Undead to the World (19 page)

“So what about you?”

I shrug. “I’m just waiting until I get a little older … eighteen, maybe. Then I’ll
kick daylight.” I lean back on my elbows, close my eyes, and bask in the sun. “I won’t
get to do this anymore, but it still sounds like a pretty good deal. Immortality,
right? Never get old, never get sick, never have to worry about my figure.”

Charlie doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll … miss something?”

I laugh. “You mean like food? Sure, I guess. But they’re doing all kinds of things
with blood now. I heard they’re even working on potato chips!”

“That’s not what I meant. Human beings are … well, you’re
complicated.
You change as you age. You have all this biology that affects who you are, what you
do.”

“And what would you know about human biology?”

I swear he looks embarrassed. “They teach us many things. If golems are going to live
in this world, we need to know how other beings think and act.”

“I’ll bet they didn’t waste much time on
us,
did they? Not much point.” I don’t sound bitter, more like amused. “We’re almost
obsolete.”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true. Anyway, it’s just another change—isn’t that what you were just
saying, that change is good?”

“But it’s not change, Amy. It’s stopping at one point in your life and staying there
forever. All those things you get to avoid—maybe you shouldn’t avoid them. I haven’t
been around long, but I’ve learned a lot since I came into this world. Both good and
bad. And I know you can’t just pick one and ignore the other.”

I smile at him. “Wow. You’re quite the philosopher, Charlie Aleph. I’m impressed.”

He looks down. “You’re a good friend, Amy. I just want what’s best for you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Charlie. I’ll be
fine.
”

*   *   *

My POV changes suddenly. I’m looking out of Charlie’s eyes now, as he reads a letter.

Dear Charlie:

I miss you, and I hope you’re okay. I watch the news about the war every day and worry
about you.

It was hard for me to write this letter. What you’re going through is so much worse
than my little problems that I feel guilty even telling you about them. But I promised
you I’d be honest when I wrote, so you’re getting the unvarnished truth.

School has been bad. I still don’t have any friends. I have to bring my own lunch
because the cafeteria only serves blood, and somebody keeps stealing my food. I’ll
find it on my desk with a note on it saying
This is Disgusting
; or even worse, I’ll find out everything’s been soaked in blood.

I get a lot of insults thrown at me, of course:
bloodbags
is the new favorite, replacing the old standby
snacky.
Lots of offers to turn me, most of them lewd.

Even the teachers treat me like I’m some kind of idiot. I’m not stupid, I just find
it hard to concentrate on trigonometry at 2
AM
. The other kids don’t have that problem, of course; they were all born pires. They’ll
keep aging, just like me, until their parents decide they’re old enough and cancel
the enchantment. But in the meantime, they’re stronger and faster and tougher than
I am.

And they belong.

I’m tired of it, Charlie. Tired of being on the outside. I get up at noon, when I’m
supposed to be asleep, and just walk around the town. It’s quiet and empty and lonely,
just like me. I sure wish you were here.

But you’re not. You’re out there fighting the good fight, and I’m stuck in Nowheresville,
America. I kind of envy you; at least you have other lems around that you can count
on. I’m on my own.

I’m going to do it, Charlie.

I just can’t wait anymore. I want to have friends, I want to do what everyone else
is doing. My parents still want me to wait, but once it’s done, what can they do?

There’s a boy at school. Not one of the ones who bully me—he just watches. There’s
something in his eyes … the bullies are all cowards; I don’t think any of them would
actually bite me, but I think this boy would. We’ll see, I guess.

Please don’t be angry at me. I hope I’ll see you soon.

Yours,

Amy

Charlie puts down the letter. He’s in a foxhole. I can hear an odd noise in the distance,
multiple snaps followed by a sort of low thrumming. I look up and see a thousand arrows
falling toward me, filling the sky. As they get closer, they get bigger; they’re the
size of spears, then flagpoles, then lampposts, tipped with triangular heads as big
as traffic signs. In a world without guns, this is what passes for artillery. They
slam to earth all around, a rain of timber that shakes the ground.

Charlie ignores it. He reads the letter again.

*   *   *

I come back to myself, kneeling on the floor, Charlie’s head cradled in my lap. I
almost expect to feel the smooth glossiness of plastic skin, but no; it’s warm and
hair-covered and human, Charlie Allen as opposed to Charlie Aleph. But who’s underneath?

Charlie winces and sits up. When he turns to face me, I know.

“You wondering what happened to her?” he asks.

“It’s none of my business, Charlie.”

“It is now. You gonna go traipsing around between my ears, you get the full tour.”

“Fair enough.”

“She did it, just like she said. Wouldn’t tell anyone who had bitten her, just that
it was her choice. Took her a while, but she made friends, got accepted. By the time
she graduated, she was almost popular.” He looks down.

“And then?”

“Then I did some traveling. Fought in a few wars. Came back to visit, now and again.
Grew up a lot. She didn’t.”

I don’t say anything, because I don’t have to. I get it. Whatever Amy did with her
life, whatever she became, part of her would always be a seventeen-year-old girl.
An unhappy seventeen-year-old girl.

“I just thought it was a shame, you know?” Charlie says quietly. “Maybe it doesn’t
matter. Maybe it does. But I’ll never know—and neither will she.”

“You still see her?”

He shakes his head. “Not so much. Turns out we don’t have a lot in common, after all.…”

TWELVE

“How are we fixed for weapons?” Charlie asks. He’s on his feet, flexing his arms,
studying them as critically as a swordsman would study a blade.

“Shotgun with loads that may or may not be effective. Some homemade stakes. Not much
else.”

He nods. “This Allen guy—he work somewhere?”

“Owns a bar in town.”

“Good. He’ll have something stashed there. Bar owners always do.”

I glance over at the TV. The DVD player has turned itself off, and all I see is a
blue screen. I try to get Azura again, but she isn’t taking my calls—I can’t get her
face to come up on the scene menu. Guess she’s busy on her end, too. “Wait a minute,
Charlie. Aren’t you in Allen’s mind? Can’t you just remember whether or not he’s got
weapons at the bar?”

Charlie shakes his head. “No can do, toots. I’m me, and he’s him, and it don’t look
like either of us can peek through the other guy’s window. Which is fine by me.”

I sigh. So now that I’ve got my partner back, it turns out he’s even more clueless
about this place than I am, is unarmed, and can no longer bench-press a truck.

Damn, I’m glad to see him.

What Charlie
does
know, however, is a bunch of the stuff that’s still locked up inside my head. “Okay,
I’m assuming Azura briefed you. As far as allies go, Gretch isn’t available. Cassius—called
Cassiar here—is. Who else should we be looking for?”

“You got a guy named Eisfanger?”

That surprises me. “Yeah, kind of a computer geek. Albino, stays inside and online
most of the time. I know him?”

“You’re colleagues. He’s a forensics shaman—could come in handy.”

“Not here. Different reality, different rules. And I don’t think he’d be much good
in a fight.”

“Tanaka?”

“Ex-boyfriend. Hates my guts.”

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your touch.”

I glare at him. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Guess you’ll have to take my word for it, then.”

“Terrific.”

We decide our best move is stay together, keep moving, and hit the bar for possible
supplies. “If nothing else, we should be able to find something flammable,” Charlie
says as we head for the car. “Fire work against supernaturals here?”

“Not sure. Pires tend to burst into flames when they die, so probably.”

“Probably,” Charlie growls as he gets into the driver’s seat. “That
ain’t
one of my favorite words.”

“Neither is
ain’t
. Or it wasn’t before. You used to be quite the philosopher, from what I saw.”

“People change,” he says as he starts the car. “Some of us, anyway.”

I try to get Cassiar on my cell phone as we drive. It goes right to voice mail. “We
need to meet,” I tell him. “Call me back ASAP.”

“He remember who he is?”

“No. But he’s on our side, anyway. I think.”

We pull up at the bar. “The Quarry, huh?” Charlie says, looking up at the neon sign.
“I like it.”

“Gee, what a surprise.”

When we walk through the doors, we get another one: The place is full of faces I don’t
recognize. Big, rough-looking guys in denim and plaid, wearing muddy, steel-toed work
boots. One or two are wearing reflective orange vests, and a few have hard hats on
the table beside their mugs of beer.

“Uh-oh,” I say.

“Situation?” Charlie asks.

“Not yet.…”

We walk over to the bar. Not everyone in the place is watching us, but more than one
pair of eyes track our path. Charlie doesn’t hesitate, just goes right around the
bar and into the back. I follow. The relief bartender, Bob, is too busy to even notice
us.

We do a quick search of the office. Sure enough, I find a loaded Glock in a desk drawer.
“Huh,” I say. “Never figured you for a Glock kind of guy.”

“More like a rock kind of guy?”

“Watch it. You’re stepping on my material.”

There’s a crash out front. Loud, angry voices. I look at Charlie and he looks at me.
“There a back door out of this place?” he asks.

“Yeah, but Bob’s out there. Bob’s a decent guy. Not really fair to him—or the guy
whose body you’re wearing—to let the bar get wrecked.”

Charlie shrugs. “Hey, for all we know Bob’s really a mafia thrope who wants to eat
your liver. But you’re right: it’d be a shame to ruin a good bar.”

I shove the gun in my belt and we go out front. There’s an angry confrontation going
on between a group of road workers and a knot of locals: I spot Don Prince, Vince
Shelly, Ken Tanaka, and Brad Varney. They don’t normally hang around together, but
it seems like they’ve found some kind of common ground—ground that seems to be composed
of the mud the road workers tracked in. There are a lot more road crew members than
townies, but that doesn’t seem to bother the townies. In fact, they seem almost eager
to get the snot kicked out of them.

And then I feel it. In the air, all around me. More than just testosterone or adrenaline.
Sorcery. I don’t know how I can tell; I just can. And when I glance at Charlie, I
can see that he feels it, too.

“Something’s gonna blow,” Charlie mutters.

Don Prince, the dapper, silver-haired Italian owner of the hardware store, is getting
into a road worker’s face. “You think can just walk in here and talk to one of us
like that? You have no idea who you’re insulting!”

The road worker—not Joe, but someone who could be his brother—stares down at Prince
with a sneer on his lips. It might be a trick of the light, but his eyes seem to have
a weird blue glow to them. “I know. I just don’t care.”

Brad Varney, the transvestite mailman, looks about ready to throw someone through
a window. “Take it back,” he growls.
Literally
growls; his voice has dropped at least two octaves and acquired a rumble.

“It’s coming apart,” I murmur to Charlie. “The spell.” It’s just intuition, but I
know I’m right; this whole place is aimed at
my
head, after all. If it goes off the rails, I’m going to be the first one to notice.

The road workers’ eyes aren’t the only ones starting to look strange. There’s a yellow
tinge to Don Prince’s, and his fingers are curled into claws rather than fists. Varney,
always scrupulously clean-shaven, is looking a good twelve hours past a five o’clock
shadow. Both Tanaka and Vince Shelly have their upper lips bared in all-too-canine
snarls.

“This place won’t last,” the road worker says. “Not once the new highway goes through.
It, and all of you, are just gonna fade away and be forgotten—”

That’s when Tanaka cold-cocks the guy.

It’s an impressive punch. By that, I mean it lifts the guy right off his feet. And
through the air. And into the wall ten feet away. I remember what Mayor Leo’s punch
did to that dumpster, and by this point I’m pretty sure I know where he got his strength
from.

The other road workers don’t seem impressed. They’re all grinning, and their mouths
don’t look quite right; a little too wide, a few too many tiny, sharp teeth. Their
eyes are giving off that blue glow, too.

And then the fight kicks off with a roar.

Bodies fly through the air. Furniture smashes and glass shatters. Howls of rage and
angry cursing compete for volume. The townies are badly outnumbered, but for four
middle-aged guys they’re doing all right. Bob hunkers down behind the bar, and I can’t
say I blame him.

Maybe Charlie and I should sit this one out. That’d be the smart thing to do. Let
the two sides pummel each other for a while, then wade in and break things up. Maybe
learn something from watching, or from whichever side we decide to help.