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No. I told you, everything’s fine. Monday’s better for me. I’m on my way to the—
The stress in his voice ratcheted up.
Okay. Okay. Sorry.
Pause.
No! Not your house. How about a restaurant instead. Crawfish Joe’s. It’ll be good. And if we go at five, we’ll beat the festival crowds.
That sure was a hard sales pitch for the restaurant instead of whoever’s house. Public rather than private?
Yes. I’ll be there.
Pause.
I said I will, so I will. I have to go.
The phone beeped as he ended the call.
Fuck. Fuck!
I barely got the brain chips back into my pocket before he swept in, his face set in his arrogant Nick the Prick sneer.
“Change of plans.” He slammed the makeup box closed and snatched it off my lap. “Something came up. You go. Your name’s on the pass, so it’s useless to anyone else.” For all his bluster, his voice shook.
I grabbed at his arm. “Nick, what happened? Is there anything I can do to help?”
He wrenched away from me. “Yeah. Mind your own goddamn business.” He threw a laminated Zombie Fest pass on the desk then stomped out.
Holy shit. Damn good thing I’d eavesdropped, otherwise I’d be chasing him down to tell him exactly how to shove his makeup kit up his ass. Sideways. Instead, I was worried. It sure didn’t sound like he wanted to meet with the jerkwad caller. Plus, if they were supposed to meet at five, we’d still have several hours to go to the festival. But he was upset enough to bow out altogether. Was he in some kind of trouble?
I needed more info, and I knew one possible way to get it. Crawfish Joe’s Cajun Cabin made a great catfish po-boy, and a girl had to eat. Who knows, maybe I’d feed myself there around five p.m.
First, though, I had business at the Zombie Fest. Why had Grayson Seeger wanted to meet with Andrew? Did it tie in to why Seeger had been so worked up? And did the Three Dumbass Stooges have anything to do with Seeger’s murder? With luck, a little quality Angel-spying would put those questions to rest for good.
I had a VIP pass, and I wasn’t afraid to use it.
Chapter 13
Though Tucker Point was the primary hotbed of Zombie Fest hoopla, the site of the Fifth Annual Deep South Zombie Fest was about fifteen minutes east of the city on sixty acres of former farmland owned by Ms. Charlotte Glaspy. Her father had bought it almost twenty years ago with the intention of building an outlet mall, but had been nice enough to choke to death on a strawberry before cutting down a single tree. Ms. Charlotte, his only heir, apparently decided that an inheritance of several million dollars was plenty and saw no need to add to it by messing up a really nice chunk of land. With plenty of open pasture and wooded areas, the Glaspy property soon became a popular spot for a variety of outdoor concerts and festivals.
And, to my shame, I’d never once been out there despite living in the area my entire life. Fortunately, a multitude of signs between the highway and the festival grounds made it easy to figure out where to go. Dozens of people in zombie makeup and reflective vests directed cars down back roads, toward broad fields, and into neat rows. Once parked, I joined the line to get in and grinned up at the awesome entrance gate—a barrier ten feet high and fifty feet long that resembled a pile of hundreds of rotting zombies. Animatronic heads moved, and arms reached out toward the arriving crowd. At the very top, actors in zombie getup crawled and moaned and made grabs at people. A ragged tunnel cut right through the middle of the pile and led to the Fest itself.
When I managed to drag my ooo-ahh gaze from the gate, I did a double-take at a woman in line who looked as if her face was falling off. She wasn’t the only one with a kickass makeup job. A teen girl had gore dripping down her throat and wiggly intestines poking out of her stomach. A man with salt-and-pepper hair gestured with a skeletal hand that still had bits of flesh clinging to it. It took me several confused seconds to realize he was an amputee wearing the bone-and-gore hand in place of a prosthetic.
Fortunately, I was hungry enough to verify that all these people in amazing makeup really were humans with nice juicy human brains. If not for that handy little superpower, I’d have been hard pressed to tell they weren’t rotting. It was too bad Nick hadn’t been able to finish my makeup before getting that phone call. And what the hell was that about anyway? I intended to damn well figure out what happened.
At the gate, a round-faced man in a black DSZF T-shirt smiled as he took people’s tickets but, when I handed over my VIP pass, his face positively lit up.
“Welcome to the Zombie Fest-er, Miss Crawford!” He pulled a blue and green lanyard out of a box, looped it through the hole in the top of the pass then slipped it over my head with a flourish. “This pass gets you into the VIP Graveyard!” He gestured with excitement toward an enormous white tent off to the right beyond the gate. “VIP members only! Plenty of free food and drink as well as trained experts who’ll help with makeup and costumes. Plus, you get to have your picture taken with Justine Chu.” He quivered in glee. “Oh, and don’t forget the sneak preview of the ‘documentary’”—he even made air quotes—“Zombies Are Among Us!! You can see the trailer in the Graveyard today at two and four, and there’ll be a special screening of the whole thing tomorrow.”
With that, my VIP pass and I made our way through the gate. It looked as if half of Tucker Point was already inside with the other half waiting to get in, and twice as many out-of-towners. Less than a third or so were in costume or makeup, but everyone seemed to be in the spirit of things.
To my left stood dozens of booths selling merchandise or food, with a large Bear’s Den booth dominating the pack. Several delightfully cheesy carnival rides occupied the center of the main Fest area, and a large and deliberately crude sign pointed beyond the rides to “Hunting Grounds.” And that barely scratched the surface of the spectacle. It was as if the Fest and studio people had started with one of those great big church fairs with all the rides and crafts and game booths, added a dash of Louisiana Crawfish festival with beer trucks and every kind of amazing food, then piled on zombies, paintball, and Hollywood. It was insane and utterly awesome.
I checked at an information booth for the times of the afternoon hunts and learned that prep didn’t start for another hour and a half. Good. That meant I had time to track down Andrew Saber before I went searching for Randy, Judd, and Coy. And I knew right where to start.
Like a fancy white circus tent with six peaks, the VIP Graveyard sprawled over enough real estate to house a jumbo jet. Framing the entrance were two humongous statues locked in mortal combat: one a fierce huntress with a machete and the other a rotting high school football player.
