Лорел Гамильтон - The Laughing Corpse

I glanced at my watch. There was a dark, slick smear obscuring the face. Couldn't read it. Would have to chip the damn thing clean. I tucked my arm back inside the blanket the paramedic had given me. My skin was colder than it should have been. Even thoughts of vengeance couldn't warm me. Later, later I would be warm. Later I would be pissed. Right now I was glad to be alive.

"Okay, Anita, what happened?"

I glanced at the living room. It was nearly empty. The zombies had been carried away. Incinerated on the street no less. Entertainment for the entire neighborhood. Family fun.

"Could I change clothes before I give a statement, please?"

He looked at me for maybe a second, then nodded.

"Great." I got up gripping the blanket around me, edges folded carefully. Didn't want to accidentally trip on the ends. I'd embarrassed myself enough for one night.

"Save the T-shirt for evidence," Dolph called.

I said, "Sure thing," without turning around.

They had thrown sheets over the worst of the stains so they didn't track blood all over the apartment building. Nice. The bedroom stank of rotted corpse, stale blood, old death. God. I'd never be able to sleep in here tonight. Even I had my limits.

What I wanted was a shower, but I didn't think Dolph would wait that long. I settled for jeans, socks, and a clean T-shirt. I carried all of it into the bathroom. With the door closed, the smell was very faint. It looked like my bathroom. No disasters here.

I dropped the blanket on the floor with the T-shirt. There was a bulky bandage over my shoulder where the zombie had bitten me. I was lucky it hadn't taken a hunk of flesh. The paramedic warned me to get a tetanus booster. Zombies don't make more zombies by biting, but the dead have nasty mouths. Infection is more of a danger but a tetanus booster is a precaution.

Blood had dried in flaking patches on my legs and arms. I didn't bother washing my hands. I'd shower later. Get everything clean at once.

The T-shirt hung almost to my knees. A huge caricature of Arthur Conan Doyle was on the front. He was peering through a huge magnifying glass, one eye comically large. I gazed into the mirror over the sink, looking at the shirt. It was soft and warm and comforting. Comforting was good right now.

The old T-shirt was ruined. No saving it. But maybe I could save some of the penguins. I ran cold water into the bathtub. If it was a shirt, I'd soak it in cold water. Maybe it worked with toys.

I got a pair of jogging shoes out from under the bed. I didn't really want to walk over the drying stains in only socks. Shoes were made for such occasions. Alright, so the creator of Nike Airs never foresaw walking over drying zombie blood. It's hard to prepare for everything.

Two of the penguins were turning brown as the blood dried. I carried them gingerly into the bathroom and laid them in the water. I pushed them under until they soaked up enough water to stay partially submerged, then I turned the water off. My hands were cleaner. The water wasn't. Blood trailed out of the two soft toys like water squeezed out of a sponge. If these two came clean, I could save them all.

I dried my hands on the blanket. No sense getting blood on anything else.

Sigmund, the penguin I occasionally slept with, was barely spattered. Just a few specks across his fuzzy white belly. Small blessings. I almost tucked him under my arm to hold while I gave a statement. Dolph probably wouldn't tell. I put Sigmund a little farther from the worst stains, as if that would help. Seeing the stupid toy tucked safely in a corner did make me feel better. Great.

Zerbrowski was peering at the aquarium. He glanced my way. "These are the biggest freaking angelfish I've ever seen. You could fry some of 'em up in a pan."

"Leave the fish alone, Zerbrowski," I said.

He grinned. "Sure, just a thought."

Back in the kitchen Dolph sat with his hands folded on the tabletop. His face unreadable. If he was upset that I'd almost cashed it in tonight, he didn't show it. But then Dolph didn't show much of anything, ever. The most emotion I'd ever seen him display was about this case. The killer zombie. Butchered civilians.

"You want some coffee?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Me, too," Zerbrowski said.

"Only if you say please."

He leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen. "Please." I got a bag of coffee out of the freezer.

"You keep the coffee in the freezer?" Zerbrowski said.

"Hasn't anyone ever fixed real coffee for you?" I asked.

"My idea of gourmet coffee is Taster's Choice."

I shook my head. "Barbarian."

"If you two are finished with clever repartee," Dolph said, "could we start the statement now?" His voice was softer than his words.

I smiled at him and at Zerbrowski. Damned if it wasn't nice to see both of them. I must have been hurt worse than I knew to be happy to see Zerbrowski.

"I was asleep minding my own business when I woke up to find a zombie standing over me." I measured beans and poured them into the little black coffee grinder that I'd bought because it matched the coffee maker.

"What woke you?" Dolph asked.

I pressed the button on the grinder and the rich smell of fresh ground coffee filled the kitchen. Ah, heaven.

"I smelled corpses," I said.

"Explain."

"I was dreaming, and I smelled rotting corpses. It didn't match the dream. It woke me."

"Then what?" He had his ever present notebook out. Pen poised.

I concentrated on each small step to making the coffee and told Dolph everything, including my suspicions about Seсora Salvador. The coffee was beginning to perk and fill the apartment with that wonderful smell that coffee always has by the time I finished.

"So you think Dominga Salvador is our zombie raiser?" Dolph said.

"Yes."

He stared at me across the small table. His eyes were very serious. "Can you prove it?"

"No."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "Great, just great."

"The coffee smells done," Zerbrowski said. He was sitting on the floor, back propped against the kitchen doorway.

I got up and poured the coffee. "If you want sugar or cream, help yourself." I put the cream, real cream, out on the kitchen counter along with the sugar bowl. Zerbrowski took a lot of sugar and a dab of cream. Dolph went for black. It was the way I took it most of the time. Tonight I added cream and sweetened it. Real cream in real coffee. Yum, yum.

"If we could get you inside Dominga's house, could you find proof?" Dolph asked.

"Proof of something, sure, but of raising the killer zombie … " I shook my head. "If she did raise it and it got away, then she won't want to be tied to it. She'll have destroyed all the proof, just to save face."

"I want her for this," Dolph said.

"Me, too."

"She might also try and kill you again," Zerbrowski said from the doorway. He was blowing on his coffee to cool it.

"No joke," I said.

"You think she'll try again?" Dolph asked.

"Probably. How the hell did two zombies get inside my apartment?"

"Someone picked the lock," Dolph said. "Could the zombie …»

"No, a zombie would rip a door off its hinges, but it wouldn't take the time to pick a lock. Even if it had the fine motor skill to do it."

"So someone with skill opened the door and let them in," Dolph said.

"Appears so," I said.

"Any ideas on that?"

"I would bet one of her bodyguards. Her grandson Antonio or maybe Enzo. A big guy in his forties who seems to be her personal protection. I don't know if either of them have the skill, but they'd do it. Enzo, but not Antonio."

"Why cross him off?"

"If Tony had let the zombies in, he'd have stayed and watched."

"You sure?"

I shrugged. "He's that kind of guy. Enzo would do business and leave. He'd follow orders. The grandson wouldn't."