Authors: A.J. Aalto
Eat Paula.
Eat.
Paula.
I sucked wind through my teeth but didn't break contact with the ring: his wife, his ring, his arm, his hunger, his intensity.
Aradia's teats
, my brain piped up, cursing the day my brother ever set foot on my porch, the day that set this man's murder in motion. What could I possibly say to the cops? I had to tell them the truth. If it really was who I thought it was (
don't be dense, you know exactly who it is, Marnie
) and if he was, for some reason, shambling around Shaw's Fist (
risen, someone has raised him on purpose
) eating people … dammit, I had to tell them.
“Dr. B.?” Declan probed.
Rob Hood was no more than fifty feet behind me; maybe because of Declan's amplification spell, or maybe because of my own dread, I could feel the weight of Hood's stare. He'd been planning on having divers drag the lake today.
I had to be sure. I focused on pushing further into the ring's aura, clearing aside piles of bloody imagery and murderous intent to find
who had done this, avoiding the memory of his original death; that was not going to serve me at all. I needed to know what happened to his corpse and when, and why it was up and haunting my lake.
Stay
, I heard. A gurgle, some static, and then,
Stay.
Declan's hand landed on my forearm and I felt a surge of power plunge through my veins, nothing like Harry's power, not cool and restrained but warm and vibrant and vigorous, wild like growth. Like life.
“Come on down.” His hand slid down to grab my wrist; pulling my hand away from the ring, he broke the contact there. Heat lashed between the ring and my fingertips, inches apart, like a magnetic draw, as though the ring had more to tell me. My hand itched to hear the news. “Easy now, Dr. B. That's enough. We're done. Agent Batten,” he summoned, “That coffee coming?”
“Declan …” I sighed. His shoulder caught up against mine.
“Close your eyes and just let it go back into the Earth. It's okay, lean on me if you need to.”
A firm hand cupped my elbow and I relaxed into it gratefully. The Blue Sense didn't immediately dissipate as it otherwise would have, without the amplification; it spun through my head, half-heard voices, like a TV jerked on and off under the constant buzz of a radio not quite dialed to a station. I felt helpless, and part of me liked it. I let myself go limp against my assistant, let the Blue Sense continue its parting fan dance, revealing tantalizing bits and pieces.
Groping while under the influence of Declan's earthy augmentation left my mouth dry like I'd been chewing clods of dirt. The spike of energy was almost more than I could handle, and rather than fighting this serious case of belly-tremors, I went with it. Maybe this was what the first hit of an addictive drug was like; maybe this was the high a junky forever chased.
“No, you're just fine,” Declan said quietly, like he'd read my mind. “You handled that perfectly. Perfectly. You're fantastic, Dr. B. Hold on. Clarity's coming. Few more seconds and it should clear.”
Psi hung like the heavy cloud of smog ringing Harry after he chain-smoked menthols on a stressful evening. For a few minutes, I hung my head and breathed deeply through my mouth, sorting past from present, letting reality set in, trusting Declan's solid presence at my
side, his continuous soothing voice assuring me that everything would be fine soon. It helped to pick out actual voices of other people, mundane people, who were still hovering, pinpointing de Cabrera behind me to the right, Chapel in the distance, and then individual scents, like the smell of Batten's holy-water-and-Brut mixture to my left.
“He heard ‘stay’ and he stayed here.” I forced my head back up. “I'm betting he's still here, close by. He was told to stay.”
“Who was, Dr. B?”
“You know who the arm belongs to?” Batten asked.
I said sadly, “Let me process. I need a minute to sort my brain out.”
To my great surprise, Batten let that perfect pitch go without knocking back a home-run insult. “Hood brought coffee and Danish, some muffins, a dozen donuts. Need something to eat?”
I groaned; I couldn't possibly eat now. “Thanks, no, not feeling so hot.”
Chapel returned as forensics bagged and tagged the arm and did their thing around us, taking the writhing package away. “State health department's here. CDC's en route. We're stepping aside until they're satisfied. Did you get a reading from the ring?”
Chapel looked so unsuspecting that I almost hated to say the name.
“Yeah, I did. I got an ID.” I drew a deep breath and looked past him to Rob Hood.
The sheriff had been watching me with the attention of a bulldog on a porterhouse. He saw me look back at him and his body language shifted from the edge he'd been perched on, and I knew he knew, knew he'd read it on my face. Hood started running toward us, full-tilt, before I even said it.
“Dead six months. Raised a week ago. Agent Chapel, I regret to report, we have a confirmed zombie.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That arm belongs to the late Chief Deputy Neil Dunnachie.”
C
HAPTER
30
BY THE TIME THE STATE HEALTH DEPARTMENT
got their gear set up, I'd finally ducked out of the warmth of the floodlights and into the shadows to have a coffee and calm my jittery stomach. K-9 and cadaver dogs yelped and howled in the woods, chasing scents and leading their handlers to scattered pieces of human remains that may or may not have belonged to Anne Bennett-Dixon — living, dead or undead — or Stuart, Malas’ missing DaySitter, both still unaccounted for. One of the dogs lay down next to a bare foot. Too rotten to belong to a recent disappearance, it was likely Neil Dunnachie's. If pieces of him kept dropping off like this, we might not have to worry about a lengthy quarantine at Shaw's Fist.
“We gonna get out of here soon?” I asked Batten, who came to sit beside me in the pre-dawn dark. “I live five minutes away and haven't had much rest. I am beyond done.”
“Got plans?”
“Brownies and rabid wolverines. Maybe a whole lot of sleep.”
“Home alone with your vibrator again.” Not a question, but not necessarily a jab either.
I confided, “It's going to be fucknificent.”
He gave a tired snort, offered me a swig from his water bottle. I put my empty coffee cup aside and downed half his water, then tried to hand it back. He refused it. “Did Dr. Varney from the CDC call back?” I asked.
“You know him,” Batten surmised.
“Don't know why you'd think that,” I sidestepped, “and it doesn't matter whether I do or not. He's not here.”
“He's there.” He pointed to a van, where health department guys were clustered. “Skyping from Namibia to make sure collection runs smoothly in the shed when the CDC team arrives.”
“My cue to leave. It's almost dawn. Harry gets pissy if he goes to rest and I'm not in the house. Besides…” I motioned with his water bottle to the crew in their white HAZMAT suits cordoning off the scene and taking readings (of what I had no clue) with some long-handled device near where the arm had been found. No one had touched the shed yet; one thing at a time. They were being very cautious. I approved. “I'm close, if these guys do need me.”
“That blond guy, Liam something, he needs to ask you some questions about the beetles. He's with their entomology department.”
“I can answer any questions he has,” Declan offered. I hadn't heard him come up behind us. “Dr. B's had a hard go of it. She's had to use the Blue Sense twice already today, and the second time was more intense than usual. I'm surprised she's still upright.”
I smiled wanly. “I'll be fine.”
Declan continued as though he hadn't heard me. “Why don't you let her go home? If there's anything I can't finish up here, I can get her back. It's only a two minute drive.”
“If you're trying to get rid of me,” I told Declan, “I heartily approve.”
Batten considered the pair of us and relented with a tired nod. “Get Hood to give you a lift.”
“He hasn't got his truck. He had to move it back to the doc's cabin, had a propane tank to drop off,” Declan said. “Chapel asked to borrow it for cooking, the stove in that place uses propane and was low. You can take the Buick, Dr. B.”
I groaned as I got to my feet, using Batten's shoulder to hoist myself to standing. “Or I could just walk for five minutes. I'm not an invalid. The fresh air will help me cool off.”
“Hold up a few and I'll walk you back,” Batten said.
I eyed Chapel over Batten's shoulder, talking to de Cabrera. “Yeah, no. Better if I go by myself. I have crispy-brain syndrome. If I don't get some alone time, what's left will crumble like Saltines in soup.”
Batten followed my gaze, and nodded. “Got your gun?”
“What?” I snort-laughed. “Of course not.”
He pointed at his face. “This is a disapproving look, in case you're so used to getting them that you no longer recognize it.”
“You hate when I carry my gun.”
“When did that ever stop you?” Batten asked. “You took it to a kid's funeral. Today you forget it at home?”
“You got me up at ass o'clock,” I said. “I was lucky I remembered to put on pants.” I had changed out of the Tyvek HAZMAT suit after confirming the arm was Dunnachie's, but not until I'd checked myself out in one of the van's mirrors. I didn't think I looked anything like the fat marshmallow Agent Golden accused me of. More like a splortch of Cool Whip.
He reached under the cuff of his jeans on the right side and pulled out a stake, then he reached into his back pocket and took out a folding knife like the one Chapel always carried. Finally, he went to his left ankle, where he had an ankle holster, and took out a gun.
“Taurus model 85 ultra-lite,” he said, like I had any clue what he was talking about. “Never failed to feed for me. Loaded with .38 Special +P Federal Hydra-Shoks.”
“I don't know what any of that means, but thanks.” I hefted the gun, and felt both powerful and unsafe, like I was fully capable of blowing my own head off in the process of saving the universe.
“If you get in trouble, best wait until your target is within fifteen feet.”
“If a zombie gets within fifteen feet of me, I'm boned. I probably couldn't hit the broad side of the boathouse.” I tried to hand it back to him and he scowled at me. “Fine. You're sure it's loaded, or should I just huck it at the zombie's head and hope to knock it off?”
“Shoot it, stab it, stake it.”
“Congrats on being bad at zombies,” I said. “None of that will kill one. Where's my Taser-blaster thingy?”
“Entered it into evidence.”
“Douche-tarp.” I gave his arm a retaliatory slap.
He looked away to check on Chapel's whereabouts, but not before I saw the flicker of a victorious smirk.
“You'll be getting that back for me,” I told him sternly. “Listen, I'm going to need some grappling hooks.”
“What for?”
“Anti-zombie preparations around the house. Also, a hang-glider.”
“You're not getting a hang-glider.”
“If I don't get a hang-glider, this whole team is pretty much hosed.” I waited to see if I'd get that flicker of a smile aimed at me. “This is the way I always work.”
“That doesn't mean it's not stupid.” He gave me a withering look that told me not to question him any further. Kill-Notch was hot, sandy, and overtired. I decided not to push it.
“Annnnd, I'm off,” I announced. I made for the road and the cabin and the shambling undead I actually liked.
The road was blissfully cool after the heat of a dozen floodlights, bordering on actually chilly, and the pre-dawn breeze whisked away my sweat in a whispering, leafy rush that raised gooseflesh. I welcomed it. The wind in the trees and the scrunch of fresh-poured gravel under the soles of my sneakers were the only sounds keeping me company; it was too early for animals, and too late for nocturnal insect chatter. I'd had enough stress and coffee to keep me up for a few hours, even if I tried to crash. Harry would be stretching out, lean and languorous, in his silk sheets soon, ready for his morning feed before going to rest, hungry even after last night's relative feast. Eager to get back to him, I put my hands in my pockets and started some of Harry's favorite old school hip hop and rap music in my right ear from his iPod. The music flipped to DMX, and to keep my mind off the disturbing events at the shed (
big hairy momma zombie spider)
and the findings (
Dunnachie's arm, it's Dunnachie's arm
) I tried to remember the words to “Party Up in Here”.
“Y'all gon’ make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here.”
Did I know Varney
, Batten had asked. Yeah, I knew Paul Varney, better than most. He'd been my high school sweetheart, and in one saccharine, rose-tinted moment, he had almost been my first lover. I say “almost,” because Harry had interrupted us, picking Paul's Mustang up over his head and tossing it into the Welland Canal at Lock One. With a horrified, pimply-faced Paul in it. I was pretty sure I was the last girl Paul Varney ever wanted to talk to again. Thankfully, Chapel would be dealing with him.
Something crashed in the forest to my left. My voice failed in a strangled squeak and I wheeled on one heel to face the noise. Stiff and wary, I continued to work my mouth around the lyrics to soothe my jumpy nerves. “Y'all gon’ make me go all out, up in here, up in here.”
I didn't see danger, just deep shadows playing peek-a-boo behind the trees and slip-sliding under the bushes. Nevertheless, something told me not to move, not to make a commotion or draw attention to myself.
I sang under my breath, “Zombies make me act the foo’, up in here, up in here. Ghoulies make me lose my cool, up in here, up in here.”
Weird Al, eat your heart out. Oh, jeez, don't eat my heart. Crapnoodles.
Nothing there
, I told myself, but there was one spot along the brush line, one place that gave me a bad feeling, a pee-my-pants feeling that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with instinct. Something trembled there, wobbled as if shifting its weight with difficulty from one foot to another.
Imagination
, I thought fiercely, turning off the iPod, shoving the ear bud away. In my gut, I sensed it wouldn't step out of the fertile shadows until I passed some imperceptible line drawn on the road in front of it, maybe the spot where the gravel turned to pitted asphalt for a quarter mile until dropping back to gravel.