Page 4 of Reptile Dysfunction

I get the feeling he’s not telling me something, but I don’t want to press it. Besides, I know Eddie will do a good job and he’s right – the Commons is for people like him. It only makes sense that a faun should cover the story rather than a human.

“Well, I sure look forward to reading it,” I say, shaking his hand and leaving him to graze.

The moment I turn around, I see a thin, raven-haired woman standing right behind me, evidently privy to the conversation I just had.

“Helloooo Maaayor Wendaaaaaall!” she shrieks with a knowing smile.

“Hello, Delilah,” I reply in kind, even though my snakes are quivering at her high-pitched screams.

She leans in, lowering her voice to a piercing whisper.

“Yooouu knoooow, that new repoooorter is aaaasking about yooouuu!” she tells me with about as much discretion as a banshee is capable of.

“Oh, really?” I ask, with genuine interest. “What about?”

Delilah gives me a look that just about wipes the smile off my face.

“Sheeee’s very suspiiiiiicioooouuus!” she replies in a scream-whisper. “I thoouuught you should knooooow, she’s diiiiigging arouuunnnd!”

I frown a little, wondering what that could possibly mean, but I thank Delilah all the same. As I go around greeting the other attendees, though, I can’t help but ponder what the reporter might be digging around for. There’s certainly nothing to dig up, but it still makes me nervous. Could this be a repeat of what happened in Sweetwater? Humans treating me with suspicion and distrust just because I’m a gorgon?

I shake the thought away, not wanting it to sully what has otherwise been a lovely morning. Besides, I have faith that eventually she’ll realize there’s nothing to uncover. Eventually, she’ll see me the same way the other residents of Curiosity do – as a man intent on serving his community and nothing more.

I have no more to hide than any other person in Curiosity. Or monster, for that matter.

3

CHARLOTTE

My desk is piled with stacks and stacks of files, folders, books, almanacs, and records, not to mention the computer that’s practically crowded out. The keyboard is covered by papers, the mouse peering out helplessly from the mess.

I’ve got one hand in a record book while the other scrolls furiously through government archives, searching for something, anything, to write a real story about. I’ve been at it for hours and as frantic and stressed as I am, there’s a little part of me that’s thrilled to be back in the game.

At the Tribune, this was how I spent most of my time – head in a book, or eyes glued to a screen, going over tip-offs and interview material, writing emails, and making phone calls. Anything to get to the bottom of a juicy story. And I intend to do exactly the same thing here at the Herald.

In fact, if I focus only on the material and block out the office around me, I can almost pretend I’m back in Chicago, working on some huge exposé the way I did before everything fell apart.

“What are you working on there?” a voice above me says. When I look up, I see the now-familiar gray-green face of a zombie staring down at me, breaking any and all illusions of being back in a human city.

“Hi, Fred,” I say, trying my hardest to disguise the disappointment in my voice. “I’m just doing some research about the town. Hoping to find something interesting for my first article.”

“Oh, how exciting!” he squeals.

He takes a seat on the edge of my desk and pushes a bunch of papers and books to the floor in the process. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“What have you got? Anything good?” Fred asks, leaning way into my personal space to peer at the screen.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” I say, trying not to breathe in the horrible smell of zombie flesh mixed with the very liberal use of Drakkar Noir. “I’ve been looking over government spending and last year Curiosity spent $2000 on pickles!”

I scroll back up the budget sheet I’ve been reviewing and point to the offending line item. “That’s got to be code for something. I smell embezzlement.”

I grin at Fred, feeling pretty pleased with myself for showing him what real journalism looks like, but I don’t get the reaction I expect. In fact, Fred is just grinning back at me inanely.

“Pickle Fest!” he cries out, looking like a kid at Christmas. “It’s my favorite topic to cover in Fred’s Thoughts!”

For a second, I don’t know what he’s talking about. “What?”

“Pickle Fest,” he repeats like it’s self-evident. “The festival that happens every August. Didn’t you have one in Chicago?”