Flesh-&-Bone(130)

Nix said, “Joe says that there are probably two or three hundred thousand of them now. When people die, they are taken across the trench and allowed to roam free. The monks pray for them several times a day.”

“But the jet? The lab?”

Nix reached into the V of her blouse and pulled out a silver whistle on a chain. “Recognize this? It’s a reaper’s dog whistle. It’s ultrasonic. The zoms follow it every time.” She pointed. “See those towers? When the jet is ready to take off or land, they blast an ultrasonic call through those. The zoms follow the call to the towers, and it clears the runway. I’ve seen it work twice now. It’s amazing.”

“Dog whistles,” said Benny. “It’s warrior smart. Tom would approve.”

Nix nodded.

“What goes on over there?” asked Benny, pointing to the concrete buildings.

Nix started to answer, but the brave front she had been putting up collapsed, and she crumpled into grief. She put her face in her hands, and her body shook with sobs.

“Hey . . . hey . . . Nix—what’s wrong?”

Nix turned and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing as hard now as she had back on the crashed plane. But through her sobs she forced herself to speak.

“They’re working on the cure over there, Benny. They really are. With the stuff we found, the stuff on the plane, they think that maybe they really will cure it. They think that they’ll be able to stop the plague . . . to stop the infection . . . ”

“That’s great, Nix,” Benny said, stroking her back.

But she shook her head and kept shaking it.

“Nix? What is it . . . what’s wrong?”

And then he understood.

Then he remembered.

The memory was a knife in his heart.

“Nix,” he whispered, and his voice broke on that single word. “Nix . . . where’s Chong?”

She clung to him. “They’re trying, Benny. They’re trying everything. But . . . he’s so sick. He’s already so . . . ”

Nix couldn’t say another word.

Benny wouldn’t have been able to hear her anyway.

They clung to each other, and together they dropped brokenly to their knees.

-3—

IT WOULD BE HELL.

Lilah knew that.

Hell was something the Lost Girl knew. She had lived it all her life.

She was a toddler on First Night, but she remembered the panic and flight. The endless screams. The blood and the dying.

She saw her pregnant mother die as Lilah’s sister, Annie, came screaming into the world. She remembered the other refugees, filled with terror and confusion, at first recoil from her mother as she came back from that place where all souls go and only the soulless return from. She remembered what they did—what they had to do. Lilah had screamed herself raw. Those screams had smashed down the doorway into hell.

She remembered Charlie Pink-eye and the Hammer brutalizing George and then laying rough hands on her and Annie. Dragging them to Gameland.

To the zombie pits.

She remembered coming back to Gameland to rescue Annie, but Annie was not there. A thing was, wearing the disguise of beautiful little Annie.

Lilah remembered what she had been forced to do.

And she remembered every moment of every day of every month of the lonely years that followed.

Hell?

Lilah knew hell.

It had nothing to teach her, no new tricks it could play on her.

She sat on the edge of Chong’s bed and watched the strange machines beep and ping. But each beep was farther apart, each ping closer to a whisper.

Lilah held Chong’s icy hand in hers. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, but they were milky, the irises transformed into a polluted mix of brown and green and black. The pupils were pinpricks, the whites veined with black lines as thin as sewing thread.

Bags of chemicals and medicines hung pendulously from the metal bed frame, dripping their mysteries into Chong’s veins. His arm was covered with the black marks from needles. So many needles.

Lilah had refused to wear a hazmat suit. The doctors had warned her that if she didn’t put one on, she could never leave this building. Even they couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t carry a disease out with her that would do what the Reaper Plague and all the other plagues had failed to do. Wipe everyone and everything out. The people inside the labs lived in isolation, never touching flesh to flesh, not even a handshake. They wore their hazmat suits all day until they sealed themselves into their private bedroom cells.