It was ribs night in the morgue. Between living with a pathologist and having dated one, Major had long ago gotten over any squeamishness he might have felt about eating in here with dead bodies surrounding him. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that his former girlfriend was one of those dead bodies, only reanimated.

Still, when confronted with spareribs covered in a red sauce, Major couldn't help but wonder if maybe something that looked a little less like it had just come out of a body wouldn't have been a better choice.

Thoughts of body parts gave way to thoughts of trying to dig up bodies. How was it possible this had become his life?

"I can't believe all the crap we've found in that field," he said, getting up for another pile of napkins.

"It does make the average citizen look rather more like a slob than one would generally expect," Ravi agreed around a mouthful of rib.

"But why do people bury license plates? Do they think cars are going to grow out of the ground?" He dropped the napkins in front of Ravi, who could use them, and sat back down. "All this digging in the field, still no tainted Utopium, but I have license plates from thirty states."

"I'm booked tomorrow, but I could do the day after," Ravi told him, ignoring the whole commentary on the license plates.

Liv had been standing in the doorway, staring at them, for a bit now, and both of them had ignored her. Major was half afraid of what might come out of her mouth—Ravi had warned him these were 'rather unusual' brains. "Have you guys ever wrestled?" she asked suddenly. "Stripped down, oiled up, seen who winds up on top?"

Major pretended to give that a moment of thought. "Have we?"

"Strangely enough, no," Ravi replied.

Nodding, Major looked up at Liv and shrugged. "The night's young."

"Sorry," she told them. "Porny librarian sneaking through. It's just—you two." She pointed at them, and then pretended to discover some sauce on her finger. "Oh. Oopsie!" She stuck it in her mouth in an admittedly sexy move that several weeks ago would have had Major hauling her off somewhere private. But not tonight. Tonight he was free to be glad he didn't have to deal with brain-related mood swings in his bedroom any longer. Liv flicked her tongue against her fingertip with a smile as Ravi and Major both stared at her, waiting for the real Liv to resurface.

Fortunately, Clive walked in just then. For some reason, she seemed to manage to be herself around him more than around most other people. "Liv, our flight attendant neighbor just reached out. You available if she comes in now?"

"Sure."

Clive's phone pinged, and while he was looking at it, Liv turned back to Major and Ravi. "If you do wrestle, film it."

Major nodded. As if they would—either of the above. Still, it didn't cost anything to humor her, and it was almost kind of fun now that it wasn't his future.

"Change of plans," Clive announced. "That was Bozzio."

"Oh, your lover?"

Clive winced, but he didn't argue. Liv was probably right, Major gathered. Good for Clive—Bozzio was easy on the eyes.

"FBI agent Bozzio," Clive corrected. "We'll bring in the flight attendant tomorrow; I've got to follow up on this GPS thing. They finally turned it on."

"Good luck," Liv called as he headed back up the stairs. "He really fills out those fitted shirts, huh?" she added when he was gone.

As one, Major and Ravi nodded and agreed. Why not? Clive was in pretty good shape for a detective. He probably worked at it, in Major's professional opinion.

"What's the GPS thing?" Ravi asked.

"One of the missing rich guys had a dog. The dog has a GPS tracker, and they turned it on. They're hoping it leads them to the Chaos Killer."

Major was glad he had finished his rib, because otherwise he would be choking on it. Damn it, Minor had a chip. Why hadn't he thought of that? Now they would find the dog and it would lead them to him, and it would all be over, and Vaughn du Clark would kill every zombie on that list, starting with Liv.

Minutes seemed to pass, hours, as he tried to get his heart rate under control and stay calm and think about what the hell to do now. He pushed his chair back, fighting to remain casual as he got to his feet. "Well, gotta run, kids. Duty calls."

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs.

"Why leave now?" Liv asked. "It's rush hour."

"All the more reason."

He didn't wait to find out if she thought that answer made any sense. Instead he booked it up the stairs and hustled for his car, hoping he had been sensible enough to leave those cans of Super Max du Clark had given him in his car. Popping the trunk, he saw them there in his gym bag, gleaming at him. Mocking him for having to turn to this thing he was trying to fight against in order to save his own sorry skin. But he ignored them, grabbing one and popping it open and downing it without a second's hesitation.

Then he shut the trunk again, pulled his hood up over his head, and ran. The SuperMax fizzed in his veins, practically bubbling, and he felt … effervescent. Lighter than air. Stronger than Superman. Like he could do anything.

The traffic was heavy, which was just what he had hoped for. He raced through the mass of cars, sliding across the hood of one, and was on his way, sure that at this pace he could get there ahead of the police.

Major burst into the groomer's hardly even breathing heavy. He had to hand it to du Clark—this stuff was good. Probably illegal, and definitely bad for you, even when it didn't turn you into a zombie, but it worked. "Hello?" he called. "Hello!"

The groomer came out, smiling at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just—I need my dog."

"Oh, he's not quite ready yet—"

"Just give me my dog!" he yelled at her, the stress and the SuperMax coming together to send his anger through the roof. He recognized it in the widened eyes and sudden fright on the groomer's face, and worked really hard to rein it in. Yeah, this was the other reason SuperMax was a bad idea. "Wait, wait, hold on," he said to her, more calmly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to yell, it's just—" He glanced hastily over his shoulder. No cops yet, but it wouldn't be much longer. He had to get out of here, with Minor. "Look, Minor's stolen. I—I stole him."

"What?"

"I'm a personal trainer, okay, and Minor belonged to …" He was thinking rapidly. "A guy I was training, a cop. But the cop abused him. Beat him."

"Oh, my god." The groomer was buying this completely. She was a soft-hearted type, and he felt almost as badly about abusing that trait as he did about the way he was painting Clive as a dog abuser. God, this whole thing just sucked, and he hated the things it made him do.

"I know, it's scary. But I need you to cover for me. Please, just—just give me Minor, and when the cops show up, I was never here."

"The police? You want me to lie?"

This had to go faster. They would be here any minute, and if Clive caught him here, Clive who had never quite gotten over his certainty that there was something wrong with the way the Meat Cute murders had been solved … "Please! Please. This guy is a monster." Major was the real monster, he accepted that, but it wasn't just he who would be hurt if he got caught now.

"All right." She still wasn't certain, but she got the dog for him and he got out of there in time to find the chip, take it off the collar, and toss it in the bushes, throwing things off long enough. But it wouldn't be enough. He knew that now, and he knew what he had to do next.