Dead Sexy

by Aleah Barley

  “I double checked it on my cell phone.” Alice and George H. had been living in the same battered bungalow for fifty years. It needed a good coat of paint and some new gutters, but compared to the rest of the neighborhood it was a castle.

  There was even a shiny new sedan in the driveway.

  D.S. pounded on the door again. This time it opened. Two inches. A petite old woman with gray hair and shriveled mahogany skin peered out. “No trespassing.”

  “I’m sorry for the interruption. My name’s Thomas Conroy. I’m from the Department of Undead Americans. I’ve got a few questions about your son.”

  “I don’t have a son.” She slammed the door shut.

  Okay, not the friendliest person in the city, on the other hand, she hadn’t tried to shoot us. Things were looking up.

  D.S. knocked again. Politely. Nothing happened.

  My phone dinged. It was seven o’clock, and I had less than half an hour to get to my date. There was no time for this bullshit. I elbowed D.S. out of the way and knocked again. Louder. My knuckles scraped the door. I gave it a solid kick. “Listen up, Alice. You better get your saggy ass in gear. Before I start talking to your neighbors.”

  It was an empty threat. From the looks of the block, all of her neighbors had hightailed it to the suburbs years earlier. I might have been able to rustle up some arson suspects, but that was only if they hadn’t found someplace better to be.

  The door to the house slid open and the old woman poked her nose out again. She gave me a sharp glance. “That’s a nice dress, white girl. Doesn’t stop you from being trash. Running around with some man. No better than you should be.”

  Un—freaking—believable. I pasted my most-professional smile on my face and produced a card from my bag. “My name’s Gemma Sinclair. I’m here from Sinclair Death Services.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” The door opened a little bit further. “I’m sorry if I hurt your friend’s feelings. I don’t much hold with the government. You know how it is.”

  “Butting their heads in where they don’t belong.” I nodded my agreement. “Telling everybody else what to do. Most of the time, I think we’d be better off without them.”

  “It’s not like the old days.” Alice’s lips pulled up into a grim smile. “Back then the politicians were all corrupt, but at least you knew what they wanted. Grease a couple of palms, pass someone a bundle of cash. You might get your streetlights turned back on. Find you had a bus stop on the end of your street. These days…” she shrugged. “I had a fellow come by the house the other day from the department of planning. They’re planning to kick my ass out of this place. We’ve been here fifty years.”

  Clearing out the blighted neighborhoods was an idea that had been kicking around for more than forty years—ever since the riots—every once in a while someone got it in their head to move things forward. Nothing ever really happened.

  Still, it had to be scary for a woman without the know how to fight back or the resources to move on; someone who’d been in the same house for fifty years.

  I nodded politely, and the door slid open even further to give me a view of a cramped living room. There was a threadbare couch and two brown recliners. An old box, television flickered in the darkness.

  There was a man sitting on the couch eating off a tray. He was even more wizened and wrinkled than the old woman. He gave a quick nod as Alice ushered us inside and went back to his dinner.

  Alice led us back to their kitchen. Peeling yellow paint and cracked linoleum which matched the harvest gold color of the appliances. The refrigerator hummed loudly. She’d probably bought it before I was born. There was a large framed photograph hanging over the sink; an African-American man in his early forties, wearing a white T-shirt and a broad smile. A bright tattoo sprawled across his neck.

  George D. Fitzgerald, I presumed.

  Alice bustled around to make room for us at a white plastic table. “We don’t get a lot of visitors these days. Not since our boy—” Her voice cracked. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have gone to the store for some cookies.”

  “That’s not necessary.” D.S. pulled a chair away from the table, signaling for the old woman to sit down. “You’ve got a lovely house.”

  “You’re a liar.” The old woman cackled loudly as she sat down. “Still, you’ve got pretty manners. That’s something I don’t see a lot of these days. Fine manners and fine boys.” She squeezed D.S.’s hand. “Your mother must be proud of you.”

  “I like to think she would be,” he said. “She died a long time ago.” He slid another chair away from the table, giving me a pointed look this time.

  I shook my head and leaned back against the kitchen counter. From my vantage point, I could see through the living room to the front door and out the back window to the yard. Things were snug as a bug in a rug, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  D.S. sat down beside Alice and patted her hand. “I need to talk to you about your son—.”

  Her gaze flickered to the photograph on the wall.

  “I don’t have a son,” she repeated, louder this time.

  “George D. Fitzgerald,” D.S. said the man’s name carefully. “You signed his death certificate.”

  “Hmmph,” the old woman sniffed. “Never sign paperwork. That was my mistake. I should have known better. The government always gets you with the paperwork.”

  It was a story I’d heard before. One way or another I’d been hearing it all my life.

  D.S. nodded slowly. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “George was coming back from the store. The one over on Gratiot with the pharmacy… not the one on the corner. They always try to cheat you. He was just turning the corner on the end of the block when a couple Biters got him. Big bloated fellows like you wouldn’t believe. Nasty things.” Her nose wrinkled slightly. Silent tears were rolling down her face. “They killed my boy. Tore pieces out of him. My husband used to be a cop. He ran out. He tried to stop them, but those things… they were monsters.”

  Zombies. I bit my lip to keep from swearing. The streets of Detroit had never been safe, but since the rising they’d been worse than ever.

  We needed a DUA office. A real one. Not just some random dude from Toledo. We needed trained and experienced law enforcement officers who had the authority to take monsters out. Not just a bunch of freelance Hunters who had to turn wild Biters in at the police station.

  D.S. nodded. “I’m sure it was horrible. What happened afterwards?”

  “The things ran off as my boy’s body hit the ground. The police took him away. They said it was his own damn fault for going out at night, but he was just getting some things from the store. Steak and potatoes for dinner. Some medicine. I need my medicine…”

  “And afterwards?” D.S. prodded. “What happened afterwards?”

  “The morgue said they’d take care of him, but we couldn’t let that happen. We don’t have much, but my boy deserved a decent burial. We sent him to the best funeral home, we could afford. The same one I used when my father died.” She nodded at me. “Sinclair Mortuary. Only you’ve got that funny name now.”

  My breath was coming faster. Damn. I wanted to cry out… to object. “It’s not possible.”

  “After that?” She shrugged. “Dead is dead. You got any other questions; you can talk to the funeral home. We’re still paying off the bill.” There was a slight pause. “I thought that’s what you were here about? The bill.”

  “It’s not possible,” I repeated, louder this time. There were better funeral parlors in Detroit, ones with fancier buildings where the most-popular caskets were made out of mahogany instead of plywood. That didn’t change the facts. Sinclair Death Services was a professional operation. We treated our clients with dignity and respect, whether they were coming back or not. “Take it back. It’s not true—.”

  “Stop bothering my wife,” George H. said from the doorway. The man was old and crump
led. He leaned heavily on an old cane that had been broken and repaired with layer after layer of tape. I couldn’t imagine him making out down the house’s front stairs, let alone facing down a pair of bloodthirsty zombies. “Go lie down, Alice. You know you can’t handle this much excitement. I’ll talk to the nice people.”

  The old woman stood and scuttled obediently away.

  George H. waited until the door slammed in the other room before making a beeline for the cabinet over the sink. He fumbled around inside for a couple of minutes and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “My wife won’t let me have these. The doctors say they’ll kill me.” He pulled one out of the pack and lit it against the stove’s burner. “I’m ninety-two years old. I die today or tomorrow, it won’t matter. All my friends are gone. There’s no one left to mourn for me, except the wife.”

  D.S. nodded slowly. “It’s hard getting older.”

  “Uh huh.” George took a long drag on his cigarette. “You start thinking things. Seeing things. I saw you on the porch; I thought for sure you were a man I used to know. Back in World War II. A soldier—.”

  I cleared my throat. No sense going too far into crazy land. “Can you tell us what happened to your son?”

  “My son was a good boy. Honor student. Worked at the plant—until those jobs went to the dead fellows—paid his dues. You don’t want to know about my son.” His hands shook slightly. “You want to know about the man.”

  I took a deep breath. “What man?”

  “I went out for a smoke—at the morgue—and he was standing in the parking lot. He offered me ten thousand dollars for my son’s body.” He tapped the cigarette against the sink, dropping ash into the drain. “That’s what you wanted to know, right?”

  “Ten thousand dollars for a Biter body?” I gasped. “Why?”

  “I don’t know—don’t know how he worked it out with the funeral home either. I just know that my boy should have come back, and he didn’t.” George shrugged. “Alice is in a bad way. She’s got cancer. We go to the hospital once a week for chemo, tests, and what if there’s an emergency? It’s not like the ambulance is going to come in time. So, I sold my son for the money to buy a new car. God forgive me because I’ll never forgive myself.”

  9.

  I was still thinking about George H. Fitzgerald’s information when I slid into a booth at Bugsy’s Barbecue half an hour later. The walls were covered in black paint, and the floors were covered in dirt. The scent wafting out of the kitchen was heavenly. I waved down a passing waitress and ordered a beer. Hick had arrived a moment before my drink hit the table.

  “Gemma.” He kissed me on the cheek before sitting down. He really was handsome, with a strong jaw, sandy blonde hair, and sharp brown eyes. Out of his morgue attendant uniform, he was dressed in a white button down shirt with pale blue pinstripes. There were two letters over the breast pocket. A.G. Not a monogram. A logo. The shirt was expensive, so were the crisp denim jeans he was wearing underneath.

  Hick grinned at me across the table, his bright white teeth flashing against his tan skin. He wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but my body still hummed eagerly in response. “Glad you could make it. I like the dress.”

  “You’re not the only one.” The compliments were beginning to bug me. I mean, it’s a nice dress and everything, but I’m not exactly chopped liver myself.

  The waitress stopped by the table, and we both ordered without looking at the menu. Bugsy’s is the best barbecue restaurant in Detroit, one of the few places to attract both locals and businessmen from the suburbs. I got a pulled pork sandwich on rye with coleslaw and Memphis City sauce. Hick ordered a rack of ribs.

  “Have a productive day at work?” Hick asked after we were done ordering. “Figure out your paperwork problem?”

  “I’m working on it.” I grinned. “We’ve got to update our files. Of course, we’re not the only ones. All those files at the morgue. Haven’t your bosses ever heard of a computer?”

  Hick chuckled. “I put in a request for one every week. It’ll probably happen around the same time the city gets a DUA office and they clean up all the blight on Cass.”

  “So, never?”

  There was a moment’s beat, and we both laughed. After a day spent talking to grieving family members—and putting up with D.S.’s grim attitude—it felt good to laugh. I relaxed into the date. Hick was smart, funny, and charming. He wasn’t exactly a super stud, but the longer the night went on the more that didn’t matter.

  We licked barbecue from our fingers, sucked down some beers, and had a good time. I asked about his sister, and he asked about my mother. After dinner, we went to the bar next door and he slipped the DJ a couple of dollars to play some of the key tracks off Dying for Love.

  Hick’s hand splayed across my back as he dragged me out onto the dance floor. “You know, I’ve always wondered what it be like to dance with you.” Our bodies moved in time to the music. “You always come into the morgue, wearing those tight blue jeans, shaking your ass around like you own the place.”

  His fingers curled into the hem of my jacket. “Damn, it’s even better than I’d imagined.”

  “I’m not much of a dancer.” I cleared my throat nervously. “You should take a step back, or I’ll step on your feet.”

  Hick’s grip tightened on my back. “It’d be totally worth it.” He released me, taking a step away. His warm lips pulled up into a soft smile. His teeth gleamed in the darkness. “Dance with me?”

  The man might be a little rough, but he was still a nice guy. He’d paid for dinner. He’d made me laugh. A dance wasn’t too much to ask, especially not when it was my favorite song pounding through the speakers.

  My eyes flickered shut, and my hips began to sway in time with the music. The heat from the crowd was moving through my body. So many people grinding together happily, moaning and groaning as a shudder of intensity zipped through the crowd. I kept dancing, smiling. My hands reached up, and the silky white dress pulled tight against my full breasts.

  A warm hand rested on my arm as Hick stepped in close to me again. He pressed a cool glass into my hand. Beer? Or something stronger? I opened my eyes and took a sip, smiling when I recognized the same pale ale that I’d been drinking all night. Another sip and Hick took the glass away from me. He put it down on a nearby table and slid into position against me. He wrapped a hand around my waist, cupping my ass with his hand. “Damn, Gemma. You feel good.”

  My stomach churned. Was this what falling in love was supposed to feel like?

  I’m not exactly an expert on men—I’ve had one steady boyfriend my entire life, and he left me for California and a Biter free existence—but Hick seemed like the total package. Smart, funny. He’d even worn his best jeans for our date. Most importantly, he was alive.

  So, why wasn’t I more excited?

  I rested my hand on his chest, and his heart beat under my fingertips. His breath was hot against my skin. My body tingled in eager anticipation as his mouth descended on mine. His lips were dry. His mouth was wet. His tongue was thick and unfamiliar in my mouth.

  I shuddered and pulled away… suddenly uncertain. I needed another drink. I reached out for the glass on the table and blinked in amazement as I spotted a familiar face in the back of the room.

  George D. Fitzgerald.

  Death had deepened his wrinkles and given his dark skin an unnatural pallor, but he was still recognizable from the photograph in his parents’ house. Besides, the tattoo on his neck was unmistakable.

  I grabbed my bag from the table and pulled out my stun gun. Then I grabbed my phone.

  “Gemma.” Hick grabbed my arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  The thing that used to be George turned and started walking away. Had he spotted me? Or, was he just too old to enjoy the music?

  Either way, I didn’t have time to waste on explanations. I yanked my arm away from Hick and started pushing my way through the crowd, dialing my phone while I moved. Men and women closed around me.
Hands tugged at my dress and noise filled my ears. The scent of sour beer surrounded me. The phone rang once, twice. I kept moving. Three times.

  “D.S.,” D.S. answered.

  “You remember where you dropped me off?” I asked.

  “Who is this?” There was a slight pause. “Gemma?”

  “I’m in the club next door. I spotted George Fitzgerald the younger. Undead and kicking.”

  “Hell,” he swore. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  It would take longer than that for D.S. to get back across town. I hit the ‘end’ button on my phone and dropped it back into my purse. George was making a break for it out the front door.

  Had he spotted me? Or, did he just have someplace better to be? I dodged forward, avoiding a woman in a silver mini-dress and a bouncer in a black t-shirt with the bar’s name plastered on the front.

  Outside, it had grown dark and the lack of sunlight knocked the temperature down a few degrees. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but that didn’t stop a shiver from going down my spine. What the hell was I doing? Chasing a rogue Biter was serious business. I needed a full set of gear—not just a half charged stun gun—and a pair of pants. Leather. Denim. Anything that would cover my legs and protect me from stray chompers.

  The street outside the bar was wide and open. One side was all beautiful wooden buildings constructed more than a hundred years ago and the other side was all car repairs and concrete boxes built when they’d expanded the road back in the seventies. Not the most-scenic spot in town, but the streetlights worked.

  In Detroit, that was something to be thankful for.

  The road to the left was the restaurant and a long straightaway. Any lumbering Biter would be easy to spot. To the right there were alleys and a few small bars.

  I turned right and kept moving, fast, searching the shadows for a tattooed zombie. I was turning down a dark alley when a black car roared up next to me. Not my truck. The thing was large and luxurious—Detroit born and bred—full of all American muscle. If it wasn’t this year’s model then, it was last year’s. Either way, the thing was expensive.