Banana Hammock (21 page)

Andy turned away, expecting to hear chomping and bleating. When none came, he ventured another look.

Bub was back by the tree, sitting on his haunches. The sheep was cradled in his enormous hands, as a child might hold a gerbil. But it was unharmed. In fact, Bub was stroking it along its back, and making soft sounds.

Sheep sounds.

“He’s talking to the sheep,” Dr. Belgium said. “He’s going to do it. Here comes the miracle.”

Andy watched as the sheep ceased in its struggle. Bub continued to pet the animal, his hideous face taking on a solemn cast. There was silence in the room. Andy realized he’d been holding his breath.

The movement was sudden. One moment Bub was rubbing the sheep’s head, the next moment he twisted it backwards like a jar top.

There was a sickening crunch, the sound of wet kindling snapping. The sheep’s head lolled off to the side at a crazy angle, rubbery and twitching. Andy felt an adrenaline surge and had to fight not to run away.

“Now here it comes,” Dr. Belgium said, his voice a whisper.

Bub held the sheep close to his chest and closed his elliptical eyes. A minute of absolute stillness passed.

Then one of the sheep’s legs jerked.

“What is that?” Andy asked. “A reflex?”

“No,” Sun answered. “It’s not a reflex.”

The leg jerked again. And again. Bub set down the sheep, which shook itself and then got to its feet.

“Jesus,” Andy gasped.

The sheep took two steps and blinked. What made the whole resurrection even more unsettling was the fact that the sheep’s head hung limply between its front legs, turned completely around so it looked at them upside down.

Andy’s fear changed to awe. “But it’s dead. Isn’t it dead?”

“We’re not sure,” Sun said. “The lungs weren’t moving a minute ago, but now they are.”

“But he broke its neck. Even if it was alive, could it move with a broken neck?”

The sheep attempted to nibble at some grass with his head backwards.

“I guess it can,” Sun said.

“Amazing,” Dr. Belgium said. “Amazing amazing amazing.”

“Shouldn’t you get the sheep?” Andy asked. “Run some tests?”

“Go right ahead,” Sun said. “The door’s over there.”

“Probably not a good idea to go in there before Bub’s eaten.” Dr. Belgium said.

“What the fuck is that ugly ass thing?” I asked.

Andy, Sun, and Dr. Belgium turned to look at me.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” Sun demanded.

“I’m Harry McGlade. I got sick of the Nook ebook I was in and popped into this one. Is that Satan?”

“We don’t know yet,” Andy said.

“What ebook is this?”

Sun answered, “
Origin
, by J.A. Konrath.”

“That Konrath sure writes a lot,” I said. “Is this one scary, or funny?”

“A little little little of both,” said Dr. Belgium.

“Nice stammer there, Doc. Makes you sound as stupid as you look.”

“Who are you, puny human?” Bub was standing in front of the Plexiglas, staring at me.

“I’m the President of Shut The Hell Up, you ugly ass demon thing.” I glanced at Andy. “Why is he called
Bub
?”

“Short for Beelzebub.”

“Clever. I suggest you kill him now, while he’s still locked up. Supporting characters don’t usually end well in Konrath thrillers.”

“I’m the main character,” Andy said.

I patted his shoulder. “Sure you are, chief.”

“How about me me me?” Dr. Belgium asked. “Do I live?”

“Are you serious? Dr. Stammer Stupid? I’m surprised you’re not dead already.”

“Hey!” Bub bellowed. “I’m talking to you!”

“Talk to the hand,” I told him, giving him the finger. Then I cozied up to Sun. “You want to get out of here before the shit hits the fan? You know Bub is going to get out of that cage and wreak havoc. You’d have to be retarded not to see that coming.”

Sun took a quick glance at Andy, then nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Hey!” Andy said. “She and I were going to hook up in a later chapter!”

“In your dreams, demon chow.”

“Can I I I come?” Dr. Belgium asked.

“No you can’t can’t can’t. I’m taking Sun to one of my old adventures. Have fun fighting for your lives.”

Should Harry take Sun into
Fuzzy Navel
by J.A. Konrath? If so,
click here
.

Should Harry take Sun into
Dirty Martini
by J.A. Konrath? If so,
click here
.

To return to the previous section,
click here
.

They drove in silence for a mile, Donaldson glancing between the girl and the road.

“Highway’s packed this time of day. I bet we’d make better time on the county roads. Less traffic. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“I was actually just going to suggest that,” Lucy said. “Weird.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to do anything to make you feel uncomfortable.” Donaldson glanced down at Lucy’s pocket. “Pretty young thing like yourself might get nervous driving off the main drag. In fact, you don’t see many young lady hitchers these days. I think horror movies scared them all away. Everyone’s worried about climbing into the car with a maniac.”

Donaldson chuckled.

“I love county roads,” Lucy said. “Much prettier scenery, don’t you think?”

He nodded, taking the next exit, and Lucy leaned over, almost into his lap, and glanced at the gas gauge.

“You’re running pretty low there. Your reserve light’s on. Why don’t we stop at this gas station up ahead. I’ll put twenty in the tank. I also need something to drink. This mountain air is making my throat dry.”

Donaldson shifted in his seat. “Oh, that light just came on, and I can get fifty miles on reserve. This is a Honda, you know.”

“But why push our luck? And I’m really thirsty, Donaldson.”

“Here.” He lifted his Big Gulp. “It’s still half full.”

“No offense, but I don’t drink after strangers, and I um…this is embarrassing…I have a cold sore in my mouth.”

The gas station was coming up fast, and by all accounts it appeared to be the last stop before the county road started its climb into the mountains, into darkness.

“Who am I to say no to a lady?” Donaldson said.

He tapped the brakes and coasted into the station. It had probably been there for forty years, and hadn’t updated since then. Donaldson sidled up to an old-school pump—one with a meter where the numbers actually scrolled up, built way back when closed-circuit cameras were something out of a science fiction magazine.

Donaldson peered over Lucy, into the small store. A bored female clerk sat behind the counter, apparently asleep. White trash punching the minimum wage clock, not one to pay much attention.

“The tank’s on your side,” Donaldson said. “I don’t think these old ones take credit cards.”

“I can pay cash inside. I buy, you fly.”

Donaldson nodded. “Okay. I’m fine with doin’ the pumpin’. Twenty, you said?”

I frowned from the back seat. “Hey. This isn’t
Fuzzy Navel
. ”

Donaldson and Lucy both turned around to look at me and Sun.

“Who the hell are you both?” Donaldson demanded.

“I’m Harry. This is Sun. What ebook is this?”

“
Serial Uncut
,” said Lucy. “By J.A. Konrath, Jack Kilborn, and Blake Crouch.”

“Blake who?” I asked.

Lucy looked at Donaldson. “Is it Crouch? Or Couch?”

Donaldson scratched his double chin. “I think it’s Crouch.”

“Never heard of him,” I said.

Sun leaned forward, putting her arms on the front seats. “So… you guys are serial killers trying to kill each other?”

“We were, until you showed up,” Donaldson said.

“What do you mean,
were
?” Lucy asked, pulling out a knife.

Donaldson also pulled out a knife, and they both began to stab each other in earnest. The blood slopped all over the place, like a warm, wet rainstorm. I even got some in my mouth. Yuck.

“Nice first date, Harry,” Sun said. But her dour expression told me she didn’t really mean it.

“Hey, at least I saved you from that demon,” I said.

“No. You didn’t.”

Sun and I turned around, and there was another backseat. Sitting there, behind us, was Bub.

“Wow. Twist ending,” I said.

Then Bub ate all of us.

The end.

To go to the beginning,
click here
.

To return to the previous section,
click here
.

Jack Daniels grabbed the rookie, Officer Buchbinder.

“How would you like a temporary promotion to Homicide/Gangs/Sex?” she asked.

Buchbinder frowned. “My Sergeant will bust my balls if I leave my post.”

“What’s your post?”

“Parking enforcement.”

“I’ll smooth it over. You got a car?”

“A bike.”

“Even better. Let’s go.”

That cheered Jack up a bit. She liked bikes. Her ex-husband had a 1982 Harley-Davidson Sportster, and they’d go riding whenever Jack had free time. Which, as far as she could remember, was twice.

Jack worked a lot back then.

Unfortunately, when Buchbinder said
bike
, he meant
scooter.
The tiny little electric moped barely had room for two, and had a top speed of slow. A five-minute walk took them ten minutes on the bike, because Officer Buchbinder stopped for all traffic signals, pedestrians, strong breezes, and optical illusions. He also pulled behind a horse and buggy giving six geriatrics a tour of the Magnificent Mile—a tour so excruciatingly sluggish that Jack doubted all of them would live long enough to see its conclusion.

“Go faster,” she said.

“If I follow too closely, there could be an accident.”

As it turned out, there was an accident. Buchbinder couldn’t brake in time, and coasted right through the largest pile of horseshit Jack had ever seen.

“Apparently they can do that while trotting,” she said.

“Did you see that? It came out of nowhere.”

Actually, Jack did see it, along with where it came out of. But she chose not to mention it.

“Some got in the spokes,” Buchbinder whined. “I just cleaned the spokes.”

“Pay attention to the road.”

“My God, my bike is trashed. What was that horse eating?”

“Let’s get off this topic.”

“What’s that on the fender… peanuts?”

“Pass the damn horse or I’m firing you.”

He made a hand signal and thankfully got around the horse and cart. But getting past it and getting past it were two different things.

“I gotta clean this quick, before it hardens. Don’t want to have to chisel it off.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Jack said. She didn’t say, “Like your non-future in the Homicide division.”

Buchbinder, however, was fixated.

“I can smell it. Can you smell it?”

“Don’t you have an off button?”

“I got some on my pants.”

“Buchbinder, shut the hell up about the horse already.”

“Okay. But I never saw Mr. Ed do that, no sir. That manure pile was the size of a small child. Lucky we weren’t both killed.”

Jack didn’t feel lucky. Not even a little bit.

“Do you smell peanuts?”

They got to Willoughby’s shortly thereafter. Jack instructed the Horseshit Whisperer to take witness statements after he cleaned his pants. Then she spoke with the bartender.

“Hiya, Jackie,” I said. “What’s up?”

Jack narrowed her eyes. “Harry? You’re not in the scene.”

“Thanks to the magic of Nook, yes I am. This is Sun, from the book
Origin
. Sun, this is Jack Daniels.”

“You smell like horse poo,” Sun said, her nose wrinkling.

“Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Jack said. “Can you guys leave? Like right now?”

“Boy, you’re bitchy,” I said. “You need to chillax.”

“Don’t you need to finish your stupid Amish adventure?” Jack countered.

“It’s not stupid,” I told her.

Sun folded her arms. “It is pretty stupid, Harry. I mean, it jumps all over the place. None of it makes sense. And you’re constantly stopping the narrative to make these stupid lists.”

I giggled. “Hehe. Did you read the banned book list? That was my favorite.”

“I’m outie,” Sun said, walking away.

I frowned. “Damn. I never even saw her naked.”

“Go back to your ebook, Harry, and stay out of
Dirty Martini
until you’re supposed to be in it.”

“Wow. Double rejection. But FYI, Jackie, you don’t decide what I do and don’t do. That’s up to the reader.”

Should Harry go back to the Amish adventure? If so,
click here
.

To return to the previous section,
click here
.

My name is Harry McGlade. I’m a private eye. But I’m not a stereo-type. In fact, I haven’t used my stereo since getting an iPod. Those things were off the hook. I’ve also got a rotary phone. It’s also off the hook. Which explains why not too many people call.

I was in my office, waiting for a client to arrive. He’d called earlier, promising he’d be there by one o’clock. It was four minutes to one. And I was starving.

I’d missed breakfast, having slept until 12:15, so I really needed to nosh on something. Luckily, I kept a tiny refrigerator in my office, which I kept stocked with edibles.

I opened the refrigerator door, my nose wrinkling at an otherworldly smell, accompanied by a faint, greenish gas. The entire contents of the fridge were a takeout box from Ling’s Mandarin, and a small yellowish object on a plate that might have been an old lemon, a lump of butter, or some kind of cake.

I took out both items and set them on my desk. The yellow thing had cracks in it, and a shiny film on one side. Opening the takeout box, I was assaulted by an acrid odor that curled my nostril hairs. But the half order of General Tsao’s chicken still looked edible, even though I honestly couldn’t remember when I had actually bought it. Far as I could recall, I hadn’t eaten Chinese food in five months. But perhaps the food elves who lived in my vents had put it in the fridge for me.

Both items were questionable, but my stomach was growling so loud it hurt my ears. I knew it was inevitable I’d eat one of them. And then I’d also eat the other one when you returned to this section on you Nook.