Coming to a resolution allowed him to relax a bit, and his mind began to drift off uneasily into that dark void of dreams. As he drifted off, when he was too far down that corridor to unconsciousness to turn back, he could’ve sworn he heard his mother’s bedroom door creaking…
* * *
Billy Blake took a swig of his beer as he watched Johnny Wong miss his shot on the seven ball. He looked around the room and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, nothing but a bunch of fuckin’ clowns in here.”
The Jolly Roger was hopping. It was the night before Circus Faire, and as per tradition, the nocturnal establishments of Smuggler’s Bay were filled to the brim with clowns from all over the tri-state area. All were dressed in their clown getups, some were in full makeup, and all were blasted out of their minds.
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” said Billy.
“Why do they have to go out all dressed up?” asked Johnny. “The parade’s tomorrow.”
“It’s all part of the fun,” answered Johnny. “These fuckers get all dressed up, pound back drinks like there’s no tomorrow, and grab on the women like it’s free.”
Johnny smirked. “Right. Not like you ever do that, Billy.”
Billy bent down to take his shot. He sunk the six in the corner pocket. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. Besides, I don’t have to hide behind a costume and makeup to do what I do.”
“Oh, yes, you’re honesty’s real refreshing.”
Billy sunk another. The two banked off the cushion into the side pocket. “Jesus, Johnny, when’re you gonna learn to shoot pool? I might as well be playing one of these clowns.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe one of them will beat your ass and you’ll stop complaining.”
Billy stood up and cracked his back. “I gotta piss. Why don’t you make yourself useful and buy another pitcher?”
Johnny saluted. “Sure thing, Boss.”
“Fuckin’ clowns,” Billy muttered to himself. He walked back to the men’s room, pushed the door open, took his place in front of one of the three urinals, and unzipped himself. He placed his left hand up on the wall and held himself with his other hand while he urinated. He tipped his head back and groaned as he relieved his overtaxed bladder.
The door behind him opened. Someone walked in, and before he could look over his shoulder, a damned clown honked his horn right in Billy’s ear, causing him to jump out of his skin.
“What the fuck!” Billy turned around and grabbed the clown by the throat, slamming his back into the sink. “What’s your fuckin’ problem? Can’t a guy take a piss in peace around here?”
“C’mon,” said the clown in full makeup, slurring his words, “can’t you take a joke?”
Billy got right in his face. “No, I can’t. I think that much is obvious.”
The clown put his hands up in deference. “I didn’t mean nothin’, man.”
Billy let go of his throat, snatched the horn from the clown’s hand, and threw it in the urinal. He zipped up and flushed it.
“Hey, man. That was uncalled for.”
Billy pointed a long finger in the clown’s face. “Don’t push it, Bozo.”
Billy stormed out of the men’s room. Johnny saw him and started to pour his friend a beer from a fresh pitcher, but Billy stalked right past him.
“Hey, where are you going? I just got a new pitcher,” called Johnny after him.
“I need to get some fucking air,” shouted Billy.
Johnny saw a clown re-emerge from the men’s room looking mighty pissed off. He walked over to a bunch of his clown friends, and shouted to them, pointing in Johnny’s direction.
Oh, shit. What has Billy done now? Johnny saw them down the rest of their drinks, and a drunk, angry posse of clowns left the bar.
Johnny wasn’t quite sure what to do. If Billy started some shit, Johnny sure as hell wasn’t going to help him finish it. However, he didn’t want his grouchy friend getting hurt either, even if he had it coming…which he did from any number of folks.
Johnny put his pool cue down on the table and walked to the front door. As he flung the door open, he half expected to see Billy getting the shit pounded out of him by an angry mob of jokers, but the sidewalk in front of the Jolly Roger was empty.
Johnny looked left and then right, and even craned his neck to see around the corner, but everything was quiet. Johnny shook his head. There was nothing to be done about it. Maybe Billy went for a walk. Maybe he even went home. Johnny just hoped that his friend made it to wherever he was going before the angry clowns caught up with him.
Billy was pounding the boardwalk with his feet. It was dark and empty, and all the storefronts were gated and locked. He checked his watch—1:45.
As he walked the boardwalk, listening to the ebb and flow of the waves, he slowed his pace. All the beers were catching up with him, and he found it harder and harder to pump his legs. Weary from a long night and the clowns, he figured he’d sleep it off in his shop rather than drag his sorry carcass back home.
He stopped in front of his shop and fished for his keys, and then heard footsteps. He turned, dropping his keys on the boardwalk. He held up his cell phone and pressed a button, the illumination from the screen allowing him to make out who stood near in the dark.
“What the fuck do you want?”
No response.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
He snickered and bent down to retrieve his keys. There were quick footfalls on the wood, and he felt a sharp, blinding pain…
* * *
Pete McCarthy sat in his clown suit at the Sungod Motel with one hand on his whiskey bottle and the other hand on the keyboard of his laptop. Nat Moran and Sean Molina pounded tequila shots, both in full clown makeup, setup on the small nightstand between the two beds, where a cigarette lay precariously on the edge. The coal was burning the edge of the cheap furniture.
“Yeah, that’s a good one,” said Nat.
“Fuck her,” said Sean. “She’s too skinny.”
“Hey, we can’t help it if you like fat chicks,” said Pete. “I think she’s hot.”
“Her name is Kyra. Nineteen years old. That’s good. She says she’s ‘open minded,’” said Pete reading his screen.
“I bet she is,” said Sean. “She’s probably in her twenties.”
“And she’s independent,” continued Pete, ignoring Sean. “No pimp.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Nat. “Who do you think drives them here?”
“What the hell? There’s three of us and one of her. I say we call this one,” said Pete.
“Don’t forget the pimp, but I second the notion,” said Nat. “While the pimp’s beating the shit out of Sean, we can run away.”
“Motion carried,” said Pete.
“Ha ha. You’re a real couple of jokers,” said Sean. “She’ll do.”
“Gimme your cell phone,” said Pete, grabbing at Sean.
“No way, man. If some bad shit goes down, the cops will trace it back to me. Use Nat’s phone.”
Nat collapsed on the bed. “No way, man.”
“Why not, you asshole?”
“Because I don’t know where it is,” replied Nat with slurred speech.
“Okay. Okay, you two mutts. I’ll use my phone.” Pete grabbed his phone off of the small table he was perched at by the large window.
“This room smells like a sweaty ball sack,” announced Sean. “I’m going to open the back door to the balcony.
“Good idea,” slurred Nat, who then downed yet another shot of tequila.
“You know, I wouldn’t sit on that bedspread if I were you,” said Pete. “You know they wash the sheets every day, but the bedspreads like once a month…if that.”
“So, what’s your point?”
“My point is that you don’t know what kinds of dried bodily fluids are on those bedspreads.”
“Probably from a bunch of pervs fucking escorts,” guffawed Nat. All three men laughe
d uproariously.
Pete pressed a button on his cell, but when he looked down, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Oh, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Nat.
“I fucking dialed my girlfriend.” Pete hung it up right away. All three men waited silently in the dingy room as the television blared on about a superstorm hitting the northeast.
“What the hell’s a superstorm?” asked Sean, breaking the silence and the tension.
Suddenly, Pete’s cell phone rang. He looked down at the screen. “Shit. It’s what’s going to happen if I don’t explain to Mindy why I started to call so late and hang up.”
The phone kept ringing.
“Well, aren’t you going to get it?” asked Nat.
“If you two will shut the fuck up for a minute,” snapped Pete. Nat and Sean looked at each other, shrugged, and started pouring more tequila shots.
Pete answered the call. “Hello?”
“Pete?”
“Hey, Min. Wassup?”
“Why are you calling so late?” She sounded mildly annoyed on the phone.
“I-I-I was thinking of you, hon. I miss you.” He thought he felt her demeanor soften over the phone.
“I miss you, too, but can’t you miss me tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, hon.”
“What’re you up to? Sounds like you’ve been drinking.”
“Yeah, Nat and Sean and I just stumbled in from the pub.”
“Any pretty girls at the pub?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t have noticed if there were.” Then to Nat and Sean, “Hey, guys, were there any pretty girls there at the pub?”
“Nah, just a bunch of clowns. Fucking sausage-fest,” said Nat over Pete’s shoulder.
She giggled on the other end. “Yeah, right. So what are you guys doing now?”
Pete pushed Nat’s face away with his free hand as Sean made kissing sounds in the background. “Now we’re watching the news. Something about a superstorm hitting the Shore.”
“Yeah, please tell me you’ll head out ahead of the storm.”
“Don’t worry. We’re heading out tomorrow evening, even though we’re booked through the night. I ain’t taking any chances.”
Mindy yawned on the other end. “Okay, well, tell Thing One and Thing Two to behave themselves. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Love ya,” said Pete, which triggered an eruption of more kissing and moaning sounds from the peanut gallery.
“Love you, too, Pete. G’nite.”
“G’nite.” He hung up the phone.
“Aw, how sweet,” teased Nat.
“Okay, that was a close one,” said Pete. “Now, to business.” He read the number off the screen and dialed it into his phone one by one. He placed the phone to his ear. “It’s ringing.”
Pete plopped himself into one of the worn chairs, his bare right foot landing on a dirty piece of dried gum in the carpet.
Nat and Sean plopped on the bed next to where Pete sat, giddy with anticipation.
“Hello,” said a young voice on the other end.
“Hello,” said Pete. “Is this Kyra?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Do you come to Smuggler’s Bay?”
“Yes, I do, sweetie. Where did you get my number?”
“From a website.”
“So, you know the donation for my time?”
Good. She used the word donation instead of fee or payment. She also mentioned it was ‘for her time.’ All good signs.
“Yes. I have two friends.” Nat and Sean squirmed with excitement.
“Well, that’s a coincidence. I have a friend.”
“You have a friend,” Pete repeated for Nat’s and Sean’s benefit. “Is she as pretty as you?”
“Yeah, she’s hot.”
“When can you get here?”
“Where’re you staying, sweetie?”
“The Sungod Motel.”
“Which room?”
“Four seventeen.”
“Hey, are you guys a bunch of clowns?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you guys dress up? My friend and I have a thing for clowns.”
Pete felt a stirring in his pants. “Sweetheart, we beat you to it.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call you when we get close. Gimme twenty minutes or so.”
“Okay. See you then.” Pete hung up the phone. “She said twenty minutes.”
“Awesome. Just enough time to do some shots,” said Nat.
Sean upended their last tequila bottle over a shot glass picturing a pirate riding a surfboard and a caption reading ‘Get Some Booty Smuggler’s Bay.’ “Empty.”
“That’s okay,” said Nat, “I’ve got more in my room.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” said Pete. “Not so fast. Pony up first.”
“Right,” said Nat. He stood and grabbed his wallet off the dresser next to the old cathode ray tube television set. He pulled out three fifty dollar bills. Pete and Sean did as well. Pete collected the funds and stacked the bills on the nightstand behind the shot glasses.
“Wait a minute,” said Nat. “If there’s only two of them and three of us, someone’s getting sloppy seconds.
Simultaneously, Pete and Sean placed their fingers to the sides of their noses and said, “Not it.”
“Goddammit,” protested Nat.
“Not fast enough,” said Sean.
“Don’t worry,” said Pete, “Sean will only need two minutes.”
Nat waved a dismissive hand. “Shit, then I’ll get the room to myself. Lord knows I don’t want to fuck with one of you two clowns in the room.”
“Will you get the tequila already?” pressed Pete. “Moonlight’s burning.”
“All right. All right,” said Nat impatiently. He opened the front door and disappeared, closing it behind him.
“Ass-hat,” said Sean.
Nat descended the steps to the second floor. Before he turned to his room, he saw a short, dark shape standing down on the opposite end of the floor. He waved, but it just stood there, swaying in the neon light of the Sungod sign.
“Well, fuck you then,” muttered Nat as he began to walk in the other direction. He reached the door to his room, fished his keys out of his outfit, and opened the door. He looked to his right and still saw the small figure standing there at the other end, immobile except for the slight swaying motion.
“Creepy.” He let himself in, closed the door behind him, and then made a beeline for his suitcase. He unzipped it and pulled out a fresh bottle of tequila.
He rested the bottle on the sink and decided to relieve his bladder before leaving. He shivered as he returned some tequila. When he finished, he zipped up and, omitting the act of washing his hands, he snatched up the bottle of tequila.
He walked back to the front door and opened it. He jumped out of his skin when he saw a little old lady standing in his doorway. She wore a pink nightgown, her eye makeup apparently smeared around her eyes in dark smudges.
“Fancy a drink?” was all he could muster.
“Screeeeeeee!” The lady reached out and grabbed Nat as he dropped the bottle of tequila on the floor.
“Did you hear that?” asked Sean, started by the banshee wail.
“Probably two cats fighting,” said Pete, “or fucking.”
“That’s probably what you sound like when you’re fucking,” slurred Sean, swaying on his feet.
Pete winked. “You’ll find out in a little bit…What’s taking numb-nuts so long?”
“Probably taking a good shit,” said Sean.
Nat fell backward as the old lady fell on top of him, clawing his face and biting his fingers as he pushed her face away from his. She bit down and ripped off the index and middle fingers on his right hand down to his knuckles.
His mouth opened wide in a silent scream as the old woman bit down on his neck, tearing flesh and skin away. She hovered over him as he clamped his left hand down on his neck and the old wo
man chewed on his skin like a cow chewing on curd.
“You crazy bitch! You fucking bit me!” He rolled away from her. When she reached out for him again, he kicked her in the face, but she still kept coming.
Nat rolled onto his belly and commando crawled across the carpet.
She crawled after him on her hands and knees, scurrying like a crab on the beach.
He felt cold, probing fingers on his sneakers and then his ankles as he crawled across the carpet. He looked over his shoulder and kicked the crazy old bag in the face, before finally squirming out of her grip.
He pushed himself up off the carpet and dashed for the back door to the balcony. The old lady screeched at him and was getting clumsily to her feet, which bought him the extra few seconds he needed.
Panicked, he grabbed the doorknob and twisted, forgetting to unlock it as the lady was on her feet and lurching toward him.
He cursed himself for squandering his tenuous lead on the rabid hag as he unlocked the door and flung it open. He threw himself out onto the balcony as the old woman projectile vomited across the short distance between them, covering him in brown bile and blood. He cried out in disgust and pulled the door shut as the old woman threw the weight of her body against the door.
Nat clutched his broken fingers, the open wounds covered in that pungent brown syrup, and he moaned. The old hag shrieked again from the other side of the door, and then Nat saw the doorknob start to jiggle.
He released his bleeding hand and grabbed the doorknob with his good hand as the crazy lady tried to turn it. He gripped it tightly, turning as hard as he could in the other direction as hot tears streamed down his face.
“Somebody, help! Help me, please!” he screamed into the night, his voice echoing slightly around the motel grounds. He prayed that someone would hear him.
“Screeeeeaaaaahhhh!” the old woman howled, matching him scream for scream, drowning out his desperate pleas for help.
A door slammed on the balcony directly above his. “Would you keep it down? I’ve got sleeping kids up here!” yelled a man. “Asshole,” he added as an afterthought, and then the door above slammed shut.
The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel Page 22
