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alive, that part would rather they believed I was dead.
    “You keep asking questions,” Reilly says. “About the attacks, revitalizeds, why you’re different to reviveds, how you wound up here. These people can give you some answers.”
    “Reilly!” I shout as he steps outside. “Don’t leave me hanging like that. Tell me who…”
    But the door has already closed. I’m locked in, alone and ignorant, as I have been for most of my incarceration.
    But not for much longer if Reilly’s to be believed.

FIVE
    The visitors are a doctor and a soldier.
    The doctor is a thin, balding man with a carefully maintained pencil mustache. He squints a lot, like someone who needs glasses but refuses to admit it. He didn’t tell me his name when he entered, or even acknowledge my presence. He just stood with his hands crossed in front of him until a table and chair were put in place, then sat and said stiffly, “I am Dr. Cerveris.”
    The soldier is friendlier. He brought in the table, set it down, then went out to fetch the chairs. He also brought through a mobile TV and DVD player. At first I thought he was a regular soldier, but when he sat down with the doctor and nodded to let him know it was time to begin, I realized he must be someone important.
    “I’m Josh Massoglia,” he introduced himself, smiling widely. “But you can stick with Josh. Everybody else does. No one can pronounce my surname. I even struggle with it myself sometimes.”
    Josh laughed and I smiled. He’s a good-looking guy, in a rugged kind of way. Hard to tell what color his hair is, since it’s shaved down to the roots. He wears a plain green sweater over his shirt and acts like he’s just one of the guys, but he has an air of authority. Dr. Cerveris is snooty, like someone who thinks he’s a VIP. Josh is more laid-back, so comfortable with his power that he doesn’t feel like he needs to prove anything.
    The doctor pulls on a pair of thick plastic gloves and asks if he can examine me. I stand still while he prods and probes my fingers and face. I hesitate when he asks me to take off my T-shirt. Josh grins and turns away. I still feel awkward–I never liked undressing in front of doctors or nurses–but I disrobe as requested.
    “Remarkable,” Dr. Cerveris murmurs as he studies the wretched hole where my heart once beat.
    “Take a photo if you like it that much,” I grunt.
    “I’ve already seen lots of snapshots of it,” he says.
    I frown, wondering when the photos were taken, but I don’t ask.
    Dr. Cerveris sits again and Josh turns his chair around.
    “You’ve taken to this like a duck to water,” Josh notes.
    “You mean being dead?”
    “Yeah. Most revitalizeds struggle. It takes a lot of counselingbefore they begin to adapt to their new circumstances. But you…” He whistles admiringly.



“Shit happens,” I sniff, not telling him that of course there are times when I want to scream and sob, but that I don’t plan to give these bastards the pleasure of seeing me crumble. “So are there a lot of revitalizeds?” I ask casually.
    “A few,” Josh replies vaguely.
    “We haven’t been able to establish an estimated ratio of revitalizeds to reviveds,” Dr. Cerveris says. “But from what we have witnessed, only a fraction of the undead populace appears to recover consciousness.”
    “Any idea why?”
    “We have some theories,” he says.
    “Care to share them with me?”
    “No.”
    I scowl at the doctor, then glance at Josh. “How long have I been here?”
    “In this cell?”
    “No.
Here
.” I wave a hand around, indicating the entire complex. “How long since the attack on the school?”
    “Six months, give or take,” Josh says.
    I process that glumly. Half a year of my life that I can never get back. This is one of those times when I feel very small and alone, but I don’t let them see that. “Do all revitalizeds take that long to recover?” I ask instead, acting like the gap in my life is no big