Undead L.A. (Book 2)

by Devan Sagliani

  “His rich parents were always so mortified,” she said with a dry laugh, the sound of her own voice scaring her. Her voice was foreign to her, raw from smoking, and so much lower than it was inside her head. It sounded like one of those old modems from when she was a kid, back when the dial up had to perform a digital handshake to communicate with the other computer, and images took several minutes to load. She rubbed her throat, feeling the hard ridges just under the sagging skin. Time was starting to catch up with her and she knew it. She rolled over and climbed back into her memories.

  Jake followed right in his idols footsteps, didn't he? Blew the top of his head off with a shotgun in his mouth. Pulled the trigger with his toe. It reminded her of the crass jokes that went around after the singer first died: What color were Kurt Cobain's eyes? Blue. One blew this way and one blew that way. She thought about how so many of Kurt's fans blamed Courtney Love in some way when it happened, but she hadn't had such terrible luck after Jake died. She remembered thinking how sad and awful it was that life just moved on with its banality despite his absence, that in no time at all it was as if he had never existed outside of her memory. No one spoke of him again to her. She always imagined that they were simply too cautious of upsetting her again. After all it was no great secret that she'd seriously considered chasing him to the underworld those first few months after his death. But here he was now, vibrant and alive and all smashed up against the most kind and caring grade school teacher she'd ever had.

  Merrily merrily merrily merrily... life is but a dream.

  They were sitting in the classroom. Everything was just as it had been so long ago. She looked around the room taking in the front chalkboard, the hand outlined Thanksgiving turkeys, the American flag next to pictures of former United States presidents, the fish tank with the one speckled fish stuck to the side, sucking at the glass. Everything looked normal. His name was even sketched in puffy chalk letters on the green board, with dust on his fingers. Diora knew they didn't use old chalkboards anymore, that all schools now used dry eraser boards if they used anything.

  For all you know, they used iPads at all the fancy schools before the world fell apart, spoiled little rich fuckers.

  She looked up and the ceiling disappeared, revealing a sky obscured by clouds. She could hear the insects out in the woods, the wind moving through the trees in a steady rush making so much deafening noise, and something else she could not place at first.

  It's so graphic for a dope dream, she thought. Which is the dream world and which is the real world? One requires the use of high grade drugs to function, has walking corpses coming to murder you at any moment, and is filled with the constant threat of rape and murder. This world is like a painting made out of memory, perfect down to the last nonsensical detail, like the stack of Dr. Seuss books piled perilously in the corner over by the beanbag chair.

  She ran her fingers under the crack of her desktop and found it was full of cool, fragrant planting soil, like the kind she'd used to try to grow tomatoes once when she was in kindergarten.

  I kept waiting for them to blossom, to see the green balls form, then slowly turn ripe and red, but they never did.

  The back of the classroom led to the river at the edge of the park. She'd noticed it when he was giving her a lecture about trying harder to reach her full potential, and when she looked back he was now Jake and they were flying over the trees on a shiny, silver disc of light, watching wolves run through the depths of the forest, hunting together in packs.

  That's what I was hearing, she thought, under the sound of the swaying trees. The beating hearts of these hairy, unrelenting animals.

  She watched them move with detached interest, suddenly yearning for more of the sweet sting in the crook of her arm that always took her to her safe place in the clouds, a mindless place of bliss and happiness, a place she had started to unofficially call Yama. She was sinking towards them, towards the panting and hot breath of the pack. Then, with no warning, she wasn't watching them run, she was one of them, running fast, the cold air burning in her lungs, her sore paws pounding the hard earth as the pack chased down a tan rabbit with a bushy white cotton tail.

  The hunger is taking over.

  The rabbit was so fast, always just ahead of them, but her hunger would not let her give up. It doubled back, losing the other animals, but she had the scent of it in her nose, like dried menstrual blood, and she did not let up for a second until she had chased it onto a small pebble beach where it was cut off from escape by a vast body of water. The rabbit was white now, as if the fear coursing through its veins had bleached away all color from its fur. Its big pink eyes filled with panic as it looked for some kind of escape that wasn't there. The animal dashed to the left, but she was there before it could get away, so it turned quickly and retreated towards the water. It froze as she moved in, all drooling teeth and snarls. She brought her teeth into it and felt a warm rush of pleasure as the metallic blood filled her mouth, refreshing her, filling her with the same bliss she got from the first hit of the day. There was a shaky fear in her as she realized she wasn't the hunter anymore, she was now the prey. The wolf was now a large man in a torn coat biting into her neck and she laid there, legs apart, naked and shivering, as he took his time drinking her blood.

  Do vampires exist? The thought floated through her mind like a dry breeze. She already knew the answer. The world was full of monsters, even before the dead came back to life. Why not? If zombies are real, who knows what else is out there?

  “Diora! Bitch, where are you?”

  The words seemed far away. She opened her mouth to answer that she was lost in the past, but no sound came from her. She heard the cries of a girl screaming from somewhere off in the distance, but couldn't see her. Her body was shaking back and forth, something slick and reptilian was moving in between her legs, a sickening wetness that numbed her insides as it worked its way up into her until all she felt was pressure, nothing more. She heard a voice whispering into her ear as a tiny hand stroked her head, turning to see that her younger sister had appeared.

  “Don't act like you don't like it,” Makayla laughed.

  She turned away from her in disgust, afraid to look at her, afraid she might get sick if she tried to focus on anything for too long.

  Take me to Yama! Take me above this wretched place, this breeding ground of sorrow and pain.

  She turned to stare into the dark face of the monster looming over her, the putrid smell of his ripped, unwashed clothes overpowering her. His face was obscured by a twisting ball of dark shadows. She'd never seen it before. No matter how she tried to bring it into focus, its details slid off with the silkiness of oil being poured over a black pearl.

  “Diora!”

  No, she thought as the sickness crept through her like tiny poisonous fingers underneath her tainted skin. Not again. Please no!

  A mouth formed in the puddle of shifting shadows, panting hot bursts of whiskey and tobacco smoke at her face like a dragon. She was shaking hard now, the serpent twisting into her, feeding on her blood with its scaly tongue and filling her with fresh pain.

  “Hold still now,” the demon whispered darkly, its voice made up of a thousand tortured whispers stolen from previous victims. “I'm almost there.”

  She closed her eyes tight as she shook her head back and forth in the dream. It was time to wake up, if only she knew how.

  “DIORA!”

  No, she screamed inside her mind, but it didn't stop.

  “NO!” She shouted it with all her might, lifting her head to see the laughing puddle of darkness. It was too late. It had laid something evil up inside of her. There was blood and dark filth pooling between her legs onto her torn panties. The screaming grew louder.

  “NO!” She yelled aloud this time, as loud as she could, her lungs burning with fire, her throat sore from the force of her protest. She sat up awake, not knowing if the sound came from the dream or from outside on the street.

  “Diora, what the
fuck is going on up there?”

  She crawled to the edge of the landing, peeking over to see his angry face glaring up at her, bags of food and candles at both sides. It was Jamal. He had returned at last. She reached a shaky hand out to him, a faltering smile breaching her lips.

  “Jamal.”

  “I know you didn't go and get wasted and leave me down here shouting for you for the last fifteen minutes, bitch! Throw down the mutherfuckin rope.”

  How long had she been out? It seemed like just minutes earlier she'd given herself a small dose, but that couldn't be right because she could already feel it leaving her system. She was itching all over. She sprang up and ran to the hook where they kept the rope bridge tied up. He glared at her with deliberate cruelty in his eyes as he silently waited. She hesitated.

  “You gotta promise me you're not gonna be mad when you get up here,” she demanded, holding back the rope. “Promise me you won't kick my ass if I let you up here.”

  “I promise,” he said unconvincingly. “Now give it here.” Diora held on, not quite ready to trust him. She could see it clear as day on his face, the beating she was gonna catch the minute he got things squared away.

  “I only did a little because you were gone so long and I couldn't wait anymore,” she whined. “Promise me, baby. Promise you won't hurt me.”

  “Give me the rope,” Jamal said evenly, staring up with unblinking and remorseless eyes. Diora relented. Jamal looped the bags over his hands, then climbed up the rope bridge with the agility of an alley cat, setting his loot out on the top of the landing. When he'd gotten his footing he leaned over and yanked the bridge back up, looping it over the hook they'd driven into the wall their first night. Diora backed away as he turned, but she wasn't fast enough. Jamal's open palm connected with her right cheek, causing an explosion of light behind her eyes and sending her tumbling back to the floor.

  “We had a deal, bitch,” he spat at her, huffing to catch his breath. “You don't get wasted while I'm gone and leave me to those fucking things and I let you do all the dope you want when I get back. You remember that?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered, curling up in a ball, her hand stroking the burning patch of skin from where he'd struck her. There was an odd sense of relief flooding through her, and it turned the burning in her cheeks into a form of satisfaction.

  The worst is likely over now, she thought, fighting back the urge to laugh.

  “I'm not trying to be hard on you, woman. I ain't like those other pimps who get off on beating a sad bitch to death. I'm trying to make sure we survive, just like I promised you we would. I'm a man of my word.”

  He wouldn’t yell if he didn’t really care. He wouldn’t bother hitting me either. One of these days though he probably give up on me, no matter what I do. In the end they all go away.

  “I'm sorry, Jamal,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes as she turned to him. The look of disappointment was already etched in. It was a look she abhorred more than anything in the world.

  “You think I like treating you like a child?”

  “No sir,” she blubbered, crawling towards him on her hands and knees. “It's my fault. I got scared you weren't coming back.”

  “How many times I gotta tell you, woman? I ain't never leaving you. You belong to me, just like how I belong to you. But if you gonna keep acting like that don't matter, then maybe I'd be better off on my own. Is that what you want?”

  She pulled at the front of his jeans, trying to get him to look down at her, but his eyes were cast up and away in disgust. A burst of anxiety bloomed in her chest at the thought of him leaving. She couldn't survive on her own without him. It was the one thing she was absolutely sure of.

  “Please, baby,” she pleaded. “I fucked up. Please. Let me make it up to you.”

  She fumbled with the zipper on his jeans, working his flaccid cock out from between the front flap of his boxers and sucking it into her warm mouth. It took a minute to get him to relax enough to get hard, but she kept at it. This was her specialty. This was what she was the best at in the world and there wasn't a man alive—gay or straight—who could resist her charms once she got going. She felt a tingle of pride as he stiffened in her mouth, lacing his fingers into her dirty hair and gagging her with greedy thrusts. His breath grew short and rapid, his muscles tensing up as he reached his climax, thrusting into her face and holding her in place. In less than ten minutes it was done. Diora felt a flush of excitement, knowing that she'd fixed the problem and that soon he'd be tying her off and giving her a real fix, one that would last for the next few hours.

  ***

  Diora relaxed as Jamal pushed the plunger on the needle down, sending the drugs deep into her system. He'd calmed down considerably after she'd sucked him off, becoming more tender in how he spoke to her as he laid out the meager supplies he'd managed to acquire on his last trip.

  “Seems like they everywhere now,” Jamal explained defensively, shaking his head. “Ain't no sign of normal people like you and me no more, but I know they out there, hiding in the shadows I suppose. Someone is eating up all the canned food. That's for sure. And it ain't those things. All they care about is biting people and making more like them.”

  “You're so brave,” Diora said, feeling the drugs starting to take hold.

  “I ain't got but four cans this time, and some candles,” he said. “We gotta make it last.”

  “I don't need much,” she said, meaning food, which was true since she would spend most of her days high instead of eating, if she could.

  “I can't have you getting too skinny on me,” Jamal warned, pulling the needle out of her arm. “A skinny hooker ain't no good for business.”

  “There's no business left,” she giggled, sliding down to the ground. “But I'll do whatever my daddy asks me to.”

  “I haven't tried going down Fairfax yet,” Jamal said. “I might make a go of it later tonight if things are calm out there. Maybe the shadows give me some extra cover.”

  His words were starting to not make sense anymore, but she didn't care. She was sliding away, off to Yama, to her safe place, far beyond where anything or anyone could hurt her. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander once more.

  How did I get here?

  Diora could not remember coming to Los Angeles. She could remember Portland and everything that happened before it, but not how she'd come to the City of Angels. In her mind everything got cloudy the further she moved away from the day she was raped at the homeless camp by the river. While the memory of that event was full of holes that didn't make sense, her little sister had witnessed the whole thing. According to Makayla, Diora never made a peep while she was being violated. She just lay there while it happened, waiting for it to end.

  Of all the things I can't remember anymore, why is it I never forget those memories?

  It was true. No matter how much dope she did, no matter how much of her brain she fried out, those early memories of her childhood always eventually returned to haunt her. It was as if she was being punished for some crime she had committed in another life, starting all the way back from the very moment she was born to her life as an unhappy stripper and her alcoholic dad.

  My father is the only man I've ever missed or cared about. I'd do anything to see him one last time.

  Things had started out simply for her tiny, dysfunctional family. Her dad, Randy Tremaine, was a dreamer growing up, an impractical man who expected things to magically work out and seemed genuinely surprised that they never did. Cursed with a strong sense of adventure, Randy had left the small factory town where he'd been raised the minute he graduated from high school. His father, the grandfather she'd never met, was an abusive drunk who worked most of the time. His mother, her grandmother, had died when he was a kid. No matter how many times they'd asked him how she'd passed, he just brushed the question off.

  “What does it matter?” He would get a look in his eyes like he was remembering something too painful for words. “It was a long
time ago and she ain't here now.”

  He'd flirted with the idea of joining the armed services for a while, but dreaded the thought of having to kill anyone.

  It's ironic, she thought. It's almost as if he knew it was coming one day, as if he was squeamishly working his way up to the event.

  He'd moved from Hico, West Virginia, with his closest buddy from high school, 'Franky the Freak,' to Norfolk, Virginia, in search of any kind of work that didn't involve working on a factory floor for sixteen hours a day to pay the rent. Frank swore his aunt had a line on good jobs, but like most of what Franky the Freak had told him, it was just bluster. Still it got them out of Hico, which was a blessing as far as he was concerned. When they'd asked him if he ever thought of returning home, he'd always brushed it off.

  “Nothing to see there now,” he'd chuckle, pushing his pink tongue through the open gap left by his missing front teeth in the end, “never really was, neither.”

  Randy and Frank set up in her cat-infested apartment for three weeks, but never came up with anything worthy of their big dreams. Frank's aunt worked nights as a nurse and slept all day, leaving them to their own designs, which meant drinking beers and flirting with local girls. Three weeks later she invited Randy to find a job or move the hell out. The next day he caught a position cleaning dishes and busing tables at a local crab shack. Whenever he told the story he made sure to point out that he hated that job with a passion.

  “My hands were scalded red by the end of the first week,” he used to tell them. “Red raw from the water and chemicals. I reeked to high heaven of fish guts and whale piss, so bad that no girl would gimme a second look, and I didn't have enough in a month to move into my own place. Plus the people I worked with were all fucking world class assholes.”

  According to his version of events, recalled in snippets during his more lucid moments, Frank started talking about maybe going to community college shortly thereafter, but he wasn't having it. She remembered fondly the way he'd shake his head back and forth and smile when he told her.