That Guts was a ham, a natural actor. His layers of reality were believable and complex-he “acted” more zombielike than he actually was: The light went out of his eyes, replaced by an exquisite expression of blankness. After the performance, his sparkle returned, just like that. The kid deserved an Oscar-or at least a Golden Globe.

Brad and I played peripheral zombies and I made sure to grab the walkie-talkie, represented by a cow bone, out of Joan’s hand and throw it across the cage. It was essential to sever the military’s line of communication, if only briefly. Every second would count.

I didn’t know if the plan was communicated. The zombies were at least entertained by our performance, watching us like it was the Fourth of July and we were a fireworks display.

Oh! The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men (an’ zombies).

Gang aft agley.

That’s Zombie Robert Burns, by the way. His poetic apology to a field mouse he accidentally ran over with a plow. The poor rodent was chewed up and spit out. I hoped things would fare better for us.

JOAN, MY FIRST mate, Zombie Army’s five-star general, our own personal Florence Night-in-hell, Joan had a bone to pick with Operation Zombie Shield. Joan had developed her own ideas.

As a matter of fact, Joan had a valid point.

Give these stench-wenches an inch…and they’ll bite off your festering prick.

This was how we communicated: Joan pointed to my drawing of Ros bringing in a new prisoner and shook her head no. I shrugged my shoulders and raised my hands, palms up in the classic “Wha’?” gesture. Joan tapped her head with her finger, setting loose a large scabby piece of her temple, which she kicked aside with her nurse’s shoe-no longer white, now rusted with blood.

With Guts playing Ros, Joan got down on all fours and lumbered around. She winced as her knee touched the cold steel floor of our moving cage and I felt a sympathetic twinge in my shoulder.

“Moooaaah,” she moaned.

She was imitating a cow. Lord, she looked ugly doing it. Her conical breasts pointed straight down like stalactites. What had she been like in life? Was she married? With children? I imagined her as a brusque woman, bustling, efficient, and single. Suitors found her torpedo boobs intimidating. If not the breasts themselves then most certainly the bra, with its reinforcements, dominatrix straps and hooks, and impossibly large, pointy cups. Think Madonna circa 1992 but without the irony. You could poke an eye out with those things.

I made up a life for Joan: She was a woman whose career consumed her, filling the void of her loneliness. She lived near the hospital in an undecorated but immaculate one-room walk-up. She looked down on doctors, seeing them as bland faces with stethoscopes wielded like whips, and anyway, her diagnoses came quicker and more accurately than theirs, because she listened to patients. She expressed her disdain by dropping the definite article when referring to doctors, as in “Doctor will examine you shortly.”

As in, zombie will eat your brains shortly. Would you like a magazine while you wait?

It was obvious Saint Joan wanted us to attack and make our escape when the guards ushered in our next meal, not the next prisoner of war.

I shook my head no.

She tapped her wristwatch and spread her arms wide like she was telling a fish tale. And I’ll say it again: She had a point.

The cage was full-at overcapacity, federal-prison levels of occupancy-and the guards hadn’t brought in a newbie for days. In fact, we’d been moving for a solid day, which was unusual. I nodded at her and tapped my head, indicating I’d think about it. She wagged her finger at me, then pointed to Eve’s belly-which was ready to pop. Eve was looking corpsier than ever and her stomach was moving, the zombino within writhing like an alien about to explode.

Eve could not have the baby in captivity. No child of mine would be born a slave.

Saint Joan was right. We had to escape immediately. Whichever came first: cow or zombie. I had to set us free.

Move over, Moses. Step aside, Joseph Smith. There was a new prophet in town.

Pharaoh, let my people go!

CHAPTER NINE

JUST A FEW short hours after my conversation with Joan, there was a commotion. Ros and Guil were whooping and laughing; superior officers came rushing down from the front of the line. A high-ranking general arrived by helicopter. I inched toward the bars, Guts following close behind. The dead stepped aside for us; such was my influence.

America ’s favorite daytime television talk-show host stood outside our cage, trapped in the corpse catcher. Although her neck was in the steel encasement and her arms and legs were shackled, her head was left uncovered. She had the complexion of the undead and her lips were cracked and coated with dried blood, but her hair was coiffed to perfection, not a strand out of place.

We must be near Chicago, I thought. Stein’s home base.

Lucy had been a fan of her show and I’d seen it once or twice, rolling my eyes as she nattered on about chemical peels or health care reform, Tom Cruise or her favorite scented soap. Both the president of the United States and the winner of the Westminster dog show had been on her couch, and as far as I could tell, she treated them with equal importance. Lucy thought she was a woman of the people, a hero. A self-made Queen of All Media.

The Queen was currently biting at the air, snarling and foaming; through it all, she still looked regal.

“Watch out, sir,” Ros said to the general, “she’s a fighter.”

“You think I can’t handle a zombie, soldier?” the general asked Ros.

“No, sir.” Ros gulped.

The general thrust back his shoulders. He had a crew cut and his uniform was pressed and clean-too clean for the dirty business of rounding up zombies. His medals shone in the sun.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Here was our chance: Take one smug officer who lives at his desk, put him to the test in the field, and watch him fuck up.

“I said no but I meant yes, sir. At least I think I meant yes.”

“He meant you can,” Guil put in, “handle a zombie.”

“Right,” Ros said. “Absolutely, you can absolutely handle a zombie, sir. Just please, sir, don’t get too close. You have to be careful of their spit. It’s toxic. Sir.”

“Son, I’ve been handling zombies since before you were born.”

“With all due respect,” Guil said, “that’s impossible, sir.” He took off his helmet. His black hair was knotted against his head, as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks.

The general waved his hand at our cage. “If not zombies per se, then gooks, A-rabs. Same difference. Enemies. Insurgents.”

“Yes, sir. Just be careful. Zombies are a new breed.”

Our brains, I realized as I watched Guil comb his fingers through his hair and replace his helmet. We needed to protect our brains. It was the only way to escape unscathed. I nudged Guts and pointed to the helmet, then mimed putting it on my head. He nodded.

“Not so important now, are you?” an infantryman said, and threw a rock at the Queen. It hit her in the head and she turned toward the soldier, barking like a dog. The corpse catchers held tight to their poles, one at each limb like she was being drawn and quartered.

“Get back to your station,” Ros said, “before I kick your ass back. We’ll have none of that here.”

“I hate zombie bitches,” the young man muttered as he walked away, “especially black zombie bitches. Excuse me, African-American zombie bitches.”

I rubbed Guts’s shoulder in sympathy. Racism and sexism are ugly enough without adding zombism to the mix.

Oh, hateful, hateful humans.

“Sorry for that, sir,” Ros said to the general. “The men have been under a lot of pressure lately. Everyone has.”