Battle of the Network Zombies

by Mark Henry

  “Gil!” I screamed and then wished I hadn’t.

  It turned its whacked-out gaze on me. To say its eyes were googly was being kind. The thing didn’t seem capable of focusing, the bloodshot orbs rolled in its head like a slot machine and finally came to rest back on Gil who was crawling—of all places—toward me.

  “What the hell are you doing? Lead it the other way.” I waved my hands at him, shooing him toward the stage.

  He slipped under the table.

  “Jesus. That yeti is pissed.”

  “No shit.” I slapped the back of his head. “Where are the fucking reapers?”

  “They’re not coming.” He said the words as if I already knew.

  I stared back at him. I think I did one of those ditzy blink things.9

  “Jesus. Don’t you read?”

  I shrugged. “Um. That’s what you’re for. You’ve been at this supernatural game a lot longer than me. So, what gives?”

  “This here…” He pointed at the yeti, which stumbled over a serving tray and busily rubbed at its knees. “…is a woodland creature and one that’s already been exposed.”

  I shook my head. Not really putting it together. “Exposed?”

  “Yeah. Back in the 70s, the Patterson film?”

  I nodded, vaguely remembering the lumbering ape-thing trudging through somewhere that didn’t have sidewalk sales or wine bars.

  “Well, experts were paid quite a bit to report it as a fraud, but in the end, the reapers concluded the damage was done. People believed in them.”

  As if on cue, the thing in the center of the club began crushing the wooden chairs into kindling with no more effort than you’d snap a matchstick, slamming the furniture into the poles, exploding splinters off into the corners of the room like shrapnel.

  “Where’s its hair? It’s like bald or something.”

  Gil eyes sped back at the marauding creature. “That is definitely odd…and so not a good look.”

  “Absolutely not. Skin like a morbidly obese whole chicken fryer. It’s nothing like Harry and the Hendersons.”

  “You saw that movie?”

  I thought a moment, wondered what John Lithgow was up to now, and responded, as though I were offended, “No.”

  He squeezed in tighter and two things happened.

  One. The creature stopped moving, an eerie silence replacing its rampage.

  And two. Gil kicked a beer bottle from under the table, off the little dais the booths were built atop and down onto the floor with a clink so loud it could have been a dinner bell.

  A roar rumbled through the room like the first slip of a fault line, shaking the floorboards. In the next instant, we were flat on our backs, pressing against a table turned into a great hamburger press. The heels snapped off my shoes and went flying. Gil, who was taking the majority of the weight, started to shake as though nearly ready to collapse. I looked at him. He looked at me, brown eyes sad as a basset hound’s and said, “This is the end.”

  “Yeah, of me!” I yelled. “You’ll survive it. The reapers won’t be putting my pancaked ass back together. They’ll have to bring a spatula.”

  Gil sucked up into a sour face and nodded a quick agreement as the monster continued to press down in great rocky bounces.

  “Yeti!” It was Birch, calling out the creature, who stopped flattening us to follow the voice to its owner.

  We set the tabletop to the side. The pole that had been holding it up was bowed and the floor cracked where it was anchored. I pressed myself against the wall and followed it around toward the stage.

  Birch stood near the main entrance by the open truck bed. Ethel sagged on the floor behind him a bit, not near as eager to brawl as before. He carried no weapons and his expensive suit certainly wasn’t going to shield him from the yeti’s claws. But Birch stepped forward with a look of calm on his smarmy face.

  The yeti’s eyes found their quarry and I swear to God the thing snickered. The snicker turned into a roaring chortle that shook the pale chicken skin on its belly like a JELL-O mold.

  I took the opportunity to dart to the front of the truck and slip underneath, pulling myself forward with my elbows like the soldiers do in those basic training movies. Was this the correct moment to “serpentine,” I wondered? Seemed not. I stopped moving, just as Birch advanced into the room. The motion startled me and I banged my head against the massive metal scrotum dangling off the hitch.

  “Dammit!” I patted the spot to check for tearing; that center stitch in the ball cleavage was terribly realistic…and sharp, I might add. Seemingly intact, and more than a little impressed I’d bumped into something I might use as a weapon, I made quick work of disconnecting the sac and crawled to a vantage point near the tire.

  On the far side of the room, peeking from around the gnarl of chicken cages, Gil waved his hands, as if to say don’t come out any farther. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.

  “Duh!” I snapped.

  His nonchalant shrug was obscured as the slick-skinned yeti stomped back into view, crouching as if to lunge at Birch, its claws spread out and knuckles cracking with tension.

  The wood nymph seemed overly confident, considering he’d fled our conversation at the first hint of trouble. He balanced his weight on one hip, tilted his head a bit and sang.

  Yeah. I said sang.

  It didn’t seem appropriate to me, either.

  Neither did the song, which at first sounded like Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” but turned out to be something else entirely. Johnny peppered the lyrics with a volley of “Mmms” and “Oh yeahs.” He swiveled his hips seductively at the beast.

  I held back the vomit and considered looking away. Johnny’s track record of conquests would take up a scroll. Who’s to say that this creature wasn’t a spurned lover, some backwoods ex come to exact a little Deliverance on his ass? Maybe I’d misjudged the entire situation.

  It could just be entertainment.

  The yeti lunged at the nymph—again, hard to blame it—crossing the floor in three lumbering strides. Birch raised his arms and then his voice. What was once cheesey lounge singing became something different entirely. Even, dare I say, beautiful? The words were gone, or rather, the English was stripped out of the vocalization. What was left was a soothing melody made form that arced and swam in the air. With each note the sound became denser until a swirling mist turned the room and the play into a dream.

  The monster stopped dead in its tracks and cocked its head to the side, arms slack and eyes following the streaks of tone.

  Birch walked circles around the creature, continuing his song—which, while mesmerizing, wasn’t exactly chart-ready. I’ll give him this, the notes were otherworldly. I began to understand how the little horndog got laid with such frequency—you couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing him slobbering over some flavor of the week as if she were a scoop of dark chocolate chip.10 I even found myself drawn to the lilting refrain and before I knew it had crawled out from under the truck and stood a few feet away from where both Birch and the creature stood.

  Gil left his hiding place, too. His mouth hung open, tongue out and teetering over his bottom lip. I reached up to see if I was doing the same, intent on shoving my lolling tongue back in. Thankfully, I’d managed a modicum of civility.

  I slipped in beside him. “Slut.”

  He looked at me and then down at my hand. “I’m not the one fondling truck balls.”

  I shrugged, though the weight of the things was likely giving me a totally unattractive hunch.

  Birch swept his fingers through the air like a conductor, as though playing the notes he’d already sung.

  Nothing happened at first.

  Or at least nothing I could see.

  Fury burned in the thing’s black eyes, lips drawn back from its fangs and quivering. I was pretty sure Birch was gonna end up Yeti Chow, and despite a pretty healthy sense of self-preservation, I couldn’t resist the urge to watch the feeding.

  But e
ven the yeti’s growls were slowed and there was nothing between them but the wood nymph’s careful refrain.

  Then the air seemed to thicken like fog lazing on glass and that image solidified as a frost, as though the whole scene were trapped in an oil painting. Birch’s fingers circled and churned the air, spinning gossamer eddies into the wet mural of the room. The curls stretched and struck the wood floors, where silver sparks jumped and tendrils of new growth shot up from knots. The nymph backed away as sprouts turned into branches that thickened and espaliered around the creature like a cell.

  A living cage.

  Pine needles sprang from pores in the bark. And all through this Birch sang, his cadence rising and swirling around us like a blanket. To say I was impressed would be an understatement; he’d won me over; I was, in fact, almost a fan.

  Which is totally weird for me, I think you know.

  It turns out Birch wasn’t a complete waste of air.

  Damn close.

  But not totally.

  When he was done, the thing was subdued and totally imprisoned. The singer turned and winked. “Catch you bad-asses later.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” I stepped into his path.

  “Ah.” He sighed and nodded his head. “You want to come home with me. It’s all right. It happens to all the women I touch with my song.”

  He reached out and slipped his hand across my face, smooshing my lips with a rude ploying thumb. I jerked away.

  “You must be joking.”

  He shook his head. “No. And you needn’t be embarrassed. I can almost smell your wetness.”

  “That’s not arousal, you idiot. That’s rot.” I looked around and saw my mother scowl at the comment and purse her lips in heavy judgment.11 My head swiveled to alert Gil that Ethel was at it again. To prove it. But as is so often the case, the vampire was busy looking at something else entirely. My stomach turned. Gil was assessing the nymph’s ass.

  Birch chuckled at my comment and returned to the destruction of our banquette to collect his bag and the disheveled carcass of the creature that lay nearby.

  “Seriously. If you could do all that, why didn’t you pull out your magic song when the yeti first attacked.” I glanced over at the creature. Its claws clung to the branches, eyes seeking out Birch and following his movement across the room.

  “I thought there were more of them—they usually travel in herds, like women at shoe sales. I can handle one yeti.” He paused, lost in a memory. “But two and I’d have been so much mulch.” He pointed at the pile of torn bodies strewn around the strip club floor.

  “I totally get self-preservation, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Thank you, madame.”

  “‘Moiselle!’ Mademoiselle!” Of course, Birch was no longer paying attention. He simply pivoted in his Italian loafers and slunk from the room.

  “See you soon,” he called behind him.

  Gil followed his motion with actual interest.

  “What are you lookin’ at?” I asked.

  “I’m lookin’! He’s got a nice can. For fuck sake.”

  “A can? What is this, the 70s?” I asked, momentarily forgetting that Gil was technically the same age he was in those sexy years of polyester, pet rocks and coke-fueled orgies in artist’s lofts.12

  “Yep.” He brushed himself off and we walked over to Ethel, still dazed and spread-eagled on the floor. Gil held out his hand and Mother took it. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

  “Seriously?” I looked back at the cage, half-expecting the yeti to come charging from between broken branches, but it was still inside, hunched down like a big dollop of vanilla pudding.

  The prone woman at first waved off Gil’s offer with an uncharacteristically pained expression and then yielded to his support with such a sigh I expected the stigmata to appear and squirt blood from her hands like a hose. Gag. Gil hoisted her slim frame into the protection of his underarm and led her around the truck bed and toward a door behind the hostess kiosk.

  “Are you going out with Wendy and me?” I called after him.

  He spun, jerking Mother around with him, a scowl of judgment plastered on his normally handsome face. “How could you even ask that, with all that your mother’s been through?”

  I don’t know why it surprised me. Really. I should have expected it, but when I turned my eyes in Ethel’s direction, she wore a smirk the size of a cantaloupe slice, gushing with her usual hateful gaminess. My fists balled instinctively and I took a step toward her, more as a threat than any real prelude to the beating she deserved.

  Gil gasped and looked at Ethel, who instantly put on a pathetic pout for his benefit then curled her lips into a perfect mimicry of a cat’s anus when he turned his gaze back to me.

  “Really, Amanda, you could work on your empathy a bit,” he said.

  I’m pretty sure my mouth sagged open like a blowup sex doll, stuck on there like it was permanent. Gil could have probably tossed his entire judgment between my lips without getting any on my cheeks.

  I seethed.

  “Oh and no. I can’t make it,” Gil said as he led my mother into the backroom. “I have a blind date.”

  “A blind date? Who do you even know to set you up beside Wendy and me?”

  He nodded his head in Ethel’s direction and slammed the door behind them.

  I could only imagine the kind of suitor the old witch would pick out for Gil, probably some saccharine vampire accountant who couldn’t follow a joke if he had George Carlin’s ghost interpreting. It’d be just our luck that Gil would hit it off and the rest of our outings would be soured by the new boyfriend’s dead stares and uncomfortable silences.

  And that’s what I thought about until I turned back to the empty cage and started screaming.

  CHANNEL 03

  Wednesday

  10:00–10:30 P.M.

  Demon Date

  (Season Premiere) A harpy, were, and hobgoblin try their luck at love for some filthy lucre, but who will win the ultimate prize: an evening of unspeakably horrific pleasure with Mistress?

  “What y’all screaming about?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice, but the twang was as southern as chicken on a biscuit, or tea so sweet it makes your teeth ache—both of which, I’d been perseverating on during feedings. Fantasizing is not uncommon for monotonous diets. Looking up, I witnessed a discretely clothed young woman in a tan trench, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun like an actual dancer, though no one would ever mistake Hairy Sue for a ballerina.

  I pointed at the cage of branches. “It’s empty.”

  The girl shrugged nonchalantly. “What was in there?”

  “It’s escaped!” I started to yell and then reined it in lest I draw the thing’s attention again.

  “What has? What are y’all talkin’ about?”

  “The yeti! Did it go back there?” I pointed to the stage entrance.

  She shook her head, said, “A yeti? Well, Mother Mary in a mock turtleneck you don’t see one of those every day.”

  Now, I’ve heard a lot of mixed-use religious exclamations in my time, in fact, one of Ethel’s favorites, “Jesus Christ on a cracker,” popped out of my own mouth from time to time. But this one, invoking a poor clothing choice, really didn’t work for me. Maybe a muumuu might be better. Mother Mary in a muumuu. It had a nice irreverent tone.

  She continued, “Is that what was making all that racket? I wouldn’t know, I’ve been changin’, takin’ off all my makeup and stuff after my show. Did you see it?”

  “Oh, I saw it.” I pictured the thing’s chicken skin jiggling on its hairless belly, the rows of nipples, the massive claws. I hoped I wouldn’t see it again, though the more the girl talked the less concerned I became. The yeti was too big to just slip past her; it was probably on its way back to the forest, though how it would get there unnoticed was beyond me.

  “Did you like it?” Hairy Sue winked, her lips pursed or pouting—I couldn�
�t quite determine the level of suggestiveness she was going for.

  “What?”

  “My show. Did you like it?”

  I grimaced, not sure how to respond. Then opting for the straightforward route, “I gotta ask.” I paused. Hairy Sue was nodding already, serious in her consideration. “How did you figure out the whole bush thing? I mean, those guys seemed to be really into it.”

  “They’re creamin’ for it, four nights out of seven. I’m not sure why. The longer I let it grow, the more tips I get. Could be somethin’ innate. Or maybe them pheromones cling better to the pubes.” She shrugged and followed me to the door. “My last show for a while. I’m going to be on a reality show. In fact, I’m packing as soon as I get home.”

  “Oh yeah?” I muttered absently.

  “American Minions. You know, with Johnny Birch. He’s a regular here.”

  “Yeah. I figured.”

  Now I’d seen every inch of the girl and she looked completely human. She smelled like meat with a hint of butter, nothing out of the ordinary and certainly not bodyguard material unless she was a ninja. I figured I’d better not engage with her anymore, professional distance, and all.

  “Good luck with that,” I said and she bounced off into the parking lot. I swear I heard her pea brain rattle around in the hollow of her skull. It could have been a passing car, I suppose, but the odds were pretty good in my favor.

  I followed her out, but oddly enough, wasn’t relieved to be out of harm’s way, or the clutches of my fiendish mother.

  “Oh, come on!” I slapped my purse against my thigh. “Are you serious?”

  The man cramming a jimmy down the Volvo window tilted his head up and eyed me vigorously. His hair was scruffy blond and framed his face in that unkempt way that’s supposed to be charming, and would have been if the accompanying sneer hadn’t stripped away the allure. A cigarette bobbed from between those lips. Smoke curled around his pasty jaw like an arty charcoal and trapped like a fog in the forest of unruly curls. He nodded in my direction and went back to the business of breaking into my car.