'Shamblers', Elizabeth Says.

Willry packs his pipe, hands soft and methodical when they dive. The streets along the strand are dead, empty menacing nano carbon jellyfish drift overhead. Security drones recommission from guarding empty warehouses in order to patrol the water line. These anthricide cults will stares at her, his swollen pupils strike her as netic seeds pushed by thumb into yielding soill. It's a way of resuming control, he says, setting his vapor pipe down. Of an uncontrollable situation, it's mass suicide.