"William Mark Simmons - Undead 2 - Dead on My Feet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

Acheronta movebo.

(If I cannot move Heaven,
I can raise Hell.)
тАФVirgil
The Aeneid
Author's Note: This is a work of fiction. The twin cities of Monroe and West Monroe
actually exist on the banks of the beautiful Ouachita River, however names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imaginationor are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual business establishments, events, specific locales,
the U.S. government, or persons living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.This
one's for Dennis, friend & author.While a number of people contributed time and advice,
he beat me mercilessly with a blue pencil through conception and rewrites.

Any faults within are mine for advice ignored.
 Baen Books by Wm. Mark Simmons
One Foot in the Grave




Chapter One
The beaded curtains clicked and rattled like finger bones as I brushed them aside. Hesitating on the
threshold, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimness beyond. The first impulse is always to slip into
the infrared band, but augmented perception of heat sources rarely comes in handy unless you're hunting
prey. I was here hunting information.
Candles provided most of the illumination, although a lava lamp glimmered in one corner and the
crystal ball at the center of the table seemed to shed a soft luminescence all its own. Tiny red eyes of
burning incense glared through the dimness. Oriental rugs and tapestries vied with hand-woven
god's-eyes for supremacy in the general decor. A couple of human skulls counterbalanced the effect of
plaster saints and dangling rosary beads.
I stepped across the threshold. Technically, I didn't require an invitation, yet, but the appointment set
by telephone would have served at any rate. I looked around, my eyes still working in the range of
normal, human vision. Now that I was inside, the rest was less impressive: a step below a Jaycee's
tour-the-haunted- mansion-and-your-donation-will-help-charity shtick.
"Nice," I said. "I'll bet the rubes just eat this stuff up."
"Atmosphere," said Mama Samm, "is very important in opening de gates of belief. Please," she
indicated a chair, "sit down."
I sat. The chair was surprisingly comfortable. I sank down into its cushiony depths and discovered,
belatedly, that it might be difficult to extricate myself in a hurry. Not that I should have to worry about
busting out of a faux fortune-teller's parlor, but if I had learned one thing during the past year or so of my
"afterlife," it was the value of charting all potential escape routes when walking into unfamiliar territory.
And my on-the-job motto was: "Never relax."
"Relax," Mama Samm said.
She was immense. Her caftaned body seemed to fill a third of the room like a giant, glimmering white
mushroom and her white turban floated above her dark features like a disembodied ghost.
"You have questions," she said. She wasn't asking.
I nodded. Opened my mouth.
"You are here on behalf of anot'er," she continued.
"WellтАФ"