by Aleah Barley
“Why don’t you tell me about this guy?” I nodded towards the guy on the table. “You’re sure he’s one of the Biters on my list?”
“Sure,” Hick said. There was a slight pause. “You told me you were running down some paperwork irregularities. I thought it was just for Sinclair Death Services. This guy was processed through a place in Dearborn.”
“It’s a team effort,” I lied. “Between the mortuary association and the police department. I’m just the low man on the totem pole who got stuck doing the field work.”
Hick stared at me for a long moment before nodding. “This is Harold Mathers. He lived and died in Detroit. He worked on Belle Isle and was laid to rest in Dearborn last year.”
“His body looks awfully nice for a guy who’s been underground for a year.”
“I can’t explain that.” Hick shrugged. “According to my paperwork, the police pulled him out of a dumpster by the river last night. They ran his fingerprints—must be a new protocol—and his name popped.” There was a slight pause. “He must have been dug up by some kids playing a prank.”
I nodded slowly. “Have you looked at his cell decay? Was he a Biter?”
“I know there’s been a screw up—somewhere—but Biters don’t get buried. It was just kids, like I said.”
“You mind doing me a favor? Running a sample through your fancy equipment?”
There was a slight pause. “I don’t know, Gemma.” Hick’s jaw was tight. His shoulders were rigid. “I’ve got a lot of other work to do. That kind of thing takes time. I can’t take time out of my work just because the mortuary association can’t get their fax machines to work.”
Great, I was going to end up owing him another night out on the town. Next time I was wearing blue jeans and running shoes. “Don’t think of it as a favor for the mortuary association,” I said. “Think of it as a favor for me, as a friend. I’ll be grateful… truly grateful.”
Hick’s gaze settled on the dip where my pink blouse met the curve of my breasts.
“I’m always happy to help a friend.” He took a sample from the body on the table—cutting off a small piece of the man’s palm and placing it carefully on an aluminum tray—and started for the door. “The fancy equipment’s in a restricted area. You can stay here,” there was a hard edge to his tone. “Don’t touch anything.”
I waited until he was gone before turning back to D.S. The Biter hadn’t moved an inch. He looked more like a sculpture than a man; a piece of art hewn from natural rock and supernatural anger.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Stop. Flirting. With. Him.”
The man must have been really angry to revert to Biter speak. I took a deep breath, forcing down the worry in my gut. “We need someone to run the tests—unless you have a secret lab in your pants.”
“I’d. Be. Happy. To show you what I have in my pants.”
The comment was quick and flirtatious, it made my skin tingle. It was the first sexy thing he’d said since kissing me in front of Riley’s. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus. “We need to know where Mathers has been for the last twelve months. Underground, or—.”
“He was aboveground,” D.S. interrupted. “I can smell it.”
“You can smell it?” Some of the oldest Biters had started to regain their sense of smell, but I didn’t know who could scent out cell decay.
“The man was a Biter,” D.S. said. “Right up until someone shot him in the head. This guy…” His muscles twitched a visible sign of his emotion. “Stealing Biters—killing people—he’s pissing me off.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it.
“I can stop him,” D.S. said. “I can find the Biters. Bring them back to Detroit. To their families.” He turned towards me, and his green eyes were dark with emotion. “This guy’s evil. Scum. Taking advantage of Biters just because they’re dead. Now, he’s getting rid of the evidence. That’s what the Department of Undead Americans was designed to prevent.
This was important to him. I couldn’t just laugh it off, and—to be honest—he had a point. Just because I hunt zombies for a living doesn’t mean they’re animals. Okay, some of them are animals. The ones who are so far gone their skin is melting off their bones.
But Biters like D.S.? Like Donny?
I nodded slowly. “He’s getting rid of the Biters. Something must have changed for him.
“We’re looking for him,” D.S. said. “There are police crawling all over the city. It makes sense that he’d get rid of the evidence.”
“Not all the evidence though. Two Biters out of a bunch?” I shrugged. “There’s something off. He must be keeping them somewhere. Doing something with them.”
Where the hell hadn’t we searched? I rocked back onto my heels thoughtfully. Detroit’s a big city, but between the burnt out husks and the empty lots, I felt like we’d been everywhere from Ferndale in the north to the riverbank on the south side. The only place we hadn’t looked was Canada.
Canada. I sucked in a breath. Windsor was a ten-minute ride away by car or city bus. Looking out across the Detroit River at its squat buildings and gleaming casino, it was more like a suburb than another country. Still, every time I’d visited I’d had to go through customs. They’d made me empty out my coat pockets, rifled through my bag, and asked me some questions that were more personal than they had any right to be.
Then they’d made me use a Breathalyzer.
The Canadian Border Control wasn’t checking to make sure I was sober. They were looking for signs of life using the first of the sure fire tests to tell the living from the dead: breath pressure, blood pressure, and brain waves. Word on the street is that California Border Enforcement makes people use all three, and if a person fails they get a bullet to the head.
Canada just ships you back across the border.
The government says it’s a matter of public health—they want to protect their citizens from the “Zombie Plague” outbreak—but the truth is that it’s economic as much as anything else. The more zombies they have, the less willing factory owners, will be to pay humans a living wage.
“Canada,” I said. “Mr. Bad Guy is taking them to Canada. Think about it; he’s not keeping them in Detroit, but they’re definitely close by; he’s not using them as muscle—“I paused. The man on the table had worked on Belle Isle. “What did he do?”
It took D.S. a moment to find the paperwork. “He worked at the boat house.”
“So, he’d have known the Coast Guard’s schedule.” It was all falling into place. “He would have known how to get a boat across the river without being seen.” The dead body on the table was becoming more interesting by the minute. Mr. Bad Guy wasn’t just taking any old dead bodies.
He was cherry picking.
I frowned, had he cherry-picked George Fitzgerald? Was there something about the man that had made him particularly tempting? His height? His weight? Maybe, Mr. Bad Guy just liked the way George wore his hair.
Was that why he’d been slaughtered in front of his parents?
The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
D.S. was right. Mr. Bad Guy needed to be taken down a notch or ten. Forget turning him over to the cops or the DUA. I wanted to see him ripped apart by his own monsters. I wanted him dead in the river. “You called in the Detroit cops,” I told D.S. “Do you have any pull with the border patrol?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He reached out to pick up my hand, the movement quick and unthinking. With his fingers wrapped around my wrist, he seemed to relax a little. It wasn’t a smoking hot kiss, but it meant something. “Did we get what we came for? Or, do you want to flirt with the human some more?”
The last four days he’d been completely professional—it was driving me crazy—and now this.
He was jealous.
My head was pounding. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “This isn’t fair. You need to figure out whether you want to be my boss or my boyfriend. If you’re my boss, y
ou don’t get a say in my personal life.” There was a slight pause. “If you’re my boyfriend, we’re going to have to talk about this hot and cold thing you’ve got going. It’s not sexy.”
D.S. grinned and a zip of electricity buried itself deep in my belly. Hoo-boy. The man had a smile like nobody’s business. “I’m always sexy.”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s going to happen—as soon as the case is finished—but it’s not going to be in the morgue. At least, not the first time.”
Oh, god. I sucked in a breath, struggling to force down air.
The man’s voice was deathly serious.
It was really going to happen.
I was going to lose my virginity to a zombie.
I probably should have been frightened, but D.S. wasn’t just any zombie. Tall, dead, and sexy as hell, he made my insides dance in ways I couldn’t even begin to explain. I wanted him more than anything—more than air—but he was right. There was something we needed to do first.
Solve the case.
20.
Turns out the Border Patrol isn’t exactly eager to get into bed with the Department of Undead Americans. They’d spent so long worrying about keeping people out of the country, they weren’t used to keeping people in. They’d put a double guard on all the usual crossing points, but that was it.
The Coast Guard hadn’t been much better.
The DUA had agents staked out up and down the entire riverfront—from St. Clair Shores to Grosse Ille—but they were stretched thin. I’d ended up parked on Belle Isle, drinking coffee out of a paper cup, and fantasizing about my comfortable bed.
Belle Isle’s one of Detroit’s jewels. It’s a big park on the east side with wide driving lanes and lots of picnics. My dad used to take me out to the park when I was a kid. There’s a boathouse, a yacht club, a conservatory, an aquarium, and some big ass fountains, all stuck on an island in the middle of the Detroit River. Back in the day it was totally top notch.
Things have gone downhill since then.
Parts of the island are completely feral, just like the rest of the city.
I was parked looking out at the river and Windsor across the way. Every so often the wind would ripple through the tall grasses and I’d hold my breath, waiting to be attacked. Biters aren’t crazy about the water, but there’s a whole lot of Belle Isle that’s not water: lots of empty buildings, wild animals, and escaped dogs.
It’s a wild Biter’s paradise, and if there were any out there then, they’d strike at night.
Knock-knock. A fist rapped against the passenger side door. I jerked to the side in surprise then rolled down the window. “You scared the crap out of me,” I said. “Sneaking up on a person like that is a good way to get stun gunned.”
“I’ve heard that.” My mother waited for me to unlock the door before climbing into the passenger seat. Martina Matthews-Sinclair was looking good in a black jumpsuit with a fashionable red belt tied around her waist and a matching scarf wrapped around her blonde hair, like a 1970s superhero—or villain. She slammed the door shut and settled a paper bag full of barbecue onto her lap. “I figured we could eat while we talked.”
“Are we going to be talking? I thought you’d just invited yourself along on my hunt for no reason.”
“They’re paying a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.” She opened the bag carefully, pulling out containers of French fries and pulled pork. “I figured that bought two sets of eyes.”
I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t turn the food down either. It smelled good, damn good. “Bugsy’s?”
“Why go someplace else? I thought about picking up huevos from the Goose, but—this time of night—Jack might shoot me for interrupting his book.” My mom adjusted her scarf. “The man needs a life.”
“He needs a girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “That’ll happen, right after they let Biters play in the World Series.” She popped open her container of pork, leaned back in her seat, and dug in. “You know, my car’s parked right around the bend. It’s got heated seats.”
“I like the truck.”
“Right.”
We both ate some more pork. “I want you to know,” my mother said, “I’m proud of you. Doing this—working for the DUA—you’ve really stepped up.”
I didn’t laugh out loud, but it was a close thing. “I didn’t exactly volunteer.”
“You didn’t turn them down either. I’ve seen how hard you’re working.” Her head tilted to the side slightly and she smiled. “I’m proud. Your father would have been proud.”
Just what I needed: a heart to heart with my mother. No thanks.
I glanced around, hoping to see some kind of invading force. No such luck. The island was completely quiet except for the woman in the seat next to me.
“Seriously,” she said. “Your father always believed Biters should have the same rights as everybody else. We both voted for the DUA—back when it was on the ballot.”
“He cared about Biters so much, he just didn’t want to be one.”
Instead, he’d died in a hospital bed gasping for air.
“He saw what happened to Donny. He did what he could—we all did what we could—but Donny lost something and he might never get it back. Your father didn’t want to lose that. He didn’t want to lose you.”
There was a certain logic to what she was saying, not that I cared. My father died slowly, wasting away. Becoming a Biter might not have been a good choice, but it had been the only choice available.
I sat quietly, eating my food and staring out at the dark river. The barbecue was the best in town, but it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. I ate it quickly, concentrating on my need for calories more than anything else.
When my mother finished her food, she tucked the empty containers back into the paper bag. She leaned back in the passenger seat, staring out at the water. “I wonder what Conroy’s lost.”
A wife… a son… and so many fellow soldiers on the way. Once upon a time, D.S. had been a man. What if I’d met him then? Would I have felt the same kind of connection? Like a zap of electricity every time, he looked at me? Or, would I have passed him by on the street without a second look?
What would he have thought about me?
I shrugged. “D.S. isn’t so bad.”
“He’s not human.”
“You think that matters?”
“You’re saying it doesn’t?” My mother shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’s our employer.”
“The federal government’s our employer. D.S. is just a middleman.”
“The federal government would have hired Anderson Executive Death Projects. They’re listed first in the phone book, and Megan Anderson is dating a DUA agent from Toledo.” There was a slight pause. “Conroy hired us. Why?”
A stun gun to the ass.
I shrugged. “Maybe he knows we’re the best.”
There was a long pause. “We’re sitting in a truck that’s twenty years old and probably won’t make it through the winter.” My mother’s voice cracked, “We ate take out for dinner—we eat take out for dinner most nights—and I’m still trying to figure out how to pay down your father’s debts. We’re pretty damn good, but we’re not great.”
I blinked in surprise. This was the first I’d heard about debts. I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t have the nerve. “I didn’t know things were so bad.”
“They’re not.”
This was the first I’d heard about debt. I wanted to ask her some more questions, but I didn’t want to intrude. Instead, I sat there in silence for a long moment. “I don’t know why Conroy hired us. Right time, right place?” A stun gun to the ass and a too-short t-shirt, I swallowed hard. We’d been lucky, really lucky. “I guess I made an impression.”
“Right.”
The lights were flickering across the way, bright and shiny. I shrugged. “I like him—.”
“I know.” There was a slight pause. “I want you to
be careful, Gemma. He’s not bad—for a Biter—but he’s not like us.”
A light flickered across the way. Once. Twice. Three times. Was it an accident? Or, was it a pattern?
“Do you see it?” I asked.
My mom’s head snapped around. Her gaze narrowed. I could hear her sucking in a breath. “Yeah,” she said. “I see it. You think that’s our zombie smuggler?”
“Maybe he’s smuggling candy canes.”
There was a short pause. “Probably not.”
I rummaged through my pockets until I found my cell phone. I hit speed dial and put the phone to my head. “We’ve got something.”
“Yeah?” D.S. said. “Are you sure?”
The light was getting closer now. “Definitely.”
“Alright,” he said. “I will be there in a couple of minutes.” There was a slight pause. “This guy could be dangerous, Gemma. You should take your mother and get out of there.”
Zombie hunting isn’t exactly for the faint of heart. If I let myself get scared off by danger, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I considered D.S.’s suggestion for half a second.
“I can’t hear you,” I lied. “We’re going in.”
He was shouting his objections as I hung up the phone and reached for my stun gun. “Let’s get this guy.”
21.
Sneaking around an island park with my mother isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. I’m usually a solo practitioner of the great art of zombie hunting. When I work a job, I like to break down walls, bust a few heads, and turn the remains over to the cops.
Of course, under normal circumstances I’m only facing a bunch of bloated corpses, not a criminal mastermind who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
I palmed my stun gun and crept across the riverfront. My boots scuffed loudly against the rocks. Breaking down walls isn’t usually a stealth maneuver. Slow and sneaky isn’t my style. I glanced back at my mom. Her bandana was pulled low over her head, black tennis shoes padded noiselessly in the dark. She might look like a middle-aged ninja, but at least she was quiet.
“You need my knife?” I asked.
