by Weston Ochse
Matt wondered idly how Granny Annie had known Bovine Matt had kicked his dog. Neither of them had been there. In fact, they’d been in the middle of a palm reading. He stared at her back as he followed. There was more here than met the eye.
When they arrived at the fortune teller’s tent, Matt sat down on one of the chairs. Granny made him a cup of tea, making sure he had extra sugar. Then she tended to Buddha, who occupied an entire back corner of the tent. He sat Indian-style and greedily accepted the armful of zucchini she gave him. He ate them like carrots, munching loudly as Matt sipped his steaming tea. Kubla lay beside Matt, a new piece of rope around his neck that had been tied by the expert hands of the old woman. Jacket stood by the entrance, his presence automatically keeping customers away.
Ten minutes later Reggie ducked into the tent. “There you are!” She knelt and placed a hand on the boy’s cheek. “I’ve been looking everywhere! I thought you weren’t going to be any trouble.”
“I wasn’t, I just—”
“Oh, he wasn’t any trouble, honey,” said Granny Annie.
“Thank you, anyway. I was so worried.” Reggie’s sideways smile was a mixture of relief and the almost overwhelming stress she felt for the responsibility of another person.
After a round of thank yous, Reggie and Matt made their way off the campground. By the time they reached the RV, Matt was almost sagging on his feet. Excitement and fear belatedly washed through him, leaving him weak. It was later than he’d ever been up before.
Within seconds of Reggie opening the door and ushering him inside, Matt was sound asleep.
PHANTOM INTERLUDE
The master calls it to him and tells it of the interlopers.
Although it is not hungry, it will hunt. And when it finds the target of his master’s desire, it will chase the creature down and make it beg for its pathetic shred of life, the light winking out even as it howls with dead lips.
For it is the Black Jack and it is the darkness.
V
BAD MEN IN LEATHER JACKETS
Bad Men in leather jackets and spiked helmets stalked him, stiff-legged and mean. Their arms stretched out for him, dirty-nailed fingers seeking his hair. Mouths filled with broken and blackened teeth hung half-open, leering. Although their eyes seemed unseeing, Matt knew they saw only him.
He was in the Rushmore Mall where his dad worked, running down the wide, empty hallway between the stores. He leapt over a backless bench, just barely managing to slip under the outstretched arms of a Bad Man with long greasy hair.
Matt’s side hurt from running. His breath came in gasps as he tried to breathe faster, then he paused near the store that sold fruit juices. His father had bought him a juice here once. He remembered the cold, sweet tang of the pulpy drink as it slid down his throat. He looked at the large glass containers behind the counter. Instead of the bright orange and yellow and red of the fruity juices, he saw only a dark, mournful sludge, varying in shades of green and brown as something slippery moved within.
Suddenly a Bad Man wearing an apron with a cheerfully smiling orange in the middle came through a door and approached the counter. Matt backed away, knowing that this thing would not take his order. He eyed the sludge. Even if it would, he’d never drink. As the Bad Man reached over the counter for him, Matt spun and ran.
He made it five feet before a hand reached out and latched onto the collar of his jacket. Matt screamed, the sound of his fear filling the silent halls of the mall. Bad Men turned sightlessly in his direction. He twisted in the unseen grip, but could not break free. He turned and saw the jagged teeth of Bovine Mack. He wore the same leather vest, but instead of a helmet, horns grew right from his head as if he were a bull.
Matt screamed again. As he struggled, he saw the rest of the Bad Men begin to shuffle toward him. The Bad Men were everywhere. No customers shopped at this mall. No girls with their mommies skipped from dress store to doll store. No boys eating hot dogs and buying cool toys. No old women forever browsing, never buying. Even on slow days the mall should have been filled with the sounds of laughter, crying babies and footsteps. The smell of pizza and cinnamon buns should rule over a hundred other lesser tantalizing smells.
But this was nothing like that. This was what it had to be like at night, when everyone went home and it was time for the Bad Men to shop. But they didn’t seem to be shopping for clothes or jewelry or power tools. They were only interested in him, as if their shopping list had only a single item scrawled on it: Tasty Young Boy.
As a dozen arms reached for him, Matt shrugged free of his jacket. He dove through a pair of legs and scrambled to his feet. His eyes sought escape. He spied a door that said Official Use Only and sprinted for it. He hit the door at full speed, his hand manipulating the handle as he opened and shut it behind him in one fluid, panic-fueled motion.
Matt turned and placed his back to the door. Sweat poured from his brow. His eyes were wide. His muscles trembled.
He’d expected to see the worker’s lounge where he’d sometimes waited for his dad to get off work. But no—instead of the coffee-stained Formica table and the green vinyl couches, he saw a baseball diamond complete with all the bases, a pitcher’s mound and freshly chalked lines.
He spun. The mall was gone. Instead of the door he’d come through, a chain link backdrop rose before him into a tall clear sky.
“Ready, Slugger?” Matt’s father stood on the previously unoccupied pitcher’s mound. He wore a Chicago Cubs jersey, blue jeans and a Mets cap. He tossed a baseball into his glove and smiled. “I know you can do it. Trust your old dad.”
Matt looked down and stared at the baseball bat that had appeared in his hands. The words Louisville Slugger burned into the wood were both encouraging and daunting as he remembered how his father had said that even Babe Ruth had used this bat.
He’d lurched from a mall filled with Bad Men to the baseball diamond of his dreams. Each one held a certain terror.
Matt sighed. At least he knew that in this one, he wouldn’t be eaten. At least this one had a happy ending.
“Here we go!”
His dad wound up like Dizzy Dean in the World Series and unleashed a high-arching slow ball. Matt tensed, his grip on the bat now uncertain. He felt a single bead of sweat slide down the center of his back. As he watched, the ball became bigger and bigger until it filled his entire world. He couldn’t help but flinch and close his eyes as it passed. If the ball hit, he’d surely die.
“Don’t worry, Slugger. The ball won’t hit you.”
Matt clenched his teeth and cried inside. He knew what his father said was true. As the ball bounced off the fence and rolled to a stop at his feet, he saw the concrete truth of the small ball. It wasn’t large at all. In the great scheme of things, it would barely hurt.
So why did he always flinch? Why was he so afraid?
“Toss the ball back,” his dad said. “We’ll try it again.”
Matt picked up the ball and threw it underhanded back to his dad. He re-gripped the bat and approached the plate, scrunching his face in concentration like the professionals did on television. He bent his knees and bounced slightly until he found his center.
His father did another Dizzy Dean wind-up and threw the ball in a looping arch directly toward him. Matt’s eyes widened then slammed shut as the ball crossed the plate untouched.
His father sighed audibly. That small exhalation of breath hurt Matt more than any slap. He couldn’t stand it when his dad got frustrated with him. He so much wanted to impress his dad, to show him that he was the best son in the universe.
Matt’s eyes found the ball as it once again rolled to a stop at his feet.
“Listen, even if you do get hit by the ball, the pain won’t last,” his dad told him. But Matt was dubious. “Really—you aren’t gonna die playing baseball, son.” The older man strode from the mound and came to him. He put an arm around Matt’s shoulder. “Let me tell you what my father told me. In fact, his father, told him the same t
hing. You can think of this as our family secret, okay?”
Matt nodded but he couldn’t meet his dad’s eyes.
“This is the truth passed down three generations right to you. You never know what life is gonna throw at you. You just need to be brave enough to step up to the plate and take the pitch. If life throws you a beaner, just get back up, wipe off your tears, dust yourself off, and do it again.”
“You mean get hit?”
“Sure? Why not? Heck, I’ve been hit dozens of times and look at me. Still standing. Still breathing. Still smiling.”
Matt really wanted to hit the ball. Even a foul into the third base bleachers would be better than nothing.
“So, you ready to try again?”
Matt nodded. He ground his teeth together and tightened his grip on the bat once more. His father returned to the pitcher’s mound, then turned and prepared for his wind-up.
Hit the ball. Hit the ball. Hit the ball.
The chant filled his head, displacing all of his fears as his dad pitched the ball.
Take the pitch. Take the pitch. Take the pitch.
When the ball crossed the plate this time, Matt didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t flinch. With his heart thundering, he lowered the bat. It wasn’t a real swing, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was the gratifying sound of the ball meeting wood, followed almost immediately by a whoop of joy as his father leapt out of the way of a worm-burner that shot through his legs.
Joy replaced Matt’s fear. The thrill of hitting the ball dismantled his terror. He couldn’t help but giggle as he watched his dad do a little jig on the pitcher’s mound. He could tell his dad was proud of him by the way he laughed loudly and his eyes gleamed.
VI
NIGHT OF THE ZOMBIES
Despite the bad start to the dream, Matt Cady woke smiling. The way it had ended had been his favorite memory—the baseball part had really happened. Since his father had moved out of the house, the dream was even more special.
The acrid smells of wood smoke and gasoline mingled with the tummy-tugging aroma of bacon in a not-altogether-unpleasant bouquet. Matt had gone to sleep when the party seemed to be just getting started. Screams and rock and roll music had been his crazy lullaby. He didn’t know how he’d slept through the racket, but the fact that he had just proved how tired he’d been. Of course, the excitement had probably helped fuel the bad dream that had finally turned wonderful.
Matt picked his way tentatively over the piles of clothes and mounds of electrical wires that were everywhere in the RV and found the bathroom. He tried to poke his long blond hair back into a semblance of boyish handsome. Using some tepid water from the faucet and his fingers as a rake, he managed to make it reasonable. Nothing that would pass the mother test, but strangers would never—
Matt stopped cold and stared at the eyes of his reflection … or rather, his mother’s eyes over his father’s nose. He wondered suddenly what Mom was doing now. He’d been pretty brazen scrawling his running-away message on the little board that usually reminded them to buy eggs, milk, and Cocoa Crispies.
Wait! What if she hadn’t seen it? What if she ran from room to room, screaming his name and wondering if he’d been kidnapped? Suddenly the image of his normally controlled mother panicked and crying made his chest heavy with the desire to make it better. For a split second he wished desperately to be back home, to come out of the bathroom with a wicked twinkle and a teasing smile instead of being missing.
But it was merely a wish. In reality, Matt stepped out of the tiny bathroom and into the chaos of a stranger’s recreational vehicle—stale air, cigarette smoke, beer fumes and a suddenly noticeable smell of sweat that was a poor replacement for the welcoming aromas of frying bacon and eggs. He ached to smell his mother’s honeysuckle shampoo, a homey scent that left invisible trails of sweet-smelling motherhood as she zigged and zagged through the complex preparations of breakfast.
Matt fought the urge to just find a way to go home. He had to be brave. He was on a mission to reunite the two people who meant the most in the world to him, and if he was going to be successful, he had to be strong. What he needed now was Jacket. Where had the spirit gone?
Matt opened the door to the outside world and viewed such a scene of devastation that for several seconds, he thought he was the last person left alive. People were sprawled like discarded action figures all around the vast gravel parking lot. Smoke rose at odd points on this new and strange horizon. The sky was a burnished gray, and if it hadn’t been for the dull light that managed to seep through the cloud cover, it would have looked like the sun didn’t exist. Not even a bird disturbed the silence. Everything was still.
Too still.
Then Matt spied movement to his left. He was too slow to catch more than a blur of movement, nothing more. But he was sure he’d seen it.
A crow’s rough caw drew his attention back to the right. He saw another blur, and this time he just managed to see a leg, someone turning the corner by another RV across the lot.
A figure suddenly lurched into view. Matt sucked in his breath as he stared at the lank thing zombie-stepping across his field of vision. The man shuffled from right to left, arms slightly outstretched. Bearded and wearing jeans and a torn T-shirt, his gaze was unfocused and confused. He stumbled twice but still managed to catch himself before he crashed to the ground.
Matt was too terrified to move. He’d seen Dawn of the Dead last year while staying over at his cousin’s house. Well, actually he’d seen precisely five minutes of the zombie movie before he’d run screaming through the house, afraid he’d be eaten like the people on television. His mother and aunt had promised him that zombies weren’t real. They’d told him those kinds of monsters were only in Hollywood, a place he vowed never to go to.
Yet here they were, in Sturgis, South Dakota … just like they had been in his dreams last night. With a shudder, he remembered the Bad Men and Bovine Mack in his dream. They’d been zombies, pure and simple. Had his dreams foretold them? Was he like that strange woman last night? He’d already seen something that looked like a great big troll, then a witch … now zombies?
It seemed as if the place that he’d run away from was a better place to run away to.
Matt kept his gaze fixed on the zombie, afraid to let it out of his sight. He was certain that if it noticed him, he’d become breakfast. Barely daring to breathe, he kept very still until the evil creature stumbled out of sight.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. It’s about time you woke up.”
Matt sat down hard on the top stair of the RV. Fear surged through him, then receded as he recognized the voice. His racing heart slowed. “J-J-Jacket, where have you been?” he stuttered.
“I’ve been around. Been a long time since I’ve seen so many of my brethren, you know.”
“But there are—”
“Not that you aren’t good company, just that—”
“—zombies everywhere.”
“—us bikers are a dif—” The guardian spirit blinked. “What did you just say? Did you just say—”
“Zombies,” Matt whispered. “Haven’t you seen them? And everyone, they’re …” Matt couldn’t bring himself to actually say the word dead.
“Zombies?”
“He means those people-eating dead things that stalk the earth,” Raisin said, trudging up with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
“I know what he means,” Jacket replied. “And I don’t need your help, you know.”
“Whatever.” Raisin shrugged and sauntered off.
Jacket gave him what he thought was a reassuring smile. “Matt, my boy, there are no such things as zombies.”
“But I’ve seen them.” Danny pointed to the people lying around the parking lot. For the first time, he noticed that the odd pillars of smoke he’d noticed before came from the remains of great bonfires. He also saw beer cans and wine bottles scattered all over the ground. The back of a pick-up truck was filled to the point of spilling
over, cascades of empty beer cans and food containers just waiting to succumb to gravity. In several other places, fifty-gallon drums were filled with trash and other evidence of parties.
“This?” Jacket asked. He waved at the mess around them. “My boy, there’s one thing you need to know about us bikers. We aren’t exactly as people think, but when we have fun, we have fun. I’m afraid it’s one of our downfalls.”
“It’s called poor impulse control. Read about it in Cosmo,” Raisin said. He was standing a few feet away, dead center in the still smoking embers of a bonfire.
“Whatever,” Jacket frowned. “The point is, Matt, that these folks are just sleeping real hard. Nothing’s wrong. See? Look there.”
Matt looked to where Jacket was pointing. Several people were sitting up. A man rubbed his forehead and moaned. A woman wiped at her eyes. Soon, more than a dozen people were stumbling across the previously desolate landscape. Matt smiled sheepishly, but he was still happy that it had all been his imagination.
Finally he spied Reggie. She’d fallen asleep in the crook of her cousin’s arm. Almost as if she felt him looking at her, she raised her head and smiled at Matt. Then she yawned and sat up. Wiping the sleep from her eyes she asked, “Ready for a great adventure?”
VII
ALI BABA AND HIS FORTY THIEVES
It was almost eleven before they’d eaten, cleaned up, recuperated and were ready to leave.
“This is my cousin, Philip,” Reggie said, when she was finally ready to introduce Matt.
Phillip Nightwing was as tall as Matt’s dad, but where his father was light, this man was all dark. Long black hair was gathered beneath an Arab head wrap. His eyes were large and black mascara outlined his eyelids while a darker make-up had been applied to make them look deep-set. If Matt didn’t know that Phillip Nightwing was a Native American, he would have believed him to be the true Ali Baba, straight out of the Arabian Nights.
Matt stood straight and held his hand out as his father had taught him. “Pleased to meet you, Phillip.”
