Quake (32 page)

    'I'm taking a look over there,' she whispered.

    'What?' Pete asked.

    She nodded toward the pickup. 'Don't want any surprises. Just keep an eye on me, okay?' She stepped past him. As she walked closer to the pickup, she reached under the tail of her shirt and drew the Colt. When she did that, Pete said, 'Wait for me.'

    He hurried to her side.

    Earl looked back and frowned. 'What's up?'

    'Just checking,' Pete told him.

    'For keys?'

    Pete shook his head.

    'Didn't think so. Couple of weenies.'

    With each step, Barbara could see more of the pickup's bed. So far, it seemed to be empty except for a rumpled blue tarp near the cab. Doesn't look like anyone's…

    'Shit!'

    The yelp was high and girlish and didn't sound like Earl. But Barbara whirled and it was Earl back-pedaling, Earl turning around with his eyes wide and his lips skinned back. Earl blurting out, 'Hide!' and breaking into a run.

    As he sprinted past them, Barbara snapped her head sideways. And saw what he'd seen. A scavenger pushing a shopping cart. Pushing it on the run, the cart bouncing and swerving on the rough alley pavement. Inside the cart sat a naked man. He looked as if he'd been tossed in, rump first. His arms and feet hung over the high edges of the wire basket, and flopped about as the cart bounded along. His head bobbed and swayed. Running hard behind the cart, shoving it along, was a filthy thing in a huge soiled overcoat and boots. The derelict's hair was long and straight, the color of pewter. A witch, a hag. But maybe a guy. A 'street vulture' for sure - racing along with its cargo of dead man, taking him God-knows-where for some ungodly reason Barbara didn't want to think about. No wonder Earl had lost his cool and… Barbara suddenly spotted the mob. She knew, at once, that Earl hadn't lost his cool and lit out and blurted the warning because of the horror pushing the shopping cart. It was the mob giving chase to the vulture. One glimpse of it was enough. Barbara elbowed Pete and gasped, 'Here,' and vaulted the tailgate of the pickup track. Inside, she dropped flat. Pete sprawled beside her. He was breathing very hard.

    'Think they saw us?' Barbara whispered.

    'Jeez, hope not.'

    'They were pretty far away.'

    Letting go of the pistol, Barbara pushed herself up with both hands. She peered over the comer of the tailgate in time to see a thrown hammer bounce off the back of the derelict's head. He or she lost the shopping cart and flew head toward the pavement. The cart went scooting and bolted forward, then veered aside and tumbled, throwing out the man. The laughing, hooting mob engulfed the derelict. They seemed to be mostly teenagers, mostly boys. But there were girls, too - girls who seemed no less fierce and glee wild than the guys. Barbara sank down beside Pete. Her heart throbbed as if it were being hammered to pieces.

    'Jesus,' she gasped. 'What?'

    'They'll tear us up.’

    'Not if we blast them.’

    'Fifteen or twenty of 'em?’

    'We can do it.'

    'But they're just kids. Younger than us, some of 'em.'

    'Better than letting them… Maybe they won't… fine but… We could pull the tarp over us…'

    'Wait. No. I've got it. Get your clothes off.’

    'What?'

    'They won't kill us if they think we're dead.'

    As the mob squealed and laughed and hooted over the scavenger they'd downed fifty or sixty feet away, Barbara and Pete in the bed of the pickup truck stayed low struggled out of their clothes. Barbara glanced at Pete a few times. He was making progress, and he wasn't staring at her.

    He kept mumbling, 'Jeez,' and, 'Oh, God,' over and again.

    The stripping seemed to take forever.

    'Okay,' Pete finally gasped. Barbara looked. 'Underwear, too.’

    'Oh, man.'

    On her back, Barbara tugged her panties down as far as she could without sitting up, then worked them the rest of the way down with her legs. Her foot shoved them under the loose wad of tarp. She rolled onto her side. Her purse and most of the clothes were heaped between their bodies. Pete lay on his side, facing her, holding the rifle against his body, the shoulder stock pressed to his genitals. He looked red and shaky.

    'Everything goes under the tarp,' Barbara whispered. 'Except the guns. And this.' She plucked her denim purse away from the pile. Working together, they shoved the pile of clothes down past their waists, past their thighs. Then they used their knees and feet. Soon, everything was out of sight beneath the tarp.

    'Roll over and hide the rifle under you. If the trap hits the fan, we'll open up on 'em. But not unless we have to. I don't wanta kill anyone.'

    'Me neither,' Pete said. 'But we'll do it if we have to.’

    'Right.'

    'I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you.'

    She felt her throat thicken. 'Turn over.'

    He rolled toward Barbara, lowering his body onto the rifle and resting his forehead on the metal floor of the pickup's bed. His head was turned slightly toward her. The single eye that she could see was gazing at her face. She pushed herself up on one elbow. For a moment, she thought how smooth and nice he looked. He had a deep tan on his back and legs. His rump was white. This is so nuts I don't believe it, she thought. Got a mob of crazy weirdos gonna be showing up, and…She looked at his face. Caught him stating at her breasts. His eye shifted quickly to her face.

    'Sorry,' he whispered.

    'It's okay. But turn your head the other way. Get your hands out from under your body. And you're too stiff. Limpen up. Get your legs apart. Bend a knee. You gotta look dead.'

    She waited until he had turned his head the other way, then reached into her purse. She found her makeup compact and pulled it out. She popped it open. With a fingernail, she pried the mirror loose. She jammed the compact back into her purse and scooted the denim bag toward the tarp. It stopped short. She shoved it out of sight with her foot. Still braced up on her left elbow, she held the mirror with both hands and snapped it like a cracker.

    'What're you doing?' Pete whispered.

    'Taking care of business.'

    'You better stop messing around and play dead.'

    'I know. Yeah. Almost done.' Holding half the mirror in her right hand, she pressed a corner of its broken edge against the underside of her left forearm. She gritted her teeth and held her breath, determined not to make a sound. Then she ripped a gash. In her mind, she cried out, 'YOW!' But she stayed silent. Blood flooded from the slit. Setting down the piece of mirror, she cupped the spilling blood in her right hand. She dumped it over the back of Pete's head. He cringed. The bright red blood matted his hair and dribbled down the nape of his neck.

    'What is that?’

    'Shh.'

    She dumped another handful in the same place. She wanted to be facedown, herself, but didn't see how she could manage the blood that way. So she turned onto her back. She twisted herself crooked. She swung her left leg sideways and draped it across Pete's buttocks. Then she tucked the pistol under her body, just above her right hip where she would be able to reach it fast. Finally, she raised her cut forearm and moved it slowly back and forth, letting blood patter onto her chest and neck and face. With her right hand, she smeared the blood over her skin. That oughta do it, she thought. Let 'em come.

    From the sounds of laughter and voices and wild outcries of delight, the mob didn't seem to be any nearer than before. Still messing with the scavenger? What the hell could they be doing? Don't want to know, she thought. Turning her head, she looked at Pete. She stretched her arm over him, and bled for a little while onto the back of his neck and shoulders.

    'Just hope they don't think the blood looks too fresh,' she whispered.

    'You gashed yourself, didn't you?' Pete said without moving.

    'Yep.'

    'That's what thought. Jeez.'

    'Don't worry, my blood's good and healthy. Won't give you AIDS or anything.' She swung her arm away from Pete and lowered it across herself, and pressed the wound tightly against her belly. 'Now,' she whispered, 'long as don't bleed to death…'

    'Whooo-eee! You need a bath!'

    Though the stranger's voice came from some distance away, it made Barbara flinch.

    'Too hot for this shit,' said a girl who sounded annoyed. 'Find us a pool,' said a different guy.

    'Fuck that,' said another guy. 'I wanta rip more ass!'

    'You see how I done her?' asked a guy who sounded like a braggart.

    'We saw, we saw,' said a girl.

    'Gonna have to disinfect your sorry ass,' said someone else. A lot of people laughed and hooted at that one. The voices were getting louder. Barbara could hear the scrape and shuffle of a great many shoes coming closer, closer. She willed herself to relax. She quit pressing the cut to her belly. She shut her eyes and made her mouth sag open. She slid her right hand nearer to her side until her fingertips were less than an inch from the pistol tucked beneath her back. This is it. She realized she was shaking. Gotta stop, gotta stop. She couldn't stop. Won't fool anyone! They'll take one look in here and see me shaking like a damn leaf. Please, she thought. Go away. All of you, just go away. Nobody here but us chickens. Please, please.

***

    'Here am, ready or not.'

    Sheila didn't answer, and Stanley couldn't see any part of her body from where he stood over the bathtub. He wasn't worried, though. She had to be down there - under the huge body of Crash and under the beams.

    'Snug as a bug in a tub?' he asked.

    He sat down and hung his legs over the broken edge of the floor. He still wore only his moccasins and the flimsy, cut-off pants of his pajamas, but he had grabbed a towel while roaming through a house in search of Weed. He used the towel to mop the sweat off his hair and face, his neck and chest. Then he draped it over his shoulders. Now that he was sitting, he could see Sheila's arms at the far end of the tub. They looked as if they were folded, one on top of the other, above the crown of Crash's bloody head. From elbows to hands, they were sleeved with dark, drying blood. Her face had to be under them, but Stanley couldn't see any of it. All he saw of her head were a few wisps of golden hair above the crossed arms.

    'Did you miss me, darling?' he asked. She didn't answer or move. 'Playing possum?' Nothing.

    'Won't do you any good, you know. I'm not going anywhere. Not till I've got you.'

    He supposed that she might've passed out. After all, she had been down there a long time. And for quite a while, she's been down there with a huge dead guy on top of her. Crash was slumped over the beam, the top of his head on Sheila's chin. His arms were up as if he'd died trying to pin the back of his neck. They looked like thick, bloody wings spread out to shield as much of Sheila as possible in Stanley's view. It didn't seem likely that the body was mashing her badly, or had suffocated her.

    'You didn't faint on me, did you?'

    Still nothing.

    'No,' Stanley said. 'Not you. You're a tough one. You figure to keep your mouth shut for a while and see happens. Right? You been down there so long, maybe figure it's high time for the Cavalry to show up and save you. Just stall a while longer, and everything'll work out fine. He wondered if she was listening.

    'Maybe you're thinking Weed made a getaway and she'll be charging over the horizon at the head of a SWAT team. He wondered what had made him say that, of all things. Maybe because it's what I'm afraid of.

    'Isn't gonna happen,' he said. 'She almost got away but she was more interested in trying to jump me. Want to know what I did to her?'

    Sheila didn't answer.

    'Maybe I shouldn't tell,' he said. 'I plan on doing the same to you, so this way it'll come as a surprise. You like surprises, Sheila?'

    'Did you kill her?' Sheila asked.

    'Ah, she speaks.'

    'Did you?'

    'You bet. Eventually. But we had a lot of fun, first. I did, anyway. Did you hear her screaming?'

    'You bastard.'

    'Did you hear her?'

    'No.'

    'It was lovely.'

    And it would've been lovely, too, he thought - if only I'd caught her. Over and over again, while roaming through the neighborhood yards and ruins and abandoned houses, he'd imagined what he would do to Weed when he caught her. Leave the tank top on her- what there was of it - but hang her by the hands from something so she'd be stretched and the bottom edge of the shirt wouldn't quite reach down enough to cover her breasts. Tug those jeans down off her skinny hips, down her skinny legs.

    That would've been for starters. Just to get her in the best position and looking good for the rest of it. While searching for Weed, he'd come up with many ideas about what to do with her after that. He'd lived them in his head, excited by them, relishing the images for their own sake but also knowing that sooner or later he would find her and get to make his fantasies come true. He hadn't found her, though. She must've either run far away or found herself a terrific hiding place. Stanley had been very reluctant to give up the search. She might go and find help and come back with cops or something, but that wasn't what bothered him most. It was missing out on her. She was no Sheila. Nowhere close. Sheila was in a league of her own. But something about that harsh, skinny girl really made him want her. Want her strung up by the wrists and helpless so he could look her over good and feel her up and down and do things to her - things to make her writhe and twitch and scream. After giving up on the search and starting back to the ruin of Sheila's house, he'd felt a terrible emptiness. Would've been so great. Now I'll never get her. But I'll have Sheila, he'd told himself. I can do all kinds of things to Sheila. It'll be just as good - better. No, it won't! I want Weed! That's crazy, he'd thought. There's no comparison. God, why did I let her get away! He'd realized that he could keep on searching for her; there was no law that said he had to quit and go back to Sheila. Why not give it another hour? And another? And as long as it takes? It's hopeless, that's why. I would've found her by now if I was gonna. And a bird in the tub, he'd thought, is worth two in the bush. Nothing so special about Weed, anyway. She's nothing compared to Sheila. A skinny, ugly, vicious witch. Sheila's a goddess, a gorgeous Amazon. Better Sheila any day of the week than Weed. And here we go.

    'Are you ready for me?' he asked.

    'Just do what you're gonna do,' Sheila said.

    'Golly, you used to be so eager for me to get you out.'

    'Maybe I'm getting used to it down here.'

    'Would you like me to go away?'

    'I'd like you to drop dead.'

    'Gosh, that isn't a very nice thing to say.'

    'I'm sick of being your game. I'm everybody's game.'

    Stanley laughed, then lowered himself down to the bathtub. He stood on its edges and gazed at Crash's body. The legs hung against the bottom of the tub. The broad, faded jeans were halfway down Crash's butt. At the hips, he was slumped over the four-by-eight that was pinning Sheila. Some of his weight, Stanley supposed, had to be resting on her left leg, pressing it into the beam.

    'How's your leg?' he asked. 'Which one?'

    'The one getting mashed.'

    'Numb. Thanks for asking.'

    'I'm a very considerate guy. Shall we see what I can do?' Stanley set the scissors aside, then bent down and grabbed the back of Crash's jeans. He remembered how he'd grabbed Judy the same way. Only this morning, but it sure seemed like a long time ago. He thought now that he should've checked on her while he was out looking for Weed… made sure she hadn't gotten loose. He hadn't even thought about her, or he would've done that. And maybe taken a few minutes to have some fun with her. She'd been a real treat, right after he'd hauled her in from her driveway. Hauled her in by the back of her jeans. Which had been nice, in its own way. He remembered how much he liked it. The feel of her rump against his knuckles as he put his hand down there.

    But Crash was a guy. A dead guy, at that. His butt was wide and fat and ugly. The feel of it made Stanley want to wash his knuckles. When he tugged at the edge of the jeans, Crash wouldn't budge.

    'Hate to say this,' he said, 'but we might have to use a crane.'

    'Very funny,' Sheila muttered.

    He decided that part of the problem was his perch on the rims of the tub. So he stepped down, planted his feet on the porcelain between Crash's ankles. He crouched and hooked both his hands into the pockets of Crash's jeans. When he pulled, the pockets tore away. He stumbled, but managed to stay up. For his third try, he shoved both hands down between the top of the jeans and Crash's buttocks. He clutched the waistband and threw his weight backward. Pupp, zzzz. Crash stayed put, but the jeans went loose and seemed to leap up to Stanley. As he fell, they were tugged down almost to Crash's knees. He landed hard on his rump.

    'Shit!'

    'What's going on?' Sheila asked.

    'I'm having problems.'

    'Try getting him from this end. You lift and push…

    'Yeah. Yeah, good idea. If nothing else, there's gotta be a better view.'

    He stood up, climbed again onto the edges of the tub, and made his way forward. Just beyond the beam was the saw. It stood upright between Crash's body and the left side of the tub, where the big man must've dropped it after being knocked down by the chunk of stucco Stanley had thrown. 'Guess what I see,' he said. Sheila didn't answer.

    'The answer to our little difficulty.'

    Bracing himself with a hand on Crash's back, Stanley bent low, reached down for the saw, and caught a glimpse of Sheila's bare right side. It was gray with shadow. It was way down there, almost blocked from view by Crash's overhanging bulk. The sight of it dragged a moan out of him. In his mind, he suddenly saw all of her. Crash vanished and there was Sheila on the bottom of the tub, one leg hooked over the beam and one leg under it, her hands folded under her head, all of her body there for Stanley to see - smooth and golden - and his. She's mine, he thought. Get this fat slob off her! 'It won't be long,' he said. Keeping his left foot on the rim of the tub, he crouched and planted his right knee in the middle of Crash's back. He set down the saw. Using both hands, he forced Crash's arms down to the sides. The arms had been coveting Sheila's breasts, just as he'd thought. Stanley felt his penis rise stiff and poke out through the slit of his pajama pants.

    'Oh, honey,' he muttered.

    With his left hand, he lifted Crash's head by the hair. With his right hand, he picked up the saw began to cut through neck.

    'What're you doing?' Sheila cried out.

    Her hands were suddenly up, gripping the edge of the beam that crossed above her face. Stanley stopped sawing. He smiled at her. She looked so lovely. It didn't matter that her face streaked with sweat and filth and old blood, that her lips were cracked, that her features were twisted with horror 'My God. Stop it. You can't… No.'

    'I don't hear him complaining,' Stanley said.

    ' Please.'

    'You want out, don't you?'

    'No. You can't do that to him.'

    'Sure I can. Just watch.'

    He pushed again at the saw, its blade through the shallow, raw groove on the side of Crash's neck.

    'No!'

    'Shut up! Look what you've already done with that mouth of yours. I wouldn't have to be doing this, at all, if you'd just kept it shut in the first place.'

    She gazed up at Stanley, gasping and jerking her head from side to side.

    'That's better.' He started sawing again, and grinned when Sheila squeezed her mouth shut. 'Good idea,' he said. 'You wouldn't want to swallow some of this.'

    Soon, she covered her face with both arms. Stanley kept a good grip on Crash's hair. The sawing took a while; he had to keep the angle of the blade just right and use very short strokes to avoid gouging Sheila. At last, however, he severed the spinal column. He pumped the saw a few more times. Then he hoisted the head. A few remaining shreds of tissue were still connected to the stump of the neck. They stretched and wouldn't let go, so he ripped through them with the saw. He flung the head away. It tumbled high, vanished beyond the broken flooring, and thumped into the debris with a sound like a hurled brick.

    'I bet you feel lighter already,' Stanley said.

    'You… you sick bastard,' Sheila said from underneath her crossed arms.

    'Let me just take care of his arms, then we'll see if we can't haul him off you. Sure hope so. If I've gotta saw him off at the waist, we'll have an incredible mess.'

    One at a time, he sawed off Crash's arms and flung them away.

    'That's got him whittled down pretty good,' he said.

    Sheila uncovered her face. She glanced at the remains of Crash, whimpered and shut her eyes tight.

    'I did it with my little saw,' Stanley said, and laughed. Then he made his way forward on the rims of the tub, turned around, and sat on the beam above Sheila's head. Reaching out to set aside the saw, he smiled and lowered the flat of its blade onto the eyeless face of Crash's buddy, Eagle. Then he bent at the waist and peered through his spread legs. Sheila's face was upside-down. She looked up at him from the shadows. The pulpy stump of Crash's neck was still leaking onto her, spilling red fluid through the valley between her breasts.

    'You are a mess,' Stanley said. 'But don't worry, we'll wash you squeaky clean as soon as we've got you out of here. I know where there's a swimming pool. Now, let's see you stick your hands under this boy's chest and shove him.'

    'What if I don't?'

    'Do you think I was bluffing when I said I'd cut him in half?. I wasn't, you know. You either give me some help here, or I'll saw him off at the waist. You think things are messy now…'

    'Okay,' she muttered. 'Okay. But I won't be able to do much. The leverage is all wrong. Don't think I haven't tried.'

    'Just do your best. That's all that we can ask, isn't it? You shove him up, and I'll do the rest with my feet.'

    'Why don't you just come down and lift him off me. All you'd need to do is bend over and pick him up by his shoulders. It'd be easy.'

    He thought about her suggestion. After a few moments, he said, 'Nah.’

    'Why not?’

    'Because say so.’

    'But it'll work.'

    'So what? It'll be more fun my way. Anyhow, I'm all done with women giving me orders. We do it my way. You push him up, and then I'll shove him off.' She glared up at Stanley. 'Do it. Now.’

    'Okay. Okay.'

    Watching her, Stanley saw what she'd meant about poor leverage. With the tub against her back, she had no way of lowering her elbows far enough; she couldn't simply lift Crash up like a barbell. Even if she'd had the elbow room, Stanley supposed the position of Crash's body might've given her trouble. His massive shoulders, just below her breasts, were too low for a straight upward push. Sheila didn't waste much time with awkward thrusts -just tentative tries to see whether Crash's sudden loss had improved the situation. Then she brought her arms in close to her sides, elbows bent, fists in front of her own shoulders. She took a few deep breaths. Gritting her teeth, she drove her elbows upward against the front of Crash's shoulders. The headless torso started to rise. Stanley didn't care about that, cared only about what was happening to Sheila.