Mickey thought one of Henrikson’s finest roles, aside from his work on Millenium, was as Jesse, patriarch of the peripatetic vampire clan in Near Dark. Jesse, screaming out the window of the Hide-A-Way hotel in his tinted goggles as he unloaded on the law with a big automatic. Jesse, who, when asked how old he was, replied, Let’s put it this way. I fought for the South. We lost. Near Dark, starring another of Mickey’s favorites, Bill Paxton, long before that man was chasing tornadoes or battling aliens. A cocksure six-gun totin’ spur-wearin’…
“It’s not tartar,” John said. “You can trust me on that.”
“It’s just, I have to be real careful, what with the baby and—”
The woman who had not spoken looked up at her.
“The baby?” John stopped eating and Julie immediately regretted saying it. “Are you with child, pretty lady?”
Gwen forced herself to move away from Julie and towards her M16A4.
“May I?”
Julie wanted to scream no at him, to tell him to keep his dirty hands the hell away from her, but she was petrified and sat as still as she could will herself as John leaned over and unzipped her jacket. He pulled the flap of her coat back, revealing her belly. John whistled and sat back.
“The woman is with child. Cause for celebration. Mister Marcus, where’s that hooch?”
Mister Marcus passed the bottle back to John and the tall man drank deeply. “That’ll do the trick.
“None for you, pretty lady,” he said to Julie. “What with the baby and all. Drink Emily.”
The woman sipped from the bottle.
Deadman, thought Mickey, that’s what this whole scene reminded him of. Jim Jarmusch’s western. The critics had been unfair. The movie had rocked! Johnny Depp, Robert Mitchum’s last big role, Neil Young soundtrack. Gary Farmer as the fat Indian—Stupid fucking white man—and Lance Henrickson as Cole Wilson, who, after emptying his revolver in fellow bounty hunter Conway Twill dumps the cylinder and tosses the empties at Twill, growling at him, Here, eat ‘em. But that scene didn’t make the final cut, thought Mickey, you had to have the extras on the DVD for that.
“Course,” John was saying, “there are those who would question the wisdom of bringing a vulnerable child into this zombie-ridden world of ours.”
And then it hit him, the familiarity of their situation and Jarmusch’s film. Henrickson’s Wilson character was a legendary bounty hunter who had fucked and eaten his own parents. Eaten. After Cole Wilson killed Conway Twill he cooked him up and ate him, even with that perpetual toothache that—
“Uhhhhhh!” He tossed the Tupperware away, rolled over on his side and stuck two fingers down his throat. Mister Marcus and John started laughing demonically and Gwen moved a few inches closer to her M16.
“No,” John said. He stopped laughing and moved his furs aside to reveal the handle of a pistol holstered snug against his stomach. It was a Desert Eagle .357. “Don’t go and ruin our evening, okay?”
Gwen froze where she was.
“Ahhh, you sons of bitches—motherfuckers.” Mickey gagged.
“Looks like the devil got up into him.” Mister Marcus said.
“Looks like.”
“You bastards.” Spit dripped from Mickey’s mouth. “What the hell did you feed me?”
Mister Marcus smiled. “Zebra meat, wasn’t it?”
“The man said it himself.” John didn’t take his eyes off Gwen. “Tastes like chicken.”
“Motherfuckers, bastards.” Mickey dry heaved. “Was that—was that human flesh?”
“Human flesh?” John looked amused. “What do you have to say to that, Mister Marcus?”
“Well.” Mister Marcus picked a piece of meat out of the space where a tooth had been. He stared at it. “I guess it was human, once.” He popped the meat back in his mouth.
“Zombie,” Mickey said. “You’re eating zombie?”
“You’re eating it too,” Mister Marcus said with a straight face but John laughed hard, holding one side of his torso.
Mickey vomited in the snow.
“Now come on, son. Mister Marcus here is just messin’ with you. Do you really think you can eat dead human flesh?”
Mickey squinted from the tears his purge had brought out and stared down at the chunks of meat in his vomit.
“Why don’t—why don’t you tell me?”
John Book drank from the bottle and sighed. “Come to think of it, lot of things one can do that people never considered.”
“Speak, John,” Mister Marcus said.
“You all ever heard of a penile bisection? When a man cuts his willy in two, make it look like—aw, forget it.
“Take L.A. there. Ya’ll have noticed by now, no doubt, that L.A. is missing him a large part of his left hand, yes? Show ‘em L.A.”
“Come on, John,” the man mumbled impotently.
“I said show ‘em, L.A.. Show ‘em, son.”
He held his bandaged hand up for all to see but continued to look at the ground.
“Now, any guesses how L.A. lost that there hand of his? None. Try this on for size. Zombie nibbled the tips of L.A.’s fingers off. A death sentence, right? Wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked, thinking if she could keep this man talking… Where was Bear? She looked over at Buddy. There would be no help from him.
“As soon as L.A. got bit, I got me my saw, and like Abraham draped his son Isaac over that rock, I lay L.A. down—”
“I held him,” Mister Marcus said.
“—with Mister Marcus’s assistance, and I removed the offensive members, like that.” John moved his hand back and forth in a sawing motion. “Boy been alright ever since, ain’t you L.A.?”
“Never better.” L.A. didn’t sound convincing.
“See, we arrested the spread of that zombie’s poison in this boy’s system. And like I was sayin’, there’s things known, and there’s things unknown.”
“Speak, John.”
“And there’s secrets a man,” John looked at Julie, “and a woman,” he addressed the group again, “keep close to their hearts.” John looked directly at Mickey. “You got you a secret, don’t you son?”
“Huh? What? What do you—”
“Don’t equivocate with me, son. I am John Book—”
“Amen!” Mister Marcus shouted.
“…And I am the Lord!”
“Halleluiah!”
“And I have seen deep into the hearts and souls of man and I have seen all that was and all that will be—and, dammit, I feel good. I feel good enough…good enough for a song!”
“Glory come!”
John Book stood up and started to sway to a tune only he heard. The woman clapped sporadically and had a gleeful, crazed look on her face, though she continued to stare at Julie. Mister Marcus watched Gwen and Julie and Mickey and said, “You are in for an extra special treat now.”
“I knew a girl named Nikki,” John sang, his voice gravelly. “I guess you could say she was—no, no, no.” He slugged a mouthful from the bottle. “That song don’t suit the mood. How ‘bout a song, for your women?” John looked at Mickey. “I mean, I can tell they ain’t your women, but, well, just sit there and if you want to, why don’t you join Emily, and clap your spank hand?” The woman hadn’t ceased clapping, “Without further ado…
“Guuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrllllllllllllllll,” crooned John—
“Dung-dung-dung-dung,” intoned Mister Marcus.
“—you’ll be a woman, soooooooooooooooon—Damn!” John sat down. “Sometimes, sometimes the spirit just moves me.”
Mickey sat staring. This was all so unreal. Like a David Lynch film.
“You should close your mouth, son,” John said, “before the flies move in. Cigarillo, Mister Marcus?”
He produced a shiny silver cigarette holder from his furs and popped it open. He took out two short, narrow cigars and handed one over to Mister Marcus.
“Let me see that.” Mister Marcus reached over and took the lig
hter from Buddy’s hand. Buddy did not protest. “Thanks.”
He lit his cigar, “Nice lighter,” and then passed the Zippo to John who did the same. He tossed the lighter back to Mister Marcus and Mister Marcus rolled the wheel, toying with it.
“So, pretty lady.” John turned his gaze on Julie. “This baby of yours—”
“Never!” The woman who travelled with the three men spoke for the first time.
“What’s that Emily?” John said. “Listen up, all. The little woman has something she wants to say.”
“Never.” The woman’s eyes looked drugged, Gwen thought. “That child must not be.”
“What?” Julie said.
“Yeah,” Gwen said. “What?”
“This world,” said Emma or Emily or whatever her true name was. “No child must be brought into this world.”
“It is sort of inhospitable,” Mister Marcus said, dislodging another gob of meat from a gap in his teeth. He held his thumb out to Mickey and when the other man blanched he shrugged and dipped it back into his own mouth. “You gotta admit.”
The lighter had disappeared somewhere in his furs.
“Excuse me,” Gwen said. She was angry now. “You have no fucking right to decide for my friend—”
“No sweetheart,” John said. “You have no anything. And the language ain’t no call for.”
“I were you,” Mister Marcus said, “I’d just sit there and shut my dick hole.”
“Fuck you, you—”
“Mister Marcus, Mister Marcus. You heard me reprimand the lady for her tongue just now, didn’t you?”
“Come on, John,” L.A. spoke up. “Let’s leave ‘em alone…”
“What have I told you about addressing me, boy? Did the Mayans dare to gaze directly upon the mighty Atahualpa?”
“You’re crazy,” Gwen said. “You’re all fucking crazy, aren’t you? Do you really think you’re some kind of God?”
“Language.” John shook his head. “You really don’t get it, do you? This is going to end bad for—”
“John, come on—”
“L.A..”
There was wrath in his voice. As John reached over to take the bottle from the woman, Bear materialized from behind him like a bad dream come from the night, pressing one Glock to the back of the man’s scraggly-haired head. In his other hand was a second Glock, the one with the green laser sight, and there was a green dot on Mister Marcus’s chest.
“Do it,” Bear said. Mister Marcus took his focus off his rifle and stared at the shadow looming behind John.
“Well,” John said, and he didn’t sound scared. “I don’t think we’ve had the chance to be acquainted. Judging by the look on Mister Marcus’s face, you must be a sight to behold.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bear said.
L.A. sat, frozen, frightened.
“If you shoot me, you’ll bring every zombie for miles around to your camp fire. Ya’ll can sing—”
He cracked John over the head with the Glock. The man groaned and leaned forward but remained seated.
“Like I said, friend, we ain’t been acquainted. My name is John Book, and these good folk here with—”
“John Book?” Mickey shouted. “John Book was Harrison Ford’s character’s name in Witness. Your name isn’t John Book, you bastard!”
“He sure is,” Mister Marcus said, watching Bear, “and we’re his witnesses!”
“Here’s how this goes, you sick bastards.” Gwen had retrieved her M16A4 and stood. Julie was behind her, the .357 and .380 drawn. “One at a time, you’re going to stand and you’re going to take off your coats, nice and slow. Any weapons you have, anything, you’re going to dump them right here.”
John Book was the last of the four to shed his furs and weapons.
“I’m gonna miss that pistol,” he said as he lay the Desert Eagle down reverently. He turned to face Bear behind him for the first time. “Well, you are a big one, ain’t cha’?”
When they were done they stood, the four of them, L.A. and the woman shivering in the cold. Bear continued to loom behind John, one Glock to the man’s head, the laser sight on Mister Marcus.
Mickey picked up the green bottle and drained the contents in the snow. John Book shook his head as the last of the liquid flowed out.
“Now, you’re going to walk off, into the dark, away from us, and you’re not coming back,” Gwen said. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”
“I’ll kill you,” Julie whispered, looking at the woman.
“Well,” John said. “This ain’t exactly neighborly behavior, is it?”
“You like getting hit in the head?” Bear asked.
“Hear me out for one second, okay friends? Hear me this: You’ll look back on this night with regret. You took me and Mister Marcus and our companions here for a threat, yet I implore you, ask yourselves, what threat did a starving old man and his three friends ever pose you? You can’t be serious believing that was actually zombie meat—”
“You threatened my baby!” Julie snapped.
“I merely advanced an opinion, pretty lady—”
Bear cut off the conversation by smashing the man in the head again with the butt of his pistol. John Book almost went down but remained standing. He blinked several times until he was finally able to speak.
“Okay, okay, okay, friend.” He looked at Julie. “See you later, pretty lady.” Then he looked at Gwen and he winked at her.
“Go, now,” Gwen said to Mister Marcus. He exhaled, and she couldn’t help but think for a man who should be scared, who should be very afraid, this guy wasn’t. He was taking his cues from John Book, and that guy was cool as a –
“Wait,” L.A. protested with his one hand. “Can I—”
“L.A., shut up! Come on.” Mister Marcus took Emma and L.A. each by an arm. “Let’s get.”
He led them off into the dark.
John stood there with Bear’s 9mm pressed to the back of his head. They waited quietly for several minutes, listening to the receding crunch-crunch-crunch of Mister Marcus, the woman and L.A.’s feet in the snow. When they couldn’t hear them any longer Gwen turned to John.
“Now, you. Go.”
“You sendin’ them out there without their coats.”
“You too.” Gwen said.
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Go figure it out.”
Bear propelled him ahead several feet by shoving the barrel of his Glock against the man’s head.
He went to reach for the cooler but Mickey yelled, “No!” and kicked it off into the night. “No!”
“That’s the problem with the world, today,” John said as he walked off after his companions. “Everybody’s so damn unfriendly.”
They listened to him leave. Buddy hadn’t moved the entire time.
“Are you okay, Julie?” Gwen turned.
“Yeah, I’m—I mean, I’m shook up, but I’m okay.”
“Bear, oh thank God. How long were you there?”
“Long enough. I wasn’t going to let them hurt any of you.”
“Then you heard, you heard that guy’s song?”
He nodded.
“Crazy,” Mickey said. “They’re crazy, aren’t they?”
“Whatever they are,” Bear said, “they’ve made it this far. Mickey, do me a favor. I left a whole bunch of wood for the fire over here. Come help me get it.”
Julie went over to Buddy and crouched down next to him.
Crusade (Eden Book 2) Page 14