A Birder's Guide to Murder by J.R. Ripley

Author:J.R. Ripley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-07-19T21:51:53+00:00

14

Suze and a gathering of buzzing zombies loitered behind the curtain at the back of the stage near the exit door.

“Have you seen Peter?” I laid a hand on Suze’s clammy arm.

She looked disturbed. And disturbing. But I figured that was normal. What zombie doesn’t?

She pulled away. “Leave him alone. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

“Wait. What trouble?”

But Suze no-last-name was gone.

I pushed through the tight-packed crowd, feeling squeamish. It was unnerving to be jostled by a pack of swarming zombies. I felt like I’d unwittingly stepped onto the set of a George Romero movie or, worse yet, into a very real zombie apocalypse.

I only hoped that these zombies had had their fill of human brains for the day because I wasn’t in a mood to share mine.

A young man grabbed my wrist in a not unfriendly fashion. “Nice outfit, lady.” His smile, meant no doubt to be suave and come hither, was spoiled by the dark brown caps over his teeth. “Who are you supposed to be?”

At least I hoped those were caps.

I blurted out the first thing I could think of, the name of a character from Z: A Zombie Musical, an obscure musical film from the early 2000s about a zombie pug who zombifies a trio of skinny-dipping nuns.

“Cool.” My suitor nodded appreciatively. He wasn’t bad looking actually. Under all that makeup, I imagined an olive-skinned Greek god with longish black hair and smoldering eyes, and a body that spent more time working in the gym than it did at a day job. “I’m Stalker. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sorry, Stalker.” I smiled. Stalker? I could only hope that wasn’t the name on his birth certificate.

And I really hoped he hadn’t gotten the moniker due to a predilection for following single women like me around. “One pint of blood a day is my limit.” I tugged and he readily released his grip on my wrist. “Actually, maybe you can help me.”

“Yeah? Happy to.”

“I’m looking for Peter. Peter Porter.”

“Oh.” He appeared about as crestfallen as a zombie possibly could. That’s a hard look to pull off when you are already looking like death warmed over.

“Have you seen him?”

After a moment’s hesitation, my Adonis in zombie clothing reluctantly answered. “Yeah. I saw him go outside.” He jerked his thumb over his right shoulder indicating the exit door. “Probably getting stoned or getting smashed.” He chuckled. “Maybe both.”

I rolled my eyes. It was going to be hard getting answers out of Porter if he was stoned out of his mind and drunk to boot, let alone meaningful answers.

“Thanks.” I turned to go.

“I’ll come with you.” Making himself useful, he carved a path through his zombie cohorts and threw open the exit door.

Peter Porter sat on the ground, his back against the wall. His feet were tucked under one of the big garbage bins lining the rear.

Near at hand, a dented beer can lay on its side in a puddle of suds.

“Hey, Porter. Wake up. You’ve got company.” Stalker gave him a toe kick.

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