by Unknown
Drake shrugged. “I was hungry. I just want to try and feel normal again. Food helps. At least, it used to.”
“I understand. Let’s get as far from this place as we can before morning. Those knots are tight, but he’ll get out of them eventually.”
“Found these. They might help.” Drake jingled a set of car keys.
“Good boy,” she said, extending an open palm. He reluctantly dropped the keys into her hand.
They headed over to the garage and swung the creaky doors open. Inside was a beat-up blue Suburban. Niobe unlocked the driver’s side door and let Drake in. She inserted the ignition key and turned it. The engine made a feeble effort at turning over, then died.
“Out of gas,” she said.
The air went out of Drake. “This is Texas. How can people here be out of gas? There’re oil rigs everywhere.”
“Looks like we’re still on foot,” Niobe said, easing out from behind the wheel. “Wipe anything in the car you touched and let’s get out of here.”
Drake used his shirttail to do as she asked. “Are you okay to walk?”
“I’ll be fine.” She started off again, slowly, Drake at her heels.
He felt like there was a bottomless, black pit ahead of them somewhere in the distance, waiting to swallow him up. When the time came, Drake wasn’t sure he wouldn’t just walk right in.
Drake’s skin was bright red from panhandling all morning. Niobe stayed hidden—the Feds had their descriptions plastered everywhere—so her sunburn was milder. She watched him from the shadows of an alleyway, where she sat on a trash can, trying to ignore the pain in her ankle.
The plastic shopping bag jingled when he set it at her feet. They’d fished it out of a trash can in front of the Walgreens around the corner. Now it was heavy with coins.
“Got a few quarters in here,” he said.
Niobe fished through the bag. Mostly pennies. And a few paper clips. And lint. And gum wrappers. But here and there, sunlight glinted on dimes, nickels, and quarters. She counted out a couple of dollars.
“Good job.” Niobe handed him the coins. He looked to be on the verge of heat stroke, the poor kid. “Why don’t you go into the store and get an ice cream sandwich and some water. It’s air-conditioned in there.”
“Want me to get you anything?”
“Nah. I’m good,” she lied. “Enjoy the ice cream but don’t wander off, okay?”
“Yeah. I know.”
She waited for him to disappear around the corner before taking up the bag and walking to the far end of the alley, where the shadows smelled like urine and worse things. The coins were heavy. The handholds in the plastic dug into her fingers.
The bag jingled again when she set it down in front of the crude cardboard shelter under the fire escape. It was basically just a refrigerator box, but the bundle of rags inside was a man.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m back.”
The man sat up. His face was streaked with grime. He picked at his hair. “You again. What’d you bring me?”
Niobe nudged the bag with her toe. “There’s a little more than four dollars in here. That’s ten dollars, counting the six I gave you yesterday.” Which meant sticking around here for an extra day, she thought. A day better spent on the move.
When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “That was our agreement, remember? Ten dollars.”
The homeless man hunched over the bag and picked through it rapidly with two fingers, like an inexpert typist. “Lotsa pennies. Can’t do much with pennies.”
“Please,” she whispered. We won’t last much longer without this. Every second wasted in negotiation made her nervous. Drake would come back soon and she didn’t want him to know about this. He’d feel guilty about it.
The man’s gaze flitted between the bag full of change and Niobe’s face. She tried to angle her body to keep the worst of her acne in the shadows.
The man grunted. “ ’Kay.” He motioned Niobe to lie down in his nest.
“I—I can’t do it that way.” She playfully waggled the tip of her tail at him. The look in his eyes made her worry that he’d back out, and she regretted the vain attempt at bonhomie. But he shrugged, and relented.
After that, they worked out the mechanics quickly enough. He breathed with his mouth open, grunting in short little bursts. It smelled like he had a rotten or abscessed tooth. Niobe prayed it was his only health problem, and that if he was an addict, he wasn’t using needles.
She jumped to her feet as soon as she felt the first egg forming. Her erstwhile partner rolled over, cleaned himself on his bedding, and didn’t stir after that.
Trash cans rattled as she doubled over in pain. Her ovipositor widened and deposited the first egg under the fire escape. She already had the names picked out. Avender, Aubrey, and Abernathy, for boys; Agatha, Akina, and Allie for girls.
Another egg followed the first. Only two children this time around: a smaller than average clutch. Maybe they’ll be twins, Niobe mused.
She felt the first tickle of consciousness, a tentative hello at the world, as the eggs hatched.
Momma? thought Avender.
Ave, my darling! Give me a kiss.
Momma, he thought, I don’t feel very well.
Niobe’s heart felt like it had been punctured with an icicle.
No. No, no, no no no no no. Not now.
Avender popped out of his egg. The boy was slender and beautiful, covered in fine golden hair, though missing one hand. He took a step toward his mother. “Mom,” he said. “I lo—” It trailed off into a gurgle. He toppled over, clutched his stomach, then melted.
His sister Agatha also drew the Black Queen.
Niobe was still crying beside the puddles when Drake returned.
West Texas was the platonic ideal of hot, arid desolation. No people, no cars, just scrubland and dirt. It felt downright post-apocalyptic. Which, given what Niobe had seen of Pyote, wasn’t so far from the truth.
They’d been walking since before midnight. A band of pink on the eastern horizon limned the gray sky; sunrise in the offing. The nascent day felt bright as noon to Niobe’s dark-adapted eyes. When she stumbled over a snag of sagebrush or a dry streambed, it was from exhaustion.
They walked through a field, parallel to the highway but roughly fifty yards away, so that they wouldn’t be seen. Not that it mattered—they hadn’t seen a car all night.
Water sloshed in the near-empty bottle when she went to take a swig. Dawn twisted through the thin plastic, forming a little hourglass-shaped spot of light on Niobe’s blouse. Two swigs left, at most.
She called ahead to where Drake trudged through the field. “Here. Finish off the water.”
He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down.
“Hey, Drake. I’m talking to you.”
The only sound from Drake was the scraping of his tennis shoes on hard-packed soil as he stepped around a creosote bush.
Niobe raised her voice. “You could have the courtesy to pretend to listen. I’m trying to help you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Drake was becoming increasingly sullen. He’d withdrawn into himself again. They hadn’t spoken about it, but clearly the Black Queen clutch had demolished his hopes.
Hers, too. She’d keep Drake alive as long as she could, though without help that wouldn’t be long at all. In the meantime a little cooperation would have been nice. Maybe even a “thanks” now and then.
The bitterness receded as quickly as it had washed over her, leaving in its wake a profound shame. She hoped it was exhaustion making her feel this way. Resentful. Irritable. Or maybe she wasn’t as maternal as she liked to think.
She picked up her pace, drew even with Drake after a few strides. “Drink this,” she said, holding the bottle under his nose.
“Yeah. Okay.” She studied him while he unscrewed the cap and drained the bottle. His sunburn didn’t appear to be getting any worse. They’d swiped a tube of aloe vera lotion and some SPF 45 sunscreen from the farmhouse.
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nbsp; Something twinkled on the horizon. Then it disappeared. Then a flash and another twinkle. It came from where the highway receded into the distance.
“Car coming,” she said.
Drake shrugged. He tossed the empty bottle aside. He knew better than that—they might be able to refill their bottles, if they got lucky. He was giving up; the decision manifested in countless little gestures, actions, evasions.
She examined the glint on the horizon. For all she knew, it was a cop or state trooper. But this death march was killing them just as surely as SCARE would. Sleeping in ditches all day, walking all night . . . It had to stop.
The car was closer now, a rapidly growing blob of red and silver visible through the haze. It was still the only car in either direction.
“Stay here,” she said. “Keep yourself hidden.”
Niobe took a deep breath, then half jogged across the field to the middle of the two-lane highway. Her ankle screamed in pain, but she ignored it as best she could. She stopped, facing the oncoming car.
Drake hunched down behind a bush. He called, “What are you doing?”
“We need a ride.” The white-noise hiss of tires on asphalt reached her ears. Niobe swallowed, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Stay hidden, Drake.”
She could see it more clearly now. A rounded, burgundy-colored thing bearing down on her. No lights on top, though with Niobe’s luck it would probably turn out to be an unmarked cop car. Or SCARE.
Niobe raised her arms, palms out, toward the approaching vehicle. The car’s shape became apparent in the rapidly closing distance. She recognized it from television commercials she’d seen back at BICC. A gas/electric hybrid. That makes sense, I guess. The question was whether or not the driver could see her.
The car didn’t slow down. She waved her arms.
Closer. Louder. Niobe clenched her eyes shut when she could hear the whine of the engine.
The road noise lessened, the engine relaxed. Niobe cracked one eye open. The car was rolling to a halt.
Sunlight glare on the wide windshield prevented Niobe from seeing inside the car. She waved, tossing out thanks as she trotted over to the driver’s side.
The window slid down with the whirr of an electric motor. Niobe got a strong whiff of clove cigarettes.
“Thank you so much for stopping,” said Niobe.
“By Crom’s beard! You scared the daylights out of me.”
Niobe had no idea who “Crom” was supposed to be. But that wasn’t the odd thing about the woman behind the wheel. Not compared to the fur-lined chain-mail bikini, the crimson-colored cape, and the axe sitting on the passenger seat. The bikini did not complement the woman’s figure.
“I . . . uh . . .” Was that a sword on the backseat? Niobe wondered if heat stroke had scrambled her brain.
“What brings you out here, noble wanderer?”
“Huh?”
“Nah, never mind. Need a ride?”
“Yes. Badly. Please.”
“It’s traditional to just stick out your thumb when you’re hitching.”
“We’ve been out here for hours. There aren’t any cars to hitch rides from.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “We?”
Damn. “Yes. Me and my friend.” Niobe waved at Drake, motioning him to join her. “We ran out of gas money back in Wick,” she improvised.
“You’ve been on foot since Wick?”
Niobe nodded. That much was mostly true, anyway.
The driver stuck her head out the window. She gave Niobe the once-over, then the same for Drake.
“You guys have been on foot too long,” she said.
“Tell me about it,” said Niobe. “Please, may we ride with you? Just for a while?”
Niobe had never imagined that the clunk of electric door locks could sound so sweet. She felt like crying. “Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated.
Drake hurried over. Niobe opened the back door for him. He wrinkled his nose at the cigarette odor, but it didn’t stop him from scrambling inside.
“Next stop, Barbarian Days,” said the driver as Drake buckled his seat belt.
Niobe and Drake exchanged a silent look. Barbarian Days? He shrugged.
It sounded like some kind of festival. Well, that explained the outfit. Niobe held the axe in her lap when she buckled in. It was plastic.
The driver raised her window. She clicked the air-conditioning up a notch. The car was surprisingly silent when they pulled away, causing Niobe a moment’s disorientation when the landscape outside the car started to slide past them. She had never ridden in a hybrid.
“You getting enough air back there, kiddo?” Niobe turned, looked over the seat. Drake’s eyes were closed.
She slumped down in her seat, tempted to drift off under the caress of chilled air. It felt like heaven. The upholstery stank like a cheap bar, but at least her feet could rest.
“I’m Mandy,” said the driver.
Niobe blurted out the first name that sprang to mind. “Yvette,” she said. She motioned toward the backseat with a nod of her head. “That’s Xander, in back.”
“So,” she continued. “Barbarian Days.”
The driver smirked. “Never been, I take it.”
“No.”
“Lots of people there. Maybe not so many nowadays, with the oil crisis.” She paused to light a cigarette.
“It hasn’t stopped you,” said Niobe.
“Most of the time I work behind a desk, processing medical billing for an insurance company. Three days out of the year I can strap on a cape and become Red Sonya.”
Niobe nodded, unsure of what to say next. The driver dragged on her cigarette, then tapped ashes into a tray affixed to the center console. It hung over a charging cradle holding a cell phone.
Mandy saw her gazing at the phone. “You can use it, if you’re wondering.”
“I . . . Thanks. Again. It would be a huge help.”
Niobe pulled the phone from the cradle, careful not to knock down the ashtray. She thumbed through the menus, thinking. Who could help her? Did she even know any telephone numbers?
No. But she did know a few e-mail addresses.
“Mandy? Where exactly is Barbarian Days?”
“Cross Plains. Birthplace of the late great Robert E. Howard.”
Michelle—Help, please. I’m in danger. Please come. I’m in Cross Plains, TX.—Niobe.
Niobe wasn’t accustomed to using such a tiny keypad. Thumbing out the e-mail to Bubbles took a long time. But after she finished, she thanked Mandy again, closed her eyes, and slept.
The Tears of Nepthys
THE THIRD TEAR: NICK
Kevin Andrew Murphy
THE CAFÉ DU MONDE prided itself on beignets, chicory coffee, and never closing, even for hurricanes. Ellen didn’t know if the last was such a wise idea, but since Committee aces were like cops and got the two former items free, she wasn’t exactly going to complain, either. The wind wailed outside the iron shutters, and Ellen shivered. Her beaded flapper gown was not exactly suited to the weather, but then again she had a psychic allergy to off-the-rack.
Jonathan had no such problem, and had somewhere acquired a new sport coat. Ellen was about to comment on it when Michelle blew in, her latest Endora-style kaftan flapping around her currently svelte figure. “Zombies,” Michelle said succinctly. “They’re at it again.” She glanced to their table. “Grab your coffee. I’ll explain on the way.”
The explanation did not help much. All Ellen gathered was that A) Reverend Wintergreen had been holding a prayer vigil at the Superdome; B) buses were in the parking lot to evacuate people without transportation; and C) zombies had shown up, wreaking havoc.
Michelle found a spot at the edge of the parking lot. There were indeed a huge number of buses and an even more enormous crowd of people waiting for them, soaking in the rain. But havoc was a bit of an overstatement. “This is your fault,” stated Mayor Connick, storming up to them, rain dripping off the brim of his umbrel
la. He was not looking at Michelle or Jonathan.
Ellen looked up at him. “How do you figure that and what is ‘this,’ exactly?”
“You . . . the dead . . .” He gestured wildly to the buses. “Look . . .”
Ellen took his umbrella and went around to the nearest one, glancing for a moment at the crowd, black and white and, well, joker—Ellen wasn’t sure what race or even sex the individual with the shrimp chiton had started out as—but they were all looking with horror at the open door. Ellen glanced in. In the driver’s seat sat a nattily dressed young black man, a gold grill in his mouth and a bullet hole in his forehead. He was beckoning with one hand and gesturing to the back of the bus with the other, clearly miming Come in . . . come in . . . always room for one more.
There was a bit more commotion at the next bus. “The Power of Christ compels thee!” roared Reverend Wintergreen, waving a large silver cross. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
Ellen refrained from pointing out that if he wanted anyone on the bus to get behind him, he’d have to stop blocking the door. Instead, she just looked over his shoulder, seeing another zombie bus driver, but instead of welcoming gestures, this one was flipping him off.
“Same thing as at the hospital,” Ellen said, “though these seem a bit friendlier.”
“Safe bet it’s this ‘Hoodoo Mama’ we’ve heard about,” said Jonathan, coming to join them along with Jerusha, Ana, Michelle, and the mayor, “but fuck if I know what her game is.”
“Ain’t no game, you fuckers,” said a voice, harsh but still clear over the rain, “it’s fuckin’ dead serious.” An ancient black woman moved herself forward from the crowd, her wheelchair sluicing through the puddles. “You ain’t got no call to take these poor fuckers, these old fuckers, these fuckin’ jokers, away from the only homes they know, take them off to fuckin’ Jesus knows where, have them sit around in the fuckin’ rain while you play preacherman and hero so they catch their fuckin’ death of cold like poor ol’ Miss Partridge here.”
“Who’s Miss Partridge?” asked Michelle.