Peter Clines - Ex-Communication

Stealth shook her head. “The ex-virus does not mutate,” she said.

“I know. Josh used to say the same thing, but it’s all I can think of. Plus, all those blood and tissue samples we took? All the cuts and punctures from them are gone.”

Stealth’s gaze rose from the clipboard. “She is healing?”

“Healing’s not really the right word. It implies a process of growth and repair on a cellular level.”

“And she’s not doing that?” asked St. George.

“No. She’s just … getting better. The wounds go away. It didn’t even occur to me that she doesn’t have any injuries from the attack that killed her. Captain Freedom said she was torn apart in front of him, but her only injury is severe scratching on her corneas. I’m guessing it’s because dust on her eyes causes consistent, ongoing damage. It happens as fast as it goes away.

“I also did an extended eye exam. Her irises react to light but at maybe a tenth the speed they should. I tried to get them to dilate and it took fifteen minutes.”

“There are several recorded instances of people whose reactions and vital signs drop below normal ranges,” Stealth commented. “They are often mistaken for dead.”

“Those people are usually in comas,” said Connolly, “not walking around having conversations. And Madelyn doesn’t have low vital signs. She has none. Zero. She’s … she’s a corpse.”

“A corpse which speaks, thinks, and only eats meat,” said Stealth.

“She eats meat,” agreed the doctor, “but she’s shown complete control of herself at all times. It’s just a regular appetite. I can try to come up with new tests, but from a medical point of view …”

“So, if she’s not an ex,” said St. George, glancing at Stealth, “what is she?”

Connolly shrugged again. There was something tired and frustrated about the gesture. “I’m at a loss. Sorry.”

St. George drummed his fingers against his thigh. “You’re sure she’s not contagious?”

“I can’t find a single infectious organism in her,” said Connolly. “I even did a few mouth swabs just to check for basic bacteria. Nothing. It’s more hazardous to let us walk around than her.”

“What are her anaerobic bacterial levels?” asked Stealth.

“Nonexistent,” said Connolly, “which wouldn’t be surprising in an ex, either, but …” She sighed. “I’m sorry. This is just completely beyond me. She’s walking around, she’s conscious, and she’s dead. And I have no idea why or how.”

“ ARE YOU OKAY, ma’am?” asked Freedom.

Madelyn looked up at him. “Can you not call me that? You make it sound like I’m some ninety-year-old dowager or something.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. You asked me that before.”

“I did?” Her brow wrinkled up and she managed a half smile. “I guess I forgot, too.” She took a few quick steps ahead and raised her arms to the afternoon sun.

He let her have the distance and kept his pace. “I remember thinking ‘dowager’ was an unusual word for a teenage girl to use.”

“I had to read Great Expectations a few months ago for class.” She paused in mid-step. “Well, a few years ago. The word was on the back of the book, but,” she said, with a knowing tone, “Charles Dickens never actually used it himself.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. And, yeah, I’m okay,” she added. “This is great. It’s just … it feels like forever since I’ve been out without all my gear.”

Freedom still thought it was good she’d decided to wear a coat and long sleeves. Having her blood drained had left Madelyn’s skin chalk white. It wasn’t as noticeable in the bright sunlight, but it was still a stark contrast against her dark hair and the collar of her shirt. A contrast people were too familiar with. Even with her new sunglasses, the dead girl drew a few long stares from the people along Vine Avenue. Fortunately, not many people chose to live near the Big Wall.

Madelyn didn’t seem to notice them. She took a few more twisting steps with her arms up, turning in a half circle with each movement. Then she stopped and looked up at the huge man again. “Did he suffer much?” she asked him.

“Who, ma’am—Madelyn?”

It got him another half smile, but her mouth went flat just as quick. “My dad,” she said. “Did he suffer much when he died?”

An image flashed through Freedom’s head of the body St. George had recovered just before they’d abandoned the proving ground’s sub-base. The only recognizable parts of Emil Sorensen had been the bloodstained tie and half of a ragged gray beard. His clothes, and the flesh beneath them, had been reduced to tatters. They’d laid his body to rest in one of the base’s watchtowers, out of the undead’s reach.

Captain Freedom had seen it as a complete failure. The entire Sorensen family had died under his watch. Three civilians it had been a specific part of his orders to protect.

“No,” lied the huge officer. “It was quick. He never felt a thing.”

Madelyn nodded and a tear slipped out from under her sunglasses. She wiped it away and started walking again. “Sorry,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t cry. He’s been dead for a year, right?”

“A little less,” said Freedom.

“Sorry. I haven’t had to do this with people much. The memory thing. I’m trying. Damn it.”

The dead girl stopped and dug in her pockets. She came out with a bottle of eyedrops and spun the cap open. Her head tilted back as she raised the bottle.

Freedom made a point of examining the balcony of an apartment building across from the Big Wall. The sound of teeth from the other side of the Wall echoed off it. He knew a few people lived in the building. He wondered how they dealt with it.

Madelyn coughed and he looked back at her. The wetness turned her chalky eyes into pearls. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry. Years of training.”

She dropped the bottle back in her pocket and settled her sunglasses back across her face. “If anyone ever asks you, crying with dry eyes hurts.”

Freedom nodded and gestured at the street. “Do you want to go back to your room?”

Madelyn shook her head. “No thanks.”

“Is it comfortable enough? We could get you some books or music or whatever you might like.”

She started walking down the street again. “I just don’t like hospitals much.”

“Ahhh,” he said. “I’ve spent a lot of time in them, too.”

“For Dad’s treatments?”

Now Freedom shook his head. “Before that.” He thought about saying more, but didn’t feel like dredging up memories of other failures.

Madelyn didn’t push it. They walked along in silence for a few moments. She took in a deep breath and let it whistle out between her teeth.

A young man rode by on a bicycle and did a double take as he passed the dead girl. He glanced back and forth between Madelyn and Freedom. The bike wobbled and he almost crashed. At the last moment he got it under control and continued down the street, glancing back over his shoulder.

She sighed and took another deep breath. “It smells good here,” she said. “Everywhere I’ve been … everywhere I remember being, anyway … has been kind of musty. Or worse. It’s really nice.”

“There are several large gardens,” said Freedom. “There’s some currency floating around, but for the most part people are bartering these days. Growing crops is like growing money.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

He watched her from a few steps back. “May I ask you a question, Madelyn?”