The List (Zombie Ocean Book 5) (12 page)

Anna waved a hand. It was good but not good enough. "There it is, God, but I think your God is not the same as mine, Janine. The God I know is out there in the wilds, running with the ocean. The God I respect is in the love and unity I've seen in this room, when these people come together in the moments that matter. The God I know speaks through this man right here," she pointed at Amo, "if he speaks through anyone at all. And you want to brand him a murderer?"

"He has not been formally charged with murder," Witzgenstein said. "There is only testimony thus far. This is a preliminary hearing."

Anna snorted. "Testimony that is falsified. Testimony with you at its root, as everyone here of good conscience knows. Yes, Amo has killed, but never with glee, never for personal gain, never on a whim. He genuinely is the moral man we all believe him to be. He is the opposite of the gutter-dwelling slime that you are, Janine."

Chairs shuffled in the hall. Sweat beaded on shiny temples, cast with an orange glow off the walls. People looked at each other uneasily. Witzgenstein's solemn expression grew more solemn still. This was the moment she'd been waiting for, and she let fly with both barrels.

"You are a hero of our war, Anna, that is true, but you have always been a destructive, callous, cruel child, as you are showing yourself to be now. You have toyed with the emotions of all those nearest you, as you seek to toy with these good people now. You have manipulated your way onto the Council, using that poor boy who idolizes you." She gestured at Ravi. "You are attempting to manipulate the course of this hearing, but I will not have it. You are and have always been a violent, out of control adolescent without the judgment or temperance to know when to speak and when to be silent, and all here know it. Amo at least knows this much, that we all must be judged."

There were some good blows there. They cued her up perfectly. Anna smiled, and spoke clearly, slowly and loud.

"So let us both be judged. Right now, Janine. I am willing to put all that I have at stake in the public eye; my Council seat, my reputation, even my presence in New LA. This is a court of law, and here sits a jury of our peers." She waved at the congregation. "They've heard your charges against Amo. Now let them make a judgment about you."

Witzgenstein frowned. "You aren't a judge, Anna. You can't arraign me."

Anna nodded. Got her.

"You're right, I'm not a judge. I'm a sheriff."

Witzgenstein's eyes bugged for a moment, then she laughed. It was a high and musical sound, pealing out as evidence of her wonderful singing voice. Others in the congregation joined her, but not all. "You certainly are an imaginative young woman, Anna, I grant that. So what would my punishment be, a public hanging?"

"Exile," Anna answered.

This silenced even Janine.

"I call for a vote," Anna said, "effective immediately. We are still a tiny community barely clinging to life. I have seen the world out there, Janine, I have looked into the demons' eyes, and in them I see the end of everything we've built. I see New LA torn up by the roots, with you at our head. It is Amo's dream we've been following all this time, to unite us, while you have sought for years to divide us. We cannot afford that, not with eleven bunkers still out there, with eleven more demons, with many thousands who want us dead. We need Amo. We need me. And we do not need you."

A long moment passed in which nobody moved.

"Your fantasy is running out, Anna," Witzgenstein said. "I rule you in contempt. You may leave."

Anna didn't leave. Too late. She held her ground. "The vote has been called. Who is in favor?"

She eyed them, her people. Many turned away. None wanted to be dragged into this, but she couldn't afford them that luxury. Decisions had to be made, and she would not allow them to go blindly to their own ends. They would have to make that choice for themselves, and look her in the eye as they did it.

Jake stood. He didn't look happy, but he stood.

"A simpleton," Witzgenstein said, "hardly a binding vote."

Sulman stood next. Lara followed shakily after, helped up by Ravi. After that the avalanche began. When the shuffling was done, Anna counted. There were thirty-four people standing and fourteen still seated. It was more than enough.

"It's a clear majority, Janine."

There was a flicker of concern in her ice-blue eyes now. "It's in no way binding. With no defense, no due process. What are your charges, that I lied? I have been utterly impartial. That I once sought a second settlement? That is no crime at all."

Anna nodded. She couldn't have prepared the way more neatly herself.

"So take your second settlement."

The words hung brightly in the air between them, and the hall collectively held its breath. Witzgenstein's perfect face wrinkled in a frown.

"I beg your pardon?"

"So take your second settlement," Anna repeated. "We know who your supporters are, they're the ones preparing now to give more false testimony. So take them and be mayor of another community. Lead them. The good people of New LA don't want you here anymore."

Witzgenstein stared. Perhaps she was just beginning to realize the noose that hung before her. "I am a Council member! You cannot speak to me in this way."

"You've been saying worse about Amo for years," Anna said. "About me, about my father, and it's enough. I'm offering what you've always wanted, much better than a bullet in the head, which is what I would have preferred. Take it, or remain and find out how this sheriff enforces the law. You have three days."

Anna turned and walked up the middle aisle, between the ranks of the jury and into the elevator, feeling clearer and lighter than ever.

INTERLUDE 3

Lucas took samples.

He sank an emptied daily vitamin syringe into Farsan's arm and drew 50ccs of dark, brackish blood into the cylinder. He sealed it, dropped it into a Ziploc bag already stocked with ice from the kitchen, then drew the second. He didn't have anticoagulant with him and the blood was already thick, so time was of the essence.

Next he took Farsan's hand, held sharp steak scissors to his finger, and shaved off a thin sliver of skin. He wrapped it in sterile cotton wool from a small med kit and stowed it in another bag. He trimmed a thick lock of hair, trimmed three fingernails, and finally rubbed two cotton buds inside Farsan's open mouth, which was as dry as a coconut husk, sealed them in a sterilized toothbrush case, and dropped them all in more chilled plastic bags.

Throughout, Farsan beat at the door. He wanted to get away. Like the others, he was drawn to the ones who had killed him.

"It'll be all right," Lucas said repeatedly, but his voice sounded frail and fake and had no effect on Farsan at all.

Last of all, he pushed the serum needle into Farsan's arm and turned the little tappet, starting the drip. If he was expecting a sudden reaction, he was disappointed. Nothing changed.

Thump

Thump

Thump

Back in the living room he surveyed the relics of another time; still so close he could almost reach out and grasp it. Here was Farsan's purple sofa, scented with Farsan's rich cypress resin incense. Here was Farsan's exotic carved acacia artwork and his jasmine candles. Here was Farsan's mahogany coffee table, now laid out with three changes of clothes.

This was the plan. He was going to dress as Farsan. He was going to take a piece of Farsan away. He was going to bring him back alive.

Thump

Thump

Thump

Farsan beat mindlessly at the door. Around him the Habitat hummed as it always had, as if nothing had changed; flues running, electricity flowing, water in pipes sloshing by. Lucas listened for a moment to the hacked radio hissing at his side, but there was no signal running on it, no voices going back and forth, not the black girl, not the stony-eyed man, not the Goth. Not Command.

He started to dress.

One pack of ice from the freezer went into plastic bags duct-taped to his thighs, over the fresh burns. The pressure throbbed; these burns were worse than before, with the skin pink and raw underneath, cracked in places and seeping clear fluid.

Over his work uniform he shrugged on shirts. At three it was tight and his core temperature began to rise. At five it was stiff to move his arms and sweat beaded down his cheeks.

He pulled the pants on next, tightening at three pairs, becoming hard to move at four. It would be fine. Next he went to the bathroom, stepped into the shower and ran the cold tap on his head. The chill woke him up and soaked through the layers. He stepped out sopping wet and returned to Farsan.

Thump

Thump

Thump

The serum was all gone, but it hadn't cured him. It had done nothing at all.

Swiftly, with the practiced hand of years, he took five more samples; blood, skin, hair, saliva, nails, sealed them in plastic, put them in his bag, and took a breath.

"I'm coming back," he said to Farsan. He tried to look into his friend's eyes, but all Farsan wanted to do was hit the door. He'd put a crack into it already. Lucas wrapped his arms round Farsan's chest then pulled him away.

He staggered four steps back and bounced off the wall, just enough time for Lucas to open the door and bolt through. The corridor outside was clear. Farsan was coming back and he slammed the door in his face.

"I'm coming back," he said again, more quietly now, then set off at a waddling, watery sprint.

He dared not risk taking one of the stairs, not with the samples in his pack and the intruders roaming freely round. It was only a short distance then he was there; the panel access hung open, just as he'd left it, and he struggled in. Moving in the many wet layers was hard, climbing up into the vent brackets was harder, but the padding eased the pain a lot as his shins and knees carried his weight on the vent ribs.

He started along, and quickly the chill of the water faded and his temperature began to rise. He moved quickly and economically, shining the flashlight ahead at times to locate the steam exhaust.

Not yet. Nearly there.

He rounded a corner, down an incline, then he was at the outer wall, where the steam was billowing up like a fountain from the broken exhaust. He pulled a knotted towel up over his face and climbed into it.

It roared and he felt the raw wet heat even through the towel. With the bulk of his sodden clothes it was harder to change direction and get his legs leading down to descend the ladder, which meant he hovered on the precipice for longer, taking the full blast of the steam on his stomach, though the suit seemed to be saving him from the worst of it.

He was over halfway round, one leg reaching down toward the vent rung, when something caught. He pulled against it but it didn't budge, stopping him from completing the turn to get his feet pointing down for the descent. It had to be the rucksack, snagged on one of the sharp wires or pipe-stays that lined the outer wall.

He jerked with his full weight and there was a sickly unzipping sound as the nylon rucksack ripped, followed a few seconds later by a sharp clinking sound far below. A syringe? It might have smashed, but they were Perspex not glass, perhaps it was intact, but for how long? He couldn't lose all the samples, not when they were the key to all his plans, but he couldn't go down with them on his back, and the steam was already starting to cut through his wet outer layers and cook him like a rotisserie chicken on the spit.

"Shit," he whispered as sweat poured down his neck and chest. The roar of the steam was like a waterfall, like being trapped in the barista's cup when the milk got frothed, and already he was getting delirious. He might not burn but he could still boil.

He jerked upwards once, twice and managed to climb back over the edge a single step, pointing the full blast of the exhaust at his thighs again. The heat was really cutting through the outer layers now, the pain was coming on and he felt faint and woozy.

No choice. He shrugged off the rucksack, struggling with straps and his thick layers in the dark while steam billowed all around, until finally, with a little more tearing, he got it off. He couldn't carry it down though- one clean blast of the steam would kill all the live samples inside. So he did the only thing he could think of, and dropped it.

It fell and hit with a thump three floors down. It should be all right, he told himself, it had to be, as he tried the descent again. This time he cleared the snag and the steam and then he was through, panting and sweating so hard that his eyes stung. He ripped off the sopping hat and kerchief and continued. Every second mattered now. If one of the syringes had cracked it might contaminate the others. If one of the plastic bags had failed then who knew what dusty bacteria would get in and ruin his one shot at a cure.

He hit the bottom on legs like jelly, wobbling and unsure. He felt like soft linguine ready to dissolve into mush. He could strip but there wasn't time, not if any of the samples had cracked, not if he wanted to salvage anything from this trip to the Habitat's top.

He found the rucksack with ease, snatched at a tipped-out syringe three times before he finally grabbed it, bundled the whole thing down one of his shirts, and started on the final leg.

Vents went by in a feverish blur, as his vision phased in and out, with the dark chute warping dizzily ahead, until at last he emerged in the corridor. Fresh air on his face felt like heaven, and he ran at a wobbling, cavalier sprint until he was back on Blue two and shuffling through the secret hatch. He just remembered to seal it up behind him, then he flew through the darkness for the third time, finally back into his lab.

There he stuffed the rucksack whole into the fridge, humming gently in the stuffy, fetid air, and quickly dropped to his knees so he wouldn't have far to fall when unconsciousness hit.

* * *

He woke sweating and panting perhaps only moments later, but had to think intensively for perhaps thirty seconds, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing.