Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (19 page)

I’ve done something horrible.

If I tell you, you’ve got to promise to forgive me, okay?

Good. Here goes…

Remember when Martin and I…um…did it? Well, after it was over, and he was dozing, and I was really relaxed and basking in the afterglow, and all that, I ate him.

Please, don’t judge.

I didn’t mean to.

He smelled so good. It was intoxicating, so full of life.

I couldn’t resist.

I guess I was too young of a zombie. I should have known I couldn’t control myself. But let me make something perfectly clear: it was quick and painless.

I hope.

I feel horrible about it, to this day.

I apologize for holding my cards so close to my chest. I promised myself to keep you with me through my journey. Then I go and hold something like this back.

I’m ashamed. I really am.

I suppose I didn’t want to be judged, so I just didn’t open up about the conclusion of that night. Maybe, Shane and the undead sex shook something loose—and not in my bowels, this time—in my heart.

The few clean bones that are left of Martin, I keep in a black lacquer box under the bed, next to the cremated remains of my precious Chihuahua, Celie. Little known fact: I’m kind of sentimental.

Well…

I’m glad I told you.

I feel so much better, don’t you?

Good.

“Sorry Martin,” I whispered into the dusk filled room.

“What?” Shane rolled toward me, draping a leg over my own.

“Nothing.” I’d nearly forgotten he was there. I swatted his leg away. “Take a nap.”

It seemed in those days, I kept the water company in business with all my showers. The Starbucks gore spotted my skin with stains, something awful—thank God for powdered detergent with bleach. There is just something about having deeper layers of dead skin and not enough sloughing. Could anything be worse than rough patches? Oh wait…maybe this: at some point during “the sex act,” as it is forever to be known, the gash in my arm tore open again.

I dug through the recent and sour memories to figure out the moment it had happened, and settled on the position. Shane opted for a modified missionary, which is by no means on my list of favorites, although many rapists hold it in high regard. Instead of holding his chest off of me by bracing his hands against the mattress, he held me down, balancing on my biceps. Not cool. I don’t care how old the guy was—nor had I asked—this wasn’t his first time, and there was no excuse for a macho power play.

I wondered what remedy would Wendy suggest next. An iron-on patch? Staples?

I ransacked the vanity cabinets for something to cover my wound. Tins and boxes skittered across the marble floor as I tossed. Finally, I found an unopened box of nicotine patches under the sink, a leftover from a failed attempt to quit. I pressed one over the tear and then another, giving them a pat—’cause, what the hell. But, I couldn’t get a hit.

On the drive over to meet the crew, I told Shane about my search for Liesl, and my disappointment at having followed the wrong course of action. He thought that the other leads were quite encouraging. In the end,
he
apologized for
my
mistake.
Aw
, I thought. He’s cute again.

I, also, made a call to the incubus/succubus tracker guy. The card said his name was Clevis. Yeah, I know, straight out of a ’70s blaxploitation flick, right? You’ve gotta love that. He answered on the first ring.

“What d’ya want?” His voice was scratchy, dry and Scottish, breaking up my fantasy image of him. I imagined strands of mucus turned to crystal stalactites—or stalagmites, for that matter, albeit, less believable—bracing the back of his throat like a jail cell.

“I got your number from Nick.”

“So…what?” Two words stretched thin by the thick brogue.

“He said you might be able to help me find a friend of mine, her name is…”

“Liesl Lescalla,” he finished, having either read my mind or been forewarned. “I can get you the information you need…”

“Oh good.”
Finally
, I thought. My luck must be changing. The bad sex I suffered must have filtered into my karma bank, like how Angelina Jolie’s ghoulish red carpet behavior was wiped clean by helping bloated African children. A ray of light spilled into the dark pit of incompetence. “Thank you so much.”

“…but the price will be a hefty one, it will.”

“Money is no object.” I hoped he meant money. I could barely imagine having to pay with another inadequate performance. It was just too soon to risk.

“And who said anything about money? Grab a pen.”

I jotted down instructions that proved to be more frustrating than an empty bank account. I thanked him and said goodbye.

In the hallway outside Wendy’s, I laid it all out for Shane. I had to. I’d been dwelling. I don’t do dwelling. My hand splayed on his chest, applying solid pressure, I said, “So, here’s how it is Mr. King: I’m going to chalk today up to nerves and anxiety. But hear me, sex will never be like that again. We’ll work on your longevity, but until it’s up to par…”

He wore the correct expression: fear-tinged guilt. Lovely. His mouth dangled open. I put my thumb in it.

“…you’ll finish me off with this.” I patted his tongue, he closed his mouth around my finger and sucked. “Or, this.” I grabbed his hand and massaged. “I’m going to take control of your body and make your blood scream. The bedroom will look like a red tornado, when I’m through with you.”

We were outside Wendy’s door and Shane’s eyes were so wide I feared they’d tear at the corners. The knob turned with a click and I pulled my thumb out with a
pop
.

It was Gil. I nudged past him, making my hips move the skirt like feathers, calling for Wendy. Behind me I heard Gil say to Shane, “Ooh, did you win the lottery, Kitten?”

Wendy called out from the back room, “I’ll be ready in a minute, Amanda.” I heard footstep patter, then the ashy blonde hair and pert oval of Wendy’s face appeared in the doorway. “Watch that one channel. Oh, which is it, Gil?”

“Seven sixty-six,” he said, plopping down next to me in the deep fluff of the green sofa. Remote in hand he flipped on the wall mounted LCD and triggered to 766. Shane chose the Horchow Collection chocolate-leather club chair (it’s
very
expensive); it squealed a bit as his hip slid down a shiny arm, and stared at the screen with the face of a medicated mental patient. He’d get over it.

The TV sprang to life in surreal mimicry of color and life, or death, as it were. The screen was full of the dead, zombies, vampires, ghosts. One zombie eating a human skull and biting into a hidden orange, its face changing from a scowl to a crazy cocked smile; later a toilet stall door is kicked in to find the same zombie grunting, flipping off the camera; a vampire is chased down by a little girl in a bright blue Sunday dress, behind her a large mouth, is clearly made of wax, a fake reaper doorway. The show name appears in flashes.

Undead…

On…

Tape

A male voice-over repeats the title and says, “And, now your host, everyone knows him, living and dead, it’s Cameron Hansen!”

My mouth dropped open. The greasy fucker was double-dipping. Is it not enough to be adored by humans, he has to take over the undead consciousness?

“How long has this show been on?” I shouted back to Wendy.

“Oh my God!” Wendy yelled, bounding into the room. “Can you believe that piece of shit? I’ve been meaning to tell you about it but so much has been going on. I started seeing the previews last week.”

Undead on Tape
looked like a prank show. It was
Punk’d,
with gore standing in for the good-natured humor. I was only surprised that Cam Hansen couldn’t be
less
original in his project choices.

“Next up. One of our favorite things here at
Undead
, a fatality accident caught on tape.” His gelled and spiked head snapped to one side, and yelled, “Roll it!”

The screen changed to an image of an SUV driving down a slick decline, at its base was an intersection, from the cross street a small car approached from the distance, picking up speed.

The annoying voice-over remarked, “This accident features a darling of the supernatural club world, and a minor human celebrity, let’s see if you can pick them out…”

The cars proceeded on their nightmare course and at the point of collision, the speed of delivery slowed to a crawl. It was repeated incessantly, from multiple angles, sometimes at once, stealing a DePalma split screen effect. I was horrified, but not just by the poor quality of the production, but because I recognized the participants immediately.

“Get a load of this,” I broadcasted to the room. Wendy slumped behind Gil, stunned.

The cameras pulled back to reveal a tall gorgeous woman, staggering and staring at a gash in her arm. Quick zoom into dead flesh! Duh. It’s me.

Fuck.

It wasn’t long before the camera came in for a headshot of me, and poor Rochelle
96
. What I hadn’t noticed at the scene was: if you looked close enough at the outside of the windshield you could see her exposed brain. The cameras don’t miss a thing. They even stuck around to catch a seagull pulling at the grey matter with its beak like a half-eaten tuna salad. The real question is this: if I’d seen it, would that be me pecking away at the weathergirl’s brain?

Cameron popped back on, “That’s right folks. We caught Rochelle Ali in her last living performance and zombie debutante, Amanda Feral, a fresh face on the scene that many of you first took notice of in our special
Undead on Tape: Binge Party
.

There we were. No grains or tiling. The shot was crystal clear. Wendy and I chowed down on the teen runaway outside of Convent, our faces stretched into footwide bear traps and clamping down on the boy, bloodlessly chomping like a couple of Ms. Pacman. The boy was gone in less than a minute.

“Oh my God. So awful.” Wendy’s mouth hung open in shock. “Can they do that? I mean without a release or something?”

“Who are you gonna sue?” Gil asked. “It isn’t like there’s a supernatural court.”

The screen switched back to Cameron. He was nodding creepily, grinning and giving a big thumbs-up. I had an idea of where he could shove that thumb, and it wasn’t in Shane’s mouth. I looked over at him and wiggled my own thumb. Shane licked his lower lip. He’d been staring at me.

“You like that, Cameron? Bitch, you should have been followin’ me today,” I said to the TV.
97
“A fuckin’ laugh riot.”

The show went to commercial and spooky horror movie music expelled from the theater speakers.

Gil clicked off the TV.

“We are totally going,” Wendy said. “I’ve been waiting for Mortuary to open, forever. Or at least since Ricardo told me about it.”

“Ricardo? What does he have to do with Mortuary?”

“He owns it, silly.”

I swear to God. I used to know things first. Did you see the fucking show? The man said debutante, you heard him—I was in-the-know, if-you-will, and I promise, I will be again. As God as my wit—

Forget it. I knew my place: I’m Reality Show fodder.

And to think, Cameron Hansen was my personal stalker, my Hinkley? Yuck. But still. I knew any publicity was good publicity. I should embrace it. I could probably turn undead notoriety into bank for my under the table work. I’d charge supernatural businesses a premium for way better campaigns than I’d seen on Undead Satellite. Of course, I’d have to get rid of Pendleton, Avery, Prissy and Lollipop, eventually. Marithé would have to be made. She was too valuable to lose.

I needed Gil along for the tracker’s task, not because he would be any more help than the others, but because we hadn’t had a chance to chat. He and I talked every morning on the phone, before he turned in, but not lately. I missed that. He’d mourn some lost love of his life—they were all great loves; Gil only had
great
loves—well, except for Chase Hollingsworth, and he was my great love, because I loved to tease Gil about his one night stand with Winston Churchill—and I’d share stories from the human trenches. Crazy things like Lollipop’s fall, or someone smearing feces in the unisex bathroom. It wasn’t me. I swear!

Plus, I was getting bored with Shane’s pretty face—absence makes the heart grow fonder, and shit like that. We sent Wendy and Shane ahead to the Well of Souls to get a VIP table. I wasn’t sure how long the task would take, but Wednesdays at the Well were crowded until the early hours of morning, so we’d catch up to them no matter what.

“So how was he?” Gil asked.

“What?” I brushed off the top of my jeans. Jeans. I wasn’t about to go on a secret mission in a Vivienne Westwood Basque. What are you thinking?

“The prom king? How was he for a gasm?” Gil’s face registered distaste; his lips were pursed under cloudy eyes. Subdued but distaste, nonetheless.

I shook my head sorrowfully. “Not.”

“I’m sorry. That bad, huh? He looks it, though. So pent up.”

I opened the folded piece of scrap, with the tracker’s instructions, from my pocket.

The first cryptic instruction was a cinch, as it wasn’t particularly cryptic—oh wait, I get it, crypt.
Go to the resting place of Kato
. Although it could be for a pop culture junkie.

“Is Kato dead?” I asked, scrunching my face up.

“You’re thinking about Kato Kaelin. No. I think this is about another Kato. Bruce Lee.”

Oh yeah!
I thought. Everyone knows that Bruce Lee was buried here in Seattle; his son, too. Brandon Lee was sleeping off the world’s worst headache at…“What’s that cemetery?”

“He’s over at Lakeview.”

Gil was already driving the Jag in the direction of Capitol Hill, but on hump day, traffic could be a bitch.

“You know, you never talk about the vampire that made you. Not since that first time I asked, in fact.”

“There’s not much to say…”

Oh. Really.

Here We Go Again…

 

Inconsiderate Interlude of the Bitter & Pathetic Part Three: Gil, again

“His name is Rolf DeBeers—and before you ask, yes, those DeBeers, I think…I never actually asked. He’d slipped away from his home and family in Amsterdam, to take up surfing in Southern California. How he came to be in Tacoma, of all places, is another story, I don’t know that story personally, but…anyway, we dated for a while, and I fell in love. I think I was in love from the moment I saw him in the Rusty Bucket. That coffee sniffin’ bastard.

“It started out great. Long walks on the Sound, I told him everything about me, and he’d listen. He had great hearing; sometimes he’d just walk off and let me keep talking. I knew he was listening though.

“Rolf was distant, aloof—he called it—I like to think he was mysterious. I tried everything I could to keep him interested. I brought willing victims to him, wrote him cute love letters, sent him flowers. I even introduced him to my mother, God rest her soul.

“Then, one night, I got up for the evening and found a note pinned to his pillowcase—I say ‘his’ because I had his name, then mine embroidered through a little heart, it even had a cute little cupid’s arrow going through it—the note said: Enough.

“We were together for a magical three weeks, a real whirlwind romance, and then he was gone. I just don’t understand what happened.”