Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “No, Mr. Chambeaux. Why would anyone want to hurt a hardworking businessman? He spent all day fixing windows.”

  Jerry finally shuffled outside, reassured now that I hadn’t melted in front of Mrs. Saldana. He carried a shovel and a bucket. “I’ll clean this up.”

  “Not until the detectives get here. This is evidence.” McGoo wrinkled his nose. “But it is disgusting.” He nudged the collapsed frock coat that lay in the ooze and bent over to inspect it with great reluctance. In the pocket, he found two sample sachets of Zom-Be-Fresh, which he plucked out. “Samples from JLPN’s new line. Looks like Brondon Morris gets around.”

  Remembering how Sheyenne had suffered a severe rash from using the necroceuticals, I wondered if this horrible meltdown might be the result of another JLPN glitch, just like the garlic shampoo. “Can I take one of those packets and a sample of the goo? Run a comparative analysis?”

  “Help yourself.” McGoo handed me one of the packets. “You’ll probably get to it faster than the department crime lab. All you zombies are buddies, right?”

  “You might say I’ve got some skin in the game.”

  The police radio squawked again. “Officer McGoohan, what’s your 20?”

  “I’m still 10-8 at the mission—what’s up?”

  The dispatcher rattled off an address. “Domestic disturbance, possible 10-10 fight in progress. You’re the nearest officer available.”

  He grumbled something about the precinct being understaffed. “On my way. That’s just a few blocks from here.”

  I turned to McGoo, my interest piqued. “I recognize that address—it’s Straight Edge headquarters.” I recalled the angry crowd around Sheldon Fennerman’s apartment. “Things got ugly on the streets earlier today. The Straight Edgers insulted a lot of unnaturals. Maybe somebody decided to take the law into their own hands.”

  McGoo looked as if a hairball had caught in his throat. “Maybe I should let them deal with the problem themselves.” He let out a weary sigh. “My job would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to protect idiots from being idiots.”

  After making apologies to Mrs. Saldana, we hurried off to the next emergency. Before we’d gone a block, we could hear the screams—truly bloodcurdling screams—and loud smashing sounds, as if someone were playing Find the Breakable Object with a baseball bat inside a curio shop.

  The lights were on but flickering inside Straight Edge headquarters. The front door had been torn off its hinges and hurled across the street, as if someone had tossed a playing card. I could hear nostril-burbling roars.

  As we ran closer, McGoo yelled, “Stop! Police!”

  In response, the broken body of one of the three Straight Edge boys—Scott, I think—sailed through the smashed window and tumbled into the gutter. His red T-shirt was now saturated with other shades of red.

  McGoo yelped, drew his weapon, and charged toward the open door.

  “Call for backup!” I shouted.

  “What do you think you are, Shamble? You’ve got a gun, come on!” I drew my .38, and we both approached.

  The head of another Straight Edger—beanpole Todd, with red marks from the duct tape still prominent around his mouth—rolled out like a bowling ball and stopped in the middle of the street, eyes wide open, as if disappointed that he hadn’t scored any points in the game.

  Inside the headquarters, we came upon a scene of further carnage. Priscilla lay dead in two pieces on the floor. Patrick had been dismembered, as if some malicious child had plucked off his arms and legs, like a doll.

  A battering sound as loud as a bomb blast came from the back, and McGoo and I charged in pursuit, armed and ready. A huge shape had hammered its own opening through the brick wall, and as soon as we entered, the suspended ceiling collapsed. An explosion of mortar and cement dust flew up in the air, obscuring our view, but I could see the thing was enormous.

  McGoo, due to his training, shouted another quick warning; I didn’t bother—I just opened fire. My silver-jacketed bullets did no good; McGoo also fired his weapon. One of the ceiling panels tumbled down and doused him with gypsum dust.

  The hulking creature lumbered out into the alley and the darkness, completely ignoring us. I scrambled over the rubble and emerged just in time to see the huge shape scuttle with freakish speed up a drainpipe. It swung over a roof ledge and bounded away.

  McGoo stood beside me, eyes wide. His cap had fallen off at some point during the chase, and his hair was mussed and covered with gray gypsum dust.

  In the back room, we found the headless body that obviously belonged to Todd’s head, the bowling-ball wannabe. One of the Straight Edge signs—UNNATURAL, UNCLEAN, UNWANTED—mounted on a wooden stick had been thrust entirely through his skinny chest, pinning him to the linoleum floor.

  McGoo looked down at the impaled headless body. “What a clusterfart. We’re gonna be out here all night. Why did I ask to be assigned to this precinct again, Shamble?”

  “You didn’t,” I said.

  “Oh, right.” He got on his radio and called in the crime.

  CHAPTER 34

  A crowd gathered as the police team decorated the area in crime-scene chic. The medical examiner pronounced the bodies dead on the scene (not an intellectual stretch), and evidence techs took photos from every angle. The body wagon arrived, staffed by three ghouls, who piled out at the blood-spattered Straight Edge headquarters, showing an inappropriate amount of enthusiasm. Under the circumstances, nobody complained.

  One of the ghouls retrieved Todd’s severed head, which was still lying in the street. The other two ghouls each carried a clipboard bearing a diagram of a generic human body. As they collected torn body parts and severed limbs, they made checkmarks on the diagram to make sure they had rounded up all of the pieces. In some cases, it wasn’t exactly clear which item belonged to which Straight Edger, but back at the Medical Examiner’s Bureau they would sort it all out, putting the puzzle back together.

  A year ago, the ME had been reprimanded for doing exactly that—putting puzzles together out of severed body parts and then trying to reanimate them, in the grand old tradition. He managed to keep his job only after apologizing profusely and promising henceforth to engage in such work only on his own time.

  “You want to go down and work with the sketch artist, Shamble?” McGoo asked. “You got a better look than I did.”

  “Just a glimpse. Big, hulking, ugly.” I gestured to the blood splattered on the walls and floor, and the bodies that had been torn asunder by the creature’s bare hands. “Find anybody who meets the general description, and I’ll try to pick him out of a lineup.”

  While crime scene photographers documented the operation, the ghouls hauled away the last of the disassembled Straight Edgers in plastic bags.

  Queasy, McGoo said in a boneheaded attempt at levity, “Got another one for you, Shamble. What’s invisible and smells like brains?”

  “You’re making jokes? Now?”

  “Defuses the tension. Come on, what.”

  I knew the answer this time. “Zombie farts. Got any more?”

  “A million of ’em.”

  “Then keep them to yourself.” I turned slowly, staring at the smashed door and windows, absorbing the sheer violence inherent in the attacker. This had to be the same thing that had wrecked the Hope & Salvation Mission. I was very thankful Mrs. Saldana had not been killed.

  McGoo said, “Solve this one for me, Shamble, and I’ll buy you a beer. Scout’s honor.”

  I snorted. “This has to be worth at least two beers.”

  “All right. Just remember I’m on a cop’s salary.”

  “And I’m on a PI’s salary.”

  The body wagon pulled away, weaving from side to side as if the ghoul drivers hoped to increase their nightly business by running over a few pedestrians on the way back to the morgue.

  The police radio squawked again. “Officer McGoohan, 10-16 Code 3! Zombie fight, two suspects in the middle of the street. Reporting party says it loo
ks like they’re trying to kill each other—again.”

  McGoo rolled his eyes, relieved to answer a less gruesome call. “Now, that’s the kind of disturbance I can deal with. On my way. McGoohan out.” He shook his head and turned to me. “Well, come on—if it’s two shamblers fighting, that’s your people. Maybe you can help.”

  “Not exactly how I expected to spend my evening. I do have other plans.” By now, it was nearly time for me to meet Miranda Jekyll over at Basilisk.

  “You’re such a social butterfly, Shamble.”

  As we ran up the block, we could hear cheering and jeering. A crowd had gathered along the sidewalks on both sides of the street, laughing, making catcalls and suggestions.

  Two decrepit male shamblers circled each other like boxers. They were rotted, hideous hulks to start with, not counting the further damage they were inflicting upon each other. They moved in a grueling, drooling slow-motion cage fight. One wore a sky-blue, wide-collared tux like something from a retro prom, but it was smeared with mud from the grave and discolored by leaking bodily fluids. The other zombie wore a too-tight Disneyland hoodie, also splotched with graveyard dirt stains and effluvia. (Who in the world would want to be buried in a Disneyland hoodie? Or a prom tux, for that matter?)

  Disney Dude swung his left arm loosely back like a dangling maladjusted catapult and drove it upward until his fist slammed into the side of Prom Boy’s face. The blow made a wet squelching sound and a crack that signified a dislocated jaw. Two teeth sprayed from Prom Boy’s torn mouth like little white Chiclets. His eyeball bulged from the left socket, then popped out.

  The audience let out a gasp, followed by more shouts and smattered applause. In retaliation, Prom Boy swung his fist in a vicious right cut that cracked into the side of Disney Dude’s ribs, sinking into the flesh and splurting out a stain that soaked through the hoodie. Another round of cheers.

  Disney Dude, with a motion like a pile driver, slammed his other fist into Prom Boy’s face, smashing his nose and caving in his features.

  “Go get him!” yelled a vampire from the sidelines. “Take him down, mess him up!” It wasn’t clear which of the zombies he was egging on; the rest of the crowd hooted similar encouragement.

  Another blow slammed into the side of Disney Dude’s head, cracking his orbital bone. The eyeball drooped out so that it dangled by the optic nerve and blood vessels, staring down at the Sleeping Beauty Castle on his sweatshirt rather than at his opponent.

  With a wordless growl, Disney Dude tried to claw the remaining shreds of flesh from his rival’s cheek, but Prom Boy grabbed the fingers and snapped them back. With a vicious yank he pulled them entirely off his opponent’s hand and tossed the fingers like Mardi Gras trinkets to the audience, much to their glee.

  McGoo yelled at both shamblers in his gruff authoritarian voice. “Break it up! Aren’t you two decomposing fast enough?”

  Reeling, the brawlers separated, swayed, and let out angry moans from the bottom of their throats. Their words were slurred and incomprehensible, but I think they both said, “He started it!”

  We heard a feminine wail from around the corner, and I groaned. Was this night ever going to end? Someone ran toward the scene with a lurching, cockeyed gait—a young woman with long hair, tight dress, and mismatched body parts, her face a mass of scars. I recognized Wendy the Patchwork Princess from Miss Eccles’s Parlor.

  “What are you doing? Don’t do this for me—I don’t want it!” Wendy cried. The crowd parted as she tottered up, tears leaking down her cheeks. “You were idiots before, and now it’s even worse!”

  The two fighting zombies turned toward her with pleading expressions on their mangled, sagging faces. Each man self-consciously tried to put a loosened eyeball back into the socket so he could focus on her.

  When they tried to moan explanations, Wendy jabbed a crooked finger at them. “I don’t want your excuses! If you two don’t get over me and move on with your lives—or whatever—I swear to you, I’ll throw myself in front of a train again. And this time I’ll let you pick up the pieces!” Her shoulders hitched up and down as she wept openly. The spectators muttered.

  Running up behind the Patchwork Princess came the stout, matronly Lujean Eccles. “Oh, my, my! Wendy, dear, come with me. Stay away from those louts!” She wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulder. Like a protective mother bear, she glared at the fighting zombies, ignoring everybody else. “You should be ashamed. You’ve already hurt this poor girl more than she can endure.” Miss Eccles shook her head and made a tsk-tsk sound.

  “What’s the problem here?” McGoo said. “I want an explanation from somebody.”

  I introduced him to the sawbones. Still holding the Patchwork Princess, rocking back and forth to console her, Miss Eccles spoke. “When she was alive, poor, dear Wendy was torn between two suitors. The men claimed to love her with all their hearts, but they just couldn’t stop competing with each other. They told Wendy to choose between them, but she wasn’t ready to do that.” Miss Eccles shot a sharp glance at the reeling, embarrassed combatants. “She should have dumped them both when she had a chance.”

  Wendy continued sobbing, pressing her face against Miss Eccles’s chest.

  “These idiots challenged each other to an old-fashioned duel with pistols in the park to determine who got to have Wendy.”

  The Patchwork Princess lifted her head. “I never, ever agreed to it!”

  Miss Eccles made a raspberry sound. “That didn’t stop them. They shot each other, both died—and Wendy blamed herself. She couldn’t bear the guilt, so she threw herself in front of an oncoming train.” The woman again reprimanded the cringing zombies. “This is your fault. Look what you did to this poor girl!”

  In a huff, she turned the Patchwork Princess around. “Come with me, dear. You needn’t bother with them anymore. Sorry for the disturbance, Officer.” She guided the crying, weaving Wendy away and threw a last glare over her shoulder at the mangled zombies. “She doesn’t want anything to do with either of you, ever again!”

  The zombies hung their heads in regret—or maybe their necks had simply been damaged.

  “All right, that’s it. Show’s over,” McGoo said. The zombies shambled off in opposite directions.

  McGoo raised his voice, shooing the crowd away. “Nothing to see here. You all go home.”

  The crowd dispersed, and McGoo let out a long sigh of relief. “Some crazy night, eh, Shamble? What is this, a full moon?”

  “Full moon is tomorrow night. This is just a warm-up,” I said, then glanced at my watch. Miranda would be waiting for me. “I’ve got an appointment.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Miranda Jekyll had suggested meeting at Basilisk, claiming it was one of her favorite nightclubs. I doubted any Straight Edgers would set foot inside a place like that, so we’d be safe enough from any of her husband’s goons.

  I felt more uneasy about having Sheyenne join me there, but she was adamant. “I’m in this with you, Beaux. I slipped into Jekyll’s study, I got the ring, I was there when you got shot—you obviously need my help.” She had given me a mischievous smile. “I’ll meet you at Basilisk.”

  Sheyenne hadn’t been back to the nightclub since her death, and I was afraid the visit would be a traumatic experience, but she insisted she had to face it. She had her own reasons: The meeting with Miranda gave her an excuse to keep an eye on Ivory.

  After leaving McGoo and the brawling shamblers, I headed across the Quarter to Little Transylvania, arriving at Basilisk only a few minutes late. I entered the dimly lit lounge and looked around, expecting to find Jekyll’s wife waiting for me, impatient, annoyed.

  Miranda wasn’t there yet. Naturally. She hated to be on any schedule at all, and was pathologically, rather than fashionably, late. I should have known.

  A semitransparent Sheyenne appeared next to me with an uncertain expression. I could practically see the flood of memories crossing her face as she looked around the nickel-appointed bar and the t
ables bunched close to the stage where Ivory would sing. I wanted to put my arm around her.

  “This place . . .” Sheyenne said, fighting off a shudder. “Right now, I could really use a hug.”

  I reached out to air-pat her arm; it was the best I could do. “It’ll be all right—I’m here. I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

  “So many memories. How can I not hate this place?”

  I forced a smile. “They’re not all bad memories, are they? This is where we met.”

  She responded with a wistful expression. “No, not all bad, I guess. But given the choice, I’d rather still be alive.”

  “So would I.”

  At the bar, Fletcher Knowles gave me a cautious nod, then his eyes widened when he recognized the ghost beside me. “Sheyenne! You’re back—It’s good to see you.” He bustled out from behind the bar. “Really sorry about what happened . . . and then Dan got killed too. What a mess.” Standing awkwardly in front of us, Fletcher shook his head. “Did he tell you I was the one who found his body in the alley? Small world.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “Quite a testimonial to Basilisk, I guess—my customers keep coming back even after they’re dead.” He glanced at the still-empty stage. “Now here’s an idea—I can make it open-mic night, if you like. These people would love to hear you sing again.”

  “I don’t know, Fletcher,” she said. “What would Ivory think?”

  “I’m the boss. She can move over if I tell her to.”

  I wasn’t convinced who would win in a shouting match between Fletcher and the big vamp diva, but Sheyenne wouldn’t change her mind anyway. Eventually, the manager backed off. “Okay, suit yourself. Can I at least buy you a drink?”

  Sheyenne looked uncertain, glanced at me, then back at Fletcher. “I haven’t had one in a while. What do ghosts usually drink?”

  “Oh, any sort of distilled spirits.”

  “I’ll take you up on it—as long as you’re buying for Dan too.”

  “No problem.”

  Fletcher pulled me a beer, then poured a double bourbon and water for Sheyenne. I said, “Let’s go find a table close to the stage—if you’re ready for that.”