by Dixie Lyle
It’s funny how demeaning it is to have a dog roll his eyes at you. I suppose it’d be worse if they actually left his skull, but the condescension was bad enough. [No, Foxtrot. Zombies, inasmuch as I know, are not real. However, you are correct on one count: The brain was in fact consumed. As was the skull itself, and the hands.]
Suddenly the scene in front of me seemed a lot less fake. I pulled the edge of the tarp back into place. “The entire head was eaten? What do we have around here that would possibly—oh.”
[Yes. I’ve already picked up his scent, which is not exactly subtle. After stashing the body here—presumably to finish later—he went in this direction.] Whiskey was already trotting away, nose to the ground, and I went after him. I knew I had to inform the authorities, but I wanted to check out our primary suspect first.
The trail led straight to the menagerie, which is what ZZ calls her private zoo. She’s always been keenly interested in the welfare of animals, so the residents here aren’t on display or for her amusement; they’re here because they have no place else to go. We do our best to rewild them whenever possible, and take good care of the ones who aren’t capable of surviving on their own. We have snakes and warthogs, big cats and small monkeys, hippos and birds and crocodiles.
Crocs are one of the few critters we house that could do that to a human body, but they like to stick their kills under rocks or submerged trees to ripen; I had a hard time imagining one pulling a body into a tarped trailer.
But it wasn’t a crocodile we were tracking. It was something much nastier—something that occasionally liked to eat crocodiles, or even chow down on other animals who ate crocodiles. As far as this beast was concerned, the words food chain and buffet meant the same thing.
“I can’t believe this,” I muttered. “If he actually got out and killed a guest, we are in big, big trouble.”
[We don’t know that for sure. It might have been a random jogger.]
I groaned. “How is that any better? A man is dead, Whiskey. He died on the grounds, and one of our animals ate him. That much seems clear.”
[I’m not so sure. Yes, he’s an opportunistic predator, but attacking and killing a human being seems … out of character.]
“Right,” I snorted. “Because he’s so genteel and refined. Just look at the name he gave himself.”
[Ah. Well, that is unfortunate. But animals do have a sense of humor, you know…]
We arrived at our destination, a sturdy, concrete-floored, high wire-fenced pen with a big mound of dirt in the middle. Our suspect was presumably inside his burrow, asleep.
“Hey, Owduttf,” I said loudly. “Get your beady-eyed little carcass out here!”
Owduttf is from South Africa, but—despite how it sounds—the name isn’t of Dutch origin. It’s an acronym for “One Who Does Unspeakable Things To Foxtrot,” and our resident honey badger refuses to answer to anything else.
Yes, we have a honey badger. For those of you unfamiliar with the species, they are basically a meaner, tougher, hungrier version of a wolverine. All a wolverine has to deal with are cougars, bears, and the occasional moose; the honey badger has to face down everything from lions to king cobras, and not only does so but will also steal food from the first one and gulp down the last. It gets its name from the fact that it likes to raid beehives to eat the larvae inside—and when I say bees, I’m talking about African killer bees, the kind that go into a murderous frenzy when anything even comes close to their nest. But hey, when you’ve got a craving, what are you gonna do?
I heard sounds of movement from inside the mouth of the burrow, and then Owduttf shuffled out. He’s not much bigger than a house cat, with a wide flat head and a broad white stripe that covers his back and the top of his skull. He stopped in the entrance and yawned, showing a mouth full of sharp teeth. Then he looked at me, blinked, and made a chuffing noise.
“Um,” I said. Having cornered my suspect, I realized one very obvious fact: I didn’t speak Honey Badger, and neither did Whiskey.
[What do you suggest we do? Search the premises for damning evidence?]
“You first.”
I’ve never seen Whiskey afraid, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid, either. [Surely you jest. I may be composed of ectoplasm, but that won’t stop him from trying to eat me. In fact, he’d probably enjoy the challenge.]
“You’re probably right.” I frowned, then dug out my cell phone. “I think this is about as far as we can take this, pooch. We can come back later with Tango and question Owduttf, but right now we have to report that body.” Tango was my translator, fluent in hundreds of animal dialects. “I’ll tell the police you led me to the body, then here. We’ll sort out the details as we go along—”
And that was when I heard the explosion.
I turned, and saw a plume of black smoke rising from the roof of the mansion.
2.
Twenty-four hours previously:
[I really don’t understand why I have to be locked up like some sort of prisoner,] Whiskey huffed. [Can’t you simply explain that I’m well trained?]
I swiveled my office chair away from my computer and put my hand on his furry head. “Nope. We’re dealing with a first-time director here, and he’s doing his best to put the neu in neurotic. I’ve worked with guys like him before; a rational argument just doesn’t cut it. He needs to have his hand held, his little superstitions catered to, and his ego stroked. Most of all, he has to feel like he’s in control—any and all chaos must be found, bound, and locked away. In this case, that means you. Sorry.”
Whiskey put his head down on his paws and looked forlorn. [Very well. At least the cat isn’t being allowed to roam free, either.]
“Um. Yeah, about that—”
His head snapped up and those mismatched brown and blue eyes glared at me. Sometimes he switches the two colors back and forth, which he says is just absentmindedness but I think he does deliberately for the unnerving effect. [You’re not telling me that the cat has her freedom?] He made the word cat sound like a euphemism for an unspeakable act of depravity.
“Sort of? I mean, she’s definitely not supposed to be running around free, but I’ve hit a few snags vis-à-vis actual implementation of the process.” When I’m caught in a flat-out lie, I sometimes revert to corporate-speak as a defense mechanism—which is stupid. It’s like treading water when you realize a shark is circling you. It might buy you a little time, but does nothing to reduce your profile as an Unhappy Meal.
[You mean you can’t catch her.]
“I mean I can’t catch her.”
[Foxtrot. I am a dog. No matter how much my appearance may vary, that singular truth remains at the core of my being. I can be ferocious or affectionate, playful or stoic, but I am always loyal. I do my duty, no matter how unpleasant; I am dependable, I am trustworthy.]
“I know you are, sweetie, but this wasn’t a choice on my part—”
[Not my point. A cat … a cat is chaos unbridled. A cat is mischief wrapped in deviousness. A cat is the embodied potential for disaster on four silent paws. They are impulsive, contrary, self-centered, and oblivious to consequences. Letting one wander unchecked anywhere is practically a crime unto itself, but caging a canine while freeing a feline is more than merely injust; it’s madness on an unthinkable scale. Never forget the root of the word catastrophe.]
I stared. “Wow. That was … impressive. Off the cuff, or have you been saving it for a special occasion?”
[Dogs do not have cuffs.]
“Good point. Well, I’m working on it, but she’s wily. Cat flap’s locked and all the windows are shut, but this place has a lot of doors. She’s currently trapped inside, but I’m not sure exactly where.”
[Hmmph. If you’d let me out of this room, I could find her for you easily enough.]
I thought about it. “Nah, I don’t think so. The dynamic between you two is tense enough without adding a whole escaped-prisoner/collaborator thing to it. But thanks for offering.”
[I
live to serve.]
I winced. “I’ll bring you a nice steak from the kitchen, okay? And I’ll make sure Tango stays in the house, at the very least.”
[I suppose that will have to do.]
His accusing gaze followed me as I left, but I knew he’d forgive me quickly once he got his teeth into that steak. Whiskey, being a ghost, has no need for food, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of enjoying it. And since ectoplasmic digestion leaves no waste products, I don’t even have to worry about walking him afterward.
ZZ’s mansion is pretty great, as far as workplaces go. As a professional assistant I’ve plied my trade in tour buses, corporate boardrooms, and everything between, but I especially like the feel of the Zoransky estate. I mean, it has the oak paneling and antique furniture and cut-glass sconces you’d expect in a sprawling Victorian house, but it also has stuff like a mobile automated booze dispenser that ZZ uses to serve drinks at dinner, or experimental postmodern art sprouting up in the garden next to the carefully tended flower beds. It’s an interesting mix of the old and the new, like a dignified old lady undergoing a second childhood. Which is, I suppose, a good description of ZZ herself—minus the dignified part. She came of age in the sixties, and I think she views the whole growing-old-with-grace thing as an obvious trap. It’s not that she’s devoid of dignity, she just refuses to be a slave to it. It’s one of the reasons I love working for her.
But having ZZ as a boss also means living in a state of perpetual flexibility. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, and no schedule survives contact with ZZ. The film production was making things especially fluid, since we were not only providing them with a place to film but housing and feeding the cast as well. Crew members were staying at a small motel in town; ZZ had said she’d be glad to put everyone up, but the producer, Maurice Rolvink, had insisted on the separation. “It makes for a less stressful environment, overall,” he’d told me, though I couldn’t see how cramming four people per room into budget accommodations was less stressful than staying in a mansion. Then I realized that Rolvink was dividing the word into over and all, and guess which side of the adjective he put himself on?
But it wasn’t my job to complain on behalf of somebody’s else’s employees, so I didn’t. Besides, it made my job easier—my job, and the maids’, and the chef’s.
The chef in question has dark eyes and sandy-blond hair and rugged features, none of which has anything to do with how well he cooks but is definitely relevant to being my boyfriend, which he is. When I popped into the kitchen to see how Ben was doing with breakfast, he looked up from a big skillet of something omeletty and grinned. “Hey, Trotsky! Joining us for breakfast? Got some oyster mushrooms and Brie that are just dying to meet you.”
I came over and gave him a quick kiss. “Can’t, you know that. Breakfast is hummingbird time.”
He moved the pan onto a different burner. “Hummingbird?”
“Yep. Caffeine and sugar, slightly diluted by hot water. By the time our guests have finished their eggs, I’ll be vibrating too fast for the human eye.”
He laughed. “Okay, okay. Nice of you to flit by while you’re still visible.”
I refilled my mug from a kettle of hot water and tossed a tea bag in it. “You’re chipper this morning. I thought chefs hated breakfast.”
“Only the unimaginative ones.” He used a spatula to carefully lift the omelet onto a plate. “Me, I look at it as a challenge. Despite the fact that most people seem to either eat exactly the same thing every morning or skip the meal altogether, I refuse to surrender. My goal at the break of every day is to make something so good that it becomes the diner’s new default breakfast.”
I considered this. “So, you’re trying to make something so good they’ll ask for it over and over again.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Thereby depriving you of the chance of making something new. Seems self-defeating.”
He grinned, speared a forkful of what he’d just made, and held it up to my mouth. “Nope. Just means the bar keeps getting set higher.”
I took a bite. Chewed. Frowned. “Dammit. Now I have to have this every morning, and I don’t even know what it is. Pureed angel wings? Divine eggs à la fromage?”
He studied me curiously, much the way Tango will sometimes study an unusual bug. “Hmmm. You should never, ever try to describe food to other people. I don’t mean that as a general statement, I’m talking about you specifically. I think I’ve found the one thing you’re terrible at.”
“Oh, I’m terrible at lots of things. I’m just really, really good at concealing that fact.”
Ben sighed. He’s the only other human in the household who can hear Tango and Whiskey, and that’s because he’s not entirely human himself; he has the blood of an ancient race of weather spirits called Thunderbirds running in his veins, and can whip up a storm, tornado, or blizzard as easily as he can make toast. “And why should I have to prove anything to you, furball?”
She cocked her head to one side.
Ben smiled and shook his head. “You would deign to try my most unworthy cuisine, O black-and-white one?”
Ben put a little of his creation on a plate. “I’m not sure what’s more unbelievable—that you think snobbery is a viable strategy to get food, or that I keep falling for it.”
He put the plate on the floor in front of her, and she bent her head to sniff at it.
“Of what?” I asked. “The gourmet sensibilities of domesticated mammals?”
She took a delicate bite of Ben’s offering.
It can be difficult—if not impossible—to detect the difference between Tango’s casual ruthlessness and her sense of humor. Sometimes I think there isn’t one.
“Well?” Ben asked after she’d taken a second bite. “How is it?”
Ben shrugged. “Back to the frying pan, I guess.”
“What, you’re going to accept her verdict over mine?”
“Her complete lack of tact means she’s the most honest critic I have. You, on the other hand, are somewhat biased.”
“Aw. That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me all day.” I grabbed my mug of tea and headed for the door. “And now I’ve got to check in with the film crew. I hope they’re as biased about your food as I am—but not for the same reasons.”
As it turned out, they were all more than happy with the buffet Ben had laid out on the long dining room table—they’d eaten every scrap and guzzled back the coffee like caffeine-deprived camels about to embark on a six-month desert journey. I found Consuela and made sure she kept the urns outside full; they’d need the fuel for the long day. Not that the days were particularly long this time of year, but a film production starts before dawn and goes until after dark.
Then I went outside. It was chilly, not quite freezing: there was no wind to speak of (thanks to our resident weather wizard, though nobody but me knew that), and the sun, still low on the horizon, was wintry but bright.
On one side of the lawn was a crowd—a stagger? a shamble?—of zombies. There was something extra-eerie about the way they stayed put, calm and patient, waiting for instructions. A few were getting into character by swaying back and forth or making zombie-faces, but mostly they just stood there, a bunch of corpses at
a bus stop for the afterlife.
The camera equipment and lights were all set up on the other end of the lawn, the presence of the zombies making the whole thing feel like some sort of standoff between a group of monsters and the high-tech mad-scientist army opposing them, the towering arclights and elaborate camera lenses about to spew forth deadly beams of energy.
But not until the woman throwing the fit between the two got out of the way.
I could easily hear her all the way from the front door. Considering the size of the lawn, that was impressive; you could play football on it and still have room for spectators on either side. The director, Fortunato “Lucky” Trentini, was obviously taking full advantage of that green expanse, or was at least trying to. Despite his nickname, though, he was currently being assailed by a monster even older and nastier than the undead: the Hollywood diva.
“—are you kidding me? Is that what this is, some kind of joke? THIS IS MY CAREER!”
The woman in question was Natalia Cardoso, the so-called star of the movie (and yes, writing what she said in all caps is necessary. Italics, while conveying a certain forcefulness, do not fully express the kind of bug-eyed fury I’m talking about here) was demonstrating not only her acting ability but her vocal range. I’m talking screaming, spit flying out of her mouth, arms flailing like Kermit the Frog on meth. Too bad it was about the only convincing performance she seemed capable of; once the cameras started rolling her eyes glassed over and her flesh grew bark.
Which is not at all a nice thing to say. But Natalia was not at all a nice person, so much so that every time I dealt with her I had to frame it in my mind as a personal challenge. So far I hadn’t let her score any points off me, but the woman was abrasive enough to clean stainless steel.
I listened for a moment—mostly gauging saliva velocity and verbal intensity—then slipped my best professional smile into place and headed toward Hurricane Nat.
“—it was supposed to be lunge, swipe, miss, not lunge, grab, yank! That’s a completely different scene!”