The Down Home Zombie Blues (10 page)

Races were tougher to define. And there seemed to be no correlation between skin tone and hair color that he could see. He’d pegged Jorie to be mixed race when he first saw her running toward him across his backyard. Later, in the conference room, he’d tried to pigeonhole her ethnicity based on his world’s standards. Best he could come up with would be a combo of white, black, Polynesian, and Hispanic.

Her curly-haired sidekick, with her pale skin, could be redheaded Irish.

None of that applied now, of course, with the reality of where he was. But still, except for the mini-Wookiee person, any one of the crew he saw could stroll through his local Sweetbay supermarket and no one would think twice.

Makes it more difficult to identify the enemy,
Theo Petrakos thought.

They’re not the enemy right now,
Sarge reminded.
We need them to exterminate the zombies.

And after that?

Sarge was silent. Theo smiled inwardly.

The elevator doors opened. Jorie stepped into the empty cubicle; he followed. The doors closed. He glanced at his watch. Almost eight in the morning. Bahia Vista’s morning. He still had several hours to get home before someone raised an alarm and started looking for him.

He loved the job. But—vacation be damned—he’d never wanted to go to work so badly in his life. This was one whopper of a commute.

And he’d need one whopper of a story to cover what had happened to the laptop he was supposed to have logged in to evidence.

Damn. He’d been so caught up with getting back to Bahia Vista, he forgot about the laptop. He needed that back or there’d be questions he wasn’t sure he knew how to answer. Being Baker-Acted out to a psych unit wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate right now. He just wanted to get home, stop the zombies, and get back to work being a cop. He’d even forgo his scheduled vacation. The past several hours had been travel enough.

“The herd has shifted outer zones.” She spoke suddenly, without any preliminaries. And without looking at him. She stared at the elevator’s control pad.

“Is that good news or bad news?”

The doors opened. His corridor. At least, it looked like his corridor. He hadn’t spent enough time in them to differentiate. And he couldn’t read the damned wall signs.

“Not sure,” she said, stepping out. “We have no T-MOD in,” an odd-sounding word, “to relay accurate data.”

T-MOD. The laptop.

“Then we’re going home? Down,” he corrected.

“Thirty minutes. Seeker ’droids must go first.”

Thirty minutes! His heart jumped. They reached a cabin door. His, he assumed.

“Fine,” he said. He had no idea what seeker ’droids were, but they’d just bought him thirty minutes in which to find that laptop.

She touched his door pad. “Eat. Nap.” He stepped inside. She didn’t. “Thirty minutes.”

“Wait.” His arm shot out, stopping the door from closing.

She tensed. He tried to relax his body so she wouldn’t infer a threat. “I need…I need a favor.”

She looked up at him, one eyebrow arched in question.

“The lap—the T-MOD. My department, my security people know it exists. It was photographed at the crime scene. I told you that we may already have information on the Guardians. If I don’t return with that unit, there could be questions you’re not going to like. Questions that aren’t going to help you do what you need to do.”

She regarded him, both brows now drawn down.

He pushed. “I agreed to let you put that implant in my shoulder. I don’t want it, but I understand why you needed to do it. I need that T-MOD unit.”

“Regrets. It’s against regulations for our information to be presented to nil-worlders.”

“It’s evidence in a homicide case. If my lieutenant can’t find it, he’s going to restrict what I can do.” He tried to keep his explanation as simple as he could. He needed her to understand and to
believe
that his participation was of critical importance. God help him if she found out he was clocked out for vacation and no one would miss him until after Christmas. “Then I can’t help you as much as you need.”

“I cannot—”

“I went through this,” he touched his shoulder, “to help you. A favor, Commander. I need you to help me.”

Her lashes lowered briefly, then she looked up. “It’s not that I don’t wish to. It is, I cannot.”

She turned, palming the door closed as she left.

Just on a long shot, he tried opening the door after it closed behind her. Still locked. Damn.

He ran one hand over his face.
Eat, nap,
she’d said. Forget that. He first had to look at what that med-tech had done to him.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head on his way to the cabin’s narrow bathroom. The mirror over the sink area showed a reddened bruise on his shoulder, but that was all. It occurred to him that maybe nothing was actually implanted inside him. Maybe they just thumped him and were all having a good laugh right now.

But maybe not. And he couldn’t take that chance.

It took him three tries to get the shower to operate, and then liquid—he wasn’t completely sure it was water—shot out of a long thin slit in the wall. It had a slippery feel and was colder than he liked, but he needed his head clear and that would help. No towels, but an air dryer set into the same wall. He felt as if he were in a human car wash.

He pulled on his clothes, then noticed the image cube still on the bed where he’d left it. Evidence. Proof, in case he needed it. He might not have the laptop, but at least he’d have this. He positioned his fingers on the edges as Jorie had and squeezed. A slight vibration, then it flattened back into a square.

He pocketed it and was scratching at the stubble on his chin, trying to think of one last argument to gain that laptop, when his cabin door opened. He rose from the chair at the small dining table.

“We have a problem,” she said, before he could ask for the laptop again.

He sat back down, his heart moving in a similar direction. “What kind of problem?”

She was clad in the same shorts—some kind of bizarre brown–orange camo pattern—she wore when he first saw her and the same one-armed shirt, funky boots. Two pistols, a short-barreled rifle draped over one shoulder, and God only knew what else hanging from her belt. A headset with microphone and eyepiece ringed her neck. This one-woman war machine punched at some touch pads bordering a screen on the wall behind him. He turned in his seat, watching her.

“Your structure had visitors. The seeker ’droid relayed this image.”

Holy Mother of God. One of his neighbors must have called the police. The image on the screen showed a patrol car, a fire engine, and a bulky vehicle that had to be a utility truck from Progress Energy.

The devastation of his car, two palm trees, and a large section of his oleander hedge was obvious. The view was aerial, though, and he couldn’t see if the back of his house was damaged. But he had to assume it was. Just as he had to assume—no, he
knew
—personnel on the scene were looking for him. Or his body. Because it looked like a small hurricane had ripped through his yard.

He had to get back there before his lieutenant made that phone call to the next of kin in his personnel file: Uncle Stavros and Aunt Tootie. They’d think the worst. No, Uncle Stavros would
know
the worst, because he was a retired street cop. Aunt Tootie would light enough candles in church to induce a bout of global warming.

“Okay.” He rose again, hands splayed. “This is a problem, but not insurmountable. We can—”

He looked at her. Really looked at her, his mind already miles ahead on his plan to beam back down a few blocks away, then jog up with some excuse that he’d gone out to help anyone injured by the storm, act devastated by what had happened to his house.

Jog up with a one-woman war machine by his side.

Not a good idea.

“You have to change.”

She did that damned head tilt, thick lashes shadowing her eyes, her lips slightly parted as if she were inviting a kiss. He fought the urge to lean into her. She was the enemy. She was an alien. She was not for him.

“Change?” she asked.

“Your outfit. Clothes.” He made a short motion in the air with his hand and tried to direct his gaze anywhere but her cleavage or the curve of her hips. “I can handle my visitors. But not if you look like you’re going to attack them.”

She glanced down, then over her shoulder where the rifle peeked past. “Understand. But what is habitually worn?”

“The shorts,” he pointed, “can stay. The top…” He shook his head. It was scoop-necked and cropped short, like those stretch sports tops women wore for exercise. And it showed off enough of her skin that he didn’t want her wearing it. “A T-shirt would be better. This”—he motioned to her long sleeve studded with thin cables and what looked like computer serial ports—“has to go. And the guns. Pistols. The boots.”

He could tell by the slanting of her brows she wasn’t overjoyed with his suggestion. She flipped her hand toward the screen. “So I engage this situation in just my shorts, the rest of my body naked?”

Well, that would definitely deflect attention from the wreckage of the car and the trees. “Where’s your cabin?”

“Why?”

“Show me your closet. I’ll show you what to wear.”

The elevator went sideways this time, or felt as if it did. Her cabin was almost identical to his, except it looked lived in and had computer equipment on just about every horizontal surface. In spite of his urgency to get home, he was admittedly curious; there was a shelf along one wall that appeared to hold personal items—another holo cube, a glittering crystal that reminded him of a geode on a stand, a long box that might be wooden, intricately carved. But apparently she was as aware of the time as he was. She shoved her closet doors sideways with undisguised impatience.

Four jumpsuit uniforms—three black-and-green, one a light gray—a long slinky pearlized green dress, two sweaterlike long tops, and a thick, deep blue robe were the choices that greeted him.

“That’s it? Nothing like this?” He plucked at his T-shirt.

“For napping, yes.” From a drawer set into the wall she withdrew a silky item. Short-sleeved, round-necked, like his T-shirt, though longer. But that’s where the similarities ended. And his fantasies began. It was so sheer as to be almost see-through. Clingy, shimmering, soft. He’d love to see her with it on. He’d love even more to take it off.

Down, boy, down!

He went back to the closet, slipped one of the long-sleeved sweaters from its hanger. It would have to do. Something in the bottom of the closet caught his eye. A zippered duffel. He tossed the sweater on her bed, retrieved the duffel. “Rifle, pistols, any hardware you don’t absolutely have to have in your hand, in here.”

“Wear this?” She held up the sweater.

He nodded.

She unhooked the rifle and strap, shoved that into the duffel, then stopped, eyes narrowed. “Pistols are fine under this.”

She was right. The long, unstructured sweater covered her double shoulder holster and weapons. As long as no one caught her in a bear hug, their existence would most likely go undetected.

“You have different shoes? Boots?” The combination of long sweater and nearly thigh-high boots were damned near erotic in tandem. All he needed was for Sophie Goldstein across the street to catch sight of that, and the whole neighborhood would buzz with the news that their nice Sergeant Petrakos was dating a hooker.

There wouldn’t be a candle left in the whole state of Florida if Aunt Tootie got wind of that. And she would, just the way she knew everything else that went on in his life—from her daily phone chats with her longtime friend Mrs. Goldstein.

With a shake of his head, he turned back to Jorie’s closet. His alien seductress’s shoe selection was equally as limited as her wardrobe. No sneakers. Closest he could find looked like hiking boots. She fished out a pair of very normal-looking white socks, sat on the edge of the bed.

She had pretty feet. For an alien one-woman war machine.

Then she stood before him, hands on her hips. “Satisfactory?”

“Don’t stand like that. I can see the outline of your weapons. Pistols.”

Muttering something in Alarsh he was sure was nasty, she closed the duffel, then slung it over her shoulder. “Now we can go to the PMaT on Deck Fifteen, Sergeant Petrakos?”

He wanted to, badly. But he had to try, one more time. “The T-MOD.”

“The data—”

“Strip out the data. I don’t need that. I just need that unit with my evidence tag on it. If the state cyber guys can’t make heads or tails of the rest of it, that’s not my problem.” He could tell by her frown she wasn’t following his plea. He took a deep breath. “I just need the outside.” He sketched the shape of the laptop with his hands. “Not the data. The outside, with the small paper on the corner.” His evidence tag. “That will stop my security from asking questions.”

She stared at him, eyes slightly narrowed. Thinking. She shifted her weight to her other foot. Still thinking.

He touched his shoulder. A reminder.

She looked away briefly, then back again. “Just the outside?”

“Just the unit. Broken. Malfunctioning.” He thought of the wreckage in his backyard. It was conceivable the unit could have been crushed. He knew his sound system probably had been.

She nodded slowly, then flipped the thin microphone up to her mouth. There was a long series of strange-sounding words, then silence. More words. She took a few steps toward the door. He followed, apprehensive, hopeful.

“Now we go, Sergeant Petrakos,” she said, after swinging the mike down. “My lieutenant will meet us on Deck Fifteen.”

He took that to mean he was getting the T-MOD, albeit a bit altered. “Thank you.” Now all he had to do was figure out how to get it into what was left of his car without the uniforms on scene noticing that.

6

It looked like another bright, beautiful day in paradise—once Theo’s eyes focused and his stomach stopped doing nosedives. If he could only stop scratching at his arms, the back of his neck, his…For the first time in several hours, he saw a small smile curve across Jorie’s mouth.

“What’s so funny?” He didn’t intend that to be the first thing he said when they materialized in a secluded section of the park two blocks from his house. He intended to give her a briefing of what to expect from the cops and emergency personnel at the scene.
Keep your mouth shut, keep a low profile, and follow my lead
was the gist of it. He would get to that in a minute. If he could only stop scratching. And she’d stop trying not to grin.

“Your stomach spins and a thousand flittercreepers dance on your skin, no?”

“Just a little itching,” he lied. He had no idea what flittercreepers were, but his body felt as if it had gone through the spin cycle on his washing machine. More than once. But he was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing this nil couldn’t handle it. Not after his embarrassing performance on her ship the first time. He urged her forward toward the short stretch of brick-paved street and glanced carefully down at his watch. His head did another looping spin, then settled. Ten after nine.

“Normal. The body reacquaints itself after a brief separation.”

Neither he nor his roiling stomach wanted to think any further on that explanation. “Does it ever stop happening?”

“No. But eventually you ignore it. Don’t worry. We use shuttles to Paroo.”

He wasn’t worried. He had no intention of going through that transporter gizmo again. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to be on any shuttle to Paroo. “Okay, this is what’s more than likely going to happen when we walk up. We need to have our stories straight. You say as little as possible, let me do the talking. Understand?”

She nodded. He described the different vehicles, their purpose, and their personnel as simplistically as possible, though he noted her English—or her understanding of his English—was improving. Once he showed his ID, he told her, the cops would know him and most likely accept his story that he was out checking for anyone needing help after the storm. He’d recognized Jorie as a neighbor and he was escorting her back home—careful of the tree limbs and downed power lines.

“They’re not going to ask for names, specifics. I’m one of their own. I act concerned, you act concerned, we go inside and they leave. Easy. Simple. Understand?”

“When they ask which is my structure—”

“They won’t. You’re with me. But if they do, there’s a mid-rise condo at the other end of my street just behind Cocoanut Grove Center. Grove Palms. Can you remember that?”

“Grove Palms,” she repeated. “And a conto is…?”

“Condo. C-o-n-d-o. Tall structure, many levels, many small apartments. Residential. Like the ship, sort of.”

“Ah. Conglom.”

“Condo.”

“Vekran, conglom. You, condo.”

They left the park and walked down the shady side of the street, sometimes on the grass, sometimes, when the foliage grew wildly, on the street itself. There were no sidewalks. Late-morning noises surrounded them—the slamming of doors, the barking of a dog, a child’s happy shout because it was Christmas break and schools were closed. Street traffic was light; only one car passed. It was after nine; most of his neighbors would already be at work.

Another minute and he could see the line of vehicles in front of his house.

For the third time during their trek, she pulled up one edge of her sweater, glanced at what looked to him like a longer, slightly wider PDA clipped to her belt. The magic button that would drop him, writhing, to the ground? He knew she’d stated that she and her captain would have to agree before she used it, but he wasn’t fully sure he bought that. He doubted that if he were to suddenly grab her and go for her weapons, she’d politely hold up one hand and say,
Excuse me, I have to make a call.

No, he was pretty sure she had full authority to end his life without a conference. All the more reason he had to appear completely cooperative until he knew exactly where that magic button was and its range.

She released the unit, pulled her sweater down.

“Messages?” he asked.

“This?” She tapped her side. “Scanner.
Right now
seeking energy changes that warn of a zombie.”

“All quiet?”

“All quiet.”

He nodded.
Right now,
she’d said. Right now that thing functioned as a scanner. It might have other functions as well. He wasn’t going to cross it off his list yet.

The low rumble of car engines at idle reached his ears, topped by the grinding sound of the fire truck’s diesel. The green-and-white patrol car sat at the curb in front of his house, one officer in a similarly colored uniform leaning against its trunk. Another uniform was probably around back or else behind the fire engine. Its large red bulk blocked his view of anything farther down the street. But the firemen were loading their gear, packing to leave. That was good. The less people who saw her, the better. He nudged Jorie forward, quickening his pace, falling into the role of Concerned Homeowner and Can You Believe What Happened?

Which was pretty much his opening line: “Hey, can you believe that storm?”

His shout made the uniform turn. He recognized the dark-haired woman as Carla Eddington, a patrol cop who knew him but not well enough to question his fabricated story or Jorie’s presence. A real stroke of luck. She was only on the job about eight months, having moved down from Massachusetts. Sometimes it seemed everyone from up north sooner or later migrated to Florida.

Even space aliens and zombies.

“Sergeant Petrakos?” Her voice carried clearly over the engine noises. “Damn, are we glad to see you!” She jogged toward him, inclining her head to speak into the shoulder mike clipped to her white uniform shirt as she did, hopefully advising the others on scene that no body bags were needed. He watched her gaze dart to Jorie in her oversize sweater, shorts, and hiking boots, then back to him again. He was glad he’d altered Jorie’s clothing. A woman—especially a woman cop—would have definitely noticed they were not the norm. “Where in hell have you been?”

“Out checking for injured. Helluva storm.”

“Yeah, some kind of freak tornado. One of them microbursts, maybe. We thought it kidnapped you, Sarge. Couldn’t find a body, but your yard, your car…Hey, that’s what we have insurance for, right?”

“You sure it was a tornado?” He pasted a stricken look on his face.

Another glance at Jorie, then back to him again. “Must have been. We’ve got lines down all over the place. Progress has two trucks here, but power’s still out on the street.”

He shook his head, walking with her toward his house. “
That
I know. I went to check on the neighbors. Ran into Jorie.” He jerked his thumb to his left, where Jorie kept pace silently. Thank God. “She lives down the block. I know her from the, uh, gym.” Well, the duffel slung over her shoulder did look like a gym bag.

“C’mon,” Eddington said to Theo as the fire truck gunned its engine loudly. “I’ll take you ’round back.”

He lightly grasped Jorie’s elbow, bringing her with him.

The scene that met his eyes was worse than he remembered. The fallen palms, shredded hedges, and battered remains of his unmarked police sedan did indeed look as if a tornado had touched down. Maritana County was prone to such freak storms. He remembered when a small tornado tore the roof off one house in Treasure Island, touching nothing else on the street. He’d seen water spouts on the Gulf hop and skip over the barrier islands, then reappear again in the channel, heading for the elite Tierra Grande island community.

If he hadn’t seen the zombie with his own eyes, he’d believe a tornado did this too. And he was not only a cop but a detective. Damn!

“Damn!” he swore out loud, his hands shoved in his back pockets as he walked around the twisted wreckage of his vehicle, Jorie at his side. He needed Eddington to go back to her patrol car so he could shove the stripped T-MOD into the trunk of his car. “I must have been at the neighbor’s when the twister did this. The lieutenant’s not going to be happy. I’ll call the wrecker—”

“The boss will just be damned glad you’re alive,
amigo,
” said a familiar male voice behind him.

Theo screwed his eyes shut. Shit! Zeke Martinez. Not him, not now, not with Jorie standing a hairbreadth from his side and Eddington yammering on about how this was one hell of a way to start his vacation.

He turned just in time to have Zeke clasp one arm over his shoulder. “Thought we’d lost you for good. I—well, hello there! Now I can see why you weren’t answering your cell phone.”

Zeke had noticed Jorie. Of course he had. Who could miss her? Though Theo obviously missed seeing Martinez’s car. It must be behind the fire truck. “Jorie Mikkalah, Zeke Martinez.” He stepped out of Zeke’s embrace, realizing what it might look like. Did her galaxy have same-sex couples? “We, uh, work together in Homicide,” he added hastily, praying Zeke didn’t go all Latin and kiss him on the cheek.

“Jorie. A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” Zeke held out his hand.

Panagia mou!
Did they shake hands in her galaxy? Or was it a rude gesture, some kind of major insult that would spawn an intergalactic war? He shot Jorie a tight smile, gave a quick, short nod of his head.
Take his hand, take his hand!

“Thank you,” she said, and—
thank you, God
—she reached out for Zeke.

He clasped her hand. “So, known this wayward bastard long?”

Theo saw her frown slightly, knew she had no idea what Zeke had asked. His mind blanked on any kind of amusing rejoinder to divert attention from her. And then something worse happened. Eddington answered for her.

“Sarge knows her from working out at the gym. He was checking on his neighbors and ran across her.”

Zeke released her hand. A big grin crossed his face. “Is that so?”

Theo was in trouble now. Big trouble. He grabbed Jorie’s arm, propelling her toward his back door. “I—we need to make sure all the appliances are turned off.” Maybe then they’d leave and he could plant the T-MOD in the car.

“I’ll help,” Zeke said.

Shit!

“Might want to open your windows,” Eddington called after them. “That cold front moved through and today’s gonna be a hot one.”

Things were hot already. He urged Jorie ahead of him, up the two steps, then stopped on the wide slab of his back porch. He plastered on his best good-buddy grin and faced Zeke. “Sorry to have worried you. Appreciate your coming over here. But, really, we can handle—”

“I’m sure you can.” Zeke reached around him and opened the door. “Allow me, pretty lady.”

Theo gave her a short nod when she glanced up at him. With a shrug, she stepped inside.

“Now,
that’s
nice,” Zeke said under his breath, punctuating his words with a bad imitation of a jungle cat’s growl.

Oh, Christ. He was in deep shit now.

He followed Jorie in. Cooler air met him immediately. That wouldn’t last long, not with the air-conditioning and ceiling fans off. His appliances all stared blank faces at him as he pulled out plugs and flicked off switches. Jorie positioned herself on the far side of the kitchen table, duffel at her feet, hands behind her, her back straight, her shoulders stiff. He recognized the military posture: parade rest. He prayed Zeke didn’t.

Then he realized her posture also showed—not clearly, but it showed—the outlines of her weapons. Zeke was just coming into the kitchen behind him. He’d notice. Zeke hadn’t stopped staring at Jorie since he arrived.

Theo did the only thing he could. In two steps he was in front of her, one arm around her shoulder, the other around her waist in an intimate embrace. He leaned down, his face in her hair, his mouth against her ear, and pulled her against him. “Don’t stand like that,” he whispered. “Pistols. Relax!”

Her hands had snaked up to rest on his chest. She twisted slightly, looking up at him. Her lips parted as if she were puzzling out his words. And then she did that damned head-tilt thing.