The Opera Singer That Sang Doom At The Heart of A Zombie
The night wind was cold and bit sharply against him, his skin like ice beneath the wool coat he wore. He could not remember the last time he'd felt whole and truly warm. Winter in the city had always been bad but this year it raged as though it never planned to end. With the way things were going, maybe it wouldn't.
He dug in his pocket with a gloved hand, feeling for his keys as he rounded the corner to his tiny apartment. A young woman sat bundled on the steps of his building. Homeless, he thought, but as he grew closer he could see her clothes were too fine for that and her face when she lifted it was one he recognized. He stopped searching for his keys and frowned at her, even as she smiled up at him.
"You look pale Fredrick." She said, her voice still tinged with the hint of an accent, even after all these years.
Fredrick snorted. "I am in no mood for your jokes, Carlotta." He dug for his keys again, deliberately walking past her and up the steps.
"No?" She followed him into the building, continuing to smile. She smiled often now, he'd noticed, and he smiled less. Funny how people changed like that. "I have a proposition for you." She said.
He grunted again, climbing another set of stairs. His knees ached with the effort, his bones still ice.
"Scoff if you like," she continued. "It's good money I'm offering and you know you need it." Carlotta looked disapprovingly around her.
"I have everything I need already, thank you." He knew he wasn't fooling either of them, but it felt good to rebel, if only a little. He had been such a rebel once.
Carlotta followed him into the apartment and went right to the kitchen. He didn't bother scolding her. The cabinets were bare, he knew, but he let her keep wine in the fridge for when she came. She pulled a wineglass down as she continued to talk.
"You can't really be that blind to what's going on, can you?" She pulled the wine bottle from the fridge, curling her lip slightly at the mismatched jars and vials lining the shelves. "Do you know the weathermen are calling for snow?"
Fredrick dropped into his recliner with an undignified flop. "I hate snow." He said.
Carlotta rolled her eyes. "Which is hardly the point. Have you ever heard of snow this late in the year Fredrick? I'll tell you, something big is coming and I, for one, plan to be prepared."
Carlotta eyed the thin cushion of his aging sofa before settling primly on the edge of the armrest, her long legs crossed in front of her. Fredrick eyed her for a long moment, wondering not for the first time how two so different people had come to be companions.
"So what do you need me for?" He asked.
She smiled again. "I've played the diva once, my friend, and paid dearly for it. Enemies, I've learned, are best faced in numbers." She slipped a thin, gloved hand into her pocket and pulled out a small device, leaning forward to hand it to him.
Fredrick turned the thing over in his hand, examining it. It was metal and crossed shaped, but almost square, with small buttons and a circular divot. He thought there was writing etched into the surface, but his eyes were weak and the symbols were nothing he recognized. Carlotta watched him expectantly.
"And what, precisely, is this meant to be?" He asked.
Carlotta sipped her wine. "That, dear Fredrick, is going to win us this war."