Read Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Online
Authors: Walter Greatshell
Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (37 page)
“Oh my God, it’s so cold!” “Turn it off!” “Hang on!” “Get closer!” “Away from the spray, right here!” “Let us out!”
As the lapping tide threatened to rise over my head I had to swim, meaning I was forced to surrender my precious upraised arms to that searing flood, the last warmth I could give without going under completely.
Then the boys were lifting me from either side, boosting me above the swirling, Coke-bottle green pool. My white flesh was rubbery as a half-thawed turkey, but not so dead I couldn’t feel the vivid pleasure of warm air.
“No!” I shrieked, fighting the intense relief. “You can’t!”
“Shut up, we’re taller,” said Julian.
“Pretend you’re on
Girls Gone Wild
,” Jake said.
Girls Gone Wild
,” Jake said.
I didn’t try to resist as they propped me up on their shoulders, cradling my hips between their still-warm heads. My own head was jammed up against a caged light fixture in the ceiling, basking in its slight heat, while my submerged legs were sheathed in a fragile pocket of less-freezing water between the boys’ bodies. If they moved at all, colder eddies swirled in like biting drafts. Violently shivering, I watched from my perch as Jake and Julian became immersed, standing on tiptoes and craning their necks until only their gulping, disembodied faces broke the surface like floating masks.
Pounding the intercom in front of my face, I screamed, “Stop! Stop it! Turn it off! Stop!”
The water stopped.
All of a sudden it was so quiet—the only sound was my teeth chattering in that shallow pocket of air, and I was miserably aware that the boys couldn’t hear anything with their ears underwater. Nobody spoke. I searched their faces for some sign of what to do, but their eyes stared straight up, unblinking, all thoughts turned inward as warmth and life ebbed from their bodies. They hardly seemed aware of me.
She’s bluffing, dude.
If you hand it over we got nothing
.
.
Chick is ice-cold
.
.
“I know where it is,” I said.
“Where?” asked Lowenthal.
“Let us out first.”
“No.”
“Please!”
“No.”
Sitting hunched there on the faltering shoulders of my friends was so precarious I expected it to be mercifully short, yet the moment stretched on and on like a detour in time, a missed off-ramp with no U-turn in sight, receding into eternity: all the loneliness, pointlessness, emptiness of it. The waiting. I realized it was not death, but death’s delay that was the ultimate cruelty.
To the intercom, I said, “D-d-don’t you realize you’re d-doing us a f-f-favor?” Lowenthal didn’t reply.
As Jake and Julian succumbed, I begged them to hold on, not because I was so afraid of the end but because I was afraid of being left alone. I resented them going first. And yet I continued to struggle: As Jake went under I clung to Julian, and even as Julian’s upturned mouth filled with water I tried to climb his sinking body to keep my own head above. In the end I stood upon them both as the cold took its sweet time stealing over me.
Actually, I wasn’t getting colder. A deep warmth had started to bloom, and with it a dreamy calm. I knew what this was, this welcome, enfolding dark. I knew these were precursors to the end, and the gratitude I felt was indescribable.
Thank you thank you thank you thank you
. . .
Thank you thank you thank you thank you
. . .
But even as I slipped beneath the surface, trailing a string of mirrored bubbles, my alien hand found the necklace, snapped the chain, and held the locket up above the water. Up where the gold would catch the light.
I could feel cool grass against my cheek, and desert wind riffling my clothes.
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning
. I was heavy, immovable, a lizard sunning on a rock. In the hazy distance, I could see our old house in Oxnard, white as a milk carton on the grass, with the peeling eucalyptus trees and the laundry line. At first I sensed the presence of my mother inside and was overjoyed, wild to tell her something. Then I began to notice something wasn’t right—the focus was peculiar—and as I reached my hand out, the illusion collapsed: It was a miniature, a fake. A crummy little diorama. I was so frustrated I wanted to smash it! That’s why I disliked miniatures and models, even the good ones in museums, because the more real they are, the more daintily inviting, the more they put you at arm’s length. But this one was the most crushing disappointment of all.
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning
. I was heavy, immovable, a lizard sunning on a rock. In the hazy distance, I could see our old house in Oxnard, white as a milk carton on the grass, with the peeling eucalyptus trees and the laundry line. At first I sensed the presence of my mother inside and was overjoyed, wild to tell her something. Then I began to notice something wasn’t right—the focus was peculiar—and as I reached my hand out, the illusion collapsed: It was a miniature, a fake. A crummy little diorama. I was so frustrated I wanted to smash it! That’s why I disliked miniatures and models, even the good ones in museums, because the more real they are, the more daintily inviting, the more they put you at arm’s length. But this one was the most crushing disappointment of all.
Or maybe I was just too old for toys. I remembered how delighted I was by the toy circus set on my birthday cake when I was five: the plastic Ferris wheel, the big top, the flags and trapeze, the clowns and camels. There was nothing realistic about it, nothing to scale. It was probably very cheap. But it was the only thing that interested me—the few other presents were so drab and functional I have no memory of them at all. But at the end of the party, the landlord and her daughter wrapped up what was left of the cake and disappeared with it.
Not sure what had just happened, I said, “Mummy, where did the circus go?”
“Oh, honey, those were just decorations. They belong to Mrs. Reese.”
“But it’s my birthday,” I said, tears streaming. “I wanted them.”
“Well, she made the cake, Lulu. I’m sorry. Come on now, be a big girl.”
My mother’s voice was growing faint. The house was empty, a cheap toy, and the more I pawed at it, the more unreal it became. My heart seized up with a terrible feeling of loss, and I called, “Mum!”
As I spoke, the dream shivered apart. I was in bed, naked as a baby, swaddled in flannel. It was no ordinary bed, but a fluffy giant pillow as rapturously soft and warm as a sheltering bosom. The room was dim, but the impression I got was something out of Arabian Nights—a large carpeted tent with hanging swaths of colorful sheer fabric and pillows all over the place. Was I still dreaming? I squirmed deeper, away from bad thoughts and a ghostly hand petting my head.
“Welcome back, Lulu.”
I scrunched up my face. It was that blond woman doctor—Dr. Langhorne. She was sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed. Her eyes were red and her face raw-scrubbed, as if fresh from a long crying jag.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Alive,” I murmured, heartsick.
“Oh yes.
You
were never in any danger. We made sure of that.”
You
were never in any danger. We made sure of that.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a place here. You’ve earned a place here.”
“Don’t
say
that.”
say
that.”
“Why not? It’s a new day, Lulu. A brand-new life starts today.”
“No . . .”
“Louise, I know this is hard, but from what I know about you, you’re tough enough to take it. And starting tomorrow, things are going to get a whole lot easier.”
Reluctantly, I asked, “How?”
“Tomorrow you’ll get a guardian. Someone to take care of you.”
“Oh.”
“I know that doesn’t mean much to you yet, but I think you’ll find it exciting.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re a princess around here. A rare bird. Important men are eager to meet you.”
“You mean like they’ve been meeting the boys?”
She looked at me shrewdly, grateful to dispense with childish fictions. “Much more so,” she said. “Boys are just a substitute borne of necessity.”
“Swell.”
“You know, later on you’ll have a chance to see some of your pals again, the ones who have been ‘adopted.’ You’ll see that they’re getting along just fine.”
“Why not now?”
“They’re still going through orientation.”
“Why can’t I go through orientation with them?”
She smiled and put her hand on my shoulder. “Honey, you don’t need to.”
I remained in bed all day, feeling leaden and ill. At intervals my guts would seize up, bending me double and wringing out harsh silent tears, like juice from a frost-damaged lemon. I wondered if there were any hidden cameras as I used the bed-pan. Several doctors dropped by to check my vitals, and I had the impression they had drawn straws for the privilege. They didn’t speak English. Ridiculously sumptuous meals were brought on a cart—soft-boiled eggs, fresh fruit, a variety of breads and crackers with a basket of individual little spreads and cheeses, a pot of tea. At lunch there was an antipasto tray that could have fed six people, and at dinner a four-course meal with whole roast game hens. I hardly ate any of it—I could tell it was from the boat.
Sometime later, Dr. Langhorne returned, accompanied by a much older lady, a Miss Riggs, whose baggy face was plastered with makeup and whose flaming copper wig looked about as natural as a coonskin cap. I couldn’t believe they had given this poor old thing an implant! She dragged a huge rolling suitcase behind her like a homeless person.
“Lulu, Miss Riggs is going to help you get ready for tomorrow. She’s a professional, so give her your full cooperation, okay?”
Professional what?
I thought apprehensively.
I thought apprehensively.
“Oh, my achin’ feet,” said Miss Riggs, opening the suitcase and setting up a bright light on a stand. “Come on, honey. I ain’t gettin’ any younger.” I hesitated because of my nakedness, but she didn’t give a darn. “Let’s go!” she squawked.
Half her suitcase was taken up by a big makeup kit with folding trays full of every conceivable grooming tool. I nearly swooned from the smell, which evoked the spicy-sweet aroma of numberless beauty parlors. The color palette had the worn look of long, expert use, and the tools and brushes were arranged as neatly as surgical instruments. The other half of the case contained a stack of carefully packed dresses, all plastic-wrapped as if fresh from the dry cleaner. On top I could see a baroque layered gown of jade silk and antique lace.
“Excuse me,” Miss Riggs said to the doctor. “I can take it from here.”
“I won’t get in your way,” said Langhorne.
“I can’t stand people lookin’ over my shoulder when I’m workin’! Beat it!”
Langhorne was shocked and furious, but she held her tongue. “All right,” she said. “Let me know when you’re done.” To me, she said, “Your escort tomorrow will be Mr. Utik. He’ll be here at eleven, so be ready to go. He’s conversant in Inuktitut, French, and Danish, but his English may leave something to be desired. I suggest you don’t call him an Eskimo, or he’ll think you uncouth.” She brusquely ducked out.
“Some people can’t take a hint,” the old lady said. “They don’t understand the artistic temperament. You can’t crowd talent. I learned that from Jayne Mansfield. You gotta stick up for yourself, or these bozos will walk all over ya.” Measuring me, she said, “Honey, you sure ain’t no Jayne Mansfield, I’ll tell you that. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“That’s a shame. You need some meat on your bones; you look like a plucked chicken. They treatin’ you all right in here?”
I couldn’t begin to answer; all I could do was cry.
“Aw, honey, you’re gonna be all right. You know how many fresh-faced young girls I worked with over the years? I seen ’em all go through it, even Marilyn Monroe. You ain’t the first. Some became tramps, some became drunks and dope addicts, some made a career of getting knocked around by the wrong kind of men. There’s always gonna be men who think having a pretty dame around will make them hate themselves less, and they take it out on the girl when it doesn’t work. Ain’t no different now. Hold still.”
“What can I do?” I quavered. “What can I do?”
“Don’t move.” She was fastening the tiny hooks on a carapace-like bustier, her hands strong and nimble and utterly without hesitation or wasted movement, everything coming together with an accidental ease that suggested the opposite of entropy—order flowing from chaos. Despite her rheumy yellow eyes and cigarette-stained teeth, I sensed that nothing could shake her; she was solid. I wished she would stay with me and tell me what to do. I wanted to hide in her suitcase.
With effortless speed, she threw clothes on me from that treasure chest of couture, one dazzling outfit after another, enough to stage the Oscars, all pristine and new. Obscenely plush designer gowns straight off a Paris runway; metallic silks and jewel-fruited filigree; bloodred taffeta and peach satin; cream lace studded with pearls; Versace, Gucci, Dior—annoying names that littered my consciousness with all the other obsolete pop-culture clutter, but which I had never seen on a label, suddenly delivered into my pauper’s hands like so much pirate booty. Nothing fit me, but needles sprouted from Miss Riggs’s withered lips, thread from her spiderlike hands, cinching in and hemming and pleating, filling out the tops with blubbery foam inserts so that for the first time in my life I looked like a woman. Amazed at my unfamiliar spangled self, I realized I was booty, too—part of the loot.
“You wanna know what to do?” she said through a mouthful of pins. “None of the above. That’s the extent of my wisdom, hon: Do none of the above.”
Miss Riggs took all the costumes with her to finish working on them—a whole lavish wardrobe, custom-fitted for me. I couldn’t quite comprehend it. It had been such a bizarre flurry of activity that I almost believed I had imagined the whole thing, and it was a little bit of a shock the next morning to find all the completed dresses hanging in the tent, with a row of matching shoes lined up below. One of the outfits was set apart, and next to it was something I never expected to see again: the hooded fur cape Hector had given me. I wept to touch it. It had been cleaned and brushed to a high reddish gloss, matching perfectly with the teal-and-black ensemble I was to wear.
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