Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01

by Happy Hour of the Damned

  “The sample is a tablet the size of an ordinary gel-cap that’s dropped into the filter reservoir of the espresso machine. It’s time released, so Karkaroff can estimate the point at which it sets off, fairly close.”

  “So Starbucks Corporate is in on this?” The thought sent a chill through my already cold frame.

  “Not at all.” He sauntered over and leaned against the counter in a relaxed legs crossed at the ankle way. Far too comfortable, considering. “Much like I got a job through Karkaroff’s connections, she’s priming would-be baristas across the world to take on positions.”

  “Severine!” I knew the bitch looked too coherent, not even comparable to the uncontrolled animalism of the other zombies. She was made. Does that sound too mafia? How about a deathbreath? I just thought of that. Moving on…

  “Yeah. She was one of us.” He shivered. “God, I hate that I’m a part of this.” Shane was a sunken, curled-up cornhusk of a vampire. He looked beaten, and although I never wanted children, his sullen demeanor made my breasts feel swollen like an expectant mother.

  I’m lying.

  I was just turned on. There’s not a maternal bone in my dead body. My breasts were swollen, all right. I stole a quick glance to check for wet spots on my blouse. If there had been any, I would have freaked out, as there was no way I could lactate. The milk would more likely be pus.

  “Me too.” I stroked the back of his chilly neck. “But you don’t have to be part of it anymore, you’ve already taken the first step.” I thought of Oliver’s twelve-step group, and derailed my train of thought. I continued, “Well, at least you’ve told me.”

  “Karkaroff is going to kill me.”

  “A bit too late for that, isn’t it?” I joked, straining for eye contact.

  “Not funny. It’s not like I’m immortal.” He gave in a bit and tilted his face toward mine. Twitched. The expression was disgust, and he wasn’t looking behind me, either.

  “Oh, fuck you!” I turned back to the mirror to check out the scene. He’d been startled by my death mask. An oval of make-up removed in totality, revealing perfectly clean but blue-grey skin underneath, dark blue veins and thin capillaries marred the surface like adolescent cutting scars. “Not everyone can be as pretty as you.”

  He grabbed for my shoulders roughly and spun me toward him, clutching at me, fitting me into the line of his body. “I’m sorry,” he cooed. “It just startled me. Your skin is almost transparent.”

  I certainly had a knack for it; I could have been an esthetician. It’s nice to be noticed for your achievements94.

  Our lips were inches apart and his were quivering, with fear, I wondered. I dove in for the kiss, pushing in and opening and struggling with his tongue for dominance. It would have been a romance cover shot, if it didn’t have the look of a grave robbing, turned horny necrophilia.

  We struggled with our clothes and feet to make it to the bed, nearly tripping over each other. We fell on the mattress, hard. He fumbled for my bra hooks—his ankles trapped in his wadded pants legs like shackles—while I stretched to reach the nightstand and retrieve the lube. He helped to apply it. I opened my thighs. He tumbled into me and started to thrust.

  One thrust…

  …two (deeper this time, nice, come on)…

  …three (right up there, yeah! Mm-hmm!)…

  …done (Huh?).

  He hovered above me with a hopeful smile, dolly eyes rolling into the back of his head. His bottom lip sunk in and the top protruded in a half-dome over his teeth, like a monkey’s, or that actor, whose name I can’t remember, but without the ears like handles. He barked, “Uh…Uh…Uh.” The sound was sharp and seal-like. He coughed the words out—and, this is the only redeeming element, in his favor—the most remarkable curlicues escaped his mouth, like deep Chinese red filigree, vermillion. He collapsed on top of me.

  My mind went to work with all the rationalizing.

  We were just way too into it, so, of course, it was as disappointing and premature as scrambled prom night sex. Though props to Shane, at least he made it inside before he hit his ceiling. Dante Morris had shot his load into the underside of a cummerbund pleat, and then didn’t even bother to help a sister out. The corsage was pretty.

  And, my senses were just off 95, so I couldn’t drift in the moment, like I’d like. The scents were so odd. I, primarily, picked up my own, the sweet florals of Issey Miyake, but buried underneath, (the soil, if you will, and I think you will), rot and death. Shane smelled of very little. Soap. Car carpet dust. Armpit hair. Wood chips. He needed a shower.

  But he was cute. Next time I would be in control. He could count on that.

  He rolled on his back when it was over and stared at the ceiling.

  “That was great,” he said, winded.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I agreed, resisting a cough of accent. Shane was either unbelievably deluded or had lasted longer than usual.

  I changed the subject, lest he feel the need to comment more. I knew myself well enough that it wouldn’t take much digging for me to reveal the inadequacies of the quick romp. So I said, “So how does Liesl fit in to all this?”

  “Who?”

  “Liesl Lescalla?” I propped up on my elbows.

  Like a little boy, he sucked at his lips and shook his head in ignorance.

  “Succubus? Tall, sexy, black chick?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  He continued with the same response. Nada.

  Shit! Wrong lead.

  You try to do something nice for someone—find their decapitated body, rescue them from a crazed toe-sucking kidnapper—and this is what you get. I’m embroiled in an end of the world zombie conspiracy and no closer to finding Liesl. Typical.

  “Did you know Oliver Calver?”

  “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I’m not just dead. I’m cursed.

  I reached for the phone next to my alarm clock. 4:25 P.M. I left a message for Wendy on her home phone.

  “Wendy. I’m going to swing by there with a guest. Probably around sixish. Need to regroup a bit, and have some really interesting news, but, of course, nothing on Liesl.”

  I left the same message for Gil, who’d be sleeping for another half hour at least.

  Beside me, Shane drifted into sleep; his breathing became an adorable misty wheeze. I thought of the last time this bed had been defiled by zombie love, and Martin. Sweet and sexy Martin.

  Hmm…

  * * *

  A Confession*

  * * *

  I’ve done something horrible.

  If I tell you, you’ve got to promise to forgive me, okay?

  Good. Here goes…

  Remember when Martin and I…um…did it? Well, after it was over, and he was dozing, and I was really relaxed and basking in the afterglow, and all that, I ate him.

  Please, don’t judge.

  I didn’t mean to.

  He smelled so good. It was intoxicating, so full of life.

  I couldn’t resist.

  I guess I was too young of a zombie. I should have known I couldn’t control myself. But let me make something perfectly clear: it was quick and painless.

  I hope.

  I feel horrible about it, to this day.

  I apologize for holding my cards so close to my chest. I promised myself to keep you with me through my journey. Then I go and hold something like this back.

  I’m ashamed. I really am.

  I suppose I didn’t want to be judged, so I just didn’t open up about the conclusion of that night. Maybe, Shane and the undead sex shook something loose—and not in my bowels, this time—in my heart.

  The few clean bones that are left of Martin, I keep in a black lacquer box under the bed, next to the cremated remains of my precious Chihuahua, Celie. Little known fact: I’m kind of sentimental.

  Well…

  I’m glad I told you.

  I feel so much better, don’t you?

  Good. />
  “Sorry Martin,” I whispered into the dusk filled room.

  “What?” Shane rolled toward me, draping a leg over my own.

  “Nothing.” I’d nearly forgotten he was there. I swatted his leg away. “Take a nap.”

  Chapter 20

  Shit Squall

  Lakeview Cemetery is a popular spot for late-night ghost watching, not only for the celebrity plants, and mood swinging, but for the proximity to Volunteer Park. This park is an infamous hunting ground—if you like your victims closeted….

  —Way Off the Grid

  It seemed in those days, I kept the water company in business with all my showers. The Starbucks gore spotted my skin with stains, something awful—thank God for powdered detergent with bleach. There is just something about having deeper layers of dead skin and not enough sloughing. Could anything be worse than rough patches? Oh wait…maybe this: at some point during “the sex act,” as it is forever to be known, the gash in my arm tore open again.

  I dug through the recent and sour memories to figure out the moment it had happened, and settled on the position. Shane opted for a modified missionary, which is by no means on my list of favorites, although many rapists hold it in high regard. Instead of holding his chest off of me by bracing his hands against the mattress, he held me down, balancing on my biceps. Not cool. I don’t care how old the guy was—nor had I asked—this wasn’t his first time, and there was no excuse for a macho power play.

  I wondered what remedy would Wendy suggest next. An iron-on patch? Staples?

  I ransacked the vanity cabinets for something to cover my wound. Tins and boxes skittered across the marble floor as I tossed. Finally, I found an unopened box of nicotine patches under the sink, a leftover from a failed attempt to quit. I pressed one over the tear and then another, giving them a pat—’cause, what the hell. But, I couldn’t get a hit.

  On the drive over to meet the crew, I told Shane about my search for Liesl, and my disappointment at having followed the wrong course of action. He thought that the other leads were quite encouraging. In the end, he apologized for my mistake. Aw, I thought. He’s cute again.

  I, also, made a call to the incubus/succubus tracker guy. The card said his name was Clevis. Yeah, I know, straight out of a ’70s blaxploitation flick, right? You’ve gotta love that. He answered on the first ring.

  “What d’ya want?” His voice was scratchy, dry and Scottish, breaking up my fantasy image of him. I imagined strands of mucus turned to crystal stalactites—or stalagmites, for that matter, albeit, less believable—bracing the back of his throat like a jail cell.

  “I got your number from Nick.”

  “So…what?” Two words stretched thin by the thick brogue.

  “He said you might be able to help me find a friend of mine, her name is…”

  “Liesl Lescalla,” he finished, having either read my mind or been forewarned. “I can get you the information you need…”

  “Oh good.” Finally, I thought. My luck must be changing. The bad sex I suffered must have filtered into my karma bank, like how Angelina Jolie’s ghoulish red carpet behavior was wiped clean by helping bloated African children. A ray of light spilled into the dark pit of incompetence. “Thank you so much.”

  “…but the price will be a hefty one, it will.”

  “Money is no object.” I hoped he meant money. I could barely imagine having to pay with another inadequate performance. It was just too soon to risk.

  “And who said anything about money? Grab a pen.”

  I jotted down instructions that proved to be more frustrating than an empty bank account. I thanked him and said goodbye.

  In the hallway outside Wendy’s, I laid it all out for Shane. I had to. I’d been dwelling. I don’t do dwelling. My hand splayed on his chest, applying solid pressure, I said, “So, here’s how it is Mr. King: I’m going to chalk today up to nerves and anxiety. But hear me, sex will never be like that again. We’ll work on your longevity, but until it’s up to par…”

  He wore the correct expression: fear-tinged guilt. Lovely. His mouth dangled open. I put my thumb in it.

  “…you’ll finish me off with this.” I patted his tongue, he closed his mouth around my finger and sucked. “Or, this.” I grabbed his hand and massaged. “I’m going to take control of your body and make your blood scream. The bedroom will look like a red tornado, when I’m through with you.”

  We were outside Wendy’s door and Shane’s eyes were so wide I feared they’d tear at the corners. The knob turned with a click and I pulled my thumb out with a pop.

  It was Gil. I nudged past him, making my hips move the skirt like feathers, calling for Wendy. Behind me I heard Gil say to Shane, “Ooh, did you win the lottery, Kitten?”

  Wendy called out from the back room, “I’ll be ready in a minute, Amanda.” I heard footstep patter, then the ashy blonde hair and pert oval of Wendy’s face appeared in the doorway. “Watch that one channel. Oh, which is it, Gil?”

  “Seven sixty-six,” he said, plopping down next to me in the deep fluff of the green sofa. Remote in hand he flipped on the wall mounted LCD and triggered to 766. Shane chose the Horchow Collection chocolate-leather club chair (it’s very expensive); it squealed a bit as his hip slid down a shiny arm, and stared at the screen with the face of a medicated mental patient. He’d get over it.

  The TV sprang to life in surreal mimicry of color and life, or death, as it were. The screen was full of the dead, zombies, vampires, ghosts. One zombie eating a human skull and biting into a hidden orange, its face changing from a scowl to a crazy cocked smile; later a toilet stall door is kicked in to find the same zombie grunting, flipping off the camera; a vampire is chased down by a little girl in a bright blue Sunday dress, behind her a large mouth, is clearly made of wax, a fake reaper doorway. The show name appears in flashes.

  Undead…

  On…

  Tape

  A male voice-over repeats the title and says, “And, now your host, everyone knows him, living and dead, it’s Cameron Hansen!”

  My mouth dropped open. The greasy fucker was double-dipping. Is it not enough to be adored by humans, he has to take over the undead consciousness?

  “How long has this show been on?” I shouted back to Wendy.

  “Oh my God!” Wendy yelled, bounding into the room. “Can you believe that piece of shit? I’ve been meaning to tell you about it but so much has been going on. I started seeing the previews last week.”

  Undead on Tape looked like a prank show. It was Punk’d, with gore standing in for the good-natured humor. I was only surprised that Cam Hansen couldn’t be less original in his project choices.

  “Next up. One of our favorite things here at Undead, a fatality accident caught on tape.” His gelled and spiked head snapped to one side, and yelled, “Roll it!”

  The screen changed to an image of an SUV driving down a slick decline, at its base was an intersection, from the cross street a small car approached from the distance, picking up speed.

  The annoying voice-over remarked, “This accident features a darling of the supernatural club world, and a minor human celebrity, let’s see if you can pick them out…”

  The cars proceeded on their nightmare course and at the point of collision, the speed of delivery slowed to a crawl. It was repeated incessantly, from multiple angles, sometimes at once, stealing a DePalma split screen effect. I was horrified, but not just by the poor quality of the production, but because I recognized the participants immediately.

  “Get a load of this,” I broadcasted to the room. Wendy slumped behind Gil, stunned.

  The cameras pulled back to reveal a tall gorgeous woman, staggering and staring at a gash in her arm. Quick zoom into dead flesh! Duh. It’s me.

  Fuck.

  It wasn’t long before the camera came in for a headshot of me, and poor Rochelle96. What I hadn’t noticed at the scene was: if you looked close enough at the outside of the windshield you could see her exposed brain. The
cameras don’t miss a thing. They even stuck around to catch a seagull pulling at the grey matter with its beak like a half-eaten tuna salad. The real question is this: if I’d seen it, would that be me pecking away at the weathergirl’s brain?

  Cameron popped back on, “That’s right folks. We caught Rochelle Ali in her last living performance and zombie debutante, Amanda Feral, a fresh face on the scene that many of you first took notice of in our special Undead on Tape: Binge Party.

  There we were. No grains or tiling. The shot was crystal clear. Wendy and I chowed down on the teen runaway outside of Convent, our faces stretched into footwide bear traps and clamping down on the boy, bloodlessly chomping like a couple of Ms. Pacman. The boy was gone in less than a minute.

  “Oh my God. So awful.” Wendy’s mouth hung open in shock. “Can they do that? I mean without a release or something?”

  “Who are you gonna sue?” Gil asked. “It isn’t like there’s a supernatural court.”

  The screen switched back to Cameron. He was nodding creepily, grinning and giving a big thumbs-up. I had an idea of where he could shove that thumb, and it wasn’t in Shane’s mouth. I looked over at him and wiggled my own thumb. Shane licked his lower lip. He’d been staring at me.

  “You like that, Cameron? Bitch, you should have been followin’ me today,” I said to the TV.97 “A fuckin’ laugh riot.”

  The show went to commercial and spooky horror movie music expelled from the theater speakers.

  A shiny black hearse pulls up to a roll shutter door. The sign reads Mortuary. The camera pans to look into the cargo area of the car. A dead little boy stares from between the black drapes.

  “Three days,” he moans.

  Gil clicked off the TV.

  “We are totally going,” Wendy said. “I’ve been waiting for Mortuary to open, forever. Or at least since Ricardo told me about it.”