The unimportant person was now the only one left alive to face the other assassin outside the front door, as well as the Grand Outside Door Conspiracy. However, as noted previously, the unimportant person is no longer a part of this story, and so we are left with just the assassin outside the front door and those in the Grand Outside Door Conspiracy. The latter would soon be no more as the assassin shot them all, believing they were deadly green aliens in disguise out to get him. They had always known an assassin would someday kill them, so they died happily and righteously.
The assassin outside the front door, the only one left alive, entered the room, carefully stepping over the bodies of those who had been out to get him, and ignoring the "Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?" cries of the unimportant person, who had always suspected that everyone ignored him, but he is no longer a part of this story.
One of the bodies the assassin had shot was not quite dead, and it sat up. Despite blood pouring from a bullet wound in its stomach, it shot and killed the assassin by the front door, just as it had been hired to do since it too was an assassin, and just as the now dead assassin (formerly from outside the front door), had always known would happen to him. The not-quite-dead body also shot the unimportant person, who also expected it, and he too died, and is no longer a part of this story. The not-quite-dead body then fell back dead, and also is no longer a part of this story. They all died happily and righteously.
This leaves only you, the reader, left in the story. We are just outside, and are out to get you. Don't bother locking your doors; you cannot stop us from getting our green tentacles on you. You will undergo probes stuck up the you-know-what and then we will eat you alive, as you've always known we would, and so you will die happily and righteously, and then you will no longer be a part of this story.
This story originally appeared in the Blood, Blade and Thruster magazine, 2007.
Larry Hodges's third novel, Campaign 2100: Game of Scorpions, a political satire/drama, was published in 2016, by World Weaver Press. The novel covers the election for president of Earth in the year 2100, where the world has adopted the American two-party electoral system, and features a third-party moderate challenge that pits father against daughter—with an alien ambassador along for the ride. A resident of Germantown, MD, Larry's an active member of SFWA with over 80 short story sales. He's a graduate of the six-week 2006 Odyssey Writers Workshop and the two-week 2008 Taos Toolbox Workshop. He has 14 books and over 1700 published articles in over 150 different publications. He's also a professional table tennis coach! Visit him at www.larryhodges.org.
Stalking the Zombie
A John Justin Mallory Story
Mike Resnick
JOHN JUSTIN MALLORY CRUMPLED his empty paper coffee cup and flipped it toward the wastebasket in the corner of his office. It hit the wall a few inches above the top of the basket and rebounded onto the floor.
"I don't think LeBron James is trembling in his boots yet," remarked Periwinkle, the magic mirror that hung on the wall just behind Mallory's chair.
"LeBron James doesn't wear boots," said Mallory.
"He also doesn't miss shots from eight feet away," shot back Periwinkle.
"I'm not joining the Knicks anytime soon, so he can rest easy," said Mallory, picking up the copy of the Racing Form he had been reading.
"That's it?" demanded Periwinkle. "You're just going to leave it lying on the floor?"
"I'll pick it up when I get up."
"That could be an hour!"
"So what?" said Mallory.
"It means I have to look at it," said Periwinkle.
"I don't know how to point this out to you, but you're just a decorative object."
"An object!" bellowed Periwinkle. "Is that all I mean to you?"
"Be quiet!" growled a feminine voice from atop the refrigerator in the next room. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
"That's an object!" said Periwinkle. "I'm a work of art."
"All right, I'm awake now," said the voice from atop the refrigerator. "What's for breakfast?"
"Beats me," said Mallory. "What small defenseless animal did you kill and bring back here?"
"I don't remember." This was followed by a ladylike burp. "But it's gone."
"There's a paper cup on the floor," said Mallory. "Why don't you eat that?"
"I like to play with my food first," said the voice.
"Or torture it."
"I just said that." Suddenly a 90-pound creature that seemed human at first glance but was definitely feline hurled itself through the air, landing lightly on Mallory's desk. "Skritch my back."
"Later," said Mallory. "I'm doping out the fifth race at Belmont."
"You lost the first four already?"
"Go kill a mouse or something, Felina," said Mallory.
"They're not very filling," said Felina.
"There's the door," said Mallory without looking up from his Form. "Go kill an elephant."
"Now you're joking," said Felina. "I can't eat a whole elephant." She paused thoughtfully. "Maybe a rhinopotamus."
"Go away or be quiet," said Mallory, studying the Form. "I've got serious work to do here."
"At least Flyaway's not running today," said Periwinkle.
"Why should today be any different?" asked Felina. "Flyaway never runs, especially when John Justin bets on him."
Mallory folded the Form and laid it on his desk. "I can see I'm not going to get anything done," he muttered.
"Okay, give me a minute," said Periwinkle.
"What are you talking about?" asked Mallory.
"Whenever you don't get anything done, you relax with a Bettie Page movie," answered the mirror. "I just have to remember where I filed it. Here, watch this while I look."
A baseball diamond appeared, with a goodly number of underweight and overweight players looking rather ridiculous as they ran out onto the field and took their positions.
"What the hell is this?" said Mallory.
"A 1937 Continental Association game between the Grantville Geldings and the Merrivale Monorchids," answered the mirror. "Ah! Here it is!"
An instant later Bettie Page covered the mirror, doing her Dance of Sublime Surrender, and an instant after that Col. Winnifred Carruthers entered the office. "What is that?" she demanded.
"Just Perriwinkle having a little joke," said Mallory.
The burly gray-haired woman approached the mirror. "You think this is funny, do you?"
"He made me do it!" said Perriwinkle nervously. "It's all his fault. I wanted to show him Alexander Nevsky but he insisted!"
"John Justin, have you no shame?" said Winnifred wearily.
"I left it in my other suit," said Mallory.
"That would be a wittier remark if you actually owned another suit," she replied.
"We all have our own ways of relaxing," said Mallory. "You go on safaris in Central Park, Felina tortures small defenseless animals, Periwinkle shills for unwatchable foreign movies, and I watch Bettie Page."
"Disgusting!" said Winnifred.
"Black-and-white foreign movies?" said Mallory. "They certainly are."
Winnifred sat down at her desk, straightened out a couple of doilies, and moved her flower vase three-eighths of an inch to the left. "Ah, well, you are what you are." Her gaze fell on the Racing Form. "I hope you're not betting on Flyaway again today."
"He's not entered."
"Good," said Winnifred. "The poor benighted animal deserves a rest."
"He rests the second the starting gate opens," offered Felina.
"I wish I could disagree with that," said Winnifred with a sigh.
Mallory was about to reply when there was a knock at the door.
"Felina, open it and let whoever it is in."
"I'm the office cat," she said. "That's not part of my job description."
"Feeding the office cat's not part of mine," said Mallory.
"I'll get it!" she yelled, leaping across the room and flinging the door open to reveal a balding
, underweight, very nervous man dressed all in black.
"Col. Carruthers?" he asked, looking uncomfortably at Felina.
"I'm Col. Carruthers," said Winnifred.
"That's a relief," said the man. "The Mallory and Carruthers Detective Agency comes highly recommended, but of course I had no idea what constituted a Mallory or a Carruthers."
"Come on in," said Mallory.
"Thank you," said the man, entering the office.
"Have a seat," continued Mallory, indicating a chair that faced his desk.
"I'd prefer to stand," said the man, eyeing Felina nervously.
"As you wish. Now, who are you, and what can we do for you?"
"My name is Nightspore, Aloysius Nightspore," he said. "I am one of the owners of Nightspore, Nightspore, Nightspore, and Cohen. You've heard of us?"
"Aren't you a rock group?" asked Mallory.
Nightspore shook his head. "Dear me, no. We're undertakers."
"Okay, you're undertakers," said Mallory. "What seems to be your problem?"
"One of our...ah…clients has gone missing." He grimaced uncomfortably. "Our most important client."
"Let me see if I understand you correctly," said Winnifred. "Someone has stolen a corpse?"
He shook his head. "No, no one stole it."
"Well, it sure as hell didn't just get up and walk out on its own power," said Mallory with a chuckle.
"In point of fact, that is precisely what it did," replied Nightspore.
"Damn!" muttered Mallory. "Every time I think I'm getting used to this Manhattan, something like this happens!"
"Let me explain," said Nightspore.
"I think you'd better," agreed Winnifred.
"Have you ever heard of Big Benny Bernstein?"
"He's been a local politician forever," said Winnifred. "What we used to call a ward healer."
"Well, he died two days ago," said Nightspore.
"Natural causes?" asked Mallory.
"I suppose it's natural that death results from two bullets in the spleen, another one in the heart, and one more in the liver," agreed Nightspore.
"Four shots would do it," agreed Mallory. "And the killer had two left if he needed them."
"Well, in theory," said Nightspore. "In point of fact, the other two shots just frightened the three women away."
"Three women?" said Mallory.
"Big Benny was always just a bit scandal-prone," answered Nightspore.
"I'd say he was energetically scandal-prone," said Mallory.
"Anyway, they're giving him a first-rate sendoff tomorrow afternoon," continued Nightspore. "The Mayor, the Governor, one of our Senators, half the City Council, eleven members of the State Legislature—and now there's no corpse."
"You say he just walked out?" said Mallory. "How do you know someone didn't steal the body?"
"He was laid out in his coffin after we embalmed him, and suddenly two of my assistants witnessed him get up and walk out the door."
"Have you got any details? Was there any external stimuli—a full moon, anything like that?"
"They were on their break, having a drink and playing that hit CD by Vlad and the Impalers, and one of them mentioned that he was going to see Bubbles La Tour at Salacious Sally's Five-Star Burlesque Emporium later tonight—and suddenly Big Benny sat up, said he wasn't ready to give up all the good times yet, and just like that he climbed out of his coffin and walked out the door."
"And this was how long ago?" asked Winnifred.
"Let's see," said Nightspore. "It's almost five now, so I guess it was about four this afternoon." He looked like he was trying to hold back some tears. "If we don't have him back in time for the funeral we'll be ruined! I don't care what you charge, just get him back no later than nine tomorrow morning!"
"We'll need a retainer," said Mallory.
"Here!" cried Nightspore, pulling a wad of money out of his pocket and throwing it at the detective. Felina leaped forward and caught it in her mouth before it reached him, while Nightspore walked to the door. "Remember—by nine at the latest!"
Then he was gone.
"What do you think, John Justin?" said Winnifred.
"I think if Felina eats that money I'll slit her open from top to bottom to get it back."
"What else do you think?" she said as Mallory reached out and took the roll of bills out of Felina's mouth.
"It doesn't taste as good as a rat that's been dead a week," complained Felina. "Or a month. Or two months." She paused thoughtfully. "Three months, maybe."
"In answer to your other question," said Mallory, "it sounds like Big Benny wants one last night on the town. How hard can it be to spot a zombie enjoying himself?"
"I don't know," answered Winnifred. "But have you noticed that none of our cases ever turn out to be as easy as they look when we accept them?"
"That goes with the territory, at least in this Manhattan." He checked his wristwatch. "Damn. Stopped again."
"It's 5:20," offered Winnifred.
"Well, we've got less than sixteen hours to find one runaway corpse in a city of eight million," said Mallory. "I suppose it makes sense to split up."
"I agree."
"The question is: where? I'll check out Salacious Sally's a little later, when she's open for business, but where else do we look?"
"Clubs that play bad rock music, his favorite restaurants, political rallies, party headquarters, the same places he'd hang out if he was still alive," said Winnifred. "Remember, he left the funeral parlor because he wasn't ready to give up all the things he enjoyed yet."
"All right," said Mallory. "I'll take Broadway and everything west of it; you have everything east."
She nodded her agreement. "We should arrange a meeting, to compare notes."
"Eleven o'clock at the Slithering Snake?" suggested Mallory.
She just stared at him.
"Eleven o'clock back here," he amended,
"Sounds good," she said. "I'll need ten minutes to prepare, and then I'm off after him."
"What kind of preparation do you need to do?" asked Mallory. "Research him on the internet?"
"I have to go to my apartment, pick up my .550 Nitro Express, pass the word to some of my safari trolls—especially my gunbearer and my tracker—and change into my khaki shorts and shirt, and my hiking boots."
"Are you sure you'll need all that?"
"What if he goes to Central Park, or even Grammercy Park?" replied Winnifred. "The game's afoot, John Justin!"
"We just want to find him, not blow him to smithereens," cautioned Mallory.
"He's already dead," said Winnifred, "so what harm can it do?"
Mallory shrugged, unable to come up with an answer.
"I'll see you in five and a half hours," she said, walking out the door.
"I'm going with you, John Justin!" purred Felina.
"You could stay here and protect the office," said Mallory without much hope.
She shook her head. "No! My place is beside you. Well, behind you, anyway—at least until I decide to desert you in the end."
"You could desert me right now," suggested Mallory. "Think of the time you'd save."
"No," said Felina. "Someone has to protect you from Big Benny and Bubbles La Tour and all the other evil denizens of the night."
"I can't tell you how safe that makes me feel," said Mallory sardonically. He got to his feet and walked to the door. "All right, let's get this show on the road."
"I have a question, John Justin," said Felina, leaping lightly off the desk.
"What is it?
"Are zombies good to eat?"
THEY WALKED PAST THE Vampire State Building and were headed in the direction of Madison Round Garden when Mallory spotted Ming Toy Yingleman's Almost-Kosher Delicatessen at the corner.
"Didn't Big Benny used to eat at that joint?" he wondered aloud.
"I don't know," said Felina helpfully. Then: "What does an almost-Kosher taste like?"
"Just like a nearly-Neopoli
tan, only different."
"Thank you, John Justin," said the cat-girl. "You know everything." She turned around. "Skritch my back."
"Later."
"All right." A brief pause. "Is it later yet?"
"Not til a week from Tuesday."
The answer seemed to satisfy her, and Mallory headed off toward the deli. As he entered he walked up to the cashier and asked if Big Benny had come in recently.
"About ten minutes ago," was the answer.
Mallory looked around. "I don't see him."
"Of course not," said the cashier. "We threw him out."
"Why?"
"Don't let the peeling wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling fool you, fella. We're a high-class establishment—and we don't serve zombies."
"Where did he go?"
"I sent him down the block to Odd Oswald's. They're less fussy about their clientele."
"Thanks," said Mallory, heading out the door, grabbing Felina by the hand and dragging her away from the display case.
"There were dead fish right there for the taking," she protested as they emerged onto the sidewalk.
"We have work to do."
"I hate you!" she hissed. "And I'm never speaking to you again!"
"I'll just have to live with the disappointment," said Mallory.
"Of course, I might talk to you someday if you begged me."
"I wouldn't dream of making you compromise your principles."
"What's a principle?" asked Felina. "Is it good to eat?"
"Only with pickles and hot fudge," said Mallory.
"Will you point one out to me, John Justin?" she asked, purring and rubbing her hip against his.
"They're kind of rare in these parts," said Mallory. "Besides, you're never speaking to me again."
"Oh, that," said Felina. "I forgive you."
"You've made my year."
"Where are we going?"
"To Odd Oswald's," said Mallory. "It's supposed to be around here somewhere." He looked across the street. "Yeah, there it is."
The two of them crossed the street and walked into the restaurant.
"There he is," said Mallory, indicating a white-haired man in a beautifully-tailored suit who was arguing with a waiter.
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