"So you take me for a tree to be pissed on?" Tom said, faking anger. He was actually amused, realizing that for once the Englishman had been caught off-guard. The troll intended to make the most of the opportunity.

"Well, no, I mean, it's the concept of the thing," Michael said lamely.

"You dumb fragger," Tom growled, grabbing the Englishman by his jacket and hauling him a foot off the ground. "You don't know drek."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean " Michael began.

"Lemurs don't live in Africa. They're South American. I know; saw it on the trid once. If you're going to get me pissed on by something, then you should make damn sure it belongs out here, you dumb Englishman," Tom laughed, setting Michael back down on the ground.

Serrin was about to join in the laughter when he saw reinforcements beginning to arrive. The spears had looked nasty enough, but sixty of these Zulus armed with SMGs and assault cannon opened up whole new vistas of mayhem.

"I just hope there's still some kind of evidence left by the time these boys are done with it," he said hopefully.

After a two-hour trek through the midday sun, their nerves were seriously on edge. They gripped their guns in slippery hands, while the sweat poured off the rest of their bodies. For Kristen, the most important thing was whether she'd be able to keep the weapon when all this was over. Having a gun would be a real edge back home. Getting enough money to eat was always a problem; only the boss gangs were able to afford guns.

"Smoke, look," Michael said, pointing ahead, above the treeline. "That's where we're headed to."

A cry of frustration went up from the scouts slithering through the trees and bush cover. Everyone broke into a run to catch up with them.

The buildings were by now mostly smoking ruins. There was no sign of life, and a pall of thin smoke hung over the whole scene. From the look of things, the torching must have occurred at least a day ago.

"We're a little late," Michael said drily. "I doubt we'll find anything here. But it's quite a coincidence, don't you think? The owners must have known someone might come calling."

"But who are they?" Serrin wondered.

"I'll find out when we get back to New Hlobane," Michael said determinedly.

Shakala strode up before them, anger on his face. "You come, and then this place is burned down. Is that just a coincidence?"

"I hardly think so," Michael said. "But do you not think, Prince, that if someone went to all this trouble to destroy the place it must be because it was important? Because they feared what you might find?" he used the title without mockery. The elf seemed placated, or at least to be thinking it over.

A sudden wailing cry rose up from somewhere ahead in the smoke haze. Two of Shakala's men came running up to him, one whispering in his ear with cupped hands to prevent the visitors hearing. Shakala uttered one word and gestured for them to follow.

"What did he say?" Serrin asked Kristen, whose reaction of surprise indicated that she must have gotten the gist of things.

"He said 'dead man.' No, wait, not dead… How would you say it amp;?" She searched for the word, found it. "Zombies."

The Zulus dragged the two figures they had found before Shakala. They were Zulu men, thin as rakes, clad in rags, and the reactions of the scouts said they weren't local people. The men had visible sores on their bodies, and the leg of one showed a ghastly patch of gangrene.

"That's no zombie," Michael whispered to Serrin. "Not any kind I've ever heard of."

"So, now you're an expert on zombies?". "No, but " Michael's reply was cut short by Shakala's taking the head of one of the men in his hands and shaking it violently. The wretch offered no resistance, and except for the grimace on his face, showed no reaction at all. Shakala released him, uncertain.

"Do you know anything of this?" he demanded of Tom. "He is not possessed by any spirit." The troll shook his head.

"He has no soul," the elf stated. "But the body it is alive. He is not undead. He has a disease and will perish."

The pathetic man fell to his knees and sobbed. "Master, master, tell me what to do. I do not know what to do. I have not been told." It would have been pure bathos but for the ghastliness of the man's appearance. Flies buzzed hungrily around the rotting flesh of his leg.

"Your Prince commands you to tell him what you have been doing," Shakala said, without even the slightest trace of pity.

"Gathering the flowers, as I was told."

"Where do you come from? Where do you live?"

"But here," the man said, plainly confused. "I live here."

"Where did you live before?" the shaman demanded. The man fell mute. Either he didn't understand the question or he simply couldn't give an answer. He fell to sobbing again.

Serrin turned away from the sight. "It must be some kind of drug," he mumbled to Michael. "Something from the plants. Alkaloids or something. I don't know much about that kind of thing."

"Neither do I. But have you noticed how defoliant's been sprayed everywhere?"

Serrin turned back, looking at the red soil all around. There were no telltale stains, but now that Michael mentioned it, he could see that the grass around the spot stopped at a definite line. Someone had sprayed the area precisely and exactly.

"Why? Because of us? They're scared of us? Michael, if I know how to do one thing well, it's watch my back once I've been warned. My watcher spirits would have told me if we were being followed. And Shakala would have known it, too. That elf's primed with power. He'd have known if anyone was tracking us here."

"Maybe they took their cue simply from us coming to the Zulu Nation," Michael reasoned. "They needn't have followed us all the way here. Besides, are you so sure your own watchers are that good?"

"By all the spirits," Serrin suddenly cried out, abruptly breaking the thread of their talk. "Are we idiots?"

Michael looked askance at him, waiting to hear the reasoning behind the outburst.

"You said a nosferatu? Don't creatures like that have pawns they control? Zombies, more or less? Some of them, at least."

"So, they have pawns. Like these men. Then why does he need a place like this, meddling with drugs maybe, to make them if he can create them anyway? What does he even need them for, out here?" Michael asked.

"Slot me if I know," Serrin said miserably.

Michael was about to speak, but froze at the shrill scream coming from one of the men they'd found. He was reacting to Shakala's probing of his mind, or what was left of it, by magic.

"I don't think he's going to get anywhere with that," Michael said. "We can pick through the ruins if you want, but I'll bet you a thousand nuyen to a button spider's rear end that we won't find anything.

"But now we know more. Whoever came for Shakala also came for you. They must have had the information on his blood group, and they must have had access to this place probably even owned it for it to have been torched like this. I'm going to find out who did own it. And you've always got your lady reporter friend back in New York to asic about things that suck blood in the night." Suddenly, the Englishman's face broke into a half-crazy grin and he snapped his fingers in triumph.

"And I just realized what's been bothering me ever since we got here. One of the names on the list was from the Squeeze, back in London. There's no official data on people there, either. But there's corporate data. And there's only one corp that goes into the Squeeze for its workers.

"Now all I have to do is find out who's got a stake in this place and has access to the database of British Industrial's workers. It's a double verification. We can pin it down exactly. I can get some help from Geraint amp; " His voice trailed off. "Oh, drek," he concluded.