Nether

by Jason Beymer

  “Thirsty,” she said.

  The two security guards flanked her. White powder covered their black jackets, the remnants of their doughnut breakfast.

  Kamilla hated to leave the comfort of the ladies’ room, but after heaving a violent mess into the sink, she felt better—good enough to take on Walter Potankin, anyway. She entered the auditorium and found it filled to bursting. Kamilla curled her lips into a photogenic smile. The volume of voices fell and conversation stopped.

  Don’t smile too much, she told herself. They’ll find smiling inappropriate. Don’t frown either. Frowning will show off the age lines.

  The air became hotter. She tried to maintain her gait, to keep it refined and haughty. She swiveled her hips and moved with forced gracefulness. Middle-aged men filled nearly every seat. The press galley loomed large in front of her. Cameras and microphones waited predatorily for her to trip, sneeze, or make some awkward movement. Light shone on the auditorium’s stage, where two podiums sat side by side. One contained a placard with her name on it, the other with the name of her rival. A vacant moderator’s table faced them both.

  Kamilla stepped onto the platform while the security detail took their seats nearby. A cool glass of water sat atop both podiums, dripping with condensation. She grabbed the two glasses and drained them greedily. With a gurgle, she handed them to the intern. “Fill these back up.”

  She took her place behind the podium and blinked into the floodlights. Her legs shook.

  “Madame Senator,” the intern whispered. “Are you okay?”

  “Get me water or I’ll break another finger.”

  Walter Potankin took his place next to her. The widow’s peak of his white, close-cropped hair made him look villainous, though Kamilla suspected his constituents found it grandfatherly. He wore a designer suit. A plastic smile stretched across his face.

  Potankin had secured his fortune through the re-invention of the urinal puck. Unlike the traditional blue, his multi-colored novelties emitted pleasant aromas when activated by the chemicals in urine. They ranged from the basic strawberry, blueberry, and baked apple scents to the more masculine, filling a bathroom with the smell of a new baseball mitt in spring, or a pigskin on a Sunday morning. Despite failing with his egg substitute product, Whites Only, his piss pucks made him an American success.

  The moderator for the event, a local TV personality known for his weekly ski reports, entered from behind a curtain. This talking head knew nothing about politics, but that wouldn’t matter. Political knowledge wasn’t a journalistic requirement in California. A successful political commentator in this state need only know two things: “D” good, “R” bad. Kamilla had chosen her party affiliation based on these criteria alone.

  The moderator took the stage between the two rivals. “Buenos dias. Good morning,” he said. The crowd quieted. He welcomed the audience and viewers watching at home, then promised to make every question tough and thorough.

  Kamilla hoped he wouldn’t forget their tryst two nights ago. She had allowed him five minutes in her hotel suite. The ski report for the evening? Frigid with a light drizzle, culminating in a wet mess upon her good stockings.

  The audience applauded. Time for the handshake.

  Kamilla abandoned the safety of her podium and shuffled toward her rival. Potankin already stood on his mark mid-stage when she arrived. He extended his liver-spotted hand and grasped hers. “My sympathies for the loss of your child.”

  “Shut it, Potankin,” she said. The floodlights burned her eyes. “This is my state. No way you’re pissing on me this morning.”

  The old man looked unfazed. “Such a mouth. Let’s see if it can do any magic when it’s not tethered to the moderator’s cock.”

  Kamilla squeezed her rival’s hand until bone brushed against bone, and the old man winced. The applause subsided. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Mr. Potankin.”

  Kamilla released his hand and stumbled back to her podium. She nearly fell, unable to control her legs, and clutched the edges of the podium at the last moment. She pulled herself up, planted her cheek against the wood, and breathed into the microphone. Her stomach rumbled. The audience glanced about at the sound, as if a flatulent elephant had sauntered into the auditorium.

  The intern offered her another glass of water. Kamilla snatched it out of his hand and gulped it down.

  “Ahh,” she said. The microphone squawked.

  A sudden craving for radishes and Italian sausage a la mode overcame her. She doubled over again.

  The press galley came to their feet. The audience murmured like a thousand chatty crickets. The moderator asked the first question.

  And she missed it.

  “It seems the senator is overcome with grief over the loss of her son.”

  Kamilla slammed her fist against the podium and sent out another squawk from the microphone. “I’m fine.” She steadied herself for lie number one. “Yes, I am aware of my son’s automobile accident. Though he is in critical condition, doctors expect Maxie to pull through. All we can do is”—she closed her eyes, the word difficult to vocalize—” pray.”

  God damn you, Garrick, she thought. Why couldn’t you keep that little shit stain alive?

  Two seconds later, she realized she’d thought these words aloud.

  Kamilla cleared her throat and steadied herself for the repeated question. She risked a glance at her rival. Potankin looked smug. And why wouldn’t he? His competition frothed at the mouth.

  “Madame Senator?” the moderator said.

  She looked up.

  The moderator repeated the question, but she still didn’t hear it.

  “Senator McPhee,” the moderator said, “shall I repeat it? Again?”

  Kamilla nodded.

  “Alrighty. The first question comes from Mrs. Coldmender of Vacaville. She asks, ‘If re-elected, what will you do to help agricultural workers in the Central Valley?”

  Smile, lean forward, look confident, and answer. “I would provide relief to farm workers, and help to institute drivers licenses for undocumented workers.” She cramped up.

  “Madame Senator?” the moderator said.

  Get through this, Kamilla. “I would help them with insurance and all that other … stuff.”

  Christ. Did I just say “stuff” on live TV?

  “Senator McPhee, you still have more time.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  The moderator pointed to the oversized digital clock on the table next to him. “You still have two minutes.”

  “In that case …” Her gullet bubbled, and she let out a quiet burp. “I’d help them get houses and healthcare. An illegal in every home.” She crooked her head at the camera. “That didn’t come out right. Well, you know what I mean.”

  “You still have more time.”

  “Pass.”

  “Pass?”

  She gritted her teeth, another burp rising to the surface. She wiped sweat from her neck. “Pass,” she repeated.

  “Senator?”

  The crowd looked to one another, whispering.

  “Shut up for a minute,” she said. “All of you. God, you’re a bunch of gnats buzzing and buzzing. Can we break for a …” She gritted her teeth. “I need a … “

  The moderator put up his hands. “Do you need a moment, Madame Senator?”

  Madame Senator reached for the first person she saw: the intern with the broken finger. “Come with me,” she said. “Bring the security detail.”

  “Do you want your campaign advisor as well?”

  “No,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “I want you. Come with me.”

  Kamilla grabbed him by the tie and pulled him along.

  Chapter 21

  A Very Wet Beacon

  At the home of Delores Franks, Garrick sat on the couch, fingering the brim of his fedora. A low moan escaped his lips.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Burklin asked.

  Garrick rubbed his eyes. �
�Did you not see the TV? Look at her.”

  On the screen, the camera highlighted an abandoned podium with two empty drinking glasses. A reporter pontificated over the prospect of a nervous breakdown.

  “I’m not talking about the TV,” Burklin said.

  “Can we get past your hurt feelings?” Garrick asked. “I allowed you a measure of verbal retribution. I wanted to garner a bit of good will before I sent you into the Nether. Don’t you feel better now that you’ve brought it up?”

  Burklin looked at his mother. “Mom, aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Delores Franks dragged on her cigarette and coughed. “Right, Donner. I’m all broken up.”

  On the television screen, the words Live Senatorial Debate flashed beneath Senator McPhee’s gnarled face as the network replayed the footage. She didn’t look well, and she plowed through glasses of water as if the liquid evaporated on contact with her lips.

  “Why did the senator act like that?” Burklin asked.

  “Because she’s pregnant,” Garrick replied.

  “Oh, come on.”

  The television replayed the senator’s torment in slow motion. Burklin watched her grip the sides of the podium, her knuckles white. Strands of blond hair fell over her bloodshot eyes as her complexion paled. Gobs of makeup slid down her face, along with tears and sweat. The video cut to the senator storming down the hall. She screamed a barrage of curses, some of which Burklin had never heard.

  “Is ‘coof’ even a word?” Burklin asked.

  “Anal orgasm,” both his mother and Garrick said at the same time.

  “Senator McPhee is like, eighty years old. How can she be pregnant?”

  “She’s fifty-three,” Garrick said. “Age has nothing to do with it.”

  Delores spit out her cigarette. “You gonna untie me, or what?”

  Garrick shook his head. “I’d leave her strapped in.”

  “I’m done listening to you,” Burklin said. He used a pocketknife to cut the duct tape and rope binding his mother’s legs.

  Delores stared at him suspiciously. “Why are you letting me go?”

  Burklin stopped. “Don’t you want me to cut you loose?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m warning you,” Garrick said, “It would be far easier to keep her bound.”

  Burklin cut the last bit of rope and tape. “You always lie. Mom is upset with you, too. She just has an unusual way of showing it.”

  Delores spat. “Huh? Oh, yes. I’m upset.”

  “What’s the big deal about the senator getting pregnant anyway?” Burklin asked. “Why don’t you knock her out and shove an IUD inside her, like you did with Lorraine?”

  “Why are you still bringing that up? I said I was sorry.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Oh. Well, let it go. My plan will fix everything. Most of it.”

  “Lorraine is dead!”

  “That’s why I said ‘most of it.’ In a few minutes, I’ll drive to the hotel and assist the senator with the birthing process. I have to get there before my competition does.”

  “You mean Wanda? How would she even find the hotel?”

  “The senator’s womb will emit a broadcast to her, as it once did for me. It’s possible the bitch already received it. That’s assuming she’s taken over my duties completely, of course. The fluids within the senator’s uterus will draw her to Napa. As the reproductive organs become primed for birth, the blood and mucus act as a homing beacon.”

  Burklin grimaced. “That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I shouldn’t have filled the Eiffel’s gas tank before giving you the car,” Garrick said. “I’ll have to keep my faith in the unreliability of the French. Let’s hope it sputters and dies on the freeway.”

  “What if she switches cars?”

  Garrick seemed to consider this, then, “All the more reason to hurry. But first you need to go into the Nether.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still giving me jobs. You said it yourself. Wanda replaced you. Do you actually think I’ll keep taking orders?”

  Garrick walked to the fireplace and lifted a sharp poker. He played with its weight.

  “Why are you holding that?” Burklin asked.

  “Because I’m going to murder you with it.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. As long as your soul is inside Pearl, you’ll be fine. When your heart stops beating, the mark you bear will carry your consciousness into the Nether, but your most important component will remain in this world. Your soul is an anchor, remember?”

  “I thought my soul was a sponge.”

  “It’s a spongy anchor. Let’s do this in the bathroom. I don’t want to create an unnecessary mess. Lie down in the tub. I promise I’ll make it quick.”

  “Um,” Burklin said. “No?”

  “Trust me.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “Get in the bathtub. I can count to three if you want. One, two, then whack you before I make it to three. That way you’ll be surprised.”

  “How would I be surprised? You just told me you’d whack me on two.”

  Burklin stepped around his mother. He bonked his leg against the coffee table. “Ow!”

  “Good,” Garrick said. “That’ll slow you down.”

  “Say something, Mom.”

  Delores puffed on her cigarette. “Do you think I care?” she said. “I call you every day, but you never pick up the phone. Cancer, Donner. I told you I had cancer.”

  “You lied.”

  “How would you know? I’ve had HIV, shingles, gout. Did you care enough to pick up the phone? No. Instead, you threw me into the pit. Lousy, ungrateful boy.”

  “But you lied.” He swallowed hard. “Mom, he stole my soul!”

  Garrick swiped at him with the poker and snagged his pants.

  “Hey!” Burklin pointed at Garrick. “You put my soul inside Pearl, used me as a slave, stole my wife, had sex with my mother at my wedding, took away my car, and now … now you want to murder me?”

  “Wow. You summed that up perfectly. This won’t hurt long. Take it from me, I’ve been through it.”

  “With a poker?”

  “Cardiac arrest. Same result. Now get in the bathtub.”

  Burklin leaped forward and ripped the weapon out of the old man’s hand. “I’m not going into the Nether.”

  “You have to die,” Garrick said. “It’s the only way.”

  “For what?”

  “You have to find Max and Lorraine. They’re probably both in the Nether by now.”

  “But what if Wanda kills Pearl? What if my soul dies while I’m … dead?”

  “That would be unfortunate. Best not to dwell on such things, eh? Now, when you find Lorraine, tell her to—”

  An ashtray shattered over Burklin’s head, interrupting Garrick. Burklin fell onto the coffee table, and it collapsed under his weight.

  Delores held the broken ashtray in her right hand. A cigarette hung from her lower lip. She whacked him again, then a third time. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” she said.

  Garrick looked at her, stunned. “God damn it, Delores. I haven’t told him what to do yet.”

  “The little shit didn’t even care about my lupus,” she said. “I should’ve done this the day I brought him home from the hospital. He had less blood inside him then.”

  Burklin coughed and writhed on the ground, his eyes unfocused.

  Garrick knelt down beside him. “Don’t die yet. When you get to the Nether, find Lorraine, find Max.” He shook him by the shoulder. “Get back here!”

  Ashes danced in the light of the TV screen. Colors swirled around him, orange with a hint of gray.

  Soon the ashes faded.

  The shards of the broken ashtray bounced off the carpet. The particles changed, no longer granules. They became a mucky stew, dark and heavy. New shapes replaced the familiar and blanketed his vision. Through it all, Garrick’s voice became a mu
rmur, garbled and distant.

  The only words he heard before he expired were “Don’t die yet.”

  * * * *

  The Eiffel rolled through sundrenched streets like a wounded animal. Wanda kept her eyes fixed on the road. She tried not to move, though every muscle in her body twitched.

  The dog barked from the passenger seat. “Hey,” it said. “I can’t hear Burklin’s thoughts anymore. Maybe your oozing gives off static. He was thinking about sponges, then—”

  “Nugh,” Wanda said.

  “Am I not allowed to speak?” the dog asked.

  “Nugh.”

  “Burklin never lets me talk either.”

  “Ungh.”

  Wanda tried to control the Eiffel Perdue, but her constant spasms made it difficult. The convulsing had started with her left leg and expanded from there. If she tensed her muscles, she kept them somewhat under control, but then the right leg shook, then her feet, then her arms. Every muscle twitched independently of Wanda’s will, and it irritated the hell out of her.

  If she could just turn back the clock …

  Yesterday had been wonderful, and the happiest day of her life—or her death. She couldn’t keep track anymore. She had resurrected, something few dead people experienced. She’d simply fallen asleep in a dark chamber and awakened in a hot new body.

  Wanda had chosen this build and ethnicity. She wanted to appear intelligent, sexy, and petite. Before her death, back in the 1960s, she’d been an overweight shut-in on welfare, beholden to her mother’s illness. Her mother’s cancer had trapped her in the role of nursemaid. Only months before the woman would succumb to her illness, Wanda felt a stab to the temples and collapsed in the pantry, dead of an aneurysm at the age of twenty-two. Cosmic cruelty on parade.

  Now bone clicked against bone and nerves reconnected with grinding pops, as if through trial and error. Some invisible tailor patched her back together. Muscles in her face twitched. An itchy black salve replaced dead tissue with new, and it smelled of expired vinegar: the same aroma she’d despised during those decades spent in the Hereafter.

  She blamed Garrick. He’d tricked her into walking right into the demon’s home, back when her powers hadn’t ripened yet. The bastard would pay for doing this to her.