Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,85

Victoria, Cindy, and Sharon more than once, and not long before their unfortunate demise. And dapper Mr. Galworthy of Black Glass, Inc. had used more than his share of JLPN colognes and deodorants.

But the results were right there on the printout. The chemical analysis offered no incriminating red flags, certainly nothing I could take to McGoo. Nothing we could use against Harvey Jekyll, even if he was the Grand Wizard of the Straight Edgers.

Nevertheless, something disastrous was happening out there in the Quarter. News reports were buzzing with ever-increasing alarm. In addition to the four zombies that had dissolved, a vampire and two werewolves had also collapsed to the ground and sloughed into piles of oozing skin, muscle, bones, and internal organs. So the disaster affected more than just zombies. Rumors spread about a horrific new plague infecting the unnatural population, a disease that struck indiscriminately and without warning. No one was safe.

Add to that the increasingly violent depredations of the massive creature that smashed buildings, killed Straight Edgers, and had now staked poor Sheldon Fennerman. The Unnatural Quarter no longer seemed a safe and comfortable place.

The situation is bad when even monsters are afraid.

I didn’t have much chance of sneaking into the JLPN factory, but I could still keep an eye out from the perimeter fence. Zombies are good at lurking.

I borrowed the Pro Bono Mobile and puttered away, nursing the accelerator. Oily curls of blue-gray exhaust wafted up behind me, clearly visible in the rearview mirror. It was long past time for us to get an official Chambeaux & Deyer company vehicle, but Robin was attached to the old bomb she’d owned all through law school.

The large JLPN industrial compound was surrounded by the usual chain-link fence, with the usual No Trespassing signs, and capped by the usual rows of razor wire. The first time I’d infiltrated the factory, I’d been human, which made slipping inside much simpler. I’d dressed in a worker’s uniform, complete with a counterfeit employee ID badge, and pretended to belong there—piece of cake.

However, JLPN’s strict “humans only” employment policy made that approach problematic for a zombie, even a well-preserved one like myself. I gazed up at the tall chain-link fence and the shark’s teeth of razor wire curled around the top. Back when I was alive, and ten years younger, I might have been able to clamber over while wearing thick clothes. But that murderous-looking razor wire would take a few good chunks out of me, and I had no desire to get damaged further. I’d already been shot six times in the past few days—that was enough, thank you.

So I kept watch over the activity from the outside. The day was dark and overcast, and the temperature had dropped enough that if I’d been warm-blooded, I would be shivering. The drizzle wasn’t enough to amount to anything, but it did make the world a clammier place.

The factory seemed much quieter than it had been last week. Apparently, the new-release Fresh Loam products had been shipped and distributed to apothecary outlets and beauty parlors across the Unnatural Quarter. The shift whistle blew, and fifty human workers filed out of the factory, pulling on jackets and carrying lunchboxes as they walked to cars in the parking lot. I stayed put, guessing that the interesting stuff would happen after the normal activities had ceased for the day.

Sure enough, in less than an hour, Harvey Jekyll emerged through a side door of the admin building and scuttled to the motor pool, where he climbed into a blue open-bed pickup truck. He backed up to the loading dock, climbed out, scurried up the stairs, and went back inside. With a clatter, he returned, pushing on a hand truck an unmarked metal drum, which he loaded into the back of the pickup. Wiping sweat from his wrinkled forehead, he brought out a second drum.

I was surprised that the head of the company would do the heavy work himself. Surely Brondon Morris would have been happy to lend a hand, though it might have stained his loud plaid jacket. After securing the pickup’s tailgate, Jekyll swung into the cab and drove off.

I was smiling inside as I whispered, “Gotcha!”

Revealing that Harvey Jekyll was the Grand Wizard of Straight Edge might have been embarrassing for his company, and now I’d have proof of his secret dumping of hazardous chemical waste. That was more leverage than Miranda could possibly need.

As Jekyll’s pickup passed through the automatic sally-port gate and headed off