Extreme Zombies, page 14
“Whoa ho ho ho, what luck!” Monty roared. The best he could tell, Fang was grinning too. “Another big winner! What have we got for him?”
“They’re young! They’re nubile! They’re fresh from Hollywood! And they’re all yours, Fang! The entire female cast of last spring’s trash-theater epic, Cheerleader Party Massacre!”
Door Number Three was up by now, and behind it sat a cage filled with aspiring starlets in identical red and white outfits. What a shame to have spent years hoping and dreaming for that big break, that shot on prime time TV, and miss out on the moment due to Thorazine. It had kicked in hard and heavy, leaving them as active as a basket of vegetables. Except for . . .
The audience was in, for them, a frenzy of excitement. Some were standing, arms waving like stalks of wheat in a summer breeze. Others stomped their feet to no apparent rhythm. DeadHead cued some new music, angry guitars and shouted vocals. The Dead Kennedys, maybe?
Except for . . .
Fang had amped up into a frenzy of his own, twitching in time with the music like a spastic in mid-seizure. His head bristled like a mace. Several of the earlier contestants wandered back onstage for the party atmosphere of the closing credits: Cynthia, with a good deal of Flight 901 smeared across her face; Shawn and his cooler of heads; Millicent, modeling her new arm. Fang twitched and slammed himself into Cynthia. An ear went sailing across the soundstage like a crinkled little Frisbee.
Yet Monty found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the girl he’d spoken with before the show. She clung to the front of the cage, swimming upstream against the current of a Thorazine haze while the rest of the starlets slumped in catatonic heaps. Her knuckles showed white against the steel bars.
She’s not supposed to do that! She’s supposed to be OUT of it!
She looked thin, painfully so, and no doubt it had been a good long while since her hair had been washed. Her lips trembled, and her eyes loomed huge against the pale of her face. Eyes that fixed, eyes that accused.
Eyes that started reconfiguring those internal switches. OFF went the smile, OFF went the juice.
“Help me, please,” she said, though over the racket onstage he couldn’t hear her, could only read her lips. “Everybody’s got a price—what’s yours? Is this it?”
In a pathetic attempt at seduction, she fumbled with one side of her sweater and tugged it upward. Ragged fingernails left red streaks on her skin. And there she stayed, holding the cage bar with one hand and her sweater in the other. Gauging his price.
Monty suddenly wanted to be sick. And not entirely from the prospect of her inevitable fate.
Everybody’s got a price—what’s yours?
In the absurd simplicity of her offer, she’d managed to show him a truth that had always eluded him before: Greed was the one thing death couldn’t conquer. Love would succumb before it, and loyalty. Friendship and honor. Morality and dignity and even humanity. But not greed. Greed had an immortality all its own, and would thrive in the stony soil that could kill the rest.
He gave her the first genuine smile he’d anyone given in years.
Monty reached beneath his jacket to finger the grip of the .38. At least it’ll be the merciful way out. And then a bullet for me, maybe?
He drew the gun, letting his arm hang by his side. The girl saw, and understood. And in pulling her sweater back down, accepted. Her glazed eyes shut and her face tilted toward an unseen sky. Make it quick, she seemed to be saying.
And then a bullet for me . . . ? No, I can’t do that, can’t do that at all. Because God help me, I need this stage more.
But make it quick? Okay, that much he could do.
Except that by the time he raised the gun halfway, it was plucked cleanly from his hand.
Monty hadn’t noticed that Brad Bernerd had sidled over beside him. But now they stood face to rotten face. Bernerd was smarter than he looked, Monty knew that. Apparently he was stronger and quicker, as well.
Before Monty could move, Bernerd pointed the revolver’s muzzle at his lower thigh and pulled the trigger.
The thunderclap of gunpowder aside, the effect was much like getting clubbed with a brick. Monty felt his leg suddenly swatted from beneath him, and the next thing he knew he was on his side on the floor, tasting dust.
The gunshot brought everything to a halt—the announcer’s closing voice-over, Fang’s slamdancing, Millicent’s preening. DeadHead even killed the music. Everything stopped except the silent scrolling of the credits on the monitors. Once again, Monty was the center of undivided attention. Struggling at the bottom of a sea of staring eyes.
He propped himself up on one elbow, grunting, chilly sweat trickling from his scalp. The lights didn’t feel quite so warm anymore. He gazed up into Bernerd’s runny eyes.
“It would’ve happened anyway,” Bernerd said. He slowly cocked his dented head toward Door Number Three. “She didn’t matter.”
Monty’s mouth gaped. He figured that his eyes must finally have been as blank and his brain as empty as everyone else’s around him. “Then why?” was all he could say.
“The ratings,” Bernerd said. “Time for a retooling. Your ratings are slipping.”
And as Monty pondered this great imponderable, Bernerd simply turned and walked away. The credits rolled on, and the rest of them began to move again, closing in as surely as the cameras. They mounted the stage from the amphitheater—by themselves, in pairs, as entire families. Converging on him with unblinking, unsated eyes.
My ratings? Slipping? SLIPPING? The thought was too great, and snapped his already fragile mind with pencil-thin ease.
He felt the first insistent tug at the bullet wound in his thigh, saw the cameras leering in.
But the eyes of the world are on me now! he thought. And its hands . . . and quite a few teeth . . .
Audience participation at its finest.
Brian Hodge is the award-winning author of ten novels of horror and crime/noir, over one hundred works of shorter fiction, and four full-length collections. His most recent collection, Picking The Bones, was honored with a Publishers Weekly starred review. Works slated for 2012 include a collection of crime fiction, No Law Left Unbroken; a novella, Without Purpose, Without Pity; and a hardcover edition of his early post-apocalyptic novel Dark Advent. His website is www.brianhodge.net.
He felt entrenched by the sudden weirdness. This was a coke factory in the middle of Peru. But as long as he got his order, the drug lord could have his mystery and his truth and his power and his spirit . . .
Makak
Edward Lee
Casparza was repulsive—a human blob. He couldn’t pack the food into his fat face fast enough. Look at him, Hull thought, disgusted. Just another greasy spic blimp.
But the girl—she was beautiful, and all class. She’d said her name was Janice. Too old to be squeeze, Hull decided. Mid- or late-twenties. He’d heard all the stories; the fat man was a short-eyes, a kiddie-diddler—anything over fifteen was over the hill. So how did Janice figure into it? She looked like a typical American businesswoman. Come to think of it, Hull had seen lots of Americans milling about the plush villa. What were so many Americans doing here? This was Peru.
And the black guy? Hull had noticed him at once. Weird. The guy was just standing there, off by some trees. What is this? Some voodoo fucking freak show? Hull thought. The guy had dreadlocks past his shoulders, and he was wearing a dashiki-looking thing with something hanging off the sash. Hull had never seen a black man so black. Like anthracite. And the guy hadn’t moved. He just stared at them from afar, blank-faced.
“So, Mr. Hull,” Casparza bid. “This is most irregular. We rarely deal direct, especially small-timers. But I know some of your people. They say good of you.”
That’s nice to hear, you fat shit.
Casparza weighed 400 pounds plus. The grinning face scarcely appeared human—comic features pressed into dough. He wore a preposterous white straw hat, and pants and a shirt that could tarp a baby elephant.
“The goddamn DEA interdictions are killing us,” Hull informed him.
“They’re killing the major cartels too,” Janice pointed out. Her voice seemed reserved, hushed. Perhaps she was Casparza’s spokeswoman. She had straight, pretty ash blond hair and wore a rather conservative beige business dress. A tiny pendant hung about her neck, but Hull couldn’t make it out. She primly held a lit cigarette, though he had yet to see her take a drag. She hadn’t eaten, either. The servants had brought food only to Hull and Casparza: some brown mush called aji, a stinky napalm-hot fish stew, and slabs of something the fat man had merely referred to as “Meatroll! My favoreet!” Dessert had been anticoucho, collops of fried sheep heart on sticks.
Hull hadn’t eaten much.
“And now my amigo would like to buy from me,” Casparza went on. His accent hung thick as the rolls of flab descending his chest.
“That’s right, Mr. Casparza. Our middlemen are getting blanked out. The Bolivians can’t be trusted, and the Colombians are losing 80 percent of their orders to seizures. My whole region is going nuts.”
Which was an understatement. Peru had been the number three producer; now it was number one. After the hostage thing, the Tactical Air Command had clobbered the Colombian strongholds and Agent Oranged a hundred thousand acres of their best coca fields. Now there was talk of dropping a light infantry division into Bolivia. This was bad for business; Hull had money to make and customers to please. He needed ten keys a month to keep his region happy, but now he was lucky to see two. The fucking feds were ruining everything. He’d had no choice but to come to see Casparza in person. The fat man had a secret.
“You guarantee delivery,” Hull said. “Nobody else does that. You’ve become a bit of a legend in the states. Word is you haven’t lost a single drop to the feds.”
“This is true, Mr. Hull.” Casparza’s huge blackhole mouth opened wide and sucked a piece of sheep heart off a skewer. It crunched like nuts when he chewed. “But my production surplus is no very good.”
“The influx of orders is maxing us out,” Janice coolly added.
“I understand that.” Hull trained his attentions on Casparza, though the girl’s strait-laced beauty nagged at him. At first he thought the pendant around her neck was a locket; closer peripheral inspection showed him a tiny bag of something, or a tied pouch. She’s probably some whacked-out New Ager from California, Hull snidely considered. He hated California. It’s probably a pouch full of crystal dust or some shit, to purify her fucking aura. But of course that didn’t mesh with the rest of her looks—primo, neat as a pin. And there was something about her eyes—just . . . something. “We’re a small operation, Mr. Casparza. I only want to buy ten keys a month.”
“You know my price?”
“Yes,” Hull said. Goddamn right he did. The drug war had jacked prices through the roof. A year ago a kilo of “product” ran for 13.5 a key. Now they wanted 25. Casparza charged 30 and he got it. Nobody knew how he evaded seizure losses, and nobody cared. They just wanted the fat man’s shit. Even at 30k per drop the profit margin remained huge considering street value and higher pocket prices. But Casparza was a millionaire. He needed Hull’s penny-ante business like he needed another helping of meatroll.
“I can pay 35 a key,” Hull finally said. The offer would be taken either as a compliment or a grievous insult. Hull knocked on the table leg.
“Hmmm,” Casparza remarked. “Let me think. I think better when I eat.”
You must think a lot, ya tub of shit.
Sunlight dappled the huge table through plush trees. Hull could smell the fresh scents of the jungle. He looked at Janice again. Yes, it was a tiny pouch at the end of her necklace. She smiled meekly, but her eyes did not match.
“You remind me of home,” she said.
“Where’s that?”
She didn’t reply. Her eyes seemed to beseech him, yet her face remained composed. Hull thought he could guess her story; a lot of the cartel honchos paid big bucks for white girls. Was that what her eyes were saying? Her eyes, Hull thought. They looked sad, barely extant.
Casparza shoveled more fried meat into his face, then chugged down a third tumbler of yarch, which smelled liked sewer water but didn’t taste half bad. Hull craned around; the black guy in the dashiki was still standing off by the trees. He couldn’t be a bodyguard; he was a stick. Besides, Casparza had more guns than the White House. The black guy hadn’t moved in an hour.
“Who’s the shadow?” Hull eventually asked.
“Raka,” Casparza grunted, cheeks stuffed.
“Mr. Casparza’s spiritual advisor,” Janice augmented. Spiritual advisor, my cock, Hull thought. He didn’t believe in spirit. He believed in the body and what the body demanded of the lost. He believed in the simple objectivities of supply and demand. Spirit could go fuck itself. Spirit was bad for business.
“Raka is from Africa, the Shaniki province.” Casparza wiped his fat fingers on the tablecloth. “He helps me. He is my guiding light.”
You need a guiding light, dumbo. You’re so fat you block out the sun.
Hull squinted. The black unresponsive face stared back unblinking. Was he staring at Hull, or through him? The dreadlocks dangled like whipcords. Hull still couldn’t identify the thing that hung off Raka’s sash.
Casparza chuckled, jowls jiggling. “You are wondering how I do it, yes? You are wondering how it is that I lose no product while everyone else loses their ass.”
Sure, blubberhead. I’m wondering. “That’s your affair, Mr. Casparza. I’m just a businessman trying to stay afloat.”
Casparza’s grin drew seams into his immense face. “Truth is power, and spirit is truth. Think about that, amigo. Think hard.”
Hull knew shit when he smelled it. Were they playing with him? The black guy watching his back and Casparza’s grinning, porky face in front was about all Hull’s nerves could stand. But just as he became convinced that this whole thing was a mistake, Casparza stood up, his shadow engulfing the table. He offered his fat hand.
“We have a deal, Mr. Hull. Ten keys a month at 35 a key.”
Hull jumped up. He shook the fat man’s hand, suppressing the abrupt gush of relief. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Casparza. It’s an honor to do business with you.”
“Just remember what I said”—the fat grin beamed—“about spirit.”
Hull could think of no response.
Casparza laughed. His eyeballs looked like marbles sunk in fat. “We make arrangements in the morning. Until then, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Janice will show you around.”
The fat man lumbered off. He’d been sitting on a packing crate—Hull noticed now—since no chair on earth could accommodate his girth. Rolls of fat hung off his sides and wriggled like Jell-O.
“Ready for the twenty-five-cent tour?” Janice inquired.
“Sure,” Hull said. He was elated. He’d done it; he’d made his deal. But impulse dragged at his gaze. Hull turned his head in tingling slowness.
Raka, the black shadow, was gone.
“You’re either very stupid or very desperate,” Janice said. She led him past the pool. Several girls—blondes—frolicked nude in the water, while a few more lay back in lounge chairs, taking turns freebasing. None of them could have been older than sixteen.
“I’m probably a little bit of both,” Hull answered her. “But what makes you think so?”
Janice lit a cigarette. “You’ve got balls coming down here. Alone. An independent with a small order.”
Hearing this prim and proper woman say balls was oddly erotic. “I’ve got a business to run,” Hull pointed out. “A direct deal was my last resort. You wouldn’t believe what the states are like since the crackdown. I hate to think how many times I’ve driven around all night with a suitcase full of hundreds and no one to give it to. But your boss guarantees delivery. I had to give it a shot.”
Now the girls who’d been freebasing lay back in grinning stupors. Two more climbed out of the pool for their turns, one so young she scarcely had pubic hair. Hull did not feel even abstractly responsible. Loss was always someone else’s gain. Why shouldn’t he be in on it? He was just a purveyor to a need. Supply and demand, kids. It’s not my fault the world’s a piece of shit. If I don’t sell it, somebody else will.
One of the blondes smiled at him, her white legs spread unabashed on the lounge chair. A blowjob maybe, but there was no way Hull would want to fuck any of the pool girls. Too young; kids weren’t his style. See? he thought, a comical testament to God. I’ve got morals. A drug marketeer, Hull was no stranger to lots of sex; he liked nothing more than breaking a couple of nuts per day into a nice, hot box. But seasoned women were more his bag. Women with experience. Women who knew themselves, and were sure of themselves. Like—
Well, like his escort, for instance.
He tried to catch glimpses of Janice as she led him out of the court. Great figure, great legs. Not age but more like a refinement had crept into her model’s face, tightening the mouth, etching tiny lines at the corners of the eyes. Her eyes, he contemplated again. They were probably once very beautiful. Now they looked lackluster. How long ago had she been one of the girls in the pool? Her eyes showed all the broken pieces of her dreams, but Hull didn’t feel particularly guilty about that, either. Why should he? He wouldn’t mind fucking her, though—no, indeed. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Humping a good one off up her slot. He could imagine it in his mind: wet and ready, and a gorgeous dark-blond thatch. Then maybe he’d turn her around and treat her to a second load up the back door. Hmmm. A nice thought, at least. He was probably even entitled to now that he was Casparza’s client.
But what the hell was that goddamn little thing around her neck?
She took him down the hill. As before she ignored the lit cigarette in her hand. “Here’re the works,” she said.
Casparza ran an impressive operation. This was no cokehole in the jungle; it was a complex. Whole warehouses were devoted to maturation and wash-trenches. Dump trucks one after another roared down from the fields, their beds stacked high with coca leaves. Processors in more warehouses treated and pulped the leaves to new paste. Further treatment and desiccation reduced the paste to purified powder, which would then be distilled to crack once it got to the point people in the States.
