Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01

by Happy Hour of the Damned

  “When I woke up I was in someone else’s apartment. The coffee table in front of me was draped in crocheted doilies and stacks of dog-eared and bookmarked Hello magazines, the top one splashed with Prince Andrew’s youthful face and a headline that read: Andrew Snogs Porn Strumpet. There was a picture of Queen Elizabeth on the wall, but I didn’t need that clue to realize I was at Chase’s house. Chills coursed through me, and over me like permanent goose bumps.

  “Particularly, around my nether regions.

  “I glanced down at my crotch to find my dick hanging out of my open jeans—I’d taken to going commando, so it was all the more garishly displayed. I hugged myself and rocked, imagining Chase’s melon head bobbing up and down on me as I slept, the hot-dog pack of his neck rising and falling. I gagged. The beer was coming up. I got up and frantically scoured the room for a trash can, my jeans sliding down to my ankles in the process. My spew ended up flooding an adorable bluebell and vines china teapot, each of its six surrounding cups and saucers, and a bit on the TV tray where they were all displayed.

  “I vowed never to drink again.

  “I was a mess. I picked myself up, pulled up my pants and went in search of a bathroom. I thought I heard Chase snoring from deep in the house. Past the doilied parlor, a short hall led to the front door in one direction and three closed doors. The first was an empty space with a sewing machine in the corner and bolts of fabric strewn about. A shade was drawn over the window. The next room was the bathroom. I rinsed the spatter from my face, snatched a towel and wandered back into the hall.

  “A slurping sound issued from behind the final door, as though a dog were going at a bone. I knocked softly. ‘Chase?’ The lapping ceased. ‘Chase, I’m going to head home.’ No response.

  “I turned to dart out the front, and as I did the door behind me opened.

  “‘Do you have to go so soon?’ a throaty voice asked, decidedly free of British inflection.

  “It was the coffee-snorting guy from the bar, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was smirking, lean and tan—like I like them. My thighs shook. I thought my legs would give out. I managed, ‘Well I guess I could—’

  “And, then he was on me pressing his lips to mine, parting them with his tongue. A smell of Jovan Musk drifted from his throat, musk and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Something like rust, iron, pungent. But he was too good a kisser to allow myself to drift into critique. His mouth moved to my throat, sucking at the skin there, scraping his teeth against the taut flesh.

  “That’s when I saw Chase. The man had left the bedroom door open. Inside, Chase lay on the bed, his head bent back over the foot of it, upside down, eyes wide but vacant, a huge smile on his pudgy dead face. He did look thinner, though.

  “At some point, the man’s interest in my neck had become less sexual and more epicurean. The lapping sound returned and I blacked out for the second time, and when I woke up, I was a vampire.”

  “That’s it? How did you turn?” Wendy asked, for my benefit.

  “I didn’t know then, the specifics of it. But it’s kind of simple. Just drain out the old blood and blow in the new. Like this.” Gil bit his cheek and blew a bit of spray into the air, where it kept traveling across the room, finally coming to rest in a scatter of spots on some guy’s cream linen jacket. Frankly, it improved the look. Really, linen?

  “Well?”

  Wendy and I just looked at each other, then back at him.

  “Well what?” I shrugged.

  “Don’t you have anything to say, a comment, anything?” His face reddened, no small feat for a bloodless creature, but the Gertz was creeping in, and he did seem to be channeling some of the snotty prep of Ms. Muffy. I wondered if that was a real side effect. If so, the practical joke possibilities would be endless.

  “You probably should have kept that to yourself, chubby chaser.” I almost couldn’t get the words out. They were followed by a rolling explosion of laughter that quickly enveloped Wendy, who pointed at Gil, convulsing in fits of hilarity.

  “He didn’t blow me!”

  “Then how was your dick out? Do you have a habit of airing it?” I asked.

  “Shut up!”

  “Oooh, defensive.” Wendy blew him a kiss.

  “I guess we’ll never know, unless…was there any clotted cream around?” I asked in my best British accent.

  “Yeah! Did you check around your bangers and beans?” Wendy had to one-up me with a spot-on cockney.

  “Jesus! I’m not telling you guys anything, anymore.”

  From then on it was chatty barb slinging.

  Wendy to me: “Do you always talk like a drag queen?”

  Me to Gil: “You really should take Ricardo out to gay boot camp for a refresher. He’s working it so last year.”

  Gil to Wendy: “Don’t mind the Princess. She’s just jealous. Ricardo is straight as a coffin nail.”

  Wendy to me: “Good to know.”

  We sat in silence after the exchange and drained our drinks. At the banquette directly across from ours, a woman sulked, nursing what looked like a strawberry margarita. Her face was doll smooth and ebony; large brown eyes wandered the crowd like runaways. I envied her sugar intake, but wondered what it meant. A zombie would be shitting their bowels out; vampires only drink blood—Gil says the response to other stuff is total projectile vomit; and I didn’t make her for a shapeshifter. So what did that make her? I nudged Gil.

  “What’s up with Strawberry Margarita, over there?”

  Gil followed my gaze to the pixie-haired black woman, a crazy straw dangling from her pouty lips. “Hard to say, from here. Could be a hemoglobin smoothie.”

  Wendy executed a weak spit take that dribbled down her chin like baby formula. I handed her my napkin.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You’re right, I made it up. Maybe she’s a witch, or a switch,” he said.

  “Could be some kind of demon,” Wendy proposed.

  I just wouldn’t be satisfied with speculation. I scooted out of the booth; behind me Wendy yelled, “Fifty says demon!” She dug in her purse for the bet.

  I ferried my glass and joined the mystery woman, passing several gyrating bodies far too early to be on the dance floor. A geeky-looking zombie in broken glasses taped at the bridge flicked his tongue at me like he had a shot. She spotted me and seemed to study my progress toward her. I stuck out my hand.

  “Amanda Feral,” I said, grasping and pumping her outstretched hand. Her shake was firm and she gave excellent eye contact.

  “Liesl Lescalla. I’m pleased to meet you.” Her smile was genuine and filled the lower half of her face. She had large almond-shaped eyes, dark brown, nearly black. There was little definition between pupil and iris.

  “Ooh pretty name. Like the opera house, or that sweet girl from The Sound of Music.”

  She laughed, catching the play, nodded and volleyed. “And you? Feral like a barn cat?”

  “Mmm, yes, and twice as promiscuous.”

  We both laughed, so I supposed we were cool.

  “So, Liesl, I’m at a disadvantage. I’ll let you know, I am differently animated—no, that doesn’t work—I’m a zombie, my friend on the left over there…” I pointed across the club, to where Gil and Wendy were pointing and laughing at some less-thans canoodling a couple of banquettes away. “She is too. Our gay is a vamp. We saw you drinking the margarita and questions came up, a bet actually. So what is it, witch, werewolf, demon?”

  “It’s a secret. Promise not to tell?” she asked. Her eyes were still on the other booth; Wendy had risen from her seat and was waving at an attractive blond man, shaking her tits at him. Lovely.

  “I swear to God.”

  Liesl sneered at the mention, but went on, leaning in to play to my confidence. “I’m human. I just like to slum it in the underworld.”

  “A dangerous hobby. A girl could get a little roughed up in this kind of club, or worse, particularly by those hambones. And, well, me of
course.”

  “You seriously want to know?” She seemed surprised that I’d expressed interest at all.

  “Yeah.”

  She looked me up and down, assessing, and must have decided I was worthy of the truth.

  “I’m a succubus.” Her lips curled into a coy smile.

  Demon it was. What did I bet on again?

  “So is that like an incubus?” I asked. “’Cause I saw that movie in the ’80s and didn’t that guy fuck people to death?”

  “Um…” Liesl’s eyes dropped into a squint. She was mulling the question over. That was probably smart. I could easily have been making fun—and would, over and over throughout our friendship. It’s a defining tool. Plus it wears down all that nasty political correctness. Over time you just slough off anything, like hosing yourself down with RainX. It’s a blessing, trust me.

  “Yeah. That’s right,” she answered.

  “Great! You’ll fit right in. We love to talk dirty.”

  We crossed the dance floor and Liesl tripped the geek, who spasmed in midair, trying to keep his footing, before crashing to the floor and curling into a ball of embarrassment. Poor thing. I kicked him in the head on the way by and spat an obscenity his way; fucker, I think. We joined Wendy and Gil midconversation.

  “They are our most precious resource, Gil,” Wendy said.

  “Scooch over.” I slid in next to Wendy. Liesl saddled up next to me. “Allow me to introduce the very sexy and dangerous, Liesl.” They glared at me, then her, so I continued. “She’s good people, besides, we need a fourth.”

  They welcomed her then glowered at me like parents would a naughty child. I bounced back a glib shrug. I wasn’t sure where the urge to congregate had come. It was not in my nature to gather people around me. I collected acquaintances, not friends.

  “So, you were talking about children, or some shit.”

  “Kids? What?” Wendy looked at me like I was nuts.

  “You said something about ‘protecting our most precious resource’…”

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Wendy giggled. “No, sweetie. We were talking about diamonds. The kids can fend for themselves.”

  There was something in Wendy’s look that held a question. What was I doing? She wouldn’t ask, but she seemed to, what do we need a fourth for, exactly? A reenactment, perhaps? Bridge? She scowled at Liesl.

  I thumbed through memories like a card catalog, looking for similarities in situation. The closest match was this:

  In high school—nasty old Barnaby Ridge—I had been a lonely girl50, so disconnected from people my own age. I was used to entertaining the glommers, after all. I would sit in the cafeteria, alone, leafing through a salad and stabbing my fork into a dog-eared Catcher in the Rye, trying to look brainy, but managing only to send out that freakish vibe.

  Carly Bookman ruled Barnaby with the iron fist of a third world drug lord. She was eternally flanked by a harem of her own glommers, namely, Sue Preacher, a.k.a. the Barnaby Ridge Blow Job Queen, whose specialty, the “corkscrew,” garnered rave reviews from half the senior boys, Glennis Groin, who earned her name after a poor fashion choice in the sixth grade—overalls that bulged at the crotch, like she was packing some serious transgendered heat—and Tigra Pierce, a downright malfeasance of a girl, whose heinous mouth spewed obscenities like a merchant marine.

  The four had these things in common: beauty, popularity, and my complete adoration.

  I remembered daydreaming about becoming the fifth in their elite group, stalking the halls like jungle cats, trailing fear and jealousy. It was never to be, of course. Four years together and never closer than twenty feet. I used to wonder what they did outside of school. What amazing adventures were entitled to the most popular? I thought they could probably do anything they wanted. I fantasized that they each held a license to torture, maim, kill, or at least, mock, shame, and denigrate.

  Could I be reliving this fantasy? Was that the real reason for gathering this particular group of killers, albeit far more glamorous than Carly and her bitches could dream of? Where did such a desperate longing for companionship come from? Had it been there all along?

  Chapter 10

  I Am Not Cleaning This Up

  Wander down the quaint side streets; you never know what kind of interesting characters you might meet. This is Seattle, after all. You’re bound to run into an anomaly, if you look hard enough.

  —Supernatural Seattle

  An hour later, we left the Well a bit tipsy—the first few do the warming, while the next four knock you on your ass—but no worse for the wear, certainly not staggering. A thin mist laced the air, hung there like attic dust motes. Liesl suggested a coffee. The idea hit and that ingrained habitual craving kicked in; I could smell the dense aroma and…wait, hold up. I should have thought about banking a blast of diarrhea off the back of a public toilet seat. There was no way we were going to have coffee. Over my dead bowels.

  Wendy said, “Sure, Liesl, I could go for some coffee.”

  “But, but, but, it’s not alcohol.” I nudged Wendy in the side, repeatedly.

  “So?”

  “It’ll pass right through!” I imagined the toilet after my “lesson” it looked like an autopsy.

  Wendy leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “That’s what Depends are for, silly.” She winked and pursed her lips like an extra from Pink Flamingos. Obviously, that shut me up. Did I have a lot to learn? Or was my new friend June Allyson51?

  She must have sensed my total mental collapse; she looped her arm through mine. We slowed our pace, and fell back a few yards behind the others. Ahead, Gil and Liesl were doubled over laughing; no doubt a sexually charged slur at someone’s expense. Probably mine.

  “I, for one, am not giving up coffee. I won’t.” She shrugged. “I, simply, found a solution. It’s a bit messy, but I’m a quick changer.” I remained stunned. “Do you really think you’re going to go on—business as usual—in this town, and avoid coffee?”

  Could I? Was that a reasonable expectation? In Seattle, a hand not holding a heat-sleeved paper cup may as well be lopped off; even tea drinkers are looked upon as lepers. And, though, most people in the country joke about the predominance of espresso in Seattle, those people have no real idea the degree to which it has taken hold. It’s like our gas. If there were a coffee shortage, lines would wrap around city blocks, industry would grind to a crashing halt. The revolution would start here.

  “Do you have an extra?” I asked. We stopped walking as she dug through her purse for a small plastic wrapped package.

  “You know, it takes some getting used to but if you’re game later, we could sneak back to my place, sit on some buckets and gorge on a chocolate cake.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Yeah, that time.”

  Gil and Liesl had stopped, too, and loitered a half block ahead of us. Their presence blurred like film noir conspirators as a weighty fog bank blew through from the waterfront.

  The Starbucks was just ahead, on the corner—shocker—its big round logo lunged from the building’s face.

  Wendy placed the pad into my palm. “Remember to keep the plastic baggy, after you shit your…”

  Her voice trailed off as screams cut through the air like piano wire. Ahead at the coffee shop, the windows exploded into the street, the shards tinkled like, well, broken glass52. More screams, and a three-foot-long sausage, bent in the middle, followed this; it jettisoned from inside and thudded against the wall on the opposite side of the street. A second look showed that the sausage was a human arm. Either way, it looked très yummy. A woman climbing from the broken window was grabbed from inside and tossed sideways into a sharp triangle of glass still stuck in the frame. It sliced her clean in two; both parts dropped to the ground with a sickening—but oddly yummy—thunk. Her torso crawled another few feet toward the road, trailing intestine and gore, before it slumped still. A dull moan echoed from inside, Corinne Bailey Rae, I thought, or Fiona Apple.

&nbs
p; Wendy and I caught up and huddled with Gil and Liesl.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Ssh!” Gil said, the words turning to red mist and circling us like butterflies. “Mistakes.” He spread his arms in front of us, a mother putting on the brakes, and backed us to the wall.

  The lament grew in volume and the gaping window and door gave birth to six well-dressed, but completely uncoordinated zombies, two men and four women. Three carried Starbucks cups in their shaky hands, one dragged a barista’s battered and bitten body, its jaw floppy and disjointed. Her hand gripped an espresso tamper; it clinked and scraped against the concrete. These were, clearly, furniture salespeople who stopped off for a caffeine jolt and got something else instead. Their ability to earn that commission would be dampened by their new appearance, I was sure. The last in the bunch was the other undead barista. This one seemed more alert, almost cognizant.

  Their faces were twisted and dripping with the blood of the innocents—joking, obviously, I don’t believe for a second there’s any innocence left. They were, however, dripping with a lot of blood. I almost yelled “plug it up.” But thought better of it. Best not to attract any attention.

  “Ew,” I whispered to Wendy. “This is horrible PR, for us.”

  “No shit, and they’re relatives, too.”

  “Just wait.” Liesl’s face took on a wicked grin, her eyes glinting with specks of fire. “The best part’s coming up.”

  When she spoke, a female of the herd jerked her head in our direction with a sixth grade schoolyard pop. A pathetic moan escaped her yawning mouth. She ambled in our direction.

  “Goddamn it.” I looked around for a two-by-four or a broken bottle of Boone’s, although, anything to keep her from scraping or scratching or biting me, would suffice. I decided Gil would do, and pushed him toward the ghoul. He stumbled and spun his arms in a madcap lawn ornament sendup.

  “Whoa! What are you doing?”

  “Hello…you’re the vampire. Fast healer. Super strength. Go on. Work your magic. Keep that bitch away from your fragile friends.”