1990 - Mine v4 (8 page)

It was him. After all this time. Lord Jack, here with her where he belonged.

She felt her heart pound and writhe, about to tear itself loose from its red roots. Lord Jack's beautiful face was above her, his eyes glowing like the sun on a tropical sea, and when she kissed him she heard the saliva hiss in their mouths like oil on a hot grill. He was filling her up, making her belly bulge. She clung to him as God sang for them. Then she was above him, grasping his stony flesh. The veins moved like worms below pale earth, and her mouth found velvet. She seized him deep, heard him groan like distant thunder, and she held him there as he twisted and drove beneath her. Then she drew back as Lord Jack convulsed and beads of moisture shivered on the flat plates of his stomach, and she watched him explode into the silver-streaked air.

He released babies: tiny, perfectly formed babies, curled-up and pink. Hundreds of them, floating like delicate pods from a wondrous flower. She grabbed at them, but they dissolved in her grip and trickled down her fingers. It was important that she catch them. Vitally important. If she did not hold at least one of them, Lord Jack wouldn't love her anymore. The babies glistened on her fingers and melted down her palms, and as she frantically tried to save at least one, she saw Lord Jack's hard flesh shrivel and withdraw. The sight terrified her. "I'll save one!" she said. Her voice crashed in her ears. "I swear, I'll save one! Okay? Okay?"

Lord Jack didn't answer. He lay on his back, on a field of tortured white, and she could see his skinny chest rising and falling like a weak bellows.

She looked at her hands. There was blood on them: dark red and thick.

She felt a sudden stabbing pain. She looked at her belly, and saw the scars ripping open and something reddish-black and hideous oozing through.

The blood was streaming from her in torrents, washing over the barren field. She heard her voice scream: "NO!" Lord Jack tried to sit up, and she caught a glimpse of his face: not Lord Jack anymore, but the pallid face of a stranger. "NO! NO!" Mary screamed. The stranger made a gasping, groaning noise and fell back again. She looked around, the red walls quivering and the music flaying her ears. She saw an open door and beyond it a toilet. The bathroom! she thought as her mind lurched toward reality. Bad trip! Bad trip!

She scrambled up, flooding blood from the widening wounds in her belly, and groped toward the bathroom. Her legs were rubbery, and her foot caught in a tangle of sheet. She fell, making the record skip as she hit. She couldn't stand up, and she gritted her teeth together and crawled toward the bathroom in a tide of blood.

Pulling herself across the tiles, she felt the madness beating in her brain like the wings of ravens. She gripped the edge of the bathtub with crimson fingers and hauled herself over into it. She wrenched on the tap; the showerhead erupted, stabbing her skin with cold water. Then she curled up beneath the flow, her body shivering and convulsing. Her teeth chattered, the blood flowing away down the drain, down the drain, down the drain drain drain…

Bad trip, she thought. Oh… bad fucking trip…

Mary Terror placed her hand against the scars. They had closed up again. The water was no longer red as it flowed away. Flowers were growing from the walls of the shower stall, but they were white and coated with ice. Mary drew her knees up against her chin and shivered in the chill. Dark batlike things spun around in the shower for a moment, and then they were caught in the spray and they, too, went down the drain. Mary offered her face to the water, and it flowed into her eyes, mouth, and through her hair.

She turned off the tap and sat in the tub. Her teeth clicked like dice. I'm all right, she told herself. Coming out of it now. I'm all right. The flowers on the walls were wilting, and after a while they fluttered down into the tub around her and vanished like soap bubbles. She closed her eyes and thought of her new baby, waiting in the closet to be born. What would she name him? Jack, she decided. There had been many Jacks, and many Jims, Robbys, Rays, and Johns, after God and his band. This one would be the best Jack of all, and look just like his old man.

When she could, she stood up. Still shaky. Hold on, wait a minute. She got out of the tub, pulled a towel off the rack, and dried herself. Little squiggly things squirmed on the bathroom's walls like Day-Glo paisley amoebas. She was coming out of it, though, and she was going to be all right. She staggered into the bedroom, feeling her way along the wall. The music had stopped, and the needle was ticking against the record's label. Who was that sprawled in the bed? She knew his name, but it wouldn't come to her. Something with a G. Oh, right: Gordie. Her brain felt fried, and she could feel the little quivers of nerves and muscles in her face. The inside of her mouth tasted ratty. She walked toward the kitchen, her hands clinging to the walls and her knees still in jeopardy of folding, but she made it without going down.

In the kitchen, her vision began to go dark around the edges, as if she were peering into a tunnel. She opened the freezer and rubbed her face and eye sockets with ice cubes, and slowly her vision cleared up again. She got a beer from the fridge, popped the tab, and took a long, deep drink. Zigzagged blue and red lightning bolts played around her for a few seconds, as if she were standing at the center of a laser show. Then they faded, and Mary finished her beer and put the can aside. She felt the scars on her belly. Still stitched up tight, but damn, that had scared the hell out of her. It had happened a couple of times before, during other bad trips, and it always seemed so real even when she knew it wasn't. She missed her baby. It was time to get Gordie out of here so she could give birth.

The
Rolling Stone
was still on the countertop where she'd left it, the Bangles on its cover. She got the last beer from the fridge and started in on it, her mouth like a dustbowl. Then, by force of habit, Mary turned to the classified ads section at the back of the
Stone
. She looked at what was for sale: Bon Jovi Tshirts, Wayfarer sunglasses, Spuds MacKenzie posters, Max Headroom masks, and the like. Her gaze ticked to the section of personal messages.

We Love You, Robert Palmer. Linda and Terri, Your Greatest fans.

Need Ride, Amherst MA. to Ft. Lauderdale FL. 2/9, willing to share all expenses. Call after 6 p.m. 413-555-1292, Greg.

Hi, Chowderhead!

Looking for Foxy Denise. Met you at the Metallica concert 12/28. Where'd you go?Joey, Box 101B, Newport Beach, CA.

Long Live the Rough Riders! See, we said we'd do it!

Happy Birthday, Liza! I Love You!

Mr. Mojo has risen. The lady is
—

Mary stopped reading. Her throat tightened, her mouth full of beer. Swallowing was a major effort. She got the beer down, and then her eyes went back to the beginning of the message.

Mr. Mojo has risen. The lady is still weeping. Does anybody remember? Meet me there. 2/18, 1400.

She stared at the last four numbers. Fourteen hundred. Military time. Two in the afternoon, the eighteenth of February. She read the message again, and a third time. The Mr. Mojo was a reference to Jim Morrison, from a line in a song called "L.A. Woman." The weeping lady was —

It had to be. It had to be.

She thought maybe the acid was still freaking her mind, and she went to the fridge, got a handful of ice cubes, and bathed her face again. She was trembling, not only from the cold, when she looked at the
Stone
once more. The message had not changed. Mr. Mojo. The weeping lady. Does anybody —

"I remember," Mary Terror whispered.

Gordie opened his eyes to a shadow standing over him. "Whazzit?" he said, his mouth moving on rusted hinges.

"Get out."

"Huh? I'm tryin' to —"

"Get out."

He blinked. Ginger was standing beside the bed, staring down at him. She was naked, a mountain of flesh. Big ol' baggy tits, Gordie thought. He smiled, his brain still full of flowers, and reached up for one of her breasts. Her hand caught his, and held it like a bird in a trap.

"I want you gone," the woman said. "Right now."

"What time is it? Whoa, my head's spinnin'!"

"It's almost ten-thirty. Come on, Gordie, get up. I mean it, man."

"Hey, what's the rush?" He tried to pull his hand free, but the woman's fingers tightened. The force of her grip was beginning to scare him. "You gonna break my hand, or what?"

She let him go and stepped back. Sometimes her strength got away from her, and this would not be a good time for that to happen. "Sorry," she said. "But you'll have to go. I like to sleep alone."

"My eyeballs are fried." Gordie pressed his palms into the sockets and rubbed them. Stars and pinwheels exploded in the darkness. "Man, that shit's got a kick, don't it?"

"I've had stronger." Mary picked up Gordie's clothes and dumped them on the bed beside him. "Get dressed. Come on, move it!"

Gordie grinned at her, slack-lipped and red-eyed. "You been in the army or somethin'?"

"Or something," she answered. "Don't go back to sleep." She waited until he'd shrugged into his shin and had started buttoning it before she put on her robe and returned to the kitchen. Her eyes took in the message once again, and her heart pounded in her chest. No one could've written this but a Storm Fronter. No one knew about the weeping lady but the Storm Front's inner circle: ten people of which five had been executed by the pigs, one had been killed in a riot at Attica, and the other three were — like her — fugitives without a country. The names and faces reeled through her mind as she stared at the black words on paper as if looking through a keyhole into the past: Bedelia Morse, Gary Leister, CinCin Omara, James Xavier Toombs, Akitta Washington, Janette Snowden, Sancho Clemenza, Edward Fordyce, and the Commander, Jack Gardiner, "Lord Jack." She knew who had died by the pig bullet and who still held to the underground faith, but who had written this message? She opened a drawer and fumbled around, searching for a calendar she'd gotten in the mail as a promotion from a furniture store. She found it, the days one white square after another. Today was the twenty-third of January. Thirty-one days in this month. Eight days to go.
Meet me there. 2/18, 1400
. She couldn't count right, the acid and her own excitement were screwing her up. Calm down, calm down. Her palms were slick. Twenty-six days before the meeting. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. She intoned it aloud, a soothing mantra but a mantra that was also ripe with dangerous possibilities. It could be Jack himself, calling the last of the Storm Front together again. She could see him in her mind, his blond hair wild in the wind and his eyes gleaming with righteous fire, Molotov cocktails gripped in both hands and a gunbelt around his waist. It could be Jack, calling for her. Calling, calling…

She would answer. She would walk through hell to kiss his hand, and nothing would stop her from answering his summons.

She loved him. He was her heart, ripped away like the baby she'd been carrying for him had been ripped from her womb. He was her heart, and without him she was an empty shell.

"Hey, what's in the
Stone
?" A hand reached past her and grabbed up the magazine from the countertop.

Mary Terror whirled toward Gordie. She felt it come out of her like the seething magma from a volcano. She knew what it was, had lived with it for what seemed like all her life. She had loved it, suckled it, embraced it, and fed on it, and its name was Rage. Before she could stop herself, she placed a hand around Gordie's stalky throat and pressed a thumb into his windpipe, at the same time slamming him so hard against the wall that some of the pictures of the precious infants jumped off their nails and clattered to the floor.

"Gaak," Gordie said, his face reddening, his eyes beginning to bulge from the sockets. "Jesusgaaklemmegaaak…"

She didn't want to kill him. She needed him for what was ahead. Ten minutes ago she'd been a slug, its mind aglimmer with the bright wattage of LSD. Now the deep part of her that craved the smell of blood and gunpowder had awakened, and it was staring out at the world through heavy-lidded gray eyes. But she needed this young man for what he could bring her. She took the
Stone
from his hand and released his throat, leaving a red splotch of fingers on his pallid skin.

Gordie coughed and wheezed for a few seconds, backing out of the kitchen away from her. He was dressed except for his shoes, his shirttail hanging out. When he could get his voice again, he hollered, "You're crazy! Fuckin' crazy! You tryin' to fuckin' kill me, bitch?"

"No." That would have been easy enough, she thought. She felt sweat in her pores, and she knew she'd stepped very close to the edge. "I'm sorry, Gordie. Really. I didn't mean to —"

"You almost choked me, lady! Shit!" He coughed again and rubbed his throat. "You get your jollies outta shovin' people around?"

"I was reading," she said. She tore the page out and gave him the rest of the magazine. "Here. Keep it. Okay?"

Gordie hesitated, as if he feared the woman might gnaw his arm off if he reached for the
Stone
. Then he took it, and he said in a raspy voice, "Okay. Man, you almost put your thumb through my fuckin' throat."

"I'm sorry." That was the last time she would apologize, but she managed a cool smile. "We're still friends, right?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Still friends, what the hell."

Gordie had the brains of an engine block, Mary thought. That was all right; just so he started up when she turned his key. At the front door Mary looked into his eyes and said, "I'd like to see you again, Gordie."

"Sure. Next time you want a score, just gimme a call."

"No." She said it purposefully, and let her mouth linger around the word. "That's not what I mean. I'd like you to come over and spend some time."

"Oh. Uh… yeah, but… I've got a girlfriend."

"You can bring her over, too," Mary said, and she saw the greasy light shine in Gordie's eyes.

"I'll… uh… I'll be callin' you," Gordie told her, and then he went to his Mazda in the nasty drizzle, got in, and pulled away. When the car was out of sight, Mary closed the door, locked it, and took a long, deep breath. She lit a cone of strawberry incense, put it in its burner, and stood with the blue coils of smoke rising past her face. She closed her eyes, thinking of Lord Jack, the Storm Front, the message in the
Rolling Stone
, and the eighteenth of February. She thought of guns and blue-uniformed pigs, pools of blood and walls of flame. She thought of the past, and how it wound like a sluggish river through the present into the future.