It was the first rain-free day they'd seen in nearly a month, and that made it beautiful. A nine a.m. sun hung white-gold in the eastern sky, high wisps of cloud in the clear blue, light skittering and dancing on the water below. Piotr landed the Bell on a wide strip of pale sand at the southern end of a village he identified as Preneen. From the air, Preneen was deserted but not destroyed, whitewashed buildings facing the ocean across a single street, a stone landing, docks. One red phone booth, no boats, no movement.

They set down in an outward spraying of sand, waited for the rotors to still.

The air was a revelation, clear and cool, breezy. None of the mugginess of points south, points sodden with rain. Jim felt as though he were breathing for the first time in weeks, as though he had until now been drawing air into his lungs through cotton wool. Selena stepped from the chopper, stood next to him. They looked from the ocean, scanned to the left, toward the end of the line of white buildings that was Preneen, farther left to the low rough green hills behind the beach and the town, to the west.

Piotr swung from the cockpit, crossed past them, entered the Bell's passenger compartment. Hannah stood outside. He passed tools to her, emerged with the folding maintenance ladder.

Jim asked, "Can we help?"

Piotr and Hannah looked at him and Selena in quiet unsurprised unison.

"No, thank you." Piotr unfolded the ladder. "It is a simple question of cleaning out the organic matter--"

"--an' checkin' that th' fan blades didn't get bent, yeah?" Hannah stepped past Jim with the tool kit.

"Right--"

"Here is what you can do." Piotr reached into the leg pocket of his flight suit, pulled out a pen and a small notebook. He wrote quickly, firmly. "Go to the town. See if you can find a satellite phone, call this number. Give this message to Virgil."

"You want us to make a phone call," said Selena.

"Satellite phone. Not on a local grid. You will be calling an oil rig." He tore the page free, handed it to her. "The Puffin Three. Someone may be waiting to monitor our radio transmissions. A satellite call will be harder to trace."

"Sure," Jim said. He glanced at Selena, but she was shaking her head, pocketing the paper. Piotr produced his automatic, checked the safety, held it out to them. Selena took and pocketed that, too.

"Be right back, then. Don't go breakin' anything, yeah?" She looked pointedly at Hannah, who simply colored a bit about her ear-tips and smiled and nodded.

The girl didn't mutter her "Yes, Mum" until Selena and Jim had their backs to the Bell and were underway. She and Piotr shared a chuckle. Selena winced and kept walking. Jim pressed a smirk behind his lips. When they were some forty paces away, their footprints dull-edged on the white sand, he said, "They're completin' each other's sentences. Not sure if I approve."

"Right, then, Da." Selena smiled, took his hand, held it while they walked.

"You think she'll be alright--?"

"No. Frankly, I can't imagine anything more erotic than cleaning a pureed heron out of a jet turbine."

"You're a kinky one, aren't yeh?"

"Entitled t' my fantasies, aren't I--?"

"Guess I'll be stockin' up on herons, then."

They walked on along the beach, their steps waffling on the sand. They found firmer ground about an eighth of a mile on, the sand matting with coarse woven grass before becoming a low hill strewn with boulders. There was a footpath; they followed it to the south end of the town's one street. The paving began-- or left off-- without a curb or a fence; the street sloped slightly upward as it proceeded north. No movement from the white buildings on their left, none on the stone landing. The sea lapped quietly at the mossy quay steps. Midway up the seaward side of the street stood the red wooden phone booth they'd seen from the air.

"You have any change?" Selena asked drily.

"Not a penny."

"That's out, then. If you were a satellite phone in a one-street town, where would you be--?"

Jim considered, looking at the white buildings, their secretive dark windows. "Me, I'd opt for the post or the pub."

The second building up the single street, two stories like the rest, slant- and slate-roofed, too: it bore a sign, black on white: POST OFFICE.

"You take that; I'll find the pub," Selena said.

"Have one for me, then."

He squeezed her hand, released it, moved away; Selena said, "Jim--"

"Yeah--?"

"Be careful."

"And you, yeah?"

At the post office, a double door, solid weathered wood below, four panels of glass on each half above. Jim shielded his eyes from the daylight, peered in. Selena passed by behind him. A brass handle was centered on the left half of the double; he pressed on it; it clicked downward. Unlocked. He opened the door, leaned in cautiously.

"Hello--?" he called.

No response. He swung the door in, followed it. The post office was more than that; it was a shop as well, and it was unlooted. A brown-topped white counter stood to the left of the door, a spinner of faded postcards to its right. To the left also were green shelves stocked neatly with boxes of tissues, deodorant, cough remedies, toothpaste, shampoos. Jim stepped fully inside. The door swung closed behind him. He approached the counter. "Hello?"

Still no response. He leaned over the counter, scanned its back side. A filing cabinet, forms in stacks on low shelves. Jim moved left, looking down and behind-- and then something to his left caught his eye, something on a chest-height shelf just beyond the brown countertop--

Condoms. Four whole dark blue boxes of them.

Jim stared, hesitated. Nothing to do with a phone, satellite or other. Nothing to do with flying north, with repairing the Bell. Nothing to do with his safety, with Selena's or Hannah's or Piotr's. Of all the things he could take-- of all the things on the neatly stocked shelves, the analgesics, the antiseptics, the packets of gauze bandaging-- his eyes found the rubbers and locked on them. Not in bloody Cumbria any more, are we--? Of course, he shouldn't have done it-- he knew it, even as he reached for one of the boxes. He knew it for certain-- as certainly as he would have known from a rumble of thunder that God was watching a sinner on the make-- when a set of shotgun barrels with bores the size of shillings touched the base of his skull.

He drew a sharp breath; the metal was cold. "Ah, fuck--"

"'Fuck' is right." A young woman's voice, burring. "Why, yeh horny bastard. First time lootin', little man--?"

"I'm sorry; I didn't know there was anyone--" Jim tried to look over his shoulder; the rifle barrels rapped the back of his head. "Please-- if you're gonna shoot me, might yeh do it t' my face--?"

The bores like shillings broke contact with his head. "Slowly, then," said their owner. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Cautiously, Jim turned, his hands away from his sides, palm-out. She of the shotgun was petite, early-twenty-ish, intent brown eyes, dark chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail. Sturdy dark coat over a maroon sweater, worn jeans, boots. She held the gun like she knew well and truly how to use it.

"Who th' hell are ye, then? Where're ye comin' from--?"

"London. Manchester. Cumbria. West Yorkshire--"

She cocked the shotgun. Jim flinched. He felt it from his gut up: the memory of being shot, a deep, twisting, nauseating pain. And this would have to be worse. It wasn't just the size of the shotgun in relation to its petite carrier: the thing was a bloody dual-barreled cannon.

"Jim. My name's Jim." He was starting to shake; he couldn't help it. He was still holding the box of condoms; he nodded toward it, tried a smile while he was still able. "Look, it's modern pillagin' an' rapin', innit--? Fella can't be too careful."

A trace of a smile on Miss Firepower's face. For a moment, her eyes followed his to the box. Jim grabbed the gun.

She didn't let go. They grappled, grabbing at the barrels, at the stock. A barrel discharged, and after all the stillness it was like the world exploding. Three bottles of shampoo burst near Jim's head, splattering him with sweet-smelling white goo. He tugged; she jerked; she hauled backwards, away from the counter, leaned back, and stuck a foot in Jim's gut. Then she went over backwards, all the way over, and Jim went over her head, yelling in surprise, his stomach-scar yelping.

He landed on his back, and the shotgun left his hands and hers and clattered away. Not that it mattered-- not that he had time to reach for it: she continued through her backward roll and landed on top of him. Jim grabbed for the rifle, and she hit him in the ear.

"Shit--!"

"Yeah, isn't it, yeh bastard--?" she panted. She pulled back a fist.


Six doors up, in the building known in Preneen as the pub, Selena heard a gunshot-- nearly cannonshot-- something blasting-- near to the south. She turned from the bar, from bottles in neat rows, liquids in varying shades of gold and honey.

"Jim--"

Back into the street, back to the post office, she ran: she heard the scuffle before she looked in. The paneled door now was locked; she took Piotr's automatic from her pocket, broke a glass pane with the gun's butt, reached through for the lock. She opened the door, looked in--

What she saw: a shotgun, nearly at her feet. Jim, flat on his back, grabbing for a young woman in jeans and a dark short coat who had one hand gripped tight about his throat, the other pulled back in a fist. She was on top of him, straddling his waist.

"Hey--!" Selena barked.

They stopped their tussling, looked her way. Selena leveled the automatic at the girl.

"You want to get off of--"

Then she saw the box next to them on the floor. Dark blue.

"Oh, this is choice--"

Jim looked; the girl looked, too. They mutually saw the condoms. Jim went red; he nearly sputtered something. The girl said, a bit more directly, "Who in th' fuck are you--?"

"I'm the nice lady with the gun, aren't I? Get off him."

The girl was almost off him, and Selena was just bending for the shotgun, when something poked her hard in the back.

"Drop it." A young man's voice, behind her. She straightened. Another poke, high in her right-side ribs. "Drop it, I say."

Selena nearly dropped the automatic; she considered, then, looking directly at Jim. "Is that a gun or a broomstick, Jim--?"

"Broomstick."

"Thought so." She swung around, swung the automatic hard. The bulk of the gun connected solidly with skin, flesh, bone. A sharp yelp, a stumbling, a clatter of broomstick on floor. Selena grabbed at the collar of a black jacket, pulled its owner up, swung the automatic back again--

"Don't-- Please--!" He cringed, the fellow in the black jacket. Selena held her swing, held onto him. He looked at her fearfully. "Jesus, that well hurt--"

"Shoudn't go about sneakin' up on people, then." She released him, put some distance between herself and him and the girl, who was now all the way off of Jim and on her feet. He was getting up, too, a little gingerly. His hand went to his belly; Selena saw. Fear tingled in her. "Jim, are you alright--?"

"Yeah-- Got in a kick, she did. That's all."

"Come get this shotgun, then."

"It's my shotgun, isn't it--?" The girl stepped toward Selena; Selena trained the gun on her.

"If you've in any way damaged him--"

"You'll what--?" This from the young man, he of the black coat. "The safety's on, love."

Selena looked; the girl snapped, "Tell her then, Robbie, why don't you--?"

He laughed ruefully, held out his hands. "I'm not fighting these people, Laurel. She ever learns to shoot that thing, instead of hittin' with it, she'll be well dangerous." He brought his right hand to his face, gingerly fingered his left, scuffed cheekbone. "And the hit was bad enough, I'm tellin' you."

"They were-- He was robbin' th' store."

"I wasn't. I most certainly wasn't." Jim had picked up the shotgun; he paused now, embarrassment battling indignity for control of his face. "I was lookin' for--"

"Johnnies--?" said Robbie, drolly, smiling. He had eyes like dark sapphires shot through with sparks; he had short deep-auburn hair that would certainly curl, given a chance, and a handsomely pixie-esque face. He was slight, just a touch shorter than Selena. Dimples edged his lips, his even smiling teeth.

"A phone." Jim frowned at him. His ears were slightly pink. "D'ye have a satellite phone?"

"I do. We do." Robbie looked at the girl named Laurel. "They're not hoodlums, darling. You can see that."

"Who are they, then?" Laurel looked at Selena. "Who are yeh?"

Selena met her eyes, saw nothing of drugs, little of threat. She lowered the automatic. "I'm Selena. He's Jim. Come from London and West Yorkshire."

"What brings yeh here? We heard th' chopper--"

"Putting it briefly, some very bad people to the south want us dead." Selena nodded toward the beach. "Our friend with the helicopter kindly put a bit of distance between us and them."

"'Bad people'--?" asked Robbie, his brows drawing in.

"Wantin' me hanged, playin' devil's games wit' th' plague." Jim looked between him and Laurel. "You've had th' rage virus here, haven't you?"

"Indirectly, yes," said Robbie. "Rumors mostly. Terrible things we heard from across the border. Then it reached Glasgow, and people here started packing. By the time it hit Inverness, Preneen was pretty much cleared out. Folks headed for the Shetlands, mostly. My family, my parents, they were out of the country already. Laurel's, too."

"Why'd you stay, then--?" Selena asked.

"It's our home, innit?" Laurel replied evenly. Her eyes were dark and hard. "The post needed mindin', didn't it--? Someone needed to be here in case-- in case--"

Robbie stepped closer to her, placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "In case things sorted themselves again, yes--?" He smiled a small, sad smile at Selena and Jim. "But that's not going to happen, is it?" He paused; they kept quiet. Then he asked: "What do you need the phone for?"

Selena dug in her pocket, pulled out and unfolded the paper Piotr had given her. "The rig we're headin' for-- the oil rig, yeah?-- they need to contact this captain in the Danish Navy--"

Robbie's sapphire eyes twinkled wryly. "You're flyin' off to an oil rig--"

"Yeah--"

"To team up with the Danish Navy--"

Selena's brows lowered slightly, dangerously. "To rendezvous, yeah. With this ship-- the Helvig."

"And then, after you and the Danish Navy sail off to Greenland to help Santa conquer the Martians--"

Laurel's eyes flicked from Robbie to Selena. "Dammit, Robbie--"

"Right. Sorry. Phone: right this way." He tried a smile on Selena. "I'm sorry; I couldn't help myself--"

"Sometimes I have th' same problem, yeah--?" Selena's voice was as deadly as it was quiet. She could sense Jim just short of grabbing her, waiting for her to go off. Robbie swallowed, looking in her eyes.

"Yeah." He led them out of the store, back the way Selena had just come, back to the pub. "Phone's in the office up top."

Up a narrow staircase, sandwiched between white plaster walls. "Yeh still have power--?" Jim asked Laurel's back.

"Petrol-powered generator. Been usin' it sparingly." She preceded him, followed Selena and Robbie, into a slant-ceilinged white room. Laminate and black-metal desk on the left, filing cabinets across the way on the right. A small square window at waist level, straight ahead. On a low sturdy table to the right of the desk was a black radio and handset, a black portable telephone resting in a square black cradle. Robbie seated himself behind the desk, reached for the phone.

"Let's see if we paid our bill for the month, hmm--?"

"Funny, Robbie." Laurel looked to Selena and Jim. "Sometimes the signal's not all that steady--"

From outside came a tremendous long moaning. Not organic, not mere feet away: at a distance. It filled the air, concussed in the tiny slope-ceilinged room. They jolted, started. Jim was the first to move. He went to the window, crouched, looked out across the street to the ocean. North of the town, sailing south, he saw a ship of many levels, dingy-white and huge. Dozens of dark doors or large dark windows.

"Looks like a cruise ship," he said.

Laurel crowded in next to him, looked. "It's not. It's-- Shit. It's a livestock ship."

"Meanin'--?"

"Pirates."

Selena said it: "You're joking."

Jim looked more closely at the ship. He noticed, now: movement on its decks. Human figures, some running, some moving slowly, with intent. The former seemed to be in a kind of panic, moving spastically, quickly, without focus; the latter, wearing dark clothing, seemed to be guiding the panic of the former, channeling it. Channeling it down ramps, down short sharp drops to--

"What are those, then--?" Jim shielded his eyes against the sun. At the ship's side, riding low in the deep blue water, were big rectangular craft, black, with sloped bows. "They look like troop landers--"

"They are." Laurel glanced back from the window. "How's it comin', Robbie?"

"Nearly there." He looked up from the phone, looked back at her, and all the devilment was gone from his eyes. "How close are they?"

Jim looked out at the ship. "Close. They're loading people on th' landers. Christ, they're just packin' em on--"

"Good God--" said Selena. Jim turned, met her eyes. "They're infected, aren't they?" She looked from him to Laurel. "They're attacking towns with infected--?"

Robbie jabbed buttons on the phone's base set. "We think so, yeah."

"Then we have to go." Selena started for the door.

Jim stood, joined her. "Robbie, can we make that call?"

"We can; the signal's spotty, but--"

Jim said to Selena, "Give me th' note."

"I'm not leaving--"

"Y'are. You an' Laurel. Get to th' beach, make sure Piotr's got th' Bell in one piece. We'll be there in a minute." He held out his hand. "Don't argue, darlin'."

Selena glared at him. She glared and relented. She handed him the note; she took his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. "Don't dawdle." Then she broke free. "Come on," she said to Laurel.

"You either, Robbie." Laurel paused in the narrow door. "Don't mess about."

He looked over at her, his head tipped, the phone clamped violin-like between his ear and shoulder. He smiled for her. "Never, Laurelei. Go on."

She was gone; on the stairs, her footsteps thudded in a rush after Selena's. The horn from the stock ship blasted again, shook the air. Nearer. Jim unfolded Piotr's note, passed it to Robbie. Then he bent again, peered out the window. The landers at the ship's side were nearly loaded. He could see details now, the infected crowded on the barges, hitting at one another, swinging wildly, surging against each other. On catwalks above them and in a pilot housing at the rear of each lander, figures clad and hooded in black moved quickly but calmly, if only in comparison to the frenzy below them. They carried guns and long silver poles. Cattle prods or shock sticks.

The first lander broke from the ship, churned landward through the deep blue water. Jim traced its heading. A strip of beach north of town. Minutes away--

"How's it comin', Robbie--?" He looked to the right, out the window. Selena and Laurel were just onto the beach, moving at a run. He looked out farther, and his heart slipped a bit. The town hadn't seemed all that far from the chopper when they first arrived.

"Ah, we're first-names now. Good. I was hop-- Wait. Hello--?"

He pressed a button on the base set. Static, a man's voice: -- fin Three. Larry G. Dalton. Can I help you--?

Robbie said to the staticky air: "This is the Puffin Three--?"

No, this is the Puffin Three. Dalton. Can I help you--?

Jim joined Robbie at the phone. "Yeah-- yes, please. We need t' speak wit' Virgil Cooper."

Who is this?

"Ah, fuck," Jim muttered. He said evenly: "Look, please, it's an emergency-- We have a message for Virgil Cooper t' give t' Hans Andersen--"

Hans Christian Andersen--?

"I don't fuckin' know that, do I--? He's in th' Danish Navy. Captain Andersen--"

Who you got there, Larry? Another voice, also male, in less proximity to the Puffin Three's transmitter.

Think it's them Jehovah's Witnesses again, Virg. Should I dump 'em?

Gimme that, you goon. Virgil Cooper here.

"Hello, Mr. Cooper. I have a message from Piotr--" Jim gestured for the note; Robbie handed it back to him. Jim stared at it. Was it in English--? Danish--? Cyrillic--? He held it out for Robbie. "What th' fuck--"

Robbie scowled at the paper. "Nali-- Hali--"

"Kalinovich--" Jim blurted. "Piotr Kalinovich."

Petey--? What's he say--?

"'Petey'--?" Robbie whispered wryly.

"Shut it," Jim whispered back. He focused on the note. So it was right-side up. Easy, then, right--? "'Pilot Piotr Kalinovich--'" a long series of numbers and letters-- a serial number, something like that-- "--'requests rendezvous and pickup at fixed platform Puffin Three'--" --coordinates, numbers, degrees-- "--'on or about 8 July 2003, from Royal Navy Q-cruiser Helvig. Self and three passengers. Passengers request'--" Jim paused, looking at the words. He swallowed. "'Passengers request asylum in Kingdom of Denmark.'"

That it, son?

"Yes, sir."

What's your name?

"Jim."

We'll be expecting you, Jim. Puffin Three out.

A distant click. Static. Robbie powered off the phone. Jim took a last look out the waist-high window. The first lander was just nosing into the surf on the beach north of town. Maybe a block from the north end of Preneen's one street.

The lander's slant nose swung open and down, ramped and slapped into the frothing water, onto the sand--

"We need t' run--" Jim said. He turned from the window, from the sight of bodies bursting in spastic horrible motion from the lander-- "We need t' run fuckin' now--"

"Right--" Robbie went out the door; Jim went out after him. Their footsteps banged on the stairs. They went out through the dark bar-- Jim saw Robbie's wistful glance at the tidy rows of amber-filled bottles-- and then they were out into the glaring light, onto the street. Robbie turned his head to the left, north; Jim said, "Don't look--"

Too late. "Christ--" said Robbie.

"Run--!" Jim pulled hard, once, on Robbie's jacket sleeve, and then he ran. Robbie did, too. Behind them, well off but moving at inhuman speed, Jim could hear running footsteps. He heard snarling; he heard yelps and animal screams. He heard someone shout: "There-- there they go--!"

He ran. Robbie kept pace. They passed the end of the paving; they picked their way quickly down the bouldered footpath; they sprinted across the matted sea grass to the open sand. Ahead-- it was less than a hundred meters, but it looked to be a hundred miles-- Jim saw Selena and Laurel boarding the Bell. Piotr was at the pilot's-side door, looking north, looking toward Jim and Robbie--

A whistling, a fleshy thud. Robbie shouted in pain, stumbled and dropped--

"God, I'm hit-- My leg--!"

He was on his knees, clutching at the back of his right leg. What looked like a truncated spear-gun spear was sticking out of the jeans material just above his knee.

"Christ-- It's-- I can't feel--" He winced in pain, waved Jim on. "Go on. Go. Damn it--!"

Jim looked back. The infected were passing the phone booth; they were stampeding past the pub-- He looked forward at the helicopter. He bent over. "Get on my shoulders. Get on. Do it!"

Robbie stared at him. "No--"

"Fuck it, Robbie--!" Jim grabbed him, dragged him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. A muscle twinged in his back when he straightened; he staggered; he blew out hard and started to run.


She would think, later, that it was like seeing her life end--

From the helicopter, Selena saw them, Jim sprinting, Jim's feet shuffling, kicking at the sand. A mob of infected ran in down the hill behind him, moving like-- Jesus, it was like demons running. Beside her, Laurel aimed the shotgun, fired, reloaded. "Hope I grabbed all slugs an' not shot," she said grimly. Beyond Jim and Robbie, among the boulders of the low hill, an infected stumbled, fell. On Selena's other side, Piotr raised one of the rifles from Infinity, aimed up the beach.

"Selena," he said, "take the other gun--!"

"I--" She looked at Jim running, his back hunched. Seconds ticking. Heartbeats. She watched him fight the sand, saw even that far away the desperation on his face. She touched the stock of the other rifle, there on the Bell's black deck, and she froze. "I can't. I can't shoot at-- "

Piotr scowled at her, turned his attention back to the beach, fired. "Hannah--!" he shouted. "What I showed you: do it now!"

Clicks up front; a dual whining, a quickly rising roar. The rotors turned, picked up speed. Particles of sand whorled into the passenger compartment in stinging wisps. Piotr fired, and another infected stumbled, fell. Laurel fired, too, reloaded: slugs, yes, not shot. Behind Jim, less than thirty feet beyond him and Robbie, an infected's head exploded in a sudden red cloud. Jim stumbled-- he stumbled; he recovered. The chopper shuddered. Its skids fluttered on the sand.

A hundred and fifty feet.

A hundred and forty.

Selena could see him panting, could see the tendons straining in his neck. "Don't fucking shoot me--!" she shouted at Piotr. She jumped from the chopper, ducked beneath the chopping rotors. She made for Jim at a dead run, reached him, caught at him, at Robbie, lifted some of the injured man's weight from Jim's shoulders; she pulled him, held him up. A hundred feet. Ninety. She could hear the chuffing breath of the infected behind them. Seventy feet. She was panting; Jim was, too: the air whistled in his throat. Thirty feet. Ten feet, there suddenly, and Jim pushed her hard at the chopper, just as the skids lifted from the sand. Piotr caught her sweater and arms, hoisted her in. Jim heaved; Robbie fell onto the deck beside her. Piotr reached down and grabbed Jim's reaching hand. "Hannah: go! Go!"

Jim's side caught the skid as his feet left the sand; he grunted in pain, his body swinging in the air. Infected snarled beneath him, leaped upward. Clawing fingertips brushed his boots, fell away. Piotr nearly pitched forward, out the door; Laurel grabbed him unceremoniously by the waist of his flight suit and threw her weight back. Just enough, just enough: Piotr balanced backward and hauled, and Jim came through the door and landed on the deck, on Selena and Robbie.

The Bell was swinging out to sea. Piotr steadied himself, panting. He slid the door shut, picked his way past the tangle of legs and arms and torsos on the deck, went to the cockpit.

Jim lay with his head on Selena's sweatered heaving back. His chest rose and fell with her breathing. He heard Hannah shout, above the engines: "All aboard--?"

"All aboard, yes." Piotr, shouting back, good naturedly. He entered the cockpit, continued more quietly: "Go to autopilot, please, Hannah. That switch-- just there--"

Jim pushed himself off of Selena; she pushed up from the deck. Beside them, Laurel was kneeling with Robbie, helping him right himself. He twisted, reached for the metal shaft sticking from his leg. Selena said, breathless: "Leave it."

Robbie and Laurel looked at her, painfully and frowning, respectively. Selena gestured aft. To Laurel, she said, "There's a medical kit back there. Get it, please."

Laurel left Robbie, went aft. Selena let her pass. Then she swung on Jim.

"You don't ever do that," she said tightly. Her eyes were furious. "You don't ever bloody do that, Jim. What the hell were you thinking--?"

"He needed help-- What the hell was I supposed t' do? Leave 'im there?"

"Yes. No--" She shoved a hand into her hair; she met Robbie's shocked, helpless eyes, looked away. "Christ, Jim--!"

"Well, I am grateful nonetheless," Robbie said quietly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jim said.

Robbie fixed his sapphire eyes on Selena. "I am sincerely sorry for upsetting you--"

"You want to shut up. He's worth twenty-- thirty of you."

"I don't doubt that for a moment."

She glared at him. "You are bloody deadweight--!"

He half-frowned, plainly hurt. "I like that very much, I must say--"

Laurel was there now, clutching the medical kit to her chest. She stared at Selena, anger and fear and shock all blended in her brown eyes. Selena shot her her own parcel of glare, looked back at Robbie. "Shut up, then. Just bloody well shut up--!"

"Selena--" Jim could hear it in her voice: she was that close to tears. He reached for her; she nearly slapped his hand. Jim caught her hand, held it tightly. He pulled her close, tipped his head to hers, put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

For a long moment, she reluctantly shared his space. He waited, gently rubbed her back. "I couldn't shoot," she said, finally, very quietly. He only just heard her above the engines. "Piotr told me to cover you. I've never fired a gun before, never, and I couldn't do it--"

Jim kissed her forehead. "Well, then, I for one am glad you weren't shootin'."

She frowned at him. "You're saying I can't?"

He smiled, a little bewildered. "You just said you couldn't."

Robbie, watching them, let his own frown become wry. "Is this the post-apocalyptic version of 'Does this dress make me look fat?'?"

"Shut up." But Selena's expression was softer now. She eased away from Jim, held a hand out to Laurel. "Kit, please."

"Sure." Laurel passed her the kit, knelt again next to Robbie. "I understand it, you bein' mad--"

"No, I was hyper and scared, and I was being a full-on bitch." Selena looked at her directly. "I'm sorry." She repeated it for Robbie: "Sorry, yeah?"

He smiled. "Accepted."

"Good. Make yourself flat, then. On your stomach and lie still."

Robbie placed himself belly-down on the Bell's vibrating deck. Selena unclasped the medical kit, dug, came up with a small shining pair of scissors. She examined the metal bolt, felt carefully the point on Robbie's leg where bolt met bloody denim and flesh. He flinched.

"Sorry," Selena said. She touched his shoulder gently. "Robbie, I'm going to cut your trouser leg away from the wound. Then I'm going to clean things up, stabilize the dart-- the bolt-- whatever it is--"

He twisted his head, trying to look behind him. "Can't you pull it out--? Why can't you--?"

"I'm not a doctor, yeah--? I'm only a chemist. There's an artery back there, veins. Tendons. I could do you some real damage, pullin' it out. We stabilize it now-- we stabilize it, that's all. Then, when we get to the platform, they'll have a doctor. A real doctor. He'll know what t' do. Doesn't seem to be bleeding all that much, so you should be okay. We'll get you cleaned up, keep you warm. You'll be fine."

"My leg-- Why is it numb, then--?"

"They were runnin' a livestock ship, right--?" Selena began to cut, carefully, as she talked. "So they probably had vet supplies on board. My guess is they tipped this thing with Rompun. Xylazine. Animal tranquilizer. Not enough t' kill you, just enough t' slow you down. Make you easier to catch." She set aside the scissors, reached back to the kit. Jim and Laurel watched her work, cleaning away blood, bandaging, taping. She finished; she placed a palm on Robbie's cheek, on his forehead; she took and held his wrist, concentrated, counted silently. "You're not hot. You're not cold or clammy. Your pulse is a little fast, but that's to be expected." She looked up at her audience. "Jim, would you see if there's a blanket in back--?"

"Sure thing."

He went aft. Foreward, Hannah appeared in the divide between the passenger compartment and the Bell's cockpit. She surveyed the gathering, said: "Piotr wants t' know, did the call get made?"

Robbie rolled cautiously onto his side, looked up. "I'm happy to say it did." He smiled at her. "Hello. I'm Robbie. That's Laurel. We're stowaways."

Hannah grinned back at him. "I'm Hannah." She beamed at Jim as he returned to the group with a green rough blanket. "Hey, Jim, that was me: I flew th' chopper, yeah--?"

"Good job, then, Hannah."

He passed the blanket to Laurel, who smoothed it over Robbie's torso and legs. Robbie watched Hannah return to the cockpit. His smile went a bit dubious.

"If that isn't the cherry on top of a perfect day. She's not flying us now, is she--?"

Laurel settled in next to him, cradled his head in her lap, smoothed his hair. "Oh, shut it, yeh great chicken."

Jim smiled, looking over. He sat himself next to Selena, opposite the other two; he let himself go quiet, let the last of the adrenaline drain from his system. He pulled his knees up, leaned against the cabin wall.

Selena, hugging her legs to her own chest, said: "You, too, Jim."

"What's that, love--?"

"I'm sorry I went off on you."

"It's alright. Really."

"You're sure--?"

He released his knees, put an arm around her. "Really."

"Good." She relaxed into him. The Bell flew on. The sky through the windscreen was a high clear blue. They passed over low rough mountains, over lowlands deep green and burlap brown. Robbie slept; the rest of them dozed or were simply quiet. Jim found himself beginning to love or at least to trust the Bell's motion, the simple, strong, driving vibration moving up through his bones. They soared out over Scotland's northernmost coast, flew over gray-blue sea. Fine ripples ran landward in windblown sheets; farther out, the water puckered into waves.

Beside him, Selena shifted, chuckled. "Typical man."

Jim tipped his head closer to hers. "Pardon--?"

"You were stealing condoms." She shook her head. "Condoms, Jim. Of all the-- Typical man. Typical."

Next to her, Jim felt his cheeks go warm. He steadied himself, spoke quietly: "I don't want to be a typical man. I want to be your man. Someday. If you'll have me."

Selena smiled, shyly. "Is that a proposition or a proposal--?"

He felt it even though they were touching sweater to sweater, even though his hand was on and not beneath the pebbled soft knit on her shoulder; he felt it as the gentlest of electrical currents, tingling from his skin to hers and back again. She wasn't meeting his eyes, but he didn't mind.

"Little bit of both, I guess," he said softly.


As the Bell passed the Shetlands, a quiet hour or so after Robbie and Jim and Selena's desperate chase, John Isaacs stepped onto the paving at the south end of Preneen's one street. Behind him, on the packed white sand of the beach, stood a shiny blue-and-white Bell 214 and two men armed with machine pistols. Isaacs looked about. No bodies on the beach. No bodies belonging to anyone he cared to find, anyway. Zombies, zombie bits and chunks, that was all. And no charred, wrecked Bell 212. He took out his phone.
Thirty miles northwest of the Shetland Islands, roughly eighty feet above the gray-blue waters of the North Sea, a phone rang. In the white-walled common room known less-than-creatively as the Personal Communications Center, or Pee Cee Central to those dawdling, researching, or recreating on the den's public-use computers, a slender long-boned Chinese woman looked up from a monitor and the chessboard it displayed. She frowned; she pushed up out of her chair, crossed the room to the phone. "Puffin Three, Dr. Huelsmann speaking."
Ten seconds later, in a room of roaring black-greased machinery, an intercom let out a buzz like a dropped chainsaw. A wiry man of dark hair and intense homeliness punched the response button on the yellow box. "Machine room, Chaney here."

Hey, Leo, it's Doc. Is McCrea there?

"He's fishin' off Leg Four with Doug."

Can you buzz him? He's got a call.

"Will do. Chaney out."


Where the gray slapping sea met metal, on a narrow platform encircling the base of a massive tower, two men in parkas stood fishing with heavy composite rods. A city loomed fifty feet above their heads: the sun cast squared pockets of light down to the dark water through breaks in the drilling platform known as the Puffin Three.

A beeping in a parka pocket. The taller of the two men braced the butt of his fishing rod on the steel platform. "McCrea here."

Chaney. Doc says you've got a call.

He had a thin, angular face, Jason McCrea did. Nearly colorless eyes. He smiled coolly. "That so? Why couldn't Doc tell me that?"

Have t' ask her that, won'tcha? Chaney out.

McCrea pocketed his walkie-talkie, reeled in his line. "Keep an eye out for pirates, Dougie. I am wanted on the bitch box."

"Lucky you." Doug Pickford, small, strongly built, smiled below his thin mustache. "Want me to mind your line?"

"Naw." McCrea cast away his bait. "Nothin' out here but barnacles today anyway." He rounded the platform to a steel ladder bolted to the tower's inward side, started to climb.


In the Puffin's control room, seventy feet off the water on the platform's west side, Larry Dalton pushed his chair back from the communications board. He was a thickset man with a broad, friendly face, thick brows. "Second outside call today, Virg. How many we need to make 'switchboard' status?"

The Virg to whom he spoke was Virgil Cooper, the Puffin's toolpusher, a tall, lean, fair-haired man with eyes the color of the surrounding ocean. "More'n that," Cooper said drily. He, like Dalton, had listened to the exchange between Doctor Huelsmann and Leo Chaney, between Chaney and Jason McCrea. The intercom calls all channeled through the rig's brain booth. Nothing sinister about it: simply a matter of safety and practicality. It made good sense to know where the Puffin's workers were and what was going on around them. Cooper checked gauges, displays, looked out at the North Sea beneath its rare blue sky. Clouds were rolling up in the distance, well to the west. "Should be fair enough weather for Pete to get here. Tomorrow, though: think the Helvig's in for a blow. Larry, you wanna make sure those cranes are clear of the chopper pad."

"Sure thing, Virg."


In Pee Cee Central, Jason McCrea shrugged out of his parka. "Who is it, sweetie?"

Dr. Huelsmann kept her dark eyes on her chess game. "I'm a doctor, not a switchboard."

"Could've fooled me. Something that rhymes with 'switch,' anyway."

"Y'know, I could kill you." She saved her game, got up. "But, on the off chance you are human, it might go against my Hippocratic oath."

"She's a funny, funny woman, is our Tamara." McCrea stepped aside, only just let her pass. Dr. Huelsmann glared at him, left the room. He waited until she was well away, spoke into the satellite handset: "McCrea here."

John Isaacs. Hey, bro.

"Hey yourself, Johnny. What's up?"

How'd you like to make a cool million--?