Love After Death
by D.R.Peak

The dead belong to a different race, completely independent of ordinary human life; they have their own laws, customs, and rhythms.
                                                                                                                                                                                    Raymond T. McNally 
  

one

I watched from across the clearing as Randy took a long rusty nail and pushed it straight into his right temple with his thumb; causing blackish blood to trickle out, staining his cheek as it ran down his face. "Hurts..." he said, and then shook his head as if it would clear away the pain. Randy hadn't been dead for nearly as long as I had, but he definitely wasn't holding up as well.

Oh, yeah, by the way, my name's Wendy. I died a few years back. You don't believe me? Well, if you were here with me right now you could check my pulse. What would you find? Nothing. Zero, zip, nada. Oh, every few days or so my chest will tighten up, my heart will go "burp" and my blood'll shift itself around in my veins. If you cut me, I bleed. Just a little. Black, thick rivulets of tar. It stops on it's own, eventually; sometimes it scars, sometimes not.

No, I don't have those ugly bruises you see on corpses and in zombie movies; although my skin is nearly white as milk and I tend to have dark circles under my eyes more often than not and sunken, hollow cheeks. My eyes are a little different, too; like you're seeing them through a camera lens filter, a bit darker in color, yet with a touch of brightness far back as if there were mirrors behind the iris and someone was shining a flashlight into them from a short distance. I also have to be careful about cutting my hair since it won't grow back. My nails, too. I made that mistake once.

How did I die? Slid right through a light on a sheet of ice and hit a pickup. Read all about in the paper after I "woke up". Just sort of found myself wandering around the cemetery with dirt all over me and a dull ache in my joints, wearing the same dress I was forced to wear at my older sister's wedding. I can't believe they buried me in that ugly thing. Yuch.

If it hadn't been for Gary coming along and helping me out I don't know what I would have done. Gary's also dead. He found me in the cemetery just a mopin', wondering what the hell was going on and just about to go see my folks and tell them I was okay, that someone had obviously made some sort of mistake; that their darling daughter was really alive and not road kill. Luckily, Gary was there to set me straight on that real quick.

"You are not a living, breathing human being any more, no matter what you think. You are dead--dee-ee-aye-dee DEAD. Not alive. Not a number. You are no longer a part of regular society: You don't need to worry about your family, your boyfriend, your school, your past. What you do need to worry about is your future: What are you going to do for shelter? For companionship? And most importantly: How are you going to waste time and goof off for the rest of your unnatural life?"

Well, he didn't say it in those exact words, but that was the gist of it. I didn't believe him at first, but the truth was real darn hard to ignore. Plus, I tend to pick up on things pretty quick--I realized that going back to my life before wasn't going to do me or my family any good. Plus, Gary was pretty good at convincing me what was going on. It seems that he had been hanging out in graveyards for quite a while, looking for "Born Agains" --that's what he jokingly called people in our predicament. Which I guess is a whole lot better than calling us "zombies" or "ghouls" or what have you. I think I still prefer "The Undead". Although "Children of the Night" has a pretty nostalgic ring to it.

Anyways, me and Gary have been best buds ever since. I think it helps that we have a lot in common, we like the same type of music, we both have a dark sense of humor and a healthy dose of the ol' traveling bug. We go around from town to town, checking out the scene, sneaking into empty buildings, jacking cars when we need them, catching all the best bands and the greatest flicks; just basically having a real good time. Being dead's definitely a whole lot less stressful than when I was alive. Just like Gary said, no responsibilities at all, whatsoever. Well, except for taking care of Randy.

We came across Randy the same way that Gary found me. We were scooping out this graveyard up in Charleston, just hanging, when we heard this god-awful noise; like someone hammering on a crate full of howling cats. We ran to it and came across Randy, becoming Born Again, dragging his way up through the earth, wearing this red tux that had somehow been stretched over his tall, lanky frame. It must have been at least two sizes too small. He looked like some sort of geeky, teenage Frankenstein on his way to the prom. We helped him out of the grave, cleaned him up best we could, got him a much needed new wardrobe, and he's been with us ever since.

Gary thinks that Randy was a suicide and frankly, I agree. He doesn't talk much, sleeps way to much for a dead guy and has a penchant for self mutilation that I've never seen equaled in anyone else, living or dead. Gary thinks that Randy is hell bent on finishing the job he originally started, only he's to chickenshit to go through with it all the way. Which I can understand. Beyond death, what is there?

In the short time that Randy has been with us I've seen him slice his arms up with knives, stick pins into his chest, jab nails into his head, jump off buildings, and basically do just about everything he could to do himself in permanent-like. I was really starting to get worried about him. Gary's starting to get fed up with babysitting him all the time and I must agree, it is getting more and more difficult to keep him out of trouble. It wasn't all that long ago that me and Gary both watched, dumbstruck, as Randy took an old, dirty spoon and plucked his right eye right out of it's socket and then stuck an old wristwatch in it's place. He then swallowed what was left of his eyeball. I thought I was gonna puke right there. Gary was pissed. Now we couldn't go out in public without making Randy wear sunglasses to cover up his face or go out one at a time while one of us kept an eye on Randy. Right now, Gary had gone to go get a paper, so I was the designated babysitter.

What's that? I said something earlier about dead people sleeping? Well yeah, sure we sleep. Just not as much as all you Lively Folk, that's all. But when we do, whew, we're out for days. Sometimes weeks.

We're even known to dream. Dark dreams, not unlike nightmares; swimming up through black, viscous waters as something tangles itself around your leg and drags you back down into the muck. Dreams of suffocating, with clods of dirt in your lungs and the walls closing in on you from all sides. Dreams of a hot, searing, white searchlight beckoning to you with voices from your past, tempting you like heroin on the top shelf to a legless addict. I try to sleep as little as possible. It's real tough being depressed when you can't get Prozac or lithium and you can't talk to a shrink: "God, it's so depressing being dead, what can I do?" He'd probably just tell me to live with it.

What do we Children of the Night eat? We don't. We can if we feel like it, but we don't need to. I know, I know: You were gonna say "brains" weren't you? Well, that's Hollywood for you: Misinformationville. But the buying public eats it up and thinks it's gospel. Take it from me, I'm a full fledged bona-fide zombie (shudder, shudder, gasp, gasp! If only my folks could see me now!) and the mere thought of eating someone's leg, much less their brain, gives me the dry, gaping heaves.

So if we don't have to eat, what keeps us going? Hell, I don't know. Sheer willpower? Some weird strain of mutation? The need to fulfill some kind of unfinished business? Not being baptized correctly as a child? Incompetent morticians? Cosmic justice? The simple fear of being buried and helpless, missing out on the world above passing you by?

Gary says it's all just plain bad luck. But you wouldn't know it to watch him. He always set out to have a good time no matter where he was or what he was doing. You get the feeling that he's really enjoying himself a lot more since he died, that he's making up for more than just lost time and missed chances. Gary always seems to be in his element. Whether hiking through the Appalachians in the dead of winter, hot-wiring a Lincoln in downtown Atlanta, bullshitting his way into a crowded private club at three in the morning or just plain goofing off.

So we don't eat, we hardly sleep, we go out of our way not to socialize with Lively Folk, and we don't need to breathe. Gary and I put weights on our legs once and walked across the Ohio River--it was fan-fucking-tastic! You wouldn't believe the stuff you find at the bottom of an old dirty river. Gary claims that there's a whole colony of Undead living out in the Atlantic Ocean where Lively Folk can't find them. I'll just have to believe that one when I see it.

I've also never seen a ghost. Gary claims he saw one in a graveyard up in West Virginia once, but he refuses to talk about it.

So what do we do? Sneak into movies, nick papers from the Jiffy stores, hang out in the woods, crash in abandoned buildings and rarely used state park cabins, read a lot of books and magazines, tell ghost stories, hit the all-night laundromats, and pretty much do whatever the hell we feel like. We're like the bumper sticker you see on retired peoples cars: No Job, No Money, No Bills, No Worries. If the IRS ever found out about us they'd sure try to figure out a way to tax the dead. Our life's kind of like the ultimate fulltime hippy-punk-slacker road-trip: Easy Rider as filmed by George Romero, Suburbia meets Return of the Living Dead. Minus the munching on brains, of course. Ick.

Sex? Do dead people have sex? The answer is unequivocally, yes. Surprised? Don't be. You just wait until you're dead and see if you can go without it.

So I guess you could say that Gary and I have a real satisfying relationship in a casual, still "just friends", sort of way. Plus, it's not like I have a whole lot of competition either. We've met twelve, maybe fifteen, others like us in the last couple of years. Usually heading in the other direction and never hanging out for too long.

Right now though Gary was doing a real good job of pissing me off. Thirty minutes he's been gone and still no sign. How long does it take to go rip a newspaper? No way he'd been caught, Gary's much to slick for that. I've seen him sneak his hand into cash registers while the cashier's head was turned, walk right past bouncers at hip, trendy nightclubs and lift hard, cold cash right out of the purses of little old ladies with their noses in the air. Gary claimed that it was actually a lot easier than it looked as Lively Folk tended not to notice the going-ons of us Children of The Night. Something about them "not having the imagination to grasp all the possibilities of the full and plentiful afterlife. Especially when we're in stealth mode." Gary tended to talk like that quite often: cocky like he, and he alone, knew all the secrets of the universe. Yeah, as if. I can tell you about plenty of times when someone got a little closer to me than I wanted and freaked out about my lack of complexion or the bugs crawling in and out of Randy's hair. Gary's just slick, and he knows it.

"Yo, Randy. Randy!" I'd interrupted him while he was busy, carving something into the log he was sitting on with his pocketknife. No matter how many times we'd take away his knives, he'd always find another one. "Chop chop. Let's go find Gary."

I started walking towards the direction of the store, hoping he'd follow. The store was only a quarter mile up the road and with any luck we'd meet up with Gary on his way back. It was getting near nightfall and I was hoping we'd make the state park before it got too dark. Even if it was closed for the winter, I still wanted to check it out carefully before spending any leisure time there. I don't think I'll ever forget that time a few months back when we were spending the night in a condo we thought was vacant and the owners showed up and freaked out big time. Boy, was that a crazy night. Almost made the front page that time.

We got to the edge of the woods, I could see cars at the gas pumps, some longhaired guy phoneyakking by the ice machine, a newspaper rack just outside the front door, but surprisingly, no Gary.

"Randy, stay here, I'll be right back." He immediately sat down in the dirt and pulled his pocketknife out. I didn't care, I wanted to find out where the hell Gary was.

I stepped out into the parking lot, careful to keep the collar of my jacket turned up and my hat pulled low; it was broad daylight for heaven's sake. I walked into the store, looked around and there was Gary at the magazine rack, his nose buried in some music mag. I should have known. I walked right over and stuck my finger into his back.

"Okay, asshole! You read it, you buy it!" He jumped about a foot and a half and turned two shades paler--if you can imagine such a thing.

"Shit, Wendy, what the fuck you think you're doing?"

"Gee, it's great to see you too. What the hell's taking so long?"

"I'm busy, okay? Vamoose!"

"Aw, c'mon, me and Eeyore are getting bored out in the Hundred Acre Woods all by ourselves without Pooh Bear."

"Look, just go wait with Randy and I'll be out in a sec. I'm taking care of something here." He spun me around and practically shoved me towards the door. Just what was his deal? He was in an okay mood when he left. Now it was all attitude and no patience.

I turned back around and was just about to start a scene when it happened. This Lively girl came walking from out back where the bathrooms were. Very pretty, much taller than me, maybe as tall as Gary; blonde hair, cut short, with little waves sort of scattered atop her head and swirling around. She could have been on the cover of Cosmopolitan or perhaps a Virginia Slims billboard ad with that hair, those long-skinny-taut legs, a lean bod, and a wardrobe right out of a Melissa Etheridge video.

I had a real bad feeling about what I was going to find if I turned around--you know how guys are. And you know what? I was totally one-hundred percent correct: Gary had his eyes all over her. He didn't even have the decency to try to hide it from me. I didn't say anything, what could I? If that's what he wanted, then more power to him. Did I mention I was the jealous type?

I was out the door and halfway across the parking lot when it hit me: She's alive, he's not. She has a job somewhere, a Lively family, probably lives in an expensive apartment in a big high-rise, and gets schtupped every night on top for satin sheets by her pick of the towns best-looking and most successful men. No way a girl like that was ever going to have anything to do with someone like Gary, no matter how much of a smooth-talker he was. Even if he'd still been alive. Besides, all it would take was for her to get within a few feet of him and she'd be running for the hills. What the hell did I have to worry about? All he could do was stare. And for how long, before she caught him gaping all bug-eyed at her and flipped him off?

So I waited outside between the phone and the ice machine. Mr. Phoneyakker was still there, but he totally ignored me. I could see into the window, Gary was still just a gawking at Blondie who was at the counter buying cigarettes. Didn't she know those things could kill her?

While I was waiting, a big black Lincoln pulled in and parked by the gas pumps. Some old guy got out and started pumping in hi-test. On the far side was a fancy new red CRX with the hood up. Some guy in tight black jeans and a leather jacket was pouring oil into the engine. My guess was that this was Blondie's sugar beau. He looked like he could afford something fast and expensive like her. He was pretty big and didn't seem to be in the best of moods either. He threw the empty can toward the trash but missed, cursing as he bent over to pick it back up.

It was less than a minute later when she came out of the store and as luck would have it, right up to the phones. Gary stood at the window, watching her; he couldn't see me from where I was behind the ice machine. She pulled a little book out of her purse and looked up the number before dialing.

Up close I could see the tell-tale signs of too much sun: Tiny crows feet around her eyes and soft freckles peeking out from under her makeup; a soft down of facial hair covered her upper lip and chin. I was going to have to reappraise my earlier estimate of her age: This "girl" was really a middle-aged woman with the figure of someone at least ten years younger.

What the hell did Gary see in someone her age? Alright, I must admit, she did look great in that skirt; she must wear the Stairmaster out at the health club to keep legs like that. I never looked that good even way back when. It could have been the way she was dressed. Why do guys always go for

the girls who wore short-skirts, used too much make-up, stuffed themselves into too-tight blouses and walked around with their nose in the air as if they smelled something foul? Or is that a redundant question? Hormones, perhaps? Well, Gary's body was no longer producing any so what was his excuse?

Blondie was yakking into the receiver, twirling her finger around the phone cord and trying to ignore the longhair staring at her tits. Shouldn't have worn that skimpy top, honey. If I seem a little hard on her I'm sorry, but I was the one in school who used to wear baggy shirts so the guys wouldn't notice that I had a chest, who'd blush when they did, but would get secretly jealous when the other girls got all the attention and all the best dates. I really thought I was past all that since I met Gary, but I guess you can never get over some things no matter how long it's been.

Gary stepped out through the door, started to take a few steps toward her, but stopped as soon as he saw me. He was in "stealth mode", but since yours truly is more aware of the dead than any of the Lively Folks in the general vicinity, I could see him just fine. I smiled and batted my eyes at him. He just glared. I think he thought I had actually gone back to the woods like he had "ordered". I thought then about causing a scene; maybe saying something obnoxious to Ms. Stairmaster or tripping Gary when he walked past, even going so far as to jump on his back and start yanking his hair out by the roots while screaming at the top of my lungs about what a no-good, useless dirt-bag he was. That was bound to get somebody's attention.

But Gary simply gave-up and waved at me to follow him. He spun around, walked across the parking lot, past the gas pumps and into the woods. He only turned around once. I'm sure it was more to check out Blondie one more time than to see if I was coming, but follow I did. When I got there, Gary had his back to me, I could tell he was pissed. Randy was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees, rocking back and forth, singing some sort of song to himself. Well, more like muttering actually. I've seen movies of people in asylums doing the same thing. Lost in their own little world, repeating the same thing over and over. The silence from Gary was almost unbearable.

"Well? Speak."

"Okay, it's like this." He turned around, I could see he was struggling with this. Something a lot more than just him ogling some girl was bugging him; I could see that now.

"Do you remember that girl I told you about? The one I went out with in high school? The one I almost married?"

"No, not really." Sorry to disappoint you there, but we hardly ever talked about those sorts of things. He ran his hand through his black hair. I would almost swear that if it was physically possible for him to cry he would have done so right then and there.

"Rebekah. Her name was Rebekah. If...if I wouldn't have OD'ed that... that one time...You know what I mean?"

Yeah, I knew. He told me all about it once, long ago. He meant that one last and final time. I nodded my head and let him go on.

"We were gonna get married, we had been talking about it for a while when, when... She was the first girl I ever really fell in love with, the only one I was ever close to. She was good for me. We were good for each other. It was real tough not to go seek her out after I came back. I've spent years trying to get over all that. It's been a long time."

"Yeah, but what has that got to do with right now?" He looked up at me, right into my eyes. How often does someone open up to you, look right into your eyes so you know, and they know, that their soul is wide open. No secrets, nothing but truth and bones.

"That girl, the one at the store. That was Rebekah. My Rebekah."

"No way, what are you talking about? That girl's way to old for you. She could almost be your mother!"

"You're forgetting that I'm a lot older than you. Me and Rebekah were the same age once, but I stopped getting older. She didn't. The people you went to school with have all gotten jobs, married, probably even divorced by now. You and me, we look like teenagers, we even think we're teenagers; but we're not. Not really."

I thought about that, what he said. He was right. I just hardly ever gave it that much thought before. While we were out being forever young, with our no responsibilities and gadfly easy-going lifestyle, the world was growing up around us. Hell, soaring right past us. Like we were sitting still. It was only the rest of the world that was really, truly alive. Thinking about it gave me a real cold shiver all over.

"You're sure about this? That's really her? Not someone who just looks like her?"

"Positive. I could never forget her. Couldn't if I wanted to."

"She really is pretty," there: I said it. "I can see what you liked in her."

"It's more than that, a whole lot more. The way we talked, the looks she gave me when we were alone, all the honesty and the dreams. All that and more. You don't plan on marrying someone who's not all that."

"Yeah, I guess not. But what are you going to do? You can't go talk to her. You don't know what she'll do." Freak. Run like hell. He's just lucky she didn't get a good look at him when he was gawking at her. I guess it's a good thing she tended to turn her back on guys with wolfish eyes.

He turned away, back in the direction of the store. The CRX's engine came to life. We both watched as it flew past, toward town.

"I gotta follow her. Talk to her."

"Uh, uh. What are you, nuts? Remember the big lecture you gave me when I wanted nothing more than to go see my friends? My family? You almost had to tie me up, to keep me from making that mistake. You told me--"

"I told you about that guy I knew up in New York, Peter, how he went looking for his wife. How he ended up taking a dive off the George Washington Bridge after he found her with his brother, who was still married to someone else. Never saw poor old Pete again."

"You don't want to end up like your friend, do you?"

"He wasn't my friend, just this guy I hung out with for a month or two, 'til he decided to take the deep sleep. I won't end up like that; I know better."

"You better not, I don't really feel like taking care of Chuckles here all by myself. Besides which, I would really miss my best friend."

We spent a long time just staring at each other, soaking up the silence. I knew there was no way I could talk Gary out of anything. Head like concrete. Finally, I broke the silence. I was always the one to give in first.

"You know, I heard her talking when she was on the phone. She's meeting some friends in town. Going to some concert. Maybe we could sneak in, slip her a note or something."

"We, Kemo Sabe? You got a mouse in your pocket or something?" It felt good to hear him laugh. Real good. Maybe we were getting somewhere after all.

"You think I'm gonna abandon my best friend in his time of need?"

"You're such a fool, you know that?"

"Yeah? Well, who's the more foolish, the fool, or the fool who follows him?"

"Your point?"

"Car." I pointed at the Lincoln, still sitting by the gas pumps. The driver was still inside the store, taking his time. Gary turned to me and smiled. That same smile he gave me the first time we ever met.

"Have I told you today how much I love you?"

"Save it for later, chum. We gots ourselves a concert to get to."

two

The drive into town took less than I thought; an hour, hour-fifteen tops. I freaked practically every time we came across a cop, fully expecting to be the major sale item in a blue-light special at any moment.

We had gotten lucky with the Lincoln; it was full of gas and there was a bank bag with nearly two-hundred dollars in the glove box. Stealing it was a breeze. The driver was apparently busy in the bathroom, so Gary snuck over to the car, hot-wired it in under three minutes, drove out to the road, and Randy and me hopped right in.

Just like that.

We cut the bag open with Randy's knife--that took some doing let me tell you--and found a pair of sunglasses under the seat to cover up Randy's eye. He was always losing his and we were constantly having to get new ones.

I don't mean to sound so callous about all this, but that's pretty much the way we did things. I've never killed anyone, hope I never have to, and I usually go out of my way not to hurt anybody, but sometimes you just have to do whatever it takes to get things done for yourself. I mean, nobody else is going to do it for you, right? And it's not like we had or could even get jobs if we even wanted. We suffered from the eternal cash flow problem: steal, beg, pawn what we could, swipe anything we can safely carry, and hoard, hoard, hoard. We have stashes all over the country. Sometimes they'd get found out; but hey, you couldn't win them all. Not that we needed a whole bunch of cash either, but it definitely had it's advantages: You can't stick up a laundromat in order to get your clothes washed; it's much simpler to pay for your movie ticket and have a seat then to sneak in and worry about not being seen; it's easier to fill up the car with gas without gathering unwanted attention to yourself. But hey, sometimes you just want to have fun. Take chances. Mischief.

So I had the boys drop me off at Lloyd's bookstore while they went and got us a motel room. That was the deal: we'd all get cleaned up so we wouldn't smell like seventeen days of tromping through the woods, yes, it had been that long, and I'd go treat myself to some new books.

Books were my one real vice. I could wander in any old bookstore for hours and hours scanning the spines, looking for the cool and unusual, getting lost amidst the rows of hardbacks, searching through the stacks of unorganized new arrivals; trying to find that one ever-elusive book that I'm really in the mood for, the one I have to have if I'm going to try to do any real reading that night. Just give me books, books, and more books, can't get enough books.

Gary was to ditch the Lincoln before going to the motel so they couldn't track it to us there. After the showers it would be time to head to the club--Escher's, that's what it was called--and then figure out what to do about Gary's old girlfriend Rebekah. Believe me, I wasn't holding my breath about that. Not that it would matter much if I did. To tell the truth I was starting to have second thoughts about this whole thing. On one hand I really wanted to help out Gary in any way I could, I felt I owed him for all the help he gave me way back when, and he was my best friend and all. But there was the other side of me that wanted nothing more than to see him make a fool of himself; to have Ms. Blondie Perfect Legs run away in abject horror, for it to somehow turn out to be the wrong girl, to threaten Mr. Hot Pants with severe physical violence if he ever even thought about giving another Lively chick so much as a passing glance as long as he was dead and we were together.

But as it turns out, I'm a chicken when it comes to doing what's good for me. I always seem to help out others more than myself. When I was but a wee girly of five I gave all my dolls to my friend down the block who didn't get anything for Christmas. My allowance always ended up going to either one of my brothers or sisters for something or other: cigarettes, movies, dates. I gave heartily to the Girl Scouts whenever they came around selling cookies. I would give my free lunch tickets to my friends in school. I even let people who weren't my friends copy my homework and tests. Is this what they meant by the meek inheriting the earth? Please.

I went straight to the back and found what I wanted pretty quick: a collection of short stories by Roald Dahl. He's the guy who wrote that one they made into a movie with Gene Wilder about a chocolate factory, although all the stories in this volume seemed to be mysteries. And a picture book on computer generated fractals. I could stare at fractal art for hours, it relaxed me as well as forced my mind to think, to wonder about more than just the regular day-to-day stuff. You know: Gary, Randy, life, death. Stuff like that.

There was a bit of a line at the counter and I don't think anyone paid much attention to me coming in, so I merely stuck both books into my backpack and walked right out. It's not as easy as it sounds, rather nerve-wracking, I always found. No matter how many times I do it, I can still never quite get used to actually doing it.

First, you make sure no one's looking directly at you. Although it's possible to disappear while someone's looking right at you it tends to unnerve them and therefore rather defeats your quick and subtle departure. And always remember to check behind you as well as look for those pesky security-cameras and ever elusive shoplifting mirrors; just because you're undead doesn't mean you're a vampire. More than once I've pissed Gary off by not being as careful as I should have.

 Then I usually pull my hat low over my eyes, hunch up my shoulders, tuck my hands deep into my the pockets of my jacket, and make a bee-line for the exit. Don't look at anybody, I'm wearing blinders, I'm headed for the door. Invisible. Or at least I hope so. Usually it works. Every now and then there's trouble. Times like that I run like hell and hope for the best.

This time: No prob. Everything's safe and cozy. I was out on the street, two new books in my hand, headed down the corner to the Jiffy to meet up with the boys. They weren't there yet so I went inside to get hair color. If Gary was wanting to hang with the Lively set then we were going to have to do something about his looks. Re-dye the hair, pile on the make-up, wear sunglasses at night if that's what it takes. Besides, I could use a make-over myself. I didn't even want to think about what we were going to do about Randy. We couldn't leave him alone in the motel, no telling what damage he'd do. But it would be a whole lot easier if he didn't go with us. We'd have to deal with that one real soon like.

I was beginning to think that perhaps Jiffy Marts were the Purgatory of the dead. I'd spent more time in Jiffy Marts than practically anywhere else. But they were most always safe.  The clerks were used to seeing weird characters at all hours of the day or night, so you could come and go as you pleased; you could easily swipe almost anything you'd need from cars to Twinkies to cigarettes to newspapers; they had bathrooms, so you could clean yourself up; video games, telephones, and on and on and on and on. And various hair products, too. What do you think? Superman Blue-Black for Gary; Midnight Jet for Randy; and let's see, how about Go-Go Dancer Striptease Red for yours truly? That ought to make them all sit up and take notice. I was getting rather tired of the black-haired, pasty-faced, gothic-chick look I'd been sporting for way to long now. It was way past time for a change.

This particular Jiffy Mart was loaded with cameras and mirrors, not to mention the two dorks behind the counter giving me the eye since I first came in, as well as some hooligans around back; boys in black trench coats with shades and bandannas, all talking loud and rude, smoking cigarettes and crowding round the video games giving each other high-fives and glancing in my direction just a mite bit much for my comfort.

I grabbed up the hair colors, some shampoo, a coke, and some gum and took them all to the counter. Dork Number One rang me up while Number Two licked his lips and kept looking me up and down like I was on his own private catwalk. I paid with the cash we got from the Lincoln and got out of there fast. Guys like that always gave me the creeps; old enough to be some girls father and they practically drool all over themselves while gaping and gawking as if they were actually going to get somewhere. Gross.

There was still no sign of the guys. I wasn't sure which motel they were getting, so I cozied up by the telephones to read the directions for the hair color while I waited. I had no idea the amount of trouble I was about to be involved in.

The hooligans came out of the store right about the time I got settled. They were noisily punching and knocking each other about and I only looked up for a second, but it was long enough for one of them to make eye-contact with me. I glanced away real quick like, but I could see him out the corner of my eye as he sat on the hood of a car parked by the front door. He was still looking. I should have walked off right then, maybe even ran, but that probably would have just got their attention just as well. I knew as soon as he hopped off the car and walked up to me that it was going to be trouble, but there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it at that point.

"Hey, I've seen you around here before, haven't I?" He wore a ratty D.R.I. shirt under his trench, heavy combat boots, badly faded jeans and over-sized, wrap around shades. The bandanna he wore was dark blood red.

"Sorry, you've got me confused with somebody else." All his buddies were standing around, watching. Great. An audience was the last thing I needed. I wasn't sure whether to play it cool and be coy, or to try and push my way past them all and head for the hills.

"Uh, look, my friends are gonna be here real soon. We're supposed to hook up, go to a show and all."

"Hey, girlfriend, we're you're friends. We're all friends `round these parts." He snapped his fingers and the others began shuffling up to us. I should have ran when I had the chance. There wasn't time for me to disappear now. I tried to look past them for Gary, but they were bunched in around me. Too close, too tight.

The first one spoke again, his voice was low and rough. "Louis, my main man, check this sister out real close and give me your honest and erstwhile opinion."

Louis was tall, taller than even Randy, he bent down towards me, removed his shades and stuck his face right up to mine. He forced smoke out of his nostrils and growled very convincingly like a pissed dog. His breath was horrible, like road kill, or that slaughter-house that used to be down the block from my old high-school. Even worse, his teeth had been changed--filed to sharp points, the front ones had small holes drilled into them and copper wire was strung in and out of the holes and wrapped around his fangs. Believe me, this was a whole lot closer than I wanted to be. Before I knew it he had reached up and snatched off my sunglasses. They all murmured amongst themselves when they got a better look at me.

"Verdict, Lou?"

"Just like you, just like me. Not one of THEM." That's how he said it: "THEM" with capitals. I wasn't sure what he meant, but his breath was starting to gag me, not to mention I was way past feeling claustrophobic.

"Hey, look guys, I don't have any money and my boyfriend's gonna be here any--"

"Shut up, bitch. What kinda boyfriend does a dead chick have anyways?" This from one of the other goons, a short, stocky kid with wide lips and big nostrils. His jeans were tucked into the tops of his boots, which had been painted with skulls and demons.

Now I know why they were messing with me: I'd been found out by a gang of undead, juvenile, zombie roustabouts. Lost Boys. Ghouls. Most likely they thought I was from some nearby rival gang; a spy or maybe an unfortunate who happened to wander too far from home base. I'd heard stories from Gary about certain gangs he'd come across. They were usually loosely organized, extremely territorial, yet short-lived as they tended to fall apart through the violence they subsisted on. To be avoided at all costs. Looks like I walked right into this one.

The first one started in on me again. "See those tags over there?" He waved at some scribble that had been spray-painted on the dumpster. "That's our's. This is Bone-Daddy territory you be in. You in big trouble, bitch. We gonna wail on you and take you apart piece by piece 'til you wish you never been dead." I wanted to scream. To kick them all away. Wake up at home, still sixteen, still breathing. For real.

"Gonna get us some, man."

"Gonna cut her!"

"Mess her up, man! Mess the cunt up!"

I missed who said what. They were all shouting at once. One of them grabbed me by the back of my hair and pulled me down to the ground. Then they dragged me around back, behind the store. I kicked, yelled, bit, punched. None of it did any good, of course. There was just too damn many of them and not enough of me.

Sometimes being small definitely had it's drawbacks. When I was younger my Mom used to tell me that I'd never have to worry about my weight, that I'd be a size three forever, how lucky that I took after her side of the family and not Dad's, why boys prefer petite girls. And of course the whole time I dreamt of being tall like a runway model, willowy and sunken-cheeked, pale and gaunt, long-limbed and flat-chested. Well, I barely made it past five-foot-two and somehow, dammit, managed to fill up a C-cup without even trying. Although I eventually did get the pale skin, as well as the gaunt features and the hollow eyes and the sunken cheeks to go with them. But then again, even if I had been big and tough and bad, it wouldn't have deterred these guys in the least. They really had no fear. And I still would have been too scared to do anything other than scream and yell my fool head off.

This went on for how long I have no idea. I clearly expected to be gutted at any minute. I felt more cold hands grab me, rough and uncaring, clammy. Somewhere along the line they got my jacket off, the guy with the graveyard breath ripped my t-shirt up the middle, all the way to my neck. I heard the distinctive slap of a wooden bat against someone's palm and the scrape of steel upon concrete. My eyes shut fast and refused to open. I kept repeating that age-old mantra: "This isn't happening to me, it's not real. This isn't happening." All my struggles were futile against their numbers and like-minded ferocity. All the dark, ugly dreams I've ever had came flooding into my brain, unbidden and smothering.

It took me a moment to realize that the hoots and hollers of delight and male gang-rape camaraderie had been replaced with shrieks of pain and horror other than my own. I felt the pressure release on my arms and legs, the weight of the sticky one on top of me disappeared.

I opened my eyes and got hit in the face with a big gop of black tar.

The blood of someone long dead. I ran my hand across my face to wipe it off and saw Randy. Right in front of me. Holding one of them by the head. He squeezed and put both thumbs deep into the guys eye sockets. I didn't hear him scream, he may have, but I was no longer listening. I only wanted out. I raised myself up off the pavement, putting my hand right into the mess that was left of another one of them. I grabbed up my jacket from under the fallen body of another who'd had the misfortune of getting in Randy's way--and ran like Hades. I could see Gary just beyond Randy. He had a steel pipe in his hands and was busy bashing D.R.I.'s head into the pavement. I got to the street and ran. And didn't stop running until I heard Gary behind me.

"Wendy! Wait up! It's okay!" I turned and nearly ran into him. Randy was bringing up the rear, I tried not to look at what was all over his hands. "It's okay, I'm here now. You okay? Did they... did they?" He grabbed me, pulled me close and I swear he was about to cry; I know I was. I couldn't talk yet, I just held on to him, thankful that it was all over.

three 

I became aware in the shower. I don't even remember making it to the motel. Hot water cascading all over me, my mind a jumble as I stared numbly at the showerhead, all its water pouring past me. I was nothing but a filter, unfeeling and uncaring, as all the tears I could no longer cry ran through me and straight down the drain. My joints ached, my head throbbed. There was a sharp pain in my lower back. I felt like so much re-fried shit.

Gary had tried to talk to me about it, but I wouldn't let him. I told him that this was something I was going to have to figure out on my own. I had never been through anything like this before and I needed time to go over it all in my own head before talking to someone else about it. Especially when that someone was a guy. Even if he was my best friend. This was something new: A memory unwanted, yet inescapable. It was going to require time for me to think about, time to fashion new and better endings to replace the real, time to forget. And more than time, also.

I'm sure you know the spiel: Never thought it could happen to me, blah, blah, blah, etc. I had never been partial to violence in the first place, and never once gave a seconds thought to the possibility of me, myself, being raped. But the more I thought about it, the madder it made me. It just wouldn't leave my mind. I should have fought back harder, clawed out their eyes, kicked them where it matters. Anything. But it was far too late for that. It's always too late, afterwards, when you think of what you should have done, but what you know deep down you would never have had he courage to even try.

Of course it hadn't helped matters that it was my own kind that had done this to me. In a world ran by and owned by the living, you'd think your fellow zombies would only be happy to help you out. What ever happened to sticking together? To doing unto others? Even in death, it seems, peace, trust, and freedom were hard commodities to come by.

When I'd finally had enough of the shower--it seemed like I had been in for hours--I got out and there was my box of red hair-dye on the counter. Gary or Randy must have picked it up and brought it along, I sure wasn't in any state to do such a thing. So what the hell; that's why I bought it in the first place, wasn't it? But before I could get started, there was Gary, banging on the door.

"Hey, Wendy; you all right in there? You need anything?"

"I'm fine. Be out in a minute. Doing my hair."

"A minute. Yeah, right." He tried to say it with a chuckle and only half succeeded. I know it must have been awkward for him, feeling he had to console me, but not sure how to go about it. I wasn't yet ready to talk and he was still feeling himself through the situation. Hell, for that matter so was I.

"So, you still, uh, wanna go out?"

"Of course. Can't let you guys have all the fun." Maybe if I pretended not to care, he'd leave me alone and let me figure all this out on my own. Or at least I could give the impression that I was okay. Hard as nails and tough as brass. Ignore the circling sharks and keep on sailing.

"Okay, but hurry up. It'll be dark soon and I want to get there early enough to scope the place out."

I didn't answer, let him chew on it for awhile. Of course, I had given thought to not going with them, just chilling in the motel and wracking up one helluva pay-per-view bill; but I wasn't sure that I was ready to be left all alone. I read once that the best way to get over anything painful was to jump feet first into something both time consuming and mentally distractful. And if going to a strange dance club in a strange town full of strange Lively Folks wasn't distracting, then I don't know what would be. And it had been quite some time since I last danced the night away in any sort of club.

And I loved to dance. Loved it like nothing else on earth. Not that I was any good at it, mind you, but it was definitely something I did with a tremendous amount of energy, gusto, and self-abandonment. When I was on the floor, I found it impossible to simply stand in one spot and shake my ass. I felt that beat and I moved. I'd kick and jump, shake, twist, spin like a dervish, throw my arms up in the air and holler, sing right along with the songs, stand in one spot and wiggle, jog in place, shake my head back and forth, and generally make quite an embarrassment of myself. Usually all in the same song. My friends always hated it when I'd drag them out to the clubs or the dancehalls. I'd be there for hours, either by myself, or with just about any willing partner, or completely pacified; on the floor, just jiving and-a-grooving all by myself.

The only problem I had was that being an asthmatic since I was a child I would tend to wear myself out rather quickly. I had no stamina. I'd have to stop every few songs or so just to keep my heart from pounding its way out of my chest. A total goner. Nothing more than an exhausted, winded,

heart racing like a NASCAR winner, danced out fool. But it never topped me for long. I'd get something to drink, take a break to rest my weary limbs, wait for my lungs to catch up with the rest of me, and then hit the floor running, once again. Over and over and over until I could barely stand, let again walk or dance. I guess that's what I got for too many car rides to the mall and too much sitting at home watching MTV.

But now it was different. Now I could really kick out the jams. All night long and then some. For hours and hours and hours. With not once running out of energy or having to catch my breath. I never had to stop and drink a beer or visit the little girls room. Never again would I wait on the sidelines, ticked-off that my favorite song was playing at a hundred-odd decibels and there I was, too pooped to pop. Dancing by myself in a crowded night-club with cool tunes and a hot sound system was as close as heaven as I was likely to get in this afterlife.

 I finished with the hair-dye, rinsed it out in the tub, and checked myself in the mirror. It wasn't as bright and vibrant as I'd hoped, probably because my original hair-color was so dark, but it was most definitely red. With a smattering of creative make-up, and as long as Escher's was one of those dark and smoky night-clubs with scattered lighting, I should stand up against any other girl that would be there. I looked through my backpack and found a not-too-tattered green dress that I hadn't yet wore. Kind of short--a trifle shorter than I usually wore--with little gold tassels hanging from the hem and off the shoulders. Found it in a thrift-store about a month back. It would look good, even with my boots. Especially with a pair of ripped-up fishnets and my new red do. Nightclubs always seemed to bring out the fashion victim in me.

Gary whistled at me as I stepped out of the bathroom, Randy was too busy flipping through the channels to pay me any mind.

"Well, girl. I must admit; if you're trying to get my attention, you're doing one helluva job."

He had his shirt off, I could see the tattoo he wore on his shoulder: a double-headed eagle, in black silhouette, against a red heart. The words "Trouble Me No More" were written across the top in a banner clenched in one of the eagle's beaks. The other was waggling a forked tongue. His whole body was vanilla ice cream white. He still had a bit of straggly, dark hair running up his tummy, circling his navel and almost, but not quite, obscuring both nipples. The right one was pierced with a sterling ring. I did that to him, not too long after we'd first met. But it wasn't too long after Randy joined our little group that we both abandoned the idea of self-mutilation. One genitorturer amongst us seemed like plenty.

"What d'ya think, snazzy enough?" The tassels on my dress rose up and swirled with me as I spun in front of the vanity, I could feel them brushing against my thighs ever so lightly, like the touch of satiny sheets on a cool night or a sweet lover's kiss.

"Way cool. I like. So now can I get cleaned up, or does your highness need more time?"

"All done, bub. The room is all yours." Well, not totally done. I would put on make-up as Gary showered. That was no prob since the vanity was outside the bathroom, adjacent to the rest of the room. "You want to use that stuff I got you?"

"Sure, where's it at?"

"I put it in the shower. I should have Randy's done by the time you get out."

"Cool. See you in a bit."

I began to gather up a few towels off the floor when Gary put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me back upright, massaging my trapeziums with his tough, bony fingers.

"You know I'm here for you, don't you? Anything you need, you just say the word." His voice was quiet. Soft. I wasn't sure if he was honestly being sensitive or if he simply didn't want Randy to hear.

"Later. Okay?" I pulled his hands off and then crossed my arms in front of me. I could see him in the mirror, but I didn't turn around to look him in the eye. "I'll let you know when, okay?"

He didn't say anything, just slammed the door on his way in. Hey, if he was pissed, that was his problem. I know he wanted to help. Whether to clear his conscience, or to honestly be helpful, I wasn't sure; and maybe I was being a bit hard on him, but it was high-time I started becoming more independent. Things around here may change real soon and I had to be prepared for what may come. I had to be strong enough to take care of myself. And it was long overdue.

So what did I start my newly-formed independence with? Getting Randy cleaned up and then dyeing his hair. First, I had to begin the not too fun chore of pulling off Randy's shirt; carefully, so as not to catch and rip it on the multitude of pins, nails, rings, and chains stuck into his hide. The few tattoos he sported were mostly crude drawings he had done himself.

He ignored me completely, hypnotized by the television, flipping past one channel after another; which didn't make it any easier. After I sponged him off and towel dried him I put the goop in his hair and rubbed it in real good, trying not to get any on my dress and trying to ignore all the garbage

jammed into his skull. There was a big gash on his head from a all he took once when he fell out of the back of a truck we were riding in that had never healed over. I had to be careful to keep as much of the stuff as possible from leaking into his skull and soaking his brain. Our best bet was probably going to be to get him a hat to wear.

The hair color was supposed to set for at least ten minutes before washing out, so I wrapped a towel around Randy's head and took the opportunity to start on my make-up. The gothic-chick look was getting tired and, besides, it didn't exactly fit my new outfit or the new me I was trying to bring out.

I went with a light base, just enough to cover up the dryness and add a touch of color, yet translucent enough to let some of my freckles show through. Gary would like that. Not that I was doing all this for him, you understand. Yeah, right.

So darken the eyebrows, pencil in some eye-liner, touch-up the mascara, swab on a bit of green eye-shadow on the topside, put in some deep blue stripes underneath the eyes to help hide those sunken eye sockets as much as possible, add a hint of rouge, my ever present pink pearl lipstick-- don't forget the big spritz of french cologne--and we were all done. Not too much, just enough to disguise the obvious. When you saw someone on the street you usually paid no mind to whether they were wearing make-up or not. You simply saw them, or at least the them that they showed to the world. Everybody wears masks.

It was time to check in on Randy. He was watching a cowboy flick with the sound turned down. I wet a towel and patted down his hair, this was much easier than trying to get him to put his head under the sink, and then dried him off with the last clean towel we had left. Not too bad a job, if I must say so myself.

Now I just had to wait on Gary to finish up and we were out of here. I spent the time pouring over the stash I got from Lloyd's. Gary didn't take too long and when he got out he didn't say word one beyond "You ready?". I packed my things into my backpack and stuffed it under one of the beds for safe-keeping while Gary helped Randy get into his shirt and jacket. Then I double-checked my make-up and headed out the door with a silent, seething Gary and a silent, carefree Randy on my heels.

four 

I know you're not going to believe it, but as far as night-clubs and dancing were concerned, Escher's really had it going on.

Escher's was downtown in what was once a furniture warehouse; now converted to three full floors of sprawling mazes, darkened rooms and twisting corridors. Balconies hung over the many dance floors; a local DJ held court on the ground-floor, spinning the local dance and house faves; rap on the next higher level, mixed with some soul and pop; punk and alternative hid in the backroom, while gothic and metal slugged it out on the top floor; live bands played every night in the basement. There were several smaller dance rooms scattered around the place, hidden in little out of the way alcoves, pandering to just about any type of music and dance fan; be it be-bop jazz, classic rock, glam metal, industrial, or stuff I've never heard before. There were liquor bars for the drinking set; hide-a-away cubbyholes for the hormone-struck--or the occasional user of illicit substances--complete with curtains for complete and utter privacy and cushions and blankets for your total comfort. Staircases that seemed to lead somewhere, didn't; and twisted, mirrored hallways ended right when you thought you were about to get to your destination. There were doors that either you couldn't open, or required some sort of pass or codeword. These were generally guarded by low-browed goons in tight muscle shirts who spurned the unfortunate few who tried to enter, absent the proper pass, with withering stares, hoarse grunts, and an overabundance of muscle flexing. Cages full of almost naked dancing girls (and yep, guys too) hung from the ceiling of one room while another was completely devoted to bizarre film clips that were shown on all the walls at once. I didn't hang out too awful long in this one, I was afraid of getting one humongous whopper of a headache. There were lots of mirrors, flashing lights, pool tables and video games all over the place. A laser tag arena, a swimming pool, cappuccino bar, art gallery, casino, and much much more. I never got around to checking it all out, the place was just too freaking huge.

Escher's was the amusement park of night-clubs.

Getting in was easy. We walked up to the door, Gary paid the thirty bucks for the three of us--that's right, ten bucks a piece--they glanced at our fake IDs, stamped our hands with fluorescent ink and let us on in. The boys went off together, I told Gary that Randy was his problem for tonight. Sure he hemmed and hawed, but I paid no attention to it. If he still wanted to talk to old "What's Her Name", then that was his problem, not mine. All I wanted was to dance for a few hours and think about nothing but.

I walked around for a while, surveying the scene, and finally settled on a small dance room, neatly tucked away in a corner adjacent by way of a steep stairway to the punk room. The walls were painted flat-black and decorated with what seemed to be naked bodies dipped in gold-foil paint and pressed up against the walls while still wet. Just torsos, front and back, no heads, very few arms and legs, all very shimmery and appearing to float in the darkness just almost out of your line of sight. Spooky, yet sexy at the same time. Mysterious and intriguing.

What music were they playing? Well, when I first went in, it was Nirvana, and by the time I made it to the floor they were already into a re-mix of what sounded like the Cure, but I wasn't positive; it could have been the Smashing Pumpkins for all I know. I haven't been keeping up with the new music as much as I used to. After a couple of more songs I no longer cared what was being played; as long as it had a good beat and didn't bore me then I was in there.

When I first came in the room wasn't all that crowded, but after an hour or so it was getting to be pretty jam-packed. Usually people tend to get the hell out of my way when they see me coming because when I dance I tend to get a little crazy.  I move more than most people. I get so caught up in having fun that I don't keep track of how close I am to the other dancers, I figure it's their job to stay out of my way. But when the place starts to fill up, there's not much you can do about it.

Hence: enter Paul. Paul with the medium-length straight brown hair. Paul with the mini-goatee, who was wearing baggy black jeans, a purple-striped shirt, old beat-up Cons, and a flannel so wore-out you could almost see through it. Paul who was minding his own business, dancing by himself, when I just happened to spin around, run right into him and knock him over onto his butt where he was immediately trampled on by the other dancers. By the time I was able to help him up, his flannel was torn and his hair was a mess. I apologized, babbling like an idiot; I'd never been so embarrassed in all my life.

"Hey, no problem. This saves me the trouble of trying to find some way to strike up a conversation with you." It didn't hit me at first what he meant, I'm a little slow sometimes. "I've been watching you dance all night, you're really good. My name's Paul, and you are...?"

"Uh, Wendy. Wendy Foster." Oh, shit. "Look, I gotta go. My boyfriend's waiting for me downstairs." I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm.

"Well, hey! What about your phone number? Let me give you mine..."

"Ain't got no phone. Gotta go, see ya."

I took off for the other side of the room where the exit was, pushing past the dancers and the ones who just stood around gawking at them. I hated to leave him so cold like that, he really was kind of cute, but the last thing I needed was some Lively guy with a hang-up on me. Seems like it was high time I checked out another dance spot. Maybe the 70's Disco floor, complete with strobes, black velvet posters, and cheesy haircuts; or the rockabilly room, where Buddy Holly and Elvis still ruled.

I got as far as the doorway and was stopped cold. Dead in my tracks. There were two guys in long, black trench coats standing in the hallway looking around. One had on a torn, bloody D.R.I. shirt and a dark red bandanna. There was a big, ugly gash in the side of his head that was still oozing black goo.

Shit.

I backed into the room before they saw me, there had to be another way out of here. Chances were they wouldn't recognize me, but why take the chance? I scanned the room for another way out, but it was too dark and there were too many flashing lights for me to see clearly. Maybe I could hide out in the restrooms. I headed in that direction, skirting the wall to keep anyone from sneaking up on me.

"Hey, you back so soon?" I about leapt out of my skin, but it was only Paul. "Let me guess, you either changed your mind or forgot where you left your boyfriend, right?" Behind him I could see the two Bone-Daddies wander in and start to scan the room. They were obviously looking for someone and if it wasn't me then it had to be Gary and Randy, who kicked all their asses earlier. I had to find the guys and get the hell out of here real quick-like.

"Yeah, right. You know the way to the basement? We can talk on the way." Yeah, and hopefully those goons wouldn't recognize me if I was with someone else.

"Deal, but we get to take the scenic route." I followed him across the floor, weaving in between the dancers and over to the DJ booth. There was a door I hadn't noticed earlier; Paul pulled out a key, opened it up and in we went. Hey, a back way was even better: much less chance of being seen. Inside was a dimly lit corridor; the music was much quieter, we no longer had to yell to be heard. I felt much safer once the door was shut, but I was still worried about Gary and Randy.

"You have your own key?"

"Yeah, I work here. Take care of the wiring, the lights, sound. All that stuff." He shook his keys and pointed down the hall, towards another door. "That way. I've never seen you here before, this your first time?"

"Yep, sure is. So, if you're that important around here you could maybe show me and my friends a back way out?"

"You in that much of a hurry?"

"Let's just say that some real tough fellas are out to get us and I have to warn my friends."

He didn't say anything about it, simply opened the door and hit the light switch. It appeared to be a storage room; full of tables, chairs, stacks of paper towels, plastic cups, empty beer kegs, and lots of other things. He took a few steps in and turned around to face me. He looked at me real hard for a second, the light was a trifle better in here, but thankfully, not much better. I kept my head low and my bangs in my face as much as possible.

"And you're dancing to scare them away, right?"

"I just now saw them, I thought we got rid of them a while back."

"These guys are dangerous, I take it?"

"Well, nothing we can't handle, I'd just as soon not have to if you know what I mean."

"I got lots of buddies around here, we can take care of these guys for you."

"I think it would be a whole lot easier for everyone if we just got out of here." Like I wanted to drag a bunch of Lively Folks into a gang war with some really pissed-off dead goons who wanted to kill us. For good.

"It's really not a problem, this place attracts assholes like flies on corpses. We have to deal with these types all the time."

"Look, I appreciate all the help, but you don't even know me and..."

"Not as well as I'd like."

I ignored that one and went on as if I didn't hear, "...I really need to find my friends before someone else does."

"Okay, under one condition. Give me your phone number."

I smiled; his voice was tender, light. It was here that I looked into his eyes for the very first time. They were deep brown, like thick, rich honey. He genuinely seemed nice and I was having conflicting feelings about him helping, but what choice did I have? I couldn't go out there by myself where those creeps were. I hadn't the courage for that.

"Look, you seem real nice. If circumstances were different maybe we could be friends, but--"

"What, not even be friends? C'mon," he laughed and held his arms wide, "Give me half a chance."

"Okay, but I'm just passing through town. I won't be here for more than a night." Was it immoral to lead him on like this? I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it; I only wanted to find the guys and get the hell out of here before something really bad happened. If I'd only known then what I do now.

"Maybe two?"

"Okay, maybe two. But first, we find my friends. Deal?"

"Deal."

"And another thing."

"Yeah?"

"These guys who're after us are pretty tough. I don't know what to tell you to expect. The last time we tangled with them it got real messy." I had to tell him the truth about that at least; I felt bad enough about this as it was. "This is serious business, you could get hurt."

He nodded his head and walked over to a desk that was nearly buried under an avalanche of magazines, electronic equipment, paper towels, and garbage. He fiddled with the lock on the top drawer for a second and then rooted through it, pushing the contents aside as he searched for something. I thought that perhaps he hadn't heard me, then he found what he'd been looking for. He pulled a short, fat pistol with a stubby grip from out of a box in the drawer.

"So, how's about a little bit of extra insurance?"

"Is that real?"

"Of course. Like I said, I know how to take care of things around here."

I never liked guns, but we were up against who knows how many pissed off zombies bent on revenge and who knows what kind of mayhem.

"Yeah," I reluctantly said. "I reckon. Let's do it."

five 

Have I mentioned anything about my sister? Six years older than me, long red hair? Tall, flirty, and impossibly skinny? She drove all the boys absolutely bugfuck. I had the misfortune of ending up short with mousey-brown hair and a tendency to hole up in a corner somewhere and read a book than talk to a boy. I'm surprised we got along as well as we did. We'd stay up for hours just talking. About boys, movies we liked, parties, school; you know: girl stuff. I really missed her when she got married to Vince. I hope he's treating her okay.

What about my parents, have I said anything about them yet? They were like most parents, I guess. They meant well, or at least thought they did. Gave me money if I needed it, left me alone if I was in a mood, and never pushed me too hard at school. I guess they didn't expect too much out of me after all my sister had accomplished: top of her class, finished college with a three-point-five, married into money. My death probably came as a relief to them: No more worrying about what was going to become of poor sad Wendy.

And of course I had my friends. Carla, Grant, Laura, Valerie, and James. That is when Carla wasn't in one of her rages against all of humankind and Valerie wasn't being a slut. Wonder what they did at my funeral? Were any of them married by now? Have kids? Had any of them died? Did Grant ever make it through college? Did Laura ever get accepted? Was Carla still holding out on having sex until she got married or met Joey Ramone? These things seem more like a dream as time passes, seen through a veil of darkness, a life I may not have actually led, but only made up to replace the life I left behind. Whenever I find myself thinking these thoughts I tried to recall the other things: My work (if you can call it that) writing for the school newspaper, my books, my pet goldfish, and my boyfriend. His name was Rick. He had long hair, a big nose, spoke with a soft mid-west accent and had dreamy eyes; one blue, the other green with little specks of orange. Did I tell you about the time he took me to the zoo and we got there too late and they wouldn't let us in? He found a way over the wall and we spent the next few hours avoiding the workers while they cleaned the cages and then topped it off with a raid on the gift- store. I got a real neat t-shirt with a zebra on it and he got a poster of a lion watching the sunset. Those were great times.

Did I mention that I was driving Rick's car when I slid through that light that fateful day? It was a 1977 dark green Monte Carlo with chrome rims, a jacked-up backend, tinted windows and a jam-ass stereo. I was listening to The Replacements at about a-hundred-and-twenty decibels when everything went CRUNCH. He really loved that car. Me? I'm sure he was more upset at what I'd done to his car then the fact that he wasn't going to get me in the backseat and feel me up under my bra anymore. The reason I was driving his car that day was because I'd found out he was screwing Joyce Clarke behind my back, caught him in a lie when I confronted him about it, swiped his keys during math class, and decided to take his precious car for a spin just to piss him off. The fact that his car was now a heap of twisted and rusting metal actually made me smile quite often. Even if I did miss him occasionally.

I'd bought him a leather jacket for Xmas. I wonder if he ever got it?

Paul was like Rick. Well, like him in that he was more or less of the same build, similar in the face, even the nose was almost the same. Only Rick dressed better; I never got into the sloppy, baggy-pants, ill-kempt, goatee thing that so many guys nowadays were into. Give me a guy in jeans and a leather jacket with sideburns any day. Oh well, at least Paul had the sideburns.

In order to get to the basement we had to take the service elevator. Either that or we had to go down two flights of crowded stairs and wade through all the dance spots where we'd still be on the far side of the room from the stage. With the service elevator, Paul said we'd end up backstage where we could scope the crowd for Gary and Randy in relative safety. Only problem was that to get to the service elevator we still had to cross the dance floor we'd just come from, go out the door, head down the hall to he rap room, and then into the bar. The elevator was next to the walk-in cooler behind the bar.

Believe you me, as soon as Paul opened that door I kept my yes peeled for ghouls. Maybe they wouldn't recognize me, maybe they would. I had no idea how useful Paul's gun was going to be and fact is I'd rather not have to find out.

"Stay close." Paul held out his hand for me as he started across the floor, but I didn't take it.

"I'm okay...go." I shooed him out in front of me and followed as close as I could. The place was packed of course, and he had to keep glancing back to see if I was keeping up with him. I almost lost him through the doorway, there were people lined up against the wall drinking and talking. Well, rather they were yelling into each others ears in order to be heard and spilling drinks onto someone else's shoes. I caught up with him outside in the hall, this time I took his hand.

"Girl, you're as cold as ice! You want my jacket?"

"No thanks, I'm kinda used to it." Someone was hooting and hollering behind me; I spun my head around to look, but it was just a couple of guys and girls being stupid with one another, laughing and falling all over themselves. Paul whipped me around and off we went, down the hall and into the next room. The bass in here was near deafening, I thought I liked my music loud, but this was LOUD, loud enough to...uh, disturb the dead?

Anyway, the whole room was jumping, everybody was rubbing up against somebody else, and my head was beginning to throb from the beat like I was in a submerged tank and the pressure was dropping. I closed my eyes and let Paul drag me along like I was a rag doll. It was slow at first, but after I let myself go and just sort of grooved with the music it became much easier. Then all of a sudden I tripped on someone's foot or something. I lost my grip on Paul and was soon sprawled face-first on the ground. I flipped myself over and was about to get up when someone, I thought it was Paul at first, grabbed my hand and pulled me harshly to my feet.

And there I was. Looking right into a dead man's eyes. A dead guy wearing a black trench coat and a red bandanna. His gaze was so intense, like hot-white lights straight into a forest animal's eyes. He was looking more at all of me than just into my eyes, but that's the feeling it gave me; like I was trapped, helpless, unable to flee. He held my hand so tightly I thought it would fall off. I couldn't scream. My throat locked up, my tongue seemed to grow and fill my entire mouth. I froze and began to shake uncontrollably.

I couldn't take his staring at me any longer. I tore my eyes away from his face and the first thing they landed on was the lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He sucked at it, but didn't let it go, instead the smoke seeped out from somewhere under his shirt and hung there, wavering in the air for a second before being buffeted away by the wind from the surrounding dancers. His mouth was wide, thin, cruel; looking more like it had been made with one long, quick slice with a razor than any more natural method.

I felt hands upon my shoulders. I jumped before I figured out that it was Paul. "Hey, you okay?"

The ghoul let loose his grip, I shook as if a ghost had just walked through me. I looked up and saw that he was still staring at me, but this time I saw what it was he was really staring so intently at: My tits.

He was leering at them with an intensity I'd never seen before except in those old cartoons where the Wolf is about to devour Little Red Riding Hood. He was smiling and licking his lips and before I could spin fully around he had checked out all of me; looking me up and down like I was on parade at the local cat-house.

I'd gone from being completely petrified to fully revolted in all of about ten seconds. My brain was reeling. First I thought I'd been found out, that I was about to be gutted, or worse; then I was being leered at by a slobbering, horny, typical-male who was so brain-dead and so obviously one-track-minded that he couldn't even recognize me even though he and his friends had happened to have tried to rape and kill me only a few short hours ago. I guess life's funny that way. And I guess I should be thankful I had gone to all the trouble to change my looks.

But Gary and Randy had no such advantage.

As Paul walked me away I tried to tell him that that was one of the guys who was after me, but the music was so loud that it made it difficult. I think he could tell I was shaken about something, though. We got to the elevator; it was one of those old ones you had to run yourself. Paul pulled the door up by the smooth-worn leather strap and we both got in. He punched the button for the bottom floor and began to pull the door back down, but it stuck partway and he tried yanking on it harder, but it refused to move.

It was then that I saw them. Five of them. Staring coldly and calmly at me from across the bar. The one called Louis was smiling at me, his copper-clad teeth reflecting the lights from the bar in reds and yellows as he bared his teeth. Paul was still busy with the door and didn't see as they got up from their place at the bar and started walking towards us.

six 

In order to tell you what happened next, I have to backup a bit and tell you what was going on with the guys.

Gary went downstairs right away, sat Randy in a corner, told him to stay out of trouble, and went off to find Rebekah. I know--he's an idiot--but when he gets an idea into his head there's just no using logic on him. Head like a bull's. But as luck would have it, she wasn't there.

It seems that Rebekah wasn't there at Escher's just to meet some friends. Actually, she was singing in a band that was playing there that very night. Her picture was all over the posters hanging up in the lobby, and there was even an article about her and her band in the local rag that was scattered on all the tables and bars. I missed seeing them all because I'd made a bee-line for the dance floor first thing upon arriving. The guy in the CRX was her manager. The band and the road crew had gone on head to the club and Rebekah and her manager were running late for the sound check. They had gotten there long before we had, since we had spent all that time at the hotel getting ready. By the time Gary had gotten there, sound check was over and she and the rest of the band had gone back to the hotel to get some rest before the show.

So Gary had a few hours to kill. Me, I slaughtered them all by dancing myself silly; Gary, on the other hand, was easily bored and tended to not have much in the way of patience. Randy could usually keep himself amused, up to a point, but there was usually a limit to how long before he started sticking himself with knives or carving his initials into his forearm or pulling out handfuls of hair and chewing on them. Yeah, he kept himself out of trouble, of sorts, but he also tended to attract attention in droves. Something we definitely didn't need.

So while Gary was busy reading all about Rebekah in the paper, Randy had enough of listening to modern dance music and was beginning to form some semblance of an idea in that punctured, pierced, hazy ball of twine he used for a brain. The place was beginning to fill up, apparently Rebekah's band was pretty popular in these parts, and Gary, engrossed as he was by all the close-ups of Rebekah featured in the article and pretending to sip on a beer, didn't see Randy slip out right past him.

About this time the opening act had started playing, some local guys with short hair who played funk "as if it had been invented by the Partridge Family." That's Gary's description, I didn't get to hear them, so I can't say for sure, but I get the feeling that he didn't care for them very much.

Randy somehow found his way to the TV. Room. Twenty or more televisions all on different channels with the volume down while the DJ spun songs by bands named after news headlines and dead politicians. Randy was in complete bliss. Some of the TV's were showing old black-and-white war movies with John Wayne, Kirk Douglas, and Lloyd Bridges. Lots of airplanes, tanks, explosions, submarines, and men with stern, intense faces and frightened eyes. The others had cartoons, car races, music videos, b-movies, and stock footage of the moon shots being shown on them. With a limited attention span like Randy's this had to be even more stimulating than flipping through the channels real fast. This way, you really could watch all the channels at once. That is if you could keep your head spinning around fast enough.

So by the time Gary figured out that Randy was nowhere around, who should happen to walk through the door but Rebekah. She was surrounded by her manager and two fierce bodyguards, but that didn't stop a few of her fans from asking for her autograph. Her manager was trying to get her backstage, but she was enjoying the attention, talking with some young girls dressed just like her. There were some guys hanging around in the background, waiting for their chance, but the bodyguards were staring them down, keeping them at bay. Gary happened to be at the corner of the bar next to the backstage access and as she went by, he looked hard at her, hoping she'd look his way and, at the very last instant, while she was turned around to sign another autograph, she saw him.

 There's a trick that Gary can do that I've never quite got the hang of. He makes eye contact with someone and somehow--don't ask me how, he's tried to teach me, but I just can figure it out--he projects his thoughts into them. A suggestion for them to do something maybe, or something he wants them to know without having to speak aloud. We "rented" a car once this way. Gary "told" the guy that the playing card he had handed him was actually a credit card, a Gold Card at that, and we got use of a Lexus for three whole weeks. Went up to Vancouver for a music festival, then over to Seattle. Randy got into a fight not too long ago and Gary convinced the cops that showed up that he was one of them and that he would personally take Randy downtown. Didn't have a car or anything, just walked right out of there, sweet as could be. I was always afraid that if I ever tried it, I'd get laughed out of town or shot.

Gary used this to tell Rebekah--poor Rebekah who'd probably gotten over him a long time ago and wanted only to get to her dressing room to prepare for the show--that he was here. Alive. Waiting. He put a thought into her pretty, little blonde head that she should come over to the bar and talk to him.

So of course she did. Her manager was already inside, she told her bodyguards to back off, and she sat down next to Gary and started chatting like they were still in high school. Not one word was said about him dying. They just caught up on the years like it was totally natural that they would run into each other so far from their hometown after so many long years had passed. They talked about teachers, friends, things that happened a long time ago. Old loves and new. Her career as a musician. What ever happened to...? Have you talked to so-and-so lately?

When he was through, when he knew he couldn't hold a spell over her any longer, when all the feelings that he thought were long gone, came flooding back, when he knew it was time to run for cover--he told her goodbye, hugged her tight, brushed back her hair and kissed her cheek. And sent her on her way.

As she walked off, something caught in her head. Something she couldn't quite place, something that nagged her as wrong. She turned around, What just happened? Was this all a dream, she wondered, wasn't Gary...wasn't he...but Gary was gone. 

seven 

Luck is a very strange thing. Some people have good, others bad. It can change from one type to the other without any notice or remain constant and unwavering for many a long year. Some luck is transient, flowing from one person to the next as if it were nothing more than dollar bills changing hands. When you most need to hold onto your luck, it slips your grasp as if it were air; when you wish to rely on skill and fortitude, luck is there deciding your fate without any input. And sometimes you just can never tell what sort of luck you have until it's too late.

Paul yanked on the strap again and, as luck would have it, it wouldn't budge. I was about to grab it myself and give it a yank when one of the ghouls spoke up, "Hey, man, let us give you a hand!"

 I grabbed the door and shouted: "That's them!" He stared at me for a split-second before it hit him. They were running towards us now, almost there; me and Paul were frantically trying to pull the door closed.

Then, luckily, Randy showed up.

While Gary was yakking with Rebekah, Randy had finally, inexplicably, grown tired of the TV. Room and started wandering around the club. He ended up in the same room as Paul and me, only I didn't know it at the time. He saw Paul and me together, didn't recognize him, and followed us to make sure I was okay. When we got into the elevator and were found out by the ghouls Randy was right there, watching out for me.

He picked up a chair and slammed it down on the one nearest him, breaking his back; I could see him on the floor, squirming but unable to get up. The others turned around, right as Randy ran into them full-force, scattering them like dropped change. All except for Louis. He was ahead of the others, almost upon us, when Paul pulled out his gun and pointed it right at him. Louis smiled, slapped it away with a speed I would have thought impossible, his whole arm a blur, and hit Paul across his face. Paul went limp, falling back against the lift. Louis stepped into the elevator, that shit-licking grin still on his face. I dove for the gun, but Paul had fallen on top of it.

"You don't seem happy to see me, girlie. Think you and your friends could get away from us that easily? We rule this town." Behind him, the bar was in chaos, Randy had what looked like someone's arm in his hand, using it as a club; the ghouls were circling around him calling him all sorts of names and pulling weapons of their own from under their trench coats. Everyone else was heading for the nearest exit as fast as they could.

"Leave me alone! I didn't do anything to you!" My hand found its way underneath Paul and onto the hilt of his gun, but I couldn't yet pull it free.

""You and your friends blinded my buddy, Ed." Louis' voice was all gravel, dry as death. "He begged me to kill him, to put him out of his misery. So you're mine, now. You're gonna die real slow when I pull you apart piece by piece and chew you up. We're gonna have some fun listening to you try to scream after we tear out your throat and fuck your empty eye sockets, bitch."

He snarled and made ready to pounce. I pulled out Paul's gun and it went off before I was ready. The shot hit the wall next to Louis, ricocheted with a high-piercing squeal, and hot globs of molten gel exploded all over him. It was a flare gun. Louis' hair caught fire, as did his jacket; he let out a holler and fell in a heap on the floor, trying to get his jacket off before it melted to him. I grabbed Paul by his shirt and dragged him out.

Once there, I grabbed the first bottle of whiskey I saw on the bar and threw it at Louis. He screamed as it shattered all over him, the flames licking higher; his face was black and charcoaled by now. I said a silent prayer and yanked on the strap. This time it worked, the door closed, and I could hear Louis screaming, all the way down.

I still had the flare gun in my hand, but it was out of shots, so I dropped it on the floor and helped Paul to his feet. There was blood running from his nose onto his shirt. I didn't give Paul a chance to ask what had happened; I pushed him behind the bar and we crawled our way out past all the commotion. Luckily everybody else was far too busy with Randy to pay us any mind. I hated to leave Randy behind, but what choice did I have? There was no way I could be of any help against that many ghouls unless I could find Gary. As we crawled out of the door there were muscled guys with bouncer shirts running in to break it up. Boy, were they going to be in for a surprise.

I ran down the hall and Paul snatched me back by my arm and shouted into my face, "Why didn't you tell me it was The Bone-Daddies after you?"

"You know about them?"

"Yeah, they're the toughest gang around here. Nobody ever wants to fuck with them. Wha'd you do to piss them off?"

"Nothing. Really."

He shook his head, and motioned down the hall at which door we should take. "I can believe that. Doesn't take much to piss them off. They've been causing trouble around here for as long as I can remember." He pulled out a ring of keys and opened the door. Behind it was a set of stairs. When we got in and the door was shut, I pulled up the corner of his flannel and used it to wipe off the blood that was still pouring out of his nose. He winced, when I touched his nose.

"Looks like that honker of yours is broke real good. Sorry."

"Hey, anything for a beautiful lady in distress."

"Please, I feel bad enough getting you involved with all this as it is."

"Who the hell was that back there? The one they were fighting?"

"That's my friend Randy."

"No shit? We need to go back before they all kill each other?"

"Look at you. You're a mess." His nose was still bleeding quite a bit, showing no signs of slowing down any time soon. "Randy can usually handle himself. They can't do anything to him that he probably hasn't already tried to do himself." I made him take off his shirt, soaked as it already was, and I wadded it up and had him hold it under his nose, putting pressure on it to halt the blood flow.

"You said you had another friend...?"

"Gary. He should be in the basement, watching the band."

"Well, let's go find him before somebody else does."

"That's been my plan all along. I just keep getting sidetracked."

"That way, my Lady: down the stairs to find your lost friend." He bowed low, sarcastically. As he did, he forgot about his shirt and it dropped bloodily to the floor. "Shit."

"I'm not always sure about the 'friend' part, but he's most definitely lost."

We got down the stairs, Paul used his key, and I peeked out. The coast was clear so we stepped into the room. It was packed. Paul walked up to the bar and started talking to one of the bouncers.

While waiting, I heard a girl singing. I looked to the stage and saw Rebekah. At first I wasn't sure if it was her, but then I moved to a better vantage point and got a good look at her legs. Long, trim, and covered in spider web-fishnets. Yep, that was her, no doubt. I was wondering what she was doing up there on stage when Paul came back.

"Thad, one of my friends here, said he'd heard on his walkie-talkie that they'd subdued some of the troublemakers, but that a few had gotten away. They're still looking for them. He said that the Bone-Daddies were not going to be allowed back in after this."

"Like that would stop them."

He shrugged his shoulders, "It's not the first time they've been banned from the club. You see your friend anywhere?"

"No. Everywhere I look, I don't see him." The band had finished their song, Rebekah was wiping her brow with a scarf. "That's his old girlfriend, though. That's why he came here tonight. To see her."

Paul looked puzzled, as if he wasn't sure he heard me right. "Your friend used to go out with Rebekah Sharp?"

"Yeah, back in the stone age or something. But I don't see him anywhere. I know this was where he said he'd be."

"Maybe they got to him already."

I hadn't thought of that, Gary usually kept things in control. "God, I hope not...I don't need that along with everything else."

"Oh, shit. I just saw one of them."

"Where? Where'd you see one?" But he was busy trying to get Thad's attention. Thad didn't see him. His eyes were on the stage, watching "you-know-who."

I grabbed him by his shoulder and forced him to turn around, "Where? Where?"

He pointed, stopped, then shrugged his shoulders. "I could've swore there was one right there by the mixing console...I don't see him now."

I looked where he had pointed, and there he was--Gary. I started to walk towards him, but Gary shook his head and waved at me to stop. He mouthed the words "They're watching you. Over by the archway." I turned around slowly, trying to see out the corners of my eyes, so as not to let them know I saw them. Gary was right. There were two by the front exit leading upstairs, three by the restrooms. One had just walked out the door me and Paul came through only moments before. All exits were blocked and there was just too damn many of them. If they were all down here...I tried not to consider what this meant about Randy. If he was dead...

"Paul. They got us surrounded." Paul shook his head, he'd seen them all by now, too. "We're fucked."

"No, look. They haven't got anybody by the backstage access, the elevator's back there."

"Yeah, but so's--yuch."

"What is it?"

"Never mind. Look, I see Gary and I need to get a message to him without attracting their attention. You feel up to a diversion?"

 He laughed, chuckled, really. "I think I can manage something. Give me two minutes."

"Make it a fast two minutes, and Paul..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

He winked, kissed my cheek, pulled himself up on the bar behind him, spun around and dropped from my sight. The ghouls by the restroom were closest, they were watching, curious, but didn't make a move to stop him. They must have been under orders from Louis or something. Wonder what they'd say if they knew that their leader now resembled something closer to burnt toast? Gary was still by the mixing console; I grabbed a napkin, wrote on it with my lipstick, made sure Gary saw me leave it on the bar for him, and then headed for the dance floor. I was hoping to lose the ghouls in the crowd near the front of the stage.

I glanced up at the stage as Rebekah finished another song and began talking into the mike, "This next song is for absent friends and long lost lovers." She tried to scan the crowd, but the stage lights were too bright for her to see more than a few feet past the front of the stage. I could see Gary watching her while the band started into the song.

It was difficult to see the ghouls from the center of the dance floor, hopefully that made it hard for them to see me, also. No sooner had I begun to dance when Paul's diversion made its appearance. He had commandeered one of the spotlights, his friend Thad had the other one; and they each picked out a target and shone a tight, blindingly bright beam right into the eyes of the ghouls. Paul got the three by the restrooms, Thad, the two by the front entrance. Gary took this as his cue and shot to the bar, read my note, headed for the dance floor to hook up with me. Of course, this left the one by the stairwell open, but he was behind us, on the far side of room from the stage. We would only have a moment, so I ran to meet Gary, almost knocking him over.

"You sure they got Randy?"

I nodded my head and left it at that. "We can get out through the backstage, there's an elevator." I tried not to think about what I had left in there. Death by fire was my one biggest fear. I did not want to see its aftermath.

"Gary, Gary!" Someone was calling his name, I finally realized it was coming from the speakers. I looked up and saw Rebekah at a mike, we were only a few feet away from each other. She was staring right at Gary. And he was staring right back.

"Shit! Gary! We got to go! There's no time!" I took off, trying to pull him along with me, but he refused to move. Rebekah had moved nearer, to the front of the stage. I could see her lips moving, saying over and over: "It's really you..." The band continued to play, the bass player and drummer exchanging glances and motioning to one another to keep on playing through the changes. Rebekah had removed her guitar and ran to the front of the stage, calling his name.

"Gary! We have to leave. Now." I had to grab him by his hair and say it right into his face. He had the blankest, saddest look in his eyes I'd ever seen, but he shook his head and let me drag him to the side of the stage where Paul was already waiting. He had what must have been ten or more of the clubs bodyguards with him. That boy worked fast.

They shuffled us in, surrounding us with their numbers, and we made it safely backstage.

Paul got up close to me and said to the two of us, "The elevator's fucked. We'll have to take the stairs down the hall." I had no problem with that, we seemed to be pretty safe with all the extra bodies, and I had no interest in viewing a burnt, smelly zombie. So we went down the hall, up a flight of steps, down another short hallway, and then outside into the night. The fresh air felt so good upon my face.

The first thing I saw when we got out was about ten cop cars, a fire-truck, and two rescue squads. Apparently we'd gotten someone's attention with all that had been going on. Luckily, the paramedics were too busy carrying bodies out to check us over, but the cops did want a statement from us. I lied through my teeth as fast as I could just to get it over with. Gary wasn't any help, he obviously had Rebekah on his mind and just muttered inanities at the cop until he went away.

 I was about to grab Gary and slip out amidst the confusion when the paramedics brought out a body on a stretcher with the sheet pulled up over its face. This one was tall, with oversized combat boots sticking out from underneath the bottom of the sheet. They laid it down next to their truck, then went inside to gather up more.  I walked over as inconspicuously as I could and lifted the sheet. It was Randy, alright. His one eye was open and his tongue was sticking out at me.

"Nyaaah! Gotcha!" he slurred at me. He looked like shit. He was missing a finger, there was a long, nasty gash running across his chest laterally, a bone was sticking out through his ribcage. I wasn't sure if it was one of his or not.

"Yeah. Right, asshole. Come on and let's go before anything else happens, capace?" He sat up, guffawed, and walked with me to where Gary was, still moping and not saying a word. I had no idea where Paul had run off to and, as there was still too much general chaos going on, I figured it was leave now or never. The paramedics were bringing another body out on a stretcher out, there were firemen behind them with another. We headed for the alley where it was dark, as quick as I could get the guys to move. Randy was throwing punches at the air and talking to no one and everyone: "You should've seen me! Bang! Pow!"

A shout from behind us caught me up short. "Wendy, wait!" It was Paul.

I should have ignored it, I really should have. I turned around and there he was. With Rebekah.

"I--I went and found her. Told her what happened."

Gary brushed past me, I grabbed hold of his arm, but he pried off my hand and kept on. The look in Rebekah's eyes was one of expectant fear and wonder. She just stood there wringing her hands while he walked up to her.

I pushed Randy further into the shadows behind me, Paul was coming towards us and I didn't want him getting too close of a look at him.

"You leaving? We didn't get a chance to talk."

"We can't stay, it's not safe for us here."

He looked dismayed, maybe even a little dejected. "Okay. Um...well, what if I came with you?"

I shook my head. "Can't be that way. Sorry. But if it makes any difference, you...If things were different, I mean, you and I could really have hit it off. You're one helluva guy to have around in a sticky situation."

And then, I did it. I really took a chance. I gave him a smile, walked straight up to him, and gave him one long, smooth, cool smack on the kisser. Full of lots of tongue and everything. Surprised the hell out of him, too.  He was so warm, so full of life. I didn't want to stop. I felt him grab me around my waist, kneading his fingers into my ribs. He kissed me back, soft at first, then bolder and with more fire. I ran my hands through his hair and down his face, hugging him close. So warm, so nice. It'd been so long.

If it hadn't been for that scream I may never have stopped.

The scream was Rebekah. Paul let loose of me, Randy ran past us. Gary was on the ground, holding his head, someone had hold of Rebekah by the throat.

It was Louis. His hair completely gone, burned off to the bone; , melted remnants of his jacket hung in tatters from his arms, which were black and skeletal; his terrible teeth shown through what was left of his face; his lips and mouth were burnt back past his cheeks. Randy hit him in the back. Louis fell to his knees but didn't let go of his hold on Rebekah.

"Try that again and she dies." His voice was raw and empty, there was no trace of humanity left. He should have been dead, should've died a long time ago, but was hanging on with whatever scrap of motivation he could muster up to keep him going. All he had left was the causing of pain and fear and unhappiness to others.

Randy tensed, unsure of how to handle the situation. Gary started to stand but the ghoul hissed at him with a voice like a dozen dying snakes: "Don't even move, loser."

Gary stopped halfway, both hands on the ground in front of him for balance. Paul and I stood there, frozen. I don't know who was in a more state of shock.

Louis squeezed and Rebekah's eyes bulged, her breath wheezing out of her in short, frightened bursts. I could see flashlights down the alley, someone running towards us.

Louis saw them too. The light in his eyes was growing darker, he couldn't hold on much longer. He squeezed Rebekah's throat tighter, grabbed her hair with his other hand and, for his final evil move, twisted her in his powerful arms.

There was a loud snap as he broke her neck; she let out a shudder, her eyes sparked for a second--almost too fast to see--and then went blank. He dropped her as his own life-force crumbled and faded away; and Rebekah fell to the ground--horrifyingly limp.

eight 

It took us a week to make it to Rebekah and Gary's hometown. One long week of no talking, no feeling. Me and Randy found someplace to hole up while Gary went off to be by himself. For three whole days I waited for him to show up. Finally I packed up my books and me and Randy went off to search for him.

We found him in the very first place we looked: the cemetery where Rebekah was buried. He was standing there in the rain staring at the ground. They hadn't yet put in her headstone, but there was a heap of fresh flowers piled up on her grave.

I went up to him and stood there for a long time, hoping that just being there would help. Eventually, I grew tired of being wet, and had enough of being alone.

"She's not coming back, you know. Not everybody does. You taught me that, remember?"

"It's just not fair. If I only would have known, if I only could have done something."

"You can't be that hard on yourself. It wasn't your fault." The rain let up a bit just then. Not much, just a bit.

"What about your friend...?"

"Paul? I'm going to write him a letter in care of the club, explaining some of what happened. Maybe we'll cross paths again. Maybe not."

"You know, it's really weird. I hadn't thought of Rebekah in years, and when I do, she's taken from me, just like that. She told me that when she saw me again, even though it made no sense that I was there, alive after all those years, that she felt full of life for the first time. As if there was some purpose in life after all, like promises said, might be kept.

"Maybe it was meant to be. For you to show up, back into her life right at this moment, to give her peace of mind, something good to take with her. You may have been a salvation of sorts for her."

"It's still not fair."

"Life's not supposed to be fair, it's not supposed to make sense.

"Gee, those are real words of wisdom and compassion."

"It's what you told me many, many years ago. It helped me to make it through a real tough time. But you know what helped even more than your words?"

"What?"

"Just you being there for me. Being my friend. When you're not being a bonehead you really are one helluva great guy to be with, you know that? Rebekah was real lucky to have someone like you to remember and care for her after all that time had passed. To hold on to a memory like that takes somebody real special."

The sun was all the way down now, the clouds were moving in. "We better go, it's gonna rain some more and I'm real tired of being wet."

"Yeah, I guess there's nothing left for me here."

He took my hand, I placed Randy's in my other one, and we walked off into the night together.

The sky was full and dark, with the promise of something more to come.

end