Sins of the Undead Patriot. a.c. Mason

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.

       Chapter 9

      Leera slid her finger behind one ear then the other, leaving a trail of vanilla perfume. At the edge of her bed, she pulled on her black Cuban heels and buckled the straps. Gliding her finger up the seam of her stockings, she left a hint of the sweet scent. Did the aroma please zombies? She had no idea. Why did she even want to appeal to Vaihan?

      The doorbell rang. She grabbed her beige coat and rushed to the door. Her hands trembled, and she took a deep breath to calm the nervous energy inside. This was doable.

      She opened the door.

      Vaihan stood with a bouquet of pink and white orchids in hand. His pupils grew large as his gaze traveled over her figure. A red scarf draped around the neck of his black, three quarter length overcoat sharpened the edge of his dramatic appearance. The maroon dress shirt suited his light blue skin pigmentation.

      “You look gorgeous.” He held out the flowers for her.

      Definitely smooth, but what high-ranking government official wasn’t? “Thank you, it’s a beautiful arrangement.” Gesturing him in, she stepped back. “Let me get these in water.”

      “Don’t rush. We aren’t pressed for time and you, beaute, are worth the wait. Let me hold your jacket.” He held his arm out.

      Just as she was doing, he was formulating opinions about her. A shaky breath escaped her. “Thank you.” She draped the fabric over his forearm and hurried to the kitchen, flowers in hand.

      She peeked over at him standing in her foyer with a half smile, examining her house with his gaze. Doable might have been the wrong word...but she didn’t know what to replace it with yet. She removed a