I tried to shout a warning but my mouth was dry and breathless.
I tried to jerk my hands up but my arms were cinched down as if in a straitjacket.
I tried to close my eyes and turn away but could not. My eyes were pinned open and my head locked in place, forcing me to watch the despicable horror.
Automatic gunfire burst loud as thunder. Red tracer bullets crisscrossed the air in a red net of death. The Iraqis started to fall even as grenades exploding at their feet made them dance like grotesque marionettes.
Gun sights materialized before me and centered on the smallest of the figures, the little girl.
Bang.
The recoil of an invisible carbine pushed against my shoulder.
Silence.
The huge eyes of the little girl bloomed with pain, the irises forever ringed with terror, dark as the night I last saw her alive.
The little girl fell onto her back.
In that moment, the joy and hope was sucked out of my life. Shame bore upon me like the weight of a mountain.
My legs weakened and I collapsed to my knees into a pool of blood spreading from the little girl.
A woman whispered my name and it echoed in the darkness.
Felix…ix…ix.
Then became louder.
Felix…ix…ix.
A plume of vapor wafted from the little girl. The plume rose and twisted, creating her ghostly twin. A filmy gown clung to her youthful form. When I first saw her years ago on that terrible night in Iraq, she might have been twelve at most. Now as she hovered in the air, she grew through adolescence, becoming taller, her face longer, her figure ripening from little girl to young woman.
My name echoed even louder. It echoed again and again until the sound reverberated in my skull like the deafening crash of a drum.
My kundalini noir convulsed and dissolved into a thousand spiders that crawled inside my skin as I screamed.
My hands suddenly wrenched free. I clutched my face and balled up into a fetal position.
I sat upright in my coffin. My nerves were raw and electric and my throat hurt. The echo in my head faded as the nightmare receded from my consciousness. I blinked. I was alone in my apartment, surrounded by a smothering quiet.
My kundalini noir grew tight as it sought to keep me centered. I rubbed my face and kneaded my hands. I welcomed back my strength and the mass of my physical body.
Homey smells comforted me, a lingering aroma of incense, a trace of yesterday’s dinner—rib eye with lots of onions and type A-negative—and the dregs of bourbon and vermouth in the glass on the table beside my coffin.
I swung my legs out of the coffin. I slid off the table and lowered myself to the floor. Once upright, I paused for a moment to get my bearings, then proceeded in a bleary shuffle to the bathroom.
I thought that as a supernatural I’d be immune to nightmares, but apparently not.
I’m the legendary undead monster in human form, yet the ghost of this child tormented me like a fever.
Why the girl? What did it mean that she rose as a young woman like a phoenix from her fallen body?
I thought I had paid my cosmic penance. The girl and her family had forgiven me during a hallucination when I was close to a second death. After their blessing, I was complete as a vampire and felt free to drink human blood.
Maybe this was a new bout of post-traumatic stress. A lot of war veterans never get out from under it.
A headache throbbed behind my forehead. I ran the tap, leaned over the sink, and rinsed my face.
Out of habit, I stared into the mirror, and in my place saw what I always did…
Nothing.
I am a soulless immortal with the potential to accumulate wisdom over the centuries. I’m privy to the great mysteries of the universe. So far I’d learned that vampires can be as naïve or as treacherous as humans, and that the corporate vermin who run this planet would sell out their entire race for an extra bump on the bottom line. I’ve barely held my own in those fights and I’ve lost one big one. I failed my friend and fellow vampire, Carmen Arellano, and now she’s a hostage of alien gangsters somewhere deep in outer space.
If wisdom comes from making stupid mistakes, then someday I’m going to be a genius.
Behind me, morning light filtered through the drawn blinds. I had work to do—even the undead have to make a living—and that meant keeping a human daylight schedule. But this nightmare exhausted me.
Why was the little girl coming back?
What did I have to fear?
Was this simply the memory of that tragedy escaping from a dark place in my subconscious, or was there something else waiting for me?
CHAPTER 3
Mel called. He asked me to meet him in Aurora close to the construction site where we’d found the zombie.
Before I left my apartment, I slathered on plenty of sunblock and applied makeup to protect my vampire skin from the daylight. I drove my Cadillac across Denver to Aurora.
I found Mel with his leg propped on the rear bumper of a rusted and grimy late-eighties Chrysler LeBaron. I parked behind the Chrysler and got out. I didn’t need to guess where the putrid odor of decaying flesh came from.
Mel opened the driver’s door. “Get a whiff.” The odor came out in concentrated form. I had a sudden urge to gag, which embarrassed me, as I am an undead bloodsucker.
Masses of flies, thick as carpet remnants, crawled lazily over the vinyl upholstery. Mel reached to the center console and brought out a translucent storage bowl. Dozens of flies clung to the bowl. He shooed the flies away and opened the lid.
The smell of rancid meat burst out. Lumps of grayish matter, streaks of syrupy blood, and a plastic spoon lay inside the bowl.
Mel put his nose close to the bowl and sniffed. “Brains. Zombie chow.” He closed the lid and tossed the bowl back into the Chrysler. He slammed the door. Hundreds of flies thumped against the inside of the windows.
“I don’t like what I’m seeing,” Mel said. “Looks like the zombie drove himself here.”
“I agree,” I replied. “I can’t imagine that he carpooled with anyone.”
“That, and he brought something to munch on. So we got a zombie that’s not only commuting but has got the foresight to pack a lunch. Not typical zombie behavior at all.” Mel wiped his hands on his denim overalls. “This is not good.”
“What do we do about the car?”
Mel stepped away from the Chrysler. “A couple of vampires in the Aurora PD will take of it.”
“What do we do now?”
Mel scratched his sideburns and looked around. “Wait for word from the Araneum.”
I could already feel myself being pulled into this. Zombies. Yuck. I’d better stock up on bleach and soap.
I sighed. “This damn zombie has already cost me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dagger died owing me money and favors.”
“You, too?” Mel’s big eyebrows inched up his forehead. “Free-loading bastard didn’t leave much except for a motorcycle and an antique strongbox.”
“A motorcycle? What kind?”
“Kawasaki 800 Drifter. A real beauty.”
I said, “Dibs.”
“Fine by me.” Mel gave a wily smile. “You should’ve asked for the strongbox. Dagger wasn’t just a mooch but a crook. The strongbox is full of silver and gold coins.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“You didn’t ask.” Mel put his arm around my shoulders. “As a consolation, I’ll tow the motorcycle to your place, free of charge.”
“Is that the best you can offer?”
“Not really,” Mel replied, “but I’ll be too busy counting my money.”
We left the Chrysler. The reek was a force field that would protect the car until the police vampires came by.
Mel dropped off the motorcycle. He was right. It was a beauty, a Kawasaki Drifter in blood red with black trim. With its retro fenders and wide seat, the Drifter looked like an authentic Ind
ian, plus it had something else the original American machine didn’t: Japanese reliability.
I took the Kawasaki on a test cruise, heading west on Highway 72 toward Pinecliff. I didn’t take any votes but I was sure I looked way cooler on this machine than Dagger ever had. Riding fast up the twisting mountain road, I glimpsed a black blur zooming from my left. My reflexes triggered into vampire speed but too late.
The object slammed into the side of my head and knocked me off the motorcycle. I saw the wreck unfolding in slow motion, but there was nothing I could do except cartwheel through the air and hope I landed someplace soft.
My motorcycle dropped onto its side, throwing sparks and shedding parts as it skidded along the highway and onto the gravel shoulder. The bike and I flew off the shoulder, exploded through a scrub pine, and bounced down a steep rocky ravine.
I smashed into a boulder and ricocheted across a pile of rocks. The motorcycle tumbled over me. The bike and I pancaked on gravel and slid down the incline until we slowed to a dusty halt. Dirt and pieces of the Kawasaki showered the area.
CHAPTER 4
I lay on my back, blind with pain. Every bone hollered that it was broken. I tried to wiggle my toes and fingers, and all I got was more pain.
Sledgehammer-to-the-bone pain.
I lay for long moments, not moving, and the pain lessened from sledgehammer to ball-peen hammer.
My vision lightened and became a fuzzy blue that coalesced into a sky with clouds. I still hurt all over but felt grateful as the pain slowly dropped from ball-peen hammer pounding to a drumming by a meat tenderizer. I wiped dust from my face. My sunglasses were gone but my contacts remained in place.
I extended my arms behind me to prop myself up. More pain shot from my right wrist. I lifted that arm and my hand hung at an angle unnatural even for a vampire.
Blood dripped from the cuff of my leather jacket. The blood clotted and dried instantly, disintegrating into cinnamon-colored flakes.
I sleeved the cuff back. Shards of pale bones, the ulna and the radius, poked through the mangled skin above my wrist. I tried to convince myself that it only looked more painful than it was. With my left hand, I grasped my right hand across the knuckles and gave a firm pull.
Another tsunami of pain pounded through me. My kundalini noir thrashed as if it was a snake on a hot skillet.
I worked the fractured bones into place. My vision went black again. All I sensed were my screams echoing from the mountains above. Light gradually came back into my eyes. My screams faded to silence.
I waited a moment to center myself, then surveyed the area. The motorcycle frame and engine lay in a twisted mess like the smashed carcass of a giant insect. I had thought that inheriting this bike from Dagger had been a good deal, but clearly his jinx had followed me. I had nothing to show for what he owed me except bruises, shattered bone, and a long walk home.
I needed something for a splint. I reached for the battered shell of the front fender, sat up, and held the fender upright between my knees. I extended a talon and sawed a length of the fender. I wrapped the strip of metal around my broken wrist and pulled the slack out. Gritting my teeth, I clamped the metal tight. Blood seeped along the edge of the splint. Wasn’t pretty, but this time tomorrow I should be okay.
Sunlight heated patches on my face. The crash had smeared the makeup and sunblock I had slathered on to protect my undead skin.
I rubbed a sore spot on my skull. What the hell had hit me?
A dirty black shape the size of a grapefruit stirred beside my boots. The shape sprouted a pair of claws and a pointed beak. It rolled to one side and staggered to its feet. Torn feathers drifted from its ruffled flanks.
A crow. Had to be a messenger from the Araneum. This bird was the blur that had collided against me.
The crow swung its little round head and wobbled as if drunk.
I grabbed what was left of my motorcycle’s front fender and tossed it at the crow. “I want to talk to your boss, you little shit.”
The fender clattered around the bird. It acted unimpressed by my wrath and poked at the ground. The crow jammed its beak into a scramble of weeds and wrestled loose a silver object the size of my little finger.
But the object wasn’t silver, it was white gold and platinum; a message capsule the crow wore on its leg. The crash must have knocked the capsule loose.
The crow grasped the capsule in its beak and limped toward me.
I took the capsule and wiped away the dust. I unzipped my leather jacket and leaned forward to create a pocket of shadow. With my left hand I unscrewed the ruby-rimmed cap, keeping the capsule in shadow to protect its contents from direct sunlight. The Araneum sent notes on vampire skin. A touch of sunlight would make the undead parchment burst into flames.
The Araneum must flay the smelliest vampires because when I removed the cap, what shot out was a putrid odor worse than rotting meat wrapped in moldy swim trunks.
I used the point of a talon to snag the parchment rolled inside the capsule. The parchment resembled yellowed onionskin. Keeping the note tucked close to my belly, I fumbled with the note to unfold it with my good hand. The parchment opened to a rectangle the size of a poker card. The message appeared as if it had been written on an old manual typewriter.
Our esteemed Felix Gomez,
Find the creator of the zombies. Destroy him and all the zombies. Immediately.
We expect your usual thoroughness. Report when completed.
Araneum
The crooked letters were typed in the brown color of dried blood. In what aisle of Office Depot would you find such a typewriter ribbon?
I’ve learned to decipher these messages because the Araneum must pay a thousand dollars for each word, they’re so stingy with information.
First clue, creator of the zombies. Meaning the Araneum knows someone is reanimating the dead.
Second clue, zombies. Plural. I’ve only seen one. The Araneum knows there are more.
Third clue. Him. Gender, male. Although these notes were annoyingly brief, they were precise.
Fourth clue. Immediately. Meaning the threat is big.
Nothing about who and where.
Typical.
The reverse of the note was blank. I reread the front to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
I balled up the note and flicked it away. The note arced into the sunlight, flashed and crackled and turned into a puff of smoke.
I had my orders. My Kawasaki lay in sad, broken pieces around me. I had much work to do, beginning with finding a way back to Denver.
I pointed the capsule at the crow. “You’re not getting any points for a dramatic entrance. Why couldn’t you have come to my office?”
The crow preened and picked at its wings. The dirt was gone and its feathers gleamed shiny and fresh.
The crow marched close to my side and extended one leg. The clip on the capsule was bent so I worked it to cinch tight around the shank.
The crow stamped its foot to test the security of the capsule. A breeze started up the ravine, murmuring through pines and aspens, and stirred the dust. The crow faced the breeze and spread both wings to cup the wind. The crow levitated straight up, claws and the capsule dangling. The crow continued up, up, not moving its wings, riding the wind with an expert grace. The claws retracted and the crow receded into a black speck in the blue sky.
Show-off. I could levitate, though not high or far. Plus it took a lot of work. You don’t get anything for free in this world.
I struggled to my feet and dismissed the wreckage of my Kawasaki with a sigh and a shrug. I climbed up the ravine along the trail of scattered motorcycle parts. Every step jarred me like a swat across my back with a burning two-by-four. Once on the shoulder of the narrow highway I dug into my jacket pocket for my cell phone, which fell apart in pieces.
A white minivan came down the mountain and I flagged it. An enormous dog in the van barked and lunged at the rear windows.
The driver’s window lowered.
A woman wearing a ball cap and sunglasses studied me and the pieces of metal and glass decorating the skid marks leading off the road. “You okay?” she asked, amazed no doubt that I was upright.
“I’m better than I look,” I lied. “Blowout and I hit this.” I raked my boot through the gravel on the asphalt. “Any way you could give a ride into town?”
“Where exactly?”
I had to get home. “Near Sloan’s Lake.”
“No problem,” she answered. The cargo door on the opposite side popped open.
I hobbled around the front of the van. The dog’s barking grew more fierce. A girl of about ten sat in the passenger’s front seat; she eyed me like I was a specimen from Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Remembering the little Iraqi girl reappearing in my dreams, I got a flutter of the heebie-jeebies from this girl’s stare. But she was a tiny blonde with a Hannah Montana T-shirt and weighed all of sixty pounds. My paranoia turned into embarrassment. The day I couldn’t handle this waif was the day I’d drive a stake through my own sternum.
I slid open the cargo door, and the raucous barking thundered out. A boy—considering the resemblance, the girl’s younger brother—moved guardedly across the middle seat to make room for me. The dog in the back—the mongrel offspring of a St. Bernard and a cave bear—flashed yellow teeth and bashed against a wire grid barrier behind the middle seats. The van rocked as the hairy beast lunged from side to side.
The boy put his hand on a latch at the front of the grid. He kept his wary little eyes on me. His arm seemed spring-loaded to throw the latch open.
No wonder this woman wasn’t afraid of picking up hitchhikers. Make a wrong move and you’re meat scraps.
“Buttercup, easy now,” the woman cooed. “Don’t be a bad girl.”
Buttercup? That prehistoric monster?
I buckled in, keeping as far right as I could to stay out of the line of vision from the interior mirror. Buttercup poked her snarling muzzle through the wire grid and sprayed doggie drool against the back of my neck.
Buttercup had good reason to snarl. I picked up the aroma of young human flesh layered in the strong smell of Buttercup’s canine musk. In the ancient bloodsucker days, these kids would’ve been a banquet for us vampires. But now, it’s hands off.
Jailbait Zombie Page 2