Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 (29 page)

“Beats me but we better get after them,” Gil said.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Ethel blocked the doorway. Behind her a hint of dawn tinged the sky a hazy pink. “Unless you’re in need of a tan.”

I’ll give her this, the bitch caught on quick.

“You two.” She pointed at her new playtoys. “Go with Amanda. She’s gonna need your help.”

They followed me like imprinting ducks. I looked at the Volvo, realized we were going to need a little more speed and ducked back into the room to find Scott’s keys. They weren’t lying around anywhere so I ended up fishing them out of his pants. He tossed on the bed, grabbed my wrist. “Fishhook,” he mumbled. “Pink cave.” And then he passed out.

I wasn’t sure what Fishhook had to do with all this but I was certain what “cave” meant, though the word “pink” tossed in made me raise an eyebrow. I snatched the gun off the nightstand, darted out to my car, snatched my purse and all the brochures and scurried around to the Mustang. Randy and Darryl were still waiting obediently between the passenger side of the orange heap of metal and the Winnebago when I hit the unlock button, but instead of jumping into the car, Darryl
dropped like a sack of potatoes, screamed for a second and then went silent. Randy was next.

I raced around the back of the car to see Clare Cleaver stabbing Randy, over and over in the chest. She must have crawled from under the RV, slitting their Achilles tendons just like Scott’s. Her mouth stretched into a hideous grin and her eyes were wild with the kind of excitement I can only generate over a sale rack at Barney’s.

The whole scene was grotesque. Not only had the emaciated little thing taken out my two assistants, she’d likely been the one to disable my lover with her duo of butterfly knives, now, pumping in and out of the gore of Randy’s chest like a praying mantis.
¹⁵²

My eyes darted from the vicious little brat to the gun in my hand. I was less than enthusiastic about using the thing, it would wake everyone up, plus this assault screamed for something more physical and pure.

Brutal.

The girl was so involved in the act that she didn’t notice the pointy toe of my cheap stiletto whizzing through the air towards her ear. It impacted with a wet thud. Clare seized violently, gargled and frothed with blood and eventually went limp.

I shook her carcass off my foot, scanned the horizon for the first real rays of dawn and, not seeing them yet, yelled, “Gil get out here.”

The door to the room opened and the vampire stood there shaking his head. “Jesus. This is a mess.”

“No doubt. Get the bodies inside the room before people start to wake up.”

He glanced off into the lingering twilight and raced into the parking lot, dragging the two werewolves
inside. With any luck, Randy and Darryl would heal—they were, as a breed the most hearty stock, so, chances were good. Clare they could flush down the toilet for all I cared.

When I turned back to get into the Mustang, Mr. Kim stood next to the Volvo, his hand clutching the door handle. “I go with you,” he said.

“Oh, Kimmy.” I shook my head. “I’ve got to take the Mustang. The Volvo’s not gonna cut it if I hope to catch up with them.”

“I know. But I still go. Must help you find Hyon Hui. I have no choice.” He seemed to breathe in deeply, his aura deepening in color to a vibrant purple.

Then, Mr. Kim stepped away from the car.

“I was sure he said pink cave.” I shuffled through the brochures, my eyes shifting from the steering wheel to the rectangles of paper, weaving through the early morning traffic south, to where the majority of the tourist attractions clumped. Jewel Cave, Wind Cave, Rushmore, Crystal, Bethlehem, Wonderland. You’d think we were sitting on top of a giant anthill for all the freakin’ caves.

I stopped shuffling at the Jewel Cave pamphlet. What caught my eye was a sticker on the back.

Closed for Routine Maintenance
Reopens: June 7th

A closed facility would be much easier to hide out in or kill people or whatever they had planned for Wendy and Honey. I showed the brochure to Mr. Kim.

“That look like good choice. Go.”

We curved through the Black Hills at top speed. It was still too early to come across many cars; even the employees of Rushmore and Crazy Horse weren’t hitting the roads before 6 A.M. An hour later we had to slow down coming into a sleepy little burg named Custer. The buildings were low and mainly catered to the tourists. Mr. Kim pointed out the replica of the cartoon Flintstone village.

“Caves?” he suggested.

“I don’t think so.”

Right after the attraction, as the buildings began to thin, I noted a white-steepled church off to the left. Next door stood a ramshackle clapboard building, painted a garish pink. Two signs at the road battled for drivers’ attentions (see insets). Do I need to mention which was the winner?

“Well look at that.”

“Who go to porno store next to church?” Mr. Kim grimaced.

“Doesn’t make sense, right? Still we can’t pass this by, look at the name.” I pulled onto the gravel drive and around the back of the store, where our question was answered. The Cleavers’ RV sat idling at an odd angle. Behind it, blocking its exit, was Tad’s white truck.

I backed away from the two vehicles and hid the car on the other side of the closed Methodist church, where I grabbed the gun and left Mr. Kim stretching away from the front fender and toward the metal stair railing of the nearby building. He tapped the ground with the precision of a tightrope walker, as though he weren’t on sturdy ground at all.

“Sorry, Kimmy. I can’t wait for you to get your footing. I’ve gotta go.”

“Go. Go. Save Hyon Hui. Wendy, too. Only Hyon Hui first.” He waved me on.

At the back corner, I scanned the adult store parking lot. Fishhook was nowhere near the truck, nor was there any movement inside the RV. That didn’t mean
that someone wasn’t sitting behind the wheel. I couldn’t see that far from my position. I ran in a crouch, ducking behind the truck, and inched forward toward the back window. I figured I’d step on the bumper and peek inside, only there wasn’t any bumper to speak of, just a smooth plastic shell. I pushed myself up onto the hood of the truck, slipped out of my shoes and balanced in a dent. It provided a decent enough vantage, albeit a bit slippery.

Shadows oozed across dark fabrics and sleek plastic cabinets, from lights recessed under the bed like a Japanese street racer. Fancy inside as it was out, the outfit must have cost a fortune. Clean and no one around, nothing of interest except a row of drawers that might produce a clue. As I hunched to slide down, I noticed movement behind me. No sound attracted me, only the soft shifts of light and dark you notice in your periphery. I dropped to my knees and crawled around the front of the truck.

Mr. Kim.

He’d somehow navigated the church building, possibly by simply passing through it, for all I knew. His eyes, it seemed, were trained on the Pink Cave. He shifted and started, straining against his grasp of a loose wooden shutter. Stretching as far across the gravel with a pointed toe. The decision suggesting he intended to traverse the open expanse. It might have been ridiculous, had it not been the first time a ghost had successfully separated from their earthly boundaries.

I crammed my feet back into the heels and crept around the side of the camper, listening for even the slightest hint of a black- and-white television family folding aprons or arranging corn holders.
¹⁵³
Despite
the grumble of the engine, and the frequent stirring of tree branches from the wall of forest that butted up against the parking lot, there was no sign of the creepy clan.

I reached for the door handle. The cool metal vibrated under my touch.

Just the engine, I told myself. Just the engine.

I expected the picture of cleanliness, a sanitary space straight out of the ′50s, complete with an altar to Mr. Clean.

Not so much.

In fact, as I stepped up into the trailer I was instantly taken by the stench of rotting meat. Blood ran down the cabinetry in rivulets, pooling on the thin carpet. Rubbermaid containers like spilt Kool-Aid. The sink was full, but not with dirty dishes.

With claws.

Severed werewolf claws lay haphazard in the metal basin, clotted with the crimson syrup and strips of rotting sinew. Thick handles protruded from the furry wrists, makeshift weaponry. A ruse. The victims of such horrendous things would look exactly like werewolf victims.

Like that poor albino girl.

Tad.

Who were these people?

Who would create such devious contraptions? I thought briefly back to the magical Grillz we’d employed so unsuccessfully at the skinhead bar—where had Wendy even found those? We had no choice but to do something, right?

Skinhead rape? Uh … no thank you.

These people, on the other hand, seemed to be murdering willy-nilly, with no rhyme or reason or any other clichéd thing you want to call their random acts. I may be a flesh-eating zombie that eats three times
per week, but that’s just food chain shit. When I died I took a step up on the evolutionary ladder. Ward and June and the Beav were simply murderers.
¹⁵⁴

I felt a moment of pride knowing I’d already taken one of them down, and stylishly so.

Turning my attention to the rear of the RV, I passed a dining booth, similar to our own camper’s, only this one was stacked with transparent Tupperware containers. Each filled with a wad of black mushrooms. I rummaged through the lots, figuring on, at least, forty different stashes. Each one labeled exactly the same way.

A single piece of masking tape bore the word “TAP” and a number.

Do I even need to tell you the containers were just like Fishhook’s? The Cleavers were his dealers. I didn’t have to think twice about that. Who else would package drugs so fastidiously?

Normally, you’d be lucky to get a Ziploc baggie.
¹⁵⁵

But why the word “TAP”? The only people that used that term were vampires, plumbers and alcoholics. It certainly was an apt descriptor for all the scars on Fishhook’s body. The memory of his naked flesh crept back into my head like a leech. But what did the Cleavers have to do with vampires? They were humans as far as I could tell, didn’t mind sunlight, nice and pink.

What would they be doing with …

It was almost too much to wrap my pretty little head around.

Removing the lid and sniffing brought me right back to the Maha Durgha’s field. The dense smell of shit overpowered my dry sinuses—totally nauseating but mildy pleasant. I flung the toxic fungus across the
room, before the fumes took hold and disabled me. Each piece stuck like tar and slid, smudging a poop streak on the cheerful pink and tan striped wallpaper.

The juxtaposition turned my scowl into a smirk.
¹⁵⁶

I turned my attention to the rear room. The door was shut. Locked. I stood back and kicked at the thing, hoping to break what I assumed would be a shoddy lock. I was denied. I didn’t dare use the gun for fear of alerting the Cleavers of my presence. The last thing I needed was the All-American Family to come running out of the sex shop, with bags of vibrating projectiles. I scoured the kitchen area for something to jimmy the lock, anything, a butter knife a … werewolf claw.

The handle was wood and the appendage surprisingly heavy. But as I slashed it across the metal, the silvery tips sliced right through the door. A few well-placed strikes and it swung open on its own, the handle still clutching the jamb. I went straight for the drawers, pulling them out and dumping them. Papers parachuted to the floor, revealing some 8 x 10 glossy photos. Ten of them, in fact, paper clipped together with a
precisely typed inventory card, only the last name was written in a scrolling cursive (see inset).

I thumbed through the photos until I found the last one. Honey smiling at the Cleaver boy, an evening shot, the gaudy RV in the background. The next two photos were Tad and the albino girl, both posing happily for whoever took the shots. What the hell? I snatched the card off the front, zeroing in on the heading.

Prospective Bait.

I threw it down. Backed away.

Bait for what? Taps, drugs, werewolf claws? What the hell was going on?

I left the camper shaken, but when I turned the corner, my mouth dropped open.

Mr. Kim bounded across the gravel lot, feet breezing a foot above the ground as though he might lift off and spin into the atmosphere, which certainly was a possibility considering the vague physics of the ghost world. His arms pumped at the air and a boyish yowl screeched out of him like an American Idol reject, and then was clipped to silence as he slipped through the Pink Cave’s walls.