Bob Fingerman - Pariah

Pariah

Also by BOB FINGERMAN

White Like She
Minimum Wage
Beg the Question
You Deserved It
Recess Pieces
Bottomfeeder
Connective Tissue
From the Ashes

BOB FINGERMAN

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES
NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

PARIAH

Copyright 2010 by Bob Fingerman

All rights reserved.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 978-0-7653-2817-5 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-7653-2627-0 (trade paperback)

First Edition: August 2010

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my wife, Michele, who I love so much its hard to fathom

First up, Id express everlasting gratitude to John Schoenfelder. After having read my first novel, John approached me to see if I had anything else up my sleeve. I told him about Pariah and he invited me to submit it. He loved it, and though it didnt work out with him, rather than let it die, he did a truly rare and generous thing and passed it along to the next person I want to thank: my great editor, Eric Raab. Eric shared Johns passion for Pariah and made it happen at Tor. Which brings me to Tom Doherty, without whom thered be no Tor, nor this deal. Thanks, also, to Whitney Ross, Erics able assistant. Id also like to express gratitude to Irene Gallo and Jamie Stafford-Hill for making Pariah look so terrific. Thanks to Bob Mecoy, for brokering this deal. To Kirsten Wolf, for providing another pair of sharp eyes. To Helene and Saul, my magnificent parents, for (among many other things) fostering in me a love for the written word. Id be remiss if I neglected to extend my thanks and undying admiration to George A. Romero, for minting the modern zombie; even when we add our own new wrinkles, were all just playing with Mr. Romeros toys. And, once again, thanks, love, and all good stuff to my astonishingly wonderful, loving, supportive, beautiful wife, Michele. I think that was longer than my allotted forty-five seconds.

Man needs to suffer. When he does not have real griefs he creates them. Griefs purify and prepare him.

Jos Mart

Larry Gabler lay there, gasping, bleeding. At seventy-two, he was Abes junior by eleven years, but at the moment he could have given Methuselah a run for his money.

You gotta get home to Ruthie, he wheezed as sweat glossed his waxy face.

Yeah, yeah, Abe said, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle in his desk. The radio droned the barely cogent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the five boroughsnot to mention the entire globe. Abe took a tentative sip of the whisky, then downed it as he sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of uncorked chaos below. As he peered down, three taxis collided, the driver of one bursting through his windshield like a meat torpedo. People were jostling, shoving, climbing all over each other, every man for himself, the hell with the rest. The sounds of screams and random gunfire echoed in the darkening canyon of office buildings, the sun ducked for cover beyond Jersey to the west. Mixed in with the usual filth in the gathered curbside snowdrifts was a new hue: deep red, and plenty of it, like big, bloody snow cones.

Oh yeah, I cant wait to get down into all that, Abe said.

The stray whod brought Larry limping in cowered, nearly catatonic, on the other end of the waiting rooms lumpy sofa. She was a good-looking young Puerto Rican, maybe in her early to mid twenties. Maybe Dominican. Abe couldnt tell. Young was young, old was old, Hispanic was Hispanic. Larry let out a chalky groan, farted loudly, and slumped forward, chin on chest, blood oozing from his nostrils.

I think your friend is dead, the Latin girl murmured.

He was dead when he came in, Abe replied. I could smell it all over him. You get to my age and deaths one of the few things you can recognize easy.

Abe looked at the blood-soaked material around Larrys chewed up calf, the slacks shredded. He downed another shot of whisky and made for the door.

Where you going? asked the girl.

I gotta pay Menachem Bender a visit.

Who?

Without explaining, Abe left the office of Cutie-Pie Infant Wear and hastened down the hall to Menachem Bender Mens Big & Tall to pay a visit. Abe tried the door. Locked.

Bender, you in there? He pounded a few times, rattling the pebbled glass with Benders name and logo painted upon it. Bender, cmon! Its me, Abe Fogelhut! You in there? No answer. Abe cased the hall, then elbowed the loose pane out of the frame, the glass crashing to the linoleum beneath. Taking care not to cut himself, he opened the door, experiencing the giddy thrill of breaking into his neighbors business as well as a jolt of bowel-tightening fear. Bender!

Nothing.

Abe gave the unlit room a quick once over, then stepped in, flicking on the overhead fluorescents, which buzzed in protest. A cursory look at Benders books made clear Cutie-Pie wasnt the only outfit in the garment trade to have a lousy last quarter. Oy, Abe sighed. My condolences. Abe stepped around the desk toward the storeroom, nearly tripping over Benders body, a .38 clenched in his white-knuckled hand. Bits of skull and brain matter flecked the adjacent wall and floor. Abe raised a hand to his mouth and then lowered it, realizing he was going to neither scream nor throw up. He just shook his head and opened the stockroom, repeating his previous sympathies. Turning on the light, he allowed himself to smile.

Perfect, he said, eyeing stacks of unsold winter wear for enormous outdoorsmen.

Moments later, he returned to Cutie-Pie to find Larry hunched over the Latina, violently munching on her entrails. The contents of Abes stomach disgorged, searing his throat. Larry didnt even look away from his still-twitching repast as Abe, grateful hed retrieved the revolver from Bender, emptied the cylinder into his undead partner. The fifth shot removed the top of Larrys skull and he collapsed onto the girls remains. Abe spat bile onto the floor, took a gulp straight from the bottle of Cutty Sark, swished it around, then spat again.

Okay, he said, affecting as much calm as possible. Okay.

He wiped his mouth with his hankie, took a box cutter and sliced open one of the myriad boxes of his unsold stock of Baby Sof Suit infant winter onesies. Okay, he said, time to redeem yourselves.

Five-foot-five Abe, with his thirty-inch waist, stepped into an XXXL pair of Benders Breathable Sub-zero ShieldSooper-SystemWeather Bibs, a double-insulated hunting overall for fatties who like traipsing off into the wilderness to shoot helpless critters. Leaving the bib down, Abe began stuffing onesies down the pants, padding himself from the ankles up. When hed reached maximum density he pulled up the bib, heaved on the matching camouflage parka, and stuffed in more onesies. With the hood cinched tight around his scarf and a pair of snow goggles, Abe resembled Santa Claus geared up for combat.