Chapter Inflorescence
INFLORESCENCE
Harper
I LEAD THE WAY OUT the front of the cottage, texting Bobby as we walk down the flagstone path and out the front gate. A few moments later, I receive a reply and grin down at the device before nodding in the direction of town.
“So where is this dance?” Nolan asks as I take his hand.
It’s a beautiful evening, the kind of weather that would normally bring the local kids out into the street for games of capture the flag or hide-and-seek.
But tonight, the homes are eerily quiet.
There’s no scent of barbecue lingering in the air.
No sound of basketballs pinging against asphalt, or children laughing from the shadows.
“We’re catching the bus,” I reply with no further explanation.
“Right there.” I point to a few townsfolk who wait on the sidewalk next to a random lamppost. They say hello to me by name, and I do the same in return.
One of the older ladies who works at the bakery shoots a suspicious glance at Nolan, an obvious outsider to our little troupe.
“He’s going to do the toenitiation,” I clarify, and her suspicion eases just a little before she shifts her attention down the street to the approaching music.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Nolan hisses in my ear.
“Just go with it.”
Even if I wanted to explain, which I don’t, there wouldn’t be time. Not when Bobby’s party bus rounds the corner and rolls to a stop in front of us, a corpse copilot strapped to the hood and disco lights flashing through every window to the beat of “Chop Chop Slide” by the Insane Clown Posse.
“Next stop, Hatchet Town,” Bobby says as the door swings open.
His Pennywise costume is complete with red balloons that he passes to each person who boards the bus.
He’s loving every minute of being the town chauffeur, a job he takes on each year without fail.
I don’t miss the way Nolan recoils before accepting his present and moving to the back of the bus.
“You’re not afraid of clowns, are you?” I say as I take my seat next to him and the bus lurches forward.
“Pfft. No.”
“I guess I know what I’m going to be for Halloween in that case,” I say with a grin.
But as soon as those words are out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back in.
Halloween is months away. And I just threw it out there like it’s a given Nolan will still be here in Cape Carnage.
But that’s not a given at all. The search is already winding down a little more each day.
It’s only a matter of time until it’s called off completely, and we haven’t talked about what will happen when it is.
I don’t know if Nolan is thinking the same thing when he takes my hand. I don’t look his way to find out.
By the time we reach Dale Linden’s farm, we’ve picked up six more people, and the whole bus is singing to Bobby’s murder playlist, which is mostly a rotation of Halloween favorites.
Even Nolan is belting out “Thriller” with the rest of the bus, his hidden vocal talent on full display, because of course he’s good at that too.
Naturally, he takes great pleasure in the fact that we don’t share this particular skill, and that I sound like a rabid hyena.
“I’ve finally found something you’re not good at,” he snarks before diving back into the lyrics.
I slap an entry ticket into his chest as the bus lurches to a stop in front of Dale’s old barn. “Come on, Ballmeat Bieber. Time for toenitiation. And bring your balloon.”
The mention of toes wipes the smug smile off Nolan’s face, and he follows me off the bus.
We wait in the short line as music pounds from within the barn, multicolored lights shining through the cracks between the old plank walls.
Several partygoers catch their breath outside, plastic cups clutched in their hands, sweat dotting their brows and dampening their hair.
A mangled-looking corpse copilot is clutched between them, its fingers already detached to be used as drink stirrers.
“This place is so fucking weird,” Nolan says as we approach the PVC meat locker curtains that hang from the barn door, their surface spattered with fake blood.
“No argument here.”
We pass our tickets to the bouncer and enter the barn, which is packed with people of all ages and corpses in various states of disarray.
Red balloons huddle among the rafters of the vaulted ceiling, their long, curling ribbons shifting in currents of air.
To the left of us is a well-stocked bar beneath an overhang of the hay loft, the three bartenders mixing drinks and pouring beer for the patrons in the endless line.
On the right side are tables with bowls of punch and snacks for kids, and a set of doors that open to a barbecue and seats beneath strings of lights.
At the far end of the barn is the DJ table where Alex, the barista from A Shipwrecked Bean, is mixing tracks as stacks of lights flicker from his stage.
Familiar faces are everywhere—from Maya and Maxine dancing near the DJ, to Lukas toasting a whiskey to Bob, to Henry dancing with one of his beloved corpses.
It’s an epic barn dance, just like every year.
But before we can join the party, we must first pass the test of the Grim Reaper.
“Pick your poison, sweetheart,” Irene says to me as I turn toward the small table she guards in her Grim Reaper costume, a very real scythe clutched in her hand.
There are three wide-necked jugs of liquor set before her—one amber, one clear, and one a radioactive shade of green.
And at the bottom of each jar is a severed toe.
I point to the first bottle, the one of amber alcohol. “Piggly Wiggly, please.”
Irene beams with pride, wrinkles bracketing her smile. “Piggly’s getting a lot of love tonight.” She turns toward the bottle, grabs a fresh plastic cup and a pair of tongs, fishes the toe out, and plops it in the bottom of my cup before filling it with enough booze for a healthy-sized shot.
“What the fuck is that?” Nolan asks as I raise my glass to Irene’s good health and turn to face him.
I give him a flat look, gesturing to the cup in my hand. “It’s a severed toe, Nolan. In bourbon. What does it look like?”
“And you’re going to drink it?”
“Not the toe. I’m going to kiss the toe and drink the liquor, then give Piggly Wiggly back to Irene.”
“But . . . why?”
“I told you before,” I say before raising the plastic to my lips and knocking back the liquor. The burn hits my throat as the toe bumps against my flesh, the nail hitting the bow of my lips. “It’s Cape Carnage. Nothing is Disney here.”
“I don’t think that makes sense in this context.”
“The Canadians started it,” Irene says as she gets a cup ready for Nolan, even though I’m not convinced he’s going to go through with it. “You never heard of the Sourtoe Cocktail before, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I can’t say that I have, ma’am,” he replies, eyeing the bottles with suspicion.
“My grandson Jaime met a smoke jumper from the Yukon who told him about it at the FDIC conference a few years back. Guess the idea must’ve stuck.
When I had Piggly Wiggly taken off thanks to my diabetes, I thought, what the hell?
Let’s preserve her and put her in some bourbon.
” Irene points to the next bottle, the one of vodka.
“Dale passed out drunk in his field the next winter and got frostbite, so he joined the club with his Tippy Tapper. And then Bob’s little toe got crushed in a forklift accident.
That’s when we got the Toe Jam with some crème de menthe.
So,” she says as she dumps Piggly Wiggly into a fresh glass, topping it up with bourbon, “there you have it. Toenitiation—a toast to each toe. Gotta do all three to get past the Grim Reaper for the first time.”
“But . . . ” Nolan looks at the crowd of dancing partygoers, children weaving among the adults to chase each other with severed corpse limbs. “There are kids here.”
“They get fruit punch,” I reply, gesturing toward a shelf next to the table where plastic fingers float in jugs of juice. “We’re not barbarians, Nolan.”
Irene pours two more cups, one from each bottle, dunking the severed digits into their appropriate liquid. “I recommend leaving the Toe Jam until last. Kind of like dessert.”
Irene slides the cup of Piggly Wiggly down the table toward him, and as he turns to face me, I’m sure this is it. I can almost hear the words on his tongue, delivered through a grimace. I’m heading back to Tennessee, he’ll say. It’s been a slice, but you people are seriously fucked up.
Nolan’s eyes don’t stray from mine as he reaches for the cup and lifts it in a toast. He might look a little green, but he still smiles at me when he says, “Bottoms up.”
I halt his hand just before the cup touches his lips, and his brows furrow with a question. “Just do not drink the toe,” I warn. “It’ll cost you.”
“Cost me what?”
“A toe, probably. Or a fine. Maybe both—I dunno, nobody ever told me the specifics. But considering it’s Cape Carnage, I wouldn’t want to push it, ya know?” I slowly unfurl my fingers from his wrist. “Last chance to run. Or, you know, just sit morosely outside while I party with some corpses.”
“Right . . . no drinking the toe. Hadn’t planned on it, but thanks for the warning.” With a final wince, he takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and sends the booze down the hatch.
“Atta boy!” Irene exclaims with a whoop as he returns the toe to her, swapping it for the Tippy Tapper. Nolan barely catches a breath before that one is done too.
“If the hangnail on the Toe Jammer tickles your lip, it’s good luck,” I say with a thumbs-up.
He covers a gag with a cough. “The fuck?”
“Less talking, more drinking,” I say, rapping on the bottom of his cup. “I’m guessing I’m a better dancer than you, and I want to prove myself right.” I give him a cocky grin.