“How will you do that?”
“I’m just going to give you a sense of what yo’ priorities are, Mr. Tyler.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here, let me show you.”
Havoc, gripped Tyler by the throat. His hand was so big that Tyler imagined Havoc’s finger and thumb meeting each other around the back of his neck. He tried to yell to attract the attention of the other customers in the bar, but the pressure of on his throat made any form of speech, or even sound, impossible.
A man who was standing nearby saw what was happening. Havoc gave him a threatening glance — one glance was all it took — and the man quickly looked away. A couple of the other customers made the mistake of looking their way and wished they hadn’t done, when Havoc gave them his gamma-ray glare.
“Now in case you still don’t know what yo’ priorities are, Mr. Tyler, I’m going to spell them out fo’ you, nice and simple, to make sure you understand ’em. Your main priority is to be scared of me. So scared of me, in fact, that you ain’t gonna have room in yo’ fear box to be scared of anythin’ else. That’s also yo’ last priority and ever-thing in between. You got that, mistah Tyler?”
Tyler thought he was going to die, here, in a crowded bar, in front of a crowd of people, none of whom seemed minded to help.
He tried to say ‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ but all he could do was gasp like a landed fish.
Havoc smiled again.
“You know something? I think we’re beginning to understand each other. It’s a mighty fine thing, when a man can say he understands his fellow man. That’s why I’m feeling so danged happy all of a sudden.”
He drew Tyler closer and raised him up until their noses were almost touching.
“We do understand each other, now, don’t we?” He asked, relaxing his grip slightly so that Tyler was just about able to answer.
“Yes. Oh yes, we do. We do understand each other. I understand you as well as any one man could possibly understand another man. My understanding of you is complete. It lacks nothing.”
Havoc let Tyler go, and Tyler landed with a bump on the floor.
“I’m mighty pleased to hear that. If there’s one thing that riles me, it’s being misunderstood. Now you just walk over to that kitchen door, and open it, and walk right in, and I’ll be right behind you.”
“What then?”
Havoc gripped him by the throat again.
“I’m disappointed in you, mistah Tyler. You said you understood me. I’m gonna let go of yo’ throat, and you ain’t gonna ask any mo’ damn fool questions. Is that clear?”
Tyler was just about able to nod.
“Right then, we’ll start again from where we were.”
Havoc set him back on the floor.
“Get yo’ ass into that kitchen.”
Tyler walked like a condemned man. In spite of what Havoc had said and done, he was still scared of the zombie. But there was something about Havoc, he had to admit to himself, that made him even scarier than a zombie, if that was possible. But in any event, it was academic. Tyler was certain that if he didn’t do what he’d been told to do, Havoc would kill him; if not now, then later. The man was a killing machine. There was no other way to describe him.
Tyler walked towards the door at the end of the bar, the one that kept opening and shutting as waiters went in and out of the kitchen that lay behind it. The meals that they were carrying looked more than appetising — they looked delicious. It seemed that Skipper Lee could still cook, even if he was a zombie.
They were no more than a yard from the door when it opened, a cloud of steam wafted from the kitchen, and a waiter emerged from the cloud. Tyler paused to let the waiter go past. Just as the door was about to close, Havoc stepped forward and held it open. He didn’t have to say anything. Tyler went through the doorway with the look of a man walking to the gallows.
Everything behind that door was hectic. There were a dozen sous chefs at work, filling the air with the clattering of crockery and steel, the bubbling of pans, and the chopping of cleavers.
In the background, a chef with a bigger chef’s hat than the rest of them were wearing, directed operations.
Tyler turned to Havoc.
“That’s him.”
“Keep right on walking. Ain’t no point in stopping now.”
They pushed their way past the sous chefs and headed through the vast kitchen towards Skipper lee. Lee saw them and frowned. He was a big man, paunchy but well-muscled, like a heavyweight powerlifter. Tyler stopped in front of Lee, a good arm’s length away, and then some. Havoc stood beside him.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” Lee asked.
“Don’t you have something to say to mistah Lee, Tyler?”
“Say? Me? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It seems like yo’ getting plumb forgetful. You better get yo’ memory back right quick, or I’ll be obliged to give you some assistance in the memory department that you won’t much care to receive. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, very clear.”
Lee folded his arms, cocked his head to one side, and glared at Tyler.
The sous chefs took no notice. Visitors were their boss’s concern, not theirs; and besides, they were too busy to be bothered about anything other than cooking.
“The thing is, Mr. Lee,” Tyler said, “that, well, how could I put this, I have reason to believe, good reason, based on more than mere spec—”
“Spit it out, God-damn you, Tyler, before I treat you to a freshly-made knuckle sandwich.”
Tyler composed himself.
“We know you’re a zombie, Mr. Lee.”
Lee tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows.
“You know I’m a what?” He asked.
“A zombie.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha. Whatever next. Ha ha ha ha ha. Who told you tha-ha ha ha.”
He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.
“You sayin’ you ain’t no zombie, mistah Lee?”
Lee unfolded his arms and spread them wide.
“I’m saying I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in my entire life,” he said. “Zombie. As if. Your friend has been reading too many comic books. Isn’t it past his bedtime?”
Havoc took a step closer to lee.
“Well now, if you ain’t no zombie, you won’t mind me doing a test to make sure, will you? ’Cause you ain’t got nuthin’ to lose if I do.”
He grabbed the chef’s wrist with his left hand. It felt slippery, as if it had a coating on it of some kind. He pulled it. Lee attempted to jerk his hand free of Havoc’s grip. Not successfully. As if from nowhere, a knife appeared in Havoc’s right hand.
“Why fo’ you struggling, mistah Lee? I ain’t gonna hurt you. This here knife is so sharp, I’ll be able to cut yo’ hand, and you won’t even feel it. And when I see if red blood comes outa that cut, that’s when I’ll know which one o’ you fellas is telling the truth.”
Lee jerked his arm, much harder this time, and freed it from Havoc’s grip.
Havoc glanced at his own hand. His black skin had a coating of white makeup on it; the skin on Lee’s wrist, which had been concealed by the makeup, was exposed to view. It was yellow.
“Now what you done that fo’, mistah Lee?”
“I’m not letting you cut me. What do you take me for? I’ve answered your damn fool questions. Now get out of here, before I call security and have you thrown out.”
A smile played on Havoc’s lips.
When Tyler had told him that Skipper Lee was a zombie, he’d been incredulous. He’d insisted on a showdown with Lee, to punish Tyler for his lies. When he’d met Lee, Havoc had instinctively felt that there was something odd about him. And now that he’d seen the deathly yellow skin that lay beneath Lee’s makeup, Havoc had almost become a believer in zombies himself.