Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (10 page)

“Amanda Feral,” I said, grasping and pumping her outstretched hand. Her shake was firm and she gave excellent eye contact.

“Liesl Lescalla. I’m pleased to meet you.” Her smile was genuine and filled the lower half of her face. She had large almond-shaped eyes, dark brown, nearly black. There was little definition between pupil and iris.

“Ooh pretty name. Like the opera house, or that sweet girl from
The Sound of Music
.”

She laughed, catching the play, nodded and volleyed. “And you? Feral like a barn cat?”

“Mmm, yes, and twice as promiscuous.”

We both laughed, so I supposed we were cool.

“So, Liesl, I’m at a disadvantage. I’ll let you know, I am differently animated—no, that doesn’t work—I’m a zombie, my friend on the left over there…” I pointed across the club, to where Gil and Wendy were pointing and laughing at some less-thans canoodling a couple of banquettes away. “She is too. Our gay is a vamp. We saw you drinking the margarita and questions came up, a bet actually. So what is it, witch, werewolf, demon?”

“It’s a secret. Promise not to tell?” she asked. Her eyes were still on the other booth; Wendy had risen from her seat and was waving at an attractive blond man, shaking her tits at him. Lovely.

“I swear to God.”

Liesl sneered at the mention, but went on, leaning in to play to my confidence. “I’m human. I just like to slum it in the underworld.”

“A dangerous hobby. A girl could get a little roughed up in this kind of club, or worse, particularly by those hambones. And, well, me of course.”

“You seriously want to know?” She seemed surprised that I’d expressed interest at all.

“Yeah.”

She looked me up and down, assessing, and must have decided I was worthy of the truth.

“I’m a succubus.” Her lips curled into a coy smile.

Demon it was. What did I bet on again?

“So is that like an incubus?” I asked. “’Cause I saw that movie in the ’80s and didn’t that guy fuck people to death?”

“Um…” Liesl’s eyes dropped into a squint. She was mulling the question over. That was probably smart. I could easily have been making fun—and would, over and over throughout our friendship. It’s a defining tool. Plus it wears down all that nasty political correctness. Over time you just slough off anything, like hosing yourself down with RainX. It’s a blessing, trust me.

“Yeah. That’s right,” she answered.

“Great! You’ll fit right in. We love to talk dirty.”

We crossed the dance floor and Liesl tripped the geek, who spasmed in midair, trying to keep his footing, before crashing to the floor and curling into a ball of embarrassment. Poor thing. I kicked him in the head on the way by and spat an obscenity his way; fucker, I think. We joined Wendy and Gil midconversation.

“They
are
our most precious resource, Gil,” Wendy said.

“Scooch over.” I slid in next to Wendy. Liesl saddled up next to me. “Allow me to introduce the very sexy and dangerous, Liesl.” They glared at me, then her, so I continued. “She’s good people, besides, we need a fourth.”

They welcomed her then glowered at me like parents would a naughty child. I bounced back a glib shrug. I wasn’t sure where the urge to congregate had come. It was not in my nature to gather people around me. I collected acquaintances, not friends.

“So, you were talking about children, or some shit.”

“Kids? What?” Wendy looked at me like I was nuts.

“You said something about ‘protecting our most precious resource’…”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Wendy giggled. “No, sweetie.
We
were talking about diamonds. The kids can fend for themselves.”

There was something in Wendy’s look that held a question. What was I doing? She wouldn’t ask, but she seemed to,
what do we need a fourth for, exactly
? A reenactment, perhaps? Bridge? She scowled at Liesl.

I thumbed through memories like a card catalog, looking for similarities in situation. The closest match was this:

In high school—nasty old Barnaby Ridge—I had been a lonely girl
50
, so disconnected from people my own age. I was used to entertaining the glommers, after all. I would sit in the cafeteria, alone, leafing through a salad and stabbing my fork into a dog-eared
Catcher in the Rye
, trying to look brainy, but managing only to send out that freakish vibe.

Carly Bookman ruled Barnaby with the iron fist of a third world drug lord. She was eternally flanked by a harem of her own glommers, namely, Sue Preacher, a.k.a. the Barnaby Ridge Blow Job Queen, whose specialty, the “corkscrew,” garnered rave reviews from half the senior boys, Glennis Groin, who earned her name after a poor fashion choice in the sixth grade—overalls that bulged at the crotch, like she was packing some serious transgendered heat—and Tigra Pierce, a downright malfeasance of a girl, whose heinous mouth spewed obscenities like a merchant marine.

The four had these things in common: beauty, popularity, and my complete adoration.

I remembered daydreaming about becoming the fifth in their elite group, stalking the halls like jungle cats, trailing fear and jealousy. It was never to be, of course. Four years together and never closer than twenty feet. I used to wonder what they did outside of school. What amazing adventures were entitled to the most popular? I thought they could probably do anything they wanted. I fantasized that they each held a license to torture, maim, kill, or at least, mock, shame, and denigrate.

Could I be reliving this fantasy? Was that the real reason for gathering this particular group of killers, albeit far more glamorous than Carly and her bitches could dream of? Where did such a desperate longing for companionship come from? Had it been there all along?

An hour later, we left the Well a bit tipsy—the first few do the warming, while the next four knock you on your ass—but no worse for the wear, certainly not staggering. A thin mist laced the air, hung there like attic dust motes. Liesl suggested a coffee. The idea hit and that ingrained habitual craving kicked in; I could smell the dense aroma and…wait, hold up. I should have thought about banking a blast of diarrhea off the back of a public toilet seat. There was no way we were going to have coffee. Over my dead bowels.

Wendy said, “Sure, Liesl, I could go for some coffee.”

“But, but, but, it’s not alcohol.” I nudged Wendy in the side, repeatedly.

“So?”

“It’ll pass right through!” I imagined the toilet after my “lesson” it looked like an autopsy.

Wendy leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “That’s what Depends are for, silly.” She winked and pursed her lips like an extra from
Pink Flamingos
. Obviously, that shut me up. Did I have a lot to learn? Or was my new friend June Allyson
51
?

She must have sensed my total mental collapse; she looped her arm through mine. We slowed our pace, and fell back a few yards behind the others. Ahead, Gil and Liesl were doubled over laughing; no doubt a sexually charged slur at someone’s expense. Probably mine.

“I, for one, am not giving up coffee. I won’t.” She shrugged. “I, simply, found a solution. It’s a bit messy, but I’m a quick changer.” I remained stunned. “Do you really think you’re going to go on—business as usual—in this town, and avoid coffee?”

Could I? Was that a reasonable expectation? In Seattle, a hand not holding a heat-sleeved paper cup may as well be lopped off; even tea drinkers are looked upon as lepers. And, though, most people in the country joke about the predominance of espresso in Seattle, those people have no real idea the degree to which it has taken hold. It’s like our gas. If there were a coffee shortage, lines would wrap around city blocks, industry would grind to a crashing halt. The revolution would start here.

“Do you have an extra?” I asked. We stopped walking as she dug through her purse for a small plastic wrapped package.

“You know, it takes some getting used to but if you’re game later, we could sneak back to my place, sit on some buckets and gorge on a chocolate cake.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Yeah, that time.”

Gil and Liesl had stopped, too, and loitered a half block ahead of us. Their presence blurred like film noir conspirators as a weighty fog bank blew through from the waterfront.

The Starbucks was just ahead, on the corner—shocker—its big round logo lunged from the building’s face.

Wendy placed the pad into my palm. “Remember to keep the plastic baggy, after you shit your…”

Her voice trailed off as screams cut through the air like piano wire. Ahead at the coffee shop, the windows exploded into the street, the shards tinkled like, well, broken glass
52
. More screams, and a three-foot-long sausage, bent in the middle, followed this; it jettisoned from inside and thudded against the wall on the opposite side of the street. A second look showed that the sausage was a human arm. Either way, it looked très yummy. A woman climbing from the broken window was grabbed from inside and tossed sideways into a sharp triangle of glass still stuck in the frame. It sliced her clean in two; both parts dropped to the ground with a sickening—but oddly yummy—
thunk
. Her torso crawled another few feet toward the road, trailing intestine and gore, before it slumped still. A dull moan echoed from inside, Corinne Bailey Rae, I thought, or Fiona Apple.

Wendy and I caught up and huddled with Gil and Liesl.

“What the fuck?”

“Ssh!” Gil said, the words turning to red mist and circling us like butterflies. “Mistakes.” He spread his arms in front of us, a mother putting on the brakes, and backed us to the wall.

The lament grew in volume and the gaping window and door gave birth to six well-dressed, but completely uncoordinated zombies, two men and four women. Three carried Starbucks cups in their shaky hands, one dragged a barista’s battered and bitten body, its jaw floppy and disjointed. Her hand gripped an espresso tamper; it clinked and scraped against the concrete. These were, clearly, furniture salespeople who stopped off for a caffeine jolt and got something else instead. Their ability to earn that commission would be dampened by their new appearance, I was sure. The last in the bunch was the other undead barista. This one seemed more alert, almost cognizant.

Their faces were twisted and dripping with the blood of the innocents—joking, obviously, I don’t believe for a second there’s any innocence left. They were, however, dripping with a lot of blood. I almost yelled “plug it up.” But thought better of it. Best not to attract any attention.

“Ew,” I whispered to Wendy. “This is horrible PR, for us.”

“No shit, and they’re relatives, too.”

“Just wait.” Liesl’s face took on a wicked grin, her eyes glinting with specks of fire. “The best part’s coming up.”

When she spoke, a female of the herd jerked her head in our direction with a sixth grade schoolyard pop. A pathetic moan escaped her yawning mouth. She ambled in our direction.

“Goddamn it.” I looked around for a two-by-four or a broken bottle of Boone’s, although, anything to keep her from scraping or scratching or biting me, would suffice. I decided Gil would do, and pushed him toward the ghoul. He stumbled and spun his arms in a madcap lawn ornament sendup.

“Whoa! What are you doing?”

“Hello…you’re the vampire. Fast healer. Super strength. Go on. Work your magic. Keep that bitch away from your fragile friends.”

“Hey, I don’t even know you that well.”

A hissing sound began during our exchange, like air escaping a fine hole. The whistle turned into a low hum, almost mechanical. As we were backing away from the approaching mistake, a light seemed to go on in the middle of the street, as if a bulb was hanging in the air a yard above the pavement. The undead secretary, shopgirl, or whatever she was, turned to gawk, head tilting and tongue out like a dopey little Yorkie. Her suit fit her well, pinstriped, though it was; the pants had a nice length and width
53
. The hum stopped dead and a black line split the light in two, opening into a dark ellipse
54
. The light, still emanating from around the hole, made it difficult to see inside.

A figure appeared, merely a dark silhouette. The light dimmed and the shape became a golden haired darling of a girl. Her cheeks had that chunky plumpness that made you want to pinch, but you didn’t dare without coming off like Grandma Fern. She seemed at home there, filling the frame of the floating snatch, a fully formed Shirley Temple fetus, replete with Heidi uniform. She was probably nine years old.

The girl started to move, alternating sniffing her arm, and mock biting it. “Mmm,” she said, beaming and shaking her head up and down; her tone spoke of birthday party pony rides and jelly beans. “Yummy. Come on.”

The zombies shuffled forward toward the slit in space, releasing various body parts, the coffee girl’s body, and even their beloved paper cups. The girl dropped to the bottom, crossed her legs Indian style and rested her head in her hands like it was story time.

“That’s right, come on li’l mistakes. Wouldn’t I just taste so good? Like a big ole piece of chicken, and I’m super scared, too. I promise I am.”

As the first zombie approached, the little girl stood and walked backward into the now fully darkened space, becoming no more than a blonde smudge. The dead walked up to the hole, one after another, crowded there for a moment, before rushing in like mad bargain shoppers. Our interested “lady” friend was the last to step into the hole. When she did, the hum came back with a roar, and jagged, rotten, “meth mouth” teeth sprouted from the sides of the ellipse
55
. Revealing what it had been all along, a mouth. The teeth came down on the final zombie with a crunch and her right leg dropped to the ground twitching. With the mouth closed, the ghoul’s moans ceased. But as it opened again, their groaning returned, more urgently. A black tongue protruded, slithering across the concrete. It coiled around the amputated leg like a python. And, with a snap, it sucked the leg into its throat. If it was a throat—more like another dimension, or something. The mouth closed into a line and someone turned off the light. The hum became a whisper. In the distance, I heard someone running away, feet beating the pavement. I wondered if the other barista might have been one of us.

“Reapers.” Wendy’s eyes had a dry look, as though she’d stopped blinking.

“So coffee’s out, then?” I said.