Chapters (42)
- DEDICATION
- EPIGRAPH
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- ALSO BY RICHARD KADREY
- CREDITS
- ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Bayliss lowered the binoculars and frowned at Nelson. “I don’t really pray for you, you know. I pray for you not killing us and me ending up on the mook squad.”
Nelson snort-laughed at that.
“You don’t have to die for that,” he said between sips from a leather-clad flask. “You’re already a zombie. A toe-the-line, follow-all-orders, fake-Armani-wearing zombie.”
“Oh? And what are you?”
“The one wearing real Armani . . . and watching our target. He’s on the move.”
Bayliss looked back out the window.
“Oh, crap,” she said, scrambling into the driver’s seat.
Nelson snort-laughed again.
“You even curse like my grandma.”
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“You’re the wind beneath my wings.”
Bayliss pulled out into traffic, following the two men. Staying with them, but a little behind so they wouldn’t spot the tail.
Nelson hummed tunelessly. At the light, Bayliss jammed the brakes. Nelson spilled vodka down the front of his creased trousers.
“Nice,” he said. “Very mature.”
“What’s this mature you speak of? We zombies don’t understand that concept.”
Nelson wiped the front of his pants with a silk handkerchief as wrinkled as his shirt.
“Just drive.”
SEVEN
THEY WENT BACK TO MORTY’S PLACE, A SEVENTIES-ERA two-bedroom apartment on Fountain Avenue near Gower. Back when it was built, the place would have been called a bachelor pad. Now most sensible people would regard it as a stucco deathtrap, since half the building rested on nothing but a few questionable pillars in the open carport beneath the living room. Coop looked out the window, imagining an earthquake and his last moments on Earth, skewered by the rooftop TV dish and smothering under the gold velour couch Morty had taken as payment from a shady lawyer for stealing some incriminating photos from an even shadier lawyer. The photos apparently showed the client in scuffed red and black rental shoes and nothing else making sweet love to an inflatable sheep while the Professional Bowlers Association Tournament of Champions played on a TV the size of a Sherman tank . . . all on this couch. When Morty had offered Coop a peek at the shots, he’d politely declined. But Morty’s bathroom was clean and the shower worked and that was all Coop wanted. Just to blast the last prison grime off his body with scalding water. After he dried off, Morty loaned him a blazer and a dress shirt, one that didn’t hang off Coop’s frame quite as much as his own.