blinded you, Eugene. You should have let me done you that favor.”
Eugene fought with Michael and Kevin, he shouted. His wife screamed again, and the children echoed her. The zombie child screamed too, it cried out, and the tone of its screams and cries were completely different from its dead family’s.
“Names and addresses,” Philip said. He nicked another part of the zombie’s face.
Eugene continued fighting, his wife and children continued screaming.
“Names and addresses.”
Another nick; more blood.
“Names and addresses.”
Even more blood.
“Fine, Eugene. Then just listen.”
The screams filled the room, those of the living and the dead, and when Eugene Moss finally began giving the names and addresses, Philip did not stop. He continued, and even though Conrad had come along to prevent this sort of thing, he stood where he was and watched those agitated dust motes swirling in the failing shaft of light.
The screams were their music and they danced and danced and danced.
Part II:
Tracking
Chapter 14
The zombie’s name was James. He was thirty-three years old. He was tall and broad shouldered and his skin was very dark.
Conrad had seen zombie children with dark skin before—more a black than the usual gray—but he had never questioned it, because most times that particular zombie was quickly killed and any thought of it left his mind. But now he was working with these adult zombies— had been working with them for four days—and so these questions which usually crept into his dead mind and then quickly fled stayed to burrow their way even further into his brain, and he found himself thinking more and more about them until he finally got up the nerve to ask. Never one of the zombies though—so far he’d done a good job of not talking directly to any of them—but to one of the Trackers, or to one of the scientists at Living Intelligence. He would ask his question—he made sure to space them out appropriately—and then he would listen to an answer which seemed very matter-of-fact but which still confused him.
Like James’s skin color. According to one of the scientists, before the Zombie Wars, before the dead had taken the next step in evolution, the world’s living had been made up of many different races and nationalities and skin colors. Not at all like today, when nobody was separated by their race or nationality or skin color because none of those things existed.
Four nights in a row Conrad had been working as a Tracker, and he had the next day off, where he would finally be able to go home and see his wife and son. He had talked to them every day on the phone—Kyle really wanting to talk to him now since he’d found out the truth—but missed them and wanted to actually see them, touch them, hold them. But right now it was four o’clock in the morning, they had another three hours to go, and then they would head back to Living Intelligence, report in, change and shower, and then he was as good as gone … at least until his one full day was up and he came back to work.
Not that he really minded the work a whole lot. It was definitely more involved than being a Hunter, where you spent most of your time in the Deck or driving around the city in the Humvees, and only really worked when a call came in and you grabbed your sword, your mask, and hurried off to kill the latest monstrosity to walk the earth.
They were in a park down near the southern side of Olympus, the four Trackers and James. The three other Trackers were Garry, Brooks, and Scott. Scott had the highest rank. He called the shots but there were hardly any shots to call. The process of Tracking was very simple: you followed the zombie until it came to a place where a Pandora was buried, you tagged it with an electronic device for the Diggers, and then you went on your way.
Except Conrad’s first night, Scott had asked him if he was curious to see the Diggers
Eugene fought with Michael and Kevin, he shouted. His wife screamed again, and the children echoed her. The zombie child screamed too, it cried out, and the tone of its screams and cries were completely different from its dead family’s.
“Names and addresses,” Philip said. He nicked another part of the zombie’s face.
Eugene continued fighting, his wife and children continued screaming.
“Names and addresses.”
Another nick; more blood.
“Names and addresses.”
Even more blood.
“Fine, Eugene. Then just listen.”
The screams filled the room, those of the living and the dead, and when Eugene Moss finally began giving the names and addresses, Philip did not stop. He continued, and even though Conrad had come along to prevent this sort of thing, he stood where he was and watched those agitated dust motes swirling in the failing shaft of light.
The screams were their music and they danced and danced and danced.
Part II:
Tracking
Chapter 14
The zombie’s name was James. He was thirty-three years old. He was tall and broad shouldered and his skin was very dark.
Conrad had seen zombie children with dark skin before—more a black than the usual gray—but he had never questioned it, because most times that particular zombie was quickly killed and any thought of it left his mind. But now he was working with these adult zombies— had been working with them for four days—and so these questions which usually crept into his dead mind and then quickly fled stayed to burrow their way even further into his brain, and he found himself thinking more and more about them until he finally got up the nerve to ask. Never one of the zombies though—so far he’d done a good job of not talking directly to any of them—but to one of the Trackers, or to one of the scientists at Living Intelligence. He would ask his question—he made sure to space them out appropriately—and then he would listen to an answer which seemed very matter-of-fact but which still confused him.
Like James’s skin color. According to one of the scientists, before the Zombie Wars, before the dead had taken the next step in evolution, the world’s living had been made up of many different races and nationalities and skin colors. Not at all like today, when nobody was separated by their race or nationality or skin color because none of those things existed.
Four nights in a row Conrad had been working as a Tracker, and he had the next day off, where he would finally be able to go home and see his wife and son. He had talked to them every day on the phone—Kyle really wanting to talk to him now since he’d found out the truth—but missed them and wanted to actually see them, touch them, hold them. But right now it was four o’clock in the morning, they had another three hours to go, and then they would head back to Living Intelligence, report in, change and shower, and then he was as good as gone … at least until his one full day was up and he came back to work.
Not that he really minded the work a whole lot. It was definitely more involved than being a Hunter, where you spent most of your time in the Deck or driving around the city in the Humvees, and only really worked when a call came in and you grabbed your sword, your mask, and hurried off to kill the latest monstrosity to walk the earth.
They were in a park down near the southern side of Olympus, the four Trackers and James. The three other Trackers were Garry, Brooks, and Scott. Scott had the highest rank. He called the shots but there were hardly any shots to call. The process of Tracking was very simple: you followed the zombie until it came to a place where a Pandora was buried, you tagged it with an electronic device for the Diggers, and then you went on your way.
Except Conrad’s first night, Scott had asked him if he was curious to see the Diggers
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