His arm completed its arc and he took a quaff with no visible reaction to the tug-of-war that was seesawing back and forth across his beverage.
The stein returned to the counter and the man's gaze never broke its lock on the racing form folded in his other hand.
The two barflies settled down once the beer was back on the bar but the one on the left made another swipe at the glass that clarified the situation at once. As his hand passed through the drink I could see that he and his partner were as transparent as The Kid and myself.
I turned and considered the crowded room.
It was too early in the day for any real bar business yet the tavern was packed. A closer look, however, revealed three—maybe four humans. The rest weren't really there.
But they were trying really hard to be.
They crowded around bottles and glasses. They paced behind the bar and tried to sip from the taps when a drink was poured.
And every time a flesh and blood hand hoisted a glass, they clutched at it as a drowning man scrabbles for a lifeline in a churning sea. Well, why not. Merve's particular obsession was but one possibility among hundreds. Maybe thousands.
Somerset Maugham nailed it in Rain. Desire is sad.
* * *
The Kid caught up with me as I beamed back out via the big glass window.
"What was that all about?"
I shrugged. "Again, looking for the Cliff Notes, myself."
He looked up at the signage. "Starting a little early in the day, ain't ya?"
I looked behind me. "For a bunch of the regulars I'd say it's a little late in the life."
He nodded, suddenly solemn. "We need to find shelter. But let's look a little farther along." We started off down the sidewalk and I could swear, for a moment, I could hear him humming "In Heaven There is No Beer."
It had an uncharacteristically mournful sound to it.
Then I jerked a little and stumbled. This time the tug felt more localized. And centralized. As I placed my hand over my midsection I discovered that a portion of my topography had changed.
"Hey, Junior!"
"Aw man . . . promise me that yer not gonna be hangin' that moniker on me for all of eternity!"
"Do you have an umbilicus?"
"An what?"
"A navel. A belly button."
"Listen man, I got all of my equipment," he said, cupping his groin. "Not that any of it does me any good now."
"But it's the same as before, right?"
"You mean other than the see-through, now you touch it, now you can't qualities?"
"Yeah. You got an innie?"
"What? My belly button?" He looked around. "Chief, this ain't the kind of thing that two guys stand around, outside a bar, talkin' about—even if nobody else can see or hear 'em. Ya know?"
"In or out?"
"In! Okay? Now let's change the subject. Better yet, let's get back to shelter before the Ghost Dusters show."
"I used to have an innie," I said, rubbing around my midsection. "But all of a sudden I seem to have developed an outie. A way-outie . . ." I felt where the surface of my abdomen used to dimple and, again, encountered a protrusion. Not just a lump. Way more than navel lint. More like . . .
I looked down. Not so easy to focus in the harsh light of day. I was indistinct. There was just a general suggestion of form but I was more blurred translucence than demarcated outline.
What I could see was vaguely humanoid but it was impossible to tell if I was a naked ghost or outfitted with phantom duds like J.D.
On the other hand there was that protuberance from my abdomen about where my navel should have been. Instead of an umbilicus, I seemed to have an umbilical cord. It appeared to be composed of a faint, silvery substance, was about the circumference of my little finger and snaked off into the distance like a glowing lifeline.
"Hey," I said, as the transcendental implications fell into place. "Maybe I'm not dead after all!"
"Denial," The Kid mused. "That's how most of the hauntings start, I hear. I'm not really dead; this is still my house . . ."
"But I'm not really a ghost and my belly button proves it!"
"Yeah? So what are you? The Invisible Man?"
"Actually," I replied with a grin, "I think I'm an astral-naut."
* * *
Explaining the concept of astral projection to The Kid was both easy and difficult.
On the one hand he had no difficulty in accepting the idea of consciousness operating independently of the flesh. After all, he had no flesh and his consciousness was still hanging around.
On the other hand, the idea of differing planes of existence stalled out for him the moment it got more complicated than "Life"/ "Afterlife." The nuances of astral travel versus the ethereal plane totally eluded him. The closest analogy that made any sense to him was the Phantom Zone projector from the old Superman comic books.
You work with whatever tools are at hand.
Even so, he was pretty much of the opinion that I was dressing up the issue of departed spirits with a bunch of pseudoscientific mumbo jumbo. As far as J.D. was concerned, there seemed to be no significant difference between "astral travel" and "dead and haunted."
"Except," I tried to explain, "astral projection is practiced by the living through transcendental meditation: TM. The body remains alive while the astral self travels to other levels of existence and returns again, via the silver cord. It anchors the astral consciousness to the physical body so it can find its way back."
"And you've done this T and A before?"
"TM. And no, I haven't. But I've read about it—"
"Yeah? And I've read about brain surgery but I don't go around callin' myself a doctor."
"You don't seem to be very happy for me."
"You want to believe a little spooky plumbing makes you still alive at the other end?" He shrugged. "Okay by me. We got time to kill. So's the plan now is like you follow the cord to find where they've taken it?"
"Got any better ideas?"
"Just one."
"And that is?"
"Run!" he screamed.
The Threshers were coming, rolling down the street, rebounding off the sides of buildings and vehicles like a trio of pinballs loosed on the bonus round.
The Kid jumped through the big glass window of the bar. I tried to follow but came up short: the silvery cord had caught up the slack and wouldn't let me move more than a couple of feet in that direction. It wasn't enough!
I began a slow-motion run for the building across the street.
More cars, more cabs, several trucks, and a bus: a kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions tunneled through my mind as drivers and passengers drove through my astral essence.
By the time I was approaching the center line I could see that I probably wouldn't make it to the other side in time. One of the Spinning Tops of Doom was no longer rebounding off of the approaching traffic but rolling up and over the hoods and roofs of the outside line of vehicles. I might reach the sidewalk but it would catch me before I could make the building beyond. An SUV rumbled through with The Stones wailing "Gimme Shelter" on the radio.
Maybe the Threshers had no power over astral bodies. If I wasn't technically a ghost—i.e., disembodied spirit by reason of physical death and full detachment of the soul—then, perhaps, they'd leave me alone.
Or be unable to affect me in any way.
On the other hand, most operative systems function on the basic level: if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and . . .
"Quack!" I said, and changed direction, dodging toward a manhole cover some twenty feet away.
It was close: grabbing my cord and using the circular metal cover as a bull's-eye, I bungee-jumped into the sewers just as one of the Ginsu gyroscopes sliced and diced its way within five feet of me.
I crouched in the dark for long minutes. If I had possessed a heart I would have needed a good half hour just to get the pulse back down to a good seventy beats a minute. As it was I had trouble ca
tching my breath and—hey—I didn't even seem to have a set of ectoplasmic lungs! If I ever got back to my body and recovered from this I was going to have to avoid funerals for the rest of my life. Why? Because the next person who used the phrase "eternal rest" in my presence—I was going to seriously kick his ass!
After a while I noticed a light hovering over my shoulder. "Will, you son of a gun! Decided to tag along? Or were you down here all the time, waiting for us to come back?"
The faerie light bobbed a little and wove a vague pattern in the air.
I fingered the silvery cord that snaked off into the dark and passed through the sewer wall and into the dense earth beyond. I could try pulling myself, hand over hand, along my lifeline, traveling blindly through the midnight ground toward my body. Besides the risk of losing my grip and getting lost, there was the problem of losing The Kid. Or the possibility of climbing back up out of the ground too soon and getting pureed. Best to hunker down and wait.
"I think we're gonna be here awhile," I told my Will-o'-the-Wisp. "Too bad you're not a sparkling conversationalist."
I didn't mean it in an insulting way but Tinkerbell reacted like I'd thrown down the gauntlet. The light spun around three times and smacked into my forehead like a bullet.
I went out like a light.
* * *
The front door to my house in Louisiana stood ajar. More than ajar—it was half off its hinges. It had been repaired after the Frankenvamp's visit but now it was all Tool Time demo again.
A dream? I wondered. I didn't like this: any dream where you can ask yourself if you're dreaming is bound to be something more and this didn't look none too good . . .
Dr. Mooncloud sat in a big, stuffed easy chair that had been dragged to just inside the entryway, a sawed-off shotgun across her lap. All of the other shotguns from the house arsenal were stacked around the chair, their barrels given the shortening treatment, as well. Outside there was a soft "huffing" sound and the tread of delicate footfalls on the porch. "I'd shoot to wound if I could," Mooncloud called, "but sawed-off shotguns don't give me that option! I see another furry face—another furry anything—and I'm going to fill that with silver shot, as well! So you just settle down out there and be patient! Your pack leader behaves himself and he'll be back out as soon as he's done!"
Sprigs of some sort of plant were nailed to the door frame—wolfsbane? The other windows were boarded up from the inside. I was finally beginning to understand why mad scientists preferred castles over split-level ranch styles in the suburbs.
Another standoff was taking place upstairs in my bedroom.
Lupé was propped up in bed against a mound of pillows. She was bristling, dark hair sprouting beneath her eyes and trailing down the sides of her neck. Fingernails were becoming talons where they clutched the bedclothes in front of her. Dr. Burton stood next to the bed, fully vamped out, his fangs extended, his eyes red, muscles tensed and ready to spring. Both stared at a tall, hirsute man in the doorway.
"I can save you if you come with us, now," the man was saying. His hair was brown and bushy, streaked with gray. It swept back from a widow's peak set low on his forehead and swept over large and curiously angular ears.
"Save me from what, Grandfather?" she argued. "Myself?"
"You should be with your people. You should be with your family!"
"This is my home, Grandpére. I have a new pack, now."
"I did not stand in your way when you left The Pack to seek your fortunes in the West. We do not always serve where and whom we'd choose. But this . . ." He shook his shaggy head. "You have nothing but an empty house and two abortionists from a rival vampire enclave to look after you!"
She reacted as if he had slapped her but sat up a little straighter after a moment. "I think you are mistaken. It is you who does not want me to have this child."
"No one wants you to have this child! The thing that grows within you is an abomination! Ask this vampire, here, what his orders are! Do you really think his master would send him here to midwife a child that would foster a genocidal war between our peoples?"
"The Seattle demesne is not involved," she said.
"Then why is he here?" he spat back. "No enclave meddles in another's business unless it is their business, as well!" He raised a sharp-nailed finger as she opened her mouth. "And do not mouth the word 'friendship' to me. I know the wampyri, and their ways are not warm-blooded nor are they kind. Your upstart, half-breed Doman has upset their ordered balances of power and very soon now they shall snap the slack out of his shortening leash and stop his run altogether."
"And what do you care?"
"What do I care? For him? Nothing!" His deep-set green eyes shifted to Dr. Burton and seemed to flare. "I do not care to discuss pack business before an Outsider, much less one of the wampyr. But candor, perhaps, serves me better than diplomacy in this matter.
"Do I admire this Cséjthe for standing up to the Families, for the skill and cunning he has shown in defeating many fearsome enemies? Yes, yes, I do. Do I take delight in the discomfort of the other wampyri and drink toasts to their befuddlement and confusion at the bizarre interloper in their midst? Most certainly." He made a mocking half bow in the direction of the black vampire. "Would I throw my lot with his? Lead my pack in support of his cause? You must be mad!"
His eyes suddenly went dark, shifting from glowing emeralds to submerged mossy jade. "He will die and die soon, granddaughter. And though I do not wish for you to die with him, that is your choice to make as you wish . . ."
Like burning copper, his eyes reignited with green flames: "But you will not take the lives of the pack with you! None of us should be expected to pay a price for your folly!"
"No one's asking—"
"The blood-drinkers do NOT ask! They will see your growing belly and they will learn that a wampyri—half-breed or no—has grown seed within a living womb! They will not make 'an example' of you! They will make it as if you and the abomination never even existed! They would make an example of your family—except they will destroy all of your blood kin lest the fertility of your flesh extend beyond the province of your own fecundity! Then—and only then—will they turn and make 'an example' of every remaining member of the pack!"
His voice softened. "The child will not be born. Too many others will not allow it. My concern is that if—since this must be so, why compound the tragedy with your death? Or the deaths of others?"
Lupé turned to Dr. Burton. "Is this true? Are you here to help me keep this baby? Or are you under secret orders to abort it and make it look like an accident?"
"Let us help you, child," the pack leader interrupted. "We have the herbs that will help you terminate this—this—"
"Pregnancy," Mooncloud said from behind the tall, furry fellow.
"—it would earn the pack protection from wampyr wrath," he continued as if aware of her presence all along, "and grant us a measure of good will. And, more than any of the others, we would have your health and safety at heart, as well."
"Yeah? Well, tick-tock, Gramps and the whole debate may be moot in a moment." Mooncloud slide-cocked the shotgun in her grasp. "Your pack just hightailed it out of here."
"What? Why?"
"Could have something to do with this Really Big Ugly that climbed out of the river down by the docks and is headed this way."
The house suddenly shook as if struck by a giant mallet.
"I think that's him."
As quick as thought I was back downstairs and watching the frame of the front entrance ripped out of the wall by a grotesque giant that made the Frankenvamp look petite and effete.
The demon Camazotz had arrived.
* * *
I blinked as the light flew back out of my head and the darkness closed in around me.
No!
"Will!" I yelled. "What was that? Is that happening now? Get back in here!" I thumped my head. "Come on! Give me another look!"
It just hovered there in the sewer's eternal night. Other
than a little quiver or two, it didn't respond at all.
"Come on!" I yelled, the close echoes giving me a headache. "I gotta know what's happening!"
Or what had happened.
Was this a memory?
A dream?
Or another kind of astral connection giving me broadband ghostcam access to the here and now, back home?
What could I do?
"Oh man, this can't get any worse . . ."
There are a number of things you don't do.
You don't tug on Superman's cape.
You don't spit into the wind.
And you never never ever say: "It can't get any worse . . ."
Why? Because as sure as you do . . .
There was a yank on the silvery cord and I was hauled up out of the sewer and into the street like a trout landing on the bank of a river.
The chittering hum of a Thresher buzzed behind me.
Chapter Seventeen
There was only one of them left. It was about thirty yards behind me, patrolling the area in front of the bar where I had gone to ground.
It didn't appear to notice me at first.
I had time to register a couple of extraneous facts. First, the sun had passed its zenith and was now noticeably lower in the sky. Time flies when you're having fun . . .
And J.D. had poked his head through the outer wall of the bar. His mouth was open. "Run!" he screamed. "It's behind you!"
Now the creature was aware of my presence. Thanks, Kid.
It was clear to both of us that our act was still splitsville for the time being. "If we get separated," he yelled, "I'll meet you back at your new digs!"
"No!" I yelled back. "Get back to the house in Louisiana! Lupé's in trouble!" The last was said over my shoulder as I turned to flee: Ezekiel's Wheel had started to roll.
I did a little Lee Majors, Six Million Dollar Mojo sprint and dived back into the asphalt. Instead of slicing into darkness I skimmed along its surface like a Slip 'N Slide from Wham-o. The astral cord had taken up the slack as I moved. I was still exposed.
I jumped to my feet and saw that the Thresher had closed the distance from thirty yards to thirty feet. I turned and headed for the curb knowing that there was no way I could reach shelter in time.
Habeas Corpses Page 28
