The Tears of Nepthys
THE THIRD TEAR: NICK
Kevin Andrew Murphy
THE CAFÉ DU MONDE prided itself on beignets, chicory coffee, and never closing, even for hurricanes. Ellen didn’t know if the last was such a wise idea, but since Committee aces were like cops and got the two former items free, she wasn’t exactly going to complain, either. The wind wailed outside the iron shutters, and Ellen shivered. Her beaded flapper gown was not exactly suited to the weather, but then again she had a psychic allergy to off-the-rack.
Jonathan had no such problem, and had somewhere acquired a new sport coat. Ellen was about to comment on it when Michelle blew in, her latest Endora-style kaftan flapping around her currently svelte figure. “Zombies,” Michelle said succinctly. “They’re at it again.” She glanced to their table. “Grab your coffee. I’ll explain on the way.”
The explanation did not help much. All Ellen gathered was that A) Reverend Wintergreen had been holding a prayer vigil at the Superdome; B) buses were in the parking lot to evacuate people without transportation; and C) zombies had shown up, wreaking havoc.
Michelle found a spot at the edge of the parking lot. There were indeed a huge number of buses and an even more enormous crowd of people waiting for them, soaking in the rain. But havoc was a bit of an overstatement. “This is your fault,” stated Mayor Connick, storming up to them, rain dripping off the brim of his umbrella. He was not looking at Michelle or Jonathan.
Ellen looked up at him. “How do you figure that and what is ‘this,’ exactly?”
“You . . . the dead . . .” He gestured wildly to the buses. “Look . . .”
Ellen took his umbrella and went around to the nearest one, glancing for a moment at the crowd, black and white and, well, joker—Ellen wasn’t sure what race or even sex the individual with the shrimp chiton had started out as—but they were all looking with horror at the open door. Ellen glanced in. In the driver’s seat sat a nattily dressed young black man, a gold grill in his mouth and a bullet hole in his forehead. He was beckoning with one hand and gesturing to the back of the bus with the other, clearly miming Come in . . . come in . . . always room for one more.
There was a bit more commotion at the next bus. “The Power of Christ compels thee!” roared Reverend Wintergreen, waving a large silver cross. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
Ellen refrained from pointing out that if he wanted anyone on the bus to get behind him, he’d have to stop blocking the door. Instead, she just looked over his shoulder, seeing another zombie bus driver, but instead of welcoming gestures, this one was flipping him off.
“Same thing as at the hospital,” Ellen said, “though these seem a bit friendlier.”
“Safe bet it’s this ‘Hoodoo Mama’ we’ve heard about,” said Jonathan, coming to join them along with Jerusha, Ana, Michelle, and the mayor, “but fuck if I know what her game is.”
“Ain’t no game, you fuckers,” said a voice, harsh but still clear over the rain, “it’s fuckin’ dead serious.” An ancient black woman moved herself forward from the crowd, her wheelchair sluicing through the puddles. “You ain’t got no call to take these poor fuckers, these old fuckers, these fuckin’ jokers, away from the only homes they know, take them off to fuckin’ Jesus knows where, have them sit around in the fuckin’ rain while you play preacherman and hero so they catch their fuckin’ death of cold like poor ol’ Miss Partridge here.”
“Who’s Miss Partridge?” asked Michelle.
“I’m Miss Partridge”—the old woman glared through rain-specked bifocals—“and you fuckin’ killed me, you fuckin’ lily-white lard-ass bitch!” Her frail arms pushed on the arms of her wheelchair and she stood up, straightening her crooked back with a crack of snapping bones. “Go ahead, blow me up, you fucker!” She stalked forward as Michelle stepped back, a bubble forming between her fingers, pretty as a snow globe. “I seen you on TV, I fuckin’ know what you can do.” She gestured to the crowd, waving to several news cameras. “Go ahead and show all these nice people the sort of bitch who’d kill a little old lady with a fuckin’ bubble!”
“Hoodoo Mama, I presume,” Jonathan said, looking at her.
“Who the fuck wants to know?” she snapped, glaring at him, her milky eyes magnified to near the size of her face.
Ellen presumed as well. She handed the umbrella back to Mayor Connick and in three paces was at the wheelchair. She turned and sat down, placed her hands on the armrests, feet on the footrests, and closed her eyes.
Miss Partridge opened them.
She looked around, taking in the crowd. “Lan’ sakes, it’s a miracle,” she breathed. “I ain’t seen this clear in years.”
Not quite a miracle, Ellen apologized. The wild card. I brought you back—you’re in my body—but someone else is using yours.
Miss Partridge’s shock was also kindled with anger and recognition. She wheeled her chair around to face where Michelle’s team and the mayor stood in a confrontation with her former body. “Joey Hebert!” she called sharply. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“Jesus fuckin’ H. Christ!” The old zombie woman turned, looking down at the woman in the wheelchair. “How the fuck do you know my name?”
“Don’t you be speakin’ blasphemy with my poor dead lips, Josephine Hebert,” Miss Partridge snapped. “I know your hoodoo tricks. I knew you even before, back when you an’ Shaquilla Jones was smokin’ joints and drinkin’ Mickeys under my porch an’ you begged me not to tell your mama.” She wheeled her chair right up to the zombie’s legs. “An’ I didn’t, so don’t you be sassin’ me now. You ain’t got no call to be abusin’ my corpse after all I done for you.”
“Fuck you,” the old zombie spat, “you ain’t Miss Partridge. You’re some rich-ass white chick.”
Miss Partridge raised one hand and looked at it in wonder. “Why so I is. But you sure ain’t me neither, Joey Hebert, even if you be talkin’ with my old lips.” She put her hands on the wheels of her chair decisively. “An’ I may be a white girl now, but I kin still tan your backside once I fine where you is.” She wheeled, scanning the crowd, and stopped as she came to a scrawny girl-child, not quite a woman, with a ring in her navel, a red streak in her hair, and her eyes unfocused and glassy as any zombie’s. “There you be. . . .”
She began to wheel forward but suddenly the connection was broken. Ellen felt claws around her throat, strong as a harpy’s, tearing her out of the chair, throttling her from behind, and then there was a deafening explosion. Something spattered the back of Ellen’s head and she fell to the ground beside the wheelchair, landing hard on her hands and knees, rainwater and blood splashing as the crowd screamed, nat and joker alike running in horror, trampling the press.
Ellen rolled, then Jonathan was helping her up, pulling her away from the headless corpse of the old woman as it staggered about in the rain, waving her gnarled hands, blood spurting from the stump of her neck. A bubble floated through the air and blew off her right arm.
There was a momentary echoing silence. Then, behind them, came the roar of the bus.
Jonathan shoved Ellen out of the way but was not so fast himself, the bumper throwing him to the ground, the wheels coming over his legs as the jauntily smiling zombie driver flashed Ellen a gilded grin. But rather than an explosion of red, the tires sprayed green, thousands and thousands of wasps flying out from under the undercarriage, swirling around her. Then came a horrible rumbling and a quaking of the earth and the bus moved another seven yards before its front end was swallowed up by a huge crevasse in the asphalt.
The second bus wheeled toward the panicked crowd, Reverend Winter-green waddling after it, waving his cross. “The Power of Christ compels thee!” He fell on his belly in the rain, a sad and tragic figure until the next moment, when his legs pulled into his body, his arms as well, and then a huge fleshy sphere wrapped in white linen rolled over where his head had been, gathering momentum until it struck the bus square in the side, tipping it over.