A downpour began as soon as I left the building. Naturally.
I didn’t carry an umbrella, because edgy private detectives don’t carry umbrellas any more than they wear galoshes. Fortunately, since I’m undead, the clammy damp doesn’t bother me. I’d clawed my way through piled grave dirt and managed to get back to my career. I could handle a little rain.
I splashed along through the downpour, until I discovered that if I just walked a block over, I entered a different climate zone, where it was still cloudy, but warm and oppressively humid. I followed that street instead, but the sticky humidity caused another set of problems—especially since in the miasmic puddles left behind from the recent sewer upheaval, mosquitos had bred in a frenzy that would have made an insect pornographer giddy.
To make matters worse, some of the mosquito larvae had fallen down into the sewers, where they were contaminated by effluent from the mad scientist laboratories. The mutated creatures that flew up were large enough to shove manhole covers aside, and their buzzing sound was as loud as the deteriorating muffler on the Pro Bono Mobile. Mosquitos don’t tend to bite zombies, having no taste for embalming fluid, but these were either too stupid to know the difference or just plain malicious. I didn’t need the added annoyance. Preferring the rain, I ducked back over to the first street.
I found the weather wizard Alastair Cumulus III holding a pre-election rally. I wanted to confront him—or at least question him, since I had very little evidence—about the sabotage that had plagued Thunder Dick’s posters, as well as the malicious rumors that were being spread about our client’s “proclivities” (undefined). It was an old tactic that had been used in elections since the campaign for Mammoth Hunter of the Year, and I doubted even a zombie detective could prove anything, but if Cumulus knew I was on the case, maybe he would rein in some of his more outrageous stunts.
The snooty weather wizard chose to hold his rally in an abandoned lot, which gave him room to perform. A sign marked the property as Coming Soon, Another Fine Talbot & Knowles Blood Bar and Bistro!
The rally was sparsely attended. I couldn’t tell how many people were there to hear Alastair Cumulus III and how many had simply stopped to get a respite from the rain. The wizard’s pale blue robes seemed to be a reflection of the sky overhead. He had used his weathermancy to create a more pleasant climate, generating warm breezes to dry the area from the recent downpour, while miserable rain continued in the surrounding streets. His forked beard was neatly moussed and his curly hair sparkled with moisture, or perhaps glitter. I couldn’t tell from a distance.
As I came up, I saw Ramen Ho-Tep standing there as a campaign supporter. In his bandage-wrapped hands, he held a picket sign declaring, Vote Cumulus: Climate Change You Can Believe In! His wrappings had been laundered, although a few tan skid marks still showed where he had recently been stained.
Cumulus called out, “I am a weather wizard of proven abilities and demonstrated civic mindedness. My foggy bottom, any politician can kiss babies, but I also saved the museum and the original Necronomicon.”
“The Necronomicon was fine,” I muttered.
Ramen Ho-Tep jabbed his sign up in the air. “He rescued the Egyptian exhibit. So many priceless objects saved. I was once pharaoh of all Egypt—and I’m voting for Alastair Cumulus III. He’s my hero.”
I saw numerous television cameras filming the event. Each one sported the logo of one of the competing weather networks that serviced the Quarter. The networks reflected forecasts from dramatically different portions of the political spectrum: while one insisted on sunshine, the other declared rain, and no facts or proof would get them to change their minds. With the currently feuding climates, each weather network was able to cherry-pick their own weather to prove their point.
“After our recent climatic events, the Unnatural Quarter is an even dirtier place than usual,” Cumulus continued. “And while a certain amount of dinginess and grime adds character, I vow to clean up this city.” He swirled his hands in the air calling up a mysterious incantation that sounded like gibberish. “You’ll note that unlike my rival, I require neither a talisman nor a familiar.”
He jabbed his fingers toward the sky, and I heard a resounding crack of thunder. Several blocks away, sheets of rain came down in well-defined areas.
“As a show of good faith, I will target rinsing rainstorms to wash away any residue left behind by the recent sewer upwelling. Clean as a whistle. I will, however, focus my efforts on those neighborhoods that show the most support for Alastair Cumulus III, according to recent polling data.”
The reporters from the weather networks declared their predictions—completely contradictory—about which neighborhoods would be cleansed and which ones would remain encrusted in filth.
“You’re just a show-off!” came a loud voice. The audience turned to see the tie-dyed robe and windblown hair of the other Wuwufo candidate. “Let’s have a public debate right now.” Thunder Dick clutched the portable sundial talisman at his throat. He reached down to scratch the annoyed-looking tuxedo cat Morris/Maurice, who again dodged his touch.
Thunder Dick shouted an incantation, and hot, dry winds snatched the sign out of Ramen Ho-Tep’s gnarled hands and flung it up and away like Dorothy’s house on a fieldtrip to Oz. Tan veils of dust appeared from nowhere. Gritty pellets of sand spun through the air and pelted Cumulus’s audience. As the dust storm thickened, I held on to my fedora and bent over, trying to make my way to Thunder Dick in hopes that I could get him to stop.
Because I was still wet from the recent rain showers, the blown dust caked me with mud. The bystanders grumbled and screeched, then scattered, some of them plunging into the dry-zone streets, others escaping into the downpour.
The weather networks captured all of it, though they would no doubt edit the footage to show their own chosen candidate in the best possible light.
Alastair Cumulus III fought back, lashing out with narrow columns of drenching rain, and even a thin writhing waterspout, which Thunder Dick dodged. The only real victim was the cat, who got caught in the downpour and bounded away, yowling.
Stumbling against the dry wind and dust mixed with occasional rain, I finally reached my client. “You can stop now, Mr. Thudner! The crowd has dispersed.”
The weather wizard ceased waving his hands and released his talisman. As the weather calmed, he looked around to see that we were indeed alone in the vacant lot. Even Alastair Cumulus III had stormed off in a huff. The TV cameras had fled.
“I’m not your campaign adviser, just your zombie detective,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “But that stunt didn’t gain you any friends—it just annoyed a lot of people.”
“And my cat, too,” Thunder Dick said, suddenly dejected. “I have to think these things through better.”
“If you want us to crack down on your rival’s nefarious campaign shenanigans, you’ve got to stop using the same tactics he does.”
I could see I hadn’t gotten through to him, though. Thunder Dick said, “He did it to me, so I’m justified.”
“You know Alastair Cumulus can say the same thing about you.”
“But he lies!” Thunder Dick said and stalked off.
* * *
I happened upon Stentor the ogre on a street corner, looking forlorn. The skies were clear now, but he looked the worse for wear. “I’ve been here all through the downpour and the dust storm. Still, almost no donations.”
I was disappointed to see how far the ogre had fallen after losing his employment at the opera house. The once-celebrated Stentor now sat singing arias with his hat out. His hat was large enough to cover his head, so it was the size of a suitcase, but he was having no more luck than the barbershop quartet of frog demons singing down in the sewers.
I heard Stentor finish a song that should have been compelling and dramatic, but passersby scurried past, preferring to flee rather than listen. His squeaky voice would have made even a chalkboard cringe. On a scrap of cardboard he had handwritten, Will Stop Singing for Change.
When I greeted the ogre, he looked with great sadness down at his nearly empty hat, and I tried to encourage him. “Nothing wrong with being a street performer. It’s a very respectable profession.”
“With my voice,” Stentor cheeped, “maybe I should just become a mime. I’m more qualified for it.”
A chill went down my spine, and I hardened my resolve. “No, not that. The witches are studying connections to trace back the amphibious transference protocol. If only we can find out who has your voice, then we can retrieve it.” I patted him on the shoulders. “Once you become the great Stentor again, voice and all, the Phantom will hire you back. Audiences will demand it.”
The ogre picked up his hat and tipped it over to let a few coins fall into his enormous palm. “I think I’ll call it a day.” He settled the hat like a pup tent on his head, nestling it on the shaggy mass of his hair.
At the end of the street, a corner gift shop sold cards and novelties, “that special something for unusual and unnatural occasions.” I decided to get a card to cheer Stentor up. I wondered if the gift shop had a section of “Get Your Voice Back Soon” cards.
Leaving Stentor, I set off toward the shop. Soon I heard a buzzing engine and the squeal of tiny tires. A ramshackle jalopy screeched to the front of the novelty shop, bumping up onto the curb. The black-painted lawn gnome and his gang of porcelain punks were haphazardly stacked inside the car, and they tumbled out as soon as the driver brought the go-kart–sized vehicle to a halt. Swinging their Timmy guns like fire hoses, Mr. Bignome and his gang peppered the front of the novelty shop and shattered the windows.
“Hurry up, boys!” yelled Bignome as they clattered and scurried toward the front door, shooting all the while. “Before the coppers get here!”
Determined and, yes, I admit it, downright annoyed at the gnomes, I didn’t intend to let the gang get away after what they had done to us in the Medium-Sized Shop of Horrors. Screaming pedestrians of all species ran from the robbery site, from which a shrill school-bell alarm rang out. I drew my gun from its holster and bounded down the street. The police would be coming, but probably too late; the gang of lawn gnomes knew how to be fast. I wasn’t going to let them get away this time.
I normally move at a sedate pace, but in emergencies when adrenaline mixes with the embalming fluid, I can become one of those fast zombies that are infinitely more scary. I hurried down the block yelling, “Stop!” I didn’t care about being stung with small-caliber projectiles again; I was going to end this threat to my town.
As I ran past a narrow alley, however, in a completely unexpected—and completely clichéd—moment, Thunder Dick’s black-and-white cat yowled and sprang out in front of me, startling me and everyone else on the street. Morris/Maurice ran right under my feet, got caught on my shoes, and tangled in my ankles. I tripped and went sprawling into the gutter, my pistol flying out of my hands. The cat bounded away, turned to look at me, nonchalantly licked his shoulder to pretend that nothing whatsoever had gone wrong, then sauntered off.
By the time I picked myself up, some gnome gang members were scurrying out of the gift-card shop carrying the cash register, which they dumped into the back of the jalopy. The driver revved the puttering engine.
A big hand on my shoulder helped me lurch to my feet—Stentor. “You took quite a spill there, Mr. Chambeaux. Cats have a way of getting underfoot.”
Mr. Bignome emerged from the gift shop, sprayed the lintel and the open sky with tiny bullets, then yelled in his improbably loud and domineering voice, “You’ll never catch me! Now, let’s get outta here!” He swung himself into the back of the jalopy, where the other gnomes caught him. “Bye-bye, suckers!” The jalopy squealed away.
I heard police sirens and saw McGoo puffing up again, service revolver drawn. He grimaced in dismay. “Late again, Shamble?”
“Miss Congeniality for the second time in a row.” I turned to the ogre. “Thanks for helping, Stentor.”
But he was standing there in astonishment, his eyes wide, his inner-tube–sized lip trembling. His mouth was open, as if waiting to receive an air drop.
“That was my voice,” he squeaked. “That lawn gnome is the one who stole my voice!”