Number one or number two, Jill? The one ahead or the one on the right? It makes sense to check the one dead ahead first.

It bothered me. The smell should be worse, if it was so nice and warm in here.

The stealthy non-sounds grew more and more intense, but I couldn’t get a fix on them. There’s a certain frequency where you can’t tell if the sound is truly audible or just a mental echo of something else going on; it burrows under the skin and strokes at your eardrums with little hairy legs. A shiver of loathing went down my skin. My blue eye only caught the stirring of ambient energy, a slow lethargic swirl that told me nothing.

I debated reaching for the doorknob with my left hand or just plain kicking it. The first rule of any scene is to offer assistance to the living, but I was pretty sure nothing was left living in here. Still, if I went around kicking doors in…

Take it easy, there, Jill. Think for a second.

The smell was wrong. The silence was wrong. The newspapers, front lawn, blank walls, empty kitchen, and most of all the unlocked door were wrong.

My left hand flicked toward another gun just as all hell broke loose. The door crumpled and shattered outward, little splinters peppering me and the wall as a zombie lurched through, dry tendons screaming and half-eaten face working soundlessly. It was dripping with little bits of plated light—it took me a split second to determine the thing was crawling with roaches, each with the familiar little red dot on its back. But worst of all was the smell that belched out of the small close bedroom, and the zombie lifted its shattered arms and blurred forward with the eerie speed of the recently reanimated, roaches plopping off and scuttling for my boots over the cheap carpet.

I’d found Trevor Watson. And he wasn’t alone.

The trouble with zombies is that the motherfuckers just won’t stay dead. I stamped down hard, a short sound of disgust escaping tight-pursed lips, and the skull gave way under my steel-toed and — heeled boot with a sound like a ripe melon splitting. Zombie bones get porous after a little while, something about the body cannibalizing itself to provide enough chemical energy for their restless motion.

The roaches scuttled, but my aura flared, pushing them away from my feet. They ran with greasy green smoke, popping out of existence like Orville Redenbacher’s ugliest nightmare. My fist blurred out, hellbreed strength pumping through my bones, and caught the fourth one in the face as well. It exploded, bits of rotting brainmatter splattering me and the walls liberally.

Guns won’t do much good against zombies in close quarters. The ones whose heads I’d shattered were still scrabbling weakly on the carpet, sorcerous force bleeding away. Green smoke rose from the sludge their noncirculating blood had become. Identification of these bodies was going to be tricky—they were juicy as all get-out. But it explained why the smell was just awful and not truly, blindingly massive.

And I’d ID’d the first one before he’d tried to chew me into bits. He shouldn’t have ended up here and dead, for God’s sake. But I had other problems to worry about right now.

The roaches made little whispering sounds, puffing out of existence. Both bedrooms were awash with green smoke hanging at knee level, and a roving hand splatted dully against my ankle. I stamped again, felt flesh and sponge-bones give.

Two left, where did they go, spooky fuckers, they move so fast—I skipped to the side. When you don’t have a high-powered rifle or particular ammo for headshots that will make the entire skull explode, you’re down to fisticuffs and whip-work. Unfortunately, the area was too confined for the whip. Knife-work wouldn’t do me any good.

I was wishing for my sunsword when one of the remaining zombies made a scuttling run, humping up out of the smoke and heading straight for the wall. I grabbed it, fingers popping skin and sinking into worm-eaten muscle tissue before, and broke the neck with a quick twist. That didn’t do much—they’re sorcerously impelled, not relying on nerve endings much—but it did slow it down long enough for me to take its legs out, get it on the floor, and stamp its head in.

Everything I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours tried to declare mutiny, but I was too busy hunting around for the last zombie. It dodged out the door and I gave chase, wading through waves of roaches and spluttering, still-moving corpses awash in bloodsludge and green smoke.

Well, that answers that—the cases are connected. Hallelujah, but I hate to be right. I bolted down the hall, my left hand heading down for the whip.

It zigged around the corner and so did I, clipping the wall with my shoulder and taking away a good-sized chunk of it. Out into the clean, cold night air, where I saw two things—first, Avery was outside the Jeep, standing near the hood and staring at me.

Second, the zombie was scuttling straight for him.

If it reached him, it would probably tear his throat out. Just because I’m tough to kill doesn’t mean regular humans are, especially if you’re a spooky-quick, sorcerously engineered corpse bent on mayhem. A corpse just aching to do its master’s bidding.

Then I’d have to deal with Avery’s body too, and right in front of Eva.

I screamed and leapt, the whip coming free and flicking forward, silver flechettes jingling as it wrapped around one of the zombie’s legs and almost tore itself out of my hand. The leather popped hard, once, like a good open-hand shot to the face or a piece of wet laundry shaken in just the right way, and the zombie went down in a splattering heap.

“Get in the fucking car!” I yelled. Then I was on the thing, its foul sponginess running away as I broke its neck with a louder crack than the other ones. This guy must be pretty fresh, too. I balled up my right fist, my knees popping foul, slipping skin and sinking through muscle turned to ropy porridge.

I punched, pulling it at the last second so my fist didn’t go through the head and straight on into the dying lawn. Newspapers ruffled in a sudden burst of cold air and the smell of natron. The wet splorching sound was louder than it had any right to be, and brain oatmeal splattered. The body twitched feebly.

No, they don’t rely on nerve pathways much. But the head as the “seat” of consciousness carries a magical meaning all its own, and the symbol of breaking the head breaks the force the zombie is operating under.

I just wished it wasn’t so messy. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, though.

I considered retching, but Avery was already doing enough for both of us. He was still gamely trying to make it around the car to the driver’s side. Eva stared out through the windshield, her mouth ajar and her eyes wide enough to turn into plates.

Bits of dead zombie plopped off my coat as I rose, heavily. Shook myself like a dog heaved free of an icy lake. More bits splattered.

“J-J-J—” Avery was trying to get my name out through retches.

“Get in the car!” I yelled at him again. The scene wasn’t safe, for Chrissake.

“Behind you!” Eva screamed, but I was already turning, hip swinging first, skipping aside as the whip sliced air. The silver jangled, bits of rotting flesh torn free, and it hit the zombie I hadn’t counted before full in the face.

The thing did an amazing leap, dead nerves trying like hell to respond, the same kind of unholy quick reflex motion a small, partially crushed animal makes as the body dies. It jittered and jived there on the lawn, and I was on it in a heartbeat. When it was finally twitching out its last, I cast a quick glance back at Avery, who finally managed to make his legs work and scurried around the front end of the Jeep. I turned back to the house, waited until he was in the car and had the engine going before taking another step toward it, senses quivering. The whip had transferred itself to my right hand, and my left fingers found my largest knife. It would brace my fist and I could probably lop a hand off if the zombie was old enough.