We had no luck finding Dave, or Salamander. Twice I talked to people who said they knew Salamander, that he was “around here somewhere.” When the light started fading we gave up and went shopping. I was exhausted by the time I returned to Mick’s. It had been forever since I’d slept through the night.
CHAPTER 31
The McMansions along Fairview Road were mostly dark. These were the people who could afford to flee Atlanta for an extended period. When they were packing, I wondered if they had considered the possibility that they might not be allowed to come back.
They weren’t calling it a quarantine, which was probably wise. The president called it a “precautionary controlled observation of the situation.” As promised, commerce wasn’t being interrupted, so we were still able to buy Snickers bars and the new Arcade Fire CD, assuming they could find truck drivers with the guts to drive in and out of the Haunted City (as the press were now calling it), but people weren’t able to drive in or out without a good reason.
Rather than risk sounding crazy by talking about the dead rising, or appearing to have his head in his ass by insisting on the post-traumatic identity disorder explanation, the president simply referred to it as “The grave events taking place in the aftermath of the anthrax attack.” Using of the word “grave” seemed like a bad call to me, but he went with it. He assured the American people that the problem was contained and would not spread, and that every resource was being brought to bear to help those afflicted.
The federal government had so many resources, so many channels of information, yet they always managed to be a step behind in reacting to any but the most predictable disasters. Their response to an anthrax attack looked like a carefully choreographed dance. Their response to mass possession? More like a drunk stumbling home from a bar, pausing occasionally to vomit in the gutter.
When we hit Little Five Points, with its stretch of cafes, bars, and trendy shops, dark houses gave way to brightly lit streets.
“Wow,” Lorena said.
Hitchers were everywhere. It was almost as if they all knew Little Five Points was the place to be.
“How did you know we should come here?” I asked.
“There’s a Facebook page for The Returned,” Lorena said.
I stifled an ironic laugh. Figured. We were calling them Hitchers, the dead, parasites. They were calling themselves The Returned and twittering each other.
They lurched along the sidewalks on Euclid like extras in a George Romero film, sounding like giant bullfrogs as they greeted each other. We passed a Fox News truck; near it a reporter was interviewing hitchers.
The dead must be eager to go out and live. Most of those still in Atlanta who weren’t possessed were probably at home cowering behind bolted doors, watching the news. That’s where I would be if my situation were different.
Not all of the unafflicted were hiding, though. A throng of people were standing across the street, watching, shouting things at the hitchers. Some looked scared, some angry. They weren’t holding protest signs, but had that sort of air.
We found a parking space three blocks over and walked arm-in-arm to Loca Luna, one of Lorena’s favorite hangouts. I wasn’t the only person on the street who was not occupying someone else’s body, and when I spotted a fellow “living” I smiled at them. I suspected most of them had hitchers that were dormant at the moment.
There was a street preacher on the corner of Moreland. He was discussing Revelations, his lips frothy with emotion, imploring passers-by to let him cast their demons out.
A young woman in a short skirt approached him, sobbing, flat-out begging for his help.
The preacher touched the woman’s elbow. “Pray with me.” They got down on their knees. Two others joined them on the pavement. The preacher traced the sign of the cross in the air as six or seven others joined the group, causing the flow on the sidewalk to clog as people skirted the group.
“Come on,” Lorena said. I couldn’t imagine what she was feeling as she watched them there, so desperate to exorcise their “demons.” I, on the other hand, couldn’t blame them for trying. It wouldn’t work, I was sure, but when you have no good options, any option looks appealing. We moved on as more people joined the exorcism.
We passed the crowd of protesters and tried to ignore their angry shouts to go back where we belonged, that we weren’t welcome here on Earth. They spat the word “demon” like it was a racial slur, and it felt like one. We picked up our pace, and I felt sweet relief when we passed through the doors into Loca Luna.
Most of the people there were hitchers. Loca Luna was a big turquoise place with high ceilings, recessed lighting, and fake palm trees. The dance floor was packed with people jerking to the Latin beat, their hands shuddering.
I wondered whether Lorena or Summer had picked out her outfit, a paisley caftan shirt that struck me as vaguely wizard-ish, and a long black velvet skirt. It wasn’t Lorena’s style, but it was probably the flashiest outfit Summer owned. My guess was Lorena picked it.
“Ooh, I’m getting a t-bone,” Lorena said as she put her jacket on the back of her chair. “They do great marinated steaks here.” She rubbed her hands together. “It’s been
I could see she was desperate for her birthday to seem normal. She was trying to set aside everything that had happened, set aside the fact that she was dead, that she was in another woman’s body, that in all likelihood I would soon be dead. It was a lot to set aside.
“What was it like?” I asked. “Is it bad?”
Lorena shook her head. “Not bad, just so different it turns you inside out.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, as if mentally returning herself to Deadland. “You
The waitress interrupted. She rattled off the items on the menu that weren’t available. I asked her about the limited options, and she said that besides the difficulty finding drivers, suppliers were leery about local businesses’ ability to pay their bills going forward. She took our orders and set us up with drinks.
I sipped my drink, leaned back in my seat. “I hadn’t realized how much I craved a night like this. It feels good to have a few hours to relax.”
Lorena grinned. “Glad I could provide an excuse.” She twisted her arm to examine the long tattoo running wrist-to-elbow. “It certainly gets your attention. I’ll never understand why people would inject ink under their skin.” She switched arms and examined the other, which was a mirror image. “They’re very nice arms, besides the tattoos.” She ran a quavering finger down Summer’s forearm.
“She can see and hear all this, remember,” I said.
Lorena put her arm down. “I know. I said she had pretty arms, didn’t I?” She laughed as I shook my head. “Didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.” Maybe it was inevitable that two people sharing the same body would become antagonistic toward each other.
We fell silent, stared at each other across the table. Lorena let out a big sigh. “What a mess.”
“Happy birthday,” I said.
Lorena dropped her fork. It clattered on the plate. “Oh, shit.” She whined in frustration as the tremor in her hands grew still.
Summer pressed her palms to her temples. “Sorry.”
I shrugged. “Not your fault.”
Summer surveyed the half-eaten steak on the plate in front of her, then pushed it toward the center of the table. “I meant I was sorry your night was ruined. I wasn’t apologizing.”
