Anton Strout - Deader Still

“And you expect people to buy this?” I asked.

Davidson nodded again. “People will believe almost anything they can Google. You should look it up. Besides, who can tell the difference between brainless, emaciated supermodels and gaunt, brain-hungry zombies? It’s fashion . . . People are far more likely to buy into a flash zombie walk than they are the harsh supernatural reality that the dead were rising and walking the land, consuming the living.”

All of the agents erupted into applause.

“That’s what passes for genius?” Jane whispered to me.

“I guess,” I said, joining in the applause. “Seems to be working.”

I turned to look for Connor, only to see him standing alone over by the invitation boxes I had been working on, stock-still as everyone around him clapped. I went over to him, but he took no notice.

His face was stoic and his hand was clutching one of the invitation envelopes. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter I had seen in my psychometric flash of his desk. He clutched it in his other hand.

“Connor,” I said, “you okay?”

“You know how I’ve been a little distant lately? Wanting you to keep out of my business?”

I nodded.

He unfolded the letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The page was blank except for one single message in the center of it. No address, no signature, nothing.

It read: AIDAN CHRISTOS IS OURS. STOP LOOKING OR HE DIES.

“Aidan?” I asked. “Your brother?”

“How many Aidan Christoses do you know of? Someone sent it to me a little while ago, kid.”

“I accidentally got a psychometric reading off your desk,” I said, sheepish. “I know. I’m sorry. But whoever sent it to you knew I might see it, and they somehow blocked it from my power. It knocked me out. But why now? Why send something after all this time?”

Connor was silent, assessing the information I’d given him. “Because whoever they are, they must know I work with you. And now that your control over your power is growing, they know it’s only a matter of time before I use you to help me track him down.”

“But if you were going to keep that letter from me to keep him safe, why tell me now?”

He held up one of the invitations. The name on it read only Aidan, and it had an address. Right here. In New York City.

“What are the odds, kid?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I think it’s time to find out.”

Connor nodded. “Let’s find him.”

The two of us headed back toward the exit. When the Inspectre saw us leaving, he must have seen our determination, and didn’t say a word. And I knew why: You could never get away with stopping people with the kind of hope we had on our faces.

ANTON STROUT was born in the Berkshire Hills mere miles from writing heavyweights Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville. He currently lives in historic Jackson Heights, New York (where nothing paranormal ever really happens, he assures you).

His short story “The Lady in Red” can be found in the DAW Books anthology Pandora’s Closet , and a tie-in story to Dead to Me entitled “The Fourteenth Virtue” can be found in DAW’s The Dimension Next Door .

He is the cocreator of the faux folk musical Sneezin’ Jeff & Blue Raccoon: The Loose Gravel Tour , winner of the Best Storytelling Award at the first annual New York International Fringe Festival.

In his scant spare time, he is an always writer, sometimes actor, sometimes musician, occasional RPGer, and the world’s most casual and controller-smashing video gamer. He now works in the exciting world of publishing, and yes, it is as glamorous as it sounds.

He is currently hard at work on the next book featuring Simon Canderous and can be found lurking the darkened hallways of http://www.antonstrout.com/.