The Corpse Whisperer
H.R. Boldwood
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Copyright © 2018
H.R. Boldwood
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Third Street Press publication date:
November 2018
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All Rights Are Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-948142-23-6 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-948142-22-9 (e-book)
ISBN-13: 978-1-948142-24-3 (hardcover)
Praise for H.R. Boldwood
“If Anita Blake and Stephanie Plum had a lovechild, it would be Allie Nighthawk. One of the funniest and freshest takes on the zombie genre I've read, with genuine heart at the core of the humor and gore.”
Dana Fredsti, author of the Ashley Parker series and the Spawn of Lilith series
“Anita Blake and October Daye, scoot over to make room for Allie Nighthawk, the fiercest and funniest heroine to hit the streets since Buffy first quipped while laying the undead to rest. The Corpse Whisperer is smart, witty, and so much fun you may just start it again as soon as you finish it.”
Lisa Morton, Six-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author and co-editor of Haunted Nights
“The Corpse Whisperer redefines the zombie genre. Allie Nighthawk is the hero we all need more of.”
Tom Deady, Bram Stoker award-winning author
“H.R. Boldwood is the Janet Evanovich of zombie hunters. She’s fierce and funny and smart, just like her heroine. She’s rejuvenated the zombie genre with her fresh new take, in a kick-ass, take-no-prisoners, balls-to-the-wall series you’re going to want to read, time and again.”
Christiana Miller, author of Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She’s Dead
Summary
Corpse Whisperer Sworn
Welcome to the world of Allie Nighthawk, corpse whisperer and bad ass zombie hunter.
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“If you raise deadheads, you’d better be able to put ‘em down. Nobody said it was pretty. But in this day, when vampires aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and the dead are disposable pawns for necromancers, someone has to ante up. Looks like I won the lotto. Imagine my delight. You should thank me, really, because the world is batshit crazy.”
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When the zombie population spikes and no one knows why, it’s up to Allie to solve the mystery. But there’s a hitch. She’s stuck babysitting Leo Abruzzi, a zombie-bitten gangster who’s turning state’s evidence. But the mob and a powerful necromancer will stop at nothing to take Leo and Allie down.
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Allie Nighthawk is Anita Blake on steroids, with a fondness for leather and Jack on the rocks. She has a healthy dose of Stephanie Plum and Rachel Morgan in her, too, though she’d never admit it.
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The battle between good and evil just got wicked fun.
Contents
1. The World Is Batshit Crazy
2. Raising Cephus
3. You Can’t Fight City Hall
4. Slicing the Pie
5. Dealing with the Devil
6. Life in the Tar Pits
7. Life Without Rules is Zushi
8. The Damned ACLU
9. Everyone Always Wants Something
10. Who’s Killing Who?
11. Genghis Khan: Corpse Whisperer
12. When is a Black Lexus Just a Black Lexus?
13. For the Love of Lasagna
14. Shit Got Real
15. Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock
16. Damn It, I’m Busy
17. End of Watch
18. Bitches and Snitches
19. We Don’t Need No Stinking Plan
20. Oh, No She Di’nt
21. Ain’t Nothing But A Thing
22. Can’t We All Just Get Along?
23. No Wonder Health Care Is A Mess
24. Nighthawk Down
25. The Best Laid Plans
26. Trouble in Paradise
27. Did Someone Say Dark and Gritty?
28. Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe
29. By the Light of the Silvery Moon
30. Gotcha!
31. Why?
32. Some Days Suck Worse than Others
33. The Weight of the World
34. The Last Dance
Excerpt: Corpse Whisperer Sworn
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By H.R. Boldwood
This book is affectionately dedicated to Lisa Morton, friend and mentor, without whose unfailing support The Corpse Whisperer would not exist. Thank you for believing in me—even when my own confidence wavered.
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It is also dedicated to my awesome brother, H. Richard Burdick, Jr., Retired Lieutenant/Blue Ash Police Department. Your encyclopedic knowledge of law enforcement and weaponry kept me from making many a rookie mistake. You answered my every question, sometimes more than once. Where would Allie and I be without you?
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Last, but not least, this book is dedicated to Barbara Kuroff, one of Allie Nighthawk’s biggest fans. I so wish you were here to see her debut. But I know you’re up there smiling.
1
The World Is Batshit Crazy
There aren’t many good reasons for raising the dead, but there are plenty of bad ones—greed, revenge, and absolute lunacy top the list. I’m Allie Nighthawk and raising the dead happens to be my only talent. People are willing to pay for it. Go figure.
I’m also one of the few corpse whisperers who puts the ‘toys’ away when clients are finished playing with them. Away, as in hermetically sealed back in their coffins, with their disease-ravaged brains neutralized. That’s shop talk for scattered, smothered, covered and chunked. The last thing we need is zombies clawing up through the dirt like demented whack-a-moles, and gnawing on the residents of Cincinnati.
I was born a corpse whisperer, twenty-six years and too many zombies ago to count. It’s a genetic thing, like blonde hair or blue eyes, except that it’s…raising the dead. Yeah. Okay. It’s not exactly the same. It involves different genetic markers.
Buy a vowel, people. The concept’s the same.
The supernatural abilities that come with this gift have increased with each generation. That makes me very good at what I do. And a little dangerous. If you raise deadheads, you’d better be able to put ‘em down. Whisperers like me take care of business.
I can remember a time when you never saw biters shambling in the streets. But things have changed. Vampires aren’t just for breakfast anymore, and the dead have become disposable pawns for necromancers. Someone had to ante up. Looks like I won the lotto. Imagine my delight.
You should thank me, really, because the world is batshit crazy.
No matter how much the rotters reek like sun-baked sushi, no matter how many of their orphaned body parts skitter after me like flesh-bots in search of a host, at the end of the day, reruns of Dancing with the Stars, a bag of Doritos and a Jack Daniel’s slushie have always been enough to take off the edge.
At least they were, unti
l a couple of months ago, when my nemesis—a very spiteful necromancer—took his vengeance on me by doing something so heinous, I swore I’d never raise the dead again. Ever. I’d still hunt down your occasional, garden-variety deadhead. I mean, somebody has to put the freaking flesh-eaters down. But raisings were off the table.
I haven’t told the Cincinnati Police Department about my updated business model—yet. They pay me as a sub-contractor to raise schmucks for evidentiary reasons, and they weren’t going to appreciate my change of heart. I’d been ducking their calls for a while, until a CPD cop banged on my door and forced the issue.
“Allie Nighthawk?”
“Get lost.” I said, slamming the door, but he blocked it with his foot.
“Jesus, lady. Don’t you ever answer your phone?”
“Don’t you take a hint?”
“I’m Rico De Palma. The department’s new liaison for the Paranormal Crimes Unit. Your ah…partner.”
The guy sounded like he’d swallowed a pinecone.
I gave him two sarcastic thumbs up and used my Mister Rogers voice. “Well, aren’t you special.”
He peered at me over the top of his Oakleys. “Six of us drew straws, lady. And I lost. I need you to raise Cephas McCoy for questioning in the disappearance of Twila Harris, a six-year-old from Price Hill.”
I’d read about that case in the paper. Cute kid snatched right out of her own home. Rico had piqued my interest.
“McCoy…that’s the scumbag you guys fingered for the Highpoint child abduction murders.”
“Yeah. We were bringing him in for questioning, when some kid’s father got wind of it and took him out with a .32 to the chest.” Rico stepped aside and held the door open. “Grab your coat. Let’s go.”
Seriously. He wanted me to raise a child killer.
“I’m not going,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t do raisings anymore. And even if I did, I wouldn’t raise a child killer. Sorry. My game, my rules.”
“Screw your rules. This kid needs you.”
I reached for the door again, but his gunboat was still parked on the threshold.
“Move it or lose it,” I said.
“Corpse whisperer, my ass. You’re nothing but hype. No wonder your last partner didn’t last very long.”
He was referring to Harry Delk. A damn fine cop. Why De Palma thought he could fill Harry’s shoes was a mystery.
He curled his lip and turned to walk away. “Thanks for nothing. Why don’t you stick your rules up that hard-case ass of yours and rotate?”
The smug bastard. Who did he think he was?
I plowed forward, knocking us both onto the porch floor, and clocked him so hard, his sunglasses flew into the bushes.
Then, for some inexplicable reason, even though I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone, I told him the truth.
“Bite me, blue boy. Those rules are all I’ve got.”
People with my talents aren’t standing on every street corner, you know. And the lawmakers left whisperers like me hanging in the breeze. As if the courts didn’t have enough trouble defining life, once un-death came into the mix, they all but threw up their hands. Legislation governing zombie wrangling was intentionally vague because courts wanted wiggle room in sentencing.
Me? I don’t like gray. So, I made my own set of rules. I wouldn’t raise children or murderers. Children, because the angel you buried isn’t what you’d get back, and murderers because re-animation brings out the worst in a corpse. If you were a killer in life, the odds against you coming back like Mother Theresa are higher than the odds of a positive DNA hit on your own spit.
Besides, it’s a boundaries thing. A re-animator with no boundaries is a soulless whore. I had limits. I had a line.
But Rico wasn’t giving up. He rubbed his chin and got to his feet. “You crazy-ass bit… If I didn’t need your help, I’d haul you in. Twila went missing three days ago. They just buried McCoy yesterday. She could still be alive out there somewhere, cold, scared or hurt. Jesus, Nighthawk, she’s just a baby. You can’t walk away from this.”
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re a coward.”
A coward?
Well. That was ballsy. I moved in to smash… I moved in to respond in a more personal manner, when he simply stepped back, dropped his hands to his sides, and shook his head.
“Just tell me why,” he said. “Why won’t you raise this one insignificant piece of shit, if it’ll save her life?”
I counted to ten and then schooled him on the facts of life—well, the facts of un-death anyway.
“Everyone, good or bad, has the right to rest in peace. Just because I can raise corpses, doesn’t mean I should. Every corpse I raise becomes a zombie, and every zombie has to be put down.”
“And your point?”
“You think it’s easy deciding who gets raised and why? Well, let me enlighten you. Sometimes people raise corpses for the wrong reasons, and then people like me have to clean up after them. But not me. Not anymore. I’m done.”
Rico’s voice went flat. “I don’t know why you stopped raising. Hell, I don’t even care. But can you really let this kid die?”
He pulled her picture out of his pocket and stuck it in my face. Pretty little thing, freckles, pig-tails, the whole nine yards.
Then he went for gold. “It’s your call, sweetheart. But you need to make it quick. It’s the end of March. Colder than shit out there. If Twila isn’t dead, she’s running out of time. And if you let her die—it’s on you.”
Well, crap. The freckles got me. It’s so much easier when you don’t let freckles, and feelings, and people in. Then it doesn’t hurt so bad when you lose them.
I wanted to find her too, damn it. Just what I needed, a reason to start raising the dead again.
I tried to ignore Little Allie, the voice in the back of my brain that screams like a banshee when she thinks I’m screwing up. She was having an apoplectic fit, telling me Rico was right. She was telling me to go all in, balls to the wall, to save that girl.
So what if she was right? She could have used her indoor voice. The crazy bitch must think I’m deaf.
I took a deep breath and stuck my finger in Rico’s face. “Let’s get one thing straight, De Palma. I’m not your sweetheart. The next time I hear anything close to that come out of your mouth, I’m gonna feed your lips to—”
“Roger that, Nighthawk. Get your gear.”
Game time, baby.
I tucked my hair under my Ungrateful Dead ball cap. Long hair is an easy handhold for a deadhead and besides, in the moonlight, my black hair shines like a hundred-watt bull’s-eye.
I put on a pair of black khakis, stuck my Swiss army knife into the back pocket, pulled on my boots, and yanked my good luck Zom-B-Gone T-shirt over my head. The right sleeve was in tatters. Like I said, it was my lucky shirt. It could have been my arm.
Next came my shoulder holster, where my main man, Hawk, hangs out. He’s a custom 9mm semi-auto Nighthawk. What else would I carry?
Last, but not least, I grabbed a bag of Lays barbecue chips and a roll of duct tape, and shoved them into my go bag with an extra set of clothes. What can I say? Mine is a messy job.
Then I slipped into my black leather duster and became Allie Nighthawk, the best of the bad-ass zombie hunters.
“Out of my way, De Palma.”
As I pulled the door shut behind us, my bulldog, Headbutt, barely glanced at me from his throne on top of the air-conditioning vent. He would still be there when I got back, not having moved an inch. He’s what you’d call kinetically-challenged, but he can smell a rotter a mile away.
His partner in crime, an African Grey parrot named Kulu, hung upside down on her perch. She turned her yellow eye toward me and took a parting shot. “Box-o-rocks.”
Yeah? Well. Bite me, bird.
I climbed onto my Harley Low Rider and went l
ooking for trouble.
2
Raising Cephus
The cemetery would be a freaking obstacle course, but Rico insisted we wait until sundown to raise our rotter. As we climbed over the retaining wall, he explained that mommies don’t want their children watching me chase decomped deadheads down Central Parkway, with a flamethrower.
I get that. I got no problem being discreet. It’s not like I want to do this work in the daylight anyway. You spike one zombie’s head, the ACLU and the paparazzi are all over you like stink on a flesh-eater. Besides, biters tend to hole up during the day, since they can’t see in sunlight. Wrangling them is easier in the dark, when they’re on the prowl.
Fallen tombstones, mole holes, and titanium flower vases, all vying to take out my knees, are the problem. That’s why the art of negotiation comes in handy.
“Hire me,” I said as we sprinted though the headstones. “I’m tired of this independent contractor shit. I want double-time for field work, full medical coverage, and disability benefits. Call it hazardous duty pay.”
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