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Rosenbloom to her, encouraging but firm as she struggled through that Mozart sonata, his hurt smile directing her to feel the music he was shorter than Martin and his hair was sandy colored. God, the light on his neck and chest. She was 13, so close to blushing all the time that she had to act like a zombie to keep herself under control. Played like one, too. God. No, it wasn't Mr. Rosenbloom.
It wasn't any good. A shape loomed near them. A thing that must have sprung from them someway. A huge, zombie form the ugliest part of this night of anguish and distortion. But he was sure that it was real. The thing struck him in the stomach. Then there was a biting pain in his shoulder... There wasn't any more, just then. But this wasn't quite the end, either.
One word from Douglas and she had become a zombie a mindless muscle preparation that existed only to obey. Anger filled him anger that one he loved could be ordered by someone who wasn't worth a third of her anger that she obeyed anger at his own impotence and frustration. It wasn't a clean anger.
She supposed that the sparked imagination that could deliver him from being a somber, adult zombie, alive only in insatiable hungers, was important enough that she didn't have to think of such lies as bad.
And when I thought of my own hopes and dreams, I had to remind myself that I was not a mentally ill zombie unable to deal with the real world. I realized that Rama had taught me to think this way. I also realized that I could, in time, unlearn these associations. I told myself I was doing okay. I was doing well at my job. I was saving money and paying off loans.
I was E. R's and K's surrounded E. E got destroyed. Each time I played, E got destroyed. I logged off and walked away. I plodded over soft, squishy lawns. The sprinklers were on. I got wet. I felt like a zombie. I felt small. I crisscrossed campus several times more. I was tired. I thought about sleeping in the computer room. I was afraid to return to the Centre. I was afraid of facing Atmananda.
"Do you remember clouds, the sound of water? Trees, grass...?" She actually smiled, wistfully. "Yes. Sunday afternoons. A blue dress. My mother when she was alive... A dog I had, once..." Helen Rodan wasn't quite a zombie, after all. Maybe he could win her confidence, if he went slow... But twenty hours later, at the diggings, when Dutch stumbled over Frank's sifter, she reverted.
Hanson remembered the man with whom he'd been talking before Nema appeared. He'd have liked to know such a man before death and revivification had ruined him. It wasn't fair that anyone with character enough to be that human even as a zombie should be wiped out without even a moment's consideration. Then he remembered the man's own estimate of his current situation.
It was hard to tell that she was a girl at all. She wasn't a girl. It was soon plain that she was a zombie with about ten words in her vocabulary. How could a girl have gotten to this impossible region, anyway? Now Frank tried to delay Lester's inevitable complete crackup by encouraging his interest in their situation. "It's big, Les," he said. "It's got to be!
It was as though the blow had not been struck; as though this were some kind of a moving, breathing zombie. So tangible, so seemingly sourceless was this feeling of loathing, that Hagen would have been sure it had affected only himself if he had not seen its effect on the others. Yet none of them referred to it.
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