Battle of the Network Zombies (5 page)

“Slow down, Scott. Make it last.”

I looked into his eyes and wondered how I could have missed the fact that he’d moved into a shift. His pupils were blown out to a size not seen this side of a seizure clinic and his canines had split his lower lip. Fresh blood trailed down his chin and neck like hot grease.

I pulled my head as far away as possible, exposing my neck to attack if Scott was completely too far gone, but it had to be done lest I give in to my own carnivorous ways.

“Scott!” I yelled. “Back off!”

His thrusts were rapid and forceful, his thighs grown to haunches, a new crop of fur coating the flesh.

Holy shit, I thought. He’s going all the way.

I had to get off.
²¹

Scott’s transformation could only end in blood. I slapped him, and grabbed him by the ears as I screamed, “Focus!”

And he did, thank God. His teeth receded, and despite a dull pop in my hip, the pounding became much more pleasant.

Much more.

It was as I came, with those welcome waves crashing through the last layers of tension, with me bearing down onto Scott, now mysteriously flat on his back—I have no clue how that even happened—covering the drain and creating a hot puddle, both literally and figuratively as his own orgasm washed over him, leaving him slack-jawed. It was that moment when I noticed my left leg jutting from my hip at an odd angle. Knee straight and inanimately disconnected.

“What the fuck?”

“Huh?” Scott lifted up onto his palms and took in the ghastly sight. “Oh shit. That doesn’t look good.”

“You think?” I glowered and tried to pull myself off Scott’s erection. “Still with the hard-on?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I could’ve probably gone again.”

“Oh, no. Jo Jo the dog boy has had his bone for the evening, now he’s gonna fix this fucking leg, before I get pissy.”

Scott sucked his lips and tried to manage a position where it would even be feasible to extract his protracted boner from an undead invalid. I wondered what it would be like to be found like this. Not pleasant, I imagined. And by who? What would Honey think, particularly now, I thought, with my foundation washed off down the drain along with my dignity.
Jesus, there’s Amanda’s dead body, naked and busted all to hell. How she ever found a living thing to bone her is nothing short of miraculous. She should be grateful for that, at the very least.
But she probably wouldn’t even think that, but run screaming for Wendy, who’d no doubt bring Gil, who’d, of course, gather my mother, a few of her closest whores and anyone else who needed a good laugh to cram into my master bath and witness this complete atrocity.

I groaned. “Come on.”

Scott’s mouth spread into a silly grin, he snapped his fingers as though he’d contemplated important strategic scenarios and finally lit on the ultimate tactical response. “You’re going to have to lift yourself up a bit and then, I think if I bear down, I can slip out behind you. Easy peasy. How’s that sound?”

“I’ll give it a shot, but no promises. In the meantime, how about you think about dead kitties or whatever the hell it is that turns off werewolves.”

He clenched an eye and bit his lip, pondering playfully.

I leaned in close. “And if I find out you’ve been sneaking Viagra or Cialis or something, I’m going to kill you.”

“Well, if you keep up that kind of talk I’ll be flaccid for weeks.”

I balanced my torso over my hips and heaved up with my arms, just enough for him to slip out and drag himself, after a minor adjustment, out from underneath me. When I settled back onto the floor of the shower, I heard an eerie pop.

Scott knelt beside me. “You’re going to have to straighten out the good leg.” His face was serious, stoic even.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve said it yourself. You can’t afford another reaper bill.”

A chill passed through me when I realized what he intended to do, or maybe it was the icy water showering around me. I pointed at the nozzle. Scott twisted it closed and the room quieted to a few sporadic drips and Scott’s heartbeat. He waited for me to make a decision.

I couldn’t afford it. He was right. Of course, he was right. I already owed the bitches my first-born child—or
a
first-born child—whatever the figurative breakdown of forty grand was. Probably triplets.

I slipped my working leg out in front of me and leaned back on my elbows. “Do it.”

Now, I don’t know where Scott got his training, but he knew enough to work quickly. He dropped back down on his knees, gripped the thigh of my dislocated leg in one hand and the back of my knee with the other and popped that fucker right back in place. In another minute, he had me on my feet and bearing a little weight.

“Good as new,” he said.

I took a few steps and although it was a little sore, didn’t seem any worse for wear. Except for a dark blue stain that ran from my crotch clear around to my asshole.
Oh, the joys of death.

I threw my arms around Scott’s neck and gave him a big old sloppy frencher. “You, my gorgeous love slave, are certainly handy. You’ll have to tell me how you learned to do that trick.”

“You mean the one with my tongue?”

“Uh…no. But since you went there.” My mood changing in an instant. “What’s up with going shifty on me?”

“I don’t know. I just really lost it tonight.”

“Well. We’re going to have to put a moratorium on shower sex. How did we even end up on the floor like that?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You slipped,” a woman’s voice said.

My head nearly spun off, jerking toward the sound.

Wendy’s head jutted from a crack in the door to the separate water closet. She teetered forward on the edge of the toilet seat, a vexed grin plastered on her face, and a suitcase at her feet.

“What the fuck?” Scott covered his man bits and scurried from the room, leaving a track of wet footprints and an echo of curse words bouncing off the tumbled marble.

“Wow. Scott’s got a real case of winter body, huh?”

“What?” I hobbled over to the towel warmer and snatched one off.

“You know. Pasty. His hair pops against his white skin like a pencil sketch.”

Now, it doesn’t matter that Wendy’s statement was true. Scott could certainly use a tan, but I’m willing to overlook it considering I’d be like the albino being a pigment judger. “What the hell are you doing here, Wendy? I mean other than being a voyeur and pissing off my boyfriend.”

“I’m going with you to your reality show gig. I gotta break me off a piece of Johnny Birch.”

I gestured to the suitcase. “You act like it’s tomorrow or something.”

“It’s not?”

“Is it?”

“You don’t know?”

“I haven’t even talked to Karkaroff about any of it, though I’m certain in her mind it’s a done deal.”

“Well, I just like to be prepared.” She patted the suitcase and then her forehead, indicating some level of brilliance I wasn’t aware of.

“You’re not going, Wendy.”

“Oh, no?”

“No.”

“Oh, no?”

“Stop that! You can’t just keep asking questions and think that’ll discombobulate me enough to agree to your crazy plot to screw a wood nymph. Now come here and help me into the bedroom, I’m still a bit wobbly.”

“A super-famous and wealthy wood nymph,” she corrected, slipping her arm under mine and bracing my weight through the door.

Scott, crammed into his jeans and a tee, busied himself packing spare underwear into his overnight bag. He clomped around the room, snatching his things off the dresser, his face broadcasting his fury.

“So you’re not staying?” I asked and shooed Wendy off to the living room. She lingered at the door a bit.

“Get out, Wendy.” Scott spat the words like venom.

She scurried away, shutting the door behind her. I imagined her running for a glass to magnify our voices through the door. As it turned out, amplification wouldn’t be necessary.

“And no, I’m not staying. In fact, I’m leaving.” His eyes bugged, daring me to say something.

“Okay.” The word lilted at the end, the beginnings of anger stirring. “Care to tell me why?”
²²

“How’s this? You don’t value what we have.”

“How do you figure?”

Scott stepped around the bed, confronting me directly, using his hands a lot, like wolves do. “You insulate yourself with social engagements. You’re so busy being a persona, even when we’re alone, you’re still ‘on.’ Or available!” He pointed toward the living room. Toward Wendy. “You’re still working.”

“It’s hard being a celebrity. I thought you were on board.”

“You’re not really a celebrity, Amanda. You just want to be. You let it cloud your vision. It blinds you to the real important stuff.” Scott shook his head slowly, his jaw tightening. “Either way, I’m not a fan, Amanda. I’m your boyfriend.”

“I totally value you, Scott.”

“Oh yeah? How, exactly?” He waited.

It was one of those moments where your life passes before your eyes. Only these snapshots were select. Ones I’m not particularly proud of. As per usual, they showed up in clear undeniable list format (damn it)…

• I left Scott sitting at the Well of Souls to meet Wendy for a photo op at Gangrene, the new slam poetry/art space in Ballard (which is awesome by the way), then totally forgot about him once we started talking to Gilles St. John, who promised to paint me slathered in caviar or some other egg, I couldn’t remember just then.
  
• Or the time he brought home dinner in the form of a recently released sex offender (who was totally against the idea of treatment) and ended up having to sit there putting up with the guy’s chronic attempts at masturbation while I mingled on a dinner cruise with Karkaroff and her demonic team of lawyers.
  
• Then there was the night I picked up the phone, with Scott in mid-thrust. Though, in my defense, it was an important tip on a clandestine red carpet event.
  

What I remembered most about all of my assaults against our relationship was Scott’s response. He accepted them. He didn’t complain. Always the one to reach out to me. Which lead me to the following conclusion: I was the asshole.

Damn.

“Okay. So I haven’t been very attentive to you.”

“That’s an understatement.” Scott zipped up the tote and charged for the door.

“But you never said anything, Scott. You just let it build up? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I shouldn’t have to mention that I’d like to be treated like a person. Like someone you care about.” He stormed from the room.

“Have you been reading
Cosmo
?” I called after him, attempting an inappropriate joke. If Ethel taught me anything it was to have absolutely no clue what to say to mend a hurt.

Scott dropped his bag on the couch next to Mr. Kim and turned around. Honey and the Jonas Brother backed into the pantry.

“Yeah,” he said, sarcastically. “And they got you nailed, Amanda. Dead to rights. You’re a commitment-phobe.”

“I am not—”

“You can drop back to your old standby of blaming your mother for all your problems, but at some point you’re going to have to take some responsibility for ruining a good thing here.”

I think my mouth was open. I couldn’t find the words to fight back. And, damn it, Scott was right. But then, before I could agree, he said, “We’re done,” snatched his overnight bag off the couch and stomped out the door.

Mr. Kim stared at the TV, which didn’t happen to be on. Wendy simply shook her head and pointed at me, accusingly, I thought.

“Shut up,” I barked.

“No. You’ve got a…thing.”

I followed her cringing stare down to my leg. A strip of skin hung off my ankle and trailed across the carpet like a wet streamer, a line of rotting gore snaked from the bedroom. Wendy dug in her purse and extracted a bottle of leather repair kit and a Band-Aid. She heaved her shoulders sympathetically.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Goddamn dew claws.”

Thursday
9:00–10:00
P.M.
Jersey Devil House Party

South Park was one of our favorite breakfast spots, a small neighborhood south of the city, quiet, if you didn’t mind gunfire, and known for the plentiful and hearty Mexican food…also restaurants, but that’s beside the point.

“What are you going to do now?” Wendy asked.

I glanced up from a totally unsatisfying meal of day laborer, greeted by Wendy’s judgment and a hand cocked on her hip with a little too much finality for my taste. Not yet 6:00
A.M.
and girlfriend was already on my last nerve. Not that I blamed Wendy for Scott leaving. I totally take responsibility for my own actions…most of the time.

Seriously though, would it have exploded if she weren’t there to prove him right?

See what I’m saying?

I dropped the leg and wiped my chin. “What do you mean? I’m going to finish my meal and then you’re going to drive me to the office. Seeing as how you live a life of leisure and all.”

“I meant about Scott.”

I shrugged and stuffed the remains into the sewer grate. “I’m not hungry.”

Wendy sighed. “You know it was only a matter of time.”

“I know you’re not trying to start an argument with me. Not before I’ve smelled my first coffee.”

“You could get him back.” Wendy shrugged, picking at her teeth with a shard from her breakfast.

“I intend to.”

“Aw. You’re in love.”

Was I? “I don’t even know what that means, Wendy. You’re talking gibberish.”

“It means you like him enough to keep him around rather than eating him. Like when I had that Twix bar bronzed to remind me of the progress I’ve made with my little eating problem.”

“But you haven’t made any progress.”

Wendy looked up from collecting leftover bits of illegal immigrant with a pair of tongs and dropping them into an environmentally sound cloth shopping bag—it said so on the side. “I mean, the progress I’m going to make. It’s like when we were alive and had a pair of goal jeans for weight loss.” She broke out in a proud grin. “Yeah, it’s just like that.”

“Scott is my pair of goal jeans?”

“Totally.” She crammed the shopping bag into a Dumpster behind the Taqueria El Soldado and cringed at some goo on her palms. “Do you have any wet naps?”

I dug a packet out of my purse. “What’s the goal then?”

“Do I have to clue you in on everything? It’s like you don’t remember being a human.”

“Not true.” She pulled out a toothpick and pried a bone shard from between her front teeth. “I just don’t recall the love part.”

“He’s your goal jeans because you need to fit him into your life.” She tossed the gore-smudged wipe atop the bin. “And
you
into his.”

I raised my brow and nodded in such a way as to indicate Wendy was indeed batshit crazy. No need letting on that she was probably right. That would unlevel the balance of power.

So not happening.

Her theory made sense in an “everything’s really simple” Wendy sort of way. Regardless of whether I loved the guy, or not, I knew I liked having Scott around and that was plenty reason to win him back. But, don’t go expecting some romance novel bullshit. Cause it ain’t happening.
²³

When Elizabeth Karkaroff bought into Feral Inc. as a partner—and by “bought in” I mean “took over”—things changed. You don’t go into business with the queen of the underworld and not let her be the boss, now do you? It was her idea to move the offices from the waterfront to the lake—said that Puget Sound reminded her of the Styx. Also, a shudder rolled through her—a crappy endorsement for whatever it was she was talking about.

“The band?” I’d asked, momentarily distracted by the
en suite
bathroom in the office I’d scouted and not particularly interested in her whims at that moment—if I remember correctly, she’d been on a tear about how bad Seattle drivers were, ranting and raving like mad.

“Of course not,” she spat.

I shrugged and ran my fingers across the black granite countertop.

“I swear, sometimes you say things just to irritate me,” she scowled, flipped her wavy hair over one perfectly styled shoulder (Carolina Herrera sent a new suit for her that very week—must be nice to have a designer on speed dial) and stomped deeper into the offices.

It was only later I’d realized she meant the river.

She had an excuse for being bitchy, of course—and no, it wasn’t her time of the month or anything. More like her time of the year. Come every May, the hellhounds start sniffing from their brimstone doghouses, or whatever, for their precious Persephone, goddess of the underworld—Karkaroff, while a gorgeous and powerful attorney in this world, was pretty high up in management downstairs, as it turns out. And time is just as precious there. I’ve got a pretty good idea which world she’d rather inhabit. Right around the time the cherry blossoms popped open and the cottonwood trees filled the air with so much dander you’d think God was neglecting his dry scalp, the bitch got grumpy.

And by
grumpy
, I mean deadly.

The first year of our partnership, she tore through the marketing department with her bullwhip. Heads really did roll that day and she stomped them into mush. Of course, they were already halfway there, most of them being zombies and all. I had to bite back a comment about the fiscal irresponsibility of impromptu carpet replacement when I saw the stains spreading like a Rorschach.

That said…

The benefits totally outweighed the lingering fear of being swallowed up in an inky pit of death and darkness. Really, they did.

Take the swanky new digs. In spite of a potential financial catastrophe courtesy of Necrophilique tanking, we were still living large corporate style, thanks to Karkaroff’s sizeable personal accounts.

Wendy dropped me off in front of three stories of glass and chrome in a remodel overlooking Lake Washington, sailboats bobbing in the distance like a fucking Norman Rockwell painting and summer night client cocktail parties on the veranda.

Too bad that last part was history.

“Don’t forget the time. We’re meeting Gil at 9:00. And I need some time to freshen.”

I waved her off. “Just pick me up in an hour. It’s just a business meeting, I’ll weasel my way out of it somehow.”

The mood was remarkably chipper considering the layoffs of the previous week. Those had been exceptionally fun. To be fair, we started with the idea of ditching those hired most recently, but as one of the new guys, Jeff Gorst, was super-hot, we opted to get rid of Rachel Pratchett in accounting. She was a grim little zombie, wore Tevas in the summer and never brought us anything but bad news and even worse breath, unless you consider the questionable and mildly threatening casseroles she’d bring for potluck days an asset. I don’t trust zombies that continue to cook food. There’s just something wrong with it, like when people who wear leather dusters comment on fashion, or amputees insist on playing soccer. Plus, how many accountants does a business really need? With accounts in the toilet, there’s just not that much to count.

There were a handful of others, but Greg Studebaker was the only employee I would miss, and primarily because his presence softened Marithé’s often frightening demeanor. Six-foot-three if he was an inch, tan and altogether agreeable, Greg had the kind of hair that stuck up like he’d just rolled in from a night of rough sex. He always had the good sense to wear clothing that stretched across his hips and crotch in such a way, every shift reminded a girl of a thin sheet draped over his naked junk. Marithé was appreciative, to say the least. But since no one could figure out what he actually got paid for, he was one of the first up for the chopping block.

“Congratulations, Amanda!” Marithé looped her forearm through the crook of my elbow and clopped along with me. “Your appearance on
American Minions
and the ad revenue built into that contract is going to turn all this shit around.” She gestured to the rows of low-walled cubicles and then to a particularly forlorn employee named Renata. “
And
that.”

The woman’s head snapped up from a stack of papers, her mouth twisted up like the pucker in a Chinese dumpling.

Marithé continued, “Elizabeth is working on a relaunch of Necrophilique, under a new name and without the excrement, of course.”

“Christ, again?”

“Yes, again. Stop being so negative. All Necrophilique needs is pretty people on pretty packaging and the dead will be lining up to smear it on their clammy chops. Besides, it’s been two months; there’s been plenty of tragedy in the world to keep them occupied. Who’ll remember a little shit in their foundation?”

I stopped her as we neared the narrow hall to the executive offices. “Just as long as we don’t go the infomercial route, again. I don’t want my face attached to another major screw-up. Plus, if I see that Janice Dickinson again, I’ll beat her so bad.”

“She was a celebrity impersonator.”

“Whatever.”

The shoot for Necrophilique was wrought with mishaps, general bumbling and a virulent strain of incompetence, none so great as my own, I’m ashamed to say. Despite being accustomed to the camera at local events and club openings and such, I wasn’t at all comfortable reading from a script, or memorizing lines or pretending to like things that I don’t. That last part must come as no surprise.

The lights hit my makeup like a blowtorch and before I knew it, Dickinson was giggling and pointing and the audience was doubled over laughing as stripes of foundation bled off my face leaving me looking as fresh as a glazed blueberry cake donut. If only I’d had some mustard gas. I could have at least taken out the shapeshifters. No such luck.

“Amanda! Darling!” Elizabeth Karkaroff stomped down the corridor from her office in vintage Chanel bouclé and scooped me up in her arms. “So good to see you!”

I squeezed my stomach in as she continued to tighten her grip, fully expecting my ribs to crack before she let go.

“Nice to see you too, Elizabeth.”

“Hmm.” She relaxed her arms and stood back a bit, assessing me. “I’m counting on you. And I know you can pull this agency back from the brink.”

“It would have been nice to know what I was getting into,” I said, thinking again about the death threats on Birch and the yeti attack, rather than my part in the reality show.

“I’d have thought you’d be thrilled.” Her voice carried a hint of hurt and her lips pursed.

Marithé crossed her arms and judged, as per usual.

“Well, I certainly don’t mind the exposure and I imagine I’ll do better just being me.”

“Exactly!” Her hands shot forward and clutched my biceps forcefully. A spasm passed through me. “And who doesn’t love unbridled Amanda?”

“No one,” Marithé added, shaking her head. “Well, maybe soccer moms.”

Elizabeth sneered at my assistant.

“What?” she asked, then gestured to me. “I’m talking about her pottymouth.”

I supposed they were right. After all, I, myself, love unbridled Amanda.
24

“Still. It would have been nice to know that Birch has been getting death threats. A yeti attacked us last night. I don’t imagine that was part of the pitch he threw you?”

“Oh please.” Elizabeth waved off the remark. “Who doesn’t want to kill Birch? I can’t name a species he hasn’t fucked, defrauded or fouled in some way or another. He’s a complete Neanderthal and everyone knows it. That the woodland types have turned against him doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” She pivoted on her Givenchy stilettos and slinked off into her office, speaking over her shoulder.

Karkaroff had an unhealthy relationship with scale. Her office was long, thin and shiny as a wet birth canal. The perspective was forced as a de Chirico painting; walls slick with subway tile narrowed the full length of the building to just enough space on either side of Karkaroff’s desk for the woman to saunter around. The place echoed and was a tad claustrophobic if you ask me, but she didn’t.

She never did.

I thought of Birch’s voice and the shimmer of sound that filled the room in sensual warmth, brought on by the cold air pumping into the space. “He has his merits.”

“Oh, Amanda. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for his little song and dance.”

I shrugged. “Of course not. He has an interesting voice, is all I’m saying. There’s a reason why people are drawn to him. It’s not his charm, I can tell you that much.”

“Like a swarm of locusts stripping a field. Vile sounds from an even more contemptible being.” Elizabeth scraped a fresh French manicure across the subway tile; they squeaked and ticked like a needle on a broken record. “I should have…” her voice trailed off and the long hall was silent for a moment.

I glanced at Marithé, who mouthed, “What the fuck?”

“Elizabeth?” I asked, stepping toward the woman, the part-time goddess, and the scariest lawyer I knew, not sure whether I was seriously attempting to soothe her, or otherwise bond, in any way. Karkaroff wasn’t exactly the bonding type.
25

“Nothing. Nothing.” She spun around, flipping her hair over her shoulder and the remnants of a sad smile from her otherwise stony face. “Shut the door and sit down. We have much to discuss before you leave for the set of
American Minions
.”

“And when is that exactly?” I asked checking my watch.

Elizabeth thumbed through a stack of papers on her desk. “Here it is. Principal photography begins…tomorrow.” She smiled pleasantly.

“Tomorrow?” My mouth dropped open. Wendy’s sources were definitely on the ball. Despite it not paying, the gossip blogging thing did produce some interesting and accurate blather.

Marithé joined me on the couch, smoothing her skirt under her ass and sneering at me for monitoring her, presumably. Karkaroff leaned against her desk and continued, shrugging off my horror at the heightened timeline. “I don’t need to tell you this agency is on its last leg. The show’s going to help, but we’ll need to make some cuts to keep us afloat until then.” She accentuated the statement with a dramatic scissoring with her fingers.

I spun on Marithé. “We could get rid of your personal assistant.”