Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  I was proud of myself for working out three days a week. Tiffany, on the other hand, was one of those exercise addicts who never missed a night; nevertheless . . . I couldn’t argue with the obvious results. I gradually increased my treadmill’s speed as I got warmed up.

  Our workout routines coincided often enough that Tiffany and I were cordial, but I didn’t know very much about her. Looking at her physique and her “you want a piece of me?” demeanor, I realized she might be a very good person to have on speed dial. I might need to hire extra muscle if this business with the Straight Edgers got ugly. “Tiffany, have you ever considered doing freelance security work?”

  “Me, a security guard? When you mix monsters and security guards, it never ends well. Why do you ask?”

  “Just a case I’m working on. A human-supremacist group is harassing a vampire client of mine.”

  Tiffany looked as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of gangrene-tainted blood. “Straight Edge jerks.”

  “Have they ever bothered you?”

  She reacted as if I’d insulted her. “Bunch of pussies. They’re all about juvenile scare tactics, like throwing eggs at windows or toilet-papering houses. Show them a little fang, and they piss their pants and run away.” She chuckled. “They should piss holy water with all their self-righteousness, but it smells just like regular piss. Who’s the client?”

  The treadmill program accelerated, and I had to work hard to keep up. “Sheldon Fennerman.”

  Tiffany lit up. “I know him. He helped me with the interior design of my place. Sweet guy.” Her expression darkened. “Just the sort of person those bullies would pick on. Assholes . . . but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. The Straight Edgers are about as dangerous as a dog turd on a jogging path.”

  “You don’t think they’ll follow through on their threats?”

  “Somebody needs to take them out behind the woodshed. If they ever caused real harm, it would be by accident. Don’t lose any sleep over them.”

  I continued to run on the treadmill, keeping up a good pace now. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The men’s locker room was empty, now that Ralph the Mayan mummy had finished his shower, and the werewolf was gone, although he had left drifts of long brown hairs on the floor, in the sink, and on the countertop. I took a quick rinse-off just to freshen up, dried myself gently so as not to slough off any skin, and dressed in my street clothes.

  As a convenience to the All-Day/All-Nite patrons, a variety of JLPN shampoos, cream rinses, and body washes were provided in the showers. By the sinks and mirrors, I found spritzers of deodorant and small bottles of colorful colognes and aftershaves, each with a splashy sticker announcing Coming Soon: New Fresh Loam Scent! I declined to use any of it. Who was I trying to impress, anyway?

  I had a long night ahead of me. I considered heading off to Harvey Jekyll’s mansion, where I could crawl into the bushes and keep an eye out for nefarious goings-on, but I doubted Jekyll would be so obvious. Or I could return to Basilisk, talk to the bartender and Ivory to ferret out more information about who had poisoned Sheyenne. Or who had shot me.

  When I emerged onto the main thoroughfare in Little Transylvania, I immediately spotted the plaid sport jacket. Since I knew Brondon Morris went about his nightly rounds, it was no surprise to see him out here, but I didn’t expect him to be walking with another man of smaller build in a low-slouched hat and a trench coat with the collar turned up.

  Instead of being his usual cheery self, handing out samples and greeting customers, Brondon was definitely sneaking around. The two men scuttled down the street, hugging the night shadows, which were plentiful. When they turned down a side alley, they acted like two lungfish crawling out of the mud, scurrying across dry land, then ducking into a brackish pool on the other side.

  Very interesting.

  After my workout, I was limbered up, and thanks to the shower and reasonably clean clothes, I had no particular smell about me, so I was able to follow them without being noticed. Halfway down a dark street, Brondon paused, holding up his hand, and his friend froze. I melted into the shadows beside a rusty drainpipe and an overflowing Dumpster. In the pale light of the waxing moon, I caught a glimpse of the mysterious man’s face between the slouched hat and the upturned collar.

  Harvey Jekyll! I had struck the jackpot.

  Though I prefer to achieve results through sheer detective prowess, I don’t complain when dumb luck takes a hand. This opportunity had fallen right on top of me like a drunken lap dancer in a strip club.

  Brondon and Jekyll moved off again, and I followed at a discreet distance. The two men haunted the back streets, going to places I never would have ventured when I was still alive—empty buildings and warehouses, long rows of storage units, a lot filled with old delivery trucks. Other than a few bats flying overhead, nothing stirred out here. The street was like a ghost town, and I had to drop back.

  Far from the crowded main avenues, Brondon moved with a jaunty step, and Harvey Jekyll strutted along, anxious to be somewhere. Ahead, I watched the pair of figures approach a large boarded-up warehouse with a flat asphalt roof and painted letters peeling off a cinder-block wall:

  CHANEY & SON

  BODY SNATCHERS FOR HIRE

  At first glance the place looked as if it had gone out of business long before the Big Uneasy, but as I studied it with greater care, noted the precisely arranged old trash along the walls and the weeds that grew up between stones and chinks in the wall, I suspected that this ramshackle look was a cultivated appearance. It looked too pat, too staged.

  When I edged closer, I accidentally kicked a dented beer can, making a clatter. (Have you ever seen a graceful zombie?) The two men whirled, and I melted into the shadows. I held my breath, metaphorically speaking. Where was an easily startled alley cat when you needed one? Eventually the men moved on.

  Brondon Morris and Harvey Jekyll walked up to a rectangle of plywood hung on hinges, a makeshift door. Jekyll rapped on it with his knuckles, and the hinged plywood swung open, spilling yellow glow into the night. Both men shielded their eyes from the glare.

  A large figure loomed in the doorway, a linebacker-sized human wearing a business suit. Behind the door guard, I spotted dozens of men inside the warehouse. I heard a buzz of conversation. A party where no one seemed to be having fun.

  The door guard recognized the two new arrivals and stepped aside to let them into the warehouse. Before closing the plywood door, the big suit scanned the darkness, though he couldn’t possibly have seen anything with his eyes accustomed to the bright interior lights. He yanked the door shut.

  I crept up to the Chaney & Son warehouse and discovered that the windows weren’t just boarded up: They had been packed with insulation, so that I could hear only faint muffled voices coming from within, no actual words. I approached the plywood door, hoping to discern words through the crack, but again no luck. So I melted back into the dark and waited for hours, watching, just to see what might happen.

  Just before dawn, the door opened again and three disguised men emerged, scuttled around the corner, and disappeared down another street. I didn’t recognize them. Two more nondescript men left in a different direction, then another trio, and the rest came out by pairs. I counted twenty attendees at the mysterious meeting, but with all the hats and upturned collars, I had no idea which ones were Brondon and Jekyll when they left. The perfume salesman must have traded his loud plaid sport jacket for a trench coat.

  The burly doorman was the last to leave. He turned off the lights, shoved the plywood door shut, then fixed two padlocks in place.

  Miranda Jekyll would find this very interesting. I decided to dig into the background of the Chaney & Son building, see if I found any connections to Harvey Jekyll.

  Preferably something illegal.

  CHAPTER 20

  Robin met me as soon as I came into the office next morning, wearing that cockeyed optimist smile of hers, along with a clean
gray pantsuit; her dark hair was pulled back in a thick neat braid. She looked fresh and ready to take on the world, full of energy, even though I knew she’d been up most of the night.

  In addition to sharing office space and splitting the lease, we each had a small apartment upstairs, a cramped place not much bigger than a coffin; we could have knocked down the adjoining wall to make the combined room as large as a walk-in closet, but the building owner wouldn’t allow it. Robin and I spent most of our time at work anyway; I’d never been much of a homebody, either before or after death, and Robin slept on the client sofa in her office as often as she crashed in her own bed.

  In law school, she had been able to pull all-nighters: study, write a term paper, go to class in the morning, take an exam, hang out with friends in the afternoon, and party at night. I remember when I was that young, and that alive. McGoo and I had done it ourselves when we were in college. My “all-nighters” were different now.

  Triumphant, Robin held an envelope in her hand. “It took me two hours, but I made Judge Hawkins see the light. You’ve got your restraining order.” She often walked a fine line with the judge. Intent and cheerfully obsessive, she didn’t realize that she could become a downright pest. But she usually got her way.

  Sheyenne appeared, floating right through the wall. “I flitted to the courthouse and picked up the order, Beaux. We thought you’d like to deliver it to the Straight Edgers yourself.”

  I gave them an impressed nod. “I was going to scare them regardless, but it’s nice to be packing some extra legal ammunition.”

  I paused to jot down basics about the Chaney & Son warehouse on a scrap of paper from Sheyenne’s desk. “While I’m gone, pull the county records and see what you can find out about this building—who owns it, how long it’s been empty, anything unusual about recent permits. Harvey Jekyll’s involved in some suspicious activities there.” I patted the envelope from Judge Hawkins. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a restraining order to deliver.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t have given a second glance to the Straight Edge headquarters—an unmarked, run-down storefront whose windows bore the remnants of painted letters from a now-defunct political campaign. It was the sort of place used by accountants for a few months during tax season, after which it would remain empty but hopeful for the rest of the year.

  The only sign in the window, designed to look like a No Trespassing sign, said, HUMANS ONLY, and below that, UNNATURAL = UNDESIRABLE. What a witty bunch.

  I yanked open the door without knocking—what good was a knock going to do me?—and startled four people who were stuffing flyers into envelopes and painting large placards. The panicky group leaped to their feet and whirled around. One scrawny, mean-looking young woman, who clearly needed a boyfriend, and three equally scrawny and awkward young men, who clearly needed girlfriends, stared at me. I recognized the beanpole redheaded kid I had rescued from the troll landlord’s dinner tub and the two punks who had vandalized Sheldon’s brownstone. They all wore red T-shirts with the line down the chest. None of them looked to be older than twenty-one. I wondered if these punks comprised the whole organization, or if they just worked the day shift.

  “Is this the zombie massage parlor?” I asked in a bright voice, feeling quite chipper. “My muscles are stiff.”

  “I’ll turn you into a stiff,” the beanpole snarled, trying to sound tough. He had red marks around his mouth from where I’d torn off the duct tape.

  “Already been there,” I said. “You forgot to thank me for saving you from the deep-fryer hot tub. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

  The Jane Fonda wannabe spoke. “Get out! You’re not welcome here. Can’t you read the sign? Humans only.”

  “The legal definition of ‘human’ is being challenged in the courts. My partner has set some remarkable precedents already. In the meantime, why not be inclusive? Embrace diversity.”

  The young man who had sprayed graffiti outside of Sheldon’s home now puffed up his chest. “You can rot in hell!”

  “I’d rather not rot anywhere.” I strolled into the main room, and the four Straight Edgers cringed, as if afraid I intended to eat their brains. The posters they were making each had a straight unadorned line on a field of red; not much of a logo design.

  With my cell phone I took a quick group shot of the four young activists. “Got your faces, just to verify you were here in the office. Now I need your names.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to enter you into a sweepstakes.”

  Graffiti-boy looked ready to blurt out the information, but the scrawny woman snapped, “Don’t tell him anything, Scott.”

  “Jeez, Priscilla, I wasn’t going to!”

  Then I glanced at the remaining two Straight Edgers and did my best bluff. “You others don’t need to give me your names. We can bring charges against Scott and Priscilla, here.”

  The bitter young woman paled, while Scott looked tangled in knots. “It’s Todd and Patrick!” he blurted.

  “You bastard!” Todd, the beanpole, snarled at Scott.

  “We all stick together,” Priscilla said. “We’re Straight Edge.”

  “What do you want?” demanded Patrick, the young man who had planted stakes at Sheldon’s front door.

  “You’ve been harassing a client of mine,” I said. “A vampire.”

  “And? You unnaturals are all the same to us,” sneered Priscilla. “You should just go . . . away.”

  “Go away—or else!” Patrick picked up one of the placards and held it like a shield, as if the sharpened wooden end would scare a zombie. He needed to do better research.

  “I’m also here on behalf of the Hope and Salvation Mission, which was recently vandalized—I suspect you had something to do with that as well.”

  “You can’t prove it,” said Scott.

  “Monster lover!” Todd said.

  The young woman made a scoffing sound. “If we wanted to scare that goody-two-shoes old lady out of town, we’d take care of it ourselves, not hire a monster to do it.”

  I had to admit, that made sense.

  Now that the conversation had stopped being amusing, I pulled the envelope from my pocket. “This restraining order has been duly signed by Judge Hawkins. All Straight Edge members are forbidden from approaching within fifty feet of Mr. Sheldon Fennerman’s residence, Mr. Fennerman himself, or the Hope and Salvation Mission.”

  “This is bullshit,” Todd snapped, then looked uncertainly at the young woman. His face flushed so red that his freckles disappeared in the noise. “Isn’t it?”

  Priscilla plucked the paper out of my hands, using just her fingertips as if disgusted to touch any object soiled by a zombie. As she read the words, the others peered closer, all four of them pooling their knowledge to understand the legal terminology. The young woman didn’t sound so confident now. “It’s infringing on our rights of free speech.”

  “File a complaint. My partner would love to put Mr. Fennerman on the stand, with a full jury of unnaturals, to determine just whose rights are being violated.”

  Priscilla spat on the floor in disgust; then, like a series of popcorn kernels popping, her three companions spat on the floor, imitating her. Personally, I thought it was silly. I glanced down at the spittle and phlegm, shaking my head. “And you folks say that zombies are filthy.”

  They glowered after me as I walked out the door. I was sure they’d spend the rest of the day fuming, engaging in vociferous imaginary arguments with me once I was out of earshot.

  Now that I’d gotten a good look at Priscilla, Todd, Scott, and Patrick, I held them in even lower esteem. I could see why Tiffany at the gym didn’t take Straight Edge seriously. I wondered if other members were more competent.

  CHAPTER 21

  I left the Straight Edge headquarters feeling good about myself, head held high. When I told Robin every little detail about the confrontation, I knew it would make her day; she’d probably do her victory dance.

  When I
came out onto the street, however, I sensed an odd tension in the air, one of those silent humming sensations that make you perk up, like all the friendly wild animals detecting a forest fire in a Disney cartoon. This didn’t feel like the thrill of fear, though, but of hunger and keen interest.

  Across the street I spotted the black-gowned, bristle-haired Mavis Wannovich walking along painfully on swollen legs, as if her ankles had filed notice that they didn’t intend to support her body much longer. The enormous spotted sow, Alma, trotted alongside the witch. Mavis looked from side to side, glanced over her shoulder, and walked faster. I could see that both of them were on the verge of panic.

  Behind the Wannovich sisters, shambling quickly to keep up, came a trio of zombies, their sunken eyes bright, hands outstretched in a grasping gesture. All three were ripe cases, at a stage where no amount of makeup or visits to the embalming parlor would reverse the putrefaction.

  Farther along the sidewalk, the door of an office-supply store opened and a tall female vampire emerged, raising her nose to the air and sniffing as if someone had rung the dinner bell. A hairy werewolf grocer in a wifebeater T-shirt sat in a folding chair outside his tiny tienda; he perked up as well, and his gaze fixed on the sow lumbering down the street. Lifting himself off the chair with a smooth motion, he began loping toward the witch and her sister.

  Mavis picked up her pace, but I could see her wince with the effort. The zombies, vampire, and werewolf closed in.

  I knew what was about to happen, and I had to stop it.

  In order to live peacefully together, unnaturals had learned to control their base urges and get along with one another, though they tended to gather in the monster version of ethnic neighborhoods. Werewolves no longer killed human victims each full moon, vampires gave up drinking all but voluntarily donated blood, zombies and ghouls foreswore eating human flesh.