Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  “You started it.” I tossed the empty bottle aside and dug for another.

  From there, the conversation dwindled to nothing, an uncharacteristic silence settling over us like a late summer fog. The ghosts had even settled down. Except for a particularly downtrodden specter pacing under a nearby tree, the rest seemed content settling into their various routines (friendly visits to neighboring graves, a spirited game of cards over by the mausoleum, a display of ghost lights in the woods). Relaxing, even.

  And that’s when I opened my big fat mouth.

  “I got a weird call today.”

  “Oh yeah?” Wendy asked. She must have been bored because this normally mundane news had her wide-eyed.

  “My mother’s hospice worker.”

  “What?” Gil twisted in his chair to face me. “Hospice? She’s dying? You never even talk about her. I thought she’d already kicked it.”

  “Yeah, right?” Wendy muttered.

  The dead are so sympathetic. If you’re looking for an honest opinion, and don’t want any handholding or softeners, this is the crowd for you. Not that we’re auditioning for friends, just now.

  “Nope. She’s still alive. The doctors say she’s in the end stages of stomach cancer; it’s pretty much spread everywhere. Been at the hospice for a few weeks now. Apparently, it’s not pretty, nor is she.” Inside or out, I thought.

  “Wow.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Yeah.” The truth was, I wasn’t feeling any pain about it. Ethel Ellen Frazier had been a rotten mother, wife, and human being. You name it. Now, she was rotting inside. Ironic? Harsh? Sure, but she’d earned it. Every wince of pain, bout of vomiting, and bloody toilet bowl—the caller had gone into some unnecessary specifics.

  Let me give you a little “for instance.”

  When I was young, Ethel convinced me—through months of badgering and ridicule—that I could benefit from a gym membership. Dad tried to talk her out of it, but like always, he had no say. So, off we went to Happy’s Gym and Pool. Happy was just that; he had the kind of smile I could never seem to muster, broad and beaming. I think it was even real. The gym and pool were in the same room, a massive barn-like structure with the pool in the center, the equipment to the right, and the men’s and women’s locker rooms on the left, separated by a dry sauna. With about ten minutes left on the treadmill, I noticed a growing number of horrified expressions. I took off my headphones. Screams were coming from the sauna. Long screams. Then, choppy short bursts. And in between low gurgling moans reminiscent of the ape house at the zoo.

  I scanned the room for my mother; I didn’t expect to see her. She was behind closed doors. And I was out in the open, 15 years old and humiliated. Happy’s smiling face was nowhere to be found, either. I suspected it was crammed firmly between my mother’s thighs. But I was wrong. The security guard cleared up the mystery by opening the sauna door. There was Mom. On all fours and facing a captive audience, Happy behind her caught up inside like a shamed dog; his perpetual smile replaced by an embarrassed “O”. I could see the words play across Ethel’s lips, as I ran for the exit. “Shut the door, dimwit!”

  Now, tell me she didn’t buy herself some cancer on that day.

  Did I mention how lucky I am to have friends like Wendy and Gil? I can always count on them to turn the conversation back around to … them, and I was glad to have the heat off this time.

  “Oh my God!” Wendy grabbed my arm and shook it like an impatient kid in the candy aisle. “I totally knew about this. I was talking to Madame Gloria just the other day and—”

  “Here we go.” Gil snatched up the bottle of Mc-Gowan and finished it off.

  Madame Gloria was Wendy’s telephone psychic. According to our girl, she was “moderately accurate,” whatever that meant.

  “Shut up, Gil. Madame Gloria said that someone was going to die and that we …”—she pointed at Gil, herself, and me—“we would be going on a trip. A road trip.”

  “Jesus.” I swatted her hand away. “You think she’s talking about Ethel? I’ll be damned if I haul my dead ass across three states for that bag of bones.”

  “It might be good to get some closure.” Gil’s face was attempting sincerity. It missed. He did succeed in pulling off a smoosh-faced version of constipated.

  “Alright. So, before the two of you go all psychotherapist on me, let me tell you a few things. The reason I never talk about my mother is that she’s a bitch. In fact, the last time I saw her was my high school graduation, where she blew me off to go to my ex-best friend’s party. I can’t say as I miss her.”

  Wendy waved me off. “None of that matters, anyway. Madame Gloria says we’re going. It’s fate.”

  “Yeah. It’s fate.” A sly smile played on Gil’s lips.

  “Like Hell it is.” I punched his arm. “What was all that shit about breaking free from your family?”

  He sneered, rubbing the spot. “What are you talking about?”

  “When I first met you and you took me to see Ri-cardo?”

  “Not ringing any bells.”

  “Ricardo told me that I needed to make a clean break from any living family and friends.”

  Ricardo Amandine had filled me in on a lot more than mere survival tactics. The club owner had become a mentor of sorts, doling out words of wisdom over drinks, shopping, and the odd kill. He was hot as hell, but as is the rule with male zombies, totally asex-ual.5 Shame.

  “True,” Gil said. “But this is different. Your mother’s gonna die, anyway. And look at poor Wendy. Don’t her feelings count?” He gestured to the other chair.

  Wendy’s lips pursed into a pathetic pout. She was even batting her eyes.

  Christ.

  He continued. “She’s totally bored. Would a road trip be so bad?”

  I imagined dirty rest-stop bathrooms, rows of trailers substituting for motels, a general lack of shopping opportunities. A zombie has certain needs. The upside? Cute country folk have cute country flavors.6

  Wendy nodded. “What were you planning to do about the situation?”

  “I thought I’d pretend I’d never gotten the call. Denial’s my friend, and all.”

  “Yeah, okay. Just say you’ll think about it. Please?”

  “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  I lit up a cigarette; the smoke caught on the thinnest of breezes and spun off like cursive. The trail stretched off toward the single ghost who was still interested in our presence. He stomped through the haze, passed us and then stopped about ten feet away, leaning against a rather confusing headstone of a gargoyle eating a hoagie—or was that a salmon?

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to Hans about making me some of those,” Wendy said. She was pointing at the black-papered cigarette dangling from my lips.

  “I’ll ask him to make you some. Any particular colors, or outfits you’re trying to match?”

  The ghost started coughing. Expansive rattling coughs. He must have wanted attention, as he never looked away. So dramatic. “It’s not gonna kill ya, buddy!” I yelled. He scowled.

  Wendy disregarded the exchange and continued. “An assortment would be great. Only no orange. I look horrible in orange.”

  “Tell me about it. Remember that track jacket you kept trying to wear out in public. You looked like a road worker. I was fully prepared to club you.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, as though I’d brought up some long-lost treasure. “Where’d I put that?”

  I shrugged. The truth was, Wendy hadn’t put the track jacket anywhere. I’d snuck it out of her hall closet while Mama was putting her face on and promptly dumped it in the trash chute. I was doing her a favor, really. She looked like a big pumpkin in that puffy satin piece of shit.

  Gil adjusted his butt in the chair. He’d taken note of our visitor. “Is that ghost eavesdropping?”

  “Probably.”

  “I can’t have anyone, or thing, fucking up my shit. Not tonight. Markham’s not a flexible guy.”

  “Maybe
he thinks you need a third judge of your vampire making—”

  “Vampires?” The ghost choked the words out from over my shoulder. I staggered to the side to avoid any spectral germs or whatever. “I can’t stand me no frig-gin’ vampires. Piss on ’em. They should all rot in iron boxes.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Wendy commented.

  “Harsh?” The ghost spit a glob of violet-hued mush at Wendy’s feet. “I don’t know ’bout that. Seein’s they’re the one’s suckin’ people dry. I’ll say it again. Piss on ’em.”

  Up close, the ghost looked like a vagrant. His face was all scruff surrounding a nose the size of a kosher dill, his eyes obscured by thick tufts of brow hair. Dirt clung to his ethereal form in spots, as though even death couldn’t hide the residue of boxcar or alley dumpster. There was even a scent in the air, pungent and sour like milk gone to clot.

  “You one of them fuckin’ vampires, boy?” He kicked at the back of Gil’s chair, foot moving right through and ending up somewhere inside Gil’s stomach.

  “What if I am?” Gil stood and faced the bigot. I almost interceded but thought it might be important to witness some honest-to-God vamp bashing. If only just to say I had been there, and act disturbed and offended. I could give my report to the late evening edition of Supernatural Seattle. They love me.

  “Then I got somethin’ fur ya. You stinkin’ mosquito.” The ghost started to reach down inside his pants.

  We all gasped in horror. Well not all, Wendy seemed genuinely interested—craning her neck to get a good look—but she doesn’t count, being a slut and all.

  A low scraping rose from beneath us, a lonely hollow scrabbling, as though rats were burrowing through wood or Gil’s client had shredded the tufted silk of the coffin lid and was clawing through mahogany. Yeah. It was that last one for sure.

  The noise drew the ghost’s attention, as well. He hiked up his pants and re-secured them with what looked like an electrical cord.

  The scrabbling gave way to several deep thuds.

  “Couldn’t we just dig him up and save his manicure?” I asked.

  Gil shrugged. “It builds character. Besides do I look like I’m dressed for grave digging?”

  Gil was up out of his chair, folding it and gesturing for me to do the same. I looked around for Wendy and to my immediate dismay caught sight of the homeless ghost. He stood atop the soon-to-be vampire’s headstone, pants unzipped, and dick in hand.

  “Ew. What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

  “What does it look like, girly?” He bounced on the balls of his feet in preparation.

  It hit me then. “Oh … shit. Gil, he’s gonna piss on your guy’s—”

  “Piss on ’em. Piss on ’em,” the ghost chanted.

  Gil looked up from packing away the chairs just in time to catch Boxcar Willie pissing a steaming stream of ectoplasm onto the grave. It glugged from the guy like Mrs. Butterworth’s, glowing an enthusiastic obscene purple.

  “Gross!” Wendy yelled from behind me.

  “Jesus!” Gil dropped the folded chairs and made for the ghost just as the Beaver King broke ground. Markham breached the surface and was birthing straight through the manhole-sized puddle of ghost piss. Globs of the stuff dribbled down his arms and mingled with the mud on his face. The ghost shook a few errant drops loose. They plopped on Markham’s face like thick blobs of mayonnaise.7

  “What the fuck!” The new vampire spat, scooping the ectoplasm off his face. It oozed from his hair and plopped onto the shoulders of an expensive pinstriped suit that really seemed like overdressing for either digging oneself from a grave, or pee play, for that matter.

  Gil started backing away, and gesturing for Wendy and me to do the same.

  Markham had extricated himself from his burial place; he stood there like Carrie on prom night: humiliated, covered in that obscene fluid. He swung at the ghost, pummeling the air with impotent fists. The hobo’s laughter echoed across the cemetery. The spirits playing poker by the mausoleum looked up.

  One said, “Earl must have found him a vampire.”

  Their laughter joined a growing cacophony, as news spread amongst the dead.

  “Where’s that piece of vampire shit? I’ll kill him!” Markham yelled.

  Those were the secret words, apparently. We took off through the graveyard like someone had announced happy hour, bounding over headstones, and skirting spectral presences. Wendy broke off a heel in a concrete vase holder. I nearly tripped on a wreath Gil knocked over in his mad dash for the car.

  In the distance, Markham was still screaming. “Luxury my ass! I want my money back, vampire! Every fucking cent!” Despite being the evil villain type, the Beaver King couldn’t chase for shit.

  I turned to Wendy. “Did Madame Gloria see that one coming?”

  1 It’s like he had a time machine and a white trash childhood.

  2 Celebrity blood donation is quite lucrative. You’d be sur prised who’s giving it up for the vamps.

  3 I’m a total shoe slut. Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin: this is an open invitation. Feel free to run a train on me. The cost? Stilettos, duh.

  4 The folks at Sanrio are really kicking their adult line up a notch.

  5 Something about the lack of blood flow.

  6 Without all the nasty additives you find in city meat.

  7 I don’t have to tell you, this kind of treatment would not be considered luxury service, by any means.

  Chapter 2

  Hood Ornaments of the

  Damned (and Bitchy)

  Might I suggest a zombie plan—no, nothing as absurd as a defensive arrangement—a plan to have any plastic surgery or body art installed prior to your transformation.

  —Horchata Romero from her appearance on Channel Dead’s GHOULAG (episode 21)

  We barreled through tight residential side streets, skidded on mounds of soggy leaves at nearly every corner and churned through puddles at breakneck speeds, coating one unfortunate woman with a shower of mud so slimy it clung to her head like a veil. Wendy and I busted up screeching like school girls while the woman spat obscenities foul enough to make a two-bit crack whore blush.8

  “God, that was close.” The back of Gil’s head filled the rearview mirror. He was noticeably shaking from the scene, but his hair looked great, thick and shiny. I let him be for the moment, rather than pointing out the understatement of the year. Wendy, unfortunately, had none of my restraint.

  “You think?” She twisted around and jabbed him in the back.

  “Ow!”

  “What the fuck was all that, Gil?”

  “What do you mean? That was us escaping from a psychopath drenched in ghost piss.”

  “Don’t you mean paying client?” I shook my head. “You’re gonna have to straighten that shit out, Gil. He’ll badmouth your business into the ground, if you don’t.”

  “Or worse!” Wendy crossed her arms.

  Gil sunk back into the seat and covered his face. “Jesus.”

  “Let’s just swing by the Well and talk to Ricardo, he’ll have some ideas.”9

  “Fine,” Gil said.

  I suspected he acquiesced to shut me up, rather than from any real sense that Ricardo could help. I’d never seen him so downtrodden, and frankly, I didn’t care for it.10 There was something defeated in his posture that had me wondering exactly how dangerous the stripper pimp was. Markham certainly wanted his money back, but would he really try to kill Gil? It seemed a tad petty considering the man’s business. I mean, honestly, what were a few golden showers to the king of kink? It probably wasn’t even the first time someone had pissed on him.

  Still. Gil was scared.

  He’s a vampire, sure, but that doesn’t mean what it does in books, on TV or at the movies. Down here, in the real world, if Tom Cruise gets burnt to a crisp, he’s not going to show up shiny and new in the back seat of Christian Slater’s car.11 They’re a lot more vulnerable than you’d imagine and rapid healing only helps i
f there is something left to heal. I’d seen vampires pum-meled to death that didn’t make it back.

  It wasn’t helping any that my driving was a tad erratic.

  At the next intersection, I nearly clipped a faux-wood panel van filled to capacity with bouncing welfare children, fully unleashed from their seatbelts, their mother smoking away with the windows rolled up. It was embellished with those creepy stick figure families on the back window. Normally, I thought of those as menus, but this time, I was just happy to avoid another acci-dent.12

  “Jesus Christ!” Wendy screamed. “Bruises equal money, Amanda!”

  I pointed the Volvo into a 7-Eleven and parked. Wendy snatched her purse from the center console and darted into the store. Gil and I sat for a moment, silent.

  “Do you think he’ll really try to kill you?” I asked.

  “It’s a distinct possibility. He’s not one of the good guys, you know?”

  “We’re not, either.”

  “We’re the good bad guys. He’s a bad bad guy.”

  “Oh … got it. I’m glad we straightened that out.” I rolled my eyes.

  It was then that a transparent head slipped through the windshield. “What’s with rong faces?” The ghost pointed his finger from Gil to me; the glow smudged the air a weak teal.

  “Hi, Mr. Kim.”

  The first thing you’d notice about my Volvo is its unusual hood ornament.13 Most people have metal emblems festooning their cars; I have to have a ghost. ’Cause if anyone would be stuck with one, it’d be me, right? Mr. Kim is a permanent fixture in my life, since he died for the second time in the front seat of my car. It was about six months ago. I jumped in next to the zombie, who grinned at me through a trickle of liquefied brains draining from a hole in his forehead. He was gone. Gone gone. Or so I thought. A couple of weeks passed and there he was lying on his stomach on the hood, ankles crossed in the air and beaming, like a cheerleader photo.

  “What got you upset?” he asked.

  “Gil’s gonna get murdered.” I couldn’t resist a jab. He’s lucky I held off for as long as I did.14

  “Oh God, it’s true.” Gil reverted to his standby head in hand pose. “I’m dead.”