Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02

by Road Trip of the Living Dead

  “They were halfway through the intersection when the taxi barreled into them, punching into my brother’s side of the car. Mother knew he would die. He was barely breathing. He’d never survive until the ambulance came. She didn’t tell me exactly how she did it, but by the time the paramedics cut the doors open, Dae-Jung climbed out of the car without a scratch.

  “He was fine for the first day and then he started sniffing around like a dog. I woke up and found him standing at my bedroom door … drooling. He needed to feed, you see? We were all ignoring it. Mother and I took him to the temple.

  “‘You take him. Talk to him. Make him not be hungry,’ she said to the priest.

  “He was an older man with bright wise eyes and eyebrows that could use a good trimming, if you know what I mean. But he was kind and he took Dae-Jung into the temple, gave him sanctuary, and promised to offer guidance during these troubling times. Mother and I turned to leave. The wooden latch scraped on the door to the priest’s rooms, shutting us out. That’s when the screams began … and I don’t mean my brother’s. A heavy thud shook the door and blood washed out from underneath onto the stone tiles of the temple floor.

  “It was all very quick. Afterward, we could hear my brother’s sobs.

  “‘Open the door, Dae-Jung,’ I said, standing to the side of the puddle as I knocked. ‘Let us help you.’

  “‘You go away!’ he cried. ‘Now!’

  “We heard a sound inside the rooms. A hollow tearing that echoed through the building followed by the scuffling scrape of little feet. Mother and I backed away from the door, into the shadows of the carved columns nearby. The sanctuary was barely lit, but we could see the door and the blood. It pulled itself back into the gap underneath, like it had a mind to do so, willing itself to return. Whispers filled the air, silenced, a loud pop sounded and the door opened. Dae-Jung stepped out. Clean. Quiet.

  “For the next few days, he wouldn’t talk. Not a single word, and then he did.

  “‘Reapers,’ he said. And then packed his things and left.

  “He stayed away for nearly six months and then came home to tell us he’d joined a group that would help him with his problem. He seemed genuinely hopeful, and started visiting Mother every day.

  “That’s how it was when I went away to college.

  “Then Dae-Jung stopped coming to the house. He didn’t answer his cell, and never returned any messages. We had to pick up his furniture from a small condo in Ballard. He’d stopped paying the rent. His car was gone.

  “So, I came home and started looking for this group.” She flicked the gun in my direction. “This is where you come in, so listen up. I talked to a Ms. Baumgartner. Very nice lady. Helpful, too.”

  Oh shit. I knew exactly where the girl was headed. I tried to stop my hands from shaking. Wendy scanned my face for some help in understanding. I didn’t give her any.

  “She remembered my brother, told me that the last time she’d seen him, he was getting into a car with a strange woman that had come to the group and really messed things up.”

  “Mr. Kim.” I nodded. “Mr. Kim is your brother.”

  “Her brother is Kimmy?” Wendy yelled.

  I nodded. “He is.”

  The girl lowered the gun for the first time since her diatribe began. “Is? Dude. Did you say is?” Her face was scrunched with confusion, like someone had taken all her conviction and replaced it with a big fat question mark. There was hope there, too.

  Unfortunately.

  “Well … yeah. He’s around, in fact, he’s up in the car.” Wendy pointed back up the path.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Now don’t get excited,” I cautioned. “He is dead and—”

  “Duh!” The girl turned and darted from the clearing.

  I socked Wendy in the arm. “Stupid bitch! Why’d you go and say that? She can’t see him, or touch him or hear him. All that’s going to happen is she’ll be even more pissed off and come back gun blazing.”

  “Ew. I didn’t think of that.”

  “No shit. Now let’s hurry after her before this gets really fucked up.”

  When we reached the Volvo, the girl’s ass was hanging out the passenger door. “Dae-Jung!” she yelled.

  Mr. Kim was jumping up and down on the hood, clapping with the joy of a slot machine jackpot winner. “Hyon Hui! She here! She here!” Clearly her English was much better than Kimmy’s. He pointed inside the car. His excitement shook some ectoplasm free and it floated about him like balsamic vinegar in salad oil.

  “Honey!” I yelled from the end of the gulley.

  She pulled herself from the car and glowered, slammed the door and trained the gun on me. “He’s not here.”

  I raised my hands in the air. “Honey?”

  “No, Hee-on Hui.” Mr. Kim pronounced for me.

  “Your brother says your name is Hyon Hui. Is that right or am I just butchering it?” I pulled my advertising smile out hoping for sincerity but settling for scared shitless.

  “What did you say?” she came closer. Her arm sagged a bit.

  “I said, ‘Your brother told me your name, Hyon Hui.’” This time she smiled and looked around the car, even bending down to peer underneath it.

  As she did, Wendy ran from the woods and tackled the girl. They rolled off the road into the muddy bowl of the gulley, wrestling for control of the gun. I ran to the opposite side of the car.

  “Don’t hurt her! Don’t hurt her!” Mr. Kim screamed the entire time.57

  From further up the road, another girl was running. Her friend, the unmistakably white, Whitey— we’ll call her, just for the sake of a name. She wasn’t far enough away that I didn’t notice her polka-dotted Holly Hobby dress or the scary shotgun she wielded.

  I threw open the car door, slid behind the wheel and cranked. The wheels spun as I floored the car toward the ghostly creature running toward us. The maneuver worked. When she saw the car coming she twisted in the opposite direction, dropped the gun and bolted.

  I parked the Volvo at an angle and retrieved the dusty shotgun from the gravel road. From back where I’d left them, Wendy was prodding Hyon Hui forward with her pistol. The girl’s face was stuck in an unflattering cringe, forcing her eyes into slits narrower than an overly thankful Renée Zellweger.58

  “If it’s any consolation, your friend back there was super helpful.”

  She flinched.

  “Oh, Honey. We’re not going to hurt you. We all love a little violence now and again. Why when Naomi Campbell busted her assistant with that cell phone, I laughed just like everyone else. But you can’t pull a gat on the ladies after dinner; that makes us cranky.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and tried to crack a smile. God bless her. But, I could tell she was plotting and who could blame her? I know I hate to lose the upper hand.

  “Good girl. Now let’s go get your friend and have a talk. ’Kay?” I put my arm around her shoulder to guide her back to the car.

  Mr. Kim was already in the backseat, waiting. Pink beads slipped down his poor little see-through cheeks. The sight was almost enough to make me go moony over family reunions.59

  The whitest girl ever followed behind us in a hideous purple Geo Metro, while Hyon Hui must have experienced the most bizarre car ride of her life, silently staring at the empty seat next to her that was the entire focus of our conversation.

  Mr. Kim started in immediately, “You must promise to protect sister. You owe me that much.”

  Wendy rolled her eyes at me. “He’s talking to you, bitch.”

  “I hope you know, I’d never let anyone hurt your sister, Kimmy. Even this one up here.” Our eyes met in the rearview mirror.

  “Swear,” he said.

  “I swear.”

  “Make her swear.” He cocked his head toward Wendy, who turned an offensive glare back at him.

  “I’ve got no reason to hurt her.”

  “What about you run low on candy bar? Huh?”

  Wendy
twisted in her seat with the speed of a prizefighter, swinging a right hook through the gap in the seats that breezed through the ghost’s head and into Hyon Hui’s shoulder.

  “Jesus!” she yelled, reaching for the door handle. “What was that for?”

  “Aaaarggh!” Mr. Kim roared from the backseat, his spittle solidifying into dark blue jelly that crossed the distance in less than a second and settled into a dripping mess off the brim of Wendy’s cowboy hat. She rolled down the window, snatched off the woven mess and tossed it out.

  Pouting followed.

  “Enough!” I shouted. Mr. Kim had never expressed such an open emotional reaction, at least not in front of me. It was oddly cathartic to know that family could have such a strong connection, that a sister would put her life in danger to find a brother, that a brother’s love could actually reach beyond the grave. “We’ll take care of Hyon Hui. You have my word.”

  He narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded his trust. He slid his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Tell her I’m right here.”

  She shook off what appeared to be a chill. The ghost withdrew his arm and sulked.

  “Those goose bumps just then were from your brother. He was giving you a hug.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. You two are insane.”

  55 I still get chills. Hold me.

  56 In case you’re keeping score, that’s 0 for 2 in the assumption category. Damn.

  57 The whole scene was enough to give a girl a migraine, if my nerve endings still functioned, that is.

  58 Right? Right? I’m right. I know it. I’m not buying that act for a second.

  59 Almost.

  Chapter 9

  Does Anyone Actually

  Own Shower Shoes?

  … then there are those unpredictable werecreatures. What are we to do with them? On the one hand, who can resist their sheer animal magnetism, but on the other, can a zombie really risk the cuts and bruises for even a single night of passion?

  —Zombie-A-Go-Go (April 2006)

  The albino chick’s name was Becky—get this—by choice. She was born Granita Graham; Granita … like the delicious ice-cold beverage and not Grenada like the island. Which, if she preferred Becky, why’d she even bother explaining her previous name. That’s just weird, right? There’s just no accounting for taste. For example, I knew this girl in high school named Eliza-beta Von Regens.60 She was this gorgeous exchange student and everyone thought she was royalty. Well, she wanted people to call her Lotus, which, for my taste, is just way to similar to lettuce, which is what I preferred to call her. Lettuce, could you get out of my way, et cetera, et cetera, you get the picture.

  She didn’t care for it.

  And thus, this chapter’s conversation begins like this …

  “So … Granita? How did you get hooked up with the Terminator over here?” I stabbed a thumb at Honey—Hyon Hui had been thusly christened due to a terrible speech impediment of Wendy’s called indifference.

  She gulped. “Well … I was really happy with my job at the rubber stamp store—”

  I could feel the pit opening and I was ready to drop. “Wow, I’m sure that was going to be very interesting but let’s talk to Honey some more.”

  “Ew. Burn,” Wendy said to Granita. Being around these teenage girls was doing nothing for our etiquette.

  “I was going to tell you that Mr. Kim, or Kimmy as we call him, seems perfectly happy now, completely at ease with his lot in life … or … death, as it were. And, there’s really no reason for you to worry about him.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but I need to see him again. I really can’t take you bitches’ word for it. Uh. Uh,” she stuttered. “I mean ladies.”

  “Oh, Honey.” Wendy stood from the campfire and patted Honey on the shoulder. “You were right the first time.” She slipped past Gil as he dropped out of the camper door.

  “I just don’t see a way for that to happen. I’m sorry.” I tapped a cigarette against the metal folding chair’s arm.

  I really have to learn to think before I speak, at least in social settings. Back on the Ad train, I can wing it like nobody’s business, but in these weird seemingly sensitive situations, I find myself at a loss. Take this response, for an example: Honey’s face had gone slack. Mr. Kim’s had soured into an uncharacteristic scowl. I could see it from where he stood next to the Volvo, hand anchored on the side mirror like the base for a game of tag, stretching as close as he could. Sorry, I mouthed.

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Gil said, plopping down between the girl and her pale companion. “I’m Gil, and don’t worry, I’m not a glutton like those two hags, just a run of the mill vampire.” He extended his hand and surprisingly Honey accepted it. Granita did not, deciding instead to go with a shocked glare followed by a stroll around the campground. This was, of course, a perfectly acceptable response to meeting her first bloodsucker.

  “What do you mean?” Honey asked.

  “Well, theories abound in regards to humans interacting with the spirit world. There are mediums that swear they can provide a vessel for the deceased to speak with their family and friends. Surely you own a TV.”

  “I’m talking about seeing Dae-Jung again. Not just speaking to someone who could very well be pulling my dick.”

  Despite the seriousness of her tone, I had to gig-gle.61 Wendy returned from the trailer, a brown smudge staining her cheek. I motioned for her to wipe and didn’t wait for a response, lest she think I was picking again. It was bad enough that Mr. Kim had outed her eating disorder in front of Honey, who had caught our exchange and was blatant with her smirk.

  “Well, we could always find a mystic of some sort,” Gil continued. “Some shaman or witch or kraken, I suppose.”

  “Kraken? Like in the pirate movie?”

  “Yeah,” Wendy said. “Just like it, they pop up in the weirdest places, in fact …” She pulled out her phone, dialed. “I think there’s a hotspot on our route.”

  “Well.” I stood up and dusted off my sarong. “On that really bizarre note, I’m going to brave the Shady Glen Shower building.”

  “Oh my God.” Gil gasped. “Are you serious? Do you have shower shoes?”

  “What are those even for?”

  “So you don’t get a staph infection or someone’s spooge under your toenails, dumbass.”

  I recoiled. I hadn’t thought of either of those possibilities. I just knew I needed a shower. Plus, I had to rinse out my bra and panties, at the very least. Those two items are definitely not magical. I’d just have to risk it.

  I broke from the group toward the tin-roofed structure in the center of the compound. Closer to the road, Granita had stopped to chat with a couple of clean-cut guys, who were setting up a tent. Both were unreasonably thin and too well cared-for to be a possible food source, not that I was hungry, but you never know when there’ll be a shortage.62 Plus, their short-sleeved dress shirts pretty much ensured they were carrying a box of Watchtowers.

  Up a few slots was another RV, this one a large buslike monstrosity. Outside, a family was preparing for dinner. A plaid-shirted father-type flipped burgers on a grill, while a woman wearing capri pants and an apron opened a Costco-sized jar of mayonnaise. Nearby, a couple of adolescents dawdled on a swing set meant for much smaller children and whispered secrets in each other’s ears.

  I know what you’re thinking. The whole scene was absolutely disturbing, like the quartet had drifted out of some 50s sitcom and landed at my campground just to taunt me with their … family-ness. Everything about them was foreign, not the least their consensus of smiles.

  I needed a shower, or at the very least a toilet to dry heave over.

  A single bulb splayed a cone of light around the wash building’s closed door; a padlock dangled from a chain on the frame and a sign reported:

  TOILETS CLOSED AFTER 10 P.M.

  USE HONEY BUCKET.

  The thought of which reminded me of shakily hovering over clogged muddy holes. Something I was h
appy not to have to deal with again.

  When I pushed the door open, I was accosted by an odor akin to aged and moldy cheddar hanging in the air like a gas attack, mingling with the pungent sourness of urine. A row of stalls lined one wall facing an oxidized mirror and four sinks that spread across the other. At the opposite end, a darkened opening led to another room, probably the showers. At least it was well lit, though the bright white of the exposed bulbs did nothing for my skin tone.

  With the door closed behind me, I was taken first by the silence. Except for the occasional crane fly tinging against a light bulb, the space was devoid of sound and creepy because of it. No drips, or tanks running.

  Nothing.

  I crossed the space in three strides to peer into the darkened area beyond the main restroom. It didn’t seem to be a large space but it was hard to tell. There were no switches on either the exterior or within an arm’s length on the inner walls. From what I could see, the concrete floor gave way to soggy wooden slats a few feet in. It was only once I’d stepped onto those saggy boards that I noticed a grayed string dangling from the ceiling.

  I reached out into the shadow, slipping my hand in the murky dark, for a moment. My overactive imagination kicked in and I imagined horrible creatures reaching back toward me from the soggy blackness. Quivering gelatinous digits sticky as label glue, reaching with sharp talons toward my necrotic fragile flesh.

  Reaching.

  I stumbled back into the light, banking that the retreat might cause the monsters to return to their drains, or at least give me a chance at some sanity. It worked and I focused on the string once more. Gathered my courage and marched straight toward it snatching at it and tugging.

  It took two tries but I finally snatched it on, sending a cone of light arcing around the room as though spotlit by a cracked-out carnie. To my right hooks strung with moldy rubber sheets, themselves dotted with mold so thick it had taken on the heavy look of moss. To the left three half walls cut the area into quarters providing for a distinct area of one’s own without all the pesky privacy.