Zombies: The Recent Dead (65 page)

Filled with despair but seeing no other choice, Maera returned to her usual stomping grounds in the Sprawl, picked out a street corner to conduct business on, and prepared to do what she had to do. But before she could attract her first customer, Kyra saw her and came over to talk, specifically, to tell her about what this zombie PI she’d hired had done to a certain greedy cyclops earlier. Maera realized then that she
did
have another choice, and after asking Kyra where I could be found, the demoness abandoned her street corner and hurried off to search for me.

At least, that’s the story Maera told. But she
was
a demon, and her kind had been known to tell a fib now and again. I was withholding judgment on her tale until I’d had a chance to check it out more thoroughly.

“You stay here and keep out of sight,” I told her. “I’ll go see how the land lays.”

Without waiting for her to reply, I left the alley and started across the street. Instead of walking, though, I shuffled, dragging my left leg and allowing my arms to dangle loosely at my sides. I canted my head to the left and let my mouth gape open. If I’d been able to produce any saliva, I’d have drooled. There aren’t many benefits to being a zombie, but instant camouflage was one of them. Walking—or rather shuffling—dead are common in Nekropolis, so much so that people pay them little attention. As long as I don’t moan
“Braaaaaaaiiiinssssss . . .”
and try to take a bite out of someone’s skull, once I go into my act, I might as well be invisible.

I made it to the sidewalk in front of the Dominari sharks’ hideout without drawing any undue attention to myself. I doubted I’d done so unobserved, though. The sharks would either have sentry wards on the building to warn them of anyone’s approach, or if they were too cheap to pay for the spellwork, one of them would be keeping watch on the street through a window, mostly likely one of the two on the second story facing the street. I couldn’t simply look up and check without risking blowing my disguise. Regular zombies aren’t bright enough to recognize a building for what it is, let alone understand what windows are. But there was a way to make that work for me.

I continued shuffling toward the building and bumped into the wall, like a goldfish bopping its nose against the glass of its bowl. I was careful to avoid the leech-vine clinging to the front of the building. It couldn’t do much to me since I was already dead, but it would snag hold of me nevertheless, and I couldn’t fight my way free without ruining my act. I stumbled back from the wall, waving my arms erratically and looking around in confusion: right, left, down, and then up. If anyone was watching, all they would see is another brain-dead zombie perplexed by the seemingly magical appearance of a large solid object in his path. And when that zombie looked up, he saw a dingy, tattered curtain drawn away from the right second-floor window, and then a second later, he saw it fall back into place. I didn’t get a look at whoever had been standing at the window. Considering the dark light cast by Umbriel, everyone in Nekropolis is usually standing in shadow of one sort or another. But the movement of the curtain was enough to let me know that someone was indeed on the second floor of the building, and that whoever it was knew a zombie had come calling. I just hoped they bought my act and decided I was a harmless nuisance to be ignored.

I stumbled around for a moment as if unsure what to do next before finally heading down the sidewalk toward the alley at the side of the building. I was tempted to look back across the street to see if Maera had done as I’d told her, but I didn’t want to give her away in case I was still being observed. I shuffled into the alley, did my bump-into-the-wall bit again, and looked up. Leech-vine completely covered this side of the building, so thick that I couldn’t tell if there were windows here or not. I decided to take a chance that if there were, the vines would block any view of the alley, and I hurried to the other end at my usual less-than-breakneck-but-faster-than-a-shuffle speed. I knew the longer I took to reconnoiter the place, the more time whoever was inside would have to get suspicious.

Behind the building was a cross alley that provided a lovely view of the backsides of another row of vine-covered hovels. Detritus filled the alley, along with rats, cats, dogs, vermen, and other less-identifiable scavengers, all sifting through the open landfill for whatever they could find to eat, including each other. But I hadn’t come here to observe the local fauna in action. I’d come in search of a back door, and I’d found one. The problem was, it was wide open and someone was standing in the doorway grinning at me—someone who now possessed a fancy new ocular implant in place of the eye I’d poked out earlier.

“Hello, Troilus. Whoever your cyber-doc is, he, she, or it did a decent job.” In some ways, the technology in Nekropolis is more advanced than Earth’s. The physiognomy of supernatural creatures—given their overall strength and healing capacity—lends itself far more easily to biomechanical and genetic enhancement than humans. Troilus’ eye implant was a little crooked, it wept pus, and from the way the skin around it had blistered, I knew the machinery was running hot. The image resolution was probably substandard too, but all in all, not bad for what had surely been a rush job completed by a street surgeon.

The cyclops was bald, though he had a curly black beard. He was heavily muscled, and wore a white tunic, black belt, and sandals. The front of the tunic was stained reddish brown, and it took me a moment to realize that Troilus hadn’t changed it since this morning. He’d either been in one hell of a hurry for revenge, or he was a mega slob. Probably both, I decided.

“I think I actually did you a favor,” I said. “Your cyber-eye makes you look twice as intimidating as you did before. Of course, it also makes you look twice as ugly too, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

Troilus’ large hands curled into equally large fists. “If you got any more jokes, you better tell them fast,” he growled. “Because when I get hold of you, the first thing I’m going to do is rip out your tongue so I don’t have to listen to you yammer on anymore.”

I contemplated a witty rejoinder, trying to decide between
I don’t give tongue on the second date
and
Go to hell, asshole
, when I heard trash rustle behind me. “Hello, Maera. I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

I turned around and, sure enough, there she was, looking beautiful as ever, kaleidoscope eyes glittering, lips stretched into a cold, cruel smile.

“There’s no Finn and no Dominari loan sharks,” I said. “Just a pissed-off cyclops and his demon friend.”

“Business associate,” Maera corrected. “You didn’t think Troilus planned to go into the protection racket by himself, did you?”

“I suppose he’s the brawn and you’re the brains.”

Her smile widened, pliable demon flesh stretching farther than a human’s could without tearing. I’d seen similar effects before, but it was still disturbing to watch. “Actually, we’re both brawn.”

Maera’s attention-getting form blurred and shifted, and when she’d finished rearranging herself, instead of a beautiful naked woman with a black body-suit tattoo, standing before me was a hulking reptilian demon with steel talons jutting forth from its thick scaly fingers.

“This your real shape?” I asked.

Maera shrugged her massive shoulders. “I’m whatever I choose to be.” Her voice had become high-pitched, brittle, and grating, like metal fragments and glass shards rubbing together.

“That’s true of everyone, one way or another,” I countered.

A heavy hand gripped my shoulder, and Troilus turned me back around to face him. “Spare us the philosophy,” he said. “I got enough of that from the damned Greeks.”

“Tell me one thing before you start dismembering me.” Before Troilus could deny me, I hurried on. “You could’ve jumped me anytime. Why bring me here, and using such an elaborate cover story to boot?”

It’s hard to read the expression of someone whose only eye looks like a large camera lens, but a smug tone crept into the cyclops’ voice. “To humiliate you, of course. You think you’re so smart, so tough . . .” He sneered. “How does it feel to know that you’ve been outsmarted by a pair of street crooks?”

“If it ever happens, I’ll let you know.” While Troilus had been talking, I’d reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a handful of narrow white plastic pouches. I took one between my thumb and forefinger, aimed it at Troilus’ new eye, and squeezed. The packet burst under the pressure and thick red liquid splattered his lens. Before he could react, I took hold of the remaining packets, squeezed them in my fist, and smeared the gooey red results onto the cyclops’ tunic to join the stains already present.

“What the—what is this gunk?” Troilus reached toward his ocular implant to clear his lens, but all he succeeded in doing was smearing it around more.

Maera laughed. “It’s ketchup, you moron!” The demon looked at me. “Is this your idea of a secret weapon?”

“That’s right.” I grabbed hold of Troilus’ arm, spun him around once, kicked him in the kneecap to knock him off balance, and then shoved. I’m not any stronger than I was when alive, but I had the advantage of surprise. The cyclops went stumbling backward and landed on his mythological ass in a pile of trash.

Maera laughed even harder, but the demon’s laughter quickly died away as the first of the alley’s hungry scavengers—attracted by the smell of the ketchup—began to swarm over Troilus, Mostly bugs at first, but larger creatures swiftly followed. Within seconds, Troilus was screaming and thrashing about, trying to shake off his attackers. But his exertions lessened, his screams diminished, and soon he lay still and quiet, and the scavengers were able to continue feeding in peace.

Maera gaped as she watched her partner’s remains being swiftly and efficiently disposed of.

“Everything tastes better with ketchup,” I said.

Maera turned to me, her kaleidoscope eyes flashing with fury, and thrust her steel talons toward my face.

“I already had that arm reattached once today, and I still haven’t paid for it!”

Maera grinned as she tossed the limb in question aside. Her scaly hide was dotted with charred, smoking patches where the holy water had struck, but the wounds weren’t enough to incapacitate her.

“Forget the arm,” she said. “You’re not going to need it anymore. As a matter of fact, when I’m through, you’re not going to need your body at all.”

The demon continued grinning as she came toward me. I’d dropped the squirt gun when she tore my arm off, and the weapon lay on the ground. I could operate it with my left hand well enough if I could get hold of it, but there was no way I could get past Maera now. I stepped back as Maera advanced, and I felt myself bump into the alley wall. Coils of thirsty leech-vine wrapped around my body, barbs penetrating my clothing and sinking deep into my flesh, pinning me in place.

“Perfect!” Maera said in delight. She stopped in front of me, close enough to reach me but not so close that she was in danger of being attacked by leech-vine. “The way I figure it, you’re already dead, so the leech-vine won’t hurt you. It’ll probably let go of you in a minute once it realizes there’s nothing inside your veins for it to feed on. But it should hold you still long enough for me to tear your head off. If you’re dead, you can’t be killed, and that means you’ll stay conscious even after you’re decapitated.” She leaned in closer, and her grin widened. “I’m going to take you home and make you my pet. I might get a birdcage for you, or maybe I’ll just keep you in a box. Who knows? I might start a whole new trend: pet zombie heads!”

She reached out with her steel-taloned hands, but before she could take hold of my head, I spoke.

“You’re right: leech-vine can’t hurt me, and I can continue to survive as just a head. But you forgot something.”

Maera’s thick brow wrinkled in a frown. “What?”

“My arm.” I nodded toward the ground.

Maera looked down just time to see my arm—which had crawled over to us in the time it had taken the demon to advance—snatch hold of a leech-vine tendril and jam it against it her reptilian foot. The vine, realizing it had something alive to feed on, released me and whipped a dozen tendrils toward Maera. She screamed as the leech-vine covered her body and pulled her tight against the alley wall. The air was filled with soft slurping sounds as the vine began to drain the demon’s blood, but I didn’t look. Maybe Maera, like Troilus, had deserved what she got, but that didn’t mean I had to gloat about it. I understand death better than most, and I know it’s never something to celebrate.

With a sigh, I bent down to retrieve my arm for the second time that day. I tucked the limb under my remaining arm and walked out of the alley, headed back to Papa’s.

“So when did you first become suspicious of Maera?” Papa asked. For the second time that day, the voodoo priest worked on reattaching my arm, but with one difference: instead of using a needle and thread to hold the skin together, he employed a hot soldering gun. I wondered what burning zombie flesh smelled like, and I was glad my nose was as dead as the rest of me.

“When Maera first approached me, she told me she was a customer of Kyra’s. But Kyra specializes in living, animated tattoos that move across the wearer’s skin—Maera’s full-body tattoo didn’t move. That didn’t mean that Kyra
couldn’t
have done the work, but it started me thinking.”

Papa squinted one eye shut as he worked, and while the smell didn’t seem to affect him, I noticed he made sure to breathe through his mouth. “And where did those thoughts lead?” he asked.

“Maera’s story sounded good on the surface, and it’s exactly the sort of thing the Dominari does, but that was the problem: it sounded
too
good. Why would Techwolf and Lobster-Head take both Finn
and
Maera to their hideout? They could’ve given her their instructions when they first accosted the two demons on the street. Why waste time forcing Maera to accompany them to their pesthole of a neighborhood? The faster she started turning tricks, the faster the Dominari would get their money back.”