Busted Flush wc-19

by George R. R. Martin

  Nick was gone. Nick, the brave one. He’d been with her so many years, and now a piece of her heart had been ripped out, blown away by the hurricane. But when she stepped into the main foyer of their house at the Place D’Armes, she heard a voice. Not Nick’s, but . . .

  “Jonathan!” Ellen cried, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, thank God. I—I lost Nick . . .” She hugged Jonathan, not knowing what else to do, and grief finally came in great wracking sobs.

  “Sorry.” Jonathan sat with her on the couch, held her. “Um, he was a brave . . . uh . . . hat.”

  “My, uh, condolences,” Michelle said, “I only just met him. . . .”

  Ellen scrubbed the tears fiercely from her eyes. “I know where Josephine Hebert lives.” She took a breath. “She does dead animals as well as dead people. There were some pigeons the other day that I think were her spies.”

  “The creepy ones on Bourbon Street?” Jonathan asked.

  Ellen nodded. “She’s got a bunch of zombies, too. Checks them out like library books.”

  “Well, I’m pretty much invulnerable,” Bubbles said.

  “Nice to be you,” Jonathan said. “What if she suffocates you with zombie pigeons? She’s just a kid, anyway. You already blew up an old lady on CNN. Want to do a punk kid for an encore?”

  “No,” Ellen said, taking a deep breath and trying hard not to think of Nick. “Personally, I’d like to wring her scrawny little neck. But Miss Partridge didn’t think she was all bad, and all we need is for her to stop pulling this shit.” She exhaled. “And the easiest way to do that is to get her on our side. We need to talk.”

  Jonathan and Aliyah hid behind Bubbles as she knocked on the door of a chalk-marked red shotgun on Treme opposite the cemetery.

  There was no answer. Bubbles knocked harder. A minute later the door was opened by a very tall cadaverous bodybuilder who loomed over Bubbles menacingly.

  “Look, Morticia,” Jonathan said to Aliyah, “she has her own Lurch.”

  “Fuck off,” the zombie croaked.

  Bubbles only held up a beautifully scintillating bubble. “Listen,” she said, “we’d like to speak with Joey Hebert or Hoodoo Mama or whatever she wants to call herself, and we can do this the nice way or the not-so-nice way.”

  “You fuckers got balls,” the zombie finally croaked, “but I ain’t playin’. You fuckers steal little kids.”

  “Lilith was taking them to other hospitals,” Bubbles explained. “There was a hurricane coming.”

  “Harriet.” The zombie stared. “The weather fucker kept sayin’ she was goin’ to Houston, but I guess you cocksuckers knew what you were talkin’ about after all.” He opened the door farther, stepping back.

  It was an invitation of sorts, and as they walked in past more and more zombies, Aliyah paused, stricken. The third zombie was a girl, barely seventeen. She could have been Aliyah’s sister except for the cuts on her wrists. The American Hero T-shirt she was wearing showed the Jackalope from the current season instead of Simoon. Aliyah put out her hand, almost touching the girl’s face, then stopped, looking her own death in the face for the first time.

  Her hand began to shake, her fingernails drifting into sand.

  Take off the earring, Ellen thought. Now. I can handle this.

  Aliyah didn’t have to be told twice. Even oblivion was preferable to the awful truth. And as she slipped the earring out with one hand, the sand snapped back into place on the other.

  Ellen stood eye to eye with the dead girl. She was acutely aware that while Bubbles was invulnerable and explosive and Jonathan could turn into countless stinging insects, all she could do if the zombie decided to strangle her was scream and flail at it with her purse while trying to put on an earring—and even once she had the earring on, there were no guarantees that Aliyah would be any help. She missed Nick even more and for all the wrong reasons.

  She sniffed then. Inside the apartment was the peculiar odor of lemongrass, and Ellen realized it was coming from the zombies. “That’s Van Van oil and Chinese wash,” a girl’s voice said to her unanswered question. “Us hoodoo women use it for rootwork.”

  Ellen turned her head, looking away from the honor guard of zombies, across the room to where the young woman lounged in a purple wingback, flanked by two large, menacing, undead pit bulls and lit for mood or just lack of power by a dozen large votive candles marked with vodoun veve patterns. It was a pose calculated to intimidate and was doing the job admirably.

  “It’s your crutch for making the zombies,” Jonathan surmised.

  “Fuck no,” said Hoodoo Mama, “I just use it to keep the fuckers from stinkin’ up the place. Axe doesn’t last long enough. Sometimes fuckin’ old school works best.” She gestured to the matching purple couch facing her chair, its back in convenient throttling range of the zombie honor guard. “Have a seat. Let me get you some refreshment. You fuckers like beer-can chicken?”

  “It’s pretty good,” Bubbles allowed, sitting in the middle of the couch. Jonathan sat down to the right of her and Ellen perched on the opposite arm.

  Hoodoo Mama smiled proudly. “Nobody makes it like I fuckin’ make it.”

  There was a thumping and banging then, from the kitchenette to the right of the couch, and the closest zombie, a woman in a KISS THE CHEF apron, went and opened the door of the refrigerator. A quartet of headless plucked chickens gamboled out of the bottom drawer trailing butcher paper, clambered up to the nearest counter by means of a stepladder, and proceeded to sodomize each other with beer cans provided by the zombie.

  She offered the remaining cans from the six-pack to Jonathan and Bubbles, who passed, watching the chickens in horrid fascination. Ellen, however, accepted, smiling, and popped her can as the zombie served the last to Hoodoo Mama. It was a test, and when the girl raised her beer, Ellen did the same and drank. It was cold, refreshing, and what she needed.

  “You think I can get a job at Brennan’s?”

  Ellen shrugged and took another sip of beer, keeping the earring carefully palmed in the opposite hand. Bubbles and Jonathan continued to stare as the sodomized chickens proceeded to breakdance in a roasting pan coated with seasoning salt.

  “You’re a fuckin’ cold bitch, you know that?”

  Ellen chose to take it as a compliment. “I’ve been dealing with the dead for a while.”

  “So who the fuck are you? I seen these fuckers on TV.” Hoodoo Mama jerked her beer can toward Bubbles and Jonathan. “I ain’t seen you before.”

  Ellen gestured to her throat with the hand with the earring. “You can call me Cameo.”

  The girl squinted at her. “You’re that fucker from the hospital!” The zombies all took a step forward. The zombie pit bulls bared their fangs.

  Ellen came to her feet as well, armed with nothing more menacing than a can of weak beer and the earring of a hysterical teenage ace who’d probably be even less help. “So are you.”

  “So what? You’re gonna electrocute me now?”

  “I could,” Ellen lied, “but my power’s more than that. I channel the dead, and I channel their powers. You’ve already met my friend Nick.” A beer can was not a will-o’-wisp, but if she held it in her fingertips, it felt the same, and Hoodoo Mama could see the pose. “He’s the shocker.” She gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to betray any emotion or any hint that she would probably never be able to call Nick again. “But don’t worry, you got your licks in.”

  “Heh,” Hoodoo Mama snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Guess I did.” She gestured to the zombies and they stepped back to their former positions, all except for the chef, who proceeded to put the chickens in the oven and adjust the dials.

  “You ran over my ass, too,” Jonathan mentioned lamely.

  The girl ignored him, still looking at Ellen. She took a sip of beer. “So,” she said after a while, “this morning, that really fuckin’ was Miss Partridge?” Ellen nodded. “Fuck,” the girl swore. “I really liked that ol’ lady. She was one of the few fuckers w
ho ever gave a damn about me.” She rubbed at the corner of her eye and then slammed her beer, seeming to reach a decision. “So what do you fuckers want?”

  Ellen glanced to Bubbles, who was sort of official spokeswoman, even if Ellen had been doing most of the talking. “Well,” Bubbles said slowly, “what we’d like is for you to stop screwing us up. We’re trying to save people’s lives here.”

  “What about that fuckin’ vampire bitch, Lilith?” The girl glared. “She’s been stealin’ little kids. I ain’t read much of the Bible, but I fuckin’ know about Lilith the Child Stealer.”

  There was a glance between the Committee members, and Jonathan was the first to answer: “She just thought the name sounded sexier than Teleporting Eurotrash Girl.”

  Josephine Hebert handed her empty can to the chef zombie. “Okay, I’ll fuckin’ give you that.”

  “You know,” Bubbles said, “there are two more storms. We could use your help.”

  Jonathan opened, “The UN does have some money . . .”

  “Fuck that,” Hoodoo Mama snorted dismissively. “You know how many fuckers die wearin’ wedding bands and fuckin’ diamond engagement rings? I’ve got a whole fuckin’ box full of bling.” She gestured to the mantelpiece. Amid the candles was a makeshift altar, with feathers and shells and the photograph of a woman who would have been attractive if not for the ravages of hard living. And beside the photograph sat an old wooden jewelry box.

  Ellen stifled a ghoulish itch to open that box and see who lived inside it.

  Bubbles sighed. “All we really need is a truce.”

  Hoodoo Mama shrugged. “Okay, fine, you’ve got it.” She glanced to the three of them. “Anything else you fuckers want?”

  There was a long uncomfortable silence with glances between Michelle and Jonathan, and between Ellen and the watchful eyes of all the zombies before she finally settled on Hoodoo Mama’s. “Can you really see through the eyes of the dead? Even animals?”

  Josephine Hebert grinned proudly. “Fuck, yeah.”

  Hope is a thing with wings. In this case, a dead pigeon. A whole loft of them. “I lost something when the levee broke,” Ellen told her. “A hat. An old gray fedora.”

  “You fuckin’ want me to look for a hat?”

  “Yes.” Ellen bit her lower lip. “It . . . it belonged to my friend Nick.”

  Hoodoo Mama gave her a sly look. “You can’t work your mojo without a personal object, can you?”

  “No,” Ellen admitted. “I know you don’t want money, but if there’s anything else, anyone you’d want to talk to . . .” She glanced to the photo on the mantel, the candlelight flickering over the tired woman’s face.

  Josephine Hebert looked as well. “You’re a fuckin’ dangerous bitch,” she said at last, “but fine, I’ll keep my eyes out. But not because you’ll let me talk to my mama. I’ll do it because I saw what you did for PJ. You ain’t as cold a fuckin’ bitch as you let on.”

  Ellen broke eye contact with the dead woman’s photograph to look at her daughter. “Thank you.”

  Hoodoo Mama nodded, then looked at all of them. “So are you gonna get the fuck out now, or you still wanna stay for dinner?”

  There was a second awkward silence, broken a moment later by a digitized version of “Tiny Bubbles.” Michelle looked to the zombies, then fumbled open her Hermès bag and got out her cell phone. Ellen glanced over and was able to read the text message just received: Michelle—Help, please. I’m in danger. Please come. I’m in Cross Plains, TX.—Niobe.

  Bubbles quickly stowed the phone back in her bag but was visibly disturbed. “Would you be terribly offended if I took a rain check on the dinner? A friend of mine needs help.”

  Hoodoo Mama flicked a hand. “Fine by me. Y’all should come for Thanksgivin’. I do self-bastin’ turkey.”

  Back at the Place D’Armes Ellen let herself into her room. She didn’t like old rooms. They came with too much history, and this one was no exception. Whatever the reason, and today there was a particularly excellent one, the maid had not been in. Slowly, reverently, Ellen put her purse on the dresser, took out Aliyah’s T-shirt, and hung it up to dry. Then she picked up Nick’s jacket and sat down on the bed, clutching the fabric with both hands.

  The tears came again, but there were no memories, none strong enough for her to call him back. It was an empty shell, without even a trace of the ghost of the man she’d made it for.

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Who is it?” Ellen choked out.

  “Uh, Jonathan. Can I come in?” She didn’t answer, and he took that for a yes. “Are you okay?”

  “Do I look like I’m okay?”

  “Not really, but you seemed kind of glad to see me earlier, and, well, I was thinking about what Nick said to me before . . .” He sat down on the bed beside her. “About how a man should treat a lady. I haven’t treated you very well.”

  “It happens. When you were sleeping with Aliyah, I was thinking about Nick.”

  “Ouch.” Jonathan sighed.

  Ellen looked at him. “Were you honest when you said I was easy on the eyes?”

  Jonathan grinned, his eyes twinkling poison green. “I think we both know the answer.” He reached out and touched her hair, which was in a state after the levee breach and the hurricane. “But I think we could both stand a shower.”

  Ellen looked mournfully at Nick’s jacket. Then she set it aside. Nick was dead, had always been dead as long as she’d lived. To everyone but her at least and at last.

  Jonathan was alive, and he wanted her. And if some bit of Nick’s wisdom, his gentlemanliness, his simple gallantry, had passed to Jonathan, then good. And even if not . . .

  He tasted like nectar to her, to Ellen, with no other soul in between. He reached up, pulling her dress and her slip both down by the shoulders, working the zipper and letting the whole fall into a beaded pool around her feet. She did the same with his pants, his bony thinness making this simple, and a half minute later they were both stumbling into the shower, laughing as they worked the taps and got the right temperature, soaping and exploring the shape of each other’s bodies. Starting fresh, starting clean, with no other impressions.

  The suds ran smooth down her body and he stroked her breasts, touching her nipples, bringing them full and alert until his talented tongue tasted each in turn, then traced his way down, and then up. Then he entered her, and embraced her, and they kissed, no ace powers except the honey of his taste and her hands on his back, feeling the impressions of the women who had touched him before. There weren’t very many.

  They tumbled out into towels, Ellen letting him take the hotel robe. “Fresh linen,” she said. “It’s . . . a bit of a fetish of mine. . . .”

  Jonathan grinned. “Easily done.”

  He ducked out into the hall and a minute later came back with an armload of fresh sheets, stripping the bed and making it for her. She lay down atop the bed, naked, and they set to the second round of their lovemaking. Halfway through, Ellen reached out to the bedside table and retrieved the earring, the simple bit of silver and Swarovski crystal. She handed it to Jonathan. “Be a gentleman and do the honors.”

  “But I was wanting to be with you.”

  “And last time you were wanting to be with her.” She placed a finger on his lips, stilling them. “This way, you can be with us both. Care for a threesome?”

  He grinned. “I contain multitudes. Sex with me is never that few.” He then leaned down and kissed her, then the next moment, slipped the earring into her ear. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your Prince Bugsy awaits.”

  “Jonathan?” asked Aliyah. “What happened?”

  Everything’s fine, thought Ellen. Hoodoo Mama’s not going to bother us.

  Aliyah took stock of her body, Ellen’s body. “We’ve been having sex.”

  “Just picking up where we left off.” Jonathan’s eyes twinkled. “You okay with that?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She reached out and grabbed him.

  Politi
cal Science 401

  Walton Simons & Ian Tregillis

  MANDY PARKED THE CAR near what looked like the center of Cross Plains. She adjusted her gear, which was probably a good idea, and they all got out.

  He’d gone maybe two steps when his nose caught the scent on the wind. Corn dogs! There was no other smell like it on the face of the earth. Maybe Bubbles was near the corn dogs, maybe not, but that’s where Drake was going.

  The street he was walking down would have been the main road in Pyote, but even Cross Plains was a lot bigger than Pyote. He imagined what it would be like to chow down on a corn dog, cotton candy, and a huge Coke. Miserable as he was, food had always done the trick for him. He’d been starving lately, and had even been nibbling on bits of his own sunburned skin when he knew Niobe wasn’t looking.

  Drake stepped out into an open area and stopped dead in his tracks. It was like he’d gone from Texas to WoW in an instant. There were people, grown-ups, walking around with swords and helmets and shields. Some were wearing furry pants and others even smaller furry pants. There was one man wearing a scary-looking preacher costume. He had a sword and an old flintlock-style pistol. Then Drake saw a woman. She was wearing a chain-mail bikini. Even the she-elves in games wore more than this woman. Mandy fit right in with these folks.

  There were plenty of normal people, normally dressed anyway, but they didn’t get Drake’s attention. There were also a Ferris wheel, some bumper cars, and one of those rides with the spinning cups. Right now, food was all he wanted. He had enough money to get what he needed. If Bubbles was going to take them away, he wouldn’t need to beg anymore.

  The first normally dressed person Drake came to, he asked, “Is this Cross Plains?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Drake’s depression lifted a bit. The soreness in his skin and feet melted away. They’d finally made it.

  A black man in a long, dark robe walked slowly by, nodding to the crowd and tossing plastic snakes to them, while loudly saying, “Doom, doom, doom.” He had a deep voice that was scary in spite of the fact that he wore eye makeup.