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After seeing that I would not be closing the shop after all, Emery claimed that he wanted to keep an eye on the “family interests.” So, he spent every night at the shop, annoying the hell out of Andrea with questions about her “alternative lifestyle.” It appeared that he’d developed a bit of a crush on my favorite blood surrogate and frequently asked her to join him at church. When she refused, he blamed it on the influence of her “unfortunate choice of suitors” and spent most of his time giving her the moon eyes. Andrea spent most of her time trying not to be creeped out by her boyfriend’s great-great-grandson’s advances.
How many women could say they had that problem?
Dick stopped showing up on Wednesday nights, claiming he was calling in sick for “terminal disappointment.” At least he offered an excuse. Mr. Wainwright just disappeared.>And then I felt the pain. My eyes flew open. Gabriel’s fangs were sunk deep into the flesh of my thigh, twin trickles of blood flowing onto the sheets as he fed greedily. He snarled up at me, my blood dripping obscenely from his fangs. I screamed again, for entirely different reasons. And he launched himself at me, snapping his teeth against my throat and draining me. He rolled away, sated, and disappeared into the sheets. Horrified, I raised my bloodied hands and saw them turn slowly gray. They seemed to decompose before my very eyes. I was a corpse, rotting and decayed.
That certainly explained the smell.
I woke up with a start and immediately clamped my hand over my nose. As I shook off the last blood-smeared images of the dream, my stomach roiled. I had not smelled anything that foul since an eighteen-wheeler packed with live hogs overturned near my elementary school. My nostrils actually burned with the scents of decaying fish and ammonia. I sat up slowly, my body sluggish in the wake of the peaking sun. I felt as if I was swimming through molasses. I pressed a dirty sock against my nose, which frankly smelled a lot better than whatever was wafting through my house.
“Aunt Jettie!” I yelled. “Has there been a septic-tank explosion?”
Ignoring the weird cotton-wool sensation of daylight consciousness inside my head, I padded toward the stairs. The smell was getting stronger. I steadied myself and resisted a strong urge to gag. I crept downstairs and checked the bathroom to make sure there hadn’t been some sort of sewer mishap.
“Whatcha doing, honey?” Jettie asked, appearing over my shoulder as I carefully took the lid off the toilet tank. “Do you have any idea what you’re looking at?”
“Not particularly. I’m just trying to figure out where the stench of death is coming from. No offense.”
“None taken. What stench?”
“You don’t smell that?”
“I don’t smell anything. I don’t have a nose,” Aunt Jettie reminded me gently.
“Trust me, you got the better end of the deal.”
I wandered toward the front door, my eyes watering as the smell took on a new hideous note with every step. It was coming from the porch. Fitz was waiting by the door, thumping his tail on the floor because he thought I was about to let him out. Obviously, whatever was out there, Fitz was desperate to roll in it. Considering the Great Dead Skunk Caper of 2002, this was not a good sign.
I put on the Jackie O sunglasses, a heavy raincoat of Aunt Jettie’s, and a floppy straw hat and wrapped a scarf around my face. I pulled back the blackout curtains and hissed at the slap in the face even obscured noontime sunlight dealt me. I squinted through the light. I couldn’t see any dead animals or toxic waste strewn across the lawn, but it did seem to get stronger the closer I got to the window glass. I snapped the curtain shut and backed away. Fitz whined and did the “let me out to play” dance.
I gently shoved him away from the door. “Sorry, buddy, I don’t think they make doggie shampoo strong enough.”
There was no way I could leave the house to clean it up, so I was stuck. I went to the attic, the farthest point of the house away from the porch, and slept on an old velvet sofa. Well, I tossed and turned and kept a pillow clamped over my face.
When the sun finally set, I grabbed my car-wash supplies out of the garage and dragged the hose to the porch. There was a slimy, creamy yellow substance smeared on the front door, the banister, the porch swing, the railing, the boards of the porch itself. It smelled like burnt almonds and the orifice of a dead horse. Smashed against the front door was a weird-looking round hull the size of a volleyball. It looked like a spiky, greenish coconut.
“What in the name of all that’s holy is this?” I wondered, holding the shell at arm’s length.
I turned to see Zeb’s car pulling to a stop in front of the house.
“Hey, Jolene sent me over with some flyers for the next FFOTU meeting.” His head tilted at the curious object in my hand. “Where did you get—mother of God!” Zeb yelled. “What is that smell?”
“I don’t know. I think my front porch has been slimed or possibly defiled by a sea monster.” I held up my fingers to show him the buttery yuck. “I’ve been trapped in the house all day while this stuff baked in the hot sun. I just wish I knew what this thing was, so I would know which haz-mat team to call.”
A smug grin spread across Zeb’s face, and he crossed him arms and leaned back in the porch swing.
“What?” I asked. “Care to let me in on the joke?”
He examined his fingernails nonchalantly. “I’m just reveling in knowing something you don’t. So, this is what it feels like … to be the smartest person in the room. I like it. I feel all … tingly.”
“Zeb.”
“Sorry,” he said, nudging the husk with his foot. “That’s a durian. I saw it on the Travel Channel. That guy who thinks turtle gall bladders are a great lunch option swears they’re a delicacy. He did a whole segment on them for his Indonesia episode. You know, people are seriously injured, even killed, by these things every year? They fall out of the trees when they’re ripe, and splat . It’s like having a spiny cannonball dropped on your skull.”
Zeb sniffed. “The odor is so strong that Asian governments have banned them from subways, elevators, hotel rooms, basically any enclosed space where people can’t escape the smell.”
“You’re enjoying your position as smart guy way too much,” I told him. “So, someone brought stinky fruit all the way from Indonesia to play the world’s cruelest olfactory joke on me? How do I get rid of it? Burn down the house?”
Zeb rolled up his sleeves and held out his hands for a brush. “A little elbow grease, some borax, perhaps a nuclear device.”
