Beach Blanket Zombie. Mark McLaughlin
Perfect! She’d go in, sneak into the bathroom and fix her make-up. If anybody saw her, she’d just laugh and say she’d heard a sad song on the radio. A dumb excuse, but believable. And then she’d finally get to meet the reclusive author. Heck, she’d even buy a book. Claire would love a nice perky self-help book.
She headed up the lane. The house was huge—about three times bigger than the Graves place. She noticed that all the vehicles parked around the place were luxury cars. Most were red or black and all had tinted windows. There were several hearses, too. Maybe they were part of some Halloween-oriented publicity stunt for whatever book Rose Tremble was promoting these days.
She parked, got out of the car and half-hid her face behind a handkerchief as she walked inside. She was no more than a few feet into the house when a tall, middle-aged woman stepped up to her.
“Welcome! Thank you for coming!” The woman was a vision of pink, yellow and lots of gold. Pink foundation and rose-pink lipstick, yellow hair, dark golden eyes, gold jewelry, a gold silk dress with thin yellow and pink stripes. She had a square-jawed face, a too-wide mouth, and practically reeked of rose-scented perfume.
She stared at Inga, her thick lips stretched into an enormous smile. “My word, look who we have here! Outstanding!”
Inga didn’t know how to respond to that, so she said, “Oh, thanks. I try! I’m Inga. I stay with the Graves.”
The golden woman laughed. “Of course you do! I’m Rose Tremble. You’re just in time! Right this way.”
Inga followed the golden woman down a hallway, past gilt-framed oil paintings and little statues on cherrywood tables. They were walking too fast for her to get a good look at any of the artwork, but she did notice that most seemed to depict creatures out of various mythologies. Nymphs, griffins, satyrs, centaurs, mermaids—and zombies. Were zombies part of some mythology? Maybe Haitian lore.
She wasn’t sure what to do about her face. It was a complete mess. She’d only wanted to use the bathroom, buy a book, chat for a minute and leave. Now it seemed she was going to have to sit through a whole seminar. She followed Rose into a large room, took a quick glance at all the seated people and—
People?
Oh, no. These weren’t people.
People were flesh-colored.
People were made of living tissue.
People were more or less symmetrical...
Inga wanted to run screaming, but the sight before her was so bizarre—so hideously compelling—that she simply couldn’t move. She had to just stand there and absorb this grotesque vision.
The things seated in the chairs had humanoid bodies, shapewise—but their tissue, which could hardly be considered living, came in a variety of inhuman colors. Navy blue. Lime green. Magenta. Purple.
Most of them were clearly rotten. Bugs and all. The room stank like a combination of a busy outhouse and the dumpster behind a butcher shop. But even so, the audience members were moving, jostling in their seats, whispering gurgly little phrases to each other. As for symmetry... Based on what she was seeing, it was clear that decay was a terribly uneven process.
Rose walked up to a lectern at the front of the room and cleared her throat. The grotesque horde immediately fell silent. She then looked toward Inga, who was still standing.
Inga found an empty seat next to a noseless blue creature with a gaptoothed grin.
“First, I’d like to thank all of you for showing up,” Rose said. “I know that for most of you, travel is something of an ordeal.”
Amused murmurs and warbles sounded throughout the room. Strangely enough, the more Inga looked at the creatures around her, the less they frightened her. At least they were behaving. And for some reason, they seemed to accept her presence completely.
“I thought I was on top of the world after the publication of my first book,” the golden woman stated. “It made me a ton of money. I got to be on a lot of talk-shows. I became an overnight celebrity. But you know what?” She leaned forward and cocked her head to one side. “I wasn’t happy. I had my problems, but I was sugar-coating them. And worse of all, I was ignoring my inner monster.”
Most of the audience members nodded what roughly corresponded to heads.
“Then,” Rose said, “I found out that my husband, who was also my literary agent, had been having an affair—spending my money on a waitress whose bust-size was higher than her I.Q. That was about the time I started workshopping my rage ... addressing my own deep-down needs. My first book, with all its happy-crappy philosophy—what a waste of paper! I finally realized I’d been in complete denial when I’d written that. Eventually, my husband hired his sweetie’s drug-addict brother to run me down with a rusted-out Camaro.”
Low moans of pity echoed through the room.
The hideous blue creature next to Inga turned toward her. “My husband tossed the hair-dryer in my bath water,” it whispered.
Before Inga could respond, Rose Tremble continued with her story. “Oh, sure, I could have just thrown in the towel after that Camaro hit me. But you know what? I’ve never been a quitter.” The golden woman pounded the lectern with her fist. “I wasn’t about to let some low-life just run over me and get away with it. He stopped the car to steal the jewelry off my corpse, and that’s when I got back on my own two feet—and ripped out his throat with my teeth!”
The audience greeted this statement with wild clapping and bubbly cheers of approval. The clapping raised a small cloud of dust. One especially desiccated cadaver clapped so eagerly that a couple of its fingers flew off.
“I came straight home after that,” Rose said. “And, my husband and his little sweetie were here. Up in the bedroom. Since they enjoyed each other’s company so much, I took care of them both at the same time. After that, I put them in the freezer for a few months. This morning they were in the oven, and later, when we have our cocktails—and of course, the book signing!—you’ll find what’s left of them on the hors d’oeuvre trays.”
Next to the lectern was a table covered with stacks of thick books bound in black leather. Rose picked up one of the books. “I’ll be reading to you from my latest work, Vulture Soup For The Soulless, published by Abomination Press. Plenty of copies here for everyone! But before I start reading, I think we’d all like to hear a few words from a surprise guest we have in the audience.”
She then pointed straight at Inga. Everyone turned to stare at the aerobics instructor.
“I’ve never met a vampire before,” Rose enthused, “but I’ve read all the ancient texts—research for the book!—and so I know one when I see one!”
Everyone oooohed and aaaaahed.
When Inga stood to say something—she had no idea what—some of the creatures began to clap. Again their clapping raised soft billows of dust, and a swirl of it drifted across Inga’s face.
And she sneezed.
And coughed.
“Oh, dear!” the golden woman said in a tone that was low to the point of ominous. “It would seem I was mistaken. Just listen to those lungs! Apparently we have a breather on our hands.”
“A breather! I should have guessed!” cried a lumpy horror behind Inga. “She doesn’t have any stink on her!”
The audience members began to snarl. A feral red glow sprang up in their eyes.
“We don’t like being deceived!” Rose thundered. “Or—spied upon!”
“Now wait a minute!” Inga cried. “I just came in to buy your book. You’re the one who led me in here.”
The creatures turned toward Rose.
“Well, that’s true...” the writer admitted.
“In