired zombie lisped.

Logan looked around for its mother but Vanessa had disappeared. Typical parent, he thought, never around when you needed them.

He tried to pull his leg away but the creature just followed him like a puppy on a leash. It was looking at him expectantly. For the first time since the creature had appeared in his doorway, he saw it blink. It was a long, slow blink. When it opened its eyes again they watered with pain.

In that moment Logan's brain connected the dots. Half the reason he had carried a torch was so he could shine it in zombies' eyes and send them into spasms. The only reason that could possibly work would be because zombie eyes couldn't adjust to changes in light.

That was why the child's stares were so disturbing. The eyes could never change to convey any emotion.

Without really knowing why, Logan reached over for the thimble and held it above the blonde head. The child released its grip and, with a look of intense concentration, wrapped its hand around the silver icon. Icy fingers dug into his flesh as it overshot.

Logan withdrew his hand as thought it had been stung.

"I'm a fimble!" it cried gleefully, unaware of the revulsion rippling through Logan as it retrieved its prize.

It twirled happily and pointed a pudgy finger at itself. "I'm a fimble." it stated matter-of-factly and skipped back to its chair.

"You're welcome." he grumbled and wiped his hand against his shirt as though it could erase the touch.

Vanessa appeared out of nowhere, a ragdoll in hand. "That was nice of you. Which one did you get?"

"Thimble." he replied, annoyed that she had chosen this moment to resurface.

She laughed and laid a warm hand on his arm. "I meant which token did you pick?"

"None."

"Then what's that in your hand?" she asked, pointing to his closed right hand. He opened it to reveal the top hat.

"Oh, that naughty old woman! Gertie sent you to get that, didn't she? She's been the hat for five weeks and she's been thrashing us every time. It's about time she let someone else have some luck.

"Here, let me take that," she picked up the miniature top hat, her nails tickling his palm, "and you give her this," she dropped a battleship into his hand, "and you can be, let's see, this looks like you." A small dog, fur carved in great detail, joined the ship.

"If there's any trouble, tell her I saw what she did to Matilda yesterday." she added in a hushed voice.

Logan returned to his seat where the zombie Gertie had set up its own chair. "How'd you go then?" it asked cheerfully, apparently too absorbed in pouring tea to look up.

"No luck sorry."

He spread the objects across his armrest, keeping the chair between him and the old zombie woman.

It picked the ship up and watched it slip through its trembling fingers. "Never send a man to do a woman's job. Who took it?"

"Vanessa. She knows what you did to Matilda yesterday."

"That girl needs to work on her threats." The zombie woman rose to reclaim her token.

"Is it really that important?"

"It's the principle of the thing. Got to have it."

"But if you take it now they'll never let you take it peacefully. Whereas if you let someone else be the top hat this time, you can have it for three more games afterwards." he pointed out logically. "You can still win without it."

The zombie sat back down and thought about this. Eventually it nodded.

Curiosity got the better of him. "What did you do to Matilda anyway?" he asked.

"Oh, she was complaining that we hadn't ticked the right sort of coffee. I told her she wouldn't know the difference between a double-decaf short black and dirt." The zombie Gertie grinned. "She drank the whole cup."

"You made her drink dirt?"

"What? No, that's just mean. I gave her a double espresso. She was up all night."

Logan made a mental note to never upset the little old zombie. A low moan rose from somewhere behind him, making him tense so hard he clawed the armchair.

The zombie Gertie looked past Logan. "Hold on Baba, I'll get you a fresh cup."

Logan swivelled to look behind his chair. In the corner, almost hidden under a pile of blankets wet with tea, was the shrivelled old zombie. Its huge eyes were glued to the TV screen. He couldn't hear anything from where he was sitting, but it seemed riveted. The chair was slowly rocked back and forth in time to its trembling.

He turned away, pressed his back and neck against the chair and told himself that it was too decrepit to kill him. His knife pressed into the small of his back, providing some comfort. He concentrated on the game, trying to block out the growing terror from the reminder that he was trapped in a house with a horde of flesh-eating zombies.

Logan looked over at the other human in the room and watched her dangle the ragdoll in front of her zombie daughter. He took some small comfort in the knowledge that if Vanessa could survive in here, so could he.

He would have been a lot less comforted had he known that in a few short weeks he would be the only human left.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY –

### VIXENS

Logan tapped the armchair with his fingers, beginning to understand why the zombie Gertie had it in for the zombie Matilda. What had started as an enquiry had turned into an all-out war, bringing the game to a halt while the banker had it out with their husband.

"Who has the banking experience, I would like to know? I was a part of the RSB for three years!"

"What, the Rich Snob's Bank? You worked in information; your job consisted of filing your nails and reading off the teleprompter."

"It's called a database, you old fool. What makes you so qualified?"

"I have had several successful investments and worked in a number of industry service jobs which handled large sums of money, I'll have you know."

"What, you mean the Dunk'N'Drive? The only thing you ever invested in was a pair of jeans, and those have holes in the thighs."

"If I could just-" the zombie Dean began, reaching for the box of notes. The zombie Matilda pulled the box out of reach, steamrolling over the interruption.

"I have land to my name, Mat."

"Yeah, with my house on it, Hor. Who settled all the accounts for you?"

"Who drove up bills making emergency three-hour calls to discuss what Sandra said to Dior?"

"Who bought a car and still hasn't paid it off?"

"Who paid full price for everything?"

"Who bought two tool kits and only used them once!?"

"Do not get me started on that! Those tools were faulty!"

"The only thing faulty was your handyman genes!"

"You wanna talk genes, let's talk about what happened with the kids."

"Those children are magnificent!"

"We got a brickie and a hairdresser!"

"There's nothing wrong with Megan wanting to be a part of the construction industry."

"But why did Phil have to be the hairdresser? Ever since he started working he's had a lisp!"

The zombie Clara perked up at that comment. The zombie poked its sister and pointed at the zombie Mac, whispering and giggling. The zombie Dana's eyes widened, but no laughter was forthcoming.

"It's the voice of the industry! Besides, everyone knows the best are gay."

"My son is not gay! He's just confused!"

"Well he's been confused for a very long time then. He's been living with Fernando going on twelve years now."

"You did it to him! You bought him those designer shoes and made him paint his nails with that clear stuff!"

"Well you were the one who gave a girl a dirt bike for her tenth birthday."

"I just wanted her out of the house!"

"There, right there, you hear that? You are a bad father! How could you cast your own child out at such a young age?"

"Because she kept stealing my caulk gun and sealing everything!"

The zombie Dean stood up. The mood of the room shifted to rapt attention, and to Logan's amazement, both parties fell silent.

"Do either of you really want to be the banker?" the zombie Dean asked.

The couple shook their heads.

"Do either of you actually want to play Monopoly?"

The couple shrugged.

"You just came to see the new guy, didn't you."

The zombie Horace snorted. "'Bout time we got some good blood in here. All the young'uns were making me feel like a feeble old coot."

"Well you finally got something right then!" the zombie Matilda snapped, rising to leave.

"Here's a thought darling, why don't you go pour some honey on your head and stick it in an ant's nest." the zombie Horace said sweetly, rising also.

"It'd be heaven compared to listening to you snore. You sound like you swallowed a beehive."

The couple left the room. Logan could hear them still bickering all the way down the hall.

The zombie Gertie turned to Logan. "And that, my lad, is one of the many wonderful reasons you don't take guff from Matilda. You give her an inch and she'll walk over you a mile."

"I don't understand why they stay together."

"Oh, they're very traditional. They'll talk of poisoning one another all the time, but the moment you mention divorce, they look at you like you're the crazy one."

"Well then, let's get on with the game, shall we?" The zombie Dean smiled at the remaining people and assumed the role of banker without question or opposition.

After ten minutes, the magenta twin threw their token at the board and stood.

"This is boring!" it sneered and hauled its twin out their seat. "Let's go play Love/Hate with my TeenTaste mags."

The zombie Dana looked down at the pile of pretend money it had amassed.

"I said-" The zombie repeated loudly.

"Okay." the twin folded quietly. It reluctantly took the token off the board and stood, following its sister out of the room.

The zombie father looked conflicted as it watched the twins wander off. The zombie Dean laid a hand on its knee. "Michael, stay and enjoy yourself. They'll be fine."

"They'll be back when they run out of magazines." the zombie Gertie added confidently.

The zombie called Michael nodded slowly, unconvinced but persuaded enough not to move from it's seat just yet. Logan guessed from the male's timid nature that it'd end up catatonic, and probably grateful for the peace it would bring. That zombie Clara was as pleasant as nails on a chalkboard and just as high-pitched.

As he waited for his turn Logan kept an eye on the little zombie perched on its mother's knee. The ragdoll Vanessa had fetched had been rejected in favour of the thimble. The silver token was placed on each finger in turn until the creature found one that fit. It waved the capped pinkie at its mother who smiled encouragingly and played on its behalf.

While Logan had to admit that the creature was cute, he still didn't trust it. It had managed to confuse him with its child act long enough to grab two of his limbs, and that alone terrified him.

He didn't know what was wrong with him. He knew zombies, he knew what they did to humans, and yet they had still somehow manipulated him into doing their bidding. He had to stop lowering his guard for their human masks or next time he might not get away will all his limbs attached.

The game progressed and the zombie Gertie proved it possessed a shrewd and harsh business mind. It forced the zombie Mac to sell most of its properties to pay the rent, and landed Vanessa in jail. Logan was already in there after landing on an unfortunate square early on, much to his relief. His gut clenched each time he leant into the crowd of zombies to move his token or reach for notes from the zombie Dean's cold hands.

The zombie couple Jason and Betty remained confident in the few houses they had bought, despite the fact that no one ever landed on them.

The zombie Dean remained below radar, with no houses or hotels on the board yet retaining a surprisingly large wad of cash. Logan had no idea how the zombie managed it.

The zombie Gloria had piled on the hotels and kept exchanging large notes for smaller ones to give the illusion of wealth.

Halfway through the game, the twins returned. Each sported a strip of brightly-coloured hair, one blue and one green. Standing at the head of the table, they turned slowly and showed off their latest fashion accessory. Their father made quiet choking sounds.

"Oh dear." Vanessa said to the horrified zombie father. "Perhaps you should have gone."

"No no, it's okay Daddy, look." The zombie that Logan was pretty sure was called Dana fiddled with the blue streak for a moment and then pulled the whole section away.

"Oh, a home-made clip-on. What clever girls you are." the zombie Gertie said admiringly.

There was a squeak from Vanessa's lap. Logan glanced over at the zombie Emily. The look of wonder on the little zombie's face was almost comical.

"Mommy, I wanna be pink!" it cried, bouncing on its mother's lap with excitement.

"Oh honey, I don't think you have enough hair to do that." she said soothingly and ran her fingers through its blonde curls. "We had a hard enough time making these ringlets, remember? It's just too fine for anything fancy."

The little zombie reached out for the coloured hair, completely ignoring its mother's words.

The zombie Dana leant down and gave the little zombie its blue hairpiece, smiling gently.

"Yeah, you need loads of hair like us to pull off this kind of pure awesomeness." The zombie Clara flicked its hair and the green streak fell out, scattering everywhere.

"Dana!" it cried indignantly. "You gave me the crummy pin!"

"But they're the same."

"Then gimme yours." The zombie Clara snatched at the blue hairpiece, but the zombie Emily held on tightly and started screaming.

Vanessa's eyes flashed a steely blue-gray. Her knuckles snapped out, catching the zombie Clara a smart rap on the back of the hand.

The twin screeched and recoiled, holding its hand to its chest. "Daddy! Do something."

The zombie Michael just stared at Vanessa, wearing an expression of fear and awe.

The zombie Clara huffed and stomped out of the room, trailed by the zombie Dana who was practically haemorrhaging apologies.

"I don't know how you can stand it." the Gertie zombie said to their father.

"They're my girls." The zombie Michael smiled. "And they remind me of their mother."

"What was she, bi-polar?" the zombie Mac piped up.

"Oh no. She's a very strong woman. Knows exactly what she wants and how to get it."

"What happened to her?"

"She was away on business when we got Infected. She's probably half way across the world, still performing as Vixen."

"That's a weird name."

"It's her pseudonym."

The zombie Mac looked blank.

"It's a false name for public use." the zombie Gloria explained. "You'd know that if you read."

"I don't need to read. It all gets made into movies anyway."

"We don't have any movies. What we have is books."

"Besides, I can just ask you. What's a vixen?"

"A female fox."

"See?"

A little light bulb flickered on in the zombie Mac's head. "Wait, I know that name. She's on TV."

The blonde zombie sat bolt upright. "Your wife is Vixen Nightrider?" it said in tones of hushed reverence.

Michael beamed. "Yes, that's the one."

"The Vixen Nightrider."

"Yes. You've seen her movies?"

"Dude. You do know she's a por-"

"Poorly represented individual." the zombie Dean cut in.

"She's been in like a hundred movies!"

"Yes, she's very dedicated."

"A prolific woman." the zombie Dean added carefully.

"Why have you never told me this? We're talking the Vixen Nightrider! Her cans are freaking huge! And she does this one thing-"

"Mac, go to your room."

"What? Come off it, Dean, I'm freaking twenty!"

"There is a child present. Go to your room or shut up."

"You lucky bastard." the zombie Mac said as he lay back down and shut up.

Michael stared out the kitchen window. "I miss her."

"We all miss our families." the zombie Gertie said gently.

The zombie Michael sniffed. "She probably has another family now. A big strong husband and two strapping young boys."

"More like a hundred." the zombie Mac muttered under his breath.

"Don't talk like that. She loves you Michael. And she loves your girls." Vanessa consoled him.

"You really think so?"

"I know so. Call it women's intuition."

Logan felt his eyebrows rise. The practice of lying to small children appeared to extend to adults in Vanessa's case. She was even using the same tone of voice.

"Now whose turn is it?" Vanessa asked.

"That's me." The zombie Mac leaned forward and threw the dice. They spun elegantly on their axis before revealing a six.

The zombie Gloria crowed with delight. "Welcome to Mayfair Mansion, boyo! That'll be ten big ones!"

"Ten thousand? I don't have ten thousand!" the zombie Mac despaired.

"Well you're in luck, because I see you have a nice little electricity card that would go great with my water one. Unfortunately that's only worth two hundred. What else you got?" The zombie woman flicked through the pile of cards, tutting. "You got squat, boyo."

"Here, take my electric company, and all my cash, and you can have Piccadilly too, it's got a couple of houses on there, it's gotta be worth something."

"I don't know, I mean, you're still thirty-five short. What would my investors think if I started letting people have freebies?" it asked, fanning the money out and smiling wickedly over the top.

"Come on, don't kick me out, I can still win this!" the zombie Mac begged. "You and I, we're a team, we can beat old Gertie at her own game!"

"A team now, and yet I do recall this morning you were telling me, and I quote, to 'stick it where the sun don't shine'."

"I'll read your book."

"Oh, well, that was for your own benefit, not mine." The zombie Gloria rubbed a note between its fingers suspiciously.

"Well I'll do it, and I'll let you give me other books too." the blonde zombie said desperately.

"You know what..." the zombie Gloria looked at the young male zombie coyly through dark lashes, "I just might accept this."

The blonde bowed its head gratefully and pulled itself upright from its prior prone position halfway across the table.

"By the way, here's your change." the zombie Gloria added and handed over fifteen dollars.

"Wait, what?" The zombie Mac stared at the bills blankly.

"You had two fifties stuck together." it said sweetly.

The blonde's head hit the table with a dull thud.

The zombie Gloria glanced over at Logan and smiled, sharing the moment of triumph. He tried to return it, but the sight of those teeth smeared with black saliva sent him spiralling into his memories.

He lurched forward, sweating in terror.

There had been so many, and he'd only had a few bullets. They'd circled him, a wall of zombies everywhere he turned, those endless tunnels that passed for eyes trying to swallow him whole, that black gunk oozing from their gaping mouths. They'd lunged, and for one awful moment he was certain he was dead.

Then bright light had blinded the mob, earning him those few dazed moments to blast and tear the creatures to shreds. He counted his lucky stars that Charlie had come for his shift early that day, and several more for bringing his own torch.

Logan looked up and stared into those same eyes, hiding behind a mask of humanity. His body revolted. He leapt to his feet and staggered out of the room, ignoring the cries of 'spoilsport'.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't sit around a table populated by the same soulless flesh-eaters that had attacked him every night for the last fifteen years. They had come to him bearing offers of games and tea, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they came bearing teeth and claws. He wasn't safe and every cell in his body knew it.

He stumbled through the hall to his room and shut the door, jamming his suitcase under the handle. He fell back on the bed and put his head in his hands, despairing.

He'd made his bed, and it was filled with zombies. Social ones.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE –

### THE FIRST NIGHT

In his dreams Logan was running. He didn't know where from or where to, all he knew was that his feet kept slapping the cold hard ground and he had to keep moving forward.

The floor beneath him cracked, stabbing at his exposed soles. He stumbled but kept going, shivering as a cold wind raised goose bumps along his naked body.

Stone grazed his knuckles as he felt along the wall, blind in the utter darkness.

In the distance, a pinprick of light flared. He hurried towards it, hope filling his chest as it grew larger and brighter with each step.

Feet pounding the broken floor, he ran. He was so close he could taste it.

His outstretched hand touched the light and it surged forward like a broken dam, brilliance pouring into the room until everything was white except the black hole Logan had poked in its skin.

The darkness dripped down the wall, spreading out from the point his hand had punctured. It took the shape of a shadowed figure, bleeding light where Logan's hand had run straight through it.

It looked at him with eyes that weren't there, lost in the inky blackness. The darkness split where its mouth should be, opening to reveal a hollow tunnel.

It moaned, the sound drawn from Logan's lips and sucked into its waiting mouth. The sound echoed as it swirled down the dark tunnel.

Black hands reached out and touched his face, ice burning his flesh. They pulled him towards the gaping mouth, into the eternal emptiness that lay beyond.

As Logan was sucked into the swirling darkness, he understood. This was his punishment. He had hurt the creature, reached out without even knowing it was there and made it bleed because it had no voice to tell him.

He deserved this.

The dark walls of the tunnel pressed in on him until he couldn't breathe. There was nothing left but the sound of his own heartbeat slowing.

Somewhere, deep inside the tunnel, a baby cried.

Logan jerked upright, mouth open in a silent scream. The darkness was suffocating him.

He fought against it and fell out of bed, hitting his head on the wall. Rubbing his sore skull, he remembered where he was. He untangled his legs from the doona and kicked it to the floor, cursing quietly.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard a low moan drift through his walls. It was followed by a snort and a few dull thuds. Just someone turning in their sleep.

Or maybe someone had already Turned, and was now looking for something fleshy to eat.

Logan's mind reeled as fear and common sense fought for position. Fear won, riding on the waves of memory and the froth of imagination.

He wasn't safe here. Every second brought him closer to being discovered and eaten. He had to get out.

Moving as loudly as he dared, he threw on several layers and grabbed his knife off the bedside table.

He yanked the suitcase out of the gap between the bed and the door and left it on the mattress. There was no point bringing it with him, he couldn't possibly hope to get himself and a suitcase out in silence.

Quietly, hoping fervently that the zombies were all asleep, he opened the door. Nothing leapt out at him. He took a deep breath and padded down the corridor knife-first towards the back room. Even from the hall he could see one patio door was already open, inviting him to step outside and claim his freedom.

A breeze rolled in, carrying with it an unpleasant smell. Logan slowed. He knew that smell. He'd spent years with it eating away at his nostrils. It was a smell that incited fear, anger, a pay check and death, all at once. It was the smell of decaying flesh.

He took a few cautious steps toward the invitingly open door. A black silhouette rose against the moonlight. It was small, hunched and shaking slightly.

He gripped the knife handle tightly. All that stood between him and freedom was one zombie. He could do this, but he had to be silent or it might alert the others. He flattened the blade against his leg to hide any glare that might give away his presence and crept forward.

The figure was sitting on a couch it had dragged over to face the garden. Beside the couch was a little table, piled high with stained bandages. He weaved through and around the scattered chairs until he came up on the creature's right side. He was not prepared for what he saw.

The moonlight transformed the zombie into a ghost of a woman. Her hair shone like a halo and her face was white as snow. She was looking down with an expression of despair and sadness. Logan followed the gaze to an outstretched leg. It was rotted halfway through.

Another breeze rolled in and the fetid smell drove itself past his sinuses and caught at the back of his throat. Unable to stop himself, he coughed.

The zombie raised its head. "Oh, Mr. Logan. Don't mind me, I'm just changing my dressing. Got a little distracted."

Logan covered his mouth with one hand in a gesture of politeness and surreptitiously shut his nose. He'd lost the element of surprise, but there was no reason to keep suffering.

The zombie Gertie returned its attention to the leg. "I always find it strange when I look at myself these days. It's like I'm looking at someone else. I don't feel old, and I certainly don't feel sick. I can't even feel this." It pressed at the edges of the gaping wound, the skin distorting at the lightest touch.

Logan gagged silently.

"But I can see it, and I know it must be mine. It's a very odd sensation, Mr. Logan, to see yourself dying and feel none of it. It makes it very hard to know something is wrong when your alarm system is broken."

The zombie woman watched its own hand carefully as it picked up a fresh bandage and a clear bottle of yellow liquid. It drizzled some onto the gouge and began wrapping it up.

"No point in adding ointment, it's not like it's going to magically heal, but I feel better if it's wrapped. Like it'll hold me together that little bit longer.

"I'm probably being a bit optimistic with the lemon juice, but my Mam swore by it for preventing infections. God but we used to scream when she poured it on our cuts and scrapes. I remember my younger brother used to cry rivers when he hurt himself. It wasn't because he was in pain, it was because he knew it meant another dose of lemon juice when we got home. She was a right stickler for it. Probably saved a few lives in the process, really. There are some very nasty germs out there, Mr. Logan."

She looked up, a wry look on her face. "Well, I don't have to tell you that, do I."

"So it's true then?" Logan asked. "That other zombie... ate its own tongue?"

The zombie looked guilty and tried to hide it by focusing on pinning the bandage. "She didn't mean to, no one means to do something like that. But it's so hard to keep watch on every little thing and she was trying so hard to keep her hands intact she just... forgot."

It looked up from the newly bandaged leg and smiled. "But I'm rambling and it's late. We should both get back to bed."

It reached for a walking stick and heaved itself to its feet, leaning heavily on its left leg.

Logan stepped back into the shadows, keeping his blade hidden. His grip tightened as its body began to tremble.

The zombie Gertie sighed impatiently. "Be a dear and help me back to my room? It's hard enough using this leg without shaking like a hula dancer on a dashboard."

Logan eyed the trembling figure suspiciously. It was doing a very good job of acting like a frail old lady, but he'd seen that same trembling before in the blackened hands of zombies reaching through the grate.

It smiled at him. "Come on now, I don't bite. I do however have brittle bones and I don't particularly fancy breaking a hip tonight, if it's all the same to you."

Logan glanced at the patio door. If he ran for it, the zombie would get an alarm off before he reached the wall. It looked like if he refused now, it wouldn't hesitate in making a lot of noise.

Logan steeled himself. He could do this. It was just an arm. A cold, wrinkled old arm covered in bandaids and veins.

Gritting his teeth he held out his own arm. The zombie grabbed it and leant all its weight on him. Logan took a moment to appreciate small mercies, like the fact that this arm had no gaping sores in it and that the zombie was too light to knock him to the ground.

It reshuffled its grip until they looked to all the world like a bashful couple on their first awkward date. The zombie Gertie looked up at him as they started walking.

"This is just like when I went to the spring dance with Marco. He was such a gentleman. Naturally I was very disappointed. A gentleman at a party is usually a gentleman everywhere else, and that was the last thing I wanted that night..."

The pair shuffled down the hall, the zombie Gertie babbling quietly to him about its life. With each step Logan wondered why he had subjected himself to this unique form of social and mental torture.

"–and don't you go telling the others I was leaning on you like a cripple. I've got an image to keep. Can't let the young'uns see you're getting old and slow or they'll walk all over you. They don't see that the mind's still sharp. Maybe not sharp enough to shave diamonds, but still sharp enough to give some young upstart a nasty cut.

"Speaking of sharp, you might want to keep that knife you got there to yourself."

Logan stiffened as the pointless conversation came to a very sharp point. It knew he had a weapon.

"I've been fairly lenient tonight because I know this situation must be a little confronting, but if I ever see you raise that knife to anyone in this household, I assure you, the last thing to register on your face will be surprise.

"Surprise at how much pain you can experience. Surprise at the speed with which it arrives. Surprise at the extraordinary capacity of a walking cane. And it will all happen before your warm fleshy body hits the ground. Because you see Mr. Logan, I don't need to Turn to maim you."

The little zombie bared it's slimy teeth at him. "All it takes is one little threat."

Logan swallowed and kept looking straight ahead at the goal of the creature's bedroom door.

"Oh and I guarantee, no matter how vicious I may seem, if you so much as point a weapon at Emily, there won't be enough cold sharp steel in the world to save you from her mother."

"But she's not Infected." Logan contested.

"And neither are you. People have a natural tendency toward murder when there's a sufficient threat. You don't need to be a zombie to kill in cold blood."

"Of course I'm a zombie!" he exclaimed.

"If you're a zombie I'm the queen of Sheba. Look, I don't care if you're Infected or not, but I do care if you're going to start stabbing my family.

"I know you think the only reason Vanessa is still alive is because she has a zombie child, but you're wrong. I could never eat the flesh of another human being, much less that of a mother. I'd rather starve. And that's what I'm doing, every minute of every day. I am constantly hungry, but you don't see me ripping the flesh off my family. You'd have a better chance seeing me ripping the flesh off a peach, and I'm allergic those.

"Oh, sure, I'm not saying people like Mac wouldn't do it. Leave him on a desert island with no one to watch him and he'd turn cannibal in a second. And that's why there are people like me and Dean.

"We're always watching, Mr. Logan. Inside these walls, we are the glue that holds society together. You may not like it, you may not even understand it, but you will follow its rules if you want to keep living under this roof.

"Because at the end of the day, I think you'll agree, a zombie clique is far better than a zombie horde."

It fixed him with a piercing look. He could feel his very will melt away under that powerful gaze.

"So you put that knife away for now, Mr. Logan, and you play nice with the scary zombies. But don't put it too far away, because society doesn't mean a damn to the Turned. Society's grip may be tight, but the virus' grip is tighter. It almost makes you grateful for the R.S."

"The R.S.?"

"The Removal Squad."

Logan searched his memory for anything that might enlighten him. He knew about the Urban Elites, who chased the most dangerous free-range zombies in suburban areas. He'd once heard that the more desert regions were given to the Dustmen. The only other title he knew belonged to his own job, which if had once been affectionately referred to as the Snack Pack. He didn't know of any other Culler groups that could have that abbreviation.

The zombie Gertie looked up at his blank expression. "You don't know about the R.S., because no one in their right mind who knew about them would register. Plenty without their right mind had others register them, of course. It's cheaper than a retirement village."

Its face darkened. "That sort of thing makes me so angry. I mean, I knew Baba well before she was Infected. She has a daughter who would have taken care of her in a heartbeat. I know because I helped adopt her! But they don't listen. Oh they pretend to, but they're just biding their time before a spot opens up and in you go. Shut away where no one has to care anymore."

That meant that Frank's Ma was probably in a zombie house right now, Logan thought. Karimah would be relieved.

But that also meant all his efforts had really just been an unrelenting march towards his own incarceration.

Logan felt cheated. He'd gone to so much trouble to secure his way of life, for nothing.

"Now where was I? Ah yes, the Removal Squad." the zombie Gertie announced. "The R.S. is the reason everyone gets an Expiration date."

"What's that?" Logan asked, his anger at F.P.I.R. rising each time more new information was revealed. He was Culler, he should know everything there was to know about zombies. Instead it turned out he'd just been fumbling in the dark with hearsay and assumptions.

The zombie Gertie looked at him appraisingly. "You never read your transfer papers, did you?"

"Why would I?"

It frowned. "It's rather important. Mr. Logan. It has your Expiration date, and your Expiration date is when you're expected to Turn."

"Oh, that! That's perfectly sensible." he said before he remembered who he was talking to.

"It's when you're expected to Turn." the zombie Gertie said as it slowly blinked its moist black eyes. "It doesn't always mean you do."

The zombie leant over until their noses were practically touching, its eyes filling his world. Logan flinched but didn't turn away. He could see the pain welling up from deep inside those eyes even before it spoke.

"I don't quite know how to tell you this, Mr. Logan, but when an Expiration date hits, it's more than just an estimate of when you'll Turn. It's the day a zombie is stripped of any remaining rights. They become no better than a horse with a broken leg or dog with rabies. Just a dying animal to be put down."

The zombie took a deep shuddering breath.

"Expiration isn't the day you Turn, Mr. Logan. It's the day you die."

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO –

### ESCAPE

Logan stared into the zombie's black eyes, the words slowly sinking in.

"They kill you when you haven't Turned?" he whispered.

The zombie Gertie pulled back, nodding solemnly.

The world spun. Logan staggered away from the zombie and leant against the wall, gasping for breath.

He was going to die. He was going to die and it was all his fault. He was going to become a zombie or be eaten by one or get shot as one and it was all because he'd panicked and turned down the first easy street he'd seen.

He was going to die.

But first he was going to throw up.

He bent double and retched painfully, but nothing came. His digestive system apparently refused to have anything to do with his emotional nausea. It was far too busy being productive to pander to drama.

The zombie was patting his back gently. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but it's better than finding yourself staring down the barrel of a gun."

Logan nodded absent-mindedly as he tried to inhale all the air in the area. There wasn't enough oxygen in the world to make him feel better but it helped to try.

"That's the most important thing you have to remember Mr. Logan. In terms of threats, we are the least of your worries. There's us, there's the R.S., and at the top of the list is the Turned."

The zombie tottered around him and opened its bedroom door. Faint moans came from inside, sleepy and indistinct.

"It's just me Baba. Go back to sleep." The zombie Gertie turned back to Logan, leaning against the doorframe for support.

"And between you and me, Emily is the first in line." it told him in a conspiratorial whisper. "You be nice to her while she's a little girl but the moment she Turns, you run. Because when she Turns you'll have a slim choice between death by zombie and death by R.S., and neither of them is pretty."

It gave him a curt nod and limped inside the bedroom. "Shut the door for me, will you?"

Logan reached out for the door obediently. "How did you know I wasn't Infected?"

The zombie Gertie turned to look at him. "Well, some may say it was women's intuition. Others might say the knife was a bit of a hint. But for me, I'd say it was the moment I saw you have flushed skin, and if you don't mind me saying, a bit of a gut."

Logan looked down. His stomach looked back, jiggling slightly without the ice-vest to hold it in place. All the concealer he'd painstakingly re-applied had been sweated off during the night, leaving strange streaks along his arms.

No wonder the zombie had known. He was so underdressed a kid's Halloween party wouldn't have accepted his act.

"I don't care how or why you're here." the zombie Gertie declared. "You could be an escaped convict with money plates, an international refugee without papers, or a scholar researching his PhD. I'm sure you have your reasons. Just make sure they're the right ones before sharing with the rest of the group. I'm not sure what it would take to top a sacrificial mother with an Infected child, but I do know that serial killer in hiding would not go down well."

Logan swallowed, knowing full well that the sob story of a Culler with money problems would not go down well at all with this crowd. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. One good turn deserves another. Goodnight Mr. Logan."

Logan shut the door for the little old zombie. It clicked loudly in the subsequent silence.

He leaned against it and tried to order his thoughts. He'd had a plan before the world had come crashing down on him, if only he could remember.

The escape plan came rushing back from where it had been waiting patiently, fuelled by the new knowledge that if he stayed he would definitely die, no questions asked.

Logan padded to the top of the hallway and carefully examined the heavy steel doors that stood between him and freedom.

Everything had a weak spot. He just had to find it.

Kneeling beside the hinges, he slid his knife into all the available gaps and wriggled them, trying to find some leverage or a loose section.

Nothing. Just a fresh steel frame with secure bolts, thick hinges and steel that probably been lifted in by crane.

Optimistically, he tried inserting the tip into what looked like a lock. There was a quiet clink as it lost its grip. He reinserted it upside down and leant against a bolted section for support. The section shifted slightly.

He paused and looked at his hand. It was pressed against a rectangle of steel surrounded by bolts. He pushed it and watched a sliver of light appear momentarily.

A mail slot, Logan decided. Mail had to come in, which meant the flap had to lift up.

Logan slid the tip of the knife into the seam and after several moments careful work, managed to lift the flap inwards a fraction. He pressed down on the handle, levering the heavy panel up.

With each small shift his excitement grew. If he could open the slot enough to fit a hand through, he could pick the lock from the other side. Freedom was so close he could almost taste it.

The panel grated to a halt. Logan dropped his entire weight onto the handle, wriggling the blade around furiously in search of purchase. It wouldn't budge. He wedged the blade in as far as it would go and dropped to his knees to peer through the gap. A sliver of moonlight peeked out from under a second flap that sat outside the door.

Clinging to the dwindling remains of hope, he stuck two fingers into the gap and tried to reach the second flap. He couldn't get in past the first knuckle. His fingertips groped the air hopelessly.

Logan scrabbled at the flap's mechanism, trying to magically trigger it, but it was useless. The inside panel couldn't move unless the outside panel was lifted and the catch released.

Conceding defeat he removed his fingers and the blade. The flap shut with a triumphant clink.

Logan sighed and sat back, examining his knife. There were scratches the length of its brilliant surface and a chink was missing near the tip. He sheathed it, annoyed. He'd damaged his faithful companion for nothing.

Slowly rising to his feet, Logan moved onto the next escape plan. The one he'd been trying to implement before the zombie Gertie had got in the way.

He padded past the lines of doors hiding their rotting inhabitants and skirted around the smattering of furniture to the glass patio doors. Outside, the moon turned the vibrant garden into a pale wasteland, it's colourful flowers hidden in shadow.

Logan slid open the door and stepped out into the eerie quiet. There was no wind to rustle the leaves and no cars passed by so late. The air was heavy with the distant hum of electricity.

He ran to the back of the garden, spurred into action by the growl of some nocturnal beast hiding in the trees.

A wall of ivy rose to meet him, topped with bougainvillea. He slowed to a trot and headed for the thickest clump he could see. He slid his hands past the leaves and looped the creeper around his palm several times. Gripping it tightly, he slid a foot through the leaves until it hit the metal wall beyond. Bracing himself on his right leg, he pulled himself into a standing position and carefully placed his left leg higher up. His arms complained with the effort and the vines dug into his hands, but slowly, Logan climbed the wall.

Halfway up he ran out of ivy. With adrenaline coursing through his body to dull the constant source of pain that was his back, nothing could stop him. He confidently grabbed a handful of bougainvillea and hauled himself higher. The delicate vines snapped.

Gravity decided it had had enough of this upstart attempting to defy him and slammed into his body full-force, dragging his feet down the smooth metal and leaving him dangling by one arm several metres above the ground. His shoulder registered a complaint with the office of internal affairs and through a series of good contacts made it to the front of the line before adrenaline could halt its progress.

Logan gasped in agony and let go.

His left hand, having had a few nanoseconds to consider its purpose in life, flew up to grab a passing cluster of vines. The left foot decided this looked to be a good course of action and swung out as Logan's body arced in a pendulum towards the wall. The foot eased into the impact and the right followed suit. Logan took a moment to catch his breath and gingerly grabbed another section of vines with his disobedient right hand.

For a second he actually considered giving climbing another shot, but common sense overrode his bravado to point out that grabbing larger clumps of the fragile vines would just result in larger patches of broken bougainvillea. Shaking as the adrenaline left him, Logan climbed the short distance back to the ground.

As a final resort he eyed the roof of the asylum. The classic slanted roof was covered in precariously placed tiles. If he were a younger man he might have climbed up there and taken a running leap at the top of the security wall, but from the ground it looked like a distance that even an experienced daredevil would think twice about.

Logan cursed the zombie who had made giant steel walls a necessity in the first place.

Having waited patiently in line, the back pain finally made it to the front of the queue and screamed at him for the abuse it had received. Logan groaned as all the twinges and aches from various muscles combined to reprimand him for his stupidity.

Any potential for the running roof escape was removed from the list. Seeing no alternative, he hobbled back indoors.

He should have listened to the zombie Dean, Logan thought. He couldn't have been the first person to try climbing that wall, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.

He felt a grudging admiration for the architect who had designed this place. It was certainly capable of containing zealous zombies. The public need have no fear for their safety while structures like this were working in full capacity.

Unless another escape route presented itself, it looked like his best chance was waiting for the Cullers to come for the next Turned. Maybe he could bribe them, or at least buy himself enough time to get on the other side of that impenetrable steel border.

He sighed, realizing that as long as he stayed within in these walls he'd have to play nice with those appalling creatures and pretend to be one of them. If they found out he was an ex-Culler, the rage might just Turn them right there.

Logan wove his way through the furniture in the living room and riffled through the stack of papers pinned to the fridge. He fished out the order form and perused the items carefully. The closest thing he could find to what he needed was in the entertainment section. He ticked the box for a set of children's face-paints, wondering why the government even bothered offering the option.

He dropped the list back on the counter and took advantage of the empty house to steal some freezer-burned meat packs to replace the melted icepacks in his vest. He swapped the icepacks out of his room and put them in the freezer, confident no one would try to eat them.

He wasn't sure how important the ice-vest was anymore since the zombie Gertie had admitted it couldn't feel much of anything, but he was damned if he was going to be caught out again.

Organized, he crept back into his bedroom and fell on his bed, exhausted. He sat up hurriedly as the knife handle jabbed him in the back. He pulled out the offensive object and looked at it mournfully. He felt betrayed. He'd always been able to rely on a knife in tight situations, but here it had proved itself a useless instrument.

Logan smacked the bed with his fist. He couldn't believe he'd willingly signed up for this. He'd been dragged away from everything he'd tried to preserve; his cat, his neighbours, even his apartment. His whole way of life had been taken away. And when his Expiration date rolled around, they would take his life too.

He rolled over, trying to block that last thought from his mind. He clutched the knife tightly, it's smooth handle reassuring in his grip.

To him it wasn't a tool or a weapon, it was just a big piece of metal that had always made him feel like he could step out the door and face the world. It was his last line of defence. And now he was expected to step out that door into a house full of absurdly sensitive zombies without that small comfort weighing down his belt.

Logan arrived at a decision. He would leave the knife in his room, not because that little old zombie had threatened him, but because he knew for certain he could hold off a zombie having a Moment with one hand. If any Turned he could be back at this room and brandishing his weapon before they could say 'Ganurgahah.'.

Pleased by his new-found confidence in his ability to beat down any lightweight zombie who opposed him, Logan slid the knife under his pillow. Enjoying the rare commodity of a person with a normal job, Logan slept through the night for the first time in fifteen years.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE –

### THE SECOND DAY

Logan had only been up ten minutes, and he already missed his local cafe. He hunted through the kitchen for coffee strong enough to wake him but gentle enough not to completely kill him. He turned his nose up at the double-decaf and grimaced when he found the jar of LessCafe. It was the cheapest pre-ground coffee money could buy, so weak it practically floated away when you scooped it into the mug.

In the back of the last cupboard he stumbled across pure gold. It was in a small bag branded in a foreign language and sealed with a sticker. Scrawled across the sticker in large angry letters was the name 'Gloria'.

Dragging it towards him, Logan carefully lifted one end of the sticker and smelled the contents. The aroma wafted up like the memory of a lover, his brain already stirring in the presence of real coffee beans.

Behind him a shrill voice sang out gleefully. "Ooh, someone's stealing Gloria's stuff! You're gunna get in so much trouble!"

Logan resealed the bag and pushed it to the back of the cupboard before turning to face what could only be the twins. He had a moment of confusion as his eyes told him two attractive girls were showing skin for his benefit. He dismissed the false information, focusing on the zombies' ridiculously long leg warmers and childish ponytails.

His eye wandered back to their bare stomachs against his will, drawn by instinct. The female zombie on the right tugged its short shirt down self-consciously, trying to hide a large bandage that ran across it's stomach from hip to hip. Someone had drawn neon stars on it with a yellow highlighter.

"I was just looking." Logan said, unable to drag his eyes away from the confusing spectacle. They were like a horrible hybrid of oversized toddlers and women who stood on street corners for a living.

"That's not-" began the left zombie in the cropped lime shirt and shocking orange shorts.

"-what we saw." finished the right zombie with yellow stars on it's stomach to match it's leggings and shirt.

"You-"

"-took-"

"-it-"

"-with-"

"-out-"

"-her-"

"-say-"

"-so." finished the right twin, surreptitiously pulling up its ridiculously small purple shorts. The pair looked at him expectantly.

"The word is 'permission'." Logan corrected. "Not say-so."

This didn't seem to be what the twins were waiting for. "Aren't you gunna ask us how we do it?" demanded the one Logan guessed was the zombie Clara. It's lips were blue today, but its twin still wore the orange lipstick it apparently adored.

Logan had spent most of his life figuring out how things worked, from reams of code to magic tricks. Two people speaking in unison was obvious. "I already know how you do it."

"How?" the zombie girls chorused.

"Well, normally I'd say you just spend a lot of time together so you know each other's speech patterns and therefore can predict entire sentences. But that only works in an equal partnership, which this one is clearly not. In this case, you," he nodded at the zombie Clara, "are the one who is talking. This one's just following your lead."

"Wrong! So wrong. It's almost funny how wrong you are." the zombie Clara said a little too loudly.

"Then you should have no problem saying every second word." Logan pointed out.

"Fine!" the zombie Clara declared. "Do it, Dana."

The zombie Dana looked at the floor, mouthing words as it settled on the safest option.

"The-" it ventured.

"-moron-" the zombie Clara added smoothly.

The zombie Dana groped for a safe word. "-is-"

"-wrong!" The zombie Clara crowed triumphantly.

Logan shook his head. "Two voices are speaking, but all I'm hearing is one mind."

The zombie's face twisted into a sneer. "You don't know what you're on about. What, you think all twins are clones or something? I am one of a kind. I'm special!"

The zombie Dana shank away as the blue-lipped twin began yelling.

"I'm special and you're just a stupid old man who was too slow to even outrun a baby. Who gets bitten by a baby? Oooh, look at me, I'm scared of a baby! Please don't bite me baby! Seriously, you must have just walked up and stuck your hand in its mouth to get bit by a baby!"

The tension was broken by the tinkle of china. Logan glanced up to see the zombie Gertie giving the zombie Clara a long hard stare. It held the remains of a cup tightly, tea dripping down its sleeve. The zombie Dana took the opportunity to fetch a towel and put as much distance between itself and its twin as possible.

"I didn't have much choice." Logan said curtly.

"Aw, poor widdle old man, did the big bad baby back you into a corner?"

The stupid kid was really starting to annoy him. Before he could stop himself, the sarcasm burst forth, like it always did when he was tense.

"Just it and oh, a few hundred zombies. Just a small mob really. Nothing too life-threatening to be jammed into a corner with." Logan said airily.

The zombie Clara snorted derisively. "Yeah right. No one sees mobs anymore. You are such a liar."

"The only reason no one sees them is because of Cullers like me." he snarled.

The zombie gasped and Logan bit his tongue, but it was too late. The words had already fallen.

Fifteen minutes into the day and he had already said the one thing that could make a house of zombies into a horde. He braced himself for the fallout.

"You were a Culler?" the zombie asked, eyes sparkling.

"No, I was a mime, I just wanted to give a house of zombies another reason to disembowel me." he retorted, his nerves twanging with the tension.

The scene wasn't playing according to script. The creature actually looked excited by the admission.

Logan glanced at the other twin. It took a step back, cowering in fear.

"That is so cool!" the zombie Clara cried. "Did you have an Uzi? What's you kill score? Was it like Horror House Three where you have to walk through the house and shoot them when they jump out at you? I bet it is. I know it is! Just wait 'til Alicia hears about this!"

It shoved a hand into the tiny pocket of it's shorts and frowned when it found it empty.

"Where's my phone?" the zombie Clara asked, looking to its twin. The zombie Dana shook its head.

"Oh, right."

"We could tell dad." it suggested, dropping the cup shards into the bin. The timid zombie was giving Logan a wide berth as it walked past. It threw one last nervous glance over its shoulder as the pair left in search of their father.

Logan calmed down. He had to admit, seeing the fear in the zombie's eyes had empowered him for a moment there. It was like carrying his knife on the inside.

The zombie Gertie was giving him a look he couldn't decipher. He rubbed his burning eyes.

He shouldn't even be awake at this hour, not after years of living through the night. That shock to the brain must have rattled his sleeping patterns.

Ah, disapproval. That was what the look was. Ah well, he'd already said it. Too late to undo it now.

He grinned to himself as he pictured a keyboard with that sentence. The humour faded as he remembered the twin's hand had been shaking after he spoke. He'd caused the Undo twitch.

The zombie Gloria appeared, shaking hair out of its face, and headed straight for him. He moved aside hurriedly, pressing up against the heavy curtains as he prepared to run.

The zombie ignored him and reached for the cupboard containing the sacred coffee beans. Logan switched tactics, paying very close attention as the bag was brought out.

The zombie Gloria flicked the switch on a small kettle in the corner he hadn't noticed before. As it began to bubble, the zombie reached into a cupboard under the sink and pulled out a pepper grinder. It ripped the bag open with its teeth and poured beans into it. While they cascaded into the grinder, the female slid open a drawer and pulled out a small sieve. Gripping the grinder like it a murderer's neck, the zombie twisted viciously until there was a small mound of coffee. In the background the kettle bubbled violently for a few seconds before the mechanism flicked off.

Logan suddenly, intensely, wished he had that safety feature too. He could have saved a lot of trouble with those zombie twins if he could just switch off when he got too tense.

Holding the sieve over the sink, the zombie Gloria poured the water over the grinds and into the cup below. Thumping the kettle back down, it tidied everything away.

Steam still rising in thick coils from its black surface, the zombie grabbed the cup. Logan winced as it took a gulp.

"Argh! Feltart! Persze hogy feleg!" the zombie yelled in a language Logan had never heard before.

It swapped the cup to its left hand, only to hurriedly put it down a moment later. The zombie glared at its right hand and jammed it under the cold tap.

Logan decided that now was not the best time to ask about the coffee.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR –

### BROKEN

Logan waited until the zombie Gloria had left the kitchen area before he picked a cup. He scrubbed it thoroughly to remove any trace of zombie residue, and then washed it again, just to be safe. His actions got him some odd looks from the zombie Mac as it heated up a pack of meat, but Logan wasn't taking any chances of catching the virus second-hand.

Logan dumped triple the amount of recommended LessCafe into the cup and vowed to get real coffee as soon as possible, even if it meant growing the damn things himself.

The zombie Gloria had claimed the centre of the room, reading a book a few seats away from the zombie Gertie. Logan didn't think he could handle being in the same room as the violent zombie for much longer. It made him too nervous.

He pulled aside the heavy curtains and opened the patio door, breathing in the crisp morning air. Stepping out into the lush grass, he carried his mug of artificial stimulant to the concrete seat hidden down the back.

He sat there for a while, sipping his pathetic coffee and enjoying the peace. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Birds sang to each other. The occasional car drove past, its engine faint and insignificant.

Logan was aware that some people could tell the engine and make of a car by the tone of the revs. He had never been a car man. He'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a car and a truck. The only thing he was certain of was that it wasn't a train. Unless it was a new rail-less version. Except that was called a bus.

Logan stopped that train of thought before he hurt himself and took another slurp of coffee, willing it to awaken any functioning part of his brain before he did something else stupid.

The patio door clicked open and little pink shoes ran across the grass to the tire swing. The tire twirled as the little girl pushed it and called to her mother. Vanessa floated into view like a lilac swaying in the grass. She lifted her daughter as though she were light as a dandelion and sat her in the tire.

Logan watched as Vanessa leant over the little girl and talked, brushing strands of wavy blonde hair from her daughter's face. The child's white stockinged legs dangled a metre from the ground, idly kicking the air as she listened.

Her mother pushed the tire and the little girl giggled in delight as she began to swing back and forth.

Logan found himself wondering what his daughter would have been like. She could have been glitter and ponies, or maybe mud and trees. She could have carried a doll with her everywhere, or refused to wear shoes. She could have had his brown eyes and Melissa's blonde hair, his lust for knowledge and her love of people, and grown up to be a beautiful doctor.

She could have driven him crazy by painting her walls black, running out of the room to answer constant calls, and never taking a jumper. Her boyfriends could have been given curfews, her girlfriends the run of the house.

And when she found the right son-in-law for him, her mother could have run them to ruin with the wedding budget, and he could have walked her down the aisle. She could have had grandchildren, two bright boys, and they could have built go-karts together while their grandmother gave them all the sweets that were forbidden at home.

As they grew, he could have bought Melissa a caravan, and the two of them could have travelled the country. And as they watched the sun set on some strange horizon, he could have turned to her, her eyes the same as the day they fell in love, and said 'What a life'.

Instead he was trapped behind steel walls, watching time trickle away as death and disease ran rampant.

As the tire reached the height of another arc, the little girl slipped. Her skirts flapped in the air like a distress signal as gravity claimed her.

Coffee splattered the grass as Logan raced towards the falling child. He stretched out, his hands closing on the small body before he pitched uncontrollably towards the ground. He lifted the child above his head seconds before his nose hit the ground. It broke with a sickening crunch.

"My baby!" Vanessa cried. The child was taken from his hands, still frozen in the air above his head. He coughed as blood trickled down his throat.

"Are you alright? Let me see."

Warm hands guided his head as he lifted himself up, trying not to sniff or swallow.

"Uh oh. Boo boo." a little voice squeaked.

Logan looked up to see the zombie child bearing down on him. He closed his eyes and braced for an attack.

He winced as cold little lips pressed against his cheek. When he opened his eyes the creature was still there, concern trying to write itself across the small face.

"Boo boo better?" it asked.

He watched the little zombie warily.

"When she scrapes a knee I kiss it better." Vanessa explained. She dabbed at his face with a tissue.

He coughed and spat blood onto the already moist ground.

"Not better." the little zombie pouted.

"He's okay honey, it just looks bad." Vanessa told her daughter. "Why don't you go play in the grass while I make it look better?"

The small zombie nodded and wandered away. In seconds it was distracted by a butterfly and chasing it around the garden happily.

Vanessa wiped away the last of the blood and pressed under the bridge of his nose. The dull ache didn't change, but he felt something shift under her touch. There was a click as cartilage slid back into place.

She handed him a new tissue. "It'll bleed for a bit longer but other than that you just have to let it heal. A broken nose looks bad but it's one of the easiest things to fix."

"Then why do you look so worried?" he asked, his voice nasal and muffled.

She leaned back to sit on her heels. "It's a lot of blood."

Logan touched his nose gingerly and was rewarded with a dull ache. "What? Is that bad? Is there something wrong with me?"

"No." she said slowly. "But the average heart rate of an Infected is much lower than a healthy person's. With that lowered blood pressure, the broken vessels in your nose should be barely dribbling. Not gushing."

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Which means you're not Infected."

For the first time since arriving Logan wondered if he had a secret death wish. His body certainly seemed to. First the zombie Gertie, now the token human Vanessa. And that wasn't even taking into account the Culler bombshell he had dropped on the twins earlier. If he kept this up then by the time noon rolled round he would have organized his own lynching.

"No, I'm not." Logan admitted.

Vanessa leant forward. "Are you sick?" she asked gently.

"No."

She glanced at Emily who was stalking through the grass towards the resting butterfly. "Is someone you love Infected?"

Logan shook his head sadly.

"Then why would you do such a thing?" She looked like a devoted puppy that had been kicked by her master, aware that something is wrong but unable to find out what.

"I..." he fumbled for the words. "I needed the financial support."

She gazed at him for a long time. Her expression softened. "You poor thing."

Logan was beginning to understand why the zombies were so protective of Vanessa. She was insanely devoted and disarmingly nice. Underneath that gentle gaze sat a will stronger than steel.

The woman bit her lip. "Oh dear, Gloria will not like this at all. She loathes liars."

Logan started. "I wasn't planning on telling it- he- them. Yet. I don't think they'd approve."

"You may be right." Vanessa nodded slowly. "But... why would you choose to be a zombie? It's not exactly a pleasant life."

Logan shrugged. "It didn't seem that different from my life at the time. Obviously I didn't expect to end up here."

"Neither did we." She looked at the ground and brushed her fingers through the grass. "My husband had us committed."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Logan said dutifully, his compassion severely hampered by the tissue stuffed up his nose.

"He was so afraid." Vanessa said, her eyes glazed with memory. "He didn't understand what was happening to our baby. He wanted to take her to hospital but I wouldn't let him. I mean, I'm a nurse. What could they tell me that I didn't already know?" She laughed, but there was no humour in it.

"He tried to take her when I left to get groceries. After that I wouldn't let her out of my sight. He wasn't allowed near her. She's my baby, and he tried to take her away from me. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have the one person you trust more than anyone in the whole world go behind your back?"

Logan shook his head. He'd never experienced anything like what Vanessa was describing. Melissa had told him everything, sometimes in a little too much detail when he was trying to work.

Vanessa looked up, checking where her daughter was, before continuing with her story.

"Since I wouldn't let him take her to hospital, he called a doctor and described the symptoms. The look on his face when he understood... it was awful. His perfect world had crumbled." She bit her lip, her eyes shining wetly. "That night I was nursing Emily to sleep when he came in. He had his Magnum in hand."

She paused, noticing the look of incomprehension on his face. "His revolver."

"He had his own gun?" Logan gaped.

Vanessa nodded, her eyes swimming with tears. "He pointed it at my baby. He was going to shoot her. He was going to kill his own daughter in cold blood."

"What did you do?" he asked, not sure he believed the woman. The only guns civilians could legally own were huge hunting implements, not something you could hold in one hand. That was what blades were for.

"I'd decorated Emily's room with a heavy lamp so she couldn't knock it off the table easily. I used it like a club. I tried to break his forearm so he couldn't pull the trigger. Then I tried to break his skull so he couldn't hurt my baby. I managed to get him to drop the gun, but then he ran out of the room. He called the police.

"They didn't believe that I'd attacked him. I couldn't lift the lamp when they asked me to. I was too weak from exhaustion. They saw the gun though, and took us to the station. From there they gave Henry everything he needed to commit us. He tried to send me to a sanatorium, tried to separate me from my baby, but I wouldn't let them. I can't let my baby go through this alone. Henry still got us in the end though. He had us deported."

All the pieces fell into place. "You weren't born here?"

"No." She looked up from the grass twisted around her fingers. "I wish it had happened here instead. Henry would never have had the gun and he wouldn't have been able to threaten my baby. We could have been a family still." She smiled faintly at her own delusion.

Logan considered this for a moment. You could do plenty of damage with a knife, and with much better accuracy.

"He would have found a way." he said truthfully. "You're safer away from him."

The smile faded. "In my mind I know that. I just can't convince my heart."

Logan nodded. "I know the feeling. My wife... had an accident. Afterwards people told me she'd only married me for the money. My head said it was logical but my heart knew they were wrong."

Vanessa smiled a little. "When Emily couldn't sleep, Henry would play the violin all night for her. He'd leave a mug of tea by the door for the times I got home too late after a nightshift."

"Melissa would leave post-it notes around the house with hearts on them for me." Logan smiled at the sickly sweetness of it all. "When I got sick she'd join me under the blankets even though it always made her sick too."

"You think you know a person..." Vanessa sighed.

"You think the world finally got it right..." Logan began.

"And then they go and spoil it all by doing something stupid like trying to hurt you." she sang quietly.

Logan looked at her blankly. "I was going to say 'and then it takes them away.'"

She shook her head apologetically. "It was our song. Just a silly romantic tune I changed up a bit to fit."

"Oh. Right. Um."

"Never mind."

The pair sat in slightly awkward silence watching the zombie Emily as it plopped into the grass, exhausted from chasing the cloud of butterflies that had visited the plants. A little yellow one landed on its white-stockinged knee. A huge smile broke out across the little zombie's face as it leaned in close to look at the dainty bug.

Nose inches away from the tiny creature, the zombie suddenly sneezed. Black saliva peppered the bug. The yellow seeped from its wings as it curled up, leaving a still black log on the little zombie's knee. The zombie Emily poked it experimentally. The body snapped in half and disappeared into the grass.

Tears welled in its eyes. The little zombie stumbled to its feet and ran to its mother, crying. Vanessa welcomed her daughter with open arms, hugging the little zombie close and stroking its hair.

"What happened?" Logan asked, bewildered.

"She accidentally Infected it." Vanessa explained. "It acts much faster on smaller bodies. It destroyed the brain and body almost instantly."

She tried to soothe her distraught daughter. "It's okay sweetie, it was an accident, you didn't do anything wrong. Look, there are lots more of them."

The zombie girl continued to bawl into her chest.

"Okay, okay baby, you can say sorry to the family. Go on now." She pushed the sniffling zombie back to the cloud of butterflies.

"How long does i- she have?" Logan asked quietly, partly out of concern for his own safety and partly out of a growing concern for Vanessa.

Vanessa took a shuddering breath and blinked back hidden tears.

"Four weeks."

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE –

### MISUNDERSTANDINGS

Logan's eyes widened.

"Four weeks?"

The woman looked so small and fragile in that moment. The colour had drained from her eyes, and her ash-blonde hair sat lank and thin against her hunched shoulders.

"What will you do when she's gone?" he asked carefully, turning his attention to the zombie child. It was digging a small hole in the grass.

"I don't know..." Vanessa whispered. "I can't bear to think about it."

The zombie dropped a handful of grass, burying the butterfly's remains. In the sky the others continued to fly, unaware that one of their own had fallen.

"Can I ask you a question?" Logan asked, looking back at the zombie's mother.

"You can. I'll do my best to answer it."

"Why aren't you Infected?"

She bit her lip. "I'm not entirely sure, but I think it has something to do with my nursing career. I was exposed to so many illnesses my first year that I've built up a resistance to most things."

"If you're resistant then why don't they use people like you to make a cure?"

"That's not how you make a cure."

"But they beat swine and bird flu so fast. It's been decades. Why haven't they found a way to stop it?"

"The same reason everyone still gets colds. It keeps mutating and becoming resistant. There are so many different strains now that they can't possibly keep up. Oh sure, you get similar symptoms, but it's still a different case every time.

"Even if they made a cure for one particular strain, the cost of production still outweighs the results. No one can tackle all the available strains. They mutate at such a rate that it's like throwing a pebble into an ocean. I feel sorry for the researchers."

"Is that why there's different types? The guy who diagnosed me said I was type A."

"That makes sense." she nodded. "Type A is apathetic depreciation."

"Right. So what does that actually mean?"

"It means the highest concentration is around the exterior of the frontal lobe around here." She touched her right eyebrow. "It's basically like performing a slow frontal lobotomy."

"Okay, I know I learnt about that in school, and the misconceptions make for an interesting ending to an otherwise bad horror story, but what is it really?"

"It was an old cure for insanity, in particular hysteria. Drive a spike through the eye socket into the brain, twitch some brain tissue around and the patient becomes quiet and obedient. It was like physically removing their will and mental drives. The worst cases needed to be fed just to survive."

Logan blinked slowly. "That's horrible. They called that a cure?"

"Yes. It was effective for what they required at the time. Psychiatric hospitals weren't there to cure or help people, just to control them. Apathetic depreciation doesn't get much publicity though; the media prefer to show off the patients with reactive depreciation. They make for much more interesting stories."

Logan looked at her blankly.

"Reactive depreciation is the other type. That's when it burrows into the frontal lobe through the base of the brain. It's like – have you ever heard the story of Phineas Gage?"

He shook his head.

"Phineas Gage was a nice man who was working on a railway when a spike went straight through his head. It drove through his cheek and shot out the top of his head."

Logan winced.

"The strange thing is that after it happened, he got back up. In only a few minutes he was talking to people like nothing happened. Half his frontal lobe was gone, yet he was still a fully functioning human being."

"But how?"

"A miracle of the human brain I guess. It had consequences though. Reports say his personality completely flipped. He went from this nice mild-mannered man to a single-minded irrational jerk. It was like the spike had rewired his personality, and those are the sort of personalities that create drama."

She looked over at her daughter.

"It's horrific, the way the media abuse this sickness in the name of cheap entertainment. The reality is not amusing in the slightest. It's a horrible disease that starts by taking your will, or your personality, and ends by taking your life. It's a parasite riding on the crest of humanity, and all we can do is stand back and watch as it uses us up."

"That's depressing." Logan commented. "Make it a bit vaguer and you could sell it as poetry."

Vanessa cracked a wry smile. "You're something different, Logan. Anyone else would be offering me advice or sympathy at this point."

"Who could possibly give advice about something like this?" Logan said truthfully.

"Gertie lost her daughter and grandson on the same day to this disease, so I guess she knows a bit." Vanessa pointed out.

"Oh. Well, aside from her."

"Apart from her I just get buckets of sympathy or a few blank looks. That's usually the twins. I don't think they actually understand the concept of death yet. They're like Mac, still believing they're invincible because they're young."

Logan thought back to the argument about the blonde zombie using his brains before he lost them. "It sounded to me like he was pretty sure what was going to happen to him."

"He thinks he understands, but he doesn't. When he describes death, it's a distant horizon. Somewhere he'll end up watching the world through a drunken haze before he goes to sleep forever. That's the closest he's come to understanding, before it all became too much and the walls went up again."

"You seem to know a lot about minds for a nurse."

"Well I did work in the psychiatric wing of my hospital for a while. You learn to read people's thoughts from the outside or you get some very nasty surprises."

"Like what?"

"Like the discovery that anything in a room can be a weapon if you will it hard enough."

"...not cotton balls."

"Stuff a pack in your mouth and tell me how well you can breathe."

"They didn't-"

"No, not to me. To themselves. People always worry that unstable minds lead to violence against others, but more often it leads to violence against themselves."

She trailed off as her daughter approached, grasping a handful of flowers. "What you got there honey?" she asked sweetly.

The zombie child thrust the flowers in Logan's face. "Panthy." it said loudly.

Vanessa stifled a giggle at the expression on his face. "She means the flower. Pansies, Emmy."

"Panthieth." the zombie child repeated and handed them to Vanessa.

"They're lovely sweetie. Who do you want to give them to?"

"Thilly Mommy, pink ith for Dana." the zombie Emily reminded her mother.

"Of course pink is for Dana. We refill the flowerpots regularly." Vanessa explained to him. "Emmy doesn't think it's a bedroom without flowers. She's very proud of her pots."

Logan remembered the oddly painted pot in his bedroom. "So you two picked the lilacs in my room."

"Yes. We didn't know if you'd be a boy or a girl, so I told her to find something purple. It's a nice neutral colour."

"Mommy, I hafta go tinkle." the zombie Emily said quietly, tugging at the mass of material that made up Vanessa's dress.

"Okay sweetie, let's go inside. You're a very good girl for telling Mommy and waiting for her."

Vanessa rose from the grass, brushing dirt from her skirts. "It was nice talking to you Logan. Let me know if your nose gives you any more trouble."

Logan gave a little wave as the pair walked away and hauled himself to his feet. He winced as his back reminded him of his stupid antics the night before while he shuffled over to the mug he'd dropped in his rush.

There was a gasp from the vines that sounded a lot like 'sorry'. He looked up and was surprised to see one of the twins sitting in the foliage. It was cradling a pen and paper. It shrunk into itself as it noticed him looking.

"Please don't kill me." it whimpered quietly.

Logan looked at the zombie blankly.

"I-I-I have f-five m-months left." it pleaded. "Please don't. Please. I d-d-don't wanna die."

Logan looked around for help, but the garden was empty.

"Um, I wasn't planning to."

"You're l-lying." it stuttered. "You w-were sent here to c-c-cull us. Clara told m-me."

With that sentence Logan understood. The bossy twin had been injecting drama into the otherwise boring day by embellishing the Culler story. A self-confessed Culler amongst zombies was a much less dramatic story than an undercover Culler that had slipped up.

"I'm not here to kill you." he reassured the terrified creature. "I think someone just got a little excited."

"Then why are you here?" it asked, trembling.

He gestured to his arm. "Because a baby bit me."

"But why are you here?"

"Government orders."

"But Clara told me all zombie Cullers get sent to Jakartund High-Security Hostel."

"Look." Logan said impatiently. "Why do you believe everything Clara says? You were there when I told you about my job as a Culler. How can Clara possibly know more about it than you do?"

The zombie Dana's head wrinkled in confusion. "Because she's Clara. She knows everything."

"No one knows everything. Clara is just making things up to feel important."

"She wouldn't do that." The zombie insisted.

Logan sighed. "Okay, let me try to explain this in a way you'll understand. Did you know that you had to cut your hair off after it was dyed?"

The zombie Dana shook its head.

"Don't you think if Clara had planned that before starting, it would have been mentioned?"

The zombie girl was quiet for a moment.

"You both went and dyed your hair and afterwards Clara realized the mistake and tried to cover it up by making hairclips."

"But Clara always knows what she's doing."

Logan rubbed his eyes, exasperated. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. Clara doesn't know. It's all just an act. People act confident when they have no idea what they're doing because people like you will keep following them. You have to realise this now, or you're going to spend your last five months hiding and crying over something your sister said. Which, by the way, is completely untrue."

"But..." the zombie Dana looked panicked. "But she's Clara. She does know everything."

"Then why haven't I killed you yet?" he snapped, his patience wrung thin. "You're isolated at the back of an empty garden. I could have killed you a hundred times by now. If Clara is so right, why aren't you dead?"

"Because... you..." the zombie girl searched frantically for some explanation.

"Look, I'm not here to cull you and your sister, okay? I'm here because I made a mistake. You need to tell your sister when it- she makes one too."

Fear pierced the zombie's eyes. "I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because she's Clara! I'm just dumb old Dana. I never get things right. This is all my fault, I must have misheard her and cried over nothing."

Logan stared at the creature, amazed at how it had twisted the conversation to keep the ideal of the perfect sister strong.

"It's your fault?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yeah, I'm so stupid sometimes. I better go find Clara and apologise for disappearing on her."

"You're going to apologise?"

"Of course. Mum always said you can solve anything with three words: please, thank you and sorry."

"I don't think that's-" Logan began, but the zombie girl was already up and running across the grass.

He sighed, shrugged and bent down to pick up his abandoned mug. He was surprised to realize that he actually felt bad for the kid. It took a lot of willpower to see through someone else's reality, and that loudmouth had built an incredibly strong one around the pair of them. He could actually see a lot of himself in those fearful eyes and placating nature.

Logan paused, realizing that he'd just compared himself to a zombie. It was bizarre, but Dana wasn't like any zombie he'd ever known. There was no malicious intent in any part of that thin body. Just a bundle of entirely-too-relatable emotions and flaws.

It made Logan wonder if it was actually possible for a zombie to retain its humanity.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX –

### SHE

The idea of a zombie with humanity opened a whole range of new doors inside Logan's mind. It was something he'd never even considered before. He'd been subjected day in and day out to mindless monsters for so long that the very suggestion of any other state had been dismissed as absurd.

For the first time, Logan gave the idea the consideration it deserved.

Vanessa had spoken about Infection like it was just another fatal disease. An illness akin to cancer, that ravaged the body until it was gone. And the zombie Dean had said that they were highly infectious. So in that light, this place was akin to quarantine. Just a holding place for sick animals with a disease they had to control.

They were still dangerous. The zombie Gloria had proven that much. But any animal, especially sick or wounded, would bite when trapped. He just had to make sure he wasn't in the line of fire when the animal started snarling.

If he did accept the idea that the zombies in this house were the same as trapped animals, then he really shouldn't be thinking of them as genderless creatures. Even the animal that bites the hand that feeds it still retains the right to a gender.

Logan didn't take his decision lightly. He knew that names held power. But 'it' was a term for inanimate objects. To raise them to the same level as animals, he would have to accept that these zombies were living organisms, and therefore entitled to the same rights.

The entire process of contemplation took Logan about five minutes. At that point his body gently reminded him that he had in fact not ingested nearly enough coffee to warrant being awake this early by placing a layer of fog over his brain. His muscles added that all that nonsense with the running and the falling was going to be rewarded with some nice bruises to add to his collection of twinges and various other pains. Their combined efforts forced Logan to give up on any further quiet contemplation and head indoors.

He rinsed his mug thoroughly and placed it on the rack to dry in the kitchen. He kept absentmindedly touching his nose, fascinated by the way it shifted under his fingers.

It was incredible, he thought. He could manage fifteen years working a rundown building and even climb a wall in pitch black, but the moment he stepped into broad daylight he broke something. Maybe he really was nocturnal.

Logan tensed as he noticed the zombie Gloria was still in the room, carefully writing a letter in large curly handwriting.

He found himself surprised that the zombie could write before he caught himself. Of course it could write. She. Gloria. Of course Gloria could write. She. She was writing.

Logan watched her surreptitiously, feigning glances at all areas of the room as he tried to accustom himself to his new way of thinking.

She was writing with a pencil. She was holding paper. She was drinking coffee. She was a coffee aficionado.

Logan approved of that.

She was tucking back her hair. She had brown hair. She had dirty nails. Of course she did, she was a gardener. She was biting her lip. That was actually kind of attractive. She was kind of attractive. She was looking at him. Crap, she was looking at him.

Logan felt the heat rise at the back of his neck as he realized he was staring directly at her. He turned and leant against the counter nonchalantly, his insides burning from embarrassment. He'd almost forgotten how painful social embarrassment could be.

His plan of ignoring her seemed to be working. He could hear the scratching of the pen as she went back to writing. He risked turning around. Mac was standing in the hallway entrance. Logan was careful not to make anything remotely resembling eye contact.

The blonde boy weaved over to the centre of the room and started reading over Gloria's shoulder, casting a long shadow across the page.

"Why is it the only things you are interested in reading are rubbish or private?" Gloria protested as she flipped the letter over, hiding its contents.

"S'more int'resting." Mac slurred.

She turned and eyed him suspiciously. "Have you been drinking?"

"Maaaybe." He grinned lopsidedly.

"It's not even noon!" she began, then stopped. "Where did you get alcohol from?" she asked quietly.

Mac lifted a nondescript bottle and shook it with a flourish. "Meeedicaaal." he sang proudly.

"Is that mouth-wash?" She wrinkled her nose up at the smell. It was a nice nose, a bit on the large side but with an attractive tilt upwards.

Logan looked away. He was doing it again.

"Rubbing alcohol. Ish pretty strong." Mac burped.

"That's disgusting. You'll kill yourself with that stuff. Hand it over." she demanded.

Logan couldn't help but watch. This had a hint of burgeoning spectacle.

Mac lifted the bottle above his head, almost touching the ceiling. "Mah points, mah bottle."

Gloria judged the distance. She was only half a head shorter than the blonde, but he had long limbs. She slid out of her chair and stood to face him.

"Drop it."

Mac just grinned.

Gloria raised an eyebrow in reply. With the speed of a snake, she gripped the soft underbelly of his arm and twisted. He yelped and dropped the bottle into Gloria's free hand.

"You don't get this back until it's dark outside." she declared, waving the clear liquid in his face. "Drunk before noon, it's pathetic."

"You're not the boss of me!" Mac whined, rubbing his tender underarm.

"If I was your boss you'd be fired from life. Now go take a cold shower and clean your teeth. You could light your breath right now."

She spun the boy round and pushed him in the direction of his room. He paused for a moment, disorientated, before slinking away.

Something flew at Logan's face. He raised a hand, catching the bottle before he even recognized what it was.

"Hold onto that." Gloria commanded. "He'll be looking through cupboards the moment I turn my back."

Logan checked the cap was screwed on tightly before tucking it into his waistband and pulling his shirt down over it.

A smirk played on Gloria's lips. "Subtle."

Logan glanced down. The bottle stared up at him, outlined against his shirt.

The woman strode over, pulling a necklace out from under her heavy navy jacket. "Let me show how you do it."

She dragged the leather strap over her head, lifting her mass of brown curls to reveal the tanned, unblemished skin of her neck.

Logan looked down and focused intently on pulling the bottle out of his waistband. The woman plucked the glass object from his hand, kneeling in front of him.

He looked stolidly at the far wall, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck at the idea of the picture they must have made.

She yanked his left trouser leg up to his knee and wrapped the leather strap around his ankle, securing the bottle in place. His leg tingled where her nails scraped across bare skin.

She flicked the bottle a couple of times and made a satisfied noise when it failed to move.

"There." she declared as the trouser leg dropped back into place. "Imperceptible."

Logan lifted his leg and rotated his ankle experimentally, trying really hard not to think about how this same woman had tried to claw his eyes out barely a day ago.

"Just don't go walking into any tables or your leg will be cut to ribbons. Oh, and if you don't have that necklace when I come find you, I will make a living hell out of your significantly shortened life." she added as she returned to writing her letter.

Logan believed her completely.

Lacking anything better to do, he wandered over to the bookshelf in the corner. He picked an interesting cover and chose a soft-looking armchair as far from the woman as possible. He promptly read the same few lines several times as he tried far too hard to not think of what exactly she could do to him.

Logan felt a small note of pride as he realized he just successfully survived his first up-close social encounter with a zombie woman who was still none the wiser to his state of humanity. If he could keep this up, no one else would know that he wasn't Infected until he was long gone and running free. After that the entire household could Turn for all he cared.

Something twinged in his gut with that last thought. Logan ignored it and tried to read the book's opening sentence one more time.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN –

### PLAYTIME

"Go fith!"

"No honey, these are the colourful cards, see?"

"I want the yellow oneth!"

"You have to wait until you pick them up, sweetie."

"I told you it wasn't a kid's game."

"No honey, no, put the deck back. You have to wait your turn."

Logan sighed and turned away from the group, trying to concentrate on his book.

"Nessa dear, it's your go."

"What? Oh, yes."

"Yours again."

"But I just put one down- Emily, please don't lick the cards."

"Tasteth like notheberrieth!"

"Here dear, have another tart. Take the one on the end, it's nice and jammy."

"These are quite delicious. What's this one?"

"That one's blueberry and that's raspberry, and this one is the new orange marmalade tart."

"I love how you can see the bits of rind through the jelly."

"Jam, dear. We call it jam."

Logan mouthed the words of the sentence, determined to take in the story despite the incredibly intrusive conversation.

"Can we please get on with the game?"

"Oh be quiet and take a biscuit."

"I'm afraid I've forgotten what this multicolour card does."

"Throw it on the pile and say what colour or number you want to lead."

"Yellow."

"Yawwoh!"

"Swallow before you speak honey."

Logan closed the book with a snap, fed up with his total lack of progress. He turned to the group and started to tell them off for making such a racket.

"Finally!" Mac yelled over the top of Logan's complaint. "Read 'em and weep ladies."

The trio leaned over the technicolour pile and looked at Mac expectantly.

Gertie beamed. "Very impressive. But I do believe you've forgotten something rather important."

He looked down at the cards, nonplussed. "Eh?"

"SKIPPO!" Emily cried in delight and dropped her wad of yellow cards onto the pile.

"Wha- dammit!" Mac cursed, thumping the table with his fist.

"Where there's a word there's a win!" Gertie crowed.

Emily smiled and stuck her tongue out through the front gap in her teeth.

"Rematch!" Mac demanded.

"Not for us I'm afraid." Vanessa said firmly. "Emily's had more than enough sugar for today. Time to run off that energy in the garden."

The wisp of a woman ushered her daughter to the back of the room. Logan withdrew his feet to let them pass.

"They're not normal if they're not tearing up and down the yard yelling their heads off." Gertie declared to the world in general. "My son was a champ for that. Some you have to pour red cordial down their throats to get them off their butts, but my Bertie was up and running faster than dawn could break each day."

Mac caught Logan's eye and they exchanged a long-suffering look.

Emily started to whine. Logan turned to see the little girl pressed up against the patio door, her small body straining against the glass.

Sadness flittered through Vanessa's eyes as she watched her child repeat the same motion over and over again, not understanding the problem.

"She's just excited." Gertie consoled her. "I forget my own head when I get that way."

Nudging her daughter out of the way, Vanessa pulled the door inwards. It slid open easily, mocking the child's efforts.

Emily's face darkened. "Poohead door!" she yelled, her hands balling into fists.

"Oh honey..." Vanessa went to pat the child's hair.

"No!" she screeched and tried to hit the outstretched arms.

Logan shrank into his chair, his insides turning to ice as the little girl transformed into a vicious monster right in front of him.

As suddenly as it had come, the anger left. The twisted features relaxed, leaving only a scared little girl. She wrapped her arms around her mother's waist, pulling her into a hug.

"I'm thorry Mommy." she said quietly.

Vanessa stroked her hair gently. "It's okay baby. It's okay. Go run around outside for a bit. It's nice and warm today."

Emily nodded and detached, drifting outside like a lost cloud. In moments she had perked up and was doing cartwheels like nothing had happened. Vanessa watched her forlornly.

"Time is a funny thing." Gertie commented. "It stretches and slows like a rubber band. Yesterday can be forever and today can be only a moment. Tomorrow is always too close or too far, and no two days are felt the same."

"Yesterday was only a moment ago." Vanessa said softly.

"But for your daughter, it was forever. Do you remember how long summers used to last when you were young? They'd stretch off into the distance, no end in sight. Time speeds up as we get older. We get busy, have responsibility, and it flies by in moments. But when we were kids, a day was as long as a week or even a year, to be filled as we liked."

Gertie got up and went to stand by Vanessa. The pair watched the girl tumble through the grass joyfully.

"I know this is only a moment, but feel it. Feel how long it's growing. Relish this moment."

Vanessa breathed deeply as Gertie's words floated through the silent room.

"This is how it feels for her all the time. You count the days and watch them speed past, aided by fear and impending pain. She doesn't see beyond the next moment, and all her moments stretch for this glorious eternity, filled with sunshine and play.

"This is her lifetime, right here. Don't quantify it, just enjoy it. Nothing lasts forever. But right now, for her, it feels like it does. Just remember that."

The pair just stood there for a long time, Vanessa's eyes shining with tears.

"Play forever baby." she whispered.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT –

### AD HOMINIM

Logan slid the book back on the shelf and tried to leave the room as quietly as possible. The air felt heavy and his throat was tight with unknown emotions.

He paused as he walked past one of the twins in the hall, trying to figure out which one it was. It looked apologetic for just being there, so Logan decided it had to be Dana. She was hovering over a magazine, gluing sequins onto a piece of fabric that she'd wrapped around a stick.

"Dana." Clara called from their bedroom.

Dana jumped and hurriedly picked up the magazine, hiding the thing between its pages. The guilt was palpable.

Logan shook his head and padded down the hall to his room, shutting the door softly. He sat down heavily on the bed and just stared at the wall as he retreated inside his own head.

He didn't know what had been worse, watching the child or the mother. It was like the child had regressed for those few moments. It wasn't just stupidity or forgetfulness like Gertie had tried to brush it off as. Even a toddler learnt not to keep pressing the square peg into the round hole after a few failures.

It was like, for one brief moment there, all Emily's higher cognitive functions had just stopped. For that brief moment, she became an animal. And even the most timid animal would attack when trapped.

Logan's gut tightened as he remembered the time Melissa had found George injured. The heartbroken look on Melissa's face after the cat had bit her was nothing compared to Vanessa. When her child had turned around and hit her she had looked beyond helpless. All the steel behind her eyes had just vanished with that single blow.

He couldn't even imagine what the woman must be going through. To lose a child was bad enough, but to watch them turn on you was inconceivable.

Uncomfortable with where his thoughts were going, Logan looked around for his suitcase and pulled out a couple of books on wildlife. After a moment's debate, he put back the thick encyclopaedia of dangerous animals that thrived in his country and opted for the thin hardback with full-page photos from around the world.

He flipped through the pages idly, looking for a distraction from his dark thoughts.

He paused and flicked back to the middle. On the left, two slitted eyes peered out of a swamp, the rest of the body submerged beneath murky water. On the right, water foamed around a huge set of jaws, open wide and lined with small teeth.

Logan stared at the photos of the crocodile attack. It stirred the same emotion in him as watching the little girl transform into a vicious monster mere metres away from him.

He flipped through the pages with more vigour, desperate for something to change his track of thought. Sharks stared up at him, their black eyes flat and dead, just like zombies.

Unlike zombies though, sharks swam alone. Logan had noticed that over the years. Contrary to the Removal Technician handbook, zombies tended to cluster. You saw the occasional lone one, catatonic and starving, but otherwise they all gathered in one room and attacked his cage as a group.

It was strange behaviour for supposedly mindless monsters, now that he thought about it.

There was a polite knock at his door. Logan jumped, dropping the book on the floor. He pushed it aside with the door and peered out. Dana was cowering in the hall beside her sister.

"What did you say to her?" Clara demanded, arms crossed over her budding chest. "She keeps blubbing something about your psychobabble."

Logan sighed and tried to close the door again, but she stood in the way.

"Who do you think you are, filling her head with stupidness the moment I turn my back?" she said accusingly.

"I just tried to give her some sense."

"All you gave her was dunno-ness. I was telling her 'bout the Louveray and she started mumbling to herself. You know what she was saying? 'Clara doesn't know, she just thinks she knows.' She said she got that from you. Who are you to say that? You don't know me. What kind of sick jerk are you that you'd turn my own sister against me?"

"It's pronounced Louvre."

Clara pinned him with a look that would have silenced a lesser man, like her father. "Louveray."

"Louvre. I visited it when I was younger."

"And when was that, two hundred years ago?"

"Ad hominem. Attacking the opponent instead of the topic." He looked at Dana, addressing her instead of her twin. "It's a common trait in bullies."

"You're the bully, brainwashing Dana like that."

"I'm not the one who brainwashed her. She thinks you're a genius with knowledge of the universe, and you're only... what, fifteen?"

"I am a genius. Daddy told me so."

"Of course he did." Logan sighed. "And yet, you can barely form coherent sentences."

"It's called slang, grandpa!"

"It's called a small vocabulary, something that is uncommon amongst genii."

"I'm a genius, not a genie, get it right. God you're dumb!"

"Ad hominem." he said in an aside to Dana. "Claiming others are stupid to make the attacker seem more intelligent by contrast."

He turned back to Clara. "Genii is the plural of genius." he corrected, amused that the girl was blatantly more upset that he wasn't paying her his full attention.

"You totally didn't say it right." was her only defence. "Well, I'm bored and you're boring me. Let's go paint our nails!"

Clara grabbed her sister by the wrist and flounced back to their room.

"Look at the way she does things, not what she's doing." Logan called out to Dana, but Clara had already pushed her inside the room. The girl took a moment to stick her tongue out at him before she too disappeared inside the inner sanctum.

Logan threw up his hands in exasperation. "You know what, that's fine. Knock on my door, accuse me of talking sense and then walk away when you don't win. Very mature."

"Y'know, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness."

Logan looked over his shoulder to find Dean standing behind him.

"I vant to suck your blood." the man said in an appalling attempt at a vampirish accent.

"I don't swing that way."

Dean burst out laughing. "So you do have a sense of humour!"

"I keep it bundled next to my socks."

"You might wanna let it hang out, it'll make living here a whole lot easier. Everyone likes a guy who can make them laugh."

"It only shows when I'm stressed."

"We'll just have to keep you on edge then."

"Trust me, I'm already there and it's giving me vertigo."

"Ah don't let Clara get to ya. She's just a spoiled brat."

"Yes, but she's a spoiled brat that insists on talking to me. And I went from terrifying Dana to overturning her entire world-view in about an hour."

"That's teenagers for ya. Volatile buggers. Mac's almost as bad, 'cept he's a lazy bugger most of the time. So uh, is that a pack of cigs strapped to your leg or are you just happy to see me?"

Logan looked down. His trouser leg had wrapped around the bottle Gloria had strapped there. "It's medicinal alcohol. I'm minding it for someone."

"And who might this special someone be, eh?" Dean raised a bushy eyebrow. "Getting brownie points with Nessa?"

"What?"

"I saw you two getting cosy on the grass this morning. Somebody got a thing for blondes?"

"Well, yes, but we weren't-"

"Head to head for hours whispering sweet nothings to each other? I've seen the way she's been looking at you."

"No, she's just being friendly because..." He stopped himself. He couldn't let Dean know that he and Vanessa had bonded over their superior state of health, and he didn't particulary want to share any other details of their personal conversation.

"Because she digs you. Totally smitten. You'll be sitting in a tree before you know it. Just do me a favour and don't do a Jasbet, okay?"

"Jasbet?"

"Jason and Betty. They've melded together so hard we decided to just refer them as a single entity: Jasbet. Gertie wanted 'Betson' but that sounded too much like a car."

"Uh, right. I'm not really like that."

"Never woulda guessed it." Dean grinned.

## – CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE –

### SOMBAE

By ten that night Gloria still hadn't tried to retrieve the alcohol so Logan undid the leather strap and tucked the bottle into the back of the chest of drawers. In the process, a paper fell out of the pamphlet on top of the chest and slid under the bed. Logan knelt carefully to avoid any unwanted twinges in his back as he fished it out.

The escaped paper was an order form for 'Ignorance Killed the Lepers' by N.E. Pennyworth. Logan vaguely remembered a hubbub over the book launch when he was younger. It had been something about the history of misdiagnosis and propaganda. Just some self-pitying biography hidden in slander and medical terms, he'd decided.

This time though, the tagline caught his attention. 'A spooky revelation of the parallel journey for today's cerebrobacterium sombae'.

Logan thought that was a bit of a stretch. History repeating itself hardly constituted as spooky. It happened all the time.

The term looked familiar for some reason though. He placed the form on the bedside table and got ready for bed, rolling the name around the back alleys of his memory.

As sleep haunted the edges of his mental vision, a solution floated to the surface like a dead fish in a pond.

Determined to rid himself of the question, he hauled himself out of bed and hunted through his suitcase. There was a small medical book he'd bought one night when he had managed to convince himself that the spot on his back was cancerous. Reading through the unlikely ailments had dispelled his tendency to misdiagnose himself when left to ponder the aches and pains of his aging body.

He traced a finger down the index of names until he found 'sombae'. He flicked to the relevant page and read from the first mention of the term to the last.

'Cerebrobacterium sombae is a rapidly spawning microbacterium first discovered at the start of the second millennium and shares similar traits to mycobacterium leprae (see Leprosy). It is highly infectious and passes between organisms through saliva.

'Its primary function is to consume brain tissue, and works in predictable patterns. The first bacterium travels through the body until it locates the brain tissue. There it spreads across the exterior of the frontal lobe and begins the process of breaking down the entire brain systematically.

'This process disrupts the sending and receiving of electrical impulses while a second wave targets areas of the hypothalamus, disrupting the immune response and preventing cell regeneration to ensure its survival. A common side effect of the second wave is damage to receptors for hormones that regulate hunger, blood pressure, body temperature and heart rate.

'There are three stages to the disease Sombaeism (p. zom-bay-IS-em).

'Stage one symptoms include dilated pupils (see Mydriasis), loss of sense of smell, (see Anosmia), low body temperature, slow heart rate and low blood pressure (see Hypertension).

'Stage two symptoms include open sores (see Leprosy), reduced brain function (see Dementia) and insatiable hunger (see Hyperthyroidism).

'Stage three symptoms include long periods of inactivity (see Catatonia) and loss of higher-brain functions (see Persistant Vegetative State).

'Sombaeism is a slow-acting terminal disease. The most common cause of death is from depleted brain functions. Other causes include bodily overcompensation resulting in dyspnea and organ failure.'

Logan blinked several times. He considered himself pretty intelligent, but all he'd managed to glean from the entire explanation was that cerebrobacterium sombae was the bacteria that made zombies. Which meant everyone who had been calling it a virus was completely wrong.

It was so blatantly obvious now that he looked at it. Bacteria didn't need to preserve a host like a virus did.

He closed the book and got back into bed, mildly relieved to be free of the nagging question, but mildly annoyed at himself for not solving it with common sense. It was in a zombie pamphlet, of course it was something zombie-related. The spelling had tripped him up though.

Strangely, he'd always thought 'sombaeism' was spelt 'zombiism'.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY –

### THE THIRD DAY

Logan sliced the pig intestines into rings and put the microwave on high. When he removed them they had shrivelled to half the size and curled at the edges.

He selected one of the crispiest and chewed it cautiously. The texture was like the bastard offspring of bacon and calamari. It yielded under pressure with an unpleasant squelch and then determinedly clung to the teeth, but it did fit his current criteria of 'edible'.

He washed it down with a large glass of water and debated going back to bed. His nocturnal instinct was already beginning to fight back against the normality of a daytime regime, and the prospect of facing the horde with all their odd habits, loud spats and unwritten rules was giving him a headache just from considering it.

He could already hear the noise that he had come to associate with the twins. The clomp of heels landing in sync, the thuds as they gestured and hit objects and walls around them, and the irritating high pitch of Clara as she ordered her sister around.

In one swift decision, Logan dropped the glass in the sink and ran back to his room. He crawled back under the covers and lay still, trying to relax and drift back into dreamland.

A twin screamed and flew past his door, Mac's heavy feet thudding in tow. There was a metallic clang and another scream as the girl sped past the other direction.

Logan pulled the blanket over his head and curled into a ball, listening to his own breathing as the cloth trapped and magnified it back at him. If he could just drown them out for a few moments, he could return to the sweet anaesthetic of sleep and they would all disappear.

There was a crash of wood in the distance that sounded like a chair falling onto a table.

Logan began counting his breaths.

His door issued the long creak that a hinge summons when someone is trying very hard not to disturb the occupants.

He huffed and threw the covers off, fed up with pretending any sleep was coming to him now.

Gloria straightened up and stamped down the foot she had been delicately placing onto the carpet. "You're awake then. Didn't see how you could sleep with that racket anyway."

She looked under the bed.

"Where did you put the medicinal alcohol?" she asked as she straightened up and started unzipping his suitcase. "Not still strapped to you, I hope."

Logan rubbed his eyes and tapped his bedside table.

She wrenched the drawers open and rummaged through the sea of pamphlets. The bottle gleamed in the streak of light peering between his curtains. She unscrewed the cap and took a large swig.

"God I'd kill for a good red." she gasped as the liquid burned down her throat.

Logan watched her cautiously, unsure what to do. There was an Infected woman in his bedroom chugging stolen alcohol and talking about colours. He'd never read about this sort of situation.

She offered him the bottle. He shook his head.

"Good call, this stuff tastes like arse." She threw back another shot. "But those kids are an utter pain in mine and I am not going to handle it sober when there's a chance of facing it smashed."

She squinted at the label and sniffed. "Or at least blurry at the edges. Where's my necklace?"

Logan paused, panic blocking all traffic from his memory.

"Aha!" She leaned over and tugged at the strap poking out from under his shirt. Her touch sent a shiver down his spine.

He carefully removed the necklace and dropped it in her waiting palm. She threw it over her head. "Knew I could trust you. You have that kind of face. The sort that'd blush instantly if you did something wrong. You'd be hopeless in business."

She ran a hand through her hair and leant against the wall, kicking the door shut. She was oddly fascinating to watch. Tight curls flew around her with each movement, dancing across her face and caressing her shoulders. The hem of her skirt rippled as she swapped which hip she was leaning on.

She was looking at him critically, black eyes boring into his body. Her eyebrow was arched slightly.

Logan felt something was expected of him, but he had no idea what.

"S-" he coughed, words failing him. "So how- uh, what made you, um, end up here? How, uh, that is, why are you, uh... mmm..." he trailed off as the intense gaze locked with his own slightly inadvertent one.

"An obvious question." she stated and screwed the cap back onto the bottle. "But not the one I was expecting, so I'll indulge you."

She launched herself onto the bed and landed on all fours above him, her face uncomfortably close to his. He could practically feel his skin trying to crawl off his skeleton in an effort to get away.

He leant back as far as he considered to be polite, and then scooted a little further back for good measure.

"I was raped." she said matter-of-factly. Her eyes narrowed as she watched for his reaction.

"O-o-oh?" he warbled.

"Yes! By a co-worker." she added in a stage whisper.

She rolled onto her side and propped herself up on an elbow. She was still far too close for Logan's comfort but she seemed perfectly fine with the proximity. She grinned at him and unscrewed the cap again.

"He was a persistent bugger. I had him round for drinks-" she paused for a sip "of delicious ambrosia. A sultry little red I had discovered several years ago was just on the cusp of perfection. Well, you can't drink something like that on your own, so I had him over as a witness to the utter perfection."

The grin fell like rocks from a cliff face. "But he saw it as so much more. Oh yes. He had plans for me."

She pulled a face at the memory of the man. "So he came over, all smarm and reeking of cologne.

"We enjoyed the red, and when I asked him to leave he declined cheerfully. I had to be a bit more forceful in my requests until he finally understood that he had completely misconstrued the situation. He was upset, naturally, but he left with his dignity intact.

"His shouts upset the neighbour's dogs a bit, but they yap at almost anything. Every night they would bark at people walking past, bikes too close to the lawn, cicadas, bloody everything."

Logan tried to slide over to the far side of the bed without being too obvious about it. He didn't understand how anyone could be that comfortable while pressing up against an acquaintance.

"I didn't see him for a week." she continued, staring unseeingly at the far wall. "Not that unusual since we worked on different floors, but I used to pop by regularly for a chat before then. It sat a little heavily on my mind, but we were busy and I had my work to do."

Her eyes flicked to Logan as the bedclothes began to wrinkle and pull at her arm. She sniffed, took another swallow and chose to ignore it.

"It was a Friday that it happened. I liked to treat myself to a nice bubble bath now and then, so I ran myself one and went to the bedroom to change into my robe. When I returned I couldn't hear the water running. I thought Leon had accidentally knocked the taps again.

"Leon was my cat." she stopped to explain. "He's a muscular black tom cat. He liked to tread heavily on my taps to get to the window and yowl at the little white cat from down the road."

Logan smiled briefly as he recalled George doing similarly annoying things in his sink.

"I marched in, ready to kick the black menace outside, but it wasn't Leon. Mark was standing there. Just standing in my bathroom. I don't even know how he got in. He was all smarm as usual but this time there was an edge to him. He was like a knife dangling above my head, just waiting for the right moment to let it drop.

"I ordered him to get out. And he dropped, right on top of me. Threw me to the floor and knocked all the air out. I fought him and I fought dirty, kicking and scratching and when I got my lungs back, screaming bloody murder. I screamed as loud as I could and those bloody dogs started barking and carrying on.

"We were on the top floor, but he had me near the stairs so I rolled him against the banisters, kneed him in the gut and ran. Got about three steps before he grabbed my ankle and down we went again, rolling and fighting.

"And all the time he was saying things about how he was going to rape me and how I deserved it for leading him on, stupid macho bullshit to justify his actions to himself and try to scare me. I was too furious to be scared by words, I just wanted to hurt him as much as possible and leave.

"Then he heard the sirens. The neighbours had called the cops, smart cookies. And his little brain kicks in, and he realises he's not going to get the time he needs to, I dunno, debase and humiliate or dominate or whatever it was he felt he was doing.

"So we're scrounging on the ground, I'm digging my nails in, we're both tired and sweaty but still trying to trade blows, and suddenly he bites me, right on the shoulder. He sinks his teeth in and draws blood, and I'm screaming and hitting his head but he won't stop. And then, oh god, and then he starts drooling."

She shook her head, clearly ashamed to have known this man.

"He's slobbering all over me, great ropes of spit on my chest and neck, and he's trying to lock onto my mouth but I'm not having any of that, and there's just this black mucus stuff pouring out of his mouth and there's blood everywhere and it was just so disgusting."

She flicked her hands as though trying to shed the foulness of the memory.

"Anyway, he does that for a few precious seconds that he can hear the sirens and then he grabs my hair and smacks my head into the carpet over and over again. I am seeing stars by this point, and the burning of hair being ripped out isn't helping either.

"By the time I recovered he was gone. Legged it before the cops came. Turns out he'd been Infected over the week, and as his little parting gift to me, had decided to spread the joy."

Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"God I was a sight, all blood and drool. The cops wouldn't come near me with a ten foot stick. Couldn't get a claim filled if my life depended on it. Instead they decided, since I was still standing, that I must be a hella tough bitch and dangerous as all fuck, so they slapped a label on me and dropped me in here."

She tilted her head and grinned, teeth shining against her tan skin. Tinges of dark saliva clung to her gums, dulling the radiance.

"I like you." she said suddenly, pitching forward with her emphasis. "You actually listen after you ask a question. Got any others?"

Logan looked the half-empty bottle. "How high is your alcohol tolerance?"

"Oh, fairly high. It's giving me a nice bit of fuzz, but not much else. Think I need a little more." She winked and chugged the rest of the bottle.

"You didn't want any, did you?" she asked, tilting it upside down and inspecting it for any missed morsels of oblivion.

"I'm, uh, I think I'm okay thanks." Logan mumbled, staggered.

"Good. I like a man that thinks while I drinks." She hauled herself upright in a fluid motion, standing on his bed. "Let's go see what the world has to spit in our faces today, shall we?"

She held out a hand to him as though offering a dance. There was a large bandage crossing the length of her right palm.

Logan recoiled.

"Manly man eh? Fine." she sniffed. "Suit yourself."

Chin held high, she threw a leg over the edge of the bed and slowly toppled to the ground.

"Are you okay?" Logan leant over the collapsed figure.

"Fine. Just inspecting the carpet." Her reply was slightly muffled. "Very nice, good weave by the way."

"Can you get up?" he asked doubtfully.

"Of course I can. I just don't happen to want to at the moment." She rolled onto her side. "What I want to do, in fact, is lie here and enjoy this exquisite fabric. Can you feel it?"

"The carpet?" he asked, confused.

"No, the love tonight. Of course the bloody carpet. Get down here, it's hurting my neck to look at you." A hand snaked out and caught his sleeve. He had to throw out his other arm to stop from falling on top of the woman.

"Marvellous, isn't it?" she purred.

He ran his hand across the carpet a couple of times, humouring her. "Spectacular. Get up now, please."

"Mmmm, no, I don't think I will." she crooned and hooked a hand into his shirt, trapping him.

"You know what I like?" she asked, her eyes unfocused. "I like quiet. It's so nice and quiet-like. No talky talky and the time with the blah and the who and wha."

Her head lolled back to hit the floor. She didn't even notice.

"You're quiet. I like that. You just keep being quiet and we'll be amazing. Just like that." She beamed idiotically. "You're so good at that! Mister quiet man talking quietude for quietness and ön valójában féle ravasz amikor vagy megzavarodott."

Logan was still listening, but all he heard after 'quietness' was gibberish. "I'm sorry, but I don't speak... whatever it is you're speaking."

Gloria laughed and curled into a ball, her hand releasing him. "...és furcsa."

Her eyes closed and she began to snore.

"Is Fuscia. Right. Fuscia say you're all crazy." Logan muttered and climbed back onto the end of his bed. After a moment's thought, he draped his crumpled blanket over the sleeping figure.

"Bloody drunk." he mumbled and left the room in search of peace and coffee.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE –

### WOMEN

Gloria surfaced around mid-afternoon with red eyes and swollen lips.

"Looking good Gloria!" Mac smirked and slung an arm around her shoulders. "Someone sneak in for a little squeaky squeaky with the newbie?"

She glared and shoved him away. "Go do something useful like bash your head against a wall."

"Ooh, avoiding the question." he sang as he wandered away.

Logan looked up from the newspaper he had borrowed from Dean.

"Is fuschia." he said, the words falling from his mouth without warning. He cringed mentally.

Gloria looked at him blankly and dug out her special bag of beans. Every atom in his body went into high alert with the removal of the seal.

Logan was out of his seat and across the room in seconds. "Where did you get those?"

She grunted, ignoring him as she tipped the beans into a cup. She poured cold water from the kettle she had switched on without plugging in the cord and took a sip. She groaned irritably, drained them and dumped the wet beans into the grinder. Then she poured more cold water into the coffee grinds, sipped the mess and snarled.

Logan backed away, aware that any conversation was futile when making a cup of coffee was an uphill struggle. As he reached his chair there was the sound of a large amount of liquid leaving a small exit with considerable force. He hurriedly dropped the paper and darted out the patio doors.

Outside the day had grown warm and inviting. It was the sort of weather that brought out girls in tiny tops and boys without shirts to frolic on sandy shores.

Logan dove for cover under the shade of a large tree, sweat already seeping through his shirt. He wiped a few errant drops from his forehead and carefully picked his way through the shadows to his stone refuge. As he sat, he momentarily wished for some sort of back support, although it occurred to him that intricately carved stone wouldn't make for the most comfortable of chairs.

He relaxed, enjoying the peace and warmth that filtered through the tree's great green canopy, and imagined in greater detail all the bikini bodies that would be dotted across beaches today. Stripes and polka dots, towels and sunhats, all of them kicking up sand and splashing through waves as the sun sparkled on the ocean.

An image of Gloria snuck its way into his daydream. He sketched in great detail upon the chalkboard of his mind the way the towel would hug her waist and pad out her curves, falling just short of her long muscular legs. Her luscious red lips would curve into a mischievous smile. Her cheeks would be full, the cheekbones high and sharp above a faint red blush of excitement. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and black with eyeliner, would be deep pools of amber darkening with animal lust. Those luscious red lips would part to reveal that row of gleaming white teeth, that small pink tongue trailing across them. The towel would open, revealing-

Logan's mind rebelled in the face of the facts.

-revealing gaping wounds that wept hopelessly and great chunks of flesh that should never have seen the light of day. The skin grinned at him with their mouths of blood and teeth of bone, coagulating blood clinging to their lips. And all the while Gloria smiled at him, her eyes begging him to touch the quivering flesh that was rotting before his very eyes.

The gleam of her lipstick grew too bright, engulfing his mental vision in white.

Melissa stood with her back to him, blonde hair shining in the sun. Her arms were crossed.

She turned to look over her shoulder. Her brilliant blue eyes were bright with tears. They rolled down her pale cheeks and over her pink lips that he had adored kissing.

Silently, she turned and began to walk away. The truck sped down the road, and he braced himself for the impact.

It never came.

Instead the truck slowed to a stop beside Melissa, and the door opened. She climbed up into the darkness, her white heels glowing pink in the setting sun. Behind her, the door slowly closed.

The truck pulled out and she left him behind in the gathering darkness.

Alone.

Logan awoke, startled to find himself still sitting on the bench. It took him a moment to realize that he'd dozed off while daydreaming about half-naked women.

He felt unsettled. He'd been dreaming about the accident ever since Melissa had left his side, but it had never played out like that before. The truck had always removed her, leaving a light too painful to bear in her place. This time he had been left alone in darkness.

His thoughts flitted back to Gloria and the way she'd looked before the dream had turned sour. She had stirred something within him, something he hadn't felt for a long time. Was it possible, he wondered, to love more than one woman in a lifetime?

Logan felt guilty even thinking such a thing. He had no right to think like that. Melissa was his everything, an angel of light, pure and eternal. No one could ever possibly replace her, and he knew it.

Especially not a zombie.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO –

### THE TROUBLE WITH TURNING

Logan walked back to his room, surprised by the thick blanket of silence that covered the house. The only sounds that reached his ears were a few quiet moans from Baba in the corner, the rustle of a playing card, and the occasional curse as Gertie pricked herself with a needle.

It couldn't last, of course.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the latest Owensistwins design!" Clara declared as she strutted into the living room. The twins flaunted two white off-the-shoulder shirts covered in bold black text. Clara's shirt said 'Flawless' while Dana's shirt read 'Floored'.

"There's one for you too." Dana said shyly as she handed Mac a green t-shirt. He held it up for everyone to see.

Scrawled across the front in classic horror font was the text 'Brainsss...'.

Mac turned the shirt around to read it. A shadow crossed his face.

"You can wear it with this." Clara pressed a pin into his hand.

Mac read the text out loud for the benefit of the room. "'Charity case: please give generously'."

Clara grinned. "Get it?"

Mac threw the pin at her, but it wasn't with his usual vigour. He rolled off the couch and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Funny as, bro." he said tonelessly and slouched outside.

Dana watched him leave, concern scrawled across her face more plainly than the words on her shirt.

Michael looked mildly disapprovingly at his little girl, which was probably about as close as he got to upset. "That wasn't very nice, sweetie."

"What?" Clara asked. "Not my fault he can't take a joke."

Dean shut his book and fixed the girl with his black stare. "Turning is no joke, Clara. What you just did was very cruel."

Clara looked down, staring blankly at the discarded accessories. Her face clouded.

The pin shattered under her heel.

"Maybe we should apologise..." Dana started to suggest. Clara cut her off with a mascara-coated glare.

Logan darted around the budding fiasco and padded up the hall. He found Emily sitting in the middle of the carpet, just watching her feet waggle. He tried to walk around unnoticed, but her little hand reached out to catch his trouser leg.

"Mithter Logan, will you pway wif me?" she asked quietly, apparently oblivious to the drama unfolding in the other room.

He stifled a groan and knelt down to unhook the child's claw-like grip.

"No Emily, I can't play right now." he said carefully, feeling like a fool.

"Mmmkay..." she mumbled. Her other arm lay limply on the ground.

"There's a good girl." Logan felt bad as he rose but he would be damned if he was going to play with a ticking time bomb.

His conscience tugged as he walked away. Involuntarily, he glanced back at the small figure.

She was pouting as she lifting her limp arm and dropped it. It flopped like a dead fish onto the carpet.

Paternal instinct clawed its way out of the locked box at the bottom of his heart and thrust itself to the forefront, marching him back to the little girl.

He knelt down on her left side. "What's wrong?" he asked as gently as he could manage.

Emily frowned, her entire face crinkling in an effort to comprehend. "It won't move."

She picked up the arm again, waggled it and let it fall.

"It goeth thump but there'th nofing here." she said and poked the elbow covered in pink skivvy.

"Nothing?"

"I go poke and nofing. I go poke here and owwie." she explained as she jabbed her bicep.

"You can't feel it?"

"It'th not there. I thay up and it goeth blah. I go poke and it goeth nah."

Logan slowly sat down and looked at the arm carefully. It was lumpy in places, presumably from bandages.

"What happens if you poke the bandage on your hand?" he wondered.

Emily jabbed it. "No fing." she lisped despondently.

"Is that a big bandage on your elbow too?"

"Uh huh. If you take it off you can thee wed thquishy thtuff and bone. Mommy thayth I'm not to whack it on anyfing or big owwie and lotth of boo boo juice."

Logan considered this and combined it with the information from the medical book he had read. If the bacteria interrupted the electrical impulses, the arm wouldn't respond, so it was possible that the bacteria had permanently stopped all feeling in the girls arm.

"Emily," he said as gently as he could, "I don't think you're going to feel anything again. You have numb spots where your bandages are." He gestured carefully, mindful of the open mouth with the still substantial number of teeth. "And I think the bacteria has cut all communication with your arm."

It didn't seem possible, but Emily's face scrunched up even more in confusion.

Logan ran through his internal dictionary and pulled out the most basic language he could find. He concocted a children's story as he went along.

"Mister nasty bug inside you," he gestured to her tummy, "has stopped the green lights in your arm. All the little nerve-cars have stopped making your arm work because inside there," he pointed to her arm, "the light is red. And you don't drive when there's a red light. Mister nasty bug has made your arm road all red lights.

"You understand?" he asked slowly.

"But I wan' gween lightth."

He rubbed his eyes. "I don't know how to make them green Emily. You have to live with red lights for now. Uh, sorry." he added as an afterthought.

Emily looked at her arm critically and smacked it with her working right hand. "Bad mithter nathty bug! You make lightth gween now!"

"That's not how it works..." Logan trailed off as tears began to fill her big black eyes. The lip trembled in warning.

"No no, it's okay, don't cry, it's not that bad, it'll be-" he spouted desperately but he was too late.

A wail ripped from the girls tiny mouth, louder than anything she should have been capable of producing. It ricocheted off the walls, burrowed into his ears and smacked him in the face.

He scrambled away from the child as tears streamed down her face to join the strings of black saliva on her chin. Her good arm pounded the floor, tearing at the carpet. Her legs smacked into the ground as her head snapped from side to side.

In the blink of an eye, Emily had become the perfect picture of an incapacitated zombie in full frenzy.

It was the most horrifying thing Logan had ever seen.

Vanessa flew down the hall, dress and hair streaming behind her. She knelt and scooped the creature into her thin arms. It kicked and clawed, screaming its head off while she held it tight and rubbed it's shaking frame.

Logan watched, frozen, as he waited for the creature to sink its teeth in and rend flesh from bone.

The scream trailed off with an unhappy burble and subsided to a series of sobs and hiccups. Vanessa crooned in her daughter's ear, bouncing her gently.

Eventually, miraculously, the sobs stopped. Vanessa knelt down and let her child climb off her. Pulling a handkerchief out of nowhere, she wiped away the black drool and tears smeared across the little girl's face. She whispered reassuringly as she worked.

When she touched the limp arm her demeanour instantly changed. With the sharp precision afforded by years of nursing, she popped Emily's loose shoulder back in. Emily waggled her fingers and lifted the arm experimentally, looking much happier.

"Now honey, we're going to be more careful with ourselves, aren't we?" her mother said in a soothing voice.

Emily nodded, her face still pale pink from her Moment.

"There's a good girl. Let's get something yummy for my brave little girl."

Vanessa lifted Emily back onto her hip and floated down the hall like nothing had happened. Her blue skirt ruffled in her wake.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE –

### IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL SOMEBODY GETS HURT

Inside his room, Logan poured over an aged newspaper, looking for any articles about zombies. It was years old and yellowing, but most of it was still intact. Dean had shown him the small pile someone had been collecting before they Turned, hidden under the bottom of the bookshelf.

He had searched for something recent, but to no avail. He supposed the reasoning behind it was something along the lines of keeping zombies ignorant of the external world. Current news might give them a sense of hope for reassimilation, or worse, generate enough despair that they would attempt something drastic and actually succeed, like breaking out and going on a rampage.

Logan stopped and reviewed that last thought, surprised at the level of sarcasm that had accompanied it. He wondered when he had started making the distinction between Turned zombies and the inhabitants of this house.

His thoughts went to Vanessa, cuddling her erratic daughter. That must have been the defining moment, he thought. The shift between child and creature and been so clear in that instant. The quiet sombae swaddled in confusion was a stark contrast to the mindless tantrum of the drooling zombie.

Logan closed the paper as the realizations came thick and fast.

He could see it now, like an oasis in the desert. The line between human and zombie split into two, revealing the confused sombae in the centre.

He looked at the title on the order form nearby. 'Ignorance killed the Lepers'.

Modern medicine didn't know how to handle the sombae outbreak, so like any uncontrollable illness, they had quarantined it. But the medicine had never caught up with the illness, so the government, action expected of them, tucked the terminally ill away and kept them comfortable until their descent into madness was complete.

It was like a mental hospital, really. The patients had dangerous fits, but for the most part they were just normal people. It was actually quite impressive how they had formed a society and routines to keep each other safe and under control.

And really, Logan thought, wasn't that what humanity was all about? Wrapping yourself in invisible chains to stop you from doing anything society disapproved of? Unwritten rules and obligations to functions no one really wanted to attend?

Logan felt a weight lift off his chest he hadn't even known was there. These people really weren't the same creatures he'd shot in cold blood every day for fifteen years. They were just a melting pot of unlucky people with terminal illnesses, trying to hold onto what remained of themselves before animal instinct took over.

He suddenly felt light, almost invincible.

Out in the hall, someone screamed.

Logan barrelled out the door, prepared to play the hero, and almost collided with Dana.

"Hide me!" she squealed and ducked behind him. Mac thundered up the hall, a plastic pistol in hand.

"Hand over the witch!" he bellowed impressively and levelled the gun at Logan's shoulder.

Logan took a moment to change gears and recognize the tone of the game. It felt medieval, so he bowed gracefully.

"This is not your witch sir. Your witch wears green and speaks with a forked tongue."

Behind him he heard the quiet slosh of water.

"See how it cowers. This is not the proud witch that casts its wicked spells. Onward, good Macalot, to-" there was a snort of laughter behind him, "to greener pastures."

Mac retracted his pistol and pouted. "I'm the brave knight Macsimum. I have plus fifteen armour and wield the sword of the Twin Rivers."

"Say it in old English." Gloria instructed as she strode past Logan, brandishing a super-soaker.

Mac gazed into the distance, lips moving slightly as he thought. "Yea, the brave knight Macsimum stands before ye. Great is my armour and terrible is my sword through which the might of the twin rivers flow."

Gloria beamed proudly. "It is an honour to stand by your side, great knight. Let us go forth and do battle with the witch of..." she glanced at Dana who was peering over Logan's shoulder. "...the doused reflection."

A stream of water flew over Logan's shoulder, hitting Dana in the face. Gloria let out an evil chuckle and the pair bolted down the hall and into the garden.

"I'm melting!"

Logan turned to watch as Dana concertinaed slowly to the floor, hands dragging down her face in mock agony. "I'm mel- oh no, my mascara!"

The lighter reflection leapt off the floor and darted into her room to fix the rivers of coal and magenta that dripped down her cheeks.

Logan allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. This was certainly one of the more preferable ways to descend into madness.

He wandered over to the patio doors and watched the fun.

Gloria and Mac were standing over Clara, taking turns blasting her with water and grinning manically while she screamed at them to stop ruining her outfit. Red dye leaked from her dress, staining her arms and the grass surrounding. Green lipstick was smeared across her face and her eye shadow was trickling down her neck.

Logan felt delicious joy bubbling up inside him. He let it out with a hearty laugh. Gertie scuttled over and joined him in the mirth.

"About time that girl was taken down a peg. Just look at that ego deflate!"

Clara gave up insulting her assailants and curled up into a ball, letting the water wash over her.

"Looks like that dress isn't colourfast." Gertie commented. "Another good thing. I bet she would have dropped it into the wash without a second thought and left everyone with pink undies."

The water trickled to a halt as Gloria grew tired of the unresponsive target. Mac had started sneezing excessively after the second refill. He persevered for one more trip before following Gloria back inside, his eyes and nose both red and running.

"Daddy!" Clara wailed. Her voice had a nasty thrum. "Daddy!"

Michael appeared around the corner like a well-trained dog. He walked slowly over to his fallen daughter, each step faltering more than the last as he tried to assess the situation.

"Keep watching." Gertie ribbed Logan with a particularly sharp elbow. "This is going to be good, I just know it."

Clara was determinedly limp as she glared at her lack of a knight in shining armour.

"Help me up." she demanded.

Michael picked her up by the elbows gingerly, trying to keep his body as far away as possible from the red dress. Slick with water, the arms kept sliding out of his gentle grip and smacking into the dirt.

"Daddy!" Clara complained, switching back to her normal, irritatingly high voice.

"I'm sorry sweetheart, it's just, you're very slippery. I can't get a grip."

Clara glared at him and stood up, acting as though the very effort was an affront to her dignity.

"I'm not slippery, you're just weak." she snapped and stomped her glittery red heel. Mud splattered up her leg.

Clara looked down and let out a little scream of rage. Then, contrary to common sense, she started stamping her feet. Mud splattered all the way up her legs and clung to the hem of her skirt.

"Don't you love it when they do it all themselves?" Gertie said happily.

Michael just stood there, unsure what to do to make his princess happy again. After a few moments of listening politely to the tantrum, he bowed his head and shuffled back inside.

Clara didn't even notice.

"Michael!" Gertie greeted him cheerfully. "How about a nice hot cup of tea?"

Relief cascaded down his worried features as Gertie hooked an arm through his and steered him towards a small coffee table.

"He's hopeless unless he's taking directions." Gloria said out of the corner of her mouth to Logan. "He needs the firm hand of a strong woman."

"Ah." Logan nodded, understanding perfectly.

"He totally lucked out with that." Mac said, his voice unusually nasal. "He showed me some pics from his wedding. She's such a babe. I mean, I've seen her before, but not all dressed up like that and stuff."

He sniffed, rubbing his red nose before describing Michael's wife enthusiastically. "She had all this red hair down to her waist and big green eyes and her boobs, oh man. Her boobs were out to like, here."

He looked down at where he'd gestured and decided it wasn't impressive enough.

"They were like, out to here." he corrected and held his hands a good forearms length away from his chest.

"Uh huh." Gloria eyed the hand placement critically. "Hate to disappoint you- oh who am I kidding, I love it- but if they were out to there, she'd have toppled over."

Mac looked discouraged for a moment. He pulled the hands back to halfway. "Okay, so maybe they actually were about here."

"Okay, that I'll believe. What do you think?" Gloria turned to Logan for confirmation.

He felt his eyes flick from her chest to Mac's without his permission. "I, uh, I haven't spent much time measuring women's chests."

Gloria smiled at him, nearly bowling him over with the sudden radiance. She turned back to Mac and smacked him across the back of the head. "Stop drooling over the milf and fetch Clara a towel. She's been glaring through the doors for a while now. I don't want her dripping on the carpet. And stop scratching, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"I can't help it, I'm allergic to that grass." Mac complained and sniffed. "Make her get her own towel."

Dana appeared in the hallway entrance, carrying a fluffy pink towel.

"Or not." Mac rescinded.

Dana picked her way through the chairs, eyes to the floor, and nearly walked into them.

"Um... is it over?" she asked, clutching the towel protectively. Logan noticed the twin looked much happier without the usual layers of makeup.

"Yeah, you can mop up the green witch puddle." Gloria stepped aside and unlocked the door. Clara tried to push her way inside and ran into Gloria's outstretched palm.

"Wet dogs stay outside." she ordered and pushed Dana through, locking the door again.

Clara stood up against the glass, her eyes burning murderously. Dana gently wiped down her back and managed to coax her away long enough to wring out her hair.

Gloria shook her head. "That sister is too good to her."

"She dotes upon her every word." Logan agreed.

Gloria raised an eyebrow. "Dotes?"

"The knight talk got to me."

"Then prithee good sir, wouldst thou partake in tea with us wenches?" Gertie called from the sink.

"Who you calling a wench?" Mac replied, reaching for a mug above her head.

"Oh, pardon me good sir, your great bust of imagining had me confused."

"That wasn't mine, it was-. Whatever."

Gertie popped the lid on the teapot and grinned.

Gloria unlocked the door to let Dana through and took full advantage of the opportunity to shut the glass in Clara's face one last time.

"Count to five before you let her in." she ordered as she flipped the lock. Smirking, she strode off in the direction of her bedroom.

Dana watched her twin's face grow steadily pinker as she yelled through the glass. The contagious air of general mischief seized her and she began to make faces back at her irate sister. The yelling degenerated into a face-pulling war and by the count of thirty Clara was back to her pale, freckled, obnoxious self.

She flounced into the room the moment the door was unlocked, plonked down on a seat Mac had been about to take and stole his mug.

"I will get the water pistol." he said threateningly between sniffs.

Clara leapt into another chair and attempted to look nonchalant as she settled once more.

"Dahnah, Ehrl Grehyah." she commanded in a poor imitation of a sophisticated drawl.

"We're having black." Gertie placed the pot in the middle of the table.

"Black? But I want grey!" she pouted.

"Oh dearie, don't do that. The green bits at the edges make you look like a fish."

A hand flew to her mouth and she coloured.

"Oh god, I'm not wearing any makeup! I'm naked!" she squealed, sounding remarkably like Dana. She was out of her chair and down the hall in an instant.

Dana hovered for a moment before delicately taking the departed seat.

"Now isn't this nice?" Gertie beamed and poured tea for everyone. Dana's eyes flicked from the biscuits to Gertie as she did.

"Oh, just take one dear. They're for eating, not for looking." She pushed the plate over. Dana took one gratefully.

Logan eyed the plate suspiciously. The biscuits were an odd dark brown colour and smelled musty.

"What flavour are those?"

"Liver." Dana mumbled through a mouthful.

"You're eating liver snacks? Aren't those for dogs?"

"It's raw meat ground up. Sounds like zombie food to me." Mac grabbed a handful and chomped on them with every sign of enjoyment. He had angry red marks the entire length of his arms from scratching.

"I have some more jam biscuits if you'd prefer that." Gertie smiled knowingly at him. "Emily loves them, it's like a vegetarian alternative to blood for her. Only the raspberry though, she won't touch anything else. It only makes her hungrier of course, but she insists on eating them anyway."

She rose to rummage through the cupboards and brought back a biscuit tin. "It's a good transition food if you can't quite stomach all that meat. Mentally, of course."

She laid a few out on the plate next to the liver snacks and nodded satisfactorily to herself.

Logan took one and bit into it gingerly, half-expecting some foul coagulant to have been mixed into the jam. Nothing but sugary sweetness met his tongue. He chewed it gratefully, already sick of his second-rate carnivore diet.

Baba rattled off a moan from her corner and Gertie toddled over with a full cup of tea for her. She carefully placed it in the woman's shaking, liver-spotted hands and talked to her quietly for a few minutes.

Dana finished her dog biscuit and looked at Logan, a question hovering on her lips but unable to drop.

"What?" Mac prompted her.

"Why are you so warm?" she asked Logan. "I mean, your body's cold, but I could feel the heat coming from your neck when I was hiding behind you."

Logan's gut tightened in fear.

"What? You're tripping. Why would he be half cold half warm?" Mac responded.

"But, I'm sure he was..." she trailed off, unsure of herself once more. "It was a dumb question. Forget I said it. Sorry."

She dropped her head, hiding her face beneath her mass of frizzy red curls.

Logan relaxed, safe for the moment.

"Ooh, jammy nums, my favourite!" an unfamiliar voice said near Logan's ear. A slim dark arm sneaked past and took a jam biscuit off the plate. He turned to follow the biscuit and found the arm attached to a pretty dark girl wrapped around a mousy young man.

"Hi." She gave a little finger wave as she bit into the biscuit. "I'm Betty."

"Jason." The young man nodded.

"These are nummers." she exclaimed and began feeding them to her partner. He licked the jam off her fingers, staring deep into her eyes.

"Barf city." Mac muttered.

"I think it's cute." Dana sighed wistfully.

"Oh yeah?" He grabbed her hand and slobbered on her pinkie.

She yanked her hand back and wiped it on her dress, her face turning red. The purple stained the soft flesh of her pale pinkie.

"Oh no, I thought only the red ran..." she said dispiritedly, looking at the finger.

"Do not put that in with my stuff. I swear, if my singlets come out purple I will put all your stuff in with my undies."

"Oh gross! Mac undies!" Dana cried, pretending to gag.

Betty broke the deep eye contact long enough to look over at Mac and Dana. "You two are so cute together." she said dreamily.

Mac gave the girl a look of complete disgust while Dana looked at her with disbelief, but the girl missed both looks. She had already turned back to Jason and was kissing him like tomorrow would never come.

"Get a room you two." Gertie suggested, nudging them away from the table so she could get past and back into her seat. Jason and Betty drifted off in search of a comfortable couch.

"You don't see romance like that these days. It's all bickering and family feuds." She looked pointedly at Dana and then across to Mac.

"What are you looking like that for? I don't like him! He's a pig!" Dana objected shrilly. Her cheeks were still bright pink.

"Least I don't dress like a gay pride reject." Mac retorted.

Dana's mouth twitched. She looked down at her napkin, folded it carefully and placed it on the table.

"Excuse me." she said quietly and left the room.

Mac took another biscuit. Gertie stared at him, eyebrows raised.

"What?" he said, spraying crumbs. "She does."

"You should watch what you say to her." Gertie warned.

"Me? You were the one pushing the subject."

"She's very fragile, Mac."

"Pfft, please. I could drop a brick with 'not interested' carved in it and she still wouldn't get it through her boofy head."

"What do you think, Mr. Logan?" Gertie asked, looking for backup.

Logan thought back to the terrifying joy he'd felt when his crush on Melissa had been acknowledged. "I think a kiss can do a lot for a person's self esteem," he said quietly, "and it doesn't cost much."

Mac's face darkened. Without another word, he left the table.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR –

### ISSUES

Logan stepped out into the cool breeze and turned to face the sun, but all he found was shadow. After a short search, he managed find a strip of sunlight leaking down the side of the house. He felt like a cat as he tried to find the best position for the warmth to drape over his back and soothe his sore muscles.

Logan wondered how the cat was doing with Charlie's daughter. From all reports, she was a bright girl, so he wouldn't be surprised if she'd managed to train him to use a scratching post instead of a couch by now. He himself had never been invested enough to teach George anything beyond the vague notion that being caught on the countertop was bad. For a while he thought he had actually succeeded, but then he'd gotten up in the middle of the day unexpectedly and found the cat drinking out of the kitchen tap. George had jumped down quickly when he had noticed his owner watching, but it was clear the cat had every intention of climbing back up there the moment he was gone.

Logan stretched, feeling mildly better. He considered moving to the stone bench, but with it came the memory of the disturbing dream. He opted instead to stretch his legs out in the warm grass and lean back on his hands.

The distant sound of shouting rose to greet him. He tilted his head to look through the kitchen window. Horace and Matilda were going at it again.

Guilty relief seeped through him as he realised how narrowly he had avoided becoming that kind of old couple with Melissa. Or worse, he could have become Michael, a man with a spine of jelly and the willpower of a wet blanket.

The patio door scraped open and the sound of bickering filled the quiet outdoors.

Logan scooted the rest of his body around the corner of the building, hiding from Horace and Matilda. Instead of the couple though, the tongueless zombie Baba tottered out into the garden. He watched carefully as each foot scraped across the grass, flattening a little path in her wake. She walked like a lot of Turned he'd seen, throwing her whole body from side to side in lieu of working knees. It was almost comical, like watching a penguin march.

Slowly, the zombie made her way over to the flower garden. Logan wondered how Gloria would react when she saw how her sanctuary had been violated.

As if summoned by the thought, the patio door clicked open and Gloria stepped out, frowning slightly. She pulled the door closed and leant against it, watching Baba shakily make her way to the thick crop of bougainvillea hanging at the back.

Baba reached the wall of flowers and tentatively reached out a trembling hand. The hot pink flower snapped off the vine and fell to the ground.

She reached for another; the petals crushed black beneath her fingers.

She lifted her other arm. It shook furiously as she forced it up to chest height and grabbed at another flower, her hand clamping down on the petals. They tore as she pulled back, leaving the mangled flower still hanging from the vine.

Logan glanced over at Gloria, wondering why the woman didn't rush to stop her garden from being destroyed. The woman's red lips pursed and momentary anguish flitted across her features before she weaved her way over to where the destructive zombie stood watching another bruised flower fall through her trembling fingers.

Gloria reached in front of the hand's next target and gently plucked the flower for her. She turned to the zombie, her expression soft, and showed her the unbroken bloom. Brushing the zombie's dark grey hair aside, she tucked the flower behind her ear.

"Baaabaaa." the zombie moaned, sounding pleased. A thin string of black saliva fell to the ground as her ripped lips peeled back to reveal an almost toothless smile.

"You're welcome." Gloria took her hand and guided her back through the plants, leading her inside to where her chair sat waiting for her.

Logan stayed hidden for a while. He was feeling a bit off-kilter after watching the old woman fail to do something as simple as just pick a flower. Her body apparently couldn't even manage that delicate action anymore. Instead, she'd destroyed multiple flowers without even trying.

Logan felt his gut twist as he imagined that same frustration and despair in the Turned zombies he'd faced. Suddenly the arms grasping for flesh became overenthusiastic pleas and the bloodthirsty moans transformed into garbled cries for help.

The illusion was shattered as he remembered the baby viciously sinking its teeth into his sleeve. There was no way that he could misconstrue that as a cry for help.

His arms started trembling, reminding him that they were not designed to hold up his entire upper body for long periods of time. His wrists joined in, threatening to remove all circulation if the abuse continued. Defeated, Logan got up and walked further into the garden in search of a more comfortable seat, hands tingling as the flow of blood returned to them.

He sat down under a slim tree and leant back against the trunk, relishing the warm still retained by its bark.

There was sniff somewhere behind him. Logan closed his eyes, ignoring it.

"Oh god I'm such a wimp... Why can't I do anything right? Stupid stupid stupid..." muttered someone who sounded a lot like one of the twins.

Leaves rustled as the girl sobbed quietly. Social conditioning raised its head, urging Logan to action.

Already regretting it, Logan crawled around the tree towards the sound. Huddled in the leaves that covered the steel wall was Dana, head in arms.

Logan watched for a moment, unsure what to do. When Melissa had dissolved into tears, every word people said just made her cry harder, but Charlie had sworn a good hug could stop his daughter crying every time.

He hovered indecisively, torn between comforting the crying girl and just leaving her alone. He settled for a compromise.

Reaching out, he patted the girl's head tentatively.

Dana looked up, her eyes red. She curled in on herself and moved away from his hand. "Don't look at me." she whispered.

"What are you doing?" Logan asked, looking at her stomach. The girl was clutching at it desperately, like it might escape.

The trembling girl shook her flaming head. "I didn't mean to."

"Didn't mean to what?"

"I just wanted the pain to go away." she said, her body shaking uncontrollably. "It hurts. Make it stop."

"Make what stop?" Logan looked around for help.

Her whole body shook so violently her arms blurred. "Make it stop!" she screamed in a piercing voice.

Dana's arms and legs jerked in random directions, her head smacking the ground as she fought to hold onto her stomach and failed.

He scrambled to his feet, certain he was witnessing someone Turn. His hands flew to the empty spot on his belt before he remembered. Improvising, he snapped a small branch off a tree and brandished it like a club, ready to strike when the monster rose.

Logan panicked when the branch was yanked out of his hands.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He spun towards the voice and received a face full of leaves.

"Do you know how long it takes to grow these?" Gloria shouted, waving the branch in his face. Her eyes twitched to the convulsing Dana.

"Moron!" she snarled and shoved the branch into his arms. She kicked a large rock out of Dana's range before running back inside the house. Seconds later Vanessa was sprinting across the lawn to where Dana lay.

"Shhh. It's okay sweetie. We got you. You're okay." the woman said gently as she knelt over the girl's twitching body. "I'm going to fix you. You're going to be okay. Just breathe."

Vanessa guided Dana through each breath as she lifted the girl's unresisting limbs. They were covered in thick black blood.

Logan took a step back, appalled. The girl's stomach was a warzone of scarred and freshly shredded skin.

He backed up against a tree for support and slid down to the base, shocked. He flinched as his hands brushed the bandage the girl had been wearing. Its yellow stars looked up at him accusingly.

"Shhhh. It's okay, we can fix it. You're going to be fine." Vanessa cooed.

"I didn't mean to." Dana whimpered.

Gloria reappeared carrying a medical kit. Vanessa stroked the girl's hair as she hunted through the kit.

Dana stared blankly at the sky. A tear rolled down her face. "I don't want to die."

"Don't be stupid, of course you're going to-" Gloria began.

Vanessa cut her off with a glare so fierce even Logan flinched.

"-be fine." Gloria finished flawlessly. "You've got a professional."

"Tell her Dad, will you please?" Vanessa instructed as she pulled out an assortment of bandages.

"That was what I was doing." Gloria said defensively. She looked over at Logan. "Are you going to just sit there?"

He got to his feet numbly, using the tree for support.

"Stop breaking the bark!" she snapped as she stormed past him.

Logan looked over at the stricken girl. She was rolling her head from side to side and muttering an endless string of apologies as Vanessa patched her up.

Choking on the guilt and bile in his throat, he followed Gloria inside.

Mac was lying on the couch reading a comic book, oblivious to the world. Gloria snatched it off him and used it to smack him on the head.

"What was that for?" Mac asked, more concerned about his comic book than anything.

"Do you know what you've done?" she snarled, pointing the magazine at the garden.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Bullshit! She relapsed!"

Mac sat upright, concern written across every pore of his face. "What did she do?"

"What she always does, you self-absorbed prick! She ripped off her bandage and tried to scratch her own stomach off!"

Logan felt the bile winning as it pushed its way to the top of his throat.

Mac rose to his feet. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

Gloria pushed him back down with a solid palm to the chest. "You are not going anywhere near her. We are not rewarding her for this kind of behaviour."

"She's not a dog, Gloria!"

"Yes, she is not a dog! You can't just keep kicking her and expect her to come bouncing back all happy to see you!"

"Oh my god." Mac collapsed, head in hands.

Gloria's expression softened. "You just need to be more aware that everything you say stays in her head. I know she seems more level-headed than Clara, but that's only because you don't see the fallout."

She looked over at Logan.

"There's only so long you can keep everything bottled inside."

Logan looked away. He didn't know where he should be or what he should be doing, but at least his stomach was settling again.

"I've got to break the news to Michael." Gloria declared to both of them as she charged up the hall. "If you see Clara, stop her from going outside."

Logan gladly took the order. He picked a chair near the door and sat guard.

"Goddammit, she took my Incrediman Issue Seven." Mac huffed irritably. "If this was all a ploy to steal my special edition I am going to be so pissed."

Logan couldn't believe his ears. The idiot was more concerned about his comic book than the life of the young girl he'd destroyed with his callous words.

"Do you care about anyone but yourself?" he asked sharply.

Mac went red and looked away.

There was a long pause.

"She's a teenager."

Logan snorted. "So that gives you the right to act like one too?"

"She's only got four months."

"She's not even going to have four months if you keep treating her like this."

"I have to." Mac glared at him, his black eyes glistening. "Don't you get it? Four months means two more months I still have to live through, and they'll be a damn sight easier if I don't have to think of them as the two months I have to live through without her.

Logan blinked, surprised by the boy's admission. "Mac, I lost my wife after only three years of marriage, but if I had the chance to go back and never love her, I'd still do it all over again. Love is incredible, but you have to grab it while you can."

Mac looked away, arms crossed. "She's fifteen."

Logan laughed. "What are you afraid of? The police aren't going to arrest a zombie for inappropriate conduct with a minor. And from what I've seen, you're perfectly matched in terms of maturity."

Mac chewed his lip thoughtfully. "You have a point, but there's still one problem. Her boobs are titchy."

"Your brain is titchy." Clara retorted, striding through the living room. "But good news, you're still a massive dick."

Logan threw a leg across the door, blocking it. "You can't go out there."

Clara looked outraged. "I'm her sister!"

"You're half the problem!"

Her eyes widened. "How dare you-"

"Do you know what she was saying out there?" Logan interrupted. "What she told herself while she... did that?"

He swallowed and rallied. "She kept repeating 'Stupid stupid stupid'."

"Well she is!"

"And that's why she believes it. You keep telling her she's stupid, dumb old Dana. You're her sister. She trusts you. And all you do is put her down to make yourself feel bigger.

"Now do you see what it does to her? What it makes her do to herself?"

"She always does stupid things though." Clara objected. "It's not my fault!"

"Then you're both too selfish and too blind to see the pain you've caused." He sat down again. "And you're not getting through this door."

Clara stomped her foot. "I get it, okay? I'm larger than life and you people can't handle it."

Even Mac raised his eyebrows at that comment.

"Oh sure, you're all begging Dana to talk cos she did something stupider than usual, but do any of you stop to ask me about my pain?"

Mac's jaw dropped. "Is that what I sound like?"

Logan nodded. "Pretty much."

Clara ignored them, determined to finish her dramatic scene. "I had it all! I was a star! I was beloved! And then I was here. So excuse me if I'm little bitchy. You wouldn't understand what it's like to have your dream taken away."

"We've all had things taken from us." Gertie said loudly, rising from the chair she had been hidden in. "Friends, family, jobs, countries. But you shouldn't throw away all the building blocks of life just because one fell. Use the remaining ones to build a new life. A better one."

Clara looked at her blankly.

"You have a family still." Gertie explained. "You're one of the few who do. Appreciate it. Love them. Support them. You'll be much stronger together than apart."

Clara turned the words over in her mind. "So what you're saying is... you can't have a show without stagehands."

"Not exactly what I meant, but if that works for you." Gertie nodded.

Clara looked suspicious. "They can't be co-stars, because if you're not careful they can upstage you."

"Just stop insulting Dana, dear. She can't handle it."

"What a baby." Clara huffed.

Gertie gave her a look that could melt steel.

"I mean, poor thing." she corrected hurriedly.

Logan opened the door for Vanessa who led Dana, bundled in a blanket, into the room.

There was an awkward silence.

"Hey." Mac said gently.

"Hi." she replied so quietly Logan almost missed it.

Clara threw her head back and opened her arms. "Dahling!" she cried. Logan cringed at the fake accent.

"I am just so glad to see you." Clara simpered. "You look different, did you do something with your hahyer? Whatever it is, it is just gawgeous!"

"Thank you?" Dana squeaked.

"Whatever, let's go paint our nails." Clara grabbed her wrist and prepared to drag her away.

"N-no." Dana said. She took back her freshly-scrubbed arm.

"What?" Clara looked genuinely shocked.

"I don't want to paint nails. I want to read. Alone." The girl looked terrified as the words left her mouth, even more than when Logan had found her clutching her stomach.

"Um, okay. Fine. I guess I'll see you later."

Dana looked relieved.

Vanessa smiled at her. "See, that wasn't so bad."

Logan stared at the young girl who moments ago could have slipped from the world unnoticed and as terrified of death as he was. But unlike him, she had friends and family who would miss her.

He felt a lump form in his throat.

She had family that would actually mourn her death, and friends that would choose to put flowers on her grave in her memory.

He looked at the zombies crowded around the pale girl and, for the first time, saw them as Gertie had described all those days ago. They really were a family. They cared for her, looked after her, and someday, would mourn the loss of her. But for now they rejoiced that today was not that day.

Logan felt the weight of utter loneliness fall upon him, heavy and unbearable. He had no family or friends left, he thought sadly. He'd thrown them all away on a desperate bid for financial security. He was alone in the world.

Gloria detached from the crowd. She looked uncomfortable as she approached him.

"I came to apologize." she announced. "I may have been a bit insensitive before. I tend to snap under stress. I forget people aren't used to seeing this sort of thing."

A finger hovered under his nose.

"But if you ever touch my trees again," she hissed, "I will break one of your limbs."

Logan burst out laughing.

"What?"

"I tried to beat her to death and all you're worried about is the tree?"

"Those are my priorities." Gloria let a smile slip. "If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with the tree."

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE –

### STEREOTYPE

"Okay everyone, listen up because I'm only gunna read this once." Dean addressed the full room. "By the way, Gloria, they changed the pickup guy."

"What? What happened to Jim?"

"Probably got sacked for sneaking outside information in to a zombie."

"Oh yeah, Anya's a real goldmine for current events." Gloria said sarcastically. "When she's not detoxing or juggling two men, she's just pouring over those newspapers."

"What are you talking about?" Clara asked irritably.

"Gloria talked the last guy into delivering letters to and from her sister. Paid for postage and everything. Think he was sweet on her."

"It helped that I cried and called him 'my angel'. I don't think he was that bright. Very religious though. One of those Mormons, all smiley and helpful."

"You cried?" Mac asked suspiciously.

"Fastest way to a guilty conscience is through the tear ducts."

"You know what?" Clara interjected. "I stopped caring five minutes ago. Can we get this over with already?"

Dean nodded and cleared his throat. "Right, let's get started."

Gloria shoved her chair back against the wall noisily, expressing her annoyance. Dean ignored her. "I have tallied up the items and the number of points we have are seven over the limit. Raise your hand for any item on this list you deem unnecessary. A majority vote will have the item remov-" he paused and frowned. "Who wrote 'DPG plus FashioniStar' here?"

Dana raised her hand. "Um, that was me. It's totally awesome and they are super mean for putting it in the catalogue and not giving us a tick box for it."

"What is it?"

"What are you, living under a rock?" Clara snorted. "The Delirious Portable Gameset!"

"FashioniStar is like the coolest fashion-music-dance game ever invented, but it's only on DPG so we gotta get that too." Dana explained.

"You take photos and use the make-up tool to redesign their entire look and then you can put them on a runway or go clubbing." Clara continued.

"And get scene points when the head Fashionistar challenges you to make people awesome or awful. It's really, really cool." Dana reiterated breathlessly.

Dean crossed it off the list.

"Oh come on!" the twins cried.

"Sorry, you're right, this is a democracy. Hands up who wants to waste points on a DPG FashioniStar? No one else? Right, request denied. Next on the list, drink additives. We've got everything ticked except Early Grey." Dean looked up questioningly.

Gertie grinned. "There's only one person who drinks it. Let her tick it off."

Clara was too busy gushing about the endless gaming possibilities with her sister to notice democracy at its best.

Dean managed to make it through almost the entire list without further complaints.

"Alright, cured meats. No one has ticked the bratwurst this month. Wasn't that usually you, Horace?"

"He's not having any more, ever again." Matilda answered for her husband. "I have to share the room with him. It's worse than Auschwitz after that stuff."

The older occupants of the room looked appalled.

"What? Nobodies Jewish. You're not Jewish, are you?" Matilda checked with Logan.

"That depends, are you going to stick a triangle on me?" he replied dryly.

"What are you on about?"

"My god, you don't know the first thing about it, do you? No wonder you can laugh so easily." Gloria sniffed.

"Moving on." Dean said a little louder. "Who ticked the entire condiments section?"

Logan raised his hand.

"That'd be what put the tally over. Why did you tick all of them?"

"Call me crazy, but I just couldn't get enthusiastic about three square meat meals a day." Logan explained. "Something about a meat entrée and meat main with a meat side just gets a tad repetitive."

"That's a lot of meat." Gertie agreed, grinning. "I usually jump straight to the meat dessert."

"I don't understand." Dean said slowly, his eyes suspicious.

Vanessa stepped in before Logan could reply. "I think what Logan is trying to say is that the textures aren't varied enough for his normally diverse palette."

Dean nodded and checked the sheet. "Ah, I see, trying everything for different textures."

He looked up again, the suspicion still alive in his eyes. "We usually just get peppercorns. Gives it a nice crunch."

"Like bones." Mac muttered.

Logan chose to ignore that remark. "You can take the spices off. Never did know how to use them anyway."

Dean nodded and crossed out seven items on the list.

Logan asked a question that had been weighing on his mind since he had first seen the sheet. "What does happen with the meat? It's not on the form."

"Monthly delivery. A bit slim pickings at the end, but we scrape by. Just don't leave the fridge open. That stuff defrosts and we'll be on each other before you can say 'cannibal'."

"Now Dean, don't be so morbid." Vanessa chided. "There's still the veggie garden if worst comes to worst."

Logan stared at her. "There's a veggie garden?"

"Yes, it's around the side. You can see them if you look out your window. Didn't anyone show you?"

Dean shrugged. "Veggies aren't high on my priorities."

"You forgot about them." Gloria said reproachfully.

"I don't get veggies." Mac declared. "I ate a whole vine of tomatoes and was still starving after. I think it actually made it worse."

Gloria turned on the blonde boy. "So you did eat them!"

"Yeah yeah, I ate them, okay? It's no big deal."

Vanessa looked crestfallen. "Oh Mac. You know I'm a vegetarian."

The boy actually had the decency to look embarrassed. "It was just one vine." he muttered.

"It was one vine of so few options. I have to eat what's in season. Promise me you won't do anything like that again."

Mac slumped into his chair and muttered something incomprehensible.

"Promise." Gloria snapped.

"I promise, jeez!"

"I goddit, I goddit!" Emily cried as she ran inside waving a bunch of marigolds.

She scrambled over the empty armchair next to Logan and held the bundle out to Dean, her face glowing with pride.

"Uh, thanks." Dean said and took the flowers.

Emily knelt on the cushion, looking expectant. "I wardered dem and picked dem and bwought dem here all by mythelf." she announced proudly.

"Yes, well, well done." Dean said awkwardly and edged away. Emily looked disappointed.

"Well done sweetie." Logan patted her head gently. Her hair was dry and brittle and her head cool to his touch, yet the action felt right.

Emily smiled, her little pink tongue visible through the front gap.

"Fank you mithder Logan." she said politely and wriggled off the chair to drag her mother off to the bathroom.

Logan looked at his hand in amazement. He'd touched her without even flinching. He hadn't even thought about it. He had just treated her like a normal child.

He looked at Dean. The man's shoulders had relaxed with the absence of the little girl.

"That seems to be everything." he declared to the group, his voice sounding a little strained. "I'd say this meeting is adjourned. Gloria, please assist me by watching the front door."

"You mean listen for footsteps?" she clarified. "Sure."

The room slowly emptied as people found more interesting things to do than tidy up the cups and chairs strewn about from the meeting. Logan chose to stay put. When the room was sufficiently empty, he turned to Dean.

"So what was that about?" he asked quietly.

Dean looked at him blankly. He had been staring pensively out the doors at the pink overspill from the setting sun. His pen hovered over a blank piece of paper. "What was what about?"

"Emily. You went all strange when she came over."

Dean looked at the blank paper. "I'm not very good with children."

He wrote 'Gloria - Mail' carefully in the centre.

"Are you scared of them?"

"What?" The shaking hand smudged the last 'l'.

"When someone chokes like that it's generally because they're scared. Trust me, I know."

"I am not scared of her." he said sternly. He started writing the date.

"So is it you don't like children or-"

"I lied. It has nothing to do with children."

"Then what is it?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Dean took his time finishing the last number before he finally put down the pen and looked up.

"Do you know what it's like to live in a country you weren't born in? To learn the unfamiliar language and customs that try to replace your own beloved language and customs? It is hard enough for a local teenager to fit in. Give him a different set of customs and a strange language, and it becomes unforgiveable difficult.

"But I succeeded. I changed. I fit in. And suddenly, I was accepted."

He looked down at the marigolds. His face darkened.

"At least I thought I had succeeded. But then a child, not even able to remember her own education, brings me these-" He picked up and shook the flowers violently. "-these insults. These stereotypes. These slurs against my very heritage."

Logan blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Do you not see it? Yellow flowers for the yellow man. Racism at its most basic, bred from birth."

"What?" Logan shook his head. "I think you're reading a bit deep there, Dean."

"You see, I knew you would not understand. It starts small, but it gets so much bigger. Five years. Five years of idiotic jokes about call centres and happy endings and sushi. I am the ignorant one? You are the ones who can't tell three different cultures apart!"

Logan pressed himself into the back of his chair as Dean rose from his and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You people preach about diversity and acceptance, but you're all hypocrites. You don't care if people look different as long as they sound and act like you.

"Do you know why anyone even listens to me? It's cos I talk like some drongo that just fell off the back of me Ute. Do you think anyone would listen to me if I spoke like this?"

Logan leant forward in surprise. Dean's broad uncultured accent had lifted to reveal a succinct voice littered with musical vowels.

"That accent is fake?"

"Of course it is. Look at me, Logan. I wear tailored suits. I speak five languages. I was CEO of my own international company!"

"But why would you fake an accent?"

"Because when I talk like this all people hear is 'two dolla soulja boy.'"

"I don't."

"There is that lie again! You all want to believe it so much, don't you? But I know the truth. You would not have listened to me if I had greeted you with this accent. You would have walked away."

Logan shook his head. "Dean, I hate to break this to you, but it's not your accent that makes people stay."

Dean looked suspicious.

"Look, when I first met you, I thought were the spitting image of a bitch that used to ruin my life." Logan explained. "If I was going to walk away for any reason, it would have been that. But I didn't. You know why? Because of your smile."

Dean leant back, surprised. "You followed me because I smiled?"

"Yeah. I don't get many people smiling at me, and yours felt genuine. That's why people listen and follow you. You actually give a damn."

Dean sat down, lost in thought.

"Because of a smile..." he murmured, to all appearances rearranging his internal world on the spot.

In the silence, Emily shyly stepped out of the hallway and trotted up to Dean.

"Mithter Dean?" she asked, tugging at his sleeve. "Did I do bad?"

Dean looked at the broken stems still clutched tightly in his hand. There were petals scattered everywhere. He looked down at Emily, his face calculating.

"Emily, I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer it. Why did you pick yellow flowers for me?"

"Yawwoh ith for Dean." Emily said simply, looking from the battered flowers to the man's serious face.

"Why is yellow for Dean, Emily?" Logan asked, determined to clear any further misconceptions.

"Mither Dean'th thmile made me feel happy, and Mommy thaid yawwoh is for happy." Emily explained.

Dean's mouth fell open. He covered the slack jaw with his hand and looked at Logan.

Logan nodded at Emily, pleased. "See? It's all in the smile."

Dean looked at the limp flowers in his grasp. "I may have misread that slightly."

Logan smiled wryly, thinking of how badly he had misread the sombae situation. "Only slightly."

"Emmy? Emily." Vanessa called softly. "Storytime Emmy."

"Thtorytime!" the little girl cried gleefully and ran to the only beanbag in the entire room. Vanessa wafted in holding a storybook. She smiled gently at the men who returned it twofold.

"Let's sit down here and read a nice story, shall we?" she said to her daughter, who was wriggling into place and pushing beans around to get more comfortable.

There was a call from Gloria up the front of the house.

"Duty calls." Dean said as he left the room. He paused at the hallway entrance and said again in his natural accent, "Duty calls."

Logan nodded encouragingly and settled back into his chair. He was feeling nicely warm and drowsy, and the chair wasn't all that hard.

He dozed and jerked awake as Vanessa finished reading the story.

"...and so the handsome prince married the princess and they lived happily ever after." Vanessa finished in a singsong voice. She closed the book quietly and smiled at her daughter.

"I think I see a princess in this room." she said in that conspiratorial voice concocted for children and people with short attention spans. "Do you know who it is?"

Emily looked around, face screwed up in concentration. She pointed at Logan.

Vanessa laughed. "No silly, men can't be princesses!"

"How come?" Emily asked.

"Only girls can be princesses, darling. Boys are princes."

Emily blinked in confusion at all the s's. "But he'th a pwintheth." she lisped, revealing the storybook's prejudice towards speech impediments.

Vanessa shook her head. "No, he would be a prince. You," she rested a finger on her daughter tummy, "are a prince-ess."

Emily gave this some thought. "I need a pwinthe to be an eth."

"Sort of." Vanessa agreed.

"Den I'm not a pwintheth."

"Of course you are. You're my little princess."

"But I don't have a pwinthe. I'm jutht an eth."

Vanessa's smile slipped in the face of her daughter's logic.

Without waiting for a response, Emily leapt out of her beanbag and ran over to Logan. She tugged his trouser leg.

"Will you be my pwinthe?" she asked in a business-like manner.

"Okay." he agreed and covered a yawn.

Emily turned to her mother triumphantly. "Now I'm a pwinthe-eth."

Vanessa just shook her head and shared a smile with Logan.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX –

### TIME MAKES FOOLS OF US ALL

Logan watched the trees shed their foliage as the days turned into weeks and the garden prepared for the oncoming rain. Emily took great pleasure in crunching through the leaves and throwing great handfuls into the air while Gloria routinely scraped it into a pile and used it to mulch the flowerbeds. Logan found himself spending a great deal of time outside watching the woman work.

Each day he kept his eyes open for a new escape route, mindful that time was slipping away, but he was never quite able to bring himself to ask Dean for his own paperwork to find out his Expiration date. It was more than enough motivation to know that Emily's Expiration was drawing near. The sooner he found a way out, the sooner he could save Vanessa from her own blind love.

As time passed, he learnt a little more about the household's inhabitants and proceeded to shape his routine around their eccentricities. He learnt very quickly to avoid the twins in the morning when they were at their most volatile, how to narrowly miss Horace and Matilda when they went for their evening constitutional yell, and that he could arrive any time in the afternoon onwards and it would still be tea time for Gertie and whoever she deemed acceptable company that day.

Meanwhile, Jason and Betty became akin to wallpaper following a particularly loud row from Horace and Matilda. In what may have been an act of respect or more likely self-preservation, Jasbet learnt to become virtually invisible by cuddling quietly and perfecting the art of silent kissing. Logan had lost count of the times he had accidentally sat on the pair while reading. As a rule, he no longer sat in any furniture facing a wall.

Baba more often than not could be found drooling slightly, oblivious to the world in either the corner of the room or beside Gertie. As the days turned to weeks, Logan noticed she seemed to spend the majority of her time asleep or staring into space. It was only through Gertie's careful ministrations that she returned to the world long enough to slurp down a protein shake for dinner. Gertie seemed to lose a little more of her enthusiasm each time it took longer for Baba to respond.

As Baba travelled down one path of zombiism, Emily sped down the other. The sweet little girl of seven became more and more child-like, until one day the temper tantrums and badly pronounced words were all she could manage. Logan was unnerved when he realized that, within the space of just two weeks, she had slipped irretrievable into phase two.

In a desperate bid to keep the little girl entertained, and the increasingly frequent temper tantrums at bay, the twins were called upon to play with her. With such a limited range they had to resort to running races, stories and makeovers, but even that small selection shrank after Emily tried to eat a tube of lipstick.

Devoid of technology, Logan created his own entertainment by slowly working his way through the entire bookshelf and his own small collection. Before Emily lost the ability speak coherently, Logan had enjoyed a few hours sharing one of his photography books of the local wildlife with her. It had only lasted one session, because Emily had asked her mother after if she could have a platypus, whereupon he was told gently but firmly to keep his strange book to himself. Despite how he tried to explain that the creature was an entirely natural animal, she insisted that if she was going to put wild ideas in her daughter's head it would be about dragons, not otters with duck bills and poisonous spurs. Logan decided against pulling out a wildlife photo of the Komodo dragon, since he was dependant on Vanessa for vegetable rations.

Gloria had been slightly put out by the amount of seeds she had to order to keep up with the new demand, but she enjoyed the gardening so much that it was quickly forgiven. It did briefly arouse the suspicion of pregnancy amongst the household, but Vanessa convinced everyone that she just hadn't been eating properly until then. A brief glance at her frail figure was all the proof needed, and the gossip was soon forgotten.

When she wasn't gardening, Gloria was reading or writing to her sister. It took her a bit but she managed to convince the new mailman to deliver her letters, and since then had been subjected to a barrage of news from her sister. From what Logan could gather, the woman was an absolute drama queen. Every second line was a travesty or tragedy which needed her sister's immediate opinion or agreement. However, despite her letters being an endless pity party, Anya was clearly a generous and loving soul who took no end of joy in sending jam biscuits for Emily. Gloria liked to complain about her sibling's utter dependence on her, but Logan could tell she was pleased for the chance to call upon her extra seven years of life experience.

Logan became content with admiring Gloria from afar, and as time passed, thoughts of Melissa became increasingly rare. It was as though the sun from the garden had drained the sadness from him and cut the chain that bound him to her memory. Despite being trapped behind four steel walls, he felt freer than he ever had before.

As a confirmed bachelor he would never have chosen the lifestyle, but surrounded by the petty squabbles and occasional successes of the household, he finally realized how desperately lonely he had been. Yes, the twins irritated him mentally and Gloria confused him emotionally, but at the end of the day Logan felt better than he had in years.

He felt alive again.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN –

### GAMES NIGHT

In that circular motion time has when routine holds the reins, games night rolled around once more. Logan sank gratefully into one of the more padded armchairs and watched the pre-game entertainment.

Mac took a running jump and landed lengthways on the sofa, moving the entire couch a foot in the process. He timed it just as Gloria was walking past, his right arm catching the back of her legs. The coffee leapt into the air and landed safely back in the mug as she righted herself with the ease that only comes from a lot of unexpected practice.

"Oh come on!" Mac smacked a cushion in annoyance. Gloria swung a hip into the weapon of mass embarrassment, sending it back half a foot.

"Five points." Gertie decreed as she swept past with the teapot.

"Five? I hit the legs! She wobbled!"

"Not a drop spilt, nor a hair out of place. Five is being generous." She placed the steaming pot on the little table beside her favourite seat.

"I wish you wouldn't encourage him." Tea splattered as Vanessa appeared beside the old woman.

"Make some noise girl!" she berated as she finished filling the cup. "Now be a dear and mop that up."

Logan leant over and sneaked one of the dripping jam biscuits. He sniffed it. "Orange?"

"It's one of the samplers. Afternoon Orange or something." She dipped a finger in the puddle that had gathered on the tray and sniffed it. "Can't smell it though."

He took a bite. "Tastes like weak tea. Maybe it's about the aroma."

"Well that's lost on us then." she grumbled and dropped the lid back with a sharp clink.

He swallowed and took another sniff. "Why?"

She tapped her nose. "No sense of smell."

"How come?" he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

She waved her hands dismissively. "Something biological or scientifical. Smell was one of the first things to go."

Logan coughed to dislodge an errant piece of biscuit with sharp edges. "What? Then how do zo-, how do Turned find prey?" he asked, thinking of all the hours he had spent breathing those rotting carcasses as he waited for the fetid stench to lure the zombies into the light.

Gertie shrugged. "Probably like most people. Hear a noise. See some movement. Go take a look."

Logan looked back on his time as a Culler and tried to picture it with zombie senses. A figure formed from the clomp of boots, the squeak of a chair, the rattle of metal and the scratch of a pen. A figure clearly outlined in the one place zombies fear to tread; the light.

They had never come for the bait, he realized. They had come for him.

He rubbed his eyes, pressing hard with frustration. "I really wish someone had told me that before."

"Consider yourself a little bit wiser then." Gertie settled into the oversized chair and nodded at the hallway. "Look who finally emerged from the pit of adolescence."

Clara struck a pose in the hallway, her bright red lips pushed into a pout and one hand raised to show off her huge matching bangle. Her black singlet hung off her skeletal frame, desperately distracted by several loops of beads that fell almost to the band of her skinny jeans.

"No flash photography, please!" she declared haughtily. She swayed slightly, balancing on a high-heel that had tighter straps than a straightjacket.

"What happened to the corporate professional look?" Gertie asked as the mop of red hair bounced past. The twins had spent the last three days in suits with their hair pulled back so hard it had turned their already pale foreheads white.

"Oh darling, please," Clara drawled, "that look has been starched, folded and put back in the cupboard with the mothballs. Everyone knows casual celebrity is the new corporate. And this is so 'me'!"

"Of course. So where is the other half? Everyone knows show business adores its twins."

"Oh, she's still freshening up, you know how it is." Clara selected a stool and practically fell onto it.

"For some, beauty just comes naturally." She crossed her legs. "Others have to work at it."

"Clearly." Gloria said as she leaned over and handed Logan his coffee. He smiled, partially for the coffee but more for her mere proximity.

Dean stood up from where he had been digging through the collection of board games. "Alright, we can either play something with dice or a word game. Any preferences?"

Vanessa touched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'd rather we didn't play a word game. It's not fair to Emily."

Dean put the box back, shaking his head slightly. "Dice it is."

Everyone crowded round to see the choice for the evening. A general groan arose.

"That a kid's game!" Mac protested and thumped his leg on the armrest.

"It's a game of chance. It has all the same ingredients as an adult game. Dice-rolling, moving your piece, being placed forward or backward depending upon your fortune..."

"Just because one of us is a stupid baby you make all of us play like one." Clara complained, her drawl forgotten in the face of injustice.

Dean looked at the board gravely and nodded. "Tell you what. We'll play one game, she'll get bored and we'll choose something else. Alright?"

There was a murmur of general agreement as Vanessa returned with Emily. She held her daughter tightly around the middle and sat close to the board.

"Are we waiting for anyone?" she asked, breathless as the little girl squirmed in her grasp.

"Sorry we're late. Had a little a problem with the straightener. Got it untangled eventually though." Michael called out cheerfully and slid into one of the empty seats beside Clara. There were always empty seats next to Clara. She maintained the belief that it was because people generously left room for her family members.

Dana slid onto the other empty chair and smiled nervously. Mac glanced up at her and promptly fell off the couch in shock.

The girl's shoulder-length frizz had been tamed into a curtain of sleek copper curls that drew well-deserved attention to her porcelain face. Light freckles suddenly danced above small pink lips while the thin ring of her pale green iris exploded into a myriad of gold, blue and brown flecks. The hair, much longer when coaxed out of tightly wound coils, spilled over her shoulders to brush the developing curves tastefully revealed by a plain white dress.

Dana crossed her ankles and placed her hands in her lap demurely.

"Holy crap!" Mac pulled himself up off the floor as he stared without shame at the uncovered beauty.

The smile grew and the nervousness shrank.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Michael beamed. "Just like my wife."

Mac nodded so enthusiastically that his bristly hair actually moved.

"You call that makeup?" Clara sniffed.

"Gloss-It Girl says less is more." Dana replied with unusual certainty. She was looking at Mac, who was hurriedly arranging himself on the couch in an upright position for maximum viewing pleasure.

Clara yanked one of her sister's curls.

"Ow! What was that for?" Dana asked, looking hurt.

"You look stupid. Like anyone likes long hair. Only little kids like stupid long hair."

"I think it's awesome." Mac said before he could catch himself.

"Yeah, well, you're just a stupid kid then, aren't cha?" she sneered at the blonde boy.

"Be nice Clara." Dana said, employing the gentle tone her father so often used on them.

Clara gave her a nasty look. "So it's like that, is it? Fine. Be stupid together for all I care."

She pushed past the couch, making sure to knock Mac's feet off in the process. "Not that anyone cares, but I'm going outside. You can join me when you decide to grow up."

Dana looked mildly uncomfortable as she watched her twin leave, but it fled her face when she saw Mac's awe-struck gaze.

"You look freakin' twenty." he burbled.

She tucked a curl behind her left ear and smiled. "Thank you."

"You look like a young version of your Mum." he continued.

Smile still in place, her brow creased in puzzlement, clearly unsure if she should take the compliment.

"Hey, did she ever teach you how to-"

"Mac?" Gloria interrupted. "Stop talking."

Mac shut up, his eyes shining with excitement.

"Honey, no. Bad." Logan looked away from the young woman and over to where Vanessa was struggling to remove something from Emily's mouth.

"Ah, my grandchildren had the same trick. If you wanted to know what was small and dangerous to swallow, you just left them in a room for a few minutes and they'd find it."

Vanessa pulled a red disc from her daughter's mouth. Black drool slid off its shiny plastic surface.

"I hope she didn't have any more." she said, worried.

The little girls face grew pink as she grunted.

"Uh oh, I know that sound." Gertie said.

"What can I give her?" Vanessa looked around frantically for a distraction. "I can't give this back, she'll choke!"

The girl opened her mouth and began to scream. It was the cry of the irritable, the deprived, and the juvenile with no words to describe how utterly wronged they have been. It got louder and louder as Emily began to kick and wave her arms, distressed beyond all reason.

Clara stopped in front of the door and put her fingers in her ears. Dean grimaced and put his face in his hands. Mac buried his head under several pillows.

"Where's her toy?" Vanessa cried above the wail.

Logan glanced around and saw a knitted doll in the corner. It was orange and vaguely resembled a cat, if a cat was bipedal. He scooped it up and dangled in front of Emily.

"Ooo, look Emmy, is a kitty! Yesh it is, yesh it is!" Vanessa cooed as she cuddled the distressed child.

Emily opened her eyes long enough to identify the orange bundle of threads as a toy. She stopped flailing her limbs and gurgled happily. "Kee'ee!"

"That's right! Who's a good girl? Who gets the kitty? You do!"

Logan admired the way the woman could pitch her voice into the range of ecstatic happiness while looking so pale and drawn out that she might collapse at any moment.

He placed the ragdoll into the child's palms and waited for her to close her hands. He winced as her fingers missed, scraping against his flesh. He pulled the small fist away gently and pressed it against the toy fibres, not even upset.

The skin on the back of his right hand turned red. It had only been a pinch, and he was fairly certain it was an accident, but they had become far more frequent these days. Emily didn't have much feeling left in her hands, so she wasn't capable of anything much more than opening and closing her fists.

The child quiet once more, Logan returned to his seat.

"She seems more fussy than usual. I don't think she's been getting enough sleep." Vanessa mused, bouncing the girl gently as she chewed on the soft toy.

"Perhaps an early night would do her some good." Gertie suggested.

"Yeah!" Mac agreed far too quickly.

"Yes..." Vanessa lifted Emily onto her hip as she stood up. "Sleep will do her good. Bedtime honey. Say goodnight."

Emily continued to suck on the ragdoll happily, oblivious to the world.

Vanessa sighed. "Emily says goodnight everybody."

There was chorus of goodnights from the group and the click of the patio door from Clara.

The group waited with baited breath for the click of the bedroom door closing. They breathed a collective sigh of relief as the sound echoed down the hallway.

"Trivia time!" Mac cried out and smacked another box onto the table. Coloured discs flew in all directions as the group cheered.

"How long do we have?" Michael asked Dean quietly, his eyes flicking to the hallway Emily had disappeared down.

"They're scheduled for next week." Dean replied with his natural accent. "Just stay out of their way, and everyone will be fine."

"I'm sure you're right." Michael said, but the look on his face said otherwise.

Logan's gut tightened with anticipation as he heard their conversation. There was only one more week until the R.S. arrived, unwittingly bringing with them his best chance at escape.

He was so close to freedom he could almost taste it.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT –

### A TURN FOR THE WORSE

Logan stirred his mug and breathed in deeply. The intoxicating scent of rich dark coffee filled his head and sparked off the first few thoughts of the morning. It had taken a bit of cajoling, and even a letter to her sister, but Logan had finally earned his own rights to Gloria's coffee rations.

It was a brew designed specifically for her, and a lot more difficult to find than the packets of jam biscuits, but the river of devotion ran deep between the two siblings. Not even Anya's sordid affairs with married men and Gloria's tendency to devour raw flesh could break their bond of sisterhood.

Logan wondered briefly how Clara was faring without her twin to manipulate. The girl had taken Dana's refusal to fold to her empty threats as a personal attack, and had temporarily disowned her. Logan and Gloria agreed that both girls would benefit from the separation.

He felt a small twinge of pride when he thought of Dana. It had taken her a while and several pep talks, but she had finally developed enough self-confidence to stand up to her sister. Gloria had helped in her own way by lending her several fantasy books. When Logan had questioned her choices, she had confessed that the books were just an excuse to get the girl away from her sister long enough to form some of her own opinions.

Logan was as pleased as Gloria that their combined efforts had worked, and in that moment of joy she agreed to share her special coffee, which had doubled his delight.

Slowly, savouring every burning drop, he sipped the brew. The bitter essence of a unique variety of beans swirled across his tongue, bringing with it pure ecstasy.

Someone screamed.

Logan hiccoughed in surprise, sending the burning liquid down the wrong pipe. He coughed harshly, his perfect moment stolen.

Logan had been exposed to many different types of screams during the last few weeks. As a result, he had quickly learnt to distinguish between the 'that was so hilarious I forgot to breathe' scream of laughter, the 'you're wasting my time and not listening to me' scream, and the 'I just did something stupid and now it hurts' scream. He had become so familiar with the household noises that he could now pinpoint which scream belonged to which larynx, although there was usually a good chance that it belonged to one of the twins.

This scream he didn't recognize though. It started off high and transformed into something guttural, like a bat exploring their territory only to realize there is an intruder present.

He looked over at Gertie in hopes of elucidation. Until a moment ago she had been quietly sipping her tea as she read the paper. Now she was stock still, her eyes staring at nothing.

In the corner, wrapped in blankets, Baba moaned. It was a keening sound he'd never heard from her before.

"It can't be." Gertie whispered. "It's too soon."

He opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but a second scream snatched the breath from his lungs. From the depths of his mind rose the memory of Emily falling off her swing.

Vanessa.

"It can't be!" Gertie cried and leapt up, knocking over her cup and chair in her haste. Logan sprinted up the hall, his heart in his mouth.

Up ahead, a crowd had gathered outside Vanessa and Emily's room.

Dean hammered on the door so hard the frame shook. "Vanessa! Get out of there!"

Logan slowed to a halt beside Gloria. Her weight was on her toes, arms poised to act.

"Vanessa! Open this door!"

Another scream rose, mingling with a baby's wail. There was a series of loud scrapes and thuds.

"Vanessa!" Gloria yelled, her whole body twitching.

The door flung open and a whirlwind of blonde fell to the floor. Vanessa had both arms clamped around her daughter who was shaking and grunting. Her nightdress was ripped and the child's underwear was soiled.

Gertie hissed at the sight.

Vanessa huddled on the floor, sobbing as the child jerked furiously in her grip. She howled in pain and anguish as slimy teeth sank into her already bloody shoulder.

Clara, who had elbowed her way to the front, deftly stepped back behind her father.

Dean knelt down beside the pair and gently tried to remove the leeching head. Vanessa shied away from him and pressed her back against the wall. Her blue eyes shone against a backdrop of red.

"My baby..." she whimpered and dissolved into more tears. Dean reached for the child's head again.

"Don't take my baby!" she screeched, eyes wild.

"They won't take your baby." Dean said soothingly as he slid his fingers under her arms. "I promise."

She sniffled and drew her knees in tighter. After a few more coaxing motions, she relaxed her grip.

Dean flung her arms away and lunged at the convulsing child. Holding her around the middle like she was a rabid terrier, he darted inside the room and practically threw the child at the bed. Kicking aside the chair still half-jammed under the handle, he dragged the door shut and slammed the bolt home.

Dean leaned against the door, breathless. They all listened in horror to the animalistic snarls and thuds that emitted from behind the wooden barrier.

Vanessa wrapped her arms around herself and whined like a puppy that had been kicked one time too many.

Gertie was the first to move. She crouched down beside her, wiping away a few tear tracks with her handkerchief.

"How about a nice hot cup of tea?" she said gently but firmly.

Vanessa nodded. Supported by Mac, she was led to the living room, the rest of the household in tow.

Logan paused at the end of the hall, ears straining for any sounds of splintering wood. His hands itched for his knife, but he ignored them.

Gloria mopped up the mess that had been steadily trickling across the table while Gertie collected more cups. Mac eased Vanessa into a wicker chair and Gertie poured her some tea from the pot she had prepared earlier.

Dana brought out the medical kit, and Gloria set to work on cleaning and patching Vanessa's bloody shoulder. The woman sat perfectly still, looking pale and drawn.

Logan watched the steam rise gently from her teacup, small columns of vapour disappearing as quickly as they came. The room was quiet except for her laboured breaths.

Vanessa began to tremble as the last of the bandage was secured in place. Gloria sat down and pulled her into a tight embrace. The woman buried her face in her jacket and wept quietly.

Dean moved from the sink where he had been staring out the window. He slid a hand into the gap between fridge and countertop where a slim wooden panel swung open at his touch. Inside, Logan could just make out a small black button encased in glass.

Quietly, the man took a key from his breast pocket and opened the case.

"What are you doing?" Gloria asked. It was a warning, not a question.

"My duty." Dean replied and pressed the button. His hand glowed red as a little light blinked twice and turned off.

"Right now? You couldn't wait half an hour?" The unspoken words 'you insensitive prick' didn't part with her lips, but they sat plainly on her face for the man to see.

"It had to be done." Dean said carefully, his face as emotionless as his voice.

Gloria's disapproving stare met his blank one.

"I have to protect the household." he stated.

Vanessa stopped sniffling long enough to catch up with the conversation.

"What? What did he do?" she asked, turning her head to see. Her eyes fell on the open panel.

"My baby..." she whispered and leapt from her chair. "You promised you wouldn't let them take my baby!"

She ran at Dean, raining fist after petite fist against his chest.

"You promised!" she screamed. "You promised they wouldn't take her!"

He caught her wrists as they flew through the air.

"Nessa, listen to me."

She struggled, jerking back and forth in an attempt to get her wrists free.

"Listen to me." he commanded.

She glared at him through tear-soaked lashes.

"That's not your little girl anymore." he said quietly.

"You're wrong!" she yelled and threw her entire body at him. Her head rebounded off his chin harmlessly, but she successfully drove her elbow into his solar plexus. He released her and gasped for breath.

"You're wrong and you're a liar! Liar!" she shouted, fists clenched. She was shaking with rage.

"She's my baby! I don't care if she's sick! I don't care if she kills! She's my baby girl and they can't have her!"

"She can't stay, Nessa." Gloria said firmly.

Vanessa's green dress billowed as she spun to face her new attacker. She deflated when she saw Gloria's expression.

"They can't have her." she repeated plaintively.

"What will you do, dear?" Gertie asked gently. "You can't keep her in that room forever."

"You don't understand. My baby is my life. I travelled international waters to be with her. I pleaded with government officials to be incarcerated with her. I even faced down my own husband at gunpoint to keep her."

For a moment, Logan saw the steel return to her blue eyes.

"No one can take her away from me." she finished firmly.

Clara chose that moment to make urgent eye contact with him as she cupped a hand around her mouth. He leaned in, wondering what she could possibly have to say at a time like this.

"You're a Culler." she said in a too-loud stage whisper. "Take it out while we keep her busy."

Logan froze as ten pairs of black eyes all turned to look at him.

## – CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE –

### CULLER

"You're a Culler." Gloria repeated incredulously.

Logan found himself suddenly unable to breath.

"I don't suppose they let you keep any of the weapons, did they?" Dean asked, without much hope.

"Just my hunting knife." he admitted.

Vanessa walked toward him slowly, like her legs were made of lead. She hooked her hands into the loose folds of his shirt, grimacing slightly as her knuckles pressed into his ice-vest. With surprising strength, she pulled him down to her eye level.

"Give it to me." she ordered, her voice hollow. Her pupils had dilated into two endless tunnels.

Logan felt like he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

"No." he said as he tried to step back, suddenly acutely aware of how close to the edge she was.

Her lip trembled as she dissolved into tears at his refusal. She buried her face in his shirt, still gripping it tightly.

"They can't have her. She's my baby." she sobbed. "They don't understand. They think she's a monster, but she's still my little girl and I love her. I love her so much."

Logan looked up from the woman's greying roots to see Gloria gesturing furiously for him to hug her.

He wrapped his arms around Vanessa tentatively. She felt like a twig, ready to snap.

She rolled her head from side to side despairingly. "I just wanted to be with her to the end. Is that so much to ask?"

Logan looked up for instruction. Gertie and Gloria were shaking their heads.

"No, of course not." he rumbled quietly. He glanced over at Gertie, who was gesturing for him to do something to the woman's head.

Logan patted Vanessa's hair awkwardly.

He looked over at Gloria for confirmation. He quickly adjusted it to a stroking motion.

"Will you help me?" Vanessa asked quietly between sniffles.

"Um, how?" he asked, surreptitiously trying to look at Gloria or Gertie for help.

Vanessa looked up at him pleadingly. Panic bubbled in his chest as he realized what she was asking.

"I can't." he said without thinking.

"You're a Culler. It's what you do." she urged him, tugging on his shirt like a beseeching child.

"But she's... a she." he said slowly, almost to himself.

"She is an it, and it is not going to stop to accommodate your crisis of conscience." Dean corrected him sharply.

Logan shook his head slowly, almost in wonderment. "No. That's not an it. That's an Emily."

He looked down at her mother in amazement. "Your Emily."

"My little Emmy." she agreed, a small smile pushing through the tears. "My little girl."

The smile faded as she slid to the floor.

"My baby..." she whispered to herself, one hand still clutching his shirt.

"My little angel." she sobbed and collapsed into a heap, lamenting the little girl she had kissed goodnight for the last time.

Gloria helped the woman to her feet and ushered her over to the couch where she stood watch while they waited for the Removal Squad to arrive.

Logan chewed his lip in contemplation as he paced the living room.

He'd known for a long time that the opening the R.S. provided would be his best chance at escape, but now that the moment was almost upon him he was having some serious doubts. The R.S. weren't just gunning down some faceless monster anymore. They were actively destroying a mother's life.

He honestly didn't know if he could stand by while strangers took away the one person she cared about than more anything else in the world.

Logan paused as he tasted blood on his lip. He'd bitten right through it.

## – CHAPTER FORTY–

### THE REMOVAL SQUAD

Logan's pulse started racing when he heard the clunk of metal and hiss of the pneumatic door opening.

The twins leapt from their seats like they had read his mind and bolted for the open entrance. Heavy boots thudded on carpet as the R.S. flushed them back down the hallway and into the living room. They stood two abreast, their combined bulk blocking the hallway entrance as they surveyed the crowd.

Logan felt the bile rise in his throat. The men carried the very latest in hand-held submachine guns, the metal polished to a silver sheen. Ammunition belts clacked against their black body armour. The pair faced down a frightened cluster of sombae while armed with enough technology to finish a small-scale war.

All Logan's anger at F.P.I.R. returned in full force and concentrated into one stream of pure hatred. He had been required to walk through dark rooms filled with hordes of Turned zombies and all they had provided was a second-hand jumpsuit.

He seethed at the injustice.

The room was silent except for the hiss of breath through the helmets' ventilation shafts. The armour itself became a weapon as the glossy surface reflected every light available. Both twins stood in the line of fire, too arrogant and too scared to move, while the rest of the sombae hid their sensitive eyes from the glare.

The Cullers raised their guns to head-height.

"Where is it?" one demanded, his voice distorted by the mask.

"You walked right past it, dumbass." Clara replied angrily.

"First door on the right." Dana squeaked. Both girls' hands were shaking.

The man looked to his partner for confirmation before marching up the hall. The other walked slowly backwards, his barrel swinging from twin to twin.

Logan followed the man, riding on a wave of anger.

"Pick a target." he snarled.

The barrel swung to point at his chest. The man readjusted his grip.

"If your plan is to wind yourself on the kickback, you're doing great." he pointed out nastily.

The man raised the gun cautiously.

"That's right, pepper my aggressive collar into submission." he continued sarcastically.

The man angled the barrel upwards, aiming for under Logan's chin.

"For Christs' sake, who trained you? You can't pull off a headshot with a submachine gun; you'll bring the whole damn place down!"

"Don't listen to it Greg." The other Culler called from near the front door. "It's just trying to mess with you."

Greg dropped his gun back down to his waist, but he didn't look comfortable holding it anymore. He compensated by taking longer strides backwards.

Logan picked up the pace and grinned maliciously at the obviously new recruit.

The man stumbled. It was only for a moment, but a moment was all Logan needed. He lunged, knocking the barrel aside, and landed a solid punch in the gap between chest plate and shoulder pad.

Greg dropped like a stone.

"I've got fifteen years on you, newbie." he hissed at the prone Culler. "If I were you, I'd stay down."

Logan kicked at the gap between chest plate and groin guard. The man winced and clutched his groin before he realised it hadn't been hit. Logan snatched the gun from his distracted grip and wielded it triumphantly.

"Stop playing around!" the other man snapped. "Get over here."

Greg whipped out a tazer and slammed it into Logan's leg. Logan braced for the pain before he realized his mistake. The gun was yanked out of his hands and the tazer disappeared without ever being switched on.

Greg darted over to his partner, breathing heavily through his ventilation mask.

"Did it touch you?" the Culler asked mechanically.

"Just the armour."

"Good. Get the door."

Greg wiggled the handle. "It's locked."

"Of course it's locked. Do you think I'd still be standing here if it wasn't? Put your shoulder into it."

The man took a run-up and smacked an armour-plated shoulder into the door. He bounced off it like a fly off a window.

Logan recovered from the tazer scare and moved closer.

"What do they make these things out of?" the Culler griped.

The twins appeared on his left, tailed by their dad. He could hear Mac's footsteps behind him.

"Less yakking more smacking."

Gloria rounded his right with Gertie at her shoulder. Dean was one step behind.

White paint cracked and fell.

"Do you think we should tell them it locks from the outside?" Dana whispered.

"One more." the Culler barked over the top of her. "We'll rush together."

The two men threw their entire bodies into the door. It broke free in a shower of plaster and a metal hinge pinged off into the distance as the door toppled, still in one piece.

The Cullers advanced cautiously through the settling dust. The quiet gurgles coming from inside the room turned into loud grunts. Greg lowered his barrel to target a shrouded figure.

A door slammed and a piercing shriek filled the hallway. As one, the crowd turned to see Vanessa running up the hall.

Above her head, Logan's knife gleamed menacingly.

Gloria pulled Gertie out of the way as the woman ran screaming through the crowd and hurled herself at the nearest Culler.

She ran straight into the butt of his waiting gun. The air drove itself from her lungs and she fell to the ground, dropping the knife.

Winded, she resorted to clawing at his legs viciously.

Greg's barrel started to shake as he saw the figure of a child crawling through the dust.

Vanessa had a stroke of genius and yanked the nearest Culler's legs forward. The man fell hard, knocking his partner to the ground. Greg's visor broke with a loud crack.

The man unclipped the helmet and threw it aside, blinking in the new light.

Vanessa straddled the helmeted Culler and pummelled his chest plate. The man jerked as a lucky blow caught him in the gap Logan had discovered earlier.

The child emerged from the settled dust, shaking violently. Black eyes fixed on the man's bare face.

Greg looked up in time to see the creature charging at him, mouth open. He raised his gun and aimed wildly.

Blonde hair flying, Vanessa threw herself in front of the man. The mouth closed, teeth sinking into new flesh.

Suppressing a sob, the woman sat up, her child clutched tightly to her chest.

"Shoot it!" the helmeted Culler demanded, getting to his knees.

"My baby..." Vanessa whispered, stroking the child's dry blonde hair.

Greg looked stricken. His gun slipped from his shaking hands.

"I love you so much." Vanessa told her little girl one last time.

Behind her, the helmeted Culler raised his gun.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-ONE–

### MURDERER

A crimson rose bloomed in the centre of Vanessa's back.

Fingers white as chalk gripped hair as golden as sunshine. She didn't let go, even when the second shot was fired.

"Always double-tap." the Culler told his frozen partner.

Twin rivers of crimson and black dripped down her heaving torso. Silently, still holding her daughter's shattered skull, she cried.

It wasn't until the last few drops left her own body that she finally fell. The crowd stirred with the resounding thud.

Gloria was the first to move. She lunged at the Culler, hands outstretched.

Dean caught her around the waist and dragged her back as the man swung the barrel of his gun around.

"She didn't Turn, you bastards!' she yelled furiously as she struggled in Dean's grip. "She never Turned!"

Greg turned pale at Gloria's words.

Gertie hobbled over and smacked her walking cane into the shooter's shin. The barrel swung to face her, the finger tensed. She reluctantly rejoined the wall of people huddled together.

The Culler lowered the gun and stomped over to the door.

"Where's the transfer warrant?" he demanded.

Dean released Gloria and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket. He laid it at the foot of the two bodies before stepping back a decent distance.

Greg passed the papers to his partner. With some effort, he managed to stand up on his shaky legs and recover his cracked helmet. The other Culler signed and passed the piece of paper back to him.

"She got bitten." he said quietly, almost to himself. "She was already Infected."

"Keep telling yourself that, murderer." Gloria hissed.

Greg signed the paper quickly, like the words burned him.

Logan's blood ran cold as he recognized the watermark on the paperwork. It was the same watermark F.P.I.R. had used on his bullet tally and timesheet.

"Murderers!" Gloria screeched.

The word was almost swallowed by the hiss of the front doors as the pair left. Logan watched numbly as his only means of escape sealed up for another three months.

#  Part Three

– Sombae –

## – CHAPTER FORTY-TWO–

### TO SLEEP, PERCHANCE TO DREAM

Logan felt hollow. Everything his body did seemed separate from him, as though he was just a voyeur of his own actions rather than a participant.

He spent hours lying on his bed, his limbs too heavy to lift, and just watched as his thoughts circled like fish in a bowl.

The thoughts were all the same. Zombies reaching for him through the grate, their moans transformed into cries for help. Zombie children wandering the museum, calling for their mothers. Mother zombies sobbing as they found the baby he'd stabbed. The scenes played over and over in his head, only getting louder as the night grew longer.

Days passed, but he barely ate and only then in the dead of the night. Every meal was just another reminder of the absence of vegetables once provided by Vanessa. The occasional knocking and shouts at his door were ignored. Any attempts at forced entry were prevented by the suitcase he had jammed under the handle.

In his sleep, he no longer ran from the black oozing mess of a zombie that tried to engulf him; he ran from the cries of families mourning their loss. Hands reached out to him, ordinary unblemished hands, and clutched at his clothes. As one, they dragged him back into the painfully blinding light.

In the still of night, when the silence was so heavy he could barely breathe, he'd just stop. His face buried in his pillow, he would let the carbon dioxide build up until there was nothing but the insistent pressure of his lungs forcing him to inhale and return to his cycle of monotony.

He longed for the days when he could distract himself by dedicating every moment to work, but now the satisfying crack of a broken skull had become synonymous with the anguished scream of a betrayed mother, and his memories were filled with them.

The dreams got progressively worse as he began to sleep through meals entirely. In the first dream of the night, men and women huddled in dark rooms, frozen in embrace. He could hear them silently screaming as Charlie removed their heads. He would open his mouth to call out to the man, to tell him to stop, but nothing would come out. So he just sat there, knowing that the next frozen body to be beheaded would be his.

He always woke up before the dream-Charlie could reach him, his throat aching from his silent screams.

When he would finally manage to fall asleep again, he would be forced to watch his knife slide into the skull of the last zombie child he had killed before his incarceration. As the skull cracked open, the child would look up with its big black eyes and ask him for a thimble.

For weeks he remained inside his personal prison, spiralling into the depths of depression, only emerging in the dead of night to refill his water supply and empty his bladder. His body began to wither, undernourished and unexercised.

When he finally allowed himself to remember that fateful day, the memory replayed ad nauseam. He analysed every inch of it, from the design of the guns to the personal history he had concocted for the men. Then he set upon the housemates. He placed each one in Emily and Vanessa's place, created every combination imaginable, played every scenario within reason and outside it.

As each member fell he began to see himself holding the gun, saw himself as both men, and eventually became certain that there had never been anyone else. He had raised the gun, he had fired the shot and he was responsible for the deaths of a little girl and her mother.

They had been sick people desperately trying to survive and he had barged into their sanctuary and destroyed them.

He was the monster, not them.

Logan had retrieved the knife from the feet of the cooling corpses and kept it under his bed as a reminder. When he finally reached the conclusion that Gloria was right and he was a murderer, he took it out.

With great care and precision, he cleaned the blade. It shone in the lamplight, the warm yellow glow frozen in the face of cold steel.

When it all got too much, he placed the brilliant knife against vital areas of his body. Sometimes he pressed enough to nick, other times just white lines remained.

As more weeks passed he pulled it out more frequently, sliding it lightly across his wrists and throat as he imagined the veins bursting open to expel their vital fluids.

But he could never bring himself to do it.

He considered placing it at the back of his head and driving it in. It would be a fitting end for his murders, but cracking a skull was harder than slicing flesh. Each time, his cowardice won out. And each time, ashamed, his depression deepened.

Several weeks into his cycle of poor nutrition, suicidal thoughts and lethargy, Logan awoke to the sound of wood splintering. He sat up in time to see a heavy boot smash through his bedroom door.

A tan hand reached in and shoved the barricade aside, filling the room with natural light.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-THREE–

### WAKE UP CALL

"Logan! Get out here and help me get those damned twins off my new lawn." Gloria ordered as she shoved the remains of the door aside.

The woman stomped into the room and hauled Logan off his bed. Pins and needles seared through his legs as he slid to the ground.

"Get up. I know you're miserable, we all are. Suck it up and help me already."

She hauled him to his feet a second time, bracing his weak body against her own. "Get moving. My lawn is in danger."

Through the power of a commanding voice combined with a well-placed elbow, Gloria marched Logan outside.

"You get Dana." she ordered as they clomped through the grass to where the twins lay. Determined to ignore the fact that it was autumn, Clara had painted herself fake-tan orange.

Gloria hooked her arms under Clara's legs. The girl kicked at her attacker before opening her eyes. "I told you to go away!"

"I did, and now I'm back with reinforcements."

Clara rolled her eyes at Logan.

"Now get up!" Gloria ordered, lifting the bottom half of the girl off the ground. "Your bottled skin is staining my grass!"

"Let go of me! It's a free country!"

"Technically it's not." Dana said mildly as she watched the clouds.

Logan looked down at the girl uncomfortably. He didn't want to manhandle the teenager like Gloria. He tried gesturing to the door repeatedly, as though she would magically fly there.

Dana watched his gestures, obviously amused. "Nice interpretative dance. Let me show you mine."

She stood up and walked over to where Gloria was still struggling to restrain Clara's legs and took a bow.

"I call it 'the Transition'." she said, grinning at him. "Good, right?"

Logan was surprised to feel himself smiling. Guilt quickly wiped it from his face, but not before Dana saw. She gave him a sweet smile as she walked away.

Clara wriggled and complained, but without her sister to back her up, she seemed to lose the will to fight back. Gloria dragged the diva indoors with little effort and set her loose on the rest of the house.

Mission successful, she returned to the garden and began to salvage the flattened orange grass.

The brief distraction gone, Logan's spirits plummeted once more. He sullenly watched the grass bend with the tender touch of a cool breeze.

Life was so short, yet felt so excruciatingly infinite in these moments. Logan felt like his life was just a series of these moments where he waited, watched, and determinedly avoided the pain that dwelled within his sordid mind. There was nothing more to his existence than one long wait for the next meal, the next book, the next fight, the next death. Logan wondered how much longer he would have to wade from one pain to the next in a cloud of fog and regret.

He didn't have to wonder, he realized. He could get his Expiration date from Dean and know for certain. He could even enjoy counting days to the end of his miserable existence.

He turned on the spot to go inside, unaware of the grass twisted beneath his feet.

"Dammit Logan! Snap out of it! You're pulling up my seedlings!" Gloria yelled from across the lawn.

He looked at his foot, nestled in the short green sprouts. Cautiously, he removed his foot and watched the sprouts rise slowly back into position.

Logan found the grass' resilience oddly comforting. Inspired, he rose to his full height and breathed in deeply, savouring the crisp morning air.

He looked up to see Gloria watching him carefully. A tinge of embarrassment rose from under the layers of sadness and apathy. He clung to it gratefully. It had been so long since he had felt his soul stir beyond the cloying sorrow and regret that any emotion was worth savouring.

"If you're going to play with grass anyway, you can help me revive this patch over here." she suggested.

Logan walked along the edge of the flower garden to where she had crouched to sew new seeds amongst dying patches. She looked up as he approached, favouring him with a smile.

The sun caught the thin rings of amber at the edge of her exploded pupils, setting them ablaze. Twin spheres of liquid gold and opal black filled his world, and he suddenly no longer knew why he'd ever wanted to leave.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR–

### THE FLOWER GARDEN

The pair worked silently side by side, careful not to crush the new life that had just begun to flourish.

Logan occasionally sneaked glances at Gloria. She was lost in concentration, sharp eyes darting over green blades for the smallest hint of disruption. Her wide-brimmed straw hat shadowed her face, but long curly hair spilled out the back to glow in the sunlight.

"What?" she asked when she caught him staring too long.

"I was just wondering why you don't tie your hair back." he bluffed.

"Not everything has to be practical, Logan."

She took advantage of a tremor in her hand to scatter the seeds widely. Each move the woman made radiated confidence, even when it was obviously a lucky accident. The same attitude in Clara would have been irritating, but in Gloria it was intoxicating.

She wet her lips often as she worked, a habit which Logan found increasingly distracting. Watching that tongue dart between those red lips stirred forgotten feelings.

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. She had already covered nearly double the area in the time it had taken him to complete what he could reach.

Gloria paused in her machinations as she stepped the other side of the garden. Logan followed her gaze to the tire swing.

"Mac made it for her." she said quietly.

Logan watched it hang there, motionless. His heart ached as he remembered the little girl that had sat in that swing so long ago.

Gloria stood abruptly and darted indoors. He had barely begun to stand when she returned with more seed packets and a trowel.

"Take soil from here and put it inside the tire." she instructed, effortlessly roping him into a new task.

It took several trips but the tire was eventually filled to the rim with dirt. Gloria ripped open the packets and scattered them over the damp soil.

Logan took an empty packet from her unresisting hand.

"Why daisies?" he asked, reading the packet.

"Daises are for the innocent and pure."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the little girl's colour associations.

"White is for Emily." he said softly.

Gloria looked sad for a moment. "Yes. They also grow like weeds and never stay where you want them to."

Logan grinned. "Perfect."

"Once spring hits this swing it will be overflowing with little white flowers." Gloria declared. "Just like Nessa wanted."

Logan nodded, unaware until this moment that planting flowers was a tradition when a house member Turned.

Gloria turned to him, her head tilted curiously. "You never called her Nessa."

"No." Logan admitted, looking at his feet.

"You could have. She liked you."

Logan mumbled something affirmative but unenthusiastic.

"She seemed to take a shine to you right away. Why do you think that was?"

He stared determinedly at his feet, sensing danger on the horizon.

"I listened?" he offered.

She was staring him down. He could feel it. It shouldn't be possible to do that without eye contact but she was doing it nonetheless. He could feel the tension curling in his gut. She was going to realize his secret.

"Did you love her Logan?" she asked quietly.

His head snapped up in shock. He stared at her, mouth open. "What?"

"Did you lo-?"

"I- where did that- No!" he stammered. The world had suddenly become as twisted and unpredictable as a rabbit warren.

"You always had Nessa or Emily on your arm."

"No I didn't."

"Not literally. It's a figure of speech."

"I've never heard it used." His attempt to derail the topic backfired severely.

"Whatever!" Gloria shouted at him. "You try and speak one language when you think in another! I think it's pretty damn impressive I can hold a conversation at all!"

"I wasn't criticizing you, I just-"

"You just what? You're suffering so bad you think one more insult won't matter? You're not the only one hurting you know!"

Gloria's limbs were twitching so violently she practically vibrated.

"Nessa was vital to the balance of this house, unlike you. What have you ever done?" She yelled, her gestures wild and erratic. "You're just an antisocial prick with the sensitivity of a brick!"

"I... just..."

"Go to hell Logan!" she screamed. An arm flung out and hit him in the shoulder. Surprise combined with the arm's dead weight successfully knocked him to the ground.

Gloria stopped screaming. Tears ran down her face as she dropped to her knees.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..." she blubbed, vibrating violently in a visible attempt to control herself.

Logan felt like his heart was being wrenched from his chest as he watched her cry and convulse. Watching that mask of confidence slip away to reveal the pure anger and terror that lay beneath was more than he could bear. He wanted nothing more than to make it all go away, but he had no idea where to even begin.

Dean thundered across the lawn, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Turned?" he yelled.

"N-no!" Logan replied, his voice wavering embarrassingly.

Gloria turned away from the advancing man and hurriedly wiped her tears. Her hands were still trembling.

Dean slowed to a trot. "What is going on then?"

"I had a Moment." she said firmly, still looking the opposite direction. "He got in the way."

Dean eyed her carefully. "Do you have it under control now?"

Her face wrinkled into a look of disgust. "Why, are you going to get rid of me too?"

Dean's expression didn't change. He turned to Logan, who had hauled himself into a sitting position.

"Are you okay?" he asked, eyes unreadable.

Logan nodded, ignoring the dull ache in his arm and chorus of complaints from his back and neck.

"Good." he said and sat down beside them. "Gloria, do you have something you want to say to Logan?"

Gloria gritted her teeth and looked away. "I'm sorry I called you an insensitive prick."

"And?" Dean prodded.

"I'm sorry I hit you." Her head snapped round to glare at Dean. "This is ridiculous, it wasn't my fault!"

"You can't blame the virus for everything, Gloria. You could have tried to control yourself, but you didn't."

"Stop comparing me to Dana. You don't see what I do. She doesn't control herself, she punishes herself."

"It is not ideal, I will admit, but it is better than attacking people. You could have at least tried to hit that tree instead of Logan here."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Jian, but R's don't have the leisure of deciding how they react. They just do. We don't get the luxury of considering our every move from behind frozen limbs like you two A-holes."

Logan smiled at the pun. Gloria mistook his amusement as invalidation and left, grumbling all the way back to the house.

"Hey Jian, here's that controlled reaction you wanted!" she yelled from the patio doors. Raising her middle finger, she flipped them both off.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE–

### A NEW LEVEL OF UNDERSTANDING

Gloria hadn't left her room since the incident. Logan felt his tender arm and wondered if she was avoiding him.

He plunged his hands back into the sink and continued rinsing his cup. Water soaked into his sleeves, unnoticed, as he thought.

He didn't understand why he had let the woman strike him. Years of culling had conditioned him to whip out a knife at the slightest unnatural movement, but he hadn't even flinched when she'd started shaking and flailing. Instead, he had just toppled like a domino.

He felt hot shame rise as he remembered how he had just stood there, like some gormless bystander, as he watched the woman break down.

No, he thought, that wasn't right. He had stood there because he had been blinded by some desperate desire to prove his worth to the brunette bombshell. She wanted to hit him, so he had let her. But instead of letting it bounce off him like it was nothing, he had been bowled over and revealed himself unworthy of the woman's respect.

He cringed as he realized that he had failed; as a man, and a protector.

Logan dunked the sparkling cup back under the water and continued to scrub at dirt that wasn't there.

He couldn't believe Gloria had thought that he was in love with Vanessa. The very idea was absurd. Just because she had blonde hair like Melissa, and blue eyes like Melissa, and pale skin like Melissa, and looked after him like Melissa...

Logan paused in his machinations, embarrassed to admit to himself that the woman looked a lot more like his late wife than he had realized. Vanessa had been lovely, but she just wasn't... Gloria.

The name summoned a slew of happy memories to bob on the surface of his mind. Gloria flashing him a grin over her winning hand of cards. Gloria licking her lips as she thrust her hands into soft soil. Gloria smiling dreamily as she inhaled coffee like it was oxygen. Gloria invading his personal space as she invited herself onto his bed, her face so close he could see the ring of gold around her dark eyes.

Logan dropped the cup. It clinked quietly against the sink as the truth bubbled up, finally freed.

Gloria made his heart pound whenever she was near. She made him do stupid things and think stupider things. She was utterly intoxicating. She was like a tidal wave, crashing down and sweeping everything along with her. She was a strong, mad, passionate force to be reckoned with, and he loved that.

He loved her.

"Move it lardass." A sharp elbow dug into his side, jolting him from his revelation.

Logan stood to the side, the cup still bobbing in the soapy water. Clara turned the tap on full-bore. In one cold blast she managed to fill her own glass and successfully destroy the sink's optimal temperature. Defeated, he pulled out the plug and placed the iridescent cup aside to dry.

If he had been a different sort of man, he would have raced into Gloria's room right then and declared his passionate feelings for her. Logan though, being the man that he was, was far too wary to make such a dramatic move. It had taken a long time, but he finally understood that everything horrible that had happened to him since he had walked out on his job had been caused by his own wilful ignorance. As a result, he was determined to be in possession of all the facts before he faced such a volatile woman again.

"Hey Clara!" he called out to the retreating figure.

Clara spun on heel, a skill made easier by bare feet. "What? Can't you see I've got things to do?"

Clara shared a lot of similar traits to Gloria, albeit on a much more irritating level. She would be the perfect person to study if he wanted to get a handle on Gloria's reactions.

"Who do you have a crush on?' he asked loudly. Dana's head rose from the book she was sketching in.

"Like I'd tell you." Clara sniffed.

"When was the last time you wet the bed?"

"Only babies wet their bed." she shot back.

The girl's answers were instantaneous. They weren't just defensive remarks; they were the epitome of offensive.

"Listen to me very carefully." Logan said slowly. "I am going to ask you a question, and I don't want you to answer. Do not say anything. What magazine did you read last night?"

"Diversity Babez." Clara replied.

Logan blinked. "I told you not to answer."

"That's, like, impossible." she complained.

Logan noticed that all the girl's answers had the same rapid-fire response. She spoke almost before her mouth had time to form the words.

He wondered if Dana had the same instant reactions. He turned to the girl and, feeling bad for doing so, said, "That outfit looks stupid."

The girl's mouth twitched as she looked down at her book.

"Okay." she said quietly and scribbled out the design she'd been working on.

"What are you drawing?"

"Just a stupid outfit." There was no malice in the response, just quiet resignation.

Logan tried to find something that would visibly upset the girl. "Who do you have a crush on?"

"Duh, she likes-" Clara began. The pencil snapped, cutting the girl off.

Logan gestured for the other twin to keep quiet. "Let her answer."

He knelt down in front of the quiet girl. She was staring unseeing at her sketches.

"Dana?" he said quietly. "Who do you have a crush on?"

She bit her lip and turned the sketchpad to face him. In small curly letters were the words 'I love Mac.' The 'c' was almost obscured by the broken graphite.

Logan swept a thumb across the sentence. The words blurred and disappeared under a streak of grey. She looked up at him gratefully.

Logan nodded to himself, a theory forming. It showed in different ways, but both girls reacted instantly. Gloria had been right. There was no time for thought. Not reacting wasn't even an option for a type R.

But if they had no choice but to react, then all the type R's should be eating constantly to sate the ravenous hunger Dean had mentioned.

Logan didn't want to ask, but he had to know. "Dana, are you hungry?"

She looked up from the pencil she was sharpening and nodded.

"Clara, are you hungry?"

"Hungry? I'm starving." Clara moaned as though just reminded of a forgotten pain.

"So why aren't you eating?" he asked, looking at Dana.

"Because I'm stuffed." she said, touching the bandage on her stomach. "If I keep eating this'll fall off."

Logan cocked his head. "How do you know when you're full?"

"When I get bored with eating." Clara replied, examining her red nails.

"Portion control." Dana admitted.

"But if you're stuffed, then why are you still hungry?"

"It's the curse of the zombie. Always eating, never sated." Matilda declared as she headed towards the kitchen and scooped some LessCafe into her cup. "Why do you think we drink so much?"

Logan's brow furrowed. "But that can't help the hunger."

"No, but it helps the mind. Keep the body busy and the mind will follow. Of course, when the mind is gone..." the middle-aged woman grimaced, doubling the number of lines on her face. "Well, insistent hunger can be a terribly painful thing."

Logan felt a wave of intense relief wash over him at those words. For so long he'd been spiralling into the certainty that he had killed living people, trapped behind zombie masks, but she had destroyed that possibility with a single sentence. Turned zombies were driven by an instinctual reaction trained over millions of years and no longer restrained by an educated mind. He wasn't a murderer; he was putting down animals that would otherwise remain in constant pain.

Logan found his gaze dragged down to the bulging bandage that held Dana's shredded stomach together. "Is that why you started doing that? Were you trying to stop the pain of constant hunger?"

She looked away. "Not... exactly."

"She's had that since we turned thirteen." Clara said chirpily.

Logan's eyes widened in shock. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

Dana kept her eyes averted as she spoke.

"I was a... fat kid." She said the word like it was a disease. "Food made me feel better, and then my fat belly made me feel worse, so I ate some more. Dad said it would go away when I had my growth spurt, and a lot of it did when I turned twelve. But when I looked down, I could still see that disgusting belly hanging over my jeans.

"I hated it. It made me so angry that I tried to scratch the fat away."

"Dad had to cut her nails to make her stop." Clara added, enjoying Logan's look of horror.

"I tried anorexia," Dana explained, "but I couldn't stand the dizzy spells and kept eating sweets so I could feel better. So I tried bulimia, but I just couldn't make myself throw up. I don't know how other girls do it."

"So, when no one else was looking, I scratched. I even started doing it in my sleep when I had bad dreams, like I could claw the bad feeling out if I just tried hard enough.

"When we got Infected, we didn't know the hunger wouldn't stop. I kept eating, waiting to feel full. I overate for so many meals that when I finally saw myself in the mirror, it was like being punched in the gut. I'd suffered through all that hunger and yet my belly was bigger than ever. So I did what I always do. I tried to scratch it off."

"Dad totally freaked when he saw the blood." Clara commented. "She had bits of skin under her nails and everything."

The icy fire of nausea gripped Logan by the throat. "Stop! I'm sorry I asked."

"I just wanted it to go away." Dana said miserably. "I didn't know it wouldn't heal."

"It's the quiet ones you have to watch out for." Matilda declared, determined to give her two cents. Clara nodded enthusiastically.

"But I'm not like that anymore." she said, touching her bandage gingerly. "I mean, yeah, I still want to claw my belly out, but now I know that it's the hurt underneath I'm actually trying to get rid of. It's a lot easier to bear the pain when I know I'm not the only one. Everyone here is just as starving and just as upset about Vanessa as me."

Logan's gut twisted as Dana's comment summoned the memory of Emily and Vanessa falling. The gunshots rang inside his head, rattling him.

He moved to leave, but faltered when a voice broke through the roaring in his ears.

Someone was singing a slow and mournful melody.

"Please don't cry, baby of mine, stay under my wing, and all will be fine-"

Logan had never heard anything so beautiful. The high notes rang like bells, erasing any memory of the gunshots from his mind.

"-hand in hand, we'll face them all, arm and arm, we'll all, fall-"

He swallowed and blinked away tears as he looked around for the singer. Matilda was clutching her dress, her eyes glazed as she relived a distant memory. Dana was staring into space, apparently unaware of the tears rolling down her cheeks. His eyes settled on Clara, who was swaying to the beat.

The girl was singing with a purity Logan would never have thought possible.

"-down the rabbit hole, where the fox cannot follow, to a land of no sorrow, so-"

He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. The girl radiated confidence. Not the arrogance and false bravado she had shoved down their throats every day, but the genuine confidence that came from doing something as natural as breathing. Clara had a voice.

"-smile for me, baby of mine. You and I, we were born to shine."

Clara sat very still after the song finished, as if savouring that last note still hanging in the air and memory.

"Mum used to sing that to us when we were sad or sick..." Dana said, almost to herself.

Clara nodded and took her sister's hand. "I want you to sing it with me."

She shook her head sadly. "I'm not a singer."

"You don't have to be. Try it. It helps get the black out of your head."

Clara took a deep breath and started singing again. Dana joined in tremulously, closing her eyes at her sister's instruction. Clara raised the volume and Dana followed, switching to a lower harmony. By the time they reached the last verse, they had accrued an audience.

Clara looked at the people gathered around the room. "Everyone should sing it." she decided.

"Like a homage." Dana agreed.

"We'll lead, and everyone repeat the verse after us."

Gloria tilted her head and looked at them curiously. Logan's stomach clenched when he saw her. He wasn't ready for a confrontation yet.

"I'm gunna rap." Mac decided.

Dana chuckled quietly and the twins started singing again, this time echoed by seven decidedly less musical voices.

Logan mumbled the words along with the rest of the household. He felt his breath catch in his throat when Gloria burst through unexpectedly on the last verse with intonation that put a proud spin on the sad lyrics. Mac finished several words behind everyone else because he apparently believed that rap wasn't rap unless it had randomly interjected swearwords.

"Bloody-well born to sure as hell shine?" Matilda repeated disdainfully.

"Alliteration. It's a commonly used lyrical tool." Gloria said, defending the blonde boy.

"Yeah, I was alliteratin'." Mac agreed, throwing his hand out in what he mistakenly believed to be a gang sign.

"Word." Dana said and burst into giggles.

Dean was giving Clara a calculating look. Although he had tactfully mouthed the words, his interest had been focused more on the group than the song.

"Clara, it would seem I have misjudged you." he announced.

Even without his fake accent, Dean could still command the attention of a room effortlessly. Logan felt a glimmer of pride for helping the man realize his own power.

"You have natural charisma and a strong presence that could greatly benefit this house. If you used it to organize events like this," Dean gestured to the crowd, "instead of incessantly updating us about your every little inconvenience, you could be a great leader."

Clara looked ready to throw out a standard derisive remark.

"Of course, that would require you to be the centre of attention, and we all know how you hate that. This job however, done well, does have the interesting perk of people obeying your every word." he finished smoothly.

The retort was replaced with a gasp of joy. The girl's eyes sparkled at the idea.

"But you would need training. With guidance, I am confident that I could have you running this place within a couple of weeks."

"But you're the head of the house." Gertie objected.

Dean raised his hands in submission. "I will admit, I can run this place to the millisecond, but I cannot do the damage control I saw just then."

He turned back to the twins. "Clara, I would be honoured if you would be my partner as head of the house."

Dana's mouth opened to form a silent 'o'.

"Only if I get to be called the 'leaderess'. 'Leader' is so sexist." Clara declared, getting her facts mixed up as usual.

Dean looked slightly puzzled, but agreed.

"Oh boy. If we're lucky, she might be crushed under the weight of her own massive ego." Mac muttered.

"As your leaderess," Clara announced, "I proclaim tomorrow VanEmmy day. We'll celebrate it with jam tarts and carrot sticks. And we'll bring out Emmy's kitty toy, for..."

She paused, lost.

"Remembrance." Dana finished.

Clara nodded enthusiastically. "Remembrance, yeah."

Gloria raised a lazy hand. "Or we could have a picnic around the swing with real food."

The new leaderess pointed at her. "That one. Any other ideas?"

"We could play 'Skippo'." Mac suggested, deliberately using Emily's mispronunciation.

"And drink lots of tea." Gertie added.

"Fine, fine." Dean authorized the event. "To commemorate the occasion, let us all raise our glasses to the memory of Vanessa and Emily Watts."

"To VanEmmy!" Clara cried.

"To VanEmmy!" the household roared and clinked their imaginary drinks.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-SIX–

### PEACE OFFERING

Gloria had disappeared the moment the impromptu meeting had ended. Logan didn't know whether to feel relieved or upset.

He had milled around the living room for a while, half-hoping and half-dreading that she'd come out for some food or coffee, but there was no sign of the woman. He decided to read a book to take his mind off her.

When dusk hit, Logan gave up trying to read the same sentence for the seven hundredth time. He took to pacing the room instead.

Matilda looked up from her crossword book and shook her head. She picked up the teapot and poured it into a nearby mug. "Coffee?"

Logan took the mug, grateful for the distraction. He inspected the contents. It certainly looked like coffee. He took a sip.

Satisfied, he sat down beside the older woman. "Why is there coffee in the teapot?"

"Just a little surprise for Gertie."

"She doesn't drink coffee?"

"Never. Says it gives her the shakes."

He allowed himself a guilty smile. "How will you tell the difference then?"

She looked at him and then the pot. "Oh, darnit all to heck."

Logan tactfully changed the subject. "So tell me, what were you like before Infection hit?"

She smiled at him indulgently, lengthening her already ample crows-feet. "Why, I was the most giving, generous-"

"-twisted, bitter old cow." Horace finished. "Pass the tea, Tilda."

"If I am a cow, then that must make you full of bull poo." she snapped, but she passed him the teapot.

"Now, as I was saying, I was-" she caught her husband's eye, "the life of the party."

"Now she's the life of the morgue." the husband commented, pouring himself a cup.

"Now really Horace, I don't know why you have to be so horrid! You used to be such a nice man!"

"And you used to be a size eight!"

"Did you always fight like this?" Logan asked quickly.

"No, never! Horace used to the perfect gentleman and withdraw from any argument where I was clearly right. But now he's just a pig-headed jerk!"

Horace spat back into his cup. "What the hell kind of tea is this?"

"It's coffee, you dullard."

"Why is it in the teapot, you crazy old bat?"

Logan gulped down the rest of his surprisingly good coffee and escaped into the garden before the squabble transformed into another screaming match. He wandered down to the back wall, lost in thought.

Questioning the twins and observing Horace and Matilda had given him a decent idea of what to expect from Gloria. He now knew for certain that type R zombies reacted instantly to any direct question. He also knew that they had much more intense reactions after Infection, but they still dealt with their problems in the same way as before Infection.

He turned around when he reached the wall and ambled back towards the patio doors, pacing the entire length of the garden.

The question now, was how to identify what was the Infection, and what was Gloria. As far as he could tell, Gloria answered all questions with blunt honesty. She was passionate about education and knowledge. She was unpredictable, or perhaps the Infection caused the unpredictable behaviour. But she was still the one who came up with the extreme idea of bursting into his bedroom through the door, so that was definitely all Gloria.

Logan slowed to a halt beside the garden bed. Gloria had spent a large portion of every day working on it since he had arrived. Gardening was her constant. No matter how insane it was indoors, there was always this utopia to maintain. Logically then, maintaining the garden must be how the woman dealt with her problems.

That didn't make any sense in light of recent events though. Ever since her last Moment, Gloria had locked herself indoors and avoided the garden like it was the plague. He wondered what possible problem could prevent the woman from returning to her coping mechanism.

Logan's eyes fell upon the seat near the back wall. The seat he had sat in every time he had noticed her going out to garden.

He smacked his palm against his head as he realized that he was her problem.

He felt awful. He had barged into her sacred place and claimed it for his own without a second thought.

He nodded to himself as he made up his mind. He had to let her know that he understood the problem and would leave her alone from now on. It didn't matter that he loved her. She had a right to be happy, even if that meant being happy without him.

Before he could apologise, though, he would need a peace offering.

He examined the flowerbed in the fading light. After careful consideration, he plucked a few wallflowers off the vine. He arranged them carefully in one hand until they resembled a bouquet. Then, clutching the little stems like a lifeline, he went inside.

Logan proceeded to stand outside Gloria's door and stare at it for entirely longer than he'd originally intended. His hand hovered over the rough wood, but his heart insisted on doing the samba inside his ribcage every time he brought the fist anywhere near to the door.

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself for a verbal assault. Quickly, before his body could figure out what he was doing, he punched the door twice.

There was some scuffling before it opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Gloria.

"What?" she asked croakily. He faltered and cursed himself for not preparing for this eventuality.

"You were asleep." he mumbled, suddenly acutely aware of how beautiful she looked with half-lidded eyes and mussed curls.

"Yup. It's a habit I can't seem to break." She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it into some kind of order. "You want something?"

He looked down at the flowers, trying to remember what had brought him here.

"These are for you." he said, holding the attempt at a bouquet out for her to see.

Gloria blinked at the crumpled wallflowers. "Those are for Baba."

The friendly smile he had been trying to muster collapsed. "What?"

She covered her mouth, stifling a yawn. "I planted that for Baba. It's her favourite. I normally plant them after people Turn, but she's approaching catatonic. I figured they would be something nice for her to look at during her Moments."

Logan felt his gut twist with embarrassment and rejection. "Sorry."

She waved her hand dismissively. "You weren't to know. Come on in, I've got a vase in here somewhere."

She gestured for him to follow her as she retreated into the dark room. He ventured inside, holding the flowers like they were an offering to a sacred temple.

Gloria opened the window and threw out the old flowers that were sitting beside her bed. Logan sat on the bed opposite hers and looked around. There were lots of childish paintings on the walls. His gut tightened as he recognized Emily's name written in wobbly strokes.

Above the bed there was a framed copy of a newspaper. When he squinted he could just make out a crossword, filled in with several different types of handwriting.

He watched as she took the flowers from him and arranged them in the vase. His eyes were drawn to her bed as she worked. He swallowed thickly as he noticed that the white sheets were covered in dark stains.

Gloria quickly pulled the blankets up over the sheets when she saw where he was looking.

"Why do you have a framed newspaper?" he asked, trying to put the image out of his mind.

"It commemorates the time we managed to get real news of the outside world. My sister smuggled it sheet by sheet in a stack of books." she laughed. "The postage was ridiculous.

"That crossword was one of the happiest times this house has ever seen. The news on the other hand was the worst.

"We don't get internet, we don't get a working TV, and we certainly don't get political magazines or newspapers. That newspaper showed us why."

She sat down on her bed and stared at him. "Tell me Logan, what do you think of us zombies?"

"I think y-we-... I think... you're not what I was expecting."

She nodded. "No, we're not. That's what we found. The media portray us all as type R, phase two, and final phase zombies. People think they're safe because the flesh-eating monsters are locked behind steel walls. No one who registers us ever gets as far as asking why there is always room for one more zombie in such small safe houses.

"They think of it as a prison for the dangerous and homicidal and that's how they're told to think. They never even see the people who get pushed inside these walls."

Gloria looked down at her feet. Her fists clenched the blankets tightly as she spoke. "They don't know that there are people in here, locked against their will. The rioters who do know are disbanded, their efforts twisted to suit the government's ideal. No one wants to know that each time they register an Infected, they're sentencing an innocent person to their death."

Logan and Gloria sat in silence, that last word hanging in the air.

"He killed them in cold blood." she whispered. "That man knew. I could see it in his eyes. But they hide it from themselves, and they forget. No one wants to believe that they killed someone just like them."

Her knuckles turned white from gripping the bedspread so tightly.

"She was just a normal person who got caught in all this mess. The government knew what they were doing, but they let her in anyway. And then they murdered her. They murdered an innocent mother!" she cried, her voice cracking.

"The only thing she had was unconditional love for her child! Emily was the sweetest kid you could ever ask for, and they just gunned her down like she was no better than garbage!"

Tears ran down Gloria's face as her mouth twisted in rage.

"It's not fair! It's not!" she cried, clawing at the blankets. She looked up at Logan pleadingly.

"Make it stop." she whispered, her arms trembling threateningly.

Logan suddenly saw how much of a toll being strong had taken on the woman. She wasn't just desperately fighting a losing battle with the bacteria in her head, she was also still mourning the loss of two cherished friends.

He didn't hesitate this time. He crossed the room in one stride and pulled her into a tight embrace.

She trembled in his grasp, sobbing quietly. "She had so much life ahead of her. Why did she have to come here? How could they do that to us?"

She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head in his shoulder. Together, the pair grieved for lives that should have been lived.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN–

### HAPPINESS IS A CUP OF COFFEE

Logan smiled at his ceiling. Morning sunlight was beginning to filter in, warming his face. He felt lighter than he had in weeks. It was like he'd been sleeping his entire life, and suddenly this ray of sunlight had burst through to reveal the life that awaited him.

Gloria had poured her anguish out to him, and in the process washed away some of his own pain. It still hurt, but he could bear it now. Like Dana had said, everyone in the house was hurting, just as much as he was. They had helped him, and he had helped them in return. More importantly, he had helped Gloria.

Gloria. The scent of her hair had filled his nostrils as he'd pulled her close. She had still been just as intoxicating, even when grieving. The cool body against his burning one had so felt right, like yin and yang coming together to make a whole. Her outbursts had mercifully drained his internal conflicts, and in return his presence had allowed her to relax her control on herself.

He hadn't gotten beyond giving her the flowers and holding her, but he was sure that he had done the right thing this time. He had finally been strong when she had really needed it. He wasn't a problem anymore, he was a solution.

He rolled out of bed, fully dressed, and wandered down the hall, smiling to himself.

"Good morning Mr. Logan. Good to see you bright and early for a change!" Gertie smiled at him from her morning-tea chair.

"Baaabaaa." added Baba.

"Good morning ladies." he said cheerfully.

Clara swept past in a bright yellow dress lined with beads. She glowed when the kitchen sunlight caught her outfit.

"You look nice." he observed as he reached for his cup.

She paused near the seat she planned to obtain and looked over her shoulder. "Of course I do. It's a Dana Owens original."

"She did a good job."

Clara looked over at her sister. "Yeah, she did."

"Thank you." Dana said to both of them as she filled her cup with water.

"You're a good singer." he complimented the luminous girl.

Clara fluffed out her skirt and sat. "I am, aren't I?"

There was still some lingering arrogance, but the girl seemed a lot less volatile than she had been the last couple of months. The prospect of being head of the household hadn't inflated her ego quite as much as everyone had expected.

Dana smiled at him as she slipped past to join her sister. She seemed much more comfortable in her skin these days.

Logan had heard that people who knew twins well could tell them apart easily. Maybe it was because their personalities shone through. Or maybe they really weren't as similar as a quick glance might suggest.

He studied the girl's faces, surprised at the number of differences he could spot when he looked properly. Clara's eyebrows were thinner, lined by the angry red welts of plucked hairs. Dana's lips were fuller, one side lifting up when she smiled to create a small dimple. Clara's left eyelid closed more than her right. Dana's freckles thickened across her nose while Clara's were evenly scattered over her entire face.

And of course, Clara had an unnatural tan that made Dana looked like a porcelain doll in comparison, even without her baby pink dress.

As Dana reached for her cup Logan suddenly noticed the most obvious difference of all. Unlike Clara, Dana was left-handed.

No wonder Dana always stood on the right. They had probably lain together like that in the womb, right and left hands brushing as they developed.

Logan looked down at his right hand, a sense of overwhelming loneliness creeping across him. He envied the ability of the twins to have their other half by their side from birth. They would never know what it was like to wander through the world unbalanced, forever tilting in an effort to fill the space where your significant other should stand.

Gloria stepped up to his right shoulder.

"What's wrong? You look like someone just told you the Easter bunny doesn't actually lay the chocolate eggs."

Her hand brushed his lightly.

Logan swallowed and tried to remember how to breathe. The world seemed to be slowing down as the air stopped in his lungs.

"He needs coffee." Gertie supplied. "Look, you can practically see the cogs trying to turn."

Gloria left the room to retrieve her coffee beans. She'd hidden the bag straight after she'd discovered that the teapot prank Matilda had concocted had involved her special brew.

Logan exhaled very slowly, the world like a dream he wasn't quite ready to wake up from. When he looked up, Gertie was grinning at him. "You got it bad, boy."

Dean put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, Logan. You have the worst taste in women."

Logan felt anger rise swiftly, burning through his stomach and blossoming in his chest.

Dean threw his hands up apologetically when he saw the look on his face. "Relax. I am just saying that she is a handful, and not my type of woman."

Logan breathed out slowly.

He remembered this. The dizzying heights and awful lows. Living life on a knife-edge, torn between sprinting down the streets screaming her name and wanting to jump into a crevasse so he never again had to feel emotions rip from him like a Band-Aid from skin.

He had worked so hard to build his mental walls, only to have them ripped down by a brilliant smile and blazing eyes.

He smiled to himself, a thrill running through his system as he remembered those eyes meeting his over a hand of cards from what now seemed like so long ago.

"What are you smiling about?" Gloria asked, handing him a steaming mug of coffee. The scent snapped his brain back to the present.

"Just how good life can be." he murmured into the cup, spitting out the scalding fluid the moment it touched his tongue. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as her eyes met his. He prayed he could blame it on the steam rising from the beverage.

She raised her mug to his. "Cheers."

The clink of ceramic was music to his ears.

## – CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT–

### A NEW GAME

Logan placed the monopoly figures beside the coloured chips. He couldn't stop smiling as he straightened the already neat pile of imitation money.

Tonight, he thought to himself, was going to be fun.

He looked up as Dean entered the room. Gertie had latched onto his arm and was eyeing the pile of purple chips hungrily.

"The game is ready!" Dean yelled over his shoulder, careful not to topple the older woman.

To the surprise of everyone in the room, Betty and Jason were the first to appear. Jason wound between the chairs, leading his girl by the hand until he reached the comfy armchair in the far corner near the dice. He plonked down, pulling her onto his lap. The chair sank impressively, the couple happy in each other's arms despite being only half an inch off the floor.

Logan smiled at the only face of the pair he could see. He handed them a set of orange chips and five cards.

He glanced over at Gertie and tutted. She had pulled her chair to the edge of the table and was slipping dark blue chips under her purple pile.

"You're not even trying anymore, are you?" he asked as he lifted the purple chips off the blue and set them down beside the stolen pile.

Gertie looked up him, eyes twinkling. "Just practicing before the real thing."

He laughed and pushed the blue chips to the opposite end of the table.

"These are mine!" Clara declared and snatched them up.

"Can I have the pink please?" Dana asked, appearing at his right side.

Logan handed her the pink chips, mindful to place them in her left hand. She watched as their hands connected, cool skin brushing his fingertips.

A smile spread across her face. "You put them in the right hand."

He looked at the hand, confused. "I thought I put them in the left."

"That's right."

"Sorry."

"No, I mean, you did good."

He nodded. "Right."

"Left."

"Now you're just teasing me."

They grinned at each other, enjoying the pure triviality of the conversation.

"Red or green?" Gloria asked, offering Logan two closed hands.

He paused for a moment. "Green."

She shook her head. "Doesn't work like that. Pick a hand."

He tapped the right fist.

"Green it is." She reached past him and picked up the green chips.

"Hey, I called those!" he exclaimed, inwardly ashamed of how childish he sounded.

Gloria raised an eyebrow. "Why do you think I want them so badly?"

He fought the urge to let his jaw drop as he watch her sashay away triumphantly.

Michael ran up, breathless, his glasses askew. "Am I late? Have we already started?"

"You're perfectly on time." he assured the flustered man and went to hand him the red chips. He stopped at the last moment, switching to the yellow pile. "Hold onto these and don't give any to your daughters. You'll need them." he said firmly, closing the man's hand over the chips. Michael nodded wildly.

"Okay, everyone got their chips?" Dean asked loudly over the babble of excitement building around the table.

"I didn't get any." Gertie raised her hand, the picture of innocence.

Dean looked at Logan despairingly.

"They're in her socks." Mac pointed out as he strode into the room with the air of someone who knows he's making a fashionably late entrance.

Dana's pupils grew larger, if that was possible. The tips of Mac's hair were glowing electric blue in the hall light.

"That is officially awesome." Clara declared as the official spokesperson for fashion and late entrances.

Dana let out a high-pitched squeak.

Mac grinned at her. "Room for one more?"

He stretched a long arm out for the red chips. Logan shoved the remaining black pile in front of them. "All yours."

Mac took them and fell onto his usual couch, careful not to knock Dana off. She smiled down at him from her new perch on the couch's armrest.

Gloria looked at the red chips and a small smirk played across her lips. Logan pointedly ignored her.

"Hey Gloria, you like my chips?" Mac called out. "I got them to match your soul."

Logan rallied, ready to retaliate on Gloria's behalf. He stopped when he saw their faces. Mac's lips twitched up at the ends, a suggestion of a smile ghosting across his mouth as he harangued Gloria with defensive remarks. Her eyes sparkled as she retaliated.

They were enjoying it.

"Everyone take five cards." Logan instructed as the deck was passed around the circle.

"So how do we play?" Clara asked, still slightly distracted by Mac's new hair.

Logan took a deep breath, slightly unnerved by the crowd's attention, and began explaining the elaborate rules to his new game.

"You all have a combination of ordinary black and red playing cards as well as coloured cards. Each card colour matches a set of chip colours." He pulled out a chart he had coloured with Dana's pencils. "The red suit is for red chips, black suit for black chips, and the rest is self explanatory.

"There are also jokers in the deck. When you get a joker, you return it to the deck, shuffle, and take a community chest card." He pointed to the pale blue cards near Betty and Jason who were surprisingly attentive. "To access the snakes and ladders on the board, you have to have a community card."

He patted his pile of chips. "These are your bargaining chips. For every three cards of the same colour you have, you can put them down and put the chip in the pot. However, you can choose to hold onto them until the end also.

"Each time you put a chip in the pot, you get to move three spaces." He pushed his iron figure forward three spots.

"If you have a community card and you land on a ladder or a snake, you have to use that card. This is where handing your cards off to other people is useful, like when they've landed on a snake. But they can still save themselves by giving you back a coloured card that matches your chips, which makes that community chest card invalid for one turn.

"Now the dice," he picked up the dice and shook them, "is for when you have no community cards. If you roll even numbers, you climb. Uneven, you fall."

He tapped a chip he'd placed in the middle. "Winner is whoever has the most of their chips in the pot when the game ends, but the prize gets passed onto second place if they're holding a community card."

Logan looked up to find a sea of confused faces.

Dean nodded. "I'll be the thimble."

## – CHAPTER FORTY-NINE–

### THE NAME OF THE GAME

An hour later the board was a rainbow of coloured chips. Everyone kept passing their community cards off the moment they got hold of them, so the only person who had made any real progress was Gertie. The woman was halfway across the board because she was the only one who alternated between putting down chips the moment she got a community card so she could rise up a ladder and keep moving, and passing the next card onto anyone else near a snake to drop them back several spaces.

Logan had actually considered adding a second board so people could keep going backward and see how far they got. His own token was only three paces from the starting line, along with half the group, and had been darting between the same two spots for most of the game. He didn't mind though, he had enough to deal with between trying to make sure everyone followed the rules and stopping Gertie from slipping community cards up her sleeve.

"Hey Logan, I've got three blue, can I give them to Clara for a slider?" Dana asked as Mac took three paces forward for the hundredth time.

It also didn't help that people kept using different terms for the same things.

"What's a slider?" he asked.

She held up a community card to illustrate her meaning.

Logan shook his head. "No Dana, she has to use a slider on you first, and then you can only offer her one of your cards that matches her chip colour."

The girl nodded, despite the fact that she clearly still didn't understand.

"Horace, you were the dog." he corrected the man who had just pushed someone else's iron token through several paces.

"Hey Logan, I'll give you three black for seven red." Mac pushed three chips across the table.

"You can't swap chips." Logan repeated as he tidied up the multi-coloured pile heaped in the middle of the board. "Which of these cards are mine?" he asked, looking around for the hand he had a moment earlier.

"Do you have any yellows?" Michael asked, squinting at his cards.

"Go fish." Betty giggled and gave him a community card.

"No, he's supposed to give you one coloured card..." Logan started to correct.

"Jackpot!" Gertie yelled and scooped the chips towards her.

Gloria pushed the pile back into the middle. "You moved one space then." She pulled the top hat back two paces. "You have to go in sets of three."

Logan opened his mouth to point out that he'd never said that, but Gloria caught his eye. "Yes, always three paces." he agreed.

Gertie looked at him suspiciously. "We'll see."

Gloria dropped a community card on Gertie's lap. "Looks like you're going down."

The older woman grudgingly moved her token down the nearest snake.

To Logan's amazement, the game continued to propel itself for another half hour on nothing more than vindictive moves.

"You know what?" Dean declared to the room in general, pursing his lips as he eyed his cards critically, "It's convoluted, time-consuming and got as much forward momentum as a moon walk, but this is actually pretty fun."

He put down another community card. "This one's for Gloria."

"You're just a vindictive sod." Gloria moved her horse token to the tail of a brown snake. "But I have to agree with you. There's something addictive about watching the opposition fall at your hand again and again."

Logan felt warmth spread through him with her words of praise. "It's based on the grinding system."

"What's that?"

Logan played with some pot chips as he tried to put the system into layman's terms.

"Grinding is where you do something repeatedly for the thrill of a potential reward. Everyone keeps taking cards for the thrill of a joker and the chance to rise up the ladder or make someone else fall." He wrinkled his brow. "Of course, I didn't expect everyone to keep using the cards to stop other people's progress. It tends to slow the game down."

"That's half the fun!" Clara said excitedly.

Dana shook her head. She had spent most of the game finding more and more intricate ways of helping her sister win. Michael was out of chips and was only one ladder up from the starting line. Logan hadn't been able to find his cards again so he had given his chips to Michael, who had promptly lost those as well.

"I say we call it a draw between Gertie and me. At this rate I'm going to end up a junkie asking for hits of green." Gloria decided, touching her remaining two chips fondly.

"That was good fun!" Gertie beamed at him. "Let's have a round of applause for Logan and his new game!"

There was a smattering of embarrassed clapping.

"So what do we call it?" Dana asked.

"How about: Logan's Ladders." Gloria suggested.

"Nah. Let's call it Sliders Apocalypse!" Clara yelled, pointing a finger dramatically into the air.

"Pot Luck?" Betty suggested. Jason nodded, nuzzling her neck in the process.

"Logan's Run." Dean said quietly and smiled to himself, amused.

"Card-Boarding." Mac said.

"What?" the twins turned to him in unison, attention riveted on the blue-tipped boy.

"It's like a cross between card and board games." Mac explained, enjoying the attention. "Card-Boarding."

"Actually, I like to think of it as coding." Logan said quietly.

"Why's that dear?" Gertie asked encouragingly.

"Because it's like trying to write a computer program. You take familiar information, arrange it in a way to make something new, and when you try to finish something stops you and sends you back to the start again. But you keep at it, because when you finally get it right, it's the best feeling in the world because you worked so hard for it."

Gloria was looking at him with growing wonder as he spoke. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

"That's just how I see it." he mumbled.

"That works." Dean decided as he looked down at the board. "Let's call it Colour Coding."

Clara groaned. "That's so stupid."

"I think it's clever." Betty commented.

"It's cute." Dana agreed. Clara glared at her.

"Agreed. Congratulations Logan, you are the inventor of Colour Coding, the cardboard game."

Mac beamed. "And I get twenty-five percent of your title rights!"

Gloria actually smiled at him. Her entire face lit up like a fireworks display on a dark night.

"You just calculated a percentage." She said proudly.

Mac looked at the ground coyly. "I've been reading."

Logan looked at the woman in awe. She looked so beautiful at that moment. Her face shone with pride and affection for the boy she'd been trying to so hard to teach the value of his intellectual capacity.

In that moment, he could see the incredible mother she would have been, given the chance. He thought wistfully about how, if they had met earlier in life, he could have seen that smile for his own child. He'd never wanted to be a parent before, but now he found the idea strangely appealing.

Gloria smiled at him as she handed over the bundle of cards she had collected. He smiled back, bathing in the glow of her brilliance.

He was aware that he should probably share these feelings with her, but he just wasn't prepared to do something so monumental. He just wanted to enjoy the wild sensations without the risk of a fall that could destroy him.

Gloria stroked the remaining green chips and continued to smile.

## – CHAPTER FIFTY–

### RESPECT

Logan was woken by a loud thud and the murmur of voices outside his door. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he pushed his sheets aside and wandered out into the dark hallway.

Two shadows crouched in the reflected moonlight. Logan recognized one as the hunched figure of Gertie. He approached slowly, small facts dripping into the soup that was his sleep-addled brain.

Gertie looked up, her pale face cast into sharp relief.

"Mr. Logan. I'm sorry we woke you." she whispered.

Logan shook his head dismissively and looked down. A figure was wrapped around the woman's legs.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

She shushed him. He felt mildly embarrassed, suddenly aware how loud his voice had sounded in the silent hall.

"She's having a Moment." Gertie explained.

He squinted at the figure. "Who?"

"Baba. Just a little... Moment." She released the last word in a rush of trembling air, as though she couldn't hold it in anymore.

Logan crouched down and looked at the figure more closely. She was lying on her side, hands clasped neatly in her lap, head bowed. She wasn't moving.

Hesitantly, he reached out and touched her arm. It was cold. The ice crept down his fingers and seeped into his heart.

"I don't think it's for a Moment..." he breathed.

Another cold hand touched his shoulder. He flinched and for a moment wondered how the corpse had moved that fast.

"I'd know if she was gone." Gertie assured him. "I'd feel it."

"But she's frozen..." He realized how stupid that statement sounded the moment it left his mouth.

"Nothing a few warm blankets won't fix." She tugged a rigid limb, grimacing. "Would you be a dear and help me get her to bed? I'm not as strong as I used to be."

Logan slid his hands under the catatonic woman's back and lifted her easily. Her ribcage pressed against his skin, chilling him to the bone.

"Mind you, I was never that strong." Gertie admitted. "Just pop her on the bed. I'll wrap her up."

He laid the woman as gently as he could on the firm mattress and pulled the covers over her frozen frame. The blanket caught on his nails as he tried to throw it over her.

"Baba made that for me." Gertie said, a note of pride in her voice. Logan managed to unhook his hands from the single violent streak of green that frolicked amongst the otherwise demure purple weave.

"It's very unique." he said nicely as he threw a glare at the uncooperative blanket.

Gertie smiled at him as she threw a quilt on top. "Thanks for your help. It would have taken me all night to get her up by myself."

"That's ok." He held back a yawn.

"Go to bed Mr. Logan. I'll see you in the morning."

"Why do you always call me Mr. Logan?" he asked, puzzled.

She looked up from where she was tucking the blanket in. "It's a term of respect."

"Why would you respect me?"

She tilted her head. "Why wouldn't I?"

Logan walked back to his room feeling pleased that, despite everything, he had never managed to lose Gertie's respect.

## – CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE–

### ABANDONED DREAMS

Logan wiped his brow and was for once grateful he was wearing his ice-vest. The sun was glaring with a vengeance today, visibly objecting to the cloudy upstarts that loitered across its sky.

He jumped as cool hands came out of nowhere. Gloria held his chin firmly and wiped his face. "You're covered in dirt."

"That's what happens when you garden." he murmured, distracted by her touch.

"It wouldn't happen if you'd stop touching your face. You're like a kid with a pimple."

"It's hot."

"Suck it up, princess. You don't have this nest in your face." Gloria tucked several corkscrew curls back under her red headscarf.

"If I had that at least I would be a pretty princess." Logan listened to his own words and cringed. It was not the debonair compliment he had intended it to be.

Gloria grinned. "I'm going to quote you on that."

Logan groaned. "What will it cost for you not to repeat that at games night?"

"You can start by fertilizing those bushes."

"Okay." Logan hauled himself to his feet.

Gloria smacked his backside as he passed. "That's okay ma'am, pretty princess."

Logan could feel the blush burning through his entire body.

"Okay ma'am." he mumbled. Gloria grinned wickedly at him.

Logan tried to relax as he patted the compost onto the freshly turned soil. Gloria's comments had become cheekier with each passing day, but he couldn't decide if she had just become more comfortable with their banter, or she was actually flirting. Her comments were so bald and her actions so invasive that he was constantly torn between singing her praises and running away.

"Ahem." Gloria handed him a spade. "This might speed things up."

He took it reluctantly. The spade felt awkward in his grip.

"You always jump to using your hands. There are tools for this stuff, you know."

"I'm better with my hands." he muttered.

"But it takes so much longer."

"Yes, but you know exactly where everything is going. You can feel it."

She waved the trowel at him. "This can feel the soil and roots just fine."

He shook his head as he shovelled the compost. "A tool is fine for chopping meat or something you can't do by hand. But you get much better precision if you can feel the smooth edge of the root for yourself."

Gloria looked down at her hands. Sadness stole across her features. "I can't feel that now anyway."

He paused, the spade heavy in his hands. "Sorry. I forget."

"It's easy to. Sometimes I look everywhere for something only to realize I'm still holding it."

"I used to do that with my glasses." he nodded understandingly. "They'd be on my head or even my nose and I'd still look for them."

She looked up at his face, puzzled. "Contacts?"

Logan shook his head. "Laziness."

Gloria frowned. "That's not good for your eyes."

"Actually, I think they've gotten better since I stopped coding."

"What were you coding?"

"Let's see, I was using C++, HTML, PHP, JavaScript, Python-"

"No, I mean, what kind of programs were you creating?"

"Honestly? A lot of spam generators." he admitted gloomily. "Automatic mailing lists and things like that. It was where the money was."

"That was all you wanted then?" Gloria said critically. "Money?"

Logan stopped, surprised. "No. Of course not. But that's what it all comes down to in the end, isn't it? It starts off as a little extra for take-out, then your rent goes up, your electricity bill doubles, suddenly you're expected to cover your own wedding, the house you just mortgaged is falling apart, and before you know it you're accepting requests for a program that will send a thousand viruses while protecting the client's own email and computer."

"You must have started programming for a reason though." Gloria pressed, ever the optimist. "There must have been more on your mind than money and spam."

Logan patted down the compost gently, watching the light dance between the bush's leaves.

"I wanted to write a comprehensive compatibility program." he confessed. He waited for the derisive laughter.

"What's that?" Gloria asked, genuinely clueless.

Logan sighed and proceeded to further his humiliation by explaining his abandoned dream.

"You get them on dating sites. Put in a few keywords and it sifts through all available profiles to match them. It's how shy people meet dates."

"So you wanted to make those for a living?"

"No. I wanted to make a program that pushed the boundaries of compatibility. A system that didn't just compare interests, but people's values. A program intelligent enough to match not just similar data, but also cross-reference and match complementary data."

He leant against the spade, reliving the excitement of the brilliant idea that had been buried for so long. He'd completely forgotten what he was doing with the tool, but it made a good prop as he looked wistfully into the past.

"I wanted to write a program that could analyse all the unique words and phrases an individual combines, and provide people with matches that were really compatible on every level, not just their fickle hobbies and flavour-of-the-month bands."

"So what happened? Why didn't you write it between your spam jobs?"

Logan smiled as he remembered the way Melissa would lean in front of his screen, her porcelain features erasing all thoughts of coding. "I fell in love."

"Oh." Gloria turned back to her herbs.

Logan blinked, snapped back by the flat statement.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No. You fell in love. End of story." A weed sprayed his shoes with soil as it was ripped from the earth.

Logan put the spade down properly. "You seem upset."

"Why should I be upset? You got your girl. What should I care if you wasted the opportunity to help someone else find their own true love?"

"It wasn't like I just gave up. New relationships take a lot of time. Marriage takes a lot of money." All of his time and several maxed-out credit cards, as it had turned out.

"Of course they do." Gloria said snippily. "It just seems to me that your timely expensive wife might have spared you five minutes to work on your legacy, is all."

"She gave me all the time in the world when she died." he snapped back.

Gloria rose and turned to face him stiffly, her voice dripping pure venom. "Then why didn't you use it?"

"Because I was devastated!" His hands shook with anger as he spoke. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to have the woman you love die right in front of you? It never stops."

"Every time I opened that program I could hear the crunch as the truck hit her! Any bright light, even my own computer screen, brought back the sight of her white dress plastered against that polished steel. It was so bad that I even tried a psychiatrist, and you know what they did? They took my money and then had the gall to tell me it was all part of the grieving process."

He turned on the woman who was watching him silently.

"So you tell me, how could I possibly write that program? How could I sit there with the glare and scream of the truck, and still produce a program that would lure more people into that vicious trap of love and loss? You might think that the chance at utter joy is worth it, but I already know the pain it brings, and it's not."

He covered his face with his hands, muffling his final words.

"I just can't do that again. Not to anyone."

## – CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO–

### CALCULATING

"I'm sorry." Gloria said quietly. "I had no idea you were so sensitive."

It took Logan a moment to realize that she wasn't insulting him. Guilt surged forward as his defence crumpled without its attacker.

"No, you were right. I still had every chance to follow my dream, and instead I took every excuse I was given and gave up. I didn't just give up on that dream; I gave up on any future that wasn't as bleak and self-serving as I felt right then."

"There's still time." Gloria said encouragingly.

"Even if there was enough time, I don't have the technology anymore. I threw away my opportunity to create something truly great and the chance to help others find love."

There was silence.

"But you have helped others find love." Gloria said. "Mac told me how you talked to him about Dana. He wasn't too happy at the time, but it clearly stuck with him."

She got her feet and brushed the dirt from her dark trousers. There was a determined look in her eyes.

"You don't need advanced technology. You're smart; you can do the calculations in your head. I can be your test subject."

Logan considered the proposal. "It will be a simplified system, but it sounds viable."

"So what do you need to calculate compatibility?"

"Well, I'll need to simplify the calculations. Five core values should be manageable."

Gloria studied the tree nearby as she thought. "I'd say my core values are Truth, Knowledge, Purpose, Love and Family."

Logan nodded, wishing he had a notepad. "Would you equate Purpose to Function?"

"I consider that archaic wording, but yes, that would be adequate."

"What about creativity?"

"I'm not very artistic." Gloria shrugged. More curls fell free of her headscarf.

"Not in the sense of art. In the sense of redesigning the world."

She looked over at her glorious garden. "I highly value Creativity in that sense."

Logan nodded and bit his lip in concentration. "Family and Love tend to cross over, so really, they could be considered one value. Now that we've taken into account your personal interpretations of those values, your new set has been streamlined into Truth, Knowledge, Function, Creativity and Love."

Gloria nodded in agreement. "And what percentage compatibility would that rate me with say, your current values?"

Logan paused. "Taking into account our different interpretations, we have four out of five values that match. Therefore, our compatibility rating is eighty percent."

"There you go. You just successfully created and applied a version of your program." Gloria said proudly.

Their compatibility percentage hovering at the front of his mind, Logan allowed himself a moment to enjoy his small success.

"But there is a problem with this system." Gloria continued. "A virtual program can't measure biological compatibility. Fortunately, since the new system is processed organically, we can create a means of measurement."

"What do you recommend?" Logan asked, wondering how he could apply the knowledge to a virtual program.

"The system should identify the presence or absence of a Spark."

Logan looked at her, puzzled. "What are the conditions?"

"There must be a physical and emotional reaction of a higher magnitude than any previous contact with a friend or lover."

"A comparative memory scale?" Logan mused. "That seems unreliable. What if they are simply having a good day or are particularly lustful?"

"Then it will not register with the same intensity on both the physical and emotional scale. The two factors must be even to be identified as a Spark."

Logan shook his head. "The theory appears sound, but there are a lot of variables that could interfere with accurate identification of a Spark."

"I agree entirely. The theory needs to be tested repeatedly so all the variables can be indentified and accounted for." Gloria said.

Without warning, she gripped both sides of his face. Her eyes filled his vision, black pools tinted with gold.

"This is purely for research purposes, you understand."

Before Logan could answer, she pressed her lips against his.

## – CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE–

### THE TRUTH

Logan forgot how to breathe.

His lips tingled against Gloria's, his whole body surging with electricity as his blood sang. His eyes closed as he swirled through the blissful moment that comprised of pure pleasure. Eons could have passed unnoticed, so wrapt was he in the universe created by this intoxicating woman. He had never felt as good in his whole life as he did in this moment. He never wanted it to end.

Gloria pulled away.

He opened his eyes as he inhaled air that tasted wonderfully fresh and crisp. Everything seemed brighter, more detailed, like the world had suddenly pulled into focus.

"Well, I would consider that a successful test." Gloria said.

"Mmm." he agreed, the pink fog of happiness preventing any higher cognitive functions. Gloria had kissed him, he thought dreamily. Gloria had kissed him.

Gloria was a sombae, his memory piped up. Sombae were highly infectious.

Slowly, his foggy brain put the two together.

He'd kissed Gloria, a highly infectious sombae.

Panic bubbled to the surface, obliterating the fog.

"Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod!" he babbled to himself.

"Come on, it wasn't that good." Gloria remarked.

"You don't understand, I'm- you- Oh god!"

Faced with a situation beyond his control, the adrenaline response took over. Logan ran.

"Logan!" Gloria called after him.

He thundered through the living room, ignoring the startled looks of its occupants. Barrelling down the hall, he threw himself inside his room and slammed the door.

He flung open the chest of drawers and hunted through the pamphlets desperately. He needed information to tame the panic before it spiralled completely out of control.

He scanned the introduction of 'So You're A Sin Against Nature: A Guide For New Zombies', until he found the section 'Why The Lord Abandoned You: How Sins Lead To Infection'.

'The Lord has seen your sins, and sent a plague of zombies down upon the earth to cleanse the sinful from the world. The zombies mark the sinful and pure alike with saliva, but only the sinful become Infected. The pure have nothing to fear, for the Lord will send rain to cleanse their mark, or summon a sneeze or cough to expel the tiniest of sins.'

Logan grabbed the cup of water that sat by his bed and splashed it across his tightly sealed mouth. He kept reading, morbid fascination rapidly replacing his panic and terror.

'The sinful can find their way to Heaven if they cut out the mark of their sins. The Lord accepts all sliced souls with open arms, for they have performed their penance in full.'

Below, in tiny print, was a comment from the pamphlet's distributor.

'*ZCorp does not condone any suggestions presented by the Church of Latter Day Sinners. ZCorp strongly advises the reader to take a really long hard look at their choice in religion before taking any of the aforementioned advice. For you convenience, ZCorp has provided an Anti-Donor Card with this pamphlet. Don't let your loved ones suffer from your Infected organs!'

Logan looked at the card stapled to the back of the pamphlet as he gingerly touched his lips. They were dry.

He dropped the pamphlet and pulled out another one, hoping for more facts and less propaganda. The title looked like exactly what he was looking for.

'The Hypochondriac's Guide To Infection.

'During the first twelve hours of suspected Infection, please DO NOT RING THE INFECTED REGISTRATION HOTLINE. You may experience flu-like symptoms such as fever, aches, vomiting, headaches, and weakness. Temperatures above forty degrees are normal. Consult a doctor if symptoms persist.

'During the next twenty-four hours of suspected Infection, DO NOT RING THE INFECTED REGISTRATION HOTLINE. You maybe experience sensitivity to light and numbness of extremities. A pulse below forty beats per minute and temperatures below twenty degrees are normal. Consult local quarantine unit if symptoms persist.

'During the next month of suspected Infection, consult your local doctor and consult your local quarantine unit, but DO NOT RING THE INFECTED REGISTRATION HOTLINE. You may experience extreme mood swings or a complete lack of emotion, accompanied by uncontrollable shaking. If symptoms persist after consultation with local doctor and local quarantine unit, please consult your local Culler.'

'N.B. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, RING THE INFECTED REGISTRATION HOTLINE. You are not a zombie. Stop ringing us.'

Logan felt his panic subside as he laughed at the complete lack of quality control in his zombie literature.

Just to be sure, he held his fingers to his neck and counted the number of beats per minute. He was pleased to discover that his heart rate was definitely a lot higher than forty beats per minute. There was still a tinge of nausea, though, and he could feel a headache coming on.

Logan suddenly realized how hot he was. He ripped off his shirt and tugged at the Velcro straps of his crude ice-vest. They pulled away easily. He fell onto the bed, holding the whole vest against his burning cheeks, but the inside was barely lukewarm. He flipped it over and enjoyed the marginally cooler surface on the outside.

The headache disappeared as he relaxed, and the nausea retreated into the murky depths of imagination.

He didn't feel any cooler though. The room was too stuffy.

Logan tossed the useless ice-vest aside and got up. He pulled open the curtains above his bed and raised the window. Fresh air rolled in and the stuffiness seeped out.

Logan leant out the window, trying to catch a breeze, and came face to face with Gloria.

She stared at him as though he'd grown a second head.

"Look, sorry about before." he began. "I..."

"You're bright red." she said slowly.

"...just got a bit flustered cos I wasn't expecting..."

"And you're sweating rivers." she added.

"...you to do something so..."

"You don't have any bandages..." she said almost to herself.

Logan looked down. His bare chest was hanging out the window in all its pale, unblemished glory.

"Logan, why are you overheated and unmarked?" Gloria asked, knowing full well the answer.

"...why are you standing outside my bedroom?" he deflected.

"That's beside the point."

"It just seems a bit odd, you gardening outside my window right now."

"You're avoiding the question."

"So are you."

"Yes, but unlike you, I'm not a liar!" she yelled, her voice rising up the octave.

"Uh..." he said, searching for the words that could mend a hopeless situation.

"You bastard! I trusted you!" she shouted, shaking violently. Black spit fired like bullets from her mouth with each word. "You're nothing but a- a- zombie-killing liar!"

"Glo-"

"No!" she screeched, jabbing a finger at him. "You don't get to talk! You abused the system. Our system! How dare you! You- you scab!"

She paused to suck in a shuddering breath. "What the hell is wrong with you? How could you throw away your life in such a fucking stupid way? Are you really are that selfish?"

"I-"

"Oh, but what you must think of me!" she laughed nastily over the top of him. "Did you enjoy watching a zombie throw herself at a human? What a riot I must have been! Now I know why you ran off; to throw up and laugh your ass off."

"Bu-"

"Well guess what Logan?" she gasped, her voice choked with emotion. "You can just fuck off! Fuck off and die, you fucking liar!"

Tears in her eyes, she turned and ran. Leaves shuddered and fell as she disappeared behind the house.

Logan felt the bile rise in his throat. He spat at the earth, halfway between throwing up and screaming. The feeling only lasted a moment before giving way to the black depths of despair.

She had run from him, he thought numbly. She had run because he was human, and she wasn't.

He sat down on the bed heavily. His body ached as the sobs shuddered in his chest and tightened his throat.

Hot tears rolling down his cheeks, Logan mourned.

## – CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR–

### CHANGE

Logan slept fitfully. He tossed and turned, drifting along the cusp of waking while still trapped inside his dreams.

He awoke with a jerk, alerted by the presence of someone in his room.

Trepidation rose as he became aware of the wet snap of flesh. For a moment, he thought something was trying to eat him.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned on the light.

Gloria was sitting on his suitcase, eating something. Blood trickled down her chin.

Logan swallowed noisily. "Hello."

She stopped chewing and looked at him. Slowly, her lips parted to reveal a horrible, mirthless grin. Her teeth were coated with black saliva and red blood.

"Hello meat."

He felt his limbs sink into the mattress, frozen with fear.

"But how selfish of me." she said and offered the intestine to him. "Have some."

Logan watched as blood seeped out the end and splattered onto the cream carpet. "No, thank you."

"But you're a zombie, aren't you? Zombies love fresh bloody flesh..."

She pushed the tube towards his face. The smell of aging meat made him stomach flip.

"I'm not a zombie." he said flatly, turning his face away.

"Funny. I thought you were. How could I have got that impression?"

He closed his eyes. "I lied."

"You lied. But that would make you-"

"A liar. Yes, I'm a liar. I'm not a zombie."

"But if you're a liar and not a zombie, that must make you a human."

"Yes."

"Zombies eat humans."

"No."

"But I'm a zombie-"

"Yes."

"You're a human-"

"Yes."

"Therefore, I should eat you."

He opened his eyes. "There was a time when I thought like that, yes. But not anymore."

Gloria swallowed the last of the intestine and slowly ran her tongue along the bloody trails it had left down her arm.

"You're so much more than this." Logan pressed.

She paused halfway down the arm.

"This isn't you Gloria."

Her eyes locked with his.

"And how would you know?" she asked menacingly.

He looked back steadily, holding her gaze. "Because I've seen who you are."

Gloria's eyebrow raised slightly.

"You're passionate, and you're dedicated. You're always so excited about new knowledge that you want to share it with everyone, but you angry quickly if they don't appreciate it.

"You always make sure to write to your sister because no matter how bizarre her problems, you love her and want to help. You make sure to portray yourself as the sensible and dependable one so she has someone to look up to, but you're actually just as big a flirt as she is.

"You have high standards for beverages. You know what good coffee is and won't accept anything less. You're a wine snob, but you'll drink anything, even medicinal alcohol, if all you want is a buzz.

"You have great respect for life and care deeply for everything, from flowers to people. The reason you spend so much time in the garden is because that's the only place you feel truly in control, even when you can't control yourself.

"Because above all else, you hate to lose, and you'll do whatever it takes to come out on top."

Logan paused to take a deep breath.

"You didn't lose, Gloria. I did."

She avoided his gaze, instead leaning over to drink from a glass concealed by the edge of his bed. She rinsed her hands in the clear liquid.

"Could you taste that?' he asked out of morbid curiosity.

"No. You lose that when the sense of smell goes. But I hate the texture."

She put the empty glass down and leant back, crossing her arms.

"It's true; I haven't become some rabid, flesh-eating monster just yet. But for how long? How can you tell if it's still Gloria inside here," she pointed to her head, "and not just the Infection?"

Logan smiled at the concerned woman. "Because there are a million things that make you Gloria."

"Like what." she said deprecatingly.

"Like the way your laughter fills the room. The way you always wear your hair out, even when it's windy. The way you lick your lips when you're concentrating, and push people to better themselves, and the way you make me..."

He paused, unsure if he could admit the things inside his heart.

"You make me feel, Gloria. You make me feel things I've never felt before. Things I thought I'd forgotten. Things I never knew existed.

"You scare me and you thrill me at the same time. I think you're the most beautiful, intoxicating, volatile person I've ever met.

"That's not the Infection, Gloria. That's all you. And I love it."

She looked at the ground, taking in the flood of information that had poured from his heart and mind.

Slowly, she stood and removed her clothes, until nothing but tan skin and white linen remained.

"Your sentiments are appreciated, but not entirely accurate." she said quietly. "This is what I am."

Layer by layer the linen fell away, revealing an emaciated body covered in open sores. Burgundy tears perpetually welled in the woman's gaping wounds and her toes were blackened from nerve damage. It was worse than leprosy. It was like a giant maggot had bitten chunks out of her body and preserved the rest for later.

Gloria stared resolutely at the far wall as Logan's eyes took in every inch of the black and broken skin.

"I thought you understood." she said quietly. "I thought you knew what it's like to rot away from the outside in. To feel your mind slip that little bit more with each passing day. To watch each minute leave you, with the knowledge that it takes you one minute closer to becoming a mindless killer.

"But you don't." she said sadly and looked down at her shrivelled form.

"How could you possibly understand what it feels like to watch yourself die, slowly and painfully, as those you love turn their backs? You can't possibly understand what it's like to be this."

Logan's heart ached for the woman. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms and make it all go away. To magically fix everything, so she could go out and change the world. But he couldn't. The damage was already done.

So instead, he climbed out of bed and stood in front of her. Gently, he lifted her chin to look at her face. Her eyes were shining with held-back tears.

"I can't possibly understand." he agreed quietly.

Her eyes flickered as they met his. "I can't change what I am, Logan."

He nodded. "But I can."

Closing his eyes, he kissed her.

## – CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE–

### REBORN

Logan found it hard to believe that nine months had already passed. It seemed like only yesterday he was locking himself in his room, terrified of Baba's cries for more tea. He laughed at the memory now, amused by his own ignorance.

The smile slipped from his face as he remembered that Baba had never emerged from her Moment, instead passing on while trapped in her catatonic state. Gertie had stayed by her side to the end, adamant that the woman would have wanted it that way. The house members had been defensive when F.P.I.R. had sent Greg in to identify the body, but they had relaxed after he'd taken off his helmet as a sign of surrender.

When Matilda's Expiration date had rolled around, Greg had taken away with him the tale of the exploding zombie. No one in the house knew how she had done it, but the living room held a proud scorch mark in her memory. Only Logan knew was that she had been soaking her jacket in medicinal alcohol a few days beforehand, and had deliberately made sure Greg was at the far end of the house when it happened.

Horace had thoroughly enjoyed the peace he had gotten after Matilda was gone. The angry husband had transformed overnight into one of the funniest men that ever dared to teach children swear words behind their parent's backs.

Clara had proven herself surpassingly adept as a replacement for Dean's management, while Dana had pursued a relationship with Mac. Their love had blossomed and the entire house had enjoyed a small ceremony in the garden to honour their vows to each other.

When Clara had Turned, Mac had become determined to spend every last moment with Dana, comforting her while they waited for the inevitable. Dana herself had Turned when the Cullers had arrived to claim her sister, but Mac had stayed by her side just the same.

Just like Jason and Betty, Logan thought. Gloria had planted the couples' memorial flowers side by side in a patch she liked to call the Romeo and Juliet Plot.

Dean had been forced to return to the role of leader, despite several catatonic fits, until he very quickly taught one of the new residents his filing system. When he'd inevitably Turned, games nights had became very scattered, so Logan had taken it upon himself to write out the schedule. He still loved teaching new residents the rules of Colour Coding and watching their faces scrunch up in confusion.

Gloria had reluctantly passed on the physical work of gardening to Michael after her hand-eye coordination had deteriorated. She insisted on hovering over him and giving instructions regularly though, which he happily listened to. It was a perfect compromise. He seemed to enjoy the work, and Gloria enjoyed bossing him around.

Logan loved seeing her happy. Even after nine months of Moments, he was still in awe of her passion, determination and constant cheekiness. She had been Infected much longer than he had, and was fading rapidly, but she still fought back every day, determined to live life to the fullest.

Sometimes he wondered what had happened to Karimah and Frank. He still found himself missing Karimah's respect for his little quirks and preference for solitude when the house was intolerably raucous with the influx of new people.

Once in a while he even thought of Janine, and wondered if she had ever felt sorry for sending him away. But then he remembered why he had started stealing her papers, and dismissed the thought as ridiculous sentimentality.

Logan knew he was slowing down these days. He could feel his mind and body slipping away, like Gloria had described. He'd already experienced several catatonic episodes, and wasn't eager to experience any more.

When a Moment struck, Gloria stayed by his side and kept him entertained. She read to him through the night when he was the most lonely, and slept beside him during the day while he listened to the sounds of the house.

When she had her Moments, he let her attack him and held her afterwards while she cried at what she had done.

Through all their differences and troubles, their types and their Moments, he still felt his heart soar and blood sing when he looked into her eyes.

It was odd when he thought about it. When he had first stupidly pretended to be a zombie, he thought he had thrown everything away for nothing. Now, after nine short months, he finally had everything his life had ever been missing.

He was going to die too early, he knew, but it was a sacrifice he was glad to have made. It had taken him a long time to get there, but he'd finally learnt how to live again, and a short sweet life was much better than a long hollow one.

Dean's replacement waved his transfer papers at him from the patio doors. Logan nodded, understanding perfectly well what the young man was trying to tell him, as tactfully as possible.

Today was Logan's Expiration date.

Soon Greg would return with a new Culler by his side. Another man who had no idea what he was getting himself into. Another blank face, still blessed with a full frontal lobe, ready to blow away Logan's remaining senses.

By the time they arrived though, it would be too late.

Smiling, Logan handed Gloria his knife.

###
About the Author

E. A. Burns, more widely known as Elizabeth Am Burns, was born in 1988 and lives in Melbourne, Australia. She graduated in 2012 with a Bachelor of Multimedia Design (Honours) but always found herself drawn back to writing, particularly on lunch breaks. She has been published four times across the 2005 and 2006 Kilvonian, has placed in several competitions on Writerscafe, and far more impressively, can make her brother laugh with just a few choice words.

In her spare time she posts reviews on her pop culture blog BehindRoseGlasses and throws any small stories, poems and scripts onto her personal site ElizabethAmBurns. Her truly notable achievements include reciting pi to twenty-seven places and the ability to harmonise to everything. It is also useful to note that a good latte on a bad day is all it takes to own her soul.

'Zombiism and Other Lies' is her first published novel. She is currently on the second draft of her fantasy novel 'The Last Magin'.

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