Dead Mann Walking

“I’m going with you.”

“No way, Misty. Forget Turgeon; I don’t want you in the same car with this stuff.”

“I’m in the same room with it now, have been for months. How’re you going to keep it safe? What if you get into a fistfight?”

“Watch.” I shoved the vial into my mouth and used my tongue to push it into a pocket in my jawbone, below my right molars. I had some rot there once. When Misty cut it out for me, which wasn’t easy for either of us, it left a hole. I opened wide and lolled my tongue around. “I’m not saying I could keep a sandwich fresh in there, but it’s nice and snug and would stand up to a search if he decided to frisk me or check my teeth. Okay?”

“It’s crazy.”

“What isn’t? Where is he?”

“Everwing. The hospital complex.”

“Thanks, Misty. I need something, I’ll call you. Town center shouldn’t be too crowded this time of day.”

She frowned.

“Piece of food in my teeth?” I asked.

“Just to make your visit more fun, Jonesey’s rally is this afternoon. You’ll be heading right into it.”

28

Not that I’m into grand theft auto, but I was in a hurry, so I hopped back into my stolen wheels and headed for the center of town. The football kid must’ve reported it by now, unless he was too embarrassed. If he did, the cops would be looking for the plates. In a few hours, the story would be all over the news—Chak Steals Wheels—another favor I’d done for undead everywhere. I had plenty to feel bad about right now, so I figured I’d feel bad about all that later. I told myself the car would be safer parked in town anyway, and, if I survived, I’d send the owner a note.

Fort Hammer’s Main Street was a throwback to the days of cheap land. The grand avenue was so wide it looked like the two sides of the street wanted nothing to do with each other. The buildings were pretty much the same: Georgian brick storefronts, neoclassical public buildings, like the library and the town hall. Most were more than eighty years old, echoes of ancient prosperity. The bigger the building, the less interesting. Style gives it up to function. Our two 1950s skyscrapers were little more than boxes with doors and windows.

Generally, you don’t see chakz in this part of town, maybe a messenger or two, but I was seeing lots. They’re easy enough to spot; most walk pretty funny. And it wasn’t only single chakz; it was groups. Five together, ten, all moving toward the central plaza. It was the beginnings of Jonesey’s rally. The Dead Man Walk.

I’d thought at best he’d get thirty marchers. That might be okay, if they were smart ones, corpses who could keep their act together. Then the LBs could say, “Oh, look at the cute chakz carrying signs! I didn’t know they could write!” But down the block one or two hundred had gathered, and there were more stepping in from the side streets. It was too many, way too many. More like people would say, “Shit, a horde!” I was inclined to agree.

The cops were out in force, and they weren’t worried about a stolen car. They were setting up wooden sawhorses, all keeping one hand on their guns. The guy with the flamethrower was here, too. This was a mess that could go bad fast, in a town famous for things falling apart. Between this scene and Turgeon’s head collection, I was starting to believe in the end of the world. Not that I particularly liked the beginning or the middle.

Distracted, I nearly rammed a FedEx truck. All around me, livebloods were eyeing protestors like they wished they had a weapon handy. I felt a twinge. I should do something. Like what? Find Jonesey and tell him to call it off? Too late for that. Half the marchers would go feral from disappointment, and Jonesey would go right along with them.

That’s how we do things in Fort Hammer! Rush in where angels fear to tread, then suddenly realize that maybe the angels, being angels, had the right idea in the first place. Send a man to the moon? Sure! Bring democracy to the Middle East? Why not? Raise the dead? Line ’em up! Jonesey, you fucking all- American idiot.

The main avenue ended at a big, all-brick plaza—the official city center. I made a sharp left and headed for the only modern construction in sight, the abandoned Everwing Hospital complex. We have so many stories like it, the basics are as worn as the plot of an old I Love Lucy, only with more lives at stake.

Everwing. The plans were approved after some genius figured out how to cut corners by importing questionable material from China. Two months after opening, they found asbestos in the plasterboard, cadmium in the paint, and enough E. coli in the water system to make everyone’s pants want to get up and dance. One blogger suggested they keep it open, because at least folks would be in a hospital when they got sick.

Instead, it was covered up in thick plastic sheets that flapped and belched toxic dust whenever the wind blew. A giant farting corpse. All six buildings were currently undergoing remediation. That’s a fancy way of saying they’re trying to scrape out all the poison shit that’ll kill you and take it somewhere far away, where it can kill some other people you don’t know. Just what you want in your town center.

With all the cops and the pedestrians gawking at the chakz, no one noticed when I drove around the hospital barricade. Only a complete moron would go in there anyway, right? With a thick whoosh that reminded me of being in a car wash, I passed through the plastic and headed down into the facility’s underground parking lot. Up to one hour of poisoning, free. My little VX capsule was less than a raindrop in a storm here. If I didn’t run into Turgeon, this might be a good place to bury it.

Only, it looked like I had run into Turgeon.

The second I flashed on my headlights, I spotted tire tracks in the dust ahead of me. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but if any remediation teams came in this way regularly, why only one set of tracks? I stopped the car and got out for a closer look. Took a while for my eyes to adjust, but I waited. They looked about the right size for a Humvee.

I followed the tracks on foot, down, down, down the graded concrete and steel, along rows of empty, numbered spaces. Sunlight was a thing of the past. At the bottom levels, the only light was the glow of an occasional Exit sign above a gray metal door.

I was about to turn the last corner when I heard that boyish voice. Turgeon. I thought he’d spotted me, even though I couldn’t see him or his car, but he was talking to someone.

“Please don’t talk like that. I hate it when you say things that way. I’m not the one.”

Whoever answered had some kind of speech impediment. The response came in a harsh, garbled whisper, almost like a toy train clacking on a track in slow, slow motion, or a paper bag dragged across cement, soft and crackly.

Gshhh chahhhh chhhhh.

Turgeon seemed to understand it. “That’s not what I meant.”

I slowed, crouched, hugged the wall, but made the last turn and kept descending. At the bottom, I made out the Humvee, parked near an elevator. The dim light made the piss yellow closer to the color of blood. A Dumpster, full of construction debris, had been plopped catty-corner in the space opposite him. Whenever Turgeon talked, I made for it.

His rounded back was to me, but he bobbed nervously, like he might spin around any second. “But it’s not my fault. Can’t you . . .”

As he spoke, he faced a heavy lump sitting on the hood. It wasn’t a silver eagle or a winged angel, but I guess you could call it a head ornament. It was the one head I’d seen strapped in the passenger seat. It was making the sounds.

Shhhhkkk ggrrllll cahhhh.

Don’t know why I didn’t out-and-out lose it. Maybe it was the dim lighting that made everything look flat and unreal, or maybe I was more fascinated than sickened. How could it make sounds at all? I noticed it moved its cheeks before it spoke. Curious, I exhaled, pushing all the air out of my lungs, then puffed my cheeks and forced the air through my nose. Maybe it was using those muscles to draw air through its neck. Could work, I guess.

Whatever it meant by its last crackles, Turgeon didn’t like it at all. His tone dived from whiny to