Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (3 page)

“It is
not
normal to have this much difficulty finding food, Amanda,” Wendy said.

“Sh, please, I’m concentrating.”

“Whatever. We’re both starving. It’s been like a week since we’ve eaten
14
.”

“Jesus Wendy, would you quit whining and let me drive?”

As it was, I had enough difficulty focusing on driving when I was hungry, let alone while listening to the pretty blonde zombie moan on and on incessantly from the passenger seat. Emaciated, irritated, and stuck in traffic, I was absolutely wooly. Wendy had a right to gripe; it was true, neither of us had eaten since Saturday, the night Liesl dropped off the face of the earth. Which if it had been Sunday evening would have been bad enough, but it was Tuesday and my hunger was festering like a gangrenous wound, bubbling over. Even children were looking tasty, and normally they were on my off-limits list
15
.

I was frazzled for another reason, of course; Liesl had still not turned up, and the phone number I’d found in her cell was out of service. Question: what kind of person doesn’t use their contacts list? There wasn’t a single stored number. It might as well have been a rotary. Liesl was a complete techtard.

I started to do some Internet research on succubi but hit a dead end after the basics, which appeared to be sex, sex, and sex. Humans are notoriously unreliable historians, so the information was suspect. It was interesting to think that Liesl may have had a male counterpart, or incubus, that she was aligned with. This seemed to be a universally known fact about the succubus—to everyone but, of course, me. Liesl never mentioned it. In fact, as far as I knew, she could have been a human; we only talked about other people, never much of her own issues or history.

“I’m taking the next exit.”

Not only did driving Interstate 5 leave us few food options, I had driven too far south, outside of my comfort zone. This would make safe hunting impossible without a flip map (I can see it now on the bookcase in my office); as a rule, I must know my exits. One wrong move and you’ve driven down a rural road, pulled over, and munched out on some tweaker, behind a shed covered in blue tarp, reeking of kitty pee. Quick note: meth-heads are horrible for the skin, and the aftertaste is icky. Why not just munch on a camera battery?

As I scuttled into the far right lane, a hideous lump of blue metal on wheels tore past and cut me off. My vision was clouded by a plume of noxious exhaust.

“I swear to God, Wendy,” I said, pointing at the sky blue and primer grey Datsun B210 slowing in front of us now. “Can you believe this shit?”

“I know; I totally hate that.”

“Fucker!” My voice shook, and I noticed my jaw tensed to match the pressure of my alternately clenched and grinding teeth.

I wasn’t disturbed so much by the near-collision—I’d learned to tolerate that kind of rudeness
16
. No, I was referring to the dingy-socked foot resting on the driver’s side dash. That early ’80s piece of shit was the driver’s couch; the dash was his ottoman. There was no way possible for that car to be comfortable enough to warrant kicking back. It was a rolling wreck. The driver was likely enjoying a loose spring up his ass.

The sock fabric was grayed and spotted with clumps of hair, dust bunnies and food stains, like a used Swiffer pad. The collected filth told the whole unsanitary story at the end of a single wiggling foot. It conjured images of rusty trailer courts, dusty dollar store knickknacks, and fleas nesting in green shag carpet.

“It just has to be dingy, too. Like he’s never picked up a bottle of bleach in his life.”

“Are we supposed to be impressed at his dexterity?” Wendy grated her nails with an emery board, fashioning them into points. Functional, as well as elegant. She looked past her lethal extensions, eyeing the other car. It was unusual to see the driver of a car perpetrating this particular social offense. Usually, it was the narcoleptic passenger, fresh from a feeding at the Old Country Buffet troughs.

“I’m sure we’re to notice the general size of it and make an association to his penis.”

“We’re gonna eat this asshole, right?” Wendy was locked on target, and assholes were totally on the list. In fact, let this be a warning: there are those among you who view exposed vehicular feet as an invitation to dine. Don’t let a need to be lax while driving be your death sentence. Actually, that goes for passenger feet, too.

“Well,
you
can have the asshole, but, yeah—” I stopped in mid-thought, remembering the dirty feet, then quickly added, “Heads.”

“Fuck you! You got heads last time. Besides I know what you’re thinking and those feet were nasty.”

“Okay, okay, split down the middle then and I’ll get our next one on my own.” She sighed at this and seemed to relax into the seat. Wendy appreciated nothing more than an easy kill, particularly if I was the one doing all the work.

“Fine.”

Without another word passed between us, I accelerated to match our boy’s pace and pulled around on his left to line him up parallel to Wendy. He was twenty-two or twenty-three at the oldest, scruffy around the collar but tan (or was that dirt?). In tandem, we began the stare
17
and he sensed it immediately and sold us on the most adorable of expressions, boyish fear piggybacking on horny excitement, a deadly combo for him. The boy looked over and, obviously interested
18
, agreed to pull off in response to Wendy motioning to the exit.

I nudged the car in behind his, and we proceeded onto a street with a large three-digit number, 320
^th
or 270
^th
; anyway, something with a zero on the end. All the good streets are in the double digits, so I knew we were firmly in the slob-burbs. At the first parking lot, we made our introductions.

“I’m Amanda. Amanda Feral,” I said. “Not Amanda Amanda Feral, just Amanda Feral. I use the doubling up sometimes, for memory reasons. In advertising, which I am, we find that the more times a product name is used, the more it connects in consumer consciousness.” Mid-speech, I was surprised to find that I was nervous and blathering on and on, needlessly. I had to turn it over to my partner. “This is Wendy.” I gestured to Wendy, who was playing the slut for an Academy Award. “She’s a pole dancer.”

The boy’s eyes popped. He was mortified and shaking. So was I, with hunger and something else. It must have been the nasty traffic. Or…

Help
. I could almost see the text, floating in the air. It was Liesl. She was ruining my meal.

“She’s a lying whore.” Wendy brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek. I worried that those nails would slice him right there in the parking lot. “What’s your name, pretty?”

He paused, eyes moving too rapidly; here it comes…

“Joel,” he said. A lie, of course. The predictable is unacceptable.

“Joel, do you have any friends that might want to party?” I asked. My mind was hunting for stomach memories. I was going to need a lot of food.

“Uh.” His thin lips hung wide open. I could have slid three fingers in, and toyed with the idea of doing just that.

“The only reason I ask is that Wendy here…” I pointed to Wendy, who was brandishing a crystal and silver Hello Kitty flask, took a mouthful and winked. “Wendy would just love to pull a train tonight.” Wendy blasted a spray of Grey Goose vodka onto the concrete.

Joel grabbed his cell phone and thumbed in a number with the feverishness of adolescent masturbation. Two calls and very little effort on his part assured a cornucopia of food.

That’s all it took—really—in less than fifteen minutes the three of us were holed up in the Pine Lodge Motor-on-Inn—swear to God; how could I make
that
up? The motel sign touted its numerous luxury amenities. They were slightly exaggerated. A pair of double beds with threadbare coverlets offered “Exotic” massage action, a Magnavox TV with rabbit ear antennas that magically accessed a “wide array of adult movies,” a carpet stickier than peep show booths, yet not as tastefully patterned, low, low hourly rates, and best of all, two totally sexy undead glamour killers.

We were on Joel before the door even closed. Wendy ripped into his throat, and I tore off his cheek, exposing a quivering jawbone. He would have screamed if my girl hadn’t clamped down on his vocal cords with her first bite. He was tasty enough, but starving as we were, we made quick work of him and waited for his friends, “Steve” and “Lou,” to show up for the “gang bang” we promised.

“Gang bang? I can’t believe you said that.” Wendy wiped tears from her eyes, still giggling.

I tossed a wicked smile and blew a kiss to my friend, who was sitting on the now-activated bed, jiggling and licking the blood from a tibia, or was it a femur—no—it was a tibia
19
. From the corner of the room I retrieved a Nordstrom shopping bag, removed its contents, and lined them up across the cheap dresser top: a box of wet naps, cans of Formula 409, Pledge wipes, and a bottle of Mountain Spring Clorox. I gathered the few remaining bones and fabric scraps and put them in the bottom of the bag—for midnight snacks—as I wiped the corners of my mouth with the dainty delicacy of a true deadutante.

Laugh as she may, I had hardly exaggerated Wendy’s sexual appetite. Her taste for male victims is well known in our circle and she often incorporates elaborate sexual fantasies into her kills. Sometimes we call her black widow, but, only to her face, because we’re good people.

“You know what would go perfect with this meal?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Salsa.”

“Oh yeah, chunky.”

“Or that kind with mangos in it.”

“Nah, too sweet.”

“I guess you’re right.” She picked a finger from the nightstand, popped it in her mouth, and wiped down the surface with a fresh Pledge wipe.

Wendy and I became so proficient in our dining that we rarely left a drop of blood behind. So the evidence was not piling up. The bodies were simply gone. Mostly, we only took those who wouldn’t be missed. Usually. Though it’s not our style, any youth, between sixteen and twenty-two, is a fairly good target. They tend to be flighty and could take off for Hollywood at any second. Unless their parents enjoy pornography, they are rarely seen again. The leftovers are an easy fix, thanks to the cleaning aisle at Target.

The knock on the door was light, almost inaudible.

“Who is it?” I said, countering their hesitance with a conspiratorial whisper.

“Is this where we go for the—um—gang bang?”

Wendy nearly shook apart with laughter. “Shut up.” I threw open the door and took in the view of the most pathetic creatures to cross my path in months. “Steve” and “Lou” looked far more suited to the type of role-playing that was done over a game board with their wizard friends than the handcuffs and butt plugs shit they’d been promised, a real couple of blue-ballers. These boys had definitely reached the crescendo of their lives. It was never going to get any better than the idea of this moment, and isn’t it comforting to know that?

“Absolutely, this is the gang bang,” I whispered into one’s ear, an unfamiliar thickness of breath crawling out past my lips. “Oops.” If I crossed my eyes, I could see the change in temperature floating briefly between us; a pale white wisp of smoke curled and hung for a moment. My mind drifted to another time, a small, enclosed space.

I was not alone.

The boy’s eyes ballooned. He gasped, slurping my solid breath from the air like a hit of linguine.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” I said.

“Huh?” The boy’s teeth filled up half his face in an overly eager grin. His eyes bounced from my face to my chest, to Wendy’s chest, to the sad bulge in his jeans. “No, no. It’s okay. You can blow in my ear.”

“What’s up?” asked Wendy, disregarding the boys’ presence. The fun had left. Her face was slack with concern.

“The breath,” I told her.

Wendy puzzled a look from me to “Lou” or “Steve” or whoever he was, back to me, and then to him she said, “You’re fucked.” To me her eyes bulged, they beseeched, and seemed to say “eat quick, bitch!”

He turned to his friend, a question dangling. In the time it took to move his head, Wendy pulled the other one into the room, slammed the door, and unhinged her jaw like a living Pez dispenser. Her mouth opened with a slew of ratcheting clicks. She shook and twitched with each transformative widening. The boy’s face registered terror, for only the second before that shark mouth clamped down. Wendy caught a stray spurt of blood ejecting from a large hole at the base of his neck, and moaned. My boy’s head jerked back to look at me, and I took off half of his face, while pinching his windpipe closed. He struggled for a moment and then went still. I binged, for the second time that evening
20
.

In the denouement, my thoughts returned to the breath. The breath was wrong, all wrong. I had never made it before, neither had Wendy, nor do we know how. The dead do not breathe, except to reproduce, and not every zombie could do it. It’s a rare gift. I guessed I was the lucky recipient. Somehow, I didn’t feel like I’d won the lottery. The breath, of course, brought up
the
memory…

Five months earlier…

On my way in to Pendleton, Avery and Feral, a familiar stitch crept into my stomach. I noticed a quickening of breath. Goddamn stress. The campaign pitch was in two hours, and I intended to kill. Coming down Pine, I noticed the monolithic zinc and glass frontage of Elite donuts looming over an empty parking space. I followed my first instinct; an empty parking space at that time of morning was a sign from the Goddess Bulimia. My Volvo SUV gas sucker filled the space like hand to glove; the tires screeched a bit against the curb—I’m no expert at parallel, but I was on a mission. I was in front of the counter before I realized I’d left the car running and unlocked on a city street. I ordered as quick as I could and ran back to the car with the square pink box tied in chocolate brown grosgrain ribbon, an early morning take on Tiffany’s signature.

By the time I folded into the front seat, I was bouncing like a little girl at a surprise party. I positioned my precious cargo gently on the grey leather of the passenger seat and flipped on the seat warmer. All I could think of was the box and its dreamy contents. My mind wandered, daydreaming ads
21
.

A binge is a sincerely personal thing; no two are alike, at least that’s what my therapist says, and he should know, eating disorders are his specialty, not that he’s particularly good at treating them. That is not why I saw him, anyway; well, it was initially. Okay, I’ll admit, I was fucking him.

His name is Martin Allende, and he’s the hotness. But wait…enough about him; I’m not ready to entertain a lengthy discussion of my sex life. We’ll dissect his character later, among other things.

Anyway…

It took hours to get from Elite donuts to the parking garage by the office, or, at least, five minutes. Everyone I passed, either in their own cars, rushing to work on the tree-lined sidewalks or lounging about on cardboard beds with comfy newspaper blankets, seemed to be in the thralls of donut consumption. I even found myself jealous of the bum, whose dirty face had a fresh smudge of raspberry jelly and powdered sugar. Of course, when I saw him, he was washing it down with some Boone’s.

The garage was nearly empty, only a few cars spotted the early morning spaces. So I felt a bit better about the screeching the tires made up the spiral ramp. When I got to my reserved space, the frenzy began. It was 7:36 A.M.

By 7:40, it was all over.

I tossed the box on the ground for building maintenance, as if it were the ’70s, and the box was a full bag of McDonald’s trash flying out the window and landing on the side of the freeway at the foot of a tearful Indian stereotype; I headed in to my office, searching for coffee.

Did I say “office”? A brief interlude, if you will, because my office is the shit. Let’s make that “The Shit.” Take notes, I’m going to go pretty fast here. The bones:

Corner office.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ebony-stained hardwood plank floor, hand-distressed.

View of Lake Union.

Private bathroom, with shower.

Furnished in glass, plastic, steel and leather.

Can you say mid-century modern?

In a word? Superb.

My work afforded me other perks, naturally: an 1,800 square foot, 18
^th
floor condo, for one, with a patio garden and unobstructed views of the Puget Sound and in the distance, the snowcapped peaks of the Olympics (even from the tub). From my deck, I could see the Space Needle. And on some summer evenings, my ears stole the music drifting from the concerts at the pier, while I lounged on linen-cushioned teak.

“For all intents and purposes, the faux-hawk is swiftly becoming the metrosexual comb-over and we all know it.” I began the pitch with my legs crossed and ankle popping, just like Momma, my hips balanced on the mahogany buffet of the conference room. “Your father had that slick soft serve swirl piled up there, but with your faux-hawk you’ve got at least a semblance of style, or do you?”

Gardner shifted his ass in the chair, from left cheek to right, his face said, “I’m not sold.” But his ass, sunk deep into plush comfy leather, said, “This bitch is making me uncomfortable.” I half expected him to reach up and flatten the peak in his own hair. Chang stared and focused on me. I glanced at my partner, Pendleton, his shrewd face softened into a smile as he nodded. I reached for the remote and clicked. The room lights dimmed and the plasma opposite Gardner and Chang filled with light and color.

A montage of images: men in beautiful Italian or bespoke suits and shined shoes descended stone steps from between stone columns, the financial sector—cut to—the same men at the vanity struggling with hiding their hair deficiencies—cut to—a man at dinner with a less than attractive woman, her makeup poorly executed and hair unkempt, longingly watching a nearby banquette—close-up on—the aging male model with the full head of hair making out with the young pouty-lipped blonde we hired from the pages of FHM—cut back to—a pained expression, despair.

“It’s a cover-up, gentlemen, a lie.” I paused the ad, stood, and bent toward them for punctuation. “It’s not about style, or a last grab at a youth they never knew.” How many of these faux-hawked men were ever punk, honestly? Certainly not Gardner; he looked like an accountant, hair grey at the temple, beady eyes shielded by cheap wire-framed glasses and worst of all a short-sleeved dress shirt, the definitive oxymoron. In fact, Gardner himself was an oxymoron, a rich plastic surgeon masquerading in blue collar drag
22
. I went on, “What it is…do you want to know?” I held them both in the cold warmth of my eyes; they nodded, mesmerized. “It is truly about pain, or rather, pushing it down, covering it up. Your product, your service, is miraculous for these men, a blessing.” I pointed to the screen, but did not avert my gaze; I was locked on target, Gardner and Chang in my sights. “They’ve bought into societal expectations. They’ve had to because women certainly have. They have to look a certain way to be loved; a full head of hair is essential to wholeness. Because the media demands it, it is so; women have been the targets for as long as modern advertising has existed and have fallen right in line. Despair. This, gentlemen, is how we sell Renewal Clinic to the balding masses. Dismay.”

A punch of the play button sent the screen into rapid-fire punctuation of my point. Face after face, sunken, sorrowful, hopeless, all with sparse heads of thinning hair, just like Daddy used to make. And then, the screen snaps black; rays of sunlight break the darkness rising from the Clinic’s logo—a piece of crap rendering of a phoenix, I’d have to sell them a new one—violin and cello drift from the speakers, rising, powerful. Blah, blah, blah.

My pitch to the partners of the Renewal Clinic was on fire. Doctors Chang and Gardner had approached the firm for an ad campaign, a hair transplant program, and I was giving it to them, hard, and they were giving me soft grunts of approval. Pendleton and Avery beamed; I gave them a wink as the commercial went on. “The technique is innovative; it’s ground-breaking; a legion of men will now be spared from maddeningly brushing their thinning hair to a messy point, in the vain hope of disguising their pattern baldness.” At least that’s what we’ll say in the commercial. I have no idea whether it’s true, but it sounded good, not my best but good enough; I’ve never been much for fact checking; I’m the creative type. Regardless, they bought it, every word, every image—and applauded, even.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” I said, standing and extending my hand to firm shakes, Chang then Gardner. “I take it we have a campaign?”

Agreement. Smiles. More handshakes and ass kissing.

I pushed the parking button in elevator two and the door, closing, was interrupted by a rude wingtip. The shoe’s owner, a black man of about 6'2", had something wrong with his skin. I noticed that right away; obviously, I am, after all, me. But, honestly, you couldn’t help but notice. Small sores were weeping noxious yellow ooze and there was a general sag to it. He pulled a handkerchief from his inner suit pocket and dabbed like a Southern gentleman on a sultry day; at least he was attempting to freshen.

“Could you push the P2?” he asked. His voice crackled like a tire crossing rough gravel, in slow, popping tones.

I stepped forward and pushed the button until the light blinked on. Behind me, there was movement and from the periphery, shoe soles shuffling. I noticed that the man was now on my heels. What was he doing? I glanced at the floor display. The elevator just passed the lobby, or I would have slammed my finger into the L button and gotten out early. I felt a breath on my neck, cold and forced, as if filtered through the air conditioning. Shivers quaked from the epicenter of my neck as goose bumps spread across my skin like breath becomes frost on a winter window. I stood rigid, expecting to be assaulted at any moment, or, worse, molested; my finger hovered rigid next to the open door button.

The breath was cold and yet somehow thick, as though textured. The shock of the proximity of the elevator’s other passenger forced a gasp that drew in the man’s dense breath.

Wouldn’t you know something cliché would have to happen to me? That’s right, time stood still.

Only a second before, I had realized I wasn’t breathing and drew in that quick gulp of air, but my fear converted this into a soothing food thought, and I swallowed the breath. It tasted of sour milk, dust and a vinegary tartness that instantly started my gag reflex. The air didn’t actually travel the full distance to my stomach before it was on its way back out, in the form of a burp. Because, what is more appropriate when you are about to be killed, than belching? So ladylike.

Burp
. I thought I heard a snicker. And that was all it took to launch a full-blown belch attack.

Burp
. I turned to see the man hiding his face behind his hankie.

Burp
. His shoulders were unmistakably shrugging with silent laughter.

Burp
. He exploded then, laughing aloud. There was something in the laugh that I interpreted as sinister
23
.

Thankfully, the door retracted; my parking level appeared, and I sprinted out of the elevator and through the lot. A quick glance over my shoulder, and the man was still in the elevator, hunched over now in a full-blown guffaw, clutching his stomach; the door closed, and I hoped he pissed himself. By the time I neared my car, and for no real reason other than that I’m a freak, I was in a full-on run. That’s when it happened. I tripped. My left leg flung straight out in front of me, followed by the right, followed by the inevitable death crunch as my head slammed into the oil-spotted concrete. Time really does slow down when you’re about to die. So, instead of a single thought to encapsulate my feelings on my impending demise, I had five
24
.