Evernight Publishing ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2015 Jennifer Macaire
ISBN: 978-1-77233-362-6
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Katelyn Uplinger
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For Kris Alice, whose piña colada comment started everything.
JACK THE STRIPPER
M.U.C.I. Files (Mutant and Undead Criminal Investigation)
Jennifer Macaire
Copyright © 2015
Cast of Characters
Jack Severn: Extraordinarily handsome zombie
Brianna Henley: Expert in security, ex-cop, and Jack's ex-girlfriend.
Dee Martin: Owner of The Purple Dee, a nightclub with a tarnished past
May Ling Li: Detective zombie, and proud of it
Jim Ling Li: The Necromancer: Secretive and powerful
The Heart Taker: Mutant murderer with a penchant for poems
Chapter One
Rainy Days and Monday
His arm fell off again. The first time it happened, he’d been holding a heavy suitcase. A woman noticed and let out a terrified scream. He looked down. The suitcase lay on the ground, his hand still gripping it.
“Ahhhh!” he screamed too. Suddenly everyone in the bus station was either screaming or running. Panicked, he grabbed his arm, first having to pry his fingers off the suitcase, and fled.
With the bus station far behind him, he slowed down and tried to take stock of his situation. He was lost. His arm had fallen off. Well, it could be worse. At least he hadn’t lost it. He took his shirt halfway off and popped his arm back into its socket—getting it backwards the first time.
It was so bizarre. His arm was like part of a toy that popped in and out of its socket. A strange, magnetic, magical effect held it together. At least he didn’t feel anything and it wasn’t too gross once you got used to seeing bare bone and muscle. No blood. No pain. No suitcase—he’d left it in the bus station. No clean clothes. A raindrop landed on his nose. Then the sky opened up and let down a deluge. Great.
Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he hurried down the street, letting his instinct guide him. A sort of whispered tingle ran through his body, urging him this way and that. It was the same sort of tingling pull that made him go to the bus station. It had led him this far—he might as well follow it to see where he’d end up. The mysterious force coursing through his body tugged him along, and then spun him around and pushed him into a dark, narrow alleyway.
He looked around. At one end of the alley was a dumpster. At the other end was the quiet street where he’d arrived. He knew where he was. Things were starting to fall into place.
He waited a few minutes, but no one had followed him. He sighed, and went to the green door. He tried the handle, but it was locked, and when he pulled it, his arm fell off again.
Depression and dismay rolled over him. He bent down, picked up his arm, and put it back in place. Nothing was going right. He kept hoping he’d wake up from the nightmare he found himself in, but it wasn’t happening. He was dead, and he had no place to go except here. Timidly, he rapped on the green door. No one answered, so he knocked harder, and then, when the door remained shut, he made a fist and pounded with all his might.
After a few moments it opened and a man with long blond hair down to his waist peered out at him. The man rubbed bloodshot blue eyes, yawned, and then said, “You’re too early for the audition. It won’t be for another couple hours.” With that, he shut the door in Jack’s face.
Audition? Jack blinked, backed up, and looked more carefully at the green door. Taped to the door was a sign. “Auditions. All day Sunday.”
He rapped on the door again, and the blond man opened it. He looked cross. “Look man, it says starting at 2 p.m.”
“It says all day Sunday,” said Jack. “Is today Sunday?”
“Of course.” The blond man looked perplexed. “All day Sunday? Let me see that.” He stepped out and examined the sign. “Right.” He looked at Jack. “Wait a minute.” He went inside. A minute later he was back with a felt-tipped pen. Carefully, he blacked out the “All day” and wrote, “Starting at 2 p.m.”. Putting the top back on the pen he nodded. “Better.”
“Could I wait inside?” Jack asked. “It’s raining.”
The blond man had been about to shut the door. He scratched his head then shrugged. “All right. You can wait in the lounge. Follow me.”
Gratefully, Jack entered the building where he was pretty sure he’d been killed.
How he’d died and who had killed him were yet to enter his head. He didn’t think that he was ready for those memories. Just trying to cope with today strained him to the limit. At the same time a numb, cotton-wool feeling surrounded him, making him wonder if this could be a bad dream after all.
He stepped inside and blinked. The nightclub had totally changed. He didn’t recognize it at all. How long had he been dead? It hadn’t occurred to him to check. Besides, just realizing he’d died had been a hell of a shock. He’d had enough shocks for the moment. When he’d seen the scar on his chest and the memory of his death had hit him, he’d walked out of the men’s room like a ... well, like a zombie. He’d stood in the middle of the station, just stood there, until his arm dropped off.
“Hey, why don’t you sit down? I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be back in a little while, all right?” The blond man pointed to a purple velvet sofa and Jack sank onto it with a sigh. It felt good to be resting. His arms and legs trembled with fatigue, and after a few minutes of sitting upright he glanced around to make sure the blond man had gone, and lay down on the sofa. At first he lay on his back. But that made the terrible memory of waking up in the coffin return, so he turned over onto his side and curled into the soft cushions.
The recollection of waking up in the coffin was making him sick, but he didn’t try to chase the memory away. It made him feel more alive for one thing, and he was still hoping for some sort of explanation, no matter how wild, of how he woke up from the dead.
****
He didn't wake up in a flash of consciousness. He came to gradually, with his mind dull and groggy. He tried to sit up first, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t turn over or bend his legs. Working his hands free, he groped around blindly, feeling smooth, hard wood only inches above his face. This wasn’t his bed. The walls pressed in on him. Pure, overwhelming, primal fear flooded through him. This was a coffin! He was buried alive!
No, he thought, this had to be a dream. Calm down. Keep your cool. You’ll wake up in a minute. Keep your eyes open. Are they open? Yes.
He waited to wake up. Waited for the slightest glimmer of light that would tell him what was going on, but the fear and the suspicion he’s been buried alive kept seeping back. Finally his mind snapped. He exploded, or that’s what it felt like, and he shoved his arms straight up, smashing through the wood, bringing a shower of fetid earth down on his chest.
Panic helped him with the rest of the journey. Somehow he forced his way through his coffin lid and dug his way to the surface of the earth. He broke out of the ground, shaking and spitting dirt from his mouth and then, the burst of unnatural energy gone, he fell asleep under the cold rain.
When dawn colored the sky gray, he woke up on h
is back. Trees leaned over him, their tattered leaves nearly gone, their trunks and branches black and shiny with water. A flock of crows suddenly surged out of the glowering sky, wheeling and cawing above him. Startled, he rolled over and found himself facing a grave. Blinking the rain out of his eyes, he made out the words on the tombstone.
R.I.P.
Jack Severn
Born 1985 – Died 2010
The name struck a chord in his mind. He felt as if he knew that guy. And then a voice inside his head whispered that Jack was his name. He was Jack. But nothing else came to him. It was like he’d been born inside a grave, had pushed and squeezed out through dirt, and woke up lying on cold, wet grass. His mind was empty, scrubbed clean as if the rain had washed through it. Even the panic had gone. In its place was a curious numbness. Perhaps, he thought after a while, this is all a dream. With that in mind, he got up and managed to push the dirt back into his grave, smoothing the mud and replacing the sodden grass.
Some obscure, mysterious force drove him. He didn’t think. No, it was more than that—he couldn’t think. His mind was empty except for a voice whispering for him to go somewhere. He remembered things in bits and pieces as he walked. He remembered where he’d bought the muddy suit he wore, but he didn’t think to wonder why he’d been in a grave or why he was in a cemetery. It was like being in a dream. In fact, he was pretty sure he was dreaming. Everything: the dirt, the rain, and the bus station in front of him were part of a dream.
He felt numb. That was another argument for a dream. But the dream kept veering into a nightmare. He was cold and wet, his feet sloshed inside his shoes, and when he reached for his wallet, it wasn’t there.
He wanted to get out of the rain, so he went toward the bus station right next to the cemetery.
A taxi stopped and a man got out. He paid the driver then noticed Jack. “Jesus! What happened to you? Here, take this.” He tossed a five dollar bill at Jack. To the cab driver the man said, “They should keep the homeless out of the bus station. It’s disgusting. Don’t the police do anything about it?” The cabby shrugged and drove away, the man walked off, and Jack glanced down at his suit and for the first time, realized how filthy he was.
He needed some dry clothes. That’s how he came to take the suitcase someone had left in front of a bench at the bus station. He stood in a corner and watched it for a long time, but nobody seemed to belong to the suitcase. It was all alone. Casually, he sat down in front of it. He leaned over and rested his hand on it. No one even glanced in his direction.
He took the suitcase and went into the men’s room. First, he looked into the mirror to see if his reflection told him anything about himself, but he didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. Who was that filthy man with the wild, unkempt hair and muddy face? He reached up and touched the stubble on his chin, but the feeling was totally unfamiliar. He had no idea who he was.
A fit of shivering came over him and he glanced down at the suitcase. He hoped it held men’s clothes. It did. Not daring to look at the stranger in the mirror anymore, he peeled off his wet jacket and shirt and washed in the sink, trying to ignore the stares of other people. At the same time, he was oddly disconnected from everything. Certain he’d wake up from the nightmare, he kept washing up. Any second now, he thought, I’ll open my eyes in another place as another person. Come on Jack, wake up. Come on!
He rested his hands on the sink and leaned his forehead against the cool mirror. Of all the strange dreams, this was the strangest. He vaguely remembered his name, Jack, but his reflection didn’t tell him anything, just that he was a young man with blue eyes, black hair, and a straight nose. Sighing, he pulled back.
That’s when he noticed the massive scar on his chest and the first of his memories rushed back and hit him with the force of a freight train. He was dead. He’d died. He was not dreaming.
He jumped backward and tripped over the suitcase. The fall stunned him and he lay for a second, his mind full of a terrible roaring noise.
An elderly black man with kind eyes bent over him and in a concerned voice asked, “Are you all right, son?”
“Fine,” croaked Jack. He staggered to his feet and looked wildly about. He was dead!
“What time is your bus?”
“Bus?” Jack gaped at him, and then remembered he was in a bus station. He was a half-naked dead man in a bus station. “Uh, soon.”
“Well, you better hurry and get dressed. And be careful, the floor is slick.” The man nodded and left.
Jack fumbled in the suitcase for some clothes. Shock warred with shock as he pulled on a white tee-shirt and a dark blue jacket. There was even a pair of jeans that nearly fit him. Once dressed, he sat on his suitcase and shook for a few minutes. Then the little voice in his head pushed him back to his feet and started to tug at him. His feet listened to the voice and he followed. It seemed the voice tried to lead him somewhere. He left the bathroom and stood for a minute, trying to get his bearings.
And that’s when his arm had fallen off, the woman had screamed, and he’d ran out of the bus stop with nothing but the clothes on his back and his arm in his hand. By the time he’d stopped for breath he came to this conclusion: no one should ever have to wake up in a coffin.
Chapter Two
Jack is Back
He woke up. For a minute he was too scared to open his eyes. But then he heard footsteps and a small cough. Jack sat up, rubbing his face. He must have fallen asleep on the purple couch. He felt rumpled, but a bit better even if it hadn’t turned out to be a dream. He was still in borrowed clothes on a strange couch in a club where he’d been killed. The blond man came over and stood looking at him, a frown on his face.
“Thanks for letting me stay inside,” said Jack.
“Hey, no problem.” He stuck his hand out to shake. “I’m Duane Martin. You can call me Dee. Everyone does.”
“Jack.” He shook Dee’s hand.
“You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
“I don’t know.” Jack tried to dredge up some memory of the blond man. He thought he’d remember someone with hair down to his hips. “I don’t think so,” he said, after a minute.
“There’s a vending machine in the game room.” Dee pointed. “Why don’t you grab something to drink and make yourself useful? You can answer the door for me when the others come for the audition while I finish fixing the damn lights. All right?”
Jack nodded and got up, stretching. “Didn’t this place used to be a disco?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But now it’s a burlesque pool club, a new idea I had. It’s called ‘The Purple Dee.’ What do you think?”
Jack looked around. A small stage had been built facing the bar, and in between was the old dance floor, now full of bistro tables and chairs for those watching the show. The new dance floor had been moved to one side, and just behind it was a pool room, visible through swinging doors like a saloon in a cowboy movie. “Nice,” he said. “Have you been open long?”
“No, the grand opening is supposed to be Halloween night. I’m getting everything set right now, but my stripper, Tony, left last week without notice. The asshole. I have to replace him as soon as possible. It’s probably morbid to open a club on the same day it got closed because of a murder but …” Dee’s eyes widened. “I know this sounds crazy, but I just realized who you reminded me of. Are you, by any chance, related to the guy that got killed here? Jack Severn? I have a clipping of the newspaper, and you look exactly like him. It’s totally weird.”
Jack’s fists clenched. He hadn’t thought anyone would recognize him. His picture had been in the papers? What exactly had happened to him here? He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Dee held his hands out in a peace gesture. “Hey, sorry. I had to ask. I got the place after it happened. I’d always wanted to run my own club and it was dirt cheap, as you can imagine. But I changed everything around. I even broke down walls to make it different.”
“I remember how it looked before. When it happened I was …” he broke off and stared at a spot where the old dance floor used to be. “Over there.”
“You were here? The night it happened?” Dee took a step backward. “Sweet Jesus and Mary. Why did you come back here? I thought you were here for the audition.”
“That’s a good question.” Jack shook his head slowly. “I haven’t got the faintest idea why I came back. I’ve been thinking about that all morning. Ever since I found out ...” His voice trailed off and he sighed.
“You found out about the audition and wanted to try out?” Dee prompted.
“Try out for what?”
“The audition. To be a stripper. That’s what the audition is for. I put the sign up and posted the ad in the ...” Dee clapped his hand to his forehead. “I forgot.”
“What?”
“I forgot to post the ad.” Dee’s voice rose. “I forgot to post the fucking ad! I forgot! I can’t believe I forgot. I had it all written down. Call the Post. Place the ad. Wait for the auditions. Get someone to replace that jerk Tony. How could I be so stupid?” He started to pace. He walked from the bar to the pool room, around the snooker table and back to the lounge. He walked up the steps to the stage and looked down at Jack. He hadn’t moved.
Dee seemed to be sizing him up, and then he said, “Hey kid. Watch. It’s dead easy.” He unbuttoned the top of his shirt. “Always bare your chest first,” he said. “Then do your cuffs. If you forget the cuffs you look like an ass when your shirt gets stuck.” He undid his cuffs. “Keep moving. Don’t stop moving for a second.” His feet moved in a shuffle step. He took his shirt and pulled it wide open.
Jack the Stripper Page 1
