Speaking in Tongues (13 page)

Matthews tasted the extraordinary voice one last time and stepped forward, swinging the machete into Joshua’s throat.

The boy gave a gurgling scream and stumbled forward. Matthews leapt back, away from the boy’s swinging fist, and slashed his arm deeply. Then his leg. Joshua fell onto his back, cradling the gash in his throat.

Matthews plunged the rusty blade into the young man’s abdomen. But with astonishing strength Joshua pushed Matthews off, twisted away, and rose to his knees, choking and coughing. The blood flowed between the fingers clutching his torn neck as Joshua crawled fast, like an animal, back through the gate toward the hospital. Matthews didn’t bother to pursue him. Joshua got thirty feet into the field surrounding
the hospital before collapsing in a stand of Queen Anne’s lace, which turned a deep purple under the spray of his blood.

Matthews slowly walked toward him. Then stopped. He heard an animal snarling, growing closer. He backed quickly away from the quivering body.

The rottweilers appeared from behind the house. They paused, stood rigid for a moment then charged forward hungrily. Matthews stepped out of the gate and swung it closed as the dogs swarmed in a single muscular pack over the body, which had looked so strong and impervious moments ago and was now just ragged meat.

Matthews leaned against the bars of the gate, enraptured, watching the young man die. Joshua fought hard—he tried to rise and struggled to hit the dogs. But it was useless. The big male rottie closed his enormous jaws on the back of Joshua’s neck and began to shake. After a moment the body went limp.

The animals dragged him into the ravine for the feast. His body vanished under the mass of snarling, bloody mouths.

Matthews quickly changed the Mercedes’s tire and climbed into the car then sped down the rough road. He’d bury what remained of the boy’s corpse later. He didn’t have time now. Too many things to do. He was thinking that this was just like when he was a practicing therapist. Busy days, busy days. There were people to see, people to talk to.

I’m here to change your life forever.

•   •   •

Who is he?
Who?

Megan McCall floated on a dark ocean, that one
question the only thing in her thoughts. She opened her eyes and gripped the thin, filthy mattress she lay on. The room swayed and bobbed.

She was dizzy and nauseated. Her mouth painfully dry, her eyes swollen half closed. She rolled onto her back and examined the small room. There were flaking cushions mounted on all the walls, bars on the windows.

A padded cell.

And the whole place stank so bad she thought she might puke.

She sat up briefly, trying to find a light. There was none. The overhead lamp had been removed and the room was dark. Maybe she—

Suddenly roaring filled her ears. Her vision dissolved into black grains and she collapsed back on the bed, passed out. Sometime later she opened her eyes again, managed to sit up then waited until the dizziness passed and she stumbled into the tiny bathroom. The drug he’d injected . . . it was still in her system. She’d have to take it slow.

Megan sat down on the toilet, spread her legs and finally worked up the courage to examine herself. No tenderness or pain. No come. He might have groped but he hadn’t raped her. She sighed in relief then urinated and washed her hands and face in the basin. She drank a dozen handfuls of icy water. As she stood—careful, careful, take your time—she caught sight of herself in the metal mirror bolted to the wall. She gasped. Pale and haggard, blond hair knotted and filthy. Eyes red and puffy. And frightened. Megan stepped away from the mirror quickly.

She looked for her clothes. Nothing. She couldn’t find anything to wrap herself in. No sheets or curtains. This started a crying fit. She huddled into a ball and sobbed.

Wondering how long she’d been unconscious. A week, a day? She wasn’t hungry so she guessed it was still Saturday. Maybe Sunday at the latest.

Was anyone looking for her?

Did anyone know she was missing?

Her parents, of course. She’d missed the lunch. Which she’d been going to blow off anyway. Thank God she hadn’t called her mother and told her she wasn’t coming, the way she’d planned. If that had happened they
still
wouldn’t miss her.

And Amy . . .

Should have told her where I was going.

But, no, Crazy Megan wouldn’t hear of
that.
C.M. was embarrassed, didn’t want anybody to know she’s been seeing a shrink. Fuck. She should’ve gone to Juvie Detention after all. Ten days in jail and it’d be over with. But Megan had to pick the nut doctor.

Who
is
he? she screamed to herself. Was he the man in that car that’d been following her near school? She’d started to believe that was her imagination.

Guess not, honey,
Crazy Megan offers with no sympathy whatsoever.

Standing by the bed, Megan looked out the barred window into a huge field of tall grass and brush. Some trees, many of them cut down and left to rot.

She gasped suddenly as a huge dog trotted past the window and stopped, staring up at her. A bit of bloody flesh dangled from its mouth, red, like a scrap of steak.
Its eyes were spooky—too human—and it seemed to recognize her. Then suddenly the dog tensed, wheeled and vanished.

She examined the window. The iron bars were thick and the space between them was far too small for her to get through.

Frustrated, she pounded her palms against the wall.

Who
is
he?

Megan strode to the door, gripped and pulled it hard. It was, of course, locked tight. The tears returned suddenly; they fell on her breasts, and her nipples contracted painfully from the sobbing and the dank cold of the dismal room.

Who
is
he?

Why did they make her go to see the doctor? If they hadn’t this never would’ve happened.

What’d I do to deserve this? Nothing! I didn’t do a thing!

If her mother was going to fuck nerds in Baltimore then for Christ’s sake why didn’t she call me? Just a three-minute phone call.
Sorry honey I’m going to be late call Domino’s and use the charge card have Amy over and all right even Brittany too but no boys . . .

If her father was going to waste his life chasing bimbettes why couldn’t he at least spend more than one weekend a month with her?

This was
their
fault! Her parents!

I hate you so much! I fucking
hate
you. I—

A sound.

What was it?

A scuttling . . .

It came from the ceiling. Looking up, she saw a number of dark clusters where the wall met the ceiling. She moved closer. Spiders! Two huge black ones. And one had just given birth—a hundred hundred tiny dots of infants flowed down the wall like black water.

Megan shivered, overwhelmed with disgust, her skin crawling at the sight. She raced toward the door, slamming into it with all her weight, and collapsed onto the splintery floor. She crawled along it, pushing at the baseboards, trying to find a weak spot. Nothing.

She pulled a wad of toilet paper off the roll, hesitated then crushed the spiders with it. Megan flushed the messy shroud and curled up in a ball on the cold floor. Cried for five minutes.

What’s that?
Crazy Megan asks her alter ego.

This stopped the tears.

Squick, squick.

That sound again. In the ceiling and the walls.

Squirrels, she decided. Then stood and walked to the wall, which was made of cinder block. How could there be animals in the walls if they were made out of cement?

Then she glanced into the bathroom and squinted.
Those
walls were just plasterboard. And there was a rectangular plate about twelve by eighteen inches mounted on the wall beside the toilet. Where did it lead?

She walked inside, crouched down and ran her finger across the edge of the metal, which was covered with many layers of paint. In the corners she felt one screw head but three holes, from which the screws were missing. If she could break through the thick
paint she might be able to pull the plate up and bend the metal till it snapped.

But the enamel was thick, like glue, and with her short nails she couldn’t get a grip. She thought of her friend Brittany, with the killer fingernails, a regular at a local Vietnamese manicure parlor. That was what she needed—slut claws . . .

She searched the bedroom once more but couldn’t find anything to use as a tool. Sighing, she returned to the bathroom, lay on the floor and slugged the metal plate. It resounded hollowly, tantalizing with the promise of an empty passageway on the other side. But it didn’t move a millimeter.
Keep going,
Crazy Megan says.

Megan slammed her fist into it again and again, until her knuckles began to bruise and swell. She turned around and kicked with her heel. As the center pushed in slightly, a hairline crack formed around the edge and she kicked harder. Her foot felt as if it were going to shatter.

Go!
C.M. encourages.
Go for it!

Megan spun round and tried again to grab the side of the plate. But her nails just weren’t long enough to get a purchase in the crack and she howled in frustration then lunged forward, bared her teeth and shoved her face against the wall, trying to dig her incisors into the crack.

Her gum tore open on the rough paint and plaster. Her jaw exploded with cramping pain and she tasted blood. Then suddenly, with a snap, her front teeth slipped into the crack and pulled the plate away from the wall a fraction of an inch. Megan pressed her hands to her face to ease the pain. Then she spit blood,
grabbed the plate and yanked so furiously it gave way at once, ripping the remaining screw from the wall. She fell backward.

Jesus,
Crazy Megan says respectfully.
Good job.

With a gasp of joy she sat up, seeing faint light through the hole. She shoved her head into the opening, looking into another room. The plate had apparently covered an old heating vent. There was a thin grille on the other side about a foot away. On her back, she guided her leg into the wall and kicked. The grille fell clattering to the floor. She froze. Quiet! she reminded herself. He could be nearby.

Then she started crawling through the opening, headfirst. Her shoulders were broad but she managed to ease them through. She had to reach down, cramping her arm, and cradle her breasts to keep her nipples from scraping on the sharp bottom edge of the vent. One inch at a time she forced her way through the vent. As she eased through she examined the other room. There were bars on these windows too. But the door was open. She could see a dim corridor beyond the doorway.

Another ten or twelve inches. Then twelve more.

Until her hips. They stopped her cold.

Those fucking hips,
Crazy Megan mutters.
Hate ’em, hate ’em, hate ’em. You just couldn’t lose those ten pounds, could you?

I don’t need any of your crap now, okay? Megan thinks to her alter ego.

The vent on the other side of the wall was, it seemed, slightly smaller than the one in her room. Megan tried wriggling, tightening her muscles, licking her fingers and swabbing her sides with spit but she
still remained stuck—halfway between each room, her butt dead center in the wall.

No way, she thought to herself. I’m not getting trapped here! A terrible burst of claustrophobia shook through her. She fought it down, wriggled slightly and moved forward an inch or two before she froze again.

Then she heard the noise.
Squick, squick.

The scuttling of claws in the wall above. Accompanied by a high-pitched twitter.

Oh, my God, no. The squirrels.

Her heart began to pound.

Squick, squick.

Right above where she was stuck. Two of them, it sounded like. Then more, gathering where the wall met the ceiling.

Then she looked into the corner of the room—at an animal’s nest. It rustled and a creature appeared, staring at her with tiny red eyes.

Oh, fuck, they’re rats!
Crazy Megan blurts.

Megan began to sob. The noise of their little feet started coming down the wall. She stifled a scream as something—a bit of insulation or wood—fell onto her skin.

Squick. Squick squick squick.
Walking along the ceiling, several of them gathering above her, curious. Maybe hungry. Hundreds of terrible creatures moving toward her stuck body—cautiously but unstoppably.

More rats.
Squick.

Twitters and scuttling, growing closer still. There seemed to be a dozen now, two dozen. She pictured needle-sharp yellow teeth. Tiny gray tongues.

Closer and closer. Curious. Attracted to her smell.
She’d just finished her period a day ago. They’d smell the blood. They’d head right for it.
Jesus . . .

More scuttling.

Oh . . .

She closed her eyes and sobbed in terror. It seemed that the whole wall was alive with them. Dozens, hundreds of rats converging on her. Closer, closer.
Squick squick squick squicksquicksquick . . .

Megan slapped her palms against the wall and pushed with all her strength, kicking her feet madly. Then, uttering a dentist’s-drill squeal, one rat dropped squarely onto her. She gasped and felt her heart stutter in terror. She pounded the wall, wriggling furiously. The startled animal climbed off and she felt the snaky tail slip in between her legs as he moved back up the wall.

“Oh,” she choked. “No . . .”

As she struggled to free herself and scrabbled her feet on the bathroom floor, another animal tentatively reached out with a claw and then stepped onto the small of her back. The paws gripped softly and began to move. A damp whiskered nose tapped on her skin as the creature sniffed along her body.

Her arms cramping, she shoved hard. Her foot caught the edge of the toilet in the bathroom behind her and she pushed herself forward two or three inches. It was just enough. She was able to wriggle her hips free. The rat leapt off her and Megan burst into the adjoining room. She crawled frantically into the far corner, as four rats escaped from the wall and vanished through the open door, joined by their friend in the nest.