Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Prepared for what?” I asked.

  “You never know.” He sounded suddenly crafty. “The Big Uneasy was just a start. There’s an upheaval coming, then a downheaval. Sooner or later, the whole Quarter is going to be worthless slum territory. It’ll be bloody glorious!”

  “We already have our own real-estate agent,” I said. “I’ll bring you his card next time.”

  Ah’Chulhu commanded the three gator-guys, “Escort our visitors back home.”

  “Yes, escorts!” said Curly.

  I decided to play it safe. “We can find our own way.” Sheyenne and I turned to leave.

  CHAPTER 16

  When we called him back to our offices to explain himself, Jody looked embarrassed and guilty, as only an innocent twelve-year-old kid can do. The self-proclaimed “master of disguise” showed that he understood the seriousness of the situation by arriving as himself rather than pretending to be a vampire with orthodontia and a swirling black cape, or a fuzzy werewolf with tufts of glued-on fur applied all over his face and head. He was just a kid with mussed-up red hair, mournful blue eyes, and a blush that almost, but not quite, obscured his freckles.

  “I thought I’d have a little more time,” he said. “Junior Mad Scientists Camp will be over in a few weeks, and my work is sheer genius. You went to the Mad Scientists Patent Office yourself.”

  I said with the ponderous patience that zombies are particularly skilled in, “Miz Mellivar says your work shows promise, but that’s not quite the same as sheer genius.”

  “It’s where genius starts,” Jody said.

  Floating close, Sheyenne said, “Creative types aren’t always good in business matters.”

  “Maybe I just need a younger sidekick with a different set of skills,” Jody said. “Someone trained as a mad accountant . . .”

  Robin took a seat next to the boy, who sat on the office swivel chair, shuffling his sneakers. “The fact is you didn’t pay your rent, Jody. As evil as Ah’Chulhu may be, as a landlord he has certain rights.”

  The kid’s lower lip trembled. “I didn’t pay the rent because I had already spent all my allowance. When my parents paid the registration fee, all expenses were supposed to be covered—but that just included food and a tiny dorm room. Students still have to buy our own specimens, lab materials, and pay our electric bills—that adds up to a lot! I didn’t have enough allowance left over to pay rent.” He flashed his bright smile. “But I was planning to make millions from my patents when they come through.”

  “They’re in process,” I said. “It could take a while.”

  Jody continued to fidget. “Do they expect me to wait my whole life for an answer? I might not hear back from them until I’m thirteen. With all those patents, I was going to change the world.”

  “By becoming a supervillain?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “It’s a goal to aspire to. An all-powerful supervillain would certainly change the world. And I wouldn’t have to be an evil supervillain.”

  “That does sort of go along with the territory, kid,” I explained.

  Now Jody seemed indignant. “Please don’t call me a kid, Mr. Chambeaux. I’m Dr. Darkness!!!—with three exclamation points. Or I will be, as soon as I finish my homework.”

  He brought out sketches that showed his planned costume, his weapons, his superpowers. Jody had hand-drawn a comic strip showing a kid-sized costumed fighter, complete with a form-fitting suit and a cape.

  I looked at the comic sketches with great interest. “In order to be a hero like that, you’ve got to keep yourself in good physical shape. You’re welcome to come with me to the gym sometime. All-Day/All-Nite Fitness.”

  He brightened. “Golly, thanks, Mr. Chambeaux.”

  Sheyenne considered. “Good and evil are a matter of perspective, especially here in the Quarter. It gets confusing when monsters are the good guys—and we’ve dealt with humans who were decidedly the villains.”

  I was reminded of the intolerant “humans only” Straight Edge group who were willing to commit genocide on all unnaturals, or the grim and constipated Senator Balfour who tried to ramrod the passage of his repressive Unnatural Acts Act.

  “It just sounds better if you don’t call yourself a supervillain,” I suggested to the kid.

  Jody seemed confused. “I thought girls liked the bad boys.”

  Sheyenne grinned. “He’s got you there, Beaux.”

  We told Jody that Ah’Chulhu was keeping all of his inventions and possessions safe in a locker beside his porcelain throne. The boy seemed relieved about that at least.

  “Those were my prototypes,” Jody said. “My Evilness Sieve, my Dark Powers Magnet—even the suit itself. I’ve done a lot of costuming, but the sewing and fitting is always the hardest part.” He pointed down to his sketches, unable to contain his excitement. “And I added a special auto-wardrobing function. Another work of sheer genius! Didn’t you ever wonder how villains and heroes get into their costumes so fast? With Dr. Darkness!!!, all I’d have to do is snap my fingers and the suit leaps onto my body. It feels a little funny, especially when it crawls up my legs, but it saves a lot of time.”

  “I’ll bet it does,” I said.

  Robin added, “The patent office also said that you invented some kind of X-ray Spex, but those infringed on other patents.”

  Jody flushed an even brighter red. “Those were for, uh, something else.”

  Robin led the young man into her office to strategize. He had managed to track down a copy of his lease, which she wanted to review thoroughly. I supposed that a tentacle-faced demon from a line of Elder Gods would be able to hire the best lawyers, but if anyone could find a loophole, Robin could.

  The amount of rent had been based on the property value of prime mad scientist laboratory space, and that wasn’t cheap. The outstanding rent was probably more than the allowance the boy was likely to receive for the rest of his life. Even if the patent office approved every one of his evil inventions tomorrow, he was still looking at a long time for product development, test marketing, and finally, retail distribution.

  Regarding the legality of the contract, Jody’s parents had signed a waiver when their son attended Junior Mad Scientists Camp, and Ah’Chulhu’s lawyers had somehow amended that to apply to the conditions of any lease signed during camp outings. Worse, the terms granted the landlord partial ownership of any intellectual property developed during the camp’s recreational activities.

  Jody might imagine himself a scientific genius, but he really needed to read his contracts better. Or maybe invent some kind of high-tech contract nullifier.

  Robin went over the document with him, clause by clause, which Jody found more grueling than a hundred spelling tests or English essays. Much as my heart went out to the kid, though, I had other cases to work on. I still had to find an ogre’s voice and get to the bottom of nefarious campaign shenanigans.

  I took my fedora and glanced out the window to check what this hour’s weather was: gray, cloudy, and drizzling slightly. I pulled on my freshly laundered sport jacket, grateful that Sheyenne had found a new one-hour post-sewer dry-cleaning service, and headed out.

  CHAPTER 17

  A downpour began as soon as I left the building. Naturally.

  I didn’t carry an umbrella, because edgy private detectives don’t carry umbrellas any more than they wear galoshes. Fortunately, since I’m undead, the clammy damp doesn’t bother me. I’d clawed my way through piled grave dirt and managed to get back to my career. I could handle a little rain.

  I splashed along through the downpour, until I discovered that if I just walked a block over, I entered a different climate zone, where it was still cloudy, but warm and oppressively humid. I followed that street instead, but the sticky humidity caused another set of problems—especially since in the miasmic puddles left behind from the recent sewer upheaval, mosquitos had bred in a frenzy that would have made an insect pornographer giddy.

  To make matters worse, some of the mos
quito larvae had fallen down into the sewers, where they were contaminated by effluent from the mad scientist laboratories. The mutated creatures that flew up were large enough to shove manhole covers aside, and their buzzing sound was as loud as the deteriorating muffler on the Pro Bono Mobile. Mosquitos don’t tend to bite zombies, having no taste for embalming fluid, but these were either too stupid to know the difference or just plain malicious. I didn’t need the added annoyance. Preferring the rain, I ducked back over to the first street.

  I found the weather wizard Alastair Cumulus III holding a pre-election rally. I wanted to confront him—or at least question him, since I had very little evidence—about the sabotage that had plagued Thunder Dick’s posters, as well as the malicious rumors that were being spread about our client’s “proclivities” (undefined). It was an old tactic that had been used in elections since the campaign for Mammoth Hunter of the Year, and I doubted even a zombie detective could prove anything, but if Cumulus knew I was on the case, maybe he would rein in some of his more outrageous stunts.

  The snooty weather wizard chose to hold his rally in an abandoned lot, which gave him room to perform. A sign marked the property as COMING SOON, ANOTHER FINE TALBOT & KNOWLES BLOOD BAR AND BISTRO!

  The rally was sparsely attended. I couldn’t tell how many people were there to hear Alastair Cumulus III and how many had simply stopped to get a respite from the rain. The wizard’s pale blue robes seemed to be a reflection of the sky overhead. He had used his weathermancy to create a more pleasant climate, generating warm breezes to dry the area from the recent downpour, while miserable rain continued in the surrounding streets. His forked beard was neatly moussed and his curly hair sparkled with moisture, or perhaps glitter. I couldn’t tell from a distance.

  As I came up, I saw Ramen Ho-Tep standing there as a campaign supporter. In his bandage-wrapped hands, he held a picket sign declaring, VOTE CUMULUS: CLIMATE CHANGE YOU CAN BELIEVE IN! His wrappings had been laundered, although a few tan skid marks still showed where he had recently been stained.

  Cumulus called out, “I am a weather wizard of proven abilities and demonstrated civic mindedness. My foggy bottom, any politician can kiss babies, but I also saved the museum and the original Necronomicon.”

  “The Necronomicon was fine,” I muttered.

  Ramen Ho-Tep jabbed his sign up in the air. “He rescued the Egyptian exhibit. So many priceless objects saved. I was once pharaoh of all Egypt—and I’m voting for Alastair Cumulus III. He’s my hero.”

  I saw numerous television cameras filming the event. Each one sported the logo of one of the competing weather networks that serviced the Quarter. The networks reflected forecasts from dramatically different portions of the political spectrum: while one insisted on sunshine, the other declared rain, and no facts or proof would get them to change their minds. With the currently feuding climates, each weather network was able to cherry-pick their own weather to prove their point.

  “After our recent climatic events, the Unnatural Quarter is an even dirtier place than usual,” Cumulus continued. “And while a certain amount of dinginess and grime adds character, I vow to clean up this city.” He swirled his hands in the air, calling up a mysterious incantation that sounded like gibberish. “You’ll note that unlike my rival, I require neither a talisman nor a familiar.”

  He jabbed his fingers toward the sky, and I heard a resounding crack of thunder. Several blocks away, sheets of rain came down in well-defined areas.

  “As a show of good faith, I will target rinsing rainstorms to wash away any residue left behind by the recent sewer upwelling. Clean as a whistle. I will, however, focus my efforts on those neighborhoods that show the most support for Alastair Cumulus III, according to recent polling data.”

  The reporters from the weather networks declared their predictions—completely contradictory—about which neighborhoods would be cleansed and which ones would remain encrusted in filth.

  “You’re just a show-off!” came a loud voice. The audience turned to see the tie-dyed robe and windblown hair of the other Wuwufo candidate. “Let’s have a public debate right now.” Thunder Dick clutched the portable sundial talisman at his throat. He reached down to scratch the annoyed-looking tuxedo cat Morris/Maurice, who again dodged his touch.

  Thunder Dick shouted an incantation, and hot, dry winds snatched the sign out of Ramen Ho-Tep’s gnarled hands and flung it up and away like Dorothy’s house on a field trip to Oz. Tan veils of dust appeared from nowhere. Gritty pellets of sand spun through the air and pelted Cumulus’s audience. As the dust storm thickened, I held on to my fedora and bent over, trying to make my way to Thunder Dick in hopes that I could get him to stop.

  Because I was still wet from the recent rain showers, the blown dust caked me with mud. The bystanders grumbled and screeched, then scattered, some of them plunging into the dry-zone streets, others escaping into the downpour.

  The weather networks captured all of it, though they would no doubt edit the footage to show their own chosen candidate in the best possible light.

  Alastair Cumulus III fought back, lashing out with narrow columns of drenching rain, and even a thin writhing waterspout, which Thunder Dick dodged. The only real victim was the cat, who got caught in the downpour and bounded away, yowling.

  Stumbling against the dry wind and dust mixed with occasional rain, I finally reached my client. “You can stop now, Mr. Thudner! The crowd has dispersed.”

  The weather wizard ceased waving his hands and released his talisman. As the weather calmed, he looked around to see that we were indeed alone in the vacant lot. Even Alastair Cumulus III had stormed off in a huff. The TV cameras had fled.

  “I’m not your campaign adviser, just your zombie detective,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “But that stunt didn’t gain you any friends—it just annoyed a lot of people.”

  “And my cat, too,” Thunder Dick said, suddenly dejected. “I have to think these things through better.”

  “If you want us to crack down on your rival’s nefarious campaign shenanigans, you’ve got to stop using the same tactics he does.”

  I could see I hadn’t gotten through to him, though. Thunder Dick said, “He did it to me, so I’m justified.”

  “You know Alastair Cumulus can say the same thing about you.”

  “But he lies!” Thunder Dick said and stalked off.

  I happened upon Stentor the ogre on a street corner, looking forlorn. The skies were clear now, but he looked the worse for wear. “I’ve been here all through the downpour and the dust storm. Still, almost no donations.”

  I was disappointed to see how far the ogre had fallen after losing his employment at the opera house. The once-celebrated Stentor now sat singing arias with his hat out. His hat was large enough to cover his head, so it was the size of a suitcase, but he was having no more luck than the barbershop quartet of frog demons singing down in the sewers.

  I heard Stentor finish a song that should have been compelling and dramatic, but passersby scurried past, preferring to flee rather than listen. His squeaky voice would have made even a chalkboard cringe. On a scrap of cardboard he had handwritten, Will Stop Singing for Change.

  When I greeted the ogre, he looked with great sadness down at his nearly empty hat, and I tried to encourage him. “Nothing wrong with being a street performer. It’s a very respectable profession.”

  “With my voice,” Stentor cheeped, “maybe I should just become a mime. I’m more qualified for it.”

  A chill went down my spine, and I hardened my resolve. “No, not that. The witches are studying connections to trace back the amphibious transference protocol. If only we can find out who has your voice, then we can retrieve it.” I patted him on the shoulders. “Once you become the great Stentor again, voice and all, the Phantom will hire you back. Audiences will demand it.”

  The ogre picked up his hat and tipped it over to let a few coins fall into his enormous palm. “I think I’ll call it a day.” He settled the h
at like a pup tent on his head, nestling it on the shaggy mass of his hair.

  At the end of the street, a corner gift shop sold cards and novelties, “that special something for unusual and unnatural occasions.” I decided to get a card to cheer Stentor up. I wondered if the gift shop had a section of “Get Your Voice Back Soon” cards.

  Leaving Stentor, I set off toward the shop. Soon I heard a buzzing engine and the squeal of tiny tires. A ramshackle jalopy screeched to the front of the novelty shop, bumping up onto the curb. The black-painted lawn gnome and his gang of porcelain punks were haphazardly stacked inside the car, and they tumbled out as soon as the driver brought the go-kart–sized getaway vehicle to a halt. Swinging their Timmy guns like fire hoses, Mr. Bignome and his gang peppered the front of the novelty shop and shattered the windows.

  “Hurry up, boys!” yelled Bignome as they clattered and scurried toward the front door, shooting all the while. “Before the coppers get here!”

  Determined and, yes, I admit it, downright annoyed at the gnomes, I didn’t intend to let the gang get away after what they had done to us in the Medium-Sized Shop of Horrors. Screaming pedestrians of all species ran from the robbery site, from which a shrill school-bell alarm rang out. I drew my gun from its holster and bounded down the street. The police would be coming, but probably too late; the gang of lawn gnomes knew how to be fast. I wasn’t going to let them get away this time.

  I normally move at a sedate pace, but in emergencies when adrenaline mixes with the embalming fluid, I can become one of those fast zombies that are infinitely more scary. I hurried down the block yelling, “Stop!” I didn’t care about being stung with small-caliber projectiles again; I was going to end this threat to my town.