Falling Apart by Jane Lovering Page B

in what felt like forever. Neither of them had noticed me. The zombie stopped walking suddenly and turned into the doorway of the pub; the Britain for Humans guy instantly pretended an interest in the window of the bookshop next door. I watched them over my shoulder, pretending my own interest in the window-displayed chalkboard menu. The zombie went inside, obviously for a night shift of cleaning and security work, while his stalker drew out a notebook and made a quick scribble before dragging himself away from the attractions of teen fiction and heading into the gathering evening crowds.
    Right. So they were checking up on zombies’ workplaces, were they? This was not good at all. I stared at the seafood section of the menu a bit longer. Zombies were fairly easy targets: slow-moving and clumsy and, best of all for anyone who wanted to take them out without suffering more than a nasty bruise, flammable because of all the glue. It looked as though Britain for Humans were planning some hits on the zombie population, but there was nothing I could do until something happened. I couldn’t follow everyone all the time, not without being cloned, and I didn’t think either the streets of York or Liam would survive if there were many more of me about. Anyway, we’d fight over shoes.
    I pondered a moment more, still half-trying to improve my appearance with the aid of a reflection into which a seafood selection was embossed, when my phone rang. Unknown Number but, hey, it was chat to someone or hurry home to face Mister Sucky and a lecture on … I dunno, how much better footwear was a century ago, or something. ‘Hello.’
    There was a pause so long I wondered if it was a crank call; I was just about to start shouting abuse when … ‘Jess?’ The voice was so broken I didn’t recognise it.
    â€˜Who is this?’
    â€˜It’s … I have stolen this telephone, mine is gone, Jess; all my money, my cards, they have taken everything from me …’
    â€˜
Sil
?’ My skin rose into goosebumps and pulled tight against my bones. ‘Where … what’s happening?’
    Another pause. ‘I wish I could tell you something, Jessica. I wish I could make some sense, but I cannot. There is nothing I can say.’
    God, oh God.
‘I just want to know what happened, Sil. I want to know what happened to
you
. Can you … where are you?’
    The staccato wingbeats of a breaking signal. ‘I am travelling.’ His voice sounded tired, heavy with hopelessness. ‘Travelling concealed, with a stolen phone and another’s clothes, it is a twisted Purgatory that I am in, but at least I am moving.’
    My stomach twanged, that weird window feeling opened up in my gut and I could feel his words, his fear, echoing inside me, feel the terror cooling his skin. ‘Where are you going?’ It was hard to get the words out.
    â€˜â€¦ coming.’ The line broke, hissing and whining in my ear. ‘… meet me. Our place, after Malfaire, tonight.’
    â€˜But …’ The line was dead. Killed by distance, by motion, by a desire not to talk any further, I couldn’t tell. I had to stagger back a few steps and lean against a wall until the breath came back into my lungs and the pain that gripped at my heart lessened. I let myself fall forwards, hands resting on my knees, until the blood came back to my head and my brain started to work again.
    My love scythed through me like Death making a house call, but I couldn’t let it take me over, had to be practical, had to think things through, one step ahead, even though my heart was beating so fast that it whirred.
    Sil. Not denying what had happened, but at least wanting to see me. Which is good, right? I mean, if he wanted it over he could just
 …
just what, Jess? Everyone wants him eliminated for the good of the Treaty; he’s hardly in a position to send a bunch of