Divine Fantasy (6 page)

A way out. A werewolf
. I didn’t like the sound of either of those things, and decided to put off any
questions about his state of mind until another day. If he was still suicidal, I didn’t want to know it. There might be other zombies that needed killing. Since he’d done so well with the first, I wanted him in fighting shape.

Still, I had to ask.

“Lycanthropy was a way out?” I was proud that I knew the proper term for the disease associated with werewolves.

He raised a brow but nodded. “I thought all I would need to do is get someone to shoot me with a silver bullet when I was in animal form.”

So, he was definitely suicidal. And possibly delusional, though I had just seen a walking corpse, so I was reserving judgment about the werewolf thing for the time being.

“But it didn’t work, obviously.”

“No. And it hurt like hell for weeks after. It didn’t even cure me of being a…werewolf.” He obviously didn’t like the word. “Apparently I can regenerate the lycanthropy virus as well as flesh and bone.” He frowned slightly and fell silent.

“But on the bright side, as monsters go, you are rather attractive,” I finally said, closing my eyes again. I’d decided I didn’t want any more questions answered. It was too freaky. One impossibility at a time. Okay, two: I believed in walking corpses and that this man was Ambrose Bierce. Acceptance of the werewolf part would have to wait until some of the other shock wore off.

“Yes. And I still have an absolutely superhuman knack for chicanery. And for spotting it in others.
It’s like…psychic pattern recognition of my enemies’ thoughts and plans. Or maybe it’s precognition. Which is why this zombie is disturbing.”

“Is
that
why the zombie is disturbing?” I asked. “And I thought it was that a dead body was walking around trying to kill us. Uh…it was trying to kill us?”

“Oh, yes.” He chuckled, and I wondered if I was ever going to see what amused him. After a moment he stopped laughing. When he spoke, his voice was serious. “No one except you knows I own this island. I have a new identity and it was purchased by a shell company owned by a series of blind corporations. And I was willing to swear no one knew about the lycanthropy either. That attack happened in a small village where everyone human was killed a week later. It’s why I’ve felt safe exiling myself here during the full moon.”

“So you…?” I searched for a way to phrase the question.

“I go furry,” he said. “I shape-shift. I’m not completely out of control as a werewolf, but let’s say my inhibitions are lowered to dangerous levels and it isn’t safe for me or anyone around me. I have to hide myself away from people who seem like little more than things to play with.”

Inhibitions. I usually think of this word in connection with sex, but he might have meant the other inhibitions. The ones that keep us from being cannibals and eating each other when we start feeling peckish.

“I see. And the zombies?” I sat up and began
brushing off sand. It was a futile gesture. It had dried on me in a gritty powder that refused to be dislodged. “They’re the voodoo ritual kind, not
Night of the Living Dead
disease kind?”

“I think so. I hope so. They’re bloodhounds of a sort. The man who makes them now—he’s the Dark Man’s son, actually. You’ve heard of him, too. He’s the philanthropist, Saint Germain. I know it’s him doing it because I am ninety-nine percent sure that Dippel is dead. Finally. He died at Christmas three years ago, and even Dippel doesn’t have that long of a reach. Zombies don’t last long in hot climates. They’re rotting, walking flesh bags, and other diseases and parasites feed on them. Any creature Dippel made would be gone now.”

Ambrose didn’t wait for me to comment, which was a good thing because I was speechless. Saint Germain? Santa Claus to the poor and sick of the third world, recently nominated for some peace prize, was making zombies? “He sent that thing after me,” Ambrose said. “Deliberately and with malice aforethought—just as he has his father’s other…patients. That means Saint Germain knows I am alive and that I come to this island during the full moon. And since a zombie would have rotted or been eaten by something if it walked all the way from Mexico, that means Saint Germain is somewhere nearby, raising the dead and searching for me.”

“Why?” I asked baldly. “Why would he care about you?”

“That is the question of the hour. A zombie is a
rather hostile calling card, don’t you think? Not as bad as a ghoul, but unpleasant enough. Especially if they travel in packs.”

I didn’t want to ask—I didn’t! I already had more than an enough on my terrified mind. But my mouth formed the words anyway: “A ghoul?”

“Yes. An eater of the dead. The very newly dead. In fact, they usually like to kill their prey—humans—and eat them on the spot if there are no protesting witnesses. They are much faster, much meaner and much smarter than the slower zombies, who prefer to eat the living. It saves time when you don’t kill your food first. They are a sort of uber-zombie, often made of animal and human parts. They’re Saint Germain’s version of a Frankenstein monster.”

“How fortunate for us that we were only attacked by a zombie,” I said.

“Indeed. And I must say, you’ve taken this all rather well.” His voice was approving. “A lesser woman would be screaming for a seaplane and the American consulate. And perhaps for the men in white coats to come and take me away.”

“I haven’t taken it
that
well. On the inside I’m having hysterics. They’ll probably come out when I catch my breath. Though not in front of any consulate employees, because I’d be declared insane instead of you, wouldn’t I?” This wasn’t entirely true, though. I mean about having hysterics. The rest was. Any government employee would definitely declare me bug-munching mad if I appeared in their office and started babbling about zombies.
But blind panic had left me some moments before. I was freaked out, but beginning to be fascinated by the sheer weird horror of the situation. Maybe it was the writer in me, the historian who wants to know the truth and is willing to accept unpleasant things if it means getting to the bottom of a story. Or maybe I was even less normal than I ever realized. Did chronic alienation from the rest of the world enable a person to accept nontraditional beliefs?

“On the inside, eh? It’s the best place to have them. They are less annoying to others that way.” Ambrose rose easily and offered me a hand. It was long-fingered and, I recalled, very strong. There should have been some hesitation after what I had witnessed him doing, but I reached out immediately and let him pull me to my feet. As our hands clasped, I felt a jolt of what might have been electricity travel up my arm and reach into my chest. Some of my pain went away as my heart returned to a steady beat. I’ve been defibrillated before, when my heartbeat has become erratic, and this was something similar though far less painful.

“Let’s get you back to your cottage so you can have a hot shower. And some olives. You’ve earned them.”

I nodded in agreement. I also kept holding his hand. I don’t normally follow meekly when men decide to lead, but I still didn’t know if I was coming or going, and I was just as happy not to loiter on the beach alone.

I glanced back once, feeling odd about walking
off with a body burning in the barbecue pit. There was surprisingly little smoke now. It seemed to mainly be steam that was rolling out of the pit and toward the water. Deep down, in the part of my brain that likes things neatly classified, I did hear a small voice asking if what had just happened was murder. But the rest of my brain answered back with a resounding
no
. The creature Ambrose had cooked was already dead. I was absolutely sure of that. The worst thing we could be accused of was destroying a body. That wasn’t good, but it wasn’t murder.

“Ambrose?” I asked reluctantly.

“Yes?”

“How do you know it was just one zombie headed here? That it wasn’t part of a pack?”

“I was rather hoping that you wouldn’t ask me that. Once I’ve stashed you in the shower, I’m going for a swim.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, stopping. Or, rather, pausing. I may have stopped moving my feet, but Ambrose didn’t, and he was stronger than I. It was walk or get dragged. “What if something happens to you? I’ll be here all alone with the zombies.”

This was a slight exaggeration. There were a half-dozen employees and at least a dozen guests. But I wasn’t willing to bet that any one of them knew how to deal with zombies as effectively as he did. I wasn’t so out of the mainstream of human life that I didn’t know that zombie hunting was unusual. “You may be immortal, but I’m not.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked. “I really can’t
recommend getting back in the water. You were lucky to get away from it, you know. They’re very strong, and they don’t need air.”

I swallowed. “I know. I mean, I know I was lucky. The sharks gave me some warning but it was still too close a thing.”

“The sharks?”

“Yes, a bunch of gray reef sharks came blasting out on the void like Moby Dick with Ahab on his tail. At first I thought they were chasing after the baby turtles, but I could see that they were swimming right past. I figured if that thing could scare sharks away, then I would be dumb to linger.”

That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but it made me seem less cowardly and more logical, and I found that I wanted Ambrose’s respect.

“I don’t like the sound of this. There could be more than one if the sharks are being driven shoreward in any numbers.”

“All the more reason for me to keep watch,” I said. “From shore. Do you have a gun?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, and then changed directions abruptly, cutting into the narrow belt of palm trees that separated the cottages from the main office and dining room. Since my feet were bare, I was grateful that the sand was smooth and free of shell fragments. “We’ll go to my cottage first. You do know how to use a gun?”

“Yes.” And I did. Not well, but I had once gone shooting with my father and the day had rather branded itself into my memory.

“Okay. Be careful not to shoot anyone except zombies,” he instructed.

“For sure.”

“And if you have to shoot a zombie, you’ll need to do it twice. Once in the head and once in the heart. Anything else just annoys them.”

“Okay,” I said, though things were far, far from being okay. “How many people are on the island now?” I asked. Translation:
How many people might I accidentally shoot?

“Only six cottages are rented, but the other guests will be leaving tomorrow. Everyone wants to be home for New Year’s Eve. It seems that it’s all right to avoid your family on Christmas, but not your friends on New Year’s.”

I shrugged. I didn’t feel judgmental.

“How many staff?”

“Emori, Jope, Manasa…Um, six. I can send them away tomorrow as well. If need be.”

Translation:
If the island is about to be overrun with zombies
. It was amazing how much information we were conveying to each other without actually saying much of anything.

“But you’re staying?” I asked him.

“Yes. Some fights you can’t back away from.”

“But some you can,” I insisted as we walked up to a small cottage set away from the others. The small windows were shuttered.

“I agree. But first I need to know what kind of fight this is. If I have to make a stand, I want it to be somewhere that innocent bystanders won’t be
involved. Anyway, if he’s found me once, he’ll find me again. At least this time, thanks to you, I have some warning and a home-field advantage.”

I sighed. “You’re a complicated man.”

Translation:
You’re an idiot, but very brave and I like your weird dark eyes
.

“Only on the outside,” he answered, opening the cottage door. I noticed at once that this cottage was different from mine. For one thing, the walls were a foot thick, the door was made of some kind of metal, and there were iron shutters on the inside of the windows and not just those cute bamboo ones on the outside. There were also no light fixtures, just an oil lamp on a small table. This seemed appropriate since Ambrose had been born before the days of neon and fluorescents and other man-made glares.

“Early Norman-invasion style,” I muttered. And unappealing in every way except one. Unfortunately, at that moment, thick walls and an iron door were what mattered most to me. I was ready to move in.

There was also almost no furniture. The effect was not some sort of restful Japanese simplicity, but reminded me more of a penitent’s cell. There was some support of this notion when I saw a small plaster statue resting on the window sill next to a burned-down candlestick. The inscription read: Lazaro.

Lazarus, patron saint of lepers and other outcasts. This item seemed strange to me at first. Ambrose Bierce had believed in God but had not been a religious man. It would have taken something
life-altering to drive him into the bosom of Catholic mysticism. But wasn’t that exactly what had happened? I’m theologically neutral and am not usually bothered by religious icons of other people’s faith, but this statue was disconcerting because it made things feel very real and very immediate, and all about good and evil. Ambrose Bierce required strength from a higher power. Wouldn’t I, a mere mortal, require help too? And if I did, would it be forthcoming? I don’t usually pray to any of the pantheon of Moral Absolutes of the ultimate gated community: saints, angels, Jesus, God himself. I guess I never had any faith that they would help little ol’ flawed me who was neither particularly moral nor absolute.

I forced myself to look away from the statue. If I needed anything else to confirm his story of being a werewolf, there were deep gouges in the concrete floor, suggestive marks that looked an awful lot like they were made by giant claws. I also saw what looked like a wisp of animal hair caught in the rough wood around the door. The golden brown fur was at shoulder height. There might also have been smudges of blood. Obviously housekeeping hadn’t been in to clean for a few days.

“Bad weekend?” I asked, staring at the fuzz and then the torn floor.

Ambrose paused, looking at the fur in the jamb for a moment before brushing it away.“Same old, same old. Like you, I hate the holidays. It seems that no matter what I do, I always end up with coal in my stocking and blood on my floor,” he answered,
disappearing into another room. I heard a drawer open. It screeched like a rusted file cabinet. Ambrose reappeared a minute later with a nine-millimeter handgun and a shotgun. He was also wearing a T-shirt that said: A
NY
D
AY
A
BOVE
T
HE
G
ROUND
I
S
A G
OOD
O
NE
. I concurred with the sentiment.