Undead to the World

by DD Barant

  “Angry?”

  “Tired. Tired of saying goodbye to the people I care about.” His voice is bitter. “I should know better by now.”

  “You really should,” I say.

  His gaze snaps back to me.

  “But you keep doing it, over and over,” I say. “I don’t know why, not for sure. Maybe you need to feel something vicariously through those that you’ve lost. Maybe you’re addicted to the bittersweet intensity of inevitable loss. Maybe it’s just a pattern you’re locked into and don’t know how to stop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dying are always beautiful, David. I can’t remember where I heard that, but it’s true. And it’s a kind of beauty you find irresistable.”

  “You weren’t dying when I met you.”

  “Sure I was. Human beings are dying from the moment they’re born. Most of us try to ignore that fact, but to someone who’s been walking the earth for a few thousand years it’s glaringly obvious. You’ve known I was going to die from the second we met. I think part of you even looks forward to it.”

  And now he looks shocked. I’ve never seen Cassius look shocked before; I didn’t know it was even possible. It makes him look alien somehow.

  “I don’t have a lot of time left to me,” I say. “You know that. It brings things into sharper focus, really makes me aware of my priorities. Being tactful, I’ve decided, isn’t one of them. You’ve seen a lot of women you love die, but I don’t know if you’ve ever been with one like me—one who knows she’s going to die, and soon. Have you?”

  “No,” he says quietly.

  “Then maybe I can give you something none of them did. Some perspective, from a person about to cross that line you can’t.” I meet his eyes and hold them. “Maybe you have an unhealthy obsession with death. Maybe you’re punishing yourself for things you’ve done or haven’t done; maybe you’re just afraid of committing to anything past a few decades. Well, whatever the reason, here’s my big insight: It doesn’t matter.”

  He frowns. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true, you big dope. Not that love doesn’t matter; it’s the reason for the love that doesn’t. I don’t care if you love me because you think I’m temporary or because you find wrinkles sexy or because I’m a dead ringer for someone you knew in Pompeii before it blew up; what I care about is the fact that you do. Right here, right now, you love me. I know that’s real. And that’s all that matters.”

  David looks troubled. And then he looks hazy—there’s something wrong with my vision. Everything goes sideways before going away completely.

  That’s it? Seems like there should be more, somehow.

  Sorry. Azura’s voice, in my head. There was some kind of consciousness spike and I lost the connection. I don’t know if it was enough to kick his real memories loose, either, but it’ll have to do—there’s so much dimensional interference now I can’t possibly get through. Even talking to you is— She cuts off abruptly, and I’m suddenly aware of my own body again. “That’s it,” I mutter. “I’m switching dimensional carriers first thing in the morning. I have had it with dropped calls.” I open my eyes.

  Which is when I see the werewolf.

  FOURTEEN

  I’ve seen plenty of lycanthropes before, of course. But somehow, this one is scarier than any of the others.

  It must be nine feet tall; even crouched over, the tips of its ears brush the ceiling. Its fur is midnight black, its eyes a blazing yellow. There’s blood on its long, curving claws, and its lips are drawn back in a snarl.

  It seems really, really angry.

  The shock of going from an intimate post-passion scene to one where I’m confronted by a gigantic, hairy monster is enough to lock up my brain. I can’t even take my eyes off the thing; its presence fills my whole world, a pure incarnation of savage rage trembling with barely suppressed violence. Any second now it’s going to—

  It slashes at me.

  I hear my clothes tear, feel the claws cut through my skin. Once again—what is this, the third time in twenty-four hours?—I’m dead.

  The beast pulls back and stares at me with its inhuman yellow eyes. I think, absurdly, of the golden light given off by the Solar Centurion’s armor, and how different it is. I look down, expecting to see my own guts hanging out of my belly.

  But no—there’s some blood, but no gaping wound. The thing cut me, but didn’t kill me. Why?

  It’s obviously asking itself the same thing, because it cocks its head to the side like a puzzled cocker spaniel and its growl shifts higher to a whine.

  Which is drowned out a second later by gunshots. Can’t see where they’re coming from, so I dive for the floor out of instinct.

  When I look up, the thrope is gone.

  The room is trashed. The TV lies on its side, the screen smashed. The table is a pile of splintered wood, and the door’s been ripped off its hinges. Stoker’s sprawled on the floor with what looks like one helluva developing black eye, his gun in his hand.

  No Cassiar.

  “What the hell just happened?” I ask, getting to my feet.

  “You tell me,” Stoker snaps. He doesn’t lower his gun, either.

  “Hey, I just woke up, okay? At least I think I’m awake.…”

  “And just what was that, anyway? The screen flared white, then both of you hit the floor.”

  “Can the explanations wait? I’m bleeding all over your nice interrogation room.”

  Stoker climbs to his feet, keeping his gun on me the whole time. “How bad is it?”

  I eye him, considering possible responses: Not too bad, as werewolf-inflicted injuries go; Ask me again when the moon is full; I’m fine, but the livestock in this county is in a lot of trouble. “Not life threatening, as far as I can tell. Hurts like a bitch, though.”

  He studies me, then slowly holsters his gun. “Where’d Cassiar go?”

  “You’re asking me? Where’d the giant hairy monster come from?”

  He approaches me slowly, pulls my arm away from my belly. Examines the wound. “It busted in here a few minutes after you passed out. Gave me a good smack, turned my lights out. When I came to, I opened fire. Cassiar was already gone—he must have ducked out during the attack.”

  Which raises even more questions: Why would Cassiar run? Why would the thrope let him? Unless …

  Stoker touches his eye and shakes his head, then winces. I realize he’s still a little woozy. This might be my best shot at escaping myself.

  “Damn it,” Stoker blurts, then turns and sprints out the door. Having no immediate plans myself, I follow.

  We find Deputy Silver lying beside the front desk. The thrope wasn’t as lenient with him as it was with me; Silver’s throat has been ripped open.

  “It killed him,” Stoker says. He doesn’t sound nearly as upset as I thought he’d be; more annoyed than anything. “That unholy thing killed him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I feel a little dizzy, not from the sight of blood but from losing too much of my own. I stagger and lean against the wall.

  “You need medical attention,” Stoker says. “I’d take you myself, but with Silver dead I can’t just leave. Get Charlie to drive you over to Doctor Pete’s.”

  “You sure? You’re not afraid I’ll just take off the way Cassiar did?”

  He gives me a cold, flat glance. “I don’t believe you will. After all, where would you go?”

  I don’t know how to answer that, so I don’t. I dig out my phone and call Charlie instead.

  * * *

  “Stoker’s a what?” I manage as Charlie speeds me toward Doctor Pete’s offices.

  “Serial killer. Terrorist. Bram Stoker’s great-great-grandkid. Genius-level psychopath who tried to end the world. Take your pick, then add all the others and mix well.”

  I stare out the window and try to stay conscious. “So that’s what you’ve been trying to tell me since the first time you saw Stoker.”

  “Yeah. I was about
ready to tie notes to rocks and chuck them through your window.”

  I think about what Charlie just told me, trying to trigger a memory cascade, but all I can call up is the look on Stoker’s face as he stood over the dead body of his deputy. The coldness in his eyes, the irritation in his voice. Not like a man who’d just lost a friend and colleague; more like a chess player whose opponent just took a valuable piece.

  But something else is nagging at me, and I realize it’s the deputy’s name. Quinn Silver. Quicksilver. The Quicksilver Kid. A lem bounty hunter Charlie and I have run into once or twice. “Didn’t recognize him,” I say groggily. “Looked different with a metal face.”

  “Stoker has a metal face?”

  “No, the Kid did. Quicksilver Kid. Didn’t think Ahaseurus was using lem counterparts, too.”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

  I frown. “Can’t transform, though. Not like pires and thropes. Not like you can bite someone and turn them into sand. You know, like a … a sandpire. Or a were-rock thing.”

  Charlie shoots me a worried look. “Yeah, we need to get you to a doctor.… I heard the gunshots from across town. Funny no one else came running.”

  “More magic, probably. If Ahaseurus can whip up a spell to make everyone on the planet not take firearms seriously, he can make a few townspeople ignore gunfire.”

  Charlie glances at me. “You remember the anti-gun spell? That’s a good sign—you’re getting more memories back.”

  “What I remember is that I used to have a gun myself. A really, really, big one.” I sigh. “I miss my gun.”

  “Wouldn’t be much use without the right ammo.” On Thropirelem—the world, not the town—I had silver-and-teak bullets specially made.

  We pull up in front of Doctor Pete’s place, a two-story brick building with a clinic on the main floor; he lives on the second. There’s a buzzer beside the door for emergencies, and Charlie runs over and leans on it.

  I feel oddly calm for someone who’s just been clawed by a thrope. I look down and see that the front of my shirt is soaked through; guess I’m bleeding worse than I thought. Things start to get a little blurry.

  Then Charlie’s helping me out of the car, and Doctor Pete’s asking questions, and there’s the smell of antiseptic and bright lights and somebody sticking poky things in different parts of my body. My arm first, then my stomach. Doctor Pete is asking more questions and Charlie’s stonewalling him.

  Good ol’ Charlie. I have to remember to hit him with that one later, the one about the stone wall. That’s what he is, y’know. Not the kind that blocks you out, the kind that holds stuff up. The kind that protects you. The kind you can lean on …

  Things go away right about then, but I’m not out for very long. I can tell, because when I open my eyes Doctor Pete’s only halfway through stitching up the six-inch-long gash just above my belly button. I’m flat on my back with my shirt off and there’s an IV in my arm, feeding me plasma to replace what I’ve lost.

  Doctor Pete notices I’m awake. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

  “Still a little woozy. How’s the embroidery going?”

  “Coming along fine. You lost a fair amount of blood, but the cut doesn’t go all the way through the muscle. No sit-ups for a while, though.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I look around. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Guarding the door. Seemed a little concerned that whoever did this might come back to finish the job.”

  He goes back to work. There’s something different about him, something I can’t put my finger on.

  He notices me studying him and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I got this newly minted scar?”

  “Not my business. If I was going to hazard a guess, I’d say it was a knife wound.”

  “Sure, let’s go with that. I was cleaning my Ginsu and it went off.”

  “So this is self-inflicted?”

  I hesitate before answering. “Not so much.”

  He keeps working. He must have given me a local, because I can’t feel a thing. “You getting into fights again?”

  “I wouldn’t really call this a fight. More like an animal attack.”

  “Is that a put-down of the person who did this, or a joke I don’t get?”

  “If it’s a joke, it’s on me.” As in, I’m the one who’s going to howl about it … but maybe I’m not the only one. “Say, doc—you get any others like this?”

  “What, knife wounds?”

  “No. Animal-inflicted injuries—bites or claw marks.”

  Now he looks at me and frowns. “You’re saying this was literally done by an animal? Because it doesn’t really look like it. There’s no way it’s a bite mark, and claw wounds tend to come in multiples.”

  “Humor me and answer the question.”

  He shakes his head. “No. Not like this. If this did come from an animal, it’d have to be a big one, and there’s nothing like that locally. Not unless somebody’s got a Bengal tiger that I don’t know about locked up in their barn.”

  So nobody else has been bitten or clawed. There’s a pire on the loose biting people and activating implanted false memories, but no thrope equivalent. So how did Mayor Leo and the rest get infected? Is Doctor Pete lying to me?

  Suddenly I realize what’s different about him.

  “So,” I say. “Am I keeping you from something important?”

  “What? No, I was just watching a movie.”

  “Uh-huh. Better get back up there before she eats all the popcorn.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s almost midnight. Your hair is less shaggy than usual, verging on actually being combed. Those pants are new and even a brand I recognize. You’re on a date.”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s just me and an old cowboy flick. I do buy new clothes and occasionally comb my hair, you know.”

  I give a discreet sniff. No cologne or lingering traces of a woman’s perfume. Doesn’t mean anything, though; lots of people don’t use either one. “Well, okay,” I say. “Guess my radar’s not as sharp as it usually is. Must be the loss of blood.”

  “I think you’re just mixing me up with my brother. He’s the ladykiller, not me.” He pauses in his work, then says, “I understand you were down at the station. How’s Terrance doing?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. Stoker won’t let anyone see him.”

  He nods, as if that’s exactly what he was expecting. “Well, he’s been arrested before.”

  “And that justifies being held incommunicado? Stoker hasn’t even let him talk to a lawyer.”

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason for that. If it’s true.”

  “What, you think I’m lying?”

  “Not at all. I just think you might not have all the facts.” He finishes his stitching, ties a neat knot, and trims off the extra thread. “Done,” he says. “Don’t put any stress on it for at least a week. No stretching, no heavy lifting, no getting into bar fights—with extra emphasis on that last one. Understand?”

  “Sure. Can I get out of here now?”

  He stands up and checks the IV drip. “Not yet. I want another bag of plasma in your tank before you leave. Otherwise, you could find yourself getting lightheaded again.”

  An idea strikes me. Probably a bad one, considering what happened last time, but it’s worth a shot. “So I’m going to be here awhile?”

  “At least an hour.”

  “Boring. Can’t I watch some TV?”

  “I’ve got a tablet with Wi-Fi. Will that do?”

  I shrug. “Don’t know. Depends on what I can find on the Internet.” I grin. “And how good your connection is.”

  My plan is simple: download a copy of the same Bloodhound Files episode I played at the police station, use it to contact Azura, then get her to pull the same stunt she did on Charlie and Cassiar. I don’t know if it’ll work—maybe I need the actual DVD to contact her—but it’s worth
a try.

  Too bad I don’t get the chance.

  The first part works just like I planned. I call Charlie in and chat with him inanely while I find and download the episode. Doctor Pete offers to make us some coffee, which I gratefully accept. While he putters around in another room, I fill Charlie in on what I want to do. He agrees we should give it a shot.

  And then we hear the noise from the other room.

  A surprised cry, quickly choked off, followed by the crash of a struggle. Charlie sprints out the door. I rip the IV out of my arm and run after him as quickly as I can.

  Vampires. Werewolves. Demonic road workers. After the near-constant barrage of attacks, I’ve forgotten all about the Big Bad this town was built for in the first place.

  The cord of the coffeemaker is wrapped around Doctor Pete’s neck. It’s tying itself into a hangman’s knot, the plug whipping around at insane speeds as it darts and loops.

  But that’s not the only thing happening. Other cords are wriggling toward Doctor Pete from all over the office like a bunch of revenge-minded snakes converging on Saint Patrick: power cords, computer cables, lengths of transparent IV tubing. When they come into contact with each other they twine together, a self-braiding, plastic-skinned python getting longer and thicker by the second.

  I look around wildly for a weapon—one that chops, preferably. Charlie’s already got a knife in his hand, something long and vaguely military. I spot a pair of scissors on a desk and grab them—by that point the python has reached the coffee pot cord and interlaced itself. Doctor Pete’s face is turning red and his tongue is sticking out.

  We jump in and start hacking. I can’t get the scissors between the cord and Doctor Pete’s throat; it’s sunk too deep into his skin. Charlie’s sawing away at the base of the hangman’s knot, but it’s too thick to get through easily.

  I hear the crash and tinkle of breaking glass. The other end of the boa construct has been busy too, knotting itself into a lump and punching a hole through the window. It slithers through until it can’t go any farther, its length snapping taut between the window and Doctor Pete’s neck.

  Slowly, it starts hauling Doctor Pete backward.