Gary Brandner - Walkers

"Seriously, there are some things I should pick up from my place."

"Like what?"

"My razor, fresh underwear, stuff like that."

"I have a razor," Joana told him."

"That sissy little thing? My beard would shatter it.

"Wow, listen to Mister Macho."

"Do you want me to wear your underwear too?"

Joana heard the note of discord in their exchange. Just below the banter was the jagged edge of hostility that so often surfaced when the Santa Ana wind blew. Speaking carefully she said, "Why don't you take a run out to your place after breakfast and pick up what you need?"

"I think I'll do that," he said. "Are you coming along?"

"I don't think so. It will give me a chance to clean things up a little around here. I haven't touched the place in more than a week."

"I don't like leaving you alone."

"It will only be for an hour. Surely I can take care of myself that long."

"If you stay here, promise me you won't open the door for anybody you don't know."

"Are you kidding? After what happened last Sunday night?"

"I mean it, promise me."

"All right, Glen, I promise."

Still he looked doubtful.

"Really, I'm not some fragile, empty-headed little powder puff."

"I know you're not," Glen said. "I just…oh, the hell with it. I'll make it as quick as I can."

They ate breakfast and kidded each other and regained a little of their good humor. Outside, the wind blew and the day grew hotter. When they had stacked the dishes Glen kissed her, giving her an extra rub with his bristly chin, and left for the Marina.

When she was alone in the house Joana felt the heat more than ever. There was no air conditioning in the little house, and her fan was not working. She had promised Glen she would keep the doors closed, and the screened windows provided only a minimum of ventilation. She was restless, her nerves gritty.

It was the wind, she told herself. The effects of the Santa Ana were well known. It blew in out of the east and scraped your nerve ends. Children cried without reason, love affairs ended, people stepped out of high windows, the murder rate jumped, when the Santa Ana wind blew.

Joana started the housecleaning as she had planned, but soon gave it up. It was too hot and she was too edgy for slogging around the house with dust cloth and vacuum. She made herself a glass of iced tea and searched the TV Guide for one of those good old movies that always play in the mornings when nobody is home, or late at night when you're asleep. All that was on today was an old Presley movie, and Joana was in no mood for Presley.

She slumped in a chair, sipped at her iced tea, and tried to read a magazine, but she could not get interested.

The telephone rang. Joana leaped for it eagerly, as though afraid the caller might hang up if she did not answer on the first ring.

"Hello. Is this Joana?" The voice was familiar, but different. It was flat and without timbre.

"Peter?"

"Yes."

"You sound strange."

"An accident. I hurt my throat."

"Where have you been? I've been wondering what happened to you. You said you were coming over Sunday night."

"That's when I hurt my throat. I couldn't come."

"Oh, Peter, so much has happened since I talked to you last. I don't know where to begin telling you about it."

He seemed not to hear. "I have something here that you have to see."

"Where? At your house?"

"Yes. I want you to come here."

"Can't you tell me about it?"

"That's no good. I have to show you."

"All right. Glen will be here in an hour or so. We'll come up then."

"No. That will be too late."

"Peter, are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Yes. I can't talk about it. Please come, Joana."

She hesitated. Glen would not approve of her leaving the house. But Glen did not make the rules for her. People had been going out of their way in the past week to help her. Peter included. It was time she started paying some of her debts. Also, it would be a great relief to get out of the stifling house for a while.

"All right, Peter, I'll come. Is there anything I should bring?"

"No. Just hurry," he said in the odd new voice. Then the line clicked dead.

Joana sat down at the kitchen table and wrote a note to Glen:

I've gone to Peter's house. He's in some kind of trouble. Back soon.

Love, J

She tacked the note to the outside of the door as she left the house.

Before locking the door behind her, Joana looked carefully around the brushy yard that lay between her and the street. This was no time to get careless. Nothing moved in the heat. Even Bandido lay, prostrate and panting in the shade of an oleander bush.

Overhead the sky was a relentless blue-white. The heat was a palpable weight on her head and shoulders. On a day like this no one would expect to see dead men walk.

She hurried down the path to the street and got into the Datsun. It was like a furnace, but when she got both front windows lowered and the car moving, that provided some ventilation.

She drove up Laurel Canyon to Peter's street and found it deserted. Sheltered by the hills from the desert wind, the trees there hung limp and dejected in the stagnant heat.

Joana parked the Datsun and got out. She stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking up at Peter's house. It was closed up tight, the blinds drawn down on the windows. She felt a tiny pang of apprehension. The empty, airless street oppressed her.

Then the door of the house opened and Peter stood there looking down at her. He did not come forward, but stayed in the shadows. Nevertheless, Joana recognized that it was Peter. He seemed to have something around his neck. A bandage, she guessed, over the injury he told her about.

"Hi," she called.

Peter said nothing, but beckoned her to him.

Joana started up the rickety flight of wooden stairs. Peter vanished back into the house. She continued up onto the porch, then paused at the doorway.

"Peter?"

"In here," his queer, flat voice called to her from somewhere inside.

Joana stepped over the threshold into the dim living room. A blast of stale, sweltering air hit her like a physical blow. Unlike the arid heat outside, the interior of the house was damp and steamy. It felt as though the windows had not been opened for days. Even worse than the soggy heat was the overpowering sweet smell of incense. When Joana was here before she had detected a trace of strawberry in the air, but nothing like this. The haze of gray smoke made her gag.

"Peter, where are you? What's the matter here?"

She walked across the carpet to the beaded curtain that hung between the living room and the small dining room. Beyond it she could see the kitchen and a short hallway that would lead to the bedrooms and bath. The beads of the curtain had an unpleasant clammy feel.

Something was wrong. Something was most terribly wrong in this house. Under the heavy smell of incense there was another odor. It reminded Joana of the dead rat Bandido had dragged behind the refrigerator and left. It had taken her three days to find the rotting corpse.

She felt a powerful need to get out of there. Letting the bead3 rattle back into place, she turned toward the front door. It slammed shut. Peter stood facing her with his back pressed against the panel.

Joana stared at him through the gloom and the layers of smoke from the incense. He wore an open-collared shirt, but there was a necktie knotted around his throat. It was too tight. Much too tight. And his face. Oh, God!

Peter's eyes were dusty and lifeless. The swollen flesh of his face was mottled purple. The tip of his tongue protruded from between cracked lips. His body gave off putrescence in waves.

"You're one of them!" she said.

Peter made no reply, but raised his arms and came toward her.