(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

I furrowed my eyebrows, and the muscle in my forehead twinged. Gods, did
they try stabbing me through the skull too? “Spy? For who?”
The zombie fell into a frightened silence. He seemed unwilling to say
anymore.
“C’mon. Who are you watching this place for?” I pressed.
“Hold on...” Morte sounded surprised. “This berk must be an Anarchist. Heh.
Posing as a zombie’s got to be a first for those addled sods.”
“Anarchist? Are they another faction?”
Morte nodded, “Anarchists... they’re a faction that wastes their time
peeping on authority figures and looking for ways to tear down anything
that stinks of order or control.” Morte snorted. “The Anarchists think every
berk across the Planes’ll be free and happy to seek out their own ‘truth’
once the establishment is burned to the ground. They want to establish a
new order -- no order at all.”
I tried to work out the logic in my head, but found there was none, “That
seems pretty... contradictory.”
The zombie was watching us both fearfully as we talked. He was still silent...
but something in his expression told me Morte’s guess was right on the
mark.
I turned to the zombie, “The Anarchists, huh? That who you’re watching this
place for?” He turned away from me, starting to glance around fearfully.
I gave him a reassuring smile. After all, I knew what it was like to have to
hide from the Dustmen, “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. What
have you seen the Dustmen do, anyway?”
The fellow visibly relaxed, “Nuthin’. They do nuthin’. Can’t find nuthin’.
Dead, dead, juhst dead people, Duhstees do nuthin'.” Even bored to tears,
his eyes narrowed in conviction. “Still I watch.”
“I don’t suppose you know Pharod?”
“Fuh-AROD?” The zombie frowned briefly in thought. “Me... heer he live in
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