The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel (25 page)

Later that night, Mario woke from a dream that evaporated into the air conditioned darkness within seconds. He shook his head and looked at the time. A little past midnight.

He slid out of bed and padded out to the bathroom. He emptied his bladder, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. As he left the bathroom, he heard panting coming from Mama Sophia’s room.

He crept silently to her door, which was slightly ajar, and he gently pushed it open. He strained to see in the darkness, but all he could make out was the dark shape of his Ma lying down on top of the bed. Her legs were apart and bent at the knees.

He was about to call out to her to see if she was all right when he heard something peculiar, a sound that caught his attention. There was a wet sound as her panting became louder and faster.

Mario screwed up his face in disgust as he realized what his Ma was doing. Jesus Christ, in his guest bed in his family’s home no less. He looked away in revulsion, gazing down the hall to see if Marie or the kids were stirring.

When he looked back into the room, Mama Sophia had stopped panting. She was sitting up. Was she looking at him?

“Ma?”

No answer. She just sat there, an outline in the darkness, no discernible features.

“Ma? You all right?”

Nothing.

He flicked the light on and was startled by the sight of his mother grinning widely at him, her eyes sinister, her face frozen like that of a demonic doll.

“Ma…”

She didn’t move. She only gawked at him like a demented joker, the kind you see at the top of the spring in a jack-in-the box.

Mario turned off the light.

Feeling awkward and sickened, he pulled her door closed so that it was only open a crack, and he crept back to his bedroom. He slid back into bed and pulled the sheet up to his nose, staring at the door to his bedroom.

Was he waiting for it to move? Christ, was he afraid of his own mother? He grimaced at the fresh memory of the wet sounds and her spread legs, the demonic look on her face, and he tried to roll over on his side and shut his eyes.

He managed to try to relax, telling himself that Marie was probably right. It was a mistake to take Ma home, and in the morning, he was going to bring her back to the nursing home.

Coming to a resolution allowed him to relax a bit, and his mind began to drift off uneasily into that dark void of dreams. As he drifted off, when he was too far down that corridor to unconsciousness to turn back, he could’ve sworn he heard his mother’s bedroom door creaking…

* * *

Billy Blake took a swig of his beer as he watched Johnny Wong miss his shot on the seven ball. He looked around the room and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, nothing but a bunch of fuckin’ clowns in here.”

The Jolly Roger was hopping. It was the night before Circus Faire, and as per tradition, the nocturnal establishments of Smuggler’s Bay were filled to the brim with clowns from all over the tri-state area. All were dressed in their clown getups, some were in full makeup, and all were blasted out of their minds.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” said Billy.

“Why do they have to go out all dressed up?” asked Johnny. “The parade’s tomorrow.”

“It’s all part of the fun,” answered Johnny. “These fuckers get all dressed up, pound back drinks like there’s no tomorrow, and grab on the women like it’s free.”

Johnny smirked. “Right. Not like you ever do that, Billy.”

Billy bent down to take his shot. He sunk the six in the corner pocket. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. Besides, I don’t have to hide behind a costume and makeup to do what I do.”

“Oh, yes, you’re honesty’s real refreshing.”

Billy sunk another. The two banked off the cushion into the side pocket. “Jesus, Johnny, when’re you gonna learn to shoot pool? I might as well be playing one of these clowns.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe one of them will beat your ass and you’ll stop complaining.”

Billy stood up and cracked his back. “I gotta piss. Why don’t you make yourself useful and buy another pitcher?”

Johnny saluted. “Sure thing, Boss.”

“Fuckin’ clowns,” Billy muttered to himself. He walked back to the men’s room, pushed the door open, took his place in front of one of the three urinals, and unzipped himself. He placed his left hand up on the wall and held himself with his other hand while he urinated. He tipped his head back and groaned as he relieved his overtaxed bladder.

The door behind him opened. Someone walked in, and before he could look over his shoulder, a damned clown honked his horn right in Billy’s ear, causing him to jump out of his skin.

“What the fuck!” Billy turned around and grabbed the clown by the throat, slamming his back into the sink. “What’s your fuckin’ problem? Can’t a guy take a piss in peace around here?”

“C’mon,” said the clown in full makeup, slurring his words, “can’t you take a joke?”

Billy got right in his face. “No, I can’t. I think that much is obvious.”

The clown put his hands up in deference. “I didn’t mean nothin’, man.”

Billy let go of his throat, snatched the horn from the clown’s hand, and threw it in the urinal. He zipped up and flushed it.

“Hey, man. That was uncalled for.”

Billy pointed a long finger in the clown’s face. “Don’t push it, Bozo.”

Billy stormed out of the men’s room. Johnny saw him and started to pour his friend a beer from a fresh pitcher, but Billy stalked right past him.

“Hey, where are you going? I just got a new pitcher,” called Johnny after him.

“I need to get some fucking air,” shouted Billy.

Johnny saw a clown re-emerge from the men’s room looking mighty pissed off. He walked over to a bunch of his clown friends, and shouted to them, pointing in Johnny’s direction.

Oh, shit. What has Billy done now?
Johnny saw them down the rest of their drinks, and a drunk, angry posse of clowns left the bar.

Johnny wasn’t quite sure what to do. If Billy started some shit, Johnny sure as hell wasn’t going to help him finish it. However, he didn’t want his grouchy friend getting hurt either, even if he had it coming…which he did from any number of folks.

Johnny put his pool cue down on the table and walked to the front door. As he flung the door open, he half expected to see Billy getting the shit pounded out of him by an angry mob of jokers, but the sidewalk in front of the Jolly Roger was empty.

Johnny looked left and then right, and even craned his neck to see around the corner, but everything was quiet. Johnny shook his head. There was nothing to be done about it. Maybe Billy went for a walk. Maybe he even went home. Johnny just hoped that his friend made it to wherever he was going before the angry clowns caught up with him.

Billy was pounding the boardwalk with his feet. It was dark and empty, and all the storefronts were gated and locked. He checked his watch—1:45.

As he walked the boardwalk, listening to the ebb and flow of the waves, he slowed his pace. All the beers were catching up with him, and he found it harder and harder to pump his legs. Weary from a long night and the clowns, he figured he’d sleep it off in his shop rather than drag his sorry carcass back home.

He stopped in front of his shop and fished for his keys, and then heard footsteps. He turned, dropping his keys on the boardwalk. He held up his cell phone and pressed a button, the illumination from the screen allowing him to make out who stood near in the dark.

“What the fuck do you want?”

No response.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

He snickered and bent down to retrieve his keys. There were quick footfalls on the wood, and he felt a sharp, blinding pain…

* * *

Pete McCarthy sat in his clown suit at the Sungod Motel with one hand on his whiskey bottle and the other hand on the keyboard of his laptop. Nat Moran and Sean Molina pounded tequila shots, both in full clown makeup, setup on the small nightstand between the two beds, where a cigarette lay precariously on the edge. The coal was burning the edge of the cheap furniture.

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” said Nat.

“Fuck her,” said Sean. “She’s too skinny.”

“Hey, we can’t help it if you like fat chicks,” said Pete. “I think she’s hot.”

“Her name is Kyra. Nineteen years old. That’s good. She says she’s ‘open minded,’” said Pete reading his screen.

“I bet she is,” said Sean. “She’s probably in her twenties.”

“And she’s independent,” continued Pete, ignoring Sean. “No pimp.”

“That’s what they all say,” said Nat. “Who do you think drives them here?”

“What the hell? There’s three of us and one of her. I say we call this one,” said Pete.

“Don’t forget the pimp, but I second the notion,” said Nat. “While the pimp’s beating the shit out of Sean, we can run away.”

“Motion carried,” said Pete.

“Ha ha. You’re a real couple of jokers,” said Sean. “She’ll do.”

“Gimme your cell phone,” said Pete, grabbing at Sean.

“No way, man. If some bad shit goes down, the cops will trace it back to me. Use Nat’s phone.”

Nat collapsed on the bed. “No way, man.”

“Why not, you asshole?”

“Because I don’t know where it is,” replied Nat with slurred speech.

“Okay. Okay, you two mutts. I’ll use my phone.” Pete grabbed his phone off of the small table he was perched at by the large window.

“This room smells like a sweaty ball sack,” announced Sean. “I’m going to open the back door to the balcony.

“Good idea,” slurred Nat, who then downed yet another shot of tequila.

“You know, I wouldn’t sit on that bedspread if I were you,” said Pete. “You know they wash the sheets every day, but the bedspreads like once a month…if that.”

“So, what’s your point?”

“My point is that you don’t know what kinds of dried bodily fluids are on those bedspreads.”

“Probably from a bunch of pervs fucking escorts,” guffawed Nat. All three men laughed uproariously.

Pete pressed a button on his cell, but when he looked down, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Nat.

“I fucking dialed my girlfriend.” Pete hung it up right away. All three men waited silently in the dingy room as the television blared on about a superstorm hitting the northeast.

“What the hell’s a superstorm?” asked Sean, breaking the silence and the tension.

Suddenly, Pete’s cell phone rang. He looked down at the screen. “Shit. It’s what’s going to happen if I don’t explain to Mindy why I started to call so late and hang up.”

The phone kept ringing.

“Well, aren’t you going to get it?” asked Nat.

“If you two will shut the fuck up for a minute,” snapped Pete. Nat and Sean looked at each other, shrugged, and started pouring more tequila shots.

Pete answered the call. “Hello?”

“Pete?”

“Hey, Min. Wassup?”

“Why are you calling so late?” She sounded mildly annoyed on the phone.

“I-I-I was thinking of you, hon. I miss you.” He thought he felt her demeanor soften over the phone.

“I miss you, too, but can’t you miss me tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, hon.”

“What’re you up to? Sounds like you’ve been drinking.”

“Yeah, Nat and Sean and I just stumbled in from the pub.”

“Any pretty girls at the pub?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t have noticed if there were.” Then to Nat and Sean, “Hey, guys, were there any pretty girls there at the pub?”

“Nah, just a bunch of clowns. Fucking sausage-fest,” said Nat over Pete’s shoulder.

She giggled on the other end. “Yeah, right. So what are you guys doing now?”

Pete pushed Nat’s face away with his free hand as Sean made kissing sounds in the background. “Now we’re watching the news. Something about a superstorm hitting the Shore.”

“Yeah, please tell me you’ll head out ahead of the storm.”

“Don’t worry. We’re heading out tomorrow evening, even though we’re booked through the night. I ain’t taking any chances.”

Mindy yawned on the other end. “Okay, well, tell Thing One and Thing Two to behave themselves. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Love ya,” said Pete, which triggered an eruption of more kissing and moaning sounds from the peanut gallery.

“Love you, too, Pete. G’nite.”

“G’nite.” He hung up the phone.

“Aw, how sweet,” teased Nat.

“Okay, that was a close one,” said Pete. “Now, to business.” He read the number off the screen and dialed it into his phone one by one. He placed the phone to his ear. “It’s ringing.”

Pete plopped himself into one of the worn chairs, his bare right foot landing on a dirty piece of dried gum in the carpet.