Edward Lee - Ghouls

“I hope you can do better than that,” Sanders said. “I know women who can fight better than that.”

Stokes stared him down, shifted his footing, which he’d barely been able to keep. Sanders waited. Behind him he heard a small crowd gathering round to watch.

Careful, he thought.

Now, it seemed, Stokes had the advantage.

With a heavy thud, an unopened bottle of beer smacked Sanders square in the middle of the spine. Someone in the crowd had thrown it, behind his back. And it was a good throw.

He gritted his teeth, tried to will off the thudding spread of pain, but Stokes was on him before he knew it. Back-stepping, Sanders could only block some of the strikes. Stokes’s fists marauded him, and blurred his line of sight.

He continued to retreat, to bide time to clear his head. Then he planted his feet and quickly jabbed Stokes with a good, hard knife-hand to the armpit. Stokes dropped his fists, tilting.

Now Sanders had time. A fast web-chop under the jaw and a clean, solid shot to the mouth sent Stokes flying backward over two parked motorcycles.

Sanders turned to face the crowd. “Who threw the bottle?” he asked. “Come on, step right up.” But the smirking cluster had already begun to disband. The bouncer glowered at him, then staggered back inside with the others. Blood made his beard glisten red.

In groggy, cautious movements, Stokes picked himself up to his feet, his mouth a bloody smear. “Ugly cock-sure muthafucka,” he said, but it sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of beans. “You’ll get what’s comin’, jus wait an’ see.”

Sanders had to frown. “What’s wrong with your brain, son? Don’t you know when you’re beat? Your daddy must’ve had shit on his dick when he knocked your mama up with you. Go on home, or else I might have to kick your ass.”

Stokes stumbled away for his car.

A moment later, Kurt came outside. “Someone said Stokes was mixing it up. You?”

“Yeah,” Sanders said. He was disappointed with himself. “Not much of a fight. He asked for it, and he started it. Couldn’t really back down, you know? Sometimes you just have to break bad on these kids—how else will they learn to act civilized?” He glanced at his knuckle, checking for damage. “Anyway, I sent him down the road.”

Kurt seemed secretly pleased. He watched Stokes’s Chevelle rumble out of the parking lot and squeal off.

Sanders said, “I’m looking for a guy named Willard.”

“Dr. Willard?” Kurt returned. “Early fifties thereabouts, beard, and a bank account like Andrew Carnegie’s?”

“Yeah, you got it. We’re definitely talking about the same guy.” Though Sanders couldn’t quite picture the man with a beard. “We’re old friends from way back. You know where I can find him?”

More luck. Without even pausing, Kurt gave him a current address.

“That’s great, thanks,” Sanders said. “But do me a favor, okay? If you should run into him, don’t let on that I’m in town. We haven’t seen each other in years. I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“Sure,” Kurt said. “I won’t mention it, not that I see him much myself… Say, we better get back inside before some stoner walks off with our drinks.”

Sanders smiled.

««—»»

Midnight.

“Hurry,” Cathy said.

“I am,” Lisa insisted.

“Are you sure we’re not lost?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then hurry.”

Lisa steered her father’s big silver Lincoln with a kind of naive confidence. It was a plush, comfortable car, and had a stereo better than the one in her room. Too bad all the decent FM went off the air—nothing but shit-music on the radio these days. Of course, she’d never say that to Cathy, whose favorite band was Culture Club. Lisa’s favorites were Black Flag, Sex Gang Children, and 9353. Greaseman, my ass, she thought. Not while I’m driving.

Lisa and Cathy were seniors at Bowie High. Graduation was coming up, and U of M soon after. It was an exciting time.

They both possessed an unstrained, pedestrian attractiveness, had dark, simple, shoulder-length hair, bright eyes, and a propensity for faded jeans; they could’ve been sisters. They’d been vague friends since tenth grade, better friends for a year, and special friends for a month, since the Senior-Skip party at that wimp Art Cado’s, when someone had suggested a mass late-night skinny dip in Artie’s indoor pool. It had begun uncertainly, first with shared, knowing glances, then accidental touching, then the rest.

“Where are we, anyway?” Cathy asked, and reached down into the bag to pull up a second bottle of Amstel. Tonight had been Lisa’s turn to buy the beer; she always bought the high-priced imported brands, which generally tasted no better than whatever was on special. But Lisa’s pop was loaded, so it didn’t matter.

“Governor Bridge Road,” Lisa answered. She wore a beige T-shirt that said MINOR THREAT across the chest. Her modest bosom made the letters look crooked. “The other side of Tylersville.”

Cathy gaped. “Tylersville! That’s where we went last time and got caught by that creepy-looking security guard.”

“Relax,” Lisa assured her. “That was private property. We’re miles away from that guy.”

“So what. The farther we are from Tylersville, the better I’ll feel. All kinds of crazy stuff happening out there.”

“What stuff?”

“Don’t you read the Blade?” Cathy couldn’t believe it. “First somebody dug up a grave, then a cop disappeared in the woods, and after that some hick crippled girl got abducted. It’s probably one of those southern death cults. Satanists, or something. Using ’em for human sacrifice.”

Lisa giggled. She felt a gentle heat between her legs. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the satanists get you.”

Cathy looked around impatiently, one hand resting her beer on her knee, the other squeezed under her leg. Through the passenger window she saw a high water sign punctured by a single silver-rimmed hole from a deerslug. It seemed to hover postless from the trees, a pallid, one-eyed face in the dark.

“You always pick spooky places,” she said.

Lisa grinned in the dashboard’s dim green glow. She drove more slowly as the road narrowed. She liked to make Cathy wait. For some reason it was always better when Cathy was annoyed with her.

They drove through a gnarled catacomb of trees. More signs drifted past, all bent and peppered by shotgun holes. Farther on, they crossed the tilted one-lane truss bridge, which was canopied by a framework of girders crawling with lovers’ graffiti. This was known as “Screaming Baby Bridge” to everyone at school. On nights when the moon was full, you could supposedly hear a baby screaming from the black water, because years ago a crazy woman had thrown her kid over the side. Lisa, of course, knew that this was pure bullshit. But she liked the bridge, she liked the graffiti. One night she would come out here by herself and spray-paint LISA LOVES CATHY on one of the beams.

A mile past the bridge, she stopped and backed into an un-paved road entry. She drove backward till she was sure the car couldn’t be seen from the main road. It was safe here; she knew this road was no longer in use. It led to some talc mines way, way back that hadn’t been open since before she was born.

Cathy lowered her power window. Lisa put the lights out and turned off the engine. They let the dark eddy in. Lisa kicked her shoes off and curled her toes in the carpet.

Nightsounds grew more distinct, a quiet cacophony of peepers and cricket trills. The flood of moonlight palely lit them up and painted shimmering white tails on the hood.

Lisa crawled across the bench seat on hands and knees, and kissed Cathy’s hair once very gently. Cathy took another sip of beer. She pretended not to notice.