Back inside the RV, Wendy was behind the steering wheel. “Jesus. What took you so long?”
I slid into the passenger side. “I ran into a real dick.”
“That seems to be happening a lot lately. Did you take care of him?”
“More like he took care to finish off my shirt.” I flashed her the dirty spots.
“All hands, huh?”
“No hands, actually.”
“Ew. Not sexy.”
“Tell me about it.”
As Wendy pulled the Winnebago back onto the freeway, I caught a glimpse of orange. The Mustang from earlier was parked on the side of the convenience store, the same tall sandy-haired man leaning against it.
Watching.
42 Over time, one becomes a connoisseur.
43 Will you shut up already and apply for a research grant. I don’t know everything, Mother.
44 A note to closeted homosexuals: keeping secrets has a tendency to make one a tad bitter over time, or so Gil says. That bitterness affects the flavor and consistency of your blood. Think about the vampires for once and get some therapy; only you can save a palate.
45 A sentence I never expected to write, I assure you.
46 … and I hate that.
47 A perfect example of why I hate memories. Secrets pop up. Yes. My real name is Amanda Shutter. I had it changed during college. One of my feeble attempts to escape my mother’s reach. New name. New city. Not a chance.
48 If you haven’t noticed, zombies aren’t big on sleep. We’re not wired for it.
49 Thank you.
50 Damn you, Ethel! Just when you think you’ll do things differently.
Chapter 7
Snacking at America’s
Favorite Child Abuse
Palace
Tired of the same old same old? Remember the Golden Rule: prey upon those that have few praying for them. Sure it’s sad, poverty is a curse. But, you’ll never run out of tasty options if you stick to cruising the low-end retailers. Happy Hunting.
—Tips for the Modern Dead
We found the thrift store equivalent of a KOA just south of Coeur d’Alene—The Shady Glen Campground and Swap Meet proved a perfect hideout, dark, decrepit and deeply set into a hillside sluice. Where better to hide a moldy Winnebago and a lethargic vampire, only an hour into a bad blood hangover? The place was so run down, it wasn’t likely to gather many guests, unless the homeless were on holiday.51
Twelve grassy camper slots overlooked a tin-roofed cabana, its grayed clapboard walls so worn and knotty a deer had better not take a piss or it would sag and collapse. The sign on the front read: The Washout— which is exactly what would happen in the next big rain—I was fairly certain.
A ramshackle cottage, tin-roofed, with paint peeling off of it in ribbons, sat in the webbing between the two hills. I was detecting a theme.52 Cheap roofing and wood rot: downtrodden as the new cozy. Lovely. It’s a good thing I didn’t sleep anymore because there was no way I’d be closing my eyes in this shithole. Open them and find a toothless overalled hick named Hoss pumping away at your behind with a pud like a corncob. Not a pleasant image.
Near the front of the property was the swap meet. The sale was no more than a barn filled with tables of crap that overflowed past the doors into piles of damp stuffed animals (bound for Sugar Loaf machines near you), racks of clothing (again, insipidly western-inspired), and metal-rimmed wagon wheels (destined for someone’s exterior decorating mishap or—God help us—a coffee table.
Wendy ran into the cottage and registered for a place to park the monster, and after a particularly heinous scuffle with some tree branches—Mr. Kim shouting suggestions from the hood of the nearby Volvo the entire time—I backed the RV into the slot.
We rested on the back bumper.
“I’m starving,” Wendy said.
“Me, too. I could eat a horse, or at least a large jockey.”
“Where we go?” Mr. Kim yelled from the Volvo.
“Into town. I’m feeling peckish.”
“Ooo. Me, too.”
The sound of two ghost hands clapping is silence. Regardless, Kimmy was happily clapping away.
“Well I’m not going,” Fishhook said, walking past us to a hammock sagging between the trees. He flopped into it like a professional loafer.
We left Shady Glen in a swirl of dust.
When it comes to mid-day snacking, I really can’t resist slumming it at one of America’s finest child abuse palaces, Kmart. On any given Sunday, a quick scan of shoppers will undoubtedly produce the following:
An overweight single mother cursing and swatting one or more of her dirty children in the snacks and chips aisle.
Sad divorcées perusing the Jaclyn Smith collection for happy hour outfits.53
Lumbering men pushing steel-toed boots onto holey-socked feet.
Woefully unsupervised children running amok through the candy, toy and/or CD aisles.
Plus, there’s usually a Kmart in even the smallest burg. When there’s not, a Wal-Mart or Dollar Store will have to do, but Target is never an acceptable substitution; there’s something about that particular meat that gets the police involved. Our Kmart was a mere six blocks away, which spoke poorly to our accommodations. Inside was exactly what we expected: those unlikely to be missed. We settled into a location by the books and magazines.
“What about that one?” Wendy raised a finger to point across the top of her Country Living, in the direction of the main aisle, where a filthy homeless guy was skittering amongst the intimacy planning—as if he had a chance—and the douches, which I had no doubt he was in desperate need of. His movements and frequent pinching at his cheeks simply screamed tweak show.
“Yeah … no. I like my downtrodden with a little less spring in their step.”
“Good point.”
A pretty, and totally out of her element, Asian girl passed through our aisle, her once-dark brown hair streaked with honey tones. In fact, she smelled of the thick syrupy stuff. It must have been her shampoo. My eyes fluttered, drifting to that place …
“Amanda!” Wendy socked me in the arm. The girl’s eyes met mine as she turned the corner toward the Martha Stewart stronghold of linens and housewares, out of sight. “What do you think you’re doing?” She reached in her purse, withdrew a napkin, and dabbed a thin stalactite of drool hanging from my chin.
“Ew, gross. Sorry.”
“Did that girl look familiar, or something?” Wendy asked.
I thought back to Ritzville, to the Asian girl and her pasty friend. A distinct possibility. “Yeah. I guess so.”
Unlucky in periodicals, we replenished our waning supply of Handiwipes and Altoids and made our way to the registers. An elderly woman and two hideous youths—one a greasy pimple of a boy, the other a stringy-haired wisp, who looked like she was shooting for an anorexic porn-star look—unpacked the cart ahead of us. As they did, a CD case fell from the mound of toilet paper, housedresses and canned goods, rattling on the floor.
Gold and diamond-toothed rappers represented from their discounted plastic prison.
“Grandma, now you know you gotta be careful. See. You done dropped your CD.” The girl stooped to pick up the disc, pelvic bone popping loud. When she stood, she gave us a quick sneer before tossing it at the checker.
Grandma had no response. Her face was blank. Eyes blurry. Drunk, I thought. Who wouldn’t need to knock a few back with kids like those?
Wendy leaned into me and whispered, “Because what granny don’t like G-Unit?”
“I think we’ve found lunch.”
The family—for lack of a better word—lived in a mossy doublewide trailer sinking into the mud about ten minutes from the next sign of life. We slowed to a crawl about a hundred yards back, where I pulled the car off the road into a nestle of bushes and silenced the engine.
We rolled down the windows, watched and listened.
“You better get them groceries in the house now, Grandma! If you expect any food
tonight,” the boy yelled, lighting up a cigarette and giving the old woman a stumbling shove.
“Yeah!” the girl agreed.
The elderly lady shuffled from the trunk to the house four or five times, hefting the Kmart haul while the surly youths supervised from the porch. The girl picked cigarette butts from a rusty coffee can and handed them to the boy who emptied the leftover tobacco into a pile and rolled it in a new paper. Wendy sucked at her teeth and grumbled under her breath. We’d chosen well, these kids would be a tasty snack and an heroic action all rolled into one. How often have you been able to say that about your last trip through the Burger King drive-through? It’s like we’re heroes.54
“Johnny, don’t smoke all that, now. I need me some nicotine.” The girl rubbed her hands up and down on her thighs as though chilled.
“Shut your pie-hole.” The lanky kid stood and kicked through the mud puddles of the front yard, thumbs hooked in the back pockets of his jeans, and cigarette dipping from his lips with every stride. The girl bounded after him through a break in the fir trees and became shadow in the darkness there. The screen door on the trailer clapped shut behind the old woman and the final bag. The scene quieted.
Wendy was first to reach for the door handle.
We followed a gulley that ran parallel to the road, avoiding the collected water and crouching as we crossed the open space beyond the yard. The smell of moss and pine needles floated on the slightest of breezes while the birds sang along to a country twang burrowing from inside the trailer walls like rats. As we reached the path, I barred Wendy’s progress and held a finger to my lips.
The teens were a fair distance, since their grating voices were no more than a whisper.
“I’ll lead.” I stepped into the gap between the trees onto a welcome carpet of needles and forest waste that dulled any announcement of our approach. The brush tightened on the path a few yards in and the thick smell of wet wood smoke made its presence known gradually. The canopy thinned and the brother and sister’s voices became audible.
“When I get older I’m going to get the hell out of this place and move to Cleveland or Detroit.” The boy’s voice cracked and crumbled, adolescence or the cigarette kicking in at his vocal cords.
“Detroit? What the hell are you going to do in Detroit?”
“Build cars.” He coughed.
“Hand me that cigarette.”
We crept up to a massive evergreen trunk that signaled the entrance to a clearing. The teenagers sat on a fallen tree in front of a small mound of branches and logs producing more wet smoke than heat and fire. It snapped and popped like a five-year-old with bubble wrap.
“Well I’m moving to Hollywood and I’m going to be a huge star.”
“Yeah, a regular Katie Morgan.” He giggled.
“Who’s that?” The girl’s jaw jutted in his direction as she dragged the glowing cherry down the cigarette.
“Porn star.” He snatched the cigarette from his sister’s fingers and stuck it between his teeth.
“Don’t!” she yelled, punching his arm. “You’re gonna nigger lip it.”
I’d heard enough. I stepped into the clearing. Wendy flanked me and cocked her hip out. Her outfit seemed much more appropriate than mine, considering the occasion.
“Hey.” I called. “Either of you guys holdin’?” I hoped this was the correct terminology. It’d been at least ten years since I’d scored pot for a party. Not that we had any intention of buying any, it just seemed a good in with these particular kids who seemed to be so brain damaged that drug use was likely. I had my answer soon enough.
“I know where to get some, yeah.” The boy smirked and puffed his chest. He browsed Wendy from tits to ass and back again. She flipped her blonde waves and blew him a kiss.
It seemed the icebreaker was successful. They wouldn’t try to run until we were already on them, then it’d be too late. As you’ve seen we’re not what you’d call dawdlers.
“Aren’t you cute?” Wendy sat down next to the boy and ran her hand through that greasy mop on his head. It was a bit gross, even for Wendy, who has a history of, shall we say, lewd conduct.
I claimed a spot near his sister and stood there with my hand on my hip, waiting.
“Not as cute as you, baby.” His lips curled back on a handful of dirty teeth that clung to his gums like grave markers in an old settler’s cemetery. One bony hand crept from the log across Wendy’s bare thigh. “Oh,” he said, drawing back his hand. “You’re cold.”
“You have no idea, Johnny.” Wendy scooted across the log toward him.
The boy flinched.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I didn’t tell you my name.” He looked over at his sister. “Raylene?”
She shrugged and continued to puff on the cigarette.
“Looks like you’ve found us out.”
Don’t worry, fans. We made it quick. In the end— and if you have any knowledge of dysfunctional families—it was a public service. Had they been allowed to continue on their path, they would have simply bred more welfare recipients and third-strike offenders. I think we can all agree, we don’t need more of those, now, do we?
All that was incidental anyway, because as we were leaving, scraps of clothes and odd bone matter sizzling on the fire and Wendy thumbing through her red herring caddy, the blonde Asian stepped into the clearing.
At least, I thought it was her.
I was kind of focused on the gun.
51 If only we could be so lucky.
52 By the B-52s, of course. Can’t you hear Kate Pierson, just now?
53 Mmm, happy hour.
54 Please refrain from applauding. Send checks instead.
Chapter 8
A Taste of Honey
Shun human fads, embrace the new supernatural! Bite me!
—Graffiti from the wall of McAlinden’s Tavern
“How about you bitches sit your dead asses down on that log, before I put a couple of holes through your heads?” The girl had the bad-ass lingo and rigid stance of a killer combined with the fashion sense of a, well, of … me. Her fair skin was a striking canvas for a gorgeous pair of almond-shaped eyes and cherry lollipop lips. The clothes were the real thing. White banding clung to her lean torso like Saran Wrap and cut just below the snatch.
I had to admit, I hadn’t been so afraid of a teenage girl since Laura Wilks shunned the no eyebrow-plucking edict in high school.55 She hadn’t seemed nearly as threatening in the sweater set and jeans she wore at Kmart. Even then, I thought she’d looked familiar. She’d been following us. I assumed she was one of Markham’s. There’s no reason a girl couldn’t shape-shift into a bloodthirsty wolf. It’s just, so well … butch.
“Well I guess that establishes that you know who you’re dealin’ with,” Wendy said.
The girl shoved the gun forward, lining her sights up on Wendy, which, while far preferable to having a gun aimed at me, was still pants-stainingly terrifying.
Bullets leave holes.
Holes are neither pretty nor fashionable.
I didn’t want any holes.
Wendy didn’t either. She straddled the log and pouted. I joined her.
“I couldn’t say for sure but your little fiesta here looked remarkably like a double homicide.”
“Well, if you want to get technical,” Wendy said.
“Dude. I’m about through with your sass.” The girl turned the gun sideways, gangsta style.
Busted! Could it be as simple as just that? Mark-ham’s goon or concerned citizen, either way, I needed to take control of this situation, before Wendy’s smart mouth got us both killed. “Listen. We don’t want any trouble. Those kids were abusing that old woman in that trailer out there, they earned their punishment.”
“So you bitches are like public servants?” We nodded our heads in agreement. “Social Workers with Shark Teeth? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She kicked through the leaves sending a spray of gravel into the fire, which
cracked and popped as though she’d thrown some bubble wrap into a day care center.
“Exactly, I knew you’d understand.” I beamed and sighed, as though that were the end of the conversation. “See? She’s totally reasona—”
“Shut up! You make me sick. Both of you. Fucking zombies.” She began to pace, then slowed and cocked her head, toward me. “But, since you seem to be in the mood for chatting … let’s hear about what you did to my brother.”
Wha? Huh?56
I hoped she wasn’t talking about food; it’s so hard to remember every meal. It’s not like a chomp on the homeless is fine dining.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My brother, Dae-Jung. Ring any bells?”
“No. Not a one.” And that was no lie, the only Korean guy I knew was Mr. Kim and I’d never done anything to harm him. Except for leaving him in a car, instead of inviting him into a succubus pit. But surely, I wasn’t being blamed for that. He was already dead when that happened.
“Well, allow me to enlighten you.” She continued to pace.
Interlude No. 1 (in D minor)
A Surly Teen’s Story … or…
How One Zombie’s Memoir is Selfishly Hijacked
“When I left for Denver—” she began.
“Rehab?” I suggested.
“No,” she snapped with two syllables, just like the ones in “duh.” “College.”
“Oops … sorry.”
She took a deep cleansing breath—like they teach you in anger management class—and continued. “Like I was saying, when I went away to college in Denver— this was last year, by the way, so not long enough to get foggy on the details—Dae-Jung was having some difficulty coping with life as a zombie—God knows why, it runs in the family. My mother was the one who turned him. Purely by accident, of course.
“She’s a breather, but I suspect you knew that, and, not dead yet. She was carrying the ability into her old age, savoring life and really living. She was careful. Except for this one time. Dae-Jung drove her to the herbalist for her tea. It was a late spring day and the sun was shining through a squall. Like they do.
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