Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Mum and Dad.

Reilly hasn't told me anything about the outside world. We've spent a lot of time together. He chats with me about all sorts of things, soccer, TV shows we used to watch, our lives before the zombie uprising. But he won't discuss the attack on my school or any of the other assaults that took place that day. I've no idea if order has been restored or if the soldiers and medics here are the only people left alive in the whole wide world. I've pushed him hard for answers, but although Reilly's been good to me, he can play deaf and dumb to perfection when he wants.

I've said a few prayers for Mum and Dad, even though I'm not the praying type. For Mum especially. It's strange. I thought I loved Dad more. He was the one I respected, the one I wanted to impress. Mum was weak in my opinion, a coward and a fool for letting her husband knock her about the place. I stood up for her and always tried to help when he'd lay into her, because that's what you do for your mum, but if you'd ask me to name a favorite, I'd have chosen Dad, despite all his flaws.

But she's the one I miss most. Maybe it's because of what Dad did the day I died. He came to rescue me. Risked his own life to try to save me. But then he made me throw Tyler to the zombies, turned me into a killer, and since then...

No. That's a lie, and I don't want to lie to myself anymore. I've done too much of that in the past. Be truthful, B. Dad didn't force me. I threw Tyler to the zombies because I was scared and it was the easy thing to do.

Dad hated foreigners and people who had different beliefs. I never wanted to be like him in that respect, but to keep him quiet I acted as if I was, and in the end it rubbed off on me. I became a monster. I don't ever want to allow that to happen again, but if I'm to keep the beast inside me under control, I have to accept that the guilt was mine for doing what Dad told me to do. You can't blame other people for sins of your own making.

I sit up, swing my legs off the bed and scowl. No use worrying about Mum and Dad until I have more information. I'm sure answers will be revealed in time. They can't be keeping me alive just to hold me in this cell forever. I have to be patient. Explanations will come. If I have to mourn, I'll do it once their deaths are confirmed. Until then I need to hope for the best.

To distract myself, I focus on the throbbing noise. It's constant, the rumbling of machines in the distance, AC, oxygen being pumped in for the living. It never ceases. It drove me mad for the first few days, but now I find it comforting. Without a TV, iPod, or anything else, it's the only way I have of amusing myself when Reilly's not around. I tune into the hum when I'm bored and try to put images to the noises, to imagine what's happening outside this cell, soldiers marching, medics conducting their experiments, the teenagers in leather....

Hmm. I've no idea who they were. I'm pretty sure, judging by the green moss on the tall guy's cheek, that they're like me, zombies who can think and act the way they did before they died. Reilly refers to us as revitalizeds. The ordinary, mindless zombies are reviveds. But why were the revitalizeds in that room with weapons? Are they prisoners like me, or are they cooperating with the soldiers? Where did they come from? Why are they - we - different from the others? Is there hope for us? Can we be cured?

I sneer at that last question. "Of course you can't be cured, you dumb bitch," I snort. "Not unless you can find the Wizard of Oz to give you a brand-new heart."

I get up and stand in front of the mirror. I seem to be studying myself a lot recently. It's not that I'm vain. There just isn't anything else to do. But I'm not interested in my face this time. I was wearing the shredded, filthy remains of my school uniform when I regained consciousness. That's been replaced with a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

I pull the T-shirt up to my chin and stare at my ruined chest. I never had big tits. Vinyl used to call them bee stings. I told him I'd do worse than sting him if he kept on saying that, but I liked Vinyl, so I let him get away with it.

My right boob is the same as it was before. But my left is missing, torn from my chest by Tyler Bayor. A fair bit of the flesh around it is missing too. And my heart's been ripped out, leaving an unnatural, grisly hole in its place.

Bits of bone poke through the flesh around the hole, and I can see all sorts of tubes inside, veins, arteries and what-have-you. Congealed blood meshes the mess together, along with the green moss that sprouts lightly all over the wound. Every so often a few drops of blood ooze out of one of the tubes. But it's not like it used to be. This blood is much thicker, the consistency of jelly, and the flow always stops after a second or two.

I quizzed Reilly about that. Without a heart, there shouldn't be any flow at all. The same way that, without working lungs, I shouldn't be able to speak.

"The body remembers," he said. "At least it does in revitalizeds."

"What the hell does that mean?" I frowned.

"When you recovered your wits, your brain started trying to control the rest of your body, the way it did when you were alive," he explained. "You don't need to breathe anymore, but your brain thinks that you should, so it forces your lungs to expand and collapse, which is why you can talk. You can stop it when you focus - if you shut your mouth and close your nose, your lungs will shut down after a minute or two - but most of the time your lungs work away in the background, even though there's no reason why they should.

"If you had a heart, it would be the same. Your brain would tell it to pump blood around your body. It wouldn't operate as smoothly as it did before - no more than a weak pulse every few minutes - but it would keep the blood circulating, albeit sluggishly.

"Now, you don't have a heart," Reilly said unsympathetically, "but the brain's a stubborn organ and it's doing the best it can. It's roped in some of your other organs and is using them to nudge your veins and arteries, to compensate for the missing pump. Some of the scientists here are blown away by that. They've never seen a body do it before. They think you're the coolest thing since sliced bread. They'd love to take you off to their labs to study you in depth."

"Who's stopping them?" I asked, but at that the soldier clammed up again.

I've poked my finger into the cavity in my chest a few times, dipped it in the blood and smeared it across my tongue. But I can't tell if it tastes any different. My taste buds have gone to hell. My mouth is dry - my tongue feels like it's made of sandpaper - and apart from a foul staleness that is always there, I haven't been able to identify any specific tastes.

I sigh as I stare at the hole. It shocked me the first few times. I couldn't believe that was really me. I turned my back on the image and tried to cry. Shook my head and refused to accept that this was what I'd become. But now it doesn't bother me that much. I don't let it. Why should I? After all...

"Heh," I laugh humorlessly at my reflection.

... life's too short!