by Anton Strout
Jane had already broken free of her captors and backed to the other side of the book aisle. Her hands flew like lightning as she reached onto the shelves, pulling book after book free and tossing them right between the eyes of every zombie she targeted. She was cool, calculated, and unremorseful—all things that for once made me thankful for her bouts with the dark side of herself. It meant she could do something like this in survival mode without really scarring all that was good in her at the same time.
Connor and I made short work of the rest. Slow and unfocused zombies were much easier to contend with than when Cyrus had been controlling them. Godfrey had already pulled out a pocket-sized notebook that was covered in his own blood and was taking notes, although he had to hold the notebook an inch from his face to do so without his glasses.
“Jesus, Jane,” Connor said with a whistle. “That was some impressive book throwing.”
Jane curtsied in her evening gown, which had remained relatively intact despite our fight.
“I’ve got mad shelving skillz,” she said. “All that time in the Black Stacks at Tome, Sweet Tome. A book doesn’t have to be all dark and arcane to do some damage, you know.”
“How did you know to come here?” I said to Connor.
“Ah,” Godfrey said, looking up from his notebook. “That would be my doing.”
“Godfrey?” I said, turning to him.
He nodded, then gave his nonexistent glasses a phantom push up onto his nose. “After you dragged me out of the tent, I didn’t know what to do with myself, but I had to do something. So I sought out Mr. Christos here because I thought you might need backup.”
“And you did, kid,” Connor added. “And this is why we don’t leave our partners out of our lives, understand?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said, reaching into his own coat pocket. He pulled out a short length of rope and knelt down. He flipped Cyrus over and the rope sprung to life, tying itself tight around Cyrus’s wrists.
“Godfrey here finds me and drags me in after you, convinced you were on to something. So I get him to play decoy while I secured your bat.” Connor slapped Godfrey on the back. “Sorry I didn’t get my swing in sooner. You feel okay after that punch of his?”
Godfrey nodded with a big smile on his face, the blood forming an evil clown smile on his lips. “I believe that might be my first Departmental injury, unless you count paper cuts down in the Gauntlet. Or the time I twisted my ankle on the stone steps down there.”
I waggled a finger at Connor. “Whatever happened to what you said about keeping Godfrey out of all this?” I asked.
Connor shrugged. “Jesus, kid, did you see the way things were going down there? We needed every man we could get our hands on. Don’t take everything I say to heart, okay?”
I paused for a minute, kicking myself for being so literal-minded at times. I was so focused on my own issues that I had not really paid attention to the rest of the things around me.
“If you hadn’t shown up to save the day . . .” I started, then stopped with a shiver. Jane put her arm around me.
“That’s the great thing about being me, kid,” Connor said. “Even if you haven’t been looking out for me, I’m still always looking out for you. I’m a good partner like that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry,” Connor said. “Just be a better partner.”
This softer side of Connor confused me. What was going on in his life that suddenly gave him this deeper appreciation of me? Just the other day he was ready to cut me loose if I didn’t get my act together. Now he was all Walton’s Mountain.
Now was not the time to think about it. Zombieriffic things were still happening out in the tent, and then there was the matter of keeping this whole incident contained. Since a good portion of this evening’s events was taped for television, we’d have to secure all the equipment and pray that none of the footage had been broadcast live. First, we had to clear the library of Cyrus Mandalay, then the zombies.
It took all four of us to carry Cyrus out of there, but by the time we regrouped with the rest of the Department, it was like we were one big, happy family in an ocean of undead body parts.
And now we had another prison barge friend for Faisal Bane to play with.
40
No one escaped cleanup duty later that night. Some Other Division and Greater & Lesser Arcana employees headed back uptown to take on the bulk of the workload under the Guggenheim while several other divisions stayed to work on cleaning up Bryant Park. I was thankful that we hadn’t been stuck with that task—sure, the zombie menace had been quelled, but there were bodies all over the inside of the tent. The Guggenheim was just fine with me. Even Godfrey Candella had come along, still in his fashion show outfit, furiously taking notes on the remains of the Paralyzed exhibit.
Worn down as I was, the powers that be took mercy on me and I was spared the task of zombie body removal. Instead, I concentrated my efforts on going through boxes and boxes of invites Cyrus has stashed into one of the crates for his freak show when David Davidson arrived. Everyone looked up from what they were doing.
Davidson looked a little rough around the edges after all the spin he must have had to work tonight, and he loosened his tie.
“Well?” the Inspectre said. “How stands the situation?”
Davidson said, “Well, the good news is that most of what happened was contained to the big tent behind the library. The bad part is that there were a lot of celebrities who witnessed it, and part of it was being broadcast live.”
I crossed over to him.
“So the cat’s out of the bag,” I said, pissed off that we had done so poorly at containment. “We’re public.”
Connor came over to me and patted me on the shoulder. “Easy, kid. Let’s hear what the man has to say.”
Davidson gave me a stern look, then turned to Connor and smiled. “Thank you, Connor. The last thing Cyrus said before the people from the Thaniel Graydon took him away was a resounding “Even if you arrest me, you’re still going to have to deal with all the media.” A pretty weak parting threat, if you ask me.”
“But what about all the media?”
David Davidson actually let out a chuckle. “If there’s one thing that’s easy to do, it’s spin something in the fashion industry,” he said. “With all the witnesses and footage leaking out, to deny what was going on would be foolish. So why not play into it?”
Despite his confidence in Davidson, the Inspectre looked worried. “Meaning what, exactly, my boy?” he said.
Jane came up to me and put her hand in mine, squeezing it. The pain in my wrists from earlier still rang out, but I continued holding her hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Davidson said with a flourish. “I give you the fashion industry’s newest marketing stunt—a high-fashion zombie walk!”
“Zombie walk?” Jane asked.
Davidson nodded. “Yeah, I hadn’t really heard of it either, but there’s an underground movement on the Inter-net of these flash mobs that show up costumed as zombies. Mostly they’re fans of zombie movies and the like, but they get together, usually in urban areas, and wander around in character for several hours. Anyway, we had a few down by NYU a while back, and I thought it might be a good idea to start funding some of their events . . . you know, so they’d gain more popularity and just in case I ever needed a plausible cover story for a real zombie outbreak. Like, say, at Bryant Park.”
“And you expect people to buy this?” I asked.
Davidson nodded again. “People will believe almost anything they can Google. You should look it up. Besides, who can tell the difference between brainless, emaciated supermodels and gaunt, brain-hungry zombies? It’s fashion . . . People are far more likely to buy into a flash zombie walk than they are the harsh supernatural reality that the dead were rising and walking the land, consuming the living.”
All of the agents erupted into applause.
“That’s what
passes for genius?” Jane whispered to me.
“I guess,” I said, joining in the applause. “Seems to be working.”
I turned to look for Connor, only to see him standing alone over by the invitation boxes I had been working on, stock-still as everyone around him clapped. I went over to him, but he took no notice.
His face was stoic and his hand was clutching one of the invitation envelopes. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter I had seen in my psychometric flash of his desk. He clutched it in his other hand.
“Connor,” I said, “you okay?”
“You know how I’ve been a little distant lately? Wanting you to keep out of my business?”
I nodded.
He unfolded the letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The page was blank except for one single message in the center of it. No address, no signature, nothing.
It read: AIDAN CHRISTOS IS OURS. STOP LOOKING OR HE DIES.
“Aidan?” I asked. “Your brother?”
“How many Aidan Christoses do you know of? Someone sent it to me a little while ago, kid.”
“I accidentally got a psychometric reading off your desk,” I said, sheepish. “I know. I’m sorry. But whoever sent it to you knew I might see it, and they somehow blocked it from my power. It knocked me out. But why now? Why send something after all this time?”
Connor was silent, assessing the information I’d given him. “Because whoever they are, they must know I work with you. And now that your control over your power is growing, they know it’s only a matter of time before I use you to help me track him down.”
“But if you were going to keep that letter from me to keep him safe, why tell me now?”
He held up one of the invitations. The name on it read only Aidan, and it had an address. Right here. In New York City.
“What are the odds, kid?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I think it’s time to find out.”
Connor nodded. “Let’s find him.”
The two of us headed back toward the exit. When the Inspectre saw us leaving, he must have seen our determination, and didn’t say a word. And I knew why: You could never get away with stopping people with the kind of hope we had on our faces.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANTON STROUT was born in the Berkshire Hills mere miles from writing heavyweights Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville. He currently lives in historic Jackson Heights, New York (where nothing paranormal ever really happens, he assures you).
His short story “The Lady in Red” can be found in the DAW Books anthology Pandora’s Closet, and a tie-in story to Dead to Me entitled “The Fourteenth Virtue” can be found in DAW’s The Dimension Next Door.
He is the cocreator of the faux folk musical Sneezin’ Jeff & Blue Raccoon: The Loose Gravel Tour, winner of the Best Storytelling Award at the first annual New York International Fringe Festival.
In his scant spare time, he is an always writer, sometimes actor, sometimes musician, occasional RPGer, and the world’s most casual and controller-smashing video gamer. He now works in the exciting world of publishing, and yes, it is as glamorous as it sounds.
He is currently hard at work on the next book featuring Simon Canderous and can be found lurking the darkened hallways of www.antonstrout.com.