Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

I thought about that one. He loved Lenore, too. He’d want to find her real killer. But he was sure he already had.

“I’d need proof, Misty, and even then, last time I saw him, he’d hired someone to break my legs. Look, it’s a long shot he’ll go after Jenkins right now.”

She pursed her lips. “Unless he’s in a hurry because Colby Green is after him.”

“Who’s the detective, you or me? Fine, maybe it’s fifty-fifty, but all the more reason I’ve got to try to get to him fast.”

She shook her head. “You don’t even have a gun.”

“No, but I’ve got something else. It’s the reason I came back, other than seeing your pretty face, of course.” I nodded her into my office.

There, I pulled out the cash drawer, then checked the false bottom where I’d kept the Walther. I had something else in there, a little glass vial full of oily liquid as green as Nell Parker’s eyes. I held it up for Misty to see, but warned her not to get too close.

“What the hell is that?” she asked.

“VX, deadliest nerve agent on the planet. Last year, anyway—I’m sure they’ve got something worse by now.”

She took a few more steps back. “And that’s been here all along, while I sleep in the next room, you crazy bastard? Fuck, Hess, how’d you even get something like that?”

“I used to be a cop, remember? Anyway, one night we raided a big drug dealer and found out he was also dealing arms, guns so big you needed three men to pick them up, missile launchers, too—and this. I thought it was some new kind of drug. Shoved it in my pocket, thinking I’d look it up later; things came up; I forgot about it. It was still in my pocket the day I was arrested for Lenore’s murder. I handed it over along with my wallet and the clerk took it for perfume. I didn’t find out what it was until after I came back. Always meant to turn it in; never figured out how to do it without getting arrested.”

She kept shaking her head. “You’re an idiot alive or dead.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged, but dead, I can drink the shit, no harm, no foul. One whiff would kill a liveblood, though. So, if I did run into Turgeon, all I’d have to do is put it in my mouth, get close enough, bite down on the glass, and blow. And I know how to blow.”

“What about everybody else in the city?”

“Far as I know, they’ll go on being a bunch of idiots.” I held up the vial and tilted it so she could see how slowly it flowed. “It’s not exactly a gas; it’s viscous, like an oil. Maybe it was just a sample or something they’d use in a spray gun. On top of that, it’s supposed to break up in the air after a few minutes. That’s why the trick is getting in close. So where’s Odell Jenkins doing his nine-to-five?”

“I’m going with you.”

“No way, Misty. Forget Turgeon; I don’t want you in the same car with this stuff.”

“I’m in the same room with it now, have been for months. How’re you going to keep it safe? What if you get into a fistfight?”

“Watch.” I shoved the vial into my mouth and used my tongue to push it into a pocket in my jawbone, below my right molars. I had some rot there once. When Misty cut it out for me, which wasn’t easy for either of us, it left a hole. I opened wide and lolled my tongue around. “I’m not saying I could keep a sandwich fresh in there, but it’s nice and snug and would stand up to a search if he decided to frisk me or check my teeth. Okay?”

“It’s crazy.”

“What isn’t? Where is he?”

“Everwing. The hospital complex.”

“Thanks, Misty. I need something, I’ll call you. Town center shouldn’t be too crowded this time of day.”

She frowned.

“Piece of food in my teeth?” I asked.

“Just to make your visit more fun, Jonesey’s rally is this afternoon. You’ll be heading right into it.”

28

Not that I’m into grand theft auto, but I was in a hurry, so I hopped back into my stolen wheels and headed for the center of town. The football kid must’ve reported it by now, unless he was too embarrassed. If he did, the cops would be looking for the plates. In a few hours, the story would be all over the news —Chak Steals Wheels —another favor I’d done for undead everywhere. I had plenty to feel bad about right now, so I figured I’d feel bad about all that later. I told myself the car would be safer parked in town anyway, and, if I survived, I’d send the owner a note.

Fort Hammer’s Main Street was a throwback to the days of cheap land. The grand avenue was so wide it looked like the two sides of the street wanted nothing to do with each other. The buildings were pretty much the same: Georgian brick storefronts, neoclassical public buildings, like the library and the town hall. Most were more than eighty years old, echoes of ancient prosperity. The bigger the building, the less interesting. Style gives it up to function. Our two 1950s skyscrapers were little more than boxes with doors and windows.

Generally, you don’t see chakz in this part of town, maybe a messenger or two, but I was seeing lots. They’re easy enough to spot; most walk pretty funny. And it wasn’t only single chakz; it was groups. Five together, ten, all moving toward the central plaza. It was the beginnings of Jonesey’s rally. The Dead Man Walk.

I’d thought at best he’d get thirty marchers. That might be okay, if they were smart ones, corpses who could keep their act together. Then the LBs could say, “Oh, look at the cute chakz carrying signs! I didn’t know they could write!” But down the block one or two hundred had gathered, and there were more stepping in from the side streets. It was too many, way too many. More like people would say, “Shit, a horde!” I was inclined to agree.

The cops were out in force, and they weren’t worried about a stolen car. They were setting up wooden sawhorses, all keeping one hand on their guns. The guy with the flamethrower was here, too. This was a mess that could go bad fast, in a town famous for things falling apart. Between this scene and Turgeon’s head collection, I was starting to believe in the end of the world. Not that I particularly liked the beginning or the middle.

Distracted, I nearly rammed a FedEx truck. All around me, livebloods were eyeing protestors like they wished they had a weapon handy. I felt a twinge. I should do something. Like what? Find Jonesey and tell him to call it off? Too late for that. Half the marchers would go feral from disappointment, and Jonesey would go right along with them.

That’s how we do things in Fort Hammer! Rush in where angels fear to tread, then suddenly realize that maybe the angels, being angels , had the right idea in the first place. Send a man to the moon? Sure! Bring democracy to the Middle East? Why not? Raise the dead? Line ’em up! Jonesey, you fucking all-American idiot.

The main avenue ended at a big, all-brick plaza—the official city center. I made a sharp left and headed for the only modern construction in sight, the abandoned Everwing Hospital complex. We have so many stories like it, the basics are as worn as the plot of an old I Love Lucy , only with more lives at stake.

Everwing. The plans were approved after some genius figured out how to cut corners by importing questionable material from China. Two months after opening, they found asbestos in the plasterboard, cadmium in the paint, and enough E. coli in the water system to make everyone’s pants want to get up and dance. One blogger suggested they keep it open, because at least folks would be in a hospital when they got sick.

Instead, it was covered up in thick plastic sheets that flapped and belched toxic dust whenever the wind blew. A giant farting corpse. All six buildings were currently undergoing remediation. That’s a fancy way of saying they’re trying to scrape out all the poison shit that’ll kill you and take it somewhere far away, where it can kill some other people you don’t know. Just what you want in your town center.