The Ultra Fabulous Glitter Squadron Saves the World Again

by A. C. Wise

  This is Bunny back when he was a bronzed god rather than a curvy goddess. His legs already go on for miles but he doesn’t shave them yet, though he does wax his chest until it gleams in the sun. Even before the Ultra Fabulous Glitter Squadron, Phillip knew the importance of a good beauty regimen.

  Nearly the entire female population of Sun Haven Beach swoons over Phillip, from the giggly teenage girls barely out of braces and only just filling in their brand new bikinis to the lifers who have been coming to the resort every year, their skin tanned leather orange and stitched together with so many surgeries they either can’t smile, or can do nothing but.

  More than a few of the men swoon over Phillip, too, though they’re less obvious in their attentions. There are more covert glances, more suggestions of after-work pick-up games where teams are divided into shirts versus skins and Phillip is inevitably shunted to the team forced to take their shirts off than outright ploys for his affection. Except for one very sweet invitation to dinner from a boy named Billy who works the day shift at the resort pool, delivering sweating tropical drinks to guests and picking up their used towels. The invitation came in the form of a note smelling of honeysuckle, tied with a silk ribbon around a bouquet of a dozen pale purple roses.

  Phillip politely declined the invitation. As he has declined every invitation for the past few months. He barely notices the furtive glances tossed his way, or even the outright stares. It’s not that he isn’t flattered, and maybe even a little tempted from time to time, but he’s been restless lately, distracted.

  More than once he’s caught himself staring at the horizon from his perch atop the lifeguard station, unable to tear his gaze away from the hazy line where the ocean meets the sky. Something is coming. He can’t put his finger on it, but he’s certain things are about to change. There’s something just under the surface of the ocean’s skin, and it terrifies him.

  So while Phillip isn’t rude to his suitors, while he still flashes the dazzling smile that makes anyone he turns it on feel like the world has shrunken to include only the two of them, he spends his nights alone.

  Now, for instance, in the rare moments of solitude between sunset and twilight, Phillip is walking the beach. Most of the resort’s guests have retreated to their rooms, putting on new skins and new faces to meet the night, which will be filled with Vegas-style shows, foam parties at the disco, flashing lights in the casino accompanied by the clatter of coins, bar-hopping, and bed-hopping—all fueled by sweet-sugary drinks topped with little paper parasols. This used to be Phillip’s life, too, even though there is a never-enforced resort rule against staff fraternizing with guests. But that mask has worn thin.

  So Phillip walks. Alone.

  A few scattered lovers snuggle together on blankets. A jogger or two dares the edge of the sand where the ocean laps the shore. One lone figure tosses a Frisbee for a delighted golden retriever who bounds after it into the waves.

  Phillip watches the sky bruise as the first stars pin-prick the dark, and lets the waves erase his footsteps. Sometimes he thinks about walking away from Sun Haven, shedding his skin entirely to leave Phillip Howard Craft behind. He thinks about the impermanence of his footprints, devoured by the tide. Why shouldn’t his whole life be that way? There has to be something else out there, further down the road, something more.

  As he thinks this he keeps part of his attention on the horizon. It’s harder to see the divide between water and sky at dusk, but somewhere in that charcoal smudgy distance the sense of waiting remains. The world is holding its breath, and Phillip holds his breath with it.

  Between his thoughts and the sky, he doesn’t notice the Frisbee sailing his way until it strikes him in the chest.

  “Sorry about that. Little help?” The man shouts to be heard over the crashing surf and points at the Frisbee now lying at Phillip’s feet. The dog barks, bouncing in anticipation of a new player joining the game.

  Phillip picks up the Frisbee, but rather than throwing it, he stares at it. Something in its shape, the perfect roundness, brings the unsettled feeling to the surface of his skin and leaves it prickling. He thinks of the moon. He thinks of an eye.

  “Hey, buddy? You okay?” The man jogs up to Phillip, reaching for the Frisbee.

  Phillip says, “Your dog.” And at the same moment, the sea opens.

  The waves heave, and something vast and dripping lurches upward. A tentacle, almost the same slick greeny-grey as the water, and thicker than Phillip’s body thrusts into the sky, framed for a moment before it crashes to the sand. The man is knocked off his feet. Phillip jumps back, but his legs lock him in place there and refuse to move any farther.

  Another tentacle emerges from the sea, its tapered end almost graceful as it slithers over the sand.

  “No!” Phillip cries out as the creature catches hold of the dog bounding towards its master, who is just now picking himself up and brushing off the sand.

  The dog lets out a yelp as the tentacle wraps around its body. The tentacle lashes, whipping the terrified dog over Phillip’s head. He stretches his arms but they’re not as long as they used to be, fear-stunted, and the tips of his fingers barely brush the dog’s feathery golden tail.

  There is a roar and it might be the monster or it might be the ocean. Water pours from skin now flushing greeny-black as the thing rises, but it doesn’t surface all the way. A vortex opens, lined with teeth, and this time there is no doubt that it is the monster bellowing.

  Two tentacles meet and as Phillip watches in horror, the monster tears the dog in half. Hot blood splashes his face, his chest. The sea monster drops the two halves of the dog into its jagged maw before sinking back beneath the waves. Water surges around their feet. Phillip’s pulse trip-hammers, chest too tight to breathe.

  “My dog!” The man pushes Phillip out of the way, and he stumbles to one side.

  “Wait!” Phillip finds his voice, but it’s hoarse, weak. He wants to run after the man, but doing so would mean moving closer to those retreating tentacles. He’s saved people from drowning, pulled them out of tides determined to sweep them away, but this is something different.

  The foam surges around his legs, pink with blood.

  Bile burns Phillip’s throat. The dog’s owner charges into the waves, screaming obscenities. Phillip’s legs finally unlock, but they remain rubbery, numb. Even though the water is only around his ankles he feels like it’s waist deep, pushing back at him, keeping him from reaching the man.

  “Wait,” Phillip says again and it’s barely a whisper.

  He reaches the man, touches his shoulder, and the man whirls on him, eyes red and face contorted.

  “Get the fuck off me!” the man screams.

  He shoves Phillip. Hard. His hand lands square in the middle of Phillip’s bronzed chest. It leaves a bloody handprint, the perfect impression of five fingers and a thumb.

  Phillip’s stomach turns. He bends over, vomits into the waves, sees the dog again behind his closed eyes. The man splashes away ahead of him and Phillip looks up just in time to see one of the tentacles crack the air like a whip as it disappears.

  It’s a casual gesture, without malice or intent, a cat flicking its tail. But it catches the bereaved man across the side of his head, sending him spinning. He falls; the waves roll him. The monster disappears and the man lies still. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t scream again for his dog. He doesn’t do anything at all.

  “Oh. God.” The moan brings another wave of sickness. Phillip’s stomach clenches but there’s nothing left to vomit.

  He staggers towards the man, crashes to his knees and rolls the man over. Half the man’s face is gone. The exposed eyeball glares, too round, from white bone and red muscle. The jaw, shattered, is still clenched in rage.

  “No. Oh, no.” Phillip buries his face in his hands, and while the tide rushes around him, washing the dead man like a sea-smoothed stone, he sobs.

  AFTER THE POLICE FINISH QUESTIONING HIM, AFTER HE HAS TOLD

  his
story over and over again, vomited it all up to an endless series of notepads and tape recorders, the sea of interchangeable people finally retreats and leaves Phillip alone. In his small room in the staff wing of the resort he strips out of his swim trunks and the thermal blanket the police gave him. His skin is still tacky with blood.

  He can’t stop shaking.

  He climbs into the shower and turns the water on full force, as hot as he can stand it, and hotter still. He scrubs and scrubs until his skin is raw, until he’s sure blisters will rise from his heat or the skin itself will slough from his bones. He wishes it would. No more Phillip. No more useless bronzed god who stood by in terror and watched a man and his dog die. He wants to be someone else, anyone else.

  He towels his burned-raw skin until he can’t stand it anymore. He can’t bear to get dressed. None of his clothes are right. They aren’t him anymore. Or rather, they are too much him, and that’s not who he wants to be.

  Instead, he pulls the sheet from his bed and wraps it around his body like a toga, and goes out into the balmy evening air.

  Tomorrow he will quit. Tomorrow he’ll pack his bags and get as far from Sun Haven as he can. He’ll go to the Arctic, the Amazon, the moon, somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but here.

  But for now he can’t stand to be inside. The walls are too close. His life is caving in. He goes to the pool, empty now that all the guests are in the restaurants, or at one of the shows, or under the swirling mirror ball of the disco. Blue-green lights set in the pool’s cement walls cast everything in an unearthly glow. Phillip sits on one of the long, plastic chairs surrounding the pool, puts his head in his hands, and tries to breathe without sobbing.

  He hasn’t eaten anything, but still his stomach roils, alternately clenching in pain and growling against its emptiness. The thought of putting food in his mouth, chewing it, grinding it between his teeth…

  “Are you okay?”

  Phillip looks up. Billy clutches the towel he’s holding tighter in his hands.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. And I know you’re not okay. I heard what happened. Is there anything I can do?”

  He says it so earnestly, like he’s afraid Phillip will shatter at any minute, like he’ll bolt, or lash out in anger.

  But Phillip doesn’t do any of these things. He is so exhausted that he wants to sink right down on the concrete and go to sleep. Or better yet, sink into the pool, lie on the bottom and breathe water and never come up again.

  “No, I don’t think so. Thank you.” Phillip’s jaw aches from clenching it so hard.

  He hears Billy shifting from foot to foot, but Phillip doesn’t look up again. He doesn’t want to see the concern in Billy’s eyes. He doesn’t want to be reminded of anything good, or innocent, anything human right now.

  After a moment, Billy perches on the chair opposite Phillip’s, close but not touching. He doesn’t say anything, and Phillip finally raises his head. Then words spill out of him, words he never intended to say. He tells Billy everything, and feels the terror come back as he describes it, crawling over his skin and drawing a cold sweat, leaving him shaking.

  “I want to be strong,” Phillip says, finally. “I want to be the kind of person who saves people, not the kind of person who stands by and watches them die. I’m a lifeguard, for fuck’s sake. And the dog… And the man. I didn’t do anything, I just stood there.”

  Billy is silent for so long Phillip is afraid he’ll get up and leave. Even though he didn’t want the company, now he’s terrified of being alone.

  “So do it,” Billy says, his voice soft, almost a whisper.

  Phillip stares at Billy, trying to understand what he’s saying. Billy takes a deep breath and licks his lips.

  “Be strong. Be a hero. You just have to find something that makes you strong, you know? Like armor, like a good luck charm, something that protects you from the world.”

  Motion beyond the low fence surrounding the pool catches Phillip’s eye—three dancers from the resort’s Carnival-themed show. Feathers surround their heads like halos, ostrich, peacock, and parrot. Their skin-tight costumes shimmer, throwing off darting fragments of light like scales. Their impossibly high, impossibly thin heels clatter, hooves on the concrete. They don’t even notice Billy and Phillip in the dark. They don’t pause—a herd of fierce, chimerical creatures, devouring the night.

  Phillip sucks in a breath. It’s like the man striking him in the chest again, but instead of leaving him tight and unable to breathe, something opens inside him.

  “Yes,” Phillip says. Yes, he thinks. Strong.

  THIS IS BUNNY, WHO IS NOT QUITE BUNNY YET, BUT WILL BE VERY soon: six foot two standing flat, six six in heels. The heels in question are silver, tapered thin, glittering every bit as bright as Dorothy’s ever did in Oz. Her dress is silver, too, spangled, spaghetti-strapped, cut low in a V almost to her navel, revealing a perfect, bronzed chest. The skirt brushes her thighs, somewhere between crotch and knee. It flares when she twirls, which she does just once to see how it feels. Her hair is frosted almost white, piled in a bouffant atop her head. Her lips are the reddest red that ever was and her nails match. Red as blood. Her lashes are spider-leg long and above them, her eyelids are smeared with silver to match her dress.

  It’s not make-up, it’s war paint. It isn’t clothing, it’s armor.

  This is Bunny and she is so very strong.

  “WOW,” BILLY SAYS.

  Bunny lifts her arms slightly, turns.

  “That’s not what I was expecting, but wow. You look…great.” He blushes and Bunny smiles. “But it’s still missing something.”

  “What?” Bunny says. Her stomach clenches, fear trying to break its way out of her brand new skin.

  But Billy still smiles and that smile never wavers as he rummages in a drawer and comes up with a pair of white rabbit ears attached to a wide, rhinestone-studded headband.

  “From Halloween,” Billy says by way of explanation.

  His cheeks color ever so slightly as he places the ears reverently atop of Bunny’s bouffant.

  “For luck,” Billy says.

  “I thought that was supposed to be the feet.” But Bunny smiles.

  She raises a hand and touches one velvet soft ear with the tip of her finger. Electricity courses down her spine. Yes, she thinks—strong.

  “So what happens now?” Billy asks.

  “Now,” Bunny says, “now I go fight a sea monster. Now I save the world.”

  “Are you…you know…serious?” Billy’s eyes are wide. He looks a little bit in awe of Bunny, and a little bit afraid, too.

  She sees herself in Billy’s eyes. She is a warrior. She is beautiful. She is strong, and even though she is still afraid, all the fear is on the inside, hidden under glamour and shine. She can do this thing. She has to. Otherwise she’ll spend the rest of her life afraid. Besides, the world needs heroes.

  “Yes, I am,” Bunny says. She meets Billy eye, letting him know she means it.

  Doubt flickers across Billy’s face. She can tell he wants to ask her how, or what business she has fighting sea monsters, all questions she can’t answer. Instead, Billy nods once and sets his mouth in a firm line.

  “Okay,” Billy says.

  “Okay.” Bunny lets out a breath she wasn’t aware of holding, then manages a grin she hopes doesn’t reveal her nerves. “How about a kiss for luck? Just in case.”

  With the heels, she has to lean down to make the kiss work, but she does, and it does. Billy smells like honeysuckle, and he tastes like light, summer wine. Bunny steps back, smoothing her dress, and Billy touches his lipstick-smeared mouth, dazed. She doesn’t say anything else, because what else is there to say? Bunny turns and marches out to save the world.

  THE BEACH HAS BEEN CLOSED OFF SINCE THE ATTACK. YELLOW POLICE tape flutters in the wind but Bunny ducks under it. It’s harder than she anticipated walking in high heels on sand but she’s determined. She wobbles as she makes her way down to the shore, and stands
facing the waves while the wind tugs at her hair.

  This is it, she thinks. Now it’s time to see what she’s made of under the glitter and glam, whether her charm works, whether her new skin is more than just a disguise. Underneath the sparkle and shine, this is who she is, who she wants to be—a fighter of monsters, someone who doesn’t back down. And if she’s afraid, which she is deep down, then she wants to be the kind of person who doesn’t let fear stop her, who takes it in stride and uses it as a weapon against the world.

  Bunny flashes her teeth, bright in the newly-risen sun. She hefts a harpoon, borrowed from the wall of the resort’s nautical-themed bar.

  “Okay, motherfucker,” she tells the waves. “Come and get me.”

  She can feel it, the sense of waiting, the monster just beneath the ocean’s skin. It’s toying with her, not rising yet, but staying safe under the waves. Even in her short dress, Bunny sweats. She grips the harpoon harder, hoping her damp palms won’t betray her. Blood-red nails dig into her skin.

  “I can wait all day,” she says. “Can you?”

  A small crowd has gathered behind her, just beyond the police tape. She can hear them murmuring, but she doesn’t turn. What if one of them calls the police? What if they have her arrested? A child shrieks, slipping from its mother’s grip and dashes toward the shore, eager to play in the waves, oblivious to the warning tape and the waiting doom.

  Bunny sees the child from the corner of her eye, toffee-colored curls bouncing.

  “No!” She snatches the child, swinging him up into the air.

  At the same moment, the water heaves. A tentacle rises, dripping, and smashes down on the sand, spraying grit and salt water but narrowly missing Bunny. Only the points of her heels, dug deep in the sand, keep her from falling. The child’s mother dashes forward and grabs the boy out of Bunny’s hands, hugging him close.