The Skunge Read Free Page A

eyes away before those memories could surface and engulf him. "Hello? We need help!"
    The place was dim and silent, like something underground. An unpainted steel desk sat between two swinging doors. A couch, upholstered in hideous floral fabric, slouched low against the wall next to an end-table covered in a scatter of black and white magazines. A circle of yellow light pooled under a decrepit floor lamp.
    He turned back to Mik. "Goddamn it, wake up and move." Mik grunted and broke explosive wind. Christian reared back. "To hell with this. Find your own way back to Wichita."
    He turned to call once more and almost screamed at the two figures standing behind him. A woman, dressed in an outdated nurse's uniform, and a cadaverous man in an old-fashioned wrap-around lab coat. They stood, unmoving, not three feet from Christian. The doctor's glasses, fashioned from inch-thick yellowed glass, reflected back the lugubrious, flickering lamplight. Christian half expected eerie violin music to squeal and groan in the air, but the only sound was the drip of rainwater and his own impatient panting.
    "My friend is hurt. Can you help him?"
    The two only stared at him, and for a moment Christian was horribly certain they would begin to cackle madly and advance upon him. Instead, they shared a long, unreadable look. The glance was so fraught Christian could almost hear it in the gloom. Then the Doctor barked at the nurse, and she hurried forward. Christian back off a few steps and let them work, listening to their murmured conversation. They were husband and wife, apparently, and judging by their bickering they had been married for years.
    He helped them load Mik onto an antique steel gurney, and watched as the nurse wheeled him through a swinging door with a smudged kick-plate. The room beyond was brilliant white. He turned to the doctor, and got a nasty shock. The doctor was grinning at him, and from much closer than Christian remembered. His eyes, under his green surgeon's cap, were dark and deep. Suddenly Christian was very eager to be out of the building, out of the office, and out of the town.
    "Ah—will he be OK here, then?" Christian asked. He edged toward the door. "Do you need me to sign some papers, or..." The doctor said nothing, only examined him, grinning obscurely. A whispery sound emerged from beyond the swinging door, and Christian's heart began to hammer. The smile plastered on his face cracked like a mask. Something nudged him from behind, and this time he did scream. He whipped around. He had backed into the doors. He turned and fled, all thought gone from his mind, except the need to escape.
    Out into the driving rain, and for a moment, he though the car was gone. Skin, already on his way back to Wichita, chuckling over his cigarettes at the thought of Christian stranded in this sodden backwater. He felt his vision wobble with rage, already half-convinced he would find the street empty.
    The Mustang was there, smoking away in the needling rain. He slammed into the passenger seat and barked at Skin to drive, drive . Skin drove. They were on their way, screaming down the only road out of town.
    Christian leaned back into his seat, feeling the adrenaline drain out of him, leaving cold wet exhaustion. A sign flashed by on his right. "Where did Mik say he picked up Katrina?" Christian asked, head craned to see out the back window. "Do you remember?"
    "Some town called Nasana." Skin squinted at the radio, and started clicking around. Nothing but static. He clicked it off with a disgusted scoff. "Sounded like a real shit-hole."
    Christian swallowed and said nothing. The bullet-holed, rusted signpost receding in the mirror read: Thank You For Visiting Nasana. Go In Peace.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    When Mik awoke, he was in the dark, lying on rough concrete. The stench of the place was thunderous, full with shit and rot. A sewer. From somewhere above, he heard the sound of traffic. What little light there