New Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 3) (6 page)

Preservative that stops zombies rotting away too fast leaked out like a faulty hose from a puncture wound starting at a knee, staining its filthy clothes even darker, pink liquid spilling from a tattered brogue and mingling with the rain.

I'd never known one get so far from the safe-zone before, and this was definitely one I remembered. Sure, we get outbreaks now and then, but with so many Hidden spread throughout the country, and the world, they are picked up fast, damage minimal. Which is a good job, as otherwise the world would be over for humanity quicker than you could say, "Oi, stop gnawing on my leg."

How the hell had it got here? Did it take the bus, or get a taxi? No, obviously not, so something was up.

See, told you I'm as much a detective as an enforcer. Okay, maybe not that great at deduction, but I was just warming up.

Understand that although I could see the zombie as it truly was, that wasn't the case for Regulars. They saw what was to all intents and purposes a crazy guy. He was unkempt, with straggly hair and a beard, drawn face with sunken eyes, and he certainly wasn't the paradigm of health and vitality. But he didn't look like he'd been bitten by an infected dead person so now had a virus that animated his body and made him crave warm flesh and brains.

People didn't point and think, "Oh, I bet that dead dude's filled up with a secret chemical solution that preserves him, so he can continue to live his undead life until he eventually falls to bits."

No, they saw what the magic—and it is a virus born of corrupted magic—allowed them to see. Otherwise, everyone would be running around and screaming, or wishing we were allowed to have guns in the UK rather than air rifles if we are lucky. What can I tell you? We don't shoot each other with bullets, we get close and use knives, or blast the dark arts in back alleys instead—it all amounts to the same thing in the end. You still wind up dead and wondering if you left the oven on and turned out the lights before entering your own personal afterlife.

Anyway, back to the zombie.

I searched for, and found, my phone and flipped up the lid and speed-dialed Rikka. Yes, it's a flip-up, you got a problem with that?

"What?" Such great phone manners.

"There's a zombie, doing some shopping. You better call Paul."

Rikka sighed. "Okay, will do. You know what to do?"

"Of course! I haven't been gone that long."

We hung up. Rikka would call Paul, the zombie ostensibly in charge of the safe-zone, a pretty nice place to while away the years regardless of whether your heart still beat or not. No way should any of them get so far from their home.

As the walking dead teetered and tottered around the high street, getting close to feeding when a couple of teenagers stopped to take a picture of each other in front of some new department store I'd never heard of, I knew I had to deal with it straight away.

Knowing nobody was paying attention to either of us, not really, just a drunk or a homeless guy and me the invisible man, I did what any self-respecting enforcer would do. I jumped the zombie.

I sneaked up behind him, wrapped my coat around his head, tied the arms together then grabbed his hands and secured them behind his back with my tie.

My eyes threatened to snap to black although I didn't even need the magic, but I have to say I was itching—literally—to let the Empty enter me and to feel it surge through my ink like it has so many times before.

As people began to take an interest, I slung the writhing creature over my shoulder and ran as fast as I could back to the main road and away from pedestrians. The poor guy was wriggling like a goblin in a leotard, and I could hear his teeth gnashing against the material of my jacket. It was pristine, too, an original from nineteen sixty-five, but good for nothing now.

What was I supposed to do with a zombie in the middle of the high street? I ran on, making it to the taxi rank in less than a minute, out of breath and lactic acid burning in my thighs and lower back—I was out of practice at this sort of thing.

Recognizing a familiar vehicle, I opened the door, bundled the body into the back seat, then slammed it and hopped in the passenger side.

"Hey, Gavin, can you take me to zombie HQ?"

"Wotcha, Spark. How's it going, mate? Long time no see." Gavin Cooley pressed a few buttons, glanced quickly in his rearview, then pulled out into traffic, going from zero to speed limit in less time than it took to get my seatbelt on.

"I've had better mornings, but you know, can't complain. You? How's business?"

"Oh, so, so. Keeps me off the streets though, that's the main thing. Who's in back?"

"Not sure, but he's a zombie and he's not supposed to be here."

"Blimey, Rikka won't be happy about that. I wouldn't want to be Paul when he finds out about this."

"Neither would I." Paul wasn't exactly the leader of the Cardiff Ward of zombies, but he was in charge, although the problem really lay with Rikka, as he is in charge of this Ward and the country. Anything that happens in your Ward is your responsibility, so he would be less than impressed with Paul.

"How's it going, anyway? Staying out of trouble?"

Gavin had the cheek to look affronted, but we both knew he was kidding. He can't stay away from trouble, he finds it no matter how well it hides.

He is, after all, a dwarf that's allergic to gold. Poor guy. Of all the things to get a bad reaction to and he's allergic to the only thing that could possibly make him have to stay away from his own kind.

Zombie Outing

It didn't take long to get to the zombie enclave, and as Gavin pulled up at the entrance—don't worry, there's a magic barrier to stop the zombies getting out. Most of them, anyway—I got a very bad feeling about things.

"Bit quiet innit?" said Gavin, doing something dodgy with the meter and trying not to look guilty.

"Too quiet."

"Want me to hang around? Deal with any trouble?"

"No, but thanks. I can handle it, and I'm sure Rikka will be here soon."

"Okay, suit yourself. Twenty seven pounds fifteen pence. Call it an even thirty."

"How about we call it a tenner and I don't rip off your stubby arms?"

"Whoa! There's no need to be discriminatory, Spark. That kind of talk went out with the dark ages."

"What? They are stubby."

"Not the point, is it? I don't go around calling you a lanky piece of—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the idea. Here." I gave him more cash than he deserved and dragged the zombie out of the car as gently as I could. Gavin pulled away in a storm of gravel and was gone.

Checking the perimeter, all I could see was the faint shimmer of the forcefield so there was no way any undead should have got out. The lack of moaning and absence of activity told a different story—not good.

Feeling bad for the poor guy, and if I'm honest for my jacket as well, I untied his hands and released him from his blindfold. He snapped at me but in a rather halfhearted and ineffectual way. His leg had stopped leaking, which was a bad sign, as it meant he would begin to rot quickly unless he got topped up.

I walked slowly toward the impressive building, an old luxury spa resort that had been converted to keep the zombies safe and the rest of us safer. Why don't we just kill them, you might ask? Well, they are people, and they are in there somewhere. Some are completely lucid, able to talk and act utterly normal, apart from trying to take the odd bite out of you, while others are more like this poor soul, the urges overwhelming, unable to think of anything but brains.

But it's their choice. They can decide to pass on if they wish, and if not then it's the safe-zones where they often live for centuries as bits drop off and they go slowly, or quickly, mad.

I know what I'd choose, but I haven't been in their shoes, so I certainly don't judge. We keep them safe, let them live their lives how they want to, whilst protecting humanity. Or we did. The fact there should have been hundreds of the undead staggering about in various degrees of decomposition was not a good sign at all.

The creature followed me up the steps awkwardly, the lure of my fresh flesh too much for it to resist. I led it into the dining room before locking the door as I made a quick exit. It was weird, the tables and chairs were neatly aligned, places set as if ready for a meal—Paul liked to try to keep them civilized, not that it ever worked.

Returning to the lobby, I admired the amazing tiled floor like I always did. It's a true work of art.

"Hello? Anyone home? I have brains." I listened, but the only sound was the hungry guest in the huge dining room. Apart from that it was just me, and the rain going for a strong late morning push to ensure that Cardiff remained as wet and dreary as ever.

Seriously spooked, but knowing I needed to find answers, I began exploring. I kind of wish I hadn't.

The zombie home is large, and I'd never been in more than a few rooms. It's an old place, once used by the rich to relax and unwind, purchased by the Dark Council, renovated, and now a home-cum-prison.

Some of the undead were nice people, amiable, as long as you kept your distance, while others were ancient, little left of their former selves, walking nightmares that would haunt your dreams if you thought about it too long. As I wandered from one large room to another, all empty, I couldn't help thinking about the poor creatures.

It's amazing what people will do to cling to their existence. These men and women were dead, no doubt about it, but their spirits remained. Almost like physical ghosts, that's the closest to an explanation that makes sense you can get. But as they age the virus tightens its grip, and day by day, year by year, sometimes decade after decade, they slip away, automatons with nothing but a primal urge to consume human flesh, definite bias toward brains.

Basically, they are hardcore. You can't get more gangster than that, so you have to give them credit for their persistence. Only problem being, they weren't where they were supposed to be, and that was bad.

After confirming the ground floor was clear of zombies, I headed upstairs, up a sweeping spiral staircase that I have to admit made me a little jealous. The banister was dark and warm, in stark contrast to the freezing building with the stench of death now ingrained into the fabric of the walls.

Along once plush, now rather tatty and grubby red carpet, I checked the rooms. All had locks on the outside, as was part of the rules, all empty. In some there was furniture, in others nothing but mattresses on the floor and not a lot else, all depending on the individual that slept within.

I moved from nice hallways to a more sinister part of the building. I'd never been there so didn't know what to expect, but what I hadn't anticipated was what amounted to a cell block.

A whole corridor had nothing but steel doors, bare walls and floor, with a guard station behind reinforced glass. I guessed it was for the more troublesome or too-far-gone guests. I punched a button beside the door and it slid open. I called, but again it was silent apart from the squeal as the door slid across runners in need of oiling.

Something was amiss, I could tell right away. The cell doors were all ajar, which was a bad idea if the occupiers were that dangerous.

Reaching the first cell, I peered inside. Laid out on a cot were the remains of a human being. The stench of rot and preserving fluids made me gag and I bent double, half my breakfast coming up as I coughed and spluttered.

Little in the way of intact flesh remained. Necrosis was rampant, the effects of being dead for so long surging now the magic was gone and the preservatives had leaked out.

The open chest cavity reminded me of a tree hit by lightning, shards of bone like splinters dull yellow in the weak light. But it was the head that was the worst, and what made me disgorge my breakfast. It was kind of squeezed in, all tight in a ball, somehow still attached to the body, barely.

It was as if somebody had squeezed it like a piece of fruit until all moisture was gone, or a sheet of paper scrunched up, lolling to one side all black and terribly bruised. The zombie was definitely dead, and for real this time.

Once the worst of the nausea passed, I moved on. The next occupant was almost identical—insides torn out, dragged away like they were rotten sausages. Wet and shiny from the fluids that soaked and stained the concrete floor. This time the head was off, the force that had crushed the skull too much to allow it to stay connected to the spinal column.

I stood in the entrance for some time, lost in thought, unable to stand the stench yet knowing there was more. I'm not sure how long I remained there, dazed and sick, but I eventually checked another cell. It was the same, and on and on it went, every occupant dead, head crushed, insides hanging from open body cavities like a nightmare in a butchers. Some of them had their guts strewn on the floor, every one of them had their heads mushed to a pulp.

It was like a huge hand had gripped their heads and simply crushed them, but no hand could do that, it would have to be the size of a troll. Yeah, I was a little slow.

Look, I'd been out of the game for a while, and the horror was overwhelming, clouding my mind. I wasn't used to thinking this way any longer, and trolls may be as tough as, well, trolls, but I had never heard of them squeezing heads like this—damaging those they had no argument with. They preserve that particular honor for those that insult them or they get paid to by their boss.

This was something else. This had the feel of mercy killings, like they'd put the zombies out of their misery. A final rest. Personally, it felt like mercy. They would never have known what was happening, being little but empty vessels that craved brains. Still, it was gross, and I was having a hard time keeping down the rest of my breakfast.

There was nothing I could do, and I was sweating badly even though I knew it was cold. I had the shakes and the smell was threatening to make me black out. Time to go.

Back downstairs, I sucked on fresh air gusting through the open front door. It felt good, oh-so-good. I know what you're thinking—you're supposed to be a dark magic enforcer, aren't you used to this stuff? Well, the answer is no, I am not used to seeing loads of zombies with their insides dangling and their heads all squished. Are you? Haha, thought not.