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Later, Major would blame Clive for what happened, for throwing him off his game. He was off-balance all day, trying to figure out how to get Clive off his track once and for all—before he picked up on any of the clues that would lead him to Major's other clandestine activities. This whole thing where all his friends were cops, and hung out with other cops, made being secretly a kidnapper of the rich, famous, and already dead a lot more complicated than it had to be.

For that matter, probably he should blame Vaughn du Clark. After all, if it weren't for Max Rager, none of this would be happening in the first place.

Or maybe he should blame himself. If he had taken the ring back and gotten on with his life, he would have been out of Liv's, and then no one could have used her to blackmail him. Except that she'd be dead, because Major was sure she was first on the du Clark hit list.

Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, he could work this around so it was Ravi's fault.

Anything to avoid having to admit that he got trapped in a panic room that he hadn't even noticed when he first scoped out the house, gassed, and was now in some kind of bag being transported by two guys with very loud, obnoxious voices and very ungentle hands. Or maybe that was just his post-gassing headache talking.

It was a relief when they finally put him down. At least he wasn't being bounced around, his head banging painfully into the shoulder of a big guy who definitely worked out. Maybe when they unzipped the bag they could all have a good talk about weight-lifting techniques and power shakes. Or maybe he'd wriggle out of the zipties and the duct tape and make a run for it. Sure. In his present state of wooziness, he'd probably slalom all over the place, evading them easily, and get away by tripping and falling down a long hill into a bank of tall grass that would hide him until they got tired of looking for him. Hell, if he was going to live in a movie, why couldn't it be an action film instead of a horror flick?

Major, Major, Major, he thought in disappointment with himself. You're losing it, buddy.

Could be the gas talking—or, rather, thinking—for him. With this tape over his mouth, he couldn't have talked anyway. With luck, some of that would wear off by the time they opened the bag. Which he hoped would be soon, because staring into blackness was getting to be a little on the panic-inducing side.

Outside the bag, someone was singing "Happy Birthday," and really butchering it. It was hard not to butcher "Happy Birthday," which was a ridiculously pitchy song for how popular it was, but this guy was really doing a spectacular job of missing all the notes.

Whoa. A sudden wave of nausea swept through him as whatever he was lying on started to move. Glide? Roll? Urgh. He hoped he didn't puke with the tape on. That would be messy. And he'd probably choke, and what an embarrassing way that would be to go out. He thrashed around as best he could, hoping that struggling would take his mind off the nausea.

Then he heard the sound of a zipper, hands at the edges of the bag, and light stabbed his eyes, accustomed to the darkness of the inside of the bag by now. He managed to open them a little, and blinked in confusion when he recognized Blaine, the guy from Meat Cute. Damn it, why hadn't he killed this guy when he had the chance?

"Chaos killer," a guy was saying. He looked just like Scott E. from the mental institution. But Scott E was dead. Wasn't he? Yes. He was. But this guy looked just like him.

"What?"

"He had spray paint cans on him—" Scott E. disappeared for a moment and came back with Major's trank gun. "And this."

Blaine laughed while Major frantically looked around to see if there was any way out of this mess. There wasn't, at least, not in his current position.

"We meet again, old friend," Blaine said, leaning over him. Then his fist came down on Major's face, and merciful blackness descended again.

When he woke again, Scott E.'s face was hovering just above him. This had to all be a sick dream. A nightmare. He'd wake up tomorrow in his own bed and tell Liv all about it, maybe write a screenplay. Scott E. ripped the tape off his mouth, but Major was too groggy to focus on how much that hurt.

"Scott E.?"

"Nope. I'm flattered, though. He was one good-lookin' man."

Blaine appeared behind Not-Scott E. and pushed him aside. "Rise and shine, Major bummer." He put a hand under Major's shoulders and lifted him up. Only then did Major realize they had moved him from a bag to a coffin. Well, that was unpleasant. As was the rest of the room—white walls, bottles on a table near the stairs, a freezer in the wall. They were still supplying zombies, apparently. "What do you think about this little business venture? Your girlfriend gives it the old zombie stamp of approval."

That was a lie. Liv would never work with this monster. "Liv doesn't …" he managed. His mouth was dry and his brain wasn't working at full speed, so his voice drifted off before he could finish. He worked his tongue around his mouth so he could speak more clearly next time he had a reason to.

Blaine let him drop back into the coffin and took a seat next to it. "No, she's totally down with me getting my brains from people that don't need them anymore. We're BFFs now. Who else is going to feed Seattle's zombies?" He grinned, leaning over the coffin. Major wished he still felt nauseous—he would have loved to puke all over that smug face. "At least until you kill them all. Right?"

"I'm not killing them—"

"Sh-sh-sh. The lying to save your life section comes later."

Major kept quiet, waiting to see what they wanted. If all they wanted was to stop the Chaos Killer, they already would have killed him. No, there was more to this.

"So," Blaine went on, "you're the Chaos Killer. Did you know that those are my customers you've been taking out? My income stream? I'm sure you do. Don E.!" he called. "How soon can you have a grave dug?"

"I have plans, actually," Don E. whispered. Blaine glanced at him over his shoulder and Don E. rolled his eyes. "A few hours."

"Well, let's get 'er done." As Don E.'s footsteps receded, Blaine leaned over the coffin, his face very close to Major's. "Bad news, brother. Today is the last day of your life. So you better get straight with your god, 'cause here comes the big one." He patted the edge of the coffin and started walking around it, spouting his monologue. "You comfy in there? I ask because it's where you're going to be spending eternity. But. Because I am a forgiving man, I'm going to let you decide which way you go out."

Major had to wonder if this guy had been this crazy before he was turned into a zombie. For once, he actually wished Max Rager followed him to his victims' houses. Seeing what's his name, Janko, come bursting in and shoot Blaine in the head would be really satisfying—until he had to explain to Vaughn du Clark why he got caught, exchanging one crazy for another. No, he'd have to get out of this one on his own.

Blaine started listing off types of death on his fingers. "There's quick and painless, a bullet straight to the heart. I know, a head shot would be quicker, but that brain of yours is gonna fetch a pretty penny." He resumed his seat next to the coffin. "Or—" He cleared his throat. "We turn you into a zombie. And we bury you in this box, where you will suffer forever with an abiding hunger for brains that you will never sate."

Oh, how little he knew that that was quite likely how Major would end up anyway. God. No. "Wait," he whispered. "What do you want to know?"

Leaning an elbow on the coffin, Blaine leaned in farther. "Well, it's obvious there's a leak in my organization. I mean, how else are you finding my zombies? Gimme a name, and we'll go the quick route." He held up two fingers together. "Scout's honor. Otherwise, it is …" He moved his finger toward Major's neck, pantomiming scratching. "Express train to zombieland."

"You're not a zombie," Major pointed out. "Right, so what are you planning on doing with that finger?"

Blaine sat up. "Chief!" As footsteps approached, he smiled at Major. "So, you've got Zombie-dar. That explains so much." A really big guy—no doubt the shoulder Major had banged into earlier—appeared behind Blaine. "Of course, you're not just wandering around the streets waiting for it to go—" He looked down at Major's arm, watching the hair stand on end as the big guy got closer. "Off." He leaned in next to Major's ear. "Do you believe me now? Hm? The part about me turning you into a zombie?"

"I was given a list. Three hundred names, all suspected zombies. All connoisseurs of fake tans, hair dye, and hot sauce. My job was to figure out which ones were zombies, which ones weren't, and get rid of the ones that are. I was told that if I didn't do it, they would take out every single person on the list. And they would start with Liv."

"Oh. Who's the they? Let me know who's making you do this."

"No." The last thing Seattle—or the world, really—needed was Blaine and du Clark in the same room. Besides, he had to keep some leverage.

"You must have a pair on you the size of watermelons."

"If I told you, you'd have no reason to keep me alive. And aren't you a little bit interested to know if you're on their list?"

"Maybe a few more hours in the dark will make that quick death more appealing. Close him up!" As Major tried ineffectually to struggle, Blaine added, "I'm not going to miss you."

The big guy slammed the casket closed on Major's face, and he lay there trying to think and not to panic—but god, it was hard.

By the time they opened the casket again, he had managed to drop off for at least a bit of a snooze, which had helped with the after-effects of the gas and with the pounding headache from where Blaine had punched him earlier. They were all there—Blaine, Don E., and the big guy. "So?" Blaine asked.

"Your customers aren't dead."

Judging by the lift of his eyebrows and his head, Blaine was intrigued.

"I can bring them back to you. Eventually."

"They're not dead?"

"Hey, Blaine, you can get your dad back," Don E. put in, to Blaine's clear annoyance.

"How badly do you want to see your dad again?" Major asked him.

Seemed like pretty bad, from the sudden interest in Blaine's eyes. "Where is he?"

"Let me out."

They looked at one another, not bothering to go another round. "Fine," Blaine said at last. "Chief?"

Major gestured with his chin at the beer Blaine was holding. "I'll have one of those, too."

"Don't push your luck." But he got Major the beer anyway, which he drank down in a few long swallows. "Feeling better now?"

"A little, yeah."

"All right, start singing, pigeon. Where are they?"

"Hidden, naturally. They're ... on ice." He followed Blaine up the stairs. "My handlers don't care which zombie I take out next as long as I make my way steadily down my list."

"And they have you freeze them?"

"They think I'm killing them."

"Killing them sounds easier."

"Yeah. Except I'm not a murderer."

Blaine picked up Major's trank guns. "Why don't you tell that to all the families grieving for their loved ones? So—how did they find you? Help wanted ad—'Zombie Killer Needed'?"

"They knew Liv was a zombie so they bugged her phone, and learned stuff."

"So who would want zombies gone but want it done quietly?" When Major did nothing but raise an eyebrow, Blaine grinned. "I'll figure it out."

Major wondered how long it would take a motivated Blaine to get the answer. He had to admit he was a little curious about it.

"In the meantime, I'm going to need my dad back. You gotta know I miss that man." His face crumpled, his mouth quivering, then snapped back. "Nope. Can't do it. Need me to show you a photo, or—?"

"No. I have no doubt which one is your dad. Imperious, fancy dresser, owns a bust of himself."

"That's the guy. And from here on, I tell you which zombies you take out. I think we can solve a few of each other's problems."

Major lost track of what Blaine was saying—or maybe blocked out that he was now as firmly under Blaine's thumb as he was under Vaughn du Clark's, a state of affairs that would make him sick later—and looked out the window at what appeared to be a surveillance van. "I think there's someone out there."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Blaine caught his arm as he approached the window and moved the curtain aside. "Whoa, hey, hey, hey, hey." He pulled Major away from the window. "It's the FBI, man. They've got a crush on me. They've got it in their head I'm the Chaos Killer. You're going to have to leave here the same way you came in. In the back of a hearse. Chief will take you. Oh, Major?"

"Yeah?"

Blaine held out the trank gun. "I know where you live. I know where Liv, um, lives. You get my dad, or things are going to get ugly fast. Kay?"

"Got it."

Major left without another word, glad just to be getting out of there. The rest of the logistics would come later. First, he had to talk to Liv.