Lower CoSMOS-Life of Lance Vier #8

            Gothia’s remains, the girl no one would take or care about, were strewn in some of the kitchen as the blood began to dry. People entered Quan’s home as the crew was ready to remove her body and place any parts in the bag. With neglect and disregard for detail, they placed any portions or flung out flesh together. Behind, another team cleaned up Quan’s home but did not disturb anything else.

            Quan drove his vehicle this time, Lance in the back and Shell in the passenger seat. He disregarded the laws, weaving in and out of traffic with recklessness. Lance held on for his life while his body rattled from side to side. One jostle hurt his shoulder, but he kept the pain in check to focus on his captors.

            “The Police,” Lance said, peering back through the rear window.

            “An escort,” Quan said as the patrol car passed them up and went ahead of Quan to disperse the traffic.

            “At least can I call my wife or a lawyer before we continue?” Lance said.

            “You are not under any suspicion of anything Lance. You will do well to heed our instructions though,” Shell said.

            Lance shook his head and remained disconcerted. The vehicle descended, parking on the side of two iron rod gates in front of the cemetery at Swan Point.

            The patrol car left the area once Quan situated the car. He was prompt in leaving, expecting Lance to exit. Shell moved to open the door for him.

            Lance stared at both people, keeping his distance from Quan, not believing Shell intended any harm to come to him.

            “We got extra meat chips in the back if you get hungry, kid,” said Quan, “Let’s make this quick.”

            Lance followed without question as the three entered the cemetery in the late afternoon. Hoping the dark restrained itself for the time he was there, Lance peered around, and a few people came to lay flowers down on graves, some stood over them praying, and others passed by pointing. Quan stopped at a placard embedded into the ground.

            “It’s been a while sweet cheeks, like what an…” Quan froze mid-sentence, then his head went from side to side searching for something. Shell’s swords came out, putting Lance on alert as well. Lance stared down at a mound of dirt and the metal plaque laying on the ground moved from its place.

            “Too late. She’s getting good at this or they mixed a piece in the bag again,” Quan said.

            “They always do, Master Quan,” Shell said, moving around both men.

            “I don’t see her,” said Lance. Quan and Shell moved their feet around the cemetery grounds searching for any signs of Gothia. Lance bent down to grab the plaque that read: “Mimi A. Swartzmanberg Blaustein-the unbeloved.”

“That’s horrible,” Lance said.

            He dropped it to the ground and caught up to the two who brought him there. It was in his mind to escape; walk out of the cemetery without their notice but it is too easy to do to them and the chase short. He did not want to bring the fight to his wife, who by now, may have moved on after not knowing Lance’s whereabouts. He took a gulp and fought off the memory of his wife and potential lovers now in her life. Quan peered behind him to view Lance.

            “Keep up, sunshine,” said Quan “The dark whore should be here somewhere.”

            Lance followed behind Shell, “How do you put up with his misogyny?”

            “Have you not heard him call me boy?” Shell said.

            Lance shook his head, not understanding; weary of engaging and finding out on his own about the new people in his life. Gothia stepped up behind Lance and grabbed his face, her pale hand gripping his mouth.

            Again, he lay in the darkness, pressed in, and cramped, assuming the person next to him was Gothia. A loud snort and a short rearrangement inside the space had Lance pulling his hands back and laying as flat as possible to avoid another hand grabbing at him. Then a continued snoring filled the compartment.

            “Hello?” Lance said. The snoring went on, “Hey!”

            The person next to him woke.

            “Please. I need this,” Pibb said.

            “Pibb?”

            “Hi, Yes. Man. You sleeping too? This day was a day, wasn’t it?” he said.

            “Yes. Wait, do not go back to sleep,” Lance said.

            “Five more minutes and we can get back on the road,” Pibb said.

            “No!”

            Above, Gothia wrapped her arms around Lance’s corpse, pulling away from Shell. Quan had his shotgun drawn on them.

            “Do it, Quan. You know what happens to the Bastard’s son. Do it. What happens to me when you do?”

            “You little teenage shit,” Quan said.

            Gothia laughed while Shell moved forward.

            “Move back, Shell Boy. I am not letting this one go.”

            Below, Pibb rattled his head awake.

            “Lance? What are you doing in my coffin?” Pibb said.

            “Coffin? What?”

            “Yes, we’re dead, but I didn’t expect this. We are hardly related. Although Joe and I did both drive your mom so technically…”

            “How are we dead?”

            “Two ways…” Pibb started.

“Wait. What do you mean you drove my mom?”

            Above, Shell swiped at Gothia with her sword, she lost her grip on Lance and his cadaver dropped to the ground waking him up. Gothia grabbed her hand and beyond in the distance, the Dead Minx, her vehicle, came toward the cemetery out of sight of all. On impact with the ground, Lance stirred trying to get a sense of his environment. Quan helped him to his feet and then fired several rounds at Gothia. The Minx swooped down, causing all three to duck and Gothia to exit. Patrons at the cemetery ran from the grounds. Quan reloaded his weapon.

            “Little slutty nasty slag skank,” Quan said.

            “Master, please with the insults on women,” Shell said.

            “Why do you care? Dudes like us need to stick together. Bros before bitches like they say or whatever,” Quan said. Lance stared at Shell. She raised her palms and shrugged, acknowledging Quan’s lack of self-awareness.

            “Pibb is somewhere here,” Lance said. Shell shifted to turn to a wider view of the cemetery.

            “Here? It will take us all night,” she said.

            “She’s too lazy to dig. Those lushes never do anything. So, we can rule out underground,” Quan said.

            “New construction,” Shell said, pointing to a hill in the graveyard and a brand-new mausoleum. Shell ran ahead, Quan trying to follow behind and Lance in the distance. He took care of his steps, moving away from the plaques and following a line while Quan didn’t care where he stepped. Lance’s distaste for Quan allowed him the energy to stay away, but his secure thoughts of Shell prompted him to aid their search for Pibb. Shell entered the quiet crypt. A man placed flowers on the ledge near one of the plaques and stood away from it in reverence. The man was in his eighties and struggled to keep his stance. He wiped tears from his eyes. Lance entered.

            “How did you get me out?” said Lance, his voice lowered as if he was in a library.

            “The boy over there gave her a knuckle shave,” said Quan, speaking louder.

            “It is my theory only, Lance. You died and she kept you that way so long as she has you in one of two states; in despair and sadness over her or holding onto you. I do not know the outcome of for how long and the effects of the captivity, but I do know you were dead,” Shell said.

            Lance paused in his contemplation of death and stared at the man who placed the flowers on the ledge. He walked up to him while his companions searched in the vault. Lance put his face close to his. The old man turned away from staring at Lance.

            “I am sorry for your loss,” Lance said.

            The old man nodded and wanted to be left alone to stare at the plaque. Lance turned to find the name.

            ‘Francis L. Pibb.’ His eyes lit up and gazed at the man.

            “Pibb?” He said to him.

            The old man glared away again.

            Shell and Quan soon tailed in close.

            “Would you let an old man mourn, son?” he said.

            “You know me,” Lance said.

            “Screw it then, have it your way,” the old man turned and began to walk toward the exit.

            “It is him,” Shell said.

            “That’s not normal,” Quan said.

            As he passed Shell, she put her hand up to his shoulder and he stopped to stare at her. Her mouth opened and recognized Frank Pibb in his late eighties. Quick to remove herself from emotion, she asked:

            “Who is it you lost, Sir?” she said.

            “Ah, poor me. It broke my heart that lost little girl. I could have done something, anything to save her and it tore me up to see her treated like garbage, like refuse. A thing to throw away when you’re done. Or have and not care that she was born. What kind of people do that? What kind of humans discard their child? How can you do something about it after it kills you to think about that poor innocent little girl?” Pibb said and wailed in the mausoleum.

“He’s talking about Mimi,” said Shell.

            “Come on, this is our cue to let Grandpa relive the glory days. I say we turn Lance here in for the reward and call this a night,” Quan said.

            “Reward!? Not you too?” Lance said.

            “Do you think we did this because we give a shit?” Quan said. “I’d find gold faster than compassion.”