“There are fewer rotters these days, and the reasons are varied, but obvious. First, they are running out of fuel. Even dead things need energy to move, and after all these years, the oldest rotters are slowing down. Second, something is killing them. Whatever this something is, I’ve heard only rumors, but the men down here have started calling it the inexplicable. I don’t know where they even heard that word, but whatever makes them happy, I suppose. Third—and most alarmingly, in my opinion—some of the rotters have recently escaped.”

“Escaped?” Rector’s mind boggled.

“Escaped, yes. A good number of them. And here’s where your usefulness will be tested, Rector Sherman.”

Utterly aghast, Rector couldn’t keep the horror out of his voice. “You want me to round them up and bring them back?”

Yaozu sighed heavily. “I don’t want you to bring them back … though that would be nice, wouldn’t it? No, I want you to tell me how they got out.”

“How they got out? Of the wall?”

“Very good, yes. Tell me how they got past the wall. Over it, under it, through it—I have no idea, but they’ve been trickling steadily into the forest and Outskirts, and we’re down to a skeleton crew of the damn things. No pun intended.”

“Wait,” Rector said again. “You want the rotters here?”

Yaozu sighed again, as if he were second-guessing his decision and wishing he had someone smarter immediately at hand. He spoke slowly, enunciating so carefully that if Rector had closed his eyes, he might’ve imagined it was a white man speaking. “Yes, Rector. I want the rotters here. They’re disgusting, they’re ravenous, they’re violent, and they keep the city safe from outsiders.”

“They do?”

“Even more than the gas, they prevent people from coming and going. The gas can be managed with a mask and a handful of filters. The walking dead are something else entirely—not just a physical threat, but a psychological one, too. No one wants to become a rotter, Rector. People chop off their body parts to keep from becoming rotters. They shoot their friends in the head to prevent the fate from befalling others.”

“No, you’re right, I understand. But still … why keep them around?”

“You aren’t paying attention, or you aren’t thinking. I do hope your brainpower improves once you’ve had another day or two of rest. At this rate, I’m not sure you’ll survive a week.” Yaozu retrieved his wire-rimmed spectacles from the stack of paper, then unfolded them and put them on. He picked up the topmost sheets and shuffled through them. When he found what he wanted, he pushed the glasses up onto his forehead.

“Rector, do you have any idea how much money comes and goes from Seattle in any given year?”

“No sir, I don’t.”