Kiss & Hell (The Last Casket Book 2)

by Wallen, Jack

“It sure as shit beats doing nothing,” answered Billy. “I don’t care if I have to go on my own, I’m going to find Kitty.”

  Billy hurried toward the door, desperation fueling his stride.

  “Wait.” Toque’s voice stopped Billy in his tracks. “I’ll go as well.”

  Before Billy and Toque could head out, the whole gang had decided to ride along. They opted for the newly repaired Kitty Mobile. With the help of the loudspeaker, they could more easily call out for Kitty—should such desperate means be necessary.

  The van sliced through the hot desert night; a wall of dust rose behind them.

  Toque glanced over at Billy, who was busy at the wheel. “What are we looking for, Billy?”

  “A tall, skinny bastard…”

  “I know what the man looks like…and intimately, I might add. Remember how he kissed my jaw with a right hook?”

  “Right,” Billy answered. “He drove off in a Bondo-covered Chevy, dual exhausts. The engine was misfiring on the third cylinder.”

  “Yes,” Toque whispered.

  “Yes, what?” Tom leaned forward and asked.

  “I’ve seen that car…plenty of times. I believe I know where to find that son of a bitch.” Toque pointed forward, his index finger nearly tapping the inside of the windshield. “Two miles straight ahead, Billy. You’ll come to a ‘T’ and hang a left. Another two or three miles, and a small theatre will be on the right. We should see that car parked there.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” Billy held up a fist. Toque shrugged and shook his head.

  “Damn, Toque, get with the times,” Billy hissed.

  “No, Billy, I believe it’d be more apropos if the times got with me.”

  “Can’t argue with you on that one, Toque,” Billy said, right before punching the gas into the floorboard. The Kitty Mobile lurched forward and rumbled its powerful music into the cooling night air.

  twelve | mud

  Kitty had already dived into the next song as the band did their best to cover Kitty In A Casket. The sauce was weak. Kitty pulled every trick from her bag of cool to bring the band up to her level. A phrase here, a bar there…it almost worked. In the end, their horror was no match for her punk.

  The stranger was still shaking his bony ass back and forth between the two caged zombies. His rhythm was off by a drunken mile, and his dancing skills were pathetic at best. Enthusiasm, however, he had aplenty.

  “Oh, shit yeah, girl, you can sing to me any day of the year, and I will be your slave for life.”

  Kitty stopped, mid-verse, and spoke into the mic…her voice layered with cynicism and rage. She shook the chains that bound her hands. “You might need to look up the term slave, because I seem to be the one in chains, Alice.”

  The stranger guffawed and waved off the accusation. “Sister, you are loving every moment of this.”

  One by one, the musicians fell silent.

  “Is that what you think?” Kitty asked. “Because I seem to feel nothing but hate seeping from every pore on my body. If you believe that is love, I’d be interested in knowing your definition of hatred.”

  The stranger grew immediately stiff as he pulled a pistol from his lower back. He brought the pistol to bear on Kitty. “This, dearest darling, is my definition of hatred. It’s quite clear. You fuck with me, you learn all about every permutation of the word.” He drew in just a fraction too close. Kitty could smell his hot breath and the sour musk of his flesh. The stranger leaned in for another kiss, his greasy, snail-like lips puckered and ready.

  Kitty leaned back and, without warning, slammed her forehead into his. The stranger reeled back, dazed, and stumbled off the lip of the stage.

  The band members rushed Kitty. The guitarist reached for her arms; before he could gain purchase on Kitty’s flesh, she snapped at him with clacking jaws.

  “Roll out the third cage!” the stranger shouted from the floor. “It’s time Miss Kitty knows how serious we are about this new situation.”

  Kitty’s muscles locked up in fear.

  “Yeah, that’s right, girlie…we gonna take the crazy up to eleven now,” the stranger said as he stood, his eyes wide and his smile Cheshire.

  Two of the musicians rolled on the third cage. Kitty relaxed slightly when she noticed it was empty.

  “Load the bitch up!” the stranger bellowed.

  The Moaners in the other cages lunged at the metal bars of their confinement as the men walked by. The empty cage was parked behind Kitty. One man grabbed her roughly by the shoulders as the other unlocked the shackles. When the metal bracelets clanked to the floor, Kitty struggled against the man’s powerful grip. The second her legs were free, she swung her right foot up to connect with the second man’s face. The musician’s head snapped back, launching his body off the ground and into the stranger.

  “You goddamn morons!” the stranger shouted. “Get that woman in the cage and proceed with the fucking plan!”

  The first musician strong-armed Kitty into the cage and slammed the door shut. The second man managed to get back to his feet with a pained moan, his hands rubbing his bloody nose and bruising eye.

  “Fucking cu–” the bloody man started.

  “Now, now, Jonas. We don’t use such language in front of ladies. Especially ones who just kicked your sorry ass!”

  Jonas turned on the stranger and opened his mouth to speak. Before a single word escaped, the stranger pulled a gun and fired off three rounds into the man’s face.

  Jonas dropped to his knees, stuttered an unintelligible string of meaningless drivel, and planted his dead face into the stage floor.

  “Well, that just blows a herd of pygmy goats,” the stranger shouted. “Now I’ll have to find a new bass player.” The stranger approached Kitty’s cage, foul intention twinkling in his eyes. “Maybe I should just hijack…what the fuck was his name…oh yeah, Tom Mooner. He’s a stand-up bass kinda guy.” The stranger unleashed a laugh to shame a pack of hyaenas. “See what I did there, Kitty Cat-sket?” Another bout of laughter exploded from the man’s mouth. “Shit, I am full-on hilarious tonight! Maybe I’ll open for your new act with a bit of stand-up.”

  “What do you mean…my new act?” Kitty asked.

  The stranger drew in dangerously close to Kitty’s cage. “Didn’t I tell you, pumpkin? You’re the star act for my new club. Every night, you’re going to rock this town inside out and upside down. The locals here are going to pay a pretty shiny penny to see live music from an international recording star like you.”

  Kitty slammed her open palms against the metal bars. “No way in hell am I singing for you. No fucking way!”

  “My dear, misguided girl…please don’t act like you have a choice!” By the time the stranger completed his sentence, he was screaming, full tilt. A spaghetti-work of veins strained against the flesh of his neck and forehead. He turned to his remaining lackeys. “Get that useless bag of filth off the stage and chain those Moaners up as I instructed.”

  The drummer grabbed Jonas by the arms and pulled him off the stage. His head slammed against the tile floor in a loud, sickening crack. The guitarist reached into one of the Moaner cages and grabbed the arms of the beast to restrain it. The drummer hopped back up on the stage, unlocked the cage of the restrained zombie, and attached a length of chain to its neck. He then attached the other end of the chain to a metal loop in the stage floor to bind and ground the dead.

  “Go.” The drummer nodded to the guitarist, who released the Moaner. Both men jumped back and raced to the cage of the second Moaner to repeat the process.

  Kitty’s cage was wheeled into position equidistant to each Moaner and locked into place. Both zombies could reach just into the cage containing Kitty, but no farther. Should Kitty lean out of center, one of the beasts would snatch her up, and the end of Kitty would be nigh.

  The stranger served up a slow clap with a side order of shit-eating grin. “See how this is gonna work, Kitty? You sing, or I release the brakes on the wheels
of your cage, and those Moaners feast. Understand this; I don’t care if you wind up having to perform in that cage, desperately dodging the gnashing maws of doom. One way or another, you are going to entertain my guests.”

  Kitty spat a large ball of phlegm into the stranger’s face. “Fuck off, psycho douche,” Kitty hissed.

  “Sticks and stones, Ms. Casket. Sticks and motherfucking stones. Spit at me and slander me as much as you like…I’m still going to pimp your voice like it’s the return of the Mack and your voice is my ho.”

  The stranger spun on his heels to face the guitarist. “Find me another bassist…immediately!” The guitarist winced at the threat of pain. “I swear to God, Francis, if you come back without a bass player, I will fry up your balls and feed them to you with A1 and stale hooch.”

  Francis nodded nervously and exited the stage. The stranger glared at the drummer. “What are you waiting for? You think you’re exempt from my wrath? You’re a fucking drummer…I can replace you with a 64-bit machine or a street urchin and a plastic bucket!”

  The drummer chased after Francis with his proverbial tail between his legs. The stranger turned back on Kitty and sat, cross-legged, down center stage.

  “This is fun, don’t ya think? Just me and you…and those rotting bastards, of course…just like old times, right? Remember prom? We could dance if wanted to back then. I left a friend or two behind. Why? Because they couldn’t dance.”

  Kitty white-knuckle gripped the front-facing bars and held her ground, not speaking a word. “You’re crazy.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Casket, you’ll get used to it…the madness, the sound. Oh, and the smell. It took me a year or so, but eventually my sense of smell acclimated to the particular funk wafting from the bodies of the dead and damned. In time, I even found a certain musicality in their moans. Did you know, the average tone used by Moaners is C3. I don’t think I have to explain that terminology to you, right? You are a singer, after all. Trained, n’est-ce pas? Let me demonstrate.” The stranger stood. “Little known fact, I have perfect pitch.” He took in a deep breath and released a basso pedal tone of impressive volume and sustain.

  Oddly enough, the caged zombies joined in.

  The trio sang their macabre cantata until the stranger finally ran out of breath. With his narcissism in check, the stranger bowed to Kitty. When he stood, he shrugged and drew nearer to Kitty’s cage. He spoke in a whispered frenzy. “I will break you, Kitty. That moment will be both tragically beautiful and beautifully tragic. When it happens, you’ll enjoy the spoils of a long-fought war.”

  Kitty held her tongue.

  The stranger shook his head. “Please don’t make me say it, Kitty.”

  Silence.

  “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

  The silence was moving in undead stereo as both Moaners called out for a fleshy snack.

  Human candy, oh the forbidden fruit of the apocalypse.

  “Cat got your tongue?” The stranger stood. “There, I said it. Happy now? You made me voice the single most cliched phrase apropos to the moment. I feel a little sickened by it…like I might just vomit. You see, I’ve always considered myself…”

  “Shut up,” Kitty spoke under her breath.

  “…a man of higher intellectual thought. In fact…”

  “Shut up,” Kitty’s voice rose.

  “I’ve been tested. My IQ is…”

  “Shut your psychopathic mouth!” Kitty shouted, her voice roaring against the cold metal of her cage.

  The stranger winced at the vitriolic sound. When finally he glanced back up at Kitty, tears streamed down his cheeks and were launched to the wooden floor below. His voice rose like a roiling storm from a festering sea. “I could so easily release those monsters and watch them devour you through the bars of your cage. I could pull out my gun and blow your goddamn brains out. I could enter that cage and do very bad things to you.” The stranger drew in dangerously close to Kitty and roared his next words in a torrent of rage. “But that’s not who I am, you see. I have people who count on me to help them through this fucking nightmare, and I will do everything in my power to drain their coffers and fill their hearts. So fuck you and your little miss holier-than-thou attitude. As if you’ve never done a single goddamn bad thing in your life.”

  The Moaners wailed against their chains, putting the structure of their necks to a very dangerous test.

  Kitty replied in as calm a voice as she could muster. “Don’t pretend to be some self-righteous savior of the people. You’re nothing but an arrogant opportunist ready and willing to use everyone and everything around you.” Kitty looked to the left, to the right, and then back to the stranger. “You’ll never hear another note from my lips. Unleash your fucking dogs, if you like. Let them crack my head open and slurp out my brains. I will not be slave to anyone’s trade.”

  The stranger nodded and offered up a thunderous slow clap. “Veni, vidi, vici. Or should I say, Veni, vidi, Oscar? Oh, that I had recorded your performance just then. There is no doubt in my mind that would have won an award from the Academy.” The stranger hopped onto a chair. “I know, let’s hear your acceptance speech.”

  “Fuck you,” Kitty hissed.

  “No, seriously, let me hear your Oscar speech for winning best actress in a movie.”

  Kitty gave a slight tilt of the head. “Again, I say, fuck you.”

  The stranger leaped at the cage, gun drawn. He rattled the metal barrel of the pistol between the bars and shouted bang, bang, bang at the top of his lungs—a sound that only served to send the Moaners into a starvation-induced frenzy.

  Kitty leaned into the back of the cage, to gain as much distance from the menacing man as possible.

  The stranger cackled. “I scared you, didn’t I? It’s okay to admit it…I’m a scary guy.” He leaned his arm through the bars until the barrel of the pistol came to rest on Kitty’s forehead. “Say it.”

  “Say what?” Kitty asked, frightened.

  “Say I’m scary.”

  A tremble of fear danced through Kitty’s system. Tears muddied her mascara, sending it into sorrow-filled streams down her cheeks. “You’re scary.” Her voice was reed-thin.

  “You’re scary…what?” the stranger prodded.

  “You’re scary…sir?” Kitty replied.

  “No!” the stranger bellowed. “My name. Say my fucking name.”

  “You never told me your name!” Kitty shouted back, her voice cracking in terror-fueled anger.

  The stranger withdrew his arm, his face suddenly flush with peace. “How rude of me, Miss Casket. My name is Mud. I know, I know…what a crazy name, huh? My mother was a huge Primus fan…and a heroin addict. I guess she thought it’d be funny to name her kid Mud. I can see you doing the math. Pork Soda was released in ‘93…so I might well be around the same age as you? Oh, but a woman never confesses her age. That’s all beside the point. Do you remember the point? I do. You now know my name. Now…say it.”

  Mud brought the pistol to bear on Kitty’s right eye. Her entire body stiffened and her lids shut tight against the horror. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked.

  “You’re scary…Mud.”

  Mud withdrew his arm and danced about the stage like a man freed from a torment of nightmares. He laughed like a child and flailed his arms over his head like a chimpanzee.

  “That’s right, kiddies, my name is Mud, and I’m one scary motherfucker!”

  Mud suddenly stopped and placed the barrel of the pistol against his own temple. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I pulled the trigger now? What do you think, Kitty, is death the sweet release we all long for? Is the big end our only hope for peace? Should I pull the trigger and send me and thee out of our miseries?”

  Kitty said not a word.

  “Your silence is deafening, Kitty. Sing me a song.”

  “But the band…” Kitty began to complain.

  “Fuck the band!” Mud shouted. “Sing something acappella. Do it now befo
re I lose complete control of this fucking finger and you wind up with your third eye permanently opened.”

  Softly at first, Kitty began singing “Monster High School Party”.

  thirteen | cage dance with the dead

  “Stop the van!” Toque shouted too loudly for the close proximity of the van cockpit.

  Billy slammed on the brakes as if the very world ended inches before the front tires. “What the hell, Toque?”

  “There.” Toque pointed to the left, beyond the road and toward a broken-down theatre. The shattered, rusted marquee clung to the old stone wall with little more than a prayer to the great god friction.

  Billy scanned the area until his eyes happened upon the old Chevy. “Son of a bitch.”

  Todd Flash poked his head between the front bucket seats. “What are we missing?” Before anyone could answer, Todd caught sight of the car and whispered, “Sweet crackers of Christ.”

  Billy nudged the gas of the van and swung the front end into the parking lot.

  “Not here,” Toque said, excitedly. “Drive around to the side of the building. Should anyone come out, I don’t want them knowing our whereabouts.”

  “Good call, Toque.”

  “Years of training, Mr. Bat. Years and years.”

  “One of these days, Toque, I swear you’re going to have to tell me a little something about yourself.”

  “There’s not much to know, Billy. A bit of warfare here, a little PI work there. At one point, I was considered the James Bond of Canada. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? In the apocalypse, we’re all equal.”

  “Oh, hell no!” Billy proclaimed. “The Canadian James Bond? Oh, the strange you must have had.”

  Toque raised an eyebrow. “Strange? I don’t understand.”

  Max leaned into the semi-private moment. “You know, a little bit of the wink-wink, nudge-nudge from someone you didn’t previously know. A one night stand with happy ending? You get what I’m selling you, Mr. Toque?”

  “Toque. James Toque,” Billy said through a controlled snicker.

  “Are you quite finished, Mr. Bat?” Toque asked.