The Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Peter S. ; Peter S. Beagle; Joe R. Lansdale Beagle

  Wayne had been put off by the whole thing. It wasn’t organized enough and the drinks and food were expensive and the front-row seats were too close to the tractors. He had gotten to see that the redhead’s insides were brighter than his hair, but some of the insides got sprinkled on his new shirt, and cold water or not, the spots hadn’t come out. He had suggested to one of the management that they put up a big plastic shield so the front row wouldn’t get splattered, but he doubted anything had come of it.

  They drove until it was solid dark. Wayne stopped and fed Calhoun a stick of jerky and some water from his canteen. Then he handcuffed him to the front bumper of the Chevy.

  “See any snakes, Gila monsters, scorpions, stuff like that,” Wayne said, “yell out. Maybe I can get around here in time.”

  “I’d let the fuckers run up my asshole before I’d call you,” Calhoun said.

  Leaving Calhoun with his head resting on the bumper, Wayne climbed in the back seat of the Chevy and slept with one ear cocked and one eye open.

  Before dawn Wayne got Calhoun loaded in the ’57 and they started out. After a few minutes of sluicing through the early morning grayness, a wind started up. One of those weird desert winds that come out of nowhere. It carried grit through the air at the speed of bullets, hit the ’57 with a sound like rabid cats scratching.

  The sand tires crunched on through, and Wayne turned on the windshield blower, the sand wipers, and the head-beams, and kept on keeping on.

  When it was time for the sun to come up, they couldn’t see it. Too much sand. It was blowing harder than ever and the blowers and wipers couldn’t handle it. It was piling up. Wayne couldn’t even make out the Cadillacs anymore.

  He was about to stop when a shadowy, whale-like shape crossed in front of him and he slammed on the brakes, giving the sand tires a workout. But it wasn’t enough.

  The ’57 spun around and rammed the shape on Calhoun’s side. Wayne heard Calhoun yell, then felt himself thrown against the door and his head smacked metal and the outside darkness was nothing compared to the darkness into which he descended.

  4

  Wayne rose out of it as quickly as he had gone down. Blood was trickling into his eyes from a slight forehead wound. He used his sleeve to wipe it away.

  His first clear sight was of a face at the window on his side; a sallow, moon-terrain face with bulging eyes and an expression like an idiot contemplating Sanscrit. On the man’s head was a strange, black hat with big round ears, and in the center of the hat, like a silver tumor, was the head of a large screw. Sand lashed at the face, imbedded in it, struck the unblinking eyes and made the round-eared hat flap. The man paid no attention. Though still dazed, Wayne knew why. The man was one of the dead folks.

  Wayne looked in Calhoun’s direction. Calhoun’s door had been mashed in and the bending metal had pinched the handcuff attached to the arm rest in two. The blow had knocked Calhoun to the center of the seat. He was holding his hand in front of him, looking at the dangling cuff and chain as if it were a silver bracelet and a line of pearls.

  Leaning over the hood, cleaning the sand away from the windshield with his hands, was another of the dead folks. He too was wearing one of the round-eared hats. He pressed a wrecked face to the clean spot and looked in at Calhoun. A string of snot-green saliva ran out of his mouth and onto the glass.

  More sand was wiped away by others. Soon all the car’s glass showed the pallid and rotting faces of the dead folks. They stared at Wayne and Calhoun as if they were two rare fish in an aquarium.

  Wayne cocked back the hammer of the .38.

  “What about me,” Calhoun said. “What am I supposed to use?”

  “Your charm,” Wayne said, and at that moment, as if by signal, the dead folk faded away from the glass, leaving one man standing on the hood holding a baseball bat. He hit the glass and it went into a thousand little stars. The bat came again and the heavens fell and the stars rained down and the sand storm screamed in on Wayne and Calhoun.

  The dead folks reappeared in full force. The one with the bat started though the hole in the windshield, heedless of the jags of glass that ripped his ragged clothes and tore his flesh like damp cardboard.

  Wayne shot the batter through the head, and the man, finished, fell through, pinning Wayne’s arm with his body.

  Before Wayne could pull his gun free, a woman’s hand reached through the hole and got hold of Wayne’s collar. Other dead folks took to the glass and hammered it out with their feet and fist. Hands were all over Wayne; they felt dry and cool like leather seat covers. They pulled him over the steering wheel and dash and outside. The sand worked at his flesh like a cheese grater. He could hear Calhoun yelling, “Eat me, motherfuckers, eat me and choke.”

  They tossed Wayne on the hood of the ’57. Faces leaned over him. Yellow teeth and toothless gums were very near. A road-kill odor washed through his nostrils. He thought: now the feeding frenzy begins. His only consolation was that there were so many dead folks, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to come back from the dead. They’d probably have his brain for dessert.

  But no. They picked him up and carried him off. Next thing he knew was a clearer view of the whale-shape the ’57 had hit, and its color. It was a yellow school bus.

  The door to the bus hissed open. The dead folks dumped Wayne inside on his belly and tossed his hat after him. They stepped back and the door closed, just missing Wayne’s foot.

  Wayne looked up and saw a man in the driver’s seat smiling at him. It wasn’t a dead man. Just fat and ugly. He was probably five feet tall and bald except for a fringe of hair around his shiny bald head the color of a shit ring in a toilet bowl. He had a nose so long and dark and malignant-looking it appeared as if it might fall off his face at any moment, like an overripe banana. He was wearing what Wayne first thought was a bathrobe, but proved to be a robe like that of a monk. It was old and tattered and moth-eaten and Wayne could see pale flesh through the holes. An odor wafted from the fat man that was somewhere between the smell of stale sweat, cheesy balls and an unwiped asshole.

  “Good to see you,” the fat man said.

  “Charmed,” Wayne said.

  From the back of the bus came a strange, unidentifiable sound. Wayne poked his head around the seats for a look.

  In the middle of the aisle, about halfway back, was a nun. Or sort of a nun. Her back was to him and she wore a black-and-white nun’s habit. The part that covered her head was traditional, but from there down was quite a departure from the standard attire. The outfit was cut to the middle of her thigh and she wore black fishnet stockings and thick high heels. She was slim with good legs and a high little ass that, even under the circumstances, Wayne couldn’t help but appreciate. She was moving one hand above her head as if sewing the air.

  Sitting on the seats on either side of the aisle were dead folks. They all wore the round-eared hats, and they were responsible for the sound.

  They were trying to sing.

  He had never known dead folks to make any noise outside of grunts and groans, but here they were singing. A toneless sort of singing to be sure, some of the words garbled and some of the dead folks just opening and closing their mouths soundlessly, but, by golly, he recognized the tune. It was “Jesus Loves Me.”

  Wayne looked back at the fat man, let his hand ease down to the bowie in his right boot. The fat man produced a little .32 automatic from inside his robe and pointed it at Wayne.

  “It’s small caliber,” the fat man said, “but I’m a real fine shot, and it makes a nice, little hole.”

  Wayne quit reaching in his boot.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said the fat man. “Take the knife out and put it on the floor in front of you and slide it to me. And while you’re at it, I think I see the hilt of one in your other boot.”

  Wayne looked back. The way he had been thrown inside the bus had caused his pants legs to hike up over his boots, and the hilts of both his bowies were revealed. They might as well have had
blinking lights on them.

  It was shaping up to be a shitty day.

  He slid the bowies to the fat man, who scooped them up nimbly and dumped them on the other side of his seat.

  The bus door opened and Calhoun was tossed in on top of Wayne. Calhoun’s hat followed after.

  Wayne shrugged Calhoun off, recovered his hat, and put it on. Calhoun found his hat and did the same. They were still on their knees.

  “Would you gentlemen mind moving to the center of the bus?”

  Wayne led the way. Calhoun took note of the nun now, said, “Man, look at that ass.”

  The fat man called back to them. “Right there will do fine.”

  Wayne slid into the seat the fat man was indicating with a wave of the .32, and Calhoun slid in beside him. The dead folks entered now, filled the seats up front, leaving only a few stray seats in the middle empty.

  Calhoun said, “What are those fuckers back there making that noise for?”

  “They’re singing,” Wayne said. “Ain’t you got no churchin’?”

  “Say they are?” Calhoun turned to the nun and the dead folks and yelled, “Y’all know any Hank Williams?”

  The nun did not turn and the dead folks did not quit their toneless singing.

  “Guess not,” Calhoun said. “Seems like all the good music’s been forgotten.”

  The noise in the back of the bus ceased and the nun came over to look at Wayne and Calhoun. She was nice in front too. The outfit was cut from throat to crotch, laced with a ribbon, and it showed a lot of tit and some tight, thin, black panties that couldn’t quite hold in her escaping pubic hair, which grew as thick and wild as kudzu. When Wayne managed to work his eyes up from that and look at her face, he saw she was dark-complected with eyes the color of coffee and lips made to chew on.

  Calhoun never made it to the face. He didn’t care about faces. He sniffed, said into her crotch, “Nice snatch.”

  The nun’s left hand came around and smacked Calhoun on the side of the head.

  He grabbed her wrist, said, “Nice arm, too.”

  The nun did a magic act with her right hand; it went behind her back and hiked up her outfit and came back with a double-barreled derringer. She pressed it against Calhoun’s head.

  Wayne bent forward, hoping she wouldn’t shoot. At that range the bullet might go through Calhoun’s head and hit him too.

  “Can’t miss,” the nun said.

  Calhoun smiled. “No you can’t,” he said, and let go of her arm.

  She sat down across from them, smiled, and crossed her legs high. Wayne felt his Levi’s snake swell and crawl against the inside of his thigh.

  “Honey,” Calhoun said, “you’re almost worth taking a bullet for.”

  The nun didn’t quit smiling. The bus cranked up. The sand blowers and wipers went to work, and the windshield turned blue, and a white dot moved on it between a series of smaller white dots.

  Radar. Wayne had seen that sort of thing on desert vehicles. If he lived through this and got his car back, maybe he’d rig up something like that. And maybe not, he was sick of the desert.

  Whatever, at the moment, future plans seemed a little out of place.

  Then something else occurred to him. Radar. That meant these bastards had known they were coming and had pulled out in front of them on purpose.

  He leaned over the seat and checked where he figured the ’57 hit the bus. He didn’t see a single dent. Armored, most likely. Most school buses were these days, and that’s what this had been. It probably had bullet-proof glass and puncture-proof sand tires too. School buses had gone that way on account of the race riots and the sending of mutated calves to school just like they were humans. And because of the Codgers—old farts who believed kids ought to be fair game to adults for sexual purposes, or for knocking around when they wanted to let off some tension.

  “How about unlocking this cuff?” Calhoun said. “It ain’t for shit now anyway.”

  Wayne looked at the nun. “I’m going for the cuff key in my pants. Don’t shoot.”

  Wayne fished it out, unlocked the cuff, and Calhoun let it slide to the floor. Wayne saw the nun was curious and he said, “I’m a bounty hunter. Help me get this man to Law Town and I could see you earn a little something for your troubles.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “That’s the spirit,” Calhoun said. “I like a nun that minds her own business… You a real nun?”

  She nodded.

  “Always talk so much?”

  Another nod.

  Wayne said, “I’ve never seen a nun like you. Not dressed like that and with a gun.”

  “We are a small and special order,” she said.

  “You some kind of Sunday school teacher for these dead folks?”

  “Sort of.”

  “But with them dead, ain’t it kind of pointless? They ain’t got no souls now, do they?”

  “No, but their work adds to the glory of God.”

  “Their work?” Wayne looked at the dead folks sitting stiffly in their seats. He noted that one of them was about to lose a rotten ear. He sniffed. “They may be adding to the glory of God, but they don’t do much for the air.”

  The nun reached into a pocket on her habit and took out two round objects. She tossed one to Calhoun, and one to Wayne. “Menthol lozenges. They help you stand the smell.”

  Wayne unwrapped the lozenge and sucked on it. It did help overpower the smell, but the menthol wasn’t all that great either. It reminded him of being sick.

  “What order are you?” Wayne asked.

  “Jesus Loved Mary,” the nun said.

  “His mama?”

  “Mary Magdalene. We think he fucked her. They were lovers. There’s evidence in the scriptures. She was a harlot and we have modeled ourselves on her. She gave up that life and became a harlot for Jesus.”

  “Hate to break it to you, sister,” Calhoun said, “but that do-gooder Jesus is as dead as a post. If you’re waiting for him to slap the meat to you, that sweet thing of yours is going to dry up and blow away.”

  “Thanks for the news,” the nun said. “But we don’t fuck him in person. We fuck him in spirit. We let the spirit enter into men so they may take us in the fashion Jesus took Mary.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “You know, I think I feel the old boy moving around inside me now. Why don’t you shuck them drawers, honey, throw back in that seat there and let ole Calhoun give you a big load of Jesus.”

  Calhoun shifted in the nun’s direction.

  She pointed the derringer at him, said, “Stay where you are. If it were so, if you were full of Jesus, I would let you have me in a moment. But you’re full of the Devil, not Jesus.”

  “Shit, sister, give ole Devil a break. He’s a fun kind of guy. Let’s you and me mount up… Well, be like that. But if you change your mind, I can get religion at a moment’s notice. I dearly love to fuck. I’ve fucked…anything I could get my hands on but a parakeet, and I’d have fucked that little bitch if I could have found the hole.”

  “I’ve never known any dead folks to be trained,” Wayne said, trying to get the nun talking in a direction that might help, a direction that would let him know what was going on and what sort of trouble he had fallen into.

  “As I said, we are a very special order. Brother Lazarus,” she waved a hand at the bus driver, and without looking he lifted a hand in acknowledgement, “is the founder. I don’t think he’ll mind if I tell his story, explain about us, what we do and why. It’s important that we spread the word to the heathens.”

  “Don’t call me no fucking heathen,” Calhoun said. “This is heathen, riding ’round in a fucking bus with a bunch of stinking dead folks with funny hats on. Hell, they can’t even carry a tune.”

  The nun ignored him. “Brother Lazarus was once known by another name, but that name no longer matters. He was a research scientist, and he was one of those who worked in the laboratory where the germs esc
aped into the air and made it so the dead could not truly die as long as they had an undamaged brain in their heads.

  “Brother Lazarus was carrying a dish of the experiment, the germs, and as a joke, one of the lab assistants pretended to trip him, and he, not knowing it was a joke, dodged the assistant’s leg and dropped the dish. In a moment, the air conditioning system had blown the germs throughout the research center. Someone opened a door, and the germs were loose on the world.

  “Brother Lazarus was consumed by guilt. Not only because he dropped the dish, but because he helped create it in the first place. He quit his job at the laboratory, took to wandering the country. He came out here with nothing more than basic food, water and books. Among these books was the Bible, and the lost books of the Bible: the Apocrypha and the many cast-out chapters of the New Testament. As he studied, it occurred to him that these cast-out books actually belonged. He was able to interpret their higher meaning, and an angel came to him in a dream and told him of another book, and Brother Lazarus took up his pen and recorded the angel’s words, direct from God, and in this book, all the mysteries were explained.”

  “Like screwing Jesus,” Calhoun said.

  “Like screwing Jesus, and not being afraid of words that mean sex. Not being afraid of seeing Jesus as both God and man. Seeing that sex, if meant for Christ and the opening of the mind, can be a thrilling and religious experience, not just the rutting of two savage animals.

  “Brother Lazarus roamed the desert, the mountains, thinking of the things the Lord had revealed to him, and lo and behold, the Lord revealed yet another thing to him. Brother Lazarus found a great amusement park.”

  “Didn’t know Jesus went in for rides and such,” Calhoun said.

  “It was long deserted. It had once been part of a place called Disneyland. Brother Lazarus knew of it. There had been several of these Disneylands built about the country, and this one had been in the midst of the Chevy-Cadillac Wars, and had been destroyed and sand had covered most of it.”

  The nun held out her arms. “And in this rubble, he saw a new beginning.”

  “Cool off, baby,” Calhoun said, “before you have a stroke.”