The Unexpected, page 3
The last glow of the sun on the clouds faded from orange to black, and at last I had the blessed cover of darkness. My favorite time to work. I found a spot to hide in the shadows of one of the elf homes and scouted for a bit. All I ever saw were two goons outside the front door. A couple ogres with permanent scowls. I imagined worse, but there was no way I could take either of them in a straight fight. And there was no way to know what was inside if I got past them, either. Best I could hope for was that the wizard was alone, figuring he could magic anything that got in, and the ogres were basically an alarm system.
There was a walkway straight down from the ridge to the front door of the Cave, where the ogres were on either side. That was suicide. My only hope was surprise, and the sidewalk was not it. My vantage point was a hundred feet to the side, where it was just a little bit darker. The hill down to the Cave was partly grass, but patchy, and mixed with areas of gravel. I had an idea. It was going to hurt.
I checked my pistol. Still there. I checked my handcuffs. Still there. I checked my resolve. Not as strong as the hardware, but still there. I thought of my chat with Jake. This is how omelets get made. I could still pull out. Jake wouldn’t be happy I came here, but it would blow over. I could stroll the slums and slap hands.
I just couldn’t look in the mirror.
There was a little bottle in my pocket, and I took it out, popped the cork, and downed the contents. I grabbed the belt on my coat and snugged it. This was it. After a deep breath, I leaned forward and to the left, and took off down the hill.
I could only guess the ogres had never seen an egg in a trench coat rolling down a hill, but I got the surprise I was after. I felt some nicks and chips on the way down. If I survived, I’d be sore in the morning. At the last moment, when the ogres realized this wasn’t for fun and I wasn’t stopping, they began to pull weapons, but by that time I was slamming into them. Into one, anyway. There was lots of cracking going on. Most of it was the ogre’s bones against the side of the Cave, but some of it was mine. The pain shot through me like a sword, and I felt a nasty rupture in my right side. Not a clean break. I’d be OK if nothing else happened, but it hurt bad.
The other ogre I managed to catch with my legs and knock off balance while I was slamming into his partner, but it didn’t delay him long. I wasn’t as quick as Stu used to be, but I rolled to my feet and had my Glock out before he did. One shot and the soft tissue in the ogre’s chest got a lot softer. If the ogres were there as an alarm system, I guess it went off.
I blasted another shot into the lock on the door and kicked it in. I’d never done that with a crack in my side, and it hurt like blazes.
Inside, the room felt small. It was about twenty feet square, but cluttered. There were shelves and baskets and stuff everywhere, with glass jars and bottles and bowls all over, filled with liquids and plants and goo. The only place in the room that was clear was the middle, and that’s where he stood.
It was The Caster. He was old, with thick, white, firecracker whiskers and deep ravines in the skin across his face. He was barefoot, with a pair of simple, brown slacks and a floppy, white pullover shirt. I half expected a pointy hat, but his thin, matted hair was bare. In an instant, I had the Glock aimed at his torso. He spoke, and his voice was deep and penetrating.
“Welcome, Mr. Dumpty. It’s been a long time now, but I’ve been expecting you.”
“Expecting me?” I said.
“I knew you couldn’t resist tracking me down sooner or later. It’s your nature.”
“It’s my nature to blow a hole in you if you try anything. You’re coming with me.”
“Nonsense,” said the wizard. “You came because you have a death wish. You came to join your brother.”
I looked past him to a shelf on the far wall. There was a curved white piece of shell, about a foot across.
“You,” I said. “You bastard.”
We were done talking. In a flash, he flicked a finger and a dart of sparkling powder flew across the room. I squeezed my trigger twice as I felt the pressure of the magic powder reach my face. Then, it dissipated, and the wizard was on the floor.
He wasn’t dead. Not yet. I pulled the tiny, empty bottle from my pocket and dropped it next to him. It twirled in a little circle on the wooden floor. “Protection potion,” I said, “courtesy of Billy Buckmiser. You need more loyal goons, Wizzo.”
His eyes were wide with shock for another moment, then closed for good.
***
I set the bottle on a rock in Marge Bridgeman’s room, next to the jar and the bowl. Bending over made my side ache, but the crack was on the mend. “I don’t know what these do,” I said, “but see if you can find somebody to tell you. They came straight from the Crystal Cave, and I’m sure they’re loaded with magic. You’ve already paid more than anybody should for these, so I thought you should have them.”
“Thank you, Detective. Thank you so very much.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Bridgeman.” I let myself out.
On the street, I stood and inhaled the dankness. Through the gloomy glow of weak neon signs, the thick air swirled with the seedy sounds of sin. I’d have to answer to Jake for going rogue on The Caster, but not now. Now it was just me and Magic City.
The name’s Dumpty. Frank Dumpty. I’m with MCPD.
Introduction to “Role Model”
I must admit, I’m not normally one for zombie stories. But then, Kevin J. Anderson introduced me to Dan Shamble, his zombie P.I. in Fiction River: Fantastic Detectives. And much to my surprise, he hooked me.
Although, given we’re talking about Kevin J. Anderson, I probably should have expected it. This is not your typical zombie apocalypse story. It’s funny, inventive, and clever.
Multiple New York Times bestseller Kevin J. Anderson has over 20 million books in print worldwide. He writes several series, from the Saga of the Seven Suns to the Terra Incognita series. Along the way, he has collaborated in the Dune universe with Brian Herbert and on a variety of projects with Neil Peart, drummer and lyricist for the band Rush.
“Role Model” comes from yet another Kevin series, this one the popular Dan Shamble P.I. series. The fifth novel in that series, Working Stiff, released in 2015.
In addition to writing for Fiction River (Fantastic Detectives and Pulse Pounders), Kevin also edits a volume for us each year. The next, Pulse Pounders: Adrenaline, will be released in January 2017.
Role Model
Kevin J. Anderson
1
“Come on, Shamble—it’ll be fun,” said Officer Toby McGoohan, my best human friend. He acted as if he’d gotten season tickets to his favorite sports team.
I was immediately suspicious, sure that this would not be typical police business. “I don’t even know what a cosplay convention is, McGoo.”
He had met me outside the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, seemingly by happy coincidence as he walked his beat, but we both knew it wasn’t an accident. He’d been waiting for me.
“Cosplay—costume playing. It’s when people dress up as characters from their favorite movies, TV shows, comics, video games, whatever.” He had looked it up online, so he considered himself an expert.
“Oh. Trick or treat for grownups.” Every day in the Unnatural Quarter, I saw a parade of werewolves, mummies, vampires, zombies, ghosts, witches, and second-string monsters, so I wasn’t going to be impressed by a few interesting costumes.
“A lot more than that. These people think they are the characters. It gets a little intense. And weird. And fun.”
It didn’t sound any stranger than my usual cases, and McGoo and I often helped each other out. “So why do they need a zombie detective?”
He seemed exasperated that I was spoiling his fun by being such a hard-sell. “They don’t need a zombie detective any more than they need a beat cop, but the hotel manager is nervous about having such big crowds—naturals, unnaturals, all those people running around in costumes. Thought he might need some extra security.” McGoo flashed one of those grins that had, over the years, convinced me to do things that would get us both in trouble. “Besides, he gave us two free passes to the con.”
He’s a redhead with a round, freckled face and a rough sense of humor (to put it mildly). We’ve been friends for a long time, even back when I was still alive, and our friendship had survived me coming back as one of the walking dead. If a friendship can survive that, it can survive anything (though he still makes jokes about the unsightly bullet hole in my forehead).
My caseload at Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations was light at the moment, so I shrugged and agreed to go. I had already been to the Worldwide Horror Convention when it was held in the Quarter last year. I assumed this would be the same sort of thing.
So, that was why the two of us found ourselves in the lobby of the Motel Six Feet Under and Conference Center standing next to two clattery silver-armored cylons from the old Battlestar Galactica TV show. They gleamed and hummed, red optical sensors in their helmet visors drifting to and fro.
“CosplayCon security,” one said in a vibrating synthetic voice that I could barely understand. He took his helmet off to reveal a young man with dark sweat-plastered hair. “Whew, those things get hot after awhile! Thanks for joining us, but I doubt you guys’ll be needed. We don’t expect any trouble. Everyone has a good time at the con.”
As I looked around the lobby and common areas, I saw Klingons with wicked-looking bat’leths, masked ninjas with curved swords, Star Wars stormtroopers with heavy blasters, Lord of the Rings orcs with large battle-axes.
“How could there possibly be trouble?” I asked. “Nothing looks harmful at all.”
“All the weapons are peace-bonded,” said the cylon. When I gave him a blank look and McGoo didn’t seem to recognize the term from his extensive Wikipedia research, the cylon security guard said, “Zip-tied. Everything’s strapped down so the bladed weapons are perfectly safe. And of course the blasters are just molded resin props. The Jedi lightsabers are neon tubes.” The cylon put his helmet back on and told us in his monotone robotic voice, “Have fun—and stay in character,” then marched off with a clatter of silver armor.
Tables had been set up in the hall with volunteer staff doing their best to register attendees. This was the first year of CosplayCon in the Unnatural Quarter, and they were glad for the added attraction of real monster attendees as well as cosplayers.
A banner over the registration area proclaimed “We are all someone else inside!” and the program book cover said, “Find your inner YOU!” as if this was a therapy session. Maybe it was—costume therapy.
At the motel front desk, a lone vampire clerk shook his head at all the costumes. He muttered, “Bunch of weirdos,” then went back to a magazine he was reading. I didn’t see why costumed fans were any weirder than the socially acceptable sports fans who put Viking helmets or cheese wedges on their heads.
Normally on a slow Saturday I might have walked around the Quarter with my ghost girlfriend Sheyenne, or helped my lawyer partner Robin Deyer finish paperwork on cases. Like any workaholic, I had “fun” by doing my job—solving cases and helping clients. It was my reason for living, in a loose definition of the term.
More than a decade ago, a ridiculously improbable alignment of planets, coincidences, and real-world events, had caused the Big Uneasy—a magical phenomenon that brought legendary and supernatural creatures back to the world: vampires, werewolves, ghosts, ghouls, gargoyles, mummies and, yes, zombies. The unnaturals tended to gather in this section of the city where they were accepted, where they felt right at home.
But they still had problems, just like anyone else. While most unnaturals lived perfectly normal everyday lives, some were criminals; others wanted a divorce; others needed to find lost family members. A detective working in the Quarter had the same sort of cases as a mundane detective on the outside, but the clientele was a little stranger.
Back when I was living, and trying to make a living, I’d hung out my shingle and partnered up with young firebrand Robin Deyer. I had a good run, a successful business, before I was killed. But, as I said, I like doing what I do. So when I came back from the dead, I just got back to work.
In the Unnatural Quarter, being a zombie is no handicap to being a detective, though I insist on maintaining my physical appearance, bathing regularly, going for scheduled top-offs at the embalming parlor, even seeing to it that I receive my monthly maintenance spell. I won’t let myself turn into one of those slobbering shuffling embarrassments that make polite society turn up their noses at zombies.
I’m accustomed to seeing monsters in my everyday life, but I had to admit these costumes were amazing, even a little intimidating, when I started to think about the obsessive time and effort the fans had put into making them.
A squad of white-armored Star Wars stormtroopers marched past, representing the 501st Legion, led by an impressive black-caped and wheezing Darth Vader impersonator.
A group of Klingons had taken over the motel’s woefully inadequate coffee shop and sat around the tables, pounding fists and demanding more coffee. They grew louder and more unruly by the minute, while a harried-looking mummy waitress tried her best to serve them.
A drunken Furry fan was coming on to a full-furred werewolf busboy, who didn’t know how to react to all the unwarranted and unwanted attention.
“See, told you this would be fun, Shamble,” McGoo said. “Look over there, it’s the Doctor. How many can you name?”
I looked around, but only saw a random assortment of eccentric-looking men. “Who?”
McGoo rolled his eyes. “Let’s not get into the Abbott and Costello routine. Dr. Who. The first one there with short dark hair—he’s the David Tennant Doctor. And the one with the scarf—you gotta recognize him—it’s a Tom Baker lookalike, probably the most classic Dr. Who. And the one with the bow tie—Matt Smith.”
Even after all this time, I was surprised to learn something new about my friend. “I didn’t know you were a fanboy, McGoo.”
“Not to this extent,” he said, gesturing around. “But I’ve got a TV, and I am culturally aware.”
One tall beanpole fan peered over the crowd, trying to reach the information table. Finally he gave up and just yelled, “What time is Van Helsing going to be on stage?” Some of the vampire attendees booed.
“Five o’clock in the main ballroom,” yelled an unseen person from behind the desk.
Four skinny guys in clinging red shirts from classic Star Trek walked by, and someone yelled in mock panic, “Look out, it’s redshirts!” I couldn’t see why they posed any kind of threat; in fact, the tight shirts emphasized how scrawny their arms and chests were. If that was the kind of security available to Captain Kirk and crew, no wonder the old show got canceled after only three seasons.
For my own part, I wore my usual sports jacket with crudely stitched-up bullet holes and my fedora—it’s my trademark, and what PI would be without one? McGoo wore his blue beat-cop uniform, and everyone seemed to think he was playing a part from an old police show. Several fans came up with very clever guesses from obscure programs that I hadn’t heard of in years. One fan marched up with a sneer, poked a finger at McGoo’s chest, and said, “T.J. Hooker—not Shatner’s best,” then walked away without waiting for a response.
Suddenly, we heard yelling from the mezzanine open area and the sounds of a growing altercation. McGoo glanced at me. “This is what we’re here for, Shamble. Come on.”
We ran up the stairs (and I use the term “ran” loosely, since my joints are stiff enough that it takes me awhile to get up to speed). A group of rowdy Klingons yelled, “Star Trek is better!” One heavyset Klingon woman had the loudest voice of all.
Across the room, the 501st stormtroopers, who had made an uneasy alliance with costumed Jedi Knights and Mandalorian bounty hunters, took offense. “Star Wars is better!”
“Star Trek!” insisted the Klingons.
“No, Star Wars!” The intellectual debate continued in that fashion for a few more exchanges before the groups ran forward and clashed in an all-out brawl. The Klingons struggled to draw their bat’leths against the peacebonding ties. The stormtroopers punched and pummeled with a clatter of white plastic armor. The Jedi Knights lit their fluorescent-tube light sabers, but were careful not to damage them.
Before McGoo and I could break up the fight, the group of redshirts rushed into the fray, trying to drive the combatants apart. Eventually, the Klingons brushed themselves off and the 501sters adjusted their body armor. Somehow, the only ones genuinely battered, bruised, and injured in the fight were the redshirts.
“You’re right, McGoo. This is fun.” I smiled.
Wandering about to get the lay of the con, we walked past large and small panel rooms, costuming workshops, and autograph tables featuring bit actors from long-canceled programs. One large room hosted a “robot smash” where model-builders pitted a remote-controlled R2D2 against a more ominous-looking Dalek. The two machines clashed, with the Dalek crying in a synthesized voice, “Exterminate, Exterminate!” while R2D2 responded with a series of incomprehensible but clearly rude beeps and squeals.
Primarily, though, people wanted to show off their outfits (or lack thereof, in the case of some of the very scantily clad barbarian princesses).
A hard-faced Asian woman wearing a COSTUME JUDGE badge blocked my way. As she ran her critical gaze up and down my appearance, she looked as if she’d had her sense of humor surgically removed. In an officious voice, she said, “I’ve seen one or two of you already at the con, but your costume isn’t up to snuff.” She clucked her tongue, then tugged on the front of my sport jacket. “Wrong number of bullet holes on the left. That exit wound in your forehead is at least a centimeter off. And that makeup is terrible. It should be blended more.”
“But I’m the real one,” I said. “I am Dan Chambeaux.”
