Battle of the Network Zombies (6 page)

She smooshed up her face around her nose, as though someone had thrown a turd into the room. Of course, that’d be me. “Well, I don’t see how that would—”

On cue, Cupcake buzzed in like a horsefly to catch a whiff. An ill-proportioned little pixie who favored crocheted berets in odd pastels like creamsicle and puce to anything resembling an actual hat and an unnerving habit of spraying sparkles from her fingertips as she typed—like
that’s
useful.

“I have your raspberry-scented oxygen set up for your beauty break, ma’am,” she said, eyes batting in adoration of Marithé.

Her boss simply rolled her eyes and seethed, her ability to defend the use of a company employee for her own luxury treatments (not that she could even breathe, so the whole thing was just weird) neutered by the girl’s lack of tact.

“You’re right,” Marithé said and then turned to Cupcake, her hands clasped pleasantly. “Cupcake?”

“Yes?” More eye batting.

“You’re fired.”

Cupcake’s mouth dropped open.

“You heard me. Pack your knitting needles, drawers full of Pez dispensers, office birthday charts and don’t forget that row of troll dolls congregating on top of your computer monitor. If I see that you’ve left them, I’ll blowtorch them into a rainbow puddle of plastic and mail it to you with your final paycheck.” Marithé scanned her palms, perhaps for her conscience. Finding none, she looked up. “Such as it is.”

“But?” A glittery tear slid down Cupcake’s cheek.

Marithé reached toward the pixie, and for a second I thought I’d be witnessing a rare moment of tenderness—that is, before she curled her finger under the salty drop and slurped it up like the monster she was. The monster I created…well, with the help of whatever fucked-up childhood she’d been party to. I often imagined Marithé burning down her decrepit orphanage, nuns included, despite the fact that her parents lived in a planned community outside Philadelphia and participated in the weekend farmer’s market.

Cupcake burst into a major meltdown, running from the room full-tilt, slamming into the opposite wall as she went, clumsy as a kindergarten tantrum, without the promise of hugs at the end.

I felt for her, I really did. Just not as much as I felt for my wallet.

“Well, that solves one problem,” Karkaroff spat. “Couldn’t stand that little freak anyway. Did I ever tell you about the time I had to use the toilet after her? She left sparkles all over the front of the seat.”

“I wish you would have, we could have made a sign.” I said, fiddling a cigarette between my lips.

“How we let you talk us into hiring
it
is a testament to your frighteningness.” She thought a moment. “Is that even a word?”

A few more employees trudged through and out the door with their little cardboard boxes full of crap and the same sour faces. It would have been depressing, but really—it’s true what they say—misery loves company. If I’m hitting the skids, you better be too.

Of course, the skids never looked so good.

It could have gone on like that all afternoon but I had things to wrap up in my office before getting ready for dinner. Fabulousness is not automatic, no matter what you tell yourself and the only thing that would take my mind off all the crap I’d been enduring was the unstoppable ribbing Gil would receive about his blind date.

Plus we were meeting at Skinshu, a hot new restaurant catering to zombies, or something. The lines were around the block last week when it opened.

“I don’t want you to take my bitching about Birch to suggest that I’m unenthusiastic. Quite the contrary. I am excited about the show. The way I see it,” I said. “If we can build up enough buzz, the show can be a cash cow. Our own personal cash cow.”

Marithé put her bitch face back on, leaning against the couch arm and glowering. “Do you know anything about the contestants? Reality shows only work by catering to the lowest common denominator. The characters have to be freaks, drama queens and prone to irrational outbursts and impromptu fist fighting.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I winked at Elizabeth, who, I knew, was in love with
Jersey Devil House Party
. And who could blame her? It had everything; skanky trailer-trash nymphos, exceptionally stupid muscleheads in chains, and one bad-ass Jersey Devil that gave the tagline, “You’ve Been Cut” a whole new meaning.

“Oh, God, no.” Marithé kicked off from the edge of the table and fondled the book spines on Karkaroff’s shelves as she stalked the room. “I love ’em. When Veronique flashed her patch on
Tapping
and that bottle of cyanide fell out of her snootch…well, if I had functioning neurons I would have had a stroke.”

We could only be so lucky to get a true trash titan like Veronique. It only takes one breakout. Remember Chastity from
Death Camp 5
? Of course you don’t, but I do.
Death Camp
was this show about fat supernaturals struggling to lose weight in this weird Siberian camp setting. It had Nazis and evil nurses—both seemingly essential ingredients of anything entertaining. Each show concluded with a “Death March,” and not of the goose-stepping shoeless wintry variety either. The contestants ran on treadmills cantilevered over a huge meat grinder, the first one to drop, well…you can figure it out.

“To answer your question, no. Not a thing. We’ll have to wait and see what we’re dealing with tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”

“I’m not sure we’re done here.” Marithé’s hand hung on her hip.

“You’re right,” I said, struggling to come up with a distraction so I could get out of there. “You need to have the commercial spots ready for client review. You should really get on that.”

Marithé rolled her eyes and sucked at her teeth like she had a piece of tendon stuck in there.

Karkaroff spun around and caught Marithé’s chin in her fingers. The girl jerked as an uncharacteristic fear marred her usually stoic mask. “I need to speak with Amanda. So, yes, Marithé, we’re done.”

She huffed, collected her files from the small table and stomped out of the room, instantly spitting orders for the benefit of her Bluetooth. “Don’t do one fucking thing until I get there, you idiot.”

“She’s next.” Karkaroff grinned.

I giggled a bit, but the thought of firing Marithé scared even me and I’m the one that turned her into a zombie.

“Now. Contingency plan.”

“What?”

“If this show doesn’t manage to get us clawing out of the grave, I’m afraid I’ll have to liquidate to collect my investment. I’ve lost too much as it is.”

I slouched. “It will succeed. I’ll see to it.”

She glared at me for a moment and I almost thought I could feel her picking her way through my brain, using her abilities to test my resolve. If she was, she came away satisfied.

“See that you do.” She pulled out her calculator. “Because the way I figure it, with what the agency is worth right now, even after clearing accounts and selling off the furniture and such, you’ll owe me—” Her fingers clicked across the keys, she shook her head and then passed the calculator across the desk.

If I’d had a functioning heart it would have sunk in my chest.

Friday
2:00–2:30
A.M.
Cheaters Possessed

I struggled to keep my Louboutins out of the rat’s nest of fast food wrappers and candy bar detritus heaped in the floorboard—no small feat with legs as long as mine and in a space as small as Wendy’s new Civic hybrid. She pointed the trashcan on wheels down Queen Anne toward the Center and stood on the accelerator. We caught a little air at the top and when we bottomed out, the garbage under my calves shifted, revealing another layer of shame, several empty packages of Depends and their accompanying sticker strips were balled up tight as little mysteries.

There’s a reason why I always drive.

Or…used to.

“You might want to consider cleaning up your binge evidence.”

“Remember, you’re not supposed to comment on that,” she said, thankfully without looking. Even the slightest distraction could easily turn “barreling” into “careening,” and I was in no mood to deal with the police after Wendy mowed down one of Seattle’s infamously slow pedestrians.

“Well, Jesus. Don’t give me cause. There are at least fifty wrappers in here. It reeks of secret shame.”

Wendy shrugged and tugged left on the wheel, rocking me into the car door. “So what’s up with this Birch gig?” she asked. “Can I get a ride-along or what?”

First the suitcase, now she wasn’t letting it die. I was about to sock her when it dawned on me.

“Oh, my God.” I slapped her arm. “You totally have a girl boner for Birch. So gross.”

“He’s a good singer. You can’t deny it.”

Couldn’t I? Sure his voice was interesting and oddly compelling, at least as far as rampaging yetis go, but was he a “good singer”?

“I guess I never really thought about it. Johnny’s other attributes get in the way. Being a fucking pig and all. As for getting you on set, I’m still thinking no.”

Wendy clicked her tongue, face souring instantly.

“Karkaroff’s on my ass about making this show successful. I can’t risk losing ad space, just because you’re a star fucker.”

“Am not!” Her lips split into a toothy and wholly lascivious grin. “At least not yet.”

“Nice. But seriously, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

“And you do need the cash.” She nodded with a sympathetic pout.

Wendy knew about my struggles, as only another accident-prone zombie could. Her reaper bill was one of the primary reasons for her latest foray into retail accessories. In fact, a recent fall had landed her in their clinic for nearly a week. An entire trunkload of Abuelitas, working ’round the clock, wouldn’t begin to produce the merchandise required to pay back that debt. Good thing she had the gossip blog ads to keep her in Twix (for what that was worth, I couldn’t imagine it was more than a couple of hundred a month), or I’d have to cram another freeloader into my place—two, if you count Abuelita.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

She winked. “You know I love you.”

“Yeah, now if you could just show it like a good parent. You know how I like to be spoiled.”

Outside, every car that passed seemed to be a Volvo SUV. The blue one beside us came equipped with a party girl stippling lip-gloss onto an exaggerated pout. Even the gods were shoving the repo down my throat, mocking my financial problems with a fervor not often seen this side of a political correctness rally.
²⁶

Wendy pointed the car at a space in front of a three-story brick monstrosity rising out of a sidewalk so broken, its jags and dips lapped against the foundation like frozen waves. A dense hand of dead vines stretched from the side of the building as if the arm of some crumbling giant were holding up the decay. An old, but oddly appropriate theater marquee jutted from the corner, a shiny knife in a vagrant’s back. Across the top in a scrolling font of lightbulbs read
THE GRAND
and below that, instead of a film title,
GRANTHAM’S RECLAMATION AND RESOURCER—
whatever that was.

“Are you sure this is it?” I stepped out of the car and swept my purse off the dash.

Wendy pointed a bit down the street toward a classic Jag—and by “classic” I mean old and funky-smelling—centered under a streetlight with the deliberateness of the hopelessly anal. “Does that answer your question?”

Behind the place, down a path of trampled weeds, we found the loading dock, the word
SKINSHU
scrawled across the rolling shutter door. The edges of the letters dripped down the corrugated metal in a deep rusty brown. If one were to examine it closely, they’d find that it wasn’t paint at all, but the dried blood of a good luck sacrifice. For all the good that was worth.

Beside the door, only a small black call box protruded from the brick and not a pack of greedy stalkerazzi, as the news had promised.

“Amanda Feral and guest,” I grumbled, pressing the little button embedded in its center; it squished in pleasantly, like a rubber bulb.

“One moment,” a mechanized voice responded.

“You know,” Wendy breathed. “Just once, I’d like it for you to be the guest.”

The door rolled up into the wall, revealing a long rectangle of Japanese garden. A path of grayed boards meandered around serene stones and clumps of black bamboo jutted into the dark heights of the space, their roots coiled in a flooded pebble floor, the walk underlit by the soft glow of stone lanterns. Wendy stalked off ahead and as I stepped onto the boards, the shutter door rolled closed behind me.

Security has become more important these days. Sure, most people wouldn’t notice a vampire if they fell on one’s dead boner, but theft was up and people were always looking for a score, even in the seedier areas. When thieves start stealing from their own, you know the world’s circling the bowl.

I looked at Wendy who shrugged. Her review was a clear, “Eh.”

“It’s a little obvious, I agree.”

“Totally.”

Still, my only experience with teppanyaki was a childhood birthday ritual of Benihana onion volcanoes and an awkward inability to catch the goddamn rice ball. But that was a long time ago. And I’d had enough of Ethel for the whole month to even consider going down memory lane just then (but I’m all for blowing out the back door of this bitch with a fat ass appendix).
²⁷

The zombie hostess was blond and made up like a geisha, except the white makeup wasn’t really necessary and I’m pretty sure the red stain on her lips wasn’t Shiseido, if you know what I mean. Her ornately embroidered kimono whipped around her as she shuffled (not shambled) toward an arch into the main dining room and the soles of her stocking feet scraped across tumbled marble veiny and blue as British cheese.

Skinshu bore no resemblance to any Benihana I’d ever seen. It didn’t even attempt a reasonable facsimile. In fact, that was the best description of the place: unreasonable. Or better yet: fucking unreasonable. And tiny. Also lame.

The closest thing, for comparison’s sake, is Medieval Times. You know, the place where you eat food without utensils and watch heavily costumed men “joust,” though really, the whole thing reeks of the gay. Just ask Gil; he had a whole philosophy about guys who do renaissance reenactments. I won’t steal his thunder but it has to do with latent tendencies.

He’s the expert on that.

If Gil’s lonely, you can bet he’ll find a closeted, emotionally unavailable werewolf (or something) to fall in love with, help the bastard to come blazing out of the closet to family and friends, only to get his heart broken in some dramatic and often public falling-out. It’s his thing. Some women keep reliving abuse, Gil keeps leading the closeted out of denial, like Moses, if he were a top, and he may have been for all we know.
²⁸

The metal grill tables were there, scattered evenly across a circular balcony and peppered with only a few handfuls of diners, Gil among them. He waved rather unenthusiastically from a table off to our left. This gallery surrounded a frosted glass stage, above which, several eyehooks dangled from clinking chains like giant monocles.

I poked Wendy and pointed. “That’s an interesting decorative choice.”

She pondered them a moment and then, her eyes brightened in mock surprise, she whispered, “Not if you’re a gymnast.”

A chill forced its way under my skin, but I played along. “Genius. Maybe it’s like a whole French circus thing!”

“With those super fun clowns who like to invade personal space bubbles and speak gibberish.”

“You know how I love that.” I didn’t. Ever.

“I do.” She quivered. Wendy hated those freaks nearly as much as I did—it’s one of the many reasons we’re friends. Though, if you’ll recall, when I first met the bitch, she was wearing a clown mask. And Louboutins, so that kind of cancels it out.

By the time we were led to Gil, he was paler than usual and intent on gouging his eyes out with his knuckles.

“Have you been here long?” I asked, dropping my purse on the seat next to him and scooting in close.

Wendy took his other side and kissed his cheek. “Hi, lover.”

He nestled his head against her neck. “Nah. Like fifteen minutes or so.”

Gil nodded in the direction of the stage. “I’m guessing Kabuki dinner theater, sake cocktails and sashimi of some young guy. A nice thumping heart. Something nasty and gut-wrenching for you carnivores. Don’t mind me, I brought my own.” He pulled a flask from his Jil Sander three-quarter trench (unbelted, of course) and took a big swig. “Oh. And check this shit out.”

He spread out his palm and hovered over the cooktop embedded in the center of our table. I reached out over it too, and didn’t notice anything, but that was normal for us; we don’t have a lot of tactile sensations in the extremities.
²⁹
He slapped his palm down. I jumped. Wendy yelped and grabbed at his arm to pull it back from the heat. But there was no reaction, no sizzle no smoke. At first. Just a bit of frost creeping across his pale skin.

“A cold stone?”

“Yep.” Gil pulled his hand away and rubbed it against the leg of his wool trousers.

Wendy’s face screwed up quizzically, and then loosened. “I guess it makes sense. We don’t cook our food, after all.”

I leaned around Gil and launched a bemused smirk at Wendy. “Maybe they’ll chop some Twix bar in your sundae.”

Her middle finger snapped up so quickly, I was surprised her fingernail didn’t shoot off the end.

I blew her a kiss and patted Gil on the thigh. “So how was that date, Slugger? First base? Home run?”

“No comment. How about you? Ready for the big show?”

“Oh, God. Doesn’t much matter if I’m ready or not. Shooting starts tomorrow.”

“I’ll be posing as her agent,” Wendy said.

“No, she won’t.”

Wendy shrugged it off and scanned the menu. “This menu is in Japanese. And not like kanji, either. English phonetically written Japanese. What good is it?”

I looked at my own copy and, true enough, they could be selling turds spread on rotting celery for all we knew. I turned to Gil. “So, seriously, how was this blind date?”

Gil’s dates were notorious hatchet jobs. In fact, I can’t think of a single guy he’s even brought out to drinks with us. Sure, he’s a vamp and he keeps some taps on hand for draining, but I wouldn’t call those relationships, would you?

“Date?” Wendy hunched over the fat straw protruding from her tiki and suckled it like a nipple.

Gil leaned back and stared into the heights of the funnel, sighed, smacked his tongue against his teeth and gave up the ghost. “You know, I was hoping you’d let that slide.”

I shook my head rapidly. “Not a chance.”

Wendy grinned.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I’ll start at the beginning, because I know that’s what you bitches want. Gory details and every bit of my dignity flushed out of me like a wave of painful diarrhea.”

“Make it squishy.”

“I met the guy through Deadspace dot com.
³⁰
,
³¹

“I know it’s a hook-up site, but Jesus, a guy’s got to get some play and I’m not about to go sire a Capitol Hill gymbo just so I don’t have to hang out with you two hags every other night. I’m looking for something deeper.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow.

“Now shut up. I’m trying to rock a mood with this.”

We nodded and let him have the stage.

“The Limelight isn’t holding up well,” he said, his voice dropping an octave and brow cocking like a pistol hammer. “Don’t get me wrong, they still have one of the best vintage blood cellars in town, but if I have a hankering for an Orlando-tapped Tilda Swinton, I’m going to Veinity on 3rd and not some place with banquettes torn up like a ghetto weave. Even the outside has gone to hell. What happened to valet in this town? It’s like we’re in Tacoma, or something.

“My date definitely distracted me from the shabby hole in the wall. He waited in the rear of the blood bar, blending into the shadows. The first I saw of him was his hand, pale and drifting from the darkness to rub the lip of his bloodglass with slender fingers, the tips alternating and coaxing a thin song from the crystal. Then he revealed himself and I nearly blew it into my boxers.”

“Nice,” I said, swigging my third sake.

“Yeah, like you don’t work blue.”

I shrugged and he continued, “Nordic-boned, with ice-blue eyes and blond hair slicked back like he had Ralph Lauren on speed dial, luckily without any of the hunt club trappings. He wore a black V-neck tee and propped a denim-clad leg up on the cushion. Sexy, for sure, but there was something else there too, like a memory I couldn’t quite pull out of my brain.

“‘I expect you’re Gil.’ His words were attenuated and inflected via London, which surprised me a bit. We’d talked quite a bit online, I thought I knew a lot about the guy, but he never mentioned where he was from. I just assumed he was local. He extended his hand and I shook it. Neither of us lingered, that would have been creepy plus I’ve learned not to.

“Anyways, I said, ‘And you’re Daniel. Really is great to meet you…in person, I mean. How did we not talk about your accent?’