Echoes of Darkness (36 page)

I recognize the sounds. Words. Those are words—I used to use them myself. I haven’t, though. Not for a while. Not since Maggie and Bill left. They left me some food—quite a bit, actually—but they took their words with them. I turn and look from place to place, at the food they left behind. At the meat.

Not a lot left.

But it’s
mine
.

I edge toward the door. Slowly. With great stealth. Surprise is a weapon, like my stick and my knife, and I will use it as I will use them. My knee still pains me, though not nearly so much, and it shouldn’t slow me when I—

“What’s that? Is that a fire pit?”

“I don’t—holy shit, I think you’re right! Does that . . .     ho-leeeeeey
shit
, does that mean . . . ?”

“It’s been three weeks, man! Do you really think there could be a survivor? After this long?”

Inside the den my eyes are wide, and I tremble, almost violently, from crown to heel. There are at least two of them, maybe more, and one of their sounds has echoed in my mind, has struck off something in there and bounced about a bit. Come to rest.

Survivor.

That’s me. I am. No matter what, that’s what I am.

There are at least two, maybe a whole new pack, like the wolves. And, like the wolves, they want what I have. What I
need
.

They cannot have it.

I burst through the door, erupting out into the sunlight and snow, my paws filled with branch and blade, teeth bared in anger and determination to protect my den and dinner.

Determination to survive.

PLAYMATE WANTED

There was one.
Walking along the highway shoulder, green pack on her back, worn boots scuffing dust as she trudged along. She was just passing a sign for a turnoff ahead, but he ignored the sign, internal pressure keeping his focus tight upon her.

I hope this isn’t a false alarm,
he thought.
She looks okay from a distance, but she needs to be more than just okay. Oh God, let her be more than just
okay
.

He lowered the passenger’s side window as the big caddy smoothly swung to the edge of the tarmac, and Benny leaned over a bit so that he could see the girl from a better angle. He called to her. “Excuse me?”

The girl stopped walking and bent a bit to squint through the open window.

Perfect
, sighed the Need within him.

Benny gazed out at a tall girl of twenty, maybe twenty-two. Her dark hair was long, the bangs cut straight across the forehead above dark, serious eyes. Her lashes were thick, her mouth generous. Her green windbreaker and matching backpack concealed most of her upper body, but her jeans were tight, and clung to curvy hips and legs. Benny had done his reading, and knew that people with his . . . 
proclivities
were said to focus on types. If he had a type, then an almost perfect example of it stood before him. The final test was to hear her speak. He held his breath and watched her perfect lips part.

“Can I help you?”

Yes
! Deep within his chest, in the dark place where the Need lived and grew, Benny felt a thrilling little tingle at the sound of the girl’s rich voice.

Benny was well aware that she saw a pot-bellied thirty-something man wearing an unfashionable blue spring jacket. She saw thinning brown hair hanging across his forehead to fall into his bleary, bloodshot eyes. She saw teeth, discolored and crooked from a lifetime of smoking and drinking with not enough brushing and flossing.

He said “Why, yes. I believe you can!”

And he was aware she saw the gun, usually kept concealed in a gym bag on the passenger’s seat, but now in plain sight in Benny’s right hand. He brought it up, flat and level before her widening eyes, and shot her in the throat.

Halfway home, Benny had to pull over to shoot her again. The tranquilizer dart he’d stuck her with should have kept her down for the count, but only two hours into his return trip he thought he heard thumping coming from the trunk. He turned the radio down, then off.

Yes, there it was. Rapid thumping and muffled shouts coming from the rear of the vehicle. Benny sighed, wishing he felt safe hunting closer to home; not only was there the wear and tear on his trunk lining, but he was putting some serious miles on the caddy. He made a mental note to make an appointment for a tune-up and oil change, and checked his mirrors for traffic. Seeing none, he pulled over to the side of the two-lane highway he had been cruising along, threw the gearshift up into park, then closed his eyes and just sat for a moment. The thumping had grown faster—harder—as he’d pulled over, and the shouts had grown to a muffled howling. Now, maybe in response to the car stopping, the girl began to scream. Inside he felt light and airy, almost joyous, as the Need within him fairly danced to her song of terror. When the girl’s increasing struggles actually began to rock the Cadillac, Benny sighed again and opened his door.

Holding the gun low, he walked back to the trunk and pushed the key into the lock. At the slight metallic sound, the girl inside the trunk went silent. Benny took the silence as a warning, readied himself, then turned the key. The lid exploded upward as the girl inside thrust with both feet, but Benny was prepared. He yanked his left arm out of the way of the lid and pulled the trigger.

The dart thudded into her thigh, and her eyes bulged at the sudden pain, her full lips flattening against her teeth as her mouth opened wide. Her powerful scream might actually have rocked him back a step if he hadn’t already been leaning forward to slam the rebounding lid back down. Her thrashing lasted for a slow five count, then faded to stillness once more.

The tranquilizer darts he was using were supposed to take down a bear in five seconds, and keep it down for a couple of hours. A girl like this
 . . . 
hell, it had to be a bad batch. He pulled a dart from his shirt pocket and inspected it.

Looks fine to me,
he thought, slipping the dart into the gun. He carefully opened the trunk and looked at the girl. The yellow fletching from his darts showed at her throat and thigh as she slept, hands cuffed behind her back.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and the word echoed in his mind, buoyed by the memory of that last scream.
What a voice!

Benny stood, looking down at her and fighting against a sudden, dark surge. This battle for control had happened before. Often, in fact. Benny likened it to bladder control. The pressure would grow, and grow, like a filling bladder on a long road trip, but more slowly. Exquisitely slowly—sometimes taking months. But then the Need would reach the painful point where it was release or burst. Having the girl right here, right now, should be acting as a balm for his condition, allowing him to relax, but that was not the case. Like someone in search of a restroom who is told there is one nearby, only to feel a sudden increase in bladder pressure that forces them to run in the indicated direction with short awkward steps, Benny fought for control. The sudden proximity of a playmate caused the Need to flare up strong; almost too strong. His hands trembled, and he licked sandpaper lips with a tongue gone dry. He looked around at the highway, the drainage ditch and the trees.

I could do it right here. I could play right here, but I don’t have my toys.

He looked at his surroundings again, almost desperately.

And it’s not safe. It’s just not safe. Someone might hear.

“I’m really looking forward to this,” he said to the unconscious woman, in a voice choked with emotion and effort. “But better safe than sorry.” He fired again and a third dart appeared, this one sprouting from her belly, before he closed the lid again. He got back behind the wheel, but left the radio turned off for the rest of the drive. He preferred to remember the screams that had so recently come from the trunk.

It was like mental music that he played again and again to soothe himself as he drove. The anticipation grew as his dark twin, the one whom no one ever saw but Benny himself, and then only in the mirror while they were playing, grinned and danced to the delightful song. The tightness across his lap was a constant reminder that his body was straining with its own eagerness of things to come.

She’s heavier than she looks,
he thought as he carried her through the large, shadowy basement, past storage containers and old coal bins, toward the back of the house. To his playroom.

It was Benny’s favorite room. Stark white walls. A metal table with restraints. A wheeled instrument tray containing his
toys
. Two portable work lights. A dual slop-sink in the corner. A top-of-the-line digital voice recorder on a shelf all its own, the long wire running up from the machine and across the ceiling to dangle the microphone, perfectly placed above the table to capture his playmates’ “performances.” Everything was lit up by bright fluorescent lights, like a surgical suite.

It was perfect.

He had built it himself, after inheriting the huge house from his parents. His parents had come from money, and now everything was his. His money, his house, his car, his . . . hobby. He had needed a place to bring his playmates, so he had converted one of the basement rooms into the playroom. Double-thick walls, with lots of insulation. With the door closed, no one could hear his playmates scream. And, oh, how he loved it when they screamed . . .

He placed his new playmate on the table, flopping her down and spreading her limbs out toward the corners. Easier to work that way. Her head lolled to the side, and he stroked her hair. It was so soft. Lovely.

As it had on the road, the Need pulsed in his head, driving him to move faster. He made two selections from the tray of glittering objects by his side. A thin, sharp knife and a pair of scissors. With swift, sure strokes he began to cut the clothing from her body, but, with the Need pushing him, whipping him like a jockey using the quirt in the home stretch, his pace quickly became more frantic than meticulous. He pulled at the fabric to open the cuts faster, tearing the cloth. It was a good thing he was so practiced at this; many playmates had wound up in his playroom. Each slice and snip parted fabric, not flesh. Jacket, shirt, pants and panties. In just minutes his new playmate was naked, lying on the shredded remnants of her clothing.

He caressed the bare skin of her stomach: smooth, like warm silk. He was thrilled to see she was unmarked—a blank canvas that cried out for his special creativity. His eyes went to her nipples, dark and contracted in the cool air of the cellar, and he felt himself stiffening in response. He longed to touch them, but knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t even be enjoying the feel of her belly. Not yet. She wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t . . . prepared. He rolled her on her side in order to pull the last bits of clothing from beneath her—and froze.

What the hell is this?

He stared at the thin line of fine hair bisecting her back. Starting up at the nape of her neck, where her hair left off, it followed her spine all the way down her back to end at the cleft of her backside. The stripe was about a half an inch wide, and the individual hairs were a uniform length, around an inch. It was the same color as the hair on her head, and, when he stroked his hand down it, it felt just as soft. He was reminded of a horse’s mane as it ran down the horse’s neck, but this was . . . different.

His pulse throbbed in his temples and groin, the Need swelling in her presence to a nearly tangible thing. He had to prepare her. Quickly. Tearing his gaze from her strange mane, Benny yanked the scraps of cloth from beneath her and lowered her onto her back again. He circled her, stopping to secure each wrist and ankle with the leather straps and cuffs bolted directly to the table.

Once she was safely spread out like a frog pinned to a dissection tray, he paused again, admiring her. Limbs long, and well toned. Torso lean, breasts not overlarge, but firm. Athletic.
Look at that muscle,
he thought.
No wonder she’s heavier than she looks
. He ran his hands along her arms and legs, over her ribs, marveling at those expanses of perfect, unblemished skin. He wondered what to use first. The scalpel? The saw? The drill? He quivered at the thought of punching patterns into that perfect skin. Carving designs. There was a sound, and he glanced at the girl before realizing he’d moaned aloud. He was so hard it hurt, and hurried to finish his preparations. The dark twin was more than ready to play.

Her nails were long, and strong, but unpolished: that would never do. He filed each one, shaping them neatly, then applied some fast-drying polish—Ruby Red, his favorite. He fetched the makeup tray and moved to the head of the table. Her head was rolled to one side, a stream of sleep-spittle connecting her mouth to the metal, and he wiped her face clean with a towel. She wore no makeup, her natural beauty probably making her feel it was unnecessary, but that wouldn’t do for a playmate: it wouldn’t suit his twin. Benny went to work with eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara and blush, applying them with heavy, broad strokes.
Whored up
, his mother would have called it.