Back From the Undead (10 page)

We get in the car and Charlie gets it turned around. Down the road we go.

No magic overpass shows up. No bridge or tunnel, either. We drive until we hit a T-junction in the road, and then stop. The buildings on either side look much the same, and so does the road. There’s no sign.

I sigh. “Terrific. Should we go left to Nowhere, or right to Nothing?”

I look out the window, tapping my fingers against the Ruger’s barrel in frustration. I can see furtive movement behind tattered gray curtains in a window, an indication that we’re not alone. I wonder how long it will be before the souls of the dead venture forth to check out the new residents, and if they’ll send a formal representative or just kind of show up in a group. I wonder if they’ll bring us a fruit basket as a gesture of goodwill, and if all the fruit will be dead and rotting. I wonder why my brain comes up with these things when it should be concentrating on the situation at hand.

And then the situation changes.

Zhang descends from the sky like a hanged man dropping through the trapdoor of a gallows. He jerks to a halt directly in front of the car, about six feet off the ground. He’s dressed the same, but his eyes are burning a spectral white and I can see his skull glowing through his skin.

“Greetings, esteemed guests,” he says. “Allow me to welcome the Bloodhound and the Impaler to the realm of Yomi.”

“You forgot me,” Charlie growls. He opens the door and gets out of the car, and I know why; he doesn’t have enough room to pitch one of his ball bearings while he’s in the driver’s seat. I get out, too, taking aim at Zhang’s midsection.

“You are hardly worth noticing, man of sand. But your mistress and her companion are well known to me, indeed—”

Charlie rifles a shot into his chest. It punches through Zhang’s body like a bullet through smoke, leaving a fist-size hole in its wake. Zhang looks more irritated with the interruption than the assault, and the hole seals itself a second later. “That was most rude.”

“No, that was medium rude. I got
most
right here.” Charlie draws his short sword from inside his jacket.

I can already tell it’s pointless, but I have to back my partner’s play. I put a slug through Zhang’s windpipe—the .454 round is big enough to more or less destroy his neck and spinal column, and decapitation is always a good fallback position when dealing with supernaturals.

But I’m not all that surprised when all I get for my trouble is a replay of Charlie’s attack. Now Zhang looks more disappointed than annoyed, as if he were expecting better from me.

“I see,” he says, and extends his right arm. The flesh melts away from his hand, leaving the glowing bones exposed, and it shoots forward, growing as it extends. By the time it seizes Charlie he looks like a doll in the grip of an immense skeleton.

I fire again, to zero effect. Charlie’s managed to keep his sword arm free, and hacks at a metacarpal. The blade rings off the bone like it was made of granite.

“Foolish creature,” Zhang says, and tightens his grip. He’s going to pop Charlie like a balloon—

But then something crosses Zhang’s face—it’s what’s called a micro expression, something most people would miss, and it’s one of consternation.

“You are not worthy of death,” Zhang says, and gestures with his other hand. A shimmering hole opens in midair, around twelve feet off the ground, and he tosses Charlie through it like someone throwing away an empty pop bottle. I can see what looks like a tile wall on the other side, and Charlie thumps into it none too softly.

Zhang gestures again, and the hole closes.

The sorcerer and I regard each other. I lower my gun, reluctantly. At least Charlie’s safe—I’m pretty sure that was the real world Zhang just threw him into. Why he did that instead of just killing him, I’m not sure.

“As I was saying.” Zhang’s hand returns to its normal size and condition. “Both of you are well known to me. Mr. Stoker, will you not join us?”

Stoker opens his door and gets out of the car. “Thanks for all the help,” I snarl.

“Combat was pointless,” Stoker says. “
And
rude. My apologies, Mr. Zhang.”

“You are most gracious.” Zhang smiles, an extremely creepy thing to do when I can see his skull grinning behind his lips at the same time.

“I’m not,” I say. “You can’t keep us here, Zhang.”

“I assure you that I can. While your hunting ability is renowned, even the infamous Bloodhound can be restrained behind a sturdy enough fence. The borders of Yomi are quite up to the task, I’m certain.”

That’s not what I expected. While it’s true I’ve made some waves since I got to Thropirelem, I never thought of my rep as being something that traveled beyond the office. “So you know me?”

“Of course. You defeated a god, Bloodhound; that resonated through the mystical continuum. Every powerful shaman and sorcerer on this plane—and perhaps a few others—took notice. I’m surprised no one has tried to acquire you before this.”

“Oh, it’s been tried.” I give him the coldest smile I can manage. “Didn’t work out so well, though. Not for them.”

“Perhaps I shall be more fortunate.”

“Yeah, I doubt that.”

He gives his head an acknowledging bow. “We shall see. In the meantime, consider yourselves my honored guests; while you are here, you are under my protection. Still, I would advise you not to wander far, or to eat anything but what I provide. To do so would doom you to dwell here for eternity.”

“Damn. I was really looking forward to trying that zombie sushi place we passed a few blocks ago. Nothing like an undead California roll when you’ve got a craving, you know?”

Zhang just stares at me. Geez, tough realm.

“I shall return with provisions,” he says, and zips up into the overhead fog like a corpse on a bungee cord.

“Well, that was interesting,” I mutter.

“In a very Chinese sense,” Stoker says. “You know the ancient curse, right?”

“May you live in interesting times? Yeah, that one popped up in my reality, too. Guess it’s a universal sentiment.” I holster my gun again. “I say we keep driving. If Zhang doesn’t want us exploring, it might be because he’s afraid we’ll find an exit.”

Stoker shrugs. “Or because he doesn’t want something to eat his two hostages before he can sell them.”

“There is that. In which case, I prefer to be a moving target. You coming?” I slide into the driver’s seat.

He gets in beside me. “Where to?”

“Left. Let’s start with that, and see what happens.”

I check the gas gauge as we hit the road. Three-quarters of a tank. Wonder how long it’ll last in the underworld—I have no idea what the rules are, other than Zhang’s warning about not eating. If I fill up at a gas station in Hell, will the DeSoto be doomed to motor down these roads forever? And if so, will Charlie’s insurance cover a fender bender with Beelzebub?

Shut up, brain.

More bland, deserted scenery. The buildings end and now there’s only an empty plain on either side of the road. Then even the road ends, and we’re just driving on flat ground. I stop and turn around, but I can’t seem to find the road again. I stop and shut the engine off; no sense wasting gas if we don’t have a destination.

“Something I can’t figure out,” I say. “Charlie. Why didn’t Zhang kill him?”

“Because we’re living beings in the land of spirits,” Stoker says. “You kill us here, you release our life force. If that happens to you or me, it’s just another human soul added to the local population. But in Charlie’s case—”

I nod. “Ah. Guess Zhang could tell what’s under Charlie’s hood, huh?” Unlike most lems—who are animated by the spirit of a steer or other common animal—Charlie’s charged up with the essence of a long-dead giant lizard. The last thing Zhang wanted was the pissed-off ghost of a
T. rex
to deal with. That’s good news; it means the sorcerer is still vulnerable here. Too bad my partner’s currently on another plane of existence.

“Yeah.” Stoker leans back against the bench seat, propping one massive arm on it. “So. We need to strategize.”

“We do. Got any ideas?”

“I do, but they all involve not being trapped in an other-dimensional limbo.”

“Ah.”

We fall silent. It’s surprisingly easy to do, but not because Stoker and I are comfortable with each other; no, it’s this place. The grayness outside seems to be seeping into the car, leaching away any sense of purpose, any hope. It takes a conscious effort of will to talk, and I realize that the longer we spend here, the worse our chances are for ever escaping. We need to stay engaged, stay alert—

Stoker reaches down and hits the
PLAY
button on the car stereo.

The sound of “The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” fills the car. It’s the perfect antidote, upbeat and cheerful and bouncy, as familiar as a favorite T-shirt and just as comforting. The grin that shows up on my face is a little slow in coming, but it’s genuine.

“Good idea,” I say. “I’m just glad Charlie wasn’t in the mood for the blues.”

“Yeah, let’s try and accentuate the positive.” Stoker sounds as if he’s having a hard time doing that himself. “Because this is just going to get worse, Jace.”

“You call that positive?” I shake my head. “We can’t just sit here and listen to music until we run out of gas and the battery dies. We have to
do
something.”

“Agreed. But what? We could wander forever in this fog and still never get anywhere.”

“You’re right. But I don’t think this place follows the same rules we’re used to. It’s a … a
conceptual
place.” I struggle to find the words to explain what I’m thinking. “Despair has an actual
weight
here, a physical presence. Other emotions might, too. The dead might not be able to feel much, but we still do. We can … we can…”

“We can what?” His voice is guarded.

“We can
fight
.”

“I’m not about to give up, Jace. But what are you
suggesting,
exactly?”

I slap him.

It’s the first time I’ve ever slapped anyone. I’ve
hit
people plenty of times; with my closed fist, the heel of my palm, my elbow, my knee, even my forehead—but never with my open hand. Now I know why: It
hurts
.

“Ow!”
we both say at the same time.

Stoker pulls back—when did he get so close?—and looks at me with both shock and guilt. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”

I cradle my poor hand. Slapping Stoker is like smacking a lamppost. “Sorry? For what?
I
hit
you,
you idiot!”

“I know! I was there!”

“Then why are you apologizing?”

“Because—wait.” He rubs his cheek, which is turning a satisfying shade of red. “You hit me because…”

“When I said
we can fight,
I meant it literally. I thought I’d get the ball rolling, but apparently you don’t
have
any.” That’s low, but we’re not going to get anywhere by being nice here.

He blinks at me, then bursts into laughter. Okay, not the reaction I was going for, but any show of emotion at this point is a good thing. And it has the added effect of pissing me off, because I have no idea why me hitting him is so damn funny. Maybe I should have broken his nose, instead.
“What?”

“I’ve been accused of many things, but never that. And considering what I
thought
you were proposing, it’s even funnier.”

It takes me a second to process that. And when I do, I get a very gratifying surge of anger in return. “
Proposing?
With
you?
Here?
Are you out of your sociopathic Neanderthal
mind
?”

“No. But I could be out of my
pants
.”

I glare at him, and he stares steadily back. And I realize that what he’s suggesting—what he thought
I
was suggesting—isn’t that unthinkable. In fact, I did something similar to save Cassius’s life, not too long ago; and as primal as that experience was, what could be more elemental than committing the ultimate life-affirming act in the land of the dead?

Sure. Because the only thing better than boffing your boss is waiting until he disappears so you can jump in the sack with the first psycho that comes along. “Sorry—we were in Hell, we needed a little cheering up, you know how it is.”

“Not. Going. To happen,” I growl.

He yawns. Deliberately. “Sure it isn’t. You know that line,
Not if you were the last man on Earth
? Well, we may not be on Earth—but I
am
the only man here.”

Now I’m sorry I didn’t break his nose. “Listen, you arrogant, homicidal sack of testosterone—”

And that’s when someone raps on my window.

“AHHH!” I spin around in my seat, scrabbling for my gun—

A gray face stares in at me. Her eyes look Asian, but it’s the only distinguishing feature about her. She’s dressed in some kind of formless gray shroud the exact color of her skin, and her hair is only slightly darker. She looks at me with the barest trace of interest on her colorless face.

We stare at each other. I feel like I’ve just been pulled over by a zombie traffic cop. “I’m going to need to see your license, registration, and brains, ma’am.” I suppress the urge to stick my gun in her face—I really have to stop relying on the damn thing so much.

“I think she wants to talk to you,” Stoker says.

“So? What if I roll down the window and she tries to eat my head?”

“She’ll probably get food poisoning.”

The woman continues to study me in a vague sort of way. I have to admit, I’m not exactly getting a hostile or dangerous vibe from her—and if she really wanted to attack me I doubt she’d announce herself beforehand or let a thin layer of glass slow her down. I sigh and roll down the window. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi.” Her voice is as dull and flat as an old butter knife. She doesn’t offer anything further.

“Is there something you want?” I say. It seems as good a conversation gambit as any.

“No.” More silence.

I try a different approach. “Why are you here?”

“Because I’m dead.”