Part 15 (2/2)

Chapter 72: The Find.

Jerry and I are dumpster diving when we find it.

He thinks it's perfect, a genuine find. A tall armoire, deep maple finish.

”A beaut,” Jerry says. ”Stop.”

I pull the truck over-we're off the main streets here, out behind an older lot of row houses. The sun has started to set, and twilight is pouring on the shadows.

”C'mon,” I say. ”Let's get that f.u.c.king thing in the truck.”

There's no breeze in the alley. No breeze and no G.o.d-d.a.m.ned light.

”Just a minute,” Jerry says. His arms are wrapped around the thing in some kind of bear-hug as he tries to walk it over to the truck.

I hop out of the cab. ”Pansy.”

”No.” Jerry releases his grip. ”Too heavy.”

We look at each other for a second. One of those quick moments of ”h.e.l.l-no”. We know we shouldn't open the thing, but I yank the door toward me anyway.

It wasn't that the body was in there-I almost expected something worse in that alley, behind those decaying houses. What got me was how fresh it was, how the blood dripped off the fingers when her arm tumbled out of the open door.

Chapter 73: Donuts of the Living Dead.

I sit in my car and watch this old dude, like maybe approaching a century, drag his sorry corpse-body across the parking lot toward the bakery, staggering like the living dead straight out of vintage Romero. He is wearing these overalls and a feed hat, probably a retired farmer or whatever, although I've learned farmers never really retire. The bakery, Munchers, swallows this old guy into its brightly lit belly, and I muster the energy to hoist my b.u.t.t out of the car.

Inside, tables full of these peculiar old men sip on small paper cups of coffee. They all turn to look in unison when I walk in the front door. I've always been a connoisseur of pastries, and one sure sign of a quality donut joint was the volume of elderly that would beat the sun into the place. Munchers seems to have that market locked. I scan the gla.s.s case in front of me, and rows of s.h.i.+ny fried bread, dripping with glaze, stare back.

”Can I help you?” this voice says a woman's voice at the lower end of the register-a really s.e.xy growl floating just beneath the words.

”I'm just checking out what you have here.” I look up and see the clerk, this cute twenty-something with her dark hair pulled back from a smooth, milky face and blue marble eyes that are fixed on mine. My brain locks up in one of those cognitive dissonance moments-why is this beautiful creature hawking donuts at six in the morning to all these walking cadavers?

”Let me know when you're ready,” she says before moving to refill a cup of coffee. I continue to watch her as she snags pastries for a couple of the coffee club members from a rack behind the counter.

”Ready?” She catches me in the middle of my thousand-yard-stare.

”Could I get one of these,” I say, gesturing to a rather opulent looking wad of dough drizzled with white icing.

”Good choice, the cream cheese donut-Munchers's specialty.” She stuffs one in a small paper sack. ”Anything else?”

”No-yes.” My tongue launches an ambush on the rest of my mouth, and my reasoning faculties are caught asleep. ”I notice all the regulars get donuts from a different rack.” Now I sound stupid-too observant maybe, but all I can do is wait for her return volley.

”Yeah-those donuts have secret ingredients.” Her mouth grows into this lopsided smile as she leans forward and says quietly, in a near-whisper with that s.e.xy voice, ”human brains.”

”Brains?”

”They look like zombies, right?” She flashes her eyes toward the old guys.

”Yeah, I guess.”

”Here's the test though-Dawn of the Dead '78 or '04?”

I look at her brilliant blues for a moment, trying to read anything, and answer honestly. ”'78 of course-hands down. I love George Romero.”

”Well played. I like Night too, but Dawn of the Dead had better production values.”

”And Tom Savini-crazy special effects,” I say.

Her smile grows, and for a split second I think my courage has sufficiently thawed to ask for her phone number.

”Ahem.” This old guy behind me coughs into his hand as a hint to move on out.

”See you later.” She hands me the bag and I realize I haven't paid. She winks and whispers, ”my treat.”

Chapter 74: Small Magic.

There were two of them, Nadia and Arkady, brown bears abducted from the Siberian forest when they were cubs. At the end of a prod, the circus trainers taught them how to do tricks, how to dance, for one to lay his or her forepaws on the other's shoulders and stagger about in mock-human fas.h.i.+on. Crowds howled and hooted at the antics, staring greasy-eyed from behind stuffed popcorn boxes and buckets of soda.

When their dancing was finished, they lumbered into their cages, their great muscles sliding in waves over their bones, chameleon hair brown then black than brown again under the lanterns. They sat with muzzles clamped, staring with their polished bear eyes at one another. Each month a new town, another ma.s.s of bleary human faces jeering at them as they trundled about, together, to the delight of the crowd. Night after night, town after town, until they had nearly forgotten their bear-hood.

”Nadia?” Arkady paced for a glimpse of her in her cage, rose on his legs, and leaned against the bars like they were her shoulders. Human voices and laughter sounded in the distance.

”Hey,” he called.

She s.h.i.+fted.

”It's time. Tonight. While they're drunk. We'll do it like we've planned. Like they taught us.”

She raised her snout and sniffed the air. ”I can't.”

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