“The idea of zombification’s simple,” the kid had said. “Course all those comics an’ movies an’ junk would have you think otherwise. Zombification’s a purifying ritual—at least Preach’s was. It cuts off what goes on in the head from what goes on in the body, so you feel no pain no matter how much hurt is put on you.” The kid had shook his head. “All that undead stuff, I dunno. Preach told me he once met Papa Legba—midnight in our local cemetery. Rolled some dice, had a drink, a couple of laughs, that was it.”

“And you believed him,” Whitman had said.

The boy had peered at him queerly. “You would, too, if you’d’a seen that zombie. Grateful as shit, that zombie was. Gave Preach all his money, he did, for takin’ away his sufferin’.”

Even after all these years, Whitman could still hear the kid’s laughter echoing through the dead trees, as the air thickened to okra stew with the rising of the vicious sun.

So now, here in Western Pak, Whitman could not help but feel that he had come face to face with a modern-day zombie. Because it was clear enough that Flix was no longer himself.

Whitman reached out. “Flix, come on over here and sit down.”

He pulled Orteño into the shadow of the roof’s overhang, sat facing him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Flix held his head in his hands. “I would if I could,” he said, “but I don’t even know who I am. I can’t recognize…” He dropped a pile of dog tags in the dirt between them. “Whit, I can’t believe I killed these soldiers. How did I do it? I have no fucking memory of it. One minute I’m jumping into the compound, the next you’re sending me out to check on all these dead men I shot.” His head turned back and his feverish eyes clocked on Whit’s. “I mean, what the fuck, man? What. The. Fuck!”

“Calm down, Flix.”

Whitman squeezed Orteño’s shoulder. The gesture caused Flix to rear back, his eyes open wide and staring, his hands up, ready to defend himself.

“Flix, for Christ’s sake, it’s me, Whit.”

Orteño continued to stare at him as if he were the enemy.

“Flix, something happened to you back in the States.”

“What?” Orteño blinked several times, his pupils contracting. “Oh, yeah, I know. The concussion. Could be that’s what’s—”

“You didn’t have a concussion, Flix. They did something to you while you were unconscious.”

“‘They’? Who’s ‘they’?”

“One step at a time,” Whit said. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up in the hospital?”