The Zero Dog War (9 page)

I paced again as a stray thought pushed into my mind. What would Captain Sanders think of my little favorite space? Would he think it too
unprofessional
? I’d decorated in a style I liked to call
warm eclectic
, but which Sarge always referred to with a smirk as
random psychotic
. Comfy couches, fat candles on wrought-iron holders, colorful fabrics for texture, silks, velvets and a river-stone fireplace. I’d covered the walls with old English tapestries and Toulouse-Lautrec prints. An intricately detailed rapier and dagger set with silver and gold inlay leaned on a stand in the corner.

Anyway, who cared what Sanders would think? Stupid, irrelevant question and a patently idiotic line of thought. Jesus, I had to get a grip. I had so many more important things to worry about. If he hated my decor, I’d merely stab him with the dagger.

Dammit. Still thinking of him.

I wheeled around, nearly sloshing Chivas out of my glass, and stomped toward the French doors leading to my balcony. Night air and quiet. They had to keep me from replaying earlier conversations in my head and coming up with wittier replies, right?

The night was calm, cool and dry, a kind I didn’t see enough of here in Oregon. It only took a few minutes to admit the night air and quiet had no effect. My thoughts still churned, and I could hear Jake’s voice, harsh with scorn, in my mind. I leaned against the railing, gently swirling my scotch. Was he right?
Was
I incompetent as a commander? Were things in my unit really as bad as he’d claimed? I stood so close to the situation that maybe I couldn’t see how chaotic they’d become.

Bullshit. We did job after job and did it well. Except for that last one with the dark elves where we’d lost the plant. I took another sip—more of a gulp—and focused on the warmth sliding down my throat.

Should I hang up the proverbial jockstrap?

Like hell.

So should I put the boot heel down? Demand more discipline in noncombat situations?

Everything in me said no. Yeah, we were chaotic, disorganized, at time fractious, and often we behaved more like a dysfunctional family than a squad of professional warriors. Despite those things, we had real cohesion when we deployed to the field—a unity I was afraid to endanger. I’d helped rebuild the Zero Dogs on a foundation of trust and mutual respect, not some constantly enforced chain of command. Hell, I lived, ate and fraternized with my troops—not something officers in the mainline army often did—and what’s more, I
liked
it. I wasn’t going to change. Not for him, not to impress him, not to placate him.

Captain Jake Sanders would just have to man up and deal with us. I hadn’t lost anybody since I’d taken the reins, and a wise woman didn’t fix what wasn’t busted. I wouldn’t let an outsider march in here and impose some military discipline code on warriors who hated that system. And that was that.

I pushed my hair back from my face and stared out at the night, again trying to calm down. No moon tonight, just an expanse of stars and the dark shape of Mt. Hood on the horizon.

Calm.

I took another sip of Chivas and slowly exhaled, smelling the alcohol on my breath.

Focus on nothing.

I wasn’t drunk at all, but the tightness in my neck and shoulders started to fade, and I congratulated myself on heading off the impending headache. Crickets chirped, the faint Doppler hiss and rumble of traffic drifted up from the far-off streets, and the trees rustled in the breeze. A divine slice of peace and quiet—a Valhalla for the average gun-toting, flame-throwing nature girl—now only if I could finish unwinding enough to enjoy it.

A door opened somewhere below me, and I glanced down over the railing, more by reflex than anything else. Captain Sanders walked along one of the lower decks. I jerked back so he wouldn’t see me leaning over the rail. Goddammit, I hadn’t realized Sanders had been set up with rooms a level below mine. He talked into a cell phone in a low, urgent voice. I leaned forward again, straining to hear him, but the rustle of the breeze swelled in the treetops and obscured his words. I bit back a curse. For a moment I considered climbing down and sneaking closer through the shadows. Then again, shadowy sneaking was more a Hanzo the Deluded Shinobi thing to do. With my luck I’d end up in the infirmary with a broken ankle and facing embarrassing questions.

Sanders paced back and forth along the decking, head down, staring at the ground as he talked, all his body language telling me he spoke about something intense. Was the bastard telling Harker we were a bunch of incompetents, despite reassuring me he’d hold off? Damn I wished I could get closer… I leaned farther out and finally caught a few words when he turned back toward me.

“…uneven in some areas…” Sanders said. I missed the next string of words but he finished with, “…still meet the objectives.”

My heart punched my rib cage and my pulse throbbed in my temples. My mouth felt dry, my throat parched, my tongue like sandpaper. I leaned out as far as I dared…

He turned away and I missed more of the conversation. He started to pace back toward me and then paused. I stared at his face, not breathing, trying to read his expression in the darkness.

“Only if there’s no other option,” he said, his voice louder than before. “Those kinds of changes might not be necessary.”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. My fingers loosely held the glass. Any less strength and it would’ve fallen and shattered on the deck below.

“At this point I believe we’ll be ready in time, sir,” he continued. I lost a bit more when the breeze stirred again, but caught bits of the end, “…Walker shares my assessment…early to promise success but…” More words lost. He paused, listening. “Thank you for going with me on this, sir.”

He snapped the cell phone closed and slipped it into his pocket. My gaze never left him as he stood at the railing, staring out over the grounds. I forced my breath out and dragged in another. Had he been talking to Harker or to some other high-ranking pencil pusher from DHS? And what was the
other option
Sanders seemed to dismiss? I didn’t like the sound of it.

Not at all.

The stupidest, most disturbing thing about the whole situation had to be the fact I could still feel an attraction to him simmering inside me, defying my will and better judgment. It had grown so intermixed with my wariness, my animosity and my wish to hold judgment and give him a chance, that all together they twisted my stomach into balloon animals. Part of me viewed him like a lioness staring at a strange lion, evaluating his every action with the cold interest of a rival hunter—but I didn’t know if it was a hunter in search of a compatible mate, or a hunter stalking another who had wandered into its territory and threatened the food supply. Maybe both. Hell, no
maybe
about it. Definitely.

Sanders finally seemed to feel my gaze burning holes in his back. He glanced around, and then looked up at my balcony. I drew back out of sight, wishing I’d thought to turn off all my interior lights. Too late now, but I didn’t think he’d seen me. A few seconds later I heard the whoosh and click of a door below me.

When I peeked again, he was gone.

Chapter Six: A Few Evil Men

Undead Army, Human Resources Division

Peet’s Coffee & Tea

NE Broadway, Portland, Oregon

7:45 a.m. PST April 11th

Overlord Jeremiah Hansen, Necromancer of the Unrighteous Order of the Falling Dark, wasn’t a coffee lover. He crossed his legs and sipped from his recycled paper coffee cup filled with a dark, bitter mixture he hadn’t been able to save with either cream or three packets of sugar substitute. He burned his lip, bit down on a curse, and did his best not to appear vexed in front of the man he had yet to interview.

A corner coffeehouse wasn’t his choice of meeting places, although they did have excellent scones. Filling his second-in-command position had turned out to be more of a challenge than he’d expected, and he loathed this human resources crapola. The exhilaration of yesterday’s armored-car heist had already evaporated. The fact that he hated the taste of coffee didn’t help either, and these chairs outside the coffee shop put his ass cheeks in a coma.

The man on the opposite side of the iron table, Blake Delaney, took a sip of his tea and managed to appear entirely too cool and collected. He had a face full of angles, like a geometry lesson gone horribly awry, and a thin body lost in his suit. The suit appeared expensive, maybe silk, probably from some big-name designer. Showoff. Jeremiah wore only chinos and a University of Oregon hoodie with a faded chocolate stain on the front.

He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. Blake Delaney gave off such an air of utter competence, accented with a slight fragrance of generalized contempt, that Jeremiah felt a bit self-conscious. He never felt self-conscious around his zombies.

Blake cleared his throat, scowled into his tea and then tapped a gold cufflink. “The absolute first thing you must realize is my services are highly sought among those who seek to rule the world, and therefore, are quite dear.”

“Money’s not an issue.” Not with yesterday’s armored-car haul. A bit of seed money remained from the first couple of banks he’d knocked over with his zombie horde, as well as some cash from diamonds and gold he’d fenced in Idaho. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty about the robberies either. He’d needed the start-up capital. Don’t blame him because he’d come up with a novel way of withdrawing it. It was quintessentially American to think outside the box.

Blake gave him a tight smile. “Your pardon, I beg to differ. Money is
always
an issue.”

Jeremiah played with his cup, spinning the heat shield around and around. “How much did you have in mind?”

Blake named a figure. Overlord Jeremiah did his best not to crush his cup with a convulsive squeeze and spill coffee all over the pigeons hopping around their table searching for crumbs. Good God Almighty the man was right. Money
was
an issue. He could pay that kind of fee for what…maybe six months? Outrageous. Yet, if he couldn’t get his startup off the ground in six months, he wasn’t really worthy of the title, was he?

“Done,” he finally answered, although his voice came out a little strangled.

Blake nodded, but his face never changed from his studied indifference. “I have a few other terms and conditions.”

“I’m not in the habit of granting terms and conditions.” Zombies didn’t require them. Hell, zombies weren’t even articulate.

“I’m afraid these terms and conditions must be met in order to procure my services, Mr. Hansen.”

The man sounded like a damn lawyer. Never a good sign. “Name them.”

“First and foremost, you must change your name. Jeremiah Hansen does not inspire terror.”

“So what do you suggest instead?” Not that he hadn’t heard that crap about his name ever since kindergarten or anything. Still, he busied himself imagining Blake dangling by a chain over a zombie pit. Maybe
that
would inspire some fucking terror.

“We’ll focus group some possibilities and come up with something appropriate. My second condition is I must be allowed to manage your detail work without interference.” He picked up Jeremiah’s prospectus for his company, Bokor Gelzonbi Foods. “This claims you have over four hundred zombies in employment…”

“Four hundred and counting.” Jeremiah’s tone skated into defensive. “I’m acquiring more all the time.”

“Hmm. And, according to this, you are endowed with necromancy magics, specifically a reanimator skill set, specializing in the undead,
vis-à-vis
, zombies.”

“More voodoo theme than the chaos of
Night of the Living Dead
, if that helps. Although they do like to eat people if you don’t watch them.”

“I see. And, as referenced here, you wish to use an army of zombies within your factory to undercut the competition on wages, benefits and insurance, as well as other overhead costs, such as heating and lighting?”

“I know, it’s fucking brilliant. Zombies work twenty-three hours a day without complaint. No unions. No health insurance or even sick days. No OSHA. No carpel tunnel—hell, no worker-comp claims. Give them a little training on pushing buttons à la Pavlov and we’re good to go.”

“Twenty-three hours? Why twenty-
three
, may I ask?”

“One hour for side activities—feeding, staring at the sun, watching old episodes of
Three’s Company
. We also do a little chant to keep up morale—well, more of an organized series of moans than a chant, really. Want to hear it? It’s better than Walmart’s.”

“No. No, I don’t.” Blake peered back at the prospectus and paged forward. “And, as delineated in paragraph 2C of Section 17, you wish to use said zombies in the manufacture of food products, specifically Type A powdered gelatin?”

“We have several flavors and application types available. I’m considering calling it Zello. You know, zombie plus Jell-O, but there might be trademark issues.” He waved a contemptuous hand. “Lawyers would get involved.”

“Zello. Charming. We’ll work on it. So, according to the mission statement, our long-term goal is an attempt at…
Localized world domination through the manufacture of collagen-derived gelling agents
? I believe you lost me there, Mr. Hansen.”

“Basically, we aim to follow the approach to world domination used by certain computer software and operating system manufacturers. It’s rather a slow creeping sort of domination, you know, to avoid antitrust laws. My catch phrase is:
Start Local. Infect Global
.”

“Cute. And what, pray tell, do you feed your
employees
? I assume they require sustenance? Brains?”

Jeremiah shrugged. “Pineapple-strawberry-flavored sugar-free gelatin. I mix in cremation ashes and some medical waste. They seem happy.”

“Hmm. And as a list of assets in this addendum, you have listed a factory on Holgate Boulevard.”

“I prefer the term secret lair, actually.”

“Actually, I do not.”

Jeremiah cleared his throat. This guy had better be as good as his resume claimed. Otherwise, he’d find himself and his condescending demeanor upside down in a vat of lime gelatin really goddamn quickly. “Yeah, I purchased the factory site in full, thanks to some earlier funding opportunities in Idaho. I’ve done extensive remodeling and have more in mind.” He drew in a breath to tell about his plans for secret underground chambers and the sauna, but Blake cut him off.

“Ah. You procured this factory through capital acquired in several…bank robberies and armored-car heists?”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “It takes a bit of concentration, but I can maintain collective control of my minions—”

“Another requirement of my employment. You cannot use the term
minion
in any capacity.”

“That’s outrageous!” Jeremiah shouted. The pigeons took flight with a dismayed whirring of wings. Several more coffee-toting customers glanced their way.

Blake sat there with his legs crossed, his hands folded and his face impassive.

Jeremiah took a steadying breath. “All right, fine. Anything else?”

“I will notify you of further terms as they arise or as the situation permits.”

“Remind me exactly who is hiring who here?”

“I assume you mean
whom
?” Blake gave him a tight smile. “Mr. Hansen, my expertise is such that the market prizes me very highly. Are you familiar with the Rise of the Mole People? I ran that project from inception to completion. The sentient tofu scare that decimated the tofu market? My fingerprints were all over that incident. The gigantic tapeworm which destroyed a slum in Bangladesh, clearing the way for development of the Hasher Chemical plant by my clients? Yes, I’m certain you get my point.”

Jeremiah kept silent. That rampaging tapeworm
had
been pretty damn impressive…except he would’ve sent the thing after trial lawyers instead of wasting it on poor people.

Blake nodded, licked a finger and again picked up the prospectus. “Please continue. I believe you were telling of your sudden influx of capital?”

“Yeah.” But it wasn’t the same now. He felt kind of deflated. “I’ll give you the abbreviated version: zombies, bank heist, pandemonium. I cleared a bunch of money and valuables from the safety-deposit boxes and safe at one bank, though a few zombies lost teeth chewing on the lockboxes.”

“Hmm. Other losses or depreciations?”

Jeremiah shrugged. “A few zombies got stuck in the safe, and the cops shot down a dozen or so. A couple got run over by the bus.”

“Bus?”

“The safest and most efficient way to haul the undead. Zombies might drive better than people from California, but I wouldn’t want to be in the passenger seat when either one’s at the wheel.” He waited for laughter or even a smile. Nothing. Talk about cold fucking fish sticks—the guy was just about freezer burned. “Actually,
I
drive the bus.”

“I see.” Blake looked over the report again, tapping his nail against his front teeth. “Well, Mr. Hansen, I
can
say I’m intrigued. I think there are several good opportunities worthy of pursuit here. I’m willing to offer you my services, provided you deposit half my yearly fee in this Swiss Bank account.” He handed Jeremiah a business card with a gold-embossed account number. “The rest will be expected upon completion of the project. We can discuss stock options and my health-care benefits at some other time. Before the papers are signed, of course.”

A turning point. Paying Blake Delaney would eat up a bunch of his liquid cash, but Delaney seemed to know his stuff, especially cyclopean tapeworms. Maybe he could leverage some capital, a derivative perhaps…maybe loan out some of his zombie minions—no, zombie
associates
—to open up other revenue streams. Birthday parties. Traffic flaggers at construction sites. Fast-food drive-thru employees. Well, something would certainly come up. He was an accomplished necromancer after all. Dead was his business…and business was good.

“I think that can be arranged,” Jeremiah answered with a smile. He tried his best to make it an evil smile, although Blake didn’t seem impressed.

“Now…” Blake rubbed his hands together. “First on the agenda, let’s select you a new name. A moniker suitable of your soon-to-be notorious prestige. Hmm. How about Skuld Le Mort?”

Jeremiah closed his eyes, raised his cup and chugged lukewarm coffee, wishing it were Johnnie Walker Red. Apparently it would be a long day ahead, and he had a feeling he’d need something a helluva lot stronger than coffee to get through it if he had to go by the name Skuld Le Mort.