Harry had peed over his feet, but the shock boosted his energy. He checked all over his body, making sure there were no wasps, then jogged to the elevator, only to find it shut down, with the car open and a woman inside polishing the glass.

‘Service elevator, at back,’ a cleaner said, aiming her pointing finger behind the main bar.

‘Gracias,’ Harry mumbled.

The service elevator had scuffed plastic walls and a whiff of burnt rubber. Harry rode it down twenty-three floors, expecting to emerge inside the casino, or the taxi lobby where he’d been dropped off the night before.

But he exited into a deserted underground loading area with a strong smell of trash. He pressed the button to try riding up, but a red light flashed, indicating that he needed to swipe an employee card in the control panel.

Harry cursed, then walked around trying to find someone who could tell him the way out or swipe the elevator so he could get up to casino level. But the hot basement was dead and his only option was to follow a narrow vehicle ramp towards chinks of sunlight.

The heat was oppressive and the stench churned Harry’s weakened stomach. After a couple of hundred yards he was out in warm morning air and able to draw a full breath. He glanced around and realised he’d reached street level, with a bunch of tacky Fremont Street casinos visible at the end of the access road. Fremont was pedestrianised, but Harry knew there were taxi ranks in the side streets.

Since it was too early for traffic, he reckoned he’d be home inside twenty minutes.

‘Can you spare a few dollars, bud?’ a young male zombie said, as he stepped out of an alcove into Harry’s path.

There were two girls as well. Neither were much older than Harry, but their top halves were filthy and their legs caked in dried excrement. One hadn’t taken well to her mod, with a tumour the size of a tennis ball closing her right eye.

Permanent diarrhoea was a sure sign of a one-zero-six zombie mod. While their bodies went to hell, their brains had been tuned to a state of bliss that the few people who’d had a one-zero-six reversed described as like having the greatest moment of your life stretched out forever.

One-zero-sixes weren’t capable of work, or any other task that required concentration, but they retained enough of a survival instinct to stick together, either stealing or begging for food.

‘Heavy night,’ Harry said, holding his breath as he stepped off the sidewalk to dodge the zombie. ‘I’ve got no coins.’

If he hadn’t been so hungover, Harry would have seen the leg that tripped him up. And, even if he hadn’t, he would have stumbled instead of sprawling and almost cracking his skull on the kerb.