by The Eurostar
Edulcore Cicciotto:
Turner didn't say anything for the rest of the evening, driving into New Orleans after we picked up all the money from the road.
I don't know how the notion that he had nearly fried a girl because she was in one of his fake memories has touched him. Was he shocked? Surprised? Did he care? I don't know.
Turner's face sometimes becomes like stone. No emotion can be seen from it. He stays silent for hours, and no matter what you ask him, he doesn't respond. Then he makes fun of you for some stupid reason, and all is back to normal. Only, he still won't talk about that thing.
I have learned to know him. I know that I shouldn't ask.
After arriving in New Orleans, Turner brought me to this place, a dirty bar like the one he brought me to in L.A. The Hideout. Nice name, no nice faces. He is sipping bourbon. I have a scotch.
He seems more relieved. "Ed, we need a place to eat and rest. Tomorrow we'll find a boat sailing for La Perdita," he says.
"With all the money we have, we can have the best hotel in town, I think."
"Tony would know in a matter of minutes. No, we need a cheap place. I know the right one," he whispers, smiling.
We leave the bar and get back into the Jeep. The engine doesn't start. Turner's eyes light up, but the car is still.
We get back out into the dark alley where we parked the car. I open the hood, while Turner keeps swearing. I am looking at the engine, when the river of words coming out of Turner's mouth suddenly stops. There is an eerie silence.
I raise my head from behind the hood. Describing what I see next is extremely difficult.
The first thing is a strong sense of deja vu. Then I understand, it's like the Thriller video by Michael Jackson. It's too funny what strange, stupid things come to your mind in a moment of danger.
Because, all around us, in the dark alley, there are at least fifty men.
Well, men is not the right choice of words. Because under their clothes, the MCCA uniforms I remember from my first days as a fugitive in America, are corpses. Decaying corpses, some of them half-burned, tissue broken by sprouting bones, some lacking eyeballs. In a word, zombies.
Turner seems frozen in place. I am ill at ease, too.
Then the circle of zombies opens, and from behind two new figures appear, walking toward us. One is in a military uniform, the other in civilian clothes. They, too, are walking corpses.
I distinctly hear Turner whispering two names. "Creed... and Richard Turner!"
The one in the uniform opens his mouth, and a distorted, disgusting voice shouts, "Gentlemen, Tony sends his regards!"
And they all attack.