whom Corporal Taggart reported encountering on Phobos.â
He was on one of my favorite subjects. âWe wondered about the smart ones when we were doing the L.A. mission.â
âWhat were your conclusions?â
I suddenly noticed how long weâd been walking. âHow much farther before we reach the zombies?â
âNot long. Just donât ask if weâre there yet! Itâll make me think of you as a kid again.â
âIs there a rest room I can use?â
âJust a few feet beyond the zombie pen.â He sounded impatient. âSo what did all of you conclude?â
âWhenever a normal, stupid one talks, there must be a smarter one somewhere, sending the words.â
âLike broadcasting a radio signal. Weâve beenworking along the same lines. Do you think the spider-minds do their own thinking?â
âSearch me.â
âThey could be on the receiving end as well.â
âSo tell me about your zombies.â I was truly interested. Weâd walked a good distance and still no sight of the corpse-creeps.
âWell, we have a total of thirteen. Weâve run identity checks. You know how impossible it is to destroy information today.â
âYeah, the monsters canât rip a big hole in the Net, even with their fat asses.â
âTheyâve slowed us down, but they canât stop us cold.â
âWeâll stop them cold.â
âAttagirl! Anyway, one of the zombies was once an editor named Anders Monsen. He repeats phrases from his profession. At least, thatâs what we think heâs doing. One of the women is Michelle DeLude, a blonde. She keeps repeating how she must get to Las Vegas in time for her wedding. Mark Stephens ran a bookstore. Butler Shaffer was a law professor. Tina Karos was a paralegal. Sheâs the brunette. Both the ladies were very attractive in life. Shame to see them monsterized. The other eight were seamen stationed right here in Hawaii. One was a huge man his friends called Big Lee. Donât remember the names of the others.â
Ackerman could have been a teacher. He made me want to meet his special class of dead people. I was looking forward to it . . . until the door marked Maximum Security swung open and a large shape filled the doorway, swinging a meat cleaver with which it hacked off Dr. Ackermanâs head.
7
I âll never admit this to Arlene, but for the first time I doubt my faith. I donât want to be Albert the agnostic. I have to write this out of my system. When Iâm finished, Iâll destroy it and write her a real letter. It might seem stupid to write to someone I could speak to in person, but when I look into her green eyes, I become tongue-tied. The way she arches her right eyebrow and smiles with a smile as hot as her flaming red hair, I just canât talk to her. She offers me herself, and all I can do is tell her about my religion.
She was the first sight I beheld after the operation. They did what they could for my face, but I didnât need to look in a mirror to realize I had permanent scars. My face still burns. It will burn forever from the new valleys and ridges etched into my forehead and cheeks and chin. I suppose there is consolation in not being as ugly as an imp. Of course, Iâll have a head start if Iâm ever turned into a zombie.
I know itâs wrong to worry about my appearance when I could have been blind for the rest of my life. May God forgive my vanity.
Arlene wonât let me be sorry for myself. She bent over my hospital bed, smiling like an angel, andkissed up and down the tortured flesh of my disfigured face. âYouâll always be my Albert,â she whispered so that only I could hear.
Weâve shared experiences few mortals will ever know. Weâve faced down the wrath of a spider-mind. Weâve tasted the brimstone of a fire eater. (I canât figure out why the scientists here call those