"That's not the will of the government," Sprague said with a hint of sarcasm. Black Hawks hovered over the distant horizon, combing the countryside. Occasionally, over the last few days, the firing of artillery had been heard, suggesting that some citizens had attempted escape. "For whatever reason, they want to keep them intact for the time being."

"Probably want to register them for November's general elections." Donne glanced at the stars emerging in the twilight between wispy bands of clouds. To the west, a line of storms crawled along the Appalachian crest. "Why do you think they've all come here, to the hospital? Why not go to their homes, their families?"

"They're suffering physical pain," Sprague answered. "That much we know. Assuming they retain some memories of life, they associate the hospital with feeling better."

"I guess we should be thankful they aren't flesh-eating zombies." Julian----not a particularly squeamish individual----visibly shuddered at the thought of how much worse things could be if the dead had awoken with a ravenous appetite. "I mean, that's what you expect the undead to do, right? Feast on the living?"

"I don't really know what to expect them to do, Freddie." Sprague looked down upon the crowds, wondering how many had passed through the hospital doors previously on their way to the burial ground. How had the gardens of rest been transformed into the gardens of the restless? Julian's gratitude that they did not more closely resemble their cinematic representation led Sprague down another disquieting avenue of thought: With so many variables at work, so many mysteries as yet unanswered, no one could really be certain that they might not all rise up and start gorging themselves on the living.

"Honestly, I don't think that they know what is expected of them, either."

~

The meat-wagons began arriving the following day just after sunrise.

Dr. Sprague had spent the night on the roof with Donne and several other interns, waiting for a squall line that regrettably stalled over the highlands. The first indication the day would be different came with the appearance of dozens of Chinooks sweeping in from the south, flying low over the Pisgah National Forest. Like impatient buzzards they circled the distant Arnesville International Airport, waiting for clearance.

"It's about time," Donne said, his upturned palm eclipsing the morning sun as he followed the helicopters' flight. He imagined the transport copters filled with anxious national guardsmen, ready to take all the dead into custody and convey them out of the city. Simultaneously, a column of black panel trucks maneuvered a maze of side streets and convened along Avery Boulevard. Escorted by local police, the caravan carefully approached the hospital. Some shell-shocked residents stumbled from their homes and along the thoroughfare to watch the grim procession. "Maybe they've come to their senses."

"Maybe," Sprague said, reserving judgment. "I'd better find Ames----see if I'm still employed." Before returning to the stairwell, the doctor peered over the ledge as paramilitary guardsmen escorted the first of the corpses into the backs of the meat-wagons. The dead went willingly without any hint of resistance. They moved like cattle, without deliberation or reflection. "You all should get downstairs, see if you can help. When this mess is finally swept under the carpet people will need our help again. That's why you're here. That's why you'll stay."

~

Sprague found Ames on the 10 ^thfloor. He had appropriated an entire wing for his team of researchers, ostensibly to investigate how best to treat the dead. Where uniformed security guards had restricted access yesterday, this morning Sprague found no obstacles.

"Dr. Ames," he called out, catching sight of the doctor down the hall. A tall, gaunt man with greasy hair and an expensive, tailored business suit conversed with Ames in front of a shadowed alcove at the far end of the corridor. From the man's emphatic gesticulations and boisterous tone, Sprague inferred a considerable degree of conceit. As the physician approached, Ames lifted a hand to curtail their tête-à-tête temporarily.

"Dr. Sprague, a pleasure to meet you," the man said, turning to face him. He contrived a disingenuous smile that unfolded across his pallid countenance like a serpent uncoiling itself to strike at some unwitting rodent. "I'm Bernard Chesterton, CEO of Therst Weber Pharmaceuticals." He began to extend his hand to cement the greeting but pulled back reflexively as if concerned about potential contagions. "I was just expressing my gratitude to Dr. Ames for his handling of this situation."

"I'm sorry," Sprague said, looking back and forth between the two men. "This just seems like an odd time to be hawking new drug treatment options, doesn't it Dr. Ames?"

"Actually, Dr. Sprague, Mr. Chesterton is here to take guardianship of our corporeal undead. His company has taken full responsibility for the situation." Everyone knew Ames received kickbacks from the major pharmaceutical companies. His zealous support of their products resulted in endless perks and enabled him to build his palatial 5-bedroom mansion on a ridge overlooking the city while paying alimony to two ex-wives. In addition to pushing unessential prescriptions on patients through hospital staff and local doctors, Ames regularly advocated and approved clinical trials for dubious medications. "Because of its culpability, the company has made arrangements to oversee the re-education process."

"I beg your pardon?" Sprague needed no clarification. As he had suspected from the onset, someone behind the scenes had orchestrated the whole depraved enterprise----and Ames had played a pivotal role. The worm-sacks and dirt-backs had been intentionally revived. "So, you aren't going to destroy them? You're going to treat those things?"

"That's right, Dr. Sprague. It's no fault of theirs' that they've been reanimated. Following a treatment regime developed and tested in part by Dr. Ames here, they will be reintegrated into society. Properly medicated, they'll continue to serve as active members of the community indefinitely."

"As what? Doorstops?"

"Come with us, Dr. Sprague," Ames said, placing a firm grasp on his shoulder, as if to rein him in. "We were about to tour my makeshift recovery ward. I think you'll be surprised at the progress we've made."

Behind the guarded doors, air fresheners masked the stench of decomposing flesh. The revivified dead rested comfortably in hospital beds meant for the living. Unlike their kith and kin downstairs, these pampered examples had regained some semblance of color in their skin. They demonstrated a diverse range of palpable, though imperfect, expressions and displayed rudimentary emotions. Their arms and legs did not quiver and their fingers did not fidget. They exhibited a sense of purpose and identity.

"What have you done to them?" Sprague looked over the dead patients, flinching at their two-dimensional personalities, their deceptively sterilized appearance, their vacant stares. "You can pump them full of chemicals, but they'll never be the same----don't you see that? The spark is gone. Their time is already up. Science can't alter the processes of nature."

"Kenneth... Sprague," a familiar voice called from out across the room. "Kenny, is... that... you?" Sprague went from bed to bed, searching for the speaker. He found him in the far corner, a copy of the Bible lying spread-eagle on his dinner tray. "It's... good... to see... you... Kenny."