Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (18 page)

I opened the door wide and hopped over the attorney’s severed arm, like a lucky Southern bride over the groom. Then wished I hadn’t, I slid across the floor on a thin puddle of blood and insides. Officer Scotty caught me in his burly thickly muscled arms. But all I could think was,
sloppy eaters
.

Scotty was a 6'2" hottie, with sandy curls, blue eyes and light afternoon shadow on a manly square of a chin. He held me in his arms. Stroking my hair and cooing consolations, “Sh. It’s all going to be alright. Sh. It’s over.”

I was game for his macho routine—though, you could smell the irony of the situation, it reeked of butt—I played along. A dry shoulder-heaving sob, and the murmurs of “it was horrible,” and “I just want to go home,” were all it took, that and pressing my face tight into his puffy coat. He bought it, and hugged me tight as a baby. I won’t lie; it felt great. Even if we were surrounded by blood, urine and bowels leaking loose stool. After all, I’d seen worse and it’d been a while since I’d been next to a man I didn’t plan on eating.

When I pulled back to look up at my savior, he grimaced. I immediately looked from his sour face to his jacket. Sure enough, there it was. Mama left her face on the nice police officer. I tore myself from his grasp and ran out of the store.

The courtyard was cleared of bystanders and crowds gathered at the entry. To my surprise, Shane King was standing front and center of the morbid gawking hoard. When he saw me he blended back and disappeared. I tore past the grabby cop standing guard at the entry and straight through the yellow barrier tape, like a hundred yard dash winner. Behind me I heard shouts of protest.

“Wait!”

“She’s a witness!”

“Stop her!”

But it was too late. I slipped around the corner, and through an alley. At the half block, I re-entered the parking lot to retrieve my car.

I drove back to Wendy’s with one eye trained on the road and the majority of my face obscured by a spread hand. The rearview mirror displayed a horrific mimicry of Baby Jane, streaks of mascara and eye shadow slid down scaly cheeks and lipstick smeared around my mouth like a hooker’s after a back alley blow job. I was so obsessed by my make-up malfunction, that when a husky voice rose from the backseat, I swerved. The rental jumped onto the sidewalk, barely missing a rusty truck and a howling woman shuffling out of an Asian grocer.

“Amanda?”

I knew the voice. I’d been damning the owner of it to Hell since seeing him with the not-so-innocent bystanders. I slammed on the brakes and felt his body pound against the front seats, and tumble into the foot well.

“Jesus!”

I leaned over the seat, and started in, “Shane, you piece of shit! You’ve got some serious explaining…”

“I know, I know. Just let me…”

I just couldn’t take his voice. I reached back and pummeled him with my fist with the force of a little brother.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Knock it off, Amanda!”

“What the hell was
that
, back there?” I asked as I slowed from punches to backhanded slaps, one for each word I spoke.

“Stop and we can talk.” His arms flailed, trying to deflect.

Settling back in the seat, I pulled the Volvo back onto the road and headed for my condo. “Well?”

“It was exactly what you think it was.”

“A bunch of mistakes at a buffet, then?”

“A zombie outbreak.” He’d slumped back into the seat. Shane wasn’t looking his best. His eyes were carrying dark bags, crow’s-feet spread from the corners. His jaw was covered with a scruffy growth of sandy hair smattered with grey. If I didn’t know he was a vampire, I’d say he was aging. “I’m sorry to involve you in all this.” His head fell into his palms.

“All of what?” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. “I don’t understand what’s going on at all!”

“I needed help. I needed for someone else to know.” He paused, looked up into the rearview mirror. Our eyes met, but not in a romantic way. “I figured since you were…already in deep shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you snooping around Karkaroff’s office. You know that; you heard my call, and you saw me.”

He was right. I’d even told Wendy and Gil, just last night. From the moment Karkaroff became a part of my life, at least verbally, I’d been fucked. Car accidents, haunted elevators, and now, zombie outbreaks.

“You have a point. But, Shane, what is it you want to share? If it’s obvious, then I must be an idiot. Or my brain is starting to rot.”

“I needed you to see what was going on…with the mistakes.”

“This wasn’t the first time I’d seen them.”

“What?” he asked, brows furrowing like caterpillars in a scrap.

“I was down on Western Avenue, four or five months ago. The same thing happened. Well, I assume it was the same thing.”

“Not quite. In the Western Sample, the reapers were alerted to end it before it spread. In today’s, what they are calling the Downtown Sample, humanity got lucky.”

Samples? Alerting reapers rather than them coming on their own? This was news to me. I swung the car into a parking garage and drove down the corkscrew until a vacant floor was exposed. It was time to park. Think. Probably yell.

Shane went on, “Today’s test could have been the big one. The humans worry about earthquakes and tsunamis and volcanoes. They don’t know to worry about the final plague, and it’s coming sooner than they think. Unless we stop it.”

“But both times they seemed to be stopped easily enough,” I said. “The reaper responded in a timely fashion the first time, and Officer Scotty
93
didn’t need a whole lot of help blowing zombie brains out.”

“True, and these seem to be isolated incidents. But where were they located?”

“Starbucks, yeah that much I figured out. So what?” I asked.

“I just said, they
seem
to be—”

“Okay, shit. I got it.” Not so long ago, Starbucks was a single store in the Pike Place Market. But now it was global. Thousands of stores circled the globe pushing caffeine like crack in kitschy mugs. And regardless of your taste preference—I think they burn their beans—they are definitely consistent.

“Imagine what happened today, occurring at nearly every store simultaneously. The human race would be done.”

“And we’d be out of food,” I finished. “So while the humans dwell on natural disasters, we can worry about a famine, is that it?”

“Exactly what Karkaroff wants to happen. If we’re all starving, then she can swoop in with the second phase of her diabolical plan, I guess.”

“And what is that?”

He bit into his lip on one side with a canine and winced. “I have no clue. I haven’t gotten that far.” The blood beaded into a knob that his tongue caught before it could dribble down his chin. In the time it took to lick, the hole had healed. And all I could think was, the lucky bastard. I took a quick look in my visor mirror. I was giving unacceptable face, and covered it with my hand.

“You’ll have to excuse me, but I really need to powder my nose. Go on talking though. Particularly, that interesting bit about not having a clue.”

“Well, I have a clue. I guess I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“Oh, oh, hold up, Shane.” I turned and lifted my hand, I shook my head like he’d made some small mistake and mouthed, “no.” “This isn’t a therapy session. Leave that to the humans, and spill your shit. Go on.”

“Where else is there to go?”

“Let’s start with how it is that a vampire is working the day shift over at Starbucks. Emphasis on the d-a-y.”

“I don’t really understand how it works. It was a gift, the ability to day walk, not the job.
That
, I had to apply for.” Shane’s gaze drifted away, toward the window. He patted his chest.

“A gift from Karkaroff?”

“Yeah, she needed someone inside Starbucks Corporate to monitor their knowledge of the project.”

We pulled into the garage of my condo and continued the discussion in my bathroom, him on the toilet with his chin in the cup of his palm, me working at my face like a Rembrandt restoration. I began wiping down with moist cosmetic pads, removing the streaks. Then it was routine, mindless work; I could have done it blindfolded—concealer, foundation, eyeliner, shadow, blush, lipstick, powder.

“It was my impression that the reapers just knew, when something like these outbreaks happened. I didn’t think they needed to be told.”

“That’s true,” he said. “The reapers keep an ear to the ground at all times. But the difference here is there’s nothing to listen for. No scrambling mistake, coming across and then biting a victim and spreading his viral shit. The reapers pick up on that immediately. No, in these samples there is no patient zero.”

I turned on the hot water to steam my face a bit, before I did my foundation. I found that I was getting increasingly dehydrated, the more days I was into my afterlife. I wondered if brining would help, like a Thanksgiving turkey. I could fill up the tub, add some rock salt and soak overnight. Maybe, I’d find the added benefit of plump succulent breasts—and the smell of rosemary is always so festive.

“Then how does it start?”

“It’s in the water.”

“What, the water supply?” I turned on the sink for effect. But there weren’t any cameras on me. I turned it off. There’s simply no reason to be dramatic unless you’re being filmed, or working out some family issue, like why doesn’t Daddy love me? Or, I’ll prove I have value, goddamn it! Something like that. I snickered at the thought, and then cringed at being caught while insane.

“The sample is a tablet the size of an ordinary gel-cap that’s dropped into the filter reservoir of the espresso machine. It’s time released, so Karkaroff can estimate the point at which it sets off, fairly close.”

“So Starbucks Corporate is in on this?” The thought sent a chill through my already cold frame.

“Not at all.” He sauntered over and leaned against the counter in a relaxed legs crossed at the ankle way. Far too comfortable, considering. “Much like I got a job through Karkaroff’s connections, she’s priming would-be baristas across the world to take on positions.”

“Severine!” I knew the bitch looked too coherent, not even comparable to the uncontrolled animalism of the other zombies. She was made. Does that sound too mafia? How about a deathbreath? I just thought of that. Moving on…

“Yeah. She was one of us.” He shivered. “God, I hate that I’m a part of this.” Shane was a sunken, curled-up cornhusk of a vampire. He looked beaten, and although I never wanted children, his sullen demeanor made my breasts feel swollen like an expectant mother.

I’m lying.

I was just turned on. There’s not a maternal bone in my dead body. My breasts were swollen, all right. I stole a quick glance to check for wet spots on my blouse. If there had been any, I would have freaked out, as there was no way I could lactate. The milk would more likely be pus.

“Me too.” I stroked the back of his chilly neck. “But you don’t have to be part of it anymore, you’ve already taken the first step.” I thought of Oliver’s twelve-step group, and derailed my train of thought. I continued, “Well, at least you’ve told me.”

“Karkaroff is going to kill me.”

“A bit too late for that, isn’t it?” I joked, straining for eye contact.

“Not funny. It’s not like I’m immortal.” He gave in a bit and tilted his face toward mine. Twitched. The expression was disgust, and he wasn’t looking behind me, either.

“Oh, fuck you!” I turned back to the mirror to check out the scene. He’d been startled by my death mask. An oval of make-up removed in totality, revealing perfectly clean but blue-grey skin underneath, dark blue veins and thin capillaries marred the surface like adolescent cutting scars. “Not everyone can be as pretty as you.”

He grabbed for my shoulders roughly and spun me toward him, clutching at me, fitting me into the line of his body. “I’m sorry,” he cooed. “It just startled me. Your skin is almost transparent.”

I certainly had a knack for it; I could have been an esthetician. It’s nice to be noticed for your achievements
94
.

Our lips were inches apart and his were quivering, with fear, I wondered. I dove in for the kiss, pushing in and opening and struggling with his tongue for dominance. It would have been a romance cover shot, if it didn’t have the look of a grave robbing, turned horny necrophilia.

We struggled with our clothes and feet to make it to the bed, nearly tripping over each other. We fell on the mattress, hard. He fumbled for my bra hooks—his ankles trapped in his wadded pants legs like shackles—while I stretched to reach the nightstand and retrieve the lube. He helped to apply it. I opened my thighs. He tumbled into me and started to thrust.

One thrust…

…two (deeper this time, nice, come on)…

…three (right up there, yeah! Mm-hmm!)…

…done (Huh?).

He hovered above me with a hopeful smile, dolly eyes rolling into the back of his head. His bottom lip sunk in and the top protruded in a half-dome over his teeth, like a monkey’s, or that actor, whose name I can’t remember, but without the ears like handles. He barked, “Uh…Uh…Uh.” The sound was sharp and seal-like. He coughed the words out—and, this is the only redeeming element, in his favor—the most remarkable curlicues escaped his mouth, like deep Chinese red filigree, vermillion. He collapsed on top of me.

My mind went to work with all the rationalizing.

We were just
way
too into it, so, of course, it was as disappointing and premature as scrambled prom night sex. Though props to Shane, at least he made it inside before he hit his ceiling. Dante Morris had shot his load into the underside of a cummerbund pleat, and then didn’t even bother to help a sister out. The corsage was pretty.

And, my senses were just
off
95
, so I couldn’t drift in the moment, like I’d like. The scents were so odd. I, primarily, picked up my own, the sweet florals of Issey Miyake, but buried underneath, (the soil, if you will, and I think you will), rot and death. Shane smelled of very little. Soap. Car carpet dust. Armpit hair. Wood chips. He needed a shower.

But he was cute. Next time I would be in control. He could count on that.

He rolled on his back when it was over and stared at the ceiling.

“That was great,” he said, winded.

“Mmm-hmm,” I agreed, resisting a cough of accent. Shane was either unbelievably deluded or had lasted longer than usual.

I changed the subject, lest he feel the need to comment more. I knew myself well enough that it wouldn’t take much digging for me to reveal the inadequacies of the quick romp. So I said, “So how does Liesl fit in to all this?”

“Who?”

“Liesl Lescalla?” I propped up on my elbows.

Like a little boy, he sucked at his lips and shook his head in ignorance.

“Succubus? Tall, sexy, black chick?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope.”

He continued with the same response. Nada.

Shit! Wrong lead.

You try to do something nice for someone—find their decapitated body, rescue them from a crazed toe-sucking kidnapper—and this is what you get. I’m embroiled in an end of the world zombie conspiracy and no closer to finding Liesl. Typical.

“Did you know Oliver Calver?”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

I’m not just dead. I’m cursed.

I reached for the phone next to my alarm clock. 4:25 P.M. I left a message for Wendy on her home phone.

“Wendy. I’m going to swing by there with a guest. Probably around sixish. Need to regroup a bit, and have some really interesting news, but, of course, nothing on Liesl.”

I left the same message for Gil, who’d be sleeping for another half hour at least.

Beside me, Shane drifted into sleep; his breathing became an adorable misty wheeze. I thought of the last time this bed had been defiled by zombie love, and Martin. Sweet and sexy Martin.

Hmm…

A Confession
*