Deader Still

by Anton Strout

  “You might want to negotiate nicer, then,” I said. Mina looked at me. Since my hands were still bound behind me, I gestured over my shoulder with my eyes. Mina’s eyes widened. She swore under her breath, lowered my bat, and let go of me.

  I could understand her frustration. I was just as surrounded by dozens of zombies as she was. Apparently, somebody had been studying up on his necromancy.

  32

  Having a tight ring of brain-hungry zombies surrounding Mina and me was unnerving, and it was only after they relieved Mina of my bat and forced us to follow Cyrus into the next room that I took a moment to really look around.

  In this new section of the unused underground part of the museum, there were only a few crates, mostly open and unpacked. This room was nearly identical to the one previous to it, except that I could actually make out what was going on in here. The lighting was still running at low generator levels, but it looked like an assortment of art exhibits mid-setup.

  “Good to see you’ve found ways to entertain yourself other than destroying souls,” I said. “What is all this?”

  Cyrus smiled and shook his head at me, then pointed straight up above us. Directly overhead hung a banner, done up in a mix of black and bloodred fonts:

  Para-lyzed!

  Where Art and the Paranormal Ar’t

  When I looked around the room again, I saw signs of an art installation that I hadn’t noticed before, all of them in various states of preparation. The most prominent was a section of wall where The Scream hung. Next to it were the beginnings of a life-sized diorama re-creating the long stretch of dismal road from the painting.

  “Well, this looks sufficiently fucked-up,” I said. “This is what you’ve been spending your time on, like some kind of demented subterranean Phantom of the Opera?”

  Mina elbowed me in the gut. “I’d kind of like to live a little bit longer, so could you at least try not to antagonize him? Dammit! Trading you for The Scream was the last ace up my sleeve.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t listen to people who repeatedly threaten to bash my brains in.”

  At the mention of brains, the group of zombies let out a soft moan. I shuddered.

  Cyrus tsk-tsked me. “You see?” he asked. “That’s exactly the problem with you people. You’re limited by your solipsistic point of view. If you would only open up your mind and see the greater picture, the high art in all this . . .”

  Cyrus circled around a large glass display case that stood near him, and I noticed a stirring at the bottom of it. Two distinct figures rose, stretching themselves on their four legs and arching their spiny backs. Their red eyes glared at Cyrus, then one of them charged forward. It hit the glass and bounced off, letting out a whine before it stood and shook its head, regaining its composure.

  “The chupacabras,” I said.

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “I see they’re actually teaching you something in that department of yours.”

  Cyrus squatted down next to it and stared at the chupacabras from eye level. The two animals pulled themselves to the far end of the case. “Yes, they’re for this special little exhibit I’m putting together. A kind of deconstructed Will Wegman piece with a twist that I think will really wow our patrons. You won’t believe how hard these creatures were to come by. I had initially paid for only one, but two days later, a second one showed up out of nowhere, scratching around. I think these things mate for life, like they’re the swans of the paranormal world. The poor thing was a little bloody, but I could hardly turn it away from its mate, now, could I?”

  Parts of the puzzle started to fall into place. The mangier of the two must have broken free from the gypsies near the docks, which had explained the shattered crate in their storage area behind the gypsy wagon. It must have been disoriented when it found itself by the docks on the west side, first killing everyone on the booze cruise, then taking the life of Dr. Kolb as it made a beeline for its mate’s scent all the way across town.

  “So I did see you at the Javits Center,” I said. “I thought I was going crazy with there being so many damned pirates. You bought one off of the Brothers Heron.”

  “Pirates are so de rigueur at those types of conventions,” he said, tapping on the glass of the display case. “I barely had to disguise myself. Apparently those imbeciles didn’t realize that these fine creatures mate for life. When one of them was taken away, the other simply followed. That hardly sounds evil, does it? Tell me that’s not the act of a loving creature.”

  “Evil or not, it’s still illegal to sell them in the tristate area,” I said. “And they’re evil through and through. They’ve got some kind of demony thing going on with all that blood sucking. I think that technically counts as evil . . . and illegal.”

  Cyrus stood up, mock horror on his face. “Oh heavens, no . . . not illegal!”

  “Listen,” Mina said, speaking up. “I think the two of you have a lot to get off your chests here, so why don’t you just let me go? I’ve thought it over, and you know what? You’re right. I’ve been paid fairly and honestly already. You can keep the painting. I’ll leave town; you won’t have me to worry about.”

  That was Mina, always looking out for herself. I would have kicked her if I didn’t think it might rile up the zombies.

  Cyrus laughed out loud at her for several minutes, almost unable to control himself.

  “Mina, Mina, Mina,” he said, when he could catch his breath. “So gothic, and so aptly named for what I have in mind for you. I think I have the perfect exhibit that could use a little bat bait.” Cyrus gestured again. “Bring her.”

  A section of the zombies broke away, taking Mina with them. I managed to reach out to grab her arm, but caught one of the zombie arms instead, snapping it off with a squishy mess as the loose flesh clung under my fingernails. Grossed out beyond gross, I tossed it away and fought back the urge to vomit.

  Cyrus crossed over to another glass case approximately the size of a telephone booth—on second look, more like a large glass coffin. The interior of it was filled with a cloud of gray mist. A small, sealed-off fan unit was affixed to the top of the case, keeping the mist in a constant swirl. Every so often I thought I saw the formation of a hand and the hint of a face in it, but I wasn’t certain.

  “Time to saturate,” Cyrus said. He pulled out a set of keys, unlocked a tiny control box that stood about waist high, and flicked the switch inside it. What could only be blood rained down from a spout at the top of the coffin into the mist, turning it from white to pink to a dark crimson. The mist sank to the bottom of the case, and Cyrus turned off the pump. “That should put him out of commission for a few moments.”

  Mina struggled to pull away. “Him?” Mina said. “Him who?”

  “Your new roommate,” he said with a smile. He flipped another switch in the box and I heard the sound of decompression. When it stopped, the front of the box swung open and I noticed there was a high lip around the bottom of it that kept the near-liquid form at the bottom from spilling out. The zombies forced Mina toward the box. She fought back, but it was no use. There were too many of them on her, pushing her. When she had stepped all the way in, Cyrus swung the glass door shut and powered up the compressor to reseal the box.

  “What are you doing to her?” I shouted. “She’ll suffocate.”

  “No worries,” Cyrus said. “The compressor is merely to seal the box from any form of leakage. Air is circulated in through an exchange mechanism. It’s the overhead fan that keeps our vampiric guest from fully forming, although I suspect he’ll be good and blood drunk for some time to come.”

  Already a red mist was beginning to swirl around Mina’s feet. She pounded on the glass in soundproof horror as she realized what she was locked in with.

  “Oh, my God. Will she live?” I asked.

  Cyrus considered this for a moment. “You know, I’m not quite sure. That’s what I love about this type of performance art. It’s an experiment of sorts; just the type of thing I suspect will
get a fabulous write-up in Cultist Quarterly when the show opens. True, the vampire can’t fully form, but I wonder if it will find a way to feed nonetheless.” He turned to contemplate the box with Mina in it. “That’s what good art does, Simon. It inspires thought.”

  “I don’t mean to argue with you, Cyrus, what with being surrounded by your undead minions, but I’ll just say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and leave it at that.”

  “Oh, yes,” Cyrus said, turning to me once he was done with his morbid meditation. His eyes lit up. “I almost forgot . . . Thanks to your little magic hands, you’re a bit of an expert on art, aren’t you? Don’t worry. I have something better lined up for you, too. Something special.”

  “For me?” I said, trying to hide my nervousness. “Gee, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Cyrus said, walking off to another end of the great hall. “It was my pleasure. I’ve got something lined up for everyone who brought down my Ghostsniffing operation. The good thing about being in hiding as long as I have is that downtime is good for the creative soul. I’ve had plenty of time to think up fitting ways to make everyone’s life miserable, especially yours.”

  Cyrus breathed out a small chant and his zombies started moving me across the floor toward an ever greater assortment of cases. If my hands had been free, there was a chance I might have escaped, but I couldn’t with them bound behind my back as they were. I missed my bat already.

  “Had Mina followed through with her end of the bargain, you would have been dead by now,” he said, stopping by another case, this one covered with a red curtain, “but when that seemed unlikely, I started thinking. The artist’s mind is always turning, and you know what? I’m glad she didn’t kill you. Death would have been too easy on you, I realized. Then I was struck with inspiration. I wondered how and when I was going to be able to get ahold of you. I knew I shouldn’t have worried. I should have known that you possess the meddling gene and it was only a matter of time before you found me.”

  “Hey,” I shouted defensively. “I didn’t just stumble across your little project here. I worked this case very hard to get as trapped as I am right now, thank you very much.”

  “Take what little pleasure you can in that, I suppose.”

  Small comfort that it was, I did take a perverse joy in having gotten this far. Of course, right now it would have been much better to have Connor or the Inspectre or, heck, even Godfrey at my side. The closest thing that I had to a friend in all this was Mina, but she was currently occupied. I chanced a look back at her. She was still freaking out in the glass coffin, but given the deep shade of red that the mist was, she looked safe enough for now. Relatively speaking.

  I turned back to Cyrus, only to find him standing less than a foot away, holding a coil of rope in one hand and a foul-smelling rag in the other.

  “I’m afraid that this next part is going to be a little tricky,” he said, placing the rag over my mouth and nose.

  As my eyes slid shut, my last thought was how much quicker chloroform seemed to act in real life than in the movies.

  33

  Compared to the last few times I had regained consciousness, waking up this time felt relatively pleasant, although what I guessed to be chloroform had given me a headache. I’d have to get myself checked out by a doctor if I got through all this. The assortment of traumas today couldn’t be good for my body.

  As I struggled to rouse myself, I found it hard to breathe. I thought it might be due to the drugs, but when I opened my eyes, I found I was inside a sealed clear box myself, this one more confining. My hands stuck out of the front of it through two small, circular cutouts and were tied together on the outside. When I looked down at my arms, I realized that I wasn’t even in my own clothes anymore. Around my waist was a fake wooden table with a crystal ball on it, but above that I was wearing a shiny gold shirt and a brown vest, and in my reflection in the glass I could see I was wearing a turban with a large red jewel in it.

  “What the . . . ?” I started, but my mouth was thick with spit. I swallowed. “What the hell am I doing in this getup?”

  “Don’t you recognize it?” Cyrus said.

  The cloud over my mind lifted a little.

  “Am I . . . one of those gypsy fortune-telling machines? Like in Big?”

  “Zoltar!” Cyrus said, putting his finger on the point of his nose. “Ding! Yes. Think of it, a living, breathing Zoltar machine, reading the psychic fortunes of others. It borders on genius.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I’m not going to participate.”

  Cyrus tapped on the see-through box.

  “I don’t really see where you get a choice,” he said, and then looked down at my hands.

  Yes, they were tied, but they also were no longer covered. My gloves were gone.

  “I’ve added a feature or two so our patrons get their money’s worth,” Cyrus said, gesturing to a button on the front of the machine. “Nothing too dangerous, mind you. Wouldn’t want to accidentally kill one of our star attractions.”

  He pressed the button and a mild but slightly more than annoying electric shock ran up my leg from a metal cuff I hadn’t realized had been there until now. My teeth clamped shut, gnashing against one another in pain. My body shook with the mild dose of electricity until Cyrus released the buzzer.

  “I trust that will win your cooperation,” Cyrus said, and backed away from the machine.

  He studied me. I felt like an animal at the zoo.

  “Perhaps we’ll need to add a little facial hair to get the look right. A goatee or a Fu Manchu.”

  “Good to see you’re paying attention to the details,” I said. Muscles throughout my body twitched.

  “You should see the Edward Gorey section I have planned. We’ve done the whole alphabet, a different death for all our foes.”

  “I’d love a look around,” I said, then rattled my hands where they were tied, “so if you just want to undo these . . . I promise I’ll keep the swami outfit on.”

  Cyrus came up to the case and started rapping on it.

  “We can’t have our little Zoltar escaping on us,” he said, “not before we have a chance to see our most favorite piece of art brought to life in re-creation.”

  Mad pirate Cyrus danced his way across the floor and up to the wall where The Scream hung. I could hear the sound of Mina pounding on her glass box, no doubt enraged that Cyrus was showing it off. Next to it was a contraption that was waist high and clearly meant to hold a person in it. There was more to the diorama now that had been set up while I was unconscious. There was a torture device set up in the center, a torso-high container riddled with slits, all of which had blades on the outside just waiting to be inserted.

  Cyrus stood before the painting, his hand hovering over the lone figure, almost like he wanted to caress it.

  “The look on this face, the pure horror, the agony . . . The real artistry here, of course, will be to re-create it as a three-dimensional vision.”

  Cyrus rapped his knuckles on the top of the Pain-o-Matic machine.

  “I’m sure we’ll find just the right amount of blades to get the look right on his face,” Cyrus said.

  “He? He who?”

  “Why, the biggest betrayer of them all, of course,” Cyrus said. “Thaddeus Wesker. All that time with the Sectarian Defense League and all the while deep cover for the Department of Extraordinary Affairs. He’s got a good time coming to him, believe me.”

  I had no love for the guy, and if there was anyone in the Department who might deserve a bit of torture, it was Wesker, but honestly, even I didn’t think he guy deserved to be shish-kebabbed.

  It looked like Cyrus had really given some sick, twisted thought to how he would seek his revenge on everyone he blamed over at the D.E.A. If this weren’t the project of a deranged mind, I would have been even more impressed. I kicked myself a little for having slept through the seminar “Madmen & Their Master Plans: Downfalls or Dastardly?”

  Cyrus
turned back to The Scream, staring deep into the face of its figure. If he started licking the painting or trying to tongue-kiss it, I was going to throw up in my little swami booth.

  I sensed movement out on the rest of the exhibit floor. The chupacabra pair had turned their attention to the stacked crates over by the entrance to the room from which Mina had dragged me in. I glanced there and found further signs of movement, thankful it wasn’t the zombies who, with their master focusing on his art fixation, had gone slack from lack of command.

  A single figure crept into the room. Jane.

  She was dressed in jeans and a singular T-shirt that read “Brrrains . . . ” across the front of it, and carried a dark tote bag over one shoulder. In the same moment I was both thrilled and terrified to see her. The odds of her being torn apart were looking pretty high, all things considered. I started rocking back and forth in my booth to get her attention.