The Down Home Zombie Blues

by Linnea Sinclair

  “When do we do this?” Theo asked.

  “We have to incorporate the virus program into the Hazer’s datastream,” Jorie said. “That will take several sweeps—”

  “Tomorrow, most early time,” Rordan put in, and Jorie knew he was correct. Recalibrating the rifle was delicate work under the best of conditions and not something to be rushed. They didn’t have the best of conditions—only some basic tech components on the floor of Theo’s bedroom.

  “Probably tomorrow,” she agreed. “Which is still workable. We have a few days yet.”

  But what they didn’t have was a sim. On missions like this, they’d always practice first in a sim on board. Work out all possible angles of attack.

  That meant going into a mission blind with two operatives—Martinez and Gray—who’d never faced a zombie before and one—Theo—who had but had limited experience. The juvenile feeding frenzy Theo had encountered was mild compared to what a C-Prime could do. In spite of the training Jorie had put him through, things could go horribly wrong.

  At the very least, they needed to draw up plans and contingency plans, she told Theo.

  He understood. “That means we need a day where you, me, Rordan, Zeke, and David can all sit down and go over everything.”

  It wouldn’t be a sim. She had serious doubts if it would even be enough. But it would have to do.

  Bedtime, when it eventually happened, was as awkward as the night before. Jorie worked on the Hazer with Rordan until her eyes blurred, then—because she still wouldn’t chance Rordan working alone—ordered him to rest on the mattress Theo had taken from the foldout in the spare room. The mattress, along with a pillow and blanket, was shoved against the bedroom wall near the bathroom.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch in the other room,” Rordan said.

  “I can’t shield the entire house.”

  “You and Petrakos don’t want your privacy?” Rordan’s voice held a petulant tone.

  “I have one thread of patience left,” Jorie snapped, “and you’re fraying it. Sleep here or sleep standing in the shower, for all I care. But you’re not leaving this room.”

  She kicked off her sandals and—still wearing the soft shorts and sweatshirt—climbed onto the larger bed, plumping a pillow to put under her head. Rordan eventually sat on his mattress, then, a few minutes later, laid back, his arm thrown over his eyes.

  Jorie tucked her scanner and G-1 against her side and dozed lightly until Theo came in. The bed jostled as he crawled over next to her, his presence a welcome warmth in spite of the fact that Rordan was in the room. She watched through lowered lashes as Theo tapped on her scanner and sealed the bedroom, just as she’d taught him.

  If Rordan tried to leave the room, he’d be zapped, as Theo was so fond of saying. If he tried for her scanner, he’d have to pull it from between Theo and herself.

  Rordan tried neither, because when she woke, sunlight filtering through the windows, he was still on the floor—snoring lightly—and her scanner and G-1 were undisturbed.

  Theo’s hand brushed hers, sending flutters around her heart. She turned her face, lifting her chin so their lips met briefly.

  “Coffee, agapi mou?” he asked.

  “Blissful idea.” She grabbed a pair of pants Theo called jeans and a short-sleeved green T-shirt on her way to the shower.

  Things became less blissful as the morning progressed. The Hazer—evidently in as grouchy a mood as Rordan—refused to accept the virus-dart programming, in spite of all the tricks and tweaks Jorie and Rordan tried.

  Frustrated and swearing in Alarsh, Rordan went to the kitchen for a glass of ice water. It was almost time for midmeal. Perhaps that would help. Jorie wandered into the spare room, where Theo—in jeans the same light blue as her own—had set up his own small computer. It was very rudimentary tech, but it accessed his world’s databases—something Jorie’s could not. She plopped down next to him on the small flowered couch.

  “Are you sure it’s not his programming that’s screwing up?” Theo asked quietly.

  “I’m double-checking everything he does,” she told him. Which was also slowing down the process. It was hard to solve problems and watch for problems at the same time.

  “But you can’t rule it out.”

  “No,” she admitted, a weariness enfolding her. She closed her eyes and let her head drop back against the couch. She was trying to do too much in too short a time, with too little resources.

  Give up, a small voice prodded. There’s no shame in acknowledging your limitations. They’re not even your limitations. If Pietr hadn’t played games, if Lorik had listened, you wouldn’t even be in this situation.

  It’s no longer a Guardian problem. There aren’t enough Guardians here to make a difference. Eventually, the security forces on this planet will recognize the zombies’ existence and be forced to handle it their own way.

  But there would be so many deaths before they did.

  There already have been more deaths. You couldn’t stop those. You didn’t even know about them. Your tech is ineffectual now. The ship is gone, It’s no longer a Guardian problem.

  You can protect Theo. You can protect his family. You can protect your team. That’s all you should be expected to do in this situation.

  True. It was all true. Why couldn’t she accept that?

  Because you have to solve everything. You’re the big important zombie tracker. Pietr even said it: there’s not a zombie around that’s a match for the intrepid Commander Jorie Mikkalah.

  Lorik even said it: you’re not a woman, you’re a zombie-killing machine. It’s all you care about. It’s more important than anything else. Your kill record. A captaincy.

  Ice Princess. Living in a castle of ice-cold corpses…

  “Jorie? Jorie!”

  Theo’s voice in her ear, Theo’s arms around her, holding her against him, against his warmth.

  Jorie opened her eyes, shivering uncontrollably.

  “Jorie?”

  She stared into his dark eyes and tried to speak, but her mouth only made little gasping sounds. Where was she? What was happening?

  “It’s okay, babe. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

  “Theo?” she finally managed to croak. She wanted to reach up and touch his face, but her arms wouldn’t obey. She clutched her spasming hands against her stomach.

  “What—Jorie?” Rordan sat quickly on the other side of her. His fingers curled around her arm. “What’s the matter?”

  Alarsh. She recognized the language Rordan spoke. Alarsh. The language of her people, her ship. The ship where the intrepid Commander Jorie Mikkalah tallied her kills with notches in the wall of her ice castle. The ship where her bed was cold and vacant because Lorik had left to find a woman who was warm.

  Not the Ice Princess. Killer of zombies.

  She closed her eyes. A low, desperate moan filled her throat.

  “I’m losing her.”

  Theo’s voice. He’d leave too. No Ice Princess belonged with a man with a very good face. A nice family. He should be spoused. Loved. Surely all the females on his world weren’t blind and unsexed. He would find love. But not with the Ice Princess.

  “She…Lorik tells me of this. She dreams, cries. Cannot wake.”

  Vekran. Someone speaking very bad Vekran—ah. Kip Rordan, friend of Lorik’s. Kip Rordan, beautiful man who knew she was cold, unloving. Lorik tells him this….

  Ice Princess.

  “She’s come out of it before. Jorie. Babe.”

  Large hands, warm, against her face. She leaned into the warmth, but the keening cry started again. A thin wail. Pain. So much pain. And so cold. Shivering, shivering.

  “C’mon, babe, c’mon.” Hands moved rapidly up and down her arms. Another set massaged her shoulders, her back, through her thin T-shirt. “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

  More warmth. She was being pulled against someone, away from the hands at her back. Arms circled her, held her, rocked her. A
low rumbling in her ear. A man’s voice, singing softly.

  She knew the voice. She knew the melody. Not Alarsh. Not the ship. Nothing cold, but warmth. A deep voice that sang to her before. Such bliss…

  “Theo?” her voice cracked, her throat dry. But her face and Theo’s neck were wet.

  “It’s me, babe. Easy. Take a deep breath.”

  She did as she was told, aching. But the shivering had stopped.

  She was in Theo’s lap, her face buried against his neck, her hands fisted into his chest. She could feel the tight bands of his arms around her legs and back. She took another deep breath. He was still rocking her, humming softly.

  She tried to raise her face. He nudged her head back down. “Relax, agapi mou. It’s over. I’m here. You’re safe.”

  “Theo.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself more tightly against him, and fell into his warmth with a quiet sigh.

  “She just needs to rest,” Theo said, shifting Jorie slightly so his arms held her more securely. Rordan had reached for her two, three times during her nightmare or seizure or whatever it was. There was no way he was going to let the bastard touch her. He didn’t discount that Rordan might have caused what happened.

  He stood, intending to take her to the bedroom.

  “I will—”

  “No.” He put the same force behind that single word as he had when he was on the streets in uniform. Rordan said nothing more. Theo angled around him, Jorie held tightly against his chest, and headed for the bedroom.

  She murmured softly, her eyes fluttering open when he laid her on the bed. “Theo?”

  “Naptime, agapi mou. Short nap.”

  “Mmm, yes.” Her mouth curved in a small smile.

  He kissed it lightly. “I’ll be right here.” He squeezed her hand. “Right nearby.”

  He straightened, then opened a drawer in his dresser and grabbed the Tresh feeder cup before confronting Rordan in the hallway, where he knew the man would be waiting.

  “Kitchen,” he told Rordan, holding the cup out of sight behind him. “Now.”

  When Rordan sat, Theo pulled back the chair catty-corner to Rordan’s, sat down, and placed the cup with the unfamiliar inscription on the table. He watched Rordan’s eyes and mouth and tried to keep the man’s hands in sight as well. Some things didn’t need a common language.

  He’d done this before, placing a murder weapon or a bloodied scrap of clothing between himself and a suspect. Just put it there, watched and waited.

  Rordan looked at him expectantly.

  Theo sat, hands loosely on his thighs, as if Rordan’s reaction mattered not at all.

  Finally Rordan picked up the cup. When he turned it to the inscription, Theo saw him start slightly. Saw the minute widening of his eyes.

  “Tresh,” Rordan said. “You get this where?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I…have no information.”

  “You know it’s Tresh.”

  “These.” Rordan ran his index fingers over the inscription. “Tresh words. Not my language.” He put the cup back on the table.

  “But you know they’re Tresh words.”

  “Of course. Guardians know many things.” Rordan’s frown deepened and he looked away for a moment, muttering a long list of something nasty in Alarsh. His cursing, Theo noted, was more monotonous than Jorie’s. Hers was melodious, even melodramatic. Rordan was obviously a rank amateur when it came to ass-faced vomit-brained demon’s whores.

  “You’ve known about the Tresh for a long time,” Theo commented.

  “Not like you want me to say, no. I learn of Tresh through study. We all learn through study. On my ship, on Sakanah, only few like Jorie learn Tresh through war.”

  Theo remembered her saying she was the only one on this team with direct combat experience.

  “The war was over years ago. Yet the Tresh are here. So are you.”

  “I do not work with Tresh!”

  Theo pushed the cup closer to Rordan. “Someone left this on my steps,” he motioned toward the porch door. “Then you showed up.”

  Rordan shook his head. “No, no.” He met Theo’s hard stare without wavering.

  “The Tresh are powerful,” Theo continued, trying now to keep it simple enough that Rordan would understand. “They have this shielding. Better than the Guardians. I could understand someone wanting to be part of that. Part of their power. They even control zombies. Very powerful, the Tresh.”

  “Yes. Powerful. Dangerous—that is word? Dangerous.”

  Theo poked the cup again. “Why is this here?”

  “Why? I don’t have answer.”

  “You have power, Commander Rordan. You can be dangerous.”

  Rordan slammed one fist on the table. “I do not work with Tresh!”

  Theo watched him, desperately wanting to see signs that the man was lying. But all words aside, Rordan’s body language and continued denials only proclaimed his innocence.

  If he was reading Rordan correctly. There was no guarantee he was.

  Rordan flexed his fingers, then clenched them again, his gaze hard and angry. He spat out a few Alarsh words, glanced past Theo toward the living room, then back to Theo again.

  “Hear my words, nil.” He pointed one finger at Theo, his voice lower now. “I tell you once so you understand and stop this stupid game. I do not work with Tresh. Not because I am Guardian. Forget Guardian. I do not ever hurt Jorie. You hear me? I do not ever hurt Jorie.”

  Rordan sat back, color rising on his face, and Theo saw clearly that the animosity he’d sensed from Rordan had nothing to do with Theo being a nil but with Theo being a male. And a male Jorie was interested in.

  “I would never hurt her either,” Theo told him.

  Rordan crossed his arms over his chest. “You understand nothing of her. I understand. I live same life as Jorie. Same dreams. She is not for you.”

  Theo forced his anger down before answering. “I think that’s Jorie’s decision, not yours.”

  “Jorie has dream to be captain. You can give her this?”

  “Your ship’s gone.”

  “If—when—ship comes again, Jorie will be captain. And you say, no, Jorie? Stay and be nil with me? You love her, Petrakos?”

  “I—”

  “You love her and take away her dream?” Rordan shoved his chair back and stood. “I do not ever hurt Jorie.”

  And he strode from the kitchen, leaving Theo alone with the Tresh feeder cup and an overwhelming urge to smash that cup against the wall.

  He forced himself to go to the refrigerator instead. It was past lunchtime. A can of soda would suffice. He’d lost his appetite.

  Rordan’s words hit home. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it was something he had to face. Everything Jorie was, everything she’d lived, was something he’d never experienced. They’d found themselves thrust together because of emergency circumstances. But when normalcy returned—any kind of normalcy—they might find their lives didn’t fit well together at all.

  He knew that. He just didn’t want to face that, because she’d made him feel alive again. She’d made him love again. She’d made him trust again.

  That Rordan understood Jorie better than he did, he had no doubt. They had years of shared experiences.

  Familiarity also breeds contempt.

  He could only hope.

  His cell phone trilled a familiar tune. He dug it out of his pocket and checked caller ID: Martinez.

  “Yassou, amigo.”

  “Theo, listen. Don’t be mad at me. We got trouble. I’m doing all I can to help.”

  Theo’s gut clenched. He did not like the sound of Zeke’s voice. “What kind of trouble?”

  “You and Jorie home?”

  “Yeah.” He was walking through his living room and could see her sitting up in bed, talking to Rordan. He didn’t like that either. Though she did appear to have some animation back in her face. “What—”

  “We’ll be there in abou
t thirty minutes.”

  “We?”

  “Trust me on this.”

  “Who’s we?”

  Zeke hesitated. “Chief Brantley.”

  “Brantley?” Theo stopped in his tracks.

  “Just don’t go anywhere, okay? I’m only trying to help. See you in thirty.”

  Theo flipped the cell phone closed. Panagia mou! The chief of the Bahia Vista Police Department was coming here to find out just what Detective Sergeant Theo Petrakos was doing harboring two illegal outer-space aliens in his city.

  He could see the news-media trucks rolling in right behind him.

  And then The Jerry Springer Show.

  And then the feds’ dark sedans with blackened windows.

  Fuck.

  26

  Gerard Brantley was proof that brains were as important as brawn to a cop. That the slender, spectacled, pale-haired man was a scholar—with master’s degrees in public administration and criminology—was well known. Even more well known was his impressive record as a detective in Special Investigations. Officers he worked with considered him persistent and thorough. Suspects he caught considered him relentless.

  He was also often fair. At the moment, Theo was praying for fair.

  “Sir,” he said, stepping back to let the chief enter the front hallway. “Sir,” he said a second time, to the taller, burly man behind Brantley whose tightly curled dark hair was sprinkled with silver. Jamont Sanders, head of BVPD’s Forensic Services Unit. Like Brantley, he was in khaki pants and a short-sleeved white knit shirt with a green embroidered BVPD emblem. The department’s casual uniform.

  Behind Sanders, in jeans but the same knit shirt, was an uneasy-looking Zeke Martinez.

  “Ezequiel,” Theo said, with a nod.

  Zeke had the good graces not to say anything. Theo wasn’t sure what Zeke could say that he’d want to hear.

  The only positive note was that Internal Affairs wasn’t also part of the entourage. So he wasn’t being stripped of rank—yet.

  The four of them ended up in Theo’s kitchen, because Sanders needed a table. When the broad-shouldered man pulled Jorie’s battered T-MOD from his large briefcase, Theo knew he was in trouble.