Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"Maybe something's changed. Maybe the Stirrers are just taking advantage of the whole thing."

"No, things don't change that much. You don't understand the system at all if you think otherwise. There's no advantage to a Regional Manager if they take another region. And then there's the increased Stirrer activity. That's been happening for weeks. They're in on it, somehow. Mr. D would know."

I shake my head. "Morrigan's been trying hard to contact him. No luck. Maybe he's in the dark as much as we are."

"Now you're scaring me," Lissa says.

"I'm scaring both of us. We have to get out of here."

Lissa nods.

"And quietly," I say.

"I'm dead." Lissa gives me a dark look. "I can't make any noise."

"I was just trying to remind myself."

We're as silent as a pair of ghosts as we come down the hill. Easy enough, I suppose, when half of the couple is a ghost. And we're moving pretty quickly, which is why I almost stumble upon them, and why they don't see me.

And this is the first time my fear turns to something else. No fucking way!

My parents are weaving around the tombstones ahead.

Not my parents, just their flesh. They're not moving like Mom and Dad, and that's the oddest part of seeing them. Mom and Dad, my mom and dad, but they're all wrong. The creatures that inhabit them haven't got the hang of the real estate yet. Dad holds a rifle, Mom is speaking into a phone.

"Stirrers," Lissa says and I roll my eyes at her. Of course they're Stirrers-zombies, I suppose, in the common vernacular. The second part of our jobs as Pomps, the things we're supposed to stop stirring. These aren't your "Grr, brains" zombies. Nah, that shit doesn't happen. These are more perambulatory vessels. My parents aren't infected or blood crazy; Stirrers inhabit them.

It's the only way that Stirrers can exist in our world. They were long ago banished from the land of the living, but they want back in any way they can. I've heard that if they tip the balance-inhabit enough bodies, get more than a toehold-they might just be able to return in their real form, whatever that is. If that ever happens, we're all screwed.

These aren't my parents. They're just the place of death. My parents have gone over into the Underworld.

I'm taking it pretty well. My blood is only partially boiling, I'm only clenching my fists until they hurt, not until they draw blood. I groan as another soul passes through me, another Pomp. Real pain. Someone is hurling souls at me.

Normally we're directed to a specific location to physically sight and sometimes touch a spirit. But now, maybe because there are so few Pomps left, or because most of the dead today have been Pomps, they're actually hitting me wherever I am. These are really violent deaths, and they're coming hard and fast.

Those spider webs are starting to grow more hooks. It's like having a cold, and a constant need to blow your nose-at the start the tissues are soft, but by the end they're more like razors wrapped in sandpaper-except that the razor burn runs through my whole body.

On top of that I can now sense the Stirrers. And if I can feel them…

"Shit," Lissa says.

I do a double-take. I look at Lissa-and then to Lissa. "That's-"

"Somebody has to pay for this." She covers her face with her hands, but the rage and the hurt radiates from her.

Stirrer Lissa strides down the hill, away from the tall white spire of the Mayne crypt, talking on a phone. And she's walking toward me.

"The Hill is compromised," I say at last.

"No shit, Sherlock," Lissa says, and I'm already backing away. There's a distant clattering sound, like someone hurling ball bearings at a concrete wall.

Great, we're being shot at. It's my dad with that rifle. He fires again. I wait for the bullet to hit me, but it doesn't come. His aim is out, still not used to the body, I suppose. A tombstone a few meters away cracks, exhaling shards of dirty stone.

"Run," Lissa yells, and once again, I'm sprinting.

Two blocks away from the cemetery, after a dash through suburbia-streets filled with jacarandas dripping with blooms, and with enough cars parked on the road that we have some cover-we come across a bus shelter.

Miracle of miracles! There's a bus pulling in, on its way toward the city, but I don't care where it's going, I just need to be heading somewhere that isn't here. I'm on it. It's the first time in my life that a bus is exactly where and when I want it. With what little sense of mind I have left, I realize I still have my pass and I flash it at the driver. He looks at it disinterestedly, and then I'm walking to the back of the bus, past passengers all of whom assiduously avoid eye contact. Ah, the commuter eye-shuffle. I must look a little crazy. I certainly feel it.

I'm breathing heavily. Sweat slicks my back, and is soaking through my jacket. It's only the middle of spring but the air's still and hot. For the first time in about an hour I'm aware of my body, and it's telling me I'm tired, and hung-over. The adrenaline's not potent enough to keep that from me forever. Sadly, I feel like I could do with a beer.

Lissa looks as fresh as the first time I saw her, if you discount the bluish pallor. You're never fitter than when you're dead.

Finally we've time to talk with no rifles firing.

"So why are you back there? And how?" I ask beneath my breath, but it still comes out too loud. People turn and watch.

"That's not me!" Lissa is furious, and I can understand. I wouldn't want someone wandering around in my body, either. But I'm also wondering why she's so worried. Worry's a living reaction; it's not like she needs that body. She is acting most unlike a dead person, but then she has from the start. "That's not me," she says again. "Don't you dare think of that as me."

I raise my hands. We're tripping up on semantics here. "Your body… Why was your body back there?"

Lissa looks out the window. "I–I don't know. Whoever's doing this is using Number Four and shipping Stirrer-possessed Pomps around via the upper offices. And they're using my body. Shit, shit, shit."

I really want to hold her and tell her that this is going to be OK, but I can't do either, because I really don't believe it, and the Lissa I might possibly be able to hold without pomping is behind us somewhere, and she would kill me without hesitation.

This relationship is complicated.

"The upper offices? Can you really do that?" I think about Number Four, and those labyrinthine upper floors.

"You can if you know what you're doing. It's dangerous if you're not an RM, but people do it from time to time-saves on airfares. I've heard that you can enter any one of Mortmax's offices through them. It's probably how the Stirrers got into the Brisbane office. They could have come from anywhere."

"We'll work this out," I say.

She glares at me. "How, Steve? Just how the hell are we going to work this out? I'm dead. My body's walking about the Hill, inhabited by a bloody Stirrer. It's not enough that I've been killed-whoever is doing this is rubbing my face in it. You were right, as much as I didn't like it, the Hill's the only place we had a chance of finding out what's going on."

"Which was exactly why it was being guarded," I say. "They knew we had to get there. And my parents were there, too. This isn't just about you."

Lissa shakes her head. "Who deals with Stirrers? It's freaking insane! You can't deal with Stirrers. They've nothing to offer but hatred and hunger."

Apparently someone has, and quite successfully. I don't understand it any better than Lissa does. The idea chills me and I'm even more afraid about this whole thing. But at least it explains why Jim McKean was shooting at me. I couldn't work out how I might have pissed him off. There are others with whom it almost wouldn't have surprised me (Derek being one of them) but Jim hadn't made any sense.