John Shirley - Wetbones

by Unknown

  echoed with the shriek of the big trucks shaking dust down from the monolithic slabs of concrete above him. He was standing at a payphone next to a hotdog stand, waiting for James to call him back. He thought about the freeway that had collapsed in Oakland, during the October 17th earthquake; he thought about how, at first, the media had rosily reported that people were "heroically pitching in to help" until it was learned that more of them were looting the bodies; he thought about a woman he'd counselled who'd been pinned, by the collapse, in an overturned car. Two men had come from the Oakland slums, clambered over her to rob the bodies of her friends, then jerked her purse from her hands and crawled away - one of them stepping on her broken leg as he went. He thought about all this with Olympian disdain, through the fuzzy filter of the codeine they'd given him at the hospital.

  The payphone rang. It was James. "Mr. Garner? Hi! Um - I couldn't get the guy Sykes on the line. But I left a message that you need him to wire you some money at Western Union and all that."

  "Try him again. And I want him to see about selling my things. Tell him he can take forty per cent." Garner was pretty sure Sykes would come through. Sykes owed him favours. He mentally went down the list of the other people he could siphon money from. His brother, though he hardly ever saw him, ought to be good for a hundred or two. His friend Larry - but he'd have to be careful about that, Larry was a reformed addict too, he might suss out that Garner was going to use the money for drugs.

  No. Probably not. Garner had been clean a long time, so far as Larry knew. But it was best he didn't talk to Larry himself, he'd hear the slur in his voice from the codeine.

  "You gonna be okay, Mr. Garner?" James asked.

  "Sure." Okay? What a fucking joke. "Sure, I'm just . . . mild concussion, some fractured ribs, busted nose, a few bandages. What happens if you're lucky when you get rolled down here. I was looking for Constance in a rough neighbourhood -"

  "Oh shit!"

  "Hm?'

  "I forgot to tell you she called! Constance called. How could I forget that? Jesus!"

  Garner snorted. "She called." Just like the postcard. The scumbag had her call, sometime before he killed her, to try and keep them from looking for her. "And she said she was okay and all that and not to look for her?"

  "Um - not exactly. She said she was alive. That's about it. Then she just sort of hung up. Oh and your brother called the same day to say happy birthday."

  "Yeah. Great." The depression rolled over him like a tidal wave of sludge. "Listen - I really need that money." He had it all figured out. He'd just avoid the toss-ups, the strawberries, the coke whores, the other users. He'd buy himself a case of whisky and a double handful of crack cocaine and lock himself in his room and burn himself out that way.

  "Sure thing, Mr. Garner. You got it."

  "Okay. I'll check Western Union in the morning." He could get through the night without crack. He had the codeine. He could trade some foodstamps for liquor. Of course, he could also trade foodstamps for crack. It was done all the time. Crack or heroin. He could get fifty dollars worth of rock for a hundred dollars worth of food stamps. It was something to think about. "Thanks James. See you . . ."

  He reached out to hang up the phone. His hand

  stopped over the hook. What was wrong? Why couldn't he hang it up?

  The codeine mists were parting . . .

  Your brother called to tell you, happy birthday.

  His hand started to shake. He put the receiver to his ear. "James!"

  The infinite buzz of a dial tone, like his own neurological drone behind codeine. Fingers shaking, he stabbed the buttons again, calling Alameda collect. Waited impatiently as the operator languidly asked James if he'd take a collect call . . .

  "Mr. Garner? You forget something?"

  "James - when did you say my brother called?"

  "On your birthday. He said it was your birthday."

  "James - no think, get this right - was it the same day Constance called?"

  "Yeah. It's right here on the note pad. And I remember because her call interrupted your brother's call. She came in on call waiting. And when I came back he'd hung up -"

  "Two days ago? She called two days ago?"

  "Yeah."

  His birthday. A day after he'd I.D.'d her body. He remembered the cop, on the way out, saying something about how her body was the only one with a finger intact. Lucky they could get an I. D. this time . . .

  The son of a bitch. The motherfucker. The bastard had cut off his daughter's finger and dropped it in with somebody else's body but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST SHE WAS ALIVE!

  Sawa Monka

  Ephram was in the lawn chair, in the back yard, in that same smoggy late afternoon, a Panama hat and yellow tinted sunglasses shading his eyes from the westerly tilt of the sun as he scrivened busily in his notebook Constance was in the chair beside him, dozing.

  Ephram wrote,

  I can't get over the feeling that I am playing some odd sort of game with myself, a game which as yet has no name. Could it be that I came here out of a sense of destiny? A realization that here - or more precisely in that snakepit out by Malibu - waits those who should be, and will be, my followers? Is it not possible that the stars have turned to facilitate my domination over them? The Dark Constellations are beginning to yield up their secrets; the Negative Signs are beginning to speak. Once more I turn to Nietzsche at his most inspired, and this I write purely from memory, demonstrating how well I know his gorgeous Ecce Homo: ". . . I know my fate. One day there will associated with my name the recollection . . . of a crisis like no other before on earth . . . of a decision evoked against everything that until then had been believed in, demanded, sanctified. I am not a man, I am dynamite . . . For when truth steps into battle with the lie of millennia we shall have convulsions, an earthquake spasm, a transposition of valley and mountain such as has never been dreamed of . . ."

  There was a noise at the back gate, making Ephram glance up from his notebook. His blood seemed to arrest in his veins.

  Sam Denver pushed the gate open and, smiling, stepped into the back yard.

  "Hello, Ephram."

  Ephram took a deep breath and put on his courtliest persona. "Why Sam. This is an unexpected pleasure."

  Constance was just sitting up, blinking sleepily at Denver. Shading her eyes against the glare of the sagging sun. Ephram could feel the fear rise in her, as she looked at Denver.

  "Constance dear, why don't you go into the house and get a chair for Mr. Denver."

  "All right." She got up and hurried into the house.

  He hoped she wouldn't take this opportunity to run anywhere. It would be most embarrassing to have to drag her back here by the brains in front of Denver.

  "You seem to have her well trained," the More Man said. "It's kind of sweet, really."

  "How did you . . . find your way here?" Ephram asked, glancing at the back fence. There were several large men back there; difficult to see them clearly in the glare of the westering sun. There would be one or two others around the front. He wondered if they were Denver's followers from the Ranch, or if they were hired muscle. He could paralyze one or two, of course, but the Akishra protected Denver from him, at least up to a point, and Denver would surely be armed . . .

  "How did we find you?" Denver raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. "You advertised for us, of course! The Wetbones killings. That could only have been you. You left your calling card all over town, Ephram. It made things a bit hot for us. But I assume you wanted us to

  find you. The Akishra led us straight here, of course."

  Ephram felt dizzy. "The Akishra?"

  "Yes. You really thought you wouldn't attract them? After all those engorgements? Or perhaps you thought you had eluded them each time? They are here. But your . . . 'friend' has kept them somewhat at bay. The one you call the 'Spirit' . . ."

  Ephram crossed his arms over his chest to cover the trembling in his hands. They are here.

  Denver sighed
and went on, "Judy's out in the limo - she's become rather . . . well, your prediction has come true, I'm afraid. They've overwhelmed her. They've externalized. It's rather a disgusting sight. Oh, thanks - Constance, was it?"

  Denver sat in the kitchen chair Constance had brought out for him. She resumed her seat in the lawn chair next to Ephram. He was gratified to feel her clutch his arm - she clearly preferred him to Denver, it seemed, despite all.

  Denver was staring at her. She lowered her eyes. He nodded to himself. "Yes. I believe so. I saw this girl in the paper. Her picture. They found her body, or so they thought . . ." He looked at the bandage, where her finger had been removed. She covered it with the intact hand. He grunted. "Oh, I see. Very clever." He looked back at Ephram. "Are you ready?"

  Ephram knew precisely what Denver meant. But he said, "Ready for what, dear fellow?"

  "Why, to come out to the Ranch, of course. We can't let you roar about town like a loose cannon anymore. And you've got to help Judy."

  "I hardly think I can do anything for her."

  "You can get Reward without the Akishra. Or at least - you used to. You can repel them, you can muddle them

  - you've demonstrated very handily that you can do that, or you wouldn't have gotten this far without an Attachment. You can, ah, delouse her for us. You can save her."

  "What utter nonsense. She's made her bed, now she must lie in it - with whatever's in it, ha ha. I can do nothing. If you want to help her, put a bullet through her brains."

  Denver turned to look once more at Constance. It was a look of bloodless longing and desiccated lust. She turned to bury her face in Ephram's pudgy arm.

  Denver laughed. "To make her prefer you - over anyone - oh yes, you must have her very much in hand. Well, we'll soon see if she has any juice left in her. She'll be coming along too, of course." He stood up. "And it's time to go. Now."

  Perhaps, Ephram thought, if one of the men at the back fence were armed, he could take control, manipulate the man. Make him shoot Denver in the back of the head.

  He reached out with his mind . . .

  And drew back The men at the back fence were Denver's followers. They were clouded with the Akishra. Slimy to the mental touch.

  Ephram composed himself for the inevitable. He stood up, and drew Constance to her feet beside him. He bowed, ever so slightly, to Denver. "We are, of course, gratified by your kind invitation."

  Culver City

  Prentice decided to take a long, hot bath, relax for half an hour before trying to finish writing the first scene of his screenplay. He was tense, lately; probably because he kept waking up at night. Every hour or two after he'd

  gone to bed he'd sit bolt upright, suddenly and completely awake, with Amy's voice fading in his ears. But no memory of what she'd said.

  It took him a long time to get back to sleep and now the tension and fatigue was catching up with him. He got up from the desk, went down the hall to the bathroom. He ran the bath, undressed, sat on the toilet lid waiting for the tub to fill. There was a distant noise from people having an early evening swim in the complex's pool; otherwise the place was dead quiet. Jeff had gone for another one of his endless strings of meetings . . .

  The tub overflowed on Prentice's foot. He jumped a little, then reached down and hastily let some water out. Have to sop up the floor later . . . He replugged the tub and dumped a little bubble bath in, ran the water just enough to make it foam up. He got in; the water slippery with liquid soap and hot enough to bring sweat to his forehead. He lay back, feet toward the faucet, and tried to relax. Don't go to sleep - just relax for a minute . . .

  Something was bumping against his leg. He opened his eyes and looked at it. It was a woman's hand, severed redly at the wrist, floating between his knees. There was a ring on it, a gold band with an opal, which he recognized. It was Amy's. Blood swirled from the wrist stump, pink with the dilution of steaming water. Strangely enough, he felt no particular surprise or disgust.

  Other parts of her began to bob up from under the soap-milky water. A middle section of leg, with one dimpled knee. A neatly snipped out segment of torso complete with breast. A healthy, unscarred breast, he noticed with casual objectivity. The body parts bled freely and the water went red and redder yet . . . and then Amy's head bobbed up, by his feet. Her neck had been sawed neatly through. Her hair was plastered to her head

  with water and blood. The lips on her decapitated head moved soundlessly. He could read the lips a little. Help me. They have me . . . they have a lot of us . . . help us . . . That girl . . .

  ''Oh shut up, Amy!" he interrupted.

  Her lips drew back in a snarl. The head straightened, bobbed vertically in the water. It moved toward him, its lower half sunken in the water, only the eyes showing above the red, bubble-castled surface. Coming at him the way an alligator does, only its eyes and the top of its head showing. But you knew its mouth was opening under the water . . .

  That's when the fear broke free in him and he kicked out, screaming, thrashing -

  And woke in the tub. Woke to hear the echo of his own scream in the confined bathroom spaces.

  The severed body parts were gone. But the tub was filled with blood. He scrambled to stand up, mewling with repugnance, thinking: Amy's blood Amy's blood . . .

  But then he noticed the gash on his left hand. During the nightmare he'd flailed out and smashed a shampoo bottle against the wall and cut himself on the broken glass. Panting, standing in the tub, he kicked at the water and saw the scum of red part. He hadn't actually lost much blood . . .

  He pressed his right hand against the gash in the other and with one toe pried up the drain plug. The blood in the tub began to move amoebically toward the drain as the pipes made an echoey sucking growl and the cleaner water welled up. Tenuous shapes formed there, around the little whirlpool where blood and water spiraled. For a moment, one of the shapes was Amy's face. The red lips mouthing Help me . . . Help us . . . And then it melted swiftly away in down-whirling water and was gone.

  11

  The Hills near Malibu

  The first thing Lonny noticed when he woke was the smell. He thought: They caught me and they threw me in some stinking pit of rotting dead people under the ranch. Maybe he should just lie here and let himself die.

  He decided he had to face it anyway. He sat up - the movement made his head swim with pain - and opened his eyes a crack.

  "Oh fuck," he said. Now he knew what the smell was from. He had been captured by a hippie.

  He was in a shack, unevenly lit with greasy yellow light from three kerosene lamps hanging from three different walls. The reek of unwashed man and dog overcame even the oily stink of kerosene. Sitting in an old rocking chair at the foot of the bed, watching him fixedly, smoking a briar pipe that reeked of pot, was an old hippie. At least, that's how he looked to Lonny. He wore kerchief-patched, age-shiny jeans and, yes: they were bell-bottoms. His horny, dirt crusted feet in homemade leather sandals. He wore an ancient Grateful Dead t-shirt, the one with the skull crowned in roses . . .

  Roses . . .

  The girl in the rose vines.

  "Look like ya seen a ghost, brother," the old hippie rasped. Sniggering to himself. "You come off the Cocksucker Ranch?"

  "I . . . " He couldn't seem to pull up any words.

  "Devil's Cocksuckers is what them fuckers are. The Devil's Cocksuckers." He sniggered again, this time showing his few rotting, mossy teeth. His gaunt face was leathery and sun-reddened. His eyelids budded with benign growths; his eyes were the faded blue of his jeans. His receding, waist-length black hair and beard were streaked with gray and clumped with dust. His mustache had grown over his mouth and was stained with food and pot-smoke. His fingernails were two inches long and crusty with dirt. He reached over to a worktable next to the squawky rocking chair and found a box of wooden matches. Meditatively, with one hand, he relit his pipe, never taking his eyes off Lonny. Leaning against the wall next to the worktable - within reach of the rocking ch
air - was a twelve gauge shotgun. Lonny never forgot it was there and neither did the old hippie.

  In a corner, behind the rickety, multi-padlocked door, a mongrel dog got to its feet in a nest of foul rags, stretching, shaking itself, its long brown fur matted, the inevitable grimy kerchief around its neck. It came trotting over, claws clicking on the flattened tin-cans nailed down over most of the floor, and laid its muzzle on the old hippie's lap, casting sideways glances at Lonny. The hippie put his hand absently on the dog's head; somehow, its blind trust in the guy put Lonny more at ease.

  He looked around; there were shelves of rusted tools; from nails on the shelves and ceiling dangled little dolls made of coloured wires and bits of junk. Between the

  rickety, unmatched shelves, the walls were covered with odds and ends: a cobwebbed poster of a babyfaced Mick Jagger and a startlingly human Keith Richards posing in costumes of Asian potentates against a psychedelic backdrop; randomly nailed up road signs pocked with bullet holes; and lots and lots of glued-on newspaper clippings, gone the colour of aged ivory, scribbled with notations and multiple exclamation points.

  Sure. The dude was a paranoid old hippie. "You . . . find me?" Lonny managed.

  "About a mile west. Me'n'Jerry here watched you for a while, crawling and talkin' to yourself." He exhaled an aromatic plume of marijuana smoke. "You crawled right through one of my fields and never looked twice at the buds. You either don't like pot or don't know it - well I expect you was spaced pretty bad. I knowed you was one that got away. First one I know about except for the movie star. And I helped him too. Lots of graves out in them hills, around the Ranch . . . You want some of this?"

  He offered Lonny the pipe. Lonny shook his head. It was the last thing he wanted. "You . . ." He struggled with his mouth. "Hard to talk . . ."

  "You're dehydrated is one reason. And maybe you're trying not to think about some things, and that keeps your brain busy. You got to deal with it sometime, brother, but maybe now ain't a good time. You did, though, dincha, see some pretty bad stuff in there, dincha. Devil's cocksuckers. Suckin' them worms. Dincha?"