Right there I felt a hundred pounds slide off my chest. I felt relaxed for the first time in days. I really liked my crew, zombies or no. We’d make it.
I decided to tell them. “Men,” I said, “I think we’ll really get along. I think we’ve got the makings of a sweet, smooth sling-shot. You’ll find me—”
And I stopped. That cold, slightly mocking look in their eyes. They way they had glanced at each other when I told them I thought we’d get along, glanced at each other and blown slightly through distended nostrils. I realized that none of them had said anything since they’d come in; they’d just been watching me, and their eyes weren’t exactly warm.
I stopped and let myself take a long, deep breath. For the first time, it was occurring to me that I’d been worrying about just one end of the problem, and maybe the least important end. I’d been worrying about how I’d react to them and how much I’d be able to accept them as shipmates. They were zombies, after all. It had never occurred to me to wonder how they’d feel about me.
And there was evidently something very wrong in how they felt about me.
“What is it, men?” I asked. They all looked at me inquiringly. “What’s on your minds?”
They kept looking at me. Weinstein pursed his lips and tilted his chair back and forth. It creaked. Nobody said anything.
I got off the desk and walked up and down in front of the classroom. They kept following me with their eyes.
“Grey,” I said. “You look as if you’ve got a great big knot inside you. Want to tell me about it?”
“No, Commander,” he said deliberately. “I don’t want to tell you about it.”