I had to admit it—there was a certain perfection to this crap. Not enough that I’m brought here against my will. Not enough that I’m obviously meant to do a little fighting with these dudes. But no, first I’ve got to run for office. Well, I’ve always hated politics.

I stood up slowly, stepped up to him, smiled, and kicked him in the balls. He folded up nicely.

“You say you saw not a leader, a man of wisdom or power . . . you saw not a man at all. Clearly, you are a man of truth.” I leaned down and stared into his groaning red face. “For neither did you see my boot.” There was a pause, then a titter from the far side of the campfire. Then another and another and soon all of them, led by the old gray one, were laughing uproariously. They were still laughing when Gruffle finally managed to unwrap himself and climb to his knees. I pointed him toward the spot he was in before. He clambered over and sat down, rubbing himself. I remained standing.

“To be sure,” I began, “his words are not without merit. I do not know how I have come to this Place. I do not know why. I do not know what is desired of me. I do know this, however.” And with that I strode right into the center of them, just beside the flickering fire so they would be looking up at me. “I do know that I am the One. And if you have need of me, then you should tell me what you want. And I ...” I looked directly at the old gray one. “I will tell you what I will do.”

The old one met my eyes. I saw a grin begin to form on his mouth and something else, respect, appear in his gaze. He stood and held out his right hand. I gripped his forearm almost to the elbow and he mine.

“We are well met, I believe, Fee . . . ?”

“Felix,” I finished for him. “And who might you be?”

He was their daddy. Well, daddy to several of them anyway. He was grampa to the two youngest. I’m not much good at names and I never got all of ’em right, I don’t believe. But the old one’s name was Orman. His sons were: Gruffle, the tall one. Grussle, the blond one. Temblar, the pretty one (and he really was, folks— pretty enough to be a girl—and, while I’m at it, strong enough to be a Volkswagen). And . . .

Dammit, I just don’t remember. There was another black-haired one with a sharp nose, really pointed. And there was one who chanted quietly to himself a lot but almost never spoke. There were five boys altogether and two grandsons. I was bigger than all of them except for old Orman and taller than all of them except Gruffle.

Intros over, I sat down on a rock next to Orman to get the lowdown. The cat came over to “listen.” I made it clear from the beginning just how in the dark I really was. Briefly, I related to them my only experience with Smada—which they all found hysterically funny as well as typical of the old smart-ass. Particularly the part about Lanny and me passing out in the hallway outside his room waiting vainly for him to send some of the tavern whores out.

The part about how we—Smada, Lanny, and I— had taken out the Greydon and his dark soldiers impressed the hell out of them. Seems that one was one of those oft-told legends thereabouts. I had the distinct impression from Gruffle’s look that he never would have messed with me at all had he known I was that Felix.

It didn’t seem a good time to tell them how utterly terrified I had been the whole time.

Finally we got down to it.

“Smada,’’ began Orman, “has been taken by the Dead.”

“You mean he’s dead?” I asked, surprised at my own alarm.

“He may well be,” offered Grussle (the blond one).

“I don’t dig you.”

“What?”

“I don’t understand,” I translated. “Is he dead or isn’t he?”

Orman looked grim. “I know not,” he said quietly. “I know only that he has been taken by the Dead.”

I sighed. “Okay, let’s try again: Who are the Dead?”

They were, it turned out, just that: dead. Corpses, stiffs, old news, etc., etc. Only they didn’t know it. They kept walking around. Sometimes they did more than just walk. Sometimes they killed people. And sometimes they ate them afterward.

I was in a zombie movie.

Smada’ had been nabbed by these critters. He was being taken by them to a place called Keep of the Dead, where their leader, some scumbag named Gor, was going to have what he called his “final revenge.” Seems he and Smada had had a little difference of opinion upon occasion.

It was nice to know the old fool had some standards.

But hang on, it gets worse.

The entire countryside was infested with these ghouls, stalking blankly around looking for—are you ready?—us. The Orman family, long indebted to Lord Smada, were known to be the only people brave enough or loyal enough to help him out. They were being led, rumor had it, by the One. Or rather, Smada’s One. Felix. Me.

Ouch.

It was getting late and we had a long way to travel to try to cut off the procession dragging Smada to the Keep. We decided to turn in. I lay on my back puffing on one of my burlap L&Ms and stared at the most beautiful starry sky imaginable.

Weil, except for not wanting to come here in the first place, and then being dragged here against my will and then having to fight damn near the first person I met and being expected to go save the life of a man who delighted in making a fool out of me plus being chased around by flesh-eating zombies . . .

Except for all of that, it was great to be back.

I rolled over and dreamed of shopping malls and Saturday-morning cartoons and the Democratic Party —all the things I had always hated and now missed with an almost sexual fervor.

Oh, well. Live and learn. And die.

5

The first zombie killed Grussle, the blond one, by ripping half his throat out with black teeth the moment we stepped through the tavern’s side door. I had my sword in my hand without recalling having reached for it. Out and at the ready and . . . nothing. I just stood there and stared at the nightmarish sight. They had gray dead skin and black teeth and long black nails and shiny red eyes and they were everywhere, filling the tavern, rushing at us, and they lusted! How they lusted for us! Coming at us in a wild frenzied jumble, and I heard someone scream to my side, one of the Orman boys, and I saw poor Grussle trying to scream, oh, how he tried to scream, but he had nothing left to scream with, and then one was on me and I shoved my blade right through its throat with a two-handed perfect lunge and . . .

And it didn’t care.

It just kept jamming itself forward at me, along my sword through its neck, black blood flying and splattering through the air, and I jerked my blade to the left and free, collapsing one side of its neck, but the other side still wanted me, and I spun all the way around, I spun and brought my blade around like a propeller and beheaded it, but there was another one right behind it leaping through the air at me, black teeth shining dully, red eyes flashing, and I ducked and it went over my shoulder and down, its awful hiss close and warm against my ear, and I turned and drove my blade through its forehead into the tavern’s wooden floor, but only made it hiss and scramble more frantically, and I knew, suddenly, what to do. I popped my blade loose, leaned one step to the side, and brought the full force of my blade down across its clavicle and the head burst free and rolled out of sight into the rest of the battle.

I stood up, mouth open and blowing like a whale, to get my bearings, and felt something grab my leg. It was an arm. Just the arm. And the clutching hand.

I tore it loose and flung it away just as another ghoul came rushing at me from the side. I swung a long powerful backhanded slice for its neck but it ducked underneath or maybe my aim was just off but suddenly it was on me, face to face and hissing those glistening black teeth arched wide and back on its neck to come forward and do to me what had happened to Grussle and I couldn’t get the broadsword into position so I just dropped it and grabbed the fiend by the hair to keep those black teeth from my throat and my dagger was in my other hand, my left, and I drove the blade up under its chin and we fell backward to the hard floor.