Pariah (39 page)

“
I see you baby, shakin’ that ass, shakin’ that ass. . . .”

“What?” Mona stopped walking and turned to face Eddie.

Woolgathering over, Eddie stared back into Mona’s fish eye.

“Nothin’,” he said. “Just singin’. Remember that one?” Mona shook her head. “It’s a good one. Groove Armada. That’s whose song it was. Yeah. I used to get kinda nice to that shit.”

Mona turned away and they resumed their trek. The second her
back was turned Eddie stuck out his tongue, then embellished the gesture by flicking it back and forth between his splayed middle and index fingers. He’d never been big on cunnilingus, but he wouldn’t mind noshing on the delicacies in Mona’s undies. Not undies.
Panties.
Maybe she wore a thong.
Oh shit
. Or a G-string.
Daaaamn
. Eddie didn’t care. It was all good. And that ass. That fuckin’ ass. As they trudged on, slowly, deliberately, he felt the insistent surge of blood into his groin.
Yeah. Like Moses’s fuckin’ staff.

“
I see you baby, shakin’ that ass, shakin’ that ass. . . .”

Mona sucked her teeth in that gross disapproving way.

Don’t fuckin’ judge me, bitch
, Eddie thought.
I’ll fuckin’ rape that ass.

“I would, too,” he said. “Just try me.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He fingered his necklace of zombie ears, ruminating on punishing that ass. But first things first: Karl needed some rescuing—the little wuss—so The Comet was on it. The zombie ears felt like suede. Or did they? Maybe it was his fingertips. His mouth tasted like the inside of his socks, the texture of his inside cheeks rough like terry cloth. And dry. So dry. Unlike Karl, Eddie had packed a canteen, and drank from it. As the water sluiced down his throat he remembered something from junior high.

“The brain’s fuckin’ weird,” Eddie said to the back of Mona’s head. He trotted forward and stood by her side as he continued. “You know? Like, I was just thirsty, right? So I guzzle some
agua
and what comes back to me? This fuckin’ book from when I was a kid, with this little baby Mexican or Indian. But I remembered his name: Coyotito. ’Cause as I was guzzling I remembered this line from the book, something about Coyotito’s little tongue lapping thirstily or greedily or some such gay-ass shit. I can’t remember what book, but I fuckin’ hated that kid and was glad when he got capped. That book sucked, but I remember some of it. ’Cept its name.”

“
The Pearl
.”

“Yeah.
Fuck
yeah,
The Pearl
. Holy shit, I can’t believe you knew that. That book
sucked
, am I right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Eddie grinned thinking about that little brat taking lead in the
cabeza
. The more he thought about it the more that flooded back to him. In zombie movies head shots took care of everything. He looked at the throng as it held itself back, fighting its hardwired desire to tear the two of them to shreds. Eddie finger-popped an imaginary gun at them, each a rotting Coyotito just begging for a bullet-salad sandwich.

“And you know what else? Wow, it’s all coming back. That big Baby Huey retard and his little pal. Or was that a different book? Petting rabbits an’ shit. Same guy, though, right? The writer?”

“Steinbeck.”

“
Yeeeeaaah
. Him. Dude, he sucked.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Steinbeck. Was he a fuckin’ Jew? Is that Jewish?”

“Dunno.”

“Sounds Jewy. No offense, I mean if you’re a Jew. Jews are all right.”

“I’m not.”

“Not offended or not Jewish?”

“Neither.”

“Cool.”

Eddie’s mouth still felt like felt, dry and scabrous. The water didn’t help. He was sweating like a pig. Did pigs sweat? Isn’t that why they rolled around in their own filth, because they couldn’t sweat to cool off? And dogs. Dogs panted because they couldn’t sweat. Did any animal sweat? Sweating was sweet. Eddie wanted something sweet. A bomb pop would be the bomb, but Mister
Softee had stopped making his rounds. Mister Softee, with his friendly waffle-cone face and whippy-do vanilla swirl bouffant.

“
Try as he might he can never get hard / his name is Mister Softeeee
!” Eddie sang to the tune of the old ice cream trucks’ clarion. “
Deedle-ee-deedle-ee-dee-dee-dee-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum-dummm.
Remember that?”

Mona shrugged.

“Your loss, honey. Mister Softee was the shit.” Eddie polished off the water. Didn’t concern him. He’d pick up a bottle or five on the way home. “Yo, I’ve gotta take a leak. You mind?”

Mona shrugged, looking away. Eddie unzipped, aimed at the zombies nearby, and doused them. As they stood there and took it, Eddie grinned and shouted, “S’matta, your mamas never told you to come in from the rain?” No response. Not even wrath. Between the zombies and Mona . . . He shook off the last few droplets and tucked himself away.

“There’s a whole lotta shit we could steal out here in the world. Fuck, it ain’t even stealin’ no more. It’s just
taking
. Scavenging. It’s practically our patriotic duty.”

Mona shrugged.

The fuckin’ cooze was really chafing Eddie’s balls with her attitude. Was that all this was? Attitude? A woman shouldn’t ever come off attitudinal to a man. Even Eddie’s mom had agreed on that point, and when the occasion called for it, she didn’t protest a slap across the chops from Pops. Was that what this Mona bitch was begging for? Women liked it rough from time to time. Just a fact of nature. Eddie let himself lag just a little behind her again. He preferred her ass to her face, anyway. Plus, quiet from the ass is a virtue, especially on a woman. No one loves a gassy broad.

The Barnes & Noble loomed on the left.

“About time,” Eddie said. “We go in, find the little jerk. If he’s
crippled I guess I’ll have to carry his worthless ass home. That’ll be
great
.”

A glint of light caught Eddie’s eye as they stepped toward the broken window. As Mona stepped over the verge, Eddie stooped over to investigate the shiny object: a new-looking satin-finished stainless Smith & Wesson 9mm. He felt that surge of arousal again. With Mona’s back still turned he surreptitiously slipped it into his pants pocket, fighting the urge to empty the clip into several nearby gristle puppets.

With Eddie away on his mercy mission—hard to fathom the word “mercy” in context with Eddie, but there it was—and Dave sequestered for the duration of his beau’s absence, Dabney comfortably resumed his station on the roof. With their so-called “flynchin’ ” activities on hold the roof felt safe again, even with the dismembered corpses of their last haul still lying in a heap three buildings away. Though it was evident they were beyond locomotion, Dabney maintained his distance.
Why tempt fate?
he thought. Even deeply soused he possessed some sense. More than he could say for the happy fishermen. It was quiet the way Dabney liked it. Just the light flutter of a breeze riffling through a torn sheet hung nearby, and the occasional moan from the street below. Not even flies buzzing around.

Dabney lit a cigarette from the tip of the one he’d just finished and felt decadent. In his days as a breadwinner he savored cigarettes and put some time between them. Last he was paying for this particular vice, coffin nails were going for nearly ten bucks a pack over the counter. He’d started buying from the Native Americans via the Internet for roughly half that price, but still, even at five he didn’t blow through them like they cost nothing. Now they did, so what the hell. Live a little, even if the living he was doing was sure to accelerate
dying. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon and swished them around the glass to aerate the hooch. Fancy. Sophisticated. And again, it was “the good stuff.” He felt very James Bond. Or Shaft. Somebody debonair. That’s why he wasn’t just swigging out of the bottle.

He drank the two fingers and then poured another two.

How long had it been since Karl and Mona had gone out? How long since Mona and Eddie? Eight or ten fingers later—at least two hands’ worth—Dabney shakily put down the bottle and straddled the low dividing wall.

“Giddyup,” he slurred, wiping some boozy spittle from his stubbly chin. He dug his heels into the puckered tar paper and slapped the curved top of the wall. “Git along little dogies.” He thought of Woody Strode and began to tear up. Woody was long gone. Everything he cared about was.

Once upon a time his wife had called him “adorable.”

Once upon a time small children had called him “Daddy.”

Once upon a time he’d been his own boss.

Clumsily, Dabney hoisted his ass off the divider and loped putty limbed across the rooftop toward the pile of cadavers. He tripped over the second wall and fell, his numbed palms scraped raw on impact. He pulled himself off the ground and continued north, the mutilated corpses drawing him nearer. It was foolish, but pixilated from the booze, his curiosity won out. By the time he reached those dear, dead friends he was dog tired and dropped his leaden keister into Eddie’s ersatz fighting chair. It felt good. Better than the wall.

“Damn,” he said, assessing the ruined carrion. These were not the fearsome cannibals they’d been down below. This was a sad mess of humanity, retired. In death it was hard to tell male from female, black from white from Asian from whatever. One of the fractured heads looked maybe sort of Negroid. But the skin was so
excavated and overcooked it stymied easy identification. It was obvious Eddie was a total racist, so did hauling in a brother bring him extra pleasure or were all zombies created equal? Dabney sniggered as he contemplated those two crazy white boys snaring undead brothers.

So stupid.

He reached out for the bottle but had left it three roofs behind.

So stupid.

He fell asleep, the hot sun baking his marinated brains.

“You know we’re completely nuts for having let Eddie escort Mona.”

“Mona escorted Eddie.”

“Whatever, Alan,” Ellen snapped. “Don’t nitpick. Eddie’s on a wild tear all hopped up on Mona’s mystery meds. He was trouble before, now he’s flat-out dangerous.”

Alan couldn’t argue that point. He looked out the window. It hadn’t even been an hour since they’d left to rescue Karl, but anxiety was peaking. Ellen was right and Alan cursed himself for his cowardice.

“She might be immune to those things,” Ellen said, “but she’s not immune to a Neanderthal like Tommasi. We’re idiots. And now there’s nothing we can do about it.”

She joined Alan at the window and put an arm around his waist, the first tender contact they’d shared in ages. That touch, that small embrace, rattled Alan even more than Ellen’s words. Though he made no sound, she felt something in his manner change. She looked at his face and caressed his cheek. She tilted her head back
and he responded with a kiss that lasted for long, restorative minutes. For all their sexual encounters, this was the first time either of them felt real love for the other. When their lips disengaged they both stared down at the crowd below.

Within the sepulchral gloom of the bookstore, Mona slipped on her headlamp and flicked on the beam. She didn’t have another to offer Eddie, so she beckoned him to stay close, within the light, within the umbrella.

“If I find any Steinbecks I’m gonna piss on ’em,” Eddie said.

“Mm-hmm.”

Mona made a beeline for the table Karl had fallen onto, finding nothing but burnt books in his place and a couple of completely kaput zombies, their backs and limbs broken, the last vestiges of unlife gone.

“He was here,” she said, pointing.

“He ain’t here now.”

Mona looked up, aiming the light at the hole Karl had made, which was now many times larger. That explained the wrecked carcasses and the additional timber. Eddie looked up at the opening.

“That’s a big fuckin’ hole.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I’ll “Mm-hmm” you, you little bucket of fuck
.

“So whatta you suggest?” Eddie said, swallowing his annoyance. “It looks like Karl might’ve got up on his own steam, no? Them zombies clean their plates, but not so’s there’s nothing left. There’d be blood or something. Bones. Something
moist
. Some residue.” He wiped his sweaty brow. If this Barnes & Noble had a café he wanted to check the beverage case and see if there was any bottled water left. “Hey, does bottled water go bad?”

“Dunno.”

One of these days, Mona . . . bang, zoom!

“Think he got up and went on home?”

“We’d have seen him.”

She had a point. It seemed unlikely that Karl would have taken a divergent path from the one he and little miss talkative just took, especially if he was all busted up. A noise came from the upper landing and Eddie looked up into the gloom at the spot where the hole was. In the murk it looked like a busted mouth, the splintery floorboards like crooked teeth.

“You heard that.” Lacking any clear inflection, it wasn’t so much a question as a statement. Eddie made a face as he considered Mona’s way of speaking might be contagious. He said it again, this time as an obvious query.

“Mm-hmm.”

Suck it up, Eddie
, he cautioned himself.
Just suck it up
.