“I started searching the following day.
“Man, I looked everywhere. From the CD. to Aurora to West Seattle, I questioned every low-life informer I’d ever talked to and turned up nothin’. I started doing research on zombies, book research, but that was a dead end too, ’cause what I saw wasn’t the kind that was still livin’, like the voodoo kind. These were the flesheatin’ variety.
“So I started thinkin’ like a zombie, or at least what I thought a zombie would think like. I asked myself, where would I go for food? Who would I feed on? And then it was like a light bulb turned on, just like in the cartoons.
“The homeless.
“I got my big break in the Tent City, roaming amongst the leaky tents, muddy alleys and burn barrels. It didn’t quiet until about three in the A.M., so I normally showed up at two. This one night, I seen a well-dressed guy, musta been about twenty-five, tall, dark-haired, good lookin’ I supposed, maybe a little pale. Completely out of place.
“I followed him through the blocks of tents, careful not to slosh in the puddles and alert him, hanging back in the shadows. He came up to an elderly man, who’d ducked out of a refrigerator box lean-to and was smoking under a big evergreen. They talked for a minute and then started walking together, down the backside of the area, toward Rupert Street, toward a long black limo. The door opened from the inside and a blond stepped out. She sauntered over to the homeless man, put her arm around him, led him to the car, and then pushed him inside with such force I could hear his body hit the opposite side of the interior.
“I didn’t see any more that night. But, I did get the license plate and had a friend run it. That’s when I knew I’d been looking in all the wrong places. It led me to a house in Medina. Not just a house, a mansion. Huge place.
“It didn’t take long for that guy to lead me to you.
“When I saw you the second time, you were coming out of a wall into an alley near the furniture stores on Western Avenue. Not a door in a wall, either, through the fuckin’ wall. I followed you home that night.
“During that time, I lost my job. Not that I miss it, but it was income. Like most out-of-work cops I ended up doin’ security. I got a gig as a bodyguard for this big-time titty bar owner. Well, actually, they weren’t titty bars.
“It wasn’t long before he invited me into his ‘inner circle.’
“Me and three other guys went to his new club for cigars and drinks. It was after hours and the place was smoked out as it was. There were clouds of the stuff, you couldn’t even see the walls. We sat at a round table. Markham was across from me.
“He told me, ’Scotty, things are going to change around here and I need men by my side that I can trust. Can I trust you, Scotty?’ ’Cause that’s what he called me. Scotty.
“So, I say, ‘Yeah. Of course you can, Mr. Markham. What do I look like? An asshole?’
“And that’s when the girl comes, drop-dead gorgeous. I don’t normally get turned on by redheads, but this one had somethin’, green eyes that sparkled plus an Irish accent that vibrated through me. I could feel it in my balls, real freaky-like.
“She says, ‘Alright there, boys, I want you to roll up your sleeves for me.’
“Jimmy, he’s to my right, he goes, ‘Whatchoo gonna do give us shots?’ and laughs it up.
“But that’s kinda what she did. We all rolled up our sleeves, ’cause Markham was nodding and she’d asked nice, and like I said I could feel that accent of hers in my balls. She held her hand up and wiggled her fingers. They stretched and cracked until they were so long and pointy, I thought I’d scream. But, she was still smiling. And Markham was sipping his scotch like nothin’ was wrong. So when she dragged that spike of a finger up my arm, cutting me right through to the bone, I wasn’t expecting a thing.”
“She was a werewolf,” I said.
“Fuckin’ A right. Didn’t mean a thing to me, at first. The change was really … refreshing, freeing, kinda. But the other night, when we were chasing Markham’s quarry, and I saw you, it got me back on track. I need to know everything. Markham doesn’t tell us shit.”
“What do you mean? You’re not chasing Gil?”
“Well yeah. That’s the excuse, but really I wanted to talk to you. I thought I’d lost your trail back in Ellens-burg. It was sheer luck that I saw that ugly ass camper on the freeway a ways back.”
“You’re not here to kill us?” I frowned.
“Nope.” He spread his arms wide as though I’d run in for a hug.
“Swear to God?”
“Yep.”
Hold up. Confusion setting in.
Hold up. Hold up. Hold up.
It’s terribly flattering that I’ve got people searching for me, and all. But if Scott wasn’t hunting us, and Honey’d already revealed her secrets, then who did that leave?
Who killed Granita, or whatever her name was? Who was scratching at the bathroom door? What had freaked Fishhook out to the point of nearly overdosing on shrooms? Had he seen something?
Was it even necessary to continue driving to Rapid City? Maybe I could get out of this whole Mother thing.
And, possibly more importantly, where was I going to find a new outfit?
80 Or at the very least lust.
81 Pipe will never replace a cute belt or the perfect peek-toe stiletto.
82 Ding! Coined!
83 Multi-tasking! Zombies love multi-tasking! Can’t get enough of it. Multi-tasking and brains.
84 I understand a fragile few may be among us. Feel free to in sert the politically correct phrase, “bust a capable”.
85 If you know what I’m sayin’.
86 Is it wrong that I was getting a little turned on?
87 The principal ingredients of hot dogs, according to Billy Cumberbatch, fifth grade über-bully.
88 Sometimes it’s necessary to look.
89 No. I’m serious. Ask. Contrary to popular belief, June is very much alive and supernaturally rejuvenated (though deathly pale) and living under the name *******. (Ed. note: name withheld due to legal constraints.)
90 That’s a full body score, you pervert!
91 You may remember my ex-boyfriend Martin (see previous memoir). When I say ex, I mean dead. Food dead. Don’t judge. Anyway, he was a therapist. Number seven in the string.
92 Did that sound dirty?
Chapter 13
Road Games and
Gamey Discussion
Genuinely weird celebrities are rarely among the un-dead. You’d imagine Tim Burton might be hiding a zombie secret, or his wife Helena Bonham Carter, for that matter. Not so, or, at least, not yet.
—Celebrity Gas Chamber with Lola LeGrave
I tossed the bartender’s torso onto the growing tangle of corpses mounded on the dance floor. There were a few stragglers inside when we got the idea to burn the place down, but since their backs were broken, we just left those groaning paraplegics where they lay. Honey found a gas can near the generator and Scott did the honors of christening The White House like a priest shaking his aspergillum over sleepy parishioners. I set the blaze with the last of my cigarettes, sending flames scurrying off to every corner of the rat’s nest.
A total burn was really the only thing that could be done. The grand total was twenty-four bodies—oops— but it couldn’t be avoided. If those Nazis had just practiced some common decency, we wouldn’t have to have resorted to our basest instincts.
The place was a dump anyway; we were doing Idaho a favor sparking it. I mean, seriously. I’m not much for college parties—though I’ve certainly spent enough time wiping up in strange bathrooms after frat house keggers93—but at least they hire maids to sweep once a week. This place was ankle deep in dry peanut shells, insects and rat poop. A fire was inevitable.
Does that sound like rationalizing?
“Rather than stand around and wait for the fire department to show up, let’s think of a plan and act on it,” I said.
We stood in a circle near the camper. Dusk was maki
ng its comeback and the camper door slapped open revealing a groggy Gil. He’d dragged his sorry ass outside just in time for the barbecue. He slipped between Wendy and me and whispered, “What’s up?”
“Well let’s see,” I said. “Since you’ve been out that girl that was as white as poached chicken was murdered.”
“Murdered!” His face went whiter than normal.
“Oh … hold on, it gets better,” Wendy added.
“Then we swing by this shithole to get Honey some refreshment, and the whole thing turned into a giant zombie fuck-up.”
Gil eyed Scott up and down, came in close and whispered, “Who’s the new yum?”
“That’s Scott, he’s Markham’s man.”
Scott offered his hand, but Gil pushed me forward forcing an impromptu brushing of my breast.
“Oh … I’m sorry,” Scott stumbled. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. I suppose you’d have gotten around to that sooner or later.” I winked.
“Wha—what?” He coughed as though he’d inhaled a little phlegm.
“Dirty.” Wendy crossed her arms, clearly jealous that such a fortuitous mistake had happened to me rather than her. I’d seen her eyeing my trophy boy all afternoon. Sad. “I say we keep on going to Butte and talk to the Kraken. Some of us are still focused on the job at hand.” She gestured at Honey.
“Well, that’s fine and all, but what about Becky?”
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t be a problem.” Wendy fished in her purse and hooked a lipstick.
“Uh … no. I mean who killed her. Is there someone else following us?”
“Someone else?” I asked. “Like who?”
Honey’s Super Hot
Electro Newer Wave
Party Playlist
Holla!
Dragonette • “I Get Around”
CSS • “Let’s Make Love and Listen to Death from Above”
Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head • “Iceage Babeland”
Peaches • “Fuck the Pain Away”
New Young Pony Club • “Ice Cream”
Justice vs. Simian • “We Are Your Friends”
I Am X • “Kiss and Swallow”
Datarock • “Computer Camp Love”
Client • “Radio”
Fischerspooner • “Never Win”
Van She • “Kelly”
White Rose Movement • “Girls in the Back”
“Didn’t you say she was with a couple of cultists?” Fishhook had regained his clarity once more and seemed to have a knack for amateur sleuthing. “They were the last ones to see her alive. Who’s to say they didn’t snow you and actually cut the girl up after a double team?”
Honey flinched. “She was a virgin. I don’t think—”
“Or maybe one got jealous being forced to watch his buddy get all the mouthwork. And I do mean the old golfball cleaner, if you know what I mean.” He elbowed Scott, who gave a little snort before shaking it off for a look of disgust.
“Enough!” I interrupted. “You’ve made your point. Does anyone remember where they were headed?”
Gil’s eyes dropped away from staring down Scott and looked at me. “Billings, I think. But they did say something about going to some kind of compound.”
“Probably their cult headquarters. Somebody could try to catch up to them.” I glanced at Scott. “Someone with a fast, if not entirely incognito, car.”
“I like orange and I’m not ashamed of it.” Scott shoved his hands into his front jean pockets.
“So?” I stepped forward close enough to embrace.
“So what?”
“Will you track down the killers … Officer?” I ran my fingers through my hair, lifting and letting the bulk of my waves drop in cascading layers. He was entranced. Duh.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?”
“I’ll do it.”
Wendy snorted and shook her head.
“What?” I asked her, daring her to say something to mess up my seduction of the cute werewolf.
“I’ll drive the camper.” She stalked off.
* * *
Honey insisted on playing her iPod over the Volvo’s stereo, so for the next two hours I was transported back to the ′80s through an apparent resurgence of new wave (see track listing). Everything old is new again and all that. I decided to unhook it from the camper and give Wendy a bit of breathing room.94
Honey made the mistake of resting her feet on the dash, once and only once. The action prompted our first argument, in which I insisted that that behavior was grounds for a slow death. She had a differing viewpoint, but acquiesced when I gave her a peek at how big I could open my mouth.
“Had enough?”
“Uh … yeah. That’s fucking gross.”
“Language!” I yelled.
The word popped right out, sullying the air like a smelter. My tone was even different, like I was channeling.
Mother.
The exchange was familiar enough to remind me of Ethel, and her infamous classes on manners. Unsatisfied with scarring one person’s childhood (mine, obviously), Ethel took on pupils from the neighborhood for a weekly “get-together.” She called it her Cavalcade of Etiquette—emphasis on each and every one of the hard consonants. It gave her the opportunity to dress up and smoke cigarettes from long holders—throw her a full-length fur and a skunk spot and you’d have Cruella DeVille hawking deportment. Yet adults bought it, much like they do with roadside attractions.95
“Children!” she’d shout. “Pop quiz time!”
We stood behind our assigned dining room chairs awaiting the task. Shannon Franks shed drops of fearful tears that hung from her chin like a row of moles. Chuck Abramowitz shivered as though fresh from a dip with his polar bear club. I cocked my hip out and searched my fingernails for flaws. Those kids were amateurs.
Ethel reached around the corner into the foyer, retrieving a red velvet bag that jingled like Christmas bells. Faces changed. A small degree of hope fluttered amongst the students. I was suspicious.
“For this week’s examination …” her voice rose with every word. “A simple matter of place settings.” She marched over to the table and upended the bag sending a clanging shower of silverware onto the padded surface.96 Shaking the remaining few loose, she took a long drag from her cigarette, scanned the horrified faces, turned and stalked from the room in a cloud of carcinogens, heels clicking on the hardwood like ball-peen hammers. “Formal dinner service! You have five minutes!”
Terror spread.
She might have easily proclaimed, “Medical experiments for the lot of you,” from the expressions that ringed the table. There were prayers and hand-wringing and more than one suicide attempt, though I was able to wrestle the butter knife away from little Billy Armstrong before he did too much damage.
Lucky for the group, I was on to Ethel’s scheme of testing us on subjects no one in their right mind would study, let alone a group of primary school children; I’d done my own homework, and this time it paid off. We sorted the various sizes of forks, spoons and knives and divvied them up evenly. We passed china dinner, salad, and bread plates, and crystal stemware with the utmost care neither to break nor leave a fingerprint. I held up each utensil in the correct hand and waited for them to echo before placing it. By the time Mother’s heels tapped out their approaching rhythm, the table was set for an epicurean feast in the Hapsburg tradition.
Ethel was not pleased, her eyes skipped from one place setting to the next. “I see one of you is trying to be amusing.” She glowered in my direction, yet refused to make eye contact. Instead, she lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall eyeing the students with the kind of loathing most often reserved for wait staff or civil servants.
“Get out of my sight,” she whispered, the last syllable hissed like compressed air.
It was a mad stampede for the door. I almost made it.
“Not you.” Her fingers caught in the back of my shirt collar,
hanging me on the first button. She spun me around and drew me close. “You missed the white wine glasses.”
My mouth dropped open. My hands balled into fists.
“I’d assumed you’d be having red,” I said, eyes wide with defiance. “Just like every fucking night.”
Smack.
I didn’t even see her palm move, but my cheek sure noticed.
“A lady doesn’t use that kind of language.”
Language.
I shook the memory off and turned the radio down just as Peaches began a porn-as-anthem groove. “Sorry about snapping.”
“Hmm?” Honey flipped her way through a Vogue for the third time.
“Oh … the comment about your language. I’m sorry. Talk how you like, I’m not your mother.”
“No. No. You’re right. It was rude, I apologize.”
I couldn’t have this girl thinking I was maternal, anything but that. “Please feel free to say fuck, shit or cooze, anything that comes normal. I’m really not one to judge.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Well, I’m sorry, anyway.”
“Fine.” It was too late, I was stuck in the role of judgmental adult and it was all Ethel’s fault. I could feel that pillow in my hands and imagine the horror in her eyes. I couldn’t wait to get to Rapid City.
Ethel was a goner.
Butte sneaks up on you like a certain homeless guy’s farts.
The interstate cuts through moonlit grasses, rolling across hills in dark waves. There are few homesteads and even fewer lights, bar the occasional semi speeding back to Spokane or Seattle. So, when the freeway banked, I wasn’t expecting to see a glowing letter M on the hillside.
“What do you suppose that stands for?” I asked Honey.
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