Hans longs to be accepted by his academic peers. When he discovers a cure for the ongoing zombie crisis, he thinks he's finally achieved that goal, only to be stripped of his rank and unceremoniously tossed out on the streets.
With nowhere else to turn, Hans, his wife, and her lover Joan look for solutions in other areas, cobbling together a lab and supplies by scrounging the back alleys of London. The only thing they lack is a body to experiment on.
When the body of a young man shows up, it's almost too good to be true. Hans has only thirteen hours to work, but he's determined to prove himself. The clock is ticking, and nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
"Is this one infected?"
"Yes. Bit through the foot from what I can tell. I don't like to look. But the stem's been severed. Not gonna hurt anyone."
"Hmm. How long as this one been dead?"
Mickey looked at his forms again. He read off the time as three pm, two hours ago now. Meaning that by four in the morning, he'd be gone for good. "There are some other words, too, describing his body and stuff. But I don't like to know too much. So can I have your signature?"
Hans sighed. With the body in his office, and only two hours dead, he was tempted to keep it and send Mickey back along his way. If there was no signature, there was no proof, and maybe that would buy him some time before people traced the body had to him. Punishments be damned. But now it looked as if he was going to have to walk back to the morgue with Mickey and demand someone else take the body.
"No, I can't sign. But give me a moment? I want to at least document him for myself. My notes. Even if I can't keep my funding, they can't take away my eyes." Hans chuckled, but an icy chill went through him. He had a feeling Doctor Stevenson would do anything to Hans, if given a reason.
Mickey stepped away, turning his head, as Hans pulled back the sheet. All other worries soon fell away from his mind.
The man on the slab in front of him was beautiful. Dark curls clung close to his head. When Hans ran a hand over them, they were silky. A little filled with grit from his untimely end, but still wonderful. His skin was soft, smooth, and a shade darker than most. He was also quite young. No more than twenty-five at most. Hans was only twenty-seven himself. Am I only seeing myself in him? Is this why he intrigues me so? Hans didn't know how to answer that particular question. Years ago, before Hans went off to school and the zombie epidemic broke out, his mother had cautioned him again and again about his lineage. If anyone asks about the colour of your skin, say your grandfather was Italian. Only Italian -- never Indian, like he really was. His grandfather had been one of the leading scientists in India, but they could not mourn his death when it occurred because of the zombie quarantines. Instead, Hans had vowed to work up to his legacy and create a name for himself. Not as dirty hands, but something much stronger.
But it wasn't just his own ambitions that made him look at this young man twice. There was something about him, something uncanny that Hans could not place yet. His face was heart-shaped like Joan's, but there couldn't be a relation. His clothing was in tatters, as if he'd been a beggar's son. When Hans flipped over his hands, he saw calluses on the thumb and forefinger. A musician? A busker? Hans's heart thundered. The tune of his favourite song he often played as he worked late at night came back to his mind. With all his heart, he wanted to know if this young man also knew the song, too.
"Where was he found? Do you know?"
Mickey gagged. "I can't look at the body, sir."
"Then give me the sheet of paper."
Hans wrenched them from Mickey's hand, probably too roughly. But he needed to know. He ran his thumb alongside the intake information. No name, no date of birth. But the body had been found outside a local hospital, near the outer lands. From the maps Hans had been reading all day, he knew the man was close to the zigzag fields where the impoverished were pushed to and forced to survive doing whatever was possible. The man probably played guitar when he was alone, or around his family, trying to maintain warmth. When Hans examined the rest of the bottom, he noted many burns from a fire, possibly from falling asleep too close. His brain stem was severed, but it was a sloppy, rushed job. And from what Hans could tell, the man had not been deafened, either. When Hans spotted the green markings of a bite wound, he nodded. This man was definitely infected, definitely doomed in less than thirteen hours.
Unless, of course, Hans could save him. It was risky. He'd never done it on a human before. But the body had come to him like a miracle. It was still a trap, too, one set by Stevenson as a way to eject Hans from the university once and for all. But a trap was only so if he failed. If he revived the man and gave him life again, then he could prove that zombies had a cure. People would have to listen to him then, no matter what.
Therese and Joan's faces came to his mind. They had told him not to follow the rules anymore. This was the ultimate test of that.
Mickey cleared his throat and stifled another gag. "So, sir. Should I take 'im back? Send him to another doctor? Or what's gonna happen now?"
"No need, young man. He'll be fine here," Hans said. He signed his name and all possible future away.
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