“You didn’t arrange this?”
Jefferson laughed. “Don’t you think if I had that sort of power I’d get myself out first?”
He had a point. So, who had granted me my freedom?
“Can I take a look at that?” I said.
Jefferson handed me the paper. “It’s all yours. You’ll need it if you get stopped. Eventually, the patrols will get to know you, but in the meantime, don’t lose that.” He grinned. “I’d hate to have to shoot you.”
I opened the pass. It was a typical piece of bureaucratic paperwork detailing my rights as the bearer. As Jefferson had said, I pretty much had free rein to go anywhere in the city including but not limited to residential buildings, class B restricted areas, and recreation facilities. There was a signature on the bottom—Rex Cho. It wasn’t a name I recognized.
The gate to the camp rattled open.
“You need to go,” Jefferson said.
I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket. “Any suggestions where I should go?”
Jefferson scratched the side of his face. “You really don’t know who got you out of here?”
“Nope.”
A puzzled look came over his face. “I thought you said you had family?”
I’d forgotten that. “Yes, sure, but I don’t think they’d have the resources to arrange this.” I lifted the paper, hoping that organizing a pass out of the camp wasn’t trivial.
Jefferson kept looking at me for several seconds, suspicious, then shrugged. “Look, I’m sorry, man. I can’t really help you.” He offered me his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
We shook hands, then I turned and walked out of the camp.
Chapter 12
The City
I half expected there to be someone waiting for me outside the camp like a scene from some kind of prison movie, but the streets were empty. I walked a couple of blocks to get out of sight of the camp before I stopped to consider my next move. I had no idea where I was going, and no idea who Rex Cho was. I wracked my brain, trying and failing to dredge up his name from my past. It didn’t seem even vaguely familiar. Certainly, there wasn’t anyone of that name who would know me well enough to single me out for special treatment. He might just be some random bureaucrat responsible for signing passes on their way out the door. The only way to know for sure was to find him. A few years ago, I could have looked the name up in a telephone directory. Now, with the Internet gone, I was at a loss where to start.
Shaking my head, I set that mystery aside. There were other, more pressing matters to attend to: my scalpels. Part of me, the part of my brain where common sense lives, pointed out that I could just leave the city now, while I had the chance. If I stayed, there seemed to be at least some chance that I could end up back in Faraday’s camp. Jefferson had implied as much with his urging that I keep the papers safe. I quashed those thoughts. I needed the shadow back, and the scalpels were the key.
A young man in a long, flowing coat strode past on the opposite side of the road. He moved quickly, without sparing me a glance. His heavy boots clumped on the pavement, echoing off the buildings.
The only clue I had to the identity of whoever had stolen my scalpels was that they knew my real name. I’d taken the name Marcus Black from a dead man in order to throw the police off my murderous scent. That was before the extent of the outbreak became clear. I doubted anyone cared about the whereabouts of Edward Taylor now. Apart from the person who’d violated my sanctuary and stolen the scalpels.
If they knew my real name, they must have known me before the outbreak, at least vaguely. That cut down the number of possible suspects dramatically. I had no real friends and no family. The only people I’d come into contact with were my coworkers and the journalist that had been investigating our research. I’d spent as little time as possible with any of them. I had visited the journalist once. I almost killed him while I was there. He’d ended up in a coma lying in front of me on the operating table at Hunter Neurologics Research.
But even if it was someone from work, that didn’t help me. I could barely remember the names of half the people there. I certainly didn’t know where they lived.
I let out a long, slow, frustrated sigh.
Maybe I did have another clue. The pass. I removed the papers from my pocket again. At the bottom of the back page, in small print, was a department name, Internal Migration, and an address. I knew the area, vaguely, but I’d never heard of Internal Migration. It was a start, though. My only other option was to walk around the city asking people if they’d stolen a toolkit containing a set of scalpels from me.
Two people walked around the corner. Instinctively, I shrank back and looked for a way out. One of them, a middle-aged woman with close-cropped white hair, looked at me and smiled. Her companion had his arm around her shoulders. He was at least twenty years her junior. When he looked at me, he smiled, too, but there was a predatory edge to it—as though he was letting me know the woman was his property and he was ready to defend it if I tried to lay claim to her.
The man pulled the woman closer and whispered something into her ear. She giggled. Her reaction would have been more appropriate for an eight-year-old. They walked past me without slowing. I watched them make their way slowly down the block, still laughing. I focused my attention on the man, looking for the guilt he must surely be drenched in, but it was invisible without the shadow’s assistance.
I waited until they were out of sight, then read the address on the papers again and headed down the road. The city was quiet. It had the feel of an early Sunday morning, when only runners and dog-walkers venture out.
Halfway to the Internal Migration building, I reached a cordoned-off area. Bright yellow tape was stretched across the street. Another strip blocked off access to an apartment building. Two soldiers stood outside the front doors, automatic rifles in hand.
A male voice called out to me. It was another soldier, a lanky man with dark hair that was far too long to be regulation. He was standing on the opposite side of the road to the apartment, partially hidden by shadow. He waved me over. He was young, but he had the confidence of someone who knows the balance of power is in his favor. He looked me up and down as I walked toward him, and I realized I was still wearing my work overalls.
“Can I see your papers, please?”
I was surprised at the respect in the man’s voice. He was watching me carefully and had his hand close to the pistol on his belt, but the contempt I’d expected was missing. I handed him the piece of paper. He read it, nodding slightly, then offered it back to me.
“Thank you, sir.” The confidence in his voice had gone, replaced by a subtle tension—nerves. His shoulders were tight, as though he was half expecting me to attack him, but his hand had moved away from the pistol.
I took the papers. “Actually, maybe you can help me?”
The tension in the man’s shoulders increased. He swallowed. When he spoke, the tension had reached his voice. “I’d be happy to.”
I tugged on the front of my overalls. “I’m new here, any idea where I can get some new clothes?”
“Oh… Ah, sure.” He seemed to relax a little. “Where are you headed?”
“Internal Migration.”
“In that case, you’re going in the right direction. There’s a clothing depot just across the street from I.M. Show them your papers and they’ll be able to help.”
“Thank you.” I flicked my head toward the apartment. “What happened there?”
He let out a slow breath. “Someone got careless and got bit. Clean up crew’s just finishing up now.”
I looked up at the building, wondering how many people were living there. I was about to ask when another soldier appeared in the apartment doorway. He wore a peaked cap and stern expression. He looked toward me and his eyes narrowed.
Aware that my clothes would attract more attention than I was comfortable with, I took my leave and walked around the corner and out of sight
as quickly as I could.
The Internal Migration department was located in a typical, nondescript office building on one corner of what had once been a busy intersection.
There were more people here, walking along the road or standing outside the building. Most of them were dressed casually, but a few wore suits or more esoteric outfits.
I spotted the clothing depot the soldier had mentioned. It was directly opposite the I.M. building, in what had once been a restaurant. A makeshift sign now declared it to be the Clothing Depot 4. A couple of women stood outside, smoking. They glanced at me as I approached. My overalls were a stark contrast to the casually expensive clothes they were wearing. One of them frowned briefly, but they quickly returned to their conversation.
It was dark inside the building, the air cool and laden with the ghosts of the thousands of meals that had been served here before the outbreak. A metal counter blocked access to the bulk of the room. There was a pudgy, eager-looking man standing behind it.
The rest of the spacious floor was filled with dozens of metal racks containing a huge variety of clothes—everything from designer suits to hiking gear to rock T-shirts and artfully ripped jeans. The back wall held shelves full of more T-shirts and underwear. It was as though all the city’s clothing stores had been crammed into one space. Perhaps they had.
A couple of people, a man and a woman, were working their way along one of the rows. They moved quickly, checking each hanger briefly before moving on. They seemed relaxed, almost excited.
When the man behind the counter saw me, he frowned. “Can I help you?” Unlike the soldier, his voice was dripping with contempt. Clearly, I’d come to the wrong place as far as he was concerned.
“Yes, I need some clothes.”
“I’m afraid this depot is only open to people with the appropriate clearance. Do you have the appropriate clearance?”
The way he emphasized appropriate each time he said the word made it clear he didn’t think I did.
Not entirely sure he was wrong, I gave him my papers.
His skepticism lasted a few more seconds while his eyes flicked over the paper.
A broad smile spread over his face, revealing too-white teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Black.”
The man’s demeanor changed completely. He tilted his head, bowed slightly and swept his arm toward the racks as though he was inviting royalty into the store. “Please, go on through. There are changing rooms in the back corner if you’d like to wear your selections today. My name is Jasper. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
I carefully slipped the pass—now my most valued possession—into my pocket.
Jasper’s over-cheerful tone seemed out of place given that the world was overrun by millions of the living dead, but I thanked him then hesitantly walked into the depot itself.
I kept away from the other browsers, ducking down the first row of racks that would get me out of sight. One half of the row was dedicated to a wide variety of suits, most of them black. The other was split between winter coats and waterproof pants.
I continued on, moving between the racks, past ball gowns and party dresses, dress pants and tuxedos, until I found the rows of basic, ordinary clothes. I tracked down a pair of black jeans and a dark T-shirt in my size. The next row was given over to jackets. I found a brown canvas one that would protect me from the cold without hindering my movement too much. I grabbed a generic pair of boxers and black socks from the shelves at the back then went to find a shirt.
The couple had stopped their rapid investigation of the racks and were standing in front of a set of metal shelves crammed with dozens of styles of dress shirts. They were more interested in each other than me, but the man looked up and gave me a slight nod as I passed. I found a dark gray shirt that looked like it would fit and added it to my haul.
The restaurant’s washrooms had been converted into male and female changing rooms. Black cloth hung over the urinals and cubicles in an attempt to hide them, and there were floral air fresheners secreted around the room to mask the smell, but the tile floor and too harsh lighting gave away its original purpose.
The clothes I’d picked out fit well enough. After transferring the all-important pass, I stuffed the old overalls into a plastic garbage bin. I kept my boots; they were sturdy and comfortable.
I had the changing/restroom door halfway open when I realized I had a problem. The zombie outbreak had changed many things, and the lowest levels of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs had quickly taken over. There was certainly no need for money.
But what about here, in the city? I had no idea how society functioned outside of Faraday’s camp. Did people barter for goods? Would I be expected to perform some sort of community service in return for the clothing? Or would Jasper be expecting me to give him cash?
If he was, he was about to be very disappointed. The last time I’d spent money was to pay for a taxi that had gotten me out of the city. Somewhere along the line, I’d lost my wallet and the last of my cash, but such things had become irrelevant by then.
Laughter echoed from the opposite corner of the room. I could hear Jasper making small talk. If I was lucky, I’d be able to get outside before he saw me. I skirted the edge of the room, trying to find him. He was with the couple. They were still standing in front of the rack of shirts. The man had his arm around the woman, and they were both smiling as they chatted with Jasper.
It felt wrong—them just standing there talking as though the world wasn’t falling apart. The woman I’d met in Sanctuary, Melissa, would have said that it was a sign of human endurance, our resilience. To me, it simply seemed foolish.
Jasper had his back to me, but I was in clear sight of the other man. I forced myself to move more slowly, feigning interest in the clothes until I was out of sight. Then I hurried toward the entrance.
I’d almost reached the door when Jasper called out. “Mr. Black?”
The instinct to just run was almost overwhelming. The door was maybe twenty feet away. I doubted Jasper would be fast enough to catch me, but he might have a gun or a way to call nearby security. I couldn’t afford to become a fugitive. Again.
I turned toward him. He was smiling that broad, too-white smile.
“I see you picked out some new clothes. They suit you. Did you get everything you were looking for?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you.”
“Excellent! Well, you have a pleasant day.”
“Ah… Thanks,” I said, but my mind was struggling to work out what the hell was going on.
Jasper headed back between the racks, homing in on the couple again.
Confused, I checked my pocket for the pass, the magical piece of paper that was apparently the key to survival in this city. It was still there.
I went outside before Jasper realized I was an impostor.
The wind had picked up, and there was rain in the air. I pulled my jacket tighter and walked quickly across the road toward the Internal Migration building.
Were people really able to just walk into what amounted to a clothing store and take whatever they needed? In Sanctuary, there had been an expectation that everyone pull their weight. As far as I could tell, that wasn’t the case here. The work, at least the dangerous stuff, was done by those unfortunate enough to land in the camp while the rest of the city seemed to lead a slightly twisted version of a normal life.
I had no idea what criteria were used to hand out these passes, but whoever had gotten me mine had done more than get me free of Faraday’s grip; they’d given me the key to the city. All the more reason to find out who it was.
A soldier in a black uniform stood outside the I.M. office building. I didn’t bother waiting for him to ask to see my pass, just offered it to him. He gave it a cursory glance, then opened the door for me.
The building had once housed a bank. Half the lobby was given over to a carpeted area complete with cashier’s desks, circular tables with pens chained to them and cubicles for customers to have
private discussions with bank personnel. Metal crowd control barriers ran across the room, cutting off that part of the space. The other half, tile-floored and brightly lit, was empty apart from a long wooden counter in front of a set of six elevators.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
The voice came from an immaculately coiffured young woman in her early twenties. She wore an equally perfect suit, and her hair and makeup were supermodel quality—more incongruities I couldn’t reconcile with the precariousness of existence in the post-zombie world.
I smiled and walked toward her, the pass still in my hand. When I reached the counter, I held it up. “I’d like to speak to the person that authorized this, please.”
The woman frowned. “Ermm, of course.” She held out her hand, and I gave her the piece of paper. “Let’s take a look.” She unfolded the pass, placed it on her desk and slid her finger down to the signature at the bottom.
“Well, your sponsor is Mr. Rex Cho.”
“My sponsor?”
“Yes, the person that nominated you.”
“I— Well, can I talk to him?”
The woman looked up at me. Her frown was still locked firmly in place but there was a hint of suspicion there now.
“Mr. Cho doesn’t work here.”
“Oh, right. So, how do I get in touch with him?”
“But, surely you know Mr. Cho? His sponsorship would require him to vouch for your suitability.” Her tone took on an accusatory edge. “There are severe penalties for falsifying a work deferment application.”
“Oh no, of course. Sorry, I misheard you.” I held my hand out. “There was another name.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she gave me back the pass. I could see her trying to make sense of what was going on. I was profoundly grateful I wasn’t wearing my overalls.
I frowned at the pass as I tried to work out how to extricate myself from the situation. I could almost feel the soldier at the door looking at me. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.
Serial Killer Z: Shadows Page 8