Reilly leads me out of the cell. I've gotten so used to the cramped room over the last few weeks that I feel strange at first, almost afraid. The corridor outside isn't huge, but it feels like I'm walking down the middle of a motorway.
Four soldiers trail us, rifles at the ready. They're mean-looking sons of bitches. I think they'd love an excuse to let rip. I keep my hands tight by my sides, head down, mincing along like a lamb.
Reilly wanted to let me out several days ago, not long after my meeting with Dr. Cerveris and Josh. He was stunned when I asked if I could stay in the cell a while longer. After what I'd seen on the TV, I needed some time by myself. I felt dirty and twisted, not fit to mix with anybody else, even zombies.
I spent the last few days lying on my bed or squatting in a corner, fixating on what I'd seen, the way I'd feasted. It shouldn't have come as a shock - I know what I am and what zombies do - but it did. I'd imagined what I thought was the worst, lots of times, but nothing could have prepared me for the cold, hard reality of that film footage.
I could have tried to wipe the memory from my thoughts, turned my back on it and pretended I'd never seen the macabre film. But I remember something my teacher Mr. Burke once said. "There are lots of black-hearted, mean-spirited bastards in the world. It's important that we hold them to account. But always remember that you might be the most black-hearted and mean-spirited of the lot, so hold yourself the most accountable of all."
After throwing Tyler to the zombies, I vowed that I'd change, that I'd spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I'd done. But I can't do that if I don't accept the truth about myself. I'm a vicious, cannibalistic killer. I've done plenty to be ashamed of, and I owe it to my victims to face that shame and live with it, to never forget them or what I did.
After a lot of thinking, I came to terms with my guilt and... No, that's not right. I wasn't comfortable with what I'd done, and I hope I never will be. But I found a place within myself to house the horror, somewhere close to the surface but not so close that it would get in the way of everything else. Once I'd done that, I figured I was ready to face the world again. So when Reilly offered a second time to take me to see the revitalizeds, I agreed to tag along.
We wind through a series of corridors. They all look the same, white or gray walls, fluorescent lights, lots of windows and sealed doors. I peer through some of the windows and catch glimpses of soldiers, doctors, nurses, but nothing revealing.
By the control panels set in the walls next to the doors, I can tell that they're operated by scanners, one at waist height for fingerprints, the other higher up for retinas. Some of them require a security code too.
Reilly finally stops at a door, opens it with a quick scan of his fingers and an eye, then gestures for me to enter. I step in, expecting a load of leather-clad, teenage zombies, but it's only a shower room, several vacant cubicles, towels and clothes laid on a bench across from them.
"What gives?" I ask suspiciously.
"You've been in isolation for three weeks," Reilly says. "You haven't changed your clothes. I thought you might want to freshen up before you meet the others."
"Are you saying I smell?"
"Yes."
"No peeking," I warn him.
He laughs. "Zombies don't do it for me. But others will be watching." He nods at the ceiling. "Cameras all over this place, as I'm sure you've figured out already."
"Yeah. But I thought they'd leave the bloody showers alone."
Reilly shrugs and closes the door. I gaze around, trying to spot the cameras, but they're masterfully concealed. "Sod it," I mutter and undress. If some creep gets a buzz from watching a one-boobed zombie in the buff, more power to him.
The shower's lovely, though I have to turn it up to the max to truly appreciate it. My nerve endings don't work as well as they used to. I have to crank the heat up close to boiling before I feel warm.
I scrub carefully around the hole in my chest. I pick at the green moss and try to wash it away, but it must be rooted deeply. If I pull hard, strands come out like hairs, but I'm worried I might injure myself - I don't know how deeply the moss is embedded and I'm afraid I might rip an even bigger hole in my chest if I persist - so I stop. I rinse down the rest of my body, smiling sadly as I rub the old c scar on my thigh. I used to hate that, since it was my only real physical blemish. Now, with a missing heart, it's the least of my worries.
I massage shampoo into my scalp and try to close my eyes, forgetting that I can't. Scowling, I tilt my head back and do my best to keep the suds away from my unprotected eyeballs.
Stepping out, I towel myself dry. The moss stays damp, except for the light layer on my right wrist where I was scratched shortly before Tyler clawed out my heart - that dries up nicely after a good bit of rubbing.
Giving up on the moss around my chest, I slip into the new clothes. Once I'm cozy, I sniff the old set and grimace. They're not as bad as I thought they'd be, but I'm surprised I didn't notice the odor before. Reilly should have told me.
I rap on the door and it opens immediately. "Any deodorant?" I ask.
Reilly cocks his head. "Are you being funny?"
"No."
"Didn't they tell you...?" He smiles. "No, I suppose it's not the sort of thing they would have thought of. Well, it's good news, B. You don't ever have to worry about your pits again. The dead don't sweat."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Cool," I chuckle. Then a thought hits me and I ask with fake innocence, "What about bad breath?"
"There's a slight smell that will always be there," Reilly says. "But it won't get any worse than that."
"And farts?" I ask.
Reilly laughs. "No. You're clear on that front too."
"A pity," I sigh. "I loved a good fart." My eyes narrow and I murmur sweetly, "What about my period?"
Reilly blushes furiously. "Without a regular flow of blood? Hardly!"
"But are you sure?" I press.
"Well, not a hundred percent," he says uneasily.
"Can you ask one of the nurses and find out for me?" I tease him.
"Ask them yourself," he huffs, ears reddening at the thought of it.
Typical bloke - so easy to embarrass!
