Bride of the Zombie God Read online

on the stranger’s shoulder.

  In a flash, too fast for Dominique to follow, Brad is on the floor. The stranger stands on him, pressing a boot between Brad’s shoulder blades and gripping one of his arms. The bodyguard squeals like a pig until the stranger cracks him in the back of the head with a clenched fist.

  Dominique tries to run, but he’s on her with a speed that cannot possibly be human. His arms coil around her body like a giant python, scooping her off her feet as she makes for the door. She opens her mouth to scream, but his thick fingers gag her before the slightest chirp can escape her lips. She kicks at his shins with one bare foot and one heel, having lost the other one already in the scuffle. He is undeterred.

  The stranger sighs.

  “Relax,” he says. “It’ll be better for both of us. I promise.”

  She doesn’t stop. She kicks even harder and tries to scream through his fingers, but only a simpering whine makes it out, not nearly loud enough to carry through to the other side of the door, much less all the way to ears that matter in this vacant place. She tries to bite through his fingers, but finds it to be like chomping down on rebar.

  The stranger throws her down on the bed and straddles her without ever removing his fingers from her mouth. She fights to push him off, but it feels like a pickup truck is on top of her.

  “Listen to me,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you scream, I will. Are we clear?”

  She considers his words, and relaxes her body as she contemplates her options. She could do what he says, and he’ll probably rape her and kill her; or she could keep fighting him and he’ll probably kill her and rape her. These are not good options, but one does seem a bit better than the other.

  “Are we clear?” the stranger asks again.

  Dominique nods and he removes his fingers from her mouth.

  “Please don’t kill me,” she cries. “Mah kid needs me. Please.”

  “I told you,” the stranger says. “I’m not gonna hurt you unless I have to.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want,” he says as he cups her left breast in his hand.

  “Ah- Ah don’t do that.”

  “How much will it take to change your mind?”

  It’s a question that flattered her when she was young and stupid, but insults her now that she’s older and wiser. She likes to think her integrity is the reason and not the shrinking figures thrown at her, but she knows that is a lie. How much will it take to make her a whore? More than he’s willing to pay.

  “Four thousand dollars,” she says. It’s an absurd amount. A centerfold model probably wouldn’t ask that much for a night.

  “An hour?” the stranger asks. “I think I can make that happen.”

  “What?” Dominique says.

  “You want more?” he says. He narrows his eyes at her dubiously.

  “Show me the money,” she says. The harsh reality of this nonsensical discourse hits her like an ice pick. He’ll tell her whatever she wants to hear. He’s just going to kill her when he’s done with her anyway.

  “That briefcase,” he says. He points to the skinny brown leather briefcase lying next to the TV. Dominique turns her attention to it, then nervously back to the stranger. “Open it.”

  Hesitantly, she sits up and stands from the bed. He makes no effort to pin her back down. She kicks off her remaining heel, in case she decides to make a break for the door again, and she slowly steps to the dresser where the briefcase sits. She presses in the little latch buttons beside the handle and lifts the lid to peek inside. She flinches as she does, half expecting something to pop out of the case at her, or the stranger to bludgeon her from behind.

  The briefcase is filled with money; hundred dollar bills in stacks rubber banded together. It must be a hundred thousand dollars—maybe more.

  Suddenly, Brad lurches from the floor, growling like an angry dog.

  “Motherfucker!” he barks, searching in confusion for an assailant that is no longer assailing him. He pulls a pistol from his sweatpants—a sleek black gun that he racks as he zeroes in on his enemy. “I’ll teach you to bust me in the head!”

  “Brad!” Dominique yells. “Stop!”

  The stranger does not move a muscle. He remains on the bed, resting his back against the headboard as he stares down the barrel of the pistol.

  “Brad!” Dominique shouts again. The second time, he hears her.

  “What?!” he seethes, looking down the sights at the stranger on the bed before him.

  “Go wait in the car, Brad,” Dominique says. “This gentleman and ah got some business to do.”

  “You fuckin’ with me?” Brad grunts. “You got to be.”

  “Nah.” Dominique crouches down to the floor, where her trench coat rests, and reaches into the right pocket. The jangling collection of keys she pulls out dangles from a Minnie Mouse keychain. She extends the key ring toward Brad with angry force.

  “He make you do this or what?” Brad says. “I’ll fuckin’ shoot him right here. Don’t be afraid of him. He’s not gonna do nothin’ to you.”

  “Ah said get out,” Dominique says. “Ah’ll cut you in decent. Just go.”

  He reluctantly lowers the gun as he narrows his eyes curiously.

  “This is fuckin’ stupid,” Brad says, snatching the keys from her outstretched hand. “Really fuckin’ stupid.”

  He stashes the gun back in his pants before he opens the door. He gives her one last glance on his way out into the hall.

  “This better be worth it,” he says.

  “Go,” Dominique replies with an annoyed tone.

  Brad throws up his shoulders in begrudging disapproval as walks away. She watches the door swing closed completely before she turns back to the stranger. He remains in the same position, never having flinched throughout the course of the argument.

  “We got ourselves a deal, Mister,” Dominique says, undoing the tie between her shoulder blades. She tosses the jade bikini top haplessly aside. She starts to remove the strings of plastic beads, but the stranger shakes his head.

  “Leave the beads on,” he says.

   

  Brad walks down the creaky hallway toward the elevator cursing at the shit he puts up with for this stupid job. That dumb slut better cut him in on some real juicy profits for this one. He steps on to the elevator and mashes the button for floor one. As the door closes, he presses his hand to the back of his head. Blood encrusts his hair near his collar. It stings as he touches it and the pain makes him angrier. He doesn’t know how he let that little fucker smack him around the way he did. The kid was a whole foot shorter and three weight classes under him. Even his elbow hurts from where the squirrelly fuck bent it. Brad can’t wait to leave this dump behind. That bitch better not take long in there. There’s no way he’s waiting all night in the car in a fucking thunderstorm for this shit. He can promise her that.

  The doors slide open to reveal the first floor of the hotel, a place he feels like he was in only seconds ago, even though he knows he was passed out on the floor for some time. The first floor is just as quiet as the second. A glance out into the lobby reveals not even an attendant on duty at the front desk. The five seat bar which was anchored by an older woman and a quiet bearded drunk on the trip up now is devoid of life signs. The fucker in 217 might be the only person staying in this old dump.

  Brad swings through the lobby and out to the parking lot. The blacktop is broken and cracked. Pot holes the size of tires appear in some spots. Lightning crashes in the distance as rain pours down in sheets on hotel. The lot has become a lake, almost completely submerged in pooling water. Brad makes a mad dash for the car, which Dominique parked way too far from the door. His feet splash into water inches deep as he runs. He stumbles knee-deep into one murky puddle and waterlogs his shoe and pant leg, but he keeps dredging along.

  As he reaches the car, he already has the keys out and he stabs them into the door lock perfectly with his first attempt. He rips the
door open and falls into the driver’s seat safe from the torrential downpour assaulting the roof. Water leaks from his shoe and puddles on the floor mat. This for what?

  Ah’ll cut you in decent, Dominique said. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She’s gonna hand him a twenty dollar bill in the morning and call it square? Fuck that bitch. He’s got the car. Maybe he’ll go for a little drive. There has to be a twenty-four hour diner around here somewhere. He could use a cheeseburger more than anything. That whore better hope she doesn’t need his help tonight.

  He puts the key in the ignition and twists it, expecting to hear the sound of the engine turning over.

  Nothing.

  He turns it again. Still nothing.

  “Fuck!” Brad grunts aloud even though there is no one there to hear him. Dominique’s car won’t start. He isn’t surprised really. It’s just like a woman not to keep up with her car. She probably forgot to get an oil change or didn’t put gas in it, or something stupid like that.

  Brad considers his options. He could pop the hood in the rain and try to fix the damn thing himself. He doesn’t know enough about cars to do that, truthfully. Though he likes to think he does. He goes for it. He searches the inside of the car for a lever or a latch—whatever pops the hood, and he finds it. The hood pops open with a thump and Brad pushes the door open to charge out into the rain and look at the engine.

  Someone is waiting for him outside the car. A tall, black, muscular shadow, clad in a top hat and a black sport coat.

  “Hello?” Brad says,