Midnight's Lair

by Richard Laymon

  He glimpsed the woman sitting in front of him, bouncing and twitching. Her eyes were rolled back. Her slashed throat spat blood. The blood doused the match but before the darkness dropped over his eyes, Wayne saw a crouched figure lurch past his side.

  Toward Katie and Jean!

  He bit down on the matchbook and sprang forward, slamming the fat woman onto her back. Her head thumped the rock floor. Kneeling on her soft, shuddering body, he found her shoulders, found her cable-knit shawl, tore it off.

  'WAYNE!'

  Katie screamed.

  He scurried backward, balling up the shawl. Whirled around. Struck a match and saw in the shuddering glow of the flame his wife huddled on top of Katie (did as she was told, for once) and a man crouched over her back ready to slash with a straight razor.

  A man - a teenager? - with a face as white as bread dough, wild, tangled black hair and a bushy beard. He wore a quilted pink bathrobe trimmed in lace, its front soaked with blood.

  As the match flared, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

  He seemed stunned by the light.

  Then his other hand flew up to cover his eyes and he started to slash down at Katie but the shawl in Wayne's hands was already a ball of fire. As the blade whipped down, Wayne dived at him and shoved the blazing garment into his face.

  He shrieked. Wayne smashed him backwards, landed on top of him, rolled clear, thrust himself up to his hands and knees and jerked his head toward the light.

  The attacker, beard and hair afire, squirmed on his back and kept screaming as he struggled with the flaming shawl. It seemed to be tangled in his arms. By the time he flung it aside, the sleeves of his robe were burning. He lurched to his feet. He twirled and flapped his arms, then lurched past Jean and started to run. He dashed past sprawled corpses, past bodies huddled in terror, past someone lying prone who darted out a hand and tripped him. He stumbled, fell, shoved himself up and staggered onward.

  Maybe hoping to reach the stream, Wayne thought.

  He was still running when Wayne crawled over to Jean and Katie. 'Are you okay?' he gasped.

  'Yes,' Jean told him. 'Yes.'

  'Did you get him, Daddy?'

  'You betcha.'

  ***

  As Kyle slashed her throat, blood gushed over his hand. He let go of her hair and stepped backwards away from her shuddering body. A moment later, her head struck the rock floor of the cavern.

  He clamped the pocket knife between his teeth and moved forward. Her blood splashed his pants, his jutting penis. When he was beyond the spray, he turned toward the place where she must be lying, and knelt.

  Scooted on his knees until they bumped against her. Reached down and touched her bare leg. Her shin. It was trembling.

  Still alive. Fuck her fast while she's still alive and shaking.

  Before they show up.

  He crawled over her and got between her legs.

  Behind him, the chaos went on. The mad sounds of struggle and slaughter.

  Kyle's whole body quivered with terror and need.

  The crazies were back there, doing their number, and no one knew he was here with Paula. He was invisible. He could do whatever he wanted with her. No one would ever know.

  They'll blame it on the crazies.

  He slid his hands up her shaking thighs, slipped them up beneath her damp skirt.

  Skirt?

  What's…?

  Pulling his hands out from under it, Kyle reached higher and touched more wet fabric. A blouse? He squeezed the soft mounds of her breasts through the cloth. From the feel of them, she wasn't wearing a bra, but…

  Where the hell did she get the clothes?

  He'd stripped off her kilt and panties before she broke away from him. Her blouse had come off in his hand when he grabbed her crossing the stream.

  Paula's naked.

  This isn't Paula.

  He remembered the pursuit through the darkness. He'd been right behind her. She was just out of reach when he got past the railing, and he'd stuck out his arm and clutched her hair… someone's hair.

  Nailed the wrong person.

  I'll never get her now, he thought. And then he thought, who cares?

  He tore open the blouse and filled his hands with the big, warm breasts. Then, he shoved the skirt up her legs and felt for her panties. She wore none.

  Great.

  Who is she?

  Who cares.

  Kyle folded the knife and slid it into his pocket. Bending down, he rubbed his face on her breasts. He kneaded one of her breasts and took the other into his mouth and sucked it in deep.

  There was a high shriek. But not from the woman. From somewhere behind him.

  Big deal.

  Another tourist bites the dust.

  He bit this one, and felt blood swell into his mouth.

  The shriek got louder.

  Then there was light.

  Orange, fluttering light.

  Kyle thrust himself up, suddenly alarmed, and was about to look over his shoulder when someone with a burning head and flaming robe tumbled to the cave floor beside him.

  No more than a yard away.

  He felt the heat of the flames.

  He thought, Christ, now everyone can see me!

  The crazies can see me!

  He started to get up.

  And saw the face of the woman he had killed.

  The face was shiny red.

  But he knew that face, though he hadn't seen it in years.

  His mind tilted.

  Whimpering, he climbed off the body of his mother and ran for the darkness.

  ***

  Calvin, standing on the debris inside an elevator car, watched the man in flames run through the group and fall just this side of the railing. A kid next to the burning body climbed off someone and ran away.

  Other matches suddenly flared as folks from the tour followed the first guy's example. In the glow of the matches, Calvin saw people pull off sweaters and shirts. They started the garments on fire. In seconds, the area in front of the elevator was a shimmer with light.

  Plenty of folks were down - some playing possum, he suspected, some killed.

  If we'd stayed put, Calvin thought, we'd be in the thick of it. Maybe toes up, our own selves, by now.

  But when Calvin had realized it was trouble and not just foolishness, he'd hussled Mavis through the dark and got her into the elevator. There, they were safe on three sides. Blocking the entrance, he'd whipped his cane from side to side until the fires started and he saw that nobody was coming at him.

  He made out four trouble spots.

  A gal that was bare-ass naked and didn't appear to have a weapon was being tackled by one of their people while the pregnant lady squealed like she was dog-bit.

  A gal decked out like the queen of the ball in a satin gown was bent spraddle-legged over the fat man, skewering him in the guts with something that looked like a bone while he bellowed and bucked. Calvin no sooner glimpsed her than the two gay fellows hit her and took her down.

  Takes care of her.

  Over to the right, half a dozen folks were tumbling around, wrestling each other and yelling. They were starting to break it up, though. Calvin guessed that the light let them see they were only fighting others from the tour.

  Just a few yards to his left, Calvin saw his old friend Slick in trouble. The kid was riding the back of some bearded yahoo in drag who had his knees on Slick and planned to ream the son of a whore with a good-sized pair of scissors. It was just the kid hanging onto the fellow's wrist that kept him from polishing Slick off.

  Calvin leaped out of the elevator, hobbled over to them, and swung his stick.

  The brass horse's head bashed through the yahoo's teeth.

  He flopped backwards onto the kid.

  Using his cane like a golf club, Calvin teed off on the fellow's nuts.

  The kid got clear, snatched up the scissors, and rammed them into the joker's chest.

  Calvin ste
pped back and looked around.

  He didn't see any more trouble spots.

  The bunch that had been fighting each other had calmed down.

  The gay fellows were on their feet and taking turns kicking the gal that wore the fancy gown.

  The bare-ass gal was on her knees, talking and nodding to the guy who'd tackled her. He was taking off his shirt for her.

  Peculiar, Calvin thought. She one of ours?

  He took another look around. Sure enough, the attack was over.

  Now, folks were keening over their dead, tending to the wounded.

  Calvin limped back to the elevator. He stepped through the debris and wrapped his arms around Mavis. She hugged him hard.

  'Next time you want to see a cave, May,' he whispered, 'get yourself a picture book.'

  ***

  Darcy heard quick footfalls and gasping, sobbing sounds - someone running toward them through the darkness. Greg halted in front of her. She tightened her grip on his shoulder.

  They stood motionless and silent.

  The sounds came closer, closer.

  Someone from my group? she wondered. Or one of them?

  Almost on us!

  Greg made a sudden twisting move - swinging the bone weapon? It whooshed. His shoulder jerked at the same moment Darcy heard a soft thump. A grunt.

  She couldn't see a thing, but from the sounds Darcy guessed that the bone had struck the person - not his head but maybe his arm. He was staggering off to the side, falling, hitting the concrete walkway.

  Greg lunged in that direction, and she lost his shoulder.

  'No! Please!' A frantic voice. Familiar.

  'Greg, wait. I think it's Kyle.'

  'Kyle?' Greg asked.

  Darcy bumped into Greg's back and put her arms around him. She rested her open hands on his belly. She felt him breathing hard. In spite of the chilly air, his skin was moist with sweat.

  'Darcy?' the boy gasped.

  'Yeah.'

  'Alive. You're alive.'

  'Are you all right?' she asked.

  'It's… murder. Murder.' He sobbed. 'They're all being murdered. I got away and ran for it.'

  'Did I hurt you?' Greg asked.

  'Just… I guess I'm okay.'

  'We're going on ahead,' Darcy told him. 'You can come with us or stay here.'

  'No!'

  'I'm sure you're safe here,' Greg said.

  'Don't go! They'll kill you.'

  'There're only three or four of them,' Darcy said.

  Greg added, 'Maybe even fewer, by now. I can't imagine our people aren't fighting back.'

  'But they're… they're crazies. They're insane. They're killing everyone!'

  'Just calm down, Kyle. Greg, let's get going.'

  'Wait! No! I'll come with you! Don't leave me here!'

  'Can you get up?' Greg asked.

  'Yeah. Yeah.'

  Darcy heard moans and shuffling sounds as Kyle struggled to rise. She stroked Greg's belly. He wasn't breathing so heavily now. It felt good, holding onto him, and she didn't want to let go.

  'Where are you…?' Kyle asked.

  'Here,' Greg said. 'You're right in…'

  'This you?'

  'Yeah.'

  MY HAND!

  Darcy blasted her breath out.

  Her arm jumped away from Greg's belly, trying to get her hand safe, wanting to free it from the sudden molten pain but the pain stayed.

  She whirled around, doubled over with agony, went to clutch her wound and her left hand knocked against something protruding from the back of her right. Scalded by a fresh raw surge of pain, she flicked her hand. Whatever it was flew out and clattered onto the walkway.

  Dropping to her knees, she thought, A knife! He stabbed me. Tried to stab Greg but my hand…

  She heard sounds of a struggle.

  Greg'll take care of him.

  Stabbed me! Kyle… tried to kill Greg!

  She rocked back and forth, pressing her pierced hand to her thigh, feeling the blood soak through her pants.

  The fighting went on. She heard blows being struck, grunts and gasps.

  Her arm shook, vibrating the hand against her leg. The pain seemed to fade a little, but she couldn't stop the shaking of her arm. She held the hand with her left, and that seemed to help. The pain faded to a dull throb, a throb that was only slightly worse now than her hurt from the pointed bone.

  That's two from the bone, she thought. The one below her ribs, the other on her left thigh.

  The leg wound's nothing, she thought.

  But Christ, Christ, I'm being ruined piece by piece.

  She buzzed with pain.

  And began to weep.

  Kill him, Greg, she thought. Kill the bastard!

  Vaguely, she realized she no longer heard the sounds of their fighting. Just someone panting for air.

  'Greg?' she asked. She sobbed. 'Greg, you get him?'

  The breathing sounds came closer.

  Something brushed across the top of her head, then patted it. A hand. She started to reach up for it with her good hand. A blow crashed her forehead.

  Darcy's back slammed the walkway. Her head hit the concrete.

  A weight dropped onto her hips.

  She lay there, stunned, dimly aware that hands were moving over her, unzipping her windbreaker, opening it, touching her breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples but not so much that it hurt through the vagueness.

  Not Greg. Greg wouldn't.

  Kyle.

  He must've hurt Greg.

  The thought that Greg may have been injured blew through the fog in her head, cleared it a little.

  She tried to move, but couldn't.

  Gotta… pull myself together.

  She felt wetness on her right breast. Kyle's mouth. Pulling, sucking.

  She heard his moans.

  His mouth pulled at her other breast.

  The fuck, she thought. It's what he's always wanted.

  His mouth went away.

  His hands smeared the saliva on her breasts, then slid' down her body and she jerked rigid when he touched the wound.

  'What's this?' he whispered.

  He dug a finger in and Darcy squealed and he laughed.

  Shuddering, she felt him tug the belt wrapped loosely around her middle. Then he let go of it. He opened the button of her pants. Slid the zipper down. Started to tug.

  The fog was gone. The bright bolt of pain when he'd stuck his finger into her wound had blasted away the last of it. Her head was clear.

  She wondered where the knife was.

  Had to be out of reach. It had fallen beside her, and then she'd been knocked backward. Had to be way down by her feet.

  Kyle's weight wasn't on her.

  She felt her pants jerk out from under her rump, felt the cold concrete.

  Kyle pulled off one of her shoes, then the other.

  With her left hand, she unbuckled the belt.

  Her feet were lifted. The cuffs slid over them. The pants slid down her legs.

  The belt was out from under her.

  Kyle forced her legs apart.

  She felt his trembling hands glide up her thighs, hissed at the pressure against the torn skin down there. He didn't dig into that wound - more interested in what was higher up.

  He rubbed Darcy through her panties.

  Then his fingers hooked the thin elastic band and she sat up, reaching for him with her gashed and burning right hand. He yelped when it touched him. Flinched rigid.

  Her hand was on his shoulder.

  'Kyle,' she said. Her voice came out as thin and frail as a tattered rag. 'Don't. Don't.'

  'You're mine,' he said. 'All mine.' He made a strange laugh. 'They'll think the crazies…'

  'You're… not one of them. You're just… a kid. You don't want to…'

  One of his hands went away from her panties and found her breast in the darkness.

  'Leave me… alone.'

  It rubbed. It squeezed.

 
Darcy punched out.

  With her left fist.

  With the belt buckle clutched tightly, frame down against palm, the metal prong jutting out between her middle finger and ring finger.

  Punched through the darkness at the place where his neck should be.

  Felt her fist pound against him.

  He squealed.

  Somewhere behind Darcy, a baby began to cry.

  ***

  Hank heard a sharp, high squeal. The baby in Chris's arms, apparently frightened by the harsh sound, started wailing.

  'Wait here,' he whispered.

  Started to run.

  Chris didn't wait, she ran at his side.

  He dashed around a bend in the walkway.

  The glow of his lantern lit a woman with wild blond hair straddling a teenaged boy. She wore a blue nylon jacket. Panties.

  The kid had short black hair, no beard.

  One of us.

  And the gal was killing him. She had him by the ears, was lifting his head up and crashing it down against the concrete. Again and again. His head made soggy thuds each time it hit.

  Too late, he thought. Kid's a goner.

  As Hank ran, he dipped to the side and let go of the lantern. Its metal base skidded, but the lantern stayed upright.

  He sprinted toward the woman.

  She kept bashing the poor kid's head down.

  Hank saw another body - a big guy sprawled motionless on the concrete beyond the two.

  Naked except for jockey shorts.

  One of the guys from the boat?

  She got him, too?

  Had help from the others, probably.

  The big guy moved, raised a knee.

  Least he's not dead.

  The woman turned her head. She looked at Hank through tangles of damp hair. She let go of the boy's ears and twisted around to face him.

  Quick kick to the chin.

  Her jacket hung open. He saw her breasts, her flat belly.

  This one's not pregnant.

  Blood all over her belly, a nasty wound just below her ribs. Blood spilling from her right hand. A gash on her thigh.

  Took a licking, this one. Took a licking and kept on ticking.

  He saw confusion in the blue eyes peering at him through the tangled hair.

  Great eyes.

  Familiar eyes.