Tesla's Revenge

by Renee Sebastian

  He announced, rather too gleefully, “Truce. Now are you going to tell me about this lovely tattoo? I've never seen the likes of it.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound I figured, so I said, “It's not exactly a tattoo, but that's a close enough description.”

  “It almost looks like two wings or maybe a kiss? What is it, my dear Miss Darling?” He stared intently at me, and then added, “I warn you that I can smell a lie a league away.” He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

  “The way I see it, we are in this thing together, so you may as well call me Wendy. It might confuse people if you keep calling me Miss Darling. I am officially Miss Michaels, by the way.”

  “Yes, yes, the Society informed me as such. But Wendy, you are being evasive.” He then looked meaningfully at my hand that was still in his.

  “I've been Fae kissed.”

  He dropped my hand, crossed his arms, and then said, “Continue.”

  I huffed out a breath and turned toward the East. The first rays had splashed the clouds in pinks and oranges, but the big sphere had yet to break the horizon. “So you must know that I spent time in Neverland, which a privileged few know that the realm is the seat of the Fairies. In addition, I have continued to visit it throughout my years. I've been instructed that the only safe passage to and fro' is if you have been Fae kissed. It's something akin to an open invitation to non-Fae kin.”

  Satisfied for now, he leaned his elbows on the railing and stared at the lightening skyscape with me. “Something tells me that these trips into Fairy are not vacations, are they, Wendy?

  I whispered, “No, they are not, Mr. Grey.”

  He took a moment to absorb this influx of information and replied, “Since I am calling you Wendy, by the way, do exchange the favor and call me Dorian.”

  Suddenly, the sun started to make its climb, a cresting, fiery astronaut along the horizon. We watched it together in silence until it had completely freed itself from the dark side of the Earth.

  “Linseed oil,” I said.

  He looked at me, “Excuse me?”

  “You always smell of Linseed oil.”

  “Why Wendy, yes I do.”

  “Did you paint your own portrait, Dorian?”

  “Why Wendy, yes I did.” He resumed looking over the railing again. Both of us grinned subtly, content in having shared a small but important secret. I was now ready to discuss the case with him. I told him in a rush all my thoughts and questions.

  He drew his eyebrows together and rubbed his chin, apparently deep in thought. He said, “I agree with you, that there is something very different about this case. It does appear to be something afoot. I must admit that I have thought about the same idea as you, in regards to Tesla's Fountain of Youth, but as we both know, there are many ways in order to become immortal. Let's put that idea aside for now.

  “I am more concerned about the zombies. From what I understand from S.O.A.R.'s armory lieutenant, Westington has been quarantined and the junkets have agreed not to go to press yet. Details are vague, but word has it that there appears to be shaker epicenter.”

  “So there was an earthquake in Westington before the outbreak?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Do we know approximately when the shaker happened?”

  “Yes, I have the S.O.A.R.'s slender file on the case, but most of it is second hand, if you want to have a look. The reports are rather graphic, but they do estimate that the time of the shaker was between two-o'clock and four-o'clock in the a.m.”

  “I would appreciate having a little look-see at that folder for myself.” I normally was not provided a folder, another sign that something was not quite right with this case. Of course, I was usually only given a picture of whomever I was required to kill and a location.

  I sighed and added, “I wonder if the zombie contamination zone follows the epicenter shape. If we could match names of the infected with their home addresses, then we could determine when exactly the shaker happened. I would imagine that most people must have been home asleep when the shakers happened. Maybe then we could draw a firm connection between the shaker and the outbreak.”

  “I concur. I will prepare a C.W. message asking S.O.A.R. to cross-reference any known zombie sightings with location. They have a Hertzian in the navigation room onboard. Handy of them to have a radiotelegraph.”

  Suddenly a foghorn blew from up above and a boy on a rope, suspended between the bulbous hull and navigation deck, declared “Westington! Twenty nautical miles at current knots! Westington! Twenty nautical miles at current knots!” He then slid down the rope and disappeared inside the side door of the navigation room.

  “We'll be dropped down, you know. Did you bring your hoodwinks?” Dorian asked.

  This time I smiled and showed teeth, “Of course, I'll review that folder and ready my bags, while you send the telegraph.”

  “Consider it done. It is unlikely that there will be a telegraph pole up in Westington, so if we need to be there longer than a day, we will have to find an alternate way of contacting S.O.A.R.”

  “Is the entire town off the grid then?” I asked.

  “Word is that it is patchy at best.”

  “Are the tracks into town serviceable?” I asked.

  “Yes, but the quarantine complicates matters,” he answered while he grimaced.

  “How will we get out of Westington then?”

  “The folder's instructions say that we are to make our own way out.”

  Peachy. It was my turn to frown. “Well, let me have a look at the folder, while you send that telegraph.”

  Back in my cabin, I looked through the folder, and Dorian was correct, the second hand accounts were horrid. Lots of bloody bits everywhere, but besides determining a time frame, not a true understanding could be found amongst the lot of them.

  “What I did appreciate in the folder was a map of the city and surrounding areas. I wrapped it in an oiled wrapper and secured it next to my book in my bag. I suspected that it would be integral to navigating the licorice twisted-streets. I was hoping that we could find a horse in the outskirts of town unaffected by the outbreak. Then we could swiftly depart once our work in the city was done. I saw the next town over had a train station which would make our return to S.O.A.R. to report our findings even more timely.

  To my fascination and horror, the folder lastly contained a Governor's Pass, just in case we were to be stopped by any legitimate law enforcers. The pass was issued by the Governor's Conglomeration and allowed for any officials directly affiliated with a territory to have free and unencumbered passage through the territory with federal immunity. They were extremely rare and usually only the governor had them, so he and his family could travel unencumbered by individual state and territory laws.

  The pass would not only grant us access to all parts of the contamination site, but would raise questions of our identities should we have to use them. They were almost unheard of today and were worth a fortune on the black market. Again, another piece of the puzzle. How did S.O.A.R. acquire these or were they forgeries? Mine had a holographic photograph of me on it. I might have to lose this in action, and keep it for myself for later.

  For not the last time, I thought what in the hell had S.O.A.R. signed me up for? Not that I wouldn't use it, but staying under the radar was par for the course.

  I heard a sharp rap at my door and then Dorian said, “Are you ready?”

  I pulled down my goggles and said, “I'm looking forward to it.”

  Chapter 5

  Hemomages

  “We are born unto this world made of flesh. We die unto this world made of flesh. Best not to eat of the flesh, that way lays folly.”

  -Dr. Sigmond Huttlefield, “A Gentleman's Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse,” 1906.

  From Dorian's Journal of Memorable Quotes to Live By

  The clouds parted as the Persephone skimmed the tops of trees donning their late-autumn foliage. They appeared as islands of fire breaking
through the heavy fog banks below. There was enough of a bite in the air that bits of my soul appeared to leave my body when I breathed out. Even without the ominous weather, the Persephone couldn't risk a landing on the chance of being overtaken by the revenants and deaders. We were going to be lowered down from the craft into the mist.

  By the time I made it out to the loading dock, Dorian was already strapped into his harness. I wore my trench, hoodwinks, and resplug. I stepped into the rigging and started buckling the straps. Once we were secure, the first crowns of buildings started rising from the fog banks, to reveal the city as black icebergs bursting through an icy sea. The cyclocrane's propellers broke the fog like an icebreaker.

  The luggage, Dorian, and I began the process of being attached to a singular thick rope, with about twenty feet of its length between each respectively. The rope was attached to the hand-cranked crane near the gangplank. I found the footing slippery, as I crossed the loading deck, but still managed to inspect the knots attaching my bags to the rig without any trouble.

  The bags would go down first, in case one broke free, then Dorian, and finally me. Dorian, I noticed, had donned a pair of Colt Model P's, in addition to his cane. Apparently, he and I were of an agreement, a Coach rifle would have been too cumbersome for this excursion.

  He came over and said rather loudly, over the swooshing and humming of the turbines, “I do so hate the moans of the dead. Do you think it will be quite noisy down there?”

  “Why sir, I find it rather noisy up here,” I said as I gestured to the propellers.

  He smiled and then he walked over to the gang plank. As if on cue, the turbines stopped and we heard the first moans of an isolated zombie from somewhere under the thick bank of fog. He lowered the bags off the edge, my two carpetbags and his leather satchel. Then with a dramatic flair, he saluted the boys that would be turning the crank and fell backwards off the edge of the plank. The rope grew taught between us, tied at a rail. An employee released the tension and I felt myself pulled forward. I walked over to the plank, thankful to be wearing my riding pants amidst the strong crosswinds.

  With a bit of rope slack in my hand, I gave no warning as I leaped off the wooden board into free fall. Once my rope caught, I found myself swinging back and forth along the belly of the airship. The rope sluggishly lowered me into the mouth of hell.

  ···•Ͽ Ѡ Ͼ•···

  After about five minutes of listening to the creaking rope, while I was gently swayed back and forth, I saw Dorian and the ground reaching up for me. He was already out of his rigging, and he caught me by my waist before setting me down beside him. After removing my harness, he pulled hard on the rope three times and the rope wound its way up until it vanished. I surveyed our environment and concluded that we were on top of a Brownstone. The sounds of moaning appeared further off than I originally surmised. Could have done much worse, I concluded.

  I announced, “I'm going to leave most of my baggage here. I think we should set this up as a base camp.”

  “Agreed,” said Dorian. He then removed a traveler’s brass compass, a pad of paper, and a calligraphy pen from his satchel. He noticed my curious glance and said mysteriously, “I hope I won't need the paper.” I was intrigued, but before I could inquire, he busied himself in his bag, promptly ending that line of conversation.

  While I was checking over my weapons, I caught out of the corner of my eye that he had removed a Strutt meter and laid it out next to his compass. I presumed it was to measure black body spectrum. John William Strutt, the inventor of the device, who was also the Baron of Rayleigh, was a very talented turn-of-the-nineteenth-century physicist. He made great strides in the study of electromagnetic radiation and he even discovered argon. In impolite circles, he was also obsessed with psychic phenomenon. He was so enthusiastic about it; he claimed that he had made a room that allowed telekinesis by blocking the earth's natural electromagnetic field. I had seen stranger things, but would have liked to have seen this room he made for myself.

  The meter itself measured all kinds of radiation, including the residual radiation of magic. It didn't surprise me that he had brought one, since we didn't really know what we were up against. It was anyone’s guess whether it was natural or unnatural phenomenon. Usually, though, this kind of investigative equipment was for the follow-up team to utilize. I am usually employed for dangerous assassinations, not investigative ones. It had been an even longer time since I had to do a living retrieval and never once had I been asked to recruit anyone.

  I returned my attention to my gear. Once I was satisfied that my Westinghouse was not going anywhere away from my waist, I then checked that my Iver Johnson's were loaded, and placed a dart in the Widow. The boom darts would draw too much attention, unfortunately, so a black dart went in, for a true second death to a revenant. Deaders required a bit more than a black dart to usually kill.

  Dorian took out and set up the portable gyrocompass on a stand. This was a non-standard type, which included a circular impression in the middle that allowed for a drop of the owner's magical blood that would illuminate it for nighttime excursions. If the blood was strong enough, you could even inquire for directions to water or a specific location of an object. People were a little beyond the ordinary User's scope, unfortunately. Dorian forewent the blood, since we had enough muted daylight to walk in and he simply checked the heading based on the coordinates of the epicenter. Once he gained a direction, he packed it back into a small custom haversack made to carry the compass, and then he slipped it back into his leather satchel.

  “Is that your own compass?” I asked.

  He said, “Yes, it was a gift from an associate, now long deceased. I always travel with it. I have a dreadful sense of direction, so it comes in quite handy.”

  I knew enough about the deceased to not ask any more questions, so instead, I asked, “Do you have our bearings, then?”

  “Yes, we will be heading east. Quite dreadful about the fog, actually. Could have done with a bit of better weather.”

  “Probably keeping the fires smothered for a while, at least.” I didn't see any infected roaming about the streets below. What moans I did hear were in the distance. I commented, “Westington doesn't seem to be as infected as we initially thought, does it?”

  “I wonder about that. Figured there would be more, due to the nature of the contagion, unless they are indeed not the usual kind of zombies. I am curious as to the why, but with fewer distractions, that means the quicker we can reach our primary objective.” Tesla.

  “I couldn't agree more.”

  He kept his cane strapped to his back, where it shared space with the satchel, and then he located the access door on the roof leading into the townhouse. He flipped it open and asked, “Ladies first?”

  I hesitated before going down. I didn't know how to broach the next subject, but I needed to discuss it with him. Since we were going to be together while facing unknown assailants, I figured that now was better than never. I hadn't died during an assignment for almost a century, but I had a hanky feeling about this case, so I trudged on, as best as I could.

  I must have waited too long because he said, “Then gentlemen first it will be.”

  Before he could barge ahead, I placed a hand on his arm and asked, “Did S.O.A.R. inform you about my immortality condition?”

  “That you live forever?”

  Dear Lord, they didn't tell him. “Not exactly. You see, I can die.”

  He stared at me and asked incredulously, “You can?”

  “Yes, I can.” Then reluctantly, I added, “And have. A few times, in fact.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, drew his eyebrows together in disapproval and said, “Do tell.”

  I looked down and said, “When I die, it is imperative that someone near me believes that I am not dead and truly has the conviction that I can still live and will breathe again.”

  He blinked at me few times and then replied, “Well, Wendy, I suppose that it is a good thing
that I am immortal, and hence, can believe more readily than most that you will live, even if the breath of life leaves you.” Then in a sarcastic tone he added, “Do I just stand there wishing for you to live again or do you require something more physical, like a kiss in the fairytale Sleeping Beauty?”

  Thinking about Peter kissing me, I wrinkled my nose and huffed in reply, “You know it is no small coincidence that they are called Fairy tales. You do know that there is some truth to those tales and I should know, since I am well acquainted with more than one kind of Fairy. But, no, a kiss is not required.”

  He grunted in understanding.

  Thoroughly humiliated, I added, “And if it is not too much to ask, it is a bit less painful, the coming back to life part, if you are touching the mark on my hand when you wish me back to life again.”

  “Done. Is there anything else I should know before we move on from here?”

  I replied in a snippy tone, “No, but if anything else does come to mind, I'll make sure you are the first to be informed.” I knew it wasn't really Dorian that I was mad at. If I stopped and thought about it, I knew it was rather the whole utterly preposterous prospect of relying on someone else to have to bring me back to life in the first place. My real anger was laid elsewhere.

  I felt compelled to add tit for tat however, so I asked, “Is there anything I need to know if you should die?”

  “Can't happen.” Then his lips twisted, and rather cryptically, he added, “You'll see.”

  “Not even if you are decapitated?” A certain death for most people, even immortals.

  “Impossible,” he paused and added, “But if I should appear out of sorts, you may drag my body to a discreet location, until I come to. Now if there is nothing else, let's not dally here any longer.”

  It was my turn to agree with a grunt.

  We navigated the brownstone without trouble, breaking out into the foggy street without a scratch. Fortunately, we didn't see any bodies in the brownstone. The same could not be said for the streets. They were littered with overturned carriages, rank dead, and mysterious pile after pile of ashes that the wind had yet to overturn, but fortunately, not a deader in sight. Yet.