Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 (11 page)

The boy flinched.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I didn’t tell you my name.” He looked over at his sister. “Raylene?”

She shrugged and continued to puff on the cigarette.

“Looks like you’ve found us out.”

Don’t worry, fans. We made it quick. In the end— and if you have any knowledge of dysfunctional families—it was a public service. Had they been allowed to continue on their path, they would have simply bred more welfare recipients and third-strike offenders. I think we can all agree, we don’t need more of those, now, do we?

All that was incidental anyway, because as we were leaving, scraps of clothes and odd bone matter sizzling on the fire and Wendy thumbing through her red herring caddy, the blonde Asian stepped into the clearing.

At least, I thought it was her.

I was kind of focused on the gun.

“How about you bitches sit your dead asses down on that log, before I put a couple of holes through your heads?” The girl had the bad-ass lingo and rigid stance of a killer combined with the fashion sense of a, well, of … me. Her fair skin was a striking canvas for a gorgeous pair of almond-shaped eyes and cherry lollipop lips. The clothes were the real thing. White banding clung to her lean torso like Saran Wrap and cut just below the snatch.

I had to admit, I hadn’t been so afraid of a teenage girl since Laura Wilks shunned the no eyebrow-plucking edict in high school.
⁵⁵
She hadn’t seemed nearly as threatening in the sweater set and jeans she wore at Kmart. Even then, I thought she’d looked familiar. She’d been following us. I assumed she was one of Markham’s. There’s no reason a girl couldn’t shape-shift into a bloodthirsty wolf. It’s just, so well … butch.

“Well I guess that establishes that you know who you’re dealin’ with,” Wendy said.

The girl shoved the gun forward, lining her sights up on Wendy, which, while far preferable to having a gun aimed at me, was still pants-stainingly terrifying.

Bullets leave holes.

Holes are neither pretty nor fashionable.

I didn’t want any holes.

Wendy didn’t either. She straddled the log and pouted. I joined her.

“I couldn’t say for sure but your little fiesta here looked remarkably like a double homicide.”

“Well, if you want to get technical,” Wendy said.

“Dude. I’m about through with your sass.” The girl turned the gun sideways, gangsta style.

Busted! Could it be as simple as just that? Mark-ham’s goon or concerned citizen, either way, I needed to take control of this situation, before Wendy’s smart mouth got us both killed. “Listen. We don’t want any trouble. Those kids were abusing that old woman in that trailer out there, they earned their punishment.”

“So you bitches are like public servants?” We nodded our heads in agreement. “Social Workers with Shark Teeth? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She kicked through the leaves sending a spray of gravel into the fire, which cracked and popped as though she’d thrown some bubble wrap into a day care center.

“Exactly, I knew you’d understand.” I beamed and sighed, as though that were the end of the conversation. “See? She’s totally reasona—”

“Shut up! You make me sick. Both of you. Fucking zombies.” She began to pace, then slowed and cocked her head, toward me. “But, since you seem to be in the
mood for chatting … let’s hear about what you did to my brother.”

Wha? Huh?
⁵⁶

I hoped she wasn’t talking about food; it’s so hard to remember every meal. It’s not like a chomp on the homeless is fine dining.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My brother, Dae-Jung. Ring any bells?”

“No. Not a one.” And that was no lie, the only Korean guy I knew was Mr. Kim and I’d never done anything to harm him. Except for leaving him in a car, instead of inviting him into a succubus pit. But surely, I wasn’t being blamed for that. He was already dead when that happened.

“Well, allow me to enlighten you.” She continued to pace.

“When I left for Denver—” she began.

“Rehab?” I suggested.

“No,” she snapped with two syllables, just like the ones in “duh.” “College.”

“Oops … sorry.”

She took a deep cleansing breath—like they teach you in anger management class—and continued. “Like I was saying, when I went away to college in Denver— this was last year, by the way, so not long enough to get foggy on the details—Dae-Jung was having some difficulty coping with life as a zombie—God knows why, it runs in the family. My mother was the one who turned him. Purely by accident, of course.

“She’s a breather, but I suspect you knew that, and, not dead yet. She was carrying the ability into her old age, savoring life and really living. She was careful. Except for this one time. Dae-Jung drove her to the herbalist for her tea. It was a late spring day and the sun was shining through a squall. Like they do.

“They were halfway through the intersection when the taxi barreled into them, punching into my brother’s side of the car. Mother knew he would die. He was barely breathing. He’d never survive until the ambulance came. She didn’t tell me exactly how she did it, but by the time the paramedics cut the doors open, Dae-Jung climbed out of the car without a scratch.

“He was fine for the first day and then he started sniffing around like a dog. I woke up and found him standing at my bedroom door … drooling. He needed to feed, you see? We were all ignoring it. Mother and I took him to the temple.

“‘You take him. Talk to him. Make him not be hungry,’ she said to the priest.

“He was an older man with bright wise eyes and eyebrows that could use a good trimming, if you know what I mean. But he was kind and he took Dae-Jung into the temple, gave him sanctuary, and promised to offer guidance during these troubling times. Mother and I turned to leave. The wooden latch scraped on the door to the priest’s rooms, shutting us out. That’s
when the screams began … and I don’t mean my brother’s. A heavy thud shook the door and blood washed out from underneath onto the stone tiles of the temple floor.

“It was all very quick. Afterward, we could hear my brother’s sobs.

“‘Open the door, Dae-Jung,’ I said, standing to the side of the puddle as I knocked. ‘Let us help you.’

“‘You go away!’ he cried. ‘Now!’

“We heard a sound inside the rooms. A hollow tearing that echoed through the building followed by the scuffling scrape of little feet. Mother and I backed away from the door, into the shadows of the carved columns nearby. The sanctuary was barely lit, but we could see the door and the blood. It pulled itself back into the gap underneath, like it had a mind to do so, willing itself to return. Whispers filled the air, silenced, a loud pop sounded and the door opened. Dae-Jung stepped out. Clean. Quiet.

“For the next few days, he wouldn’t talk. Not a single word, and then he did.

“‘Reapers,’ he said. And then packed his things and left.

“He stayed away for nearly six months and then came home to tell us he’d joined a group that would help him with his problem. He seemed genuinely hopeful, and started visiting Mother every day.

“That’s how it was when I went away to college.

“Then Dae-Jung stopped coming to the house. He didn’t answer his cell, and never returned any messages. We had to pick up his furniture from a small condo in Ballard. He’d stopped paying the rent. His car was gone.

“So, I came home and started looking for this group.” She flicked the gun in my direction. “This is
where you come in, so listen up. I talked to a Ms. Baumgartner. Very nice lady. Helpful, too.”

Oh shit. I knew exactly where the girl was headed. I tried to stop my hands from shaking. Wendy scanned my face for some help in understanding. I didn’t give her any.

“She remembered my brother, told me that the last time she’d seen him, he was getting into a car with a strange woman that had come to the group and really messed things up.”

“Mr. Kim.” I nodded. “Mr. Kim is your brother.”

“Her brother is Kimmy?” Wendy yelled.

I nodded. “He is.”

The girl lowered the gun for the first time since her diatribe began. “Is? Dude. Did you say
is?
” Her face was scrunched with confusion, like someone had taken all her conviction and replaced it with a big fat question mark. There was hope there, too.

Unfortunately.

“Well … yeah. He’s around, in fact, he’s up in the car.” Wendy pointed back up the path.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Now don’t get excited,” I cautioned. “He
is
dead and—”

“Duh!” The girl turned and darted from the clearing.

I socked Wendy in the arm. “Stupid bitch! Why’d you go and say that? She can’t see him, or touch him or hear him. All that’s going to happen is she’ll be even more pissed off and come back gun blazing.”

“Ew. I didn’t think of that.”

“No shit. Now let’s hurry after her before this gets really fucked up.”

When we reached the Volvo, the girl’s ass was hanging out the passenger door. “Dae-Jung!” she yelled.

Mr. Kim was jumping up and down on the hood, clapping with the joy of a slot machine jackpot winner. “Hyon Hui! She here! She here!” Clearly her English was much better than Kimmy’s. He pointed inside the car. His excitement shook some ectoplasm free and it floated about him like balsamic vinegar in salad oil.

“Honey!” I yelled from the end of the gulley.

She pulled herself from the car and glowered, slammed the door and trained the gun on me. “He’s not here.”

I raised my hands in the air. “Honey?”

“No, Hee-on Hui.” Mr. Kim pronounced for me.

“Your brother says your name is Hyon Hui. Is that right or am I just butchering it?” I pulled my advertising smile out hoping for sincerity but settling for scared shitless.

“What did you say?” she came closer. Her arm sagged a bit.

“I said, ‘Your brother told me your name, Hyon Hui.’” This time she smiled and looked around the car, even bending down to peer underneath it.

As she did, Wendy ran from the woods and tackled the girl. They rolled off the road into the muddy bowl of the gulley, wrestling for control of the gun. I ran to the opposite side of the car.

“Don’t hurt her! Don’t hurt her!” Mr. Kim screamed the entire time.
⁵⁷

From further up the road, another girl was running. Her friend, the unmistakably white, Whitey— we’ll call her, just for the sake of a name. She wasn’t far enough away that I didn’t notice her polka-dotted Holly Hobby dress or the scary shotgun she wielded.

I threw open the car door, slid behind the wheel and cranked. The wheels spun as I floored the car toward the ghostly creature running toward us. The maneuver worked. When she saw the car coming she twisted in the opposite direction, dropped the gun and bolted.

I parked the Volvo at an angle and retrieved the dusty shotgun from the gravel road. From back where I’d left them, Wendy was prodding Hyon Hui forward with her pistol. The girl’s face was stuck in an unflattering cringe, forcing her eyes into slits narrower than an overly thankful Renée Zellweger.
⁵⁸

“If it’s any consolation, your friend back there was super helpful.”

She flinched.

“Oh, Honey. We’re not going to hurt you. We all love a little violence now and again. Why when Naomi Campbell busted her assistant with that cell phone, I laughed just like everyone else. But you can’t pull a gat on the ladies after dinner; that makes us cranky.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and tried to crack a smile. God bless her. But, I could tell she was plotting and who could blame her? I know I hate to lose the upper hand.

“Good girl. Now let’s go get your friend and have a talk. ’Kay?” I put my arm around her shoulder to guide her back to the car.

Mr. Kim was already in the backseat, waiting. Pink beads slipped down his poor little see-through cheeks. The sight was almost enough to make me go moony over family reunions.
⁵⁹

The whitest girl ever followed behind us in a hideous
purple Geo Metro, while Hyon Hui must have experienced the most bizarre car ride of her life, silently staring at the empty seat next to her that was the entire focus of our conversation.

Mr. Kim started in immediately, “You must promise to protect sister. You owe me that much.”

Wendy rolled her eyes at me. “He’s talking to you, bitch.”

“I hope you know, I’d never let anyone hurt your sister, Kimmy. Even this one up here.” Our eyes met in the rearview mirror.

“Swear,” he said.

“I swear.”

“Make her swear.” He cocked his head toward Wendy, who turned an offensive glare back at him.

“I’ve got no reason to hurt her.”

“What about you run low on candy bar? Huh?”

Wendy twisted in her seat with the speed of a prizefighter, swinging a right hook through the gap in the seats that breezed through the ghost’s head and into Hyon Hui’s shoulder.

“Jesus!” she yelled, reaching for the door handle. “What was that for?”

“Aaaarggh!” Mr. Kim roared from the backseat, his spittle solidifying into dark blue jelly that crossed the distance in less than a second and settled into a dripping mess off the brim of Wendy’s cowboy hat. She rolled down the window, snatched off the woven mess and tossed it out.

Pouting followed.

“Enough!” I shouted. Mr. Kim had never expressed such an open emotional reaction, at least not in front of me. It was oddly cathartic to know that family could have such a strong connection, that a sister would put her life in danger to find a brother, that a brother’s
love could actually reach beyond the grave. “We’ll take care of Hyon Hui. You have my word.”