Death Warmed Over

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Let me guess: Compound Y?”

  “No! Compound Z! And when that innocuous chemical reacts with its counterpart Compound X, it becomes a deadly dissolvogen! The contaminated unnaturals disintegrate like the filth they are. They’ll drop like a plague of locusts flying through a cloud of insecticide. And because Compound Z is pervasive in the products used by all unnaturals for their personal hygiene needs, the monsters will be virtually extinct before they know what hit them. The streets will run pink with goo!”

  I thought his crackpot plan was good enough to go on a website that listed top-ten nefarious schemes. Since I had never used any of his samples, my own body wasn’t affected when I was exposed to Compound Z. But poor Mel . . . and I even felt sorry for the three zombie cougars.

  “If thousands of unnaturals melt into puddles on the same day, it won’t be hard to follow the bread crumbs back to JLPN’s product release,” Robin said. “Even if you kill us, someone will figure it out. You’ll go to the electric chair.”

  Brondon snorted. “Do you really think the rest of the human race won’t applaud? Wholesome citizens will see this as a second chance, a cleansing after the Big Uneasy. How hard could it be to eradicate the few stragglers and take care of any new unnaturals as they arise? I’m betting that good people would say enough is enough and finish the job.”

  Even without asking, I had another reason to be disgusted with the man. “I watched you flirt with Cindy, Sharon, and Victoria, saw you pretend to be their friend—and then you made them all just dissolve. You murdered them.”

  Brondon shrugged. “Since when is it a crime to kill dead people?”

  “I can make that case,” Robin said.

  “Decent people are sick of bleeding hearts like you. Getting all uppity about human rights. Who cares about a few monsters? Harvey Jekyll and I will be celebrated as heroes.”

  He tried to push Robin to the edge of the vat, but she held her ground. I wanted to lurch forward and strangle him, but I was still four steps from the top. I could never get to her in time.

  Sheyenne’s ghost reappeared, flitting onto the process floor. She saw us, absorbed the tableau in an instant, and swept up in front of Brondon Morris, looking as scary as she could manage. “I’m not going to let you hurt Dan again! You killed him once.”

  But Brondon knew a ghost couldn’t touch him. “Go ahead and say boo all you want. I killed you, too, when you got to be a pain in the ass. And you’re both still annoying.”

  Sheyenne’s expression was outraged. Brondon looked at her and laughed. “You didn’t know? After you had such a strong allergic reaction to the Compound X in the sample you stole, I tried to do damage control, but you just had to send the sample out for chemical analysis, didn’t you? Then I found out you were Chambeaux’s girlfriend, and I caught him digging into JLPN business, saw him surreptitiously following Harvey. I could put two and two together. I had to get rid of you both.”

  “Sheyenne had nothing to do with it!” I said.

  “I poisoned Sheyenne’s drink at Basilisk—toadstool toxin. Tasteless, effective, nearly always fatal in a high enough dose. And I had plenty of it here in my chemical labs for research. Toadstools do wonders for certain skin conditions in unnaturals. After I killed you both, that should have been the end of it. Imagine my surprise when you both came back!”

  I lurched up three more steps until I was almost at the top—but I was still unarmed. Brondon pushed Robin closer to the edge of the foul-smelling chemical vat. As she struggled to keep her balance, I yelled, “The Compound Z in that vat isn’t going to hurt Robin. She’s human.”

  Brondon looked exasperated. “She can still drown!” He cocked the gun. “And that stuff’s caustic in high concentrations. We’ve done hundreds of animal trials on bunnies and puppies just to make sure. All part of JLPN’s dedication to quality control and safety before we go to market.”

  He pointed the barrel directly into Robin’s face again. “Now, you’re going in, one way or the other.” He tightened his finger on the trigger.

  The gunshot took me completely by surprise.

  CHAPTER 42

  I experienced a brief disorienting moment, like in a movie—I thought Brondon Morris had actually shot Robin. Instead, he spun around, grabbed his shoulder, and dropped his pistol on the catwalk.

  Huffing and sweaty, McGoo stalked across the factory floor, his service revolver out. He was always a good shot.

  Before I’d been killed, the two of us would often spend Saturday afternoons at the gun range, recreationally blowing holes in targets shaped like muggers, terrorists, werewolves, or hunchbacks. He always hit the bull’s-eye—center of chest, center of head. My shots were all over the place—not much finesse, but good enough to take down an opponent, regardless.

  Brondon’s eyes bulged as he caught his balance and saw the cop. “You shot me!”

  “Just winged you,” McGoo said, marching closer, keeping his revolver pointed up at the green plaid sport jacket. “Got your attention, though, didn’t I?”

  Brondon opened and closed his mouth. “But . . . but you’re human!”

  “And you’re an asshole.”

  Even if McGoo hadn’t heard all the details of the nefarious JLPN plan, he had enough information to conclude that Brondon Morris was, indeed, an asshole.

  Despite his bleeding shoulder, Brondon bent over and grabbed for the .38 he had dropped on the catwalk. Robin’s hands were tied, and she couldn’t get the gun herself, but just as his fingers touched the pistol, she pushed him with her hip hard enough to knock him off balance.

  He tumbled into the chemical vat.

  I wanted to cheer for her. I lurched up the last step and ran across the catwalk as Robin swayed to keep her balance. She teetered on the edge herself, but I grabbed her just in time and pulled her back from the precipice, holding her safe.

  Sheyenne flitted close. “Officer McGoohan was handcuffed in Harvey Jekyll’s office in the admin building. I found him and unlocked his handcuffs, but since I can pass directly through walls, I got here faster than he could run.”

  In the murky liquid, Brondon squawked and flailed, trying to stay afloat. Robin was appalled at what she had done. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  “Yes, you did—and you did a good job,” I said as I worked to untie her hands.

  Even though Brondon was human, the caustic chemicals began eating away at the fabric of his green plaid jacket. He sank under, then resurfaced, thrashing and flopping. His hair curled and fell off in clumps, and his skin steamed and bubbled; huge blisters covered his cheeks and forehead.

  I should have thought to keep watch on Sheyenne. Although the ghost couldn’t touch people, she floated to the main controls and flicked on the powerful stirring unit. With a loud hum like a jet engine firing up, the beaters began to churn and chop the contents of the vat, creating a whirlpool.

  Brondon reached out with swollen, steaming hands—and was sucked under. The beater made a loud thump as the motors strained to break the large chunk into more manageable bits. Then the stirrer continued to spin more smoothly.

  Robin was shuddering and sobbing. “What a horrible way to die!”

  “Don’t feel too sorry for him,” I said. “He meant to do that to you.”

  Sheyenne had a disturbingly calm expression on her face as she returned to us. I said, “I didn’t know you were so ruthless.”

  She didn’t look guilty at all; instead, she was indignant. “That man killed me. He put toadstool toxin in my drink! I suffered for days as the poison destroyed my body, one organ at a time. Brondon Morris did that to me—and he shot you too. More than once, in fact.” She sniffed. “Believe me, that might have looked messy, but he got off easy.”

  Self-consciously, I touched the bullet hole in the back of my head and the putty-filled one in the front. I couldn’t argue with her logic.

  McGoo bounded up the metal stairs to join us all on the catwalk, looking around with wide eyes. “We’re all rig
ht, McGoo,” I said.

  Still self-righteous, Sheyenne presented herself to him and extended her forearms, wrists together. “Are you going to cuff me, Officer? You saw what I did.”

  He peered into the churning, frothing vat as the beater kept working. A large rectangular swatch of green plaid floated to the top of the liquid, then was sucked under again.

  After a long pause, McGoo said, “I didn’t see anything. He must have slipped on the catwalk.” He indicated a sign on the cinderblock wall next to a pile of pipes from a dismantled scaffold. WARNING: HAZARDOUS CHEMICALS. “Must be an internal problem at JLPN, insufficient safety precautions for the employees.” He looked over at Robin. “Someone should file a workers’ compensation suit.”

  We descended the stairs, glad to be down from the vat. I retrieved my .38 from where I had tossed it. Robin rubbed her wrists, flexed her fingers. She smiled at me. “Thanks, I knew you’d come.”

  On the side of the huge tank, a laminated sheet announced, SAFETY FIRST! THIS FACILITY HAS HAD ___ DAYS WITHOUT AN ACCIDENT. The number 121 had been written with a grease pencil that hung by a piece of twine next to the sign. With the side of my hand, I smeared out the 121, picked up the grease pencil, and wrote 0.

  McGoo was still red-faced and panting as he looked around the process floor. He touched the back of his head and winced. “Jekyll’s around here somewhere. He’s the one who knocked me out.”

  “We’ll have to send an emergency recall notice to all the stores and facilities that were about to release the new JLPN product line,” Robin said. “Get word out on the radio, have the mayor make a speech and warn all unnaturals. They can’t be allowed to use any necroceuticals that contain Compound Z.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said a nasal voice. “That would destroy all our hopes and dreams.”

  Harvey Jekyll walked onto the factory floor. A small bookish man with shrunken shoulders and large eyes, he looked more qualified to be a dungeon librarian than a corporate executive. “I’m afraid I can’t let any of you leave here—even the humans.” Jekyll’s nostrils flared, and the wrinkles on his brow furrowed together. “I’m very sorry that Brondon didn’t live to see our ultimate triumph. Do you know how hard it is to find a good, imaginative chemist who isn’t profit-motivated?”

  “You can find him right there in the vat,” I said. “But you’ll have to strain out the pieces.”

  Jekyll stepped forward, and I noticed how very small his shoes were; perhaps he bought them in the boys’ department. He had small, feminine hands, too. If clichés about endowment were accurate, that might have been another reason why Miranda was so eager for a divorce.

  “Brondon was a crusader for humankind,” Jekyll said. “Under my auspices, he created products to make real human beings safe, to make us stand strong against the unnaturals.” Then, as if a thought had occurred to him, he raised his chin and smiled. “However, his death does now make me the official Grand Wizard of Straight Edge. That’s a silver lining, at least.”

  We all just stared at him. Two villain soliloquies in one night?

  “Harvey Jekyll, you’re under arrest for murder,” McGoo said. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. I’m taking you in.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Officer. Murder of unnaturals? No one will care, and once I eliminate you all, I can pin everything on poor Brondon. That way he can serve a final purpose.” The mousy man strutted forward.

  I laughed in disbelief. “You’re delusional, Mr. Jekyll. It’s three of us against you.”

  Sheyenne flitted up to the catwalk and drifted down to join us, holding the gun that Brondon had dropped. “Four of us,” she said.

  “Oh, that won’t be nearly enough,” Jekyll sneered. “One of Brondon’s greatest achievements was creating a concoction that makes a normal human strong enough to fight even an army of unnaturals.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a capped test tube filled with emerald-green liquid. He yanked off the cork and downed the contents. From the grimace on Jekyll’s face, I assumed the potion was as vile as its creator had been.

  Jekyll’s scrawny figure began to change.

  CHAPTER 43

  Jekyll’s entire body swelled up as if someone had hooked an air compressor to his nether orifice and inflated him like a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. His shoulders expanded, his chest puffed out, and his shirt split into frayed tatters. His previously bald head sprouted thick shocks of wiry black hair. His eyes became huge, and his mouth sprouted square crooked teeth.

  It didn’t take a private detective to figure out that this was the violent brute that had caused so much mayhem around the city.

  Not one to call a committee meeting before making a decision, McGoo pointed his service revolver and shot Jekyll full in the chest. I didn’t blame him—this thing had torn the young Straight Edgers to pieces and staked Sheldon Fennerman to a brick wall.

  Despite being shot, Jekyll kept growing and kept coming toward us. McGoo had used the revolver loaded with normal bullets, which he’d just fired at Brondon Morris, but I doubted the silver-jacketed ammo in his other pistol would have had any greater effect.

  I drew my own .38 and started shooting. Getting into the spirit of the celebration, Sheyenne joined in with Brondon’s gun.

  The bullets didn’t bounce off Jekyll’s hide, but were simply absorbed into his swelling flesh like raindrops in a mud puddle. The monstrous creature’s biceps bulged, and his fingernails turned into thick talons. Warts the size of hard-boiled eggs popped up on his leathery skin.

  “That thing is ugly!” McGoo said.

  No wonder the witches’ protective spell hadn’t been good enough to save Sheldon; this brute would have gotten over a bit of cockroach-enhanced indigestion without any trouble at all.

  I’d caught only a glimpse as this creature had bounded out of the alley behind the Straight Edge headquarters, climbed to the rooftops, and sprinted away into the moonlight. The monster had bashed Hope Saldana’s mission, probably because the old woman aided and comforted unnaturals; he had ripped the four Straight Edgers into little pieces, no doubt because they were incompetent.

  Or maybe he had other reasons. I didn’t see the point in psychoanalyzing a loose-cannon monster to figure out logical explanations for his actions.

  And he had murdered Sheldon Fennerman.

  With Jekyll’s transformation complete and his muscles as hard as braided steel cable, the slugs we had fired into him popped out of his body and pattered onto the factory floor. Sweating bullets, you might say.

  The huge creature slammed a meat loaf–sized fist into the churning chemical vat beside him, puncturing it so that noxious fluids spewed across the floor. Then he tore down the metal staircase that ran up the side of the vat, bending the framework and hurling it across the factory floor with a loud clatter.

  I kept firing until my pistol was empty. When Sheyenne had also emptied Brondon Morris’s gun, she dropped the weapon, and her ghost swooped into the Jekyll monster and passed entirely through his body, much to her frustration. Backing away, McGoo shot two more times.

  His glowing eyes fixed on his first target, the monster came straight toward Robin.

  I was not going to let this nightmare juggernaut harm a hair on her head. “Robin, get out of here!” I charged into monster Jekyll like a kid from a peewee football league trying to derail a locomotive—and I was about as successful.

  I punched him hard in his cabbage-sized nose, which seemed like a good idea when I thought of it. Jekyll didn’t care which victim he got his huge paws on first. Since I was within reach, the brute grabbed my right arm. I struggled, but couldn’t break free.

  With a merciless motion like someone tearing the wing off a roasted chicken, the monster yanked my arm out of its socket, pulled it free, and threw the limb aside like a used toothpick.

  Sheyenne screamed.

  “Dammit!” I reeled. That wasn’t going to be easy to fix, but at least I’d bought them a second or tw
o. “McGoo, get her out of here!”

  McGoo hauled Robin toward the exit next to the dismantled scaffolding and the sign on the wall that politely cautioned JLPN workers about the hazards of chemicals. “Come on!”

  For some reason, I heard howling outside the factory.

  Yanking my arm off wasn’t good enough for Jekyll. He lifted me bodily and hurled me against the giant chemical vat. I slammed into the curved side, leaving a man-shaped dent like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon, then sprawled into the gushing Compound Z chemicals that continued to vomit out of the tank. I was drenched and disgusted, but fortunately the dissolvogen had no effect on me.

  Leaving me behind, Jekyll bounded after McGoo and Robin. Even if they managed to get outside, this huge beast would catch up with them in only a few steps.

  I tried to pick myself up. Lopsided and off balance without my right arm, I slipped in the oozing, steaming liquid and fell on my butt. A severed hand—not mine—plopped out of the punctured vat into the puddle beside me. Well-manicured . . . no doubt Brondon Morris’s.

  Across the room, reenacting a scene from a bad horror movie, my detached arm flopped about, the hand clenching and unclenching, trying to finger-walk along the concrete. That’s the thing about being undead: After coming back to life, the pieces are very persistent.

  McGoo threw open the door to get Robin outside, but before they could escape into the moonlit night, a Tasmanian Devil flurry of fur, muscles, claws, and fangs bounded into the factory, snarling and thrashing.

  McGoo instinctively grabbed his other sidearm, the one loaded with silver bullets, and aimed at the vicious wolf-woman. But I saw the line of pearls that ringed the werewolf’s neck like a very expensive dog collar. “Don’t shoot, McGoo! It’s Miranda—Miranda Jekyll!”

  The she-wolf hurled herself upon the bloated monstrosity that had been her husband. Jekyll twisted from side to side and swung at her, but Miranda sank her fangs into the rope-cable muscles of his neck. Her she-wolf body was covered with hair, made out of solid muscle, more sleek and attractive than her normal form.