Protect All Monsters (19 page)

Cynthia fished out a baggie from her pocket. “Here’s some Tylenol with codeine. Take three twice a day. It’ll ease your pain. It’s not the best, but it’s all I could finagle.”

Addey swallowed a dose of pills dry and almost choked on them. Cynthia laughed when she heard Addey gag. “Hey, you don’t have to be tough around me.”

Embarrassed, “Yeah…sorry. I should’ve had a glass of water.”

“I’m scared, if it makes you feel better. Richard hasn’t been this spooked for a long time either. He takes communication lockdown seriously. The island is on the chopping block. Everybody’s in trouble.”

Addey brushed her hair and teeth. “Richard’s old team are missing and presumed dead, right?”

Cynthia acknowledged the truth. “I’d still rather be on the inside of things. You’re the one who’s got it tough, anyway. The vampires probably got your number.”

“It’s only been two days I’ve been on the island, and I’m already a target. What do I have to lose? I might escape this place, or I could stay here forever. I’d prefer dying in the process of escaping than being a slave to this place.”

Cynthia changed topics. “Okay, to business. I’m the shift manager of both the third and first floors. You’ll be floating between jobs. I deal with the vampires and the level-one zombies. The level-one zombies are harmless. You’re going to be a server for them today.”

“A server?”

“Food, drinks and comfort—it’s easy. You’ll see. It’s the best job in the place.”

Her stomach lurched thinking about being in the presence of dead again. “They eat flesh, don’t they? Or is there something grosser they eat?”

The woman gave her a soft smile. “No. They eat normal food. They’re friendly people, but they’re a health hazard. If they’re not chemically treated, they could turn into level-two zombies, and that’s when they become very dangerous.”

“What do you mean they chemically treat them?”

“They resurrect themselves from death hours after burial, but if we hurry, we can keep their flesh in a state of freshness—especially preserving the brain is important. It’s ironic what chemicals they use to keep them fresh. It’s like an advanced embalming fluid and saline solution. They sleep in cryogenic chambers, so half the time they’re not exposed to the elements or susceptible to rot.”

Cynthia checked her watch, suddenly remembering the time. “We should get a move on. Breakfast is soon for these guys. They wake at seven thirty sharp. And they’re damn hungry.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The wing for the level-one dead was similar to the places of leisure the workers on the island enjoyed. There was an outside landing with patio furniture, and many sections designated for crochet, baseball and golf, a volleyball pit, a swimming pool, an open bar with a tiki-style setup and an elaborate dining area. This area had the added comforts of a movie theater and a massage and repair clinic. The clinic itself was a small building with a red cross.

Cynthia narrated the tour. “You’ll notice many of our patrons here need on-the-spot repairs. Skin grafts break. Flesh loosens. Sometimes arms will pop right out of sockets. Preserving the dead is far from a perfect science. It’s our job to help them to the station if need be. Make eye contact. Don’t make a sour face at their appearance. They’re very sensitive about their looks.”

The level-one dead were still in their rooms, she assumed, since the recreation area was filled with workers setting up buffet lines of food—the same foods in the workers’ cafeteria. Food for people.

She thanked God for that.

She followed Cynthia through the pool area and into the indoor dining space. Tables were set with burgundy tablecloths, rolled-up silverware and fancy china plates. A fireplace burned in the center in a brick-enclosed square. Soothing classical music played overhead from many speakers.

“The dead want the good life.” Cynthia spread her arms out at the items. “The vampires get a luxury room and access to an arena where they can hunt animals and feast on blood. The zombies get to reside in their fetid pit and eat dead humans all day, but of course, you’ve seen that already. The wolves are in a private enclosure. No staff access allowed. It mimics a nighttime, wooded environment. Everybody gets what they want, and that’s a form of peace.”

Cynthia guided her into another section. They stepped into a roaring kitchen, which was split into two sections. One prepared the human food for the level-one dead. The second half was divided by a mesh screen. Blood caked the mesh in circular splotches and flecks resembling hardening grease. The chefs and kitchen hands were dressed in yellow moon suits, the same as she had worn on the sublevel. Hatchets, cleavers and flanking knives went to work dissecting human corpses. The bustle of action was a cacophony of beheading, disemboweling and sorting. The parts were stacked into barrels. One of the workers poured a bucket of blood onto the heap as a marinade. Flies buzzed everywhere. Nearby on a counter, a human head was propped with its mouth open in a scream. Its eyes were scooped out into a jar filled with hundreds of other eyes. A drain gurgled constantly on the other side, something always bleeding into it. Air fresheners coughed out spring-scented air every few seconds to combat the stench.

“If you’re going to be a floater,” Cynthia explained to her as they began taking steps again toward a new work area, “you must see everything.”

She was led through a side door. Outside, a docking port was busy with people collecting the cargo from a large commercial cruiser boat. One of the workers removed his gas mask. He had long, greasy brown hair, a thick backwoodsman beard and crooked yellow teeth. He addressed Addey in a boisterous grunt.

“It’s all about the cuts. The wolves like their bodies intact so they can tear them to shreds themselves. Vampires prefer easier access to the blood, veins, arteries and the heart. The zombies enjoy the scrapings of the barrel. You ever work in my area, you take care to remember that. The longer these bodies fester in this kitchen, the worse we smell at the end of the day. Even the strippers and whores stick their noses up at you.” The man winked. “But they’ll still take your money. You bet your bloomers, honey.”

Addey smiled awkwardly. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Cynthia said, “You can’t help but becoming creepy around this shit. Isn't that right, Larry?”

Larry widened his eyes. “You said it, sweetie.”

Cynthia walked her to a different door that shot them into a short recess. A series of offices came and went. “These are Richard Cortez’s and Carl Brenner’s offices. The door at the end here is the surveillance room.”

The surveillance room wasn’t that much bigger than Addey’s living quarters. The walls were filled with over fifty small-screen televisions. On one floor, men and women acted as hotel maids, delivering towels, fresh sheets and toiletry items. Stranger, other service workers dropped off IV bags of blood and bottles of alcohol at doorsteps.

“That’s the crew on level three. The vampires are locked in their rooms right now, so it’s safe to walk the halls freely. We give them what they need, amenities and such. Luckily, they each have a ladder from their rooms that leads into the arena on the second floor. It’s their hunting ground. It’s back-to-back with the wolves’ enclosure, but they’re separated by a thick concrete wall.”

Addey said it like a curse. “How does anybody survive working here?”

“They place us where they think we'll work best. Most of the assignments are based on previous jobs of the employees. You, for example, worked as a hotel maid. You would either be assigned the third-floor work or you’d end up on the sublevel. You got the shitty end of the deal. If you’re an upper-class asshole, you’d end up a server. Cooks, though, whether at fine restaurants or fast food, you wind up in the kitchen and stay in the kitchen.”

She checked her watch again. “Let’s move. I have to supervise the third-floor room cleanup. Vacuuming and scrubbing the stains out of a vampires’ carpet is no small feat. Sometimes the vampires leave for the arena, and then they decide to return to their rooms and attack you. Bullets don’t always scare them. Sometimes nothing does.”

They returned to the level-one dining area. Cynthia ordered her to report to the noncarnage side of the kitchen to a woman named Mary-Anne Higgins. Cynthia left her with the woman. Her new supervisor looked to have been born on an Amish farm, in her sixties, flesh pale as a bar of soap, hair a worn gray and textured like the bristles of a broom.

She reported to Mary-Anne, “I’m Addey Ruanova.”

Mary-Anne checked her clipboard. “Yes. You’re on the serving line outside. You’ll serve food onto plates and then help disassemble the buffet line and participate in cleanup duty.”

The woman’s faded green eyes studied her. “Make polite conversation. Let them feel like one of us. And don’t you dare give them any looks. I’ve lost crew members that way. They can still hurt you, Addey. Level ones aren’t harmless. They’re not like the other creatures, but they can be provoked. You’ve been warned. Now off to the line. They’ll be here in five minutes.” Raising her voice to the other workers, “
Five minutes, people! Shuffle those feet!”

Addey picked up her pace to the buffet line. A ten-person crew stood at their posts awaiting the dead patrons. She joined the line of workers. She was shocked to learn who her partner was.

“Herman?”

“So you’re the new girl?”

Mary-Anne blew the whistle that hung about her neck. “
One minute, people!
Smile. I want honest faces. Make polite conversation. Be pleasant. Whatever hang-ups or hangovers you people have, forget them. I don’t want anybody being harmed on my shift. Okay, look alive!”

Herman whispered to her. “Mary-Anne’s blowing hot air out of her ass. The level ones might be strange looking, but they’re friendly for the most part. Treat this like a normal job, and you’ll be fine.”

She clutched a pair of steel tongs in each hand and stood behind a table with platters of scrambled eggs, eggs with cheese, eggs with mushrooms and onions, and a pot of sausage links. Each server was armed with a pasted-on smile. Backs went erect, chests puffed out. A few took what Addey guessed were ginseng pills and pharmaceuticals to get the blood flowing.

The area was quiet enough that they heard the elevators ding and open. Half-asleep patrons approached the area, ready for coffee and a hearty meal. The main difference between them and the humans was in the flesh. Lines of skin were grafted on, some patches slightly darker or paler than the rest of the body. Eyes were droopy, the whites yellowed with broken blood vessels. Lips were too flat. The collagen injections couldn’t salvage them. Hair was that of a doll, stiff and too shiny. Their skin glistened with fluid that sparkled, the cryogenic embalming fluid reacting to the sun’s glare. Their gaits were forced, limps a prevalent trait.

The first patron to be served was an older lady in her nineties. Her hands quivered as she extended her plate. Her voice was ragged, as if her vocal cords were constricted. “Eggs with cheese, honey. I’m so hungry. I wake in the morning with terrible hunger pains in my belly.”

“You’re always hungry, Edna,” Herman joked. “You’ve got an endless pit for a stomach. And when you drink, oh dear, you’re a regular pro. Gin and tonics all night,
whoa-yeah, baby
.”

Edna smiled at his banter. “Well, your bacon sucks. It’s made from old pig. Pancakes leave something to be desired, but your eggs are splendid. There’s something about the eggs I can’t get enough of. I just love those eggs.”

Addey attempted friendly service. “Eat up. There’s more where that came from. Hungry bellies come on down.”

Edna regarded Addey. “Oh, absolutely. My body’s one big hungry pit.”

The woman moved on, enjoying three heaping scoops of scrambled eggs. The line kept moving, the patrons expedient to receive their meals. A mother and her three kids, what she considered the gangrene trio, each took a stack of Belgian waffles with more whipped cream and syrup than actual waffle. A dumpy woman in a T-shirt that was so tight Addey noticed she had no nipples and her flesh was the texture of cottage cheese around her chest and shoulder blades, stole the spoon from Addey and served half a pan of eggs to herself.

“Bitch is hungry,” Herman whispered. In a singsong voice, he added, “Shove the in-cre-di-ble e-di-ble egg up your ass, lady.”

A dead man with a tree-bark-colored face introduced himself as William. He posed a question, “Do you ever ask yourself who is more discriminated against, the Mexican or African American walking corpse?”

Herman was quite taken by the question. “In this case, who’s serving who, William? There’s your answer, pal.”

“Not so fast,” the patron insisted. “Who still owns a heartbeat? Then we’ll compare skin tones.”

Addey served William two servings of eggs. “Your philosophy on life—er, I mean death—or whatever—is very interesting.”

“If everyone were dead,” William finally posed to them before moving on to the pancake lady, “then we’d finally be equals. Everyone would have the same problems. If everyone had the same problems, then we’d be equals.”

After a half hour, the line thinned out. They were only busy with people coming back for seconds and thirds.

“They eat so voraciously. Why are they so hungry?”

Herman explained, “They don’t gain weight anymore. Their system has no true need for sustenance. Eating was a cherished activity when they were still alive. It’s mental.”