Spore (12 page)

A lime green Honda full of gawking college kids pulled up behind Todd’s SUV. Two got out and started down the ditch. The idiot in uniform did nothing but pace.

“Fuck,” Todd muttered, rushing back up. “Get your asses back in the vehicle now,” he barked, stopping the kids in their tracks. “This is a crime scene. You’re contaminating it. One more step and I’m hauling the lot of you to jail.”

They stopped, muttering at each other, while Todd continued his climb. Idiot newbie stopped his pacing only to stand there slack jawed and worthless.

“Fuck this shit,” Todd muttered. He reached the road and pushed past idiot newbie to the jittery college kids. “In the car and on your way or you’re going to jail,” he said. “We’ll call your parents for you.”

One kid glared, defiant, but the rest retreated to the car. “C’mon, Kyle,” a tall blond kid said. “We saw it. Let’s go.”

“Got your badge number, asshole,” Kyle said. “Next I’ll have your job.” Then he turned and stomped to the car.

Take it, it’s yours. See how well you like all the fucking paperwork, let alone dragging a dead kid from a muddy ditch or peeling a woman out of an alley.
Todd watched the car pull away, then he strode over to the idiot newbie, who stood rigid and snarling by the SUV like a chained dog defending his territory.

Todd thundered past again, reaching out to pluck the badge from idiot newbie’s chest. “Forget the resignation,” he said. “You’re fired.”

Sean kept a homeowner how-to manual in the tool box and he consulted the dog-eared page about basic wiring before shining a penlight into the electrical box and poking about with one finger. “Ground looks good, and the white’s snug in the nut. Black wire’s tight in the top terminal,” he muttered, “but the bottom…”

The terminal screw’s missing. And it’s been vacuumed out: no cobwebs, no dust, not even the scrap of wire insulation I left in there on purpose last time. You really are cleaning outlets and switches. Goddammit.

Muttering, he set down the light and rummaged through the tool box for a screwdriver and a screw. “Mom!”

“Yes, sweetie?” She appeared at his elbow with a glass of cola and a ham sandwich, cold and stuffed with lettuce and onion instead of her customary grilled ham and cheese. Over the usual scent of disinfectant cleansers filling the house, he caught a faint waft of smoke as she approached.

“How did you lose a screw inside the switch?” He sniffed.
Definitely smoke, but from where?

“I… I don’t know,” she said, beaming as she held out her offerings. “You’ve been working so hard and Rosemary’s obviously not feeding you right. Why don’t you take a break?”

Are you kidding? I want to finish this and get the hell out of here before you start in on Mare again,
he thought, but said, “I just got here and I ate before I left the house.”

He found a packet of screws and an appropriate screwdriver. Kneeling before the switch with a flashlight in his mouth, he muttered around it, “If you want me to come over, ask. Don’t sabotage your electrical as an excuse, okay?” Screw started, he slipped the loose wire beneath and tightened. “And don’t clean in here, either. You could get electrocuted or cause a fire.”

Shit. The wiring.
He sniffed the switch, wondering if that’s where the smoky scent was coming from. Nope. Smelled like wires, lumber, and air-freshener. Only his mother would have lily-scented wiring.

“Oh, I didn’t clean anything,” she said. “But it is nice of you to come help me.”

Uh huh. That’s why the switch boxes in my house are dusty and yours are sparkling and perfumed.
“Yeah, well, screws don’t fall out on their own. Is something burning in the kitchen? I keep smelling smoke.”

“Oh, that’s probably me!” she said, blushing. “Last night’s storm knocked down some branches. Decided to burn them.” She nudged his arm and leaned close. “Your new young lady is really sweet. Quiet. Very respectful. I think she’s a keeper.”

Goddammit.
He gave her a sideways glare then looked away. “Mare’s a keeper, and if you weren’t so nasty to her, maybe we’d both come over more often.”

“Not only is Rosemary’s greatest ambition to wipe asses for a living, she’s crude, mouthy, and unwilling to listen to reason. Have you talked to that girl?” Helene said, nodding toward the dining room. “She’s the sweetest—“

Fuck.
Sean spat out the flashlight and caught it in his hand. “That’s enough, Ma. Okay? I love Mare and she’s not going anywhere. So drop it.”

Helene scowled at the floor but said nothing as Sean reattached the switch plate.

As he slapped his tools into the toolbox, she said, “I saw you on the news last night. I wish you weren’t talking about such horrid things, though. Dead people! I don’t know why Rosemary encourages such nonsense, after all the time and money we spent on your therapy.”

“Don’t blame her,” he snapped. “I’m the one who found them. I’m the one trying to convince the press it’s all real.”

“Of course, dear. Whatever you say, but a mother knows better. You’re a good boy and didn’t come up with such creepy ideas on your own.”

Sean clenched his teeth and let out an aggravated growl.
Yeah. And I illustrate horror because it’s joyful fun.

“You looked
very
handsome on TV, but a little sloppy. I can give you a proper haircut, since Rosemary is oblivious.”

She’s not oblivious, we’re just broke, and you know it.
“Goddammit, Ma,” he said aloud as he snatched up the toolbox and marched toward the bathroom, trying not to cough at the oppressive stink of bleach. “I am so sick of this shit.”

“It’s an older house,” she said, trotting to keep up. “It occasionally needs repairs.”

“It’s not the fucking house,” he muttered, flinging the toolbox beside his feet. He wiped a crusty, brownish smear off the doorknob before he tried to close the bathroom door. It bound up immediately and, as he squinted at the hinge, he saw the top plate hanging loose from the door, missing both screws.

He sighed.
Always with the damned screws. Are they removed on purpose or do you vacuum them up when you’re on one of your cleaning sprees? Surely you’d have to loosen them first.

“If you don’t want ham, just say so. I might have some chicken salad in the fridge or—“

“I told you, I don’t want a sandwich,” he muttered, rooting through for a hammer and pry bar. “I want you to stop taking screws out of things, okay?” It took a couple of taps to pop out the top hinge pin and he stuffed it into his pocket. “Stop breaking hinges and ruining plugs, drawer pulls, or switches. Please. But even more than that, I want you to
stop badgering me about Mare
. It’s getting old, Ma, and it’s pissing me off.”

She leaned back, frowning. “So now it’s okay for local news curiosities to curse at their mothers?”

Jesus goddamn Christ, let it fucking go!
Sean took a breath and let it out before yanking out the lower hinge pin. “I love Mare. She loves me. You’ve had more than a decade to accept that but you just can’t, can you?”

“You can do so much better!” Helene moaned. “You’re my son! Surely you can find someone who’s worthy of your talent and brilliance, not a…woman with no ambition or respect.”

Sean wrestled the door loose and turned it onto its edge. “I’m a college dropout who can’t keep a regular job,” he muttered, slapping the loose hinge in place. “You keep forgetting that.”
Shit, I can’t even keep a comic in print.

Helene nudged his arm. “It’s not you, sweetheart. Rosemary’s dragging you down. We were doing just fine until she came along.”

Sean started to line up a screw, but the hinge slipped so he shoved it into place again.
Yeah, just fine. Dad left you because you scrub everything in sight as if you can scour away what happened to me, and I spent most of my childhood in therapy for the nightmares I still have.
“Mare’s about the only ‘fine’ thing in my life, and I’m damn lucky she hasn’t left me.”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s so untrue. You’re special. Someday you’ll see I’m right,” Helene said, soothing.

He grunted and glowered.
Not likely.

Helene shifted, opening her mouth to speak, but Sean interrupted her. “Have you heard from Uncle Paul?”

His mother blanched and blinked, eyes wide and startled. “Of course not,” she said as if indulging an imbecile. “He’s dead, and good riddance for that! Really, Sean, you need to start listening to your mother instead of Rosemary.”

Goddammit.

Glowering, Sean worked in silence a few moments while his mother watched and fussed over him. He brushed off her attention and asked, “You’ve lived here your whole life, right?” in a vain attempt to change the subject away from Mare. Somehow.

“You know I have.” She massaged his shoulders. “You’re too tense. She’s working you too hard.”

“Ma, quit fussing,” he said, shrugging off her touch. “Ever hear of a place called Lotus Lab? Somewhere near Pinell, maybe?”

“No. Can’t say that I have.” She paused, head tilting. “Can you manage without me for a moment? I think I hear Mindy. Why can’t you make your mama happy and snatch her up before someone else does?”

Before he could reply, she scurried away, calling out, “I’m coming!” and taking his sandwich and cola with her.

She always gets me pissed off then leaves me festering.
Muttering to himself, Sean shook his head and finished setting the hinge screws.

The house was still standing when Sean and Mindy returned, but Sean hesitated before pulling into the driveway. Eight zombie hunters shook their signs at his car and, cowering behind them, three women in skirts and blouses sang a hymn and held a banner rejoicing in Jesus’s arrival. The protesters remained on the sidewalk, likely because a sheriff cruiser with two deputies was parked at the curb, but a group of regular-looking folks milled about in Sean’s driveway.

A deputy opened the cruiser’s passenger side door and stood, barking for the people in the driveway to make room. They moved.

“Stay here,” Sean told Mindy as he parked the car and slipped out, doing his best to ignore the various masses of people lunging at him. He shrugged off the grip of an eager woman with a funeral urn and approached the cruiser.

“Hey,” he said as the deputy rolled down his window. “Thanks for being here. This is all a bit nuts.”

“Thank your neighbors for so many complaints,” the deputy muttered, peering up at Sean. “You the homeowner? The guy who talked to the press yesterday?”

At Sean’s nod, he muttered, “At least almost no one believed you, otherwise we’d have a madhouse out here.”

The cop shifted to look in his rearview mirror, and reached for his radio as a little blue car crept by, the passenger taking pictures. The deputy picked up the mic and told the dispatcher that the homeowner had returned but a blue Civic had driven by three times. He gave the dispatcher the license plate number and a description of the driver, then put the mic back in its stand.

Sean watched the car turn the corner.
Drive-bys too?

“Mr. Casey?” the deputy said, drawing Sean’s attention. “We’re out here if you need us.”

Sean nodded his thanks even as he glanced at the zombie gang and their ready weaponry. He swallowed. Up close, the blades and guns were obviously replicas, other than a single pistol on the hip of a fat woman with a long braid. Her hip holster, and the gun inside it, looked no nonsense. The three Jesus ladies seemed intimidated by the zombie gang, and the group in the driveway just watched him with wide, desperate eyes.

“While I really appreciate you being here, what about that missing kid?” Sean asked, turning back to the deputy. “Isn’t finding him more of a priority than me and a few protesters?”

“He was,” the deputy said while the other picked up the mic to answer a question the dispatcher had asked. “Now we’re stuck with you.”

Sean took a deep breath and walked toward Mindy, still waiting in the car, but stopped when a tall guy with a resin rifle blocked his path.

“Dude,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re fucking awesome, man, and this is a goddamn fucking pleasure!”

Sean blinked and accepted the handshake. “Excuse me?”

“You faced walking death and lived!” His companions gathered close. “Not only that, you’re telling the world!”

Confused, Sean struggled to find his voice. The woman with the real gun slapped him on the back. “We’ve been waiting for this. It’s incredible. Right here in Iowa.”

Sean withdrew his hand. “I don’t think you guys understand. They’re not zombies, okay? They’re just people who’ve been—“

The woman with the braid nodded. “Reborn and given a second chance to lose the shackles of consumerism. We know!”

“It’s spreading like a fire all over YouTube,” the tall guy said. “You’re telling folks it’s time to climb from the crypt of moral decay and believe in the miracle of independence. Riveting stuff, man!”

The group raised their weapons and cheered, “Fuck corporations! They ain’t eatin’ our brains!”

Sean looked at the various members of the group and swallowed. “Is this what all of the zombiephiles want? A break from consumerism?”

The woman shook her head. “Most are just stupid kids, but some want to dance while the world burns.” She patted the holster at her hip. “We don’t get along with anarchists.”

Blushing, she paused and leaned close to whisper, “Are you really GhoulBane’s illustrator?”

Sean hesitated then nodded with a sigh.
Zombie hunter fan. In my yard. With a gun. Fuck.

She wrung her hands and blinked at him, blushing, then mumbled, “Can I get you to sign an issue, just one? Maybe tomorrow? I don’t want to be a bother.”

Like picketing in front of my house and scaring me and my neighbors isn’t?
“Sure. One issue. Sure. Okay. Just please stop scaring us and the neighbors, okay?”

She nodded so he backed away and turned to walk right into the church ladies’ sign. As he excused himself, one touched his arm and said with grave sadness, “We’re praying for you.”

“Um. Thanks,” he said before hurrying toward the car. The mass of people watched him, each carrying a grim offering.