Free 1990 - Mine v4 by Robert McCammon Page B
Authors: Robert McCammon
can aside. She felt the scars on her belly. Still stitched up tight, but damn, that had scared the hell out of her. It had happened a couple of times before, during other bad trips, and it always seemed so real even when she knew it wasn't. She missed her baby. It was time to get Gordie out of here so she could give birth.
The Rolling Stone was still on the countertop where she'd left it, the Bangles on its cover. She got the last beer from the fridge and started in on it, her mouth like a dustbowl. Then, by force of habit, Mary turned to the classified ads section at the back of the Stone . She looked at what was for sale: Bon Jovi Tshirts, Wayfarer sunglasses, Spuds MacKenzie posters, Max Headroom masks, and the like. Her gaze ticked to the section of personal messages.
We Love You, Robert Palmer. Linda and Terri, Your Greatest fans.
Need Ride, Amherst MA. to Ft. Lauderdale FL. 2/9, willing to share all expenses. Call after 6 p.m. 413-555-1292, Greg.
Hi, Chowderhead!
Looking for Foxy Denise. Met you at the Metallica concert 12/28. Where'd you go?Joey, Box 101B, Newport Beach, CA.
Long Live the Rough Riders! See, we said we'd do it!
Happy Birthday, Liza! I Love You!
Mr. Mojo has risen. The lady is —
Mary stopped reading. Her throat tightened, her mouth full of beer. Swallowing was a major effort. She got the beer down, and then her eyes went back to the beginning of the message.
Mr. Mojo has risen. The lady is still weeping. Does anybody remember? Meet me there. 2/18, 1400.
She stared at the last four numbers. Fourteen hundred. Military time. Two in the afternoon, the eighteenth of February. She read the message again, and a third time. The Mr. Mojo was a reference to Jim Morrison, from a line in a song called "L.A. Woman." The weeping lady was —
It had to be. It had to be.
She thought maybe the acid was still freaking her mind, and she went to the fridge, got a handful of ice cubes, and bathed her face again. She was trembling, not only from the cold, when she looked at the Stone once more. The message had not changed. Mr. Mojo. The weeping lady. Does anybody —
"I remember," Mary Terror whispered.
Gordie opened his eyes to a shadow standing over him. "Whazzit?" he said, his mouth moving on rusted hinges.
"Get out."
"Huh? I'm tryin' to —"
"Get out."
He blinked. Ginger was standing beside the bed, staring down at him. She was naked, a mountain of flesh. Big ol' baggy tits, Gordie thought. He smiled, his brain still full of flowers, and reached up for one of her breasts. Her hand caught his, and held it like a bird in a trap.
"I want you gone," the woman said. "Right now."
"What time is it? Whoa, my head's spinnin'!"
"It's almost ten-thirty. Come on, Gordie, get up. I mean it, man."
"Hey, what's the rush?" He tried to pull his hand free, but the woman's fingers tightened. The force of her grip was beginning to scare him. "You gonna break my hand, or what?"
She let him go and stepped back. Sometimes her strength got away from her, and this would not be a good time for that to happen. "Sorry," she said. "But you'll have to go. I like to sleep alone."
"My eyeballs are fried." Gordie pressed his palms into the sockets and rubbed them. Stars and pinwheels exploded in the darkness. "Man, that shit's got a kick, don't it?"
"I've had stronger." Mary picked up Gordie's clothes and dumped them on the bed beside him. "Get dressed. Come on, move it!"
Gordie grinned at her, slack-lipped and red-eyed. "You been in the army or somethin'?"
"Or something," she answered. "Don't go back to sleep." She waited until he'd shrugged into his shin and had started buttoning it before she put on her robe and returned to the kitchen. Her eyes took in the message once again, and her heart pounded in her chest. No one could've written this but a Storm Fronter. No one knew about the weeping lady but the Storm Front's inner circle: ten people of which five had been executed by the pigs, one had been killed in a riot at
The Rolling Stone was still on the countertop where she'd left it, the Bangles on its cover. She got the last beer from the fridge and started in on it, her mouth like a dustbowl. Then, by force of habit, Mary turned to the classified ads section at the back of the Stone . She looked at what was for sale: Bon Jovi Tshirts, Wayfarer sunglasses, Spuds MacKenzie posters, Max Headroom masks, and the like. Her gaze ticked to the section of personal messages.
We Love You, Robert Palmer. Linda and Terri, Your Greatest fans.
Need Ride, Amherst MA. to Ft. Lauderdale FL. 2/9, willing to share all expenses. Call after 6 p.m. 413-555-1292, Greg.
Hi, Chowderhead!
Looking for Foxy Denise. Met you at the Metallica concert 12/28. Where'd you go?Joey, Box 101B, Newport Beach, CA.
Long Live the Rough Riders! See, we said we'd do it!
Happy Birthday, Liza! I Love You!
Mr. Mojo has risen. The lady is —
Mary stopped reading. Her throat tightened, her mouth full of beer. Swallowing was a major effort. She got the beer down, and then her eyes went back to the beginning of the message.
Mr. Mojo has risen. The lady is still weeping. Does anybody remember? Meet me there. 2/18, 1400.
She stared at the last four numbers. Fourteen hundred. Military time. Two in the afternoon, the eighteenth of February. She read the message again, and a third time. The Mr. Mojo was a reference to Jim Morrison, from a line in a song called "L.A. Woman." The weeping lady was —
It had to be. It had to be.
She thought maybe the acid was still freaking her mind, and she went to the fridge, got a handful of ice cubes, and bathed her face again. She was trembling, not only from the cold, when she looked at the Stone once more. The message had not changed. Mr. Mojo. The weeping lady. Does anybody —
"I remember," Mary Terror whispered.
Gordie opened his eyes to a shadow standing over him. "Whazzit?" he said, his mouth moving on rusted hinges.
"Get out."
"Huh? I'm tryin' to —"
"Get out."
He blinked. Ginger was standing beside the bed, staring down at him. She was naked, a mountain of flesh. Big ol' baggy tits, Gordie thought. He smiled, his brain still full of flowers, and reached up for one of her breasts. Her hand caught his, and held it like a bird in a trap.
"I want you gone," the woman said. "Right now."
"What time is it? Whoa, my head's spinnin'!"
"It's almost ten-thirty. Come on, Gordie, get up. I mean it, man."
"Hey, what's the rush?" He tried to pull his hand free, but the woman's fingers tightened. The force of her grip was beginning to scare him. "You gonna break my hand, or what?"
She let him go and stepped back. Sometimes her strength got away from her, and this would not be a good time for that to happen. "Sorry," she said. "But you'll have to go. I like to sleep alone."
"My eyeballs are fried." Gordie pressed his palms into the sockets and rubbed them. Stars and pinwheels exploded in the darkness. "Man, that shit's got a kick, don't it?"
"I've had stronger." Mary picked up Gordie's clothes and dumped them on the bed beside him. "Get dressed. Come on, move it!"
Gordie grinned at her, slack-lipped and red-eyed. "You been in the army or somethin'?"
"Or something," she answered. "Don't go back to sleep." She waited until he'd shrugged into his shin and had started buttoning it before she put on her robe and returned to the kitchen. Her eyes took in the message once again, and her heart pounded in her chest. No one could've written this but a Storm Fronter. No one knew about the weeping lady but the Storm Front's inner circle: ten people of which five had been executed by the pigs, one had been killed in a riot at
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