Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) (2 page)

The Goons didn’t budge. Twitchy Fingers took a firmer grip on his baton.

I stepped back and raised my hands, palms out, to show I meant no harm. I opened my mouth to try to reason with them, but Twitchy Fingers advanced menacingly, his baton half drawn.

“Okay, calm down. I’m going home,” I said. Daniel was a nice guy, but when doing him a favor meant getting my skull split open by an overzealous Goon, there was no question. I walked backward, unwilling to take my eyes off Twitchy Fingers, who matched me step for step.

A fifth Goon trotted over. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

Gentlemen. Hah.

Twitchy Fingers stopped and turned toward the new Goon, who was taking off his helmet. No, make that
her
helmet, I realized, as she adjusted her long blonde ponytail. I knew this cop: Pam McFarren, one of only two female zombies on the Goon Squad.

McFarren balanced her riot helmet on her hip and gave me a sharp nod. She turned back to the Goons. “Situation?” The way she barked the word sounded more like a command than a question.

Twitchy Fingers’s baton went back into its holster. His arm dropped to his side. He hesitated, and then removed his helmet, too. The face inside was human. Figured. Most norms who join the Goon Squad don’t do it because they want to “serve and protect” us monsters; they want to prove their toughness on Boston’s meanest streets. “The subject refused to return to DA-1,” he said, his voice sulky, as though McFarren had spoiled his fun. DA-1 was short for Designated Area 1, the bureaucratic name for Deadtown.

“And did it cross your mind to ask her why? Or was your plan to beat her into the ground and then make inquiries?”

The Goon looked at his feet, his lips pressed tightly together.

“I’ll handle this,” said McFarren. “You boys return to headquarters.”

Twitchy Fingers shot her a hate-filled glare, but he nodded. He stared at me as though assessing which spot on my skull he would have whacked first, then turned away. He and the other three Goons shuffled toward the Boston checkpoint.

“Asshole,” McFarren muttered when he was out of earshot. “We were sent in to prevent or contain a riot. We did the job, minimal violence. And he’s disappointed he didn’t get to break any heads.”

“Thanks for calling him off.”

She blinked and refocused on me, as though she’d forgotten I was there. “So why won’t you go home?” She glanced toward Conner’s, where firefighters hauled a long hose to the smoke-spewing window. “Bars are all closed.”

“I’m not out for a drink.” I explained that Daniel had called and requested my help. “I tried to tell that to the Goo—er, the officers, but they weren’t interested.”

“Yeah, why make a simple phone call when you can give your favorite weapon a workout instead? Sheesh.” She snorted, then unclipped a cell phone from her belt. A couple of calls later, she motioned to me. “You’re cleared,” she said. We walked toward the Boston checkpoint. “There are a couple of uniforms waiting for you on the other side of the checkpoint. Costello sent them to vouch for you, but word never got through to my boys.”

“You’ve been promoted?” The way she’d sent those other Goons packing was a classic demonstration of pulling rank.

“To sergeant.” She raised her chin with pride, but then her forehead creased in a scowl. “’Course, some of the guys say it’s affirmative action bullshit. Promoting a PDH who’s also a woman nails two birds with one stone.” PDH, or
previously deceased human
, was the politically correct term for zombie. “But I deserve it. I worked hard for my promotion. I have to be three times as tough, or they think I’m soft.”

Looking at McFarren in her riot gear—her broad shoulders, her narrowed eyes, the determined set of her jaw—
soft
was the last word that came to mind.

She sighed. “All this unrest in Deadtown lately. It’s really split the squad in two. Half the guys sympathize with the zombies. The other half would like to bomb Deadtown into oblivion. The split isn’t even along human-PDH lines.” She shook her head. “But here’s the thing about being a cop: You can’t take sides. All you can do is uphold the law.”

“Even if the law is unfair?” A zombie had killed some norms, and now every single Deadtown resident was guilty by association.

McFarren shrugged again. “I never said the law was perfect. Sometimes it’s necessary to tilt the balance a little to keep the peace or ensure the greater good. I can live with that.”

“But what if it tilts too far?”

“That’s the day I leave the force.” The steel in her expression suggested that would be the day
after
hell froze over. “In the meantime, I have to keep knuckleheads like that guy”—she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, toward where Twitchy Fingers and I had faced off—“from beating the crap out of innocent people, just because he can. I think I see your escort.”

We’d reached the checkpoint. On the other side, two uniformed cops waited. McFarren went over to speak to them, then she motioned me to come through. The guard swiped my ID and handed it back. The gate went up, and I stepped into human-controlled Boston.

THE LEATHERWORKERS WHO GAVE THE LEATHER DISTRICT its name are long gone. Their old factories have been converted into trendy lofts, bars, boutiques, and restaurants. The galaxy of flashing police lights and yellow crime scene tape seemed out of place here. The faces peering from windows reinforced the sense of novelty.

As soon as I ducked under the crime scene tape, Daniel was there. It had been a few months since I last saw him, but there was no mistaking his curly, tousled blond hair or that high-wattage smile. He gave me a quick, one-arm hug. When he let go his smile lingered, but his blue eyes were full of worry.

“So what happened?” I asked.

“I’ll walk you through and tell you what we’ve learned.” When I nodded and turned toward the scene, he put a restraining hand on my arm. “It’s not pretty.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to be.”

Still, his hand stayed in place and we stood where we were. “Thomas Malone was the PDH involved,” he said. “Did you know him?”

I shook my head.

“Huh.” Daniel seemed puzzled, even disappointed.

“Daniel, there are over two thousand zombies in Deadtown. I’m not going to know every single one.”

“Sure, of course. But—Well, you’ll see why I thought maybe you did. Anyway, Malone was part of the night crew at a warehouse in Dorchester. He and four coworkers have a Class B permit to go there for the overnight shift six nights a week.”

A Class B permit was open-ended permission for a group of zombies to leave Deadtown for work purposes. Zombies are in demand as manual laborers for the third shift. They’re strong—just one can do the work of five humans—and night is their natural “awake” time. The big plus: Labor laws don’t insist on pesky expenses like health insurance or minimum wage for zombies.

Daniel showed me a list of names, the other zombies on Malone’s crew. I didn’t recognize any of them, either.

“So,” he said, “Malone’s work routine was this: Each night, an hour after sunset, a van would arrive to pick up the crew. The van came from Hub Transit—they’ve got a standing order to send a driver twice a night: first to pick up the crew and then to bring them home again before sunrise. Besides the driver, the crew’s human sponsor made the trip each night.”

“The sponsor is employed by the warehouse company?” Even with a Class B work permit, zombies couldn’t leave Deadtown unless they were accompanied by a human.

“Was. He was shift supervisor.”

Was.
Okay. So the supervisor was one of the victims.

“And that’s the van over there?” I pointed to a white vehicle that sat half on the sidewalk, its front crumpled against a lamppost.

“Yes. Last night, Malone and the others left Deadtown as usual. Records show they went through the Summer Street checkpoint at seven forty-six
P.M
. Hub Transit dispatched the van for the return trip at three fifty-seven
A.M
. Just past the intersection of Lincoln and Beach, Malone attacked the driver.”

“And you don’t think it was bloodlust.” Maybe he was mistaken. It doesn’t take much blood to set a zombie off. The driver might have chewed down a hangnail too far or gotten overzealous popping a zit.

“I’m sure it wasn’t. There were four other PDHs in the van. We’ve taken a statement from each of them. No one smelled any blood before the attack. Malone was closest to the driver, sitting in the seat directly behind him, so I suppose there’s a chance he smelled blood the others didn’t catch. But Malone didn’t act like a PDH in a blood frenzy.”

“By which you mean, I assume, that he didn’t try to eat the driver?”

“Right. Without any warning, he reached forward, gave the guy’s head a twist, and snapped his neck.”

And that would be how the van ended up accordioned against a streetlight.

Daniel continued. “The supervisor, who was in the front passenger seat, tried to take control of the van. Malone got his hands around the guy’s neck and choked the life out of him. Another PDH tried to pull Malone off, but he couldn’t budge him.”

“Malone’s a big guy?”

“That’s what we understand.”

Wait—the police didn’t know for sure? “He’s still on the loose? I thought you guys had him in custody.” Okay, if a murderous zombie was running around the city, maybe I couldn’t blame Commissioner Hampson for sealing off Deadtown. In his place, I probably would have made the same call. First time for everything.

Daniel gave me a funny look and said, “Not exactly. Let me finish telling the story.”

“All right.” But I was wondering why he’d called me in. “So far, I haven’t heard anything to indicate demon activity. Demons don’t possess zombies, if that’s what you’re thinking about Malone.”

“Just give me your opinion after you’ve heard all the facts and taken a look at the scene.”

I nodded.

“After the van crashed, the PDHs all clambered out. Malone’s coworkers followed procedure and put on their masks.” All zombies who worked outside of Deadtown were required to carry surgical masks, saturated with eucalyptus, to overpower the smell of blood if they found themselves in the vicinity of an injured human. The masks are sealed inside an easy-open plastic pouch, and zombies who carry them have to pass a speed test for putting them on.

“But not Malone, I take it?”

“Right. While the others were putting on their masks, Malone got his third victim, a human who’d run across the street to see if he could help. Tore the guy’s head off.”

It was a good thing the other four zombies got their masks on. Five bloodlust-crazed zombies rampaging through Boston was not what you’d call good public relations.

“One of Malone’s coworkers tackled him. Two more piled on while the fourth, who was injured with a broken ankle from the crash, called 911. But even together, those three PDHs couldn’t hold Malone down. He shook them all off and was back on his feet when all of a sudden he fell to his knees, clutching his temples.” Daniel ducked his head, watching my face intently as he spoke his next words. “Vicky, two of the three zombies who were nearby heard crows cawing.”

Crows.
For a moment, everything stopped. My heart quit beating. My lungs forgot to take in air. And the harsh cries of a hundred crows echoed inside my own mind. “You think this was a Morfran attack?”

What Daniel was suggesting, if true, would be the worst kind of bad news. The Morfran, an evil, destructive spirit of insatiable hunger, is the power that animates demons and gives them their strength. You could say that, for demons, the Morfran is a corrupt version of the human soul. Morfran means “great crow.” My race of shapeshifters, the Cerddorion, has battled the Morfran, keeping demons weak, from the very beginnings of time.

But the demons had other plans. For centuries, they’d bided their time, watching for signs and omens that their prophesied chance to rule the three realms—the worlds of the living, the dead, and the demonic—was coming to pass. Pryce Maddox, a demi-demon who calls himself my cousin, believed the time was now. And Pryce would stop at nothing to be the conquering emperor.

When the Morfran possesses a person, it drives its host to kill. The spirit also has a free-floating form, which takes the shape of massive crows. Free-floating Morfran can be imprisoned in slate, and that’s where much of the Morfran had remained, locked away by my ancestors and guarded by generations of shapeshifters. But last winter, Pryce had discovered how to release the Morfran. He freed huge amounts of the spirit and sent it to Boston to feed. Crows are carrion eaters, and the Morfran’s favorite snack turned out to be zombie flesh.

The Morfran was one of the few things that could kill a zombie. And many zombies, some of them my friends, had died before I managed to subdue the Morfran, dividing it and binding it inside the slate headstones of one of Boston’s oldest cemeteries.

New Morfran activity suggested Pryce was making a move.

Daniel watched as I processed these thoughts. Finally he spoke. “Something attacked him, but I don’t know what. That’s why I asked you to come and have a look.”

“Malone’s dead, I take it.”

He nodded. “Are you okay to view the body—or what’s left of it?”

I’d seen zombie Morfran victims before. Daniel’s comment when I arrived—“it’s not pretty”—was a finalist for understatement of the century.

“Sure,” I said, steeling myself.

Daniel offered me a eucalyptus-treated surgical mask, the kind the zombies wore. I waved it away. Morfran attacks leave behind a stomach-clenching stench, but that would help me tell whether the Morfran really had killed Malone.

I could already smell it from where we stood. Around the edges of the expected smells—exhaust, garbage, the blood of Malone’s victims—lurked a foul odor redolent of sourness and decay.

Daniel opened the pack and removed the mask. He put it on his own face, covering his mouth and nose. His eyes watered from the eucalyptus fumes, and he blinked to clear them. Together we went to inspect the scene.

Ambulance workers were removing the driver from the van. A gurney waited nearby, ready to receive the body. Another gurney, draped with a white sheet and now being wheeled toward the ambulance, probably carried the shift supervisor. Not far from the van, in the street, another sheet covered a lump the size and shape of an adult man. Six feet away, a smaller sheet hid an object the size of a soccer ball.

“That’s the third victim’s head?” I asked, pointing.

Daniel nodded.

There was no sign of Malone’s body. Not at first glance, anyway. You couldn’t put a white sheet over what I was looking for.

Beyond the headless human body, a large puddle of black goo covered the street. It looked like a truckload of tar had spilled there. I walked toward it, noticing two things as I went: Flecks of the black stuff speckled the van and nearby buildings, and the dead, sour smell I’d noted back at the police line grew stronger. It made the air a viscous, putrid fog.

Although it was full daylight now, I opened my senses to the demon plane—and staggered back a step. If the smell was bad in my reality, here it was unbearable. I covered my nose with both hands and scanned the area. In this perspective, the morning light dimmed to an ashy gray twilight, smudging the scene with filth. Demons can’t materialize in daylight, so I didn’t expect to see any hanging around. I didn’t; the streets and sky were empty.

If the Morfran had been involved in what happened here, the spirit was gone now.

From the looks of what was left of Tom Malone, the Morfran
was
involved, I thought as I pulled back from the demon plane. Back in human reality, the smell was less overwhelming, and I let my hands fall to my sides. I inspected the black slime that covered the street. Crime scene technicians, swathed in protective gear, combed through it, picking things up with tweezers and dropping them into evidence bags. Daniel showed me what they’d collected so far: bone fragments. Scraps of cloth. A clump of hair. A tooth.

“You’re right,” I told him. “It sure as hell looks like Malone was killed by the Morfran.”

A Morfran attack has three stages. First, the attacking spirit gouges out chunks of flesh and enters the victim, causing pressure to build inside the head. As this screaming headache grows, more Morfran enters the body and feeds. The pressure in the head increases, filling the entire body with agonizing pain. Finally, the pressure becomes too much, and—
kaboom!
—the victim explodes. Leaving exactly the kind of mess now gunking up Lincoln Street.

We walked back to the scene perimeter, away from the slime and the smell. Daniel removed his mask and stuck it in his pocket.

Something was bothering me. “You remember the stages of a Morfran attack, right?”

He nodded. “Entry, feeding, explosion.”

“You said two of the witnesses heard crows. Did anyone say anything about
seeing
crows attack Malone? You know, materialized Morfran.”

“I asked. No one saw anything like that.”

“Then what about wounds spontaneously opening up on Malone’s body, like he was being slashed by an invisible knife? The Morfran doesn’t always materialize when it attacks.”

“All they said was what I told you. Malone dropped to his knees, clutched his head, and then . . .” Daniel gestured toward the zombie’s remains. “I see what you mean, though. Unless the witnesses left something out, it doesn’t follow the pattern.” He ran a hand through his hair, then shrugged.

“I need to interview the zombie witnesses,” I said.

Daniel gave me a half smile. “Does that mean you want the job?”

“What job?” a man’s voice asked from behind me. “Costello, what’s this paranormal doing outside DA-1? The code level’s at red, you know.”

“Shit,” muttered Daniel. Then he raised his voice. “So, Foster, you finally decided to answer your phone?”

I turned to see the bald head and perpetual scowl of Daniel’s partner. Daniel believed they’d been put together because he, Daniel, was thought to be too sympathetic to paranormals. Foster, who had no such scruples, had reported Daniel several times for violating department policies regarding those of us whose DNA reads something other than “human.” Those department policies had been created by Commissioner Hampson, who’d like nothing better than to send in the wrecking balls and knock Deadtown off the map.

Foster kept his beady eyes on me. “My phone battery died. Now, are you going to keep violating the Code Red, or are you going to call some uniforms to escort this . . . creature back to DA-1?”

Creature.
My demon mark blew up like a firecracker, and I had to grab my own right arm to stop myself from hauling off and punching that scowl off his ugly face. Give him something to spice up his goddamn report.

Daniel laid his hand on my shoulder. “Vicky’s on the exceptions list. You’d know that if you’d bother to check.”

Foster continued his stare-down like he was daring me to start something.

“She’s on a list of approved consultants,” Daniel went on. “An expert on demons. She’s worked with us in that capacity before.”

That was true. If you define “working with” as being dragged out of bed by the Goon Squad and marched to their headquarters for questioning. At least this time Daniel had picked up the phone and called me.