Amazombia

  Chapter 32.

  We go down a tree lined road, and it’s late afternoon. Blue-grey clouds with bright white edges billow in front of us, rising from the horizon and stretching up into the stratosphere where the winds flatten them into anvils.

  Some of the natives are stopping along the path, and begin settling into make shift tents. Others open their carts and begin cooking assorted fish dinners, and start boiling water and fanning barbeques. The wind blows in from the coast, and the trees along the path bend down, scattering leaves, flapping blankets and tarps.

  For a moment, I got that unique stench of death, and it gives me goose bumps as I try taking in the fresh cooking foods. Reminds me of being a kid down in Coney Island. Summer. Smelling hot dogs and cotton candy. Then an ocean breeze would kick up, and all those good smells of fried up zeppole intermingle with the salty air…and that one fat guy with the tank top and obscenely hairy armpits.

  George points into the jungle not far from the path. Big walls of timber at the foot of the mountains we’re riding between. On both sides of the path I notice the giant walls.

  “They keep the dead in there,” George says.

  I never understood this about the Vegas Amazons. They are too good natured and sentimental for the dead and strangers, yet forged with stone hearted dealings for half the living. Like me. They were the same in Vegas. On stage, they light up the town with their smiles. Get them after a show, or try to help them escape Zombietown USA, and they steal your car and get you turned into a slave. Or worse, they steal your family and make it difficult to keep in touch with them. Either or, your pick. Just because I’m a different sex.

  I can appreciate not killing a zombie outright. Like I said, I’ve made it this far and haven’t killed one yet. Intentionally, at least. Jury is still out on that one.

  Every now and then between the murmur of the crowd, I think I hear the groan of the dead. It’s my imagination playing tricks on me. You’ll recall we travelled across half of South America, me George and Tiara? Don’t worry, I won’t recount the boredom. There was this one incident. We make it to an area that hasn’t been clear-cut. Thick jungle. Really spooked my horse, the little paint George stole from the Rockettes. Shirley. You remember, right?

  We’re battling it out through creepers and vines, and those stupid thorny vines. And the ants, too. Not lemon ants. The biting ones. Army ants. We come across this river.

  “Finally,” I say. “Easy travelling.”

  I go to walk Shirley into it, and George yells at me to stop. I stop. Across the river are these two natives. Not brown, gray. Pretty badly decomposing. One of them looks like his skin is alive, sparkling black with swarms of army ants all over him. He’s swatting at his decomposing ant covered skin. He spots us, and he’s swatting and working his jaws up and down in anticipation of eating us. He steps one foot into the river, the water comes alive. Bubbling, throbbing, like a hot tub. He yanks out his foot only a few seconds later. His decomposed flesh is eaten right off the bone. Shiny white tibia starts turning black again with ants. The ants start eating at whatever connective tissue is holding his boney foot together. The other native goes head first into the water. The piranha below don’t give him time to turn around and climb back out. Weird how the dead have a bit of self-preservation in them. Think about it. You have a zombie clawing at your door. You open that door two days later, that zombie will still have fingernails intact. In theory, they should just keep clawing at the door until they have numbs right up to their shoulders…but they don’t. Even a rabid dog stops chewing at the wires to his cage eventually.

  Anyhow, the dumb ant covered zombie licks his chops and heads right into the bubble bath his amigo took just a moment ago. The only evidence of his existence is the branch of the tree he lowered himself with is bouncing up and down like a spring. It eventually stops, and the water is calm again.

  Dumb. Just like keeping zombies around like the Vegas girls do. I lost count to how long the dead have been lurking around, but big pharmaceutical is keeping any cures they’re working on under tight wraps. Granted, the dead coming back to life is a miracle unto itself, but it’s not a regular human life. That pounding on your door isn’t your reborn neighbor asking to borrow a cup of sugar. No chance.

  George and I ride the valley path straight towards the clouds, through maybe a mile of those big timber walls. We get past the stench of death, then the road widens out and we are met with the festival that is Carnival.

  First up, electricity. Lots of it. Daylight and nighttime lose their identity in the bright halogen light raining down in the party revelers. Crowds make me queasy. And I just now have gotten accustomed to campfires at night. Me, George and Tiara would share zombie stories. I won’t bother you with them now…matter of fact, I used all of mine in this book. Zombies make me queasy too, so I don’t want to add to my ailments.

  George is in his element, which is to say he has become like furniture in a parade. So many people assume that me and him are mounted security, so he rolls with the accolades. I try to mirror him the best I can. He bends down and accepts necklace after necklace of gaudy purple and gold beads. He also enjoys the kisses the girls throw up to him.

  A young girl tugs at my pants. I go to bend down to accept some beads. I take off my hat, and I exchange beads of shiny plastic for beads of sweat that drips down my chin. Sheesh, it’s humid. The girl that gave me the beads is none too appreciative of my offering. She doesn’t throw up a kiss, she only throws up. She must be drunk.

  We get about half way down the main road. I can’t stop sweating, every time I take my hat off, a deluge of sweat comes pouring off my chrome dome. Finally, a young girl is so enamored by Paco that she tears off a bandana from a young native mingling in the crowd and she hands it up to me.

  I make a do-rag, “Thanks, miss.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says behind a purple and orange sequined mask.

  She’s so tall I barely have to lean down as she puts a bunch of beads over my head.

  “Thank you again, miss,” I offer her my hand to shake.

  She grips it firmly, “Beautiful horse, what’s his name?”

  “Paco,” I pat his head. “He’s is a handsome fella, ain’t he?”

  She smiles, and then another Amazon grabs her arm and whisks her away. Their feather headdresses bob through the crowd like giant peacocks.

  Speaking of which, a giant tarantula float is making its way down the street, and beads are flying everywhere. I spur Paco alongside George, sandwiching a native between us. The native gasps for air, and I maneuver Paco so the young guy can have some breathing space. It’s wall to wall people.

  George is wearing enough beads that his chins are pushed up to his cheeks. He looks bloated, a Burmese neck ring wearing gunslinger.

  “Senor, back up the horses to the sidewalk. The parade, it is beginning.”

  I follow George as his horse drops a load, and conveniently clears a space for us alongside a three story building. There are terraces above, and natives are throwing down beads to girls from all over South America. ‘Beads, meet breasts. Breasts, beads.’ And so it goes as the giant spider float goes by. A small diesel Volvo chugs along quietly underneath. The float spooks Paco, and he rears up, nearly takes off the head of native that have backed up into me and George. Nothing like a horse for crowd control. On a horse, even a slave can feel free.

  I shimmy around in the saddle. My clothes are a bit worn in, but nothing like that hubcap and miniskirt affair I started this journey off in. The black hat hides my tattoo pretty good to. But upon closer inspection, people see it. This one young couple, native fisherman and his frumpy looking girlfriend (I can tell he’s a fisherman because he’s well-tanned and reeks of mackerel) walk by. He admires Paco, he’s respectful of the horse, and of me. He caresses Paco’s cheek, and then he looks up at me. He squints. See’s my tattoo, then laughs and slaps Paco’s nose, nearly sends me flying as Paco rears up, front legs kicking out like an upended co
ckroach. His frumpy girlfriend laughs too, and she has black teeth.

  George grabs my reigns, yanks down Paco. The native and the girlfriend’s eyes widen as they set on George, and they scurry…like cockroaches when you turn the lights on. I don’t know, I’m making that up, actually. I think cockroaches stay still like ninjas when the lights come on. Not these two. They slither away into the crowd. Good riddance, now I can enjoy the spectacle.

  The next float is done up like a zombie head and shoulders. Big arms, shaped out of chicken wire and green and black foam. The arms reach down into the crowd. Children shriek. Dried ice blows out of flared nostrils. Eyes are lit up orange, and move back and forth by someone inside the zombie’s head. The eyes scan the crowd. Every now and then the float stops, and the eyes zero in on some hapless bystander. The arms reach out clumsily, rocking as the car underneath is gunned and braked hard. Then the float moves over to the other side of the path, and does the same thing. It looks like it’s coming at me and George, and I can see the disappointment on George’s face as it passes us. There are two half naked Amazon’s in the zombies mouth, gyrating around, throwing out beads.

  The zombie torso continues down the path, puking beads every now and then to cheers and screams. A couple of muscle bound dorks follow the float down the street. They’re dressed like zombies and gun chainsaws as they go. Girlfriends shriek with each rev of the chainsaws, boyfriends stand sullen faced, oozing in bravado. I saw it all too often up in Vegas. It’s not like these guys will swoop in and chop up a couple. It’s all part of the show. Some guys get it; they yell and join in the chaos.

  The crowd begins clapping polite. Some girls in the crowd, young ones, toddlers, really. Too young to know the difference between Vegas Amazons and Rockette Amazons. Anyhow, those young girls scream in ecstasy at the next float. I already know it’s Rockettes on board. How? The float is a giant stage, a red velvet curtain cutting the stage in two. The side opposite us has the action going on. The synchronized kicking. The stupid float stops right in front of us. We see nothing, we’re backstage.

  “Jingle Bell Rock” plays over loud speakers, and the float shakes rhythmically as they do their routine. I‘m guessing they’re doing high kicking over there, we see only the big red curtain shake as they dance with the out of season song. The crowd is quiet, appreciatively claps now and then.

  A band of young guys, teens, guys in their twenties, rowdy bunch. They come pushing down the street, and park themselves too close to me and George. George nudges his horse forward, and a couple of the guys get pressed against the float. They look back, take one look at George, and look ahead at the float again nervously.

  The mystery to the teen’s appearance is soon answered. “Jingle Bell Rock” is done playing, and a bunch of Rockettes race behind the curtain and start changing their costumes right in front of us. Vulgar. Exotic. I can’t tear my eyes away, but for the sake of any callow young readers, I will not go into detail as to what I see. Instead, I will describe the crowd’s reaction. LOUD. Boisterous. Guys tripping over each other to catch a glimpse of these girls.

  “Pathetic, huh George?” I say.

  I can’t believe it. George has eyeballs! Real eyeballs. And they’re open wide. Tinged slightly yellow, not much white…but he is old. Black irises…maybe his pupils are super dilated. His jowls are quivering.

  He grabs my arm, “Senor, senor, look,” he points with his chin, barely poking out of a bunch of beads.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah George. I do know what beautiful naked women look like, I am married to one…well, in theory-“

  George grabs my head, crunches my hat over my eyes and pivots my head.

  I pull up the hat.

  There’s Dodge. On the float with the Rockettes. He’s dressed in drag, and he’s walking…yes, walking…on two artificial legs. No wonder they’re only getting polite applause. They’re doing a charity event in the middle of Carnival.

  “Pathetic,” I mutter.

  George is still, like the famed jaguar of the jungle.

  I coax George, “Well…you won’t get a better shot. Kill him already.”

  George doesn’t flinch, and his eyes are again obscured by those big grey furry caterpillars he calls eyebrows.

  “Ninas enjoying the show, Senor. No time for bloodshed. We wait.”

  “But George, we’ve been hunting this guy across a continent for months. Gimmie a gun, I’m going to end this right here.”

  George swats away my hand as I reach for his pistol.

  Dodge sees all this commotion and locks eyes with us as he changes costumes. Dressing in drag is a sad attempt at humor, zombies or no zombies. He blows a kiss at George, then flips me the bird, and goes through the curtain, walking all herky-jerky. He’s met with polite applause.

  “One” comes over the loud speakers, and the Rockettes start up their hidden routine again and the float starts moving down the street.

  “Well…aren’t we at least going to follow him?”

  “He is going nowhere, Senor. The Carnival is where he recruits his next batch of slaves. He won’t do anything tonight. Tomorrow, when the party people catch their second wind and recover from the hangover. That is when he takes his bounty. We make an ambush.”

  “Ambush my butt, George. I’ve been on your ambushes before. They need work.”

  George scratches his chin, pulls off a few beads, throws them at the people standing under our horses.

  “I thought of this, Senor. It is because I usually perform the ambush alone with my Jumpy,” he crosses himself, “but without her, will be tough. With you, will be impossible. Perhaps I let you look for your daughter and wife in the crowd as I take care of business.”

  He grabs my wrist and puts one of his six shooters in my hand.

  “Hey, wait a minute, what is this for?” I ask.

  “Questions. Adios, Senor,” he pushes his way through the crowd, following the Rockettes at a safe distance.