Dead Streets n-2

by Tim Waggoner

  I told Devona what Papa had said. She called Information, got the number for the Foundry, and called. It was close to three in the morning now but in a city of perpetual dusk the citizens keep odd hours, so it was worth a shot to give Victor Baron a call. If we had to wait until morning it would be no great hardship. I needed to be reconnected before Papa could reapply my preservative spells, but I wouldn't rot away to dust in the next few hours. Still, the sooner I was whole again the better.

  Devona had taken the vox off speaker phone and now held the device to her ear. I could hear a faint ringing from the other end and it went on long enough that I was beginning to think no one was going to answer, but then I heard a soft click followed by the sound of someone speaking, though I couldn't make out the words.

  "It's a voice menu," Devona said. She listened for a moment and then pressed a button on the vox. She listened a few more seconds, frowned slightly, and made another selection. This went on for several more moments and I thought she was going to end up having to leave a message. Evidently Devona did too because she gave a start when someone actually answered.

  "Oh, hello. Sorry to be calling so late but I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Baron. A friend of mine is a zombie and he, well, not to put too fine a point on it, someone cut off his head and-"

  She stopped and listened for a moment.

  "Yes, we have both his head and his body. No, the body isn't moving on its own." A pause as she listened again. "His name is Matthew Richter, and-"

  Another interruption, another pause. When Devona started speaking again, she sounded pleased and surprised in equal measure.

  "We're in the Sprawl right now, but we can come over right away. Thank you so much!"

  She disconnected, closed the vox, and slipped it back into her pocket.

  "Believe it or not, we have an appointment with Victor Baron. He'll be waiting for us whenever we get there."

  I was pleased, of course, but an inherently suspicious nature is a prerequisite for a PI, and I couldn't bring myself to believe it had really been that easy.

  "Who did you talk to?"

  Devona shrugged. "An assistant of some sort, I assume. He said his name was-"

  "Ygor," I guessed.

  She frowned. "No. Henry. He told me not to worry about calling late. 'We never close here at the Foundry,' he said. He sounded blandly professional at first. You know, doing his job but not really interested in who I was or what my problem might be. But he became very interested when I told him your name."

  "Why would that mean anything to him?"

  From the front seat Lazlo said, "You helped save the city last Descension Day. You're famous." He thought for a moment. "Then again maybe he caught you on Acantha's show tonight." He chuckled, a sound like splintering bones. "I didn't realize you were so funny. You were a real sport to go along with her gags."

  I sighed – which is a real trick when you're not attached to your lungs. "What can I say? You know how much I love a good joke."

  Had everyone in the city seen that stupid program? I was really starting to regret my lack of restraint earlier in the evening. I considered sending Acantha a few hundred roses as a down payment on an apology, but as angry as the gorgon was, she'd probably just turn them to stone.

  "All right, Lazlo," I said. "Let's head for the Foundry."

  Lazlo pulled his cab onto the Obsidian Way and soon we were crossing the Bridge of Forgotten Pleasures, leaving the Sprawl and entering the Wyldwood. Nekropolis is shaped like a gigantic pentagram, its five Dominions separated by Phlegethon, a river of green fire that burns the spirit instead of the flesh. The only way to pass between Dominions is to use one of the bridges that connect them and the only way to cross in relative safety was to travel the Obsidian Way. The smooth glossy black road offers no magical protections for travelers, but the laws of Nekropolis state that travel between Dominions is not to be impeded for any reason – provided travelers keep to the Obsidian Way. If you venture from the road you're fair game for whoever, or whatever, might find you. Of course, as with a lot of laws in Nekropolis, it's really more of a strong suggestion than anything else, so traveling the Way is still dangerous. You need to keep your guard up and move as fast as you can and hope you don't attract any undue attention. And if you do you'd better hope you're stronger, faster or smarter than whatever is trying to catch you. Preferably all three.

  The Wyldwood, as the name implies, is mostly forested, though there's a good amount of pastureland as well. There are villages located in the Dominion, though they tend to be few and far between. Those lykes who desire a more urban lifestyle tend to live in the Sprawl and while Lord Amon frowns on this, he doesn't forbid his subjects to leave the Wyldwood. Still, the vast majority of shapeshifters live there.

  I'd traveled through a bit of the Wyldwood before, on foot, which is precisely as dangerous as it sounds. During that time, I'd stuck close to the Obsidian Way, but supposedly the interior of the Wyldwood changes its shapes just as lykes do. One day it might be a dark European forest, the next African grasslands, and the day after that, arctic tundra. I don't know if it's true but I've met Lord Amon, King of the Shapeshifters, and since he can change his form into that of any creature he desires, I've no trouble believing his Dominion is as metamorphic as he is. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason the land bordering the Obsidian Way remains stable in the Wyldwood is because Father Dis wants it that way to promote greater ease of travel. Then again, nice thick woods are much easier for predators to hide in and maybe that's the real reason the land around the Obsidian Way never changes. It makes for better hunting that way.

  Whichever the case, the treeline on either side of the road varies little – huge, ancient trees with thick trunks and dense foliage kept us company as we drove. Although it wasn't long before we picked up new companions.

  A dozen or so lykes appeared out of the woods and began running alongside the Obsidian Way, easily keeping pace with Lazlo's cab despite how swiftly we were traveling. They darted in and out of the woods on either side of the road, lithe forms moving with eerie silent grace. Some wore full animal forms, others appeared as human-beast hybrids, while still others were mostly human with only slight feral touches: pointed ears, sharp teeth, yellow eyes… But all the lykes moved with supernatural speed that was at once both terrifying and beautiful to behold. They were all predators of one kind or another, canine and feline, primarily. No mixbloods, though. Once a lyke has visited Dr. Moreau at the House of Pain for a genetic makeover, he or she isn't welcome back in the Wyldwood. A lot of mixbloods are lower caste lykes who've chosen to leave the Wyldwood rather than continue serving the alphas. Can't say as I blame them. I've always had a bit of a problem with authority myself.

  The lykes pacing us on both sides of the road weren't simply out for a bit of exercise. The wrecked and abandoned vehicles we passed every few miles were testament to that. The lykes chased cars in the hope that they'd blow a tire or throw a rod and be forced to pull over, in which case it was snack time. Of course, few people are foolish enough to travel the Obsidian Way unless their vehicles are in tiptop shape and they're well armed. Which means that the lykes need to take matters in their own claws. The law forbids them from stepping onto the Obsidian Way to attack a vehicle, but if a driver just happens to encounter an obstacle…

  Lazlo gazed out the windshield. "Aw, dammit! I hate lykes!"

  "What's wrong?" I couldn't see, so Devona lifted me up and propped me on the back of Lazlo's seat so I could look over his shoulder and out the windshield.

  "Spike strip," Lazlo said. "A lyke just tossed one onto the road ahead of us. Hold on."

  I'd just managed to catch a glimpse of the gleaming metal of the spike strip illuminated in the wash of the cab's headlights when the vehicle suddenly lurched upward. I almost fell, but Devona grabbed hold of my head with both hands to steady me, though my body slumped over against her. We would've strapped my headless form in when we first put it in the cab but Lazlo doesn't
believe in seatbelts. He says they show a serious lack of faith in a driver.

  I have no idea how something that at least outwardly resembled an earthly cab managed to jump into the air, but that's exactly what Lazlo's vehicle did, sailing over the spike strip and landing on the other side with a jarring impact. No damage was done, though – or at least, none the cab couldn't contend with – and we kept going. The lykes keeping pace with us snarled with frustration, eyes wild, tongues lolling, jaws flecked with froth, but they continued flanking us, no doubt looking forward to their next attempt to force us to stop.

  The snarls and growls gave way to full-fledged howls, and Lazlo grimaced. "I've had enough of this shit." He thumbed a switch on the dash and in response the cab's hood retracted into the main body of the vehicle with a moist sliding sound. A mottled discolored organ rose forth from the vehicle's cavity, flesh coated with slimy mucus and shot through with swollen purple veins. I recognized the cab's tongue, but as I watched it thickened and swelled, lengthened and extended, until it had assumed a very different shape, one reminiscent of a mounted machine gun. The fleshy weapon began firing – or perhaps spitting is a more appropriate term – swiveling back and forth, spraying silvery gobs of organic material as if they were bullets with accompanying chuff-chuff-chuff sounds. The silver sputum hit the lykes on both sides of the road as we passed and the werebeasts howled and screamed in agony as the ammunition struck them. From the severity of their reaction I knew that the mucusbullets Lazlo's cab produced somehow contained actual silver. A dozen lykes fell to the barrage from the flesh-gun, while the others decided that this night discretion really be the better part of valor and fled, slipping silently away into the shadowy woods.

  Once the lykes were driven off the fleshgun stopped firing, descended into the vehicle's cavity – returning to its normal tongue shape in the process – and the hood slid back into place.

  Lazlo then turned to look over his shoulder and gave us a grin.

  "Nothing like a few hundred rounds of silver to make a lyke think twice, eh?"

  The cab swerved alarmingly to the right while Lazlo said this and both Devona and I shouted for the demon to turn back around before his haphazard driving accomplished what the lykes couldn't and caused us to wreck. Lazlo faced forward again, seemingly unconcerned that we were heading straight for a huge oak tree, and he managed to bring the cab back under control in time to avoid a collision.

  Lazlo continued driving and Devona and I were silent for several moments while we adjusted to the fact that we'd barely just avoided becoming weremonster kibble. When I had my nerves under control, I said, "That's a new feature, Lazlo. When did you have it installed?"

  "What do you mean?"

  I was used to Lazlo being, shall we say, of generally vague disposition, but I had a hard time believing he didn't understand my question.

  "The gun. I saw you hit the switch to activate it."

  "Switch?" Then Lazlo laughed. "Naw, I was just trying to turn up the radio to drown out the sound of the lykes. All that howling and snarling is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me."

  "But the gun…" I insisted.

  "I have no idea where that came from," Lazlo said. "My little baby is just full of surprises, isn't she?"

  He patted the dash lovingly and the cab's engine made a noise that sounded surprisingly like a purr.

  Evidently word that Lazlo's cab spit silver had preceded us for we saw no further sign of lykes as we passed through the rest of the Wyldwood. As we approached the Dominion's border we saw the green light cast by the flames of Phlegethon flickering against the grayishblack sky and soon we crossed the Bridge of Silent Screams and entered the Boneyard. The Dominion of the Darklord Edrigu, the Boneyard is the realm of the dead, and it fit the part perfectly. The buildings were rundown and always on the verge of collapse. Stone pitted and chipped, wood warped, glass smudged and cracked, mold and mildew clinging to every surface as if they were varieties of paint. Sounds are muffled in the Boneyard and refuse to travel as if the air itself is dead. And while I don't breathe and thus can't personally attest to it I'm told the air smells of must and slow decay, like an ancient tomb that's been sealed for a thousand years or more.

  Here Lazlo's insane kamikaze driving was less of a hazard than usual. Few living people had reason to visit the Boneyard and those who did pass through stuck to the Obsidian Way. So the streets were deserted, giving Lazlo fewer targets to hit. The sidewalks were deserted too, but if you stare long enough and allowed your eyes to go out of focus, you begin to see ghostly images of pedestrians garbed in fashions spanning the course of human history, and you get the sense that, far from being deserted, the Boneyard is as full as any major metropolitan area on Earth, and in its own macabre way just as alive. As someone with more than one foot in the grave myself I'm able to see more of the Boneyard's true nature than most, but even I sometimes feel that I'm only catching a glimpse of a larger and more complex picture.

  The longer we drove the more we began to see the suggestion of ghostly vehicles sharing the road with us. As with the spectral pedestrians, various ages were represented by the traffic – horse-drawn carriages, model Ts, stagecoaches, Roman chariots, ultra-modern sports cars… For the most part the insubstantial vehicles gave us a wide berth, but every now and then one would pass right through us, and even I felt a cold chill of ectoplasm as for the briefest of instants we shared the same space.

  "Lousy ghost drivers," Lazlo muttered after a spectral double decker bus drove through us. "Where's a ghost cop when you need one?"

  The drivers never acknowledged our existence, didn't so much as shoot us a single glance. They just stared forward, faces expressionless as they drove. I wondered if they were even aware we were present or if, having crossed all the way from one state of existence to the other, they were no longer interested in having anything to do with a mundane corporeal world that was now beneath their notice.

  "You're a dead guy, Matt," Lazlo said. "Maybe you can help me understand something I've always wondered about."

  He took a hand off the steering wheel – never a confidence building move considering how he drove – and gestured at the ghostly traffic surging silently around us.

  "Where do all these ghosts come from? They can't all have migrated here during the Descension. That was almost four hundred years ago and many of these ghosts are more modern than that. Some of them are probably ghosts of people who died in other Dominions and eventually drifted to the Boneyard, but they can't account for this many spirits. I mean, there must be thousands of them."

  "Just because I'm a zombie doesn't mean I'm an expert on everything to do with life after death," I told him, "but as I understand it, when the Darkfolk left Earth for Nekropolis, Lord Edrigu gathered up the world's ghosts – those spirits who for whatever reason remained earthbound after their death – and brought them with him, just as the other Darklords brought their subjects with them. Galm brought the vampires, Amon brought the shapeshifters, and so on. But Edrigu knew that people would keep dying on Earth, creating new ghosts, so he left servants behind whose job it is to scour the world, find earthbound spirits, capture them and then bring them to Nekropolis to live in the Boneyard."

  "Kind of like a wildlife preserve for the dead, eh?" Lazlo said thoughtfully. "So that's it? The ghosts just stay here, going about their ghostly business, for the rest of eternity?"

  Devona jumped into the conversation then. "Yes, although there are rumors that Lord Edrigu's dark mirror doesn't only open a portal to Earth. Supposedly it can open a doorway into… well, whatever comes next. After life, I mean."

  Each of the city's five Darklords – as well as Father Dis – possesses a magic mirror that allows them to create a passageway to and from Earth whenever they wish. To be technical, the Lords possess two mirrors: a personal one and a second, much larger one that can be used to transport large object such as freight-laden vehicles back and forth between dimensions. The Darklords need some way of importing nec
essary materials and supplies. After all, Nekropolis couldn't function if it was an entirely closed system.

  Lazlo drove in silence for several moments as he digested what we'd just told him. Eventually, he said, "What about you, Matt?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You ever been tempted to go through Edrigu's mirror? I mean, you are dead, so you could pass through if you wanted to, right?"

  "I don't know."

  The thought had never occurred to me. I may be dead but I don't think of myself as a ghost. I still have a physical body after all. But physical objects can pass through a Darklord's mirror. That's how I originally came to Nekropolis. But I'd never thought that I might be able to physically pass from Nekropolis's dimension to… what? Heaven? Nirvana? Or maybe what lay on the other side of Edrigu's mirror was a hellish place worse than Nekropolis. Or – and in some ways this was an even more frightening thought to me – what if there was nothing on the other side? What if a spirit simply ceased to exist once it entered the mirror and instead of another world all that waited for those unfortunate spirits was final, everlasting oblivion?

  Devona stroked the back of my head. "You know, Matt, if you ever want to…" She allowed the thought to trail off, unfinished.

  "Thanks," I said, "but I'm content with remaining a living dead man in a city of monsters." I glanced toward my headless body propped on the seat next to us. "At least I will be if we can manage to make me whole again."

  At that moment we entered a section of the Boneyard that looked as if it had been bombed into rubble. The buildings here lay in ruins and the streets were strewn with rubble. Lazlo was forced to slow down and detour around the chunks of stone, brick and mortar in the road and the lack of intact buildings around us provided an unobstructed view for miles. In fact we could see all the way to the far east of the Dominion where Edrigu's stronghold lay, situated precisely on his point of the pentagram that formed the city's borders. Edrigu's home was called the Reliquary and it lay housed deep inside a gigantic prehistoric burial mound that looked something like a gently rounded mountain off in the distance. I'd never been there before – this was the first clear view I'd ever had of the place, as a matter of fact – but I had to admit it was something to see. I've visited other Darklord strongholds, and while each is impressive in its own way, there's an ancient grandeur to Edrigu's home, a primal simplicity as if it had been physically shaped from bygone millennia and set in place to stand for all eternity, as basic and uncompromising as Death itself.