Midnight Special by Phoef Sutton Page B

thoughts.
    “It seems a little disrespectful,” Matt said, his ass squirming on Maila Nurmi’s grave. Whoever that was.
    “It would be disrespectful,” Barnabas agreed, “if these weren’t showbiz folk.” He patted the ground fondly. “They understand. The show must go on.”
    The lights around them dimmed and the evening’s entertainment began. First there was some ancient cartoon full of dancing skeletons, all done in a rubbery, bouncy style that made Matt laugh, in spite of himself.
    Then the main attraction. Matt had seen it before. It had really scared him when he was a boy.
    Nothing scared him anymore.
    So while Barbra was being chased through the black-and-white graveyard, Matt let his eyes wander over the crowd.
    Everyone was wearing makeup—cavernous eyes, sunken cheeks, skull teeth drawn over their lips—but now that he was used to it, it didn’t fool him at all.
    Flint, now, there was the real thing. The sores in his face were deepening, and Matt caught the telltale whiff of decaying flesh in the air.
    How long would it be before this one turned violent?
    All at once, Flint’s eyeball popped out of his head and drooped down his face.
    “Yuck,” Barnabas said. “I never get used to that.”
    Matt turned to Barnabas. “Get used to what?”
    “Come on.” Barnabas grinned. “You see it too. Flint’s gone all ripe.”
    Matt stared at Barnabas.
    “Cowboy, you don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” Barnabas leaned in and whispered to Matt. “We’re two of a kind.”
    “What do you mean?” Matt asked.
    “I’ve been seeing ’em rot and go bad for close to a year now.” Barnabas took a sip from his beer and added, “Ever since I died.”
    And then a shovel came swinging down at Barnabas’s head.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Where Flint had gotten the shovel from, Matt didn’t know. Perhaps it was in the back of the hearse when they drove here. Perhaps he’d picked it up from behind a tombstone, left there by some forgetful gravedigger when he was done with his day’s work. But he had it and he was aiming it at Barnabas like a hatchet.
    The shovel came down with such force that it struck a spark off Darren McGavin’s headstone. Barnabas scooted away just in time, rolling aside like a trained gymnast. Like he wasn’t surprised. Like he was expecting it.
    “You didn’t even read the damned thing!” Flint shouted and swung the shovel again, straight down at Barnabas. Barnabas skittered away, half climbing up Richard Blackwell’s tombstone, just avoiding the blow.
    “If you’d read the fucking screenplay you’d have seen that I took your last notes and improved on them!” Flint was screaming as he raised the shovel for the killing stroke.
    Matt was on his feet in an instant, his duffel in hand. He didn’t have time to pull the ax out. He just swung the whole duffel at the back of Flint’s head.
    Flint spun around, affronted. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, insulted. “We’re talking here!”
    Barnabas was on him in seconds, wrapping his arms around him from behind, pinning Flint’s arms to his sides.
    “Now!” Barnabas yelled gleefully to Matt. “Clobber him!”
    Matt was a bit taken aback by this order, but he did as he was told, clipping Flint on the jaw with the butt of his ax through the duffel.
    Flint went down.
    Barnabas looked at him, lying at his feet, and laughed. “I didn’t expect him to turn so soon.”
    “What are you talking about?” Matt asked.
    Barnabas ignored him. He was bending over the unconscious Flint, poking at his putrid eye like a little boy exploring the rotting carcass of some animal. “It’s so gross!” he said admiringly.
    The crowd was coming around them now, curious at what the ruckus was about. Barnabas waved them aside. “My friend just had a little too much beer. Everything’s under control.”
    He started lifting Flint up by the arms and gestured for Matt to grab his feet. “Come on, we’ll get him into the hearse.”
    “What