S P I D E R F I N G E R S
The tune was familiar. Steph made out the song clearly, an adrenaline-pumping-technology-flaunting remix of Sylvester’s I Will Survive.
The driver, or rather the man at the vehicles front-end, he remained mute. His relaxed arms never flinching for the wheel. He didn't turn around and beam a friendly smile. The music was so loud and so...
‘We are going away from where we have been.’
‘Everybody that was here before, where are they now?’
'Someone got a little Toto in their throat, hmmm?'
He sported a violet eyeball in his forehead, staring without blinking just under the rim of a grey gangsters hat. His elongated face was punctuated by his angular ruby red goatee. His face was red, the harsh tone of freshly chopped meat. And from within the folds of his jacket two of his four hands stretched out. Blue hands, cobalt-coloured fingers to accompany his other pair, folded scarlet ones.
He advanced quickly, so fast that Steph found herself recoiling only after he had managed to take a new seat merely a row away from her. He smiled. He removed his hat. He removed his headset.
Their plan, Sarah’s and Foley’s, was to provoke gossip among various demographics for the necessary attention.
Hiding in the open; a means for the Edwards' siblings to survive. The craze for Spiderfingers wouldn't last forever, not as far as Sarah was concerned. Foley, he had no clue as to how his deal with the world worked. Sarah could see the arrogance in his eyes whenever he let slip to someone he'd just met regarding his life as the man who played Spiderfingers in the mixed media phenomenon that was Stephanie Tent's tour de force. And all Foley had to do was pose here, pose there, use his acting chops to be something he could never be and barely understand. This is what Sarah thought as she sipped long sips of her cocoa, the Jazz FM providing the room with the correct amount of relaxed and soulful ambience. Within that bubble Sarah Edwards could work.
This compendium, this latest artistic collaboration would be emailed to magazines that didn’t normally reprint such works but ah, Foley had been romantically linked to melon smuggling/glamour-puss Lucy Pinder, for weeks now.
Naturally, the value attributed to Foley’s face had sky-rocketed, great copy as they say.
As she added tint and touch to the images on her laptop, Sarah drifted from computer-bound artistic decisions to the easy recall of the shoot earlier that day.
She remembered bindi-adorned Foley posing in the steamy shower, her instructions to him, that he should lower his spindly Spiderfingers arms,
‘Keep em down!’ she’d blast as her disposable lens aimed its way towards Foley’s face again and again and again, ‘Stop covering your nose...’
‘I had another one.’
The hand watched Zombie Boy tear out marrow now and it wouldn’t be long at all, soon his partners intelligence would overtake his ravenous condition. The young man’s soul returning to the body whose wild hunger had forced it out, raw meaty sustenance ushering it back in. Andy, being more than privy to how Saul's biology ‘worked’ commenced his gradual, measured, tentative crawl over towards his hunched feasting. Ever so gently, creeping along the damp grass with the sensitivity of an expert masseuse, climbing Zombie Boy’s dark blue trench coat until he was at the base of the neck. Handy Andy slipped his fingers under Zombie Boy’s ponytail, brushing away the black and crimson strands so that he could knead away, and massage knotted shoulders.
Handy Andy observed Zombie Boy, so tearful between morsels of wet flesh, and Andy could see his friend's soulfulness returning, the instinctive glares away from the police victim, the corpse he had made, this innocent man of the law. Or was it a woman? Handy hadn’t looked and wondered when Zombie Boy would be conscience enough to check. He understood why Zombie Boy had begun to cry. His emerging humanity granted him an unwelcome awareness, that he owed the healing of all his wounds to cannibalism. Now that he’d been fed, the ghoulish and most primitive personality began to completely coil up into the back of a shared mind. Zombie Boy was now asleep.
Welcome back Saul Buchannan.
‘If the gods kill me they can return to Earth, right? Shit. Shit - what do I do now?’
Silence. He Who is Red's lips did not move.
I Will Survive played on.
‘And this bus, this bus is my subconscious and -’
‘- it is now, Storm eyes,' cut in Red, 'Look after it well.’
‘It belonged to someone else before?’ inquired Steph.
‘If it’s answers you seek then you will meet brother blue. If it is cowardice you reek then the walrus’ house for you. If you’ve an adventurers streak then go to the Oma for the Oma alone will do.’
‘How do I drive this thing?’ questioned Steph, limping to the wheel, which continued to swivel of its own accord. She grasped at it but found the action fruitless. Her hands phased straight through the rubber handling. Her steering wheel target was as tangible as a hologram. Frustrated but eager to figure her way out of this, Steph made the only gambit she could think of, since it had worked before,