He’s gone cookie zombie again.
“I did worry that you might have made yourself immune to the Jorbinate Sublimate itself,” Mercer confides as she rises to her feet again, but more slowly this time. After all, there’s clearly no hurry anymore. “But I’d hoped it was just the cookies themselves you’d managed to find a way around. I’m glad to see I was right. Stand up.” My perspective shifts as he complies. “Good. Now, come with me. I haven’t decided exactly what to do with you yet, so for now I’ll put you in the spare bedroom. For safekeeping.”
I’m forced to watch as Tall follows docilely as a broken dog. Great. Now what’re we gonna do? I can’t snap him out of it, and I don’t know if I can reach Ned or Mary in time. Who else can help, though?
Then I realize who. And I have to grit my teeth. But I need to do this, and not just for Tall. For everyone. So I force myself to go over to my computer and hack into Tall’s phone records, then pick up my phone and dial.
“Who is this?” The raspy voice demands as soon as it picks up. This is definitely in the training manuals.
“It’s DuckBob,” I answer. “Listen, Agent Jones. Tall—I mean, Agent Thomas—needs your help.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
When bad pranks pay off
It doesn’t take much to convince Jones that Tall’s in trouble. About nine words, in fact: “So we found Mercer, and Tall went after her—”
“He what?” Okay, she may not be much at the whole gnashing-of-teeth thing but when it comes to frothing over the phone, this gal’s world-class. I think my chin actually gets damp, even. “He went after her alone?” Then apparently her words catch up with her brain by way of her ears, and she stops. I know exactly what that’s like, since I say things without thinking all the time, and then hear them and about half the time go “huh?” The best are the ones where I then realize, “Hey, that was actually pretty clever of me!” I may be an idiot, but my attitude has flashes of pure genius.
Jones is clearly having a moment like this, at least of the “wait, I said what?” variety. “Who is Mercer,” she asks after a second, and I feel so bad for her, I just want to tell her, “It’s okay, honey, keep practicing, someday you’ll sound like you’re shooting your words out at me machine-gun style instead of dribbling them on the floor at your own feet because you’re chewing marbles at the same time.” This probably isn’t the time, though, so I just keep quiet and listen as she adds, “and what do you mean, ‘she’?”
“Olivia Ann Mercer was a MiB,” I explain, happy to actually know what I’m talking about for once. “Or maybe a WiB, I’m still not clear on that. She was the first female agent, back in the early seventies—and she was Smith’s partner when they busted Monsinal Sha’ar. But it didn’t work out, so she got drummed out and her memory was wiped, as were all records of her.”
“Which is why Agent Smith couldn’t remember she even existed.” Yeah, Jones isn’t stupid. I make a mental note of that in case we’re ever playing poker together.
“Exactly. But apparently it didn’t take with her, so she still remembered all of it. And, well, it’s kinda driven her a little cuckoo.” On the whole I think that’s a pretty good rundown, especially a quickie version.
“So Agent Thomas went to confront her? What happened? Is he all right?” That definitely sounds like more than friendly and professional interest, but I let it slide for now. Instead I peek at my Tall-cam. He’s in a bedroom, definitely a spare room by the way all the furnishings are a little on the generic side, with no photos or personal items. It’s the same room Mercer led him to, and then she told him, “Stay here and keep quiet.”
“He’s in her spare room,” I answer. “She dosed him again, though not with cookies at least, and so he’s just sitting there quietly, waiting for orders.”
“Tell him to snap out of it!” she urges, and of course if I could’ve I would have, but I already know better.
“Won’t work,” I reply. “You’ve gotta be there in person, over the mike doesn’t cut it. Somebody’s gotta get in there with him, wake him up, and get the hell back out.”
“Fine.” I can hear Jones moving about on her end. “I’m on my way. I should be there within the hour. You think about our next move, in the meantime.” Then she’s gone.
“Our next move”? Oy. But I do have the time to study this from all angles, and I’m hoping something springs to mind. Something beyond “sic an angry WiB on a revenge-crazed ex-WiB,” which seems to be the current plan.
An hour later, Jones calls me back. “I’m pulling up in front of Mercer’s house. Nice place.”
“You should see the inside,” I mutter. Jones hears me, though, and smiles. I can tell because her next words are stretched oddly: “That’s the plan.”
Then she’s out of the car.
“Wait, what’re you gonna do?” I ask. “Tall got zombified because he waltzed right in. If you do the same, you’ll just be another zombie, too. And it’s not like I have a lot of MiBs in my Favorites, so if you get stuck here, you’re on your own.”
That makes Jones stop, one big, beefy hand resting on the top of the car, the other clasping the upper edge of the still-open driver’s side door. Yes, I can hear this sort of thing over the phone—it’s amazing what good hearing I have, considering I don’t have any actual external ears. And yes, I hate it when people call me while they’re in the bathroom. Boundaries, people—boundaries.
“We need to find another way in,” she admits after a minute. “And some way to steer clear of Miss Mercer herself. Any ideas?”
I’m flattered that she’s even asking my opinion—and I wish I had something better to report—but after a few seconds’ thought I have to sigh. “I didn’t see any other exits,” I tell her, “though in some spots it was hard to make out anything. I think you may be stuck with the front-door approach. And try to find some way not to breathe, either. She could have it in spray form, too.”
Jones grunts. “Don’t breathe. Right. This should be easy. What about contact? Will enough seep into my skin to affect me?”
It’s a good question, and I honestly don’t know. “You should keep from exposing yourself anyway, just in case,” I tell her, which is actually true on a lot of levels. Ugh. “In fact, wrap a burka around yourself, and keep your head low.”
Then I have what might be my best idea ever. “No, never mind the burka,” I assure her. “Listen, how secure is your phone?”
“Very.”
“Excellent! Here’s what you do . . .”
Which is why, twenty minutes later, I’m still on the line with Jones when a large vehicle of some sort comes racing up the block, sirens blaring, and screeches to a halt right next to her car. There’s the thud of door opening and closing, and the thump of feet hitting the ground, then the bustle of a bunch of people hustling about.
“You the one who called?” Someone asks, and his voice is heavily muffled.
“Me? No,” Jones answers, lying through her teeth. Turns out she’s better at that than grumbling through them or grinding them, so that’s good, at least. “I got called in, too. I’m with the government.” She doesn’t bother to say which branch, and somehow they don’t ask her. I guess they’ve got bigger things to worry about.
“All right, we’ll secure the location—you stay back here behind the perimeter,” Mr. Muffler orders. “Everybody ready?” There’s a whole bunch of replies, all similarly swaddled. “Right, let’s do this by the book!” And then there’s footfalls again, followed by a loud crash.
So yes, it turns out that it really is good to know how to call in and report a possible biohazard situation. And no, you shouldn’t do something like this to just anyone, not even an obnoxious co-worker who hogs all the chocolate donuts. Though Donny did deserve it—it’s just not right leaving everyone else with only sprinkles, plain, and coconut. I don’t care if he was a big deal in the seventies. Besides, the hazmat team didn’t mess him up too badly, and I hear most of his hair did eventually grow
back, so it’s all good. And right now, remembering how to do that and being able to relay that to Jones turned out to be perfect.
Because of course they’re all wearing full hazmat suits. With oxygen tanks. No outside contact at all. No way for Mercer to zombify them. Check and mate, sweetheart!
I’m still congratulating myself when I hear a whole lot of rustling. “Yo, what’s going on?” I ask.
“I’m suiting up,” Jones replies, and there’s a clatter that I’m guessing is her setting the phone down on something for a minute.
“Suiting up? You’re going in there?”
“Of course,” she answers, and now she’s all muffled too. “I’ve still got to get to Agent Thomas.”
Ah, right. “Bring a spare,” I point out, and the rustling that follows tells me she knows I’m not talking bowling. Then she hangs up on me.
Well, that’s fine. I switch back to my Tall-cam. He’s still in that same spare bedroom, sitting on the bed, just waiting there. I can hear the hazmat team moving around through his mic, but when the door opens a few minutes later it’s not them I see—
It’s Mercer.
Ah, hell.
Chapter Thirty-Five
But where’s the Jell-O?
“It seems someone thought to call in the cavalry,” she says as she approaches him, and again I’m struck by what remarkably good shape she’s in. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she was in her thirties and just had prematurely silver hair. I’d say I hoped I look that good when I’m her age, but I already know I will—turns out ducks age handsomely, so I’ll probably get some silvering around the eyes but otherwise there won’t be much change. Go, me! Regardless, Mercer glides across the room with a casual grace that reminds me she’s still very dangerous. And that Tall’s a sitting duck—which is a bit of role-reversal, for sure.
“And they’re well equipped to avoid my usual safeguards,” she continues as she stops beside him. “Any idea who sent them?”
“Most likely DuckBob,” Tall answers—damn that zombie-juice! That stuff’s worse than truth serum, which Tall assures me can be beaten, or at least worked around. Wish I’d known that back in the day—I wouldn’t have been so scared when the Feds threatened me with it over that one incident. “If it’s a bizarre but strangely effective plan, it’s usually his.” Awww!
“Well, fortunately for me I also plan effectively,” Mercer snaps, and hands Tall something. Something big and dark and heavy and distinctively gun-shaped. Crap. “We’re leaving now,” she tells him. “You need to protect me from these people. Don’t let any of them get near me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The sudden rise in viewpoint tells me he’s standing, and I hear as well as see him cock the gun. Great. I’d call Jones to warn her, but she wouldn’t hear the phone ring through her suit. And it’s probably too late, anyway. There’s nothing I can do but watch as Tall leads the way to the door, cracks it open—and shoots a large, bulky, orange-suited figure lumbering down the hall. Zot! Then he’s through the doorway and moving quickly, taking out the Hazmat team like this is a video game and he’s one of those kids who spends all his time in his parents’ basement practicing kill shots and one-liners but terrified of speaking to people in real life. Which makes me wonder about Tall’s childhood, for sure.
Even as a cookie zombie he’s horribly efficient, and in less than a minute there isn’t another soul moving besides him—and Mercer, who’s right behind him. I can see her shadow on the wall. “Excellent work, Agent Thomas,” she assures him as they make they way toward the front door. “But don’t let your guard down—there could be more of them.”
Truer words were never spoken, because no sooner does she say that then a bolt of blue energy sizzles through the air from around the corner—and nails Tall full in the chest. Wham! He goes stiff as an ironing board, his own pistol falling from his hands, and topples like a felled tree. Which plays havoc with my perspective, let me tell you.
“You must be Olivia Ann Mercer,” Jones says as she steps into view, pistol leveled at Mercer—at least I think it is, since I’m viewing all of this sideways. I practically have to stand on my head to make sense of it. Which is easier than you might think—the bill provides an extra contact point at each end, so it’s more like a tripod. I’ve gotten really good at yoga as a result.
“I am,” Mercer replies, and she starts to crouch down, but freezes as a second energy bolt fires just past her. “And you are?”
“Uh uh,” Jones warns. “And I’m Agent Jones.” She moves in a step or two.
“Ah. The new me, I presume?” Mercer straightens. “I must say, no offense but the agency’s standards seem to be slipping.”
“We can’t all be former beauty queens,” Jones snaps back, and from the angry rasp I’m guessing Mercer’s little dig got to her. Which is of course exactly what Mercer wants. “Don’t let her rattle you!” I shout, but it’s no use. The only one who can hear me through this thing is Tall, and he’s busy being a popsicle. All I can do is sit and watch as the two women sidle closer, sizing each other up. The current WiB and the former one. It’s a striking difference, certainly—they’re both tall and broad-shouldered but Jones looks like a linebacker or a heavyweight boxer stuffed into a suit, while Mercer really does handle herself like a beauty queen, regal and dignified and lovely.
Right up until the moment she looses a roundhouse kick and knocks the pistol from Jones’s hands. Oh, right, this former beauty queen was a WiB as well—and apparently her work history isn’t the only thing she remembers from her time with them.
She follows the kick with a backhand that could probably dislocate a jaw—but Jones blocks with a heavy forearm, then throws a punch that snaps Mercer’s head back instead.
“Naw,” Jones retorts as she pounds a fist into Mercer’s stomach, doubling her over, “I’d say their standards are still pretty high.”
She goes to bring her elbow down on Mercer’s neck, finishing the job, but the Hazmat suit slows her down just enough for Mercer to twist to the side, evading the blow. She grabs Jones’s wrist instead, yanking down hard and dragging her off-balance, then sweeps the agent’s feet out from under her, sending her sprawling. But Jones does a fan-kick, making Mercer stagger back and pinwheeling her back to her feet as well. Damn, these two can fight! I think Tall could maybe take them, but most other opponents would get a serious beat-down, male or female, and here they are duking it out in front of me! It reminds me of some matches I saw in high school, when we used to sneak over to this one place that had female mud-wrestling and—even better—Jell-O wrestling. I’d get up and grab some popcorn but I don’t want to miss a second of it.
They trade a couple more blows, and it looks to me like they’re pretty evenly matched—Jones is a little stronger, and a lot younger, but that Hazmat suit’s hampering her a bit, while Mercer’s not quite as spry but she’s still a tough old bird and she’s picked up a lot of tricks over the years. Like grabbing Jones’s helmet and yanking it sideways, making it impossible for her to see the blows Mercer then lands on her. Fortunately the suit is also taking some of that impact, and Jones responds by simply shoving hard in front of her—she doesn’t have to see to connect at that range, and the powerful push sends Mercer flying. By the time she’s back on her feet Jones has her mask twisted back around, and is advancing on her slowly and steadily.
“Give it up,” she warns. “You can’t win.”
“Not if I play fair, perhaps,” Mercer admits, levering herself up with one arm. “But I gave that up years ago.” And she raises her other hand—which is holding Tall’s gun.
Once again—crap.
There isn’t time for Jones to go for her own pistol, wherever it landed, nor anywhere to dive for cover. So she does the next best thing—she sweeps one arm down and out and around, like she’s bowling.
And scoops up the end table beside her, hurling it right at Mercer.
“Aah!” I guess she wasn’t expecting to be attacked by her own living
room furniture—besides me, who is, really?—because Mercer instinctively throws both hands up to shield herself. The table slams into her anyway, knocking her back to the floor, and her pistol goes flying.
By the time she’s recovered enough to shove the wood shards off her and look around, dazed, Jones is standing over her, a pistol in each hand.
“Game over,” she declares. “You lose.”
Then she shoots Mercer. Twice. Just to be sure, I’m going to assume.
Once Mercer’s frozen, Jones pulls off her helmet and crouches down beside Tall. “Agent Thomas, can you hear me?” she asks.
“Yes,” he answers, though it’s a bit slurred. Good to know the paralysis from their guns doesn’t last all that long.
“Good. Snap out of it,” she instructs. She watches him closely, so much so that I can see his reflection in her eyes, which is a little weird, but I swear I can see it when his face shifts.
“Agent Jones?” he asks. “I take it you’ve apprehended Miss Mercer?”
“I have,” she answers. “Once you’re recovered we can bring her back to headquarters. You can call it in on the way.” Which, I take it, is her way of letting him know that this is still his collar. Which is surprisingly cool of her. Maybe I misjudged Agent Jones a little bit. Hey, bulldogs can be very friendly, once you get past the scowl and the barking. And the biting and snarling. And the bad breath.
“Thank you.” Tall nods, and sits up. Slowly. “DuckBob, you there?”
“Oh, you betcha,” I answer. “Never left, amigo. Who do you think called Jones in?”
“Thanks.” Tall leans forward, then he shakes his head. “Who would have thought there’d be this much trouble over a few cookies?”
“I know, right?” I sink back into my chair—I was sort of up and hopping from foot to foot during the big fight. I do that during movies sometimes, too. Fortunately, those theaters that have the little soundproofed booths in the middle for parents with babies so they can still watch the movie without their kids disrupting it for everybody else? Turns out they’re surprisingly cool about letting other people hang out in there, too. Well, me, anyway. It doesn’t hurt that most babies think my looks are utterly fascinating. I’m like the perfect baby distraction. As long as they don’t try to gnaw on me.
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