Dead Jack and the Pandemonium Device, Page 2

“That’s what I like to hear,” the lep said. “I’m going to grind you up into cat food. I’m going to make an ogre soup out of you.”

  “You’re not going to fight him, are you, Jack?” Oswald said. “You haven’t won a fight since you fought that blind, legless werewolf, and he still managed to rip off your right cheek.”

  “Always the confidence booster, Oswald, but don’t worry, because you’re going to take care of this half a kook.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  I glared at Oswald. He knew when I meant business.

  “Ain’t you got a Napoleon complex, dunzy? Show this guy what you’re made of!”

  “I’m fine with my size and abilities.”

  “Get out of the car, Oswald!” To the lep, I said, “He’s much tougher than he looks.”

  Oswald, ever the trouper, opened the door and stepped out. The lep hopped off the hood, stood in the street, and put up his dukes. Like I said, he was a real stereotype and, like a real stereotype, he was predictable. I threw the car into reverse and hit the gas.

  “Stupid leprechaun!” I shouted.

  Oswald quickly picked up on what I was doing—you gotta be fast to work with Dead Jack—and leapt back into the car.

  “Good thinking,” Oswald said.

  “Thank me when we’re back at the office.”

  We lost the lep, and I turned onto Water Street, going about ninety miles an hour, thinking what a smart zombie I was, when I ran smack into the clurichaun’s car. Fortunately, I slammed into the driver’s-side door. The red fairy was wearing an “oh fookin hell” expression as I pinned his vehicle against a parked hearse. The clurichaun didn’t move, clearly stunned.

  One advantage to being a zombie and a homunculus: we don’t stun.

  But the Studebaker was totaled. So, we did the only thing we could. We ran.

  I began my power-shambling bit and Oswald jumped on my shoulder. “We need to get out of ShadowShade,” he said. “Let this cool down for a while.”

  “You know I don’t care for traveling abroad. Pandemonium’s other four cities are the sticks.”

  “No alternative. Head to the dock. We’ll catch a boat.”

  “I don’t do boats.”

  “Do you do angry leprechauns? If this gets back to Dana, there will be a bounty on your head.”

  “That may be preferable to the Broken Sea.”

  “I hear the ships have nice accommodations these days. All-you-can-eat buffets, chocolate towers, little mints on your pillow.”

  “The only accommodation I need is not drowning.”

  “You’ll be fine, you big, dead baby.”

  3. Ship of Fools

  We waded through thick, fat plumes of fog searching for signs of life along the dock, but we didn’t see so much as a ghost rat. A buoy clanged somewhere out in the Broken Sea. I watched the black water with dread. It looked like a giant graveyard. My greatest fear is drowning. My second greatest fear is not drowning and being trapped in the Broken Sea forever. When you can’t die, you need to choose your surroundings carefully.

  “Over here!” Oswald shouted.

  I was too busy imagining my watery death to notice the ship docked to my left. It was huge, though most of it was hidden by the mist. It was one of those wooden jobs with jibs and masts and sails and whatever else old ships have. Fog curled around the vessel. I couldn’t see if anyone was aboard. No lights burned. I sure didn’t hear anyone.

  “Where are these luxury ships you were talking about?” I said.

  “They must all be out cruising the high seas.”

  “Why do I listen to you? I’m holding you responsible for this.”

  “Right! I devoured a leprechaun in Irish Town! I have a dust addiction!”

  “You’re a judgmental little thing, aren’t you, Oswald?”

  “You need to kick this dust habit once and for all.”

  “Then I’d be devouring everyone I come across, like every other two-bit zombie in Pandemonium.”

  “You’re not like the other zombies in Pandemonium, Jack.”

  “Look, if I could, I’d take dust every day, but I don’t. That has to count for something.”

  “I’d be happier if you were totally clean.”

  “You would, huh? Come here.”

  I grabbed Oswald.

  “What are you doing?” he asked but didn’t try to get away. The little creep gets a thrill when I touch him.

  “I’m going to throw you onto the deck so you can find a rope and toss it to me.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can jump up there myself.”

  “I’d rather toss you. It’ll make me feel like I’m contributing.”

  “Can you see in this fog?”

  “Is that a zombie crack, wise guy?”

  “What’s being a zombie have to do with it?”

  “Poor eyesight is a zombie stereotype. I happen to have perfect vision.”

  “I just mean it’s foggy.”

  “We’re wasting time.”

  Oswald rolled up into a ball for aerodynamic purposes. (The little bugger gets on my nerves, but his shape-shifting abilities do come in handy.) I reared back and chucked him. He smacked into the side of the ship with a nice thump.

  “You did that on purpose!” Oswald said after he jumped out of the water and onto the railing of the top deck.

  “I guess it was too foggy for me to see with my zombie eyes. Sorry, pal.”

  “You’re going to be sorry when I’m not around to get you out of trouble.”

  “Oswald, find a damn rope so I can hang you.”

  The homunculus jumped off the railing and disappeared. He returned a moment later carrying a rope, which he had anchored to a mast and tossed down to me. I climbed up. Zombies have strong arms. Otherwise we’d never be able to dig ourselves out of our graves. (That’s a joke. I never climbed out of a grave. If I had ever been buried, I’d probably never leave my comfy coffin.)

  As I expected, no one roamed the deck. The ship was quieter than Oswald’s brain. I could now see the sails were in tatters, torn and full of holes, as if they had been bombarded by a thousand cannonballs. The deck creaked with every step we took on the rotten, moss-covered floorboards.

  “Looks like you picked the worst ship in ShadowShade, Oswald.”

  “Let’s go below deck. We can hide out there, rest up, and in the morning find another ship that’s leaving the city.”

  I had no intention of sailing the Broken Sea. I was glad this ship was unseaworthy. In the morning, I’d figure something out or just go back to my Midtown office. I’ve dealt with angry fairies before.

  We headed to the lower decks. The rest of the ship was just as quiet and dark as the dock. Good thing Oswald can glow. I followed the homunculus through empty cabins. The stench of rot and decay pervaded everything in the vessel. But, oddly, there were no rats. Even they had abandoned the ship. We found a comfy spot in a cargo room, which was mostly bare, except for a few barrels. Empty barrels, unfortunately. I could have gone for some rum-spiked formaldehyde.

  “Oswald,” I said, “you take first shift. Make sure no one sneaks up on us.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Oswald stood at the door, hands on his hips like some ragdoll sentinel. At least it would keep his mouth shut. Besides, he snores.

  I curled up against a barrel, pulled my fedora over my face, and closed my eyes.

  Sooner than I expected, I was in zombie dreamland. It’s not a pleasant place. Why couldn’t I dream of brains like the typical walking dead?

  I’m back in Room 731. Still alive. But not for long.

  I’m strapped to a steel chair this time. Naked. I want to scream, but my throat is paralyzed. My heart beats in my ears, and I fear a heart attack. But then I realize that would be a blessing.

  A face covered in a surgical mask dominates my field of vision. I can hear his breath—hard and deep—through the covering. He smells of tobacco and witch hazel. He has different-colored eyes. On
e blue-white, the other nearly black. Heterochromia. I remember him telling me that’s what it’s called. I can’t stop staring at those eyes. With all the terrible things that have happened to me in this room, those eyes scare me more than anything. He’s a doctor and a psychopath. He holds a clipboard and writes furiously on it. He stares at me as if trying to read my inner thoughts, and then scribbles away.

  The fucked-up eyes get closer, just inches from my own. The mad doctor shines a penlight in my eyes and again records something on his clipboard.

  “Specimen 1-1-3-4,” he says from behind his mask. “You are in for a treat today.” He motions to one of his assistants, who approaches with a red tin can. I instantly recognize it. A gas can.

  I struggle in my restraints.

  “Are you still afraid after all this time?” the voice behind the mask asks. “It will behoove you to remain calm!” His voice rises. Through gritted teeth, the psychopath says, “The entire procedure depends on you remaining calm!”

  The assistant pours the gasoline over my head. I expect it to be hot, but it’s ice cold. It gets in my eyes and my mouth. The sweet, metallic smell overwhelms me and makes me lightheaded. I’m anything but calm.

  The mad doctor walks over to a steel table and picks up a pack of Lucky Strikes. He removes his mask. His little Hitler mustache does a poor job of hiding his cleft palate.

  The assistant has hightailed it to the far end of the room.

  From his pants pocket, the Nazi doctor removes a lighter emblazoned with a big, red swastika and lights the Lucky. He takes a long drag.

  “Your American cigarettes are much better than the Russian’s,” he says as he blows smoke at me.

  “I’d bum a smoke from you,” I say, “but I figure they’re hazardous to my health, considering I’m covered in gasoline.”

  The doctor doesn’t laugh. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. That is excellent. We are making progress.” He writes on his clipboard.

  “If you can’t laugh, then what have you got, right?”

  “You are a real—what’s the word? Cow-boy. Like your famous John Wayne.”

  “I’m more a Buster Crabbe fan.”

  “Yes. The Buck Rogers.”

  “I’d go with Flash Gordon. But whatever floats your boat.”

  The doctor flicks the Lucky at me and I go up like a garbage fire. My skin sizzles like bacon fat and melts. Indescribable pain racks my body. I scream, but again nothing comes out of my mouth. I’m thrashing wildly and manage to lift the chair. It topples over. How’s that for calm?

  Even with the flames crackling and burning me alive, I swear I can hear the psycho scribbling on his clipboard.

  At some point, I black out. It’s the fourth, maybe fifth time I’ve died in Room 731. This is the worst one, so far. But I know what’s to come.

  As I drift off into the dream darkness, I hear a voice. “Hallo, mein cow-boy.” I know with certainty this isn’t part of the dream. “It has taken me many years, 1-1-3-4,” the voice says, “but I am getting close. I am closer than you think.” In the darkness, eyes—blue-white and black—appear.

  I scream and this time I hear it.

  I awoke like it was another one of my resurrections, thinking I could feel my heart banging against my chest. I don’t even know if I have a heart anymore. I certainly don’t have a soul.

  I sat up in the cargo room, shaking.

  He was dead, wasn’t he? How could he be in Pandemonium? Lucifer, no! The voice echoed in my head. 1-1-3-4. 1-1-3-4. I reached for a hellfire stick but remembered the dream, saw him flicking that Lucky Strike at me. I pulled my hand back and ran it over my face. My ugly, hideous face.

  It had been a rough day. It was just a dream. I needed to get a grip.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  It wasn’t my heart. It came from above. Stupid Oswald was asleep, curled up against me and snoring like an asthmatic chicken. So much for the little sentinel.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I knocked on Oswald’s head.

  “Was that you?” I said.

  “Was what me?” Oswald said. I wondered if he dreamed, but the dope was probably too simple for that.

  “That banging.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be guarding us?”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like a pack of ogres doing the Charleston.

  “The leps found us,” Oswald whispered.

  “Those aren’t leps. Wait! Do you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear anything. What?”

  “See? Zombie hearing is superior. It’s music, dunzy.” I could see Oswald straining to hear, but he couldn’t. The twerp doesn’t even have ears. “Go up there and take a look around.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because, Oswald, you are as insignificant and indistinct as a blob of candle wax. No one will notice you.”

  “You’re afraid.”

  “Have I ever been afraid of anything?”

  “The ogre Madgogg, spiders, water, not having enough dust.”

  “You’re a broken record. Quit nagging already.”

  “No.”

  “I gave up eating people. Mostly. I can’t give up dust, too. It’s fine. It’s medicinal.”

  “The dust messes up your mind.”

  “Like when you took up residence in my skull?”

  “I apologized for that.”

  “I don’t feel like you were truly sorry.”

  “I’m sorry you’re stalling because you’re afraid of what’s above us.”

  “You are one step closer to being demoted. Watch it, marshmallow. What does a man who has overcome death itself have to fear, homunculus? I am a member of the soulless. I—”

  Now if Oswald were to tell it, he would say I shrieked like a pixie whose wings were being plucked off. But it wasn’t like that at all. I was merely trying to scare off the mouse that had leapt from the shadows to attack me. It must have been a vampire mouse. Its fangs were huge and sharp. Had it gotten up my pant leg, it could have done some real damage. Vermin and walking corpses don’t mix.

  My shriek worked. The mouse scampered off. Oswald tried his best to suppress a laugh. I would have thrown him overboard, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “On second thought,” I said, “I will go with you, since you’ll probably mess things up.”

  When we exited the cargo room, the music grew louder. “That’s not leprechaun music,” I said. It was more nautical and dark and—if possible—more drunken.

  The music wasn’t our only problem, though. The ship wasn’t as unseaworthy as I had thought. I looked out a grimy porthole and watched black water crash against the hull. We could have been halfway across the Broken Sea by now.

  “I don’t think this ship is as abandoned as you thought,” Oswald said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Obvious.”

  We crept through the ship. I kept my eyes on the ground, ready for another vampire mouse attack. No one seemed to be below deck. All the action was happening up top. I didn’t like it one bit.

  When we reached the ladder leading to the top deck, Oswald tried to go up first but I pushed him out of the way. I’d show him I wasn’t afraid. At the top of the ladder, I carefully opened the hatch and peeked out. Even with my zombie vision, I knew exactly who was manning this ship.

  Instruments blared and haunted voices sang under the red sky of Pandemonium.

  “Nice going, Oswald, you put us on a ghost pirate ship!”

  Dozens of spirits crowded the upper deck. They pulled on ropes, adjusted sails, and swabbed the deck, all while making merry. Some sat on the rail with jugs of rum, while others groggily swayed back and forth. Barrels thumped and rolled. Someone kept sounding a damn gong. Bong! Bong! Bong! It gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  The ship glided through the water as smoothly as a vampire’s fangs through a virgin’s neck.

  “What are we going to do?” Oswald said.

  I tapped my chest. �
��The Book of the Three Towers,” I said. But when I went to pull it out of my jacket pocket, it wasn’t there. “Fook! I forgot the grimoire back at the office.”

  “Great!”

  “No worries. I have that thing practically memorized.”

  “Practically?”

  I climbed onto the deck, stood, dusted off my clothes, and adjusted my fedora to a rakish angle. I cleared my considerably clotted throat and racked my brain for the grimoire’s section on ghost pirates, or was it pirate ghosts? I remembered a bit about water spirits and another about undead primates, but that probably wouldn’t help. It would come to me, though.

  “Infernal creatures of the night,” I began. “Spectators of the sea—I mean specters of the sea. Heed my words.” I held out my arms.

  The ghost party continued.

  Yo, ho, yo, ho!

  Yo, ho, yo, ho!

  Yo, ho, yo, ho!

  They sang louder. The barrels thumped harder.

  I moved to the center of the ship. “O spirits of the depths, I commend you—”

  “Don’t you mean command you?” Oswald said.

  “Right. I command you to, to—” To Oswald, I whispered, “What do I want to command them to do?”

  Oswald shrugged.

  A spirit with a large gold earring in his left ear swooped down from atop one of the sails and hovered above me. He had only one eye, which was swollen and red. Big chunks of his beard were missing and he seemed to have only one tooth to go with his one eye. He gave Oswald and me the once over. I could see the moon and black clouds right through him.

  “Are you the captain of this blasted ship?” I asked.

  The ghost didn’t answer but, after a moment, he whistled and the music died. The ship creaked and water crashed against the hull. A large spirit rose from the forecastle and floated toward me. The other ghosts moved out of his way as he approached.

  The specter, pale and tall, wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long black coat. A rusty cutlass hung at his side. Some may have called him a handsome fella, young and blue eyed, but that was the left side of his face. The right looked as if a rat had used it as a chew toy. Inflamed flesh drooped in ragged strips. His right ear was just a nub. A little creature sat on his shoulder. I didn’t know if it was a devil or a monkey. Its body was smooth and red as hellfire, and its face resembled that of a primate, except it had no skin. It wore no clothing other than a hat adorned with a skull and crossbones.