Ritchie flips a switch on the console and all the video screens come on, giving a 360-degree view outside and inside the soundstage. The witches are on the center screen. They’re manhandling someone who looks almost human, but not quite. His arms and legs are too long. His skull is too flat. Uniformed security people push through the mob, cuff the Lurker, and perp-walk him away. The old women still yell and slap his shoulders as he goes by. A couple of minutes later, a phone on the console chirps. Ritchie picks it up. “Yeah? You’re sure? Take him to one of the special cells downstairs. No one gets in or out until I get there.” He swings around in the chair and smiles at us. “Looks like a false alarm. A Lurker maintenance worker, one of the water nixies we keep around to clean the pipes, decided he wanted a closer look at the set and crossed the old ladies’ protection circle. We’ll question him and probably let him go with a warning.” “At least you know you’re getting your money’s worth out of the old dears,” says Lucifer. I ask, “What’s to keep a magician or a few of your witches from marching up to the door and lobbing hexes in here?” Ritchie shakes his head. “The room is shielded from outside spells. We’re like a roach motel. Magic goes out, but it doesn’t come in.” “That makes us the roaches,” says Lucifer. “I guess so,” says Ritchie. “At least they’re survivors.” “Are we done in here or do we need to show a permission slip to the teacher?” I ask. Ritchie nods to the gun on my hip. “Slow down. Not all of us are packing as much heat as you.” “That’s why I have it. So I don’t have to drag our boss into Fort Knox every time a pixie farts.” “Holster your dicks, boys,” says Lucifer. “Everything went smoothly. Everyone did their jobs, and no one had to get shot. Unless you need to wing someone to feel useful.” He looks at me. I look at Ritchie. “I wonder how your room would hold up if a few Drifters came knocking. Is it soundproof?” Ritchie’s eyes widen. “Zombies? Not the ones at the party. You’ve seen zombies in the streets?” “Less than a block off Hollywood Boulevard. It was just some shamblers, so don’t pop a cork. Mr. Macheath is hiring me to do a search-and-destroy on the whole glee club, right?” “We’ll see.” Ritchie is staring at the monitors. Things are pretty much back to normal outside. The old ladies are laying down a new layer of oil and animal punch where the Lurker smudged their circle. The sweaty guys are back unloading the trucks and the office types who were standing around before snap right back to standing around. Ritchie shakes his head. I didn’t think the news would hit him so hard, but he’s not like my friends and used to this kind of shit. “We haven’t had any walking dead since I was a kid. Not wandering the streets. It only lasted a few days. They were supposed to have crawled out of an old Pasadena gold mine after a quake.” “What does ‘not wandering the streets’ mean?” He shrugs. “They pop up every now and then, like any dark magic. But they’re always contained, not strolling to Whisky A
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