Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  C.H. scuttled up the stairs, hopping from one step to the next, to the next, and ran on his fingers across the floor, obviously excited to see us. He flexed his fingers and hopped up and down, silent but insistent until I reached down and shook his hand, which in C.H.’s case was shaking his entire body. Sheyenne just waved, and C.H. waved back with such enthusiasm that he lost his balance and fell over.

  “Let us know if you’re threatened again, Lurrm, but I think Ah’Chulhu has bigger tadpoles to fry on the barbie.”

  As Sheyenne and I left the Recompose Spa, I stuck out my elbow so she could slide her arm through mine (even though I couldn’t feel it). Despite her lack of a corporeal existence, I always feel warm and tingly when Sheyenne is that close. She says it’s just my imagination, but I’m not so sure. “Care to join me in the cemetery, my dear?”

  Sheyenne laughed. “Are you being romantic again, Beaux?”

  “Trying to be.”

  “Keep trying.”

  The Greenlawn Cemetery was a quiet, dark, and private place where unnatural lovers went for secret trysts. Greenlawn was a city of tombstones, crypts, and memorial markers. Sightseers came looking for the grave markers of particularly well-known unnaturals. One company had even begun weekly celebrity tours, taking wide-eyed fans around to see the homes, crypts, and graves of the rich and famous.

  It seemed a perfect place for a leisurely walk with my spiritual lady.

  We passed tombstones and stone angels and paused to appreciate a performance-artist gargoyle who had taken up residence there, standing motionless, until he jerked out with a sudden movement to startle passersby.

  Overhead, clouds gathered and obscured the moon. I heard the rumble of thunder, saw the crack of lightning, and then the clouds dissipated to show the starry night again. A few minutes later, clouds closed in with a repeat occurrence of thunderheads. The weather wizards must be doing their meteorological arm wrestling again, and it added a little drama to our peaceful pre-midnight stroll.

  As part of our poignant trek we stopped by the site of my former grave. My death and burial had caused a great deal of grief to Robin, McGoo, and even Sheyenne, who had already been through death herself. After I climbed back out and rejoined my life as usual, Robin arranged for a refund from Greenlawn, since my cemetery plot was no longer being used. My tombstone was recycled, and the plot of dirt was put up for rent once more. Some of the undead retained ownership of their plots, just in case they ever needed them again, but I wasn’t that fatalistic. At present, the plot remained unoccupied.

  Sheyenne and I stood looking at it. “I’m glad you came back, Beaux.”

  “I feel the same about you.”

  We like to stay focused on what we have, rather than wallowing in what might have been. I didn’t want Sheyenne to turn into one of those moaning, hand-wringing specters who were all about gloom and regret. We’d had our budding romance after we met at Basilisk, and I wouldn’t have traded our beautiful night together for anything—except maybe a lot more nights together. But if wishes were horses, then who would need a car? She and I were lucky, in a way, because we were still together. The whole concept of a love that lasted for eternity had a different meaning now.

  Sheyenne could read my moods even if she couldn’t read my thoughts. “What’s got you so introspective?”

  I had wondered that myself. “My cases always make me think. When McGoo and I visited Mr. Bignome’s mother, I realized that he must have been a cute little lawn gnome, even though his life went wrong. I had quite a few setbacks of my own.”

  “But you didn’t turn into an armed robber,” Sheyenne said.

  “I didn’t start out as a landscaping decoration either.” I scuffed at the dirt and grass with my shoe. “And then there’s Jody. I got to thinking about how he’s going to handle this—no matter what Ah’Chulhu really has in mind down there in the sewers.”

  “You like him, don’t you? Is it because he reminds you of yourself?”

  I let out a hollow laugh. “No, it’s because he’s completely different from who I was.”

  She had a dreamy look on her face. “I like Jody, too. Makes you wonder. . . .”

  “Wonder what?”

  “Did you ever want kids of your own?”

  This was a question my instincts told me to avoid. As alarms sounded in my mind, I said, “Never really thought much about it.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Yes, you did. It must have crossed your mind at some point. Didn’t you ever maybe think about us having kids of our own?”

  Of course I had, at least for a brief moment, but I’d had such little actual time with Sheyenne that I hadn’t progressed beyond the warm and fuzzy wonder of realizing that I’d found a girl I liked. Really liked.

  Leaving my grave, we walked along in silence for a few minutes. She waited, and I knew I had to answer her. “We’re past that point in our relationship, Spooky—both of us being dead and all. There’s not much point in family planning.”

  “We could always adopt,” she said.

  Somehow I couldn’t picture myself as a father. I could devote myself to my cases, yes, and solve the most bizarre mysteries, but helping out with homework, taking a kid to band practice, watching Little League games—that seemed beyond my capabilities.

  Sheyenne saw my consternation and let me off the hook. “I just daydream sometimes, Beaux. There’s no harm in it.”

  “I’m glad to have you,” I said.

  Overhead the thunderclouds parted again, and the moon shone brighter than ever.

  CHAPTER 34

  After our romantic cemetery stroll, Sheyenne used the all-night drive-up window at the city offices to access court real-estate records, title deeds, and property filings. Inspired by Jody’s diligence at his costuming work in my office the day before, Robin had been busy digging into the kid’s case, and Sheyenne delivered the mountain of paperwork to her.

  All night, while her magic pencil and yellow pad took notes, Robin pored over the incomprehensible legal details, the filing numbers, pages and pages of results from title searches. All of it was more arcane to me than the bizarre writing in the Wannoviches’ spell books.

  Robin brought her report to me in my office. Since Jody was meeting with a camp counselor that day, I had my desk back. “It’s all clear as swamp water now, Dan. Ah’Chulhu is a very ambitious half demon. He’s got his tentacles running everywhere beneath the Quarter.”

  “He was abandoned as a child,” I said. “He probably has issues, wants to prove himself, measure up to some kind of imagined standard.”

  “That’s one explanation. Personally, I think it’s megalomania,” Robin said. “But I’m not a psychiatrist.”

  She spread out documents and unrolled street maps, real-estate plats, and subterranean subdivision diagrams. Many were marked with flags to indicate recent sales, deed transfers; all had the fine print of Ah’Chulhu Underground Realty.

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” I asked.

  Sheyenne flitted close, joining the discussion. “What do you think it means?”

  I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask that. “It means that he’s doing something too big for me to understand.”

  Robin explained, “Ah’Chulhu has been purchasing so much real estate throughout and beneath the Quarter that by now he owns the sewers. He’s buying the city out from under our feet.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but what can he do with it? Is he going to charge a toll for anyone who wants to go sightseeing underground?”

  Robin’s face turned grave. “The evil possibilities are endless.” She took her papers and left me alone to get back to work on the Wuwufo shenanigans case.

  Still trying to track down who was financing the two weathermancer campaigns, I called printing shops around the Quarter, hoping to discover who had produced the “Alastair Cumulus III: For Climate Change You Can Believe In” lawn signs, as well as the “Be a Dick Supporter” posters.

  On my fifth call, I got lucky and foun
d the right shop. I was surprised to discover that both candidates used the same print shop and—even more surprising—the orders were paid for by the same person. That was very interesting and downright disturbing.

  I brought my findings to Robin, who already wore a grim expression—now it only got grimmer. She scanned the paper and looked up at me. “Just what I expected.”

  “How did you expect that?”

  She moved the real-estate paperwork aside to show me a document fresh off the printer. “Sheyenne kept filing those campaign-finance transparency requests, as she promised—and one of them accidentally slipped through.” She leaned back in her desk chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “I know who’s been funding both campaigns.”

  In the reception area, the phone rang, and Sheyenne answered it. “Hello, Lurrm, you’re calling early! Do your children’s swim classes start today?”

  Wincing at the loud response, she pulled the telephone receiver away from her ear. Even from Robin’s office I could hear the amphibious creature’s alarm as he belched out his words.

  I came out to take the phone. As if he were hyperventilating, Lurrm blurted and gasped. “I’m in danger, Mr. Chambeaux. Everything’s falling apart. It’s the end of days, ayup. You have to help me—I need protection!”

  “Calm down,” I said. “Start from the beginning.”

  The frog demon panted so hard that he sounded like a tuba. He finally managed to say, “It’s Ah’Chulhu—and words can’t express the horror.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Is it the gator-guys again? I’ll come right over.”

  “Yes, come! I need you now, but it’s not just the gator-guys. It’s . . . it’s the end of the world.”

  “It can’t be all that bad. We’ll sort it out—I’ll be right there.”

  “You don’t understand! I learned what Ah’Chulhu is up to. I know his plans and . . . oh, I didn’t want any part of them!”

  He gasped, and I heard smashing sounds in the background, explosions and growls, screams, burbles. The telephone on the other end thunked to the floor, and I could hear a skittering of wet, slimy feet.

  “Lurrm!” I yelled, but all that came through the phone was thrashing, a roar of bubbles, a wet, leathery slap.

  I heard the frog demon wail, “Noooo, not the tadpoles! Not the innocent tadpoles!”

  The violent splashing and screams reached a crescendo; then the connection ended. I imagined something large and wet smashing down on the phone.

  I was already moving. My .38 was in its holster, my fedora on my head. I had everything I needed.

  “Call McGoo and tell him I’m going to the old Zombie Bathhouse!” I yelled to Sheyenne as I flung open the door. “Have him send backup—all of it.”

  I dashed out into the street, which was socked in with thick, cottony fog. I hoped that the weather wouldn’t slow the police response. I could barely see where I was going as I ran as fast as a zombie could.

  CHAPTER 35

  I got there too late. The Recompose Spa was a slimy disaster.

  After hearing the noises and panic on the phone, I feared I would find a horrific situation, but this was far worse than I had imagined. Apparently, I needed a better imagination.

  McGoo arrived before I did. He had been out on his beat, disoriented by the thick fog, and hadn’t even realized how close he was to Recompose when Sheyenne called him. He had heard the screams and turmoil and blundered through the dense mist.

  He stood outside the front door, crouched over, hands on his knees. I had never seen him look so sickened. “It’s bad, Shamble,” he said. “Really bad. Carnage. Slaughter. Evisceration. Ghastly gore.”

  But zombies don’t get queasy so easily. “Let’s have a look.”

  Lurrm had cried out that this was the end of the world, and it was certainly the end for him, his entire staff, all his customers, and the former Zombie Bathhouse. It was a spa Armageddon.

  But the mayhem and destruction were all over by the time we entered Recompose, and the monstrous attackers were gone.

  Inside the front door, the shiny new security turnstiles had been uprooted, bent so that they looked like floppy metal starfish, and hurled across the reception area. The little window where the amphibious attendant sat was demolished, and the pages of a well-read fishing magazine were scattered about. An unrecognizable spotted mess was all that remained of poor Carrl.

  “You’re right, McGoo. This is bad.”

  He turned a pale face toward me. “It gets worse as you go downstairs.”

  In the steaming pools, the bodies of spa patron zombies lay torn apart, many floating facedown in the pools and showing no sign of reanimation. Green slime dripped from the walls, and it didn’t appear to be an intentional decoration that Lurrm had applied.

  The tadpole ponds had been emptied. The whole catalog of biological debris splattered the walls. Towel racks were smashed; towels and terry-cloth robes had been tossed in all directions. The wooden sauna door lay in splinters. Crumpled on the floor near one of the clotted hot pools lay a shredded bloody frock coat—apparently all that remained of poor Lurrm.

  “So what did this, Shamble?” McGoo asked. “And why?”

  “Lurrm called me to sound the alarm, but he didn’t have a chance to tell me any details. I said I’d come over to protect him.” I looked up at McGoo. “He told me he had discovered Ah’Chulhu’s plot—and that he was very afraid.”

  McGoo shook his head in disbelief. “You’re saying a real-estate agent did all this?”

  “Not just any real-estate agent: the half-breed son of a Senior Citizen God from another dimension.”

  McGoo gave a slow nod. “But still a real-estate agent.”

  With the monster attackers gone and everyone else dead, Recompose was eerily quiet, and our whispers echoed back at us. I still heard dripping water and oozing slime, a few bubbles as steam worked its way out of the pools, but nothing else: no groans of the injured, no moans of disoriented zombies. Body parts lay strewn all over the place. Fortunately, the heads were turned away from me, as if embarrassed at their disassembled condition.

  I nudged a severed hand that lay palm up, its fingers curled like a dead spider, and it suddenly twitched, startling me. The fingers waved, and the hand rocked from side to side like a turtle trying to right itself.

  “It’s C.H.,” I said, tipping him over.

  “You know this hand?” McGoo asked. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “He’s a standalone crawling hand, works here at Recompose.”

  Agitated, the hand bounced on his fingertips.

  I bent low, raising my voice, as if the hand were hard of hearing, although hands don’t have ears at all. “Can you tell us what happened?” I looked down at the slime and blood puddled on the tile floor. “Can you write out what you saw? What did this?”

  The hand scuttled over to the nearest red stain, dipped an index finger into the puddled blood, and then, keeping the dripping finger extended, C.H. moved to a clean tile and started to draw letters on the floor. It was a cumbersome process, though, and unfortunately C.H. was left-handed. As he tried to write letters in the thickening half-clotted slime, the side of his palm dragged over the fresh bloody ink and smeared the letters into unreadability.

  McGoo and I both tried to decipher what C.H. wrote, but neither of us had any idea. We would have to think of some other way to communicate. C.H. grew more and more agitated, which made his penmanship even sloppier.

  “Wait, maybe a keyboard will work better,” I said. “Lurrm had a computer in his office.”

  I picked up the disembodied hand and carried him into the frog demon’s office. Papers and folders on the desk were scattered in random piles, but that was just the normal chaos of Lurrm’s office. The attackers had not ransacked here.

  His computer was still on, its screen showing the Recompose Facebook fan page with a half-completed post announcing a couples’ midnight special—a special that now would never be posted.

 
I placed C.H. on the keyboard. “What happened, C.H.? Type out what you saw.”

  McGoo looked at me. “Technically, he didn’t see anything, since he’s just a hand.”

  C.H. responded by pointing a stern index finger at him. Then laboriously, with the clumsiness of a one-fingered, one-handed typist, C.H. pecked out his answer: LET ME SHOW YOU.

  The crawling hand tried to use the mouse and keyboard, and I had to help him with the pull-down menus. We managed to find the security-camera footage from the bathhouse, and McGoo and I took over rewinding the images and replaying the massacre, while C.H. crouched on the desktop and watched (or however a crawling hand received sensory input).

  On the screen, gigantic tentacles rose from the hot pools, snakelike appendages composed of equal parts slime and muscle. Patrons ran toward the exits, screaming, their relaxing spa experience ruined for the day. More tentacles exploded from the kiddie pool and the spawning ponds, writhing and lashing out. They seized helpless patrons and unnatural staff, crushing them in a relentless grip, tossing bodies about.

  “Same thing that killed Fletcher in the alley behind Basilisk,” I said. “Only there’s more of them.”

  McGoo stared at the horrific images. “How many more can there be? We did a full sweep of the sewers—something that gigantic couldn’t hide.”

  The tentacles created utter mayhem, capturing and killing anyone who tried to escape, and anyone who didn’t. I was appalled, but the heaviness in my chest grew worse as we watched the end of poor Lurrm.

  Wearing his distinctive frock coat, the frog demon ran about, flailing, trying to flee—but one of the slimy tentacles snagged his body and drew him toward a hot and sloppy mineral pool. Lurrm shrugged out of his frock coat and dropped loose, landing on the floor. He tried to hop away, but the tentacles grabbed him again, pulled him back toward the pool. He struggled, squirmed, thrashed, and somehow managed to slide out of the tentacular grip a second time.

  Before he could get to safety, the tentacle seized him and dragged him screaming toward the pool for a third time. He wailed his last words as the tentacle pulled him into the water, “Every time I try to get out, they pull me back in!”