They probably were.
And they wouldn’t be the only ones appraising.
Wendy and Honey were hoofin’ it towards the tent. A spark of empathy ignited inside me, and was immediately extinguished upon noticing that the pair were arm in arm like sisters. Um … when did that happen? I haven’t been overly self-absorbed, I don’t think. So, when did I miss out on critical bonding time?
Somehow, it was my mother’s fault.73
Honey broke into a skip as she approached. “Becky, let’s get goin’!” Her hopeful smile drooped into a sick frown then exploded into a wide-eyed expression of horror. “Becky! Becky!” She ran the length of the carnage stopping briefly to heave up a meal I didn’t remember the girl consuming, yet suspected it contained primarily Twix bars. I glared at Wendy.
She shrugged. “She didn’t tell us Becky was a cutter.”
“You’re bad,” I said.
Honey circled the torso trying to make the connection between the lump of gore and her former traveling companion.
“What the fuck happened?” The girl stomped back. She poked at Corey’s chest. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing!”
She prodded the boy, again, harder.
“Nothing!” he shouted, flinching. “We found her like that, I swear.”
She poked a third and final time.
The missionary covered the spot with his hand, scowling. “Ow! Knock it off!”
I swear when Honey withdrew, I detected a hint of a smile on her lips. So mean.74 “How much are we lovin’ her?” I asked Wendy, who simply smirked. “He’s telling the truth, I’m pretty sure.”
“I’m sure. What’s the big deal?” Wendy plucked a scrap of shredded tent from a nearby branch, as though it were a used condom hung there to drip dry. “Could’ve been worse.”
“Oh yeah? How?” Honey glared.
“She could have been horribly disfigured.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know,” she said.
Wendy shrugged.
The girl stepped away from Wendy, scowling. I looped my hand through the crook of her elbow and led her off toward the barn full of antique crap. “I have to tell you that you aren’t the only person following us. Gil got into a bit of trouble back in Seattle and—”
“I know. I was following you guys, remember? That guy was pissed.”
“Well he sent a couple of his men after us. I think they may have done this.”
Honey nodded, eyes following the edges of the forest, the corners of the building. “Werewolves. And you think they’re still here, don’t you?”
“I’d bet on it,” Wendy said from a nearby table of mismatched silverware locked away in Ziploc bags. “All the more reason to get out of here, quick.”
“No doubt.” I walked over to Wendy and emptied one of the bags onto the table and plucked the sharpest knife I could find from the debris. It was time to salvage something helpful from the shitstorm. “Take Honey back to the cars and get ready to go. And Honey, please tell me that piece of crap you came in was your friend’s?”
“It was, but why—”
“Leave it. I’ll meet you back at the camper and then we’ll get out of here.” I jogged off toward the tent and the two guys. “Get your stuff and go,” I said. “Unless you want to be held for questioning. You do look like the only ones who could have done this.”
Corey winced, but nodded, snatched Tad by the arm and led him to their rusty Nissan truck. As they pulled away from the site, I shuffled through the grass and clumped bloody grass toward Granita’s prone form.
It didn’t take much effort to extract her heart, just a few purposeful cuts, a couple of ribs to crack and move aside and then there it was; cold and sunken. I severed the climbing vines of muscle, fat and arteries, dropped the organ into the Ziploc bag and gave it a shake.75
We had ourselves an offering.
As I stood to leave, I saw a pile of what looked like furry black balls76 mounded where Granita’s hip should have been. A quick prodding sent a puff of smoke into the air. I backed away. You never could tell what was dangerous, plus, there was something familiar about the size and color that had me thinking they might fit well inside a Tupperware container—if you know what I mean.
It couldn’t be Fishhook, though. He wasn’t out of my sight all night.
67 We’ve been over that, right?
68 The only things he was missing to complete the whole ′50s Dad ensemble were an unlit pipe and a newspaper folded in thirds under his arm.
69 Maybe she needed a little pinga in her colada.
70 Just like mine. Glory be to the Gods of makeup.
71 Those were the most meaty, after all.
72 Even I thought it was gross, but you don’t see me crying about it. Baby.
73 Seriously. Who else could I blame?
74 Did I have a child and not feel it?
75 Yellow and blue make green and in this case, red. Lots of red.
76 Not those kind, you pervert.
Chapter 11
Blowing Adolf and the
Rest of the Mini-Gestapo
It is every supernatural citizen’s responsibility to quash a zombie outbreak in the rural territories. Nothing will expose us quicker, or diminish our cushy lifestyle more completely than a zombie apocalypse. Please do your part.
—PSA aired during A Very Zombie Christmas
About twelve miles out of Coeur d’Alene, signs of habitation faltered and even the cars on the freeway became sporadic. Honey tossed the last of Wendy’s gossip rags and started hounding me for a beer and boy fix, doing everything humanly (or inhumanly) possible to prove her point save scooting her butt across the backseat like a dog in heat. This being a new and previously unexplored side of Honey, I figure it couldn’t hurt to indulge the girl.
“Dude. The mere presence of testosterone will lighten the gloomy atmosphere you two seem to be honing,” she offered as evidence. “Plus, I’ve got to pee and this little bathroom is too gross.”
“Maybe if you curl up in a ball against the bedroom door you could leach some pheromones from Gil,” I said.
“I’m so sure. He’s gay. Don’t you mean like estrogen?”
“Okay, whatever.” I shrugged. She stared. Clearly the joke was lost on her. “Fine, we’ll look for a place,” I said and Honey clapped and squealed in an off-putting cheerleaderish way.
Anyway, she was right, there was simply no reason not to splurge on some ogle time. Becky was gone, after all. We couldn’t bring her back, and who’d want to live without extremities, or a head for that matter? There was just no good reason to mope around. The sun was another hour off before setting, so Gil could just continue his beauty sleep with the rest of the luggage. I hadn’t been drooled over in nearly six hours; my quota was sorely lacking.
Wendy brightened and pointed out a smear of neon off to the right. The tires left the highway, instantly kicking dust into the air. Honey giggled. The sign came into view: THE WHITE HOUSE. An impressive enough name, though attached to it was no stately columned manor. The building, itself, was a squatty mangle of board and glass—no more thought had been put into its construction than a preteen boy’s circle-jerk fort— and surrounded by a gravel lot filled with cheap domestic cars and pick-ups that wore rust spots like tattoos.
“Grim.” Wendy opened the glove box and moved the bottle of hand sanitizer into her bag.
“Oh, I think it’s cute.”
I turned with my hand outstretched to check the girl for a fever. She swatted it away.
“Just darling,” I said. Before Wendy could add to the snark, Honey opened the car door and bounded for the shack. “Let’s go, then.”
Since Fishhook couldn’t be counted on to keep off the mushrooms, we lost valuable travel time having the Volvo hooked up to the RV, so at least we weren’t involved in a caravan any longer. I waved for him and Mr. Kim to watch the Winnebago.
We found Honey at the bar, flipping her stripes of gold an
d brown hair for a slobbering road worker with a shaved head dimpled in three spots like bowling ball finger holes and a torso clad in dirty wife-beater. The guy worked nearly as quick as the flirty girl. Honey was already nursing a pint of amber colored liquid. I shuddered to think what it might be—this being the land microbreweries forgot. I suspected something as hoity as Pabst Blue Ribbon drawn from a moldy keg.
Wendy and I scanned the remaining customers from our spot at the door. A lopsided mix of twenty or so, predominantly surly male and seemingly uniformed. The look du jour was identical to Honey’s catch, crew-cut to bald, dingy tank tees, stained jeans tucked into black combat boots. Familiar from afternoon talk shows that usually ended in violent confrontation. Do I have to spell it out? The place was crawling with fucking skinheads, and not a single one poon-worthy. The irony of the bar’s name was not lost on me. The few females present were either as rough as their men, or bore the meek and disciplined look of domestic violence victims.
I stomped over to Honey, wrapped my arm around her shoulder, and leaned in to her ear. “Hi, sweetie. Do you notice anything odd about your love shack?”
“Not a thing.” Honey’s hand traced a figure-eight around her particular Adolf’s nipple. It poked against the tight shirt like an obscene jujyfruit. His face was pleasant enough, tan from day labor, undoubtedly, a light sanding of blond stubble across his jaw, and pale blue eyes. He might even have been cute, if you could look past the big swastika tattoo on his bicep.
Since Honey seemed to be clueless, I pointed out the offensive ink. “Are you a Buddhist?”
The pleasant face turned into a glower. He shifted his weight. His body entered my personal bubble77— any further and he’d have popped it altogether—and to think I even smiled at the neo-Nazi piece of shit.
“What do you mean by that?”
“That symbol. Buddhist, right?”
He looked from his tattoo to me then to one of the Gestapo goons that littered the pool tables. The man was taller and built like an ape on steroids, only hairier. He wore an army green barn jacket riddled with patches that I didn’t need to be able to see to tell were offensive. He lumbered toward us, the crowd parting as though the bulls had been released.
“Let’s go.” I took Honey by the arm and directed her to the door. Wendy was waiting there digging in her purse. As we reached her, she slapped something sharp into my palm.
“Just in case,” she said.
We were in the parking lot before I looked in my hand. There sat a gleaming gold set of dentures, but not in any human shape. These seemed to mimic a full set of dog teeth; the incisors sharp from the grinding. I looked back at Wendy, confused. She merely winked in reply and turned to Honey.
“Get in the car, girl, and stay there. We’ll handle this.” Wendy’s voice was steady and serious.
“Whatever. You guys are really overreacting.” The girl bounded off, shaking her head as though we’d made an undue fuss. She sat into the back and reclined, her bare legs hung from the open door, crossed and ankle popping.
“They’re extra special Grillz. I picked them up and had them enchanted down at Willie’s as a joke, but I think I’ve found a use.” Wendy retrieved a pair of her own from her Coach bag and slid them over her teeth. Despite their odd size and shape, they melted into place, becoming a natural extension of her mouth, albeit shiny and gangsta. “See how they fit right on top?”
“Yeah, but is this really the time to try out a new look?”
As if on cue, Hess and Himmler stumbled out of The White House, kicking up a dust storm as they approached. A few more followed. I half expected them to goose step.
“It’s exactly the right time.” Wendy’s back was to the oncoming hoard. She contorted her mouth and jaw into the familiar shark-like biting radius that we do so well. Inside the gold teeth grew and shifted, changing the shape of her mouth in the process. “We can’t eat ’em all. This way the bodies will look like animal attacks.”
So … they did look like dog teeth.
“Got it.” I slid my enchanted Grillz on and grinned at the five skinheads stalking toward us. They stopped a few feet away. The gorilla took the lead.
“You girls lookin’ for somethin’? I think you’re lookin’ for somethin’.” His hand ran down his belly to his crotch; he pulled at the denim down his leg as if there were even the slightest fullness.
“If you’re thinking we’re lookin’ to leave, then you’re on to something.” I shuffled up alongside Wendy.
“I don’t think that’s it.” His mouth stretched into a hideous grin. “I think you’re wantin’ to service the brotherhood. Eh, boys?”
Honey’s target puffed up his chest and stepped toward me. “This one here’s wantin’ to bow down in front of my big Buddha. She told me that inside.” He rubbed his crotch lewdly—as if he could possibly be doing it in a refined way, perhaps with his grandmother’s silver salad tongs.
I reached over to swastika boy’s groin and cupped. “It’s like you’ve known me all my life, sugar.”
He nodded—the smug bastard—showing off for his friends.
Wendy and I burst into laughter. She looked over her shoulder at the car. Mr. Kim was on the roof, waving his arms frantically.
“Get those motherfuckers away from Hyon Hui!” he yelled.
I almost giggled. The ghost had been around me long enough to catch my pottymouth. He was right; of course, Honey needed protection, and it was up to us. If we fucked this up, she’d probably end up wearing a white sheet instead of Dolce and Gabbana, and that was totally unacceptable.
“Is there somewhere private we can go, and by private I do mean somewhere we can fuck?” I winked at the bigger man. Wendy slid in next to him and grabbed his ass. His head jerked toward her, eyes wide.
“What about my friends?” He jerked a thumb toward Adolf and two other skinheads who’d come for the show.
I smiled. “They can come, too. Watch.” I shrugged. “… or whatever.”
They led us around the side of the tavern to a picnic table studded with cigarette butts and surrounded by a semicircle of pines that needled the ground like a carpet. Our audience took up a spot near a tire swing, sneering and trying for threatening stances while only managing to look like playground bullies.
“So what, you want us to just whip ’em out?” the gorilla asked.
“Yeah.” I twirled my hair, playing the coquette to Wendy’s slut. “I don’t know about Wendy, but I’d like that a lot.”
“Me, too.” She sucked at her index finger—’cuz she’s nasty like that.
The two skinheads were reduced to quivering golems of pathetic adolescence; ham-fisted fumbling with the buttons on their Levis gave way to those goofy toothsome grins associated primarily with the blue balls of the AV club. They were completely incapacitated by the tangle of jeans and jockeys around their ankles—just like we like ’em.
Wendy dropped to her knees in front of the gorilla. He let out a feeble, “Woo,” as her frigid breath lit on his tiny pecker; it nearly turtled in under a pocket of hairy fat—that for our purposes, we’ll call a pooch, if you don’t mind. Her eyes fluttered and a shudder rolled through her body. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me she was revolted.
I said a quick prayer and peeked down at my guy’s dick.
The horror.
Because I am who I am and not someone with actual luck, I was faced with a throbbing fleshy poultry mallet. This cock was not content to be simply misshapen in its engorgement—no—its oversized mushroom cap oozed a thick yellow discharge. Why me? Why was I subjected to such atrocities? I didn’t deserve it. Yet, there it was, stretching out toward me. Reaching like those horrible claws in the shower room.
I turned away and saw Wendy positioning her guy by the hips, turning him to obstruct our audience’s ability to see. They moved away from the swing, one walking in close enough to grab. I winked at the straggler, hoping to lure him in. He took another step and stopped.
It would
have to do.
“Close your eyes, big boy,” I said.
The snarling began before my jaws cracked open, ratcheting to shark-bite radius. The Grillz tingled, bonding magically. Gold canines emerged from my gums forcing my lips back in a way that was too uncomfortable to make a habit. I slapped at Adolf’s dick and bit through his hip and pelvis, dropping him instantly. His scream was cut into a short crow-like “caw” as his throat was the next to go.
To my left, Wendy had taken out the gorilla’s genitals and abdomen, leaving him looking like a cartoon-ish bow-legged cowboy, albeit dripping with blood. In the next instant, she tore into the closest guy, snapping his head clean off before he had any awareness of what was happening.
Impressive.
So much so, that I’d nearly forgot about the straggler. The shorter skinhead was already at the corner of the bar when I caught up to him, biting through his shoulder. His dismembered arm fell to the ground. My feet caught on it and I fell face first into the dirt.
When the man looked back I could see the bite had begun the change. Despite my ability to breathe someone into a zombie, my bite still carried the viral load necessary to create a mistake and this guy was turning quick.
“Aaaarrrrghhhh!” he cried, which was totally dramatic since they’re really fully capable of words, but seem to get lazy vocabularies.78
He darted through the swinging doors into the bar.
“Wendy! One of them turned mistake!”
She pulled her mouth off her prey to acknowledge me. “Let the reapers get ’em.”
If only. “Hello? We’re in Bumfuck, Egypt. There aren’t any reapers coming. We’ve got to handle this.”
“Shit!” She leapt to her feet and followed me to the doors.
The inside of The White House had devolved into a full-blown zombie outbreak. At least ten new zombies shambled between the tables, chewing on an assortment of limbs, organs and the ubiquitous sweetbreads.79 The bartender dragged his legless torso from behind the bar, a swath of intestines draped from his mouth like a gory handlebar mustache—never a good look. From the pool tables, a burly woman fought off my armless mistake with a pool cue. Behind her, a blood-spattered ghoul crept up on tiptoes with the child-like precision of a Santa/parent bust. I almost yelled for her to watch out.
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