Free Blood Soaked and Contagious by James Crawford Page B

into his face. I didn’t want the psychological advantage to slip once we’d determined that I had it.
    “Fuck no. Nobody’s a super hero. No funky powers or shit like that.”
    “How many team leaders are there?” You always ask questions more than once. Remember that.
    “I told you, there are nine. They’ve all got stupid-ass names like Team Fruit Fly and Team Crunchy Baguette.”
    “I guess this means that our boy Warren has a really odd sense of humor?”
    “Hell yeah!” He seemed to forget that I was torturing him for a minute there, and I didn’t mind. “He’s had these strange parties where the team leads dress up in costumes they snagged from some kinky store somewhere and dance around. I’ve even heard he’s got some kind of dominatrix or something up in his office.”
    “Dude, that’s some sick shit!” I figured I’d keep him going a little bit. Besides, if you’re the living dead and you’re screwing your “food,” you can’t get much kinkier than that. Dominatrixes are small fry when compared to shagging, killing, and then eating people.
    “The team leads always talk about her in really quiet voices. Like they’re in awe of that shit.”
    “Damn. Where’s the office? I got to see that shit for myself.”
    “Same building the parking garage is in. You know the one, there’s a New York-style deli out front.”
    I nodded, still in his face, still smiling. “Jerry?”
    “Yeah, man?”
    “You weren’t supposed to mention the location or the dominatrix, were you?”
    “Oh, no.” He was almost adorable in a zombie sort of way when he realized he’d given away more than he should have. His responses had been changing throughout the interrogation, and I didn’t think it had everything to do with being invited to answer questions. The viral decay, which he’d mentioned earlier, was probably beginning to impair his cognitive functions.
    “You were telling me about the interesting weapons cache you guys have, before you got on about the S&M. Remember?”
    “Right! Yeah. We’ve got some shoulder-mounted rocket launchers, a few mortar launchers and this thing in a box that no one gets to touch.” He was nodding while he listed those things, and just kept going. “Lots of machine guns and ammo. Um. Handguns. Three cases of fragmentation grenades and a whole shitload of flash bangs. Ninjas! Dude, did I tell you we’ve got some ninjas?”
    Note to self: cognitive zombie impairment starts out with acting like you’re stoned. I was betting if I didn’t wrap it up soon, I’d find him entering the belligerent phase of My Brain is Melting.
    “Jerry,” I said and then got out of his face, “I just want to tell you you’ve done a great job and I’m really happy we got to work together on this.”
    “Dude! Me too! Me too! You’re really good at this shit!”
    “Hey. You’re too kind. I’m going to take this skewer out of your knee, and I want you to stay chill because it’s not going to feel very good at all. Okay?”
    “Sure! I’m a man. I can take it.” He was nodding vigorously and it looked more like headbanging from where I was crouched.
    “Count to three for me, and I’ll pull it out on three. That work all right for you?”
    “Yeah! Let’s go! One.”
    I put my finger through the loop of the skewer and got a decent hold on it. He was looking far too eager to be sane.
    “Two!”
    Headbanging ratcheted up a notch or two. Interesting. I got ready to pull.
    “THREEEEEE!”
    I whipped it out. He convulsed, screaming, and tore his right arm loose. Before I knew it, his clawed fingernails had bitten into my left forearm. He had a death grip on me and was not about to let go.
    I let out a yell of my own. Don’t blame me. It hurt like Hell.
    Jerry, on the other hand, was banging his head against the beach chair and denting the frame. That didn’t bother me as much as the insane little laugh wheezing out of his mouth while he slammed his head back and forth.
    “Got you