Habeas Corpses - The Halflife Trilogy Book III

by Wm. Mark Simmons

  The Thresher followed after the bus, bumping up against the rear a couple of times but, true to The Kid’s theories, these things seemed to be strictly outdoor operators. The bus appeared to be as good as a Sherman tank in the ectoplasmic realm.

  I eventually turned around and sat more comfortably. I was sharing a seat with a man in his late thirties or early forties wearing oversized Ray-Bans. Snuggled up at his feet was a German shepherd wearing a harness with a specialized grip: a seeing-eye dog. The seeing-eye dog was staring up at me like he was seeing me pretty well.

  “Nice doggy,” I said.

  The nice doggy growled softly.

  “Max?” the blind man inquired, “What’s wrong?”

  No point in ruining anyone else’s day. I got up and climbed over several seats till I found one that was totally empty. I might’ve tried just walking through the seats but I wasn’t sure enough of my control and didn’t want to end up falling out the bottom of the bus altogether.

  Now that I had time to catch my breath (such as it was) my thoughts returned to Lupé. The whole issue of her pregnancy and the positions of clans and enclaves was suddenly secondary. The demon Camazotz had come to my home looking for me. What horrors would be visited upon those it found there? Would my beloved escape? Could any of them survive?

  There was no question of any of them being able to stop such a thing. So what would it do when it didn’t find me there? Would it take prisoners to gain information? Torture them to learn where I had gone?

  What could I do?

  Even if I could return right now?

  The Kid had died in that house but his ghost had traveled to New York by using me as a focal point—a personal haunting, if you will. That was how he was on hand to meet me when I “died.” Or got knocked out of my body, at any rate. I didn’t know how or how long it would take him to get back to Louisiana.

  Or what he could do to help, either.

  Meanwhile, I was just riding a bus around Manhattan.

  Or not.

  The bus turned a corner and I remained behind, the tension in the silver cord making course deviations a rather limited variable.

  The Thresher had fallen back in its pursuit or it would have had me right then and there. That was the good news.

  The bad news was that it had been joined by another. I scrambled for the curb and this time I made it. And there was enough slack to dodge into the building proper.

  * * *

  The floors were a green-and-white marble polished to a high sheen with alternating columns of green and white every hundred feet or so, soaring to a second-story ceiling of white, scalloped domes. It took a few moments to figure out that I had actually stumbled into a “store.”

  Excepting the grand columns, the space was cavernous; the counters of jewelry or unguents and parfums and scarves and belts and accessories but small, lonely islands in a vast ocean of marbled openness. Around the vast perimeter were the cycled stations of fashion: garments for the morning, outfits for midday, ensembles for afternoon, gowns for evening, apparel for night—elegant ladies’ clothing for all points of the clock and compass.

  The Threshers might be shut out but there were other invaders.

  Zombies had breached the doors, spilled into the lobby, fanned across the mezzanine, shambled to the counters, and lay siege to the salesgirls who struggled valiantly to face the ancient forces that confronted them!

  I blinked.

  No. Not zombies. At least not like Boo and Cam and Preacher. These ladies were still alive—though the thick layer of makeup troweled over ancient flesh made it hard to tell at first. The hair that refracted unnatural bands of color from the light spectrum still grew from their scalps. Their lips and nails had been dipped in dye, not blood or entrails, to achieve the presumably desired effect. They were old and rich. The young couldn’t afford to shop in a store whose inventory equaled the GNP of a small Mediterranean country.

  This place catered to those who could afford a scarf that cost what most women earned for two months and overtime. It offered dresses that the owners would only wear once even though a lifetime at minimum wage wouldn’t be sufficient to pay the freight.

  Don’t get me started on the shoes.

  As the matrons performed the shuffling dance of commerce and consumption, I saw each joined by a veritable entourage of fashionistas, style mavens, and clothes fetishists who practically fell all over each other as dresses were considered, footwear slipped on and off, scarves draped, belts slung, and accessories compiled and recombined. What am I saying? They not only fell all over each other, they fell through each other. Like Merve and the bar spirits, the store was infested by the lingering aftertaste of fashion’s hunger. The Apostles Matthew and Luke made it sound pretty bland when they said: “where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” They should have said: “where your heart is, is where you’re trapped when your time runs out.”

  In other words, what matters most to you is the cheese on the mousetrap of eternity.

  Nice. The Gospel according to Stephen King.

  I wondered where my heart would turn up on the Post-Apocalyptic-Alley-Alley-Oxen-Free-O-All-Souls Tour . . .

  For such a big, empty store it was a very crowded space. Like a kaleidoscope of reflected wheels and patterns, each living soul participated in the allemande-left and the do-se-do of shopping while their ghostly compatriots orbited them like phantom solar systems on crack. And, after a time, I could make out third parties in the grand farandole across the great marbled floor.

  Creatures that were human and yet weren’t, ghostly yet not dead, circled the outer edges of the dance and held out their arms. In their clear and shining grasps they held gowns and dresses that gave off a light of their very own. Fabrics that were not of this world shimmered in subtle patterns that flickered like heat lightning, shimmered like trout in shallow mountain streams, pulsed like quasars deep in the Orion nebula, and shone like the stars at the world’s first birthday. They made gowns of silk and satin look like scorched burlap and each promised sensations of power and peace and healing and grace. Nothing hideous could wear such a garment and not be beautiful, nothing lame could don such material and not dance, nothing small could be adorned with such and not become large, anything was possible in these robes of light.

  But the dance did not cease. No one hesitated. All eyes were on the sacks of silkworm spittle or bags of cotton pulp or tubes of reprocessed hydrocarbons. No one glanced at the raiment woven from sunbeams and early morning mists, apparel spangled with fireflies and glowing eyes of the Dwellers of the Deep, or the robes that pulsed like the long, slow heartbeat of the volcanoes. Vestments of light were offered and ignored. The blindness of the living continued in death. It was a Maypole dance around a tower of rotting wood while crystalline galaxies spun just outside the mud-trampled circle.

  There was something . . . a mantle . . . a djellaba, a hooded serape, or something of spun moonlight, pleated with the aurora borealis. It came toward me, proffered in alabaster hands and I touched its hem briefly.

  How can I describe the sensation of that contact? Not in terms of tactility or texture. It was not a question of thread count or weave—though the garment was more real than anything that ever touched my skin when I still walked the earth clothed in flesh. It was more like the smell of soft summer rains and early morning mists. The taste of fresh summer strawberries and icy-cold spring water on a hot summer’s day. It was the sound of wind in the trees—a whisper amid a small orchard and a mighty exhalation through a great forest, the chimes of children’s voices as the last lesson book is closed, and the peaceful song of the hearth cricket on a warm winter’s night. But, more than anything else, it was the feeling of home—home for the hunter weary from the hill, for the sailor worn from the sea.

  For me . . .

  “For me?” I asked. And the clothing of eternity began to gather into my hands.

  FLASH!

  And I was stumbling out into the street, a
gain.

  No.

  The shock of disappointment was greater than the shock of sudden translocation.

  “Noooo!” I cried, and tried to claw my way back toward the green-and-white marbled crossroads.

  The cord brought me up short.

  And, a block away, a trio of Threshers rotated on their multiple axes and began to roll and spin toward me.

  * * *

  For maybe two hours I played Dodgem in traffic with the ghost grinders. I moved mechanically, only half caring about some of the chances I took. I was getting better at jumping from one vehicle to another, despite the unpredictable bungee contractions of my astral connection. To be fair, the spinning tops-o’-doom were having more difficulty as the sun inched its way down the western sky. Maybe they were solar powered: they seemed to lose steam as they crossed the shadows from the taller buildings, shadows that lengthened and grew more potent as the daylight waned.

  As for my vehicular assistance, there were taxis and cop cars and delivery trucks and automobiles and limousines and even a fire truck. Now and then I’d jump out and run into a building, sometimes emerging two blocks down after a lengthy tour of stores, banks, and offices. There was a church along the way with a christening. The baby was surrounded by family and the family was surrounded by—well—it was difficult to tell, especially since the older ones were less distinct, but I was guessing more family with ancestors going back seven generations, at least.

  And there were other . . . people. I hesitate to call them “creatures” but they were and weren’t like you or me.

  And they floated. Not that everyone’s feet were firmly planted on the floor—or that everyone’s feet were even visible at times—but these beings hovered over the whole assemblage like traffic copters preparing reports for the five o’clock news.

  The feeling was different from most of the other haunty scenes I had visited so far: a sense of peace, of hope, even. But hanging around was out of the question as another strong yank landed me outside, again.

  No Threshers in sight for the moment. I had emerged some distance from my entry point, the sun was lower in the sky, and I was walking into deeper shadows from the buildings across the street, now. I decided to risk staying outside for a block or two in hopes of finding a street sign to get my bearings.

  I watched both ends of the boulevard, figuring the Threshers couldn’t pass through any of the buildings and would have to remain in the light as much as possible. So I wasn’t paying any attention to a dark alleyway and that is why the thing caught me by surprise as it barreled out and into me like a deranged cave bear.

  It looked like a rabid grizzly. Matted, coarse brown hair, snaggly teeth, red-rimmed eyes; it staggered erect and advanced like some trained circus bear, paws waving before it, grunting and chuffing and growling. “Lil buddy!” it roared, spreading its massive arms for a crushing bear hug.

  There were other people on the sidewalk. Without giving the creature any particular amount of attention, they gave it wide berth. New Yorkers are well acquainted with such phenomena: street people are like intermittent showers—you open your umbrella and keep walking.

  “How long’s it been?” the bushy-bearded giant bellowed. “I thought you bought the big one outside of Baghdad!”

  I took in the green field jacket that seemed inadequate for a New York winter and considered the lines radiating from the wild eyes to the dark mysteries of hair that covered half of his face. Too old for Gulf War Two—maybe GW One?

  “Or was it at Chipyong-ni?” He staggered and a pint bottle slid from a pocket to smash on the sidewalk.

  Chipyong-ni? That was in North Korea—the Eighth Army had made a stand there against the Chinese communists back in ‘50–’51 . . . “Whoa, Sergeant Rock! You wanna do the spare-some-change-for-a-vet routine, I suggest you get a more believable back-story. Or at least settle on a particular war.”

  Our veteran for all seasons looked down at the shattered bottle. “Oops! Outta antifreeze!” Looked up. At me. “Buy a fellow soldier a drink?”

  I looked around. No one else was standing still or making eye contact. This afternoon the role of Wacko Street Person’s Imaginary Friend will be played by Christopher L. Cséjthe.

  “Okay,” I said. “Assuming that you can actually see me, is it possible that you can hear me, as well?”

  “Uh-oh!” he said, “Charlie’s here.”

  “Charlie?” I followed his gaze as he turned his head back toward the direction I had come.

  A Thresher was rolling up the street behind me.

  “It’s Damn-Nang all over again!”

  “Pick a war,” I muttered, “any war—just stick with it.” And started to run. The problem was Section Eight was in my way: I was between Sergeant Rock and a hard place.

  “We’d better run for it, Sparks,” he said. Then bellowed at the top of his lungs: “Retreat!”

  I was already in the process of running through him, headed for the nearest wall, when he turned. It was like sinking through warm cookie dough that was suddenly flash-fried with a crisp, outer shell. “Hang on, Li’l Buddy! I’ll get us outta here!”

  And just like that, I was hitching another ride uptown. Only, instead of riding inside a two-ton truck, I was a passenger inside a three-hundred-pound refugee from Bellevue: Bogie on Board.

  I tried to hop off. Jump out. Disengage.

  I couldn’t.

  I was trapped in a psychic headlock, a prehistoric bug locked in amber. For all intents and purposes, I was the psychotic homeless guy, running down the middle of the street now. The fact that I didn’t have anything to say about it was secondary. There was a storm of steel and chrome headed toward us and a Whirlwind of God nipping at our heels. At any moment now, this was going to end very badly for both of us.

  Relax, kid.

  Yeah, enjoy the ride.

  And the warm.

  Not to mention the room.

  Yeah, you’d think six would be four too much, but Pauly’s got a bigger skull and a smaller ego than most.

  The voices belonged to more than one entity but, because they did not come from differing tongues and voice boxes, they were almost impossible to tell apart. Did I say differing tongues and voice boxes? There was nothing organic about the things chittering away in my—um—“ears.”

  Don’t worry, son, Corporal Barrett is a veteran of rush-hour Ringalevio.

  Yeah, he may not be much on the social interaction but he’s Fran Tarkenton when it comes to broken-field running against crosstown traffic.

  Fran Tarkenton? Try Johnny Unitas.

  Yo, old timers! Try bringing it into the twenty-first century.

  Yo? How about ‘Yo Mama?’

  Yeah, there ain’t no quarterbacks worth discussin’ since Joe Montana retired.

  You talking before Kansas City or after?

  I tried to look behind me.

  Hey, don’t do that!

  Leave the body alone.

  You don’t want to mess him up while he’s playing in traffic.

  Like we said, relax and enjoy the ride.

  As long as he stays off the bumpers, we’re all safe.

  The Proud Marys can’t touch you as long as you’re suited up.

  “Proud Marys?” I asked.

  And suddenly realized that Pauly was bellowing at the top of his lungs as he worked his way through cars and trucks like a salmon surging upstream to spawn: “Big wheels keep on turnin’! Big wheels keep on turnin’!”

  Over and over and over again.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before we were running from the cops, as well.

  We can run . . .

  But Pauly can’t hide.

  Yeah, they know where he lives.

  “Where does he live?”

  In a packing crate.

  No cardboard boxes for our boy.

  Which makes it hard to move about.

  Good thing he’s big and strong.

  No one’s allowed to permanently s
take out a grate, you see.

  But they cut Pauly a little more slack than most. He’s good about sharing. Especially on the cold nights.

  Pauly’s a prince.

  “If Pauly’s such a prince, what’s he doing out here?”

  You mean, cleaning windshields at red lights, panhandling for change, and sleeping in alleyways?

  Our man Pauly took Unca Sammy to heart when he wuz told to be all that he could be.

  And this is all that he could be once they taught him what they taught him.

  “What did they teach him?”

  Twenty-seven different ways to kill a man with your bare hands, for one thing.

  Is it up to twenty-seven, now? They only taught me fifteen.

  Poor Pauly: so big and so strong. You’d think God made a better killing machine when he super-sized those hands . . .

  And backed them up with arms and shoulders that could snap bones with shrugs and gestures.

  That’s what the D.I.s thought.

  D.I.s don’t know nothin’ about God, though.

  Poor Pauly.

  He wasn’t cut out for killing.

  Not like us.

  No.

  We’re so good at it.

  Were so good at it. Not so good at not being killed.

  Yeah, at least Pauly’s still alive.

  Even if he ain’t in one piece no more.

  Me, I lost an arm at Guadalcanal. Pauly lost his mind in Hobo Woods, east of Binh Buong.

  Good thing he’s got us to look after him.

  “Is that what you call it? Looking after him?”

  What? You think you know us?

  There’s a lot of things that would move into someone’s head if they could and cause all kinds of mischief.

  Mischief would be a sad understatement.

  Make The Exorcist look like My Dinner With Andre.

  “So what kind of help are you giving him right now?”

  What? This?

  Pauly needs the exercise.

  Especially since he’s going to be locked up again for a while.