Sins of the Undead Patriot. a.c. Mason

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      A prickly sensation creeped up Vaihan’s neck. A light shone from the crack at the bottom of his office door, which his assistant Stacy would have turned off. The man was invaluable, had a head for all the little details. Besides security detail, no one else should be in the west wing of the White House at ten PM. The soles of his Italian shoes pounded the marble floor, bouncing off the bare walls, as he ran.

      The scent of cheap aftershave and velvet reeked of Barton.

      Vaihan turned the handle and opened the door.

      A large-rimmed orange hat covered Barton’s bald head. His loud matching sport jacket brought his outfit to the pinnacle of offensive.

      “Why are you at the office?” Barton said. “Shouldn’t you be out with Miss Hot Thing?”

      The thought of Barton even thinking of Leera in such away had his fist clenching. “I told you, I’d follow up when I had something.”

      “From my vantage point, you’ve lost your touch.” He tilted his head.

      The man might be thirteen or thirty–same difference. What did he know of trust or women? “I’m building trust so she brings me around her family. That’s how it works. Women don’t bring just any man to family functions. Hence, why you’ve never been invited to one.”

      “I’ve been to plenty.”

      He didn’t need to explain to him. “If you say so.”

      “I’m keeping an eye on you, Mr. Louchian.”

      Both eyes would be more practical, but he wouldn’t judge. Hopefully Barton hadn’t a clue that Vaihan was more likely to believe in flying pigs than a word coming out of his mouth. Something just didn’t feel right about his assignment with the widow, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “You have your methods and I have mine.” After all, he did work for the government, and knew what the public was told and what really went on were continents apart.

      “It would seem.” Barton placed an elbow on his knee and rested his face in his hand. “Know a zombie by the name of Delmar?”

      “Small-time chop shop motor-head? Just over the Maryland border in Randolph Village.”

      “One and the same.”

      What was the game tonight? “Is there a point?”

      “Rumor is, he’s running a sex den with underage girls for the Mob in the warehouse next to his garage.”

      He couldn’t accuse the Mob of not being adaptive. Scum. If it wasn’t the fucking feds, it was his own kind. The one thing above all others Vaihan couldn’t stomach was messing with women or children. “Thanks. Anything else I can do for God and country?”

      Barton got up. “Are you offering?”

      “Never mind.” Prick. “We don’t have the same sense of humor.”

      “Next time we meet, you’d better be the favorite guest at the Waltz family gatherings.”

      Sure thing, he’d get right on that after he cleaned up the Delmar mess.

      * * * *

      Black spray-painted windows were never a good sign. Vaihan had sat outside the chop shop for three minutes, when the first greaseball knocked at the rear door wiping his clammy palms on his trousers. Since then, two more had entered. So, either something fishy was going on or they were about to start a Perverts Anonymous meeting. He texted Errol and Dominique to pick up the girls then put his BlackBerry back in the holster.

      If only he could bust a cap in their twisted heads. Too bad he couldn’t mess with the living ones. Some of them gave bad zombies a run for their money. He popped the trunk, tucked the dart gun in his belt and lifted out his sword then shoved extra-large garbage bags in the inside pocket of his jacket.

      When an undead vanished, no one thought much of it. Most thought they went underground again. All zombies were tagged. It was how the government found out what he did with the ones that weren’t holding up their end of the deal. And the feds had decided to give him better means of disposing of them. Which he had to do at their beck and call.

      He leaned up against the wall next to the door, out of the peephole’s sight, then knocked.

      “Code?” the male on the other side inquired.

      Were these guys for real? A code. What the hell was this? A clubhouse? He banged on the door harder.

      “If you fucking little spicks are messing around out there, I’m going to bust you up,” the male shouted, and the end of a gun emerged from a widening crack. A round belly wrapped in a greasy wife-beater popped out.

      Vaihan withdrew the dart gun and pulled the trigger.

      With wide eyes, mouth gaping open, the fat prick keeled over into la-la land.

      As Vaihan reached the bottom of the stairs, the scent of young female flesh, sex and dirty old men mixed. At times like this, he wished his sense of smell wasn’t so acute. Doors lined each side of the hallway, eight in total. At the end, a large room with a sofa and TV. A zombie rose at the sight of him. Delmar.

      “The police are on their way!” Vaihan shouted to the patrons grunting and groaning. “If I were you, I’d get out of here as fast as humanly possible.”

      A man appeared from the far door, shoving his hard penis back in his pants, and shuffled past him. His escape was followed by three more.

      “Traitor.” Delmar sneered at him.

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