Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02

by Road Trip of the Living Dead

  I stopped shuffling at the Jewel Cave pamphlet. What caught my eye was a sticker on the back.

  Closed for Routine Maintenance

  Reopens: June 7th

  A closed facility would be much easier to hide out in or kill people or whatever they had planned for Wendy and Honey. I showed the brochure to Mr. Kim.

  “That look like good choice. Go.”

  We curved through the Black Hills at top speed. It was still too early to come across many cars; even the employees of Rushmore and Crazy Horse weren’t hitting the roads before 6 A.M. An hour later we had to slow down coming into a sleepy little burg named Custer. The buildings were low and mainly catered to the tourists. Mr. Kim pointed out the replica of the cartoon Flintstone village.

  First Methodist of Custer

  Open to all who believe!

  (Even the heathens next door. )

  “Caves?” he suggested.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Right after the attraction, as the buildings began to thin, I noted a white-steepled church off to the left. Next door stood a ramshackle clapboard building, painted a garish pink. Two signs at the road battled for drivers’ attentions (see insets). Do I need to mention which was the winner?

  “Well look at that.”

  “Who go to porno store next to church?” Mr. Kim grimaced.

  “Doesn’t make sense, right? Still we can’t pass this by, look at the name.” I pulled onto the gravel drive and around the back of the store, where our question was answered. The Cleavers’ RV sat idling at an odd angle. Behind it, blocking its exit, was Tad’s white truck.

  THE PINK CAVE

  We’ll raise your steeple!

  ADULT TOYS AT

  ROCK BOTTOM PRICES!

  148 Oh yeah. There’s lots.

  149 Of course. Do you hate her already? Please say you do.

  150 I’m afraid the pun was entirely intended on that one. Tee hee.

  151 Or would you prefer thin-lipped. Those were the only two characteristics that were even notable. Maybe I should ask my mother to describe him. Would you like that? Didn’t think so. Lightweight.

  152 Yes. Yes. I said lover. But that’s ownership in that tone.

  Chapter 22

  Mr. Kim Cuts Loose

  Some mysteries remain unexplained. What are the mechanics of zombie infection? How does the blood of the living give vampires such a healthy youthful glow? Why are wood nymphs so goddamned horny? Who knows? I’m just trying to have a good time up in this bitch!

  —Cameron Hansen, Actor and Supernatural Celebrity

  I backed away from the two vehicles and hid the car on the other side of the closed Methodist church, where I grabbed the gun and left Mr. Kim stretching away from the front fender and toward the metal stair railing of the nearby building. He tapped the ground with the precision of a tightrope walker, as though he weren’t on sturdy ground at all.

  “Sorry, Kimmy. I can’t wait for you to get your footing. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Go. Go. Save Hyon Hui. Wendy, too. Only Hyon Hui first.” He waved me on.

  At the back corner, I scanned the adult store parking lot. Fishhook was nowhere near the truck, nor was there any movement inside the RV. That didn’t mean that someone wasn’t sitting behind the wheel. I couldn’t see that far from my position. I ran in a crouch, ducking behind the truck, and inched forward toward the back window. I figured I’d step on the bumper and peek inside, only there wasn’t any bumper to speak of, just a smooth plastic shell. I pushed myself up onto the hood of the truck, slipped out of my shoes and balanced in a dent. It provided a decent enough vantage, albeit a bit slippery.

  Shadows oozed across dark fabrics and sleek plastic cabinets, from lights recessed under the bed like a Japanese street racer. Fancy inside as it was out, the outfit must have cost a fortune. Clean and no one around, nothing of interest except a row of drawers that might produce a clue. As I hunched to slide down, I noticed movement behind me. No sound attracted me, only the soft shifts of light and dark you notice in your periphery. I dropped to my knees and crawled around the front of the truck.

  Mr. Kim.

  He’d somehow navigated the church building, possibly by simply passing through it, for all I knew. His eyes, it seemed, were trained on the Pink Cave. He shifted and started, straining against his grasp of a loose wooden shutter. Stretching as far across the gravel with a pointed toe. The decision suggesting he intended to traverse the open expanse. It might have been ridiculous, had it not been the first time a ghost had successfully separated from their earthly boundaries.

  I crammed my feet back into the heels and crept around the side of the camper, listening for even the slightest hint of a black- and-white television family folding aprons or arranging corn holders.153 Despite the grumble of the engine, and the frequent stirring of tree branches from the wall of forest that butted up against the parking lot, there was no sign of the creepy clan.

  I reached for the door handle. The cool metal vibrated under my touch.

  Just the engine, I told myself. Just the engine.

  I expected the picture of cleanliness, a sanitary space straight out of the ′50s, complete with an altar to Mr. Clean.

  Not so much.

  In fact, as I stepped up into the trailer I was instantly taken by the stench of rotting meat. Blood ran down the cabinetry in rivulets, pooling on the thin carpet. Rubbermaid containers like spilt Kool-Aid. The sink was full, but not with dirty dishes.

  With claws.

  Severed werewolf claws lay haphazard in the metal basin, clotted with the crimson syrup and strips of rotting sinew. Thick handles protruded from the furry wrists, makeshift weaponry. A ruse. The victims of such horrendous things would look exactly like werewolf victims.

  Like that poor albino girl.

  Tad.

  Who were these people?

  Who would create such devious contraptions? I thought briefly back to the magical Grillz we’d employed so unsuccessfully at the skinhead bar—where had Wendy even found those? We had no choice but to do something, right?

  Skinhead rape? Uh … no thank you.

  These people, on the other hand, seemed to be murdering willy-nilly, with no rhyme or reason or any other clichéd thing you want to call their random acts. I may be a flesh-eating zombie that eats three times per week, but that’s just food chain shit. When I died I took a step up on the evolutionary ladder. Ward and June and the Beav were simply murderers.154

  I felt a moment of pride knowing I’d already taken one of them down, and stylishly so.

  Turning my attention to the rear of the RV, I passed a dining booth, similar to our own camper’s, only this one was stacked with transparent Tupperware containers. Each filled with a wad of black mushrooms. I rummaged through the lots, figuring on, at least, forty different stashes. Each one labeled exactly the same way.

  A single piece of masking tape bore the word “TAP” and a number.

  Do I even need to tell you the containers were just like Fishhook’s? The Cleavers were his dealers. I didn’t have to think twice about that. Who else would package drugs so fastidiously?

  Normally, you’d be lucky to get a Ziploc baggie.155

  But why the word “TAP”? The only people that used that term were vampires, plumbers and alcoholics. It certainly was an apt descriptor for all the scars on Fishhook’s body. The memory of his naked flesh crept back into my head like a leech. But what did the Cleavers have to do with vampires? They were humans as far as I could tell, didn’t mind sunlight, nice and pink.

  What would they be doing with …

  It was almost too much to wrap my pretty little head around.

  Removing the lid and sniffing brought me right back to the Maha Durgha’s field. The dense smell of shit overpowered my dry sinuses—totally nauseating but mildy pleasant. I flung the toxic fungus across the room, before the fumes took hold and disabled me. Each piece stuck like tar and slid, smudging a poop streak on the cheerful pink and tan
striped wallpaper.

  Prospective Bait

  Missy Sawmiller

  Todd Thomas (in service)

  Cherry Dale

  Synde Korman

  Beth Petri (in service)

  Renee Sweet (in service)

  Virginia Hendricks

  Carrie Zimmerman

  Becky Carretti

  Tad Turner

  Hyon Hui Kim

  The juxtaposition turned my scowl into a smirk.156

  I turned my attention to the rear room. The door was shut. Locked. I stood back and kicked at the thing, hoping to break what I assumed would be a shoddy lock. I was denied. I didn’t dare use the gun for fear of alerting the Cleavers of my presence. The last thing I needed was the All-American Family to come running out of the sex shop, with bags of vibrating projectiles. I scoured the kitchen area for something to jimmy the lock, anything, a butter knife a … werewolf claw.

  The handle was wood and the appendage surprisingly heavy. But as I slashed it across the metal, the silvery tips sliced right through the door. A few well-placed strikes and it swung open on its own, the handle still clutching the jamb. I went straight for the drawers, pulling them out and dumping them. Papers parachuted to the floor, revealing some 8 x 10 glossy photos. Ten of them, in fact, paper clipped together with a precisely typed inventory card, only the last name was written in a scrolling cursive (see inset).

  I thumbed through the photos until I found the last one. Honey smiling at the Cleaver boy, an evening shot, the gaudy RV in the background. The next two photos were Tad and the albino girl, both posing happily for whoever took the shots. What the hell? I snatched the card off the front, zeroing in on the heading.

  Prospective Bait.

  I threw it down. Backed away.

  Bait for what? Taps, drugs, werewolf claws? What the hell was going on?

  I left the camper shaken, but when I turned the corner, my mouth dropped open.

  Mr. Kim bounded across the gravel lot, feet breezing a foot above the ground as though he might lift off and spin into the atmosphere, which certainly was a possibility considering the vague physics of the ghost world. His arms pumped at the air and a boyish yowl screeched out of him like an American Idol reject, and then was clipped to silence as he slipped through the Pink Cave’s walls.

  I bolted for the door, ankles rocking on shifting gravel.

  The Pink Cave was Hollywood-set bright when, really, most of the merchandise screamed for shading. The walls were lined with various DVD titles in categories not often seen at your local Best Buy. Rentals clearly and well used, so despite the guilt from the Methodists, someone in Custer was enjoying a little visual … um … assistance. On the right, a half wall separated the cashier from the customers and a swinging door led to a dark hall, the sign above it blinked, “Booths.” But no one seemed to be manning the store.

  The back wall was all about toys. Row upon row of dildos, vibrators, weird rubber sea anemones, things that looked like the spades you find on playing cards, some of them with long manes of hair protruding from the base. Mr. Kim roamed that aisle.

  “Enjoying the selection?” I asked as I rounded the corner. “That was quite a show out there.”

  He didn’t respond, instead just pointed at the floor. A pool of blood the size of a dinner plate was smeared in a grisly streak that ended abruptly at the wall of sex toys, as though it continued past it into some secret passageway. Not Wendy’s blood obviously—that would have dropped out like chocolate pudding. No. This was either Fishhook or Honey and the odds were not on the girl’s side. She might be right on the other side of …

  A door?

  “Good work, Sherlock. Now we just need to figure out how to get me back there.”

  I ran my fingers across the wall, feeling for a crack or an indent, something that would give away the location of a door.

  “I go through and see if I can help from other side.” Mr. Kim leaned into the wall leaving his hips and legs on my side.

  I cringed, fearing the worst, and eked out a quiet, “Do you see anything?”

  “Very dark. But, look like lever right here.” His hand poked back out of the wall and through a particularly heinous looking sex toy called the Oatmeal Scotchie. It was penis-shaped but its surface was mottled with a gray and beige oatmeal texture that looked suspiciously like vomit. The figure of a kilted bagpiper protruded from the base, pipes rigid and ready to stimulate some other area. The box read …

  The Oatmeal Scotchie (Just For Men)

  A churning molten oatmeal just below the sili-cone skin of this amazing vibrator hits all the right spots, while the generous Scotsman engages the erotic sensitivity of your throbbing perineum with his pulsating pipes.

  Oh. My. God.157

  If this was the hidden lever, whoever had designed the secret door had made the perfect choice; I felt dirty just touching the box, which depicted the act in Technicolor detail, the model in full Scots regalia, bent over and gasping. But, it indeed unlatched the door and it swung into a cold, black tunnel—somewhat appropriate considering the method of its revelation— revealing the top half of Mr. Kim and the continuation of the blood streak.

  “We going to need light.”

  “True.” I scanned the store and in the “novelty” items section happened upon a “Fleshlight” but that didn’t seem to have anything to do with illumination. Behind the counter I found what I was looking for, matches and a box of candles. While not ideal, they’d have to do.

  153 With a “D”!

  154 Do you see the distinction?

  155 Not that I know a lot about drugs, but I do own a TV.

  156 I live for those moments. Well … not live, exactly.

  157 Gil has some explaining to do.

  Chapter 23

  The Dark and Intimate

  Secrets of the Pink Cave158

  Spelunking is quickly becoming a favorite supernatural pastime and not just with our red-winged minions. Vampires, were and zombies are all jumping on the cave exploring bandwagon. Tours to various caverns are available and most are over-day with a camping component for our light-challenged friends.

  —Supernatural Seattle (May 2008)

  It was all so Nancy Drew and the Secret of the Pink Cave, except for all the granny porn and dildos shaped like farm animals, you really wouldn’t know the difference. I wished I’d been wearing tartan plaid and knee socks, maybe a soft cardigan. The candle was the topper and while the cave wasn’t particularly windy, it flickered as we made our way down a steep set of uneven stairs carved into the cave floor.

  Mr. Kim floated ahead like the gentleman he was, scouting out crevices and sharp turns where the Cleavers might be lurking with their claws of doom. I descended sideways, one step at a time. I couldn’t very well save the day with a broken hip, and despite revolving credit with the reapers, I didn’t relish the thought of physical deformity.

  The blood trail thinned and the temperature dropped the further I climbed down. When the stairs became no more than foot holds, I was forced to break the heels off my shoes to keep moving. I freed my hands to balance, by holding the candle in my mouth and stretching my arms across to the craggy cave wall, suspending myself above the tightening shaft. The cave funneled downward, tightening with each step, as though we were dropping into some kind of tank.

  “How much further down?” I called.

  “Yards, maybe two.”

  I couldn’t move much further. My arms felt like spaghetti from supporting my upper body, my legs were quivering, as well. I let the candle drop, praying it’d stay lit.

  It did, illuminating a gravelly floor that seemed level enough. Just a few more feet and I could jump without hurting myself.

  I pressed on.

  Gripping the tiniest cracks with fingertips singing with pain and searching for juts of rock with my toes, I managed to get a little closer before losing my holds and dropping like a side of beef onto the stony floor, putting out the candle and plunging the space into d
arkness.

  A searing pain wrenched through my back and I wondered if I’d be able to move, let alone continue searching for my friends. But Mr. Kim hovered over me, a gentle blue glow surrounding me.

  “You okay?” he asked. “Not too bad hurt?”

  I tried moving my arms, which although sore didn’t seem to be broken. My legs worked, too. I must not have been that far off the ground, after all. Standing, tentatively, an awful crunching sound echoed through the space, followed by a wet sucking sound. One of my lungs had been punctured. When I looked down I could see a thin piece of bone protruding from my shirt, surrounded by a thick yellow and gray ooze. Zombie breath glowed white against Mr. Kim’s luminescence, snaking out of the hole moving back up the cave vent and dissipating. Despite the obvious horror of this, it didn’t feel too bad. The rib ached, sure, but had I been alive that lung would have kept me down.

  I reached up and slid the rib back into place, cringing at the sloppy goo that dropped out in the process, but otherwise proud. A quick unbuttoning of my blouse and tying it off just under my chest seemed to do the trick.

  “Yeah,” I told Mr. Kim. “I oughta be. Let’s go.”

  The cave sloped back up toward a dim light; it reflected off pockets of crystals embedded in the walls and provided enough light to traverse the path without another cosmetic tragedy. As we reached the top, I crouched and peeked around a sharp turn where cave gave way to cavern. It spread out in nearly every direction to a level floor lit by strands of light bulbs. Stalactites or mites or whatever stretched from floor to ceiling in columns resembling streaked bacon.

  In the center of the room, Honey was splayed across a raised platform, arms and legs akimbo. Next to her, a machine beeped and churned, tubes feeding it the girl’s blood. Mr. Kim sped forward into the room and hovered above the girl, weeping. His moans echoed through the cavern.

  I caught a whiff of something fetid, dead and soiled.