Flesh Circus - 4

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Great. Thanks, Piper.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, well. You’re sure this one won’t.…”

  “It won’t come back to life, Piper. I promise. Just tell Stan not to take the nails out.”

  “Okay.” A shadow crossed through her dark eyes, but she shrugged again and went to work.

  Which officially finished up my job here.

  Avery leaned against the hood of his Jeep, and I got a pleasant surprise. Eva was there too, perched on the hood like a Chrysler-approved pixie. The breeze stirred her dark hair, and I could tell just from the tension in her shoulders that she was still upset over losing Watson. Either that or something else, since Ave looked troubled too.

  “How’s our first victim?” I didn’t bother with a preamble. Our second victim was still missing, or I would know about it.

  “Funny you should ask.” Ave’s mouth twisted. “Had to sedate him and tie him down again. He was throwing himself all over the cell. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a concussion. He was chanting again, too. It was hinky as hell.”

  Eva shivered. “It took three darts before he even slowed down. I don’t know what we’re going to do when he wakes up again.”

  Interesting. “Anyone there with him?”

  “Benito and his bum leg. Wallace is out on a job. It sounded like a regular one,” Eva added hurriedly, seeing my expression. “We’ve traded notes. Nobody’s seen anything like this.” I nodded. “Care to come check out our first victim’s other address? I want to eyeball it, and if there’s anything there I’m going to have you two secure the scene while I go traipsing around following clues.”

  “Sounds like a good time.” Avery grinned. “We were going to go to a movie but this is ever so much better.”

  Oh, I’ll bet. “Bite your tongue. And give me your car keys.” That wiped the grin off his face, and Eva sighed.

  “You’re driving?” Avery dug in his jacket pocket, but slowly.

  “We need to get there this century. Come on, Avery. I’ve never been in an accident in my life.”

  “It’s not for lack of trying, I bet.” But Eva looked angelically innocent when I glanced at her.

  “Seriously, Jill. You’re not quite a menace, but you’re close.”

  “Why does everyone feel the need to comment on my driving?” I held out my hand, Avery dropped his key ring in, and I motioned at them like a mother hen. “Come on, chickadees. Let’s get going—Mama’s in a hurry.”

  13

  T he address on Ricardo’s food-handler’s permit was a trim little one-story bungalow on Vespers.

  The place looked nice enough, despite the dying lawn. Still, we live in the desert, and not many people have the patience or the funds to drench sun-dried dirt regularly enough to make it bloom.

  But that kind of bothered me. The lawn was dying, not dead. I sat in the Jeep, eyeing the house, and Avery groaned.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Don’t be dramatic. You should take this beast in for a tune-up.” I unclipped my seat belt, still staring at the house. What’s wrong with this picture?

  Sometimes looking at a scene is like that. Something doesn’t jell, and it takes a few moments to make everything snap together behind your eyes in a coherent picture. I’ve given up wondering if the way hunters turn psychic is the sorcery or the science of informed guessing, or both. It doesn’t matter. What matters is listening to that little tingling shock of wrongness as it hits right under the surface of conscious thought, and not ignoring it.

  The hunter who ignores instinct is dead in the water.

  “That was fun. ” Eva burbled from the backseat. “Damn, Jill, you should rent out as a cabdriver.”

  “People would drop dead of heart attacks.” Avery was looking a little green. And he was sweating a bit. “Jesus.”

  “Come on, buck up.” Eva ruffled his hair, and Avery grinned, blushing. The slow grin got him a lot of female attention, but it seemed a bit softer now. An internal happiness, rather than an external show.

  He looked like a man in love.

  Now I’d officially seen everything. And a sharp pin lodged itself in my heart. I ignored it.

  I studied the house some more. This really, really doesn’t feel right. Lawn dying, but it was a nice one until recently. Ricardo worked as a dishwasher; why would he list this as his address if he was on the edge of poverty? And why does it give me the heebies so bad?

  The porch light wasn’t on, though that probably meant nothing. It doesn’t take a lawn a long time to yellow out here, especially in the autumn before the storms sweep up the river. But there was something else. The swirl of etheric energy over the whole place was congested, bruised.

  Strong negative emotion will do that, especially over time. But it’s only one of the things that will.

  “Jill?” Eva, again. Avery knew better than to talk when I went quiet like this. So did Saul.

  Saul. Christ. I wish I could go home.

  But there’s never an excuse for leaving a job half-done. “Stay here.”

  “You got it,” Avery said immediately. “Should we call anyone if anything, you know, happens?” What, and have this place crawling with vulnerable people to protect? Still, he meant well. “No.

  If anything happens you should first drive away. Wait for me back at the precinct.”

  “What exactly do you think is going to happen?” Eva shifted uneasily in her seat. Both of them smelled healthy, with the darker edge of clean brunettes and her light feminine spice. Now the edge of adrenaline and fear touched both distinct scents.

  “Can’t tell yet.” I’m not even going to guess. “Just stay here.” I dropped Avery’s keys in his lap and slid out of the Jeep, slamming the door with a little more care than I used with my own cars.

  Quit thinking about Saul. Focus on the work at hand.

  I went up the cracked driveway. That was another thing—no car parked outside. They had a garage, but the recent oil stain on the concrete led to the conclusion that a car was missing. I wondered if it was our victim’s, discarded the question. It didn’t matter right now, wouldn’t until I figured out who belonged here—and who didn’t.

  The windows were dead dark. It wasn’t early enough in the night for that, even though people in this neighborhood probably retired early. You had to work a full day to afford a house in today’s economy, and this was the sort of half-depressed area that would slide right over into outright welfare warzone in a heartbeat. All it would take is one little crack house.

  The front door was tucked back a little, the walkway running up along a quarter of the garage’s length. My blue eye twitched and smarted a little; the concrete walk was littered with yellowing newspapers, rolled up and tossed higgledy-piggledy. Their delivery boy must’ve had a hell of a good arm.

  Now I could see other rolled-up papers hiding in the straggled grass, hidden by the slight downward slope of the lawn. Whoever had been caring for the lawn had watered right over the top of them.

  The place felt as deserted as a cheap haunted house the morning after Halloween.

  I tapped on the front door with no real hope. Tapped again, toyed with the idea of ringing the doorbell.

  The metal doorknob was cold under my fingers. A jolt of something went up my arm, the scar humming to itself greedily, a wet little pucker embedded in my flesh. I jiggled the knob, then twisted, and the wrong notes drowned out the whole fucking symphony.

  The door was unlocked.

  This is not going to end well. I ghosted the door open, listening hard. The scar listened too. I wished again for a fresh wristcuff to cover it up, drew a gun instead. Eased forward.

  The house was soundless.

  Well, not quite. There was a stealthy not-sound, a listening silence. I didn’t think it was just my imagination.

  The smell hit me a breath after I stepped into the front hall. The place was bare, empty white walls and a dead blank television in the living room, set on a wooden crate. The veneti
an blinds were half-drawn, and the kitchen was empty too. A plate in the sink had congealed, a thick rubbery mass on its surface.

  The reek was thick and rotten. If you’ve even once smelled death, you know what it’s like and how it clings in the nose, climbing down to pull the strings in your stomach.

  The only question was, where were the bodies? There was no cellar, which is usually the first bet in a case like this. I turned down the hall, passed a bathroom, and headed for what was almost certainly two bedrooms, doors firmly closed.

  Door number one, or door number two? Which should it be, Jillybean? Come on down, don’t be shy. My boots whispered along thin, cheap carpet. It was warm in here, but not overly so. The windows weren’t open, which meant there was air-conditioning—but it was set at an uncomfortably high temperature. Probably meant to save money.

  Number one or number two, Jill? The one ahead or the one on the right? It makes sense to check the one dead ahead first.

  It bothered me. The smell should be worse, if it was so nice and warm in here.

  The stealthy non-sounds grew more and more intense, but I couldn’t get a fix on them. There’s a certain frequency where you can’t tell if the sound is truly audible or just a mental echo of something else going on; it burrows under the skin and strokes at your eardrums with little hairy legs. A shiver of loathing went down my skin. My blue eye only caught the stirring of ambient energy, a slow lethargic swirl that told me nothing.

  I debated reaching for the doorknob with my left hand or just plain kicking it. The first rule of any scene is to offer assistance to the living, but I was pretty sure nothing was left living in here.

  Still, if I went around kicking doors in…

  Take it easy, there, Jill. Think for a second.

  The smell was wrong. The silence was wrong. The newspapers, front lawn, blank walls, empty kitchen, and most of all the unlocked door were wrong.

  My left hand flicked toward another gun just as all hell broke loose. The door crumpled and shattered outward, little splinters peppering me and the wall as a zombie lurched through, dry tendons screaming and half-eaten face working soundlessly. It was dripping with little bits of plated light—it took me a split second to determine the thing was crawling with roaches, each with the familiar little red dot on its back. But worst of all was the smell that belched out of the small close bedroom, and the zombie lifted its shattered arms and blurred forward with the eerie speed of the recently reanimated, roaches plopping off and scuttling for my boots over the cheap carpet.

  I’d found Trevor Watson. And he wasn’t alone.

  The trouble with zombies is that the motherfuckers just won’t stay dead. I stamped down hard, a short sound of disgust escaping tight-pursed lips, and the skull gave way under my steel-toed and

  -heeled boot with a sound like a ripe melon splitting. Zombie bones get porous after a little while, something about the body cannibalizing itself to provide enough chemical energy for their restless motion.

  The roaches scuttled, but my aura flared, pushing them away from my feet. They ran with greasy green smoke, popping out of existence like Orville Redenbacher’s ugliest nightmare. My fist blurred out, hellbreed strength pumping through my bones, and caught the fourth one in the face as well. It exploded, bits of rotting brainmatter splattering me and the walls liberally.

  Guns won’t do much good against zombies in close quarters. The ones whose heads I’d shattered were still scrabbling weakly on the carpet, sorcerous force bleeding away. Green smoke rose from the sludge their noncirculating blood had become. Identification of these bodies was going to be tricky—they were juicy as all get-out. But it explained why the smell was just awful and not truly, blindingly massive.

  And I’d ID’d the first one before he’d tried to chew me into bits. He shouldn’t have ended up here and dead, for God’s sake. But I had other problems to worry about right now.

  The roaches made little whispering sounds, puffing out of existence. Both bedrooms were awash with green smoke hanging at knee level, and a roving hand splatted dully against my ankle. I stamped again, felt flesh and sponge-bones give.

  Two left, where did they go, spooky fuckers, they move so fast—I skipped to the side. When you don’t have a high-powered rifle or particular ammo for headshots that will make the entire skull explode, you’re down to fisticuffs and whip-work. Unfortunately, the area was too confined for the whip. Knife-work wouldn’t do me any good.

  I was wishing for my sunsword when one of the remaining zombies made a scuttling run, humping up out of the smoke and heading straight for the wall. I grabbed it, fingers popping skin and sinking into worm-eaten muscle tissue before, and broke the neck with a quick twist. That didn’t do much—they’re sorcerously impelled, not relying on nerve endings much—but it did slow it down long enough for me to take its legs out, get it on the floor, and stamp its head in.

  Everything I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours tried to declare mutiny, but I was too busy hunting around for the last zombie. It dodged out the door and I gave chase, wading through waves of roaches and spluttering, still-moving corpses awash in bloodsludge and green smoke.

  Well, that answers that—the cases are connected. Hallelujah, but I hate to be right. I bolted down the hall, my left hand heading down for the whip.

  It zigged around the corner and so did I, clipping the wall with my shoulder and taking away a good-sized chunk of it. Out into the clean, cold night air, where I saw two things—first, Avery was outside the Jeep, standing near the hood and staring at me.

  Second, the zombie was scuttling straight for him.

  If it reached him, it would probably tear his throat out. Just because I’m tough to kill doesn’t mean regular humans are, especially if you’re a spooky-quick, sorcerously engineered corpse bent on mayhem. A corpse just aching to do its master’s bidding.

  Then I’d have to deal with Avery’s body too, and right in front of Eva.

  I screamed and leapt, the whip coming free and flicking forward, silver flechettes jingling as it wrapped around one of the zombie’s legs and almost tore itself out of my hand. The leather popped hard, once, like a good open-hand shot to the face or a piece of wet laundry shaken in just the right way, and the zombie went down in a splattering heap.

  “Get in the fucking car! ” I yelled. Then I was on the thing, its foul sponginess running away as I broke its neck with a louder crack than the other ones. This guy must be pretty fresh, too. I balled up my right fist, my knees popping foul, slipping skin and sinking through muscle turned to ropy porridge.

  I punched, pulling it at the last second so my fist didn’t go through the head and straight on into the dying lawn. Newspapers ruffled in a sudden burst of cold air and the smell of natron. The wet splorching sound was louder than it had any right to be, and brain oatmeal splattered. The body twitched feebly.

  No, they don’t rely on nerve pathways much. But the head as the “seat” of consciousness carries a magical meaning all its own, and the symbol of breaking the head breaks the force the zombie is operating under.

  I just wished it wasn’t so messy. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, though.

  I considered retching, but Avery was already doing enough for both of us. He was still gamely trying to make it around the car to the driver’s side. Eva stared out through the windshield, her mouth ajar and her eyes wide enough to turn into plates.

  Bits of dead zombie plopped off my coat as I rose, heavily. Shook myself like a dog heaved free of an icy lake. More bits splattered.

  “J-J-J—” Avery was trying to get my name out through retches.

  “Get in the car!” I yelled at him again. The scene wasn’t safe, for Chrissake.

  “Behind you!” Eva screamed, but I was already turning, hip swinging first, skipping aside as the whip sliced air. The silver jangled, bits of rotting flesh torn free, and it hit the zombie I hadn’t counted before full in the face.

  The thing did an amazing leap, dead nerves
trying like hell to respond, the same kind of unholy quick reflex motion a small, partially crushed animal makes as the body dies. It jittered and jived there on the lawn, and I was on it in a heartbeat. When it was finally twitching out its last, I cast a quick glance back at Avery, who finally managed to make his legs work and scurried around the front end of the Jeep. I turned back to the house, waited until he was in the car and had the engine going before taking another step toward it, senses quivering. The whip had transferred itself to my right hand, and my left fingers found my largest knife. It would brace my fist and I could probably lop a hand off if the zombie was old enough.

  The sudden wash of sensory acuity turned me into a mass of raw nerve endings. I exhaled, made sure of clear play on the whip by shaking it a little, listening to the flechettes jangle. Christ. Wish I had my sword. Or that Saul was here.

  But wishes didn’t get the job done. I had a whole house to check, and who knew how many zombies to deal with.

  I eyed it. One-story, no cellar unless it was hiding around the back, and I’d already cleared out two rooms with two zombies each. Where had the last one come from?

  Lord God above, I thought, I hate attics. Almost as much as I hate basements.

  I got to work.

  14

  P iper wasn’t happy about bodies spread out in fast-decaying bits, but she took my word that they wouldn’t rise again. I’d cleared the whole house and found three more wet ones—not up in the attic or in a surprise cellar, but in the small crawl space underneath. It made sense—they like dark spaces. It was hard to believe so many people had lived here, but the kitchen held dry goods and the bedrooms had mattresses as well as two altars. It was clear the altars were where all the money had gone. They were elaborate three-story affairs, candles burned down, dishes of flyblown sticky candy and bottles of Barbancourt, cigars that cost as much as the television.

  Whoever lived here was serious, though the wide bloodstain in the weedy backyard under a canopy was probably chicken or goat instead of human. They even had a firepit to grill things, and I wondered how many “barbecues” they’d thrown a month.