Читать книгу Sins of the Undead Patriot - a.c. Mason - Страница 13

Chapter 8

A prickly sensation creeped up Vaihan’s neck. A light shone from the crack at the bottom of his office door, which his assistant Stacy would have turned off. The man was invaluable, had a head for all the little details. Besides security detail, no one else should be in the west wing of the White House at ten PM. The soles of his Italian shoes pounded the marble floor, bouncing off the bare walls, as he ran.

The scent of cheap aftershave and velvet reeked of Barton.

Vaihan turned the handle and opened the door.

A large-rimmed orange hat covered Barton’s bald head. His loud matching sport jacket brought his outfit to the pinnacle of offensive.

“Why are you at the office?” Barton said. “Shouldn’t you be out with Miss Hot Thing?”

The thought of Barton even thinking of Leera in such away had his fist clenching. “I told you, I’d follow up when I had something.”

“From my vantage point, you’ve lost your touch.” He tilted his head.

The man might be thirteen or thirty–same difference. What did he know of trust or women? “I’m building trust so she brings me around her family. That’s how it works. Women don’t bring just any man to family functions. Hence, why you’ve never been invited to one.”

“I’ve been to plenty.”

He didn’t need to explain to him. “If you say so.”

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Mr. Louchian.”

Both eyes would be more practical, but he wouldn’t judge. Hopefully Barton hadn’t a clue that Vaihan was more likely to believe in flying pigs than a word coming out of his mouth. Something just didn’t feel right about his assignment with the widow, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “You have your methods and I have mine.” After all, he did work for the government, and knew what the public was told and what really went on were continents apart.

“It would seem.” Barton placed an elbow on his knee and rested his face in his hand. “Know a zombie by the name of Delmar?”

“Small-time chop shop motor-head? Just over the Maryland border in Randolph Village.”

“One and the same.”

What was the game tonight? “Is there a point?”

“Rumor is, he’s running a sex den with underage girls for the Mob in the warehouse next to his garage.”

He couldn’t accuse the Mob of not being adaptive. Scum. If it wasn’t the fucking feds, it was his own kind. The one thing above all others Vaihan couldn’t stomach was messing with women or children. “Thanks. Anything else I can do for God and country?”

Barton got up. “Are you offering?”

“Never mind.” Prick. “We don’t have the same sense of humor.”

“Next time we meet, you’d better be the favorite guest at the Waltz family gatherings.”

Sure thing, he’d get right on that after he cleaned up the Delmar mess.

* * * *

Black spray-painted windows were never a good sign. Vaihan had sat outside the chop shop for three minutes, when the first greaseball knocked at the rear door wiping his clammy palms on his trousers. Since then, two more had entered. So, either something fishy was going on or they were about to start a Perverts Anonymous meeting. He texted Errol and Dominique to pick up the girls then put his BlackBerry back in the holster.

If only he could bust a cap in their twisted heads. Too bad he couldn’t mess with the living ones. Some of them gave bad zombies a run for their money. He popped the trunk, tucked the dart gun in his belt and lifted out his sword then shoved extra-large garbage bags in the inside pocket of his jacket.

When an undead vanished, no one thought much of it. Most thought they went underground again. All zombies were tagged. It was how the government found out what he did with the ones that weren’t holding up their end of the deal. And the feds had decided to give him better means of disposing of them. Which he had to do at their beck and call.

He leaned up against the wall next to the door, out of the peephole’s sight, then knocked.

“Code?” the male on the other side inquired.

Were these guys for real? A code. What the hell was this? A clubhouse? He banged on the door harder.

“If you fucking little spicks are messing around out there, I’m going to bust you up,” the male shouted, and the end of a gun emerged from a widening crack. A round belly wrapped in a greasy wife-beater popped out.

Vaihan withdrew the dart gun and pulled the trigger.

With wide eyes, mouth gaping open, the fat prick keeled over into la-la land.

As Vaihan reached the bottom of the stairs, the scent of young female flesh, sex and dirty old men mixed. At times like this, he wished his sense of smell wasn’t so acute. Doors lined each side of the hallway, eight in total. At the end, a large room with a sofa and TV. A zombie rose at the sight of him. Delmar.

“The police are on their way!” Vaihan shouted to the patrons grunting and groaning. “If I were you, I’d get out of here as fast as humanly possible.”

A man appeared from the far door, shoving his hard penis back in his pants, and shuffled past him. His escape was followed by three more.

“Traitor.” Delmar sneered at him.

His accusation came as no surprise. Many of his people felt he went too far in upholding what humans wanted his kind to be. Truth was, he felt they should be better than humans, given the centuries most undead lived, and still they were corrupt for nothing more than capital gain. Sad, really. Eight young women lay helpless behind those doors, addicted to the most potent drug, with little chance of a normal life. What scum like Delmar thought held no power over him.

“You can come with me in one, or many pieces. That’s up to you.” Vaihan withdrew his sword. The only time he got to let the urge out to play was when he hunted his own kind. He took out the trash with pleasure.

“Fuck you.”

“I really did hope you’d say that.” Vaihan raised his sword. “Eight pieces seems only fair, one for each of the women.”

* * * *

The opera singer Measha Brueggergosman’s powerful voice poured out from the speakers in Vaihan’s car as he pulled up to the facility. The pitch of her tone vibrated through his body, relaxing him.

He turned off the engine, to the screaming of Delmar in the trunk. Did he think someone would rescue him? The idea amused Vaihan.

Marty stood by the secure door, chewing gum and pacing as Vaihan climbed out.

“Quitting?” Again. The biannual attempts were just before his birthday and New Year’s, which meant the man was intolerable half the year. He’d yet to last more than two months. Given the work he did for the government, it was admirable he’d lasted as long as he had. The fact that he smoked made him unappealing as a meal for the undead. Added protection. Marty was head of the undead Z-class experts in the government. Each class had an expert, but Z-class were the only ones recognized as proven to exist. Officially.

“The government of Slovakia contacted our military. They said they had an item of interest. A diary. As they were tearing down a building in Kraľovany, Slovakia. Best guess is the journal is from about the tenth century. The text is written in the old alphabet of Glagolitsa–old Slavonic, perhaps?”

Vaihan could have cleared that up some time ago but didn’t need to give the government one more reason to call upon him. In 845, as an officer in the military, he was tutored in reading and writing.

“What’s mind blowing is, the diary belonged to a doctor who seems to have restored an undead to human. If this is true, do you know what this means?”

“That there is a cure for what ails me?”

“That too. But it also means there is a way to kill your kind, once restored. We don’t know how he managed to do this yet. We have a linguist working on the text. A good friend.”

Vaihan pulled the eight trash bags from his trunk. If there was a cure, not all undead would agree to return to human form. Would the government force them to undergo the process or keep the knowledge a secret? This would definitely open Pandora’s box. The military could turn soldiers, send them to war and then turn them back into humans.

“Hope you find what you are looking for.” Vaihan swiped his security pass.

Marty nodded, head down. He knew the consequences as well as Vaihan and would ensure they weren’t uncovered. Just as Marty safeguarded the information about detecting shape-shifters.

“If you come upon some theories you’d like to test, keep me in mind,” Vaihan said.

A gleam shone in his eyes. “Will do.”

Vaihan carried the garbage bags down the hall to the door with a Z on it. Muffled noises came from inside. He turned on the concrete machine and tossed one of the bags into the cubed metal case next to the last one he’d filled in. Though they wouldn’t die, they would be contained in this government facility. He tossed another bag in with a grin. A lighter one. Maybe the creature’s dismembered member. Another few bags, and the night was his for the taking.