One by one every LAPD witness rushes from the mansion, vomiting, including Synthia Günn, who hasn’t thrown up because of the job since her first week on patrol. Throwing up because she’s pregnant, that’s a different story, and that’s not why she’s heaving into the hydrangeas right now. She tries Red Feather but can’t get his cell. She could use his support but sucks it up and pops an Altoid in her mouth, the taste of sick making her want to barf again.
The Countess Barona, America’s now premier serial killer—of children no less—is no small potatoes. It’s going to take the forensics team a week to process all the murder rooms, that’s if any of them can actually bring themselves to go back into what everyone is now calling Hell House.
8:20 PM The Roswell Institute
Miles underground from where Günn stands puking her guts up the Roswell Institute is in pure chaos as the failed extraction team returns home, sans even one target and with a large segment of the blob hitchhiking atop the spacecraft. The spaceship’s material is the first thing the creature has met it cannot dissolve. It roars with frustration, sloughing itself from the ship and working its way further into The Institute, devouring as it goes.
Jason Mars screams at the pilot to relaunch the ship out of the docking station, back up into the Los Angeles skies. The pilot is more than happy to comply when he sees the blob begin to eat through the Roswell Institute’s infrastructure. Were it not for the husk made of similar material to the spacecraft, LA would find itself caving in as the creature makes its way through underground, snapping beams and bridges, warping the intricate suspension system that keeps each floor of The Institute in place.
From his office, Colonel Ransom watches, his shock matching only that first day in My Lai when he died. He loads his revolver and thinks on what to do, as Institute special ops first attempts to constrain the blob and then settles for destroying it with the ammonium phosphate and potassium bicarbonate fire extinguisher spray that seems to be working for the LAFD battling a far bigger version of the beast aboveground.
The Institute scientists, of course, insist on keeping a small piece of the creature for later study and hustle to build it a suitable containment facility before its proportions increase once again.
8:25 PM The Streets of Beverly Hills
“We’re not too far from the West Hollywood station. You all feel up for a walk?” Red Feather’s phone is damaged from Teresa Chalmers’s screams. He can’t get a signal. “There’ll be a payphone on the way, I’ll call ahead.”
After their battle with the Roswell Institute cronies, the survivors are met with a sight to match the one that started their day of a vaporized Hollywood hill: They can almost see to the ocean. The blob’s path has leveled this entire portion of the city, Beverly Hills and onwards as they’d been fighting the Roswell Institute cronies above.
“Holy hell, you guys,” Chamelia breathes, boggled at the level of destruction.
“Did I do this?” Una O’Doole’s chin quivers, not able to fathom the destruction her trauma could cause.
Secrete is closest to the blob’s creator and emits a comforting sedative scent that envelops Una, not wanting the magnitude of what she’d done to cause another eruption from her nether regions. We’ve had enough destruction for one day, thank you very much.
Asha Kinsella, the bird girl, takes to the air as her scuffle with the shark woman has left her leg limp and bloody, and she scopes out the blob’s scene westward. She sees a slow-moving whale of pink viscosity edging its way towards the ocean, the sound of blob-fighting helicopters audible from miles away.
“Don’t worry,” Asha chirpspeaks. “It’s huge, but not moving too fast. Plenty of time for people to get out of its way.” Asha marvels at the creature’s undulation across the landscape, like an opaque deep-sea jellyfish monster.
“See? No more worries, buttercup,” Secrete says, tweaking Una’s nose and making her laugh through the oleander haze. Una decides—with the help of Secrete’s scent magic—to dwell on this later. A lot later. Or maybe never.
The rest of the group sighs in relief. Another iteration of the blob in their vicinity is the last thing they need as they walk towards the West Hollywood PD station.
Trip and silver-eyed Connie each hold up Teresa, still weak from her two sonic scream blasts, helping her walk. She gets stronger as Secrete works more of her olfactory magic and in moments can walk on her own.
“I’m starving,” Karma Devi looks towards Detective Red Feather. “You’ll get us some grub at the station—not vending machine crap—right?” She has a yellow bruise welling up under her right eye, a possible cheekbone fracture, courtesy of one of the soldier dicks who elbowed her face before she slit his throat with a scalpel. “And some clean clothes maybe?” Not that Karma minds wearing an asshole’s blood on her scrubs. War paint, she thinks.
“I concur,” Teresa says, feeling a little more like herself again after too much sleep. “I vote for pizza. Extra cheese, extra meat, extra pizza.”
“Seconded,” Tashi replies. That’s when Cherie notices the tears streaming from her friend’s purple eyes.
“Oh sweetheart!” Cherie pulls Tashi into a hug. Tashi pushes her away.
“I’m fine. I’m fine! I just never wanted to see that rapist pig ever again.” Tashi feels her entire body tighten with rage. “I should have fucking killed him myself.”
Cherie walks behind her and massages her shoulders. “I’m pretty sure the blob got that asshole, hon. You’re never gonna see him again. Ever.”
Tashi wipes hard at her eyes. “I better not. Next time he won’t get off so lucky.”
Red Feather clears his throat, reminding the survivors there’s still a cop in their midst.
Linda Kang’s acid reflux acts up again, and she rubs her throat as her esophagus spasms, bile rising in a painful burp. She needs some kimchi, and stat. Don’t freak out, girl. Stay calm, just breathe.
Icarus Lazlo, the menstrual-blood drinking vampire is having the hardest of times containing himself from full-on attacking Cherie Beauxden and her three uteri. He tries to hang back as much as possible without looking suspicious, giving as much space as he can between her scent and his desire. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to have recognized him, nor does the bird girl flying above twittering away. Keep walking, don’t think about her, the blood, the tissue, the succulent nectar of survival. Think about rotting corpses, maggots, death. Her scent is too powerful, and Icarus adjusts his shirt to cloak his erection.
Lola Calavera keeps looking over her shoulder, making Icarus think he’s been made.
“You okay?” Secrete asks Lola.
“Just making sure nobody’s following us.” Lola has a sick feeling in her stomach that it’s not finished yet.
“Just our shadows,” Secrete says, linking arms with Lola, smiling.
“My spidey sense is going haywire, too,” Connie says, rubbing the goosebumps from her arms. She starts looking over her shoulder too, even though she knows whatever her physical intuition foretells it’ll be in front of them, not behind.
“Well, we sure showed them. Awesome teamwork, bitches.” NRG says, exhausted and depleted, but adrenaline elated.
“Hell yeah we did,” Chamelia concurs. “It feels good to not run for once. Stand our ground against The Institute. And win.”
NRG puts her arm around Chamelia and rests her head on her shoulder as they walk.
Chamelia glances from face to face. A vampire, a werewolf, a bird girl, a sonic screamer, a master scalpel wielder, pheromone woman, acid vomit girl, a foreteller, the mother of the blob: the most powerful group of survivors she’s met to date.
“I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship,” Chamelia says, shimmering into human form and smiling.
Everyone agrees.
Yet, the bad omen that began with Lola spreads throu
gh the rest of the group—a dark virus—as they walk through Beverly Hills towards West Hollywood, their walk punctuated by the distant sounds of the battle to contain the blob.
8:30 PM The Roswell Institute
Dozens more casualties disappear into the toothed maw of the blob, but the lethal chemical cocktail works, especially in such close quarters, and the creature begins diminishing, its power to regenerate slowing and stopping entirely. The work to rebuild all the areas of The Institute it destroyed will be another herculean task.
To boot, Gustave II, Jason Mars, and the shark girl Tiburona commandeered the extraction team spaceship and have kept the craft in stealth mode. Ransom vows to deal with them later. First, he needs to get a new extraction team together to collect those bitches who’ve done nothing but make his life a misery since the first day he met them.
Before Ransom can begin the phone rings. That sickly purple light signifying The Founders. Terror fills Ransom’s belly like shit stew. This isn’t going to be pretty. Not one little bit.
He pushes the button, and picks up the receiver. The voice on the other end makes his nose bleed.
Randall “Ripper” Ransom loads his revolver and removes the safety.
He puts it in his mouth and bites down.
His itchy trigger finger makes one last pull, painting the walls with his own blood.
This isn’t the first time he’s tried to off himself after a fuck-up.
A screeching noise emits from the fallen telephone receiver and Colonel Ransom’s body begins to heal.
The Founders never let him get off that easy.
Kaleanathi, the Smog Goddess
The survivors, your final tribute, your next meal, are almost in the fold of the goddess of connections, Aranya, weaver of worlds. She and the other Elementals form your circle, drawing on the pain of souls in eternal anguish. It’s time.
You sense hesitation in your sister Elementals, but it only takes one threat to get them back in line. You are the future, after all.
Muuna, the moon goddess, and Oceanica, goddess of waters, lock lips as the murder goddess Fiero calls out the primeval words. The forbidden words. The words that will bring you to the pinnacle of your power.
Not even Mother, The Ancient One can stop you now. The end of her reign is here at long last. You have all the power that you need to rain down your fury and rein in these creatures whose spirits belong to you.
In the stone circle of the Elemental elders you lie on the altar and open yourself up to receive.
Your chant reaches fever pitch until it is time to reach down and take what is yours.
You let loose your tentacles down into the smog, into the fears, into the lost hopes and dreams of humanity.
You feel the sky cracking open as the spell comes into effect.
You hear the shouts of your sister Elementals as their power rips from their insides and into you.
You are the dragon of all time.
You are the bringer of death.
You are the eater of souls.
You are the all powerful, all wanting center of the universe.
You open your mouth to feed.
Come into me!, you scream.
You are mine!
ALL MINE.
8:40 PM West Hollywood PD
After getting the survivors settled in one of the larger conference rooms Detective Red Feather keeps his promise and takes food orders after everyone’s had a chance to browse the cornucopia of take-away menus featuring every cuisine available.
Kimchi and bulgogi for Linda Kang, four different kinds of tacos and a breakfast burrito with extra hot sauce for Lola Calavera, several meat curries for Karma Devi, and half a dozen everything pizzas to satiate the non-discerning and just-as-hungry rest of the group. All save for Icarus Lazlo, who is this close to feeding on one of the humans thanks to the delicious aroma coming from the menstruating Cherie Beauxden’s three uteri, and Teresa Chalmers, who is stretched out and sleeping on America’s lumpiest sofa as if it’s a bed in the Four Seasons.
The bad feeling that began germinating during their walk to the police station has grown worms in Linda’s belly, and some of the less gastronomically experienced survivors have been complaining about the pungency of her kimchi.
“It’s this or I go all Chunderdome on your asses. I’m not even kidding.”
Tashi Lhamo snorts, getting the reference at once. Linda smiles and puts her hand up for a high five that’s gloriously met.
“What is a Chunderdome?” NRG asks, wondering if this is some new lingo they’ve not been privy to underground.
“Chunder’s the Australian word for pukefest. Thunderdome was a Mad Max movie,” Linda explains, burping.
“In that case…” NRG exaggerates moving as far away from Linda as possible, “I’ll just be over here.” Linda throws a balled up napkin at her and everyone not stuffing their face laughs, too.
Connie Jones, the console cowgirl, is nose-deep in the station’s only laptop computer, navigating her usual online forums and haunts, her silver eyes speed-reading page after page, so relieved to be plugged back in to the information matrix. She’s looking for news on what happened to them, as well as any hints about the gypsy girl from her vision who was murdered in Prague. Their story is about to break the Internet. The gypsy’s story, not a peep.
“I think we’re gonna start some kind of religious war, you guys,” Connie reads aloud an article about new riots breaking out between different faiths convinced it was their god responsible for the impossible survivors.
“Well, shit,” Karma Devi says, piling another mouthful of lamb vindaloo into her mouth. “Leave it to the fundies to ruin our survival party.”
Lola Calavera snorts and a piece of her chorizo breakfast burrito flies out her nose.
“Two for flinching!” Karma winks and fist bumps her friend, who laughs outright and makes an even bigger mess as food sputters from her mouth.
But not everyone is in a reveling mood: The sense of camaraderie Chamelia felt before has been replaced with an apothecary of negative emotions as she paces in human form, back and forth, back and forth—her hatred of small spaces returned in full force—and snaps into lizard form when one of her new friends politely asks her to stop.
“You think Chunderdome would be bad? I’ll fucking snap your neck if you ever tell me what to do again,” Chamelia snarls at Cherie, who nearly chokes on shock.
“Jesus, Chamelia, chill out, girl.” Secrete emits the special calming scent for Chamelia alone. Even that doesn’t work.
“Something’s coming. You feel it?” Chamelia’s eyes dart around the room so fast Lola Calavera gets dizzy and defaults into invisible mode.
“I sure do,” Connie Jones says, her silver eyes flashing.
Red Feather walks back in to the conference room, towering behind him Lily the Cyclops.
“Look who I found wandering the hallway.”
Lily grabs the detective’s hand and squeezes it. He pats her arm, smiling, and leaves her to reunite with her friends.
Chamelia breaks out of her panic spell. “Lily, what the hell! Where have you been?”
Secrete rushes their friend with a tackle hug, virtually jumping into her arms. Lily has no problem catching her in a bear hug. “Oh you know, kicking ass, turning people to stone, no biggie.” If she could wink, she would have.
NRG and Chamelia both take turns embracing Lily and introducing her to the group. The few who remember her from the rave also get up to give her hugs and she wishes she could remember that night. These women look cool as hell, and she secretly thinks the werewolf is her new favorite. Sorry, Chamelia. Lily ignores the vampire skulking in the corner. She’s had enough of men for one day. Except, of course for Detective Red Feather. But he’s special.
“So
really, where were you?” Chamelia asks again.
“Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it right now. What about you all?” Lily feels both exhausted and hyperaware, and loves the feeling of sisterhood in this room. She can take care of herself, she knows that now, but still it’s amazing to have these powerful women on her side.
Chamelia frowns, not taking rejection well and not wanting Lily to change the subject. She needs to know where to unleash her next can of whoop-ass. Before Chamelia has a chance to start pressuring Lily to spill the beans the lights in the room flicker, a brownout on steroids.
Hair stands on end, and everyone puckers with goosebumps.
Connie’s eyes begin emitting a strangely fluorescent glow. “It’s here,” she says in a voice nothing like her own.
Teresa sits straight up from her sleep and begins to quietly scream, covering her ears with her hands and rocking back and forth.
Lola Calavera flips back and forth between visible and invisible, her nose bleeding. “Qué chingona está pasando! No lo puedo controlar!” What fresh hell is this? I can’t control it. “Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!” She begins bleeding from her nose, a huge gush that coats her mouth and chin.
Icarus Lazlo jumps onto the conference table in front of Lola, scattering Indian and Korean takeaway containers, crushing pizza boxes underfoot. He doesn’t know why the bloodlust is too strong, he can’t begin to rein it in.
Karma Devi pulls Lola back, and brandishes a scalpel she stole from Spruce-Musa. “One step closer fangboy, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
Icarus snarls, readying himself to launch. Now it’s my turn to eat.
Knives flow out of NRG like water, accidentally pegging Chamelia and she manages to turn in time to lay them into Icarus, who growls in pain and skulks to the other end of the table as the metal shards force their way out of his skin and it heals.
Crime Rave Page 34
