Plain Ugly battled the dog. The chain entangled, the slack tightened, and each movement bruised Poe’s wrist. It was like being weighted by an anchor during a boxing match.
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Muumuu wrestled Penny from Plain Ugly, tearing off the dog’s collar and tossing her into the water. Poe cried as she witnessed her dog fall overboard.
Poe was dizzier than ever.
Muumuu captured a leg. No matter how much she fought, Poe couldn’t free it. She closed her eyes tightly as the monster opened wide, her one yellow fang doubling in length for a piece of thigh. Her olive army pants gave the ogre a struggle, however. Plain Ugly bit her cheek and proceeded to suck. His reeking breath made Poe want to cry.
It hurt. She could taste her death in the drizzle of rain she’d only just noticed.
Like watermelon-flavored shaved ice in the summer, a most pleasant thing occurred. Poe heard gunfire, albeit shrouded in a silencer.
And the archangel swept down to her rescue.
Equipped with a gun muted with a silencer, he shot Poe’s cannibalistic friends in the back, destroying their moldy organs until they slumped dead on top of her.
“Sainvire?” Poe asked disbelievingly while half-submerged in the bodies of the truly dead. Is it him?
Same height and dark coloring. Her migraine was making her see double.
He didn’t say a word.
Completely undone and nearly weeping from gratitude, Poe mustered a smile for the dark-haired seraph with a glowing face.
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“How’s your cheek?” he asked, gently wiping blood from the one-fang bite.
Poe’s smile vanished. His voice pricked her ears.
Without the halo of hero veneration, she studied the face that seemed to shine as if a candle was directly lit under his nose.
“Well are you alright then?” he repeated, sounding irritated. Since she didn’t answer, he dragged the bodies near the edge of the railing. The man took a clean swipe off of their scalps and gave them a kick until they rolled off the boat.
“Clear your head, woman. I’m not bloody Sainvire,” he grumbled, offended.
His voice. That odd accent. He sounds like…
“Caveman?” asked Poe incredulously.
Upon closer examination of fresh shaving nicks, she noticed that his face glowed. He appeared unearthly because everything about him was dark, except for his cheeks and chin, unbleached by the sun.
“That would be James Maclemar to you,” he said with a frown. He selected the correct key and unlocked her restraints.
“Where the hell were you?”
“Sorry. I’m a deep sleeper.”
Poe was speechless.
“I’ve brought your gun,” he said, reaching for the Ziploc’ed Glock tucked behind his back. Almost everything in her pack was sealed in plastic. The light drizzle was threatening to turn into rain.
Before he could hand it to her, Maclemar found himself zooming thirty feet up in the air and tersely dropped into the chilly water by a sour-faced Trampoline Man. Within seconds the jumping 60
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wonder returned with his pig-eater companion in his arms. Both glared furiously.
“Lucky for you. We have a few more Revs in our boats,” said Trampoline Man.
Just looking at the pair of thugs wearied Poe.
She’d had enough. She was starving, worn out, highly confused by James Maclemar’s make-over, and devastated by her dog’s watery death. Before the two vampires could hurt her, Poe spoke.
“Hold it, boys,” she said steadily. “Hold off trying to chomp on my neck. I’d like you both to take a good look at my face. Look familiar?”
If Passionada hadn’t been lying about her fugitive status, then Poe thought she could bide her time until she was strong enough to take on the two bozos harpooning her with their eyes.
“You’re killing time, gel. I got your numba,” the roundish undead with a New England accent said, batting away the fish and scalp found hanging slapdash on the boat. The mound of recently sliced head parts he booted into the waters.
“You will be our dessert after all,” seconded Trampoline Man as he took a step toward her. “Like it or not.”
“Hold up. This is the face that can make all your dreams come true,” she said quickly as he took another step closer. “Recognize this scar?” She traced the five-inch scrape job from forehead to cheek.
“Beverly Hills mansion, unlimited cattle…”
“Oh shit, Herbie,” Trampoline Man exclaimed.
He smacked his forehead with an open palm. “This is the cattle rustler everyone’s been looking for. For like two years. The one who disfigured Pretty Boy Trench and stole our Downtown food reserve.”
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“We can’t be this lucky. No way.” said Herbie with a slight hesitation. “The elusive Julia Poe, cattle thief and Sainvire’s whore? We’re going to be master vampires, man. No more boat patrol for us!”
“Um, excuse me,” Poe interjected, seething. She massaged her bruised wrist slow-like. “I’m not Sainvire’s whore.”
“Whatevah you say, gel,” Manitoba giggled then turned to Trampoline Man. “Ain’t she small?
Thought she would be a six-footah at least.”
“It’s all propaganda so Trench won’t look like a pussy.”
“Yup. And she don’t look so bad even with the scah,” said Manitoba as he examined her with a critical eye. “Sainvire could always spot the diamond in the rough. I hear his new girlfriend’s a looka. A masta vamp from Nevada. This girl’s hootas ain’t bad.”
Poe’s eyes narrowed from the conversation.
Fatigue exited her body the more insults they threw her way. And what’s this about Sainvire’s new girlfriend?
“Um, excuse me, but don’t talk to me,” she said, grinding her teeth, “like I’m not standing in front of you.”
“Oh yeah? What are ya gonna do about it?
You’re gonna do more of that kung fu shit?”
A spiteful uppercut from Poe and a delectable kick in the groin quickly erased Herbie’s smug grin.
Judging by the pain registering on his chubby vampiric face, Manitoba wasn’t as gifted in healing as the Revenents.
“Yup! That kung fu shit.”
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Trampoline Man she attacked in the knee with enough force to break a cement block in half. By the third pounce Poe heard the sweet sound of cracking.
“That’s how I like it,” Poe said happily, her smile dwindling.
She gave it all she had, succeeding in pulping faces and breaking limbs. But since she had no holy water handy, Trampoline Man and Manitoba, the piglet-eating duo, were far from dying permanently.
Her blows became stunted as her anger and adrenaline dissipated and the new batch of Revenents assembled themselves. Every bruise, cut, and sunburn screamed “time out.”
Such was just the moment Trampoline Man was waiting for: A chink in the glass. As Poe prepared to deliver a blow to his good leg, Trampoline Man squatted low, launched into the air, and disappeared.
“Oh shit,” she said testily, looking up into the dark evening sky. The boat flanking hers seemed to be empty.
A haze of movement teased her peripherals. A great hand grabbed a fistful of hair from behind and lifted her the few feet in the air the slack of her shackles allowed. It was a rocky ride as Trampoline Man balanced on one leg.
“Bad move, girl,” he said, his face contorted in antagonism. “Now I’m going to have to hurt you.”
He threw her against the anchor and enjoyed watching her squirm from the pain of hitting solid metal. “Manitoba, you alright there, man?”
Manitoba’s face oozed with tar blood where Poe had targeted his veins especially well. He had trouble getting back on his feet.
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“Fuck this, man,” he said. “Trench ain’t getting her. I’m going to personally drain the little bitch.”
“You’re willing to give up a life as a master vampire? Cattle of your own?” Trampoline Man asked his hot-tempered friend.
“Yup, easy. Politics is so fucked up on the mainland anyway. Don’t wanna be no part of it.
’Sides, I’m a quarter black, and you know how shitty we get it in the new realm. Janitor, incinerator, ass wiper,” Manitoba said with a wince. He wiped his eyes clear. “Guess you can say I’ve taken a liking to swine blood. There’s nothing like vampires that don’t burn in the sun and the open sea. We’ve got more choices than some.” He shoved the Revenents out of the way.
“Let’s do it then. Heads or tails?”
“Heads.”
Trampoline Man took a shiny half dollar from his pants pockets. Poe didn’t know if there was any fight left in her. She was so tired and bruised that all she could do was watch with detachment as the two vampires flipped for the first suck. She licked ocean, rain, and blood from her lips.
I’ll fight them when they get near me. Maybe by then I’ll get my grit back to beat the shit out of them.
The tall jumping frog tossed the coin and caught it in his palm. Poe’s full lips trembled as Trampoline Man slapped the coin onto his left hand, palm down.
“Shit. It’s heads,” he announced not so happily.
“Better make sure to leave enough for me.”
“You know me, buddy,” Manitoba laughed. “I’m accommodating and generous to a fault.” He met Poe’s eyes as she crouched tiredly on the floor. “I’m talking about my buddy here, not you, gel. You. I’m 64
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gonna need you to strip to your skivvies now. That G.I. Joe dyke look isn’t to my taste.”
Herbie’s words wound her mettle into gear.
With as much dignity as she could, Poe rose to her feet, her nostrils flaring.
“The only one stripping around here is you, Stay Puft man.”
“Timid words. Too bad I can’t take them seriously, pink pants.”
Poe, shaking from the horrendous evening, made fists. “Get ready to die, worm. And you, too.”
Both men cackled at her threat.
“And how exactly are you going to do that?”
Trampoline Man asked with a snort.
Poe had no idea how to answer, but a solid object thrown between her shoulder blades caused her to curse uninhibitedly.
“She loves me, this gel,” said Manitoba. “Wants me to give her a lap dance or sumfin.”
The two vampires continued to guffaw and titter.
They didn’t see or hear the object that the ocean had spit out.
A smile slowly formed as Poe noticed the object that hit her. Between her legs lay her salvation.
“I’m going to waste precisely two bullets on you both. I’ll shoot you smack in the center of the heart.
Then I’m going to lay to rest the walking jerky chained up on your boats.”
The sniggering duo slapped their knees at the girl’s statement.
“And how are you gonna do that, gel?” asked Herbie.
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“Maybe she’s mentally ill or something,” said Trampoline Man heartily. “Are you going to use your fingers as a pretend gun?”
“Nope,” Poe said with a sunshine smile reaching down. “I’m going to use my very own 9mm Glock.”
With a smug smile Poe reached for the sopping object on deck and tore it out of the Ziploc bag.
Quickly but with precision she pierced the hearts of both Trampoline Man and Manitoba. Bullseye.
She awoke nestled between a piglet and a dog.
Poe would have dismissed her bed partners as figments of her dreams but for the rather low cabin ceiling that looked like it was getting vodka shaken.
She reached for the expired anti-nausea medication conveniently placed on the bolted bed stand.
Swallowing a few tabs with only her spit to help them down, Poe clamped her eyes shut and waited for the uneasiness to dissipate.
“Come here, Chops,” Poe said in a raspy voice.
She hoisted the rosy piglet with a single perfectly round black dot on its rump. She’d named the little critter in her dreams. “You, too, Pen,” she added when her dog complained of favoritism. The dog nearly ate it. If it weren’t for Maclemar, Penny would have been lost at sea.
Both critters stank.
She ached all over and suffered from motion sickness. Two days since she’d had her last mouthful of cotton candy. Her stomach was empty, and last night’s debacle was no dream.
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After flushing the two boats filled with chained up Revenents, she and Maclemar had discovered a snorting piglet with a curly tail hiding under a pile of life preservers. The moment Maclemar had transferred gasoline pilfered from the two boats, he fired up his engine and headed for their destination.
Maclemar, immovable, ordered her down to the cabin for some shut-eye. Poe had been too tired to protest.
“Where is that weirdo taking us?” Poe asked the pig who had taken quite a liking to the rip on her mom’s Clash t-shirt. “I gotta get off this boat. I don’t know about you two.”
Within fifteen minutes Poe was up and about, examining the tiny cabin-slash-kitchen. On a redwood shelf were dog-eared books consisting mainly of classic American writers.
“Vonnegut, Thoreau, Conrad, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Twain, Wharton…wow,” read Poe. “My folks have the same stuff on their bookshelves at home. Maybe Caveman’s not such a Neanderthal after all.”
“Much thanks then,” said a dry voice from the entrance. “Suppose I ought to be flattered.”
She colored, and she watched the man warily as he walked down the steps. He carried two freshly gutted sea bass. As coolly as she could, Poe put on her damp sneakers.
“Breakfast will be ready in about twenty minutes,” Maclemar pronounced.
What do I say to someone who chained me up and molested me? Something neutral, I suppose. He’s the only one that knows how to drive a boat. And he did throw me a gun while doing butterfly strokes in the choppy ocean.
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“Do you want me to go on deck?”
“You can do what you want. If it gets too smoky and fishy down here, I suggest you do,” he said with a shrug. Poe watched his long, well designed fingers dice up a small red onion and five hefty potatoes with their skins intact and throw them in a deep iron pot.
In a large skillet he poured a generous amount of olive oil and arranged the two fish comfortably side by side. He squeezed some lemon on top of the nicely browning fish and covered them with a handful of dill. The fisherman had quite an array of potted herbs scattered about the cabin.
The smell made her eyes water, and her empty belly began speaking in tongues. There was nothing Maclemar could do to force her out of there. To occupy her mind she decided to harass the cook.
“Are you Irish? Or English?” she pursued once more.
“Nope and nope,” he said while moving the potatoes around with a wooden spatula.
“Well?”
“Hmm? Well what?”
“What are you? You’re not American. Your accent’s a little off.”
“That’s nice of you to notice, but I’ve met plenty of Americans with more varied accents.” He turned his head to give her a meaningful look. No matter where she went she seemed to get a civics lecture of some sort. He was correct, though. Her grandfather had a slight accent, and he was an American. “If you must know, I’m Welsh. From Wales.”
“Oh. Where’s that?” Poe asked, self-conscious about her ignorance in geography and her tendency to 68
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generalize when it came to touchy personal questions.
“That’s part o
f the UK. The 4th slice they hardly talk about. It’s west of England.”
“Would there happen to be mines in Wales?”
“Yes, there are. I’m afraid we’re known for that.
But let me assure you that my country is magnificent with unforgettable landscape and people. ”
“Yeah? Well can you name me some world renowned Welsh people then?”
“Right,” he said. He pulled at the beard that was there no more while pondering the girl’s question. “There’s T.E. Lawrence.”
“Dunno him.”
“He’s Lawrence from Lawrence of Arabia.”
She nodded. “I saw the movie. Extremely long but good. Who else?”
“What about Dylan Thomas?”
“What about him?”
The fisherman expelled a heavy breath. “He was just one of the greatest poets that ever lived.”
Poe shrugged her shoulders.
“Bloody Americans,” he mumbled under his breath. “Pissing on heaven under their feet.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, how about Richard Burton?”
“Oh I know him,” Poe said. “I’ve seen sixteen movies with him in it. Go ahead. Ask me about movies and movie stars ’cause chances are I’ve seen most everything they ever made. Including their early smut stuff.”
“I beg your pardon?”
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“Nothing. Never mind.” Poe waved his question away. She wasn’t very discerning with movies. She watched anything she could get ahold of. Anything.
“Well I thought you sounded a little like the cast of Trainspotting,” she changed the subject as Name-the-Welsh was going nowhere. She perused his jaw which looked almost greenish from emerging stubble.
“You wouldn’t be wrong there, either. My parents immigrated to Glasgow when I was twelve.
They were both professors at the University. Then for a time I lived with my grandparents in London so the accent’s a tad screwed.”
“Um, yeah. So what were you doing in America when the world got poisoned?”
“I was getting my Doctorate in American Literature.”
“So that’s why all the books,” she said, waving her hand at the shelves. “I hardly see any Shakespeare or Dickens in your collection.”
Dead Surround - The Julia Poe Vampire Chronicles Page 6