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  Dead Easy

  Apocalypse Pretty Soon!

  The portents are lining up for the biggest supernatural showdown of all time and—as if the Big Easy didn't have enough problems with another hurricane on the way—New Orleans is due to be the epicenter. Or, more precisely, the storm is vectoring in on half-vampire (but fresh-blood-eschewing) Chris Cséjthe and his rag-tag coterie of outcast monsters. It seems Cséjthe's epic mating with a werewolf lover has produced a child who holds the destiny of several worlds in the balance. And everyone who is anyone—vampire lord, were-pack leader, and the odd sea monster god and immortal elven princess—wants to twist this fabled progeny to his or her own power-hungry purposes.

  The latest thrill-packed, wisecracking entry in the popular "Halflife Chronicles" by witty (and nitty-gritty) goth master, Wm. Mark Simmons!

  "[O]ne of those rare novels that combine levity and the supernatural in just the right balance."

  —Chronicle on Wm. Mark Simmons' Habeas Corpses.

  Cover Art by Clyde Caldwell

  Hardcover

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  First printing, June 2007

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Simmons, Wm. Mark.

  Dead easy / by Wm. Mark Simmons.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-4165-2085-6

  I. Title.

  PS3569.I4774D4 2007

  813'.54—dc22

  2007010170

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-2132-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-2132-1

  Copyright© 2007 by Wm. Mark Simmons

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  http://www.baen.com

  Electronic version by WebWrights

  http://www.webscription.net

  Dead Easy was undertaken during a particularly tumultuous period of events that made the writing of this book far different than the experience I envisioned in the original synopsis and proposal. I'd like to thank the electronic 1st Readers Club whose feedback and supplemental input was most helpful during a period of extraordinary change and limited access to my familiar resources and support. Any errors, inconsistencies, and faults herein are my own.

  Richard Acosta, J.J. Brannon, Kyle Carmichael, Benjamin Cock, Thomas Erickson, Erik Fischer, Tracy Fretwell, Tana Hamza, James Hayes, Jack Long, Lee Martindale, Robyn McNees, Greg Normington, Jr., William A. Oates, Porter Peaden, Sanjay Ramamurthy, Anthony D. Rhodes, Dawn Rodriguez, Roger Ross, Brad Sinor, Anthony Stasak, Lynn Stranathan, Jim Wagner

  Thanks guys!

  Special Thanks also to Clyde Caldwell and Christine Klingbiel for their part in bringing certain characters, past and present, to life.

  Finally

  This one's for Howard and Jules

  You never know who's going to end up in your five.

  Also by Wm. Mark Simmons:

  ALMOST A VAMPIRE SERIES

  One Foot In The Grave

  Dead On My Feet

  Habeas Corpses

  DREAMLAND CHRONICLES

  In The Net Of Dreams

  When Dreams Collide

  The Woman Of His Dreams

  Pathfinder

  Author's Note:

  This is a work of fiction.

  As always, any resemblance to great old ones, elder things, people living, dead, undead, or the thing waiting under your bed when you finally close the book and turn off the light, is purely coincidental.

  As for any resemblance to acts of God (or acts of the gods): The plot synopsis, story outline, proposal, and primary research for Dead Easy were completed prior to January 2005.

  The fault lies not in the stars, dear Brutus, but in ourselves . . .

  Ride, Captain, ride upon your mystery ship

  On your way to a world that others might have missed

  —

  Skip Konte / Frank Konte / Mike Pinira

  Ride Captain Ride

  I'd like to be under the sea

  In an octopus's garden in the shade

  He'd let us in, knows where we've been

  In his octopus's garden in the shade . . .

  —

  Ringo Starr

  Octopus's Garden

  And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,

  Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

  —

  Barry McGuire

  Eve of Destruction

  And the sea gave up the dead which were in it . . .

  —Revelation 20:13

  Prologue

  Ride, Captain, ride upon your mystery ship

  On your way to a world that others might have missed

  —Skip Konte / Frank Konte / Mike Pinira

  Ride Captain Ride

  I'd like to be under the sea

  In an octopus's garden in the shade

  He'd let us in, knows where we've been

  In his octopus's garden in the shade . . .

  —Ringo Starr,

  Octopus's Garden

  And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,

  Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

  —Barry McGuire

  Eve of Destruction

  And the sea gave up the dead which were in it . . .

  —Revelation 20:13

  Author's Note:

  This is a work of fiction.

  As always, any resemblance to people living, dead, undead, or some stage in-between, is purely coincidental. As for any resemblance to acts of God (or acts of the gods): the plot synopsis, story outline, proposal,and primary research for Dead Easywere completed prior to January 2005.The fault lies not in the stars, dear Brutus, but in ourselves . . .

  Dead Easy was undertaken during a particularly tumultuous period of events that made the writing of this book far different than the experience I envisioned in the original synopsis and proposal. I'd like to thank the electronic 1st Readers Club whose feedback and supplemental input was most helpful during a period of extraordinary change and limited access to my familiar resources and support. Any errors, inconsistencies, and faults herein are my own.

  Richard Acosta, J.J. Brannon, Kyle Carmichael, Benjamin Cock, Thomas Erickson, Erik Fischer, Tracy Fretwell, Tana Hamza, James Hayes, Jack Long, Lee Martindale, Robyn McNees, Greg Normington, Jr., William A. Oates, Porter Peaden, Sanjay Ramamurthy, Anthony D. Rhodes, Dawn Rodriguez, Roger Ross, Brad Sinor, Anthony Stasak, Lynn Stranathan, Jim Wagner.

  Thanks guys!

  Special Thanks also to Clyde Caldwell and Christine Klingbiel for their part in bringing certain characters, past and present, to life.

  Chapter One

  Here's a question.

  Do people wear straightjackets because they're crazy?

  Or do they go crazy because they're wearing straightjackets?

  Because I can tell you right now those long-sleeved, buckle-down, canvas kook-shirts are so uncomfortable that you are likely to go mad if you're stuck in one for any extended period of time.

  I don't know how long I'd been stuck in mine but I'd probably be well on my way to foaming and raving and going absolutely starkers were it not for the drugs. They kept me calm. Relaxed. Even while my own voice was screaming in the back of my head that I was in really deep doo-doo!


  Doo-doo . . . ?

  Given the normal vocabulary of my fight-or-flight responses, the fact that the voice shouting from my hindbrain was coming up with that word choice had to be another side effect of the drugs.

  That and the inability to stay focused.

  Or remember how I got here in the first place.

  And: drugs were the only explanation as to why the babelicious Dr. Fand did not command my full attention while she was in the room for our latest session.

  Well, more of a cell than a room, actually. With padded walls and recessed lighting and absolutely no windows to permit one to gauge the passing of time. Or weaken loony-town security by giving me something to bang my head against.

  I had this warm, fuzzy sense of contentment that my well-being was so well looked after.

  Or maybe that was the drugs, too. My attention had shifted from my psychiatrist to the cell décor and there was no other adequate explanation for that. Unless I really was as crazy as Dr. Fand professed.

  "Not 'crazy,' Mr. Cséjthe . . ." She pronounced my name correctly—"Chay-tay"—but added some little foreign inflection that I couldn't quite attribute to any specific nationality.

  " . . . a 'psychotic break' is a coping mechanism," she continued. "Your mind was traumatized by the accident, by the deaths of your wife and daughter. You blame yourself because you were driving, because you survived and they didn't . . ."

  Maybe the drugs weren't that effective: memories began to burn through my medicated haze like napalm strikes in a thick London fog. Two years had passed since I'd awakened in a morgue next to what was left of Jenny and Kirsten, yet the sudden flash of pain tied to that memory was brisk and sharp.

  Like fresh stitches as the anesthesia wears off.

  "Your subconscious wrestles with the unfairness of life, the injustices of fate," Dr. Fand went on. "With pain. With regret. It tries to make sense of what seems so senseless. Like a skinned knee, it tries to heal your memories by forming a false skin—a scab, if you will—to insulate the trauma from the rest of your mind. It builds a layer of false memories, creates more acceptable 'realities' for you to inhabit while dealing with your grief and rage."

  "Like this one?" I growled, shrugging against the heavy canvas and leather garment that pinned my arms across my body.

  "Really, Christopher . . ." She paused. "May I call you Chris?"

  "You can call me anything you want; you're the doctor." And my keeper.

  And something more that I couldn't quite put my finger on . . .

  Perhaps the drugs . . .

  "Coyote-ugly" stories are legion. Romantic trysts struck up at a bar with attractive strangers after an injudicious amount of alcohol, leading to sobering morning-after revelations. "Babes" or "studs" reverting to their pre-buzz, unenhanced appearances. And the hung-over temptation to gnaw one's own arm off, coyote-fashion, to facilitate escape without waking the stranger clinging to it like a steel trap.

  I wondered if Dr. Fand would look any different after the drugs wore off. She was more of a babe than anyone sober would expect of a psychiatrist. In fact, Doctor F was more of a babe than anyone might produce without the benefits of an airbrush or the latest photo-editing software with all of the graphical plug-ins.

  So . . . probably the drugs.

  She had blonde hair, so white with silvery highlights that age might have been inferred had any lines begun to etch her flesh. Instead, the corona of platinum hair that was not precisely white and not precisely silver, gave her an ethereal appearance. Her tilted, lavender eyes added an exotic cast to her features. Small nose, wide mouth, skin like porcelain, kiln-fired with attar of rose. She wore a white blouse that seemed tailored to accentuate how her bosom stressed the crisp, not quite opaque fabric. Her abbreviated suit jacket looked more like a bolero vest with sleeves and her matching dark skirt was short enough to show the better parts of her thighs before she sat down on the folding chair she'd brought in for our latest session. If the gems that glittered at her throat and dangled from the peekaboo lobes of her ears were real, then head-shrinking was more likely avocation than primary paycheck. She had to be independently wealthy.

  Of course, I might just be the one pro bono case in her life files of the rich and insaneous. That . . . or it could just be the drugs.

  "Let's talk about what's real, Chris."

  I dragged my attention back to the conversation.

  "Up until the accident you had no difficulty with separating fact and fiction, fable and reality. I imagine that you read fairy tales to your daughter when she was little. Maybe watched monster movies when you were younger. But you understood the difference between make-believe and reality. Until the car crash."

  "So . . . you're suggesting brain damage?" I asked.

  "Not in the manner of which you speak," she said, crossing her legs in a manner that threatened to re-distract me. "Not a physical injury but emotional trauma." It came to me that she wasn't wearing stockings or hose. "It is as if your mind has drawn upon fable and fairy tale to construct a psychic hedge-maze, a place to wander about, insulated from the harsh realities of a cruel and apparently senseless world."

  "So you're saying I've like rearranged my perceptions of reality to . . . to . . ."

  Trying to follow a coherent line of thought was like trying to tune in a distant radio station on bad batteries.

  " . . . um . . . like . . . create an alternate world . . . inside my head . . ."

  I needed to keep my responses short. I only had so many functional brain cells. When I wasn't diverting half of them to assist my speech center, I could actually feel my mind starting to clear.

  " . . . where I can hide from my own pain and loss?" I finished weakly.

  She clapped her small, perfect hands in a similitude of delight. "Very good, Chris! I believe that we are starting to make some progress here."

  "Progress," I repeated.

  "Yes, the first steps toward recovery are anchored in recognizing that one is ill. Denial is counterproductive to therapy and recovery."

  "Therapy," I said. "Recovery."

  "Yes," she said. "As pleasant as it may be to live in a fantasy, isn't it better to build the sort of a life that we want in the real world?" She looked at me and waited. "Isn't it, Chris?"

  My lips were dry and I licked them. "I'm thinking . . ." Not very well yet but enough to know that something was terribly wrong.

  Wrong beyond occupying a rubber room with no time sense or idea of how I got here in the first place . . .

  "Well," she said, "whether or not we think we're ready to take on all the aspects of a fully actualized personality, we still have responsibilities whether we're ready to acknowledge them or not." She looked at me expectantly.

  "As . . . for example . . . ?" was my eventual response.

  "Your son."

  I groped around in my mental fog for a minute or so. "Will?"

  She leaned forward. More distraction: she wasn't wearing a bra, either. "Is that what you've decided to call him?"

  Named him? What would she say if I told her we'd actually met during my little trip to New York six months ago? And bonded while cleaning out a Nazi fortress in the Rocky Mountains shortly thereafter? When it came to father and unborn son camping trips, nobody had more merit badges than the Cséjthe clan.

  That is not, however, the sort of family business one shares with one's shrink. Particularly when sporting the me-so-crazy line of active wear. I pulled helplessly at the buckled sleeves anchored behind my back. "How long have I been here? Is he born yet?"

  She nodded slowly. "Yes. An hour ago. His mother died in childbirth."

  I wasn't prepared. "Lupé?" More napalm spattered across my mind, the fog recoiling from its fiery remembrances. "Oh my God!" I choked on a sob but tears would not come. The drugs oozed back and forth in my skull, attempting to quench the flames.

  "The important thing is that your son is alive, Chris. He's alive and must be looked after. I have some papers for you to sign
so that he can be taken care of. You realize that you are in no shape to do that right now. And he would be better off in a foster home than a state orphanage. Don't you agree?" She held up a piece of paper.

  The drugs sizzled across the overheated parts of my brain like the tarry sludge of boiled-down coffee at the bottom of the pot. The paper looked more like parchment than an eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet of twenty-pound white bond.

  "My son," I whispered.

  "And you want what's best for him, of course."

  "What's best for him," I murmured.

  "But right now you cannot be there for him. He's your responsibility. But you are not well enough, right now, to be responsible." She held up the parchment. "The only responsible thing you can do, right now, is sign over your parental rights to a foster agency so that they can place him with a loving, normal family. At least until you're well enough to return to a normal life for yourself."

  I looked down at the floor, my stomach twisting viciously. "You're saying that I cannot take care of my own son."

  "Mr. Cséjthe"—it was no longer Chris now—"you are still suffering from a psychotic break. You think that you are a vampire . . ."

  My head bobbed up. "I am not a vampire!"

  "But you said—"

  "I am infected with one of the two viruses," I continued, locking my eyes on hers, "that combine to create the undead condition. But. I. Am. Not. A. Vampire."

  Not yet, anyway.

  The suddenness and intensity of my response had startled her. The parchment dropped to the floor and settled near my feet as she held her hands up before her. "All right, Mr. Cséjthe. I apologize for misquoting you. But don't you see? Vampire or half vampire, it all comes down to a similar disconnect."

  She picked up another sheet of paper—this one more in line with your typical, office-supply standards. "I've distilled the notes from our previous sessions. Let's revisit your perception of events around and following the accident that killed your wife and daughter." The sheet she consulted looked more like a typewritten report than the slightly curled parchment at my feet.