Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

“Awesome? Are you nuts? Do you even know what happened?”

  “Sure, we made love and—”

  “Made love? That’s debatable. Let’s just call it sex, shall we?”

  “Fine, we had great sex. Risky sex, sure. Because of the whole zombie—werewolf thing, but when you pulled your little kink move at the end—God it was awesome. Now … I’m your slave, baby.” He reached for my hand, tried to pull me into his lap.

  I swatted him away. “Ew. No. You’re super gross from being on that floor. And it wasn’t ‘a move,’ I was trying to save you from my breath.”

  “It didn’t smell too bad,” he said.

  My mouth dropped open, purely instinctual response to the stupidity of the male animal. Did he just say my breath stunk? “You can shut up any time now.”

  I turned away from him and slipped on my panties, just as the camper door swung open revealing four shocked faces. It was really a crap shoot as to which was the most horrified, Wendy or Honey. Gil simply covered his mouth and chuckled, while Fishhook openly drooled. It’s not enough that I’m clearly a kinky pervert, now I have to be a slut, too. The evening had been nothing short of magical.

  “You should probably put your bra on,” Wendy said. “There’s been another murder.”

  Of course.

  122 Depending on your demographic, of course.

  123 … If you know what I mean. No. Not that. No. The other thing. Yep.

  124 Kinda.

  125 Yeah. I can say things like “entranced”, but don’t get used to it.

  126 I’ve tried to avoid the necrophilia commentary. No one wants to get the image of some greasy perv hittin’ it with a corpse on a mausoleum slab—I know I don’t. But I’m different, right? Right?

  127 You’ll note I’m not talking about balls. I just don’t care for them. The only sacks I’m interested in have leather handles and Italian labels. Thank you.

  128 No lubrication pun intended.

  Chapter 18

  As the Mothafuckin’ Crow

  Flies

  Serenity Forever Wipes are a zombie’s best friend. Just ask Velma Carruthers of Omalika, Arkansas. Ms. Carruthers left her usual dining spot, the Last Chance trailer park, at 2 A.M. An hour later, those unfortunate and pesky leaks kicked in sending a dribble down her thigh. Not one to be unprepared, Velma pulled out her Serenity Forever Wipes and stopped that dribble in its tracks. Serenity Forever Wipes. They really are a zombie’s best friend.

  —Commercial, Supernatural Satellite

  Tad’s body was strewn across three parking spaces in a gory smear as brown and stringy as a discarded diaper after an unfortunate tire spinout.129 His head was missing, like the albino’s, though large clumps of hair don’t normally sprout from concrete curbs, so it might have been smashed into the mess somewhere.

  Dawn had brought a shimmering glow to the scene— we all know how important good lighting is, particularly for us innocent bystanders. But it also lit up a particularly obvious claw mark that grooved the concrete paving in five distinct lines, a pile of collected stone at its ends.

  Werewolf. No question.

  The police cordoned off the area and were questioning the bystanders too curious to witness the atrocity from their cars. One cop unleashed a tirade of judgment on a stringy-haired youth holding a tree branch. A gray bit of gristle hung from the end—I didn’t even need to take a whiff, to tell you the globber was brains. What a waste. Perfectly good brains rendered inedible by hardened wads of chewing gum, cigarette butts and oil-soaked kitty litter.130

  We settled in behind an ever-expanding ring of gore hounds.

  “Alright, this is getting ridiculous,” I said. “It’s been what … an hour since we saw the fucker last? And now he’s been pap-smeared by a werewolf. Who was with him?”

  Scott shrugged. Wendy pointed at Honey.

  “Dude! Was not,” the girl recoiled, crossing her arms.

  “Where’s Fishhook?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. Fuckin’ Fishhook.” Wendy’s eyes widened and she started searching the crowd for the scraggly blood tap. “He took a walk with the guy right when you guys got back.”

  “No. Where’s he now? He was just with you guys.”

  “Was he?” Honey looked confused.

  Had I been seeing things or had the shock of being exposed like that made me fill in the blanks with just another face to horrify. He’d been drooling, though.

  “I was sure he was. I meant to talk to him first thing when we got back, too. Particularly after Madame Gloria told me that bit about the mushrooms. Shit, and then it turns out Tad is his dealer. That’s got to be it right?”

  “Who else could it be?” Scott asked. “You and I were … um … busy.” His face changed as though he’d thought of a rational alternative. “Gil was off feeding—”

  “And then he joined Honey and me with that weird family. Plus, he’s not big on unmaintained body hair.” Wendy headed off any insinuation of Gil’s involvement, slapping her hands on her hips—a Nancy Drew pose that really didn’t suit her. Though, if she hadn’t done it, I probably would have.

  Scott shrugged.

  I scanned the parking lot for the massive RV. “Where are the Cleavers, anyway?”

  “They were there an hour ago when we left them.” Honey jumped onto the bumper of some domestic piece of crap to get a better look. “I don’t see it now.”

  “When you left them?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah.” Wendy nodded. “Couldn’t put up with their charades, and I do mean the stupid game, not their obvious attempts at presenting themselves as the perfect family. You don’t think they’re were, do you?”

  “We definitely can’t rule ’em out.” Scott wound his arm around my waist, an action that caused Honey to roll her eyes and Wendy to flinch.

  I twisted from his grip. “Yeah, but doesn’t Fishhook make more sense? He was with the guy last, after all. Now, where’s Tad’s truck? I bet his mushrooms are gone.”

  I meandered back to the RV, the others following. We walked in a slow and deliberate manner, not to attract attention from the cops who’d surely be getting information that Tad had been seen with a certain gorgeous brunette.131

  I was right. The mushrooms were gone. So was the truck. So were the Cleavers. Leaving us the only possible suspects in the parking lot. We didn’t even need to discuss it, really. We were outtie.

  “Anyone need some groceries?” Scott asked.

  “Dude!” Honey exclaimed.

  We dispersed to our respective vehicles, cranked up and sped out of Billings.

  Newsflash: There is more than one grocery store on the Crow Reservation—and I’m not including the Custer’s Last Stand Gift Shop, Café and Quick Mart— but not a single roadside casino, as far as I could tell.132 I don’t know why I was surprised at this; perhaps I’d gotten used to the glut of neon rising on the sides of the Western Washington interstate, or the billboards for Gamblers’ Anonymous.133

  The grocery store in question was as far from civilization as is humanly possible. The cut-off from the main highway promised to shave an hour off the drive to South Dakota, but miles of grassland, rolling hills and abandoned houses lay in between, so reaching the shaman and our final destination was as tedious as a televised cheerleading competition.

  “This is boring, dude.” Honey flung her Chuck Taylors up on the dash. The skin-tight jeans she wore made her tiny feet seem larger, flatter. The girl needed to be introduced to the world of high-end heels.

  I cringed but didn’t chastise.134

  She turned in her seat, eyes wandering over the backseat. “Where is he?”

  I scanned the rearview. Kimmy was sitting on the hump between the backseats, grinning. “She want to talk?”

  “He asked if you wanted to talk.”

  “Dude, totally.” She faced the general area where the ghost sat. “What’s it like? Being all ghosty, I mean.”

  Mr. Kim chuckled. “Tell her it not so bad. Get to see people I like. Go places
. See things.”

  I did.

  “But you’re always stuck with her.”

  “Hey! I’m right here. I can hear you.”

  Honey ignored me. “You can’t move around. Do as you please.”

  “I can’t?” Mr. Kim seemed to be genuinely surprised.

  “I don’t know.” I stopped directing the conversation back to Honey. “I’d always heard that you’d be stuck where you died. But maybe that’s not the case. Maybe you just stick around because I’m the hottest person you know.” I winked and could swear a light pink tinged his aura.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Honey rolled her eyes.

  “I wasn’t always here. Before I somewhere different. Right after get shot.”

  I thought back to the vision. Mr. Kim standing in the cave entrance, the car nowhere in sight.

  Interlude No. 3: Mr. Kim’s Tale

  Living in the Ethereal World, and He is an Ethereal… Oh, Forget It

  “After get shot,” he said, “there was time where I could no see anything. Just black. More black.” He paused, waited for me to interpret before continuing.

  “When lights came on, was in room, like waiting room at doctor’s office only big big. A beautiful girl with gold hair and blue eyes like ocean sat behind desk. In front there was long line of people. Ghosts like me only solid. Understand?

  “There we all solid. No see-through. I got in line behind old woman with cane carved like horse head, hair like steamed bun. She very nice, ask, ‘What are we doing here?’ I say, ‘Don’t know, thought maybe you know.’

  “She did not know, but ask man in front of her. He wear white construction hat and mustache like ′80s television star Magnum P.I. He say, ‘I don’t know, either.’

  “Line move slow but could tell that once ghost talk to pretty lady behind desk, then go to one of two doors.

  “Macho construction guy answer questions and go to door on right, steamed bun lady go through door on right, too.

  “Then it my turn. I expect to go to door on right.

  “‘Natural causes?’ she ask.

  “‘Not really,’ I say.

  “‘What was it, exactly, sir?’ she ask.

  “When I say, I no remember, because I didn’t, then, she grab up big stick like office light bulb. I think she going to hit me, so I put up arms to protect—like this—but she waves over my body, sits back down and say, ‘Gunshot. Left door, please, thank you, next.’

  “I no see anyone go to left door before, so I scared. Little bit. Little bit.

  “The door knob it’s damp and cold. When I turn, it open into dark tunnel which also cold and damp. I walk down and get to end, realize I’m back in Ms. Amanda car. Lickity split. Only much later.”

  “That’s so weird, dude,” Honey said. “It’s like all those shows and movies about the afterworld are right. It’s like dying is no different than going to get your driver’s license or a smoothie. Kinda sucks dog weiner.”

  “No shit.” I slowed to a stop for a roadwork flagger. “Of course, death can go in other, more bizarre directions. Just look at me, or Wendy, or Gil. You never know what’s going to happen, but it’s always exciting.”

  “That’s comforting.” She smiled then and bit her lip. “I guess.”

  The flagger, a barrel-shaped Native American woman with a smooth smiling face spoke to Scott, ahead of us, and then approached my window. I hit the button and the glass rolled away.

  “You gotta slow down through these parts for the construction. Gotta drive no more than 25 miles per hour, and there’s the cops, so you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Gonna add about an hour to your drive, I’m afraid.” So much for shaving an hour off the drive time, I thought. The woman moved on to the camper. Wendy was visibly scowling as she struggled to crank down her window.

  An hour into the drive, we rolled up to our first stoplight. A thin strip of town bled off to the right. I didn’t have much hope that this was the place, but there was a gas station and on the post in front a sign for a grocery. Scott had spotted it, too. The orange monstrosity turned.

  Three buildings down the dirtiest street in America stood the Crow Valley Shop Mart. A single picture window next to a glass door were both obscured by so many flyers, it was impossible to see inside. I parked around the back of the building between a dented dumpster and a broke-down Chevelle with a fuzzy purple steering wheel cover and one of those air fresheners shaped like a king’s crown attached to the dash.

  “Let’s do this.” I grabbed my bag and we were off.

  Scott stayed outside but Wendy joined us. We opened the door into a vision of hell not often seen outside of war-torn third-world countries. The once-white linoleum was scarred by embedded dirt and a smoggy haze hung in the air like a crack house. I half expected to see ratty sofas with the legs busted off sitting under the list of names of people that could not enter the store without paying their bills. The poverty was palpable and yet I couldn’t help but wonder how the zombie tourist board hadn’t found this gem. That list just screamed menu and just like the fun runs at the welfare office, no one was going to go looking for some fiscally irresponsible Native Americans, any more than they would a down-on-her-luck single mother fresh from a weekend tweak binge.

  But. And there’s always a “but.”

  The girl at the cash register was pleasant enough looking and so I approached. “We’re … uh … looking for the … um … emcee?”

  She threw back her head and let out a snorting laughter that could have easily chortled from a pig’s snout. “You mean M.C. Shaman?”

  “I guess?” I shrugged.

  “Master of the mike?” She giggled. “Duke of dope rhymes?”

  “That’s him,” Wendy added. “He around?”

  “He’s down cleaning the piss pit.” She poked her thumb over her shoulder at an open staircase leading into some kind of a basement. The sign above it read: “Restrooms locked for OUR safety.” Quaint.

  “Should we just go down—”

  “Gilbert!” the checker yelled, cutting off my question. “Give these people the keys to the piss pit.”

  Do you see how those two words just don’t sound good together? The imagery conjures up summer camp nightmares and German kink nightclubs. I was left queasy as though I’d turned a corner and sauntered through a lingering fart or opened Grave and Country and found an unflattering picture in the society section.

  An elderly Indian man, skin as wrinkled as ribbon candy, creaked into view from behind stacks of yellowed paper, from a raised dais that must have served as the office-slash-security lookout. He shuffled toward the rear and then out of sight. A full minute later, he rounded the corner, baggy trousers dangling off his skeletal frame from a pair of suspenders fashioned from electrical cords. A look NOT from the resort collection of any major house, I assure you.

  He scraped across the floor, dragging two scuff tracks in his wake. It took him a full five minutes to reach the cashier, and I oughta know; I checked my watch about eighteen fuckin’ times during the old man’s trek. He came right up to the girl, reached past her and underneath the cash register, moaning with the effort and retrieved a ring of keys attached to a two-by-four.

  I was outraged. “What the fuck? Why didn’t you just get us the keys,” I asked the checker.

  “Policy.” She shrugged, and pulled an emery board from the cash drawer and began filing the chipped nails at the end of her stubby fingers.

  Gilbert handed Wendy the keys and shuffled back to his post.

  Where any normal store that locked its facilities would simply tag the keys, “Ladies” or “Gents,” the Crow Valley Shop Mart proprietors felt it necessary to mark their bathroom keys thusly …

  Key to the PISS PIT. Enter at your own risk and clean as you go. Watch for needles, broken bottles, and loose stool.

  • Please alert the cashier of empty chip bags and meat packs. Thank you, The Management!

  … in Magic Marker no less.
>
  Do I need to tell you we were horrified?

  In fact, we were the ones shuffling now, each of us alternating pushing the other toward the grimy stairwell, the base of which seemed to vanish into a black hole that could only be the opening of some septic tank or heroin den.

  “You go.” Wendy prodded me toward the first step.

  “Mr. M.C. Shaman? Are you down there?” I called. I heard nothing in response but a dull thud and some distant clanging. The first step was the hardest.

  Wendy and Honey clung to my shoulders, fighting for the full use of me as a shield, as we descended into the piss pit.

  Despite looking like a cave, the base of the stairs was dimly lit by a single overhead bulb, a dimple of grunge dead center like a dirty nipple. The sign on the door simply read: PRIVATE, and the key was not to a knob but to a padlock. Apparently the Duke of Dope Rhymes enjoyed absolute solitude while cleaning up piss, or whatever. I slid the key into the slit and turned. It popped open with a click and we were in. A gust of stagnant urine caused my eyes to bulge, Wendy to gasp, and Honey to shout, “Dude!”135 The door opened on a hall of other doors; the two on the left shared the international symbols of laying cable, the other, at the far end, was cracked. The floor was cement and wet brown stains ran in rivulets from the toilets to a rusty drain in the center of the hall.

  “Mr. M.C. Shaman!” I called again.

  “Yo?” Wendy added.

  I grimaced.

  “What?” She shrugged and looked down the hall, eyebrows raised.

  The cracked door opened, filling the murky hall with a blast of light bordering an angelic—dare I say— shaft. I had to squint to see the approaching silhou-ette—a man, not tall, but wearing some sort of cape and leaning on a cane. As he came into view, it dawned on me that he was dressed in full-on pimp regalia, from the insanity of a purple zoot suit down to the jewel-studded chalice he held in his hand like a brandy snifter. If you could just frame out all that fabric, he wasn’t half bad looking. His skin was the burnished brown of years in the Montana sun. He had sleepy bedroom eyes and a nose like a small winter squash. It was the hair. You might expect a couple of braids falling from a feathered headband.136 No. Not M.C. Shaman. He was rockin’ it old school in a larger-than-life afro.