The Zero Dog War (5 page)

“You’re in luck, because we’re also known for precision.” I made a gun with my hand and aimed it at Captain Sanders. “Like a laser.” He raised an eyebrow at me. Lucky for him, I refused to be embarrassed by my actions, no matter what.

Harker nodded. “You may be wondering why DHS doesn’t handle this with Department of Defense resources.”

I’d been wondering nothing of the sort. In fact, I didn’t give a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Clients had all kinds of reasons for wanting to employ Paranormal Action Teams, not all of them strictly
legal
in the strictly
law-abiding
way. I figured they wanted a result but didn’t want to risk exposure. Hellfrost Mercenary Groups had to sign Oxford Dictionary-sized confidentiality agreements. Things still leaked out, but not as often as one might think when dealing with soldiers of fortune. Mercs had a rather Darwinian way of policing themselves…and people had been known to get disappeared for running their mouths to the press.

Harker flicked his hand as if brushing away a fly. “Frankly, this is a small-time concern. More of an annoyance really. Our primary strike teams are busy in Brownsville and in Ithaca. Dealing with infestations of gnomes and a group of militant fairies controlled by an extraterrestrial fungus, respectively, and we’d like this particular situation handled immediately, before it develops into a media circus.”

I nodded, sympathizing with their asset-allocation problems. Gnomes could be utter bastards, and I loathed their pointy red hats with a passion. Of course, it was a twenty-five-million-dollar small-time concern, but who were we kidding? This was the government. The fountain of perpetual money. “I’m definitely interested, Mr. Harker. I think you’ll find our service contract quite to your liking. We can start prepping an operation right away.”

Harker leaned back and folded his hands into a steeple before his chin. “Magnificent. There is one other small condition, however.”

Beautiful. I liked added conditions about as much as I liked stapling my tongue to sandpaper, but I kept my smile in place. “Name it.”

“You must accept Captain Sanders onto your team.”

I nearly choked. I cleared my throat to cover the reaction and ended up sounding more like Squeegee hacking up a fur ball. Neither of them seemed fooled. Sanders stared at me, his face impassive, but his gaze rapier-sharp.

God must hate me. I didn’t even know where to begin my bitching. An officer of the same rank would provoke a constant power struggle. An outsider who didn’t know our methods and the peculiar balance of power, position and respect among mercs would be even worse. In terms of both personal and team performance, Spec Force Sanders would be a cinderblock on an iron chain around my neck. Things would be even worse since I’d already felt that soft explosion of physical attraction, misguided as it might’ve been. All perfect reasons to refuse.

“I’m afraid that’s not part of protocol,” I said.

“A contract such as this…protocols can be adjusted.”

“I would love to, Mr. Harker,” I lied again, “but we work alone. Maintaining the integrity of our fighting team. We’re like German precision machinery.”

Captain Sanders gave me a tight smile. “I assure you, Captain Walker, you won’t find me a drag on your team’s performance.”

“No offense,
Captain
Sanders, but Paranormal Action Teams don’t bring unenhanced humans with us into the fray. It’s company policy.”

Harker shut his briefcase, and the clasps
snicked
into place. He smiled at me like a grandfather. A very powerful, very potentially scary grandfather. “Captain Sanders is part of an elite Special Forces group. His detachment concentrates on paranormal threats within the United States and abroad. He’s quite capable of taking care of himself in any situation. You may be surprised to find him a considerable asset.”

“Maybe he can shoot a pistol, but we’ll be going up against dark, forbidden magic.” I looked at Sanders. “Again, not to be insulting, but maybe you’d better sit this one out.”

His eyes glinted, and his jaw muscles tightened. It seemed my last comment got under his skin a little. Good. He glanced at Harker. “With your permission?”

“If you must.”

Captain Sanders stood from his seat and pushed the chairs out of the way. “If you think I can’t handle myself, Captain Walker, I’ll give you a chance to prove it. Try and hit me. Hard as you can.” He raised his hand like a Boy Scout swearing an oath. “On my honor, I promise I won’t touch you back.”

For a moment I fell into stunned silence. Oh God the machismo, and the arrogance—practically a chunky milkshake of male ego. Hell yeah, I was tempted to knock him on his ass and enjoy every minute of it, but I didn’t want to get my dress uniform dirty. “Interesting proposition. I assume you don’t mean hit you with a stream of fire.”

He shrugged, as if dodging fireballs were an everyday occurrence. “Your file says you have martial-arts training. I’m sure you have a couple favorite moves. Show them to me.”

Still, I hesitated. Something twitched my antennae. I didn’t like how Sanders acted—far too nonchalant for my taste. It wouldn’t pay to be provoked into something stupid, and his confidence said he was either as intelligent as pond scum or he had something up his sleeve.

I bet on something up his sleeve. “I’ve trained in multiple styles. Kenpo, judo, aikido, shotokan.”

“I don’t mean to brag,” he replied, “but I do Tai Chi and watch Bruce Lee movies. Oh, and
The Three Stooges
.”

Perfect. A smart-ass on top of it all. “Very amusing, Captain Sanders. But unlike certain other members of my species who carry their egos in their ball sacks, I don’t need to prove anything.”

Mr. Harker favored me with an even stare. “I recommend you do as he requests, Captain, or you take him onto your team untested and like it. Otherwise we shall find another wing of the Hellfrost Group with which to deal.”

Beautiful. I didn’t see any easy way out of this, and the only thing I hated more than being interrupted was getting backed into a corner. I slowly stood and walked toward him. I didn’t want to hurt him—despite all my fire breathing. He kept still, no longer smiling, watching me with a disconcerting intensity. He didn’t strike up a defensive stance. He merely faced me, his hands loose at his side.

Best to make this quick. I pivoted, turning my hips over as I shot out my right leg in a vicious sidekick, putting all my force and precision into striking at his midriff with the outside edge of my foot.

My foot struck an invisible barrier six inches in front of where I’d aimed. Pain shot from my foot up my leg as if I’d kicked a steel wall with all my strength. The ribbons on my chest jingled and clacked together. I stumbled backward, unable to kick through my target, as all that deflected force came rebounding at me.

Jake watched me, still not moving, his mouth set in a grim line.

I closed in once more. Drove my boot down toward his foot. No impact—blocked again—but I anticipated it and swung a back-fist at his head. My fist smacked another invisible barrier six inches from his jaw and bounced off, making a meaty slapping sound.

A string of curses blasted out of me, oaths so profane they’d blister Teflon off a frying pan. I hopped back out of range, but true to his word, Captain Sanders never raised a hand.

What an idiot I was. I should’ve seen it right away, but the standard Special Forces graphic on his shirtsleeve—the black heater shield with the white diagonal—had thrown me into believing he was a Norm. Too late I sensed the slight tingle of magic after he’d actively tapped his powers. My skin felt too hot, too tight, and the undersides of my shirt grew damp as I stalked back to my seat and sat, crossed my legs, and pinned Mr. Harker with my best
not amused
glare. “What are his abilities?”

“He’s a barrier mage. A walking shield wall. A talent I believe you will find extremely useful in fulfilling contractual obligations. Also, he’s an excellent officer, well-versed in combat tactics, counter insurgency, violent creature suppression, and will advise you on how Homeland Security would like you to proceed, should there be any larger questions of strategy involved.”

Five years ago I would’ve calmly suggested they screw a light socket and leave me be. Now I had responsibilities. People counted on me. And all those damn bills…we bled red ink from a thousand cuts. “Fine. He’s on the team for this mission. But
I
give the orders here. If he doesn’t like that, he can ship himself back to Fort Bragg and file a complaint in triplicate.”

Captain Sanders said nothing, but a ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. I didn’t drop my gaze—keeping up the challenge.

“You will be commanding officer for your people in the field,” Harker said. “Captain Sanders will remain under control of Special Operations Command.”

“Fine. He can tag along, make sure we uphold the deal. He can even play a bit. But my price just went up to twenty-seven million.”

“The offer is twenty-five. That will not change.”

So much for bluffing my way to an easy two million more. “Fine. Anything else?”

Mr. Harker opened his case again and withdrew a small mountain of paperwork. “These forms will have to be completed, but you may do so at your leisure. Rest assured you will not be paid in full until they are.” He snapped shut his briefcase again. “Everything else has been settled satisfactorily according to government requirements.”

“I look forward to working with you, Captain Walker,” Sanders said. “What time should I move my gear in?”

“You’ll be living on site?” I don’t know what terrified me more, having him on the team, or having him in constant close contact.

“We might have to do a rapid deploy,” he said. “Don’t worry, I pack light.”

No way out now. “Then…I’ll need to schedule a team meeting tonight. 2030 Hours, after our vamp is up. You can haul your stuff in this afternoon.”

“Excellent,” Harker said. “Captain Sanders can provide a detailed briefing for your entire team. He’ll be keeping me informed of progress throughout the mission. You’ll be paid in full when the threat is completely neutralized…and provided the relevant paperwork is completed.” He stood and walked toward the side door, the briefcase in his hand rocking like a ship in stormy water. Captain Sanders stood and again offered his hand to me. I hesitated, and then shook it. His skin still felt deliciously warm, much to my dismay.

This was going to be such a problem.

Chapter Two: Charge of the Undead Brigade

Undead Army of the Unrighteous Order of the Falling Dark

EZ Pantry Convenience Store

SE 12th Street
, Portland, Oregon

1:06 p.m. PST April 10th

Necromancer Jeremiah Hansen sat in the driver’s seat of the yellow school bus with his zombie horde. He wore a Mariners hat, red and black flannel and hiking boots, and sported a devil goatee to jack up the evil quotient in his publicist photos. Just another average denizen of the Pacific Northwest driving a bus full of undead people.

The bus stank like a morgue low on formaldehyde. Jeremiah made sure he only breathed through his mouth. Even though he was a necromancer, the smell of dead flesh didn’t exactly make his mouth water. He glanced in the wide overhead mirror at the seats behind him. Every seat was crammed three deep with zombies…except in the case of zombies of larger girth, which were two to a seat. And the undead Samoan guy, who took up the entire bench by himself. Jeremiah also had the aisle packed full of zombies, which was not ideal, since they’d rattled around like crazy the entire trip, stumbling and falling and moaning as he’d driven from his factory lair, skirting downtown and crossing Hawthorne Bridge during lunch hour.

Jeremiah looked at his watch and chewed his lower lip as his heart beat faster in anticipation. His skin felt tight, like vacuum-sealed plastic wrap, and he wished he’d downed less coffee. The big moment had arrived, a turning point in his career toward achieving Zombie Overlord status. After this, he’d be able to make an offer to the top candidate of his resume call on the online job board. He really needed someone still living to help him run his expanding commercial enterprise. Zombies were great for grunt work and for eating the bodies of competitors. Finesse, however, they did not have…and they weren’t known for their scintillating conversation skills either.

As if to prove him right, a zombie moaned behind him in one of the front seats, and he glanced at her in the mirror. She’d been beautiful in life, noble features, stunning blonde hair that was falling out in clumps, vivid eyes…or eye, since one of them was now missing after a crow had pecked it out. A great body…well, her skin seemed rather gray and greenish in places, and prone to lividity…but she had great tits. Too bad he wasn’t into the whole necrophilia freak show like some of those other perved-out necromancers.

He sighed. When he was rich and successful, he’d get himself a nice living girl. Yeah, someone intelligent (but not more intelligent than him) and able to help him in his quest for market domination. Someone beautiful, of course, who didn’t reek of decay but smelled more like waffles, and
loyal
. She had to be a hundred and fifteen percent loyal. That’s all he wanted. Oh, and someone with great tatas, because, let’s just face it, woman tits were God’s way of rewarding men for being created first. Those feminist necromancers could take their burial-shroud-burning ways and their bumper stickers that read:
A woman needs a man like a corpse needs Viagra
and shove them.

More zombies moaned. He mused on whether or not he could teach them traveling songs, “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer” or “Kumbayah” or something. Or maybe he could teach them to moan in chorus and take them on the road, maybe Carnegie Hall and the Vienna Corpse Choir. Could be big.

Nah, who was he kidding? Better to stick with something simple, like monopolizing the gelatin-manufacturing industry.

The zombies stared out the windows with their flat, empty eyes at the people strolling by and the cars driving past, which is why he’d kept the windows closed and locked. The smell was one thing, but hungry zombie moaning was hard to ignore. He’d been parked on the one-way street for the last half hour, waiting for the Safe Steele armored car to arrive and restock the ATM at the convenience store. He’d parked past the intersection, just beyond the chain-link fence that bordered the edge of the store’s parking lot—out of direct view of the counter clerk, but attracting his share of curious stares all the same.

He glanced at his watch again and drummed his hands on the large steering wheel. He didn’t want the zombies loose until the armored car arrived, what with the constant moaning, slouching and staggering, the grabby-grabby, and the all-around attracting negative attention. So he was forced to keep them on the bus with him and suffer in the stink. His little electric fan didn’t move enough air. Next time he’d rivet eighteen hundred air fresheners into the metal ceiling.

Finally, he caught sight of the gray and white armored car rumbling up the street. It pulled into the parking lot of the EZ Pantry convenience store and sat there with its diesel engine idling.

Showtime.

Jeremiah turned on the bus’s flashing red lights and pulled the door lever. After disabling the alarm, he’d rigged the lever with a system of pulleys so that yanking the lever also opened the emergency exit at the back. He concentrated. In his mind he could feel the cool, sleek silver cords of his necromancy magic controlling the hundred zombie pseudo-consciousnesses around him. He started to prod them to stand and shuffle toward the exits. He could even see through their dead eyes if he chose—not something he enjoyed, especially when they were eating.

Outside in the parking lot, two guards climbed out of the armored truck and walked toward the back. One of them glanced at the bus and frowned. Jeremiah raised a hand in a casual wave and the guard gave him a puzzled look, but turned back to his work. The first guard swung the heavy rear door open. The second guard scanned the street and the storefront for threats.

Jeremiah’s first zombie, some dude in a tattered business suit, walked to the edge of the highest bus step and toppled forward, thumping against the side of the door as he fell. He ended up sprawled on the sidewalk, making sounds like a man having his appendix removed with a garden trowel. The next zombie took the steps with more grace, but the third zombie got caught staring out the front window at the guards and licking his lips, missed a step and crashed into the second, leaving Jeremiah with a pile of groaning zombies just outside the door. He cursed to himself and got up to help direct traffic. Zombies were already plunging through the emergency exit and off the back end of the bus, bouncing off each other and making a moaning, slavering mess.

He pushed his way down the steps, accidentally stepping on businessman zombie’s face on his way out. Street traffic was light, but a few cars had stopped for the bus’s flashing reds. An old lady who could barely see over the wheel stared at the zombies disembarking from the bus with wide, disbelieving eyes. A few pedestrians and a cyclist had also stopped to stare, well out of eating range, lucky for them. The security guards glared at him, as if
he
were responsible for the disorderly exit, instead of a bunch of coordination-impaired walking dead people.

“Don’t worry, everybody!” Jeremiah yelled. “Just tourists from Canada! Had a little too much to drink. Ha. Ha. Maybe a little food poisoning.” One zombie’s arm fell off its shoulder joint with a wet, tearing sound and a thud. “And some minor skin problems,” he added quickly. “A few cases of scurvy. Nothing serious. Nothing to see here.”

A long moment of silence spun out, in which he could hear the rumbling idle of the armored car’s diesel engine, some birds far off in the trees, the dulcet tones of a hip-hop artist rapping about drive-by shootings, the low-power beep of somebody’s cell phone, traffic rushing past on Morrison, a road crew using a jackhammer a couple blocks away. And then the pristine silence shattered into screams and running footsteps as the pedestrians decamped en masse. The traffic stopped by the bus’s flashing red lights tried to back up, speed past and generally ensnared itself into a gridlock tangle of steel-bodied knots like a mammoth stuck in tar without a moist towelette.

Or something like that.

The dead continued to shuffle off the bus toward the armored car, most of them managing to stay upright, which made him almost proud. One of the security guards drew his pistol. The other one stared, openmouthed, at the first row of zombies. Jeremiah pulled out a stopwatch from his pocket and clicked it. They didn’t have much time. He had to split his attention between the truck and the bus still disgorging his minions, lest any of his zombies wander off and attack some hapless civilian. Feeding would only slow them down.

“Halt!” the armed guard shouted.

The zombies moaned at him, jaws gnashing in anticipation of living flesh. A pistol shot cracked through the air, echoing down the street. One of the zombies—a dead guy in a Red Sox jersey and paisley boxer shorts—staggered backward with a hole in his chest. The zombie grunted, paused, and then continued his shuffling lurch toward the guard, moaning with the same murderous rage as a Beantowner who’d witnessed a Yankees fan pissing on Fenway’s home plate.

“Minimum ain’t worth this shit!” The second guard sprinted away across the parking lot, his hat flying off and landing on the asphalt. One of the zombies snatched up his hat and chewed on it before tossing it away rumpled and stained with drool.

The other guard fired two more rounds, blowing off one zombie’s ring finger and then clipping the EZ Pantry sign pole. He backed up several steps as the zombies closed on him in a relentless wave before he turned and ran off, screaming like a gamer on the release day of a Resident Evil sequel.

No one remained to stand in the way of looting, pillaging and larceny by Jeremiah’s zombie army. The undead encircled the armored car, except for the Samoan zombie, who’d lurched off toward an old lady. The old lady flailed at him with a handbag the size of Rhode Island.

“Get back here.” Jeremiah used his power to yank on the ethereal silver cord linking him to his undead minion. The Samoan jerked and trembled, fighting him, but Jeremiah’s control was stronger. “Don’t give me that look. She’d taste like cheap beef jerky anyway.”

Samoan zombie remained sullen, but rejoined the shambling undead charge.

Now came the hard part. He used his eldritch powers to compel his zombies to file inside and begin to empty the truck. They flailed their way into the back, careening off each other, grabbing sacks of money and shuffling back out. He directed them to carry the sacks in two hands to avoid spills, but one zombie fumbled a sack anyway and a flood of loose change bounced down the street.

For the
coup de grace
came the challenge that separated the masters of the undead from the two-bit Vegas Voodoo priests. He had to keep the line moving from the truck back to the bus to deposit the cash, and precision direction of this many zombies while keeping them from attacking the living was much harder than it looked on TV. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The tension made his bowels feel loose and hot, which was probably too much information, but there you go.

Eleven minutes and forty-six seconds later and it was over. He directed the last of the shuffling zombie horde back up the steps of the bus and into their seats while stopping the first zombie on the bus from walking all the way to the back exit and falling out again.

He glanced at the drifts of moneybags strewn about the aisle, less than he’d expected, but still a decent haul. There’d been a few losses, like the dropped coins, and he’d noticed one zombie actually
eating
handfuls of coins by the sound of breaking teeth, before he’d managed to put an end to it.

He settled himself into the bus’s driver seat just as he heard distant sirens. He pulled the lever, popped the switch, and the door folded shut, catching one hapless zombie half in, half out of the back door, who gave a surprised and dismayed moan. Then he pulled away into the street and floored it. The diesel engine roared, back end pumping out noxious fumes, and within what seemed like a minute and a half the bus reached thirty-five miles an hour. He turned onto Stark Street headed west, back to the lair to count his swag.

All in all, not a bad day for an evil overlord of the dead. Certainly not pretty, but effective enough.

And this was just the beginning.