And something in Michelle shifted. Something in her broke and her energy surged.
With methodical calm, she created small, extremely dense bubbles and sent them hurling through the air at the nearest soldiers. They screamed and clutched their chests. Blood poured from their wounds. The zombies moved in on the rest, ripping and tearing as they went.
Michelle saw Alicia Nshombo surrounded by zombies. Alicia’s face elongated as she dropped to her hands and knees. Her body grew larger, and fur erupted from her skin. Her teeth grew into fangs. She gave a roar that felt to Michelle as if it were echoing in her own chest.
Okay, Michelle thought. Wasn’t expecting that. World’s fattest leopard.
Joey’s zombies flowed around her. None looked older than fourteen or fifteen. Most hadn’t reached puberty. They surrounded the leopard, piled on top of her, and began tearing and ripping at her with small dead hands. Alicia gave a howl, slashed this way and that. She almost broke free, but one of the zombies grabbed her tail and yanked her back. She screamed again, and this time the sound was almost human. Then she fell silent.
That was when the other leopards vanished. In their places sprawled confused, naked men.
Michelle sat down hard on the ground. It was wet. Mummy. Or what was left of her.
“Jesus, Bubbles, what did you do?” Joey ran to Michelle and dropped to her knees. “Wasn’t there a kid here? Had hold of your arm?”
The world was spinning crazily again. Michelle closed her eyes. “I tried not to die.”
Joey gave a primitive wail. “You fucker! You didn’t have to kill her! I was helping you!”
Michelle swallowed. God, she was thirsty. It was worse than waking up from the coma. “I didn’t have any choice. It was me or her.”
“You didn’t have a choice? You’re the Amazing Bubbles! Nothing can hurt you!”
“She could. She was.”
“She was just a kid!” Joey was screaming.
“Not anymore. I looked in her eyes. And you know what, Joey? Shit happens to little kids. Even if they’re loved and protected, shit happens. All. The. Time. Welcome to reality.” Michelle pushed herself up from the ground. “I told her to stop. Sometimes kids get so broken they aren’t really kids anymore. But if you want to hate me, knock yourself out.”
Joey slapped Michelle’s arm. Then she slapped Michelle’s face. It didn’t take more than a few slaps for her to wear herself out. “You fucker. You fucker. You fucker,” she cried over and over.
“Yep, that’s me,” Michelle said. Unsteadily, she made her way through the carnage of zombies, leopards, soldiers, and pieces of Alicia Nshombo to one of the compound’s buildings.
Inside she found a sink. She opened the tap, leaned over, and put her mouth up to the faucet. Warm water poured into her mouth. She gulped it down until some of the dizziness had passed.
Then she went back outside. She had to find Adesina.
Southwest of Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The flatbed truck lurched forward with the grinding of gears and a gout of oily, black smoke. Wally shifted his weight, eliciting a creak and groan from the suspension beneath the cargo bed. The truck stank of goat innards. And its best days were long in the past, which reminded Wally quite a bit of Mr. Finch’s airplane.
That, in turn, reminded him of Jerusha. He wondered if she got the kids to Tanzania, if she were safe, if he’d ever see her again. He cast a long glance up and down his rust-pitted body, and decided he already knew the answer to that last question.
The truck’s oversized tires chewed up the muddy road, leaving ruts the size of small lakes. The mud was a deep, rich brown, and when it splashed on Wally it looked like a rain of caramel or butterscotch. Even in spite of the mud and the constant bouncing, this was the most comfortable he’d been since heading out overland.
One leg burned where the bullet wound had become infected; the dents in his other leg still ached where the crocodile had bit him. His feet were solid orange with rust. Nicks, scratches, and even claw marks covered his arms, legs, and torso. The rust was deep enough in places that when he stuck a fingertip in, he felt something warm and squishy inside.
He pulled out his last S.O. S pad and set to work, doing triage on his crumbling skin. He cast his gaze into the forest while he scrubbed. Sure enough, twenty or thirty feet past the edge of the road, Ghost kept pace with the truck, her toes dangling just inches from the ground. She still clutched the knife handle, though Wally had destroyed the knife.
He hoped the driver wouldn’t see her. Getting this ride was the first break he’d had in two days, and he needed the rest. Cripes, did he ever need the rest.
The smaller villages, like this one, had no electricity. No radios. No telephones. He’d eventually figured that out after a long session of intercultural charades; the villagers had spent a lot of time staring at the clanking metal man and his strange gestures. They didn’t run from him, though. If anything, he had the sense they knew what he was doing, and secretly approved of his mission. Maybe they’d heard about the Nyunzu lab, and the barge. They seemed to think he was pretty okay. Especially after he pantomimed fighting a Leopard Man. They’d loved that. Hence the ride.
He didn’t know how far this fella planned to take him-certainly not all the way to Bunia-but every mile Wally didn’t have to walk was a small blessing.
Wally scrubbed until there was nothing left of the S.O. S pad but a handful of fuzz. His feet looked a lot better, and he’d buffed out some of the worst pits in his arms, legs, and torso. The spots he couldn’t reach, those were what worried him the most. He dozed off
…
… and woke when the truck skidded to a halt. Wally slammed his forehead on the cab of the truck, cracking the rear window. “Ouch. Hey, sorry about your truck, guy.”
But the driver had already jumped out, and was running back down the road. Great. Wally stood, expecting to find Ghost floating in the middle of the road.
She wasn’t. But the road was blocked with an armored personnel carrier and three leopards (two spotted, one black). A fourth Leopard Man stood atop the carrier, in human form, behind a machine gun.
Rats. He should have expected this. The PPA knew where he was; he’d seen a helicopter earlier in the day. By now, they probably had all the roads to Bunia blocked off.
The machine-gunner raked the truck. A line of holes perforated the hood. The windshield shattered. Rounds pingpingpinged across Wally’s chest. He made a mental note to try to make sure the Committee found the driver somehow and got him a new truck. “You guys again. Don’t you leopard folks ever learn?”
He vaulted over the cab. The leopards reared back. Wally hit the ground hard, sending up a spray of mud that drenched the cats. They hissed, shaking their heads to clear their eyes.
Wally took advantage of the momentary distraction to close with the APC, rendering the machine gun useless. The gunner couldn’t aim at him as long as he stood next to the vehicle. Wally placed a hand on the armor, ready to disintegrate the whole thing, but then he thought better of it. Why not drive to Bunia in a PPA vehicle?
The leopards surrounded him, one in front and one each to his left and right. The gunner pulled his sidearm. He emptied a magazine on Wally’s head, arms, and shoulders. It hurt. A lot. Rivulets of blood trickled down his body, from a dozen different spots.
“Okay, now you’re asking for it, pal.” Wally gave the APC a violent shove. It tipped up on one set of wheels, just short of flipping over, before landing back upright with a ground-shaking crash. The gunner fell off.
The leopards chose that moment to pounce. One landed on his back, the others raked his arms. Wally jumped and fell backward, body-slamming the leopard on his back. They landed with a splash, a crack, and a yelp.