Services Rendered: The Cases of Dan Shamble, Zombie

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The gang leader shrugged. “Sorry about that. Back in 1856, Marshal Dirk Chambeaux sentenced us all to hang, which wasn’t fair.”

  In unison, the gunslingers all lifted their chins to show off their necks. McClantock shifted a gaudy bolo tie of turquoise and silver to reveal a long rope burn across his throat. The other outlaws had similar noose burns. One man with a full beard and huge eyebrows had a crooked neck as if even his ghost hadn’t been able to realign the snapped vertebra.

  “A miscarriage of justice,” said Deadeye One-Eye.

  “Weren’t you guilty?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” McClantock said. “But my crimes were far worse than any of my boys, here, yet I got the same treatment. I would have gone down in history if he had skinned me alive or burned me over hot coals, but your ancestor lacked imagination, Chambeaux.”

  “But what does that have to do with me?” I asked.

  “We’ve come here to get our revenge on the last living descendant of Marshal Dirk Chambeaux. You’ll pay for his crimes.”

  I looked at McGoo, then back at the outlaws. “Sorry to point this out, boys, but you missed your chance.” I slid back my fedora to reveal the bullet hole in the center of my forehead. “I’m already dead—I’m a zombie. You can’t kill me.”

  I tugged down my sport jacket to show the prominent stitched-up bullet holes across the chest from yet another time I had been gunned down in the street.

  “It’ll have to do,” McClantock said, and his gunslinger gang members nodded vigorously. “You being dead actually works to our advantage.”

  “How do you figure?” McGoo asked, fidgeting with his grip on the service revolvers.

  “Because we’re all ghost gunslingers,” Deadeye One-Eye explained. He pulled out both of his Colt pistols; Moondance McClantock did the same, as did all of his boys. “All we have are ghost bullets—and as you saw with Mild Bill, ghost bullets do just fine against the undead.”

  “I’m a zombie, not a ghost,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  Moondance McClantock frowned, as if he hadn’t considered that. I glanced over at Sheyenne, who waited at the boardwalk. She spread her hands, clearly not knowing the answer. The ghost gunslingers didn’t know either.

  Robin marched over to stand close to me, her expression stern. “You all have to stop this, right now. It’s against the law.”

  Seeing that all of the vengeful ghost gunslingers had drawn their weapons, I urgently pushed her out of the way. “McGoo, get her out of here. I don’t want either of you in the line of fire. Robin’s been lucky enough once today.”

  She tried to argue, but McGoo didn’t. Though she resisted, he escorted her toward the boardwalk.

  As soon as they were three steps away, Moondance McClantock and his gang lifted their revolvers, ready to gun me down. The ghost gunslingers aimed their weapons at me, and the staccato sound of twelve hammers being cocked back sounded like a high-caliber rattlesnake.

  I was standing there all by myself in the middle of the street, arms loose at my sides—or as loose as a zombie’s arms could be. I held my .38 in my right hand, but how could that stand against six pairs of six-shooters full of ghost bullets? Besides, my real bullets would just pass through the outlaw apparitions, but the ghost bullets were not likely to pass harmlessly through me.

  As the tension ratcheted up, the town clock started bonging again—apparently the previous bells had just been a warm-up for high midnight. It all happened very quickly.

  Just as they all opened fire at their target of a lone, and hopefully brave, zombie detective standing in the middle of the main street, McGoo let out a shout and threw himself in front of me like a human shield, flailing his arms. The twelve ghostly Colts roared with the sound of thunder.

  From the boardwalk, Sheyenne and Robin both screamed.

  In instant reaction, I managed not to fire my .38—a good thing, or I would have shot my Best Human Friend in the back, and he was already facing a storm of bullets from Moondance McClantock and his gang. The gunfire went on and on until the outlaws emptied their revolvers into my friend.

  I expected McGoo to drop lifeless to the ground. Instead, he stood there and turned to look at me in astonishment. “Well, that was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.”

  Robin bounded into the street, grabbing McGoo’s shirt, patting him down, looking for the dozens of bullet holes. But there were none.

  He showed me a nervous, relieved grin while the ghost gunslingers gaped at him, surprised and annoyed. “I guess I’m smarter than I thought I was,” McGoo said. “I figured it out, Shamble. Robin wasn’t just lucky earlier, and she didn’t dodge the bullets when Deadeye One-Eye gunned down Mild Bill. Ghost bullets can kill ghosts, but they don’t harm normal people, in the same way that normal bullets don’t harm ghosts.”

  I still couldn’t believe he was intact. “That was an awfully idiotic way to test a theory, McGoo.”

  “You wanted me to think it through for a day or two? I didn’t really have the time to do my due diligence. I had to act right away.” He patted his chest again, just in case he had missed a few dozen bullet holes.

  I felt a lump in my throat, and it wasn’t from anything nasty I had swallowed. “Thanks, McGoo. You saved me.”

  Moondance McClantock shouted, “Reload, boys! Time for round two.”

  Now Robin stormed forward, striding down the main street toward the ghost gunslingers. I could tell by That Look on her face that she was angry now, really angry—and no one got in Robin Deyer’s way when she was angry. “Oh, no you don’t!” She faced the twelve six-guns, and even if she hadn’t already seen proof that ghost bullets couldn’t harm her, I think she would have walked right up to surly gunslingers regardless. “You are not allowed.”

  Robin’s handbag was actually more of a satchel for legal documents, and she had been working with Mild Bill’s ghost until the very opening of the Wild West Show. Now she reached into her satchel and yanked out a folded document, waving it in the faces of the ghost gunslingers. “Holster your guns. You are not allowed—it says right here.”

  McClantock guffawed. “Oh, little lady! So now you’re the lawman?”

  “Not the lawman,” Robin said with a sniff. “I am the law. Legal contracts. You signed this yourself.”

  “Not me.” McClantock adjusted his turquoise bracelets and straightened his bolo tie. “That was our agent.”

  “And he has power of attorney. It’s signed in blood.”

  “Not our blood, borrowed blood.”

  “It’s still legally binding. The terms specifically state ‘a limited engagement, one and only one exhibition of gunplay.’ Your agent was very specific, and a ruthless negotiator. You all insisted on the terms.” She jabbed her fingers at the contract. “You emptied your guns. You shot at your target. Therefore your legal obligations have been satisfied. You are no longer allowed to fire any bullets at Mr. Chambeaux, whether for vengeance or for entertainment purposes. You cannot rescind the contract.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said McClantock. “That wasn’t the spirit of the contract.”

  “It’s the letter of the law,” Robin said.

  The gunslinger with the big beard and big eyebrows said, “Better be careful, boss—we don’t want our agent to dump us.”

  Deadeye One-Eye groaned in disgust. “Why do you think I went freelance? I’ve told you guys over and over that you have to read your contracts! It’s your own damn fault.”

  Sensing there was more fun to be had at the Wild West Show even after the gunfire, the skittish crowd began to reappear. Apparently they had shut off the water in their bathtubs, checked on their pets, stirred the burning casserole on the stove, and whatever other excuses they had made to get out of the danger zone.

  The unkempt gunslinger ghosts stood, grumbling. They gathered around Robin’s copy of the contract, scrutinizing the clauses again and again to find some loophole—which was difficult, as many of them were illiterate.


  The ghost of Mild Bill’s ghost shimmered in the air before them. He clapped his hands and grinned at the spectators. “Show’s not over yet, folks! Lots more fun all through the night.”

  Albert the ghoul began picking up dust-encrusted remnants of his barbecued bones scattered over the ground. He inspected them with a drooping, milky eye, painted more sauce over the dirt, and offered them for sale again.

  Still muttering, Moondance McClantock tucked the folded copy of the contract in his vest, and then all the ghost gunslingers vanished into the darkness.

  Sheyenne ran forward from the boardwalk, looking restored now. The ectoplasmic blood in her makeshift bandage had faded. I cocked my fedora and said in a completely unconvincing drawl, “You look pretty as a picture, Miss Sheyenne.” Then I turned to Mild Bill’s ghost. “Show’s over for us. We’ve had enough of this sort of entertainment. I prefer something a little more noir.”

  McGoo was already telling tall tales to the enthusiastic audience members, and I let him have his day in the moonlight. His selfless bravery had certainly touched me.

  But when the crowd congratulated me on my victory over the ghost outlaws, insisting that they’d really wanted to help, if it weren’t for so many other obligations—I didn’t want to hear the excuses. I wondered how great-great umpty-ump grandpappy Marshal Dirk Chambeaux had felt in the Old West facing outlaws and bank robbers.

  “Too bad we can’t just ride off into the sunset,” Sheyenne said. I felt a tingle as she slipped a ghostly arm through mine.

  I shook my head. “No way—sunset is when things start hopping in the Unnatural Quarter.”

  “Then let’s get hopping,” she said.

  Together, we all left the cursed Indian burial ground, looking for a good time on our own.

  When my ghost girlfriend Sheyenne and I went to a quirky estate sale, we didn’t expect to find horrific murders caused by nefarious curses. That’s not what you usually encounter at estate sales, which are filled with oddities, antiques, furniture, and unusual leftovers from a person’s life. At least we did find some bargains and collectibles, too.

  The estate sale tables covered the poorly maintained yard of a poorly maintained shuttered-up house in a quiet neighborhood. After all the monsters had returned to the world in the event known as the Big Uneasy, many of them eventually settled down in conventional residential areas in the Unnatural Quarter.

  Eldon Muff was a crotchety, bitter old werewolf who had bought the ramshackle house in the turbulent days immediately after the Big Uneasy, when real estate prices dropped dramatically. Some might say he’d paid a song for it, but Eldon had no interest in songs, or music, or any entertainment whatsoever. He had lived alone and died alone, never married—which was no surprise at all to anyone who had ever spent more than five minutes with him. Even harpies from a paid dating service refused to go out with Eldon more than once.

  Fortunately, as a zombie detective, I had never worked with Eldon, though he constantly threatened to sue anyone who had slighted him. He spouted every conspiracy meme he saw on social media (even the ones insisting that such memes were themselves a conspiracy to make people doubt conspiracy theories). My Best Human Friend, Officer Toby McGoohan, had dealt with many of Eldon’s complaints though, and McGoo often stopped by our offices just to blow off steam whenever he dealt with the surly old werewolf.

  Eldon had filed formal complaints against the paperboy for harassing him (by ringing his doorbell and trying to collect the months-overdue subscription), or when a young lycanthropic hooligan continually crept onto his property to urinate on the bushes, marking his territory as dogs will often do. No matter how loudly Eldon howled, “Get off my lawn!” the werewolf teenager kept coming back, clearly entertained by Eldon’s impotent fury. No, the old werewolf had not made many friends.

  Now that he was dead, all of his neighbors came out to pick over his possessions, looking at the display tables strewn with ridiculous and useless items, but trying to haggle down the prices nevertheless.

  Sheyenne and I thought it would be a fine excuse for a date, just a zombie P.I. and a ghost out for an afternoon stroll. We enjoyed observing the curiosity seekers who picked over the jelly jar glasses, the hideous clock in the rounded belly of a laughing Buddhist monk, a lava lamp with real lava now hardened into dull black lumps, a folding kitchen table with room enough for one, decks of playing cards that had only been used for games of solitaire, and folded clothing that exuded an “old man” smell.

  “Tell me if you see anything you like, Spooky,” I said.

  Sheyenne’s spectral brow furrowed. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  She was far more beautiful than I deserved. As a ghost, she couldn’t touch me, and our romance faced a few challenges due to intangibility, but we did our best. She had been alive when we started dating, as was I, but sometimes relationships take an unexpected turn. Today I wore my usual brown sport jacket with the clumsily stitched bullet holes across the front, and I tilted my fedora in place, though not enough to cover the bullet hole in the middle of my forehead. It was a reminder of how I’d been killed on a case.

  I picked up a classic metal lunchbox from the old TV show, The Munsters, which, after the Big Uneasy, was now viewed as an insightful family drama. Next to it were packs of Twilight Zone trading cards, never opened, with bubblegum petrified so hard it was beyond the ability of even a shark-jawed demon to chew. The tables were full of similar nostalgic stuff.

  “Sure is a lot of junk,” I said.

  “Some would call them rarities and collectibles,” said a frizzy-furred gremlin who bustled up, hoping she could catch my interest. I recognized Rita, a savvy gremlin businesswoman who had taken over her brother’s pawn shop after his unfortunate murder. Rita was running the estate sale.

  “We’re just looking,” I replied. “I’m not much of a collector.”

  “We are bargain hunters, though,” Sheyenne said and moved on to another table.

  Eldon Muff was more than a collector or bargain hunter, though. He’d been a hoarder, but since he kept his shades drawn and his doors locked, and never had company over, no one really understood the extent of his fervor. I couldn’t imagine how all these possessions spread on table after table across the yard, filling the garage, the driveway, and the sidewalk could possibly fit inside one small rundown house, but the old werewolf must have packed every corner and every room, wall to ceiling.

  Unfortunately, his overzealous collecting led to his demise. Eldon collected possessions like he collected grudges, but apparently he didn’t organize either one very well. The old werewolf had been buried under a mountain of discontinued monster Hummel figurines still in their original boxes. The cute but disturbing miniature figures of charming slack-faced ghouls and rotting zombies hadn’t found the right audience. Eldon had bought the whole truckload, also presumably for a song, but he had stacked the pile of original boxes too high, and they fell over and crushed him. An unknown amount of time later, the insistent young zombie paperboy had come yet again to collect on the overdue subscription fee and found him dead. The withered, half-rotted werewolf looked decidedly less cute than even the least cute of the monster Hummel figurines.

  Eldon Muff had no heirs, not even any friends, but a new bulldozing company was eager to buy his house so they could use it for employee practice—hence, the reason for this complete life-liquidation sale. I hoped that at least the unpaid zombie paperboy would receive part of the proceeds for his overdue bill.

  Curious, I went to a rack of shelves crammed with old paperback books, the kind with red edges and garish artwork, 50¢ cover price. They looked to be in mint condition. They caught my eye because they were detective novels, at least three dozen of them. A grin crept across my cold gray face.

  “Look at these, Spooky. They’re classics by John D. MacDonald. I love his detective Travis McGee.” I pulled out three at random. Nightmare in Pink, A Purple Place for Dying, Free Fall in Crimson.

  Sheyenne snu
ggled close, and I felt the tingling aura of her insubstantial yet curvaceous body. I said, “Reading old detective novels is what inspired me to be a private investigator. Well, that and not being able to make it through police academy.” It was a constant embarrassment to know that McGoo was better at criminal academics than I was.

  I called out to the gremlin running the sale. “How much are the paperbacks, Rita?”

  The fuzzy woman glanced up from wrapping a complete set of Flintstones shot glasses. “Fifty cents each.”

  I considered, glancing at Sheyenne. “These were my favorites.” I looked at the three old paperbacks, then pondered the entire collection.

  “You don’t have time to read, Beaux,” Sheyenne reminded me. “You have too many cases.”

  “Maybe they’ll serve as inspiration,” I said, deciding to take the three, but not the whole set. Sheyenne went over to look at the varied kitchen utensils, even though as a ghost she couldn’t eat, nor did she spend much time cooking. I happily paid for my three books.

  As I opened the first paperback, Nightmare in Pink, I was surprised to discover handwriting inside. When I realized that the books were signed, I felt like a game show contestant who had unexpectedly won a bonus round. But when I flipped to the title page I discovered not John D. MacDonald’s autograph, but the much-less-collectible scrawl of the old werewolf, words written in angry, hard strokes. “I hereby curse the paperboy Bobby Neumann for his incessant harassment. When this curse is activated, he shall die a truly horrible death. My vengeance extends beyond the grave! Sincerely yours, Eldon Muff.”

  The crotchety werewolf sure did know how to hold a grudge. Curious, I opened the second of the three paperbacks, A Purple Place for Dying, and also found Muff’s handwriting there. “I hereby curse the vile Reginald Dinkler for constantly peeing on my shrubs. When this curse is activated, he shall die a truly horrible death. My vengeance extends beyond the grave! Sincerely yours, Eldon Muff.”

  I looked at the shelf filled with dozens more paperbacks. I guess the hairy old recluse needed some way to spend his time. I wondered if all the books contained a similar curse.