Deadsville

by C. L. Bevill

  “And you wanted me to know that Thana has competition?” Tavie asked. She had figured out that there would be office politics no matter where she went, but somehow she hadn’t been expecting a whole new level of it after she’d died. “What about the reapers? How do they fit in?”

  “Another building block of the machine.” Anapa smiled again. It was a shard of ice that sliced deeply. “You only need to call on me. Remember that.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “Such details can be worked out at a later date.”

  Pudd yipped again. In the space of time that Tavie looked to see what was bothering the dog and then back at Anapa, he was gone. She could feel her knees shaking under her Levi’s. The elders of Deadsville had left out all kinds of need-to-know details.

  Pudd whined loudly. She glanced to see what had his knickers in a twist and blinked when something disappeared around a nearby corner. It hadn’t looked human, instead it appeared like a blend of a crocodile and lion. What was that?

  * * *

  On the way to Tavie’s next destination, she passed the wall that Coco had mentioned. Various people were grouped around it, reading notices and writing their own.

  Most of the wall had been constructed with warped, knotty wood that might have originated from a number of things. Tavie guessed ship, but it might have been a house, or a something she didn’t know anything about. The sections of wood had been reinforced with metal pillars that looked like ribs from a modern shipping vessel and nailed together with mismatched nails and screws. One could see where some industrious soul had extended the wall with the wood from something else.

  Of course, it didn’t really matter because most of the wall was covered with notes. She stepped closer to read them. There were flyers, business cards, and monetary bills tacked to the wall with a thousand different items. Notes were written on the various items with crayon, pencil, and ink. One might have been blood.

  There was a pattern to them. They listed a name, a location, and various details of death. They wanted to know what happened to other people, to their cases, to their families, to their homes. One wanted to know what had happened to his favorite horse, Hopscotch.

  Tavie read a few.

  Jane Marketer – San Francisco – victim of Zodiac – did they ever find my body?

  Shaun Billings – South China Sea – my ship sank, the H.M.A.S. Vampire. What happened after?

  Joseph Varner – Berlin – Died by strangulation? Does anyone know what happened to my wife, Berdine?

  Some of the notices had answers, written in whatever was available, explaining what they knew or where they could be found. Most remained unanswered.

  After a few minutes, it occurred to Tavie that the notes weren’t all in English, but she could still read them. It was the same as the spoken language. Something had made it universal. She thumbed through the announcements, getting a feel for the thousands of desperate messages, demanding information.

  “Here,” someone said. Tavie turned and saw Thérèse. She looked the same with her bluish skin and her cut wrists and the apron with the French words on it. She held out a piece of newsprint and a broken crayon. “You can write a message, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks,” Tavie said. She wrote Octavia Stone – Phoenix, Arizona – Does anyone know how I died? When she was finished Thérèse handed her a broken pin and she pinned it up over someone else’s notes. She hoped it wouldn’t stop someone from reading the ones below hers.

  “You look better now,” Thérèse noted.

  “I am. I got promoted.”

  “I heard. Très bon.”

  “Thank you for your help when I first got here.”

  Thérèse smiled and Tavie smiled back.

  “I’ve heard about the deadie deaths,” Thérèse said mildly. “You must be busy. You should go.”

  Tavie nodded and still felt a little strange walking away from Thérèse. It was as if something was going on that she should know about and didn’t. She shook her head.

  * * *

  The Oscar Wildeians were more interested in discussing the merits of The Picture of Dorian Gray than telling Tavie about Minh’s recent activities. They didn’t think much of Minh’s death, nor did they think much of Tavie asking questions.

  “‘Arguments are to be avoided; they are always vulgar and often convincing.’” An older man quoted at her. Tavie assumed it was a quote from Oscar Wilde, but her literature skills were about as polished as her knowledge of Greek and Egyptian mythology.

  “Did Minh have any enemies?”

  A young woman with red hair and blue eyes tilted her head. “He was a lawyer in the living world, what do you think?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Isola,” the red head answered with a little flip of her hair. She had been crushed by something. Tavie could see the marks on her and the bones that stuck out at odd angles. Her cover was a typical girl from sometime in the early 21st century. Tavie also gathered that Isola wasn’t her real name based on the way that some of the others sniggered.

  “Isola,” Tavie said, “Minh was killed by someone in Deadsville. He was marked in a way that suggested someone wanted revenge on him. If someone could do it to him, then they could do it to any of us.”

  “And what will you do about it, Sheriff?” Isola demanded. “Shoot them with your gun? Oh, yes, we’ve heard about you, we’ve heard about your gun—” she motioned at Pudd “— we’ve even heard about your dog.”

  Pudd growled at Isola. It was evident that the dog knew when his mistress was being dissed.

  “Besides which,” Isola went on, “he was already dead. You can’t kill the dead. No one can kill the dead.”

  “I think that someone found a way,” Tavie said. She hadn’t had a difficult time finding the Oscar Wildeians. People were happy to point the way to where they were practicing a scene from The Importance of Being Earnest. Being disrupted in their after-immortal pursuits hadn’t made them particularly happy, but they were helping in their way. “Can you tell me what Minh talked about?”

  “He preferred A Woman of No Importance to Lady Windemere’s Fan.” Isola tapped the side of her head. “And he thought Oscar was bi rather than gay. Just his opinion, of course.”

  Somewhere Tavie knew there was probably a society in Deadsville venerating Barney & Friends and whether “Barney is a Dinosaur” was socially more relevant than “I Love You.” However the knowledge didn’t help her level of patience. “About his life in the living world,” she prompted.

  “He was a lawyer. A defense attorney. He liked nice suits. His wife knew he was secretly gay. Some of his kids knew. Some didn’t. He liked living but he thought Deadsville was almost like a vacay.” Isola sighed heavily. “Boring now.”

  “Can I pet your dog?” one of the Oscar Wildeians asked.

  Tavie shrugged and waved a hand. She wasn’t going to get anything out of these people. After about a dozen people had petted Pudd and Pudd appeared as though he was going to bite the next hand that came near him, she thought of something else. “When did you last see Minh?”

  “We were doing a chapter out of The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Isola said. “Did you know that was Oscar’s only novel?”

  “I did not know that.” Tavie took a breath. “So you saw Minh there and what was going on with him?”

  “You know, now that you mention it, he seemed a little antsy,” Isola admitted. “He didn’t really get into the discussions about the proper atmosphere of the piece. In fact, he said he had to go somewhere and meet someone.”

  “Did anyone see Minh meeting with someone out of the ordinary?”

  “Fat woman in a jogging suit,” someone said. “She’s not one of us. There was a preacher looking for him, too.”

  Thana. Or perhaps the question should have been how many fat women in jogging suits were running around Deadsville? And a preacher? WTH?

  “Did any of you know Darren?”

  “The other dead dead guy
?” Isola asked. “I don’t think so.”

  “I traded with him once,” a man with long gray hair said. “He got my watch and I got a signed music sheet of Anything Goes. That’s Cole Porter you know.” Then he began to sing “Anything Goes.” A few words into it and a group began singing with him.

  “Oscar would NOT approve!” Isola yelled.

  Tavie backed away and Pudd yipped in a way that indicated complete bafflement.

  “How do I find a god of the dead?” Tavie asked Pudd. Pudd whined.

  The crowd of Oscar Wildeians broke out into a grand melee of derogatory yells and people screaming out quotes. There wasn’t much point in shooting all of them so Tavie turned to go back to Deadsville Jail.

  “I don’t suppose you can find me a god of death,” she said to Pudd. “I’d like to remember how I died. I’d also like to know why she gave me a gift. Then I’d like to know why the other gods of the dead are interested in what I’m doing and if the two dead deadies have anything to do with me.”

  ​Chapter 13

  Let the dead rest. – German Proverb

  ~

  “I’m thinking that there are too many dead cooks in this dead kitchen.” – Octavia Stone

  ~

  Deadsville Jail was hopping. There was one new resident by the name of Nate. By virtue of his appearance, he was a colonel from the Civil War who had died of complications from a venereal disease. He also held a rusting shovel and had a foul mouth.

  “Your gold ain’t here, Colonel,” Enoch told the deadie. He said it in a patient way that Tavie wouldn’t have been able to accomplish in a month of Sundays. “Your gold is on the other side, buried wherever you done put it.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the colonel demanded. “I’m fifteenth in line to the presidency of these Confederate States of America. Jefferson Davis patted my back and pinned on my last medal. That gold was stolen by those heathen bastards in the north and I stole it back. We drove it on a mule wagon for nigh on two hundred miles right under the eyes of the yanks.”

  “Be that as it may, sir,” Enoch said, “you’re in the Deadsville Jail now, and cain’t do nothing about it.”

  Tavie wandered in and gave the colonel a look. He was tall and dressed in a faded Confederate uniform, but the disease had ravaged his body, and based on his words, his brain. Someone from her time would have called him heroin chic, except without the heroin, or general hygiene, or anything that would have helped him out.

  “Look, a gift from the general,” the colonel proclaimed happily, his eyes on Tavie. “A whore to ease my suffering in the clutches of the godless hordes of the north.”

  “Do I look like a whore to you?” Tavie asked.

  Nate blinked. “It’s true you have odd clothing on, but what good woman wears such formfitting apparel?”

  “Touch any part of my body, chief, and I’ll mace you within an inch of your life, wait for your eyeballs to recover, and then do it again.” Tavie moved the jacket aside so the deadie could see her badges.

  “A female sheriff!” he exclaimed. “What perilous times these be. Someone run down to the Red Door Inn and fetch me the madam. She shall see to my manly needs.”

  Tavie glanced at Enoch. “I guess mental disease isn’t high on the list of the reapers’ hits.”

  “I reckon it was syphilis or such,” Enoch said. “Sometimes he gets a mite uppity when he’s digging for his gold. He had too many hits of ecto juice and I had to bring him here until he sobers up. He’ll sleep a spell and then be his usual self. He still don’t think much of womenfolk, but he don’t usually hurt no one. Makes you wonder where the folks with a real mental disease go to.”

  Tavie noted that Harry and the misters Bullet Hole and Slit Throat were still present. All were avidly watching the scene between Enoch and the colonel.

  Mr. Slit Throat AKA Ray said, “You said you’d let me out if I gave up the knife.”

  “I said I’d check with the elders,” Tavie said. “Enoch, we need to go over a few things before they slip away from me.”

  “Great,” Enoch said, “I know a place with, get this, coffee.”

  “Coffee,” Tavie repeated doubtfully. “Where’s Coco and my dog?”

  “A coffee shop guy got shot in a holdup and brought three big bags of beans with him. He traded with Mad Marge and she’s got a coffee shop. Ifin we don’t hurry, we’ll miss out. As for Coco, she took your dog to see the serial killer girls. The dog didn’t seem to mind. But she said that she remembered something about Minh. She didn’t know ifin it helped or not.”

  “What did she remember?”

  “She thinks she met him once, in the living world.”

  * * *

  The slap-together coffee shop seemed really busy to Tavie. Deadies were desperate to have a cup of coffee, even if it meant no sugar and no creamer. Enoch traded for two cups, using a Nintendo 3DS with a Mario Kart game in it. Clearly he didn’t mind using the reputation of the Deadsville Sheriff’s office to his own benefit.

  Tavie tried to protest that he paid for her but Enoch waved his hand in dismissal. “I’m just glad I could use that for something. My time is coming up quick. I don’t know how much help I’ll be to you, Tavie. I’m expecting one of them fellas with a scythe any minute.”

  They found a place under a tree and sat down. There they watched other deadies negotiating for coffee. Tavie marveled at the ingenuity of the residents of Deadsville. They’d ground the beans by using a provisional set of cogs, rack, and pinion, from something mechanical. Somehow they’d dug up a machine that they jury-rigged into percolating the coffee. (It might have been an ice cream maker or something for gelato, she wasn’t sure.) Then they’d powered it with ectoplasm. Then someone had found bottled water and a mess of mismatched cups. They’d set up their shop and word of mouth had spread like wildfire.

  Enoch produced two packets of Splenda. “It ain’t sugar,” he said, “but I like it just fine. I got it from this gal who had a hankering for a co-cola I had. That was something I traded for a knife back a ways. I don’t recall where I got that one. I bin here too long.”

  Tavie took the packet gratefully. She was a fully engaged coffee drinker. The more cream and sugar the better she liked it. But in the land of the dead, where Starbucks was woefully absent, she couldn’t complain. Or rather, she wouldn’t complain.

  “Do the little packets refill like some of the other things?” Tavie asked as she tipped the granules into a mug with a broken handle. She used her finger to stir the coffee up. It wasn’t exactly hygienic but it was what it was. The water was almost too hot and she licked the coffee off with a sigh.

  “I reckon some things do but these are just one time uses. Like I know a couple of people who have packs of gum that do that. I cain’t say that I understand how that works. Ifin we did, we wouldn’t be here, I guess.” Enoch swished his coffee around in the Circle K plastic travel mug. They would have to return the mugs to the “shop” when they were done.

  Tavie thought about the bullets in her Glock. She wasn’t going to share that little tidbit publically, but it was a very nice secret to keep. “Okay, let’s talk about the two deadies, Darren and Minh. They both died alone, except for possibly a killer. They had writing on their backs indicating someone wanted revenge. They were both from New Mexico.”

  Enoch slurped coffee and sighed. “New Mexico. From the same city?”

  “One from Albuquerque and the other one was from Santa Fe. Their natural deaths weren’t abnormal, either. Darren was old age, possibly related to Alzheimer’s disease. Minh had a brain hemorrhage. The years of their natural deaths were a decade apart.”

  “You think they were done kilt because of something they did on the living side?” Enoch asked. “Ain’t no reason as to how folks show up in Deadsville. You saw the colonel before? He should have passed decades ago, mebe even nigh on a century. I wouldn’t be surprised ifin we saw a Neanderthal wandering around here.” He thought about it and scratched the side of his head
. “Though I ain’t never seen one.”

  “They had enemies, sure,” Tavie said. “Darren was a trader who ticked lots of people off.” She took a sip of the coffee. Surely it hadn’t been that long since she’d had a drink of coffee but it felt like it was forever. “Minh was just your average deadie, waiting on what was going to happen. No one I talked to seemed to like or dislike Minh particularly. It was like he was just…there.”

  “I looked at them lists,” Enoch said. “Ain’t no one at the same places except the elders, you, and I. I talked to people who lived around the areas, and no one is admitting nothing. I spoke to Tully again. You recollect that boy?”

  “He got beaten to death by his girlfriend’s father for getting her in the family way,” Tavie said. “He did some work for Darren. I didn’t see him at Herman’s when I stopped by. Herman said he works for Mad Marge now.”

  “He don’t seem like the mass murderer type to me,” Enoch said agreeably. “But he did know about some mysterious meeting that Darren had.”

  “Tully said that Darren told him about the meeting but he didn’t know who it was with.” Tavie looked at her coffee. The grinds weren’t fine enough and whatever the coffee shop was using for a filter wasn’t really getting everything, but it was one of the best cups of Joe she’d ever had. “Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way,” she said.

  “Mebe, but this might be one of those things no one can solve,” Enoch suggested. “Ain’t no one ever figured out where Amelia Earhart went off to?” He paused. “Did they?”

  “No. She’s still missing.”

  “Sheesh,” Enoch said. “I’d hate for something like that to be solved while I was gone, although I wouldn’t mind ifin I ran into the lady some time and she could say what happened to her.”

  “Maybe I should be looking at what these two deadies have in common,” Tavie said. “They melted away. You’ve never seen that before?”