Chapter 3: Body Parts
Maria didn’t always fly to work; the weather didn’t usually permit it. Like most cities in the Pacific Northwest, Cade’s Bay was prone to nearly constant rain, and on those days she preferred to walk and get a little wet rather than fly and risk a midair collision. On this particular evening however, the night sky was clear and stars were visible through the hanging smog. The warm air swirled in little gusts of wind; a perfect night for flying to work, and Maria took every opportunity she could to make use of that particular talent.
Wingless flight wasn’t her only talent of course; she wouldn’t be in this line of work if it were her only talent. But it was certainly one of the most useful. That and the night vision, she considered as she stared down at the tiny streets below her, where Dusk folk were out and about picking up the evening paper, buying coffee and breakfast from corner cafes or desperately trying to flag down a taxi.
Maria gently glided between the gargantuan skyscrapers that made up the Dusk District, each building towering at over forty stories and made of shining reflective glass. The streets were not narrow, and as she headed North on Simpson Way she spotted other people commuting on her level of vision; a few college students who were late to night class, a Succubus patrolling an upper street corner and being propositioned by a nervous-looking gargoyle boy, his wings flapping awkwardly out of time with the strong, confident movement of the prostitute’s smooth, sleek, blood-red appendages.
After two miles of northern flight, Maria began to descend towards the street level, angling downwards so her long coat billowed out behind her. She landed genteelly, both feet firmly on the pavement, and straightened her collar, which had become mildly askew during her flight. She didn’t have to worry about her hair; it was scraped back in a tight bun, her preferred hairstyle when she was working.
Duskbrew Coffee was two blocks away from the office, and the perfect start to any evening. Maria pushed the glass door of the establishment open and stepped inside, a small buzzer going off as she did so. The young man behind the counter, a fellow with skin peeling off his face who smelled mildly of cheap cologne looked up and said in a raspy voice: “Do you have a permit for that axe ma’am?”
Maria took her wallet out of her back pocket and pulled out a card the size of a driver’s license. “Read it and weep, crusty.” She said, glowering at him.
The young man scowled and turned back to the cash register. As he did so, his nose suddenly dropped off of his face, falling into a fresh cup of coffee with a ‘plop’ and a splash. The customer who had just purchased the coffee looked up at the youth with an irritated sigh. “I don’t appreciate your body parts in my coffee young man! You need to be more careful about keeping yourself attached!”
“Sorry sir.” The young zombie rasped.
“I should think so.” The customer, an older gentleman wearing a grey suit and tie that matched the color of the long, wolfish tail that protruded from his backside, tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter. “Just get me a fresh cup, I’m in a hurry.”
“Don’t be too hard on him.” Maria smirked as she got into line behind the lupine customer. “We all start to fall apart on Mondays.”
The gentleman laughed and took his fresh cup from the barista. “Be more careful next time young man.” He said. “I have no desire to taste the interior of your nostrils in my morning latte.”
“Yes sir.” The boy rasped. “Sorry sir.”
The gentleman left and Maria fought back her urge to laugh as the zombie fished his nose gingerly out of the cup of hot coffee and began drying it on his red apron. When he finished, he put it in his pocket and turned back to Maria. She smelled the cologne again, and also smelled the stench of rotting flesh the cologne was trying desperately to mask: “Welcome to Duskbrew Coffee.” He croaked monotonously. “May I recommend our Sumatran Blend and our tasty new line of frozen-”
“Just get me a latte, Mister falling-to-pieces.” Maria snapped. “Triple strength, skim milk.”
The zombie rang up the coffee on the register, but as he hit the enter key his finger cracked, broke off and ricocheted off of the glass display case and into the sink. Maria snorted bemusedly.
There was a cry of outrage from the door behind the counter. The manager had seen the zombie’s flying finger. “Harold!” he yelled, storming out of the office and glaring down at his young employee. “How many times do I have to tell you? You have to keep track of your body-parts if you want to work in food-service!”
“Sorry Mister Holms.” The zombie, Harold, rasped apologetically.
“And you lost your nose too!” the man shook his head and held out his hand. Harold took his nose out of his pocket and dropped into his employer’s open palm. Mister Holms glared down at the zombie and waved his free hand in front of his employee’s face. When he next spoke his voice was deeper, and Maria recognized the underlying layer of a command spell in his words: “Go into the back room and sew yourself up, and don’t come back out here until your body parts are secure.”
The zombie stiffened, his body being overtaken by the magic. He groaned slightly and shambled towards the back room, holding his severed nose and finger in his peeling hand.
Mister Holms turned back to Maria and smiled. “What was that you wanted ma’am; a latte?” Maria nodded. “I’ll get right on that.”
As he reached over to grab a paper cup, Maria leaned over the counter and peered through the door in the back, where Harold the zombie was sitting on a rickety chair, staring into a mirror and sewing his own nose back on. “That’s a nice bit of necromancy there, if you don’t mind me saying.” She said.
Mister Holms twitched a bit and almost glared at her, but composed himself and said: “Now, we don’t go calling it that in this establishment ma’am.” He said, his voice shaking slitghtly. “Our customers don’t always take kindly to the n-word, particularly the ghasts.”
“I understand,” Maria nodded. “I meant no offense sir.”
“Course you didn’t,” he nodded back. “It’s not like its any major spell I’m using, just a little witchcraft that allows me to employ the undead. They’re excellent workers, you know, when their limbs aren’t falling off.” He chuckled. “But we refrain from using the n-word in here since our undead customers don’t like the idea of me being able to control them.”
“Don’t worry, I was just curious.” Maria said. “Besides,” she nodded at a sign on the wall. “You have a permit for employing undead.”
The man sighed, waved a hand, and Maria’s coffee floated towards her. She grabbed it out of the air as politely as she could, then handed the man a five dollar bill. As he made change he shook his head and looked at the axe strapped to Maria’s back. “I suppose you have a permit for that fine piece of weaponry?” he asked, handing her a dollar and some loose coins.
Maria pocketed the change. “I don’t know if there’s anything I do that I don’t have a permit for.” She rolled her eyes.
He laughed. “That’s the price you pay for wanting to make something of yourself in this town.” He shrugged. “If I want to practice necromancy, I have to do the paperwork, pay the fees and take the tests before I can get a decent education, and that’s not to mention all the URA activists who do nothing but harass me and tell me my line of work is unethical.”
Maria rolled her eyes again. The URA, or Undead Rights Association, was one of the biggest activist groups on the West Coast. Even after the Freiburg Act was passed in 1985, zombies, ghouls, ghasts and other various forms of undead did nothing but seek to gain equal rights through protests and sit-ins at various colleges of magic and necromancy.
“I just want to make a living, same as everyone else.” The man grumbled as Maria put her wallet away. “Doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, and it’s not like every zombie I employ doesn’t sign the waiver. It’s all perfectly legal…”
Maria felt her pocket beep and vibrate, and she reached down to pull out her phone as the man trailed off, mumbling incoherently to himself. She rolled her eyes as she looked at the screen and answered the call as she left the coffee shop. It was Helen, telling her that Mister Scott was in need of her assistance at the office.
All material is copyright © Lora Hibbard 2008.
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