Book of the Dead: A Zombie Anthology (27 page)

The lobby looks something like an attic and it’s dark and crammed with furniture. Some guy at the back, the manager maybe, is dealing dol ar bil s to a pair of policemen. He nods at Skip and he nods at me and he lets us through and this girl in the corner winks at me and tries to smile, pale white lipstick and her tongue licking out, and she knows Skip and she says something that I can’t hear and Skip gives her the finger.

Inside the lights are bright and it takes my eyes a while to adjust. The place is crowded but we find a table and five chairs and DJ orders a round, four Coronas and a Jack Daniels, straight up, for Deb. “Black Light Trap” is playing over the sound system and the bar is lined with boys trying to look interested in anything but what’s about to go down. No one is looking at Jane, plain Jane.

Some are looking at Deb and some are looking at these other girls smoking clove cigarettes and standing or sitting in little groups. Skip points out his friend Philip, standing in the back and wearing sunglasses and a black Bauhaus T-shirt.

I get up from the table and go to the bar and then outside with Philip and it’s raining and I can hear Shriekback from inside singing that we make our own mistakes and I score from Philip and then I go to the bathroom and lock the door and stare at myself in the mirror. Somebody knocks on the door and I put my foot back against it and say “Deal with it” and lay out three lines and do them and take a drink from the faucet and decide I need a haircut.

It’s hot back in the theater and I hold my Corona up to my face, my forehead. There’s a man sitting at a table next to us whose eyes are closed so tight that he is crying. The girl he’s sitting with is tugging at the crotch of her Guess jeans and drinking a California Cooler and she’s fourteen if she’s a day. When the man opens his eyes, he looks at his Rolex and he looks at the stage and he looks at the girl and for some reason I’m relieved.

That’s when the music goes down and the lights dim and there’s some applause, scattered, and the music revs up again, something by Skinny Puppy, and at long last it’s showtime. There are video screens set in a line over the stage and I look up and they shoot on one by one and it’s a clip, just a short sixty seconds or so, from one of the films we saw, a grainy bootleg copy of a copy of a copy with subtitles in some foreign language, Spanish I think, and the zombies are loose inside a shopping mal and Skinny Puppy is pounding on and the singer’s voice is barking deep down trauma hounds and the film clip jumps and now it’s from some place back east, you can tel by the trees, and this is from television, from the news last summer, before they stopped talking, before the lists came out, and these soldiers are sweeping through a little town and the buildings are burning and the air is fil ed with smoke and they’re moving house to house and they’re blasting the doors and firing inside and now there’s a pile of bodies and it’s on fire and now it’s that commercial, that public service announcement, whatever, and the Surgeon General is saying that the dead are alive, they’re coming back to life, but we’re kil ing them again, it’s okay, it’s al right, and somebody told me he’s dead, al those guys are dead, and now the film clip jumps again and the colors rol over and over and the picture steadies and there’s a test pattern. Skip says “This is it” and a new picture fades in and then this real tinny music, more like muzak, and it’s a video, a home video, something shot with a Handycam maybe, and the picture is a basement or a garage, just bare wal s, grey concrete, and after about a minute shadows start walking across the wal s and then the first one’s out on stage.

The music is gone and there’s nothing but silence and a kind of hum, the tape is hissing, and the camera goes out of focus and the picture breaks up and then it’s back in focus and she is looking at the camera. She’s recent, blond and tal and sort of cute, and she’s wearing a Benetton sweatshirt and acid-wash 501 jeans and it’s hard to believe she’s dead.

“This is real” Skip says to me and he turns to DJ and Deb and Jane and he says “For real.” It’s quiet in the club, quiet except for the hissing tape, and on the tape the girl is staring at the camera for a long time and nothing else happens. The floor behind her is covered with plastic trash bags and what looks like newspaper and there’s a thin wooden cot and there’s a worktable in the corner and I wonder why there’s a power saw on the table and it does seem warm and I reach for my Corona and the bottle is empty and I look around for the waitress and everybody is watching the screen so I do too. This guy comes into the picture with a coil of rope and he’s wearing this black hood and she sees him or hears him and she starts to turn his way and she stumbles and her legs are caught, there are chains on her ankles, and now there’s another guy and he’s wearing a ski mask and he’s coming up behind her and he’s carrying a chain and something like a harness, a leather harness, and I look at Deb and Deb looks at me and now they’re hitting the girl with the chain and she fal s to the ground and they’re hitting her some more and now the rope is around her and the harness is over her face and I look at Deb and Deb is touching herself and I look back at the video and they’re cutting her clothes and now they’re cutting her and I look at Deb and Deb looks at me and she reaches to touch me and now they loop the rope around her neck and Deb’s hand is moving up my leg and now the first guy is gone and Deb’s hand is moving and now he’s back and Deb is squeezing me and he’s got a hammer and he swings it once and he swings it twice and Deb is squeezing me harder and now the rope is fastened overhead and someone in the audience says “Yeah” and Skip’s arm circles Jane and he pul s her close and says “For real” and now they are yanking the rope and the noose is tightening and her feet are off the floor and Deb’s hand is moving and squeezing and I tel her to slow down and she stops and says to hold on a minute and I try and I look back at the screen and now they have a set of hooks and Deb’s hand is moving again and the hooks connect to chains and her hand is moving faster and the chains go taut and faster and there’s a sound like a scream and faster and her head is bent back and faster and now they have a dildo and faster and they’re fitting it with nails and faster and faster and faster now they have a boy, faster a little naked boy, and faster now they have a blowtorch and faster now they have a power dril and faster now they have and now they have and now they and now they and now and now and now the picture is gone and my crotch is wet and Deb reaches over and hands me a napkin.

It’s four A.M. and it’s getting cold and we’re stil sitting in the club and Skip is picking lint from my sweater and tel ing me that he wants to leave. The Clan of Xymox fades to Black and it’s a wonderful life, the singer is singing, it’s a wonderful, wonderful life. Jane is vomiting in the corner and the lights are dark and red and for a moment I think it looks like blood. DJ is turned away, watching two boys wet-kissing in the shadows beyond the stage and taking deep pul s on another Corona. Deb is out back fucking this guy from U.S.C., bleach-blond and tan and wearing a white Armani sweater. Skip is tel ing me that we ought to leave real soon now. The music clicks off and it’s smoke and laughter and broken glass and the sound of Jane spitting up and then the live band saunters onto the stage and the band is cal ed 3 but there are four of them. The bass player has a broken right hand and Skip says “The bass player has a broken right hand” and slides a clove cigarette from his shirt pocket. The four-man band cal ed 3 starts playing a speed metal version of “I Am the Walrus” and Deb is standing in front of me and she kisses me and tel s Skip she’s ready and Skip is saying that we have to leave and DJ is pul ing Jane by the arm and Jane is stil bent over and I wonder if I should ask if she’s okay and my eyes meet Skip’s and he cuts them to the exit and the next thing you know, we’re gone.

Skip says Jimmy has a camera and I drive over to Jimmy’s house, but Jimmy, somebody remembers, is either dead or in Bermuda, so I drive to Toby’s place and this black kid answers the door wearing white underwear and a hard-on. A lava lamp bubbles red in the living room behind him. “Toby’s busy” the black kid says and shuts the door. I take the Hol ywood Freeway to Western Avenue but it’s not right and I take the Hol ywood Freeway to Alvarado but it’s not right and I drive downtown and I take an exit, any exit, and I see the Sheraton Grande and I see the Bonaventure and I see the Arco Tower and I think it’s time to run. Skip says to stop but it’s stil not right and I turn the corner and now it’s right and so I stop and Skip tosses Jane out the door and she’s facedown in the gravel and it sounds like she’s going to vomit again.

“You didn’t have to do that” somebody says but I don’t know who. DJ is sitting up in the backseat and he pul s his arm from around Deb and shrugs and looks down at Jane. Skip starts to laugh and it sounds like choking and he turns up the radio and it’s the New Order single and Jane is crawling away from the car. Skip is pul ing something from under his jacket and his door slams and I check the rearview mirror. I look at the reflection of Deb’s eyes for a moment and I don’t say anything more.

The car is stopped in the middle of the street, at the mouth of an al ey, and I see now that it’s the al ey from my dream, a hidden place, a perfect place, and Jane is crawling away from the car and Skip is walking toward her and he’s taking his time and there’s something in his hand, something long and sharp, and it glows in the glare of the headlights and his shadow is streaking across the brick wal s of the al ey and I think I’ve just seen this. Skip is standing over her and I see Jane start to say something and Skip is shaking his head as if he’s saying no and then he’s bending down toward her and she just watches as he cuts her once, then again, and she rol s onto her back and he flicks the knife past her face and she doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, and now the back door slams and DJ and Deb are out of the car and walking down the al ey and now I’m walking down the al ey and when we get there Skip shows us the knife, a thick military job, and Jane is bleeding on her arms and hands and a little on her neck and DJ says “Make it like the movie” and Skip says “This is the movie.” He looks at DJ and he looks at Deb and he looks at me and he looks at Jane and he slides the knife into her stomach and the sound is soft and she barely moves and there isn’t much blood at al , so he slides the knife into her stomach again, then into her shoulder, and this time she shudders and her back arches up and she seems to moan and the blood bubbles up but it isn’t very red, it isn’t very red at al . Deb says “Oh” and Skip tosses the knife aside and Jane rol s onto her stomach and I think she’s starting to cry, just a little, and he looks around the al ey but there’s nothing there, garbage cans and crumpled papers and the burned-out hulk of an RX-7, and he finds a brick and he throws it at her and she curls up like a baby and DJ picks up the brick and throws it and Deb picks up the brick and throws it and then it’s my turn and I pick up the brick and throw it and hit her in the head.

We kick her for a while and then she starts to crawl and there stil isn’t much blood and it’s the wrong color, almost black I guess, and it isn’t very shiny and it’s just like dripping, not spraying around or anything, and she is almost to the end of the al ey and the street ends and there’s a curb and there’s a sidewalk and there’s a wal and there’s a light from somewhere beaming down and she crawls some more. Her head is in the gutter and Skip looks at DJ and he is saying

“This is real” and he pul s at Jane’s hair and her head is bent back and her mouth is open and he’s dragging her forward and then he’s pressing her face against the curb and her upper teeth are across the top of the curb, her lips are pul ed back into a smile and it looks like the smile in the Polaroid, Jane is eight years old, and her head is hanging there by those upper teeth and I look at Skip and I look at DJ and I look at Deb and Deb is looking down and she’s smiling too and Skip is saying “Real” and he puts his boot on the back of Jane’s head and he presses once, twice, and that smile widens into a kiss, a ful mouth kiss on the angle of concrete, and then he stomps downward and the sound is like nothing I have ever heard.

The sound is on the radio. I’m listening to the radio and it echoes along the al ey and it plays song after song after song. I’m sitting on the curb with Skip and DJ and Deb, and DJ is smoking another cigarette and the stubs are col ecting at his feet and there are seven or eight of them and we’ve been here an hour and it’s nearly light and we’ve been waiting but now it’s time to go.

“Okay, Jane” Deb says and she is standing and she is jabbing Jane with her foot and she is saying

“We gotta go.” Skip is standing and DJ is standing and Deb is looking at her Swatch and she says

“Get up” and then she says “You can get up now.” She is jabbing Jane with her foot and Jane isn’t moving and Skip is wiping his knife and looking at Jane and DJ is smoking his cigarette and looking at Jane and I’m just looking at Jane and then I think I know. No, I do know. I’m sure I know.

“She’s coming back, right?” Deb is saying and she’s looking at Skip and she’s looking at DJ and then she’s looking at me. “Bret?” she is asking me and she is crossing her arms and she isn’t smiling now. “She’s coming back, isn’t she?” Deb is saying “I mean, we’re al coming back, right?”

Skip is putting the knife in his pocket and DJ is finishing his cigarette and I am standing and she is saying “Right?”

People are afraid to live on the streets of Los Angeles. This is the last thing I say as I walk away from Skip and DJ and Deb and get back into the car. I don’t know why I keep saying this thing. It’s something I started and now I can’t stop. Nothing else seems to matter.

I sit behind the wheel of the car and I watch the windshield wipers go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and the city blurs, out of focus, beneath the thin black lines. I want to say that people are afraid. I want to say that people are afraid of something and I can’t remember what and maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s a dream and I am running, I am running after something and I can’t remember what, I can’t remember the dream, and the windshield wipers go back and forth, back and forth. People are afraid of something and in my dream I am running and the radio is playing and I try to listen but it is playing the song I do not know. The windshield wipers go back and forth. The doors open and close and then I drive away.