and then slipped between some tall billowy bushes.
His hand rose to the flask again, but fell when he realized three stories of windows leaned behind him. Could be anybody up there, watching.
Borland altered his course, set his broad shoulders toward the building and paced away. His guts hurt.
He needed a drink.
The path wound around thick tree trunks and bushes. It passed cedar benches ringed by stone and flowers.
But he kept running into patients.
So he walked toward the sun; off the path the fluorescing grass whipped his shoes.
Borland hurried toward a cedar bench that faced away from the complex, in the shadow of a large flowering bush.
Perfect.
He dropped onto the bench and slipped a hand into his coat, felt the cold metal and then…
'Hello.' An old man walked out of a deep angled cut in the lawn that was hidden by the bush. A footpath wound out of the shadows and cut across in front of Borland.
Borland dropped his hand and looked up at the clouds.
Goddamn.
The old man folded his hands behind his back and limped away.
Borland studied the clouds and was immediately reminded of clouds. He didn't look up at them enough to be inspired to any other thought. His world was too close, and he had to look down to watch for traps-or it could have been the past, heavy with infection and outbreak pulling his attention to hell-full of loss, fury and the sounds of ripping skin.
Zombie, I had to do it.
And he couldn't really call it the past anymore, with it pressing against the insides of his eyes. The clouds were clouds. He was out of practice and his idleness was never contemplative. It was all about not thinking and avoiding the broader view. Anytime he got close to it, something would reach out and slap him. Real life was just a kick in the groin away. So keep your eyes peeled.
He needed a drink.
Bad.
Then he heard music. A young man limped into view and moved past, the sounds squealing around his ear-buds. He gave Borland a passing glance.
Sharp features. Early twenties.
Zombie's age…
Borland glared at the young man's back.
He needed a drink.
His sanity was peeling off as he sobered up.
He got to his feet.
Who's next? Spiko?
Borland lumbered toward the edge of the lawn where the trees grew thick. He'd seen the map on the brochure, where the path wound through a forest. There was a stream back there that ran along the property's edge.
The setting sun would be obscured; the shadows under the trees would darken.
If he was quick about it, he could get a couple blasts into him before the next patient appeared.
As he slipped into the woods the path began to meander and make turns and loops so patients kept popping up-his way grew increasingly unpredictable.
He was running out of time.
The damn Shomberg treatment boasted a fast recovery aided by promoting post-operative activity. Swell. The end result was a jack-in-the-box population that appeared every time Borland was poised to take a drink.
Can't screw this up again.
And Brass told Borland that he was out of chances. Soon his duties with the new Variant Squads would dominate his time. And why bother pulling strings for a drunk?
Especially one who knew too much.
But Borland needed a drink-just a touch, just a taste. He moved around the tree trunks, backtracking one moment and hurrying forward the next until he heard the distant babble of a stream.
That's more like it.
Trees grew thick along the water's stony edge.
Perfect.
He hurried off the path and ploughed through some bushes, then found the asphalt again as it wound back around and on through deepening shadows toward a bridge. The Shomberg brochure mentioned the stream and the bridge-patients were not to cross it.
Warnings are for the little people.
Trees overhung both ends of the structure. Metal uprights and railings held the span of planks over the stream, some 30 feet in a single arch.
Borland started up, the noise from the stream echoing all around. He slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out the flask.
He got the cap off, licked his lips and froze.
A sound.
Under the bridge?
A deep gasp followed by fragile keening, almost a pitiful shivery pause, and then a soulful wail wore down to silence. The process repeated.
A woman.
The far side of the stream.
Weeping.
Borland moaned, capping the flask. He pocketed it and pushed himself along the railing, sliding, keeping his head down, until he could part a tangle of branches that grew low over him.
There, kneeling on the small round stones by the stream, the strange woman from the dining room.
She can't eat chicken.
Her hair was wet and pasted over her face. Her skin had flushed the color of strawberries where her features melted into the open neck of her shirt. She leaned forward, rocking and weeping, her arms wrapped around her ice pack like it was a baby.
She used to be a cop.
Borland pursed his lips, started to form a word or whistle-he didn't know what, but he had to do something to attract the woman's attention.
Wasn't that what normal people did?
See if she needed help…
But at the last second, a sinking feeling pulled at the pit of Borland's stomach and he shook his head silently, watching the woman's lean body shudder with sorrow.
He stooped by the railing, winced at the mangle of pain in his gut, then he hurried back the way he had come; hiding himself in the trees to avoid the woman's troubles.
Normal people avoid trouble. He got past some low bushes and turned to peer back through their leaves.
She needs a psychologist not a Variant Squad Captain.
The woman's sadness followed him, as he hurried among the tree trunks, shaking off whatever hooks her tears had set in him.
She'll be okay.
He turned in the shadow of an old oak and glanced back at the bridge. There, standing center to the span was the strange woman, with legs wide spaced and both arms crossed, pressing the icepack against her belly. Overhanging leaves obscured her face but Borland was sure he could feel her eyes on him.
He clambered through branches until he found the path and started back to the clinic. If he saw Rough-trade
