Undead to the World

by DD Barant

  “Maybe it’s the computer,” Charlie says. “Public access. It probably has some kind of content filter installed.”

  “For porn, sure. But this doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re right. We should ask the librarian.”

  I sigh. “Okay. But you do it—I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Don’t take it personally. I don’t think she likes anyone.”

  We stroll over to her desk, where she’s doing something with index cards. She looks up coolly after we’ve been standing there a moment. “Yes?”

  “We’re having a problem with the computer. It—well, it doesn’t seem to recognize a particular word we’re searching for.”

  “Which word would that be?”

  Charlie glances at me, then back at Gretchen. “Gallowsman.”

  Her face is impassive. “Yes. That word has been redacted. May I ask why you’re searching for it?”

  “Redacted?” I say. “What is this, a branch office of the CIA? It’s a public library!” I realize my voice has gotten a little loud when she frowns at me.

  “We’re interested in local history,” Charlie says. “There’s supposed to be a legend about—”

  “I’m familiar with the story. As are too many of the local children. The town would prefer that sort of thing not spread.”

  “So you’ve blocked access on one computer,” I say. “Good job. I sure hope those new-fangled machines don’t catch on, though. What if the town got a second one?”

  She turns her head ever so slightly, refocusing her attention from Charlie to me. Her frown shifts to a very tiny smile that’s somehow much more intimidating, and I suddenly feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

  “Not everything is available on the Internet, Ms. Valchek. Many historical documents never reach the digital realm. They stay locked up in basements and back rooms and old trunks, where only people like me even remember they still exist. That’s why you should always treat librarians with respect; our kingdom may have shrunk, but we are still the gatekeepers to a great deal of knowledge.”

  For the first time, I hear the trace of an accent in her voice. British, of course. I wonder why I never noticed it before, then realize this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.

  “Duly noted,” I say. “No disrespect intended. In fact, we could really use your help.”

  “Oh?”

  “Town history,” I say. “We need to know as much as possible about this place—when it was founded, significant events, things like that.”

  She peers at me skeptically. “And the Gallowsman?”

  “We don’t care about ghost stories,” I say. “We need facts. Was there such an incident in the town’s past? Who were the people involved? What actually happened? That’s what we’re interested in.”

  I can see by the look in her eye that I’ve got her attention. Scratch a small-town librarian and you’ll usually find a local historian under the patina.

  “I might be able to contribute to such an endeavor,” she says. “Depending on your reasons for doing so.”

  I pause, thinking hard. “I’m writing a book,” I say. “Not about the town specifically, or the Gallowsman. It’s fiction. I’d make sure to mention you in the acknowledgments.”

  She nods, slowly. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. Check back with me in a few days.”

  A few days? Half the town could have fangs by then. “Can you put a rush on that? My publisher is bugging me for an outline.”

  “Tomorrow at the soonest.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie says. “We appreciate it.”

  He’s already tugging on my elbow. I reluctantly let him lead me back out into the sunshine.

  “You think she’ll come up with anything?” Charlie asks.

  “Oh, I think she will. The real question is, how much does she already know? That remark about books in old trunks hit a little too close to the mark.…”

  * * *

  Our second stop is a direct result of the first. We could just go back to Charlie’s place and use his computer, but our visit to the library has made me realize three things: one, that the more rocks we kick over the more we’re likely to learn; two, that rock kicking inevitably leads to pissing off something lethal lurking there; and three, that if we’re going to go around pissing off venomous, lurking rock-dwellers we should really get as much bang for our buck as possible.

  I expound this theory to Charlie as we walk. He seems less than impressed. “I thought we were going to keep this low-key.”

  “I’m not saying we get up on a soapbox in the town square, Charlie. But sooner or later the cult is going to figure out that Longinus is dead and we’re snooping around. Which is good, because that’ll make them nervous.”

  “Nervous cultists are good? What’s the weather like on your planet?”

  “Kind of stabby, with increasing chances of monstrosity toward evening. Plus, we might see some light decapitation overnight.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Look, I have to see this guy anyway, about my laptop. He’s really good with stuff like that, and I’m sure he’d be willing to help us out.”

  “Why?”

  I hesitate. “Well … he’s kind of got a crush on me.”

  “Which we are going to ruthlessly exploit?”

  “We don’t have time to ruth. For ruth. To be ruthing?”

  We’ve arrived at our destination, a plain little white house tucked away behind the hardware store where I work part-time. I ring the doorbell.

  “I don’t know about this, Jace,” Charlie says. “If this guy is in the cult, we’re tipping them off. If he isn’t, we might be putting him in danger.”

  “I’m just going to ask him to do a little web surfing, that’s all—no one will even know he’s doing it. Unless he’s a cult member, in which case we’ll have succeeded in telling them that they’re being investigated. Which, naturally, will lead to a response, and then we can force them out into the open.”

  “You do realize you’re supporting both sides of an argument. At the same time.”

  “Genius is the ability to hold two conflicting views simultaneously. No, wait, it isn’t.”

  The door opens.

  Damon Eisfanger looks surprised to see us—astonished, in fact. He’s in his late teens or early twenties, a little pear-shaped, and an albino. Not the creepy, henchman-of-an-evil-organization kind of albino, though—more like a pink-eyed, white-haired, human incarnation of the Easter Bunny. Cute, in a harmless sort of way.

  He stays well back from the door. Albinos have extremely sensitive eyes, and you never see Damon outside on a day like today. Even the lights in the diner are a little too bright for him—when he eats there, he usually wears sunglasses. Right now he’s wearing a pair of baggy shorts, bedroom slippers, and a T-shirt with a picture of a velociraptor riding a Segway.

  “Hi, Damon,” I say. “Can we come in for a minute? I was wondering if you could help me out.”

  Damon blinks a few times, then says, “Uh, yeah, sure. What’s up?”

  We step inside and Charlie closes the door behind him. “Computer stuff, mostly. My laptop isn’t working, for one thing.”

  “Okay. Well, I might be able to do something about that.” He motions us to join him and walks down a hallway. The living room on the other end is a little claustrophobic—heavy drapes over all the windows—but neat and clean. Damon sits in a lounger, and Charlie and I take the couch. I’m careful not to sit too close to him.

  “Nice shirt,” Charlie says.

  “Thanks. You said mostly. What else?”

  I study him for a second before answering. He seems a lot less awkward than when he hangs out at the diner, where he makes small talk and pretends he isn’t watching me. I guess home turf counts for a lot, especially when you spend as much time there as he does.

  “Research,” I say. “Internet research. I could do it myself, I guess, but I thought you’d be better at it. You could find stuff I c
ouldn’t.”

  Now he looks intrigued. “What kind of stuff?”

  We give him the same spiel as Gretchen: town history, local lore, facts about the Gallowsman incident. But with Damon, I emphasize the supernatural angle a little more; he has the same affection I do for The Bloodhound Files—all right, maybe nobody has the same affection for it as I do—and that crosses over into other spooky subjects of interest. “Especially cults,” I tell him. “Anything that might be connected to the Gallowsman legend or this area in particular.”

  If he’s secretly a member himself, he’s hiding it well; he doesn’t look uncomfortable at all, just interested and excited. “Sure, I can do that. What’s this all about?”

  “We … can’t really say,” Charlie intones in a solemn voice. “Yet.”

  Eisfanger looks suitably impressed. Charlie’s something of a local legend himself, and to somebody like Damon he’s practically a deity of Cool. “Wow. NDA material, huh? Okay, I can get behind that. Can you let me know what’s going on, uh, later?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlie says.

  Damon beams. I suddenly feel like I just drove over a bunny.

  “You can bring your laptop over whenever you want, too. Any idea what’s wrong with it?”

  “It, my dog, and a cup of coffee had an informal discussion. Things got acrimonious.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that might go. Hopefully it’s not too major.”

  I get to my feet, and Charlie follows my lead. “Okay, then. We’ll let you get to it. I’ll bring my laptop by later, all right?”

  “Sure.” Damon shows us to the door, then stands back in the shadows as we leave. He seems a lot happier than when we showed up, but that just makes me feel guiltier.

  “It’s not like I’m leading him on,” I mutter as we walk away. “I’ve never come within twenty yards of flirting with him.”

  “Not really your style,” Charlie mutters back. “You’re more the intimidation type. Probably threaten to take him to the beach or something.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Good idea. I’ll pretend I didn’t say it.”

  We walk back downtown. I’ve set things in motion, but I’m really not sure what to do next. What would Jace Red Dog do?

  She’d go looking for trouble.

  Trouble, in this case, meaning anything out of the ordinary. Odd behavior, things missing or out of place. Anomalies. I suggest this to Charlie, who shrugs. “I guess. I mean, it’s not like we can conduct a door-to-door search. But we could roam around on foot and keep our eyes open. There’s not much real estate to cover, all told.”

  So we do. I don’t know what we’re looking for—men with five-o’clock shadows at eleven AM, furtive clusters of nervous-looking people, a double-parked hearse—but what we find is a lot of nothing. Houses, people, dogs, kids, cars. Small town America on a fall morning. I see one suspicious-looking house with cobwebby windows, then realize they’re just getting an early jump on Halloween.

  But it isn’t what we see that’s interesting. It’s what we hear.

  Raised voices, coming from the parking lot beside City Hall. An argument of some sort? Charlie and I glance at each other, then head in that direction while trying to look casual.

  I recognize the voices as we get closer. It’s Mayor Leo and his oldest son—Terrance.

  “—I don’t understand your attitude, not at all!” That’s Mayor Leo. He’s sounds angrier than I’ve ever heard him.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t care if you don’t understand. We don’t have much to talk about, okay? I do my thing, he does his. And we’re both fine with it.”

  “You’re wrong. Wrong! Family is important, it’s everything—”

  “Not to me! You’ve never gotten that! And the only reason family is so damn important to you is because you’re king of the hill—just like you’re the king of this crappy little town! Too bad families don’t have elections—”

  We round the corner just as a tremendous BOOM! thunders into the air. A large Dumpster rolls toward us, but it’s not moving very fast; Charlie stops it with his foot.

  I peer around it. Mayor Leo is standing there with one clenched fist held at waist level. Terrance glares at him from an arm’s length away. “Maybe you should go have that looked at, Dad,” he growls. “You know, by the son you actually have some respect for.” He spins on his heel and stalks off, not even noticing us.

  Mayor Leo does, though. He looks at me like he knew I was there the whole time. “Hello, Jace,” he says, his voice a little sad. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It’s difficult, sometimes, being a parent.”

  I straighten up and walk around the Dumpster toward him. “Sure, of course. We just heard the noise and thought we’d see—”

  “My apologies. I got a little upset and kicked the Dumpster. Made a heck of a racket, didn’t it?”

  Charlie’s standing beside me, now. “Yeah, kinda. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” He looks a little embarrassed. “Just lost my cool for a moment. I’m fine. Actually, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should try to go patch things up with Terrance. He gets his temper from me, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah, no, go ahead.”

  He strides away. “Huh,” Charlie murmurs. “That’s a little unusual. Never seen Leo lose it before.”

  I walk over to the Dumpster. “That’s not the only thing. Look at this.”

  I point to a dent in the thick metal of the side. “This seems fresh. See how the paint’s flaked off at the impact point?”

  Charlie studies it. “Points, you mean. Four of them.”

  “Yeah. Kind of high for a kick, too. But just about perfect for knuckles.…”

  Charlie nods, slowly. “All of which should be currently broken, if he hit it hard enough to do this.”

  “He seem like a guy with a hand full of broken bones to you?”

  “No. But he is a politician.”

  “I know. Question now is, what else is he?” I shake my head. “All right, we have our first official suspect. We should…”

  “What? Shoot him with a silver bullet? Drive a stake through his heart? I have no idea where we could get that sort of ammunition, but we can pick up some stakes at the hardware store. You get an employee discount, right?”

  I sigh. “I’m not suggesting we do anything rash. We don’t know what this means—he was standing in direct sunlight so I doubt he’s a vampire, but maybe he’s not a werewolf, either. Maybe he’s a cultist with some kind of magically enhanced strength.”

  “You mean like Samson? Great. All we have to do is convince him to get a haircut. Worst-case scenario, we ambush him with scissors and some mousse.”

  “Wow, you are so helpful. You should share your talents with the world—maybe you could start by giving swimming lessons to bricks.”

  “I don’t swim.”

  “All the better. You could demonstrate what people shouldn’t do. See all this thrashing and sinking and drowning? Don’t do that.”

  “Duly noted. So what should we do?”

  I’m already moving. “You were right about one thing—we need to stock up on supplies. Hardware is a good idea, but let’s hit the grocery store first.”

  “For?”

  “Garlic.”

  We head for the local supermarket, Lucky Foods. It’s just off the town square—like most of the local businesses—but it seems to be closed. There’s no explanatory sign on the door, either; I would have expected CLOSED DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY or BACK IN TEN MINUTES or something similar.

  I walk up and peer through the glass plate of the front wall. Nothing but rows of stocked shelves and a deserted cashier station. I frown. “Something’s not right,” I say. “Jimmy wouldn’t just close up shop like this, not without a note. He never takes a day off.”

  “True,” Charlie says. “Let’s check around the back.”

  There’s a parking lot at the side of the store, and
an alley at the rear. I can see Jimmy’s truck parked there, right next to the loading bay. The rolling steel gate is pulled down, blocking off the back door, but it’s not locked.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Jimmy?”

  No answer. I grab the bottom of the gate and tug. It rolls upward with a loud rattle.

  “Jace,” Charlie says, a warning in his voice.

  “It’s not breaking and entering if the door’s open. Just entering.”

  “I don’t think Jimmy will appreciate us just wandering into his closed place of business.”

  “I’m a concerned citizen checking upon one of my peers. Maybe he’s inside and injured. Maybe he needs help.”

  “Maybe he’s got a shotgun and an aversion to people disturbing his privacy.”

  But I’m already in the loading bay and reaching for the door handle. I don’t have to look back; I know Charlie’s right behind me.

  The back door’s not locked, either. I pull it open and look inside: nothing but a shadowy room, stacked high with cardboard boxes on wooden pallets. I can smell traces of rotting vegetation mixed with the syrupy sweetness of spilled pop. “Jimmy?”

  Still no answer. But as I take a step inside, listening intently, I can tell there’s someone here; I can feel the presence of another person close by, and it’s not Charlie.

  “Jimmy?” I call out again.

  And then I hear a ragged whisper from somewhere in the darkness: “Jaaaaaace…”

  I look for a light switch but can’t find one. Charlie’s right beside me now. “I think it came from over there. Jimmy? You okay?”

  “Not … okay,” the voice says weakly.

  I feel my way into the darkness, running one hand along the stacked boxes and taking slow, careful steps. My foot encounters something sticky that tries to persuade my shoe to stay and visit. “Jimmy? We’re coming, all right? Just hold on.”

  “Over here,” the voice rasps. Either Jimmy has a nasty case of laryngitis or he doesn’t have the strength to speak; I can barely hear him.

  We find him in the far corner of the storeroom. Charlie’s dug out his cell phone, and the glow of light shows us the body of Jimmy Zhang slumped against a crate of bananas, the front of his shopkeeper’s apron soaked in crimson. I kneel beside him and he moves an arm feebly, showing me he’s still alive. “Jimmy? My god, what happened?”