Early Morning of the Living Dead

by Raye Larson

  chapter one

  When the phone rang three hours after Charlotte Stevens went to bed–two hours and twenty minutes after she’d left the paper, she might add–she half hoped someone had died.

  Half, because she was tired and cranky and didn’t really mean anyone will. And half, because crap, she’d just gotten to sleep. Someone better be dead. Ish.

  Rnng.

  Charlotte opened her eyes and stared blearily at the lump in the dark blue flannel sheets beside her. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into getting that?”

  Silence.

  Charlotte took that as a no.

  It was likely her great taste in sheets. The flannel might not be especially sexy but they were sinfully soft. Plus she was there. Who didn’t want to lay curled beside an attractive auburn haired woman in her early thirties?

  Most people, actually. It was why, for as good looking and brilliant and charming as Charlotte was–and she was–her bedmate was inanimate.

  Career: one thousand.

  Love life: zero.

  Negative two, if you asked her last two exes.

  Rnng.

  Charlotte pushed herself up. Beside her, Lord Bearington III looked up at her with his large black button eyes.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Charlotte said, reaching past the plush bear. “Being inanimate is no excuse for not getting the phone.”

  Except it was. A really good one, too.

  Screw logic. She’d only gotten three hours of sleep.

  Rnnng.

  Charlotte grabbed the phone of off her nightstand and hit the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Charlotte.”

  Derek.

  Charlotte glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was a little after seven in the morning, meaning she’d gotten three hours and five minutes of sleep. Since Derek Rutherford was the editor-in-chief of the Spectator and thus not human, he could stay up until three in the morning and be bright and chipper a few hours later. Charlotte, meanwhile, was flesh and blood and needed at least four more hours of sleep.

  Two, if coffee was involved.

  “I’m sorry to be calling you,” Derek said. “Faith’s been in an accident.”

  Oh hell. Forget the coffee. And about wanting someone dead.

  Charlotte rose from the bed. Pale morning light bled in through the large window beside her bed, making the dust motes dance. Unlike her, the motes were morning people.

  “Is she okay?” Charlotte asked.

  “Give or take a few dozen stitches, probably. Some guy rear ended her this morning. When she got out of her car to go exchange insurance information with him, he bit her.”

  “Shit. How bad was the bite?”

  “Pretty bad. The creep almost tore off her thumb.”

  Fuck. “How’d she get away from him?”

  “She hit him over the head with her laptop bag. When he let go, she ran for the office. I called nine-one-one the moment I saw her. The police took the creep away, and the ambulance took Faith to the hospital.”

  Charlotte shouldn’t ask...

  “Did you get any pictures?” She asked.

  Derek snorted. “No. I was trying to stop the bleeding. Faith did, though.”

  Way to go, Faith.

  “I hate to ask you on such short notice,” Derek said, “but could you take care of her interview today?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Poor Faith. If Charlotte remembered correctly, she’d spent months trying to get this interview. Missing out on it must be killing–er, annoying her. “Blake, right?”

  “Yes. Spencer I’m–so–sorry–but–I’m–terribly–important–Blake.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “If we were writing a fluff piece about his latest software I’m sure he would’ve had plenty of time for us.”

  “Certainly. If we were picking apart his software, he’d make time for us just so he could try to hire away whoever found holes in his product. We’re not, though.”

  Charlotte smiled. No, they weren’t.

  Especially not someone who was questioned over the disappearance of a university history professor.

  “I don’t suppose there’s been any update on the missing teacher,” Charlotte said. Last she’d heard–from Faith, the night before–the professor, Benjamin Cooper, hadn’t been heard from in over two months.

  “None whatsoever.”

  Oh, spiffy. Charlotte couldn’t wait to ask Blake. And get it in digital immortality. Blake sounded like the kind of guy who’d argue that he didn’t say something he had.

  “There’s just one catch,” Derek said.

  “I have to be there in five minutes?”

  “No. Blake is really shy about talking in front of cameras right now. He only agreed to this interview if it wasn’t filmed or recorded.”

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t want to be recorded.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. Of course. In print, Blake could argue that his words were twisted. In a recording, he couldn’t.

  “I can still ask him about Cooper, right?” Charlotte asked.

  “Ask away. Just keep in mind that if you do that too soon, Blake might suddenly remember another meeting he needs to go to.”

  Save that line of questioning for near the end, then.

  Or if they got trapped in an elevator together. In Charlotte’s experience, people got really chatty when they were trapped in a small space and had a lot of time on their hands.

  “What time’s the interview for?” Charlotte asked.

  “Nine-thirty, at the Blake Building in Sunnyvale.”

  Charlotte considered the time and distance between her condo and Blake. It was early but, with traffic, she didn’t have a lot of time. The Bay Area, was a magical place where a fifteen-minute commute could sometimes take an hour.

  “I better start getting ready, then,” Charlotte said.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate you doing this on such short notice. Come by later the office later and I’ll buy you lunch.”

  The offer was one part guilt, one part bribe, but Charlotte still loved it.

  “Eighteen years out of college and I still want to jump at the chance for free food,” Charlotte said. “It seems like a part of me is still a starving student.”

  “If it helps I plan on working you like a dog tonight.”

  “Ruff, ruff.”

  Derek laughed. “Down, girl. Or up, if you’re still in bed.”

  “I’m up. I almost wasn’t; I had someone waiting for me when I got home a few hours ago.”

  “Your bear will be waiting for you tonight. Get going.”

  “Hey, you don’t know. I might be talking about a real person.”

  Click.

  Well, he didn’t know.

  Except Derek kind of did. The jerk.

  The brilliant and best friend-y jerk who created the Spectator at a time when other newspapers were downsizing. The guy who looked at the ever-growing mass of entertainment there was in people’s lives, competing for their attention, and thought that they could use one more. The guy who, when told that the world was changing and that journalism was dying said no.

  That and; let’s be honest: things are always changing. People can get information anywhere, but they won’t always know if the source is reliable. We can give them that.

  And so, surrounded by friends–some of whom slept on Charlotte or Faith’s couches because of the downturn–Derek started the Spectator. Ten years later, he was still running it. With luck, hard work, and a few more well-paying ads, he’d continue to do it, doing his best to be the Citizen Cane of the new millennium in his coat and tie and Game of Thrones sword chair.

  Very impressive looking.
/>   Crappy lumbar support, though.

  Charlotte, meanwhile, would be behind Derek, wearing a black velvet coat and jeans, looking oh so put together, and hoping no one noticed her mismatched socks. When she was certain no one was looking–except maybe at her socks, she was infamous around the office for that–she would occasionally check Derek out.

  Only occasionally, mind you. At thirty, she was at her mental best, and part of that–thank you, therapy–was because she’d stopped trying to have both a relationship and a calling.

  She could look at Derek–she could look at anyone, really–as long as it was only that. If she wanted more, he could talk to the other person, discuss how they felt, what had and hadn’t worked out for them in other relationships in the past, what they hoped for now.

  Not talking, as in interviewing or chatting, but talking, as in verbal intimacy, letting another person close and letting them see her.

  And Charlotte, so well put together, in clothes that cost more than anything she had worn as a child, with her BA in journalism and AA in sardonic arts, with her beauty and her smile and dark blue eyes and her ten–okay, maybe twenty–extra pounds of curvy awesomeness, Charlotte...

  Could someone look at her, really look at her, and like her?

  Maybe. Some said that people were drawn to self-assurance. Some said charm. Others good looks. She had all three, if she said so herself.

  And if one didn't want to take her word for it, ask Derek. Or Faith. Of half of the Spectator staff.

  Just be careful which half. Some of them loved her, others wished for her death just so they could step in and become Derek’s Girl Friday, the second greatest day of the week.

  Faith was his Girl Saturday, the greatest day of all time. The day when their favorite coffee shop stayed open later.

  When Charlotte was dressed–and technically matching, with one blue sock matching her jeans and her other black sock matching her knee-length black velvet coat, and all going quite smashingly with her long sleeved white silk shirt–she stepped in front of the tall mirror in the corner of her room.

  For all of her continuing mantra about her looks–she was good looking, you could trust her on that–when faced with any kind of reflection, the truth became clear: she was freakishly good looking.

  A girlish face, a profile befitting a silent screen star, blue eyes that occasionally made people ask her if she was wearing contacts, and curves, all the curves, curves here, curves there, curves everywhere. She was rather fond of them, ten–heh, twenty–pounds and all.

  On occasion, someone would tell her that she would be so pretty if she lost weight. She'd smile and tell them they'd be very attractive if they stayed silent.

  For some odd reason, they didn't want to be friends after that.

  It was so weird. It was like people didn't want a stranger to give them a backhanded compliment or something.

  Sadly, Charlotte had had time to think about things like that. Before she turned fifteen, she'd been all awkward limbs, too large eyes, and perfect nose that looked all the weirder on her.

  When the magic of puberty hit, she went from Quasimodo’s prettier cousin to could-finally-be-popular-if-she-could-forget-that-the-people-who-now-liked-her-called-her-Quasimodo-the-week-before.

  Which was to say that she’d been less liked than she had been before.

  Charlotte ran a hand through her hair. Her shoulder length auburn strands fell about her face, completing her favorite look: business casual.

  Or journalist fashionista sporting the fall lineup, Faith would say.

  Or gal who dresses as if she’s still trying to both spite and impress her dad, Derek would counter.

  They were both wrong. Charlotte wouldn’t have bothered. Not after she turned thirty, anyway. She...

  She hoped Faith was okay.

  The creep almost tore off her thumb.

  Charlotte picked up her phone and called her cell.

  Three rings later, her phone directed Charlotte to Faith's voice mail.

  “Hi,” Faith said. Her voice was pleasant and light, like a smile made audio. “I’m currently unavailable but if you leave me a message, I’ll get back to you asap.”

  Beep.

  “Hi, Faith,” Charlotte said. “I heard about the bite. I’m sorry you were hurt. If you need anything, please give me a call.”

  She clicked the call off. Short, concise, and not full of babbling: Faith would like that. Charlotte could babble at her later, when she returned to the office.

  And she would be back at the office later. They had ink in their veins, she, Faith, and Derek. She’d be back and she’d want to know how Charlotte’s interview went. She’d gone to middle school with Cooper. She’d wanted to get at Blake for a while.

  The police stopped investigating Blake because he has money. He bought his alibi, he bought every witness who swears he was with them, he probably bought the land he buried Cooper on.

  His money hadn’t paid for someone to bite her.

  Probably, anyway.

  If Charlotte ever learned otherwise, Faith would be delighted. And angry, but mostly happy. She’d known Blake had to be hiding something.

  Personally, Charlotte suspected insider trading or embezzlement or tax evasion, but she hadn’t met the guy yet. For all she knew, Blake had never broken any law, and he was stuck with some awkward looking circumstances.

  If he was, Charlotte hoped to find out. And if he wasn’t, Charlotte would crucify him.

  On paper, of course. It was difficult to get blood out of wool. Charlotte had a really great suit coat she couldn’t ever wear again because of that.

  chapter two

  Thursday morning traffic in the Bay Area meant that Charlotte spent forty minutes making what normally would’ve been a ten-minute drive. Forty-one, after swerving to avoid hitting some early morning pedestrians who crossed against the light. Forty-three, after parking.

  Forty-four, after shooting a glower at the cluster of people shuffling in the distance. She hadn’t had a chance to grab any coffee yet and she’d managed to not kill anyone. Those people were lucky she was so even tempered.

  And that her favorite coffee shop, the Bean, was next door to the Spectator office. After the interview, Charlotte would stop by and ask them to just connect an IV to her arm.

  The cool thing was, they did have an order called the IV. It was a box of their house blend that served ten-to-twelve normal people or four reporters. The Bean manager had designed it to honor the medical offices across the street from them, and now they and the Spectator competed to see who bought the most boxes every week. The winner got a free box.

  Considering how outnumbered the Spectator was, it was a little scary how often they won.

  Charlotte got out of her car. She tended to keep the air inside the car comfortable–just a hint of warmth, mostly focused on her hands–and when she stepped outside, the cold morning wrapped around her. It stole her warmth and offered her a hint of iron.

  She glanced at the sky. The area above her was a patchwork of sky and clouds but to the west, where the Santa Cruz Mountains hugged the valley, there was a dark haze.

  It was going to rain, she realized. She gave it an hour, maybe two, before she was getting a free car wash.

  Charlotte grabbed her leather satchel off the passenger seat and locked her doors. On the bright side, she’d gotten a great spot, just a few feet from the two-story building. If it was raining when she got out, she wouldn’t have to go far.

  Besides the clouds, the morning was pleasant, if cold. The wind whispered over her, stinging any exposed skin.

  Charlotte headed for the building. The Blake building was a pretty two story affair; all glass windows and blue-gray walls. The roof was flat, with large solar panels arranged in rows. Very nice. Very green. The Spectator had half the solar panels Blake had and it’d really helped their electric bill.

  The wind picked up, sending a fresh rain of dull green leaves over her. It was April, the first true month o
f spring, but in the Bay Area–Sunnyvale, to be exact, though all cities felt more like different flavors of the great San Jose, whose eldritch streets stretched everywhere–most of the foliage was green.

  Between spring and winter storms, the green faded to brown, the mountains circling the valley faded behind a shroud of smog, and people over sixty grumbled about the loss of the orchards that used to make up the area.

  Those same people, Charlotte had found, tended to also reminisce about the days when women and minorities knew their place, so she welcomed the smog. The rains would come, wash the area clean, and when they weren’t threatening mudslides, they sometimes left snow along the top of Mount Hamilton.

  There was perhaps an orchard or two left–Charlotte occasionally saw one of them when she was heading home from the Spectator–but the Bay Area had given the world computers and software and Psycho Donuts.

  Plus women and minorities got to vote. Win-win.

  Charlotte reached the entryway a step behind another man. The doors opened automatically and the man–dark skin, awesome leather coat, a Venti cup in one hand, a briefcase in the other–glanced at him.

  “Morning,” Charlotte said.

  “Morning.” The man offered her a smile. “You look new. Just starting?”

  “No. I’m interviewing Blake for the Spectator.”

  “The who?”

  “It’s a super-secret society of secret seekers.”

  The man snorted. “I take it that I’m not the first to ask?”

  And likely not the last.

  “It’s cool,” Charlotte said. “One day you’ll look back on this moment. You’ll remember how the light fell across my incredible features and how witty I was. You’ll tell others that we met, but no one will believe you, because people who belong to super-secret societies rarely tell others they’re in super-secret societies. You’ll know the truth, though, and it’ll forever mark you.”

  The man laughed. “I better Google the Spectator then in preparation for all of my future fanboying. Good luck with your interview.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man went ahead, passing a receptionist, a security guard, and a tall plant before reaching the elevator.

  Charlotte approached the receptionist and smiled. “Hi. I’m Charlotte Stevens, here for Faith Irvine.”