Human for a Day (9781101552391) (19 page)

There were eighteen of them . . . Crips . . . pacing, talking, waiting . . . for what? Drug dealers didn't travel in such numbers—there were three last year in this very spot. We couldn't take eighteen. Nineteen; one came around the corner, zipping up his pants. What were they waiting for?

I touched Bill's arm and whispered. “The odds. We can't do this.” I gestured for us to go back the way we came. Maybe next year the numbers would be—

“We happy few.”

I sucked in a breath of surprise. The words were One-from-Seven's.

“We band of bronze. For he today that sheds blood with me—” And then One-from-Seven was away, rushing toward the gang, right hand pulling back, fingers fumbling with the cork and pin of the Mills bomb. It was an early-version hand grenade, heavy, and after he lobbed it he flattened himself against the ground. I heard a whistle and sensed it hit the grass. It was so dark, I couldn't tell just where it landed.

I blinked as the ground erupted, clumps of earth and pieces of gang members showering up. The duck waddled forward, quacking in challenge. Bill charged just as One-from-Seven got to his feet and hurled his second bomb. “Get down!” he hollered.

Bill dropped in response and I skittered fast, passing by the duck. One-from-Seven found cover behind a tree. There was the whistle and the thud that I felt more than heard, shouts from the Crips, then another explosion. My face was wet. I brushed it away—blood.

“Though abominable doghearted hedge-pig!” Bill cried as he met the charge of one of the four survivors. My feet churned across the loam to close the distance just as Bill broke the arm that held a switchblade. I'd nearly reached Bill's side when he snapped the ganger's neck and dropped him. Then both of us dropped to our knees just as a semi-automatic sprayed the air where our heads had been.

One-from-Seven drove forward, knocking down the one with the gun and wrestling the weapon away. Bill and I raced toward the two remaining, who were both fumbling to pull pistols.

“Thou viperous white-livered infection!” Bill took down the closest, wrapping his arms around the ganger's waist. There was a sickening crunch as the Crip's back broke, the scream dying with him.

I was on the other, nimbly vaulting over the fallen form of one of the Crips done in by a Mills bomb. He aimed the gun at me, but it was shaking. His hand was trembling and his pock-marked face was spotted with his fellow's blood.

“Surrender,” I offered.

The gun started to lower as Bill moved in.

“Thou qualling pumpion,” Bill declared as his hands grabbed the ganger's head and twisted.

I'd heard enough Shakespeare plays in the park to know they were filled with bloodshed . . .
Julius Caesar
,
Hamlet
,
Romeo and Juliet
. Bill had a vicious streak that served us well tonight.

“That'll about do it,” I said.

One-from-Seven proved I was wrong. Our soldier was armed, a semi-automatic in his left hand and a pistol he'd picked up off one of the other bodies in his right. He fired both in a sweeping pattern, some of the bullets biting into the ground, but others into the legs of a group of Bloods. I was right; the nineteen Crips had been waiting for something. There was going to be some sort of . . . rumble . . . was the term I'd settled on as Bill and I sought cover around the corner of the castle. I'd thought a drug deal was going down. The drug deals must be happening elsewhere; I'd concentrate on finding out just where after we cleaned up this mess.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question: whether‘ tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles. And by opposing end them? To die—” Bill's
Hamlet
speech was cut off by a burst of automatic weapon fire; some of the approaching Bloods were returning One-from-Seven's fire. “—to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.”

The Bloods continued to fire, but most of them ran. One-from-Seven made quick work of the ones who tried to fight back. He'd been sculpted to represent a seasoned veteran, and so somehow he had all the skills of a New Yorker who saw action in France during World War I. The Bloods didn't stand a chance. When One-from-Seven ran out of ammunition, he rolled from one body to the next, grabbing up more guns and firing them from the cover of corpses.

I'd chosen wisely after all, this year. My band of bronze had slain the nineteen Crips, as well as eleven Bloods. Only nine Bloods lay on the field by the castle, but One-from-Seven tracked two that had fled and cut them down.

Our deeds would extend beyond this day, I was certain. There would be news coverage, and word would spread about the carnage. The gangs might stay away from my park for a long while. I know that all life is supposedly sacred, but I care not a whit about ending the life—or, rather having one of my fine fellows doing it—of some soul who threatens to sully my park.

We had just enough time to nab a dealer selling heroin before we had to resume our resting spots. We escorted the duck back first, carried him, actually. He'd been hit by a stray bullet, and he died in my hands as I laid him at the feet of Hans Christian Anderson, who had returned while we were on patrol. He looked incredulously at us and said something in Danish.

One-from-Seven was next. He dutifully climbed back up on his pedestal and arranged himself so he was again supporting his wounded comrade. He had a helmet, not a military one that fit with his fellow's but rather a motorcycle helmet that he'd picked off one of the gangers. In place of the Mills bombs he had a pistol in each hand, oddly modern. I hoped no one would notice.

“Anton,” he said. “My name is Anton.”

“Good night, Anton,” I returned.

“When shall we three meet again—in thunder, lightning, or in rain?” Bill posed, looking up into Anton's stoic face. “When the hurlyburly's done. When the battle's lost and won.”

“From
Macbeth
,” Anton supplied.

“Next year,” I told Anton. “I'll come get you.”

I escorted Bill back to his pedestal. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I said.

In the gleam of a park light I saw his eyes twinkle. “We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” he returned as he climbed up and resumed his classic pose. “And our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

“Sleep well, my friend. I will see you again on another midsummer night.” I doffed my hat and bowed to him, and then I scampered back to Alice. “I am the stuff of dreams,” I told her, knowing full well she couldn't hear me. I felt my limbs stiffen and grow cold. I sensed the police swarming over the battlefield around the castle. Of my own volition I displayed a wide shit-eating grin.

Tim Waggoner

I
made my way down a sidewalk in Ruination Row, moving with a stiff-legged gait that was only a little faster than standing still. It had been a couple weeks since my last round of preservative spells, and I was overdue for a little freshening up. One of the nice things about being a zombie is that, when your bouquet begins to ripen, people give you a wide berth, so I didn't have to worry about shoving my way through the crowd of pedestrians. The Darkfolk that had come to patronize the less-than-savory businesses in the Row stepped aside as I approached, the Bloodborn and Lykes grimacing as their heightened sense of smell picked up my scent.

“Goddamn deader,” a genetically altered Lyke growled as I approached. She looked like a cross between a leopard and an alligator, and she snarled and elbowed me hard in the side as I passed her. The blow didn't hurt—I hadn't experienced pain since the day I became a zombie—but the force of it sent me stumbling sideways into an alley. I tried to keep my balance, but even when I'm at my freshest, I'm not exactly the epitome of grace, and I stumbled and fell into a pile of trash—which wasn't difficult to do since the alley was crammed full of the stuff. Besides the usual crumpled fast-food wrappers, discarded newspapers, cardboard boxes, and empty beer bottles, there were chunks of meat, splintered lengths of bone, and various disgusting-looking pools of liquid spread about that, one way or another, had probably been inside a body at one point. The stench had to have been horrendous, but my sense of smell is as dead as the rest of me, and I was rarely as grateful for that as I was right then.

I rose to my feet with a series of stiff, jerky movements and brushed the worst of the muck off my gray suit as best I could. I contemplated going back out onto the street, tracking down the leopard-gator, and showing her just how much I appreciated her elbow to my ribs, but tempting as the thought was, I'd come to Ruination Row to do a job, and I didn't want to get distracted.

Several weeks back I'd had a run-in with an ancient Bloodborn named Orlock who, it turned out, fancied himself as a sort of Darkfolk version of Noah. He'd spent the last few centuries gathering one-of-a-kind objects, animals, and in some cases people, and adding them to his already vast collection. Orlock viewed himself as a preservationist working to protect the Darkfolk's culture and history. I viewed him as a senile old vampire with more than a few screws loose, and I was determined to free those beings he'd imprisoned in his collection. Orlock was too powerful to take on directly, so I made a deal with him: I'd retrieve artifacts that he wished to add to his collection, and he'd pay me by releasing some of the people he'd captured. The number of people he'd let go each time depended on the rarity of the object I brought him, and I often had to haggle with him over my “fee.” Of course, I reserved the right to pick and choose which jobs I'd take. I wouldn't acquire an object for Orlock just because he coveted it. But more often than not, the artifact he desired was insanely dangerous and in the possession of some less-than-upstanding citizen who intended to use the device to commit appalling acts of mayhem.

Case in point: the Argentum Perditor.

Silver is a controlled substance in Nekropolis. It's highly poisonous to any number of Darkfolk, but especially to Bloodborn and Lykes, and the only ones who can use it legally are those Arcane who need the metal as a spell component. But you can buy anything on the streets of Nekropolis that your black little heart desires—if you have the darkgems to pay for it, of course. There are any number of silver suppliers in the city, but the most well-known is a man who calls himself the Silversmith. His true identity is a carefully guarded secret, and he only deals through intermediaries. Not even Orlock knew who he really was. But the ancient vampire knew one thing: the Silversmith was in possession of the Argentum Perditor, a mystic weapon that was like King Midas' touch, turning its targets into solid silver. And Orlock wanted it—bad.

As far as I was concerned, Nekropolis would be better off if a weapon that powerful was locked away in Orlock's collection, and I'd spent the last few hours making inquiries around Ruination Row to see if I could get a line on how to contact the Silversmith. I wasn't sure how I was going to get the Argentum Perditor away from him once I found him, but I figured I'd worry about that later. Improvisation has always been one of my strong suits.

So as much as I wanted to go after Leopard-Gator and put a few dents in her scaly hide, I was going to have to let her insult pass. Not only am I the city's only intelligent, self-willed zombie, I'm also its only private investigator—and once I accept a job, I keep at it until it's done.

I started toward the mouth of the alley when I heard a loud buzzing behind me. I still have emotions, but I don't feel the physical effect of them, so I didn't experience a sick surge of adrenaline upon hearing the sound, even though I was pretty sure what it was causing it and the thought terrified me. I turned to see a cloud of small creatures the size of gnats rising from the trash, and I realized I'd must have disturbed them when I'd landed in their midst. The mass of creatures was so thick it looked like black smoke, and my worst fear was confirmed: I was facing a carrion cloud. The cloud was the larval form of carrion imps, nasty little creatures that scour the alleys of Nekropolis on a never-ending quest for dead flesh to devour. The imps perform a useful function, I suppose, but considering that I
am
dead flesh, you can see why I prefer to avoid them whenever possible.

But as bad as carrion imps are, their larval form is far worse. Carrion clouds are absolutely ravenous and they move fast as lightning when they sense a food source is near. Once they begin to feed, they can strip away every bit of meat from the bone within seconds. Even if I was at my freshest, I wouldn't have been able to outrun the cloud, and given my current condition, I knew I wouldn't be able to take more than a single step toward the street before the larvae were on me. There was only one thing I could do, and without pausing to consider the ramifications of my actions, I reached into my pants pocket and gripped an ancient copper coin, its features worn smooth by the long passage of time. I willed the coin's magic to activate and closed my eyes as the buzzing swarm of larvae rushed forward to engulf me.

A jolt of what felt like electricity surged through my body's dead nervous system, startling me. Normally all I can feel is pressure, as when someone or something is pushing against my body, but this level of sensation was so intense that it momentarily stunned me. I collapsed to my hands and knees, the carrion cloud still swarming around me, and as the electric sensation gave way to a gentle tingling all across my body, I wondered if what I was experiencing was the feeling of being eaten alive by thousands of ravenous insects. But then the buzzing sound grew fainter, and I risked opening my eyes.