Free Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 by Road Trip of the Living Dead Page A

appealing than the “Shame-based Spinning” class that Wendy forced me to every other Thursday. She worried that we’d “atrophy” just sitting around in bars all the time. I contended—and continue to believe—that a well-made cocktail keeps the joints oiled slicker than a steroid shot or a tab of glu-cosamine, and certainly more than an emaciated exercise bulimic named Gretchen.
    I’m reminded of this fact by the particularly pickled nature of our evening snack. The two brown-skinned gents were totally soused and remarkably flexible in their staggering. Twisting and leaning and righting themselves with hands that darted out to walls, lampposts and garbage cans.
    “Look at that.” I pointed out one of the cowpokes bending down in an odd angle to retrieve a lit cigarette from the gravel. “Don’t tell me liquor doesn’t grease the hinges.”
    Wendy nodded and waved them over. “Hey, boys! Want a ride?”
    They did.
    Before they could wrap their pickled brains around what we were, the telltale clicking of spreading jawbones had begun. Wendy dove in first, her mouth stretched over her drunk’s head and shoulders like an anaconda, lifting him from the ground and shaking asshe bit down. Not at all dainty. But at least she dabs the corners of her mouth when she’s finished.
    Hold on …
    I know what you’re thinking. Do zombies normally have such elasticity, strength and impeccable table manners? Absolutely not. We are the exceptions. Most of those shambling idiots we call mistakes are the sort with which you might be familiar. Sadly, with my luck our story will probably involve more than a few of those atrocities.
    Let’s get back to it.
    Mine had the dazed look of a chronic late stage alcoholic and the busted-out nasal capillaries to back up the assessment. 42 I took him in three bites and balanced against the building kneading my swollen gut until it returned to normal size.
    How is that possible you ask? 43
    We cleaned up behind the place, where bushes blocked the line of sight from the road. But since we weren’t in Seattle where our little indiscretion would likely go unnoticed, I had to say, “This isn’t Seattle, you know?” while I picked at my teeth with my pinkie nail.
    “Oh yeah-yeah-yeah … hold on.” Wendy opened her hobo bag and dug around in the bottom, her face twisting and tongue thrusting from the corner with effort. Out came a coupon caddy, garish with neon daisies and a ragged scrunchie barely keeping the bulging thing from an impromptu game of 52-card pick-up. She shuffled through cards, matchbooks and empty condom wrappers with the efficiency of a Vegas dealer until she found the perfect thing for the occasion.
    “Lookie here.” She slipped her arm around me and held the business card up to the streetlight. It had lots of things written on it, but the only thing anyone would see was:
    U.S. D EPARTMENT OF H OMELAND S ECURITY
C ITIZENSHIP AND I MMIGRATION S ERVICES
    “Nice maguffin.”
    “Huh?”
    “I’m just sayin’, people will assume they’re illegal.”
    “But what’s a—”
    “Just toss the goddamn thing and let’s get going.”
    Wendy flicked the card at the wall, where it banked into a puddle of piss still reeking of hops and barley.
    Gil was just around the corner, in an alcove by the garbage and recycling bins, pressed up against a burly homophobe named Gard. Occasionally, but not often, Gil liked to plug his victims before he drained them, if you catch my meaning. Being cursed with the worst man magnet I’d ever seen, Gil seemed to draw out every closeted homosexual within miles of his pres-ence—none of whom were particularly pleasant, yet had no problem grabbing their ankles when their buddies weren’t around. 44 Gil gives them the physical release of their dreams, for a price. You can’t blame him—he gets thirsty—as with all tragic relationships, someone’s bound to die. Right?
    Gil tossed
it
in the dumpster when he finished. Wendy handed him a