by G A Chase
The wall of glass separated as she approached the entrance, like the gates of hell welcoming in another of the damned. The difference, of course, was that Sere didn’t have any fear of hell—a mall full of possession-hungry people, however, gave her the shakes. Empty-handed people rushed passed her like lemmings, while those with arms full of boxes and bags struggled against the flow.
Sere stood on the marble floor and gazed at the towering concrete-and-glass storefronts. She shivered as much from the cold air as the emotional cesspool of advertisements. With her head down, she walked into the modern-day cave with her hands thrust into Joe’s jacket. God, I wish you were here with me.
“We have continuing coverage of the swamp strangler.” Sere stopped cold at the entrance of the bar. On the TV, a female reporter—probably chosen because of her large breasts and sympathetic smile—was attempting to look like a professional with the story of the century. “So far, we have the confirmed killing of four people: a man and woman brutally dismembered outside of Jackson’s Bluff, a motorist who had the misfortune to suffer a tire blowout and endured a dozen knife wounds from her supposed good Samaritan, and most recently, a convenience-store clerk. No word yet on how he was killed.”
Sere squinted with hatred at the reporter. Too bad for you, you sick fuck. Even from this side of the TV screen, I can tell you’re getting off on reporting the carnage. Two pencil drawings appeared behind the reporter. “This just in.” The woman’s voice rose so fast Sere wondered if some production assistant had just stuck his hand up the bimbo’s skirt under the desk. “Police are looking for any information on these two individuals.” Sere listened to the descriptions in stunned panic. The drawings were crude but accurate.
“Look at that, Jenny. That drawing could be of you.”
Sere didn’t dare turn toward the women behind her.
“Right. Like I’d ever do that to my hair. And when was the last time I weighed a hundred pounds?”
There was an expectant moment of silence behind Sere, then both women answered at once as if reading each other’s minds. “Junior-year cheerleading camp!”
Oh my God, please leave. Sere dropped her attention from the TV to the reflection in the floor-to-ceiling bar window. Behind her, a woman with long, straight strawberry-blond hair that curled slightly at the ends was laughing and clutching her friend as if they’d just shared the funniest joke ever told. Suddenly, I understand the doppelgängers’ desire to kill their reals. This woman simply cannot be Jennifer Ellen Cranston. But as Sere consulted their shared memories, she knew the airhead was none other than the human who’d supplied Sere with her body’s blueprint. The longer she focused on their connection, the less in touch Sere became with her body. No!
“Are you okay, Jenny?” The friend’s voice sounded both beside and behind Sere as if she were listening to too many stereo speakers.
“Sorry, I just got a little light-headed. That last mimosa might have been a mistake.”
“As if,” her companion said, laughing.
Sere ducked away from the women and headed the direction they’d come from. As she hurried down the promenade lined with shops, the woman’s memories continued to play for Sere like a bad Lifetime Channel movie—a form of entertainment Jennifer apparently enjoyed way too much. How did I ever survive your high school years? Next time I see Professor Yates, I need to thank him for filtering out all that girl’s drivel. How could you have been that obsessed with boys? Honestly, one cock looks pretty much like the next.
She put her hands to her temples and forced her memories of living in the swamp back to front and center. “As soon as I kill Monty, I’m returning to the swamp and never leaving,” she said so quietly no one would hear. She kept facing forward in the fear that Jennifer and her cheerleading-bitch friend might have forgotten which way to turn and ended up following her. They’d be just dumb enough to retrace their steps and still marvel at the stores they’d just left. No wonder people spend hours in this place. They’re too stupid to figure out how to get out, just like rats in a maze being rewarded with cheese at every turn.
At Village Vintage Attire, Sere finally found the nerve to look behind her. Like ditching a kid sister—something Jennifer had made into an art form—Sere discreetly searched the crowd to make sure she hadn’t been followed.
“I’m digging the whole Daddy was a biker vibe. The boots are a bit over the top, though. What new look are you going for today?”
Sere turned away from the cavernous mall to face the saleswoman standing next to the entrance. Her long, flowing blond hair made a smooth transition to the billowy hippie-style dress. Sere wondered if telling the woman about the shotgun strapped to her back would make the fake hippie reconsider her opinion about the daddy issues. From behind the counter, the same reporter was blaring from the cashier’s laptop, updating the latest information on the serial killer. Sere adjusted her sunglasses to hide as much of her face as possible. “The news today is just awful.”
The saleswoman turned toward the back of the store. “Emily, would you please turn that off.”
Sere suppressed a smile at seeing her ploy work so well. News stories about serial killers aren’t exactly conducive to shopping for frilly garments, I suppose. Gotta keep the money flowing. No longer seeing her likeness broadcast on the monitor, Sere turned back to the store manager. “I’m having dinner with my aunt and uncle. They’re not fans of my motorcycling adventures. I need something that won’t offend them but also won’t drain every penny I have.” Again, it wasn’t a lie. If she went down to New Orleans and didn’t see Kendell and Myles, Joe might develop a new form of martial arts just to whip her ass.
“We have some lovely vintage cotton dresses.” The woman put her hands on Sere’s waist and drew in the leather jacket. “With your cute little figure, a yellow-and-white polka-dotted sundress with a wide white-leather belt would be simply scrumptious. And maybe some vintage Keds sneakers?”
You seriously have to be fucking kidding me. Sere tried not to vomit at the image of her as a good, sweet little girl. “Sounds perfect.” I swear to God, Joe, if you only knew what I have to go through just so you don’t have make up a lame excuse to Myles and Kendell. But the change of clothing wasn’t just about seeing the couple who’d done so much to save her soul. In her black hair, sunglasses, and feminine dress, Sere could walk right up to Monty and stab him between the ribs without him ever realizing her true identity. And she still had to contend with the newscasts displaying her image to the brain-dead masses hungry for a little titillation. It’s just a temporary change of clothing.
The woman dragged Sere from rack to rack until her arms were filled with the trappings of the new persona. “A wide-brimmed sun hat would be just perfect—”
“I think I’m good,” Sere interjected. “I’ll just pay and be on my way.”
“Don’t be silly. You simply must try it all on. I’m dying to see what you look like all dressed up.”
Keep pestering me, and dying will be the operative word, Sere thought. “I’m really in a bit of a hurry.”
The woman shrugged as if she couldn’t fathom why Sere was being so rude as to deny her the pleasure of seeing her creation come to life. “If you must. You can pay Emily at the counter.” She turned away like a lover scorned and headed back to the entrance for her next fashion victim.
With the oversized shopping bag designed to advertise to every mall patron that Village Vintage Attire had made another sale, Sere navigated the shortest possible route back to her motorcycle. As she passed the sports bar, she caught the grating voice of the news reporter. “This just in. The police believe the woman in question might be riding a vintage motorcycle.”
Shit!
8
From what little Sere knew of women her age, she suspected she might be the only one on earth not to own a cell phone. The damn things hadn’t existed when she was born in the 1800s. While in hell, she’d relied on the interdimensional gates to talk to the handful of people in l
ife who were important to her. Now that she’d made it to the land of the living, the fucking blocks of technology were about as useful for communication as bricks. For the first time in her odd life, she wished she had some way to keep tabs on the information that streamed to every passerby.
Back out in the parking lot, she opened her saddlebags and coaxed her snakes out of the way so she could add in the shopping bags filled with the trappings of her new identity. “With no way for me to contact them, I guess Aunt Kendell and Uncle Myles are just going to have to deal with me showing up out of the blue. If they’re too busy or can’t find room for me, I’m sure we can find some empty lot to set up for the night. I know you guys would be more comfortable if we were all outside, anyway.” The snakes started their rattles of displeasure at the threat of being kept indoors. “Just be glad you don’t have to hide your true identities. You’d look pretty stupid in wigs and sunglasses.” Not that I look much better.
Though it was potentially dangerous taking off her disguise in the vicinity of Jennifer and having her likeness plastered all over the news, Sere couldn’t safely operate the Triton with it on. She caressed the handlebars, fearing she wouldn’t be able to use her trusty motorcycle for much longer. Eventually, all the paranoid chicken-shit city slickers would start reporting every woman on two wheels. According to the overly enthusiastic bubbleheaded reporter, however, the killing spree was still happening well outside New Orleans. “The police chief wants to make it clear: the people of New Orleans have nothing to fear.”
Sere grumbled, “She could have tried a little harder to make it sound like she believed what she was reading. God, I want to slap that sensationalist reporting bitch.” Sere kicked over the Triton’s motor, imagining that the starter lever was the newswoman’s face, and headed back to the freeway.
With each mile closer to the heart of the city, more cars crowded around her on the freeway—each one filled with people. Stop imagining every person you pass is staring at you. Even if the news weren’t broadcasting your picture, you’d still feel vehicular claustrophobia.
At the freeway interchange, most of the traffic veered right toward the Quarter and Central Business District. Sere headed left. Before she braved the center of tourist activity to fulfill her pseudo-familial obligation to Kendell and Myles, she needed to learn a little more about defeating Monty. She tucked in behind a tractor trailer that took an off-ramp leading to the wharfs along the Mississippi. Free from the barrage of passenger vehicles loaded with tourists having nothing better to do than stare at the chick on the motorcycle, Sere’s panic subsided. The narrow access roads sucked with their potholes, poorly marked cross streets, and coned-off repairs, but at least on her motorcycle, she had the maneuverability to avoid most of the obstacles, even if the giant trucks made it impossible to pass.
The gravel road to the far end of the docks was so seldom used that weeds had crept in from the neighboring abandoned lot. Sere edged her motorcycle along the path, trying to keep the dust from announcing her arrival. When she came to the end, she got off her bike and walked it out to the mostly deserted shipping offices.
“I suppose this is as good a time as any to get used to my disguise.” She quickly took off her helmet and pulled on her wig to avoid being noticed. A snake uncoiled from under the artificial hair, slithered down in front of her face, turned its beady little eyes to her, and stuck out its tongue. “Damn it, snake, this isn’t a medusa wig. That’s not funny.” She lifted the serpent off her forehead and let it curl back into the saddlebag. It dove under the clothes as if giving her the cold shoulder. “Okay, it was a little funny in a very Greek-mythology kind of way.” The canebrake gave a dismissive flick of its last rattle as it disappeared into the pant leg of her spare pair of jeans. Snakes could be so sensitive.
She put on the oversized sunglasses and checked her appearance in the motorcycle’s side mirror. “I still look ridiculous.” She threw the saddlebags over her shoulder and headed to the front of the office that faced the river.
As she pushed open the plywood-covered glass door, the old man in the Barcalounger said, “Hello, Sere,” without turning to face her.
“You could have at least looked at my disguise before dashing my hopes of anonymity.”
The chair’s leather groaned as Professor Yates stood up. “And lie to you? What good would that have done?” He pointed to a bank of computer monitors that lined one wall of the small office. “Besides, I knew you were coming from half a mile away.”
View screens compared Sere’s disguised face with projections that were continually updating her doppelgänger body. “I guess it’s fairly easy for you to figure out who’s who in hell.”
He stood beside her, looking over his work. “These computer banks hold images of every person who’s wandered New Orleans for the last twenty years. Each doppelgänger is modeled and projected based on those files, so matching one of you up is pretty straightforward no matter the attempted disguise.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re on my side.” And a good thing the loas are technologically naïve. She wasn’t going to share that last thought with Professor Yates. Even though he was as aware of Sere’s situation with the afterlife as anyone, she still didn’t like broadcasting her fears.
He turned to her and puffed up his chest like a proud grandfather. “You’re all that matters.”
The computer screens were doing much more than identifying Sere. Views of the hell dimension filled most of the wall. “Is that why you don’t just shut off this virtual-reality diorama? All this is just to keep me going?” She had trouble accepting that so much danger was kept running simply so her odd existence was allowed to continue. With a quick flip of the switch, Monty would be no more.
“We love you, child, but even you aren’t that important. Twenty years ago, your father turned loose an energy chain reaction that ran between our two dimensions. The only way to utilize the power and prevent a runaway condition that could doom us all was to build this contraption. Hell has to exist even if there aren’t any souls kept prisoner there.”
Except Sanguine, Sere thought, but this wasn’t the time to worry about her surrogate mother. “But why the emergency doppelgänger-warning device?”
“When you were just a girl and your father stepped out of his prison dimension to face his demise, I suspected the day would come when another denizen of hell would come looking for me, so I stashed some sensors around my lair just to be prepared.”
She set her saddlebags on his desk. History was only interesting if it gave her something to use in the present. “I need a place to stash my stuff while I’m in the city. I also need to understand more about who I’m hunting.”
“Straight to it. I’ve always liked that about you. Though I guess later you’ll be dealing with enough small talk with Kendell and Myles to last a lifetime.”
“Don’t remind me.” She took off Joe’s jacket, yanked the shotgun from the holster on her back, and set them next to her saddlebags. She then pulled her dress out of her bag. “I fucking hate this thing, but I need to get used to looking like a lady.”
He snickered at the unusual attire and pointed down the hallway. “There’s a bathroom halfway down the hall. Mind telling me how you’re going to hide that shotgun while wearing a dress?”
“If I’m right about Monty still figuring out how to efficiently kill a person, he’ll be a few days from entering New Orleans to confront his real. I should have some time to get ready for him. Wandering around the Quarter in bike leathers with a shotgun concealed on my back would be a bit conspicuous in this summer heat.”
He pulled a ring of keys out from the desk. “While you’re getting changed, I’ll wheel your motorcycle into the storage room in the back. Then we can have a chat about what to do with this demon from hell.”
Sere had never understood why some women took forever to get themselves dressed and presentable. As she stood inspecting herself in the bathroom mirror, however, she wondered how she’d f
ind the nerve to set foot outside Professor Yates’s offices. From wig to sneakers, each part of her disguise felt about to slip right off and reveal the murderess described on the newscasts. I need to start paying attention to what the authorities have found. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll kill Monty in a shootout. More likely, they’ll shoot him full of holes only to discover he can’t be killed. She readjusted the wig for the tenth time.
The bangs fell below the tops of the sunglasses. The fake hair teased her eyebrows under the thick frames. “Well, at least no one will recognize me.”
She gave up and left the bathroom, haunted by a feeling of being like a girl going trick-or-treating in whatever she could steal from her mother’s closet. Jennifer’s memories—which had a way of surfacing when they were least wanted—didn’t help Sere’s evaluation of the costume. Professor Yates stood in the middle of the office, wearing a broad smile, his hand on what looked like a vehicle for a child.
“What is that thing?”
He turned the handlebars so she could get a better look. “It’s a motor scooter.”
From the way he presented it, she assumed he meant it for her. “What do you expect me to do with it?”
“You ride it. You can’t exactly go tearing through the Quarter on your café racer while wearing a dress.”
She set her folded jeans, halter top, and boots next to her saddlebags. “I thought everyone walked in New Orleans.”
He shrugged and started pushing the scooter back toward the hallway. “If you don’t want it, I’ll put it away. I just thought you might appreciate the mobility.”
“Stop.” She squeezed her eyes closed, realizing she’d been insensitive. “Of course I want it. Thank you.” The final two words felt like some foreign language she didn’t speak fluently.