by Aleah Barley
“I can’t wait for our date,” Hick said with one hand on my ass. It looked like he wanted to start things right there in the storage closet… and he didn’t care who was watching.
I bit my lip nervously. “You can stick around if you want. I could use some extra help going through the files.”
Hick looked at me. He looked at my perky breasts, flat belly, and curved hips. He looked at the poorly sorted storage room full of file folders. “Sorry, I’ve got to be out at the front desk. In case we get an intake.” He bolted from the room.
D.S. didn’t say a word… Until the door squeaked shut.
“You’re not going on a date with that guy.”
“What’s wrong with Hick?”
The dead guy’s jaw clenched for a moment. “First, he spends too much time on his hair. Never a good sign.” He started to count off on his hand. “Second, he’s smug. He’s smarmy. He’s got horrible taste in cologne—.”
“He’s alive,” I interrupted airily. The Biter looked like he’d been slapped. Hard. All the bluster left his face.
“He’s short. You can’t go out with him. I forbid it.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I rolled my eyes. “You going to give me a curfew while you’re at it.”
“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he growled.
I was trying to think of a comeback, but he’d already turned to the piles of boxes. “What are we looking for?” I asked.
“I’ve got the DUA registration list for the last two years. We need to do a sampling nod find out if all reported deaths are being properly registered. If you’re right—if the dead really are coming back here—then we’ll need to figure out where they’re going. If they’re not coming back here at the same rates, then, we need to figure out why.”
“Maybe people have just gotten smarter about letting Biters get ‘em.”
“That’s happening all over. It still wouldn’t explain why the numbers are so low in Detroit.”
Whatever. I grabbed a box and started rummaging through. The files were in no particular order. Typical bureaucratic nonsense. “You got any particular way you want to do this?”
“Try to find everything from last year.” He pulled a shiny new smartphone from his pocket. “I’ll take down the information and check it against DUA records.”
A pile of papers was creaking precipitously nearby. I put out a hand to shift it back into position, and something crashed in the back of the room. “Why don’t you dig out the files? It’s not like you can get hurt if something falls on you.”
“Sorry, I can’t give you access to our servers.”
Of course not, I rolled my eyes and started to pick my way through the room.
Paperwork. I hated paperwork.
I made my way to the back of the room and made my way forward from there. By the time, I’d made it back to D.S. I had two broken nails, dirt in my hair, and a stack of paper two feet high. I was hot, sweaty, and thinking about ditching my yoga class.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“Names. Lots of them.” D.S.’s mouth curled in disgust. “I’ve only gotten through the first two months. I’ve found a little more than two-dozen people who died here without being registered.”
“Let me see.” I grabbed the pack of folders from his side and began to page through them. There was no pattern that I could see. They were all different races, religions, and creeds. Sixteen men, nine women. No children, but these days young Biters are the exception. Not the rule.
All the folders had the same familiar notation in the corner. The scrawled writing, I saw on every piece of paperwork that came through the funeral home.
They’d opted for private registration. It cost a bit more than the filing fees charged by the government, but it was worth it.
When we register a Biter, we track the paperwork, smooth over all the rough edges, and make sure they look good in their ID photo.
“Did they all go through the same funeral home?” I asked. D.S. didn’t bother answering. Once a dead body is checked out of the morgue, there’s no telling where it’s headed. The system is built on trust… and the fact no Biter would be caught undead without a registration card.
After the government had decided dead people could still be citizens, they’d passed a full series of laws establishing limits and protocols. The rule against the undead carrying guns was the least of it. A Biter’s only valid form of identification was their registration card. They needed it to work, travel, and register to vote. Heck, they had to show a registration card to get into a bar. The same way I had to show my driver’s license.
Not that I’d ever been a stickler for following the rules. “What about fake ID?”
D.S.’s gaze narrowed. “You know someone who does that kind of work in the city?”
I had a few bone-chilling ideas. “Maybe. There’s a guy I can ask. Tomorrow. Right now, I need to go to the store.”
“You need to buy a sexy new outfit for your big date?”
“Better, I need to buy Biter bait.”
5.
Most Hunters like to use raw beef to catch rogue Biters. It’s cheap, plentiful, and easy to get. Then there’s a guy in Flint, who uses live animals. Dogs. Cats. The occasional squirrel he catches in his backyard. He says that Biters can tell the difference between living meat and dead. They can feel the heartbeat.
The Biter I was hunting had been a little girl only a few days earlier, so I went to Whacko World.
Every kid in Southeast Michigan knows about Whacko World. It’s a Detroit institution. Four levels of fun, farce, and frantic parents trying to make sure little Jimmy made it out of the ball pit.
I’d had my sixth birthday there.
And my seventh.
And my eighth.
And now my best friend worked in Whacko World’s Krazy Kitchen. “How many burgers do you need?” Cindy asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette in Whacko World’s back alley.
“A dozen. Maybe more. As many as you can get me. I don’t care what they look like, as long as they smell good.”
“Wait around the side of the building, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Cindy is living proof high school has nothing to do in real life. Back at Ye Olde Senior High together, she was the most-popular girl in school. Chestnut curls, blue eyes, and bubbly as hell. Head cheerleader. Homecoming Queen. Prom Queen. The cherished girlfriend of the varsity quarterback. I just knew her as a head of curls to aim spitballs at in English class.
We’d met up again during our first semester at community college. I was taking Intro to Small Business Management—at my mother’s request—and she was pregnant with the quarterback’s kid. I started hanging out with her because she was a whiz at double entry bookkeeping and stuck around because she’s actually a nice person. These days we get together a couple of nights a month to eat barbecue and watch old movies.
Cindy’s gaze slid past me over to where D.S. was lurking in the corner. “You know what you’re doing, Gemma?”
“The usual. Kicking ass and taking names.”
“Uh huh.” She flicked her spent cigarette into the nearby gutter. “You want to come over later? I’ve got a bottle of wine. We can order in some pizza. Brian’s been asking about his favorite aunt.”
Brian is Cindy’s kid. He’s been getting into trouble since he came squealing into the world. Officially, I’m his godmother. Unofficially, we’re twins separated by time and genetics. We share a love of everything ooey, gooey, and gross. Last month, I took him out to Belle Isle and taught him how to spit.
It was awesome.
Unfortunately, he also had a strict eight-o'clock bedtime, and it was already closing on five thirty. I shook my head. “Sorry, how about the day after tomorrow?”
“He’s going uptown.” Cindy never mentioned her ex-boyfriend’s name if she could help it. In all the years we’d been friends, she’d never told me exactly why they’d broken up. The closest she’d come was sobbing, uncontrollably the first night
Brian had gone ‘uptown’ for court appointed visitation with his father.
Her hands clenched into fists. “I was going to see about picking up an extra shift here.”
“Forget about it, and forget about the pizza. We’re going out. Someplace nice.” I grinned.
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Your idea of someplace nice is a restaurant with paper napkins.”
“Hey, at least they have napkins.”
Cindy shook her head. “I’ll pick the restaurant. You bringing the hottie?”
The hottie. I’ve got to admit, it took me a moment to figure out exactly who she was talking about. Cindy’s not a bigot, but she’s also not attracted to cold flesh.
“Tall, dead, and sexy?” I pointed a finger at D.S. just to be sure.
The guy was grinning like a banshee, strong white teeth bared to the world. Great, now he knew I thought he was sexy. That wouldn’t make things awkward at all.
Cindy blinked in surprise. “He’s dead? He doesn’t look it. He looks hot.”
Even I had to double check to be sure. D.S. was pretty damn good looking for a zombie. His Coppertone skin hid the usual Biter pallor, and he padded forward with a vitality that had me gasping for air. Even his micro-expressions were relatively human, the slight crinkle of skin on the side of his mouth when he smiled, the way his gaze flicked over me, lingering softly on my lips.
That didn’t in any way mitigate the way he held himself when he came to a stop at my side, the fact that his chest never expanded as it filled with air, and the way his presence, made my skin tingle.
He might have started out human, but now he was completely alien.
He extended a hand to Cindy. “Friends call me Thomas.” His gaze flicked over her crisp uniform pants and tight white T-shirt. “We’re definitely going to be friends.”
Un—freaking—believable. My lips pulled back into an angry growl. His friends called him Thomas, but I was stuck with a pair of freaking initials?
I elbowed him in the side. “Stop hitting on people. It’s creepy. You’re dead.”
“I’m not hitting on anyone. I’m being friendly.” D.S. turned to look directly at me. “You want me to hit on someone, just say the word. I’ll be at your service.”
I kicked him in the shins.
“Not very ladylike.” He grinned.
“It was the best I had.” I took a deep breath, forcing air down into my lungs. “The day I ask you to flirt with me will be a cold day in hell.”
Forget the fact he was a corpse. Forget the fact that no matter how spicy our conversation the end result was always going to be bone cold. The man was a jerk who knew exactly how good looking he was… and how to use his looks to put a girl on edge. He was manipulative, controlling, and—
“That could be arranged.” He stretched slowly in the low light, raising his arms over his head. The edge of his shirt pulled free from his jeans, revealing a hard ridge of muscle; the kind of rocky torso a woman couldn’t help but fantasize about tracing with her tongue.
Damn, I swallowed hard. “Go wait in the truck.”
“The view’s not as good in the truck.”
“The view’s not as good with my foot lodged in your behind.”
D.S. Crossed his arms in front of his chest. He considered me for a long moment, his expression, dark and ominous. Clearly, he didn’t like being told what to do. He must have remembered the stun gun because he gave Cindy a deep nod—if I didn’t know better I’d call it a bow—and wandered off into the darkness.
Damn, the man had a nice ass.
“You sure he’s dead?” Cindy asked.
“He lifted a car off me this afternoon.”
She nodded slowly. “Too bad. I could use some time in the sack to unwind. It wouldn’t hurt you either.”
I flushed. “Uh huh.”
“Still holding onto that v-card. Don’t you know it’s five years out of style?”
“What can I say? I’m retro.” There was a moment’s pause, and we both broke down laughing. That was the best part about being friends with Cindy. Underneath her prissy princess exterior, she was always up for a laugh. After a few more comments, she gave me a warm hug and vanished back into the building. The sound of accordion music ghosted out into the alley behind her.
I wandered around to the side of the building where they kept the kitchen dumpster's and waited. A few minutes later, a stocky man in a dishwasher’s uniform appeared holding a bag of trash in one-hand and a giant paper bag full of hamburgers in the other. “You Cindy’s friend?” he asked.
“You see anyone else out here?”
“I don’t want to get in trouble,” he said.
“Don’t worry.” I grinned. “I’ve got you covered.” I took the bag and almost gagged on the smell.
“Twenty-four of Whacko World’s finest Whacky Burgers will do that to you,” The dishwasher said. He slung the bag of trash into the dumpster with a bang. “We keep petroleum jelly in the kitchen. Rub a little under your nose at the beginning of the shift, and you can’t smell anything for hours.”
It was a good tip. I smiled wryly and headed for my truck. I was pretty sure I’d left it locked, but that hadn’t stopped D.S. from climbing into the driver’s seat. Biters aren’t allowed to drive—their reflexes are impaired by necrosis—but telling D.S. that would probably earn me a death threat.
Or a sarcastic look.
I got in on the passenger side and thrust the bag into the foot well.
“You smell that?” I asked.
“Like someone died? It’s hard to miss.”
Good to know. The current theory is that Biter’s choose their food based on their sense of smell. In the beginning, their sense of smell is supercharged… along with their killer instinct. After a few days, their hyped up senses calm down as their sense of being returns. I figure it’s all a load of hooey, but that didn’t make his information any less useful.
“I hope that’s not dinner,” D.S. said. “I’d rather eat you.”
“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes. “We’ll pick up dinner on the way to Indian Village.”
There was a long pause. Clearly the man was new to Detroit. I dragged my keys from my pocket and thrust them into his hand. “The neighborhood where we met earlier. That’s Indian Village.”
“Of course.” The rusty old truck roared to life, and D.S. directed it smoothly out of the parking lot. “I waited in the truck because you were talking to a friend. I respect that.” The truck hit a pothole, and the shocks crunched. “It was a kindness. I won’t do it again. I’m a man, not a dog.”
6.
Indian Village is a nice neighborhood with grand boulevards and big ass houses, but it’s still in Detroit. That means industrial grade fences and—at night—empty streets. We’d stuck the burger bag under a working streetlight and camped out down the road.
Now, I don’t have a lot of experience with men, but sitting in my truck’s two-butt cab, listening to music, and eating Thai food with D.S. felt suspiciously like a date. Even if his beef curry was bloody.
It was beginning to piss me off.
I’m a consummate professional. I kick butt, take names, and never miss a chance to nail a Biter to the wall. I don’t get involved, and I definitely don’t fantasize about a white picket fence, a dog named Spot, and two-point-five undead kids in the yard.
“Tell me about yourself.” I picked at my Pad Thai. “Where are you from?” I waited a beat. “How did you die?”
D.S. shrugged. “Not much to tell.”
“Tall, dead, and mysterious. It’s a good look on you.”
“Glad to know you think I look good.”
It took everything I had not to hit him. “Seriously, tell me something about yourself. Something real.”
I needed to hear that he was a baby-eating monster who dripped embalming fluid and tortured cats in his spare time.
Anything to keep me from jumping his bones.
“Wisteria,” he said.
“Excuse me?�
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“I used to be a gardener. Back when I was alive.” He ate a piece of meat. “I don’t remember much—Biters don’t remember—but I know that I loved gardening. Sometimes at night I can still smell wisteria.”
Not the most-useful piece of information in the world. I considered it. “Okay, but have you ever killed someone?”
He shifted in his seat until he was facing me full on. “You want me to tell you all my deepest, darkest secrets? The horrors I’ve lived through. The things I’ve done.” There was a slight pause. “You want me to make this easy for you?”
“Please.”
He nodded slowly. His kissable lips twisting up into a wry smile. “I wasn’t always a gardener. For a long time, I was a soldier. I killed men. A lot of men. Have you ever been to war?”
“I cleaned out a Biter nest on Grand River about a year back. There were only supposed to be three of them.” The building had been full to the brim with zombies. Horror movie monsters with gaping holes in their neck. The smell had been incredible, so much rotting flesh in one place.
I’d taken out two before the first one noticed me… After that it had been a free for all. “I still wake up nights, sweating.”
“War is nothing like that,” D.S. said. “War is hell. It’s being stuck in a hole in the ground. Eating mud. Wearing mud. After a while, the only thing I could see was my gun, and the only thing that mattered was watching out for the guy sitting next to me.”
The world outside the truck was dark and ominous. Only a few lights flickered on the street. The stars were bright, and when I took a breath I could still taste the last pungent traces of Whacko World burgers in the air. Definitely not wisteria. I nodded slowly, trying to picture D.S. in a war zone.
“There’s a lot of mud in Afghanistan?”
“I told you, I’m older than I look.”
Iraq then. I nodded slowly. War had stopped after the dead rose. Governments were too busy fighting their own people to worry about the dictator next store. Still, I remembered the newspaper photos from my childhood. I could imagine D.S., in desert cammos with a gun on his hip and a shit-eating grin on his face.
