Services Rendered: The Cases of Dan Shamble, Zombie

by Kevin J. Anderson

  I was surprised by his enthusiastic wolf whistles. “You never showed any interest in the Full Moon ladies before, McGoo.”

  “Still no interest,” he said. “I have enough trouble with human women. I don’t need to get involved with Unnaturals.”

  Robin frowned skeptically at him. “You have trouble with human women? I’ve never heard you talk about even getting a date.”

  A flush suffused his freckled face. “And that is exactly my trouble.”

  After the dance hall girls exited the stage, a troop of ghost cowboys galloped out on wild and unruly nightmares, fiery-eyed black horses that looked frightening and difficult to control, but the ghost riders rode bareback as they twirled lariats over their heads.

  Someone had loosed a minotaur into the performance area, and the big bull-headed creature stumbled around with a look of abject confusion. When the ghost cowboys thundered toward the minotaur, he bleated and huffed in alarm. They twirled their ropes and dropped the lassoes around him, cinched him tight, and tied him up, ankles and wrists. The minotaur crashed to the dusty performance ground—again, to much applause.

  The minotaur bellowed, “I was just looking for the concession stand.”

  Next to us, the ghost of Mild Bill let out a belly laugh. “Yesirree, you never can guess what might happen at one of my shows. Lordy!” When he grinned, he showed off bad, brown teeth from chewing ghost tobacco.

  Mild Bill owned the New Deadwood Saloon, which had been decorated like an Old West watering hole. He claimed to be the actual ghost of Wild Bill Hickok, but he had mellowed with age, and now he preferred to be called Mild Bill.

  Enthusiastic about his Wild West Show, Bill had rented a cursed Indian burial ground for the venue and hired Robin to work out the real estate paperwork and the lease. During negotiations, Robin discovered that the owners could not prove that the burial ground had any legitimate curses, and therefore could not charge extra, so Mild Bill had gotten a reduced rate.

  Our Robin always insists that Unnaturals are treated fairly under the law.

  After the roped-up minotaur was dragged away from the field, Deadeye One-Eye came back into the middle of the wide dirt main street, twirled his Colt again, and started shooting cigars from the mouths of two volunteer mummies, who trembled as the ends of the stogies were blasted into fragments. Sheyenne, Robin, and McGoo joined in the cheers.

  The gunslinger fired his pistols into the air. “And that’s just a warm-up for tonight’s late show, folks.” He had a sinister undertone in his voice. “If y’all think I’m good, wait ’til the rest of my gang comes at high midnight. Moondance McClantock and the boys can shoot circles around me—if they’re feeling their oats, they can even shoot triangles.” The audience applauded as he sauntered away.

  Finished with his act, the ghost of Deadeye One-Eye came up to where we were standing at the edge of the performance field. Even with his eyepatch, his eyesight couldn’t be as bad as his teeth. Despite his unfortunate dental condition, he wasn’t shy about showing off his smile. The ghost gunslinger tipped his hat at Sheyenne and Robin, then he fixed his single eye on me. “Dan Chambeaux, Zombie Detective.” Somehow, he made my name into a sneer.

  I acted professional. “I’m surprised you pronounced my name correctly. Most people call me Shamble.”

  “I know who you are, Chambeaux—but maybe you don’t.” He showed off his preposterous teeth in a snaggly snarl rather than a grin. “Are you aware your great-great umpty-ump grandpappy, Dirk Chambeaux, was a hated marshal in these parts, give or take a state or two? He was a feared man, made a lot of enemies.”

  McGoo nudged me with an elbow. “Hey Shamble, law enforcement is in your blood.”

  “My blood these days is embalming fluid,” I said.

  Deadeye One-Eye gave me a careful assessment before striding off. “See you later tonight—at high midnight.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Robin asked.

  “No idea.”

  During the preparations for the Wild West show, I had watched Robin go through excruciating negotiations and legal convolutions. The ghosts of the McClantock outlaw gang had a ruthless talent representative, and affable Mild Bill was a babe in the woods when it came to making a deal with a cutthroat agent—literally a cutthroat, because he was an accused serial killer, although it was never proven. The agent claimed the gunslinger ghosts were in high demand and tried to extract an outrageous appearance fee. Deadeye One-Eye, though, was a free agent, and he had quickly come to terms for a far lower fee, for which he had been resoundingly criticized by his gang because his concession had affected their collective bargaining power.

  Mild Bill wanted to book the McClantock gang for multiple performances, along with roving freelance entertainment—gun tricks and such among the crowd—but the cutthroat agent had tried to triple their fee. At one point, Robin had been so frustrated that I lurched into the negotiating room to ask if she needed any muscle to bring the gunslingers in line. It was a joke (zombies aren’t really all that intimidating), but when the agent went back to Moondance McClantock, they promptly agreed to the high midnight show.

  I guess I was more scary than I thought.

  But Mild Bill could only afford the one designated performance, explicitly defined as a single round of extravagant gun play, nothing else. Any more would be a breach of contract. Despite his disappointment, Mild Bill had promised to make the best of it.

  Around the show grounds, the spectral saloon owner put up posters featuring the outlaws. “Wanted: Dead, Undead, or Alive. Moondance McClantock and his gang!” Robin had brought along her executed copy of the contract, just in case McClantock decided to renege on the deal.

  Obviously, we all had to stay and see the big performance, which would take place in an hour.

  A skeleton played happy piano music in front of the temporary saloon and watering hole, where a potbellied zombie barkeep was pouring beer, whiskey, and shots of blood to cowboy-dressed vampires who looked as if they had just escaped from an undead dude ranch. Albert Gould, the rotting and disheveled proprietor of the Ghoul’s Diner, had set up a food stand that served “authentic western barbecue”—blackened bones (species unknown) covered with sizzling meat. I had heard his special sauce was good.

  The Old West must have been a peaceful, nostalgic place.

  But then, gunfire rang out—real gunfire, in earnest this time, and Deadeye One-Eye was not just aiming at targets. Over by the rickety corral, he had untied the five angry nightmares, and now he whooped like a Hollywood Indian on the warpath. He fired his pistols again and again, and the noise startled the demon horses. Even though they were supernatural creatures, they certainly spooked easily.

  The ghost gunslinger laughed maniacally, something he did quite well, and the snorting black horses thundered out in violent panic, racing into the crowd of naturals and unnaturals along the main street.

  “Shoot, that’s not part of the show!” Mild Bill flashed a glance at Robin. “You said we couldn’t afford the insurance for a full stampede.”

  “We better get these people out of here,” I shouted. “And bring the horses under control.”

  As I lurched into motion, McGoo kept up with me. “Great idea, Shamble. Throw ourselves in front of a bunch of demonic stallions?”

  “Don’t make it worse than it is, McGoo—these are mares, not stallions.”

  The horses stormed forward, their hooves striking improbable sparks on the dusty ground. Flames chuffed from their nostrils.

  McGoo drew his two service revolvers, one loaded with normal bullets, the other with silver bullets, but I didn’t think wild horses would be cowed, regardless the type of ammunition.

  As the crowd of mummies, vampires, werewolves, mad scientists, and their assistants fled to the boardwalk and the store fronts, the horses stormed toward us. McGoo opened fire, shooting into the air. If the demonic horses could be spooked once, they could be spooked again.

  The resounding gunfire scared the nightmare
s enough that instead of charging into the crowd, they split up and galloped toward the concession stands. The skeleton piano player and Albert the ghoul fled. The rampaging nightmares crashed into the barbecue display, knocking the tent down and spilling meat-covered bones in all directions, along with a bucket of smoking sauce. The “secret ingredient” burned craters in the sawdust-strewn ground.

  Two of the black horses were still coming toward us, and I drew my .38, also firing into the night sky, but my gun wasn’t as loud as McGoo’s heavier-caliber weapons. I added some harsh language, and that did the trick. The snorting nightmares wheeled about and stampeded back toward their corral.

  Then amidst the gunfire and whinnying, I heard something that made my artificial blood run cold—a scream. Sheyenne’s scream.

  “McGoo, come on,” I yelled.

  The ghost of the evil gunslinger stood in front of Sheyenne, Robin, and Mild Bill. Deadeye One-Eye had both of his Colts out, and he opened fire. Sheyenne spun, crying out in pain—pain!—as a ghost bullet grazed her upper arm, and I saw a splash of ectoplasmic blood.

  Robin was in the line of fire too, but she dove out of the way. Somehow, the bullets missed her.

  McGoo and I put on a surge of speed.

  The one-eyed ghost gunslinger turned the firepower on his real target, Mild Bill. The avuncular saloon owner raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Why not?” Deadeye One-Eye emptied his pistols.

  Ectoplasmic blood sprayed out from deadly wounds in the ghost saloon owner’s chest, like the sauce from a spaghetti western. The ghost gunslinger laughed at what he had done.

  McGoo and I ran up, our guns drawn. I had eyes only for Sheyenne, who was wounded, and Mild Bill, who was mortally wounded—for a second time.

  In a rage, McGoo snarled, “You are under arrest, Deadeye One-Eye!”

  “You’ll never take me alive, lawman—it’s already too late.” The gunslinger sneered at the dying ghost of Mild Bill, then looked up at me. “Now there’s no way he can rescind the contract. When Moondance gets here, Chambeaux, you’re a dead man.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s how I started out the day,” I said.

  The gunslinger’s ghost vanished into thin air while he was still laughing.

  While McGoo and Robin went to Mild Bill, I raced to Sheyenne. She had clamped a hand against the ghost bullet wound in her shoulder, and red ectoplasmic blood seeped around her fingers.

  “How could you get hurt?” I asked. “You’re not even corporeal.”

  “That gunslinger has ghost bullets,” Sheyenne said. “And I’m a ghost.”

  She lifted up her hand, stared at the ectoplasmic blood, and shook her head. She looked beautiful with her blond hair and her startling blue eyes. “I’ll be fine Beaux—it’s just a flesh wound … figuratively speaking of course.”

  McGoo checked over Robin quickly. “You’re not hurt?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” She looked shocked.

  The ghost of Mild Bill lay on the ground, moaning, and his blood evaporated into the spirit world. “Never thought they’d shoot me!” With his dying gaze, he looked up at me and uttered a final sentence. “Shamble … beware, high midnight.” He gasped, let out a death rattle, and his ghost dissipated before our eyes, along with all the bloodstains.

  I felt angry and sickened. “Deadeye One-Eye caused the stampede as a diversion. We should’ve stayed with you three.”

  “Beaux, you couldn’t have known,” Sheyenne said.

  The nightmares had wandered back to the corral and now munched contentedly on thistles. Several werewolves and zombies had darted into the wreckage of Albert the ghoul’s barbecue tent and slunk off with dripping bones, leaving a trail of barbecue sauce that exuded curls of green acidic smoke.

  McGoo wiped sweat from his brow. “What did Mild Bill mean about high midnight?”

  “That’s when the ghosts of the McClantock gang are coming, per the contract,” Robin said. “Deadeye One-Eye didn’t want Mild Bill to rescind the agreement. He’s the only one with a legal signature on it.”

  Sheyenne tore a strip of gingham from her ectoplasmic dress and tied it around her wound. “It all changed when Dan found out his ancestor was a ruthless Old West lawman.”

  “But I never heard of Dirk Chambeaux before,” I said. “What difference would that make to me?”

  Then, on the ground before us where Mild Bill’s ghost had died, the air shimmered, flickered, and a second even wispier form of the spectral saloon owner rose up. He seemed even less substantial than before.

  “Mild Bill, you’re alive!” McGoo said.

  “Golly … not hardly. I’m a ghost. But this time I’m a ghost of a ghost.”

  “What are the chances of that happening?” I asked.

  “Pretty damn slim. I wish I’d had this kind of luck when I was alive, yesirree.” Mild Bill stroked his handlebar mustache, as if he was particularly pleased with his renewed existence.

  Robin asked, “What’s going to happen at high midnight? Why should we beware?”

  The doubly spectral cowboy blinked at her. “Haven’t you been paying attention, Ms. Deyer? Moondance McClantock and his gang are coming back—we arranged for it, you and me. It was all part of their plan. What they really want is to get revenge. Dan’s great-great umpty-ump ancestor was Marshal Dirk Chambeaux, the lawman who sent McClantock and his gang to the gallows. They’re not just here to perform in my Wild West show, they’re coming to get revenge on you.” The wispy ghost’s mouth drooped in a sincere frown. “And you’re going to have to face them at high midnight, Marshal.”

  “Private investigator,” I corrected him. “McGoo’s closer to being a marshal.”

  “Hell, I haven’t even made detective yet,” McGoo said.

  A crowd had begun to gather, listening to the conversation, but when they learned that the murderous gunslingers were coming soon, they backed off, not wanting to be anywhere close to the line of fire. A full-furred werewolf muttered that he had left the bathtub running and quickly retreated. The rest of the crowd eased away with similar, or more outrageous, excuses.

  I looked at them all, seeing fear in their eyes. Many of these were clients of mine, past clients and future clients. I stood my ground, turning to face them. “What time is it now?”

  The ghost of the ghost of Mild Bill flipped open a pocket watch that hung from a chain in his vest. “Eleven forty-five—fifteen minutes till doomsday.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” McGoo cried. “Shouldn’t there be more time to build up suspense?”

  “It’s a faster-paced society nowadays, McGoo,” I said.

  He lifted his chin. “Well, I’m standing with you, Shamble. Something doesn’t smell right around here, and it’s not just you.”

  “Thanks, McGoo.”

  Sheyenne looked weak and dizzy from the ghost gunshot, as if she’d lost some of her spirit, literally. “We’ll stay here to help you, Beaux.”

  “Not you, Spooky—you’ve already been hurt,” I said as firmly as I could. “If the ghost bullets are flying, I couldn’t bear to lose you again. We’ve got plenty of people around here to help stand against those gunslingers.”

  I turned to the crowd that McGoo and I had just saved from stampeding demonic horses. Oddly, the spectators that had previously been so numerous now muttered excuses and began to melt away like vampires on a hot summer day.

  Even the ghost of Mild Bill’s ghost muttered, “I better go check on my saloon. All these frightened people are going to need drinks.”

  I felt discouraged. “You too?”

  “I have already been shot to death once today.” He vanished.

  I couldn’t hold it against him.

  McGoo calmly reloaded both of his service revolvers, regular bullets and silver bullets. “I know you would’ve taken a bullet for me, Shamble.”

  “As I recall, I already have. What are friends for?” I stood next to him in the middle of the dirt main street, which was bou
nded on either side by the colorful, but thin, facades of a movie set cowboy town.

  The town clock tower, which had been erected for the Wild West show, rang out, sounding 11:55.

  “That’s an odd time for the hour to chime.”

  “I think it’s to give people time to prepare for the midnight festivities,” Sheyenne said.

  When the loud bells ceased chiming, the dirt main street on the old cursed burial ground was deserted, dust blowing in the night wind. On either side, the windows were dark in the tall clapboard storefronts, the buildings seemingly abandoned. Back in the corral, the nightmares neighed. The dude ranch vampires had fled, but not too far. I could see them behind the display window of the general store, watching me.

  Sheyenne, looking weak and ghostly, drifted to the safety of the boardwalk at my insistence. “Be careful, Beaux—I love you.”

  “I love you too, Spooky,” I said.

  Clearly angry, Robin refused to leave us. “This is not the way one should solve problems. We have a legal system, courts, and judges.”

  “It was the courts and the marshal that ticked off these gunslingers in the first place, Robin,” I said.

  At precisely 11:57, Moondance McClantock and his gang of murderous gunslinger ghosts appeared, including Deadeye One-Eye, who had joined the party, even though he was a free agent.

  McGoo and I faced the six gunslingers in the middle of the main street. The ghost outlaws were a surly, rumpled-looking lot, greasy with sweat and prickly with razor stubble—apparently, none of the spectral gunslingers had found time to bathe or shave in the century and a half since their demise.

  “We’re here for Chambeaux.” Moondance McClantock was a round-faced man with long sideburns, a ten-gallon hat, and enough turquoise and silver to fill an entire roadside souvenir stand. He had a gleaming gold front tooth, which clashed with all the silver and turquoise. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

  “We haven’t even met,” I said, “and I’ve only had fifteen minutes to build up my anticipation.”