Oogie Boogie Bounce
By M. Stephen Lukac
Chapter 1
Everything started with Crazy Amy.
Milo Tucker’s definition of “crazy” had gone through some revisions, but his unexpected visitor qualified, even under the new guidelines.
“The past has a way of sneaking up and biting you on the ass,” Philip Ducalion had said before shaking Milo’s hand and boarding his flight. A curious look had washed across the ex-cop’s face as they stood at the jet way entrance with hands clasped. At first, Milo had attributed the expression to memories of when Ducalion had served as a backside buffet. From what he had revealed during his stay in the West Virginia capitol, those times were plentiful.
However, as time passed, Milo wondered if his new friend had been more perceptive than his rough exterior and gruff manner suggested. A man intelligent enough to sort through the miasma of Theodore Munsch, Cecil Underwood and Harold Washington had to be perceptive enough to understand all was not as it appeared. Ducalion had correctly followed the thread that started with Alex Harrison and ended with Milo Tucker, seemingly oblivious to all the Oogie Boogie baggage in between. He successfully connected the dots linking the two Gatherers to the three killers without catching a whiff of the underlying mystical web that bound them.
Or had he?
Twenty-four hours after Ducalion blasted Munsch’s mind out of Harold Washington’s body, the local authorities had buried the bodies, hosed away the blood and closed their files, satisfied that Harold’s past sufficiently explained his final atrocities. By the time Sharon stepped off the plane, hugged her husband and slugged Keith Pridemore, Kanawha County law enforcement had returned to a Pre-JoJo state, secure in their belief that all the really bad people were tucked into a pauper’s grave or wearing a sweater with sleeves that tied in the back.
Ducalion hadn’t contradicted any of these assumptions, but Milo doubted he accepted them, especially after spending a week with the Tuckers and their perpetual houseguest Keith. While Sharon had plied the ex-cop with home-cooked meals and estrogen-powered interrogation, Milo wrestled with his new mental tenants, striving to achieve a balance with the six entities he had inherited from Alex Harrison.
During the Tucker food and film marathon, Milo’s new “friends” had made several unexpected appearances, usually coinciding with the arrival of a new delicacy or a particularly funny scene. Sharon ignored the intrusions, apologizing for her husband’s antics. Ducalion responded with a smile and a wave of his hand, but Milo felt his stare whenever Sharon left the room. It took several scoldings when he tagged along on Keith’s frequent outdoor smoke breaks to get the Colony to behave, at least until their company had gone.
Ducalion’s parting remark made Milo believe he hadn’t scolded the Colony soon or often enough.
Nearly a year later, Milo could chuckle at the confusion generated by seven individuals inhabiting one body, and still go into hysterics at Keith’s shock when one of the Colonists appeared without warning. Time and patience had eased Milo’s stress and calmed Keith’s reactions, but there was still one Colony-related issue left to resolve.
Sharon.
Employing the same logic that allowed the Charleston Police to explain Harold’s sudden leap from thief to homicidal maniac, his wife appeared willing to attribute Milo’s occasional use of a Yiddish or Japanese accent to his genetic predisposition for being a goof. Other than the rise in vocal pitch when one of the ladies took the “wheel” there wasn’t much to suggest Milo had changed. His initial fear of a parade of rabid Hunters camping on his doorstep diminished as months passed without so much as a slight buzz in his skull. Protests from his passengers aside, Milo refused to accept the rarity of a phenomenon that had placed three similarly affected individuals within spitting distance of a serial killer.
Perhaps Sharon’s dismissal of anything otherworldly kept Milo silent. The Tuckers had always presented a united front against Keith’s Tales of the Unbelievable, and although Milo now counted himself among those Tales, he still refused to believe a tenth of the swill Keith tried to feed them.
Sharon refused to consider any of it, which made “Hey honey, I’ve got six dead folks living in my head now”, not only a conversation killer, but a potential request for a permanent room at Ravenswood Asylum.
No thank you.
Convincing a world-class skeptic was a bigger task than Milo was prepared to attempt. His confidence, even bolstered by Trippenstein’s guarantees of magical demonstrations, only went so far. If Sharon was willing to play Lois and stare wistfully into the sky as the crowd pointed, shouting it’s a bird, it’s a plane, Milo was content to play Clark.
But at least Clark Kent could fly.
Well, maybe not Clark himself, but his alter-ego could shuck the horn-rims, fluff the hair, ditch the Armani and zoom into the stratosphere, and wasn’t that great for him. The idol of millions. Admired by men. Desired by women. Sworn to protect a world that hated and feared him . . .
Oh wait, that was the X-Men.
Milo shook his head to dislodge the persistent superhero analogy and concentrate on his current task: Security camera alignment for Harriford & Sons Department Store. Hardly a job for a champion in red and blue spandex, the weekly camera adjustment required nothing more than Milo’s supervision and a two-way radio. Even “supervision” was too strong a word. As Harriford’s Security Manager Milo could roam the sales floor in his official capacity without worrying about blowing his cover. If potential thieves didn’t already know who he was from the previous year’s media coverage, they weren’t smart enough to deduce his identity from his Tuesday afternoon walk-through.
As Milo moved from one coverage zone to the next, Senior Detective David McIntyre followed his progress on monitors in the Surveillance Office, running the cameras through their full range of movement and focus. A live target made any necessary adjustments easier and allowed the operator to discover any dead areas between camera positions. During the procedure, David would ask Milo to move in a certain direction or hide behind a fixture. When he did, Milo heard the familiar whine as servomotors tracked his progress and kept the lenses locked on his position.
Another thrilling adventure for Gatherer-Man.
“If this bothers you so much, you should tell Sharon,” Kimmy said, appearing next to him. Milo glanced at the camera, momentarily forgetting the electronic eyes wouldn’t register his passenger’s presence any more than human eyes did.
“Didn’t you say Tuesday walk-throughs were boring?” Milo asked, making sure the microphone on his radio was switched off.
“They are boring,” Kimmy admitted, gliding along as Milo walked to the next camera zone. “Boring, but according to you, necessary.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I never pass up a chance to shop,” Kimmy smiled. “Besides, we’re always here, even when we’re not.”
“Exactly where do you go when you’re not here?”
“Where we always are.”
Milo shook his head. “Did you drive all your other hosts this crazy? No wonder Alex let people hear him talking to himself; you made him nuts.”
“Alex was a sweet guy,” Kimmy said, flooding Milo with her affection for the departed Gatherer, “but he had a bad habit of forgetting where he was; a habit -thankfully- you don’t seem to have.”
“That’s me, Mr. Conscientious.”
“Has anyone ever accused you of thinking too much?”
“You’ve been listening to Sharon again.” Milo stopped and waved at the ceiling. David chuckled in his earpiece and started the camera test.
“I listen to your wife whenever you do,” Kimmy said, mimicking Sharon’s tone and cadence. “The difference is, I usually understand what she’s saying.”
“Jesus!” Milo said, which caused several shoppers to turn their heads and stare. Milo grimaced and pretended to speak into his radio.
“Jesus, Kimmy. You’ve had how many male hosts now? I’d think just the constant proximity to that many testicles would give you some insight. Not all men are Neanderthals; some of us lean toward the introspective side of the emotional spectrum.”
“Whatever. Introspect all you’d like, but don’t spend so much time looking in that you forget to look out once in a while.” Kimmy folded her ethereal arms across her ethereal chest and turned away. His Colony gave him access to knowledge and abilities beyond his own, but pissing off a woman? This Milo could accomplish all by himself.
Before he could formulate a properly penitent response, Kimmy whirled on him, leaning in far enough so that, if she still had a nose, it would touch his.
“And Mr. Milo, since you’ve been considerate enough to point out my easy access to countless testicles, let me remind you of your easy access to a couple of pairs of ovaries.”
Mr. Milo?
Kimmy perched her hands on her hips. “For someone who’s spent most of his life bitching about not living up to his potential, you’re sure letting it get away from you now.”
“You’re giving me advice?” Milo asked. “I’m getting a lecture from an eighteen year-old? What’s worse, I’m listening to it?”
“I may be eighteen, but I’ve been eighteen for like twenty years, so that makes me older than you.” The epiphany made her smile. “So respect your elder, dammit.”
“We are not having this conversation.” David radioed an “all clear” and Milo moved on.
“Someone’s got a serious case of the Grumps today,” Kimmy said, following him into the Menswear Department.
“Trust me Kimmy, you’ve never seen me with a serious case of the Grumps.”
Kimmy’s eyebrows rose. “Please. This famous Milo Tucker temper you keep warning us about? Haven’t seen it; don’t plan on seeing it anytime soon. Admit it Milo; you’re a teddy bear with an attitude. Tough and crusty on the outside, sweet creamy goodness on the inside.”
“Now I’m a toasted marshmallow?”
“Yeah that works. If you’d just get over all this . . .”
“You’re an evil man.”
The indictment didn’t come from Kimmy, nor did it come through Milo’s earpiece. As Milo and Kimmy began to turn, David yelled for Milo to check his “six.”
A woman stood between two clothing racks, her hands tucked into the oversized patch pockets decorating the front of her polyester pantsuit. Dull brown hair spilled over her collar, hiding her upper body and covering most of her face.
Except for her eyes.
Through the matted strands obscuring her features, her irises shone with the intensity of a jacklight penetrating a forest.
Milo smiled at the accusation from the poster child for Salon Selectives. Kimmy gasped, and Milo sensed the shock of recognition coursing through their connection.
And then, Kimmy was gone.
Milo stepped toward the woman. “I’m not an evil man. In fact, I like to think of myself as one of the good guys.”
The woman recoiled at his approach. “Liar! You’re a liar and a thief. You don’t deserve what you took from Alex; don’t even try to pretend you do.”
“What I took from Alex?” Milo asked. He stopped moving and opened his arms wide. Willing his face into its best “take the picture now” expression, he nodded pleasantly at the woman while mentally screaming for his passengers. Handling this psycho didn’t require any of their special abilities, but from Kimmy’s reaction, Milo guessed they knew the nutball’s identity, and probably knew why she was so pissed.
Suddenly Milo’s surroundings brightened, as if the world was on a rheostat and God had cranked the knob to its maximum setting. His awareness expanded to encompass 360 degrees. Colors intensified and the Menswear department focused into such sharp detail that Milo could almost see the atoms bouncing within the electromagnetic boundaries separating one object from another.
The Colony had arrived.
Fuck me! Trippenstein said, shattering the momentary rush that always accompanied the arrival of Milo’s full complement of passengers.
I’m assuming you don’t want me to pass that on as an invitation to this refugee from The Breakfast Club, Milo stated, communicating silently as he continued to smile at the woman. Now, who wants to give me the Hollywood Minute on Ally Sheedy here?
Be kind Milo, Maria said, gliding across the intervening space to examine the woman. This is Amy Newcomb, a friend of Alex’s -and ours- from the time we lived at Randolph Avenue.
The halfway house? Milo asked.
Mais oui, Etienne answered, also taking a closer look. But, she looked much better then.
Tajiri joined the observation team. He clasped his hands behind his back and circled Amy, nodding as he looked her up and down.
The years have not blessed this one, the ronin stated. Etienne’s aesthetic observations aside, I must agree that Amy-san seems less capable than when we last met.
Amy screamed, beating the air around her face and swatting herself on the head and shoulders. “Get them off! Get them off of me!”
Maria, Etienne and Tajiri returned to Milo’s side.
Less capable? Kimmy said, frowning. Yeah, I guess so.
AchMilo, Isadore sighed. It is so very sad. So pretty, but so farchadat. Still, she was a good friend to Alex when he needed one, so have some pity for the gutte neshome.
Milo watched Amy’s gyrations slow and then stop. Her hands curled and slid back into her pockets. No panic remained in her demeanor.
Only hatred.
Pity? Milo asked the group. Let’s save the compassion for after we figure out what she’s doing here. Anybody have an answer for that?
C'est facile, Etienne said. Obviously she saw the news reports concerning Alex’s death and it took her almost a year to find you. J’accuse! J’accuse! This is not difficult to fathom; most of the time it took her six hours to find her socks.
Milo glanced at the space between the cuffs of Amy’s slacks and the tops of her shoes. The Frenchman was right; nothing covered those bony ankles. Still, a lack of foot fashion wasn’t enough to dismiss Amy’s potential threat.
Let’s test that theory, Milo said. Tajiri, go take another look at the lady.
Tajiri bowed his head. His initial forward movement caused Amy to jerk her head and take a step back. As he halved the distance between them, she pulled her hands from her pockets and raised them to her shoulders, as if to protect herself from an attack. Tajiri slipped around her left side and peered back at the others from over her shoulder.
The trembling began in her legs, moving through her pelvis and into her torso. The vibrations from her lower limbs rippled through the rest of her body, culminating in a spasmodic dance of insanity.
Amy Newcomb lost it.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed, whirling in place. Her frenzied pivots toppled racks, scattering chinos and shirts throughout the department. “Make them stop! Please! Make them stop!”
Tajiri observed the seizure from the center of the maelstrom, calmly appraising Amy’s convulsions while she spun through his spectral form.
Enough, Milo said, calling Tajiri back. The button in his ear crackled; David reported paramedics were on their way, and he had told them to bring the big butterfly net. Milo waved at the camera. He had forgotten about David’s view of the incident.
Tajiri stood at his side. Your suspicion was correct, he said, bowing again. She senses us.
She’s not like Cecil, is she? Milo asked.
Maria shook her head. Certainly not. This woman is ill, but she is not a Hunter.
Well thank God for that, Milo said. I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but dealing with a new Hunter every year would just get boring. I like to keep my insanity fresh.
Looks like you’re getting your wish, Kimmy said.
Amy was calmer now. Her shoulders heaved from the force of her breathing. Her hands clenched in time with her inhales. Her eyes burned with madness.
And then she attacked.
Arms extended, fingers splayed out like claws, she jumped, spanning the gap between them in one adrenaline-fueled leap. Milo relinquished control of his body to Tajiri, who possessed the necessary reflexes to dodge the assault and enjoyed an open invitation from Milo to prevent bodily injury without waiting for an invitation, but it wasn’t Tajiri who responded.
It was Trippenstein.
The hippie pushed past Tajiri and shuddered into the driver’s seat. During the seconds it took Amy to reach them, he spoke some unintelligible gibberish and waved his arms in a circular motion. The air shimmered inside the circle he described, and when Amy’s momentum brought her to it, the intersection of motion and magical energy caused a flash of light.
And Amy bounced.
The force of the impact sent Amy flying backward, crashing through racks and landing at the feet of the paramedics David had called. They didn’t have a net, but they carried a straightjacket, which they began to buckle around the stunned woman.
What the hell was that? Milo asked as Trippenstein stepped back.
Basic protection spell, Trippenstein said. Not as flashy as transmutation, but it gets the job done, don’t you think?
Milo surveyed the swath of damage caused by Amy’s trajectory. That was a basic spell? Make sure to warn me before you try anything complicated.
The paramedics lifted Amy to her feet. She struggled against their efforts to tie off the sleeves. Milo was pleased she hadn’t been injured, but Amy’s altered flight plan hadn’t quelled any of her anger.
“You think I’m the only one who knows?” she yelled, straining at the grip of the men holding her. “You think I’m the only one! You think you’ll get away with this, but you’re wrong! Liar! Thief!”
One paramedic tightened the straps and the other shrugged at Milo. Loonies, the shrug said, whatcha’ gonna do with them? Milo waved them off. Amy was their problem now.
“Liar! Thief! This isn’t over!” Amy screamed. As the medics hustled her out of Harriford’s, the words echoed through Milo’s brain.
And something nibbled at his ass.
Available from The Horror Mall
Also available Oogie Boogie Central - the Prequal to Oogie Boogie Bounce (Read an excerpt here)
Stephen will be "Venting" three times a year at Horror World starting in April 2008
