A zombie in a fraying business suit stepped forward, followed by another covered in third-degree burns.
"Not many, lord," said the suited one. Its right eye socket was an empty pit. "A few scattered survivors. There is one large group, about a hundred, gathered in a building of steel-what they call a skyscraper. It is similar to Babel of old. They call it Ramsey Towers."
Ob frowned. "I know what a skyscraper is, you fool. My host wasn't born yesterday. Tell me, with all your numbers, why have you not taken this New Babel?"
The burned one slurred as it spoke. "We cannot penetrate it, lord. The building is well guarded, and the defenses are impregnable. We lack the weaponry ..."
"Where is this building?"
"A part of the city known as Manhattan, mighty one."
"And according to my host's memories, we are in the Bronx, correct? There is an armory near here, where the humans stockpiled weapons. Have any of you discovered it yet?"
"No, lord."
"Then come, I will show you. We have much to do. We will see what secrets this armory holds. With its weapons, we can knock this New Babel down, reduce it to dust. There is an army of our brethren camped not four hours' journey from here. I shall find a means to summon them, be it radio, runner or bird. Then, while we learn how to use these weapons, we will await their arrival. We shall study and plan. Then, when all is ready, we shall deal with this tower."
They raised another tumultuous cry, and Ob smiled, knowing that the sound must surely be reaching the Creator's ears. He hoped those ears were bleeding.
He jumped down and hummed a snatch of song from his host's memory.
" 'Start spreading the news ...'"
SEVEN
The doctor stared down at Frankie from behind his mask and said, "It's going to be okay."
"Like hell it is."
The doctor didn't respond. Impassive, he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and adjusted the light above her head. Frankie winced, blinded.
She tried to turn away and realized that she was strapped down.
"What's going on?"
"Don't you remember? You were in a car wreck. You've also been shot."
"I-I..." She paused, struggling against the restraints. "What about the others? Jim and his boy? The preacherman?"
"I'm afraid it's just you, Frankie. You and the baby."
"Baby?"
"Yes. You're in labor. The baby is all you have left."
"But-"
"You should be thankful," he told her, as a nurse appeared next to him. "Most heroin users have spontaneous abortions. You've been lucky enough to carry your baby to full term. Personally, I think it's a shame. You don't deserve it."
"But I-"
She stopped, a sudden flash of pain cutting off her words. She squirmed on the table and ground her teeth. The contraction coursed through her body.
"Push."
She did. Frankie pushed with everything she had, pushed till her spine felt like it would snap. Something broke. She felt it, even through the pain. The agony built to a crescendo, and then the pressure vanished, all at once, and Frankie was crying.
Frankie cried, but the baby, her baby, did not. It made no noise at all. She craned her head, desperate to see what was wrong, but the nurse whisked it away.
"Hey," she croaked, "where's that bitch going with my baby?"
The doctor placed one gloved hand against her forehead. The latex glistened with her blood.
"He's hungry. We're going to feed him. Your baby is one of us."
"One of who?"
The doctor's voice changed. The flesh peeled away from his face in wet strips. A hypodermic needle appeared in his free hand.
"One of us. There are many of us. More than you can imagine. More than infinity," it hissed.
"No. Keep that away from me."
"Be still, now. This won't hurt a bit. I promise."
Frankie pushed against the restraints, the muscles in her arms and neck bulging as the needle came closer. A bead of fluid formed on the tip.
"Jim! Martin! Help! They've got my baby."
"I said lie still," the zombie doctor snarled. Its stench filled the room, crowding out the smells of antiseptic and latex and blood.
The cord around her arm snapped as Frankie tore free. She ripped the surgical mask from the creature's face. The lips came with it, stretching like taffy.
"Now you've done it," the zombie slurred. The creature's lips fell to the floor, exposing rotten, ulcerating gums and a gray tongue.
"Give me back my baby, you son of a bitch!"
The other straps broke as Frankie rolled off the table and struck her head on the floor. The creature rushed her, brandishing the hypodermic needle like it was a dagger. Frankie sprang to her feet, keeping the table between them.
"This isn't really happening," she spat. "You're not real! My baby was already dead. It died back in Baltimore."
"Yes, it did. And now you're all alone. Poor Frankie. Frankie the junkie. Frankie the whore. All alone. Still dying for a fix, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. Dying for it. Dying alone in a dead world."
She sprinted for the door. The zombie ran after her. As it lurched into the hall, Frankie shoved a gurney into it. The zombie fell backward onto the delivery room's linoleum floor. Frankie ran down the hall, darting from one twisting corridor to another.
Finally, she stopped to catch her breath. Shivering, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. The hospital was cold, and she could see her breath under the fluorescent lights. She glanced around, trying to get her bearings. The hallway was silent except for her footsteps.
She stopped in front of a set of double doors and ran her fingers over a sign hanging on the wall.
Maternity Ward
She'd been here before.
"Just a dream. This is just another fucking dream. Any minute now, the preacher's gonna wake me up."
The doors swung open. She stepped through and sniffed the air. Something had spoiled inside.
"Come on, Martin. Wake my ass up!"
She looked through a glass observation window. Dozens of little white bassinets were lined up in neat, orderly rows. Each crib was occupied.
Tiny fists pumped the air, and tufts of downy hair peeked over several of the rims.
"I've seen this before," she said aloud. "Where's mine? Show me my baby."
As if in answer, a pair of mottled, pale, blue-veined arms gripped the side of a bassinette. Her baby pulled itself upright. Standing on diminutive legs, it climbed down to the floor and scampered over to its nearest neighbor. The zombie infant wriggled into the bassinette and fell upon the other newborn.
The other babies began to scream.
Frankie could hear the chewing sounds, even over the cries of the other babies, even through the thick glass partition.
Even over her screams.