by Aleah Barley
“I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t there.” He shrugged. “When the enemy came over the wall, I just started shooting. Hacking. Tearing. I didn’t know what I was doing—it wasn’t what I’d been trained for—and I shot a man. Just a kid, really. He was so damn close. I can still see the look on his face. So full of shock and surprise.” There was a short pause. “That monstrous enough for you?”
I’d have preferred a story with baby eating, but it was pretty good.
There was something moving outside. I put my Styrofoam container down on the dashboard and leaned forward. It was just a flicker—blonde hair in the moonlight—but it was definitely there. Maybe. “You see that?”
D.S. didn’t answer. He put his food down and opened the driver’s side door.
I followed him out onto the street. It was warm and sticky outside. The wind was blowing off the nearby river, and the night air smelled sweet and fresh. “This needs to be delicate. No major damage.”
He snorted in disbelief. “You’re worried about me being heavy handed?”
“I’m worried about her parents suing my ass if you break her arm.”
There was the flicker again, followed by the rustle of leaves. The girl stepped out into the street. Andrea Mitchell was a cute kid. Big blue eyes, masses of blonde hair, and dimples on her cheeks. I’d seen the crime scene photos; she’d been wearing a fluffy pink skirt and a purple tank top when she died.
Now, she was in loose white slacks and plain white T-shirt that the hospital put on all baby Biters. After a day outside, her clothes had taken on distinct gray overtones. Goo coated her bare feet.
She approached the bag of burgers warily, her shoulders hunched over, her head darting back and forth. Like a feral animal. A dog that knows it’s been bad and is about to receive some well-deserved retribution.
I took a step forward.
“Easy,” D.S. said. “Let her get something to eat.”
“She gets the bag, she’s going to run. They always run.”
“We’ll find her. She’s not an animal. She a little girl.”
“Maybe last week, tonight she’s an animal.”
Andrea snagged the bag and ripped into it with her teeth. Proving my point. Burger meat littered the street as she began to hustle away, moving as fast as her short legs would carry her. The kid moved pretty well for someone newly dead, but the glimmering of her pale hair in the darkness made her easy enough to track.
We followed her down two blocks, D.S. padding along beside me like some kind of night predator. He paused on the corner to sniff the air. “There’s something out here.”
“Yeah.” I nodded toward the baby Biter scurrying down the road. “Her.”
“Stay behind me,” D.S. ordered.
“Like hell. This is my job. Remember? You’re just along for the ride.” And because he’d offered to pay for the Thai food. “I’m not taking orders from a dead guy, and I’m definitely not taking orders from a federal agent. This is Detroit, remember? Up here, the government’s about as useful as a zombie dick at a whorehouse.”
D.S. didn’t say a word, but the way his feet fumbled against the cracked pavement told me that I’d gotten my point across. The man fell back a few steps.
Hell, I bit my lip to keep from swearing. I’d hurt his feelings. Up until this point, I hadn’t been sure zombies had feelings that could be hurt. Sure, Uncle Donny went a little whacko-bird whenever I cheated at cards, but I always figured that was more reflex than anything else. He hadn’t missed a beat after my father died.
It didn’t matter. Not when I could still make out Andrea’s fair hair as she picked up speed crossing an empty street.
In Detroit, the neighborhoods vary dramatically from block to block and the richly appointed landscapes of Indian Village was quickly giving way to burnt out hovels. Not exactly the kind of place I’d want to hang out at night, even without a pissed off Biter lurking at my rear.
A rough noise, colored the air. At first I figured it was a car rumbling along out of sight. It’s not like the state enforces any kind of emission standards around here. I’ve heard old beaters that sounded like angry wildcats.
It got louder.
A dog eased its way down the front steps of an empty bungalow. I think it was a dog. If someone told me that the thing was an ancient wolf-monster who’d somehow managed to work its way out of the city’s primordial ooze then, I’d have believed it. The thing was enormous. It looked to be half pit-bull, half mastiff, and all Hellhound; a buff colored monster with teeth like knives.
It paused momentarily to sniff at Andrea’s tattered clothes.
The little Biter gave it a sharp growl before dipping into her bag and tossing out a Whacko burger.
The beast caught the burger in mid-air, its jaw snapping shut like a steel trap. It nodded slowly—like she’d just passed some sort of test—and let her walk up into the vacant house.
Then he growled again. Like thunder crashing overhead, but more ominous.
I took a nervous step backward, slamming into D.S. “On second thought, why don’t you take this one?”
“You want me to fight a dog?” He shook his head. “No way. Dogs eat dead things. I’m a dead thing.”
“He didn’t eat Andrea.”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
“The big bad federal agent is afraid of a little dog?” I couldn’t tell whose growl was louder now, the dog’s or the dead man’s. If the situation wasn’t so scary, it might have been funny. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”
“If I get cut, I don’t heal,” D.S. said. “I’m not walking around with a hole in my side just because you want to make some lunch money. Got any smart ideas?”
The dog barked once. Twice. It started to run straight towards us, eating up the space like it was nothing.
There was no time left for bright ideas.
We turned and ran. Heads down, feet pounding against the pavement. My chest burned as I forced air into screaming lungs. Supernatural strength—and height—gave D.S. the edge on me. Not that he let me fall behind. His hand was like an iron cuff around my wrist, dragging me down the street.
It was all I could do not to be torn to shreds. My clothes weren’t so lucky. One of my shoes fell off in a puddle, and I wrecked my second pair of pants in less than twelve hours.
When we finally got to the truck, D.S. unlocked the driver’s side door and hauled me up with one hand. I scrambled back to make room. He surged forward, landing on top of me as he pulled the door shut awkwardly behind him. His body was heavy—a sack full of dead meat—but that didn’t stop a jolt of awareness from making every hair on my body stand up.
The dog hit the truck’s metal door a half a second later. It barked once. Twice. Then threw itself at the panel a second time.
D.S. levered his body up into position and stuck the key in the ignition. “That’s our cue to get out of town.”
I couldn’t argue. I was too busy struggling to catch my breath… and thanking my lucky stars that I hadn’t gone after Andrea alone. D.S. might be a pain in my side, but he’d just saved my ass from a serious chewing out.
Of course, I didn’t tell him that.
7.
D.S. made plans to pick me up at the mortuary at ten the next morning. I got there at nine. My first stop was my office—for hunting supplies—and my second stop was Donny’s desk. My uncle’s not exactly the smartest guy in town, but he’s got his finger on the pulse of the pulseless community in Detroit.
“Morning.” I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot on his desk and took a long swallow. “Pure, dark, heaven.”
“Just. The. Way. You. Like. It,” Donny said, his words slow and stilted, like a regular zombie.
“There’s a reason you’re my favorite relative.”
His brow furrowed for a moment and he shrugged. Biters don’t remember their lives. Not really. After death, they were a blank state. Tabula Rasa. In familiar surroundings—with
familiar people—they could regain some long-term memories. Feelings more than facts.
Donny had loved me when he was alive. He still loved me, but he didn’t remember playing hide and seek with me as a kid. Attending my elementary school graduation with a busty brunette in a too-tight dress.
“Right,” he said. “Your. Favorite.”
In any group of siblings, there’s going to be a pretty one and a smart one.
My dad was the smart one. He kept the family going through bad times and good. When he turned on the charm it didn’t matter that his nose was crooked, his mouth was too big, and he cut his hair himself while looking in the mirror.
Donny got my father’s dark hair, square jaw, and spooky gray eyes, but somehow my uncle makes it look damn good. As a teenager, his good looks had gotten him in—and out—of a ton of trouble. Girls. Booze. Drugs. He’d done it all.
I was counting on the fact that he hadn’t lost those interests when he’d lost his heartbeat.
“You. Want. Something. Sweetheart?”
“No sense beating around the bush. “I need a fake ID.”
“You. Are. Over. Twenty. One.”
“Right.” I took a quick swallow of coffee. It really was delicious. “I need a fake ID… for a Biter.”
“From. Last. Night.” Donny cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t. Like. Him.”
I blinked in surprise. Donny liked everyone. “Why not?”
My uncle shrugged.
Nice and communicative, not.
After the night, I’d had with D.S. It was strangely comforting to talk to a Biter, who sounded like a Biter. I waited a beat to see if Donny would get any more talkative.
“This is important,” I finally told him. “It’s something I’m working on for the business.”
Donny’s head snapped up. “Getting. Paid?”
“You sound like my mother.”
Another shrug, this time a little more expressive.
I sighed. “A hundred and fifty an hour.”
“Sucker.” Donny’s laughter was loud and grating as he tried to force air out of lungs that refused to fill. He gave me a decisive nod. “See. What. I. Can. Do.”
That was the only kind of commitment I was going to get, so I topped off my coffee and went back to my office. The small room was exactly like I’d left it, warm and homey. I checked my email, ate a granola bar, and twiddled my thumbs until D.S. showed up.
Mr. Dead and Delicious took one look at me and shook his head. “Go change.”
“Excuse me?” I glanced down at my outfit, a pair of denim shorts and a baby blue T-shirt with a cut off collar advertising the best barbecue joint in town. “What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?”
“Too short. Too tight. Too much skin,” he growled. “We’re representing the United States government. We’ve got to be presentable.”
That explained his outfit; a black suit with narrow lapels and a crisp white dress shirt that accented his broad shoulders and lean hips. No tie.
All kidding aside, he looked damn hot. Like a Hollywood version of a secret agent. Or a mobster. His shoes were dark leather, and they gleamed in the overhead light. I’ve never been the type to get all hot and bothered by authority figures, but if he’d pulled out a pair of handcuffs, he could have taken my virginity right there on the desk.
If he could take my virginity, I mean.
Just because Tall, Dead, and Sexy could string a few words together didn’t mean he had any blood flow in the right direction.
I forced myself to take a deep breath, pushing away all thoughts of naughty, deviant, law-breaking sex. “This is what I always wear to work.”
“You don’t always work for me.” He gestured around my office. “Think about it. We’re going to interview he families of the newly deceased. You’ve got to have something else to wear. Something respectable…” He waved his hands up and down in front of me. “Something without holes in it.”
Okay, maybe the T-shirt hadn’t been the smartest choice. It was clean. I nodded. “I’ve got a dress, for my date tonight.”
“Your date.” His expression was deadpan.
“With Hick, remember?”
“You’re not going on a date with that idiot.”
Uh huh, and I’d start obeying D.S.’s orders when hell froze over. A hundred and fifty dollars an hour did not give him the ability to dictate my personal life, even if it did allow him input on my wardrobe. I rolled my eyes and grabbed for the bag I’d stowed underneath my desk. I pulled the dress out and brushed away its wrinkles.
D.S.’s jaw clenched. “You don’t have anything else?”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s a great dress, but if you put it on then we’re going to have an entirely different set of problems. I’m a Biter, not a superhero.”
Maybe he had a point. The dress was short, tight, and red. It wasn’t my sluttiest piece of clothing, but it was damn close. I dropped it back into my bag. “I think my mother’s got some stuff in her office. I could go take a look.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Right, I bit back a groan, because I couldn’t be trusted to pick out my own clothing.
I led the way out of my office and down the hall. My mother had meetings scheduled all day—which wasn’t exactly a surprise—so I was free to rifle through her closet. There were a couple of dresses, some button down shirts, and half a dozen suits that would look good on any middle-aged politician.
D.S. brushed me out of the way. “Your mother has nice taste.” He ran his fingers across the hangers. “Good quality.”
“I’d rather be naked.”
“Maybe later.” He pulled a pale dress out of the closet and gave it a quick look. “Put this on.”
“Uh huh.” I took the dress and held it up against my body. The thing wasn’t exactly horrible. It was a sleeveless sheath of cream colored silk that would meet my collarbone and brush my knees. “Turn around.”
“My pleasure.” He turned back to the closet while I hurried to pull my T-shirt off over my head and slip the dress into place.
Unless D.S. had eyes in the back of his head, he wasn’t going to see anything. That didn’t stop me from waiting until the sheath was in place before shimmying out of my shorts. The dress felt good on. It was a little snug in certain places—pulling against my perky breasts and round hips—but other than that it seemed to fit. The short slit on the side, even meant I’d be able to run if I needed to.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you think?”
D.S. turned around slowly. His dark eyes went wide. “Damn.” His mouth twitched up into a half smile. “Maybe it’s not the clothes. Maybe it’s just you.”
I grinned. “Thanks.”
“One last thing.” He turned back to the closet and picked out a powder blue jacket and thrust it at me.
The jacket was part of a smartly tailored suit that my mother usually only wore to weddings and baby showers. It looked horrible. I pulled it on just so I could make a smart-ass comment… and then I caught my reflection in the mirror hanging off the office door.
I looked good. Damn good. I needed to put up my hair, but other than that I looked classy. The dress’s creamy silk should have washed out my pale skin, but instead it made my cheeks glow. The powder blue jacket skimmed my curves and brought out the steel color of my eyes.
My feet were too small for the heels that lined the bottom of my mom’s closet, but I had a pair of buttery leather boots in my office that would complete the outfit.
“I look like a grown up.” I smoothed the skirt down over my knees. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to dress up every once in a while.
D.S. grinned. His white teeth flashed against his yummy caramel skin. “You look elegant.”
Good enough.
8.
Nine hours later, my head was pounding, my shoes were rubbing against my heels, and I was frustrated. Not that D.S. seemed to care.
Between the wrong addresses, slammed
doors, and grieving old ladies who didn’t have any information—but insisted we stay for a cup of tea—we’d driven across Detroit multiple times and had jack diddly to show for our efforts.
Oh, their family members had definitely died. They’d even been bitten. It was sad, devastating, and horrible. They just hadn’t come back.
It was the strangest thing, they’d been bitten, they’d gone to the morgue, they’d been transferred to a funeral home, and then… nothing.
“I figure this whole zombie thing is just another government scare tactic,” a little old lady in a pink cotton dress said while plying D.S. with banana bread. “A big strong man like you, you don’t believe in this nonsense? Dead people just walking around like they’ve got no place better to be?”
The dead man ate some banana bread. “Of course not.”
Seriously, it was enough to drive a girl batty.
Luckily, we only had one last address to visit and then we were done. Finished. Gone for the night. I had a date to get to, and I wasn’t about to screw up my one chance at a normal social life by being late. Heck no, I was all dressed up and ready to party. A few drinks, some dancing, who knew… Maybe I’d even lose my virginity.
When I was younger, I’d always pictured sex as something magical. My first time would be with someone I’d loved more than life itself. These days, I just wanted to scratch the itch between my legs and satisfy my growing lust for… life.
If it helped me get over a certain unavailable dead man, then so much the better.
“What’s this guy's name?” D.S. asked, pulling the truck over to the side of the road.
“George D. Fitzgerald.” I glanced through the paperwork for the relevant details. “Forty-eight years old at time of death, which was six months ago. He lived with his parents, Alice and George H. Fitzgerald.”
It was my nightmare. Seriously. If I’m still living with my mom when I turn forty, someone is going to die… and they won’t be coming back.
We got out of the car, and D.S. led the way up the front steps. He knocked once, twice. Nothing happened. “You sure this is the right address?”
