The Steam Age: Gears and Bones

Chapter 3 Zombies

Perfitter barely slept all night.

She sat in her study, read the confidential report William had left her four times, then spread out a blank sheet of experimental record paper and began to write and draw on it in shorthand symbols that only she could understand.

This notebook combines knowledge from two worlds—part from her years of alchemy practice in this world, and part from memories in her mind that can no longer be accessed in a normal way.

Zombies.

She quickly wrote down several keywords on the paper and then analyzed them one by one—transmission route, infection mechanism, incubation period, factors that induce corpse transformation, and the degree of damage to the central nervous system.

These concepts may seem like fantasy to people in this world.

For alchemists of this era, disease was either a bodily imbalance or a defilement of the soul; for the church, all inexplicable evil was a curse.

She needs to find an explanation that is acceptable to everyone between these two completely different cognitive systems.

Those black, gelatinous substances come from some kind of pollution that has not yet been recognized.

It can erode the body's circulatory system and gradually replace normal physiological functions.

The infected person goes through at least three identifiable stages from being scratched to becoming a zombie—which perfectly matches William's description.

If her hypothesis is correct, then there is a crucial "window period" during which intervention might prevent the further spread of the infection.

But the prerequisite is that she must see the sample with her own eyes first.

As the first rays of morning light streamed through the window, Perfit put down his pen and rubbed his tired eyes.

She had been sitting in the chair for too long, and her back and shoulders were as stiff as a board.

She stood up, stretched her limbs, and then went into the dressing room to change into a set of casual clothes that were easy to move in—a shirt, riding breeches, long boots, and a dark gray woolen overcoat.

This outfit would be considered unconventional on a noblewoman, but she didn't care.

Then she went downstairs alone, passed through the inconspicuous side door at the end of the corridor, and pushed open the door leading to the underground laboratory.

This laboratory is the most complete and precious part of the legacy left by her parents.

The Brandliss couple were among the Empire's most accomplished alchemists, and they built what was then considered a top-tier alchemical laboratory beneath the manor.

She did not alter the main structure of the laboratory, but the equipment layout and operational flow were redesigned.

The glassware on the lab bench was neatly arranged and divided into several different functional areas according to her own usage habits. Each experimental material was placed in a sealed jar with a waterproof label that accurately marked its name and number.

Several locked metal cabinets appeared in the corner, and an air filtration device of her own design was installed next to the ventilation duct.

The wooden shelves against the wall were filled with all sorts of experimental protective equipment: from the most basic cotton gauze masks to activated carbon filter respirators that she made herself using alchemy.

She took out several bottles of medicine from the metal cabinet, quickly glanced at the numbers on the labels, and picked out two of them to put into her small leather suitcase.

Then he took two brand-new breathing masks off the wall and stuffed them in along with several pairs of rubber-coated gloves.

The gloves are a version she made in her workshop last year. They are thinner and fit the hand shape better than the original prototype. Although they still cannot compare with the medical latex gloves from her past life, they are sufficient to protect against blood contact.

After doing all that, she opened the innermost drawer.

Inside the drawer lay a small, compact women's revolver, its barrel only slightly longer than her palm.

She made this by hand in her own workshop two years ago. She processed each part herself on a machine tool, quenched it herself using alchemy, and tested it out one by one.

The cylinder can hold six bullets, which she reloads herself—they have fixed copper casings and use mercury fulminate primers.

In an era when flintlock muskets were still in use, this gun was a creation that should never have existed.

She placed the gun, along with two boxes of ammunition, into a compartment in the suitcase, closed the lid, and locked it.

After doing all this, Perfit picked up the suitcase with one hand, pushed open the laboratory door, and walked back up the stairs leading to the ground.

When she reached the end of the stairs, she paused and exhaled a thin puff of white breath.

"Belfa," she said.

In the darkness, the alchemist maid silently emerged from the shadows of the corridor and took the suitcase from her hands.

Throughout the entire process, the alchemical doll did not make any unnecessary noise.

The old butler, Foster, was already waiting for her in the hall, a dagger on the low table beside him.

When Perfit came over, he handed him the dagger along with its leather sheath.

Perfit drew his blade and glanced at it—an extremely ancient alchemical array was engraved on the blade, heavily worn, but a faint blue glow still flowed between the array patterns.

This is a very high-level alchemical artifact, at least two or three hundred years old.

"This is what the master brought back from the desert kingdom," Foster said in a low, steady voice. "He said this knife had killed things that shouldn't have been alive."

Perfit sheathed the knife and fastened it to his belt.

She did not refuse, because refusing would be meaningless at this time.

"I will have Belfast by your side," the old butler said, glancing at the alchemical maid standing quietly beside Perfit. "If things go wrong, she will take you out directly without needing anyone's permission."

"Is this considered a butler's privilege?" Perfitt rarely showed a smile.

"This is a request from an old man who watched you grow up." Foster bowed deeply to her.

As the morning light shone, Perfit got into the steam carriage she had designed and built herself.

Belfast sat opposite her, her hands neatly placed on her knees, looking no different from an ordinary young maid.

Only Perfit knew that beneath this artificial skin lay her most prized alchemical creation to date—an autonomous doll equipped with a precision differential machine and a set of mechanical logic instructions.

In a direct confrontation, this seemingly frail alchemical maid is capable of shredding a fully armed heavy knight, and even a superhuman knight with a formal class, in a head-on battle.

It took her two whole years to debug Belfast's control system to this extent. In a sense, Belfast is her "safety redundancy".

The carriage traveled along the gravel road outside Langdon, and after nearly two hours of bumpy travel, it finally arrived at a manor deep in the suburbs.

Perfit didn't get out of the car immediately, but instead quickly scanned the layout of the estate through the car window.

Four concealed gun emplacements were mounted at the four corners of the garden wall. The guards patrolling the perimeter of the estate wore grey cotton veils and Royal Marine insignia on their chests.

Judging from their stance and weapon configuration, this is at least a reinforced platoon.

A middle-aged man wearing a white lab coat and metal-framed glasses quickly approached.

He was around fifty years old, with messy hair and a special badge of the Alchemist Guild pinned to his collar, but the edge of the badge was badly worn, indicating that he had been wearing it for many years.

"Miss Perfit Brandlis," he extended his hand to her, "I'm Archibald, the interim head of this research group. To be honest, I didn't expect you to come."

Perfitt shook his hand and cut to the chase: "The last thing I want to see right now is Langton becoming the next St. Petersburg. Where's the sample?"

Archibald's expression changed visibly, but he quickly dropped the formalities and led her into the manor.

"The main body of the research base is built underground, and there are currently three floors," Archibald explained as he walked, speaking quickly. "The samples are stored on the third underground floor, and all experiments are also conducted there."

But before I take you down there, I need to tell you something—four researchers have already shown symptoms of infection.

Perfit paused.

"When was it discovered?" she asked.

"The first one was three days ago. He was in charge of examining the blood from sample number seven under a microscope, and he cut his finger on a piece of glass while doing so." Archibald took off his glasses and wiped them slowly, as if he didn't want to face the fact. "Then yesterday, three more people came. They didn't handle the samples directly, but were responsible for handling the experimental equipment used by that researcher."

"In other words, the infection can be transmitted indirectly through a medium." Perfitt's tone was as if stating a fact she had already confirmed. "Have you isolated anyone who came into contact with the samples?"

"They're already in isolation. All researchers showing symptoms have been placed in isolation wards on the second floor of the base." Archibald put his glasses back on. "But there's still one problem—two professors insist that the wilt disease is some kind of curse on the soul, and they refuse to wear any protective gear, believing that's the Church's responsibility."

Perfit stopped and turned to look at Archibald.

"Professor Archibald, I have a suggestion." Her tone remained calm, but her words were noticeably gentler than before. "If those two professors insist that the withering disease is merely a curse of the soul and refuse to wear protective gear—then they'd better leave the base first."

She paused, as if considering her words.

She wasn't the head of the research group; she was just an alchemist temporarily brought in by the Navy and had no authority to dismiss anyone directly.

But she also knew that if those two professors who refused to take precautions were allowed to remain in the lab, they would not only kill themselves, but also others.

“This isn’t a matter of stance,” she finally said. “If they think this stuff isn’t contagious, then they won’t take precautions seriously. And in this base, one person’s negligence could infect everyone.”

As she said that, she was thinking about something else.

In this day and age, convincing someone that "diseases can be spread through unseen microorganisms" is no less difficult than getting a medieval farmer to understand electricity.

Traditional alchemists were accustomed to using terms like "soul" and "curse" to explain all phenomena they did not understand, while the church tended to attribute all evil to the corruption of the Old Gods.

If those two professors weren't planning to take the threat posed by this zombie seriously from the start, then they didn't deserve to be here. She didn't want to have to worry about the person behind her suddenly taking off their gloves and making the sign of the cross while she was doing the dissection.

Archibald was silent for a few seconds, then finally nodded: "I will report to the Navy."