I smiled at her. She had a cute way about her…like a hungry leopard coming at you in the dark jungle. “Shut that pisshole you call a mouth, sweetheart, and tell me where that festering collection of roadkill is. You know the ones I mean, I think.”
The gaunt man with her took a step forward in some vain attempt to protect his lady love. Maybe. I had to admit that Marianne-with her hair down, dark and lustrous, some make-up on, and a tight-fitting evening gown that left little to the imagination-was a pretty swell dish. I bet she’d been in more beds than a hot water bottle.
“Easy, Dracula,” I told him. “I don’t think it’ll take a wooden stake in your heart to put you down.”
“Drop that gun, Mr. Steel,” Marianne said.
I stared at her. “That was a nice trick you had, sending my dead wife over. Sickest piece of work I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled like a cat disemboweling a mouse. “My gift to you.”
“That’s sweet. And here’s one for you,” I said and put a slug in that fine expanse of belly.
She made a gagging, coughing sound and dropped to the floor, a blossom of blood spreading over her dress like a red flower. She glared at me through the pain, blood running from her lips. The gaunt man came at me and I gave him a pill in the face, point blank, spraying the others with the contents of his skull. I was throwing lead like a maiden aunt tossing rice at a wedding, but I didn’t care.
“It’s a hell of a way to die, sweetheart,” I told Marianne. “Gutshot. Could take hours and hours before you cash in.”
I sensed motion at my back and the welcome wagon rolled in with a maggoty stench. Johnny Luna. Tony the Iceman. I emptied my heater into them and Tony, his face hanging like confetti, gave me a shove and I went to the ground. And then, of course, they were all over me.
First things first. Varga’s hoods gave me a good beating, made me spit some blood and make obscene comments about their mothers. But then they had me subdued, tied to a chair. But despite all they did to me, I kept smiling.
“You won’t be smiling long, you sonofabitch,” Varga told me. Guy smelled like fish oil and grease. “Not when we’re through with you. But let me explain.”
I spat some blood. “No point. I already know what your mother does for a living.”
That got me a couple more knocks. When the fog parted, I was still smiling. How much longer before the place went up? An hour? Maybe a little less? Hee, hee, hee. Boy, were they in for a surprise.
Varga swept his hand around the room indicating the living ones. “I won’t bother with introductions. These are my people.” Then he looked at Marianne on the floor, bleeding like a slit pig. Her friend with that hole in his face. A few others including some broad who looked like Peter Lorre in drag. “These people here. They’re the ones that put this little thing together. You might remember a guy named Quigg. You do? Of course, you do. See, our good Mr. Quigg, he spent years bopping around to all them weird places putting together all this…”
He gave me the rumble and I listened.
Quigg had lived amongst sorcerors, witch doctors, shaman, you name it, all around the world, studying and learning. What he was interested in was nothing less than resurrection. After devoting most of his life to it, he succeeded. Or almost had. I kind of messed that up when I tracked him down and helped put him away. But Marianne, apt pupil that she was, carried on and put on the finishing touches. But she needed money. That’s where Varga came in. He bankrolled it all and was pleased with the results. See, through Quigg’s neo-science, he had an army of dead hoods at his disposal-killers, bagmen, enforcers, thieves, racketeers. Guys who could pull jobs and never be prosecuted because they were already dead. Even if they left fingerprints, what possible difference did it make? Eye witnesses? Who’d believe ‘em?
It was perfect.
“…and it was out of respect to our Mr. Quigg that I had some of my boys take out the D.A., a couple of the jurors. That cannibalism bit was just a cosmetic touch. Yeah, but those three are only the beginning. Before we’re done, they’ll all be doing the deep six: the judge, your friend Tommy Albert, even yourself. We do that out of respect for the man that made this all possible.”
The walking dead goons parted and I almost shit a pearl.
Old Quigg came shambling forward, a bag of graying bones. His eyes were like yellow moons setting in that shrunken face. “Yes. Mr. Steel,” he managed, his voice dry as sandstorms. “And soon you’ll be joining us. First you’ll need to die, then we’ll need your heart-”
“Kiss my ass,” I said and then something hit me and I fell into darkness.
14
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
That’s what I woke to. My head was throbbing, but I came awake sharp and ready. I came awake in panic. In the darkness. In a box. It wasn’t a fancy casket they were burying me alive in, just a plain wooden packing crate. I tried to move, to thrash, to fight, but it was no good. This was Quigg’s revenge-let me die like this and bring me back like one of them. Trying to think, I pushed up at the lid with everything I had. It moved up two, three inches, but that was all.
The dirt kept raining down.
The sound of it was muffled and I knew my coffin was covered now. If I was going to do anything, I’d have to do it before too much dirt piled up on top. I flicked my lighter and saw that the lid was roped shut. At least it wasn’t chained or nailed. After some squirming and banging my knees and head, I got my switch out and began sawing through the ropes. It took less than a minute, but a minute was a lot when you were running out of air.
When the ropes were free, I began putting everything I had into getting that lid up. The dirt was still loose above, but it was still heavy as all hell. I got it up enough to start forcing myself through and then I was free, trapped in that cocoon of shifting black earth. I was able to draw air from pockets. I began clawing my way up real slowly, making progress, but not wanting to come bursting out of there before the gravediggers were done. But soon enough, the air was getting harder to breathe and I had to strain it through my teeth, drawing in ranks clods of dirt. That soil was rich and black and wormy. With everything I had, I clawed my way up. About the time black dots were dancing before my eyes, my fingers broke free. Then my head and shoulders.
The gravediggers were gone.
My throat and chest aching, I gulped in lungfuls of fresh air. When I could think again, I looked around. I was in a stand of trees out back of Varga’s Tudor. In the distance I saw retreating shadows and figured they were my gravediggers. From the way they walked I could see that they were zombies.
Pulling myself to my feet, I checked my watch.
Less than fifteen minutes until showtime.
15
When I’d brushed myself free of dirt, I made my way around front.
Varga was just climbing into his Mercedes and the others were getting into their respective vehicles. I dashed from shadow to shadow and came right up to Varga’s door. Before his driver even knew that the shit had hit or what it smelled like, I had his boss’s door open and I dragged that fat gob out onto the grass. A couple kicks to the ribs and the fight drained out of him like piss through a leaky drainpipe.
I threw him up against the car just as the troops moved in.
But I already had my knife against his soft, white throat. “Tell them to fade or I’ll slit your throat,” I ordered him.
He made a few pathetic wheezing sounds. I pressed the knife home until a trickle of blood ran over my fingers. “Do it,” I said. “Tell ‘em all to get back in the house. The dead ones, too. Everyone.”
“You stupid-”
I kneed him in the kidneys and he yelped. “INTO THE FUCKING HOUSE!” he cried out. “ALL OF YOU!”