I went with a different metrical source for this chapter title. I may depart from the original more often. As usual, Wilma Peters, Fat Lou, Ann, etc., are all my characters. House and Wilson are not. House is an egotistical revisionist and a problematic enough storyteller that I thought you should meet Ann mostly from her p.o.v. Enjoy!

House's Brains Are Normally Enough To Save The Day

"Don't move!" Ann's eyes were wide as she cocked the rifle and pointed it at the peculiar man wearing bright yellow dishwasher gloves, work lenses, and a black plastic garbage bag like an apron. He'd poked holes in the bag's bottom for head and arms and used the drawstring tie to cinch it in the back. Quite apart from not moving, he'd turned his head to look at her and rolled his eyes at the other man standing nearby. The other man looked more afraid of being shot than interested in or horrified for the woman in rags tied to a pallet tied to a tree. And Ann wasn't pointing the gun at HIM. Ann didn't try to aim at him at all. "Squeamish or uninvolved?" thought Ann. Ann was taller and more broad-shouldered than either of these men, the scared, neat one or the dismissive, scruffy one.

"This—isn't what it looks like?" said the man wringing his hands. His sheepish smile might ordinarily have been charming.

"Wilson? Shut up," said the man wearing a garbage bag. "Wilson is a doctor. I'm assisting him."

The other man looked incredulous for a moment. "YOU'RE a doctor. He is—and . . ." He shrugged, putting his hands up without being told.

"YOUR license is in good standing. MINE isn't."

"I—don't think that really matters for—well, for this?"

"Wilson. Shut. UP."

Ann was watching them, thinking, "Comfortable with each other, despite looking so different and failing to communicate. The scruffy one wishes to do the talking. Play along?" Out loud, she said, "What are you treating her for?"

The scruffy one blinked. "She's still moving? If you don't mind me stepping to the left, you'll see why that's a problem."

"Keep your hands up, and move to the right." Ann decided to keep the men on one side.

The other man pointed at a cane laying on the ground. "He's—got a bad leg." He put his pointing hand back up.

Ann nodded. "Hop to the right, then."

The scruffy one hopped twice to the right, twisting a bit to hold his balance. Then Ann looked at the woman—and saw the hole all the way through her chest to the lining of the red raincoat. Ann blinked hard. "What did you do?"

"After she came out of the woods and tried to eat Wilson, here, I knocked her down and sat on her. Then I realized I was right. She was dead. No hallucination. She was—DEAD. So I tied her up, checked her temp., cut out her heart—it's over on that rock, if you want to see—"

Ann silenced him with a hard look. She stepped back and darted her eyes at the rock he pointed at with the heart on it. She looked back at the dead woman trying to struggle free. She shifted her finger slightly off the trigger. She looked back and forth between the heart on the rock and the dead woman tied to stand beside the two living men. "This is a trick."

"I wish it was," muttered Wilson, "House? I don't mind telling you, I thought it was a hallucination, too. Ma'am? This, I believe, is the body of the missing woman on the local news. Wilma Peters?"

"I do not have a radio," said Ann, "I traded it for a better spare tire and a case of bottled water."

"I know that accent," said Wilson, "Where are you from?"

"I was raised in Amish country. I travel between there and relatives around in the other states. What will you do next, Dr. House?" She lowered the gun butt to the ground.

He was staring at the corpse as it reached out, decaying fingers beginning to brush the garbage bag-apron. "Test random areas for a pain response. My cane?"

"Of course," said Ann. She bent, retrieved it, and tossed it to House.

He caught the cane, twirled it, and, striking a pose somewhat like a fencer, he said, "En garde!" He whacked the corpse in the left shin, the right foot, the left elbow, the right wrist, and the right side of the head in rapid succession. Then he swung the cane hard overhand down onto her left shoulder. Part of the chest caved in on the left. "Unaware of damage or threatening motions. No pain response whatsoever. Her worst enemy is the efficient killer."

"She's already dead."

"This Dr. Wilson seems more precise with words, slower to act," thought Ann, "So why not have him do the talking?"

"Well, she's walking! So how do we kill the motion?" House stared openly, on the verge of a smile.

Ann pulled a pocketknife out of a pocket and offered it to House. "Cut off a finger. If it moves without her, then we need to be very careful to keep her body intact."

House nodded wordlessly, smiling. He deftly sliced off the left ring finger. "Since you won't be getting married AFTER all . . ." He held it up. "No movement." He put it in the dead woman's right hand. The corpse dropped it and continued. "No interest in eating its OWN flesh. Just us live ones. Huh!" He held up a gore-covered glove. Wilma Peters' corpse reached around it. House wiped the glove on the raincoat and held it up. The corpse reached for it. "Hmmmm."

Wilson finally lowered his hands. "You're okay with this—ma'am?"

"Miss. I am unmarried. I think if you were guilty of murder, you'd be smart enough to have left by now. That heart is far from fresh. You had better disable the body, for safety's sake." Inwardly she thought, "He feels guilty. Why?"

House nodded. "Sensible. This pallet will break sooner or later. You ARE calm about this. Do the Amish have nurses?"

Ann looked at House for a moment. "We have midwives and mothers and butchers and those who read the Bible. Give me the knife."

House, bemused, handed it over. Ann stepped forward, crouching, and slit the two Achilles tendons and the four prominent tendons at the back of the knees. She stuck the knife into the right shoulder joint, frowning, and traced it back and forth. There was an audible popping noise. The arm went slack. She repeated the process on the left. The head continued to strain forward. She opened the lower part of the raincoat.

"What—are you doing?" asked Wilson.

"Her clothing is torn, but her underthings are intact. Soiled, but intact. She did not die during an indiscretion or of being forced."

House nodded. "Not rape. Very good, Miss Butcher. What about the head wound?"

Ann stood and looked at it, casually bending the head down by the hair. "Please call me Ann. The wound is round with a flat side at the front. You've cleaned it for a better look?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "It reminds me of a small cam shaft. I cannot place the shape." She took a wipe for her hands, proffered by Wilson. "Thank you." She wiped off her hands and her knife and pocketed it. "I came here to tell you that the highway is blocked to the north. I stop here sometimes five times a year. I came out here to be neighborly—not all truckers or bikers have radios."

House gave her a withering look. "Neighborly with a gun?"

"I have only met a bad man once."

"And you shot him?"

"No, I did not."

"So what good is the gun?"

"It saved my life."

"Held him at bay, did you?"

"No, I stabbed him while he was taking my rifle. I took my rifle back and gave him a clean rag."

"To stop the bleeding," Wilson nodded approvingly.

"I told him he would bleed to death or wait for the sheriff. I went inside to call for help. He was not there when I came back. I gave my report to the sheriff and left after the waitresses vouched for me. They did not find him. He has found us, however." Ann cocked the rifle again. House limped behind Ann, Wilson following suit. Out of the woods came the bad man's corpse, limping. He wore the remains of a hoodie, jeans, boots, and had a bloodstained floral print rag tied in a loose loop hanging from his left boot. His left calf and thigh muscles were mostly gone.

House squinted at it. "That's—pretty much how I feel on cold mornings. Looks like some animals have been gnawing on him near the original stab wound."

Wilson cleared his throat. "I'm sure you did all you could, Ann. You don't need to feel guilty."

Ann fired. "I don't."

The bad man's body fell as the sound of the gunshot echoed through the nearby woods. With very little of his skull left, the hood flapped emptily in the cold breeze.

"It was his choice," Ann said simply.

"How long ago was this?" House was limping toward the dead man's body.

"Just forty days ago."

House nodded. "About a month's decomp. He probably had a shelter real close here in the woods. He got to it and bled to death? That wouldn't have taken but a couple of days." He prodded some of the skin on the arm. "No, there's sweat stains here. He got an infection and died in a week. Had some food and water with him. Remind me NOT to compliment the local sheriff on a job well done."

Ann snorted. "He was the first handsome and single man under thirty I ever met that I would never marry."

"Your attacker?" Wilson nodded, "That's—"

"The SHERIFF," said Ann, "He was a politician, not a lawman. I didn't meet my attacker. Nor was he handsome."

Wilson closed his mouth.

"Yeah, Wilson, most muggers don't introduce themselves. I'm glad to know you have standards, Ann, but what I REALLY want to know is whether you're a good hunter."

"I have done it. Why do want that?"

House opened his mouth to speak, but instead grabbed Wilson and pulled him closer to stand shoulder to shoulder with him between Ann and the dead woman. "Your work has drawn an admirer. It's that loudmouth from the diner. Let me do the talking."

A man in an orange winter coat came trotting up, pistol at the ready. "Emma, your waitress, sent me to get you, Ann. Heard a shot. What happened?"

"Don't come any closer," said House, "That guy was going to kill us. Ann shot him to save us. His germ-ridden brains are all over this place." He pointed at Wilson. "My bud here is a doctor."

Wilson blinked. "Well, that's true—"

"Shh," said House sideways to Wilson, before continuing, "I'm going to have to ask you to sit down over there—" he pointed, "and holster your gun. The CDC is very likely to quarantine us all, and if you haven't touched any of us or gotten within fifteen feet of us, you won't have the less pleasant things done to you."

"Less pleasant?"

"You know, enemas, rectal thermometers, barium drinks—that stuff."

The 'loudmouth' blinked. "Rectal, that's—that's ANAL?!"

House opened his eyes very wide and nodded very slowly. "Yes. Thank you for checking on us. We've got it under control."

The 'loudmouth' turned to leave hurriedly, then stopped. He turned back around. "A doctor? They need a doctor in the diner. Come on." He gestured at Wilson to follow him. He holstered his gun.

House rolled his eyes. "He CAN'T come with you. He's GOING TO BE QUARANTINED! It's a shame you had us kicked out of the diner. Whoever needs a doctor could have one."

Wilson was staring at the box of hand wipes a few feet away. "What's happened?"

"The cook had a heart attack. Then he went nuts or something. He bit Emma on the hand as we helped him up. Bit the guy next to me on the neck. He bled pretty bad. We shoved the cook in the women's restroom, since no other women but the other waitress is here. Emma and the bit guy? They both got fevers. They're layin' in a booth. The cook's still bangin' on the door."

"Fat Lou had a heart attack?" House shook his head. "Besides the biting, how was he acting?"

"He was growlin' and gaspin'. Trying to grab everybody and eat 'em."

House shot a look at Wilson. "Ann? Wilson? Did Fat Lou ever come out back here?"

The loudmouth laughed. "Fat Lou never did nothin' but cook here. He owns half the place. The waitresses do all the dishes—even clean the kitchen and dump the trash. You know he installed that door to the kitchen just so he could walk less than ten steps from his parking place. Lazy bastard. Why?"

"Fat Lou's Big Eats is a very clean diner," said Wilson, "Superbug or airborne?"

House looked at the loudmouth. "You'd better go tell them to restrain the feverish. Then go home and take a shower. Clean up really well. Watch the news."

The loudmouth fled around to the front of the diner.

"You lied to him. You haven't called anyone." Ann looked at House sternly.

"I saved his life. And he was the only person IN the diner I hated. Go ahead Wilson, clean up. Are you a good hunter or not?"

"I have good aim. Why do you want a hunter?"

"Nobody, not even a neat freak like Fat Lou takes their shoes on and off with gloves on. If there's a germ involved in this, an animal carrying it could be sniffing around the diner here. Fat Lou DOES park right up at the kitchen door, but he's short enough that it probably takes four steps just to walk past his open truck door. If he's done it every day, he's got a month's worth of germs in his truck."

Wilson stopped wiping his hands. "What do you mean, 'IF there's a germ involved in this?' What else could it be?"

"Germs don't reanimate the dead, Wilson. They don't have brains. How could they teach a corpse to walk? How could they start a brain doing what it did when it was alive? What would cause a germ to cause a dead human brain to cause a dead human body to walk and reach and grab and resort to what's essentially cannibalism?"

Wilson blinked. "Well, I don't know. How does a rabies germ cause a living person to fear water? Therefore, causing the infection a greater chance of success?"

"You idiot. People can fear anything while they're ALIVE. The best and brightest brain researchers in the country can't simulate neural activity, let ALONE cause NEW neural activity a week after death!"

"I'm sorry," said Ann.

Both men looked at Ann suddenly, having forgotten she was there.

"I am not good at tracking, but I could show you an animal that HAS been dead for less than eight hours. Why do you want that?"

House brightened. "So we could be sure this is only happening to humans. Where?"

"In my truck. It is refrigerated."

"How Amish ARE you, exactly?" House looked at her sidelong. They began to walk to the parking lot. "Or—is your 'refrigeration' done by blocks of ice?"

"My grandparents were Amish on my father's side. He left and married. I was raised on their farm summers and went to an all-girls' school the rest of the year. These days I travel, guesting and taking letters and goods between Amish country and their relatives around the rest of the country. I have a slaughtered pig in my truck. A gift for the Wright family. It was raised properly, and it is good meat. I would butcher it for them."

They reached her truck, parked at the side of the diner with no windows. It was a small, converted ice cream truck with no logos or pictures on the completely rebuilt side. She opened the side to show them a pig hammocked on two sawhorses with ropes. House found its wound and nodded. "Its head should still move if it were animated. Could you spare the head? With the whole upper neck attached and a portion of the spine? If we take material from the lady in red, apply it to the pig, and it doesn't start moving, then we could be sure of no direct animal transference. If the head's not attached to the body anymore, the meat would still be good. What do you say?"

"I think you should buy the whole pig." Ann looked around to see two pickup trucks and a station wagon leaving quickly, headed south. "I could back up to where you want it, cut it up there."

House frowned. "What about the Wright family?"

"I cannot reach them before my refrigerator stops running with the roadblock to the north. If you have three hundred dollars, I could give the family money."

House started to shake his head, stopped, looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, "Nyet, nyet, nyet! Pay her, Wilson!" He limped rapidly around to the door of the diner, looked inside—and suddenly put his cane through one door handle, hook through the other side. He turned and hopped to one side and flattened himself against the wall as the door began convulsively jerking outward.

"House?" said Wilson, "What are you—"

A beefy arm smashed through the window on the other side of the door from House. It was followed by a large, snarling, gray-skinned head with a blood-covered mouth. There was another gunshot. A large hole opened in the protruding head, and the head and arm went limp. House knelt, crawl-hopped under the window on the front of the diner, and met Wilson at the corner of the building. "Apparently the loudmouth was the ONLY one that listened to my advice. No one's tied up. There's five moving dead in there. Tell Ann she's taking her pig eaters to go." He picked up a forgotten broom leaning on the downspout, and started limping quickly for Ann's refrigerator truck.

Now what did he mean by 'Nyet, nyet, nyet?' Stay tuned; please read and review.