The Bestseller Job

by Greg Cox

  Parker briefly considered zapping him, but he was way too heavy to carry. Too bad he’s not skinnier, she thought, or a dwarf.

  Next time we should rescue a midget…

  “Working on it,” she muttered.

  The crush of zombies had them hemmed in on all sides. A zombie nun, cradling a zombie baby doll, ambled into Parker’s path. Bloody saliva dripped grossly from the nun’s lips. Cloudy white contact lenses covered her eyes. Groaning hoarsely, while wandering aimlessly through the headstones, she appeared to be in no hurry to get out of Parker’s way.

  “Excuse me,” Parker said, for form’s sake. “Excuse me.”

  The zombie ambulated slowly. She was clearly of the nonrunning variety.

  “Excuse… oh, never mind.”

  The stun gun sparked. The nun dropped. Parker stepped over the fallen zombie, dragging Brad behind her. Wielding the Taser like a machete, she cleared a path through the crowd. Stunned bodies fell away to the left and right, all but unnoticed in the general commotion.

  “Easy there, girl!” Hardison protested. “Maybe a little less maximum overkill?”

  “You got a better idea?” she retorted. “Besides, they’re just zombies.”

  She zapped her way toward the far gate.

  “Brains!” she chanted. “Yummy brains!”

  Eliot was grappling with Carl in the middle of the mob. He fumed in frustration; it was hard to have a decent fight with zombie wannabes crowding him on all sides, forcing him to fight in close quarters where the bodybuilder’s size worked in his favor. Eliot was faster, but he had little room to maneuver. Tombstones and milling undead cramped his style.

  “Damn it, Hardison,” he griped. “There are too many zombies. You overdid it again!”

  “Zombies are all about numbers,” Hardison replied. “You got to expect that, man.” He was watching the horrific spectacle via Eliot’s button cam. “Talk about a turnout, though. Not bad for a weeknight! Can I raise the dead or what?”

  “Let me get back to you on that,” Eliot growled, “after I take care of this guy.”

  He chopped at Carl’s thick neck with an edge-of-hand strike, but Carl parried the blow with his shoulder, grunting as he did so. He seized Eliot in a bear hug, trying to crush the breath from him. Thrashing and kicking, Eliot worked one arm free and jammed his palm under Carl’s cinder-block jaw, driving his head backward until Carl was forced to loosen his grip. Eliot twisted loose and bought some breathing room with an elbow strike to Carl’s wounded nose. Fresh blood gushed from the injured snoot, making Carl look like one of the gory zombies infesting the cemetery. The beefy enforcer howled in pain.

  “Need a tissue?” Eliot taunted.

  He moved in for the takedown, but before he could finish Carl off, a stray zombie ambled between them. A bloodshot rubber eye dangled from one socket. He had on a chef’s hat and a bloody apron. He leered at Eliot, pleased to find a living victim among the undead. He licked his lips.

  “Fresh meat!” he croaked. “I’ve got my eye on you!”

  I don’t have time for this, Eliot thought.

  He decked the annoying zombie with one punch.

  “Sorry, dude.”

  Stepping over the poleaxed zombie, Eliot looked for Carl. He spotted the injured thug rooting among the headstones for his lost gun. Shadows and fog made this a long shot, but not one Eliot was willing to risk. The last thing they needed was shots being fired in the middle of this mob.

  He tackled Carl, knocking him over a solid stone sarcophagus. The thug tumbled over the tomb onto the frozen ground beyond. Eliot leaped onto the lid of the sarcophagus and used its height to kick Cark in the chest. The blond gorilla careened into a pack of college-age zombies who swore in a very human fashion.

  “Not cool, douche bag!”

  The fight finally caught the notice of the nearest zombies. Several panicked and tried to get away, impeded by the crowd, while a few others dove into the fracas. Somebody threw a punch at Carl, only to get a hammer fist to the face. Angry yells and curses joined the ravenous moans of the living dead. A brawl broke out in this corner of the churchyard, possibly for the first time in three hundred years. Grappling bodies bumped against trees and tombstones.

  “Okay, this is getting seriously out of hand,” Hardison admitted. “Maybe you can have too many zombies.”

  “You think?” Eliot said.

  As if things weren’t bad enough, a random zombie tripped on something among the headstones. He crouched and groped through the fog before he stood up with Carl’s missing Glock in his mottled gray hand.

  “Hey, look what I found!” he called out to his undead brethren. “Somebody lose a toy gun?”

  Carl’s eyes lit up. He bulldozed through the crowd toward the unsuspecting zombie with the weapon. Eliot headed the same way, hoping to get there first, but the curious zombie was already fumbling with his prize. Eliot hoped to God he knew what he was doing.

  He didn’t.

  The Glock discharged into the air. The sharp report of the gunshot cut through the general clamor. The shooter dropped the gun like it was red-hot. Startled zombies froze in their tracks.

  “Gun!” somebody shouted.

  Panic broke out. The zombie herd turned into a stampede. Hordes of frightened zombies rushed for the exits, discarding their severed limbs and shambling gaits. Blood streaming from his nose, Carl called it quits as well. He disappeared into the spreading pandemonium.

  “Damn it,” Eliot said.

  “Don’t blame me,” Hardison said. “I’m not the one who brought a damn gun to a zombie walk!”

  Any hope Sophie had of catching up with Parker and Brad vanished when the gunshot threw the mob into a panic. Already separated from her teammates, she found herself caught up in a crush of frightened zombies, all rushing for the gates. She went with the flow, but it was hardly an orderly exodus. Unsure which way the danger was, members of the fear-stricken crowd shoved against each other in every direction, obstructing progress. Discarded rubber arms and legs and heads littered the ground. Granite headstones, sarcophagi, and monuments blocked the escape routes. A fight had broken out, adding to the confusion. “Watch out!” someone shrieked. “She’s got a Taser!”

  Parker, Sophie realized. It has to be.

  Sophie searched the crowd, trying to locate her compatriots, but it was no use. Dim lighting, fog, and what seemed like hundreds of frightened people in zombie makeup made joining up with the others problematic in the extreme. It was like Frankfurt all over again, but darker and decomposing.

  “Sophie?” Nate whispered electronically in her ear. “We’ve lost you in the mob. Where are you?”

  “Stuck in an amateur remake of Dawn of the Dead,” she said. “Trying to make my exit, preferably in one piece.” Frantic zombies bumped and jostled her. A ghoulish mime, in a shredded black leotard, stepped on her foot. “Easier said than done, by the way.”

  “So I gather.”

  She struggled to get her bearings and determine the quickest route out of the churchyard, only to lock gazes with the last person she wanted to see right now.

  Beria.

  Their eyes met through the fog and confusion. His thin lips twisted in a snarl and he began shoving his way toward her. He lashed out with his cane, attempting (with mixed results) to drive the interfering zombies out of his way, while hanging on to the briefcase containing the book. Clearly, he had not given up on capturing Tarantula as well.

  Lucky me, she thought. I’m in demand.

  She spun around and pressed forward in the opposite direction. Unarmed and on her own, she wasn’t eager to confront an irate assassin who was having a very bad night. Alas, she didn’t have a cane or a Taser or an Eliot to help her get through the mob, which stubbornly refused to part before her. Glancing back, she saw Beria slowly gaining on her. Malevolence shone in his eyes. His urbane hauteur had given way to a genuinely angry expression. Evidently he didn’t appreciate having his well-laid plans compromised by an unexpected
influx of walking corpses.

  To be fair, who did?

  “Beria’s after me,” she reported, “and he doesn’t look happy.”

  “Can you get away from him in the crowd?” Nate asked.

  Sophie watched Beria get closer. “I don’t know.”

  Yet more zombies were invading the churchyard, oblivious to the panic stampeding the early arrivals toward the gates. Possibly the stragglers thought the screams and shouting were all part of the show. In the dark, it was no doubt hard to distinguish genuine terror from Romero-inspired fun and games. Squeezing between the zombies, Sophie realized that her best option was to try to blend in with the mob.

  “Time to switch roles.”

  Fortunately, quick changes were an essential part of her repertoire. She hastily mussed her hair, abandoning her stylish coif for a wilder, more unruly look more befitting a mindless zombie. She smeared lipstick over her face to create a bloodthirsty impression and applied powder to her hair to make it grayer and more corpselike. Despite the late-night chill, she ditched the trench coat, hoping that Beria wouldn’t be looking for the practical gray top and slacks she was wearing underneath. Slumping her shoulders and twisting her face into a hideous grimace, she kept her head down as she joined the ranks of the walking dead. With any luck, Beria would see merely another make-believe zombie, not the glamorous and elusive Tarantula.

  It was a good plan, and, she liked to think, an inspired bit of improvisation. It might even have worked if not for the fact that the foggy, murky, overcrowded cemetery was a veritable obstacle course. Stumbling in the dark, she tripped over a jutting grave marker and toppled forward onto the ground. A gasp escaped her lips and she barely threw out her hands in time to break her fall. Sprawled upon the cold, hard earth, she found herself in danger of being trampled by the undead masses. Pounding feet stomped over and around her. Still dazed by her tumble, she lunged to her feet, even as fleeing zombies smacked into her, threatening to knock her down again. Her clothes got roughed up, improving her zombie act, but it was a battle to stay upright.

  “Sophie!”

  A voice, calling out for her, caught her by surprise.

  Who?

  “Sophie! Over here!”

  To her dismay, she saw Larry Meeker, her number one fan, jumping up and down by the gate. He waved his arms in the air, trying to get her attention. Concern for her safety was written all over his face.

  Oh, no, she thought. What’s he doing here?

  In retrospect, it was obvious, of course. Clearly, her obsessive fan/stalker had been unable to resist trailing her to the “movie shoot,” and was now intent on rescuing her from the stampede, although all he was really doing was blowing her cover.

  So much for my attempt at camouflage…

  “Hang on!” he shouted. “I’m coming for you!”

  But his would-be heroics attracted Beria’s attention as well. Seizing the opportunity, the spymaster came up behind Larry. A six-inch blade slid from the tip of his cane, which he pressed against Larry’s throat.

  “Don’t move,” he advised.

  Larry froze in terror. “Is… is this part of the movie?”

  “Quiet.” Beria called to Sophie. “A friend of yours, I take it?”

  Not exactly, Sophie thought.

  Keeping his blade at Larry’s throat, Beria steered the hapless fan into the panicky throng pouring out through the gate. By now, police sirens and helicopters could be heard converging on the churchyard. Carl, having somehow gotten away from Eliot, rejoined his boss and began hurling zombies out of the kidnappers’ way. Fresh cuts and bruises marred the thug’s already vandalized features; Eliot had obviously done what he did best. Beria beckoned for Sophie to follow them—or else. His blade pricked Larry’s neck for emphasis. A drop of real blood, as opposed to the stage variety, glistened upon the point of the blade.

  Marvelous, Sophie thought. We’ve just exchanged one hostage for another.

  Sighing, she joined the procession toward the exit, where the black limousine was still waiting at the curb. Carl shoved Larry into the back of the limo even as the fleeing mob disgorged Sophie onto the sidewalk outside the churchyard. She reluctantly climbed into the limo, wishing she had kept her trench coat at least. The night was getting colder by the moment.

  “Sophie, wait!” Nate called. “What’s happening? What are you doing?”

  His obvious alarm warmed her heart.

  “I’m sorry, Nate. I don’t have any choice.”

  She couldn’t let Larry get hurt.

  He was her biggest fan after all.

  “Damn it.”

  Eliot watched helplessly as the limo peeled away from the curb, beating the oncoming police cars and news copters by mere moments. Camera crews, arriving on the scene, hastily shot footage of the departing zombies, who were now making themselves scarce. Eliot guessed that the zombie flash mob would be all over the morning news.

  As opposed to Sophie’s abduction.

  “They got her, Nate,” he reported. “And that stalker dude, too.”

  He seethed at the way Larry Meeker had screwed up their plans, and put Sophie in jeopardy. I should have decked him when I had the chance.

  “I was too far away,” he explained. “I couldn’t get to the limo in time.”

  “Understood,” Nate said grimly. “Head back to Lucille and we’ll take it from there.”

  Eliot didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled at the way Nate kept his cool, and never stopped planning, even when Sophie was in danger. The hitter wasn’t sure he could stay so calm if, say, Denise had been carried off by a ruthless black-ops team. Sometimes it seemed like Nate had ice in his veins, to go with the high blood alcohol content.

  “Roger that.”

  Not wanting to answer any awkward questions from the police or reporters, Eliot cleared out of the churchyard, along with the horde of zombies dispersing back into the city streets and subways. Less conspicuous than the assorted blood-spattered ghouls, he managed to take his leave without incident. He wondered what the police would make of the two stunned goons Parker had left behind in the cemetery. He imagined the thugs would clam up and keep quiet until Beria pulled strings to get them released.

  “Eliot!”

  Parker caught up with him on the sidewalk, around the corner from the churchyard. Still done up as a zombie nurse, she was dragging Brad by the wrist. Gavin’s worthless brother looked like he was in a state of shock. Eliot could hardly blame him, what with the kidnapping, death threats, double crosses, and zombies.

  “Officer Kolchak!” Brad blurted. Shaking like a leaf, and paler than most of the zombies, he staggered toward Eliot. “Oh God, I can’t take any more of this.” Parker let go of his hand and he collapsed against a streetlamp, as though his legs were too rubbery to hold him up any longer. His face was slick with sweat despite the chill in the air. His bloodshot eyes darted from Eliot to Parker and back again as he visibly struggled to make sense of the night’s bizarre twists and turns. “I don’t get it. What are you two doing here, working together?”

  “Denise sent us,” Eliot said bluntly.

  “Well, tell her she can have those damn books!” Brad blurted. “I don’t want anything to do with any of this anymore! Let her deal with assassins and tarantulas and all that crap.” He shoved off from the lamp pole and headed for the subway. “I’m through—for good!”

  Eliot let him go. He figured Beria and Co. were long gone by now, and they already had what they wanted most: the sequel and Tarantula.

  “So much for Brad,” Nate said. “I suppose that counts as a silver lining.”

  “Yeah,” Eliot said. “But what about Sophie?”

  | | | | | | THIRTEEN | | | | | |

  MANHATTAN

  “I’m not certain how you managed that stunt with the zombies,” Beria said, “but I’ll give you points for imagination.”

  Sophie and Larry faced their abductors in the back of the limo, which raced away from the churchyard as f
ast as city speed limits would allow. The hostages shared one set of opposing seats, while Beria and Carl sat across from them. The gunman had replaced his firearm with a brand-new Glock. An open partition revealed a thirtyish Hispanic woman, with bobbed pink hair and multiple piercings, at the wheel. Seat belts and handcuffs ensured that Sophie and her fan stayed put. Their captors had not bothered to blindfold them or place hoods over their heads. Apparently, Beria didn’t care if Sophie saw where she was going.

  That did not bode well.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe that all this was just a stunning coincidence.” Lipstick was still smeared like blood over Sophie’s face. Her hair was a fright. “That the living dead just happened to choose tonight to go for a stroll?”

  “Hardly.” Beria’s cool, condescending manner had returned now that things were going his way again. He no longer looked as coldly furious as he had been when pursuing Sophie through the flash mob. The blade of his sword cane had been retracted. He handed Sophie a handkerchief so she could wipe the garish makeup from her face. She dabbed at the lipstick.

  “Please,” Larry said, visibly distraught. He was even paler and twitchier than usual. “Somebody tell me what’s happening.” He gaped at Beria, who was obviously in charge. “What do you want with Ms. Devereaux?”

  Sophie cringed. Larry had already said too much.

  Beria arched an eyebrow. “Ms. Devereaux, is it?” He shifted his gaze from Larry to Sophie. “How interesting.”

  “Is this about that restraining order?” Larry asked. “Because that was totally a misunderstanding…”

  “Just sit back, Larry,” Sophie said, although the damage was probably done. She took his hand to comfort him. It was cold and clammy to the touch. “Let me handle this.”

  Larry nodded and shut up, at least for the moment.

  “He has nothing to do with any of this,” Sophie tried to explain to Beria. “That’s the absolute truth. He’s just a… ardent admirer… who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He doesn’t know a thing about Gavin or the books or your dubious past. He’s completely innocent.”