I decided that wasn’t a bad idea, more as I didn’t want Goodfellow volunteering for the spotter position. I went with the usual black shirt and dark jeans for night-fighting, but didn’t take my leather jacket as usual. The MP7 hung from a shoulder strap and I dug a knee-length black coat out of the winter-wear pile of clothes on my floor. Nik and Goodfellow went with the long dusters to cover their swords but the last thing I needed was to get snagged climbing over some fifteen-feet-tall chain-link fence and hanging there like an idiot—locked and loaded and nowhere to go. The flamethrower I stuffed into a large duffel bag and hoisted it on my shoulder.
Back out in the living room, I gave the most evil fucking grin I had in me. “Is this gonna be fun or what?”
It was not fun.
I plowed the garbage truck through four Jersey barriers, destroying the top half of the walls on either side of the bridge with the garbage truck—I’d remembered the bridge being wider last time I was in the neighborhood, but what the hell? They were planning to renovate anyway. Braking at the middle of the bridge, we dumped the diesel fuel, obtained from Goodfellow’s car lot, into the garbage, then covered the last half of the bridge with it. Backing away, I lit it up with the flamethrower. All-you-can-eat arson—come and get it. If Jack couldn’t see that . . . if Russian cosmonauts couldn’t see that from space . . . then I didn’t know how to do my job. And while there were a whole shitload of things I didn’t know how to do, my job wasn’t one of them.
It was a good plan and all we needed was Jack to show up and he had. It had looked like it was our turn now. An enormous cloud of billowing black, as dark as the smoke rising from the flames of the burning diesel fuel, had appeared, blocking our way off the bridge. That was fine. We weren’t looking to run off. We were looking for a fight. There had been the spark of those electric blue eyes, the crackle of what I thought might be lightning in the cloud and then it was gone. Jack had vanished—but he’d left some friends. And he did his little trick a few more times. He was a low-flying ace strafing us with bombs of the undead.
I hadn’t seen anything on World War II week on the History Channel that had been anything like this.
This was where the entertainment element plummeted.
“Zombies!” I shouted as they rushed us. It was a slow rush, I’ll give you that, but they were serious and there were a shitload of them. We’d have to get rid of them before we could get Jack back out to play. I kicked one over the side of the bridge that wasn’t currently on fire. “Real zombies! You”—and by you I meant Niko, Goodfellow, and anyone I’d met in the paien community—“said they didn’t exist. Not real. Just legends. Now I’m in the middle of every fucking crappy horror cliché known to man!” I hated zombie movies. If you couldn’t speed walk, then you were too fragile a flower for this world anyway and the apocalypse had always been in your future. I used the flamethrower on the next one before kicking him over. Not that it was necessary or useful as it continued to drag its burning torch of itself along, but it made me feel better. But if it was no use, other than improving my mood, there was no sense in carrying the extra weight and I shrugged the pack off.
“We’ve faced mullo before,” Nik started as he first sheathed his katana in one gaping eye socket to puncture the withered brain, then separated one’s head from its neck. Guess what? It kept coming. That’s why I was throwing them over the side where they could be the problem of the fish, assuming there were any fish alive in the Harlem River that weren’t somewhat zombified themselves.
“Mullo were not real zombies. You said so. Just corpse flesh reanimated by a pissed-off antihealer.” There’d been no bones. No lingering brain stem harboring the chow-down instinct. Basically remote controlled undead Jell-O. “This is not the same.” Considering what we’d fought in the past—gods, we’d fought gods—this was just humiliating. Humiliating, time-consuming, and not at all entertaining. “Why can’t they at least be the kind that can run? That would be something. This is like shooting fish in a barrel. Dead fish. Dead putrid fish that are stinking up a five-mile radius.” I felt grasping hands at my back and flipped yet another one to the river about a hundred and forty feet below. It was brown and stiff with arms like twigs and wearing a wedding dress. That would’ve been sad if I hadn’t been her first bite of “wedding cake.” “Shit.” There was the dull pain/teeth grinding pressure that only came from the bite of blunt human teeth at the base of my neck. “One of them bit me. I’m not only part murderous monster from the beginning of time, but now I’ll be an undead one. A stinking slaughterer running amok, even more unkillable as I’ll already be dead. And I thought it was bad before. Everyone happy now?”
“If your tongue would rot with the rest of you I’d be ecstatic.” Niko gave up on the tried-but-not-true putting metal, bullet, or sword through their brain and did the same as me, booted their undead asses over the crumbling wall down to the water below. One, fresh and gooey, was wearing a horrific red, blue, yellow, orange, and green Hawaiian shirt. He’d been buried in that thing, apparently going with the theme song of “life was just a party and parties weren’t meant to last.”
“And I highly doubt they’re infectious,” Niko added, “or we’d have seen this sort of thing a long time ago. You watch too many horror movies.” He swung his katana again and impaled one moving toward me and flung it through the air over the rail, its frozen limbs windmilling like dead winter tree branches.
“Watch? I live horror movies! Watching a horror movie is a frigging comedy treat for me, okay?” More of the undead were shuffling out from the end of the bridge where we’d rammed our way through with the truck.
Goodfellow had muscled his way through the pack to fight beside me as I threw the latest zombie-wannabe. This one had gone to his heavenly reward wearing the worst toupee in all of history constructed out of possum ass-hair, over the edge. “What’s up, buttercup?” I said, tossing another one. “I’d thought you’d be more pissed over the chunks of rotting flesh on your Armani.”
The puck looked worried and, for once, not about his clothes. “He raised the dead. I don’t know of any storm spirits that can raise the dead. Yet, he has.”
“Yeah,” I said impatiently, although thankfully only about twenty or so and we’d handled most of them so far. “So did Suyolak.” Suyolak, the pissed-off antihealer.
“Suyolak animated their flesh, not the entire body. It’s different.”
I lived in a world where there were different types of mobile putrid undead flesh. That wasn’t disturbing at all, was it?
I gave a one-shouldered shrug, using my other arm to send the last one flying at Niko, who vaulted him over the edge and zombie playtime was over. The smell, however, was going to linger with me for a while. “Suyolak’s were much harder to deal with. They were fast as hell.” Mounds of amoebalike flesh that moved so quickly you couldn’t avoid them no matter how badly you wanted. Considering how they smelled, much worse than these, that was damn badly. I did wonder where Jack had gotten them though. I couldn’t think of a cemetery near this area. But with him appearing and disappearing, a new development I didn’t care for, he could’ve brought them in from Jersey for all I knew.
“True.” But he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “The mullo were more formidable. More power had to be involved. Perhaps. But it’s still not the behavior of your average storm spirit and he’s annoying enough without a new power. He could be a new species of storm paien.” He peered at the back of my neck. “And no worries. That’s barely a hickey. I doubt a zombie lifestyle is in your future. Although with your fashion sense and ability to sleep twenty hours a day, I know Niko might disagree with me on that.”