Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife (48 page)

“Boy, do you look mad.”

Semple didn’t figure how or why, but somehow she knew instinctively, by some third, fourth, or even fifth sight, that to utter the King of the Monsters’ name in English could not only cause him extreme and maybe litigious vexation, but also create other malevolent resonances all over the Afterlife. That was why she had cut off her instinctive utterance in midsyllable. He looked angry enough already, with his eyes burning red and his feathery dorsal wattles erect and quivering. Semple quickly racked her brains for the acceptable Japanese nomenclature. Gojiro?

Wasn’t that what they called him?

The Tribe of Moses weren’t worrying what the advancing monster was called. They seemed to know that he was bad news by any name and immediately scattered in every direction, running for their lives. Men ran and women ran, sheep and goats stampeded, and camels made themselves scarce at a galloping thirty to forty knots. Only Semple remained where she was. Although Semple was far from sure if she was simply stunned or other more perverse forces were at work, her refusal to move made about as much sense as everyone else’s flight. It is virtually impossible for a human, or even a camel, fleet-footed from fear, to outrun a being with a stride of five hundred yards. As if to demonstrate the point, within another three stomping paces one great foot had crashed down, flattening some twenty of the faithful and a few dozen livestock. A second seismic stomp crushed twice as many humans as well as assorted sheep and goats. Leaning slightly forward, the mighty Gojiro now brought his tail into play and, with a resounding slap, sent a good twenty percent
of Moses’ remaining followers wind-winging their involuntary way to the Great Double Helix.

“GGGGAAAAWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRR!”

Semple had lost sight of Moses shortly after Gojiro had first appeared, and when she looked around she could see no sign of him. She was a little surprised that he had run with the rest. She imagined that he would have at least made a brief attempt to stand his ground and vibe down the living green mountain. The Patriarch had proved a chickenshit. This strip of stinking desert might be a tract of low-rent wilderness, but after all it was his very own self-created turf, wasn’t it? Unless, of course, she had been wrong all the way down the line. Now that she thought about it, she’d only been assuming. He’d never actually said how and why he and his people were there. For all she knew, Moses and his mob might be interlopers on the bad end of a netherworld reconstruct of Monster Island. As to why she was standing her own ground, Semple couldn’t quite say. She had no territorial imperative, and she certainly had no intention of vibing Gojiro down. Later, thinking back over her behavior, she could only remember a firm but irrational certainty that the megasaur intended her no harm.

Even in hindsight, this idea was hardly backed by the evidence. Gojiro clearly intended absolute harm to every human in the vicinity, and was bent on quite literally stamping them out. Even as Semple attempted to understand her lack of action, he was, to this very end, performing a quick flatfooted dance, a four-four combination with a hop-skip at the end and a whack with the tail on the off beat, and that was all anyone wrote for half of Moses’ followers. The accompanying earth tremors were Richter-scale-worthy. As the survivors became more widely scattered, Gojiro changed his tactics. He stopped dancing and began taking long, deliberate, hopscotch strides, like a child methodically killing a colony of ants. Every few steps he would pause to mop up small groups that had managed to elude his feet with a burst of incandescent electric-blue breath. Again Semple wondered what Moses and his crew could have done to so anger the King of the Monsters. If his movies were to be believed, he was rarely so vindictive with anything but high-tension power cables and Tokyo subway trains.

“GGGGAAAAWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRR!”

Except for a handful of the fleetest of foot, most of Moses’ tribe were now history. For all practical purposes, Semple stood alone.
Gojiro had his back to her, busily uprooting a small clump of date palms in which one of the largest group of survivors had fruitlessly attempted to conceal itself. She seemed to be the only one in whom the Monster King had no apparent interest; could it be that some new reality distortion had come into being and he actually couldn’t see her? A swift blast of nuclear halitosis dispatched the last of the desperate fugitives among the ripped-up palms, and then Gojiro started to turn. He stared directly at where Semple was standing, and one look at the glint in his enormous red eyes collapsed her invisibility theory once and for all.

For almost ten seconds, the giant reptile did nothing but stand absolutely still and frown thoughtfully at her, furrowing his great scaly brow. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something and began to move toward her—but now his movements were completely different. He lumbered forward with all the care that something of his size could muster. He seemed to be taking great pains to not shake the earth or spook her in any other way. Not that he was very successful. As he came closer, the ground beneath her feet still bounced and vibrated so thoroughly that she was forced to spread her feet in a surfing pose to remain standing. At first it seemed as though the great reptile were going to reach down and scoop her up in one of its massive hands, like Fay Wray or Jessica Lange, depending on which version of
King Kong
one favored. Proportionally, Gojiro’s hands were rather dainty, particularly when compared to his behemoth feet, but each was still the size of a railroad flatcar, and the idea of being scooped into one of them held little or no appeal.

Gojiro leaned forward, but neither of his hands moved in her direction. Instead he just bent forward so his huge head was only twenty feet from the ground, close enough for her to smell the ozone tang of his lizard breath and hear the deep rumblings of his bodily functions. As his face came toward her, the monster snuffled slightly. Even his slight exhalation was more than enough to send a small dust cloud spiraling at Semple, forcing her to shield her eyes with her hands. “Holy shit, pal! Watch it, will you? You almost blinded me.”

Gojiro straightened up slightly and took a half step back. Although it was hard to read his expression, Semple could have sworn he looked regretful, even apologetic. The motion, however, was almost enough to send her stumbling. This time, though, she didn’t complain. The King of the Monsters seemed to be intrigued with
her; he had neither stomped her to pulp nor vaporized her with his Roentgen breath, and she deemed it unwise to place any undue stress on her apparent good fortune. She contented herself with merely muttering under her breath, “Anubis and Moses were one thing, big boy, but if
you
expect me to fuck you, you’d better forget it.”

The monster lowered his head farther, peering closely at her. He closed one eye for a better look as though he had trouble focusing at what, for him, was such a short distance. Even a giant reptile looking at her in this way made Semple feel uncomfortably on display and she reflexively smoothed the folds of her rough caftan. “If I’d known you were going to stop by, I would have thrown on something a bit more presentable. Unfortunately, you find me somewhat lacking a wardrobe.”

The great red eye came closer. It had a vertical iris like the eye of a bird, and in it she could see her own distorted reflection. “I have to tell you, in some cultures, staring like that is considered highly ill-mannered. You’re Japanese. You ought to know about that kind of thing.”

No sooner had she spoken, however, than something bizarre began to happen to Semple. It felt as thought her essential soul-force were being drawn out of her body and pulled toward the huge red eye. Semple swallowed hard. “Oh my God, now what?”

Jim, Doc, and their hired Virgil rode down the endless escalator. Their final glimpse of the boat basin had been of Dr. Hypodermic stepping down from the hull of his submarine and walking across the surface of the water, leaving wisps of steam and blue crackles of energy while the crowds on the piers and jetties fearfully backed off to give him plenty of space. The Virgil noticed the way that both men had stared nervously at the black figure in the stovepipe hat and he’d looked at them with deferential curiosity. “You have a problem with the renowned Doctor H?”

Jim glanced sharply at the Virgil. “You know him?”

The Virgil made a slight bow. “Everyone in Hell knows Doctor H, but I’m glad to say that I’ve had no personal contact or involvement with him. I do know, though, that if he wants to find you, he will. And if that’s the case, although I’ve contracted to be your guide, I will immediately flee if Hypodermic so much as approaches either of you.”

Doc nodded. “I understand the limits of your loyalty,
altissimo poeta.”

“You are a man of infinite grace and subtlety, Doc Holliday.”

“Thank you,
altissimo poeta.”

Jim looked sideways at Doc. “Is it more likely to be you or me that Hypodermic seems to be shadowing?”

Doc looked hard at Jim. “I don’t know, my friend. What’s your best impression?”

“You seemed to be on pretty good terms with him back at that town of yours with the cantina and the opium den.”

“On
good
terms? With
him
? I never did hear of anyone exactly being on
good
terms with Dr. Hypodermic.”

“You went into the cantina without too much hesitation and talked to all three of them. I was the one that had to leave town.”

“All three of them?”

“All three of them. The awesome trio, the three voodoo Mystères—Queen Danbhalah La Flambeau, Baron Tonnerre, and Dr. Hypodermic.”

The Virgil glanced uncomfortably at Jim and then turned to Doc. “Your young friend tosses these names around unwisely.”

Doc sighed. “Indeed he does,
altissimo poeta
, indeed he does. He’s one of those devil-may-care junko partners who won’t be told. You probably know the kind. If he wasn’t also paranoid, and occasionally halfway resourceful, he would have found himself consigned to some unimaginable place a long time ago.” He turned back to Jim. “It’s unfortunate that I have no recollection of this alleged meeting with the Mystères.”

“That’s not to say it didn’t happen or that it isn’t going to happen.”

“Indeed it isn’t. I’m just saying I have no recollection.”

“It’s the only recollection I do have. I don’t remember ever seeing a Mystère before that.”

“But there’s a great deal you don’t remember. The dark Doctor H is the ruling spirit of narcotics and those addicted to them. You could well have had dealings with him and be quite incapable of remembering.”

Jim scowled. “Give me a break, Doc. You aren’t exactly a stranger to narcotics. Why do I have to take the rap for this one?”

Doc’s face took on one of his dangerously good-humored expressions. “Therein lies the conundrum, my boy. Either or both, or maybe neither and it’s all a coincidence. One way to find out
would be to go our separate ways and see which one Dr. Hypodermic follows.”

“Is that what you want?”

Doc thought about this. “You’re kind of amusing to have around . . .”

Jim glanced back, but the escalator had been steadily descending its sloping shaft for some time and no clue was yielded as to what now might be happening in the dock area. About the only thing Jim could say for sure was that Dr. Hypodermic was not coming after them down the moving stairs. The Virgil looked impassively at Jim. “Doctor H has more ways of observing your movements than simply following you. But I imagine you’re probably aware of that.”

Jim shook his head. “No, I wasn’t.”

The Virgil gestured to the large, four-sheet advertising posters that lined the escalator shaft, held in place by ornate brass frames and protected by Plexiglas. Not only was Hell militantly capitalist, it was also inundated by advertising. Jim noticed for the first time that regularly placed graphic representations of Dr. Hypodermic lurked among the standard hard-sell images—the square-jawed cowboys and bikini babes, the nurturing moms and the adorable cuddly critters. Although the picture of the Mystère was the same in every case—a grinning death’s-head and a skeletal hand holding up a small dark green bottle with an ornate nineteenth century label—the banner slogan came in a selection of languages that ranged from Japanese to Hittite. Jim looked around for one in English and, when he found it, it was predictably oblique.

THE DOCTOR IS SO IN.

Jim turned to the Virgil. “Are you saying he can watch us via the damned posters?”

The Virgil nodded. “The Mystères are very sophisticated in their uses of imagery.”