by Mark Henry
“Just in time for the police to break down the door.”
“Jesus,” I said. “What did the police do?”
“Nothing. What could they do? Chad wasn’t dead. There were no signs of foul play. They just chalked it up to a crank call and left. Though the judgment was obvious and overly dramatic, I think I smelled closet on one of them.”
As he would.
“What did you do with Chad?” I asked.
“He’s sleeping off the vamping and whatever drug Chase laced his blood with. I went back over his neck after the police left. He hadn’t been opened at all; Chase must have poured some blood in there to make me think Chad was clean. Asshole.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“No idea.” Gil’s sighed, a wry smile dancing on his lips. “He is awfully cute, though.”
“Silver lining, maybe?” Wendy asked.
He shrugged. “Doubtful.”
“What were the second and third gifts?”
“No idea.” Gil looked back at the zombie pit. “And I’m in no hurry to find out.”
Gil barely finished telling his tale of woe—if that’s what you want to call it (how the hell one gets date-raped twice by the same guy is beyond me, of course we are talking about Gil and he does tend to moon, so…)—when the stone-faced hostess shuffled past, an unholy trinity shading her wake like an oil slick. Ashley, Kelley, and Casey weren’t top tier reapers but they had the requisite bitchiness and the smallest one did flick a butterfly knife like a baton, so you didn’t want to fuck with them.
I shoved Gil forward and slouched into my seat. “Oh, my God. Tell me they didn’t see me.”
Wendy looked over her shoulder. “The evils incarnate are too busy taunting their chef.” She angled away so I could peek around.
The poor guy stood his ground against an onslaught of snapping jaws and drunken catcalls. One of the reapers, Kelley, I think, though they all sort of bleed together—just slap a “y” on the end of a regular name and you’ve got a reaper—flicked her tongue at the trembling foodie lasciviously.
My understanding is this: they take a regular little girl, presumably some foul little brat—already adept at torturing her parents—and strip away what little humanity she has squirreled away beneath her retainer through rigorous bitch training in the reapers’ secret lair, aka The Pretty Princess Party Palace. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but all you need to know is, they’ve got big teeth, clean up messes faster than a Jean Reno character and twirl their pigtails with razor claws.
Also that one of them was waving at me, nudging her pals and grinning.
“Damn it.” I reached for my purse and scooted off the chair. “Grab your shit, we’re going.”
“What’s the hurry, they seem perfectly happy to eat their dinner and leave you be.” He patted my wrist and his face was so calm I wanted to believe the words falling out of his mouth.
Our chef arrived with a rolling tray of carving knives, forks and metal shakers like Shinto arches marked with Japanese characters. They could have been spices, though that was unlikely—zombies couldn’t eat spices without the inevitable purge hitting. A trio of wine bottles filled with liquids of various darknesses. Blood, to be sure, but bile and what looked like a thick jaundiced mucus.
I glanced at Wendy, whose face said it all.
Gross.
It’s one thing to take a whole body, but when you go at it in sections or break a body down into parts like a cut-up fryer, it’s somehow less appealing. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t tear into it, if I were hungry enough. But…well, you know.
Across the room, chefs turned away from the diners to face the stage. We did too. A gong rang out behind us and the hostess sauntered in, carrying a tray of cubed beef. She pointed her free hand at a disc in the wall and a door slid down behind her, sealing off the room with a loud clank. As she reached the edge of the stage, the round of metal sunk about a foot and then slid away from us slowly.
We heard the growling first. Low moans and the gurgling rattles of the dead.
It was no stage.
There’d be no floorshow or French circus clowns to terrify us. No gymnasts or ribbon acts or gibberish. Instead, a sunken central staging area revealed itself, crowded, not with living people, as the teppanyaki theme seemed to promise, but with a tangle of fiercely animated and groaning mistakes. The zombies tore at each other in their confinement, ripping deep grooves into green and gray mottled flesh, pressing moldy fingers into old wounds and being generally gross and unappetizing. They sniffed at the air and raised their heads to smell the living amongst the diners and staff. Not humans, but weres and a small contingent of witches at one of the far tables, who sat silently as church mice and took in the spectacle of an actual zombie horde. Most of them had never seen a pack this large. I had, of course, on a number of occasions, but not contained like this. In fact, it was my experience that they could never be contained for long.
As if they heard me, they moved as a single unit to the edge of the barrel, which after a low hum, began to spin like a centrifuge. The zombies were plastered to the walls of the drum, some howling, others mute with horror. I almost felt sorry for them and then remembered they were mindless feeding machines. I felt a little better after that.
Wendy’s mouth hung agog, as did Gil’s, as did the majority of the crowd’s, except for the staff, who scanned their wristwatches and set up their stations, with plates and cloisonné chopsticks and whiter-than-white linens. Waitresses arrived with warm bottles of sake and petite cast iron pots of warm blood that they lifted a couple of feet in the air and poured into china tea cups in thin syrupy streams, the crimson frothing from the aeration, tiny bubbles hugging the surface like rusty caviar.
Another gong sounded and a slew of vampire “handlers” marched in from an arch on the opposite side, the door clanking shut behind them, locks thrown dramatically.
“Why do you suppose they keep making a point to lock those doors?” I asked.
“Maybe it’s to show they’re being ‘safe and sound’ with the undead,” Gil offered. “Don’t want them shambling out into the food supply fucking up our shit.”
“It definitely adds to the mystique.” Wendy nodded.
Wendy and I both nodded. She played with the choker around her neck absently, as though she understood. The centrifuge slowed to a stop and the zombies dropped to their knees, their equilibrium already compromised simply from being dead—Lord knows it was tricky enough to stay upright in stilettos—add the whole living dead thing and it was near impossible.
They picked at the zombies with lengthy cattle prods and thick poles ending in loops of wire cording. Despite an obvious ability to regenerate and heal, the vampires wore a mesh of armor from head to toe and their faces were shielded by a flap of Plexiglas on a visor, the kind, I thought, they might use in welding. But what do I know? Each was specked with the brown and milky green projectile spit that accompanies a zombie scream. My mistake “cousins” know absolutely nothing about dental hygiene.32
Wendy clutched my arm. “Seriously. I’m not sure I’m into whatever this is.” She stared out into the hoard of previously human faces. “That one’s wearing a Betsey Johnson dress for Christ’s sake,” she mumbled.
It was true. I’d seen it on a mannequin in the little 5th Avenue store window. Cute. But not with the sash of dried intestines the mistake was sporting—that’s never a cute look.
Wendy slapped her hand to her mouth.
Near the edge of the pit, I saw another kimono-clad woman yelling to a muscley vamp in the pit. She was stabbing her finger toward the woman in the Betsey Johnson dress. He nodded and dropped the noose over her head. The mistake clawed at the metal cord, gouging her throat with the few jagged nails still clinging to their loosening beds and sending rivulets of pus down the crimson rose chiffon.33 He pulled the woman through the throng until she reached the outside of the circle, attached the end of the pole to one of the many eye hooks
dangling from the ceiling and began to crank something below our site level.
The zombie’s eyes bulged as she was hoisted off the floor, twitching and kicking. Her toe caught in the empty cheek of another mistake and as she kicked to free herself, the thing’s jaw flew off. The nearby waitress snatched it from the air and dropped it onto the shiny metal preparation area. The diners, a curious crew of business-type zombies, not anyone I recognized from the late-night scene, let loose with a round of applause, some cheered.
It hit me then. After all that spectacle, it hit me.
Zombie teppanyaki.
I suppose the place fed into a certain Roman blood lust kind of thing, but, seriously, it was difficult enough to go for live food let alone dead and then chilled on top of that? Cold Stone Butchery?
My mouth hung open as the “Chef” strode from between to Picasso-esque tiki idols (the only thing in the room that was even remotely similar to the original concept). He carried what looked like a cleaver blade, attached to a thin axe handle.
I’d seen enough.
Wendy’s mouth hung open wide enough to catch bugs. I reached over and helped her close it. “And you thought sushi was a hard pill to swallow.”
Gil was already standing and buttoning his jacket. “I was going to call, but I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“You knew?” I asked, momentarily disgusted and then let it slide. “At this point, nothing surprises me.”
“Except this,” Wendy added.
“Except this.”
The reapers got their pick and it was lain across the cold stone for some rapid fire slicing and dicing. The little girls giggled, cooed and clapped and caught chunks of wriggling zombie in their mouths.
“Disgusting,” I said, standing up in a hunch so they wouldn’t notice. “I’m outta here. You guys coming?”
Wendy looked green enough to vomit—though in all honesty, it could have been her foundation wearing down to reveal her natural skin tone. I hadn’t seen her clean for a few months; there was no telling how much farther she’d deteriorated.
I tipped our discouraged chef and sandwiched between Wendy and Gil. As we approached the closed door to the lobby area the hostess ran up and scolded, in a voice far too loud, “No leaving during teppanyaki, you must take seat now!”
“Shh!” I hushed and looked around her to find the reapers gawking in our direction. The one with copper hair up in pigtails and a herd of freckles grazing on her cheeks whispered to the others in that overexaggerated way they do, “Dammit!”
Kelley—though for our purposes, let’s just call her Pippi34—plopped off her stool and skipped through the feasting crowd. Considering the rough times, it came as no surprise that most of the people avoided eye contact with the little reaper, instead scanning the rather bland ceiling for distractions or utilizing the entirely ridiculous hand wall.
I simply turned toward the door and dug through my purse for nothing in particular until I felt the inevitable tug on the back of my skirt. I spun around and gave the little devil a sparkling grin. “Why hello, little girl.”
Wendy slapped her palm across her mouth. Gil gulped audibly.
She looked me dead in the eye as she said, “Can I have a word, Ms. Feral?” Then slunk a short distance from the group and waited, hands on her hips and toe tapping in irritation. When I didn’t come immediately, she chastised. “Pick up the pace, I don’t have all night.”
I grimaced and crouched down next to the little demon.
“You got that money you owe us?” She accentuated the words by brushing pretend crumbs from my shoulder.
“Well…no. But I do have a potential jackpot coming my way,” I said hopefully. “The money will be flooding into the Pretty Princess Party Palace before you know it. Swear to God or gumdrops or whatever you little bitches swear to.”
“Listen.” She sighed somberly. “You know, I’m going to have to break something to show that we mean business. We’ve put up with your poverty act long enough.”
I held out my hands. “No. Please. My boyfriend threw my leg out of its socket just last night. Couldn’t we just say that you did that and be done with the shake down?”
Kelley covered her mouth and giggled. “Silly,” she lisped and then snatched my finger.
Wendy stepped up. “Does it help to know that he’s actually her ex-boyfriend and that she just had her car repossessed? It’s all very sad.”
“No.” Kelley’s eyes glinted with morbid glee. “Doesn’t help her out at all.”
My eyes darted between the reaper and my quivering finger pinched off at the base between her pincer-like digits. It would have turned purple if it weren’t for my little circulation problem. As I watched, Kelley relaxed a bit and I slacked with relief.
“But nice try.” She lurched forward, bending my finger backward until it snapped at the joint; my tendons tore with an audible shirr and coiled up under the loose skin of my hand like a bad carpet job. While I don’t feel a whole lot in my extremities, a bone breaking, much like my leg coming out of the socket, can be quite uncomfortable.
So yeah…I fucking screamed.
“Dammit!” I shouted and jerked my hand away, cradling it in the other like a crying baby. My finger hung loose and lolled the wrong way, completely disabling my ability to flip people off on the freeway.
She shrugged. “Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you a week to come up with some cash or we’ll come looking for you. And this time, it’ll be more than your finger that gets busted.”
“So not cool, Kelley,” I called after her and she gave a little wave behind her that brought her friends to tearful laughter.
CHANNEL 08
Friday
9:00–9:30 P.M.
American Minions Pre-show
Host Cameron Hansen introduces the seven contestants in this season’s most talked about new reality competition. Tempers flare as the ladies fight for the “adjoining” room. Johnny Birch is going to have his hands full with this bunch, but full of what is the real question.
Scott jammed his thumb against the call button, clearly still irritated to be woken hours before his swing shift at one of Ethel’s clubs—and yeah, I know, I’d been slowly making progress on getting him to quit and giving the police force another go.35 The speaker crackled, then fell silent. “The damn thing’s busted.”
“Thanks for giving me a ride, again.” I smiled coyly. “And this.” I raised my bandaged hand. Scott was a miracle worker of impromptu medical attention; a regular Annie Sullivan, except instead of blind deaf mutes, he had to deal with a bitchy dead woman, and he really didn’t even have to deal with her.36
“Just so you know, we’re broken up. You know that right?” He grimaced.
“Of course. Just one friend doing a favor for another. Totally broken up.” I winked and looked over my shoulder into the dark neighborhood.
The beefy little Mustang idled in front of wrought iron gates worked to resemble a tangle of thorny rose bushes gone to hips. The stalks scrolled around vertical rods like snakes slithering toward the sharp spires at each peak. Ivy crept in from either side where it took root in the cracks in the brick wall that surrounded the property. Atop the wall, on either side, stone lions kept watch through eyes gone lazy with time.
And shit, did the place ever need watching over and that wall.
Being Seattle, where the estates were often bordered by properties of considerably less value—and by considerably, I mean ghetto—Harcourt Manor stood as a refuge against crackheads, skinny whores and dim real estate speculators. Remodeled craftsman bungalows sat with FOR SALE signs staked in the yards rather than cute topiary and squatters shot up tar in their dirty underwear on the front porch instead of the promised iced-tea-toting thirty-somethings.
So, yeah…super desirable locale.
A few burnt out cars, mostly 70s domestics, completed the overall look. Trendy in that punk, I-refuse-to-shave-my-armpits kind of way, I supposed. I’d have to rem
ember some of the spots we drove through as particularly nutrient-rich hunting grounds. At least I wouldn’t have to walk far to get a meal.
See, I’m brightsiding sans the stupid little dance that makes me want to run for a gun locker.37
“Maybe it’s unlocked,” I offered.
“Yeah. You go check.”
“Just bump it.” I motioned for him to drive into the gate.
“Jesus.” He rolled up his window and stepped out of the car, leaving the door swinging on the hinge. Rattling the gates did no good, so he started yelling, “Hello? Hello?”
Though, over the rumble of the engine, it sounded more like “yellow yellow.” Way too informal for such a grand gate, but when you’re trying to re-snare a lover it’s best not to be too critical, I find.
When that bore no fruit, Scott turned back to the car, sour as a preserved lemon, and threw his hands up. I always thought that kind of boyish frustration was cute, but with Scott it was adorable. If I’d been out there, I bet I could have heard him huffing.
I leaned over and started honking.
Not a few short bursts, like you might do, I let it blare.
Scott jumped a bit, but in a moment he waved me off the horn and pointed beyond the gate.
A few moments later, the gates swung open and Scott smiled and gestured to someone inside and trotted back to the car.
“Caretaker, or something,” he said. “Good thinking with the horn.”
“I know.” I fluttered my eyelids for him.
He turned away.
Remind me not to pull that move again.
The road took a sharp left inside the wall, bordered by a dense patch of dying rhododendrons, spindly and beaded with an early evening drizzle, and an old growth of evergreens that towered into the night sky, blocking any view of the actual manor house.