Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"I-"

He doesn't seem to care that much, just keeps rolling on. "Don sent me. I'm Alex."

"Don sent you? Thank Christ! You know Don? You know about Pomps?"

"Half the force does, mate." He glances back at me through the wire. "So who's the bastard trying to kill my old man?" I didn't know that Don had a son. Another Black Sheep.

Lissa laughs. "Oh, he's Don's boy! Heard he was cute. Now the rumors have been confirmed." I look at her in disbelief and she winks at me lasciviously.

"You're not out of the woods though," Alex says. Glancing at him through the rear-view mirror, I can see a lot of Don in him. The lantern jaw, the brilliant blue eyes. He's the sort of person who should be going through all this, and probably would have gotten to the bottom of it by now. Me? All I have is a passing acquaintance with mortality and a crush on a dead girl. "Stealing that car wasn't the brightest thing you could have done."

"Someone was trying to kill me."

"Yeah, like I said, not the brightest thing, but ballsy, all right. Find out who's behind this and we can make it go away. Right now, though, you're on your own, and pretty much regarded as Brisbane's, if not Australia's, biggest sociopath."

"I stole the car, yes," I say, "but that's it. I didn't have anything to do with the rest."

"I know that, Dad's told me. It's going to take time for people to cotton onto what's happening. And none of it's been helped by most of the bodies disappearing. Regardless, there's nothing we can do about this. This is your domain, and totally beyond our jurisdiction."

"But people have died. They're after your dad, too."

"Yeah, I know, which is why I'm going to help you-though this is entirely unofficial."

"I don't have much time," I say.

"I know," he says. "So where can I take you?"

I tell him, and five minutes later we're there. I get out and thank him.

Alex grins. "Don't worry about it. Just remember to keep the safety on that pistol-until you need to use it."

I watch the car pull away. "First break of the day," I say. "And it only took until 2 pm."

"Yeah," Lissa says, as we walk through the hospital grounds, heading straight for the morgue. It almost feels like coming home. "But what are we heading into?"

We both have a fair idea. The Wesley's feeling even worse than it did yesterday. Bile's rising in my stomach. My body's already reacting to this place and the creatures it contains.

And it gets worse as we get closer. A park borders Wesley Hospital on one side, the train station on another. Coronation Drive is nearby, I can see the tall jacarandas that line the river. The Wesley is a private hospital but a big one, with new works always being constructed. Cranes and scaffolding generally cover at least one side of the building.

It should feel like a place of healing, not this sick-inducing death trap.

"Thank God," says an orderly, a fellow I recognize. His eyes are wide and wild. I can smell his fear. "Where have you lot been?"

"Busy, John. Busy." I don't have time to go into the details.

"At least we have these," John says. He lifts his sleeve, there's the bracing symbol tattooed on his arm. It's a good idea. Most orderlies working the morgues and mortuaries have them. You only need to see one Stirrer, and feel its impact on you, to change your mind.

"How many?" I ask.

"Seven."

I swallow uncomfortably. I've never seen that many Stirrers together in my life. This is bad, really, really bad. It's one thing to hear Morrigan talking about Regional Apocalypse, it's another, much more visceral experience, to face it alone.

"We've got them tied down. But someone is going to hear the screaming. You've got to-"

"I know what I've got to do," I say, a little shortly. I don't really want to do it, but I have no choice.

Dealing with seven Stirrers strapped to gurneys is not something I'm looking forward to. The first thing I encounter are their screams. Another orderly comes at us. "You need to do something!"

"That's what I'm here for," I say.

I walk into the room. Lissa follows me in, though she keeps her distance from the gurneys. A Stirrer could draw her straight through to the Underworld. I don't want her here with me-it's too dangerous-but, Christ, I'm glad she is.

Their presence (or absence) is choking. It's like stepping into a room with no air. It's freezing in here and condensation has turned to ice on everything, a sort of death frost. The Stirrers are flailing on the gurneys, held down tight, but not tight enough for my liking. I look at Lissa. She shrugs. She hasn't seen anything like this either.

I've heard about the world wars, how these things were common at the front where there was so much death gathered in one place. But this is inner-suburban Brisbane.

I sigh. Take out my knife and slice open a fingertip. Once the blood is flowing I reach out toward the first one.

"Can't stop us," it whispers, and then the others are taking up its cry, their voices not quite right. More gurgle than chant.

"This isn't good," Lissa says.

I look at her. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Just thought I'd say it."

"Can't stop us," the Stirrers chime in.

Yes I can.

I press my bloody finger to each Stirrer's hand. They still for good.

But the last one, a bulky fellow, snaps a hand free of its constraints. His fingers clench around my wrist. Bones creak and I wince. I yank my hand free and swing my blood-slicked fist at his face.

"Can't stop us!" he howls, then is gone, my bloody touch stalling him. I get out of that room as quick as I can.

That took more blood than it should have. The Stirrers are getting stronger.

I glance at John. "These won't stir again, and I'll return if I'm alive." I don't tell him how unlikely a proposition that may be when charted against the days-no, the hours-ahead. "But there will be more. I rather suspect that everyone who dies will be… reinhabited."

I incline my head at his tattoo. "You might want to brace as many rooms as possible with this." I give him a tin of paint. There's a few drops of my blood in it and it should provide some limited protection for the hospital at least.

John frowns, as he pockets the paint tin. "And where will you be?"

"If I can come back, I will. I'm just not sure that it's an option."

I'm still a bit shaky as we walk out of the hospital. Stalling takes a lot out of you. One or two is bad enough, but seven is off the chart. Morrigan was right, we're nearing some sort of tipping point. The Stirrers can sense something is wrong. I can imagine the queues of Stirrer souls just crowding around waiting to get into newly dead bodies. Humans have become prime real estate in a way that hasn't happened since the darkest days.

A basketball center's to the right of us, on the other side of the train line. There must be a couple of games going, I can hear the screech of shoes, the indignant shriek of whistles.

"We need to get the system up and running again," I say to Lissa.

She shakes her head. "Sorry, you need to get the system up and running."

"Well, running might be a good idea," says a familiar voice. Don's ghost is standing by Lissa. They circle each other.

"Where's Sam? Is she alive?" I demand.

Don shakes his head. "I don't know."

"I'm sorry, Don. Really, really sorry," Lissa says.

Don fixes her with a stare. "You know how it is."

His form flickers. He blinks.

"What the hell happened?" I ask.

Don grimaces. "I feel stupid." His irritation is without much edge, though. He's already sliding away into the land of the dead, though he manages to fix me with a stare. "It's Morrigan."

"I knew it," Lissa says. "All that polite bullshit. All that sympathy. What an absolute dickhead."

"The bastard tried to pomp me, too. But I managed to-" he glances at Lissa. "Christ, how do you keep this up?"