by Jason Beymer
Burklin moved close to Lorraine. “I think that’s its mouth.”
“Or its ass.”
One of the eyeballs halted inches away from Burklin’s face and blinked. “Explain how you came to be here.”
Lorraine started to answer, “We don’t—”
“Hush,” it said. The antenna coiled and lashed Lorraine’s cheek, leaving a bright red mark. The attached eye remained still as the antenna straightened.
“Hey!” Burklin shouted.
“I’m all right,” Lorraine said defiantly. Blood crept along the gash.
The slug brought both eyeballs close to Burklin’s face, and spikes rose along the antennae. “Drifter,” it said. “How did you get here?”
“Drifter?” Burklin echoed. “Why does everyone keep calling me that?”
“Answer the question.”
“My mother bludgeoned me over the head.”
“You make jokes? You make jokes with me?”
A sharp spike passed through his transparent neck. Burklin flinched. “Actually, no. My mother murdered me. I’m not good at jokes.”
“He’s not,” Lorraine said, holding her bloody cheek. “Burklin is laughter’s kryptonite.”
The slug croaked, “Drifter’s ghost cannot be here. It needs to leave this place immediately.”
“Why?” Lorraine said. “What about me? Aren’t you going to say the same thing about me?”
“You are Lorr-aine. You are a servant of Garrick. Servant of trinity.”
“I don’t know if ‘servant’ is the right word. Garrick and I are romantically involved.”
“Lorr-aine. You will walk to the end of the tunnel. You will go where all servants go for re-initiation. And you will go now.”
The little people giggled.
“Where?” Lorraine said. “Down that passageway in the dark? No way.”
“If you do not go, my workers will take you. You should go willingly. You’ll get … pie.”
“I don’t want pie,” she said, though Burklin knew better. “I want answers. What will I find at the end of the tunnel?”
“The slave—” It stopped. “Yummy pie.”
Burklin stepped in front of Lorraine and ducked under the protruding eye. “You heard her. We want answers,” he said.
“You?” It spit another glob of goop. “You don’t get answers. You cheated.”
Cheated?
“What’s with the Hawaiian shirts?” Lorraine asked.
“It’s Hawaiian Shirt Day,” the slug replied. “Every day is Hawaiian Shirt Day. Right, happy employees?”
A chorus of grunts answered.
“Now,” it said. “Where is Lord Avnas? Passed out drunk in his house, I suppose.”
Burklin had forgotten about the demon. He looked back at the waiting room.
The steel cable uncoiled again, and one eye moved toward the doorway. A spike extended, bent, and twisted the knob. As it opened the door, the oversized eyeball blinked twice. “Why is Lord Avnas here? Tell me what happened.”
“Car accident,” Lorraine said.
“You are the protectors. You are to give your life to keep him safe. Did you consult with Wanda?”
“Who?”
Burklin whispered, “The dead Korean.”
Lorraine crooked an eyebrow. “Her name was Wanda? What does she have to do with any of this? She was just another dead chick to throw in the Dumpster.”
“You were supposed to report to Wanda last night,” the slug said.
“No,” Lorraine said, as if speaking to a child. “I work for Garrick. I think you’re confused, fuckpile. He would have told me that. Maybe Garrick didn’t know.”
Burklin whispered, “He knew all along. Garrick tricked her into going there. He knew Wanda would die once she made contact with the demon.”
Lorraine blushed. “He never told me that.”
“Garrick didn’t trust us.”
The slug spoke as the workers giggled. “Garrick lost his powers once Wanda came into existence. He was supposed to meet with her, upload all information, then return to the Nether.”
“The dead Asian chick replaced him?” Lorraine asked. “Why?”
“Political pressure,” the slug said. “Quota system. Some members of the Bureau complained about hiring inequalities. They insisted that white males received all the best jobs. Minorities found career advancement difficult.”
Burklin swallowed. “Are you saying … are you saying Wanda replaced Garrick because of Affirmative Action?”
“Ah,” it snapped. “We do not use that term here. The voters struck down what you call ‘Affirmative Action’ due to its negative connotations. We prefer the term ‘quota system.’ The Bureau wants its protectors to select more diverse human forms to represent us topside.”
“Did anyone tell Garrick this?” Lorraine asked.
“Of course,” the thing said. “The CEO’s office approved the transition. They sent one copy to the Bureau of Licensing and Registration and another to the Nether chapter of the ACLU.”
“You guys have the ACLU down here?”
“Just down the hall. They filed the papers and delivered them in triplicate to the Nether’s front office. Then the office couriered and faxed them.”
Max came stumbling through the threshold and into the cavern. He grabbed Lorraine’s arm, then pointed at the giant slug. “Whoa,” he said. “That thing’s even fatter than you.”
“I repeat, what has happened to Wanda?” the thing asked.
“The scary Oriental?” Max replied. “I fucking killed her, dude.”
The slug moved forward, sliding along the ground. The eyes spiraled downward. “You killed your protector?”
“Uh … I killed a smokin’ hot Asian. Dude, don’t you have any ears?”
It brought its eyeballs closer. “Are you feeling pain, Lord Avnas?”
Max looked behind him.
“I’m referring to you,” the slug said. “You are Lord Avnas.”
“I am? Fucking awesome!”
“Are you in pain?”
Max nodded. “Uh-huh. All over.”
“Then Lord Avnas is experiencing the process of birth, as he has twenty-eight times before. This particular entity never makes it out of his teens. He once made it to nineteen, two months short of his twentieth birthday. Then he picked a fight with a grizzly bear and … lost.” The giant slug sighed. “You are by far the stupidest demon lord in the Nether, and no more special than Naberius, Forneus, or any of the other eminencies. I’ve made numerous requests to the Bureau of Demon Services to have your license revoked, but do they listen to me? No. I’m just the Greeter. ‘Welcome to the Nether,’ I’m supposed to say. ‘Go to the slave pens and have a soda.’“
“Dude, I can smell your breath from here.”
“This will be birth number twenty-nine. You will be reborn, probably to the senator again, unless the Bureau locates a more suitable parent. But Kamilla McPhee is a perfect carrier with her political power and party affiliation.”
“Will Max remember any of this?” Burklin asked. “I mean, after he’s reborn and everything?”
“He never does. And the Bureau has taken notice of his declining intellect. With each incarnation, his cognitive abilities slip further. Perhaps they’ll be wise enough to box him up after the next one.” The thing turned its attention back to Max. “Lord Avnas, can you make it into your twenties this time? Can you live long enough to gain a position of authority and manifest your full power? You don’t have to kill every human you meet. Especially those assigned to protect you. I wish you understood how long we’ve waited for you to fulfill your destiny. We only need to bring one of you demon lords to fruition.”
Max turned to Lorraine and smiled. “This is awesome. I can’t wait to tell Jimmy about these ‘shrooms. He said they’d make me bust a good nut, but this is way better.”
“So what is all this?” Lorraine asked, motioning to the computer terminals.
“Billions of souls
are trapped here in this place between eternities,” the slug said, “lost souls like mine. The Bureau believes that if one of the demon lords can grow to maturity on earth and manifest its power, it can open the doors to this prison and release us into the world. Centuries ago, in order to walk the earth, Avnas and the other lords required invocation from mortals. But the Bureau discovered a loophole in the traditional method, a way for demons to self-invocate through childbirth and take human form.” The slug motioned its antennae toward the computer terminals lining the walls. “This equipment aids their invocation by creating a portal directly into the mother’s womb. The rest of us aren’t so lucky. We can’t go anywhere until a demon lord discovers a way to create a bridge from the other side. Hence the sweepstakes.”
“What about Wanda and Garrick?” Burklin asked. “They came from here, right? Did they come through the, um, vagina portal too?”
“No. Only a demon lord may use the portal. That is Nether Law.”
“But if they didn’t come through this portal you’re talking about, then how did they cross over to my world?”
The slug spit again. Burklin must have hit a nerve. Its tone sharpened. “Unlike us, they belonged to the earthly plane once, having been human. The Bureau chooses the Trinity leaders from a pool of volunteers. Some are from here, some from the depths of Hell. The leaders resurrect into any human form they want, so long as they protect their assigned eminency. The Bureau sometimes takes my workers too, those who once lived. The lucky shits empty the Dumpsters topside. As for the rest of us who never walked the earth? We’re fucked until the bridge comes.”
This time Lorraine spoke up. “So why don’t you all travel through the portal with the lords?”
“Yeah,” Burklin echoed with a nod. “What about the vagina thingy? It sounds messy, but at least it’s a way out.”
Now the slug looked furious. Its basketball eyes rotated, the spindles brushing against each other like an insect’s legs. “If and when you ever come here in physical form, Drifter, I swear I’ll slash your throat. Each vaginal birth requires a tremendous amount of Netherite to keep the terminals running and the portal between worlds open. There is not enough of it for everyone, so they reserve it for lords. The Bureau says we must submit to their will under penalty of Aimless Drift.”
“But—”
“Enough. Lorr-aine, you will enter the slave pool. The Bureau will catalogue you among others hoping to serve again in the future. Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to attract the ACLU’s attention, eh? They’re always looking for a cause to rally behind.”
Burklin jutted out his chin. “Garrick sent me here … I mean I wasn’t exactly sent … but I think I need to do something important.”
The slug whirled on Lorraine. “What is the ghost babbling about?”
“He tends to do that,” she replied.
“Avnas will be born again,” the thing said, “and Wanda will take charge of the demon’s welfare. She will choose a replacement for Lorr-aine.”
“Wanda?” Lorraine said, looking to Burklin. “The Asian chick? She died. Max tore her throat out and stabbed the hell out of her. She’s dead.”
Burklin looked sideways.
Lorraine glared at him. “What?”
“Wanda isn’t dead, Lorraine. Not anymore. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me. She’s on her way to find Senator McPhee.”
“So Garrick really did lose his powers?” she asked.
The slug’s spikes retracted. “The Bureau stripped them. Wanda and Garrick cannot possess protective power simultaneously. Not over the same demon lord.”
Burklin puffed out his chest. “We’re not going anywhere. I demand you … um, make us alive again.”
“Oh, Drifter,” the slug said. “So presumptuous. Time for you to go. Lorr-aine must walk to the slave pens, but you cannot go with her. Since your soul is still alive in the living world, you are … how would you say … semi-immortal?”
Burklin’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “Are you saying I can’t die?”
“Garrick has given you the greatest gift of all. By removing your soul, he has placed you beyond the influence of both the Bureau and me. Think of your soul as a one-gallon jug with a—”
“Sponge. Yeah, I’ve heard this one. Can you go back to the part where I’m immortal?”
Chapter 26
Second Helpings
Senator Kamilla McPhee managed to catch her bodyguards by surprise. She stuck her head out the door with a plastic smile. Both bodyguards gawked at the blood caked over her cheeks, chin, and black lace bra.
Kamilla sized them up: Bobo the ex-bouncer and Alvin the ex-linebacker. “I’m fine,” she said with a growl. “Keep those camera-toting jackals from coming in here.”
The two stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking any camera from getting a shot of the senator’s bloody face.
“You’re hurt,” said the ex-linebacker with the fleshy chest.
“And you’re bleeding,” added the three-hundred-pound bouncer with the succulent ass.
Kamilla licked her lips. “It’s not my blood.”
“Oh.”
“One of you come in here,” she said. “That intern. He tried to assault me. Yeah, that’s what happened. Come in here and help me clean up the mess.”
“I’ll tell hotel security,” Bobo said.
“No!” she exclaimed. “No. I’m sure they’re enjoying the media exposure. Make sure they know I’m okay. Keep them from alerting the police. Understand?”
They both nodded, and Bobo started to go with her. Kamilla held up her hand.
“You’re not fleshy enough,” she said, regretting the words as they left her mouth. “I mean, you’re not as strong as Alvin here.”
“Oh.”
“I need your muscles to guard the bathroom. Alvin can help me mop up. Can’t you, Alvin?”
Alvin nodded dumbly. Kamilla’s stomach growled.
She put a finger to her lips and played the dumb blonde, an act she’d perfected long ago. Kamilla pointed to the long hunting knife in Bobo’s belt as Alvin entered the bathroom behind her.
“Mind if I borrow that?” she whispered.
“Didn’t we already give you one?”
“A girl can’t have too much cutlery.”
Kamilla took the knife and closed the door. She tried to lock it, but with her amplified strength, the lock broke off in her hand with one twist. She held the broken metal in her palm, then tossed it aside.
Alvin walked farther into the bathroom. He followed the carpet of blood to the stall. Discarded meat littered the tiled floor. Several shades of crimson trailed to the drain holes. As he turned around, poised to ask a stupid question, Kamilla thrust the blade into his neck. She pulled it downward and produced a long gash. Alvin stumbled backward, hands on his throat, and slipped on the intern’s blood.
Kamilla tore into him with her long nails. She was a roided-up Olympian capable of bench-pressing a diesel truck.
The man squeaked out a quick “help” before the flesh of his neck disappeared. The “help” sounded more like “kelp,” which might have alarmed a sailor too close to a coastline, but not anyone standing outside a bathroom.
As she ate, every tube light in the ceiling brightened, every speck of urine glistened with a yellow sheen. The lights buzzed above her, deafening, and her vision blurred into a red glaze.
Kamilla moved to one of the sinks and turned on the cold water. She caught her reflection; it startled her. Her eyes were manic, her mouth slathered with glistening red. Her swollen stomach had grown larger and her belly button stuck out like the tab on a balloon. “Damn it.”
And she was still so hungry.
“I can fix this.” Her teeth hooked over her bottom lip. She licked the blood from her fingertips. “I have to stop eating. I can still win this election.”
Kamilla dashed to the door and cracked it an inch.
“Senator?” the security guard said.
“Get me an
other intern, Bobo,” she whispered. “No. Get me two. Beefy, meaty interns.”
“Senator?”
“Do it! I’m starving.” She cleared her throat. “Starving for company … need to go over my campaign. Do it and there’s an extra hundred bucks in it for you. An extra thousand if you can keep your mouth shut.”
Kamilla closed the door and sucked in a breath. Licking her lips, she returned to Alvin.
* * * *
Inside the Steadman Arms lobby, the door to the ladies’ room had become a circus attraction. Walter Potankin waited. He specialized in waiting for that perfect, flawless entrance. His competition had presented him with an incredible opportunity, and he intended to capitalize.
Reporters formed a halo around the door, some squatting, some standing, cameras poised. Their semicircle reached from wall to wall like stacks of sandbags before a flood. The senator’s lone security guard faced them. Seven hotel security personnel flanked the door as well, wearing red windbreakers with the hotel’s insignia. The cameras rolled, the talking heads speculated, and every eye waited to catch a glimpse of the woman inside. He listened to people talk. Senator McPhee had experienced some kind of mental breakdown. The rigors of politics and the news of her son’s passing had been too much to bear.
Perfect. He couldn’t buy this kind of press.
The hotel manager ordered security to milk the attention. She told them to keep anyone from entering the ladies’ room, lest the camera jockeys stop displaying the Steadman Arms logo in the lobby.
“Everyone stay back,” a hotel security man said for the hundredth time.
Someone pointed at Potankin, and cameras swiveled on their tripods. The reporters in their excessive makeup and fancy clothes turned, and the halo parted.
Cue the new California senator, he thought. He sauntered through the opening, nodding to every reporter, every camera.
“Mr. Potankin,” a reporter called out. “What are your thoughts on Senator McPhee’s apparent breakdown?”
“My thoughts are that I need to use the little boys’ room.” He laughed. “I’m saddened management has closed off both restrooms. No one can enjoy the Potankin Pucks in the men’s lavatory while the senator garners such attention. Travesty. And I believe this fine hotel has installed the ‘Summer Baseball Mitt’ series. My thoughts on our delicate blond flower, Senator McPhee? This is an obvious cry for help. It’s time we abandon partisan politics and look to the well-being of our fellow man. I suppose Democrat logic has become too twisted to rationalize, even for her.”