Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  He was surprisingly easy to herd into the motel room; a rolled-up newspaper prod didn’t work but flashing a tit got the hobo shuffling right along. His eyes crinkled as he stepped into the sun.

  Getting him into the tub was another story.

  Bubbles exploded from the rush of steaming bathwater. I’d swiped six miniature shampoo bottles and a can of Ajax off the maid’s cart just to be sure we’d have enough cleansers for his soaking.

  The first step was my obstacle, not his. You see I wasn’t really prepared to see the guy naked. Not after seeing all the dimpled scar tissue circling his neck. I’d seen a show on scarification as the next big body art movement. Looking at Fishhook, I wasn’t buying it. Not for a second.

  The scars tracked down his arms, chest and stomach, a trail of pain marking every bit of flesh loose enough to get a mouth around. Some were fresh specked with the yellowed ooze of infection. Fishhook needed antibiotics and a good plastic surgeon. What he had was me. He watched with those sad eyes, assessing me this time. I imagined him wondering if I was disgusted.

  I was. Probably wasn’t hiding it well, either.

  He undid his belt and dropped his pants, catching me off guard, ruffling me—and not just because he wasn’t wearing underwear. The scars continued down past his waist, a mass of swollen indents blossomed across his buttocks, traveled the length of both thighs and calves, set off against a canvas of mottled bruised flesh. There were even a few bites on the sides of his feet.

  Savages.

  Fishhook did have one thing going for him. He was hung like someone had left the sausage machine unsu-pervised. I found myself staring, mouth unhinged. The sight was moderately frightening, I must say, like someone had traded a normal dick for a fresh kielbasa. I’m not even going to talk about the foreskin.

  Understand this: I don’t do cheese tray.37

  I must have sneered. Fishhook cleared his throat and formed a coherent sentence.

  “You may not like it, but I’ll bet that friend of yours enjoys a little hood.”

  “Oh … I see. You’re talkative, now.”

  “Everyone knows Gummi bears taste like dick cheese.” He rocked his hips, spanking his thighs with the monstrosity.

  “Gross. Just get in the tub, you perv.” I reached to snatch his putrid clothing off the floor but he beat me to it, rummaging through linty pockets, until he retrieved a small green Tupperware container. He gave it a shake, rustling up a muted scraping sound and then hugged it between his palms. He slid into the tub, eyes never leaving the container.

  I sat on the toilet. “Do you remember what you said to me back in the camper?”

  He shrugged.

  “You said, ‘They’re coming.’ Who’d you mean?”

  He closed a fist around the lidded cup. “I didn’t say nothin’ to you.” His words clipped off at the ends like a bad haircut, choppy; defensive or embarrassed, but hard to say as he didn’t have any other social skills that could be construed as normal.

  “Yes you did,” I chided.

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Did, too.”

  “Uh unh.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  “None of your business.”

  I crammed his rags into the trashcan, through with his bullshit. “I’m going to get you some new clothes, but since you can’t be trusted to clean your own dick, I’m certainly not leaving these filthy rags for you to pull back on after you’ve bathed.” He snickered and I backed out of the room, slamming the door behind me. A moment later, I heard sloshing. “And shave off that goddamn beard. It looks like a badger’s taking a shit on your face. I think there’s a razor on the counter. I’ll be back in a bit and take you to get some coffee and food.”

  “I … uh. I … uh—”

  “Great.” I stepped out of the motel room, nearly falling over a clearly eavesdropping and knee-level Wendy. She dropped over on her side.

  “Dammit!” she squealed.

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

  She snatched her purse from the cement and brushed at her already-ruined sack dress. “I’m fine.”

  “No. No. Not about running into you, about before.”

  She brightened. “You were right. I’m a freak.”

  “Still. I shouldn’t have.” I lifted my hands in surrender.

  Wendy clutched her hips with mock indignance, and pouted. “You’re supposed to tell me it’s perfectly normal to have cravings for human food. That’s a friend’s job.”

  “Hello? There’s nothing normal about us. I’m just worried that you feel like you have to hide it.” I pulled out my best psychotherapy voice for the next bit, a manner I had a great deal of experience with, being a habitually inappropriate patient. “Secrets erode families.”

  “Can we just talk about something else?” She looked at the wastebasket in my hands. “Like what’s in there?”

  “Oh, just Fishhook’s clothes. I need to toss them in the dumpster. I’ve got him bathing right now and there’s a topic that’ll trump a pesky eating disorder. The guy’s wiener is scary big.”

  “What?”

  “Oh yeah. He needs a chamois for that hose.”

  “You’re kidding. I thought you said he was gross.”

  “Oh, he is. Totally covered with scars from his neck down, the poor guy.”

  “Then what were you doing checking out his dick?”

  “Um … hello? I’m a perv. Now, let’s go shopping.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent searching for suitable travel attire in the Town That Fashion Forgot. The population must have had to drive elsewhere for their clothing needs—or, God forbid, duct tape some burlap together and call it a dress (like this one bitch I saw38)—all we could find were a thrift store and a western wear shop, both of which caused me to itch like crazy just looking at the signs. Despite my own personal anti-cowpoke sentiment, Wendy dragged me into Mandy Jo’s Tack and Tatters; she didn’t seem to have a problem wrangling into low fashion.

  I did.

  Mandy Jo, as I insisted on calling the shop girl, wore a flared skirt and boots with a leather vest festooned— and there’s no other way to put this—with spare change, a centerfold from Penthouse’s “Girls of Panhandling” issue, or at the very least a runner-up.

  “Hey, ladies. Can I help find you some cute western wear outfits?” Mandy Jo snapped her gum with a jaw cracking like a TMJ poster child. She rested her hands on her hips.

  “Ew.” I shook my head as I looked her up and down. If I’d thought about eating this one, it was only for a second, chewing through that outfit would surely cause a rash in even the most hardy of skin types.

  Wendy stepped in front of me. “Absolutely, hon. I’m gonna need some jeans, boots and one of those darling hats.”

  “And for you?” the girl addressed me directly.

  “Thanks, but no. I’ll just watch my friend make a fool of herself.”

  Wendy sneered and waved me off.

  “Suit yourself, but I have to tell ya, bolo ties are half off and we got some real cute ones in the last shipment.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  Mandy Jo loaded Wendy’s arms with indigo jeans, a couple of muted plaid shirts, the requisite shit-kickers, and led her to a curtained closet. I grabbed a seat by the mirror. Within a couple of seconds, the sound of Wendy’s jaw ratcheting open echoed from the changing room, followed by the clear shredding of fabric and a shower of threads and plaid scraps launched over the curtain rod.

  “Are you alright in there?” The shop girl kneaded her hands, her jaw clenched under a forced smile.

  “Purrrrrvection!” Wendy tossed back the curtain to reveal her creation.

  Mandy Jo gasped, her hand quivering over her mouth as though some welfare brat had just vomited on the floor.

  While Wendy strutted back and forth along her makeshift catwalk of carpeting between the cash register and the front door, I applauded, and shouted, “Gorgeous!” I had to give it to her, she was work
in’ it like a ho in her re-purposed Daisy Dukes and plaid strapless halter made from shredded menswear shirts. Even the cowboy boots weren’t entirely wrong, though the hat was a bit much. What brought the whole thing together were the layers of gold chains, big ′70s hoop earrings and pink tinted porn star sunglasses, which had to have been hiding in Wendy’s huge hobo bag. “Chic and tawdry at the same time. Genius!” I yelled.

  “I hope you’re going to pay for that.” Mandy Jo’s face curled up into a shrew’s snout.

  “You act like it’s not an improvement.” Wendy busted into laughter, cut it short and belted with a snap, “Add it up, bitch. We’re ready to go.”39

  The thrift store was where I was forced to work my magic.

  Second Hand Rose was the name of the dive and was also suitable designation for the sales staff, a dusty girl in a beige sweater with a face to match. I waved her off before she could eke out a syllable. Menswear is the first stop in any used clothing store.40 I snagged a white cotton Van Heusen dress shirt from a nearby rack, tore out the offensive label and let it parachute to the dusty floor, from the boys’ section I snagged a pair of flat-front khaki pants and on my way to the dressing room I snatched a fading black tablecloth from housewares and held my head high as I breezed through shoes,41 thought twice and snatched a pair of penny loafers from the rack.

  When I emerged from my cocoon (read: dressing room), I was channeling early Ralph Lauren casual. The winter white shirt draped open almost too far across my cleavage, and khakis rolled up to show off my calves—lucky for me I’d done the full makeup treatment and my dead skin was covered and pristine. Lucky for everyone else I knew how to put together an ensemble.

  I marched up to the only mirror I could find and took in the majesty.

  “Oops.” I pulled a long strand of pearls from my bag, threaded them around my neck twice and let the rest fall where they may.

  “The hotness.” Wendy returned the favor of a fashion show “lady clap.”

  I have a decent eye for men’s clothing and how they should fit, so I picked up a few marginally embarrassing outfits for Gil and Fishhook and we were outtie.

  It was dusk when we got back to the motel, so I knocked on the Winnebago’s side hard enough to wake the dead. And by dead I do mean Gil. A low muffled moan come from a tiny frosted window near the back I didn’t realize was there. I gave it a tap.

  “Jesus! What!” Gil yelled.

  “Good morning, Sunshine,” Wendy said.

  His response was more mumbles and moans.

  “How’d he sleep with that window, anyway?” she asked.

  “I dunno. I here him whining in there so he must be okay.” I skipped over the curb and yelled a warning through the room door, “Hey, Fishhook? You’re not jerking off in there, are you? ’Cause we’re comin’ in.”

  “Nope, but I am indecent!”

  “Just like I left you, then.” I turned the key in the lock and opened the door onto a bulimic’s dream.

  The man lay propped up in a drift of pillows, naked to the waist where he was covered by a bedspread. Around him in a pile were five Domino’s boxes, two open and stained with grease, but empty otherwise, one open on his lap and coagulating. The other stacked and ready for the mood to strike him. He grabbed one and pushed it in our direction. “Hungry?”

  Wendy grinned and nodded.

  Fishhook’s face registered the threat and his smug expression melted into a simpering grin. He attempted a diversion and pointed at the television. “Look! Maury’s revealing the results of the paternity test. Bitch is such a ho, it could be one of these three guys, a felon, a 14-year-old, or her cousin.”

  The diversion worked.

  Who could resist trash TV? Certainly not zombies— daytime talk shows are like an inside look at our food industry. Maury, Springer, that new show with Jerry’s bodyguard, if some supernatural wanted to make a fortune, they could deal with those producers for left-overs—except for Oprah’s crowd, which probably has people who would miss them.

  Hold on.

  “How’d you pay for these pizzas, Fishhook?” I asked.

  “Put ’em on the room bill. The front desk guy seems a little scared of you.” He winked. “Might be he suspects somethin’.”

  “Bullshit, motels don’t have room service contracts. Nice try.”

  He shut the box on his lap and rubbed his scarred stomach. Wendy made like she was throwing up. “Alright, but I promised not to say. A guy came looking for the owner of that Volvo out there.”

  I rushed to the curtain and peeked outside. “Holy shit! What’d you tell ’em?”

  Wendy turned the deadbolt.

  “I told him I’d tell him what I knew for some food. That’s when he called the pizza place.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “What do you think, what did you tell him?”

  “I told him you two traded your car for some guy’s Camaro and then took off toward Spokane leaving me stranded and hungry.”

  “Serious?” Wendy asked.

  “Yeah. And that you guys were a couple of lesbians.” He glared past her toward the TV and hollered, “Argh … I knew it was her cousin.”

  I shut the curtain and collapsed on the corner of the bed. “Did he believe you, do you think?”

  “He totally bought it, had you both figured for muff divers, now get out of the way, I can’t see the fight.”

  “I meant about us leaving.”

  “Totally.”

  I wanted to believe the guy, but he didn’t seem all that reliable, considering his mental health when we first found him. But now, he was alert and articulate. Or as articulate as a guy can be who watches Maury.

  Still.

  We had five pizza boxes of proof in front of us.

  33 I’d seen that look on TV before, but mimicry isn’t my strong suit, so it’s hard to say whether I nailed it or not.

  34You didn’t think I’d be freshening up or lounging about in that rat trap on wheels, did you? If so, you’ve got some serious catching up to do.

  35 A rhetorical question, obviously. I don’t need to hear it from you, too.

  36 What? I’m sure the kid did something to deserve it. They’re not all angels.

  37 … or dickies … or turtlenecks … or mushroom caps … or squash blossoms … call me picky.

  38 Swear to God!

  39 If you didn’t love Wendy before, you do now. By the way, that’s not a question.

  40 A Rule: Men hate to dress up. Go rural and this rule is am plified. Thus men’s dress shirts are less likely to be polluted by yellow armpit piss. You’re welcome.

  41I wouldn’t be caught dead in someone else’s foot sweat. Oh … wait.

  Chapter 6

  Dust Devils and Dirty

  Mothers

  Don’t be misled by the recent vampire research touting “beef as the new human”; the statistics don’t add up. Live pig is, and will always be, the closest meat, both in texture and flavor. Still, there are side effects …

  —Undead Science Monitor (Winter 2007)

  There’s nothing that says celebration more than an impromptu hunting party. This one was to commemorate the official start of our road trip, rather than the clarification that we were definitely being hunted and probably would end up shredded balls of dead meat at the hands of a snarling talon-clawed wolf thing. That said, a party is never an inappropriate reaction.

  First we had to lure Gil out of the RV.

  “Yeah we’re sure. He’s gone,” I said.

  “You’re basing this on something a schizophrenic tap told you?” Gil crossed his arms over his chest and slunk back against the musty camper cupboards.

  “Listen.” Wendy put her hand on his arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “He knew enough to send the guy off in another direction, we totally have time to pull together some food.”

  “If you’re sure.” His eyes were full of concern.

  “We’re sure. Now come on.”

&nb
sp; Wendy and I rustled up a pair of migrant cow-town drunks outside a cinderblock gym that advertised “Mexercising” and “Personal Traners” without the “i”— which, despite the not-so-subtle racism and misspelling, was far more appealing than the “Shame-based Spinning” class that Wendy forced me to every other Thursday. She worried that we’d “atrophy” just sitting around in bars all the time. I contended—and continue to believe—that a well-made cocktail keeps the joints oiled slicker than a steroid shot or a tab of glu-cosamine, and certainly more than an emaciated exercise bulimic named Gretchen.

  I’m reminded of this fact by the particularly pickled nature of our evening snack. The two brown-skinned gents were totally soused and remarkably flexible in their staggering. Twisting and leaning and righting themselves with hands that darted out to walls, lampposts and garbage cans.

  “Look at that.” I pointed out one of the cowpokes bending down in an odd angle to retrieve a lit cigarette from the gravel. “Don’t tell me liquor doesn’t grease the hinges.”

  Wendy nodded and waved them over. “Hey, boys! Want a ride?”

  They did.

  Before they could wrap their pickled brains around what we were, the telltale clicking of spreading jawbones had begun. Wendy dove in first, her mouth stretched over her drunk’s head and shoulders like an anaconda, lifting him from the ground and shaking as she bit down. Not at all dainty. But at least she dabs the corners of her mouth when she’s finished.

  Hold on …

  I know what you’re thinking. Do zombies normally have such elasticity, strength and impeccable table manners? Absolutely not. We are the exceptions. Most of those shambling idiots we call mistakes are the sort with which you might be familiar. Sadly, with my luck our story will probably involve more than a few of those atrocities.

  Let’s get back to it.

  Mine had the dazed look of a chronic late stage alcoholic and the busted-out nasal capillaries to back up the assessment.42 I took him in three bites and balanced against the building kneading my swollen gut until it returned to normal size.

  How is that possible you ask?43