Trifecta gave us a fun prompt this week:
a : the supernatural power that according to voodoo belief may enter into and reanimate a dead body
b : a will-less and speechless human in the West Indies capable only of automatic movement who is held to have died and been supernaturally reanimated
b : a person markedly strange in appearance or behavior
a : a person held to resemble the so-called walking dead;especially : automaton
As always, it is the third definition and we have to respond with 33-333 words. My response is a continuation of a recent Trifecta prompt - Catching a Rainbow. Enjoy!
He answered on the second ring, “Waylon.”
“What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“This guy. A bartender at Jack’s. He gave me your number.”
“I know. You need help with something. That’s why he gave you my number.”
“My son. He was taken five week and two days ago. The police have nothing. I need someone to help me find him.”
She hated how pathetic, weak, and desperate she sounded. But, in the end, that didn’t matter. Getting Curran back was all that did.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Jen Becker, Mr. Waylon,” she took a deep breath, “And, Mr. Waylon. I don’t know what you do, but please. I need your help.”
“Call me Rhys, Ms. Becker. And yes. I will help. That’s why I needed to know your name. Meet me at Jack’s tomorrow night at nine. I’ll let you know where we go from there.”
“Oh my god. Thank you so much.”
“Until then, Ms. Becker.”
The line went dead. Jen struggled to summon the energy to even put her phone away. She knew, beyond any doubt, that Rhys Waylon would help her where no one else would. They all told her Curran was dead and to be ready to find nothing more than his little body cold and still. Rhys Waylon was the first who took her seriously.
“Here, Jen. Drink this. It’ll help,” the bartender handed her a reddish colored drink.
Operating on auto-pilot, Jen took the glass and sipped the drink. After a few minutes a warmth and lightness washed through her. She jerked her head up looking for who was in the bar. The bartender was it.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing. It’s my version of a Zombie.”
“There’s more than alcohol in this!”
“I tweaked the recipe a little. I mean you no harm. You needed something to steady your nerves before you fell off the barstool. My Zombie does that.”
She stood and realized she did indeed feel much better.