club but said nothing.
He crossed his arms. “What do you want?”
I explained that Marci had started using Replexen and that she was missing. I watched his face to see if maybe he already knew what I was telling him. Andrew was wearing a black leather coat, too short on his arms. I saw one of his hands twitch. He stared at the door to his club. He let out a deep breath. “Was she snorting it?” he asked quietly.
“Needles,” I said. His eyes closed, and I realized that he hadn’t seen her after all. He asked about her skin. “Yes,” I said, “milky.”
“You didn’t notice?” he asked. Then he looked down. “Sorry.”
Even as a nonbie, Replexen use shortens your lifespan. They are hard years spent on that shit. I followed Andrew’s weary eyes as he looked around his own club . . . painted windows and scarred wood on the tables and floors. Did he wonder, how did I get here? This wasn’t a full zombie club, it catered more to nonbies and first-timers; no, it wasn’t hell, but it was the waiting room.
“I haven’t seen her,” Andrew said, and he turned and went back behind the bar. I could’ve just simmed him my number, but I wrote it on a piece of paper and slid it across the bar. He looked up. He was chewing on one of those pocked cheeks, and it looked like he was trying to say something. I left before he could.
My guess was that Marci had disappeared into what was already starting to be called Z-Town. And if that was the case, of course, I was too late. Seattle was one of the worst cities for derelict zombies—old Fremont had been turned over to the hardcore clubs, brothels, and shooting galleries, to bars that supposedly released rodents during happy hour—places that made Andrew’s shitty club seem like a Four Seasons.
For two years after that, I waited for Marci to come back. But it wasn’t until my last doctor’s appointment and the bad news I got, it wasn’t until after Brando snapped and the death of that poor zombie girl, that I finally felt compelled to go to Z-Town and look for her, look for the only woman I have ever loved.
4
WENDY GASSON was the last of my neighbors to have a pet: Fidel. He was an indoor cat and she was careful about making sure he didn’t get out, but one day, as Fidel sat there by the window watching birds, Wendy came in with the groceries and the cat bolted out the door, down the stairs, out the open front door, and into the street.
After the initial sim-tweets about Hypo-ETE, a new sector of the economy had appeared: private eyes who went into Z-Towns and looked for missing kids and spouses and took them to quack deprogrammers, or surgeons, a whole industry of people who promised—lied, really—that they could reverse the effects of long-term Replexen abuse. The sleaziest of these PIs would even take cat cases, usually for elderly people who just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Fluffy was seriously not coming back. Some of the private eyes just went to a pet store and got a tabby to match the pictures (“No, this is Fluffy; I’m sure of it.”). Wendy told me she’d tried to hire one of these guys off the Craig-sim to find Fidel, but the guy only went after people. “Lady,” he said, “your cat’s gone.”
I got the detective’s name from Wendy, but I didn’t contact him right away. I tried everything else I could think of first: simming Marci’s friends and family, taking out Craig-sim ads. I even went back to Andrew’s club in the U-District, but it was closed; a Dumpster Divas secondhand food store was now in its place. Nobody knew anything. I had no choice.
So I simmed the detective and made plans to meet him outside my doctor’s office. I stepped out into the cool air, chest still burning from the radiation, when a tall gray guy in a long suede jacket stepped forward. “I’m Mick.”
“Owen.”
Mick was in his fifties, with a high forehead and severe blue eyes. I hadn’t explained much in my tweet, but he didn’t seem
He crossed his arms. “What do you want?”
I explained that Marci had started using Replexen and that she was missing. I watched his face to see if maybe he already knew what I was telling him. Andrew was wearing a black leather coat, too short on his arms. I saw one of his hands twitch. He stared at the door to his club. He let out a deep breath. “Was she snorting it?” he asked quietly.
“Needles,” I said. His eyes closed, and I realized that he hadn’t seen her after all. He asked about her skin. “Yes,” I said, “milky.”
“You didn’t notice?” he asked. Then he looked down. “Sorry.”
Even as a nonbie, Replexen use shortens your lifespan. They are hard years spent on that shit. I followed Andrew’s weary eyes as he looked around his own club . . . painted windows and scarred wood on the tables and floors. Did he wonder, how did I get here? This wasn’t a full zombie club, it catered more to nonbies and first-timers; no, it wasn’t hell, but it was the waiting room.
“I haven’t seen her,” Andrew said, and he turned and went back behind the bar. I could’ve just simmed him my number, but I wrote it on a piece of paper and slid it across the bar. He looked up. He was chewing on one of those pocked cheeks, and it looked like he was trying to say something. I left before he could.
My guess was that Marci had disappeared into what was already starting to be called Z-Town. And if that was the case, of course, I was too late. Seattle was one of the worst cities for derelict zombies—old Fremont had been turned over to the hardcore clubs, brothels, and shooting galleries, to bars that supposedly released rodents during happy hour—places that made Andrew’s shitty club seem like a Four Seasons.
For two years after that, I waited for Marci to come back. But it wasn’t until my last doctor’s appointment and the bad news I got, it wasn’t until after Brando snapped and the death of that poor zombie girl, that I finally felt compelled to go to Z-Town and look for her, look for the only woman I have ever loved.
4
WENDY GASSON was the last of my neighbors to have a pet: Fidel. He was an indoor cat and she was careful about making sure he didn’t get out, but one day, as Fidel sat there by the window watching birds, Wendy came in with the groceries and the cat bolted out the door, down the stairs, out the open front door, and into the street.
After the initial sim-tweets about Hypo-ETE, a new sector of the economy had appeared: private eyes who went into Z-Towns and looked for missing kids and spouses and took them to quack deprogrammers, or surgeons, a whole industry of people who promised—lied, really—that they could reverse the effects of long-term Replexen abuse. The sleaziest of these PIs would even take cat cases, usually for elderly people who just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Fluffy was seriously not coming back. Some of the private eyes just went to a pet store and got a tabby to match the pictures (“No, this is Fluffy; I’m sure of it.”). Wendy told me she’d tried to hire one of these guys off the Craig-sim to find Fidel, but the guy only went after people. “Lady,” he said, “your cat’s gone.”
I got the detective’s name from Wendy, but I didn’t contact him right away. I tried everything else I could think of first: simming Marci’s friends and family, taking out Craig-sim ads. I even went back to Andrew’s club in the U-District, but it was closed; a Dumpster Divas secondhand food store was now in its place. Nobody knew anything. I had no choice.
So I simmed the detective and made plans to meet him outside my doctor’s office. I stepped out into the cool air, chest still burning from the radiation, when a tall gray guy in a long suede jacket stepped forward. “I’m Mick.”
“Owen.”
Mick was in his fifties, with a high forehead and severe blue eyes. I hadn’t explained much in my tweet, but he didn’t seem
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