Undead - One Foot In The Grave Part 8

I tore my eyes from the undulating snake-woman and stared at Suki. "A dryad and a naga." I shook my head. "Makeup, maybe. Contact lenses, possibly. Smoke and mirrors, perhaps. . . ."

She smiled. "Holograms."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. No color smears. No perspective s.h.i.+fts. No diffusion medium. They're real, aren't they?"

Even with everything that I'd already seen, I was still resisting a fundamental acceptance of this new twist on reality.

She nodded, her smile broadening.

"Yeah, yeah, don't say it: a quick study." I considered the piper again. "What about Goat Boy? I don't see anything that couldn't be explained by a little old-fas.h.i.+oned theatrical makeup."

"Damien is only playing the part of the G.o.d Pan. We don't have any real satyrs on staff."

I blinked. And looked again. Sure enough, the piper was our handsome dinner companion of a couple of hours before, now made up to look like a mythical faun on steroids.

"So, he's human."

"Was human."

"Vampire?" I asked and then chorused: "A quick study," along with my tour guide.

"I told you that there was a good reason to prefer the term 'exotic' dancer," she added.

"What about Deirdre? Where's she?"

"She's not here," Suki said, looking a little surprised.

"Is she human?"

"Oh, yes." She smiled sadly. "Very."

Surprised me. "Okay, okay." I looked around the bar area, watching the customers stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Now I understood how upscale and low-brow could go hand in hand. "The customers all look human."

"Of course they all look human: most of them are. As for the ones that aren't-if they didn't look human they wouldn't be allowed in the bar. Unless they posed as entertainment."

"What about the knockers?"

"We don't serve miners."

I ignored that. "Are we done here?"

She chuckled. "Soon. I think you should watch for a few more minutes, though."

Why not? I had nothing else to do before sunrise. Still, I found the task slightly irritating. I was no voyeur. Even though Fantasies had all the trappings of a trendy, upscale nightclub, a part of me felt that I should be wearing a grimy raincoat with the collar turned up.

Watching the undulations of ripe, feminine flesh was unsettling.

Why?

Because these women weren't really human?

Or because it had been a year since I'd had any kind of s.e.x outside of a couple of pathetic wet dreams?

Or both?

I felt myself growing edgy, tense. I found it hard to sit still in my seat. Unaccountably, I wasperspiring!

Suki laid her cool hand atop my hot, feverish one.

"Now it is time for us to go," she said.

Suki did not speak until we were back at Dr. Mooncloud's lab. It was just as well as it was taking all of my concentration to just put one foot in front of the other. I felt as if I was suffering from the worst case of priapism imaginable and yet there seemed precious little physical evidence to support that belief.

Still, my body was throbbing with an overpowering need-a need akin to hunger.

I sat, hunched over in misery on the examining table while Suki and the doctor engaged in a whispered conversation. The next thing I knew there were two needles in my arm, one with blood coming out and the other with something going in. When one ampule was full and the other empty, the needles were removed and I was handed two plastic cups.

"Two urine samples?"

Mooncloud shook her head. "One."

"What's the second cup for?"

She handed me a magazine that proclaimed its devotion to men's issues with photographs primarily devoted to women without clothing.

"Oh."

She pointed me toward the closet-sized restroom on the other side of the examination area. "Don't come out until you have samples of both."

It took awhile: I had to read two articles and the movie review section while I waited for the urine sample.

"It's getting late," Suki said as I tried to exit the lab without a noticeable limp. It was, in fact, getting on toward sunrise. "I know I promised to introduce you to the dancers, but I'm afraid I'm running short on time."

"It's okay."

"I took the liberty of calling down and telling them you might stop by to say h.e.l.lo. You know where the dressing room is."

Sure.

Like I'm really going to wander in there by myself and say: Howdy, girls; I'm a big fan of nude interpretive dance? By the way, nice b.u.t.tocks?

Get real.

"I think I'll pa.s.s as well," I said, faking a yawn. "I'm pretty bushed."

"Well then, I'll be saying goodnight," she said, offering a polite oriental bow.

I reciprocated, hoping I didn't look as uncomfortable straightening up as I felt. "Goodnight."

"You know the way back to your room?"

I nodded.

"See you tomorrow."

I waved and lurched off down the corridor. Actually I was wide awake and still orbiting a world of hurt. Going to bed was not at the top of my priority list but privacy was.

Back in my room I refilled the tub and turned on the whirlpool jets. It didn't help.

What I more likely needed was a cold shower.

What I ended up settling for was retiring with a copy of Nietzsche's Ecce h.o.m.o that I had palmed during my tour through the library.

It was a good two hours past sunrise (according to my new, internal clock) before I finally fell asleep in my new bed, in my new room, in my new prison.

Chapter Six.

I count backwards and dream of fire.

Then I wake up on ice . . . no. . . .

>What is it?

A table. Metal. Cold as ice.

I'm lying down and the metal surface is an efficient heat-sink that sucks all vestiges of warmth from my shoulders, back, b.u.t.tocks, and legs.

I want to move, to seek warmth and yielding softness, but my body is cold and unresponsive. I am weak and tired and cold . . . so cold!

There are voices nearby. Overlaid by the high-pitched whine of . . . something. . . .

>What does it sound like?

Like a dentist's drill. Only not the same. . . .

>What do you see?

I force my eyes open and see . . . nothing. Dim whiteness. Something over my face. d.a.m.n, I'm cold!

>Do you know why you're cold?

Metal table. No clothes. Just a sheet. The sheet is over my face.

>Can you remove the sheet?

Cold: getting the shakes. Hands gripping the sides of the table. Can't seem to let go.

Hungry/Thirsty.

Stomach cramping.

Unh. Trying to sit up.

>Can you do it?

Yes.

>What do you see?

Nothing. Sheet still over my face. Hear better, though.

>What do you hear?

The whine has stopped. I hear the voices clearly, now.

>What are they saying?

The woman is saying: "Eddie, don't be afraid. They do that sometimes."

The man is saying: "What you mean they do that sometimes?" He sounds upset.

The woman says: "Sometimes a muscle contraction as rigor mortis sets in. Sometimes the differential in air pressure in the lungs: since the air is cooler in the morgue-"

I reach up and pull the sheet from my face. I turn my head and look at a black man wearingcoveralls, leaning on a pushbroom. The black man says: "s.h.i.+t, don't tell me they sometimes do that, too?"

He is talking to a white woman wearing a soiled green surgical smock. She is standing next to another metal table, holding a small, electric circular saw. She drops it and screams.

The man shakes his head and says: "Didn't think so."

The woman is stumbling around the other table, trying to get behind it. And . . . and. . .

>What? What is it?

Oh G.o.d! Oh Jesus! Oh please!

>What is it? What do you see?

Oh s.h.i.+t oh s.h.i.+t oh s.h.i.+-it!

>Tell me what you see!

It's Jenny oh Jesus it's Jenny! And she's all torn up!