Battle of the Network Zombies Read online

  She never did.

  I thought of Birch’s voice and the shimmer of sound that filled the room in sensual warmth, brought on by the cold air pumping into the space. “He has his merits.”

  “Oh, Amanda. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for his little song and dance.”

  I shrugged. “Of course not. He has an interesting voice, is all I’m saying. There’s a reason why people are drawn to him. It’s not his charm, I can tell you that much.”

  “Like a swarm of locusts stripping a field. Vile sounds from an even more contemptible being.” Elizabeth scraped a fresh French manicure across the subway tile; they squeaked and ticked like a needle on a broken record. “I should have…” her voice trailed off and the long hall was silent for a moment.

  I glanced at Marithé, who mouthed, “What the fuck?”

  “Elizabeth?” I asked, stepping toward the woman, the part-time goddess, and the scariest lawyer I knew, not sure whether I was seriously attempting to soothe her, or otherwise bond, in any way. Karkaroff wasn’t exactly the bonding type.25

  “Nothing. Nothing.” She spun around, flipping her hair over her shoulder and the remnants of a sad smile from her otherwise stony face. “Shut the door and sit down. We have much to discuss before you leave for the set of American Minions.”

  “And when is that exactly?” I asked checking my watch.

  Elizabeth thumbed through a stack of papers on her desk. “Here it is. Principal photography begins…tomorrow.” She smiled pleasantly.

  “Tomorrow?” My mouth dropped open. Wendy’s sources were definitely on the ball. Despite it not paying, the gossip blogging thing did produce some interesting and accurate blather.

  Marithé joined me on the couch, smoothing her skirt under her ass and sneering at me for monitoring her, presumably. Karkaroff leaned against her desk and continued, shrugging off my horror at the heightened timeline. “I don’t need to tell you this agency is on its last leg. The show’s going to help, but we’ll need to make some cuts to keep us afloat until then.” She accentuated the statement with a dramatic scissoring with her fingers.

  I spun on Marithé. “We could get rid of your personal assistant.”

  She smooshed up her face around her nose, as though someone had thrown a turd into the room. Of course, that’d be me. “Well, I don’t see how that would—”

  On cue, Cupcake buzzed in like a horsefly to catch a whiff. An ill-proportioned little pixie who favored crocheted berets in odd pastels like creamsicle and puce to anything resembling an actual hat and an unnerving habit of spraying sparkles from her fingertips as she typed—like that’s useful.

  “I have your raspberry-scented oxygen set up for your beauty break, ma’am,” she said, eyes batting in adoration of Marithé.

  Her boss simply rolled her eyes and seethed, her ability to defend the use of a company employee for her own luxury treatments (not that she could even breathe, so the whole thing was just weird) neutered by the girl’s lack of tact.

  “You’re right,” Marithé said and then turned to Cupcake, her hands clasped pleasantly. “Cupcake?”

  “Yes?” More eye batting.

  “You’re fired.”

  Cupcake’s mouth dropped open.

  “You heard me. Pack your knitting needles, drawers full of Pez dispensers, office birthday charts and don’t forget that row of troll dolls congregating on top of your computer monitor. If I see that you’ve left them, I’ll blowtorch them into a rainbow puddle of plastic and mail it to you with your final paycheck.” Marithé scanned her palms, perhaps for her conscience. Finding none, she looked up. “Such as it is.”

  “But?” A glittery tear slid down Cupcake’s cheek.

  Marithé reached toward the pixie, and for a second I thought I’d be witnessing a rare moment of tenderness—that is, before she curled her finger under the salty drop and slurped it up like the monster she was. The monster I created…well, with the help of whatever fucked-up childhood she’d been party to. I often imagined Marithé burning down her decrepit orphanage, nuns included, despite the fact that her parents lived in a planned community outside Philadelphia and participated in the weekend farmer’s market.

  Cupcake burst into a major meltdown, running from the room full-tilt, slamming into the opposite wall as she went, clumsy as a kindergarten tantrum, without the promise of hugs at the end.

  I felt for her, I really did. Just not as much as I felt for my wallet.

  “Well, that solves one problem,” Karkaroff spat. “Couldn’t stand that little freak anyway. Did I ever tell you about the time I had to use the toilet after her? She left sparkles all over the front of the seat.”

  “I wish you would have, we could have made a sign.” I said, fiddling a cigarette between my lips.

  “How we let you talk us into hiring it is a testament to your frighteningness.” She thought a moment. “Is that even a word?”

  A few more employees trudged through and out the door with their little cardboard boxes full of crap and the same sour faces. It would have been depressing, but really—it’s true what they say—misery loves company. If I’m hitting the skids, you better be too.

  Of course, the skids never looked so good.

  It could have gone on like that all afternoon but I had things to wrap up in my office before getting ready for dinner. Fabulousness is not automatic, no matter what you tell yourself and the only thing that would take my mind off all the crap I’d been enduring was the unstoppable ribbing Gil would receive about his blind date.

  Plus we were meeting at Skinshu, a hot new restaurant catering to zombies, or something. The lines were around the block last week when it opened.

  “I don’t want you to take my bitching about Birch to suggest that I’m unenthusiastic. Quite the contrary. I am excited about the show. The way I see it,” I said. “If we can build up enough buzz, the show can be a cash cow. Our own personal cash cow.”

  Marithé put her bitch face back on, leaning against the couch arm and glowering. “Do you know anything about the contestants? Reality shows only work by catering to the lowest common denominator. The characters have to be freaks, drama queens and prone to irrational outbursts and impromptu fist fighting.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I winked at Elizabeth, who, I knew, was in love with Jersey Devil House Party. And who could blame her? It had everything; skanky trailer-trash nymphos, exceptionally stupid muscleheads in chains, and one bad-ass Jersey Devil that gave the tagline, “You’ve Been Cut” a whole new meaning.

  “Oh, God, no.” Marithé kicked off from the edge of the table and fondled the book spines on Karkaroff’s shelves as she stalked the room. “I love ’em. When Veronique flashed her patch on Tapping and that bottle of cyanide fell out of her snootch…well, if I had functioning neurons I would have had a stroke.”

  We could only be so lucky to get a true trash titan like Veronique. It only takes one breakout. Remember Chastity from Death Camp 5? Of course you don’t, but I do. Death Camp was this show about fat supernaturals struggling to lose weight in this weird Siberian camp setting. It had Nazis and evil nurses—both seemingly essential ingredients of anything entertaining. Each show concluded with a “Death March,” and not of the goose-stepping shoeless wintry variety either. The contestants ran on treadmills cantilevered over a huge meat grinder, the first one to drop, well…you can figure it out.

  “To answer your question, no. Not a thing. We’ll have to wait and see what we’re dealing with tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”

  “I’m not sure we’re done here.” Marithé’s hand hung on her hip.

  “You’re right,” I said, struggling to come up with a distraction so I could get out of there. “You need to have the commercial spots ready for client review. You should really get on that.”

  Marithé rolled her eyes and sucked at her teeth like she had a piece of tendon stuck in there.

  Karkaroff spun around and caught Marithé’
s chin in her fingers. The girl jerked as an uncharacteristic fear marred her usually stoic mask. “I need to speak with Amanda. So, yes, Marithé, we’re done.”

  She huffed, collected her files from the small table and stomped out of the room, instantly spitting orders for the benefit of her Bluetooth. “Don’t do one fucking thing until I get there, you idiot.”

  “She’s next.” Karkaroff grinned.

  I giggled a bit, but the thought of firing Marithé scared even me and I’m the one that turned her into a zombie.

  “Now. Contingency plan.”

  “What?”

  “If this show doesn’t manage to get us clawing out of the grave, I’m afraid I’ll have to liquidate to collect my investment. I’ve lost too much as it is.”

  I slouched. “It will succeed. I’ll see to it.”

  She glared at me for a moment and I almost thought I could feel her picking her way through my brain, using her abilities to test my resolve. If she was, she came away satisfied.

  “See that you do.” She pulled out her calculator. “Because the way I figure it, with what the agency is worth right now, even after clearing accounts and selling off the furniture and such, you’ll owe me—” Her fingers clicked across the keys, she shook her head and then passed the calculator across the desk.

  If I’d had a functioning heart it would have sunk in my chest.

  CHANNEL 06

  Friday

  2:00–2:30 A.M.

  Cheaters Possessed

  Randy and Lola, traveler demons from the lowest circle of Hell, take turns infiltrating the bodies of happy couples and leading them astray in this hilarious miniseries. (First run)

  I struggled to keep my Louboutins out of the rat’s nest of fast food wrappers and candy bar detritus heaped in the floorboard—no small feat with legs as long as mine and in a space as small as Wendy’s new Civic hybrid. She pointed the trashcan on wheels down Queen Anne toward the Center and stood on the accelerator. We caught a little air at the top and when we bottomed out, the garbage under my calves shifted, revealing another layer of shame, several empty packages of Depends and their accompanying sticker strips were balled up tight as little mysteries.

  There’s a reason why I always drive.

  Or…used to.

  “You might want to consider cleaning up your binge evidence.”

  “Remember, you’re not supposed to comment on that,” she said, thankfully without looking. Even the slightest distraction could easily turn “barreling” into “careening,” and I was in no mood to deal with the police after Wendy mowed down one of Seattle’s infamously slow pedestrians.

  “Well, Jesus. Don’t give me cause. There are at least fifty wrappers in here. It reeks of secret shame.”

  Wendy shrugged and tugged left on the wheel, rocking me into the car door. “So what’s up with this Birch gig?” she asked. “Can I get a ride-along or what?”

  First the suitcase, now she wasn’t letting it die. I was about to sock her when it dawned on me.

  “Oh, my God.” I slapped her arm. “You totally have a girl boner for Birch. So gross.”

  “He’s a good singer. You can’t deny it.”

  Couldn’t I? Sure his voice was interesting and oddly compelling, at least as far as rampaging yetis go, but was he a “good singer”?

  “I guess I never really thought about it. Johnny’s other attributes get in the way. Being a fucking pig and all. As for getting you on set, I’m still thinking no.”

  Wendy clicked her tongue, face souring instantly.

  “Karkaroff’s on my ass about making this show successful. I can’t risk losing ad space, just because you’re a star fucker.”

  “Am not!” Her lips split into a toothy and wholly lascivious grin. “At least not yet.”

  “Nice. But seriously, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

  “And you do need the cash.” She nodded with a sympathetic pout.

  Wendy knew about my struggles, as only another accident-prone zombie could. Her reaper bill was one of the primary reasons for her latest foray into retail accessories. In fact, a recent fall had landed her in their clinic for nearly a week. An entire trunkload of Abuelitas, working ’round the clock, wouldn’t begin to produce the merchandise required to pay back that debt. Good thing she had the gossip blog ads to keep her in Twix (for what that was worth, I couldn’t imagine it was more than a couple of hundred a month), or I’d have to cram another freeloader into my place—two, if you count Abuelita.

  “Thank you. Seriously.”

  She winked. “You know I love you.”

  “Yeah, now if you could just show it like a good parent. You know how I like to be spoiled.”

  Outside, every car that passed seemed to be a Volvo SUV. The blue one beside us came equipped with a party girl stippling lip-gloss onto an exaggerated pout. Even the gods were shoving the repo down my throat, mocking my financial problems with a fervor not often seen this side of a political correctness rally.26

  Wendy pointed the car at a space in front of a three-story brick monstrosity rising out of a sidewalk so broken, its jags and dips lapped against the foundation like frozen waves. A dense hand of dead vines stretched from the side of the building as if the arm of some crumbling giant were holding up the decay. An old, but oddly appropriate theater marquee jutted from the corner, a shiny knife in a vagrant’s back. Across the top in a scrolling font of lightbulbs read THE GRAND and below that, instead of a film title, GRANTHAM’S RECLAMATION AND RESOURCER—whatever that was.

  “Are you sure this is it?” I stepped out of the car and swept my purse off the dash.

  Wendy pointed a bit down the street toward a classic Jag—and by “classic” I mean old and funky-smelling—centered under a streetlight with the deliberateness of the hopelessly anal. “Does that answer your question?”

  Behind the place, down a path of trampled weeds, we found the loading dock, the word SKINSHU scrawled across the rolling shutter door. The edges of the letters dripped down the corrugated metal in a deep rusty brown. If one were to examine it closely, they’d find that it wasn’t paint at all, but the dried blood of a good luck sacrifice. For all the good that was worth.

  Beside the door, only a small black call box protruded from the brick and not a pack of greedy stalkerazzi, as the news had promised.

  “Amanda Feral and guest,” I grumbled, pressing the little button embedded in its center; it squished in pleasantly, like a rubber bulb.

  “One moment,” a mechanized voice responded.

  “You know,” Wendy breathed. “Just once, I’d like it for you to be the guest.”

  The door rolled up into the wall, revealing a long rectangle of Japanese garden. A path of grayed boards meandered around serene stones and clumps of black bamboo jutted into the dark heights of the space, their roots coiled in a flooded pebble floor, the walk underlit by the soft glow of stone lanterns. Wendy stalked off ahead and as I stepped onto the boards, the shutter door rolled closed behind me.

  Security has become more important these days. Sure, most people wouldn’t notice a vampire if they fell on one’s dead boner, but theft was up and people were always looking for a score, even in the seedier areas. When thieves start stealing from their own, you know the world’s circling the bowl.

  I looked at Wendy who shrugged. Her review was a clear, “Eh.”

  “It’s a little obvious, I agree.”

  “Totally.”

  Still, my only experience with teppanyaki was a childhood birthday ritual of Benihana onion volcanoes and an awkward inability to catch the goddamn rice ball. But that was a long time ago. And I’d had enough of Ethel for the whole month to even consider going down memory lane just then (but I’m all for blowing out the back door of this bitch with a fat ass appendix).27

  The zombie hostess was blond and made up like a geisha, except the white makeup wasn’t really necessary and I’m pretty sure the red stain on her lips wasn’t Shiseido, if you know what I mean. Her ornat
ely embroidered kimono whipped around her as she shuffled (not shambled) toward an arch into the main dining room and the soles of her stocking feet scraped across tumbled marble veiny and blue as British cheese.

  Skinshu bore no resemblance to any Benihana I’d ever seen. It didn’t even attempt a reasonable facsimile. In fact, that was the best description of the place: unreasonable. Or better yet: fucking unreasonable. And tiny. Also lame.

  The closest thing, for comparison’s sake, is Medieval Times. You know, the place where you eat food without utensils and watch heavily costumed men “joust,” though really, the whole thing reeks of the gay. Just ask Gil; he had a whole philosophy about guys who do renaissance reenactments. I won’t steal his thunder but it has to do with latent tendencies.

  He’s the expert on that.

  If Gil’s lonely, you can bet he’ll find a closeted, emotionally unavailable werewolf (or something) to fall in love with, help the bastard to come blazing out of the closet to family and friends, only to get his heart broken in some dramatic and often public falling-out. It’s his thing. Some women keep reliving abuse, Gil keeps leading the closeted out of denial, like Moses, if he were a top, and he may have been for all we know.28

  The metal grill tables were there, scattered evenly across a circular balcony and peppered with only a few handfuls of diners, Gil among them. He waved rather unenthusiastically from a table off to our left. This gallery surrounded a frosted glass stage, above which, several eyehooks dangled from clinking chains like giant monocles.

  I poked Wendy and pointed. “That’s an interesting decorative choice.”

  She pondered them a moment and then, her eyes brightened in mock surprise, she whispered, “Not if you’re a gymnast.”

  A chill forced its way under my skin, but I played along. “Genius. Maybe it’s like a whole French circus thing!”