And I was still laughing. Fuck, I don’t know why. I reached down for the brick, I tried to carefully avoid the wet end of it. It was heavier than I’d expected and my arms felt rubbery and weak — for a second I wasn’t sure if I was going to drop it. But I grasped it in both hands and I brought it down on the mashed dark blur where it seemed his face used to be. I raised it and brought it down again, trying to ignore the warm splashes on my arms and face. I mean, this really was disgusting. I shut my mouth pretty quick — I didn’t want any of that shit going in my mouth and giving me diseases or whatever — but I still managed to laugh through my nose, like a true maniac. At least Fern cried.
The whistling noise stopped and I paused with the brick, listening. I could hear Fern’s ragged, short breaths. The man was still. The alley was still and heavy. I stood like a statue. A heavy, meaty stench began to drift, moist and hot, from the pile of body beneath me. My stomach lurched.
“Don’t puke,” Fern ordered, standing up beside me. She took the brick from my hands. “We have to go. We have to clean off and we have to bring this brick with us.”
“Okay.” My voice sounded slow and stupid. Fern took off her dark, pleated skirt, and started wiping her face, her arms. As I watched her, I heard the familiar rumble of the bus engine from the parking lot at the end of the alley. Roger was back on the bus. How long had we been back here?
“We have to go,” Fern said urgently, tossing me her skirt. I hastily wiped off my face, my arms. I gave her the skirt back, and she began to walk down the alley, hopping back into it.
“They’re going to know,” I mumbled, walking behind her, tucking my hair behind my ears. It was stiff and clumped — probably a real nice mixture of days’ worth of show sweat and blood.
“Just go fast. It’s too dark, no one will see,” she replied, tucking in her blouse. I saw she was carrying the brick. The murder weapon.
We emerged back into the parking lot, and in its orangey light I looked down at the palms of my hands. There were some smears on my arms, some brown streaks, and thank god I’d worn black. The front of Fern’s white blouse was spattered. There was nothing to be done. The Gurgol bus was gone. I hadn’t heard it leave, which seemed odd. I’d been paying such attention to every sound, I thought I’d been so aware back there.
Fern yanked the bus door open, and I climbed up behind her. Roger was sitting in the driver’s seat, which, thankfully, was pretty dark. “Almost left you girls behind!” he joked, not even looking up from his map book. We laughed in unison, high and feminine, and pulled back the curtain to enter the front lounge.
Socks and Toad were still playing their game. Fern pushed immediately to go through to the bunk area, and I was right behind her.
“Not so fast,” Toad said. We stopped and looked at him. His eyes remained locked to the television screen. “I don’t know what you girls were doing out there, but this is a bad city.” He finally took his eyes off the screen to look at us. “You look like shit! Jesus!” We didn’t answer. “Anyways, for fuck’s sake, we all need a shower. It’s a day off tomorrow, and I want everyone fucking washed up and doing their goddamn laundry.” He said it as though there were more people here than just me, Fern, and Socks. “This bus is starting to smell like shit.”
“Yes, it is,” Roger confirmed in a good-natured voice from up front through the curtain.
I glanced at Socks, and he was staring at me. I looked away, then wondered if that was a suspicious thing to do. Fern held the brick behind her back. I didn’t dare look at it. She murmured some affirmative to Toad, then went into the bunk area, closing the door behind her. I opened the door to the tiny bathroom in the lounge and flicked on the light.
The bus started moving, and I instinctively grabbed the counter to brace myself until I could adapt to the motion. It was becoming second nature at this point — I’d got my sea legs from standing, walking, and sleeping on a moving bus. Looking in the mirror, I was relieved to see my face was clear of blood. It had dried in my hair, though, and there’d be no way to wash it until we were at a hotel shower — or at least a proper-sized sink. I grabbed some paper towels, wet them in the pathetic drinking-fountain sized bus sink, and began to towel off my arms.
Socks’s massive frame appeared in the bathroom door. “Can we talk?”