Undead to the World (9 page)

With a vampire.

I scramble to my feet.
“Charlie!”

“Get outside!” he shouts.

Outside. Sunlight. Right. I turn around and stumble toward the door, knowing that’s
our best chance. Strangely, every instinct I have is screaming for me to turn around
and fight, but I know that’s suicide. Charlie’s got size, muscle, and Army Ranger
training—I’ve got a smart mouth and a bad attitude. He stands a much better chance
of holding off an undead shopkeeper than I do, and once I’m outside I’ll have the
advantage—

Uh-huh. So why am I suddenly running the wrong way?

Because, apparently, sometimes doing the unexpected is the best strategy. Even when
it’s stupid. I mean, running full tilt toward a supernatural monster is bad, but doing
so in the dark borders on the insane—in fact, it’s so close to the border there’s
a little guardhouse there, with a full-time customs officer and a duty-free shop where
you can get straitjackets at a killer discount.

My foot skids on the floor, and I go crashing to the ground again. Jace Valchek to
the rescue, armed only with her deadly wit and astounding pratfall skills … but a
second later someone trips over me, and by the disgruntled
unf
! I hear on impact, it’s Charlie. Vampires don’t generally
unf,
I don’t think.

All of which sounds terrible, except immediately after the
unf
there’s a scream, coming from behind me. Jimmy must have leaped for Charlie’s throat,
except Charlie—thanks to me—was no longer there, putting newbie neckbiter Jimmy in
a much longer leap than he was expecting. His touchdown point seems to have been the
patch of sunlight coming in through the open backdoor—but from the sounds of Chinese
cursing that follow, I guess he didn’t get a fatal dose.

And now he’s between us and the exit.

“Head for the front,” Charlie whispers, and then he’s gone. For a big man, he can
move pretty fast—not to mention quietly.

I’m alone again.

I understand why Charlie took off like that—our chances are better if we split up,
and if we try to take Jimmy on head-to-head he’ll probably overpower us—but for a
second I feel kind of abandoned. I feel—

Zhang, hovering in midair, wearing a black three-piece suit. His skull glowing a faint
green through his translucent flesh.

What?

I shake my head. Some kind of vivid hallucination? No. Not a hallucination. Something
more familiar …

I don’t have time to think about it, so I don’t. I make a beeline for the swinging
doors that lead out to the retail area, not bothering with subtlety; I just put my
head down and charge right through.

This time I luck out and don’t crash into anything, as the door opens onto the main
aisle of the store. I skid to a stop before I smack into the plate-glass windows at
the front, and whirl around to make sure Zhang isn’t right behind me. Somehow, it’s
hard to think of him as “Jimmy” anymore.

Charlie darts through a moment later. Late afternoon sunshine is streaming through
the windows, and we stand as close to them as we can. In the dim shadows at the back
of the store, I can see the double doors swinging back and forth, squeaking softly
as they slowly lose their momentum. I’ve heard that squeak a hundred times before
while I was shopping, but right now it’s the eeriest, creepiest sound in the world.

And then one of the doors stops on the backswing.

It’s too far away and too dark to see, but I know four fingers must be clutching the
edge of that door. Four pale fingers, stained with their own blood. I wonder how long
Zhang was in there, how long ago he was bitten. From his condition, I’m guessing I
was going to be his first meal as a creature of the night. I might still be.

“We need to get out of here,” Charlie whispers.

“You think?” I whisper back.

“I
remember
you,” Zhang croaks. “You.
Bloodhound
.”

I’m standing in bright sunshine, but it feels like someone just slid an icicle down
my spine. Zhang still sounds like he has the world’s worst sore throat, but that’s
not all that’s changed. His diction, his
accent
is different; it’s like he’s an entirely new person. And the
venom
in his voice—he’s way past angry, or even enraged.

Hatred. That’s what I hear. Pure, black hatred.

Part of me wants to call back, to say
Of course you remember me—I’ve known you for years. I’m the one who always makes bad
jokes about your zucchini. I’m the one who makes sure you stock those vegetarian TV
dinners and then complain about how bad they are. I’m Jace.

But I don’t. Because part of me remembers
him,
too.

The person I remember didn’t have a first name—just Mr. Zhang. He didn’t own a grocery
store and he didn’t wear plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up and I never joked
with him about produce. Mr. Zhang was smooth and cold and powerful, and I’m pretty
sure he sent me to hell once.

So I don’t say anything. Because I’m also pretty sure he’d love to send me there again.

“Time to go,” I say. There’s a steam cleaner standing by the front door that you can
rent by the hour or the day, and I pick it up. Make sure I’ve got a good grip on the
handle.

“Jace,” Charlie says. “What are you—”

“Hammer time,” I say, which is a lame early nineties reference as well as a pun on
an Olympic event, but I don’t have time to explain either because I’m spinning around
in a circle while holding onto the steam cleaner with both arms extended and then
letting go.

SMASH!

We leap through the shattered window. By some utterly amazing piece of luck, absolutely
no one’s on the street to see us do this.

We don’t stop running until we hit the town square. Then we slow to a trot, try to
ignore the few stares we get, and stroll at a not-too-hasty-but-definitely-determined
rate back to my place.

*   *   *

“That went well,” Charlie says.

“Oh, absolutely. What was your favorite part? I can’t choose—there were just so
many.
”

“Well, tripping over you in the dark while being attacked by a bloodthirsty monster
is in my top three.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then there’s the part where the guy I’ve been buying breakfast cereal from for the
past couple of years tries to turn me into a protein shake.”

“Also a contender.”

“And let’s not forget the whole breaking out of a locked store and bolting away like—like—”

“Small children running from a clown? Japanese extras being chased by a guy in a lizard
suit? Panic-stricken penguins fleeing from a crazed nun?”

He stops his pacing and studies me for a second. “You know, I may have to rethink
the whole you’re-not-crazy thing.”

“I thought a little nuttiness might help derail you.”

“Derail me? Why would you want to derail me?”

“Because until about ten minutes ago, you were the biggest bad-ass in town. Now we’re
hiding from the guy that sells us toilet paper. It’s kind of a shock to the system.”

He abruptly sits down on the couch. “Yeah. I guess. I mean—goddammit, that guy was
a
vampire
!”

“Pretty much.”

I watch him carefully. Me, I’ve lived with crazy for a while, so I’m sort of used
to it; but a regular guy like Charlie, whose beliefs and values sit firmly on a foundation
of stable assumptions about the world, isn’t used to this sort of thing. He’s just
found out what he thought was bedrock is in fact quicksand, and he’s struggling to
keep from going under.

He shakes his head. “Up until now, I thought I was handling this pretty well. Evil
cults, messages from other dimensions … but—but that guy was a goddamn
vampire
!”

“What gave it away? The blood-filled eyeballs, the overbite from hell, or the instant
sunburn?”

Charlie glares at me. “I’ve never run from a fight in my life. Never. I
tried
to fight him. But it was like—like he was a
robot,
almost. Rubber over steel. Soft on the outside, but unbreakable underneath. Nothing
I threw at him fazed him. And he was so
fast
 … fast, and strong, and impossible to hurt. It’s as if he were—like he was—”

“A goddamn vampire?”

“I need a drink.”

“I need a distillery. But we’ll both have to settle for this.” I grab a purple teddy
bear from where it sits on the mantel and hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he says wearily, “but I think I’m beyond being comforted by a stuffed animal.”

“That’s because you’re not doing it right.” I reach over and unscrew the bear’s head,
revealing a bottle sticking up from its neck like a glass spinal column. “You like
scotch, right?”

“At this point, I like paint thinner.” He lifts the bear and takes a slug, then considers
the headless body in his hand. “Hey. That’s pretty good.”

“That’s why it’s stashed inside a plush toy. If I ever get burglarized, I want to
be able to sit here and console myself with some quality booze. Now gimme—can’t you
tell he’s a Share Bear?”

He passes it back to me and I take a pull. “Okay. Obviously, we need a plan.”

“How about we sit here and drink until we pass out? That way, when he shows up after
dark to drain us, we kill him with alcohol poisoning.”

“Mmmmm—no. Unless we’re drinking fermented garlic, I don’t think that’s gonna work.
And the only source of garlic in town has just become inaccessable, anyway.”

“We need to go back there, Jace. We can’t let that thing kill or bite anyone—”

My phone chimes. I used to have a ringtone that played the theme music from
The Bloodhound Files,
but after my stay in the State Home for the Sanity Challenged I changed it to something
a little less obsessy: Bauhaus’s cheery little number “Bela Lugosi’s Dead.”

I pull out my phone, check the number. I don’t recognize it, but it’s local. I don’t
answer, though, just stare at the phone in my hand. Galahad whines.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Charlie asks.

I should, but I don’t want to. I have the sudden, overwhelming feeling that it’s going
to be Zhang.
Hello, Jace. I just thought I’d let you know that I’m going to be paying you a visit
tonight. And after that, you and I will be together for a long, long time.…

I hit the
TALK
button and put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Jace Valchek?” I don’t immediately recognize the voice, but it sounds naggingly familiar—like
getting a call from someone you haven’t talked to in years.

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“You don’t know me, Ms. Valchek, but please don’t hang up—I’m not a telephone solicitor.
I’m calling from a bed-and-breakfast in Thropirelem, and I was wondering if you might
have a few minutes to meet with me.”

“About what?”

“About certain events that are happening in your town. Unusual, even distressing events.”

He sounds educated, confident, friendly without being overly familiar. Not a salesman—someone
in authority. Somebody used to telling people what to do and having them obey.

“Can you be … a little more specific?”

“Not over the phone. But I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“Who
are
you?”

“I’m sorry; I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is David Cassiar.”

Cassiar. Once again, I have the overwhelming feeling that I should know him—that I
do
know him, or at least who he is. “That name—I’ve heard it before.”

“I have a certain reputation that surrounds me, but I assure you it’s not deserved.
Meet with me in person and you can see for yourself.”

Now what? He sounds like he might have some answers—or at least be aware of what’s
going on—but I don’t want him knowing where I live; I don’t even want to be alone
with him. “Okay, but it’s got to be someplace public.”

“How about a restaurant? I saw a diner on my way into town.”

“Yeah, okay. When?”

“Let’s say … eight o’clock?”

“Fine. I’ll see you there.”

I hit the
OFF
button, then stand there looking at my phone like maybe it’ll tell me more if I wait
long enough.

“Who was that?” Charlie asks.

“Some guy named David Cassiar. Says he knows about what’s happening, wants to get
together to talk about it. Supposed to meet him at the diner tonight.”

“Jace, the only people who know about this are either bad guys or in another dimension.
Guess which one he has to be?”

“I know, I know. But we’re meeting in public, and I’ve got you as my ace in the hole.
Besides, I don’t want to be trapped at home after dark.”

“Why not? We could barricade the doors and windows—I think I could make this place
pretty defensible, actually. And don’t vampires have to have an invitation to enter
a house?”

I grab the bear from him and take another swig, then screw the head back on. “Maybe,
maybe not. We can’t take for granted that it works exactly like the movies—and even
if it does, which movies? They all seem to play with the rules. Not that it matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter
how
defensible a place is, if it also happens to be on fire.”

“Good point.”

“Our best shot is to go on the offensive. Go back to Lucky Foods with some wooden
stakes, whatever garlic I’ve got in my spice drawer, and maybe an axe. Chopping Zhang’s
head off should definitely slow him down.”

Charlie nods slowly. “I’m with you. We prepare, we arm ourselves, we go back in. But
before we do—you have any idea what Zhang meant when he said he
remembered
you?”

I think back to that moment. The image of Zhang hanging in the air, bones glowing
through his flesh, comes back to me so vividly I almost gasp.

“No,” I say carefully. “No, I don’t.”

“He called you
Bloodhound,
too.”