Jailbait Zombie fg-4

by Mario Acevedo

  I returned to the Toyota. The crystal in the diviner gave a faint glow, on duty and vigilant for more psychic signals.

  Faces in the windows of the cottage kept watch until I drove off.

  So far, my investigation proceeded as expected. In other words, I had practically zip to show for my efforts. The one break was that I was now certain psychic attacks caused my hallucinations.

  To plan my next step I circled back to a café that I had passed on the way to Adrianna’s.

  This time in the morning, I could use a cup of coffee to stimulate my thinking. The café had a short adobe wall surrounding an outside patio. The picnic tables closest to the café door were busy with customers. I paid for a cup of dark roast and got a table at the far end of the patio. The coffee was good but needed a little blood to round out the taste.

  The skies were darkening and a breeze drummed along the café’s patio awning. We were due for an autumn rain and I wanted to enjoy a drink in the fresh air before the clouds drenched us.

  My cell phone vibrated. The incoming call had a local prefix but I didn’t recognize the number.

  Who in Morada knew my number? I answered with a simple hello.

  The caller-a younger man, I guessed by his voice-asked, “You Felix Gomez?”

  “I am.”

  “You looking for Barrett Chambers?”

  The hairs on the back of my hand stood. The breeze had a sudden weight and chill.

  “I know something about him,” the man said.

  CHAPTER 11

  One moment this case was a dark closet and the next moment it was like the door had been flung open and the light shone in, intense and scalding with opportunity.

  Who was this stranger? “Your name?”

  “Gino. Gino Brunatti.”

  He emphasized his last name like it should mean something. Which it did.

  Brunatti. Any Colorado PI worthy of the license knew that name. Along with the Smaldones and Carlinos, the Brunattis were one of the organized-crime families who had moved to Denver from Chicago and the East Coast in the 1920s. They arrived hoping to expand their rackets. Other than adding color to local history and extended stays in the iron-bar hotel, none of the families accomplished much.

  Once they were chased out of Denver-too much competition from the other crooks, including the police-the mobsters had moved south. Their descendants set up shop in Pueblo and west into the mountains surrounding the San Luis Valley.

  So he was a Brunatti. If he lived in Morada and hung out with a lowlife like Chambers, then Gino wasn’t much of a big-time player in the crime world.

  Gino said, “That’s you at the café.”

  How did he know? I ducked and swiveled my head, convinced that he was using a sniper rifle to count the hairs on my scalp. Gino might not be a big-time player but he had cojones. Where was he? “How’d you get my number?”

  “From Adrianna.”

  Adrianna? Morada was a smaller town than I thought.

  “She gave me your number and a description of your Toyota. I drive down Abundance and here you are. Listen, you can’t wipe your butt in this town without everybody knowing how many squares of paper you use.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Look to your right, asshole.”

  A silver Nissan Titan pickup rumbled into the gravel parking lot and halted alongside my Toyota. The driver snapped a phone closed, and in the same instant, the connection to my phone went dead. Gino.

  And he had a passenger.

  The Nissan was a large truck. Despite this, when Gino got out, the impression was like watching a giraffe climb out of a wall locker. His long arms and legs unfolded, his lanky torso straightened, and he stood to a height of six foot four at least.

  Gino looked to be in his late twenties. Picture a Mediterranean complexion, Roman nose, and thick glossy hair the envy of any man over forty. He wore a leather Broncos jacket in royal blue and vivid orange. I could tell he liked showing off the jacket, and I’d bet he never took it off, even in the middle of summer.

  Another man got out from the front passenger’s side of the Titan. He appeared older-mid-thirties-swarthy, and tall, with an unzipped nylon jacket hanging around a doughy middle. He made his way to the front of the truck, where he remained facing me.

  They wanted to bully me and I wasn’t in the mood to play along. I especially wasn’t going to let the “asshole” comment slide.

  Gino approached the patio and levered his gangly legs over the wall. Jeans sharply pressed. Cowboy boots shiny as oil.

  He sat across from me and placed his long-fingered hands on the table. The top of his jacket hung open and showed a wealth of gold chains, each heavy enough to anchor a small boat.

  Gino took a napkin from the holder and reached down to wipe the dust from his boots. A bracelet of chunky gold links dangled from one wrist. He tossed the napkin to the ground.

  Outwardly, Gino looked every bit the self-assured hustler except for one detail. His eyes. Instead of arrogance, I saw worry.

  I thumbed in the direction of his friend. “Why don’t you ask him to join us?”

  “Vinny’s okay where he’s at. I got things to say that are none of his business.”

  I hoped Gino’s secrets dovetailed with mine.

  “Adrianna told me you’re a private investigator.”

  Gino knew too much about me and I knew next to nothing about him. But he’d come here to talk and this was my chance to listen and learn.

  I said, “That’s true.”

  Gino asked, “What’s your concern with Barrett?”

  “My client hasn’t heard from him.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “A client,” I answered. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “I didn’t know Barrett had business in Denver.”

  “So we’re even. I didn’t know Barrett had business here.” I gave Gino a fake smile.

  He reciprocated with an equally fake smile.

  “If you think I care about any moneymaking arrangements you had with Barrett or with anyone else”-I made an obvious glance at Vinny-“don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Barrett was your friend?”

  “We’ve known each other awhile.” Gino’s eyes keyed on mine. “You said ‘was.’ Is he all right?”

  “I’m sure he’s looked better.”

  “What’s that mean? Is he dead?”

  Actually undead. “He’s not alive.”

  “You sure?”

  “I saw his remains.”

  Gino whispered, “Fuck.” His lips drew back and showed clenched teeth. He acted like he was going to bite his way out of this problem. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.” About the zombie part. “That’s why I’m in Morada.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense. He just disappeared.”

  “I’m acquainted with Barrett’s past,” I said. “Seems to me that in your line of work, someone disappearing is an occupational hazard.”

  “Not in this case. I was supposed to meet Barrett to pay him big. The fucker was always scrambling for money. But he never showed up and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Six weeks ago.”

  This jibed exactly with what I’d found out about Chambers’s final days as a human.

  “Where did he go?”

  A grim mask settled on Gino’s face. “That is what’s so spooky about this. I don’t want Barrett to end up like this guy.”

  “What guy?”

  Gino unzipped his jacket and reached inside.

  I tensed. At the first sign of a gun, I would spring over the table, talons and fangs bared to kill.

  Gino raised his other hand. “Relax.” He pulled out a folded copy of the Morada Mountain Weekly and set it before me.

  “You wanna see what’s got me spooked? This.” He set an index finger over an article “Local Man Missing.”

  The accompanying pho
tograph was of a dumpy-looking middle-aged man in a cowboy hat smiling for the camera. The article said he had vanished. The police were looking into an accidental death. Maybe he fell off his horse and into a ditch. No reason to alarm the family by mentioning the obvious-foul play and murder.

  “What’s this got to do with Barrett?”

  Gino hunched his shoulders and leaned toward me. “I feel like I’m in the opening minutes of a horror movie. You know when all kinds of freaky gruesome shit happens and no one but the audience has a clue what’s going on?”

  Sounded like a typical day in my life. “How so?”

  “I had another friend disappear. Stanley Novick.”

  That made three. Chambers. The cowboy. Novick. “What freaky shit happened to him?”

  Gino’s face grew tight like his insides were compressing. Then his hands shot from the table and he gestured wildly. “He’s fucking dead.”

  Gino’s conniption caught me by surprise and I got ready to punch him.

  “Stanley didn’t stay disappeared for long.” Gino scissored a hand over his middle. “I found him with his guts gone.” Gino chopped across his thighs. His voice got louder. “Plus both legs.”

  Words spewed from Gino’s mouth like blood gushing from a severed artery. “His skull was empty as a coconut. They took his brains.” Gino cupped his hands in offering and practically shouted. “His fucking brains. How sick is that?”

  A couple of women at another table stared and then averted their eyes. They gathered their cups and plates and slinked to the café door.

  Vinny leaned toward us and cocked an ear.

  Gino must have sensed this and turned to Vinny. He waved an okay.

  Vinny nodded and relaxed.

  Gino’s nostrils flared and the breath huffed from his nose. His skin turned white as an eggshell and his expression became as brittle. “Who would do this?”

  Hungry zombies. The missing brains were the best clue. As for the guts and legs, the zombie reanimator could’ve been harvesting parts for new victims.

  I said, “I don’t know.”

  Gino asked, “Did Barrett have all his stuff? His arms? His legs? His brains?”

  Until Mel sliced and diced him with an excavator. “As far as I could tell.”

  Gino took the newspaper and shoved it back into his jacket. “What happened to Stan and Barrett gives me the serious willies. Sometimes there’s a scuffle over turf-another gang moving in-and if someone gets his, it’s usually a drive-by or a simple one right here.” Gino touched the back of his head. “I’ve heard of Colombians and Mexicans doing crazy torture shit, but that’s never happened around here.”

  A gust of cool, moist air whisked dust across the patio. Napkins fluttered off the tables. Gino put a hand over his forehead to keep the wind from mussing his hair.

  Vinny called to him and held up a cell phone. “It’s Uncle Sal. We gotta go.”

  Uncle Sal who?

  Gino got up from the table. “My cousin told me that if someone came asking about Barrett, that guy would be the one who knew what the score was.”

  My kundalini noir twitched. Was that guy me? I’d come here unannounced to investigate zombies and psychic signals, and yet Gino’s cousin anticipated my arrival.

  “What cousin? What score?”

  “The disappearances.” He backed away, shoulders hunched, as if afraid to say more. “We’ll talk again.” He stepped over the wall and headed for the Titan pickup.

  “When?” I got up to follow.

  Vinny scowled and hitched the side of his pants to warn he had a gun handy. In other circumstances, I’d take that gun and give him a bullet suppository. But I couldn’t risk the gunplay out here in public, with so many bystanders. For now.

  Gino and Vinny got into the Titan and drove off.

  I couldn’t let Gino get away. He had information that I needed and I was going to get it. Even if it came to gunplay.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hard drops of rain splashed on my face.

  I rushed to my Toyota. I’d follow Gino and find a chance to hypnotize him. I’d learn what he meant by: “My cousin told me that if someone came asking about Barrett, that guy would be the one who knew what the score was.”

  Who in Morada knew I’d be asking about Barrett?

  By the time I reached my truck, I was drenched with rain.

  I took out my contacts to track Gino by his aura. He’d be easy to spot. Each psychic envelope was as unique as a face.

  His aura looked like a dimpled red balloon while Vinny’s resembled a dollop of cinnamon-candy-colored syrup. Stubby tendrils of anxious thoughts poked from each aura.

  Gino’s Nissan turned left and went east, then north on a county road.

  Sheets of heavy rain muted the landscape to blurry shades of gray. The sky became dark as dusk. Drivers turned on their headlights, but I kept mine off so that I could stay hidden from Gino.

  My wipers beat across the windshield. The windows started to fog because of my wet clothes, not my heavy breathing. I don’t breathe. I turned on the defogger.

  We crossed over the Rio Grande. The rain-swollen current roiled around the bridge pilings.

  I had no idea where Gino was headed, but no matter, once I caught him, I’d know his secrets.

  A half mile later, Gino left the county road for an asphalt single lane.

  Leafy shrubs pushed close to the road. Branches slapped my windshield. Gino’s aura bounced in the squall like the flame of a candle. Even if he swerved into the brush, I’d still be able to spot him.

  To my right, a man and a woman darted between the shrubs. At first, I wondered what they were doing out in this storm. Then I realized: neither of them had an aura.

  Zombies.

  Change in plans. Gino could wait.

  I stepped on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel for a fast U-turn.

  The Toyota looped across the rain-slick asphalt. I straightened the wheel and pressed the gas pedal. The rear tires clawed at the road and the truck yawed side to side.

  What were zombies doing out now? I thought of them as creatures of the night. Well, vampires get around quite a bit in the daytime. Why shouldn’t zombies?

  Since they showed no auras, their filthy clothes allowed them to blend chameleon-like in the landscape. I searched for their outlines. I caught them up ahead, lumbering in stooped gaits through the woods.

  I pulled off the side of the road.

  I reached under my seat and pulled out a Heckler & Koch.45 pistol. Normally, if I needed a gun, I packed a.380. Plenty of firepower to discourage even stubborn humans. In case of vampires, I loaded the.380 with silver bullets. Against zombies I needed something with more oomph, like this.45.

  I palmed the gun and got out of the Toyota. The pistol felt heavy and reassuring. Nothing like German firepower as backup to my vampire skills.

  Rain dribbled down my face. I wiped my eyes and looked for the zombies’ trail.

  Two sets of prints trampled the grass. I leaned over to study them and got hit with a double dose of wet garbage smell.

  One set of prints was of a man’s big bare feet. The other prints looked like they came from a small pair of boots.

  I advanced with the H&K and moved the square muzzle left and right like the snout of a dog homing in on the scent.

  What were the zombies doing out here? Hunting?

  For what?

  Who sent them?

  Perhaps there was an infestation underground and the rain had forced this pair to the surface like a couple of earthworms.

  I would drop them both and go through their clothes. With luck I’d find a lead back to the reanimator.

  One of the zombies paused beneath a willow. He wore a tattered straw cowboy hat. At the moment I could see him only in outline, but as I got close I noticed that he was looking back at me.

  Layers of flabby skin hung around his neck. He stood bow-legged and barefoot, wore a ragged shirt and tight pants with a big metallic buckle. The box
y shape of his face, the thin eyebrows, and the cowboy hat reminded me of someone I’d recently seen.

  The missing cowboy. The zombie’s face matched the picture in the newspaper.

  He hadn’t run away or gotten tangled up with criminals. His fate had been worse.

  He’d been a victim of the reanimator.

  The cowboy zombie lowered his head and scooted away.

  I had seen the tracks of two zombies. Where was his companion?

  Cowboy zombie disappeared through a gap in the dense shrubs around a stand of scrub oaks. Plenty of cover to hide for an ambush.

  My sixth sense tingled my fingertips and ears.

  I crept through the shrubs and under the branches of the oaks. Dumpster funk was all around me, but I had lost the zombies.

  The tingling of my fingertips amplified into a buzz. The muzzle of the pistol began to tremble.

  The damn zombies were close.

  I adjusted my grip on the.45 and held it as steady as I could.

  I don’t breathe.

  Zombies don’t breathe.

  The only sound was the drip-drip patter of heavy drops falling through the leaves.

  My wet clothes sucked the heat from my body. The chill squeezed my bones. First I’d kill these zombies and then reward myself with a hot soak and an extra-large martini.

  Cowboy zombie appeared in the sumacs at the far end of a grassy open patch. His waterlogged hat drooped around his ears. He wiped an elbow across his belt buckle.

  My sixth sense screamed Trap.

  My senses tingled so hard I couldn’t keep the pistol steady and I gripped the H&K with both hands.

  I stayed beneath an oak tree and scanned the brush around me. Nothing lurked.

  Cowboy zombie was at least fifty feet from me, too far for an accurate shot. But after meeting Barrett, I had learned to keep my distance from these smelly tricksters.

  I raised the pistol and centered the sights on his chest.

  Pow.

  The bullet ripped through his shirt and tore into his sternum in a splat of rotted meat. The impact knocked the hat off his head. The zombie shook and flopped to his back. His heels pawed troughs in the mud and his hands clutched at the wet grass.