They don’t seem to want to include him in their interlocking hexagons, but they don’t mind his tagging along. They’ll form up and shuffle after some whiff of blood (as strong to him, now, as the taste of blue cheese); if the source is behind any particular obstruction, they’ll complain and bump into each other for a while. On scavenging missions (never on hunts) Barlowe smashes the wall open and lets them feast.

They’re not really digesting when they eat–he’s figured out that much. They’re liquefying it, preparing it, like ants or pigeons.

“It was in the fridge.”

“Who knows how long the brownouts lasted around here?” she points out. “Just pour water on your cereal.”

“Ugh, tried that when I was a kid. Better to eat it dry, drink the water. Which is weird.” He rummages through the pantry. “No cans.”

“I doubt gated community families planned for…” Donyelle glances out the window. The dead are still shuffling by in perfect hexagons. She shivers.

“Hey, a weather radio! Battery-powered!” Antoine fiddles; the little woodgrain box crackles and spits.

“Great,” mutters Donyelle, “very Silent Hill.”

The smell leads him to a blood-slick pit of his fellows, frothing, groaning and gnawing at shards of skull. Barlowe puts down a finger and wipes a bit of gray matter off someone else’s uncaring shoulder. He’s very hungry. He puts it in his acid mouth.

A bit rich, he decides, and resolves to look around for a cheese shop.

He’s got the cat’s tail now, but the cat’s left it behind and taken his tongue. Barlowe breathes deep and gets no oxygen: instead he gets rich, deep smells, more information than he ever had from color vision. One of the smells is bright with fear. He starts to follow it, and he’s not alone.

Dawn blues the horizon and the fire escape mostly breaks his fall. Shamblers fill the street, aimless, turning whenever they bounce off a wall or lamppost. Their voices are a rising group moan: communication? A bee dance, maybe, about feeding grounds and dangers. He can’t understand it. Their congress teases but eludes his mind.

In which, he thinks, it’s just like being alive.