The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  Kill him with it!

  His face pushed up at her belly and he began to snap, chin jerking up and down, teeth clamping shut on her sweater, biting and biting, going for her. Pamela sucked in her belly. He kept after it, snapping. His spit soaked through the fabric to her flesh.

  As she started to push herself up, Rodney nipped her skin through the sweater.

  ‘Ahhh!’ she cried out.

  She got away from his teeth but he sat up, snapping. Her left hand was busy trying to keep the pistol away. With her right, she grabbed his face and tried to push it down. His face kept coming at her, forcing her hand back, lifting her until she was perched on her knees and starting to slip down the hill of his stomach. She was only moments from falling.

  ‘NO!’ she yelled – and dug her thumb into his eye. His body jerked rigid and he shrieked.

  Teetering on her knees, Pamela lunged for the pistol. Before she could reach it with her right hand his fat paw jumped out of her grip. He smashed the pistol against her cheekbone.

  She toppled sideways.

  As she fell, she thought, Blew it again. I’m dead meat. Her shoulder struck the ground. The blow seemed to shake her whole body. She felt sharp bits of gravel digging into her arm and hip and the side of her leg. But only for an instant, because she was rolling. Her back slammed the ground and she skidded.

  The moment her skid stopped, she lifted her head and looked at Rodney. He was curled on his side, left hand cupping his face as if he hoped to catch whatever might spill from his eye socket. His right hand swayed, trying to aim the pistol at her. He made a high-pitched humming noise.

  ‘Would you like another cheer?’ Pamela gasped as she sat up. ‘I’ll do you another cheer.’ She leaned forward, drew in her legs, and got her feet underneath her. ‘Which cheer would you like?’ She stood up. The pistol kept pointing at her, but Rodney didn’t seem able to hold it steady. ‘Do you want my favorite?’

  Without waiting for an answer or a shot, she clapped her hands and started marching backward as she chanted, ‘U! G! L! Y! You ain’t got no al-i-bi! You ugly! You ugly!’

  The gunshot kicked up dirt beside her right foot. Grit whipped the side of her leg.

  She turned her back on Rodney and broke into a sprint. With the next shot, dirt exploded from the ground a few yards ahead of her and off to the left.

  Two down, five to go. Just keep missing! Please keep missing!

  Pamela dodged a cluster of prickly pear, then poured on the speed again: chin tucked down, back hunched, arms pumping, legs kicking out, reaching . . .

  But never far enough. Never fast enough.

  She huffed for air. Sweat poured down her body. She knew that she had to be running faster than she’d ever run before, but it seemed so terribly slow. A plodding pace. No more than a trudge!

  Not fast enough to outrun a bullet. Not by a loo-oong shot.

  But Rodney was blind in one eye, had to be in awful pain, and maybe he wasn’t such a great marksman in the first place. He had already missed her twice at fairly close range. And she was a lot farther away from him now.

  Why isn’t he firing? She looked back.

  He was on his feet, chasing her, pistol in his right hand, his left hand clenched in a fist and jabbing forward as he ran. One side of his face was an eyeless slick of blood. Pamela heard herself let out a whimper.

  I’m not gonna get away, she thought. He’s gonna keep coming and keep coming till he gets close enough and then he’s gonna use the gun on me.

  That’s what he thinks. He’s fat and out of shape and hurt bad. I can outrun him till hell freezes over.

  If I don’t keel over from heat prostration, she thought. If my feet don’t bleed me dry.

  She glanced at the ground behind her. She was leaving spots of blood on the desert floor. He can follow those till hell freezes . . .

  Maybe she could make it to the car.

  What good would that do? she wondered. He’s got the keys. Pamela didn’t even know anymore where the car was. The highway was off to her right – the car didn’t seem to be there. Looking back over her right shoulder, she spotted it far off in the distance.

  Good thing I don’t have the keys, since I’m running away from the damn thing!

  She considered changing direction and making a run for the road: a car was sure to come along, sooner or later. Anybody seeing her would know that she needed help and would probably give it to her. But if she went for the road, Rodney might run for his car. It wasn’t that far behind. He could just hop in and chase her down with it.

  Better not go any closer, she thought. She twisted around to make sure that he wasn’t gaining on her. He was sprawled on the ground, far back. Pamela stopped running. Standing still, she gasped for breath and wiped the sweat out of her eyes.

  Rodney looked as if he’d flopped facedown. He didn’t seem to be moving at all.

  All right! Pamela turned away from him and ran as hard as she could, dodging cacti and mesquite, sometimes leaping over rocks that got in her way. Rodney, she supposed, had been brought down by the heat, too much exertion and the pain or shock of losing his eye – but he would probably recover soon and come after her again.

  At the edge of an arroyo she stopped to catch her breath. The slope was fairly steep. She wondered if she should try to climb down, or slide to the bottom on her rump.

  Slide, she decided. You don’t wanna lose your footing and take a header.

  Pamela bent over and clutched the sides of her skirt. Then she looked back to see if Rodney was after her yet. And couldn’t see him at all. Suddenly scared, she turned around and stood on tiptoes. No sign of him.

  Maybe he’s still down, she told herself. I just can’t see him because of all the rocks and bushes and stuff.

  Off to her right a cluster of rocks jutted up from the floor of the desert to a height of about twenty feet. She hurried toward it. It seemed to be farther away than she’d first supposed. Farther away, and higher.

  As she ran, she began to think that she was making a mistake. She should’ve kept on running away. This detour was stealing her advantage. Rodney might be up and gaining on her – closing in with every step she took toward this damn pile of rocks. But she’d already come this far. So far, no sign of Rodney.

  At last, Pamela reached the foot of the rocks. She was breathless, worn out, sodden with sweat. But she didn’t pause to rest; she began to scurry upward. When she was halfway to the top, she decided that she was probably high enough for a good view. She crawled onto a stone slab that looked fairly smooth and didn’t have much of a slant. She sat on it, knees up, feet against the surface to keep her from sliding down.

  Hands cupped around her eyes, she squinted off across the desert.

  After a while, she spotted Rodney. Still sprawled on the ground.

  Sighing, she wiped the sweat off her face.

  For a while, she simply watched him and savored the knowledge that she was safe. Rodney was down. He was far away. As long as they both stayed put, he couldn’t hurt her. She looked at the road.

  Nothing was coming.

  Why did they even put it here if nobody uses it? she wondered. Put it here just for Rodney. Then she thought, Maybe so. The idea spooked her a little. ‘Just kidding,’ she muttered. A road bound for nowhere. That’s ridiculous, Pamela told herself. It’s not some sort of a phantom highway, it’s just out in the middle of nowhere and probably goes between a couple of Podunk towns that nobody ever goes to, so it doesn’t get used much. Somebody would be along, sooner or later. Pamela tried to remember if she’d seen any other vehicles since they’d made the turn-off onto this stretch. None that she could recall.

  What if nobody does come along? she wondered. Then she told herself, I’m safe here. That’s what counts. He can’t get me. Just oughta make myself comfortable and wait things out.

  Her sweater felt like a heavy, damp coat. She pulled it off and sighed. The breeze was hot and dry against her skin, but it felt wonderful.

&n
bsp; She folded the sweater and sat on it. The thick wool pad made a good cushion.

  Rodney still appeared to be lying motionless out there. She checked the road. Still deserted.

  If somebody does come along, Pamela thought, it won’t do me any good. Not while I’m up here. He probably won’t see me, and I sure can’t get down to the road in time.

  That’s okay. I’m fine right here. For now.

  But the sun felt awfully hot, so she tugged the sweater out from under her rump and draped it over her head. Some of it hung down her back; some of it shrouded her face. She lifted the part that hid her face and held it up with both hands to make a sunshade.

  She gazed out from under it. Rodney was still sprawled on the ground.

  Had he moved at all since going down? She didn’t think so.

  Maybe he’s dead?

  Maybe he’s not.

  With her sweater off and her arms raised, there was nothing to stop the dribbles of sweat that ran down Pamela’s body. They slid all the way down to the waist of her skirt, tickling as they went. Every so often, when the itching became intolerable, she let the sweater flop down over her face and used both hands to rub herself.

  Relieving the itches felt wonderful. But she hated to do it because she couldn’t see Rodney while the sweater covered over her face.

  Each time she lifted it, she was afraid that he might be gone.

  He isn’t going anywhere, she finally told herself. He’s all done chasing me.

  But is he dead? Pamela was pretty sure that a poke in the eye could be fatal – if you got in deep enough to hit the brain. Had she jabbed her thumb sufficiently far in for that? She doubted it. But if the gouge hadn’t killed him, maybe he’d been dropped by a heart attack. A big fat guy like him running around the desert, fighting with her, getting plenty of shocks to his system from all the damage she’d inflicted . . . not to mention the fact that he’d probably been exhausted to start with. Driving for hours. Awake all night, first killing Jim, then wearing himself out with taking Pamela captive, then burning the house. She’d spent much of the night hoping that he would be knocked dead by a heart attack. If he is dead now, she thought, I can get hold of his car keys and drive away. But if he’s not dead and I go for the keys . . .

  She let the sweater flop in front of her face. Using both hands, she rubbed her itchy sides and belly and breasts. Her skin felt hot and slippery. With the fabric down, her face seemed to bake. She lifted the garment and sighed at the good feel of the breeze. The car has air-conditioning. But what if Rodney’s faking?

  He can’t be faking the eye. If he isn’t dead, he’s messed up very badly. Still, I’d have to be nuts to go for his keys.

  Pamela waited. She watched Rodney. She watched the road. More and more often, she found herself staring at Rodney’s car. Imagining herself sliding into the driver’s seat, slipping the key into the ignition and taking off. Leaving Rodney behind. Heading for a town just up the road (there must be one) while cool air poured onto her from the vents.

  Only one way to make it happen, she told herself. Go for the keys.

  He’ll kill me!

  Only if he can.

  Chapter Four

  Pamela went for his keys.

  First, she pulled the sweater on. The heat of it made her grimace. But she kept it on and made her way down from her perch on the rocks.

  She hobbled over the burning ground.

  I’ll take his shoes, too, she thought. His shoes, his keys, his shirt.

  A nice lightweight shirt with short sleeves. But she remembered that it had gotten all bloody because of his eye, so she decided against taking it.

  Just his shoes and keys, she told herself. Eventually his body came into view. Pamela made her way toward it, limping, wincing each time she set down a foot. When she was only a few yards away she stopped. She stood motionless and gazed at Rodney.

  Is he breathing? Not that she could see.

  Maybe this is exactly what he’s been waiting for, she thought. He knew I’d come back for the keys if he stayed still long enough. And now I’ve done it. Walked straight into his trap.

  He lay facedown, his head turned to the right, both arms up and bent at the elbows. His right hand, on the ground a few inches from his forehead, still held the pistol. His grip on the pistol didn’t look firm. As if he’d fallen asleep with the gun in his hand. Maybe that’s what he wants me to think?

  To shoot her, Rodney would only need to raise the pistol off the ground, move its barrel a couple of inches, and pull the trigger.

  Slowly and silently, Pamela circled around him. Finally she was standing a distance beyond his feet. She stood motionless and watched him while she tried to catch her breath.

  If he was going to shoot me, she thought, he would’ve done it when I was in front of him. Wouldn’t have let me get behind him like this.

  But I didn’t go very close to him. Maybe he didn’t know I’d shown up. Maybe he still doesn’t know I’m here. But he’ll know when I try for his stuff. Unless he’s out cold or dead.

  To get the car keys, she would need to reach into the right front pocket of his trousers.

  Squeeze her hand in between his thigh and the ground. He would feel it. And he would feel it when she tugged off his shoes.

  Maybe he isn’t feeling anything?

  Pamela took a small step and crouched. Reaching down between her knees, she wrapped her fingers around a lump of rock. She tried to pick it up, but the rock was embedded in the dirt. So she shook it and jerked it, and soon worked it loose.

  She lifted it.

  The rock was about the size of a steam iron, and heavier. Raising it to shoulder height, she walked slowly toward Rodney. She stopped near his feet.

  What do I do now? she wondered. Drop it onto his back and see if he says ‘ouch’? Brilliant idea, she thought. He says ‘ouch,’ then turns over and shoots me.

  Pamela could think of only one smart thing to do: Bash his head in.

  Don’t try to do it by throwing the rock, either. Keep hold of it, dive onto his back, and bust his head open before he knows what’s happening.

  I can’t do that, she thought. Oh, yeah? Why not! The dirty bastard murdered Jim. Not just Jim, but all those girls. And don’t forget what he did to ME. He kidnapped me and shot at me. It’s self-defense if ever there was a case of self-defense. On top of which, the dirtbag deserves to die! She hurled herself at Rodney.

  When her rump dropped onto his back, he let out a grunt. Not dead! NOT YET!

  Pamela hoisted the rock high, ready to slam it down against the back of Rodney’s head. He made a quiet whimper. She hesitated. Do it!

  But he wasn’t trying to fight, wasn’t even trying to grip on the pistol. He was just lying there, making little whimpery sounds.

  Then he murmured something.

  She hissed, ‘What?’

  ‘I give.’

  He gives? That’s what a kid says when he’s wrestling with his brother!

  ‘You give?’ Pamela blurted. ‘You GIVE? When you killed my husband!’ He wants to quit. Like this is a game that just got too rough.

  ‘Please,’ Rodney murmured. ‘Don’t . . . don’t hurt me. My eye!’ He started to sob.

  Do it, she told herself. Just do it. Get it over with. But she couldn’t force herself to strike.

  Wait till he tries something. That way it won’t be so much like a cold-blooded killing.

  ‘If you move a muscle,’ she said, ‘I’ll kill you, so help me God.’

  ‘Don’t . . . Please. I’ll do . . . anything.’

  ‘Let go of the gun. Take your hand away from it.’

  Rodney’s fingers trembled and opened. His hand slid off the pistol.

  Pamela wanted to pick it up, but her right hand was holding the rock. She switched the rock to her other hand, then leaned forward and reached out past Rodney’s shoulder.

  Her fingertips were about to settle on the pistol when he grabbed her wrist. She swung the rock at his head, but
he was already bucking beneath her, already jerking her arm.

  She felt the rock connect with him. The blow made him cry out.

  It didn’t stop him.

  Pamela hurtled headlong past his shoulder. She landed on her side, skidding. He let go of her wrist. She rolled onto her back, hoping to start a quick series of rolls that would put her out of reach.

  But she was still on her back when his fist came down, hammering her belly. Her breath exploded out. She had to keep rolling and get away from him, but all she could do was hug her belly and bring her knees up and try to suck air into her lungs. Then her arms were pinned to her sides by Rodney’s knees. He was sitting on her chest.

  ‘Get off! I can’t breathe!’

  He hunched down so that his face loomed over Pamela’s face.

  ‘Look!’ he gasped. ‘What you . . . did to me.’ Rodney hunched lower.

  His empty socket looked like a bloody gash. It dripped foul fluid onto Pamela’s cheek and nose. His upper lip twitched. He altered his position slightly, and the socket dripped toward her right eye. She shut her eyes fast. She felt warm patters on her right lid. Rodney uttered laughs that sounded like choking noises.

  Then something went into her mouth. It knocked against her upper teeth, thrust against her tongue. She opened her left eye. Rodney had thrust the pistol into her mouth.

  ‘Blow your . . . fuckin’ brains out,’ he muttered.

  He shoved the barrel deeper. It pushed against her uvula, and she started gagging.

  Pamela didn’t hear the gunshot. Not at first. What she heard first was a sound like a whip cracking. Then came a noise like a mallet smacking meat. Rodney’s head jerked up and she caught a glimpse deep into his forehead through a hole the size of a shirt button. Then she heard the gunshot. It sounded like distant thunder echoing through a canyon of clouds. An instant later, a jet of gore spouted out of the hole in Rodney’s forehead. It arced past Pamela’s face, then curved lower and splashed her straight between the eyes as he crumpled forward.