‘No,’ I say to the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to die.’
As I say it, I realise I’ve just broken my syllable record.
Julie nods. ‘Well, good.’
I take a deep breath and stand up. ‘Need . . . to think,’ I tell her, avoiding eye contact. ‘Back . . . soon. Lock . . . door.’
I leave the plane, and her eyes follow me out.
People are staring at me. I was always a bit of an outsider here in the airport, but now my mystique has thickened like port wine. When I enter a room, everyone stops moving and watches me. But the looks on their faces aren’t entirely grim. There are notes of fascination buried in their reproach.
I find M studying his reflection in a lobby window, sticking his fingers in his mouth and prodding. I think he’s trying to put his face back together.
‘Hi,’ I say, standing a safe distance away.
He glares at me for a moment, then looks back at the window. He gives his upper jaw a firm push, and his cheek-bone pops back into place with a loud snap. He turns to me and smiles. ‘How’s . . . look?’
I wiggle my hand non-committally. Half of his face looks relatively normal, the other half is still a bit concave.
He sighs and looks back at the window. ‘Bad . . . news . . . for the ladies.’
I smile. As deeply different as we are, I have to give M some credit. He is the only zombie I’ve met who’s managed to maintain a dangling scrap of humour. Also worthy of note . . . four syllables without pause. He has just matched my former record.
‘Sorry,’ I say to him. ‘About . . . that.’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Talk to you . . . a minute?’
He hesitates, then shrugs again. He follows me to the nearest set of chairs. We sit down in a dark, defunct Starbucks. Two cups of mouldy espresso sit in front of us, abandoned long ago by two friends, two business partners, two people who just met in the terminal and bonded over a shared interest in brains.
‘Really . . . sorry,’ I say. ‘Irrit . . . able. Lately.’
M narrows his brow. ‘What . . . going on . . . with you?’
‘Don’t . . . know.’
‘Brought back . . . Living girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘You . . . crazy?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s . . . feel like?’
‘What?’
‘Living . . . sex.’
I give him a warning look.
‘She’s . . . hot. I would—’
‘Shut up.’
He chuckles. ‘Fucking . . . with you.’
‘It’s not . . . that. Not . . . like that.’
‘Then . . . what?’
I hesitate, not sure how to answer. ‘More.’
His face gets eerily serious. ‘What? Love?’
I think about this, and I find no response beyond a simple shrug. So I shrug, trying not to smile.
M throws back his head and does his best impression of laughter. He thumps me on the shoulder. ‘My . . . boy! Lover . . . boy!’
‘Leaving . . . with her,’ I tell him.
‘Where?’
‘Taking . . . her home.’
‘Stadium?’
I nod. ‘Keep her . . . safe.’
M considers this, watching me with concern clouding his bruised face.
‘I . . . know,’ I sigh.
M folds his arms over his chest. ‘What . . . going on . . . with you?’ he asks me again.
And again, I have no answer but a shrug.
‘You . . . okay?’
‘Changing.’
He nods uncertainly, and I squirm under his probing eyes. I’m not used to having deep conversations with M. Or with any of the Dead, for that matter. I rotate the coffee cup in my fingers, intently studying its fuzzy green contents.
‘When . . . figure out . . .’ M finally says, in a tone more earnest than I’ve ever heard from him, ‘tell me. Tell . . . us.’
I wait for him to crack wise, turn it into a joke, but he doesn’t. He is actually sincere.
‘I will,’ I say. I slap him on the shoulder and stand up. As I walk away, he gives me that same strange look I’m finding on the faces of all the Dead. That mixture of confusion, fear and faint anticipation.
The scene as Julie and I make our way out of the airport resembles either a wedding procession or a buffet line. The Dead are lined up in the halls to watch us pass. Every last one of them is here. They look restless, agitated, and would clearly love to devour Julie, but they don’t move or make a sound. Over Julie’s heated protests I asked M to escort us out. He follows a few paces behind, huge and vigilant, scanning the crowd like a Secret Service agent.
The unnatural silence of a room full of people who don’t breathe is surreal. I swear I can hear Julie’s heart pounding. She is trying to walk steady and look cool, but her darting eyes betray her.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she whispers.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s like . . . hundreds of them.’
‘Keep you safe.’
‘Right, right, safe, how could I forget.’ Her voice grows very small. ‘Seriously, R . . . I mean, I’ve seen you kick ass, but you know if someone decides to ring the dinner bell right now I’m going to be sushi.’
‘They . . . won’t,’ I tell her with a surprising degree of confidence. ‘We’re . . . new thing. Haven’t . . . seen before. Look at them.’
She looks closer at the surrounding faces, and I hope she can see what I’ve been seeing. The strange array of their reactions to us, to the anomaly we represent. I know they will let us through, but Julie seems unconvinced. A tight wheeze creeps into her breathing. She fumbles in her messenger bag and pulls out an inhaler, takes a hit from it and holds it in, eyes still darting.