Zombies: More Recent Dead (26 page)

I turned on the GPS tracker—basically a glorified version of what veterinarians use to track the family pet—that I had injected into Tommy’s ass after the last time Isaac walked him outside. Then I called the signal up on my iPad and got a good fix on him.

He was heading down to the west point of Lake Travis. There was a secluded little pocket of vacation homes down there for the uber wealthy. Sandra Bullock and Matthew McConaughey both had houses there not too far from Tommy’s. It was his private little retreat from the world. Tommy didn’t often like to disconnect, but when he did, that was where he went.

And then, a terrible thought.

Please dear God. Tell me he’s not taking her to meet Jessica Carlton. He can’t be that stupid.

I called Isaac’s cell, and to my surprise, he answered.

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

“Can’t talk,” he answered. I could hear Tommy moaning in the background. Car noises. Isaac struggling to keep Tommy off him.

“Isaac. Isaac, don’t you dare hang up on me!”

But he did.

Damn it.

I got in my Suburban—the one I’d specially modified with a police prisoner barrier in the back so I could transport Tommy if I needed to—and headed after them.

Thirty minutes later, I was looking up at an eight thousand square foot mansion done up like a Mediterranean villa—red tile roof, white adobe walls, fountains and hibiscus everywhere. I had parked off the main road, in a small gap in a cedar thicket that concealed the Suburban just perfectly, and tried to figure what Isaac was doing. What possible reason could he have for bringing Tommy here? If Jessica Carlton saw him, we were done for. Despite the constant upkeep, Tommy was looking pretty rough these days. Worse than Willie Nelson after a three-day whiskey binge. Which I’ve seen, by the way. It ain’t pretty.

And then it hit me. Valentine’s Day. Today was Valentine’s Day. Isaac Glassman had no chance of ever becoming Tommy Grind’s lover. Not anymore anyway. The pathetic bastard’s heart was probably breaking. He couldn’t give Tommy flowers, or candy, or stuffed animals, or any of that worthless shit people give each other on Valentine’s Day. But he could give him something pretty. Something that Tommy
did
still care about.

I heard shouting from the house. It was muffled, but definitely shouting.

Then gunfire. Three pistol shots, one after another.

That lit a fire under me.

I reached behind the driver’s seat of the Suburban and took out a badly scuffed Louisville Slugger, the one with nicks in the business end that went back to the Houston beer joint days.

Old School persuader in hand, I advanced up the driveway and tried the doors and windows until I found an unlocked servant’s door off the kitchen.

I looked up and saw a camera in the corner, pointed right at me.

Same system as at Tommy’s. I could deal with that.

I looked around and noticed the stove. A huge Viking gas range with a dozen burners.

I cranked them all up to full and walked into the living room, where I could hear a man whimpering.

I didn’t recognize him, which probably meant he was part of the legal community. Maybe one of Isaac’s lawyer friends. He wore a light gray double-breasted suit with a canary yellow silk shirt and no tie, both of which were torn and splashed with blood. He was clean-shaven and fit looking, but his eyes were crazed. Had to be Jessica Carlton’s lawyer. He must have brought her here so the talent could play while the lawyers talked contracts. He turned his insane eyes on me and that’s when I saw the pistol in his hand, the slide locked back in the empty position.

“Help me,” he pleaded.

I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Who else is in the house?”

“To-Tommy Grind. Oh Jesus. He . . . something’s wrong. He attacked Jessica. He bit her leg off. I . . . I think she’s . . . I think she’s hurt real bad.”

Then he held the gun up in front of his face like he had never seen it before.

“I shot him. I emptied the whole magazine into his chest. He just . . . he just kept coming. He’s . . . oh Jesus.”

“I see. Listen, what’s your name?”

“Leslie Gant,” he said. He was in deep shock, functioning on autopilot.

“Great. Listen, Leslie . . . you mind if I call you Leslie?”

“Huh?”

“Leslie, I want you to kneel down right here, okay?” He let me guide him to his knees. “That’s right,” I said. “Just like that. Now put your arms down at your side. Look over there.”

“What? Why?”

I pointed his face toward the sliding glass doors that led out to a beautifully dappled swimming pool.

“Perfect,” I said. “Now I’m gonna tee off on your head with this bat.”

“Wha—”

I swung for the fence. Laid him out like a sack of rocks.

Then I went to find Isaac and Tommy.

Isaac was standing in a hallway outside the master suite. He turned when he heard me approach, and his eyes went wide as the bat came up.

“No!” he said, showing me his palms. “It’s okay. Stop, Steve.”

“Like hell it’s okay. I ain’t gonna let you ruin us, Isaac.”

“No,” he pleaded. “You don’t understand.”

I was close enough now to see into the master suite. Jessica Carlton, blouse torn off, exposing her absolutely amazing tits, skirt hiked up high enough to give a peek of a white, lacy thong, was pulling herself across the deep pile, honey-colored carpet. There was blood on her face and a huge big bite mark on her right leg. From her expression, I could tell she’d been drugged.

Tommy was staggering towards her, moaning like I’d never heard him do before. There was fresh blood on his face and hands and chest, but if I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he was aroused.

“What the hell?” I said. I turned to Isaac. “Did you drug her?”

“Yeah. GHB.”

“How much did you give her?”

“The usual.”

“The whole dropper full?”

“Yeah.”

“And she’s still moving around?”

He shrugged.

“Damn,” I said, and whistled. “The girl must be in pretty good shape.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy caught up with her, fell on her, started to feed. She let out a weak scream, but there was nothing behind it. In less than a minute, she had stopped thrashing.

Feeling stunned, I said, “Isaac, I’m not sure if I’m gonna be able to unfuck this situation.”

“I was . . . ” he said, and drifted off feebly. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

I didn’t even bother to respond.

“I wanted to give him something, you know? We just take and take and take from his talent. Nobody ever gives back to him. I wanted to give him something special.”

“So you gave him Jessica Carlton? Jesus, Isaac, how did you expect to pull that off. This isn’t some two-bit groupie chick. People are gonna notice she’s gone.”

“She wanted to meet Tommy. Leslie Gant called me. He said she was going to be in town. He asked me if we could set up a private meeting between them. You know, a little romantic Valentine’s Day dinner the paparazzi wouldn’t know about. She’s still with that football player guy.”

I took a moment to absorb all that. Then, “So no one knows she’s here. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Leslie Gant knows too.”

“I’m not too worried about him,” I said.

But I was worried about Isaac. In his mind, he must have felt he was making the supreme lover’s sacrifice. He must have felt almost like a martyr, giving someone else to Tommy Grind so that they could satisfy him the way Isaac only wished he could.

“This must have been really hard for you,” I said.

He looked at me, a suspicious note of caution in his eye.

“I mean that,” I said. “I know you’ve been in love with him for a long time.”

Isaac started to object, but then he hung his head and nodded.

“Listen, come with me. Let’s go have a drink and let him eat. What the hell, right? There’s nothing more you can do here.”

I put my arm over his shoulder and led him back to the living room. He balked at Leslie Gant on the living room floor, but I guided him away from the body.

“Don’t worry about him,” I said. “Here, we got time for one drink. Then, we got to think about how we’re gonna clean all this up. Can’t afford any loose ends.”

He looked back at Leslie Gant and grunted.

I handed him his drink. “To Tommy Grind,” I said. We clanked glasses. I downed mine in one gulp. He sipped his, but managed to get most of it down just the same.

“Hang tight here, okay? I’m gonna go get Tommy and put him in the car.”

About five minutes later, I was done with Tommy and back in the living room. Isaac was nearly passed out on the couch.

I slapped his cheeks to rouse him. “Come on,” I said. “Don’t pass out on me yet.”

He stirred.

“Okay,” I said, “here’s what we’re gonna do. You got your lighter on you?”

He reached into his pocket and held up a pink Bic.

“Pink?” I said. “Seriously?”

A corner of his mouth twitched. As close as he was going to get to a smile at this point.

“Well, it’ll work. Start lighting those drapes on fire, okay?”

He nodded.

I took the whiskey and a couple of other bottles back to the master suite and lit the bodies on fire. Once I had it going, I came back to the living room and grabbed Isaac by the shoulder.

“Come on,” I told him. “Gotta stay on your feet until we get to the car.”

We passed his car in the driveway, and though the drugs I had slipped into his drink had made him so groggy he could barely walk, he was still able to point at his car and groan.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

At that very moment—and I mean it was cued like something out of a movie—the house behind us blew up.

And I’m not just talking a part of the house, either.

The whole fucking thing exploded.

The shockwave nearly knocked me down.

Isaac stared at me, stupidly. His mouth was hanging open, a thick rope of drool hanging from the corner of his lips. Some people don’t handle the GHB well at all.

“What did you do?” he managed to say, though it came out all as one syllable, slurred together.

“This is your big chance,” I said. I leaned him up against the front fender of the Suburban, reached into the driver’s side window, and turned up Janis Joplin’s “Take Another Little Piece of My Heart.”

One of Tommy’s favorite songs.

Then I helped Isaac Glassman to the back and balanced him on my hip as I opened the door.

Tommy was waiting inside, watching, his dead eyes locked on Isaac.

Isaac groaned and slapped at my hand in a futile show of resistance. Poor guy, he knew it was coming.

Janis was singing never never never hear me when I cry.

“She’s playing your song,” I said. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Isaac.”

Then I chucked him inside, closed the door, and drove out of there before the first sirens sounded in the distance.

I listened to the sounds of weak screams and tearing meat coming from the back seat, but didn’t look back.

Instead, I turned up the radio.

It ain’t easy being the manager for the biggest rock star on the planet. Sometimes you gotta get your hands dirty. But what the hell? I mean, the show must go on, right?

Marge Simon

“You’ve a whole life ahead of you.”

That’s what Gramps said

at my birthday party this year.

He gave me a ten dollar bill,

& Momma wouldn’t let me

spend it, so it’s in the bank.

It’s for college, Momma says.

We talk about the good things.

It’s Anna’s need, not mine,

& she keeps squeezing my hand.

Momma went out for food.

She came back so strange.

Now her face is gray,

& there’s blood on her mouth.

It’s my fault for crying.

Momma pounds on our door,

but Anna says we can’t let her in,

now that she’s one of
them.

Dad’s gone, don’t know where.

Maybe he’ll be home tomorrow,

but Anna doesn’t think so.

It was so dark last night,

we couldn’t see the moon.

I wonder if there is a moon in the sky

anymore.

Holly Newstein

The grinding sound of stone on stone was low and muffled by the hot still air. Moments later a stench, so foul as to be almost visible, filled the night like an exhalation. A white-clad figure leaned into the partly opened tomb. A grunt, and the figure pulled something—a something bundled in a stained sheet—out into the heavy air. It slid to the brick pavement with a thud.

The white wraith closed the tomb with another groan of effort. It bent over the bundle and gently pulled a corner of the sheet to one side.

“
Ah me, cette petite. Quelle dommage.
” It picked up the bundle from the bricks. Clutching it closely, it moved away until they were both swallowed up in the inky shadows.

A sickly yellow flash of lightning illuminated the “dead houses” in the cemetery. Thunder sounded a rolling boom in the distance.

The first thing Delice heard was the storm. Fat raindrops thrummed on the tin roof, but it would bring no relief to the stifling August night. “
Ce pauve, ce pauve,
” crooned a strange, soft alto voice. Skirts rustled as the voice’s owner moved about the room.

The voice and the rain and the whisper of fabric were very soothing to her. She had not had many peaceful moments in her short life, so she lay quite still, taking small breaths. She did not want the spell broken and the moment lost.

A warm hand touched her cheek.

“
Ma pauve,
wake up now.” Delice opened her eyes.

A tall turbaned woman, slender, with café-au-lait skin and slanting black eyes smiled down at her. Deftly she slipped a necklace over Delice’s head, placing the cloth amulet on her chest.

“Some
gris-gris
for you. To help Ava Ani. Now we bathe you.”

Delice felt a strange energy begin to radiate out from her chest. She watched as the woman filled a basin with warm water. Then she took little ceramic jars from a shelf and began adding things to the water—powders and dried leaves. Fragrance filled the room—a sweet green smell, different from the earthy, mildewy, rotten-meat odor that clung to the inside of Delice’s nostrils. While Ava Ani steeped the leaves in the basin of water, she chanted softly, in a language Delice did not quite understand. It was French, to be sure, but it was from the islands—Hispaniola, perhaps. Not the dialect Delice was used to here in New Orleans. The one Madame and Monsieur spoke.