WereWoman

  Then I got what was either a genius or a folly of a notion. I invoked my Name and started Changing. The Zombies didn’t notice; they were focused on their one task, which was all they could do once they got started.

  By the time they built up to the rafter, I was Mena. My clothing didn’t fit well, so I took it off and clothed my body with an illusion bikini. Then I confronted the top Zombie as it stood knee-deep in guts and reached for me. “Hello, Zombie, you handsome creature! You are looking for a man. I am a woman. I will get out of your way.” And I swung from the rafter and dropped down to the floor. Actually I hit the edge of the Zombie pyramid with a sickly squish and rolled off; at least it had cushioned my fall.

  Then I walked away. The Zombies had been chasing a man; a woman was irrelevant. So they continued searching for the man while I walked back to my car and got in.

  A well-preserved Zombie woman stood before the car, blocking my way. I could have run over her, but three things stopped me: I didn’t want to hurt her; she was remarkably shapely, maybe only a couple days dead, with lovely hair; and she was speaking my name. “Phill! Phill Were!”

  She had the wrong gender, but evidently knew the car. No point in arguing the case. I rolled down the window slightly. “I represent Phil, yes.”

  “I will sshow you.”

  I did not inquire exactly what she meant to show me. Her condition was such that if she doffed her clothing I would look, for all that as Mena I was not as turned on in quite the way Phil would have been. I wondered fleetingly whether any Zombies ever substituted for Succubi. Probably not, because a Zombie, however fresh, was bound to be cold. That would require a rather special type of client. “Okay.”

  She walked to the side and opened the passenger door. She got in. “Go fforward.”

  Here I was with a Zombie maiden in my car. I had not anticipated this event. At least she was coherent, which indicated that she had some mind and was worth heeding. I started moving the car forward.

  “There,” she said, pointing right at the next intersection.

  I turned right.

  In due course we came to a low featureless building. I parked, we got out, and entered. The Zombie ushered me to a chamber where a heavyset middle-aged live woman sat in an easy chair, her eyes closed. She opened them as we entered. “Thank you, Zena. That will be all for the moment.”

  Zena stepped back, leaned against the wall, and sagged, losing her animation.

  The live woman looked at me. “Ah, you are Mena, Phil’s assistant. I am Zoona, Zoro’s assistant. There was a confusion among the Zombies and he had to go untangle it personally.”

  “I may have been the source of the confusion,” I said. “I asked for Zoro, and the Zombies swarmed me.”

  “So that was it! We expected you to come directly here to the command center, not mix in at the orchard.”

  “The only address I had was for the orchard.”

  Zoona sighed. “Sometimes we Zombie managers get a bit rotten brained ourselves. Of course you didn’t realize that the orchard had a building. I apologize.”

  “Let’s get down to business. There was a murder?”

  “Yes.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “Phil, how much do you know of Zombies? I don’t mean to imply that you are ignorant, but there are folk who are willfully unlearned about Zombies. Some even think they eat the brains of live folk, despite having no functional digestive systems. That the bite of a Zombie converts a living person to a Zombie, like rabies. That—”

  “I am ignorant,” I said, not caring to confess that I had harbored similar misinformation. “I never associated with Zombies. They aren’t much for socializing. I don’t even understand how a Zombie can be killed, since I understand they are dead to begin with.”

  “Then I will clarify that. An analogy may help: you are a Were, but you are fundamentally human, not a wolf or whatever. We Zombie energizers are human too. Our magic is to animate dead bodies telepathically. They have little or no volition of their own. Zena, here, still has a functioning brain; she could pass for a moronic live person. But that’s the top of the line; most have deteriorated to the point where all we can do is direct their bodies for a few hours or days. It is our living will that animates them, and our guidance that makes them useful.”

  “Some don’t have eyes left,” I said. “How can they see?”

  “They can’t. We have to direct them in detail, using our own eyes.”

  “I don’t quite follow that.”

  “Look at the wall,” she said, gesturing.

  I looked. There was a large video screen there, showing a section of the orchard where the Zombies were returning to work. “You’re watching them electronically!”

  “Closed circuit TV,” she agreed. “We don’t go on larger broadcast, obviously; that would alert the mundanes. It enables us to watch them closely enough to guide them in simple tasks. They wear out soon, and we animate others.”

  “And because there’s no expense for food, clothing, shelter, or entertainment, you can work cheaply,” I said.

  “Yes. It’s a living, and it enables us to indulge our inherent craving to animate. We could animate the living too, if they were brain dead.”

  “You get the bodies from recent graves? Don’t the grieving families object?”

  “We stick to unwatched graves. We also try to use bodies in areas away from where they lived, so that they are not recognized. The fact is that millions of people die, but only hundreds are ever Zombied; it’s not a common occurrence. Mainly, we try to avoid observers. I fear that is what you encountered; the Zombies took you for an observer and tried to discourage you. They’re not very smart, obviously. Each is normally controlled by a living animator, but the work is dull and surveillance is not always close. Also, the bodies do have some faint motivations of their own. This time it got out of hand. Again, I apologize.”

  “Accepted,” I said. “So the murder was not of an animated body, but of an animator?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Just how did it happen?”

  Zoona shuddered. “It was surprising and awful. He was stabbed to death by a Zombie. He died before we could hospitalize him.”

  “You mean one of the animated bodies attacked its animator?”

  “No. The body was animated by another controller. Apparently that one suffered a momentary aberration and sent the Zombie to attack. Such a thing has never happened before. We are in shock.”

  “You questioned the animator, of course?”

  “Yes. He said he didn’t even remember doing it. He conjectured that he suffered a siege of some sort, like an epileptic seizure. He is appalled, and will retire from active management forthwith. But in the hope that it was something else, we contacted your office.”

  “That was smart. I think it is something else.”

  “Part of the serial killings? That gives us macabre hope. But how could it be?”

  “I believe the serial killer has a telepathic ability to send powerful persuasion. Such as an unquestioning belief in the killer’s innocence, or an immediate need to kill someone. Was there anyone with the controller?”

  “With Zeb? Not that I know of. But it could have happened. We’re not locked in.”

  “I need to talk with Zeb. But I’m already pretty sure that it wasn’t his fault. That he’s not a murder suspect.”

  “By all means. I’ve known Zeb for years. He’s a decent guy. I’d hate to have something like this ruin his career.”

  Zena showed me to Zeb’s chamber, then returned to the orchard to pick apples. There was a partly decayed body lying on the ground outside the chamber: an unanimated Zombie. Zeb was a thin young man with sandy hair, and he did not look at all like a Zombie. “Hello, Zeb. I am Mena, Phil Were’s assistant. We’re investigating a series of murders of Supes that may be connected. I hope you will be willing to answer a few questions.”

  “Anything,” Zeb said. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m appalled.”

 
“Let’s start basic. You were animating a Zombie, and it got out of control?”

  “Not at all! I’m the one who got out of control. It’s coming back now as I ponder it. I sent my Zombie to kill my friend.”

  “Maybe not.” I held up a hand to forestall his protest. “We suspect that a serial killer can telepathically send a thought that overrides common sense. That the kill-directive was not yours, but a preemption of your will. A murder was committed, yes, but it wasn’t yours.”

  He looked at me with the aspect of a criminal exonerated by a jury. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “It fits the description. This is the seventh murder we’re investigating, all of Supes. We think a deranged Supe is doing it. You’re really a victim.”

  “Somebody took over my mind, the way I control a Zombie? Made me do something I’d never do on my own?”

  “That’s it. But it will help if I can study your motive directly. My power is to read a person’s true mind, when the person is doing his magic. Animate your Zombie, please.”

  “But that’s the one that killed my friend!”

  “Yes. I need to discover what motivated it at that moment.”

  “Okay.” He focused, and the body outside the chamber came to its sort of life. And I got what I needed: Zeb was indeed innocent.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “I now have confirmed that you never intended to kill your friend. That there was a strong mental signal that overrode your will and planted the imperative to kill. Someone was with you when it happened.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed as the Zombie sank back to the ground. “I remember now. A young man. A Were. He asked me to look at him, and I did, and then it got all fuzzy. I was mind-controlled!”

  “Something like that,” I agreed. “Chances are it won’t happen again. You should be able to resume your normal activity with a clear conscience.”

  “Well, I’m off duty until Zoro clears me. But it’s an immense relief.” He got up and went to a freezer chest. “Care for a beer, Miss Mena?”

  He had picked up on my badly constrained bosom as my spot illusion slipped. I was not about to become intimate with him, but I could afford to relax somewhat. I might pick up other clues, and it was evident that my presence was calming him after his horrific experience. I was still practicing how to be a woman. “Okay.”

  Zeb fished in the freezer and brought out a plastic package with the number 90 printed on it. I did a minor double-take; I had seen a similar package recently. He fetched a can of room-temperature beer from a shelf, opened it, and popped a pellet from the package into it. “Here you are.”

  I peered into the can as it rapidly cooled. “What is that?”

  “Oh, the ninety? That’s a freezer pellet. Like an ice cube, only it doesn’t dissolve or foul the beer; it just cools it. Saves me from having to keep my beer cold.”

  “This is new to me,” I said, intrigued.

  “They’ve only been on the market the past six months or so. Real handy. You can’t swallow one by accident; it swells up as it cools the beer so you can’t mistake it.”

  “You freeze the package of them, and it shrinks?” I asked.

  “Sure does. Takes a while. Ninety minutes, actually. Then suddenly it contracts to maybe half or a third its size, so it doesn’t clutter up your freezer.”

  I went and looked down into the freezer, seeing the package of pellets. “I’ll have to get some of that myself.”

  “Grocery store’s got ‘em. Look for the Ninety logo.”

  I sat down and we chatted. Zeb was much more at ease now. I didn’t pick up any more information, but it was good to relax, even if I was not entirely easy with his appreciative eyeballing. It was something I needed to get used to as a well-endowed woman. However, I couldn’t dawdle indefinitely. When I finished my beer I stood up. “I have to get back to the office, but it’s been nice talking with you.” I smiled engagingly.

  “Sure thing, Miss Mena. If you’re ever in need of a Zombie…”

  I laughed. “Unlikely. If you ever need a private eye…”

  “Equally unlikely.”

  We shook hands and I departed. I checked in with Zoona, and found that Zoro was now with her. “You got what you need?” he asked.

  “I think so. Zeb is innocent; a stranger used telepathy to take over his mind to do the deed. That’s not Zeb’s imagination; it’s my reading of him. It shouldn’t happen again. But do be wary of strangers.”

  “Not difficult. Strangers are generally wary of us.”

  I returned to the car, accompanied by Zena Zombie, and this time the Zombies took no note of me. That was of course the point; her presence vouched for me. Zombies recognized Zombies somewhat the way Supes recognized Supes. “Thank you, Zena,” I said when we got there. I did not offer to hug her or even shake her hand; there were limits even among friendly women.

  “Welcome, Phill,” she replied. Then she stepped forward, hugged me, and kissed me. I stood transfixed, not knowing how to react to this unwelcome surprise. Her body was indeed cold, or at least ambient air temperature, like a lizard. She wasn’t rotten, but I was well aware of the deadness of her body.

  Then she stepped back and smiled. “Jusst teassing,” she said. “Zooona here, taking active control. You sshould ssee the look on your fface, Mena!”

  I had to laugh. “You got me, Zoona. I thought for a moment she was coming to life.” Then I got hastily into the car to prevent any further humor. Zena turned away as if disappointed, and I actually felt guilty.

  I shouldn’t drive after drinking that beer, technically, but I doubted it had much effect. I would try to be extra careful. It was probably a better risk than fraternizing with Zombies.

  I drove slowly back toward the office, mulling things over. That Ninety brand package of artificial ice—where had I seen that before? Why did it bug me? It seemed irrelevant to my investigation. Sure I would get some and try using it; I was forever running out of freezer room, and this would help. Just put it in, wait ninety minutes, and presto, I could cool my drinks the way Zeb did.

  Then it came to me. Demesne Demoness—that was where I saw it. When I interviewed her, and she showed me where Damne had perished. When checking the freezer where Damne Demon died, frozen in the bottle. There had been a Ninety package there. I hadn’t thought anything of it, consciously, not knowing its nature, but maybe subconsciously it had registered. Why? What could artificial ice possibly have to do with murder?

  That question brought the answer. That product took an hour and a half to freeze, and when it did freeze, it suddenly shrank in size. Suppose it had been sitting beneath the Demon’s bottle? Maybe a layer down, propping up one end of a box of frozen pie. The bottle could have been set on the pie, right up against the top cover, where the temperature was warmest, so that it was cool but not frozen. Then when the Ninety froze, in ninety minutes, that box would tilt down and the bottle would roll or slide off it and drop into the frigid depth. Then the real freezing would begin Ninety minutes later.

  Just time enough for Queue to go to the dojo, and then to my office. So she was with me at the time the freezing occurred. Perfect alibi.

  I pulled over to the side and dialed the office. Syd picked up immediately, recognizing my cell phone number. “Phil! How’d it go?”

  “It’s Mena now. I had to Change. I’ll pause to Change back before I get there; my clothing doesn’t fit.” I took a breath. “Syd, I cracked the alibi! I know how she did it!”

  “The alibi! That’s great, Mena. But—uh-oh.”

  “What?” I didn’t like the sound of that interjection. Syd was never one to tease.

  “I just got an awful premonition. Something momentous will happen very soon. Death is incipient. Mena, don’t wait to Change; get back here fast!”

  I knew better than to question one of her premonitions. If Syd thought there was danger, there was danger. Deadly danger. “On my way!” I disconnected and started the car moving.

  I had a sick
revelation of my own. That premonition of Syd’s, coming right as I told her about the alibi—coincidence? I did not trust coincidence. Could Queue have been tapping our connection? Just to be sure she was not a viable suspect? She was smart enough to do it. Now she knew she had become viable. That would surely galvanize her into action.

  This could get ugly in a hurry.

  Chapter 11:

  Trap

  I screeched the car to a halt and piled out, hoping I was in time to handle the crisis, whatever it might be. I forged into the office, hardly looking around me.

  Muscular arms caught me and heaved me off my feet. Oh, crap! I had been ambushed at the door. Why hadn’t I anticipated that?

  “How did you crack the alibi?” Quent demanded as he held me struggling in the air. Then he applied a nerve grip that paralyzed my volition as well as my body. As Phil I could have fought him, maybe, but as Mena I simply lacked the strength.

  So Queue/Quent had gotten to the office before me. Crap again. “Where’s Sydelle?” I demanded.

  “Tied and gagged in the storage room. Don’t be concerned about her; she won’t survive you long. The question is, what are you going to try to do about it?”

  He had me under control. Why was he asking me this? Then I caught on: “You want me to Change! So you can send me a deadly thought, like maybe offing myself.”

  “So you’re not a total dimwit.”

  “I’m not going to Change.”

  “We’ll see.” He continued to suppress me with the pain hold. I couldn’t even think of breaking free. What did he have in mind? “Now tell me, or I’ll hurt you: how did you figure it out?”

  And he could and would hurt me, as he put it. I now knew he was psychopathic, with little if any conscience. My best bet was to engage him in dialogue while I looked for a way to get out of this fix. I noted that Syd had left the office phone on Speaker Mode and MESSAGE RECORD, which meant it was absorbing what was said in the office. We had set it up to facilitate interviews, as personal memory was not to be trusted where there were possible legalities; we might need more tangible evidence. Maybe her premonition had told her this was needed. This was a detail Queue/Quent seemed to have missed. Not that it would do us much good at the moment. There was another, more important, detail he had missed about Syd, and that one could make all the difference. If there was time.