Battle of the Network Zombies (10 page)

“No kidding. Let’s get a move on.”

At the bottom of the stairs, a sign was affixed to the balustrade. It read:

I shrugged off the last line as melodrama and pushed through the doors into the paneled bar, with its mirrored shelves of booze glistening like Shangri-la. But before we could slink over and order, we were intercepted by a certain smarmy wood nymph.

Having saved my skin once, Birch seemed to think he was owed some leeway in his sexual advances. The hug he greeted me with rapidly progressed to a groping and then kneading of both my ass cheeks.
⁴⁰

“Checking me for tumors, doctor?” I scowled a warning.

Birch withdrew his hands with a snap and a smirk, then turned his attention to a much more willing Wendy.

“Melody Daniels!” His arms flew out to surround her. “I’ve heard so much about you. I feel like I know you. And gorgeous, you are.” Stepping back from the lingering embrace, he reached for her hands and spread her arms out like he was admiring her attire, when anyone with eyes and an I.Q. over 80 could tell he was sizing up her tits.

But Wendy, not having a problem with being ogled or objectified, didn’t stop the fucker, rather jiggled her goods slyly. Her breasts bounced under the delicate silk.

“It’s a Pucci,” she said.

“Huh?” Birch’s gaze finally met the petite zombie’s eyes.

“The dress.”

“Oh yes,” he coughed. “It’s divine.” He bent in to whisper the next bit, but must have decided he didn’t care what I heard. “You know where that dress would look perfect?”

“Not on me?” Wendy pouted.

“Of course on you.” He leaned in again. “Bundled up under your arms while I give you a little bit of Johnny.”

“Little?” I asked.

Johnny’s normally pale face flushed a vibrant fuchsia matching the print on Wendy’s dress. “No. I mean…What I mean is.”

“What do you mean?” I checked my nail beds. The cuticles were in need of a bleaching—the nails don’t grow so much these days, they stop after a while, one of the big lies of death.

He whispered this time, directly into Wendy’s ear. Her eyes grew in surprise. “Oh.” She played coy, as though this wasn’t playing directly into her plan.

“Johnny!” Mama Montserrat stormed into the bar and stabbed her thick paw under Johnny’s armpit, dragging him toward the furthest table. “Excuse me, ladies, I’m going to have to interrupt. We’ve got important business to discuss.”

“I wouldn’t say you were interrupting,” I said.

Wendy sneered at the woman and turned immediately to the bartender, a shifty squat of a guy with a nasty case of carrot top (the hair, not the horrendously ugly comedian poser) and green eyes that swam in his fishbowl glasses like an aquarium. “Two vodka doubles, Chester. Straight up.”

“It’s Ron.” The man’s voice crept like the slow hiss of a tire puncture, leaking from his mouth as though he’d used up the last of his will to live squeezing it out.

“Yep. And make it quick.” She slapped her palm on the bar, her eyes tracking Birch as they settled in.

Drinks in hand, Wendy led me to a table opposite Mama and Birch, settled in with a clear view of her quarry and started licking the rim of her lowball.

“Subtle,” I said, swallowing a fragrant mouthful.

“Men don’t get subtlety. They respond to direct visual cues. This—” She stopped to flick her tongue against the glass, while rolling her eyes back in her head. “—implies that I’m a salad-tosser, or, at the very least, I’m not opposed to a little dirty work.” She winked.

“Ew. But you are.” I gaped at her. “Aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “If it’s clean, I’ll consider it on a case by case basis.”

“Jesus! What constitutes clean? I’d have to get Molly Maids in to scour and bleach Scott’s hole before I’d even look at it, let alone lick it out like the last bit of sugary Fun Dip from the paper envelope.”

“Oh please. Quit being puritanical. Like you’ve never eaten an asshole before.”

“Well. That’s different. And in my defense it’s not a euphemism when I do it and it’s part of a larger array of edibles.”

“Whatever. Maybe if you’d been little more experimental, Scott wouldn’t have left.”

I drained my glass, slammed it on the table loud enough to get the freakish bartender’s attention. “You’re on thin ice.”

“I’m just sayin’, all guys want a little finger action.” Wendy crooked her middle finger. “Just pop it in and when they’re about to go all curly-toed and ugly, just yank that bad boy out of there. It’s more effective than chaining them to a wall.”

“Which is all the more interesting coming from the zombie who can’t seem to get a date.” I glanced at Birch and Mama Montserrat.

Their discussion had drifted into secretive whispers, Johnny spending a good portion of it with eyes darting quicker than a peep show patron’s—all he needed was a trench coat and a newspaper.

“Your boyfriend’s arguing,” I whispered.

As we both turned back to watch, Mama stood and slapped the shit out of Birch’s cheek. His head spun toward the wall and saliva sputtered from his lips.

The big woman stomped through the room, floorboards moaning and creaking under her weight. She stopped at the door and turned.

“Yeah. See if I’m joking, Johnny.” The words bellowed from her, even as her eyes shrank to slits. “You’ll get yours!”

And with that she was gone.

Johnny giggled a bit, noticing the row had garnered the attention of all the assorted lushes in the bar, except for the twins who’d long since passed out in pools of their own slobber. I pitied the dimwitted barman. Johnny sloshed down whatever he was drinking and slid out of the booth. He flashed an uncomfortable grin at both us, the gathered contestants and crew as he sidestepped out the wall of French doors and into the garden.

Saturday
3:30–5:00
A.M.
All Creatures Grim and Slight

“Are red rose petals really appropriate?” I whispered into Mama Montserrat’s ear. Her eyes followed mine to the path of crimson that led through the forested great hall down the entry stair to the gravel drive, where the first limousine idled—the only one, if I’m going to be honest about the production
⁴¹
—cloaked in a cloud of exhaust instead of très gothic fog.

“What you mean, child?” She cocked her head to the side as though legitimately perplexed. Could she really not know? What woman doesn’t know the symbolic nature of roses? Hell, Valentine’s Day is built on the assumption.

“Well, it’s not really a dating show. I suppose yellow petals could be an option, but red? It’s not like anyone’s coming here to find love.”

“Don’t be a dumbass now. With Johnny Birch, every show is a dating show,” she clucked, shook her head and then shot a grimace over her other shoulder.

I craned around her to eye Birch, who was busy admiring himself in a hand mirror, smoothing his eyebrows down. Satisfied, he flexed his lips into a kiss and smoldered a bit. I’d seen the smolder before, though I believe it was patented by a romance author I met once at a convention in Pittsburgh. Could be wrong. Johnny tossed the mirror behind him, where a vine uncoiled, snatching it from the air.

The whole “living” room concept could have been no one’s idea but Birch’s. The mossy lilting dips and hills were even thicker now than when we first arrived, covered with a perennial thickness of ivy. It crept around the barked columns and out the door, wedging them permanently open. The space creeped me out nearly as much as the decorator, and not just because an open door was an invitation for a home invasion—Johnny’s “talents” were just plain weird.

The vine dragged the nymph’s discarded mirror up the wall behind us to whereabouts unknown.

“Can you not do that?” I asked.

“What?” He blinked as mechanically as a porcelain doll.

“Make the greenery do your bidding? It’s a bit unnerving.”

“I’ll try.” The words were clipped, noncommittal. More reason to hate the guy. I wished I’d brought a hedge clipper, or pruning shears or total vegetation killer.

Oh shit. That one even cracked me up. I suppressed a giggle.

Wendy’s head poked out from behind a tree trunk like a demented stalker squirrel after a nut, or a nutjob, in this case. I would have waved but she was squarely focused on Birch.

I tapped my pen, straightened my score pad and sighed. “What’s the holdup?”

“Shh.” Mama Montserrat tossed her beaded dreads as she spun on me. They settled around her head like a macramé plant holder. “It’s starting.”

I lazed back in my chair a bit to get a better angle on the front door. Cameron Hansen stood on the outer steps, oddly an easy foot taller than his normal five-foot, two-inch frame. I suspected some radical reaper treatment until my eyes lit on his shoes. Massive platforms nestled under his suit pant cuffs. Not since Frankenstein had footwear been so horrific. The effect was not unlike hooves.

He turned and raised his hand in a little salute, at first I thought for my benefit, but then I sensed Birch’s leering nod to my left. By the time I turned to look, he’d taken to considering some lint on the table. Mama stared past Cameron blankly.

Despite spending quite a bit of time with the celeb, as the fiancé of my friend Liesl, I’d never taken to the guy. His smarmy charms reminded me of his conquests and his night job as an incubus. Sure, Liesl was no saint, she’d delivered countless devil spawn into the world, those mewling little worms, cute in a bizarre trendy cuddle toy sort of way. A succubus’s work is thankless, though, all the big-ups go to the forked cocks the “Inkies” swing.

And Cameron made sure to feature his in the tightest flat front trousers known to man, or devil.

I waved to the douchebag, to be polite, but he’d already turned to mug for a cameraman.

“The limos are pulling up and nine lucky contestants are about to gain entrance to this fantastic mansion and a chance of a lifetime. A chance to compete for a singularly fantastic opportunity. To protect one of the most famous and influential celebrities in all of supernaturalness.”

That’s not a word, I thought.

“Through these doors, the contestants will meet our judges and be judged…harshly,” he said as he strode across the carpet of rose petals toward our ivy-covered dais. “First up, she’s the gorgeous and mysterious woman who’s captured the imagination of undead everywhere—”

I grinned. Nodding, but only slightly, as he went on to describe how my face had graced the cover of everything from magazines to Mojo powder. That last one I didn’t recall posing for, but I smiled and politely took the compliment, figuring he knew what he was talking about. Whatever it was couldn’t be any worse than Necrophilique.

“A star that outshines the night sky,” he hopped onto the raised platform and held his hand out to…“Mama Montserrat, ladies and gentlemen.”

Canned applause filled the room and if I could have, I’d have turned red as baboon ass. Thank God for low blood pressure.
⁴²

Mama Montserrat didn’t say a word. She pulled out an ivory pipe, stuck it into her mouth like she was stabbing a pincushion and sparked it up with one of those lighters crackheads use. You know, the kind that looks like flames from a jet engine. I imagine they’re sold wherever you go to pick up Mad Dog 20/20 or a “40” of “Old E.” The smoke coiled around her head like a snake darkening at the head, which refuse to dissipate. Finally, she acknowledged the camera with a blunt nod—no pun intended—without once looking at Cameron, who merely shrugged and continued.

“Next on our panel is none other than the undead socialite herself, that party girl extraordinaire, not often seen without a Big Gulp of booze and clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in…”

At least they didn’t corral a real audience to provide the snickering that snuck out the speakers.

“Oh, wait…except she
is
dead…and she’s wearing it anyway, ladies and gentlemen!” Cameron broke out in a fit of laughter, never once taking his eyes off me. The fucker relished my discomfort. Always had.

More laughter poured into the room, big rocking guffaws. I had to force myself to shut my mouth. He really couldn’t be talking about my McQueen. Not unless he had a death wish.

“It’s Amanda Feral, everybody!”

I put on my biggest smile and gave a tidy wave. “Thanks, Cam, looking dashing as ever.”

“Why, thank you,” he said and then for the camera’s benefit, “I clean up pretty well, if I do say so.”

“You certainly do. That suit is beautiful.”

Cameron brushed his hands down the lapels of his jacket.

“But those shoes!” I hunched over the table to gawk.

His hands hovered around his waist, the smile deflating on his face.

“Now, those are really spectacular. In fact, I haven’t seen platforms so high since the Olympics. Are you training?”

Cameron blushed, but deflected with a little spin that brought him directly in front of the man of the hour. “Johnny Birch is a bona fide star of stage, screen and countless recording triumphs,” he chanted. “His celebrity is such that he’s become the target of many crazed female fans, and some male.” Cameron gestured as though he’d asked a question.

Birch nodded.

“Each clamoring for a second of his precious time, a private serenade or possibly his head on a stick for their home altar!” Cam shouted.

Johnny’s eyes bulged.

Mama rolled hers.

I felt a headache coming on.

“Ladies and gentlemen…Johnny Birch!”

“Thank you for that…” the wood nymph stood and searched for the word and didn’t find it. “Introduction,” he finally said.

I’d have inserted a few adjectives, like insane.

He rounded the table and came to a stop next to Cameron, resting his hand on the host’s shoulder like they were old pals. “I’m excited about the prospects of this show. As you know, I’ve yet to find the love I so desperately deserve on my fantastically popular and, if I do say so myself, romantic television series,
Tapping Birch’s Syrup
. That’s right America, I’ve yet to be tapped.”

Chuckles and a smattering of applause echoed from hidden speakers, as opposed to the gagging I’d have introduced.

“Bullshit,” I coughed and struggled with my purse until I landed the little flask of whiskey, unscrewed the cap unceremoniously and took a long drag. Cheap shit nowadays, but it packed a punch and flooded my weak veins with some welcome warmth—Lord knows I wouldn’t get any from this crowd.

Birch swiveled toward me, “That one’s gonna be trouble…and I love it.”

“Meow,” Cameron added with what he wrongly assumed was the requisite cat’s paw mimicry. On a child it’d be cute, on him it looked retarded, just like the shoes.

Jesus, I thought. This gamble better pay off.

Meanwhile, Johnny beamed for the camera, sucking in his cheeks and rocking his head on his shoulders in what must have seemed to him to be a saucy seductive move. Turns out, he just looked drunk. I’d have to remember to tell him later.

“Are you ready to meet the first contestant?” Cameron motioned for Johnny to sit down, but he just stood there, mugging and stabbing the air with his arrogant chin.

“He means, sit your ass down, Birch!” I yelled and the camera spun on me, its oculus tightening in. I couldn’t resist a smirk. Who could?

Birch huffed his way through a fiendish scowl, presumably for the benefit of the invisible audience, as it clearly had no effect on me, and pointed a twiggish finger in my direction—a threat—then darted around to reclaim his seat. Once settled in, he leaned back in his chair.

“Good stuff,” he said. “Keep up the false antagonism, it can be our shtick.”

“Who says it’s false?”

“You kidder. I knew you’d work out great.”

“Listen, Birch. I’m just around to buy some time and exposure for my company and to see you get murdered. Get any more suspicious packages in the mail?” I winked and then glanced at the camera mischievously, hoping they’d caught the exchange but doubtful the wendigo working the damn thing gave a shit about anything other than waxing his antler.
⁴³

He waved off the words.

Mama Montserrat puffed a cloud of smoke that hung around her head like a phantom. “You two shouldn’t joke about those threats. Someone sendin’ dead things is serious bad juju. Means they serious.” Her face poked out of the gray cloud like an Eskimo emerging from a dirty parka. “Serious as a heart attack.”

Cameron’s voice interrupted her by proclaiming, “Welcome! To
American Minions
!”

He led in the first victim, a vinegary, rat-faced woman with bleached-blond hair as crispy as chow mein noodles, a pale pink blouse that fit as loosely as sausage casing and thoroughly eco-conscious and utterly beige slip-on hikers. I scanned the atrocity between my fingers—there’s nothing more offensive than unchecked fashion don’ts—they do produce magazines for that very problem, you know? Her skin was nearly as gray as Mama’s pot smoke and veins webbed her face—much like mine when I don’t expect anyone to stop by the condo. Most likely a zombie, though I really hated to acknowledge our kinship.

Is it really so hard to slap some makeup on the dead? Really?

“
Je m’appelle
Absinthe,” she spat. “I’m Belgian.”

“Like Poirot?” I asked. The fact that I was reading
Evil under the Sun
seemed overly coincidental; never mind that I’d likely abandon it for the DVD.

The woman soured further—I know it doesn’t seem possible
⁴⁴
—and began to speak in that decidedly French way that features hairball coughing in every other word. “Hercule Poirot is a fictional character. I don’t see how I merit ze comparison. I’m here, aren’t I? I exist,
oui?
”

“Of course you exist, Absinthe.” Cameron patted the woman on her back. “At least until someone knocks you out in an elimination round.”

“What. You zink a ghoul can’t prevail? Well you are most wrong, Monsieur Hansen. I’ve learned a varieté of techniques to—”

“Lovely to meet you!” Cameron shouted, cutting off her rant. “Please wait for your competition in the study.” He swung his arm around her and sped her toward the door in the rear of the forested lobby.

A commotion bustled at the entryway, as Tanesha thrust herself between the twins who’d been politely waiting their turn and stomped across the tangle of vines snaking across the floor.

“What the hell is all this shit anyhow, sugar?” She steadied herself against Cameron as if he were a small stool and kicked up the tallest stiletto I’d ever seen to pick out some stray threads of ivy from a hollow under the pad. “I better not trip up in here or y’all bitches are gonna hear from a lawyer.” She scanned the judges and ended on Cameron. “A good one. You got it?”

“I do,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, our next contestant is Tanesha Jones, drag wolf.”

“With a ‘u’,” she added.

“Drag wulf with a ‘u’.” Cameron raised a note card. “It says here, Tanesha is an expert in the ancient martial art of transformational glamour, a regular MacGyver with cosmetics who can also, and I quote, vogue the hell out of some bustas.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” I shouted, checking my co-judgers reactions.
⁴⁵
Mama continued to puff away nonplussed, while Johnny leaned forward with an odd look on his face. I wasn’t sure he was entirely aware of what he was looking at so lasciviously. Tanesha struck a seductive pose and Birch’s eyes followed her form from those deadly-ass shoes up her sleek chocolate gams to a body-hugging red halter dress that accentuated her plump ass. She must have been wearing a bullet bra as her breasts protruded like weapons.

“That’s right, sugar,” she called out to me and winked saucily.

Cameron ushered her to the study and joined the twins in the center of the room.

“Hurry up with those two, Cam.” Johnny propped his hands behind his head. “Don’t want them to get bored and start singing, we’ll end up washed up on the rocks.” He howled with laughter.