Chapter Text
“Your call.” The man in the white suit and the obnoxious hat beamed at him from across the desk, chomping on his gum like a cow chewing its cud. “I mean, if it were me, I wouldn't wanna be the guy who has to, say, convince the military of the specifics of your 'pest problem' in order to have them tackle it. But you're the expert on the politics here, ya know? I'm just offering the options I am qualified to offer. Hate to see a country succumb to this kinda pest problem. It's like termites. If you don't catch it early…” The man shrugged.
…
It was a beautiful, clear day in San Lorenzo when the dead began to walk.
No one knew the first, a man stumbling up from the waterfront, soaked through and oozing blood—too slowly—from what looked like bullet holes. He reached out to the people who approached, trying to speak to them. Slurring words that were almost, but not quite, intelligible.
They sent him to the hospital, of course. The responding paramedics kindly ushered the confused man into the ambulance, and off they went, leaving behind concerned citizens shaking their heads and hoping he wasn't as badly off as he looked.
Later that day, one of the paramedics tugged his sleeve further down, looking embarrassed, when asked about the purpling semicircles of bruising and lacerations on his forearm. "Patient caught me by surprise," he admitted. "Knew he was erratic. Didn't realize how much." The paramedic called in sick the next day.
The man from the water was foreign. He had no wallet or ID, but a crumpled, sodden boarding pass buried deep in one pocket provided most of a name and an arrival time: 2 days before, from Washington, D.C., USA. His other pockets yielded a few Canadian coins and a small notebook and pen.
The notebook was soggy and the ink was blurred, but some legible text remained. A sizeable section was devoted to a list of dogs: physical descriptions, estimated ages, the presence or absence (mostly presence) of injuries and scars. Several locations were mentioned among more cryptic notes. One, underlined, simply said “Presidential Palace.” On the last page was a person's name, circled.
The name belonged to a local veterinarian. The police visited her clinic, hoping she could shed some light on the situation. She was unavailable, the receptionist explained, because she was on a house call to the Presidential Palace.
When the vet returned, transporting two dogs in covered kennels, she frowned and shook her head at the photo the police presented. She had never seen the stranger and had no idea why a dying (or dead? The doctors' description of his condition had been… muddled) foreigner would have her name written down.
Things were busy in San Lorenzo. A presidential election was a mere week away; U.N. election inspectors were there to supervise; enemies of the state were recently arrested… One dead Canadian of no known importance, fallen victim to foul play, was not a major priority.
In another place, a sitting president being connected, however tenuously, to a mysterious stranger dying of gunshot wounds a scant week before an election would have blown up in the media and made political waves. Not here. President Ribera—or his allies—owned the police and the local press, and the news breaking wouldn't have changed anything. Ribera was going to be re-elected, and everyone knew it.
The “investigation,” such as it was, might have ended right there, had the dead man not vanished from the hospital morgue.
No one knew who had leaked that to the press, but everyone at the hospital was on edge. Three nurses who been in contact with the dead stranger and the mortician called in sick.
An unusually large number of the staff at the Presidential Palace had called out sick as well, resulting in some delay before Ribera was informed of a visitor arriving. One of his informants in the police force had come, bearing rumors stacked upon rumors.
A missing corpse. Strange noises reported by the hospital's night staff. A bloodied dog wandering near the waterfront in the same area where the mysterious man had first appeared. A rash of dog bites being treated at local urgent-care clinics. An online post by someone claiming to work at a clinic alleging that not all of the “dog bites” looked like they were inflicted by an actual dog. The veterinarian's office was shuttered, with no explanation except a “closed” sign on the door.
Then came the local news report of disturbed soil in the cemetery.
Ribera was watching the footage when Damien Moreau strolled into his office, saying something about banking laws. Something about the cemetery nagged at Ribera's memory. There was nothing obviously noteworthy about it. It wasn't the grandest or the oldest or the one where the most celebrated historic figures (such as there were from his tiny country) were buried. None of Ribera's relatives were buried there, as far as he knew.
So why did this shot look so naggingly familiar?
Moreau was annoyed. Ribera only half-heard the jab about him not being the first president Moreau had “bought,” and he forgot most of what he did hear as the pieces suddenly slotted into place.
He had seen that gravesite before, shown on television while he sat in this very office. It was the grave of one of his political rivals, a woman who had an unfortunate “automobile accident” not too long after her political defeat.
“Have you seen this?” said Ribera, interrupting Moreau's scolding.
Moreau paused, taking in the news footage. “Cemetery vandals? This is what you're concerned about?”
Ribera shook his head forcefully, as if trying to dislodge the suspicion clawing its way up his spine. “It's not just the cemetery. Rumors have been coming in all day.” He hesitated. If Moreau decided he was becoming irrational, he might no longer find him useful. Still… “A corpse disappeared from the hospital morgue yesterday.”
Moreau's head tilted slightly, and he broke into a chuckle. “…They reported a misplaced cadaver to the president ? Who was he?”
“That's the thing.” Ribera's gaze drifted past the TV, which was still cutting back and forth between the anchors and on-site footage. “No one knows. He's not from San Lorenzo, and he was apparently incoherent by the time he was found. No ID, just a boarding pass from America and handwritten notes about… dogs, mostly. The doctors said he'd been shot repeatedly, but also looked like he'd been attacked by an animal afterwards.”
“I still don't see how this is a presidential matter.”
Ribera muted the TV and turned, with a curse, to pace. “His notes mentioned the Presidential Palace, and since he arrived it seems that the capital is going mad. Hospital staff have been calling out in droves. So are my staff! Everyone is 'ill' all of a sudden. Two of the guard dogs from my estate were picked up by the vet yesterday, and there are aggressive strays being reported all over. The police are speculating about bioweapons.” He was silent for a long moment, then gestured towards the TV. “That's where Noguera is buried, you know.”
“Who?”
“Teresa Noguera. The woman who opposed me in the first election.”
“Oh, her.” Moreau scoffed. “You don't seriously think someone is trying to oust you by exhuming Noguera's body and poisoning dogs, do you?”
Moreau's words were sarcastic, but his tone lacked the full bite of his true mockery. When Ribera glanced towards him, there was a faint furrow in his brow.
Ribera realized he'd been hoping for Moreau to dismiss his concerns as categorically absurd.
Silence fell as they watched the news story play out.
…
Ribera sat in his office the next day, staring blankly at the opposite wall over his third cup of coffee.
The night had been stressful.
Guard dogs erupted in barking multiple times throughout the night, despite no apparent threats being detected. The security system had been tripped once by seemingly nothing. Ribera could have sworn he heard something scraping against the wall below his window in the early-morning hours, accompanied by a low sound like unintelligible human speech. (In the dark of 2 am, it sounded like the voice of Teresa Noguera, echoes of one of her stirring political speeches twisted and slurred into meaningless groans.)
In the light of morning, he had nearly chalked it up to a combination of nerves, superstition, and perhaps an aspiring intruder who was slow to realize they were outclassed by his security. But then, as security did an extra-thorough morning sweep, one of the dogs alerted on something. A political campaign button, one of his own, but old—from a campaign years ago (from the campaign against Noguera, his brain supplied helpfully)—and half-covered in mud and smears of undefined filth, tangled in the grass directly beneath Ribera's bedroom window.
Security had now been doubled, of course, both here and at the Palace, but someone (or something) getting that far onto the estate without being detected was deeply disturbing.
Ribera's extra-zealous security almost made the mistake of trying to stop Damien Moreau to ask his business with the president. He looked up, wondering where to even start describing the events of the previous night. He never got a chance.
“The corpse that disappeared from the morgue,” barked Moreau without preamble. “Do you have a photo?” Moreau looked put together, as always, but the line of his jaw radiated a tension that Ribera could not recall seeing before.
“Uh.” Ribera's exhausted brain struggled to catch up. “I… Yes. The police showed me a photo to see if I recognized him. Where would it—? Security will have it.”
As he paged Lucas, he could see Moreau compose himself out of the corner of his eye. His expression smoothed into something closer to his normal unflappable amusement, and he adjusted his jacket sleeve to correct some minute, invisible unevenness. He poured himself a drink from Ribera's bar.
“What did he look like?” asked Moreau, pleasantly, as they waited for Lucas to return with the file.
Ribera blinked. “…The dead man?”
“Yes. You said you saw the photo already.”
Ribera grimaced. “He looked dead. I don't know. White male? Young-ish? Brown hair, long.” He gestured vaguely to about his shoulder height. Moreau did not look pleased, but Ribera wasn't sure if it was at the corpse's appearance or his inadequate description.
“Someone tried to get into my estate last night,” said Ribera, into the ensuing silence. “Dogs kept going crazy, and… the guards found something dropped on the grounds this morning. Looks like they were chased away before they could do any damage.” He hesitated. Telling Moreau what to do was, historically, risky. “You may want to ensure your own security is on alert, just in case, especially with us meeting like this.”
Moreau smiled grimly. “Yes. Someone was at my villa as well.”
Ribera's eyes widened, but Lucas arrived with the requested file before he could ask more.
Moreau flipped the file open, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly as he took in the 8”x10” photo of a pale face and shoulders on a stainless steel table. Silently, he moved the photo aside to look at the description of the injuries.
The cause of death was listed as uncertain, to Ribera's recollection, despite the long and carefully catalogued list of injuries: bullet wounds, lacerations, and an apparent animal bite.
“Do you recognize him?” said Ribera hesitantly.
For a moment, he didn't think he would get an answer.
“Yes,” said Moreau. “He is one of the most dangerous men in the world.”
“Oh,” Ribera licked his lips. He gestured at the folder. “Well, was, I suppose, so at least we're only dealing with whoever he was working with?”
Moreau was silent for a long moment. “He appeared on my security cameras last night.”
Ice poured down Ribera's spine. “Oh.”
…
The week only got worse from there. Each night, the noise and the security alerts escalated, but no perpetrators were caught. Each day, he awoke to more damage to his estate from whoever or whatever was trying to gain access, more reports of spreading illness among the populace, an exponentially increasing number of police reports and rumors about suspicious figures, attacks, and suspected rabid dogs. On day three, a guard had vanished without a trace during the night. Another had vanished yesterday. This time there was a long drag mark and splashes of dark liquid near the guard's last known location.
Moreau was in Ribera's office every day, his temper flaring and his unflappable facade slipping more and more with every day that passed. His villa was enduring nightly assaults as well.
Ribera wanted to ask about the voices. To ask who Moreau heard in the night from the mysterious hordes that clawed at woodwork and left dragging footprints churning the ground into mud. But Moreau didn't mention any voices in the night, or anything other than physical evidence left behind. He did not so much as allude to the idea that had been swirling in Ribera's mind for days, so neither did Ribera.
But he knew who he was hearing. Noguera. Monti. Vidal. Voices he had heard many times, as they spoke out against him, or made speeches calling for change, or shouted at him in a fury. Voices he had silenced.
There were still no intelligible words, just the familiar voices, all the more unmistakeable when heard together rather than individually.
He'd heard a new one yesterday. It sounded like Flores.
Ribera's personal assistant beat a hasty retreat down the hallway with Ribera's shouts still ringing in the air. Ribera shook himself, trying to remember, under jangling nerves and a pounding, life-sucking headache, what the man had even asked him about.
The election.
Of course, the election. Ribera was supposed to be busy this week. He was supposed to be wrapping up his “campaign” to make the inevitable result of the election more palatable and more legitimate-looking to international eyes. He'd done almost none of it. He was supposed to prepare for the debate tonight, against… he wasn't even sure who else was supposed to be running, with Flores imprisoned. He'd even snarled at a U.N. inspector the day before.
What did the “legitimacy” of his election matter if the country—or just Ribera—was about to be consumed by zombies? Yes, there, he'd said it, if only in the privacy of his own mind. It was ludicrous, and yet there was no other explanation for everything.
Moreau knew something. He wasn't saying it, but he knew something about what was going on. He knew the dead man who had started it all. He knew he was “dangerous.”
…
A man in a white suit sat in the chair in front of Ribera's desk. He smiled crassly and chewed gum with his mouth open as he looked around. His voice grated on the ear. He was a grotesque mirror to Moreau, but he came offering answers.
“Look, I don't like to tell people how to do business, ya know? But Moreau, he's got his fingers in some very nasty pies. Like Sweeney Todd-style pies, if you know what I mean?”
The man paused. Apparently this discussion was not going to continue unless he knew whether Ribera “knew what he meant.” Ribera forced a grimacing smile and nodded.
“Like human entrails pies, ya know?”
“Yes, I am familiar with the concept of Sweeney Todd, thank you.”
“Mmm. OK. Well, Moreau has made a lot of enemies and he has gotten into some very ugly stuff. Now, I don't know how closely you follow how he, uh, 'conducts business' here in San Lorenzo, but I hope I am not the first to tell you that you had a corpse pull a runner earlier this week. Yeah?”
Ribera made a non-committal noise. The man in white was apparently satisfied by that response. He pulled out a manila envelope and withdrew a photo. Ribera leaned forward involuntarily. It was the dead man. Alive and uninjured.
“So, this feller right here. I think you probably recognize him, huh? Lookin' a little healthier than you've seen him, I bet. Well, ya see, Moreau'd recognize him, too. He contracted with this guy's organization for years. Assassinations, coups, that kinda thing. Who knows? Might have even helped your career, and ya didn't even know it!”
Ribera weakly felt like he should make at least a token protest about the legitimacy of his position, but he wasn't sure he could formulate a coherent statement if he tried. Ribera's phone buzzed on the desk. He checked it reflexively, hoping for an update from the guards he'd sent to the Tombs. It was a reminder from his assistant about debate prep.
“Now, it turns out,” said the man in white, “that coups and assassinations, not to mention keeping your assassins in one piece so they can't be identified and traced back, all becomes a little easier if you take some, ehhhhh, call 'em 'shortcuts.' Some little tricks that are just a little outside the natural order.” He watched Ribera's expression. “Like, for instance, if the dead don't exactly… stay that way.”
Even reeling and fatigued, Ribera knew better than to be the first one to suggest zombies. Distantly he heard the guards outside the door talking.
“If you are just here to waste my time with fairy tales, then—”
“Keep your shirt on, Mr. President. I'm not hear to waste anyone's time. I'm here with a business proposition.”
Ribera hesitated, but gestured for him to proceed.
“Look, Moreau's operation has been a thorn in my side for years. But he's invested in some real bad mojo, ya know, and I am not stupid enough to think I can dabble in that wading pool without getting pulled in and drowned, ya know?”
Ribera wasn't sure anymore whether or not he knew.
“I expected this to blow up in his face years ago. That's what happens to most people who go down this path. I gotta hand it to Moreau. He's managed to stay ahead of this for a long time, and that takes guts and planning. But lookin' around your little country here, I'd say the piper's comin' round with an invoice, ya know what I mean? Moreau's kept his little house o' cards standing for years. Borrow from Peter to pay Paul, but when warrants for your arrest start popping up all around the globe, Peter's gonna re-assess your credit risk, ya know?”
Ribera nodded uncertainly. Raised voices outside caught his attention. Probably one of those U.N. inspectors coming back at the worst time.
“And here's where it becomes your problem. Moreau apparently saw the writing on the wall, since he came running on home to lovely San Lorenzo. Unfortunately for him, the, uh, 'forces of darkness' or whatever you wanna call 'em, don't have a lotta respect for national boundaries. Judgin' by the bullet holes, looks like Moreau decided to shoot his business contact here…” He gestured vaguely to the photo of the dead man. “…instead of settlin' up like a gentleman, leading to your current, uh, 'pest problem.' And since your mutual arrangement ties your current political position into Moreau's web of debts,” he spread his hands, “you are, unfortunately, also subject to… let's say 'repossession.'”
Ribera stared at him blankly.
“Now,” the man in white leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I'm not here just ta tell ya how screwed you are, although I can tell ya, you're pretty screwed. Point is, I have some experience in this area, and I have a vested interest in Moreau's misfortune. But not yours. So, I think we have a mutual interest.”
Ribera frowned. “I don't—” There was a clatter in the hallway.
“Ya see, easiest way to make your little problem go away is for Moreau's, shall we say, 'creditors' to be satisfied and for you to no longer be considered a… co-signer, as it were. Now, I have taken the liberty of drafting two documents. Number 1 is a warrant for Moreau's arrest. You sign that and send the police to execute it, and I will be happy to tie up the loose ends making sure his 'creditors' get what they're owed, which serves both of our interests here. Number 2 is your statement that you're withdrawing from the election and stepping down as president.”
Ribera bristled. “That is absurd. You want me to betray my biggest supporter and give up my position on your word that it'll magically fix everything?” The guard's conversation in the hallway escalated to shouts. Ribera turned involuntarily to look at the door, feeling his heart starting to hammer. There was a heavy thud. Ribera's phone buzzed again.
“Your call.” The man leaned lazily back in his chair and beamed at him, chomping his gum. “I mean, if it were me, I wouldn't wanna be the guy who has to, say, convince the military of the specifics of your 'pest problem' in order to have them tackle it. But you're the expert on the politics here, ya know? I'm just offering the options I am qualified to offer. Hate to see a country succumb to this kinda pest problem. It's like termites. If you don't catch it early…” He shrugged.
Ribera grabbed his still-buzzing phone, and his heart dropped into his boots. The awaited update from the Tombs was the code to take emergency shelter.
The man's smile grew somehow wider still as he continued to talk. “You know, you could fight this yourself. I don't know how you'd do, but…” He shrugged. “…the kinda folks I've seen mop this up don't have armies, even small ones. So maybe you'd do OK. In my experience, though, most people can't escape the consequences forever. I mean, look at Moreau. He did 'bout as well as anyone. Now, what with your presidency tied to Moreau's deals, from this point forward, running this country is likely gonna be a pain in the ass…”
Ribera unlocked the phone on his second attempt, fingers clumsy with fear. There was an attached clip of footage showing what he recognized as the guard room at the top of the elevator. A group of corpse-like figures piled out of the elevator in a rush, snarling as they lunged towards the guards. The leader wore Flores' face.
The noise from the hallway grew louder. Ribera flinched at the crack of a gun—very close by—followed by a flurry of gunshots. The man in white cast a glance towards the door without apparent concern, even as Ribera scrambled out of his chair, casting about for what shelter his office furniture might afford. Several heavy thuds rattled his office wall.
“Just seems to me you'll always be looking over your shoulder. If you weren't president anymore, then it's not linked to you any more. No reason for this to come down on you. You could enjoy your pension, a nice estate in the country. I hear Moreau's is nice.”
“Moreau's villa?” said Ribera distractedly. He hovered at the side of his desk opposite the door and listened desperately for any sign of what was happening outside.
“Oh, sure.”
“What does that have to do with me?” The words spilled out readily, even as panic bubbled up his windpipe to drown him.
“Well, it's not his physical assets that these 'creditors' are after. And I do believe San Lorenzo has a law saying the government can seize the assets of a political prisoner…” The man in white gave the warrant on the desk a significant look.
That was true. Moreau had been useful in the past, but this madness—madness Ribera already knew was linked to Moreau—had been building for most of a week, and so far, Moreau seemed utterly impotent to stop it. And unlike the stranger's promises about the zom—about the “pests,” this was proven San Lorenzo law.
His thoughts splintered along with the wood of his office door.
It was the dead man. He looked worse than in the morgue photos; worse than the figures spilling out of the entrance of the Tombs. His skin was grayer; more unbleeding cuts split the skin of his face; long hair hung in matted hunks, glued together with a substance Ribera didn't want to identify. He shuffled into the room, eyes fixed hungrily on Ribera's. His left arm hung at his side. Ribera's stomach turned at the glint of bone jutting out from the forearm.
Ribera regained his voice as the creature took a step towards him. “Guards!”
He took another step. There was silence in the hall behind him. No one appeared. No one answered.
The man in white rose casually, heaving a disappointed-sounding sigh. The dead man's head swiveled slowly in his direction. “Don't mind me, pal. I'm just an observer.”
“What?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I told ya what help I could offer.” He gestured at the desk and the papers atop it. “You wanna sign, ya probably oughta hurry. Otherwise, I have no dog in this fight.”
The dead man prowled slowly forward, graceful despite his mutilated form. Desperate, Ribera snatched the papers from the desk, trying to suppress the shaking of his hands long enough to scribble his name.
As he lifted his pen from the second document, the dead man came to a stop. His eyes unfocused, and he slowly cocked his head as if listening to something. Without another glance at either of them, he turned and exited the way he came.
Ribera stumbled to his chair and slumped into it, legs turning to jelly.
The man in white picked up the two documents, looked them over, and snapped a picture with his phone. “Good call.” He wandered to the sidebar to pour a drink, and set it in front of Ribera on the desk. “Relax. I'm sure it's been a long week for ya. I'll find one of your guards that's still standing and send him in. Best to have someone pick up Moreau before our dead friend gets there.” He smiled toothily. “I'll take care of the rest.”
…
It was a beautiful, clear day in San Lorenzo when the people turned out for a free election.
There was no dead man missing from the hospital morgue. There never had been a dead Canadian stranger in the morgue.
A paramedic returned from sick leave. There was no trace of a bite mark on his arm. There had never been a bite on his arm.
Two guard dogs returned to the grounds of the Presidential Palace with a clean bill of health, in plenty of time to welcome its new occupant. There was no damage to the grounds, aside from a little disarray due to the current landscaping project. There were no gouges in the woodwork. No undead creatures had ever clawed at the building in the night.
A number of San Lorenzo residents put away stage make-up and costume pieces, declaring the inaugural San Lorenzo zombie LARP event a huge success, and discussing plans for future meet-ups (one of the American organizers kindly offered to set up an online chat and point them to useful resources on LARPing).
The plantings in the new flower beds around Teresa Noguera's gravesite featured forget-me-nots among a selection of other flowers. Someone versed in the “language of flowers” might note an apparent theme, with several species linked to meanings such as courage, honor, and integrity. Similar plantings appeared around the graves of several of Ribera's deceased political opponents.
Footage from the surveillance cameras above the government prison known as “The Tombs” showed four guards descending the elevator to usher General Flores and his cabinet to freedom. The guard room looked as it as it always had. Several guards babbling incoherently about zombies were placed quietly on compassionate leave. There had never been zombies in the Tombs, and Flores and his cabinet were very much alive.
It was a beautiful, clear day in San Lorenzo when President Flores gave his acceptance speech.