by Shana Festa
I took a big whiff, getting a nose full of the salty tang of the sea. "I don't smell anything but ocean."
"Exactly!" She exclaimed, showing her teeth in a big smile.
My forehead crinkled in confusion before it dawned on me; for the first time since Sanibel, the air wasn't ripe with decay. I took this to be a very good sign and gulped in another deep lungful of fresh air. Meg's giddiness was contagious, and I parted my lips in a smile.
"Oh, God that is so nice," I said, earning a glance from both men. I didn't realize until I heard the sentence that it sounded a bit erotic, and I felt my face flush from embarrassment.
Meg giggled. "Well it's not that nice," she teased.
We stood in front of a tall archway made from stone. A wall made from the same material spanned both directions, giving the appearance that the opening was ornately carved from the barrier. The freaky organized chain of cars continued down Bay Shore much like the street we'd just left, but this road was more congested with vehicles since it had a third lane in the center for various turn-offs.
Jake squeezed my hand, a little too tight for comfort, and I fought back a wince. "We're almost there," he said. I looked up at him and smiled, finding the wild look had returned. The tiny muscles around his eyes were rigid. He caught himself under my scrutiny, and his eyes softened with conscious effort. My brows knitted together at the perplexity of this new development in his affect, and he leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on my lips, pulling back with a sheepish grin.
There was something not right with my husband, some demons roiling inside. I knew it, he knew it, and he knew I knew it.
Striker interrupted our silent interaction with a clearing of his throat. "Move out."
We walked beneath the grand arch into a cement courtyard. There, directly in front of us stood a gift shop with automatic doors. The interior was dark, and the doors didn't open when we stepped onto the pad. A tall window to the left of the useless door was the only thing not in pristine condition. Small holes the size of a bullet stippled the glass. Around each hole, spider web cracks looked like exploded fireworks on the reflective surface and distorted my features.
Striker went left, urging us onward through a gap between the wall and shop, and we went around the structure. Narrow paved walkways, large enough for golf carts or compact cars to traverse, led away from the building, one to the left and another straight ahead. Sure enough, a miniature parking lot was tucked to one side and a lone golf cart on blocks instead of tires inhabited the small concrete jungle.
"This way," Striker said, pointing his hammer to the path directly in front of us. On both sides of the trail were manmade ponds filled with stagnant water. We continued on, walking single file, apprehensive of what lurked beneath the surface.
A cluster of geometrically-shaped buildings caught my attention as we passed. I read the building names aloud, feeling like we were taking the grand tour. "Tibbals Learning Center. Original Circus Museum and Store. The Banyan Café," I recited absentmindedly. My stomach growled at the thought of food, reminding me that I'd only eaten a couple protein bars and a cookie in the last two days. I'd finished the last of my bottled water at the estate's entry and fought away the fear of finding the mansion empty and the very real possibility of dehydration.
The smell of death was in the air again, which meant a zombie, or zombies, were nearby. I knew the others caught the scent when their faces scrunched up in disgust, so I kept quiet.
On the left was an intricate maze of stone. A plaque read Mable's Rose Garden, and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Without a landscaping crew, the rose bushes had grown until they overtook the pebbled path. Unfortunately, the sweet scent was tainted by the increasing smell of rot.
"Whoa," I breathed. "This place is amazing." I took one more fleeting glance at the garden and jogged a few steps to catch up to the group.
In front of us there stood a wrought iron gate amidst another large wall of concrete. For every twenty-foot length of wall, a pillar stood tall. On top of each pillar was a Spanish style light fixture. We had located the offensive aroma of zombies, and I stared slack-jawed, taking in the ingenuity of Asylum's residents.
* * *
Bear traps had been set back from the iron gate, staggered in a pattern that left little room to maneuver without a steel trap clamping down. There were ten traps in all, and each of them held the limb of an undead within their triggered jaws. The zombies were truly dead, each suffering a killing blow to the head. At the foot of the gate, two more corpses lie on the ground, each missing a foot severed at the ankle. Since two of the traps held only a foot in their jaws, it didn't take a genius to figure out the metal teeth had cut all the way through the rotted flesh and snapped the brittle bones. Flies buzzed the corpses, and every now and then one would get curious and fly at me. Each time it happened, I lashed out wildly with my arms, sickened by the thought of one of them landing on my skin after feasting on the dead flesh.
"Who goes there?" asserted a male voice. "Striker? Is that you?"
I don't know why I expected Striker to be a stranger to the Asylum residents, but it was a shock to hear the recognition in the other man's voice.
"Yeah, Vance, it's me," he called to the voice. I still couldn't find the body belonging to the speaker, and it was making me tense. "Busy day?" he asked, referring to the large number of zombies caught like bugs in a spider's web.
"Always is, man. Hang tight for a couple minutes. Jasper should be back to cart these pus-bags away any second." The still disembodied voice had impeccable timing, because I heard the electric hum of a golf cart zipping down the paved path. The cart came around the bend, and I saw a chunky man stuffed behind the wheel.
Jasper, I deduced from the other man's statement, brought the cart to a stop and squeezed his bulbous belly out. "Hey, Striker!"
His voice was not what I expected. Jasper's body was that of a grown man, but his voice was oddly childlike. The more he spoke, the more I suspected he suffered from a developmental delay. He strode right up to Striker without fear and raised his hand. Striker reciprocated, and let Jasper slap him with a high-five. I made eye contact with Meg, who shared the same look of bewilderment.
"What the fuck?" She mouthed at me.
I gave the universal I don't know shrug in answer.
"Jasper," Striker replied by way of greeting. He smiled at the man-child, yet another thing completely unexpected. "How goes it, big boy? What's new?" Wait a minute. Did he just tousle this guy's hair? And did he sound genuinely happy to see him? The foundation of everything I thought I knew about Striker crumbled and I was back to square one again.
"Not much! Just doin' my job." If sentences could somehow come with emoticons, Jasper's would be displaying a big happy face with an abnormally wide smile.
"Need some help?"
"Nah, I gotta earn my keep. I'm glad you're back. I missed you." Jasper took an awkward step forward and dwarfed the gruff man in a full-on hug. I'm not talking one of those I'm a man hugs that's more a shoulder bump. This was an H-U-G hug. Striker let loose an uncomfortable chortle and dislodged himself from the portly man's grip, ending the strange exchange with a pat on the shoulder.
"I'm just making sure these folks arrived safely, bud. I'm not staying."
Jasper's expression turned glum upon hearing the news and he looked hurt. "But how can we be best friends if you aren't here? Did I do something bad?"
Now it was Striker's turn to look pained. "Of course not. We're still friends. I just need to be somewhere else for right now."
His response satisfied the man, and the sad expression was quickly replaced with the goofy grin again. "Best friends, you silly goose," Jasper said with zeal. "We're best friends, Striker!" He shoved Striker playfully, unable to gauge his own strength, and Striker stumbled back a few steps before regaining his balance.
"Whoa, easy there, big guy," Striker joked.
Vance stepped from behind the pillar beside the gate. He was Afr
ican American and had a strikingly dark complexion. He was a freak of a man, not anything to do with his skin color, which was actually quite lovely. Vance was tall, easily over seven-feet, maybe even close to eight. Seriously, he was the tallest man I had ever seen outside the NBA. His height was intimidating, and I shrunk in his presence, managing to bite back a cry of surprise.
"Holy crap!" Meg blurted. She, apparently, had lost that battle. I can't tell a lie even to myself. I felt a bit vindicated at her outburst, since until now, I'd been the only person to say stupid crap at inappropriate moments, and I coughed to cover the sound of laughter that escaped me.
As physically imposing as Vance was, when my gaze travelled the miles up to his face, I was surprised to see a warm smile. He looked like a kind man, disarming almost. Though, smile or not, I wouldn't want to come across a man as huge as Vance in dark alley.
"Let's get these things cleared away so these fine people can pass, Jasper." He spoke with a velvety tenor, almost like Barry White, that I suspect would make women everywhere go squishy in their nether regions.
"Ooh, sorry, guys," replied Jasper, jumping into motion. One by one, he removed the corpses. First he'd poke at the dead zombie with a long stick, making sure it was dead, he told us. Then he disarmed the bear trap and loaded the body onto a small trailer attached to the tail end of the golf cart. I was relieved to see he wore long rubber gloves for the activity. After the last of the traps had been emptied, he dragged the two corpses from the gate and added them to the pile. His final duty, before carting them away, was to hose the path and eliminate the mess of blood and bits of something that I refused to look too closely at.
"Jasper," called Striker as the man squeezed himself back into the golf cart, "it was good to see you, buddy. Keep up the good work."
Jasper looked up at him, that puppy dog expression returning, and said, "You, too. Come home soon, Striker, and it can be like the old days again!" With one last goofy smile of adoration, he put the pedal down and chugged away with a shout. "Hi-ho Silver. Away!"
"Oh, he is so precious," I said, meaning every word. I loved his personality and positive attitude, and I would be doing a little recon about 'the old days' as soon as possible.
"Heh," Vance chuckled, removing the chains from around the gate. "He's a good boy, not a mean bone in his body. Some don't have the patience to deal with him, but me, personally, he keeps a smile on my face, and I keep him safe."
The gate opened and the tall man stepped out to greet us. This time, though, he and Striker did do the shoulder bump hug. Ah, men, so predictable.
"It's good to see you, man," said Striker.
'It's good to see you still playing the hero," Vance responded. "Any chance I could convince you to come in and stay a bit?"
Striker eyed the gate contemptuously. "Not a chance."
"Well, you can't blame a guy for trying. So, introduce me to your friends, you rude bastard," he joked.
"Meet the Rossi's. Emma, Jake, and Meg."
Vance stuck out his giant hand to Jake, who returned the gesture. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Tracey Vance."
I bit my bottom lip to keep from opening it and letting something completely rude and, once again, inappropriate slip out. Don't do it. Do not say a word. Look away! For Christ's sake, compose yourself, you immature child! I fought the urge with every fiber of my being and was proud to keep myself in check. Of course, I was wrong, and whatever war was scrabbling around in my brain must have been painted all over my face.
He peered down at me and cracked a smile. "I bet you can guess why I go by Vance, can't you, little lady?"
The dam burst and a string of hysterics spewed out of my mouth like verbal diarrhea. "Oh, my God. It is so bad. I fully accept the fact that I'm an asshole, but," I had expelled all the air from my lungs and sucked in a big breath before continuing, "it is just...so bad. I can't believe your parents would do that to you."
He just looked down at me, dragging out the moment in awkward silence. My eyes darted to where Jake and Meg stood beside Striker, and I could tell by the looks on their faces that they were completely mortified by my lack of self-control.
"I am so sorry," I admitted. "I have a filter problem. And by that I mean I have no filter."
He laughed a hearty full laugh from the depths of his belly. "Trust me. I know it's bad. But it's refreshing to find someone ballsy enough to take a jab at me."
The other's joined in laughing, nervously at first in fear of the big man going Hulk on us without warning. The humor petered out, and we were all business again.
"Where did Jasper take those things?" asked Meg. I'm glad she asked, because I was wondering that myself.
"There's a private beach at the end of the estates. We pile them there and burn them once the pile starts to get too big. Usually, once a week; sometimes less, sometimes more."
I glanced in the direction of the beach. "Will he be alright on his own?" I asked.
"Yeah, Jasper may be light in mental faculties, but he more than makes up for it with his survival skills. He'll surprise you, that one. I'd trust him to watch my back any day."
Vance stepped closer, sending Daphne into a fit of barks and growls from the carrier bag. "What the hell is that? A rat?" he quipped, bending down to look into the carrier.
One very disturbing fact about the little terrier was that she appeared to be a racist. I have no clue where she got the idea that black people were the enemy, but she always worked herself into a frenzy around them. It was so embarrassing, and I always lied, coming up with another explanation. I'd tell people she didn't like hats, she had a problem with colors, and now, "She's scared of tall people."
I heard Jake snicker, knowing full well that he knew I was lying out of my ass. My eyes narrowed, darting in his direction and daring him to call me out. He gestured to his mouth like he was turning the lock and chucking the key and looked away before he said something we'd both have to backpedal from.
"Aw, it's okay, little fella. I'm not so scary," he addressed her in a baby-talk voice and stretched his hand, palm up toward the bag. "Whoa," he yelped, jumping back from the dog's vicious attempts to reach him through the mesh.
"Stop that!" I scolded, and she settled down, still letting out low growls with each exhale. "Sorry," I said to Vance. "Small-dog syndrome."
Jake slapped his palm to his forehead and held it there, hanging his head and shaking it. Yup, I was just digging myself a deeper hole.
* * *
"This is the end of the road for me," Striker told us as Vance ushered us through the open gate. A knowing glance passed between the two men, and Striker addressed the lanky guard directly. "Keep these folks safe; from them," he added. I assumed by them he meant zombies, but I had a feeling it was something else.
"You really won't stay?" asked Meg in disbelief. "Not even for a little while?"
"Not even for a minute," he replied cryptically.
She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck, embracing him and thanking him for all he'd done for us. I watched with emotional detachment as she turned her back on him, wiped the tears from her eyes, and disappeared through the opening.
Jake approached, gripping Striker's hand in a strong shake. "Thank you for everything. You did right by us, man, and we won't soon forget it."
I was next in line and took my time stepping up to the stone-faced man. My resolve broke, and I looked away in an attempt to staunch the flow of tears threatening to spill over. I chewed on my lip while I tried to put into words what I felt, and then I turned, stared up at him, and was still unable to speak.
"Stay frosty in there," he said, pointing to the mansion with his chin. "Just because there's a wall doesn't mean you can let your guard down."
"What does that even mean? Stop being so cryptic." I was frustrated with him. Not only because he wouldn't give it to me straight, but because I thought he was an idiot for choosing to strike out on his own. The truth was that the mean bastard had kind of grown on me, and I
felt safer with him around. His instincts had saved us more than once. With this new change in Jake since Vinny died, I was more scared now than ever.
He refused to look at me again and inspected his shoes with intensity. "You need to go so Vance can close the gate," he told me.
"That's it?" I replied, exasperated with his pigheaded stubbornness.
"What do you want from me?"
"How about some answers? Why won't you stay here? Why are you content to live alone in a steel box? You know what?" I asked, feeling my face redden from anger. "Forget it, Striker. Just go, crawl back to your dark cave and don't worry about us. We'll be just fine."
I spun on my heels to storm away when I felt his hand rest on my arm, but I didn't turn to face him. Instead I stood there, chest heaving in angry breaths, and waited for whatever he was about to say.
"Emma, wait. I can't talk about it. I wish I could, but I just can't." The emotion behind his words was suffocating, but in that moment I couldn't get past the simple fact that he was leaving our small group. He left me with a single sentence before slinking back the way we came. "Don't trust Mack, or the council."
I yanked my arm free and stalked through the gate, hearing the chains clang against the iron as Vance wrapped them back into place.
Chapter 16: Welcome to Asylum
With the bodies removed, the air had returned to breathable quality. Jake, Meg, and I loitered just inside the gate while residents of Asylum gawked at us, making me feel out of place. I shifted my weight nervously on the balls of my feet and stepped closer to Jake.
When Vance had closed and locked the gate, he stood in front of us with his disarming smile again. I made the conscious effort to put Striker out of my mind, for now at least. There was a lot more to that man's story, and I knew just the person to ask. Jasper and I would be talking soon.
"Welcome to Asylum," he said, sweeping his hand around the well-kept grounds.