Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"It isn't," I say.

"What?"

"It isn't the end. I'm not going to die." We both know that this is unlikely, but we both know that I have to try.

Alex grins. "Yeah, bloody right, you're not."

"Maybe you should think about leaving town for a while."

"And extend the misery a little longer? No thanks, mate. If this doesn't work, I'm going to the Regatta to drink till I want to die. You think Tim's alive?"

I shrug. "I haven't pomped him, but that doesn't mean anything. Morrigan could have, or his spirit's been left wandering. I'm sure there's plenty of souls in that position."

Alex takes a deep breath. "Let me come with you," he says.

Christ, I wish he could. Alex is a thousand times more capable than me. For one, he managed to get everything that I needed. I reckon he could storm Number Four in his sleep.

I shake my head. "There's too many Stirrers." I point over toward the center of the city. Their presence is a choking foulness in my throat. "Even you must be able to sense them now. You wouldn't last a minute being so close to so many. I could brace you, but if I go under, you're gone. I don't want to have that on my conscience."

I don't know if he looks angry or relieved. But I'm sure I've made the right decision. Alex is a Black Sheep, and a cop. He knows what I'm up against-and so do I. I'm trying not to think about it too much, because I need to believe that I might have a chance. I desperately need to believe that.

"Well," I say. "It was nice knowing you." I hand him a tin of brace paint. "This will keep you safe for a little longer."

Alex nods then slides the tin into a pocket and we shake hands, which seems at once ridiculously formal and apt.

"Good luck," Alex says.

"You too."

We stand there awkwardly, then the moment passes and we head to our respective cars.

Number Four is waiting for me. Morrigan is waiting, and I'm going to give him what he wants.

It's time to end this.

Number Four is on George Street, so I park in the Wintergarden car park. The big car park is empty but for a couple of deserted cars-all nicer than the Corolla, but it hasn't let me down yet. I'm less noticeable as a pedestrian, and I can reach George Street and Number Four directly from here. It's only a few blocks away and there's a nice circularity to it-though I only think of that once I've parked. The last time I was here I could have convinced myself that my life was normal. I yearn for that time. But it's lost to me now.

I pass through the food court where I first met Lissa and fell in love or lust or whatever it was at the beginning, just before she told me to run-in the other direction. Even then I knew to avoid Number Four, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

Everywhere I look I see Lissa, the places she filled. I struggle to stop the rising anger that it brings, a bleak force that threatens to overpower me as much as any Stirrer.

It's now late in the afternoon and normally the CBD would be crowded with Sunday shoppers, but it's a virtual ghost town as I walk up Elizabeth Street, past empty boutique stores and bus stops. None of the pubs and clubs are open, their doors are dead mouths gaping, their windows blank eyes staring. There are so many Stirrers in the city that my senses burn with them. What I'm feeling is far worse than the Wesley Hospital. It's a deep and sickening disquiet. Get too many Stirrers together and people sense the wrongness of the situation, in the same way they could sense Lissa on the bus seat next to me. The buses and trains would have been crowded this afternoon but people have stayed away, shops have shut early and no one would have been able to explain why.

It feels as though most of the Stirrers in the city have gathered here. Better near me than out in the suburbs.

As I approach Number Four, the key starts tingling in my grip, then it begins to burn. For all its heat I refuse to let it go. I'm not Death, and the key knows it, but that's the thing, there is currently no Regional Manager. I'm hoping that I haven't set off alarms, I just don't know.

But when I turn into George Street, that's the least of my worries.

Stirrers have gathered around Number Four. There are at least a hundred of them, and that density of death is going to kill. A void of that magnitude is going to drive people away if it doesn't just swallow them up before they get a chance to run. Of course they don't just consume people. The trees along the street are wilting, birds are falling out of the sky. As I watch a possum tumbles from a tree.

A hundred Stirrers at least and they're not scared of me. I cut both of my hands, deep and hard. It hurts, but I am so used to that sort of pain now. And I'm angry. I don't know if I've ever been angrier. The things Morrigan has stolen from me. The important pieces of my life. All I am now is pain and anger.

At their front is Jim McKean. It's appropriate that this should end with him. At least he doesn't have a shotgun now.

"Out of my way," I snarl.

"Try and stop us," Jim says. He's in a suit, not as nice as mine, but pretty stylish. I grab him with my weeping hands, and the Stirrer passes through me.

"It's my job." I let the body fall. The Stirrers pull back, wary of my blood.

Then someone points a gun in my face. I duck as it fires. I'm rolling. The Stirrer aims again, and then its chest implodes. It staggers back, dropping the gun, then steadies, looking for the weapon. There's a distant crack and a moment later the Stirrer's head is gone, too, and the body falls. I stall it before it has a chance to get up.

I throw my gaze around the street. Alex, it has to be Alex. He's ensconced himself in a building somewhere nearby. I've a sniper at my back. The Stirrers hesitate. There's another crack; another head explodes. I stall that one, too. They know they have no choice now. The circle closes.

And they're on me. It's worse than any rugby scrum, grabbing and gouging. But I'm stronger than any of them. I'm a Pomp, and I'm damn good at my job, and I've got nothing to live for, nothing to fear. Because I've seen the other side-shit, I've ridden a bicycle down its boulevards! They couldn't get me then and they're not going to get me now.

I tear the Stirrers away from their hosts, one after another, and I pay for it in my blood and my hurt. By the end I'm hoarse with screaming, but there is an end. Unbelievably, impossibly, there is. I lie there amongst the dead, my breathing ragged, until I have the strength to pull myself out of the mass of bodies. Blood streams from wounds all over my body, but that doesn't bother me. All it says is that I'm alive. Besides, I've experienced worse in the past few days. And I know that this is only the beginning.

And then a new wave of Stirrers pours around the corner and I'm striking out with fists coated in my own blood, and every time I connect another body stalls.

I recognize these faces. Most of these people were Pomps. It's terrible work, but I know that they would have done the same, that I'm honoring their memory, however desperately and clumsily. There are tears in my eyes, and an ache in my chest.

By the time I'm done there is a pile of corpses on George Street, but that's not my problem. I know that this mess will be cleaned up, if I succeed. And if I don't, then the region is doomed anyway.

This close to Number Four the building tugs at me, drawing me in. The big Mortmax Industries sign is winking, as though unable to hold a charge. The ground hums beneath my feet, and it's not due to passing traffic. There is none. The city is empty.

We recognize each other, Number Four and I, and it recognizes the key. I've never felt this connection to Number Four before. Remarkably, the thing I sense coming from it most is sympathy.