Undead to the World
Read Undead to the World Online
Authors: DD Barant
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CONTENTS
Praise for DD Barant and the Bloodhound Files
ONE
My name is Jace Valchek, and I’m pretty sure I’m going insane.
Either that, or everything I know is wrong. I’m not the woman I think I am, the place
I live isn’t what I thought it was, and everyone I know is an imposter. What’s really,
truly, crazy, though, is that right now both of those ideas are running neck and neck
in the what-do-I-believe race, and the fact that I’m seriously considering option
two is really tipping the balance in favor of option one.
Bear with me, okay? Things are going to get really weird before I’m done, so I’m going
to start slow, with just the basic facts. Here we go.
I live in a small town: Thropirelem, Kansas. If you live in a small town too, you
know what I mean when I say that it manages to be completely mundane and boring and
flat-out strange at the same time.
It’s all about the people that live There, of course. The town itself is the definition
of ordinary, but some of its residents are a little odd. And yes, I include myself
in that category.
I’m thirty mumble mumble years old, single, reasonably attractive, and I work part-time
at both the local diner and the hardware store. I briefly flirted with a career in
law enforcement when I was younger, but I flunked the psychiatric evaluation. A few
years after that, I flunked another psychiatric evaluation—also conducted by the state—but
this time my failing grade briefly landed me in a locked ward. I’m much better now.
More or less.
I still have a fascination with the law—and psychology, for that matter—but that’s
under control. No, what’s more troubling is my interest in a television show:
The Bloodhound Files.
Okay, it’s more like an obsession. I’ve never missed an episode. I own every season
that’s been released on DVD and have every comic, toy, and novelization. Or I did,
until I had to get rid of it all as a condition of my release. At least I made some
money on eBay.
I guess my problem started because of the heroine’s name: Jace Red Dog. Jace (short
for Jacinda) isn’t a common name. And we’re both tall brunettes, though she’s got
Native American blood and I’m from Spanish-Polish stock. But it wasn’t her name or
appearance I really identified with: it was her
style.
Red Dog kicks ass and speaks her mind, and nobody ever messes with her without regretting
it. My kind of woman.
So much so that I kind of forgot who
I
was, for a while.
But I’m better now, right? All the doctors say so. I have a place of my own, employment,
even a dog. I’m doing fine.
“How you doing?” Charlie asks.
“I’ll be doing better with another beer,” I say, and knock back what’s in my glass.
He nods and pours me a fresh one.
Charlie’s my best friend, I guess. He owns and runs the local tavern, the Quarry,
and spends most of his time behind the bar. He’s a little older than me, ex-military,
with the build and haircut to go with it. Green eyes, a square jaw, and a tan so dark
you’re not really sure of his ethnic background. Charlie’s about the only person in
town who doesn’t seem to care about my stay in the nut hut; I guess that’s why I spend
so much time hanging around with him. Although the beer might have something to do
with it, too.
“Hey,” I say. I’m at my usual spot at the end of the bar, which always seems to be
where the regulars in any given watering hole congregate. “I see you’re keeping the
rumors about you fat and healthy.”
Charlie looks up from the book he’s reading, some kind of oversized paperback edition
of
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
“Hmm? What, that I raise and breed flying monkeys? I keep telling people, they’re
both males.”
“That’s what I mean, Dorothy. The only female anyone sees you with is me, and they’re
starting to wonder if I’m a tranny.”
“The only tranny these people have ever been close to was the one bolted to the chassis
of their car.”
“Maybe. But people love to talk about what they don’t know.”
“Keeps their opinions from getting all muddled up with facts?”
“Usually. But that also means that the occasional fact tends to stand out, like the
fact that the toughest guy in town likes to read about singing munchkins and rainbows.”
“You’re thinking of the musical. This is a
book,
see? No buttons, no batteries. The only noise it makes is when I roll it up and smack
you with it.”
“Ooh, how manly. Did the Wizard give you that courage, Mr. Lion?”
Charlie chuckles. “Nah, I’ve always had plenty of that. And please, let’s not go for
the obvious Scarecrow joke.”
“You’re right. That one’s a no-brainer.”
He winces, then shakes it off and goes on. “I’ve always identified with the Tin Woodsman,
actually.”
“What, the guy with the funnel on his head and no heart?”
“That’s what he thought, but it turns out—”
“I know the story, okay? Everybody knows the story. I always thought they got that
guy all wrong.”
Charlie frowns. “All wrong? What do you mean, all wrong?”
“I mean, he was a guy made out of metal with no heart and an axe to grind—literally.
Obvious precursor to the Terminator. Serial killer all the way.”
Charlie sighs. “You do know this is a kid’s book?”
“The Cowardly Lion? Furry fetish. Scarecrow? Anorexic bulimic. And don’t get me started
on Toto.”
“I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore. No, wait, we are.” He tosses the book down.
“I can see I’m not going to get much reading done with you around.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m not terribly important, just a paying customer.”
“Not so much…”
“Okay, so I’m a paying-sometime-in-the-near-future customer—”
The door opens, spilling late-afternoon sunlight into the bar. I squint and wince,
only half joking. Charlie’s place is called the Quarry, but it may as well be named
the Cave; he likes things dim and shadowy, and I tend to agree. Bright lights make
me think of hospital corridors.
Then I see who it is, and the wince threatens to turn into a grimace. Terrance—
never
Terry—Adams and his little pack of troublemakers. Every small town has them: people
who spend all their time complaining about how much they hate it here, but never seem
to get up the nerve to leave. They vent their unhappiness in a variety of mean and
petty ways on those around them, and we do our best to grit our teeth and ignore them
until they either grow up or wise up. Some never do.
They’re all here, trooping in after him like loyal little soldiers: his wingman, Zev
Kitson, a redhead who thinks practical jokes are the height of wit; Sally January,
who rides a motorcycle and pretends she’s tough; Neil Maigan, aspiring musician; and
Alexis Adams, Terrance’s first cousin and the town’s one and only goth. Or punk. Or
alternative-heavy metal-gangsta-rap-hippie, depending on her mood and the day of the
week. Sometimes I think she just dresses in whatever’s on top of the pile and applies
her makeup in the dark—that being said, she’s actually a halfway decent kid. I wish
she’d spend less time with her waste-of-space cousin, though.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Terrance says when he spots me. “Look who’s here! It’s our local
celebrity!”
“Well, somebody has to be Chief Loser Detector,” I say. I point at Terrance and say,
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Now look what you did—you made me go off.”
Terrance is in his twenties and has the kind of rough good looks that means when he
forgets to shave or comb his hair he actually gets better looking, which is win/win
for him and an overall loss for standards of hygiene everywhere. His hair is brown
and shaggy, his smile devilish, his eyes those of a puppy with a mean streak. I don’t
like him.
“Whoops!” he says, putting his hands up in mock horror. “Sure wouldn’t want you to
go
off,
Miss Blood Doggy. You might
shoot
me or something.”
Zev laughs, a maniacal little giggle I think he does deliberately to get on people’s
nerves. “I think she’s
already
a little off,” he says. “Off her rocker, off her meds, awfully out of her awful little
mind.”
“Hey,” Charlie says. “You want a beer?”
“Well,” says Zev, rubbing his hands together, “I
am
a little dry—”
“Then stop flapping your lips,” Charlie growls. “Or you’ll stay that way.” He doesn’t
even waste a glare; he gives Zev Ugly Look Number Two, which on the Charlie Allen
scale means a flat glance implying more contempt than anger.
Zev grins back and says, “
Mucho
cervezas, por favor, garçon,” then sits down on the stool next to me. Terrance plops
himself down on the other side. I was hoping they’d head straight for their regular
spot in the back by the pool table, but apparently they aren’t done.
“What’s the matter, Doggy?” Terrance says. “You seem a little cranky today. Your collar
too tight?”
Both Alexis and Sally stay on their feet. Sally’s dressed in her usual leathers, while
Alexis has spiked her black hair straight up and applied enough eyeliner to shame
a raccoon. “Come on,” Sally says. “I wanna shoot some stick.”
“So go,” Terrance says. “I’ve got something I need to talk about with our local expert,
here.”
“Oh, now I’m an expert?” I say. I don’t bother making eye contact with either of them,
looking straight ahead.
“Sure. When it comes to weird, you know your stuff. I mean, that show you watch, it’s
all about weird stuff, right?”
I spare him a warning glance. “It’s about a lot of things. The supernatural, serial
killers, even parallel universes.”
“Like I said—weird stuff. So I figured you’d be the person to ask about the Gallowsman.”
“The what now?”
“Local spook story,” Charlie says, sounding a little annoyed. “Kind of thing kids
use to scare each other on camping trips.”
“Oh, it’s more than that,” Terrance says. “Based on fact—everybody knows that. Edward
Jump, his name was. Died right in the middle of the town square in 1799. My father
showed me the town records.”
Terrance’s father is the mayor of Thropirelem, so I guess if anyone would have access
to that kind of thing, he would. “Eddy Jump, huh? I’m guessing he didn’t kick off
from a heart attack.”
Terrance grins. “Well, you got it half right. He did kick off, right through a trapdoor
and down to the end of a rope. In fact, I’m told he did a whole lot of kicking—went
on and on for a good ten minutes or so. Just wouldn’t die.”
“Doing the Hangman’s Tango,” says Zev, holding up a hand with two fingers dangling
down. He twitches them back and forth frantically. “No noose is good noose…”
“So they hanged him,” I say with a shrug. “What did he do, ogle a farmer’s wife?”
Terrance shakes his head. “That’s just it. He didn’t do anything. Well, nothing criminal,
anyway. Edward Jump was one of those guys who just couldn’t catch a break; bad luck
followed him like a dog chasing a pork chop on a string. First his crops failed. Then
three of his kids got sick and died. His house burned down. Then his wife—who was
pregnant at the time—got killed by a runaway horse, trampled to death right in the
middle of the street. After that, he was pretty much a basket case.”
