Ceremony of Flies Read Free Page A

footsteps echoes through the parking garage. Did that kid spit something at me? I could swear I saw something fly out of his mouth.
    Just a kid. I relax a little. Just a kid.
    I march up one sparse row of cars and down the next, glancing in car windows like that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. I try the door handles. Nothing opens, but at least no car alarms go off. Do cars even have those anymore? I need a break right about now. I need to find an open window, an unattended suitcase.
    Against the far wall parked sideways in two and a half spaces, I see an old-fashioned convertible the color of midlife crisis. Oh please, oh please, oh please, I chant to myself as I run to it.
    Yes!
    On the backseat is the saddest overstuffed suitcase I’ve ever seen. It’s bulging like a bloated corpse and just barely held together with bungee cords and gray rope.
    The car’s got nice leather seats and shiny chrome. The car and the suitcase don’t match but I don’t have time to think about that. The door’s locked but the top is down so I reach in and unlock the door. Some real genius must own this vehicle. I climb in.
    I snap off the bungee cord and tear at the knot in the rope. It gives and the guts of the suitcase spew all over the backseat. Right on top, I find pair of jeans that look about two sizes too big, but they’ll work. There’s flies close by, I can tell by the buzzing sound. This is exactly the kind of suitcase that would have something disgusting in it. If I plunge my hand into Fluffy’s rotting corpse, I’ll deal with it.
    I toss aside some framed picture of an old lady and dig through the T-shirts and man panties until I find a white shirt with a collar and a monogrammed B on the pocket. Bet the guy is Bill or Bob . Maybe even a Billy Bob . A smell like smoke and liquor and something manly clings to the clothes. It reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on who. I don’t really have time to worry about it anyway. My dress clings and scratches as I pull it off. I cannot think of one single piece of clothing I have ever been so relieved to be out of. I wriggle into the too-big jeans and thread the bungee cord through the belt loops. It would be a whole lot easier if my hands would stop shaking. Just as I’m buttoning up the shirt, I hear the tap of footsteps on concrete.
    Fuck!
    I drop down on the floorboard and hold my breath. Panic, like a wave in the ocean, rises up and grabs me, pulling me with it. I hold my breath to keep from drowning in it. The footsteps tap, tap, slow and determined, come my way. The wave of panic crests.
    Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen.
    I exhale a little and a little more, not making a sound. The footsteps stop right by me. I’m afraid to look up, but I can feel eyes on me. I can feel the shadow of somebody standing over me.
    “That’s my good shirt,” a familiar voice says.
    My head turns up almost like gravity is pulling it. The guy from the bar is standing with his hand on the car. Not smiling exactly, but almost.
    “Yeah, mind if I borrow it?”
    “Looks like you’re in a fix.”
    “You think?”
    Is this fucking guy for real?
    “Gimme that dress right there. The one you took off.” He holds out his hand.
    I grab it and toss it to him and without hesitating, like he planned it out ahead of time, he stuffs it in a drainage pipe. “Climb on up front.”
    “You’re not going to call the cops?” I ask as I scramble over the seat and climb down on the floor.
    He didn’t even stop to think about his answer. “I gotta be in L.A. by morning. I can’t see that me calling the cops is going to be good for anybody, what with me being a witness and all.” He opened the back door of his car and a look of annoyance flickers over his face.
    “Sorry about the mess. I was in a rush.”
    He packs all his stuff neatly back in the suitcase. He holds the picture of the old lady for a second before he closes the suitcase and puts it on top. He ties it with