Pop the Clutch

by Eric J. Guignard

  “You don’t know anything, Mary,” said Frank, and shoved her away from him with one meaty hand. She cried out a little as she stumbled, trying to keep her feet. In the end, gravity won, and she fell—

  —only for Laura’s hand to grip her wrist, stopping her before her face could hit the ground. The perpetually vacant cheerleader looked down at Mary, a small frown on her lips. “I do not believe he is an optimal mate for you,” she said. “You should consider another.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with her?” asked Frank. “You cheerleaders are a gang of freaks.”

  “You have no idea,” said Mary, glaring at him as Laura pulled her to her feet. “I’ll drive the girls home. Whether or not you let us take Iris.”

  He snorted. “Loyalty lost that easily? Isn’t that just like a girl?” He returned his attention to Andrea. “So. What’s it going to be? You or her? I promise she won’t suffer, if you decide to be selfish. My boys can be fast.”

  “I take it your ‘boys’ won’t be dropping her off safely on her front porch,” said Andrea coolly.

  “Now she gets it.”

  Andrea glanced to the others. The rest of the squad—now including Mary, who looked confused by her easy reacceptance into their ranks, as if she’d expected to be shut out for longer, held at arm’s length and refused their protection, and that alone made Andrea want to scream—was arrayed behind her, out of uniform but united all the same. How she loved them. How she treasured them.

  How she needed to protect them.

  “I’ll stay,” she said, bowing her head. “Let Iris go, let my squad drive away, and I’ll stay here and wash off the sunscreen and let what happens . . . happen.”

  Frank’s eyes shone with triumph. “Get the girl,” he snapped.

  Several greasers hurried to obey, dragging Iris out of the back of one of the cars and bringing her to Frank’s side. Her hair was a mess and her blouse had a tear in one sleeve, but she appeared otherwise unharmed as she struggled against the men holding her arms.

  “Andrea, I’m sorry!” she cried.

  “It’s not your fault.” And it wasn’t, not really. It was her own fault, for letting Abraham live without infecting him; for staying in the same town, following the same routines, loving the same sweetly predictable things. This had always been coming. It was just too bad it had come now, when there were innocents in the line of fire. Andrea forced herself to smile, meeting Iris’s eyes and pushing, just a little, to make the other girl listen. “Go back to school. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

  “But your sunscreen—”

  “Go back to school.”

  The greasers shoved Iris toward the other Pumpkins, and they hurried to gather her up, ushering her into the waiting car. For a moment, Mary looked like she was going to say something. Then she focused on Frank’s cold, scowling face, and got behind the wheel, and drove away, leaving Andrea alone with the kidnappers.

  Frank pointed imperiously. Danny dropped the bucket in front of Andrea, never coming quite close enough for her to grab.

  “Clean yourself,” snapped Frank.

  “Your funeral,” said Andrea, and crouched to pick up the sponge and begin wiping her exposed skin clean.

  The bucket was full of brake cleaner. Of course it was. Cheap, easy, stocked in every auto shop. And it was cold. It would have been pleasant, if not for the burning sensation that followed it as the sun found more and more of her exposed skin. She left her face for last. The pain didn’t care where on her body it happened, but she hated when her eyelids blistered. It was inconvenient and unsightly, and she wanted to avoid it if she could.

  After wiping the sponge only lightly across her face, she dropped it back into the bucket and straightened, holding out her arms, which were already turning red, already growing ripe with a harvest of fluid-filled boils.

  “Happy?” she asked.

  “Delighted,” said Frank.

  Things began to happen very quickly then.

  The pain, which had been building since the first swipe of the sponge across her skin, reached a fever pitch. Conscious thought yielded before the flames, and Andrea went willingly. She knew the truth of what she was, had known it for a hundred years and more, and while she was perfectly happy to embrace both the good and bad aspects of her nature, there were some things she did her best to avoid and hence had no living desire to see. Agony woke the symbiont, woke the hunger she was home and heir to, and the last thing she heard before her body was no longer her own was screaming, shrill and pained and virtually inhuman.

  It went on for a long, long time. But Andrea, in a very real way, was no longer there to hear it.

  ***

  WHEN SHE CAME TO, the sun was down and she was sprawled, completely covered in blood and surrounded by corpses, on the dusty ground next to the levee. Andrea looked at herself and sighed. There had been plenty of time for the blood to set; this was one more really nice sweater down the drain.

  Gingerly, she stood. Everything seemed to be working fine. That was swell. She needed all her limbs for the rest of the cheerleading season.

  Andrea turned to the nearest body. Frank, his throat gone and his eyes open in endless, sightless surprise.

  “Well, honey,” she said. “How about you loan me your keys so I can drive myself home?” Turned out he had no objection. She folded herself into his car and cranked the radio high, and all the road was ahead of her, and she was going to be young forever. In the end, what else mattered?

  “Go, Pumpkins,” she muttered, and hit the gas.

  * * *

  SEANAN MCGUIRE lives, works, and watches way too many horror movies in the Pacific Northwest, where she shares her home with her two enormous blue cats, a ridiculous number of books, and a large collection of creepy dolls. Seanan does not sleep much, publishing an average of four books a year under both her own name and the pen name Mira Grant. Her first book, Rosemary and Rue, was released in September 2009, and she hasn’t stopped running since. When not writing, Seanan enjoys Disney Parks, horror movies, and looking winsomely at Marvel editorials as she tries to convince them to let her write for the X-Men. Keep up with Seanan at www.seananmcguire.com, on Twitter as @seananmcguire, or by walking into a cornfield at night and calling the secret, hidden name of the Great Pumpkin to the moon. When you turn, she will be there. She will always have been there.

  * * *

  SEA LORDS OF THE COLUMBIA

  by Weston Ochse

  “So give it. What are the Finns doing with mermaids?”

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF HEAVY FEET SLAPPING THE ground behind him came closer and closer. He was out of breath, but he’d been chased before down Old Baldy and Heartbreak Ridge, so he’d become used to running for his life. But that was Korea, not the ass end of Oregon in the old fishing town of Astoria. And he’d been carrying a carbine back then instead of the slippery yet voluptuous mermaid, her lips pressed against his neck sending thoughts that would make an eighty-year-old keel over for the sheer preposterousness of the position. Even now, with the Columbia River within reach, his cock was hard and his body twisted with the need to react to the mermaid’s advances, his mind acting out the fantasy until he was left gasping and out of breath and barely running. The only distraction was an odd track from the new Carl Perkins’ song, “Dixie Fried,” slashing through his head: Rave on, children, I’m with you, rave on, cats, he cried. It’s almost dawn and the cops ain’t gone, and I’ve been Dixie fried.

  A shout from one of the burly Finns chasing him gave him new energy as he surged forward. The Columbia was less than fifty yards away. And, magically, Hemmo was already halfway there and waiting with a length of two-by-four in each hand. All Doogie had to do was reach the river and they’d all be free.

  But let’s not get ahead of ourselves . . .

  ***

  THE STORY REALLY STARTED two days ago in the Desdemona, a bar where anything and, often, everything happens. The low-ceilinged wooden building built from the l
umber of its namesake, a ship that foundered on the Columbia Bar fifty years earlier, is full of roughnecks, fishermen, and hookers from upstairs. Leather and chains are what the guys wear. Leather and lace is what the girls wear. Everyone has a story to tell, and it’s to the short Japanese man talking to the immense Finn where the story takes us, and you can tell right away that it’s a well-worked tale.

  “The morning mist rising from the Columbia River met the fog rolling in from the Columbia Bar, creating a fabric of unreality. The normally troublesome waves had flattened, making the water around my boat as pristine as a mirror. I should have known something was going on, when a monster snagged at my line, almost breaking my arm with the force of it. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed as I fought the fish, letting it drag as often as I would reel. When it finally landed, we were both exhausted. I noosed it and pulled it into the boat, then things got real interesting.” Doogie Nezumi, second-generation Japanese-American and Korean War veteran then lowered his voice and said what had been burning a hole inside of him for the last two days.

  Hemmo slapped his beer down and open-mouth-ogled his war buddy and best friend. “What do you mean the fish spoke to you?”

  Hemmo Saarsgaard was an acre tall compared to Doogie and as angular as a pike. They each wore a white t-shirt underneath leather jackets. Blue jeans and combat boots finished their ensemble. Doogie couldn’t help note that they were still in uniform albeit not the same uniform they’d worn in Korea. The difference was that back then they’d been part of something—part of something special. Now they were just—they weren’t part of anything. They were just drifting like every other war-aged man in America back in the Land of the Big PX with no focus and no prospects.

  Doogie pushed the ennui aside and stood a little straighter. “Just as I said. It spoke to me.”

  “I mean, did its lips move? Did it swim up to you and begin a conversation? I mean, come on, Doogie, you can’t just lead with, Did I tell you what the fish said?”

  “It didn’t swim up. I caught it. I just told you. And no, its lips didn’t move. It spoke to me in my head.”

  “How do you know that it wasn’t just in your head? Why attribute it to the fish?” Hemmo eyed Doogie. “You took a fair bit of abuse over there. Remember when we were mortared that one night near Kaesong? You were raving about seeing Chinese in the trenches for days.”

  Doogie shook his head. “Fucking Third Battle of the Hook. You had to remind me. And there were like a billion Chinese in the trenches.”

  “But they weren’t wearing pink leotards and attacking us with claw hammers like you screamed they were.”

  Doogie gave himself a self-depreciating smile. “Okay, I might have been a little out of it then, but I swear to you I am not crazy.”

  “Was a hard time, my friend.” Hemmo spun as he heard the clatter of chairs. He tossed back his beer, then threw his glass into a conflagration of men and pool sticks.

  Doogie watched as the Finn used his ham-sized hands to pound belligerents into the floor. Within seconds, he was the only one standing. He glanced around, as if checking to see if anyone wanted more, then strode back to the bar.

  Hemmo was always like that. He was the brute who’d take down anyone who stood against him or his friends.

  Doogie felt the same way, but because of his size, he had to concentrate on speed and guile.

  Sandra slid a fresh beer in front of the Finn. “Thanks, Hemmo.” Then she winked. “On the house.”

  Hemmo grinned. “It’s what I do, Sandra. Hey, you up for something later?”

  She flashed a grin. “I might be.”

  “See you at one then.” He leaned over the counter and ogled her as she went to help another customer, then he stood straight and shook his head. “A good fight never fails to get them all hot.”

  “I think you’re all hot, Hemmo,” Doogie said. “You know she’s married, right?”

  “To a fisherman who never comes home.”

  “Don’t you think it’s wrong?” Doogie asked.

  “That he won’t come home and be with his woman? Hell yes.” Hemmo sipped his beer, then asked, “Where were we? Oh yeah, how do you know that the talking fish wasn’t just something you made up?”

  “Because the fish told me that it got caught on purpose to deliver a message and would I please let it go when it was done.”

  Hemmo took a long slow drink of his beer, using the opportunity to gauge Doogie.

  Doogie took the moment to break for the bathroom. The door to the head was to the left of the jukebox. The combatants had already risen from the floor. A biker from M.C. Portland Joes was leaning over and making his selection. Probably something Elvis who was all the new rage. A hooker from upstairs came down smelling of roses and sweat. Doogie wrinkled his nose. He’d had enough of them back in Pusan when they’d been waiting to come home. Only, instead of Roses, they’d smelled of a different flower, something remarkably Asian.

  After he was done and back at the bar, Doogie ordered another beer.

  It wasn’t until it had arrived and he’d had a drink before Hemmo asked. “And did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Let it go?”

  “Oh, hell no. Who lets go a thirty-pound salmon?”

  “So you killed the talking fish,” Hemmo stated, both eyebrows raised.

  “Evidently all fish can talk. Does that mean I’m going to give up fishing?”

  “Who told you that all fish can talk?”

  “The talking fish told me.”

  “And you automatically believed him?”

  “Based on talking to the fish who told me they all could talk I was inclined to do so, yes.”

  This time it was Hemmo’s turn to go to the head.

  Sure enough, Elvis crooned from the Juke about a “Mystery Train.” Sometime between the time they’d gone to war and returned in ’53, the music had changed. Or at least Doogie felt that way. He thought about the way he was telling his old friend the story and hated drawing it out this way, but he knew he had to in order to achieve the effect he desired—to get him to do what he wanted him to do.

  Hemmo took his time, so the Juke cycled through Carl Perkins’ “Dixie Fried” and Tennessee Ernie Ford’s “Sixteen Tons” before he returned. Then he downed the rest of his beer and turned to face Doogie, not saying a word, just staring.

  When it looked like he was about to ask the question Doogie was waiting for him to ask, Doogie interrupted. “What do you think it means to be Dixie Fried?”

  “What? Where’d that come from?”

  “The Carl Perkins song.” Doogie put down his beer and played air guitar as he sang, “Rave on, children, I’m with you, rave on, cats, he cried. It’s almost dawn and the cops ain’t gone, and I’ve been Dixie fried.”

  Sandra gave a polite clap from behind the bar.

  Doogie bowed and grabbed his beer. “So?”

  “I don’t know what it means. Fucked up maybe? Dead maybe?”

  “Dixie Fried,” Doogie mused. “I like that.

  Hemmo grabbed the front of Doogie’s shirt and lifted him until he was on his toes. “Enough of this shit. You’re drawing out the story just to irritate me. What did the damn fish say? And if you say Dixie Fried I’m going to punch you.”

  “Okay, okay. Put me down. It delivered a message.”

  Hemmo released him. “Who sent the message?”

  “The talking fish said Musma sent it.”

  “What the hell is a Musma?”

  “From what I gather it’s a sentient sturgeon living near the Columbia Bar.”

  Hemmo’s mouth opened and shut in exasperation. His hand went into a fist, making Doogie back away. “Did you say a sentient sturgeon living near the Columbia Bar?”

  Doogie nodded. “I did.”

  Hemmo shook his head and seemed about to explode, but instead asked in barely controlled exasperation, “And what does Musma want?”

  “For us to rescue the two mermaids that the Finns are k
eeping in Suomi Hall.”

  Hemmo’s face went white. “And you believe the Finns have them?”

  “I do now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think you know why. Because you didn’t question the fact that mermaids exist. Just that the Finns had them in the hall. So give it. What are the Finns doing with mermaids?”

  Hemmo glanced around, then elbowed down to the bar. In a low voice, he said, “Doogie, you know I can’t tell you about any of that. I’m sworn.”

  “But they’re holding a pair of fucking mermaids?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what’s it like?”

  Hemmo ordered another beer and didn’t even look at Doogie until he’d taken a drink. Then he said, “They have a good life, Doogie. They want to be there.”

  “Are they free to go?”

  “They’re being kept safe, and like I said, they want to be there.”

  “Come on, Hemmo. Remember when we took liberty in Pusan?”

  “Yeah, I remember it. But this is different.”

  “How is it different? What did you help me do when I found that guy renting out all those young kids to GIs?”

  Hemmo sighed. “Beat the crap out of him and took him behind the lines to let him get shot as a North Korean spy.”

  “And did we do it, Hemmo?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you happy about it?”

  “At the time, yes.”

  “So why not the mermaids?”

  “Because they aren’t . . . they aren’t . . . ”

  “It’s because they aren’t human, right?”

  Hemmo cocked his head, then eventually nodded. “I suppose.”

  “What if there were dogs being abused, would you save them?”

  Hemmo nodded again.

  “So you’d help a dog but not a mermaid.” Doogie pounded the bar with his fist.

  Hemmo dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Doogie punched him in the shoulder. “Then why the hell won’t you help me save a pair of mermaids who are being held against their will?”