Bubba and the Cosmic Blood-Suckers

  BUBBA AND THE COSMIC BLOOD-SUCKERS

  JOE R. LANSDALE

  SUBTERRANEAN PRESS 2017

  Bubba and the Cosmic Blood-Suckers

  Copyright © 2017 by Joe R. Lansdale. All rights reserved.

  Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2017 by Timothy Truman. All rights reserved.

  Interior design Copyright © 2017 by Desert Isle Design, LLC. All rights reserved.

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-59606-841-4

  Subterranean Press

  PO Box 19010

  6 Burton, MI 48519

  subterraneanpress.com

  This is for Don Coscarelli and Bruce Campbell and to the memory of Ossie Davis who made the film version of Bubba Ho-Tep so much fun.

  Once upon a time the darkness split and shadows oozed out, hungry and mean with simple schemes.

  Jersey Fitzgerald

  Sometimes the thing that seems most obvious is the thing most distracting from the truth.

  Anonymous

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  1 DRUNK IN THE JUNKYARD

  2 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: WRITTEN IN A LAS VEGAS HOTEL

  3 THE COLONEL, TWO DAYS EARLIER

  4 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: OUT IN NEW ORLEANS

  5 NOT FAR OFF BOURBON STREET

  6 THE NOCTURNE SAILS THE DEAD OF NIGHT

  7 THE JUNKYARD

  8 SAFE HOUSE

  9 BREAKFAST

  10 IN THE JUNKYARD

  11 MEANWHILE, AT THE SAME TIME, BACK AT THE GHOST HOUSE

  12 ELMER FUDD IN LECTURE MODE

  13 FENCES, SPELLS, AND JOHN HENRY GETS NERVOUS

  14 ELVIS GETS HIM SOME GHOST

  15 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: JOHNNY GETS NERVOUS

  16 JOHN HENRY CONNECTS

  17 UPSTAIRS

  18 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: TELL IT LIKE IT IS

  19 FROM THE WINDOW IN ELVIS'S ROOM, AN ELVIS EYE VIEW

  20 THE VAMPIRES MEET ELECTRICITY, NASTY SPELLS, AND HELL'S A POPPIN.

  21 HOUSE GHOST

  22 ELVIS IN POSITION

  23 IN THE YARD

  24 ELVIS UPSTAIRS

  25 UP ON THE ROOFTOP VAMPIRE PAWS, DOWN THROUGH THE CHIMNEY HUNGRY JAWS

  26 JENNY ON THE STAIRS

  27 JACK ON THE TOILET

  28 THE YARD

  29 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: THE AFTERMATH

  30 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: THE NOCTURNE AND THE MISSISSIPPI

  31 IN THE JUNKYARD: ELVIS AND JENNY

  32 BIG FAT MAMA AND HER TIT-SUCKING SERVANTS

  33 JACK

  34 IN THE SEMI, RIDING HIGH

  35 MEANWHILE, BACK WITH JOHN HENRY AND JOHNNY AND THE VERY TENSE SITUATION OF THE MULTI-ARMED BEAST AND THE BADLY CRACKED EARTH

  36 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: JOHN HENRY DISCOVERS HE NEEDS TO LEARN HOW TO WIPE HIS ASS WITH HIS LEFT HAND

  37 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: EN ROUTE, AND BACK AT THE HAUNTED HACIENDA

  38 ELVIS AND JENNY LAY IT OUT

  39 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: THE PLAN

  40 ELVIS AND THE COLONEL AND A SOUL IN A SACK

  41 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: THE BIG DAY COMES

  42 ELVIS AND JENNY IN THAT PINK CADILLAC

  43 JOHNNY'S JOURNAL: AND IT ALL WRAPS UP

  44 COLONEL AND ELVIS: A MOTEL IN HOUSTON, TEXAS

  45 OUT THERE

  1

  DRUNK IN THE JUNKYARD

  He found the climb difficult for his aging legs, but one advantage was the moon was high, nearly full, and bright as a stage light at a child’s Christmas pageant.

  Clutching at the chain-link fence with trembling fingers, pushing the tips of his worn shoes into the links, he kept going, showing more determination climbing that fence than he had put into his three failed marriages or the jobs he once had.

  He remembered when he was young his mother told him he could be anyone he wanted to be, do anything he wanted to do, the culmination of which seemed to be becoming a homeless drunk. No doubt, the way he had gone at it, drinking was what he wanted to do, and there was no question that he had succeeded.

  When he made the top of the fence, he climbed down the other side, adjusted his gray corduroy coat, strolled through the junkyard between the rows of piled and rusted cars, past the car crusher. No one had been in this yard in a long time. There were signs that said beware of dog: can you make the fence in six seconds? the dog can, and signs with photos of pistols on them and words painted above the photos that said we don’t call 911.

  But as he stood inside of the fence, there was no dog to bite him, and no fuming redneck with a large pistol to shoot him. There was a breeze bringing in the stench of the Mississippi, but that was about it.

  He had figured out quite carefully over the last few months that no one was doing business here. Whoever had owned the place had gone the way of the passenger pigeon. He was certain of that. He had slept on the ground under the trees at the back of the place a few times, having found a good stand of tall ones back there. They grew thick enough to serve as a barrier against the blow of wind and the slash of the rain, if not entirely eliminate it.

  From the cover of the trees, looking into the junkyard, he had seen nothing but moon shadows at night and sunlight bouncing off old cars in the daylight. The more he looked at those old cars, the more he felt that over that fence, and down those rows, he would find a better shelter than the trees. The more he considered it, the more certain he was that his own home sweet home, in rust-coated diminutive, was waiting for him somewhere amidst those rows and stacks of cars. Maybe even the cabin of that old car crusher would be good during the summer. It was open and he could sleep there. Hell, there was a little shed and a long aluminum building as well. He might set up house here, bring the bit of belongings he had hidden among the trees inside, once he figured out a way to get the lock on the gate sprung.

  He had to be careful. Had to find a way to close and open the lock, keep this place private. What he had to do was not get caught coming in and out, not bring anyone here to find out about the place. It could be a cheap-ass paradise.

  The junkyard was a big lot, probably ten acres or so, and the cars were in rows. Most of the rows had cars stacked on top of other cars, waiting like drugged beetles to be crushed by the car crusher, waiting to be hoisted into place by a forklift that most likely nested in the aluminum building. Hoisted and poked into place on the crusher. They might still be on death row, but their sentences had been altered to life without parole behind the surrounding chain-link fence.

  He went to the shed, but found it locked tight with a padlock the size of a baby’s head. The same was true for the aluminum building. But he could work on that, maybe steal some bolt cutters. He could also steal some candles and matches, have some light. He could get a bucket to shit and piss in. He might even get a few decorations. Hell, who knew what was inside the buildings. It might be cozy. There might be a toilet, and if he could get some water to bring in, to flush the commodes, he could have the comforts of home. Could even be something to sell stored in there.

  Hold up, he told himself. Hold up. You’re getting too ambitious. You’ll be lucky if the buildings aren’t crawling with snakes. But tonight he had his whisky and he was tired and ready to sleep, so he decided to pursue his original plan of a comfortable car. He was already thinking about how in months to come he could roll the window down and let the spring air in. He hoped the mosquitoes weren’t too big a problem.

  Shit. That was him. Always thinking of something good then trying to spoil it with what ifs. Had to stop thinking that way. Things were looking up. He had a place to stay. It was time to start thinking positive.

  His mother used to say, “The world is r
osier than you think. You just have to brush aside the shadows to see it.”

  It was time to take her advice. Brush aside the shadows and start seeing the sunlight, start thinking positively.

  From here on out he was going to be the most positive sonofabitch that ever squatted to shit over a pair of shoes or lifted a leg to fart freely.

  Positive. That was him.

  He might start calling himself that. Positive Wilson. No. Mr. Positive Wilson. It was as good a name as any. Shit. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked his name, or he had an urge to tell anyone what it was. From now on, someone asked, or he decided to give his name, he was going to say, my name is Positive. That, along with less liquor, was going to change his life. He made up his mind, just like he had many times before, he was going to change, but he meant it this time.

  At that moment his thinking was disrupted by a slight noise, something banging lightly against something.

  All right. There could be animals in the junkyard. Possums, raccoons, squirrels even. Possums. That was his vote.

  If it was a possum, that was cool. He had nothing against them. He could share a place this big.

  As he walked between rows of cars stacked three high, moon shadows fell over him, and then a cloud came out of nowhere and slid across the face of the moon. For a moment it was quite dark. At the same time he had the sensation of being watched, that there was indeed something in the junkyard with him, and though he couldn’t verify it, he felt certain it wasn’t a possum or raccoon, but something else.

  Something else.

  He wasn’t sure why he felt that way, but he had a strong sensation that someone or something was in that junkyard with him, hiding in the shadows, stalking him.

  It was such a moment of spine-tingling discomfort, he almost turned and ran. But then the cloud passed, and so did the moment.

  Moving to one side of the row, he began to peer into the cars. He found a stack of three ancient Cadillacs, and it occurred to him he could possibly climb to the top and slip inside, have a three-story penthouse of sorts, a comfortable seat to sleep on, a wide windshield through which he could view the stars. He touched his coat pocket, the sack and small bottle of whisky in it. Touched it the way a man checks his wallet when he’s in a crowd, the way an old-time gunfighter must have touched his pistol when an unknown man looked at him. It could be pleasant, up there lying across the seat, sipping whisky, watching the heavens churn with stars.

  As he lifted his leg and put a foot against the door handle of the bottom car, preparing to climb up, the handle snapped off, and he fell against the driver’s side glass, his nose pressed to it like a flower pressed tight between the pages of a book.

  Inside the car, leaning against the glass, with its nose pressed to it, was a face, whiter than the moon on the clearest night, greasy hair spiked on top of its head, shooting out in all directions like a randomly mowed lawn. The eyes were closed, the mouth hung open, and there was a tooth dangling from the top of its mouth like a precarious stalactite.

  Startled, Mr. Positive stumbled back. It was someone like him, living on the fly, someone in even worse condition than he was had climbed into a car and died. The thought of that went all over him like a rigor. This was his place, by god…

  But how long ago had that person climbed into that car? He leaned close to the window for another look. The body was a large ball of dark flesh on which the head seemed balanced. Mr. Positive cautiously leaned his face near the window to see better. And then he understood. Somehow, the body had been broken, the back snapped, and it had been wadded, shaped into a kind of ball of flesh. That was the impression he got, that this person had been wadded up like a fistfull of paper.

  What the hell could do that?

  Was it just some odd sort of deformity? That made more sense… But, Jesus. He had never seen anything like this, and if it was a deformity, there was no way in hell this poor sap could have crawled up there and climbed inside.

  Then he saw there was another ball on the far side of the seat. He could see its ass, mounded up like a white snowbank, a dark dot in the center where the shit came out; there was a dark, crusted waterfall from it along its ass.

  He pulled back from the glass and pressed his face to the backseat window. On the back driver’s side was a woman, balled up and broken, spinal cord sticking out of her back, her long hair was torn out of her head in spots, and her skull glistened like snot on a door knob. Behind her were smaller balls. Oh hell, were those babies?

  Mr. Positive had a sudden, disconcerting thought. He moved down the row and looked in the other cars. They were all filled with nude and broken, balled-up bodies. Some of the cars were stuffed tight with them.

  There was a sound, like a deep inhalation, like the Great North Wind drawing in a breath that it would soon let out in a wild storm. But exhalation didn’t come. Goose bumps rippled across Mr. Positive’s neck like a rash.

  There was a faint rustle, a sound akin to something sliding over dry leaves.

  The place was feeling less and less like home sweet home. He had to get out of there. As he rushed past the first body he had seen, he couldn’t resist glancing at it, and when he did, the fat face opened its colorless eyes.

  My God, it’s alive.

  Its mouth moved, just a wriggle of flesh at its corners, and there came from inside of the poor thing a mewing sound, like a dying kitten.

  Staggering back, Mr. Positive glanced toward the end of the long rows of cars he was standing between, at the fence beyond. The fence might as well be on the other side of the moon, the other side of the universe for that matter. He glanced back at the face against the Cadillac window. Its eyes were wide now, its mouth closed, an expression on its face that could have been shock, horror, or acceptance. He couldn’t tell. He was standing too far away from it now, and there was only the moonlight, and then he saw that the face was leaking tears that glistened in the moonlight. The thing in the Cadillac was enveloped by a shadow, a shadow that fell over the lot, over Mr. Positive and the cars, a crawling, soundless shadow that carried with it an overwhelming stink.

  There was something behind him.

  Something unreal was reflected in the Cadillac glass. Mr. Positive wanted to run, but he was so surprised at what he thought he was seeing, his feet froze to the ground. He felt arms gather around him; too many arms. A hot, rank dampness fell over the back of his neck, its stench filling his nostrils like stoppers of stink. There was a sharp poke at his neck, a sensation of his body being filled with fire, followed by ice. Then came a satisfied sound like the happiness of ejaculation. His body was lifted, twisted, and snapped. He felt very little pain. He was neither warm nor cold inside now.

  He tried to pull away, but it was like trying to wrestle out of a straight-jacket. The whisky bottle slipped from his pocket, shattered on the ground. The smell of whisky rose up and filled his nostrils, pushing aside the stink in them. The aroma of the whisky carried with it drunken memories, all of which raced through his mind in less time than it takes to blink an eye.

  Mr. Positive was feeling far less than positive now. He tried to remember what his mother said about the shadows, tried to push them aside and see the bright horizon she said was behind them. But his mind couldn’t push the shadows. No bright horizon was presented.

  More shadows came, and they tented up around him. He was touched all over by what felt like needles, and then the pain came back. Terror caused his bowels to let go, but his stench was nothing compared to the stench of the shadows mixed with the whisky. He saw things in the shadows that he didn’t think could exist.

  Something moved inside of his stomach, crawled up his spine, probed about inside his head and tickled his brain.

  And then the pain became far worse than Mr. Positive could ever have imagined, and he couldn’t even scream to let some of it out.

  2

  JOHNNY'S JOURNAL:

  WRITTEN IN A LAS VEGAS HOTEL

  Before I say much, before
I say my name, let me make a statement and pose a question. Not necessarily in that order.

  Do you ever dream that the life you’re dreaming is someone else’s life?

  Do you wonder if you’re a figment of someone else’s imagination and that all you do has not been done at all, that you could be a creation brought about by trapped gas, that you could be the result of poorly digested green beans and bologna sandwiches? That you might be lying on your back somewhere in some run-down place, slow-dying, and that you may not be you, or anyone at all?

  Thinking about shit like that gives me a headache, but still, now and again I think exactly those things and think they’re true. And then I wake up and wonder, did I just wake up, or am I still dreaming, or is someone dreaming and I am part of that dream?

  Do you think about things like that?

  Probably not. Probably best.

  Let’s get on with it and put that stuff aside.

  My name is Johnny Smack. I worked for Elvis Presley. I was what you might call one of his bodyguards, though he was quite capable of taking care of himself, for the most part.

  I was also referred to, from time to time by the jealous and the less polite, as a hanger-on. Something to that, actually. I mean I took advantage now and then. I’m the first to say so. But let me tell you, it wasn’t all glamour and hot women and wild parties, a toot and a snoot. Well, in The King’s case he took what he called his “medicine.” I think on some level he believed that’s exactly what it was. But that’s beside the point. What a lot of folks don’t know is we fought monsters.

  I mean it.

  Real ones. I got to tell you, civilians have no idea what’s out there, and when you get right down to it, it’s probably best not to know. If you knew a lot of those sounds you hear in the dark, those midnight tappings at your window glass, those scuttles underneath your bed aren’t always wild animals, tree limbs, rats or the house settling, you might not be able to function.