Tiberius starts keying in random numbers. Every time he completes a string of six figures, the screen beeps and clears itself, prompting him to try again.
"It's pointless," Mark says glumly. "There's no way you're going to key in the exact six numbers by accident."
"Shut up," Tiberius snarls, staying focused on the screen. "Maybe it's a simple code, six zeros or nines, just to stop any zombies from getting through."
Mark makes a face but says nothing. He sits beside me and tugs at the material around the wound left by the bullet. Blood is oozing out of the hole. The smell of it tickles my nostrils, and for some reason I find myself licking my lips.
I look more closely and realize Mark's blood is different than mine. It's not congealed. It doesn't stop flowing within a couple of seconds. It's red and pure, just like...
"What's that smell?" Gokhan asks, crinkling his nose.
"Me," I say too loudly, lurching to my feet and tugging at the flesh around the hole where my heart should be. "I was shot. I'm bleeding. It'll pass in a - "
"No," Gokhan silences me. "This is different, innit? It smells like human blood. But it can't be. We're alone. Where's it coming from, eh?"
The others are sniffing the air too, even Tiberius, who isn't looking at the screen anymore. I try to think of a way to distract them before they make the same logical leap that I have. Before I can, Peder shushes everyone.
"Quiet," he snaps. "I can hear something."
"Don't be stupid," I tell him. "You're imagining things. It's just - "
"Shut the hell up!" he roars, then squints suspiciously. "That noise... it's like a drumbeat, only softer...."
It's silent in this room. Not like anywhere else in the complex, where there was always the rumbling thunder of machinery to contend with. You wouldn't hear a pin drop, but you can hear a lot of soft sounds that were masked in zom HQ and the corridors, especially if your ears are as sharp as ours. Noises like a gentle burp, a soft sneeze, someone's stomach rumbling.
Or a heartbeat.
The zom heads start to turn, nostrils flaring, eyes glassy, ears cocked, locking in on the source of the smell and noise. I shuffle my feet to distract them and start to tell them again that they're imagining things, terrified of what will happen when they figure it out.
"There!" Cathy yells, leaping across the room. I try to stop her but she bowls me aside, the excitement of the discovery lending her an extra burst of strength. Mark gapes at her as she shoves him back against the wall.
"What the hell are you doing?" he roars as she hooks her finger bones into the bandages around his chest and stomach, the fabric of his clothes, the padded vest beneath. I scramble after her but Peder grabs the back of my neck and forces me down. His eyes are bright and he's staring fixedly at Cathy.
"Leave me alone," Mark yelps, struggling feebly. "Get off of me, you nutcase. You'll expose my burns."
Cathy ignores him and keeps on ripping. Tiberius starts to close in, eyes like a shark's, lips pulling back over his teeth, fingers opening and closing.
"Please!" Mark shrieks, starting to panic now. "The doctors said I'd fall apart if I didn't stay wrapped up. Please, Cathy, don't do this. Please!"
Cathy ignores him and slices through the last of the covering. Mark clutches for the bandages as they fall away and reveal his flesh. Then he catches sight of himself and stops, frowning, one step behind everybody else.
"I don't understand," he whispers, poking at his stomach with a gloved finger. His skin is pale from being under wraps for so long, but there are no burn marks. His flesh is pure.
"Your gloves," Peder says in a choked voice, pushing himself off me, transfixed by the sight of Mark's flesh. "Take them off."
Mark frowns, then tugs at the glove covering his left hand. It doesn't detach. As he continues pulling at it, Cathy loses patience, takes hold and rips it away. Mark shouts with pain, then stares with shock. There are bits of metal attached to the ends of his fingers.
"What's happening?" Mark croaks. "I don't understand."
But this time it's a lie. The tumblers have clicked for him at last. Even without the exposed flesh, the fake finger bones, the rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes, the soft sound of his heart as it beats, he could tell by the fixed, frenzied looks in the eyes of the zom heads around him.
"Mark's alive," Cathy whispers.
Then licks her lips.
Hungry.
