and not embarrass myself by vomiting like a probie. “Yes. I see why.”
From the entrance I could see rusty metal racks with a few electronic gadgets on them, a rack of small speakers printed with a guitar and Stella’s name in a fancy font, a few hats and belt buckles with the same logo. On the far side of the room were a stack of flattened empty boxes and three half-empty boxes, each marked with shipping labels. In the middle of the floor was one large box filled with T-shirts. Except for the T-shirt box, the room had a depleted feel, as if the band had sold all the goodies that might have been stored here before the tour.
I forced my eyes down to the dead woman on the floor. She was on her side beside the T-shirt box, the words Merry Promotions printed on the sides. One hand was draped up over the box edge, holding a handful of shirts. She was wearing a short-sleeved dress and the arm I could see appeared to be covered with small greenish soap bubbles spread across the muscles. The bones in her green-fleshed hand were exposed where she still gripped a handful of shirts, though the shirts seemed fine, not rotted. Her face was awful. Her mouth was pulled away from her teeth, her gums blackened. Her eyes were whited out, like small boiled eggs, but leaking greenish bubbles. Her legs looked damp and pale and were lined with reddish lividity on top and much darker purplish lividity below, where gravity had pulled the blood down.
“I wish I could try a reversed hedge working around the bodies,” T. Laine said, “but the Knoxville covens are still not answering my calls and I can’t do much alone.”
While some of the witches were not averse to helping us, the leaders of the Knoxville covens were no longer agreeable to helping PsyLED. Not that I blamed them. I asked, “What would happen to the bodies if we got them into the null room at HQ?”
“I don’t know. I did toss a null pen into the cooler with the one DB we got out of here. If there’s anything left inside when the transport vehicle gets to UTMC, we’ll try sending the others.” She considered and added, “If the transport vehicle makes it.”
A finger on the body twitched. It was not an indication of life or zombification. I knew that. It was still creepy and gross. And the smell was suddenly worse, overpowering the mentholated salve on the handkerchief. “You think the vehicle will be affected by the energies?” I asked, pressing the mask and the hankie inside it around my lower face. Which was doing nothing at all against the rot stench. I sucked on the mint, but my mouth was coated by the stink in the air.
“It’s possible. The carpet under the bodies is rotted through. The bottom of that box is showing signs of disintegration. The piano’s finish is crackling and the lid over the strings, or whatever you call it, is split. The guitars closest to this room are falling apart.”
I glanced back and saw the destruction I hadn’t detected until she mentioned it. One guitar body had separated from the neck and was hanging by the strings. There were half a dozen guitars hanging near it, all showing signs of dry rot. The percussion equipment was dull and powdery looking. I remembered the RVs out back. The purpose of the band and crew lunch had been to unpack the tour gear. That probably meant there were more instruments and equipment out there. “Did you say the deputies got photos of the room earlier?”
“Yeah.” T. Laine’s jaw tightened. “The piano and the guitars looked fine when they arrived. Come on. Let’s get out of here. Even with null pens we’ve been in here long enough.”
As we walked back upstairs, a tension I hadn’t noticed fell away from my shoulders. I guessed it was death energies pushing on me, but it didn’t feel like witch magic. It felt scratchy and cold and odd, but not in a way I could put words to.
On the landing, we changed out of the blue unis and put the contaminated gear into the disposal bins for crime scene workup. I returned the null pen to T. Laine and tucked the handkerchief into my pocket for later use. I crunched the mint and let the flavor flood my dry mouth.