Roadkill

by Rob Thurman

  “Do you imagine I’m still driving down the road looking for a new third to chip in on gas money?” he snapped. “I’ve already pulled off and backed up to where you disappeared.”

  Definitely strained. I closed my eyes and felt for the car. It was like following a path in my mind, gray and winding . . . cold . . . silver and mist. “Can you find us?” Niko’s voice echoed distantly in my ear. He knew I couldn’t travel to a place I hadn’t been to before at some time in the past. I had to know the way. I’d never left a moving car before though, but . . .

  “I know the way,” I said confidently. And because I knew the opportunistic bitch had made her move, I added, “Toss Salome in the back and I’m there.” I built the gate around me instead of in front of me—didn’t want to dissolve the dashboard, and then, as I’d told Nik . . .

  I was there.

  6

  Cal

  Suyolak’s leaving mental landmines for us, which meant he knew or felt us following him, or Niko’s smacking the back of my head; I didn’t know which was responsible for the headache, but it didn’t matter. What did was that I needed some Tylenol. Suyolak in our heads, using that mixture of telepathy, telekinesis, and whatever else Niko had said—okay, I was going with that as the cause of my aching head. Niko’s swats I was used to.

  We’d pulled into a gas station at the first exit after I traveled back to the car. We needed to fill up the tank anyway, and getting about a gallon of coffee to keep ancient Rom antihealers from paying any of us another visit wasn’t a bad idea either. I could also raid the first aid kit we kept in the trunk. It didn’t fit in the glove compartment. If we needed first aid, we needed a hospital in a box—but besides morphine, codeine, staples and stitches, occlusive pressure bandages, and other advanced medical supplies, it also had your run-of-the-mill Tylenol.

  I downed two with the coffee, although other than the headache, I didn’t feel bad. I wasn’t that wild about Suyolak poking around in my dreams . . . Mengele/ Freddy Krueger—not a good mix. But aside from that and an annoyed, worried brother, I kind of felt good—revved up, as if I’d already drunk that gallon of coffee. It seemed clear now that Suyolak couldn’t have my Auphe half gobble up the human part. If that were true, the last time I’d seen our healer Rafferty, when he’d repaired a near-fatal stab wound to my abdomen, he would’ve done the opposite. He would’ve gotten rid of my Auphe genes, and he wouldn’t have waited for me to ask either.

  Suyolak was like most power- hungry monsters: He liked to mess with your mind, because to someone like him—something like him—fear was as tasty a meal as that stew he’d talked about. He was full of shit and as long as we met up with Rafferty before we came across Suyolak in the dehydrated flesh, we’d be fine—except for some nightmares.

  I deftly dodged the third or so swat Niko aimed at the back of my head, as if he could behavior modify me into controlling my subconscious to not let me travel, and asked, “Heard from Dr. Sassafras or that boring guy yet?”

  He took revenge by reversing the motion of his hand and flicking me briskly in the forehead. “Yes, while you were in the gas station stocking up on sugar, trans fat, and various other undigestibles, I called them both. Dr. Penjani has yet to find out anything, and he’s not boring; simply evolved beyond the Homo Pornographus that is you. Dr. Jones, however, has had better luck. There are two anthropology professors, one in Seattle, one in San Diego. Both have family members who are critically ill; both fit Abelia’s description of older men with gray hair. One has a wife with a brain tumor who has a week to live, perhaps two at best, and one has a son who was in a car accident. Multiple injuries, brain damage. Both are too unstable to be moved, which is why our thief didn’t take the easier route of bringing Mohammed to the mountain, instead of vice versa. The professor in San Diego tends to concentrate on Australian aborigines. The one in Seattle obtained his PhD twenty years ago in the varying levels of Rom assimilation from country to country. I would say he is our better possibility.”

  “Which one is he? The one with the sick son or the wife?” I asked, tapping my fingers on my leg. This music on the radio; maybe it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. The not being able to tell if the singer was a man or a woman was like a mythological time before testosterone was introduced into the gene pool.

  “Does it matter?” Niko asked.

  “No, guess not. Depressing either way.” Although I didn’t feel depressed or empathetic or any other of those big words Niko half believed he’d never genuinely pounded them into my head. I should have—I mean, dying wife . . . dying kid. Jesus. That was sad, right? They had support groups for that sort of thing, so it must be sad. But I didn’t particularly feel that way. That up feeling was still with me. What the hell—I’d feel bad for them later.

  I turned the radio up a little and opened a bag of Cheetos. I offered one to Niko. He refused, of course, with a look of distaste for the food and disgust for my hopeless eating habits. I then turned to offer the bag to Robin in the backseat. “You know, for what it’s worth, this whole monogamy thing with Ish? I think you should give it a try. In your lifetime you’ve screwed your way through half the world population, if not more. Not to mention Ishiah can take your shit. And believe me, that’s a lot of shit to take. A lot,” I emphasized. “Give it a chance. Listen to the radio. There wouldn’t be a twenty-four-hour love song station if there wasn’t some truth behind that whole hearts and flowers crap, right?” I patted his shoulder with a dusty orange hand. And why not? Ish was a good guy, a good boss—trying to chop my head off with an axe wasn’t that far out of line. Forgive and forget. And Goodfellow had been a better friend than I deserved. If he could find happiness, why not?

  God, I sounded like such a girl. I’d grown some ovaries without noticing. The breasts couldn’t be far behind. Yet that didn’t particularly bother me either.

  Robin carefully removed my hand from his shoulder and leaned back out of reach. “I’m not sure which of the three is more frightening: that Suyolak can go highdef in your head, therefore I’m assuming our heads, for sport; that if we get too close he could give us a venereal disease that would turn us into giant, walking pus boils—also merely for his entertainment; or your new mood.”

  “Me?” I asked, distracted by the taste of the Cheetos. I’d always liked them. You didn’t have to cook them, they were readily available at any store in the country, and they had no nutritional value whatsoever, but kept you alive anyway. They were the Great American Food. We should’ve been shipping them to Third World countries. It would solve all their problems—well, foodwise.

  “Yes, you. You and your bizarrely altered mood.” He dusted every orange particle off his shoulder with exquisite care.

  “What’s wrong with my mood?” I protested.

  “It’s good.” Salome jumped on his now-clean shoulder and they both studied me with identical, unblinking stares. “I expected an improvement over your usual gloom, doom, despair, and suicidal moaning and groaning when you killed the last of the Auphe, but this?” He waved a hand at me. “And now? The Kin know about you and Delilah. That’s if not almost certain death, then certainly a huge inconvenience and probable loss of furry booty. Then Suyolak played with your mind as if it were a Rubik’s Cube—before your time, I know, not to mention a thousand times more complex than your mind, but the analogy stands.” He shook his head. “And I can’t imagine what horrific things a creature such as he could whisper in your ear.”

  “That he’d turn me into an Auphe. Full Auphe.” I finished the bag and dusted my hands free of orange. “Strain my human bits out like seeds from freshly squeezed orange juice. Can’t buy that off an infomercial.”

  Now he did blink. “And you’re taking that quite well. You’re as happy as those Mormons Delilah compared you to. You could even say you’re cheerful. Caliban Leandros, cheerful. It’s not only wrong; it’s unimaginable. Inconceivable. Confess. Have you gotten religion? Drugs? A lobotomy? Because this is not you, not remotely.”

&nbs
p; “He feels good after he gates,” Niko said. “Don’t you, Cal?” While Robin had leaned away, Nik leaned in close to take me in—every breath, every beat of my pulse at my carotid artery, a scrutiny closer than any microscope.

  “I noticed last time,” he went on, “but this time . . . This time it’s more pronounced. Isn’t that right? You said you needed to fly. Back at the bar, that’s what you compared it to. Being let out of a cage. Being free.”

  “Maybe it is the traveling, but so what? If it makes me feel good, it’s no different than your getting that adrenaline high after running, which, by the way, I’ve never gotten. Just a desire to puke. I think I’m due. You get it from running. I get it from traveling, and that’s only if you assume I’m never in a good mood.” I looked between the two of them. “So? Is that what you guys really think? That I’m never in a good mood?”

  Niko said, “Goodfellow, hold his head. I’ll check his pupils.”

  I guess that answered that.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Hey, cut it out,” I protested as I tried to duck, but when Niko was serious, there was no avoiding him. His hand secured my chin tightly as he stared into my eyes as the overhead lights of the gas station canopy flickered to life when the dusk swallowed the sun.

  “They’re not dilated or pinpoint.” He frowned. His hand was on my neck. “Your pulse is elevated, but only mildly.”

  “So you mean normal, right?” I demanded, my good mood—which I was allowed for once in my life, damn it—disappearing.

  “I can’t imagine normal being applied to you in any way—hygiene, diet, exercise habits, literary or video preferences,” he replied immediately. “But you don’t seem drugged.” His frown deepened. “Let me do a reflex test.”

  I was more than willing to prove my reflexes were fine by grabbing Salome by her tail and beating my brother over the head with her hairless, bony body, but Delilah interrupted all that. She pulled up on her motorcycle and said sharply, “Stop silly games. Found something. Up the road. Come.” She didn’t wait, roaring off. We were ten miles from Dyer, Indiana, where there had been, per the almighty Google, another meningitis outbreak—more dead, cold and still in the hospital morgue. Suyolak was still definitely on the Lincoln, and we were on his diseased trail.

  Indiana was a big change from New York. Corn, corn, cows just for a change, and then more corn. It was old times all over again. Traveling from town to town with Sophia, draining the marks there dry, then moving on. Then after the Auphe took me and I came back, there was running for our lives instead of simply being pulled along in Sophia’s wake as she searched for new marks. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this road trip. In some ways it had me looking over my shoulder for creatures that didn’t exist anymore. But in another way . . . it felt right. Comfortable. We might not be accepted by the Rom, but we were Rom, born to hit the ground running.

  While Niko followed Delilah’s taillights past the exit on-ramp and Abelia- Roo’s RV followed us, I used his BlackBerry to scan for disease outbreaks ahead of Dyer. There weren’t any, at least nothing reported yet, but I didn’t doubt they’d pop up. Leaks only got bigger, not smaller. Those seals weren’t going to repair themselves. Goddamn Abelia. It was her responsibility and she’d fucked up. Contaminated ingredients, my ass. It was pure ego. Abelia thought she was better than anyone and everyone, full concentration and effort not needed, but Suyolak was looking to prove her wrong.

  Ahead of us, Delilah had pulled over a few miles from the gas station after turning onto a gravel road. “You do realize this could be a trap,” Goodfellow pointed out. “It’s back to nature. A city Wolf might enjoy killing you out here, Cal. An exotic back-to-her-roots vacation with your murder as a cherry on the top. If she is going to kill you, I’d have to commend her for choosing this spot and thinking outside the box. The Kin aren’t usually very good at that.”

  “Thanks for that. You’re a true friend. Be sure to take pictures. I’d hate for you to forget any juicy details,” I growled. Although it was as Robin said . . . back to nature, but I thought if or when Delilah made a run at me, it wouldn’t be within sword reach of my brother. She was smarter than that. No, I thought that was something else entirely—but still about death; just not mine.

  The interstate noise was gone. There was nothing but crickets and the distant low of a cow. Delilah took off her sunglasses—the moon would be more than bright enough for a Wolf—as we pulled up beside her. She shot a challenging glance toward me. “Yeah, it’s a graveyard,” I said. “I can smell it.” No matter how old they were, I could always smell them. “So what?”

  She rolled her eyes as she undid the tie from her hair, setting it loose down her back—a cascade of moonlight. “Like teaching cub. Smell again.”

  I did, sampling the air. “Shit, it’s closer.”

  “Graveyards, as a rule, don’t move around on their own,” Niko observed, turning the ignition off and stepping out of the car to draw his katana from the sheath strapped to his back and hidden by a lightweight duster. We all suffered in the summer when it came to concealing our weapons. “Cal, are you up for this?”

  “Do you mean am I in a pissy mood again? Am I not going to hug whatever creepy-ass putrefying thing comes our way? Yeah, I am completely up for this,” I answered, irritated. If I got a little happy in my life, everyone assumed I was an alien pod person. How fair was that? “It’s not revenants,” I added. “Whatever it is isn’t alive. This is genuine decomposition on the move.” That was something we hadn’t run into yet, not in our lifetimes. But I was assuming if you were decomposing and still moving, a gun wouldn’t do much in the way of slowing you down. I went to the trunk and dug through my bag until I found a machete and then a second one.

  “It is the mullo.” Abelia-Roo’s voice came from behind me. She and her five best had disembarked the pink pleasure palace on wheels, which had been tailing us mile for mile since the IHOP. I ignored Branje, her second, as he wasn’t worth my time, and he looked anywhere but at me. Since I’d almost cut his nose off the last time we’d met, that was the best social interaction we could hope for. And he’d thought I was human then. Now . . . he probably woke up every morning checking the bathroom mirror for that nose, praying that half-breed Auphe bastard hadn’t crawled in and cut it off during the night. If Branje hadn’t been such a dick last time, I might have felt sorry for him.

  Nah.

  “Mullo? Could you be more specific? Rom legend is rather divided on that subject.” As Niko was directing the question to Abelia, Delilah was stripping off her leathers to reveal nothing but skin. I wasn’t sure if wolves didn’t have the same sense of modesty as humans or if it was just Delilah. It didn’t matter. I simply enjoyed the sight.

  “Don’t want leathers stained. New and pretty. Like to keep them that way.” Then she was on all fours, covered in white fur, and twice the size of any wolf in the wild. Her amber eyes were bright and her tongue lolled happily. The hunt . . . All wolves lived for the hunt, even the non-Kin ones.

  “Mullo are the dead. Suyolak must have raised them. He is getting stronger at the hope of freedom or the seals are getting weaker . . . through no fault of mine.” She turned and pushed at the men. “Go. Back in the RV. This is why we pay their kind. To take care of this problem for us. This one and many potential others.” She smirked at us as she headed back with her men.

  Other problems on top of the walking dead. Great. A man couldn’t enjoy his Cheetos without getting slapped in the face with dead raised by Suyolak and the hint that Suyolak could do more than that little trick and then some.

  “Yes, be that as it may,” Niko said coldly to Abelia as she shuffled away, her skirts swinging, “our kind would appreciate a little more information. Do they suck blood as legend says?”

  “You wish,” Robin complained as he climbed out of the car behind us. Salome stretched out to take the space he’d freed up, not interested in playing this time. “That would be the dhampir you are thinking of. The mullo and the dhamp
ir have become two legends when they are but one reality. The mullo are the dead, reanimated flesh, raised by a highly annoyed healer. I’d say Suyolak is the only reason the mullo ever existed to begin with as he is the only evil healer—an antihealer, I suppose—that I know of powerful enough to do it.” He had his sword out now as well. “The dhampir are said to be the offspring of a mullo and a human, born as a large pile of flesh as slick as mucus. How decorative. Just what one wants around the apartment. In actuality, the mullo and the dhampir are one and the same—a raised corpse, the decomposing flesh of which slides off its bones. It then becomes a giant predatory and quite smelly amoeba. It covers its victim’s faces, smothers them, and then, I assume that with its task complete, goes back to rotting while Suyolak has a nice laugh.”

  “Oh, you have got to be shitting me,” I said in disbelief. I’d done sewers and revenants, insane asylums and mummies, mud pits and boggles, caves and trolls. Hell, I’d even done butterfly-winged spiders that filled you full of acid and sucked out your liquified organs. But an entire graveyard full of giant decomposing amoebas that wanted to suffocate me? “At least tell me they creep along the ground at the same pace as zombies in the old movies.”

  Abelia’s lips curled in a smile both satisfied and malignant. “We paid your price. Now let us see you dance for that shiny penny.” She closed the door behind her as she went into the RV.

  I guessed that would be a no. Decomposing and fast; what a combo. I slammed the trunk shut. “We should’ve brought the flamethrower.”

  “Be realistic,” Niko reasoned. “How often do we honestly need a flamethrower?”

  “Two,” I said blackly. “This would make two. Two makes it a regular habit from now on. At least on road trips.” I looked down the gravel road dimly lit by the car lights. “How many dead people with flesh still on them could be there anyway? There have to be other graveyards. This can’t be the only one.” That had to cut down on bodies Suyolak could use.