I opened the magical toolbox on the corner of the desk, hoping against hope there might be some arcane paper clip or screw unnoticed in the corner. But it was truly empty, nothing but the toolbox itself.
The Talisman of Terribleness throbbed brighter, hotter, nastier, ready to explode.
In hopeless disgust, I slammed the lid shut again and tipped over the box. Suddenly, I saw runes on the bottom, the same strange incantation that I had seen engraved on the flashlight, the screwdriver, and the scissors (except for the small typographical error). “Oh! The toolbox is part of the set, too.”
Vlad gasped and brightened. “Of course it is! Why didn’t I think of that? We used all the tools, but the box itself is the last item.”
Fortunately, I still had the phonetic pronunciation—and no time to lose. I would read the Necronomic runes and open a portal. “Let’s dump this relic into the normal world!”
“A place where the magic won’t work, a place without monsters,” Vlad said, sounding wistful. “A place where people can just be normal again.”
The Talisman continued smoking on Sheyenne’s desk, more ominous than ever. Even though I often can’t remember my own phone number, or my street address—nothing to do with the bullet hole in my head, just distracted—I rattled off the magical words. “Rutmo byachto seengac igsnat.”
Right there in the middle of the office, next to the plastic potted plant, a spectacular special-effects portal opened in the air, glowing even brighter than the radioactive Talisman of Terribleness ready to erupt on Sheyenne’s desk. I lurched for the artifact so I could throw it through the doorway.
But Vlad got there first. With a determined look on his face, he grabbed the Talisman and wrapped his arms around it as he spun to the portal. “The magic won’t work there, so I’ll be safe. I can be a normal insurance salesman—just the way I always wanted to be.”
“Wait, it’s a one-way trip,” I cried. “You’ll never be able to come back to the Unnatural Quarter.”
“That’s the idea,” said Vlad the Fence. He jumped through the shimmering dimensional doorway. “Too damn many curses back here.”
I threw the magical toolbox after him for good measure, and I just missed his head, but I didn’t want the thing around here at all. Maybe Vlad could use it, to store a set of mundane tools, if nothing else. The portal slammed shut with a vacuum pop, and the dangerous magic dissipated around us.
Everything was back to our own version of normal.
Sheyenne frowned at the scorch mark on her desk, then strategically placed a stack of unpaid invoices on top of it, which satisfied her.
McGoo removed his cap and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yes, I’ll take you up on that beer later tonight, Shamble.”
“Why does it have to be later?” I asked. “I could use one now.”
Since it was late in the afternoon, we left the office and headed out into the streets of the Quarter, making our way to the Goblin Tavern. I looked around at the familiar street scene filled with everyday monsters. A witch in a pointy black hat stood arguing with an ogre beside two cars caught in a fender-bender, each of them yelling at each other and exchanging insurance numbers. Another monster strolled by, pushing a baby carriage. A boy mummy zipped along on a skateboard, performing dangerous tricks that could easily snap his ancient bones or tear some of his bandages.
I found it all comforting. More than a decade after the Big Uneasy, I’d grown used to this. I understood the rules and my place, and I was a damn good detective, zombie or otherwise. I silently wished Vlad the best, knowing he would make a very good insurance salesman back in the mundane world.
But this place was normal to me now, and I certainly wouldn’t wish for anything else.
Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations was not a place for fun and games. As a zombie detective, I take my cases seriously. Some clients might even say dead seriously—and only half of them would be making a stupid joke.
My human partner, Robin Deyer, is a practicing attorney with a heart of gold, determined to see justice for all the monsters who had returned to the world a decade ago. We each had a full caseload to keep ourselves busy: werewolves still got divorced, mad scientists sued each other for patent infringements, ghosts vanished without meeting their financial obligations, mummies still watched their business dealings unravel.
Some cases were dangerous, and that’s how I’d ended up shot dead in an alley after getting too close to an evil criminal mastermind. No one was more surprised than me when I woke up as a zombie, dug myself out of the grave, and got back to work on my cases.
No, we didn’t have time for fun and games—at least not usually.
Sheyenne, my beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed ghost girlfriend drifted up to me as I stared at a pile of unsolved case folders on my desk. I hoped, without success, for some important clue to jump out at me like an inconvenient cat from the shadows in a low-budget horror movie.
It was long after dark in the Unnatural Quarter, but the dead of night was when the city really started hopping—or crawling or slithering. The nocturnal monsters came out for recreation, to make shopping trips, and just to go to work.
“We’ve all had a rough day, Beaux. We should take a break,” Sheyenne said, putting her intangible hands on the very nice curve of her hips. “And I’ve got just the thing. A new game.” She smiled, and I smiled back at her in an instinctive response.
I gave her my best interested leer. “Is it a private adult game, just between the two of us?” Since I was a zombie and she was a ghost, our romantic life posed certain challenges, but we knew how to make the best of things.
Giggling, Sheyenne shook her head. “No, it’s a high-end board game that was released before the Big Uneasy.”
“Back when people had time to play games,” I said wistfully. “I was pretty good at Go Fish, and I know McGoo was learning how to play checkers, but the strategy keeps eluding him.”
“Speaking of Officer McGoohan,” Sheyenne said, “I called him, and he’s coming over. Our game night is set, whether or not you want to play.”
I looked down at the folders on my desk. “The cases don’t solve themselves, but I’m not doing a very good job at it right now. Maybe some downtime will help.”
I was feeling discouraged because I’d disappointed a client today. An ogre with a big heart and a gentle soul had lost his beloved pet lab rat named Mickey. I’d put up “Lost Rat” signs all over the Quarter and pursued many leads, until I discovered that Mickey had been taken to the animal shelter. I rushed there to retrieve him, but before I could arrive, a mad scientist had adopted all the rats and taken them back to his laboratory. Knowing it was a race against time, I tracked down the mad scientist … and arrived moments too late. I did rescue Mickey, but only after the mad scientist had subjected his new pets to an oscillating electromagnetic experiment that dramatically increased the rats’ brain capacities. By the time I reunited the slow-witted ogre with his beloved rat, Mickey had concocted a private scheme for world domination with his fellow super-intelligent rats, and Mickey wanted nothing more to do with his dull master. It was a real tragedy, and the ogre was brokenhearted.
Robin also had a big disappointment that day, losing a custody battle for a scarab demon who wanted to have her larvae back. The creature longed to nurture them, to hold onto them for as long as she could, but the grubs were bad seeds, hooligans causing all kinds of trouble in the Quarter by burrowing where they weren’t wanted, ruining perfectly nice public parks. The mother beetle desperately wanted them back home, where she could care for them. Robin had made a passionate case, but the judge ruled to emancipate the grubs, since they were so close to pupating.
There wasn’t much rejoicing in the Chambeaux & Deyer offices this evening. Why not play a game?
As Sheyenne set up the game in the conference room, I made myself another cup of truly awful coffee, then glanced in the mirror to flick a piece of lint from the round bullet hole in the center of my forehead. I assesse
d my features, which were handsome enough and well preserved. I decided I could forego a trip to the embalming parlor for a week or so.
McGoo came in the door still wearing his blue patrolman’s uniform. “All right, what’s the emergency?” He looked around and saw me, then broke into a stupid grin. “Hey Shamble, what do you call two zombies in a hot tub?”
I braced myself. “What?”
“Soup!” He laughed. The others didn’t. We didn’t want to encourage him.
Officer Toby McGoohan is a beat cop who had offended so many humans with his raw and politically insensitive humor that he got himself transferred to the Unnatural Quarter, where the monsters didn’t like him much either, although they did tolerate him.
Sheyenne came out of the conference room, glowing. “It’s better than an emergency, Officer McGoohan. It’s game night.”
Robin emerged to join us in the conference room, where Sheyenne proudly held out the box. “It’s a zombie game called Last Night on Earth.” She started taking out the cards and the pieces, the rule book. The package was well produced, and I stared at the ferocious photos of bloodthirsty zombies, their dead eyes, their gore-covered faces, naked teeth that could tear flesh.
“Is this supposed to be a spoof or something?” I asked.
McGoo picked up one of the cards that showed a particularly rotted and horrific shambling corpse. “Hey, this one reminds me of you, Shamble!”
“Still better than you look with a hangover,” I said.
Heavy-hearted because of losing the larva custody case, Robin frowned at the box and the images. “This is rather insensitive to our zombie citizens. It perpetuates a stereotype.”
“The game was made before the Big Uneasy,” Sheyenne reminded her. “Back when the walking dead were seen as horrific cannibalistic monsters instead of upstanding members of the community.”
I nodded. “Zombies who look and act like this in the Unnatural Quarter would be whisked off to a rehab and reconstruction facility. They need therapy.”
“In this game, the zombies want brains,” said Sheyenne, “and flesh and bodily fluids. It’s dramatic. Come on, guys, get into the spirit of things.”
We all agreed. Sheyenne set up the game using her poltergeist powers to lift the components and distribute them on the table, putting together several different boards to build a small town. While she worked, I asked, “How was your day, McGoo?”
“Awful as usual, but with a few good points.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small delicate glass vial made filled with a swirling pearlescent lavender liquid. “I’ve got to take this into evidence.”
“When did you start using perfume?” I asked.
“Not perfume. It’s a magical substance. Very potent.”
“Like a little blue pill?”
Sheyenne handed us a stack of character cards and set out little plastic figures for each one. “You need to choose who you’re going to play as,” she told us. “A human or a zombie.”
“I choose zombie,” I said.
McGoo picked human. He continued, “Remember that illicit poker house I busted six months ago? The back-alley den run by a genie?”
“Sure. The little imp gave a bad name to illegal gambling.”
“We caught him using magically enhanced playing cards so that the house always won. He got sentenced to solitary confinement in his lamp, but today he was up for a parole hearing, and he requested that I speak on his behalf.”
“As a character reference?” I asked. “That wasn’t very smart. You put him away.”
“I didn’t have very nice things to say about him, so I was suspicious. Imagine my surprise when he secretly tried to bribe me with this.” He held up the perfume bottle. “It’s called Wish Stuff, a secret weapon that genies offer their clients. He said I could have whatever I most desired if I help him get out on probation.”
“I’m not sure that’s legal,” Robin said. “What would you wish for, Officer McGoohan?”
I suggested, “He might wish to be more handsome.”
“Wishes always backfire, Shamble. Instead, I reported him to the parole board, used this sample as evidence, and they denied his request and sentenced him to five more years of lockup inside his lamp. I’m supposed to deliver this to the evidence room at the station. But you said there was an emergency.”
“Emergency game night,” I said. “You can deliver it after we finish playing.”
Sheyenne was anxious to get started. “This Last Night on Earth scenario takes place in the town of Woodinvale, population about fifteen hundred. There’s a zombie outbreak.”
“Isn’t there always?” I asked.
“In Woodinvale, a zombie outbreak happens every thirty years or so. It’s a recurring nightmare. And these are hungry zombies that like to chew on people. Our characters need to search through Woodinvale for townsfolk and save as many of them as possible from being eaten.”
Robin was skeptical. “I still think it’s fearmongering against zombies, and we shouldn’t encourage that.”
“It was from a simpler, innocent time,” I said. “As the resident zombie here, let’s just say I won’t take offense.”
Sheyenne started the game. She, Robin, and McGoo were the humans, and set out to explore Woodinvale in search of survivors. They split up almost immediately: why do people always do that? On my turn I got to move the zombies into position. They were slow, but there were a lot of them, and within a couple of turns I had McGoo pinned behind the counter in the town’s small diner, desperately searching for anything he could use to defend himself. His character, Sheriff Anderson, finally found a weapon—a meat cleaver from the diner’s kitchen—but I played a card that made it break, and the zombies overwhelmed him.
I cackled. “I really like this game, Sheyenne.”
McGoo pulled out a new character, since his old one was now shambling across the board as a part of my zombie horde.
“Who are you this time, McGoo?”
He set his new plastic figure on the board. “Amanda, the prom queen. One of her special abilities is called ‘Beautiful.’” He batted his eyes. I opened my mouth to say something but decided against it.
We were getting wrapped up in the game, watching the characters die—usually horribly, chewed up by hordes of undead with a bad case of the munchies. The besieged characters in Woodinvale seemed real to us: Doc Brody, Sherriff Anderson and his son Bobbie, Jennie Sty and her father, the drifter Jake Cartwright, even McGoo’s prom queen.
“It’s certainly an interesting alternate history,” said Robin, at last getting distracted from her disappointing day.
“I’ll bet some people even wish the Big Uneasy had never happened,” McGoo said. “Although I’m not sure this apocalypse version is an improved scenario.” He picked up the dice and rolled for combat, engrossed in the game, but my zombies rolled better. He added another wound token to his prom queen and realized that his character had just succumbed to the slavering horde—again. “Awww, shoot!” He pounded his fist on the table in frustration.
We have a sturdy conference room table, but McGoo’s frustrated fist was even stronger. His blow jarred the surface, toppled some of the playing pieces. Worse, he knocked the delicate glass vial of Wish Stuff off the edge of the table, and it shattered on the floor.
He looked down at the spilling liquid and scowled. “Awww, shoot!” he said again. “That was evidence.” McGoo scrambled to scoop up the pieces in his hands. The liquid ran over the shards of glass as he stuffed them in his shirt pocket, hoping to salvage something of the remains.
Extravagant lavender fumes curled up from the spilled liquid on the floor, like a fog bank erupting from the purple pool. We all began to cough. The mist filled the conference room.
“That doesn’t smell like perfume, McGoo!” I waved my hands in front of me, but I couldn’t see. The lavender mist seemed entirely unnatural, but the color quickly faded to a more common grayish-white fog, the kind often mischaracterized as pea soup
, which is an entirely different color.
“Now what?” I asked.
Beside me, Sheyenne’s ectoplasmic glow did little to illuminate the night. Robin and McGoo were also standing next to me, and as the fog cleared we found ourselves outside in a strange environment. We were on a paved county road with tall, dark evergreens looming around us. A full moon rode overhead.
In front of us I saw a sign that said
Welcome To Woodinvale
pop. 1500
A big, wet, red splatter of blood covered one side of the sign.
Not far away down the road, we heard a loud bloodcurdling scream.
Considering the town sign and the eerie setting, I had a good guess what the horrific scream might mean.
McGoo didn’t. “Do you think someone else had a bad dice roll?”
The scream rang out again, a woman’s scream, but it sounded more furious than terrified. Even so, when someone screams it’s natural either to run in terror or run to help. Good thing we were all in the latter category.
We didn’t stop to consider how we’d been magically transported inside the game, or maybe this was just an advanced and ultra-realistic level of Last Night on Earth. We ran down the mist-slick highway overshadowed by pines, turned a sharp curve, and came upon a horrific frenzy of rotting flesh, blood, putrefaction, and cannibalism—in that order, although the cannibalism was still in its early stages and the victim in question was doing her very best not to become a victim.
She was an athletic young blonde dressed in jeans and a farm work shirt backed up against a battered old Ford pickup truck that was pulled off to the side of the road. Her face and shirt were spattered with gore, and she wielded a big axe against a crowd of moaning zombies trying to rip the tender flesh from her bones.
These zombies didn’t look like the nice ones you might meet in the Unnatural Quarter. Four of the shamblers already lay dead … well, deader than they had been before meeting the girl with the axe. Severed body parts twitched and flopped on the pavement. She had been busy.
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