the autumn chill settled into Wunsoc, there were daily Hollowpox meetings and Jupiter and Inspector Rivers were constantly on call, leaping into action whenever strange Wunimal behaviour was reported somewhere in the city.
The task force had tripled in size and was increasingly comprised of Wunimal volunteers like Sofia reaching out to the friends and family of infected Wunimals, to collect data and help where they could. Dr Bramble and Dr Lutwyche were working round the clock trying to care for the infected and unravel the origins of the Hollowpox, desperate to find a cure, or a vaccine.
(Jupiter said that Dr Bramble, in particular, remained unconvinced of Morrigan’s monster theory. ‘A monster that looks like a disease and acts like a disease in the body must, for all intents and purposes, be treated like a disease – and therefore can be cured like one,’ she’d reportedly said. Morrigan had sniffed at that, and asked Jupiter to relay the fact that she remained unconvinced of Dr Bramble’s theory, if it could be called that.)
In the absence of any good news, the meetings usually devolved into an argument – typically over who the real victims of the Hollowpox were – when talk turned to the continued use of the teaching hospital’s staff and resources to care for the growing number of infected.
After all, people reasoned, were the ‘real victims’ those Wunimals lying in hospital beds, hollowed out and unresponsive? Or were they the people those Wunimals had attacked?
‘I propose that all Wunimals be exiled from Society grounds until we have a better understanding of what’s happening,’ Dulcinea Dearborn declared in that day’s meeting.
Morrigan might have imagined it, but she thought she saw Dearborn cast a disdainful look in Sofia’s direction. She clutched her book bag tightly to her chest to keep from throwing it at the Scholar Mistress’s head.
‘Hear, hear!’ shouted Baz Charlton from the third row.
‘I quite agree with Ms Dearborn.’ Francis’s Aunt Hester stood up from her seat to speak, and Francis sank down low in his. ‘I know that many of our adult Society members tend to forget this small fact, but we are trying to operate a school inside Proudfoot House. There are children here. Are we just supposed to wait around and hope that none of our teachers turn into raging, rabid unnimals? I for one am unwilling to take that risk any longer.’
‘Unnimals?’ roared Elder Saga, so loudly that Morrigan and the rest of Unit 919 all jumped at least an inch from their seats. He stamped his hooves on the ground and lowered his great horned head as if ready to charge. Nervous whispers broke out. ‘Did you just call us unnimals, Hester Fitzwilliam? The insolence!’
The atmosphere was unbearably tense; the entire gathering seemed poised to flee.
‘Elder Saga, compose yourself,’ said Elder Wong. He put out his hands in a calming gesture but Morrigan thought she could see him shaking a little. ‘I’m certain she didn’t mean to—’
‘To use a highly provocative slur against her fellow Society members, against her brothers and sisters?’ Elder Saga was practically shooting steam from his nostrils. Morrigan gripped the arms of her chair. ‘That is precisely what she meant to do.’
Hester was shaken by the sight of the enormous bullwun so enraged, but she recovered quickly, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘What I meant was that they are losing their speech, their intelligence, they are losing everything that makes them Wunimals. They are, in short, becoming unnimals, Elder Saga, whether you have the courage to admit that or not.’
‘The courage—’ began Elder Saga, but he was interrupted by a loud CRASH as the doors were flung open. Holliday Wu from the Public Distraction Department ran into the room and straight to Elder Quinn, whispering something in her ear and pressing a note into her hand.
The gathering fell silent. They seemed to hold their collective breath as Holliday rushed from the room, barely pausing after delivering her news. Elder Quinn stayed still and quiet for some time after she read the piece of paper, her expression unchanged. Finally, she spoke in a grave voice.
‘The Hollowpox has taken a life.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We’re All on the Same Side, Really
Elder Quinn’s words echoed in the Gathering Place.
‘Last night,’ she read from the paper aloud, ‘at the docks. Dozens of people witnessed the culmination of the Hollowpox in a baboonwun fisherman, who attacked a group of four young men disembarking from a boat. Three of them are being treated for serious injuries. One is