No Sanctuary

by Richard Laymon

  Come sun-up, you’ll have the biggest breakfast you’ve eaten in a long time ...

  A strong-looking cat, a young male, was taking powerful swipes at him, rocking his body back and forth, moving him around like a rag doll. The other cats were spiteful, restless; prowling around impatiendy, swiping at each other. A couple pushed their noses in, but instinct kept them from going for the kill. The big male would take his share first.

  The cat nosed around the man’s upturned butt and sniffed its way through the slowly cycling legs. Then gave all of its attention to the soft genitals ...

  The preacher’s puny erection had died long since.

  Piercing screams told them when the cougar made its first strike. The big male dealt with the innards, shaking its head like a cat with a rat, until the bunch of steaming gut stretched like elastic and broke free from its moorings.

  Another shake and the cat dragged the bloodied entrails outside of the body, gathering the hot, dripping mess into his powerful maw. It nosed upward, a jaw-full of the dripping trophy glistening yellow in the dawn light.

  Gobs of dark blood dripped from the prize, down the cougar’s chops and made slimy trails on the grass. The cat lay down, took the kill between its paws and started to eat.

  Curls of warm mist rose up from around the feast.

  In seconds, Angus was covered in a roiling mound of tawny bodies, each hungry cat fighting for its share of the kill.

  Don’t hurt me, Daddy, please don’t hurt me ...

  Too late. Deed’s already done ...

  The cats squabbled among themselves, each fighting to tear off its own share of the preacher. One, its nose bloodied from the kill, carried a dark skinny arm between its jaws. It moved away from the others and settled down to devour its trophy.

  “Oh, God ...” breathed Bert. “The guy was horrible—sick and mad. But he didn’t deserve to die like this ...”

  Rick wanted to vomit, but the carnage happening before them was like a magnet. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  “Show’s over, Rick,” Bert said. “Let’s go before I barf all over the place.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get outa here,” he agreed.

  They hurried through the cabin, fastening their belts as they went and adjusting their hunting knives. They found their packs where they’d dropped them earlier and thrust their arms through the straps.

  It was sun-up by the time they hit the trail again and they didn’t stop until they’d reached the fork in the path. They were exhausted, breathless, but at least they were alive. They had their packs—and their knives.

  “I just wish I hadn’t seen that eaten head, Rick. That coulda been us, y’know? Thank God we’re still around to tell the tale,” Bert said.

  “You can say that again.” Rick’s injured hand was painful and he wondered how long it’d be before they hit the stream again. He could use some cold water to ease the pain and the swelling.

  “... could use a beer, too,” he muttered.

  “And me.”

  “Yeah, one for the road and how ’bout a nice juicy burger on the side.” He gave a faint grin.

  “Christ. Have a heart,” Bert grimaced. “On the other hand, maybe don’t have a heart. Too soon to talk offal after the slaughter-fest down at Chez Angus, don’t you think?”

  Gratefully, they looked deep into each other’s eyes and Rick felt a sudden surge of joy. It sure was good to be alive.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s put some miles between us and this crazy place.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  After parting company with Rick and Bert, the girls fell quiet. Trudging on in silence, they already felt lonesome. The goddamn emptiness of this whole terrain was getting to them so much, it was scary.

  Andrea spoke first. “I don’t know that we did the right thing, Bonnie. Maybe we should have insisted we all stay together.”

  “What are you, nuts or something? They practically told us to go our own ways. Or weren’t you listening to those people?”

  “Sure, I know that. But I could’ve persuaded Rick. Y’know?”

  “Yeah. I bet,” Bonnie sneered. “You made a fool of yourself back there with Rick. You know that, Andrea, don’t you?”

  “You mean you were jealous of the way he came onto me?”

  “Jealous? You threw yourself at him. Practically handed yourself to him on a plate. I’m surprised Bert didn’t kick up about that. I admire her. She’s got a lotta patience, that woman!”

  “Oh yeah? Then how come if he loved her so much he invited himself to my tent? Answer me that, why don’cha?”

  “Let’s not go over that particular scenario anymore, Andrea. Prbkane! You’re so hung up on yourself I’m surprised you don’t have an orgasm every time you look in the mirror!”

  Andrea plumped herself down on a smooth slab of rock. She edged out of her pack and swung it to the ground.

  Holy Moses. Was she pooped!

  And what’s more, she didn’t like the way the conversation was headed. She could do without all this shit about her and Rick.

  With a sigh, she flipped off her ballcap and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

  “Bonnie Jones. If you don’t stop handing me insults like this, I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you. It’s too darn hot to argue and I don’t know why we’re traveling by ourselves, anyway. We coulda gone on ahead of the others—or trailed behind. We needn’t have gone with them ...”

  Andrea was almost whining now. She mopped her brow again.

  Then lifted the hem of her gray T-shirt, bent her head down and wiped all of her face with it. It didn’t help much; sweat was still rolling down her cheeks.

  Bonnie tried to reason with her. “Okay, okay. But you heard them say they’d rather travel alone. Rick specifically said they wanted some time to themselves.

  “And if it helps, I don’t know why we had to come out here into the boonies, anyway. Come to think about it, it was a dumb thing to do. But we did discuss it, Andrea, before we set out. When we had taco and fries and cola at Pepe’s Pits-top, the day you took your social history books back to the library and they were overdue. Remember? We talked it over and agreed that a week’s vacation by ourselves, alone in the Sierras, would clinch it.”

  Andrea sniffed at the front of her T-shirt.

  God, it stinks. After this is all over, I’m gonna toss this thing, in the trash, no kidding.

  She screwed up her eyes and peered at Bonnie, standing before her, hands on hips, with her back to the sun.

  “Clinch what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Whether we could make it together, dummy. Christ, Andrea. Don’t make me spell it out.”

  Bonnie huffed in frustration and edged her way out of her backpack. Pushing out her chest, she bent at the knees and lowered the bulky pack to the ground. She collapsed on the smooth rock shelf beside Andrea, stretched out her sturdy legs and examined the toes of her boots ...

  Okay. Let’s take it slowly. From the top.

  With a small sigh of resignation she began, “Look, Andrea, you know how I feel about you. I just hoped that ... you know ... a little time spent together and you’d begin to feel the same about me, too.”

  Bonnie warmed to her subject.

  “I mean, you seemed to get off on me, at the first. Now you go all girly and start making out with the first goddamn available male you see.”

  Andrea sounded repentant. “Sorry, Bonnie. I’ve been a grade-A idiot, I know. But I can’t help myself. Maybe ... well, the thing is, maybe I’m not cut out to be a dyke, after wall.”

  She traced circles on her smooth, tanned knee. Bonnie watched her do it and thought how much she’d like to take her in her arms.

  I mean, make the sparks fly.

  Float her boat until she screams for more.

  Hell. She was no fucking expert at dykedom herself.

  What experience had she had? She only knew that from age fifteen-ish she’d been significantly different from the
other girls in class.

  Always awkward around guys, she’d never actually dated one—not that she’d ever been asked. Wouldn’t have gone with one even if she had.

  Neither was she in awe of guys. Not like the other bimbos, describing in ecstatic terms how they’d been to the movies/ the game/the beach with this fantastic guy etc. etc ...

  Instead, she’d always aimed to come out top. The guys didn’t like that. At college she’d always had to be better than they were. Better at everything, sport, science, cultural studies—all of that ...

  And then there was that, well ... call it an exploratory fling, if you like, with Deena Alvarez, her Cultural Studies tutor.

  Dark, sensuous Deena.

  She of the sensational body, full, voluptuous breasts and nipples like dark, ripe berries.

  Okay. She’d been too wary; scared that she wouldn’t make the grade. And in the end she’d come away feeling totally exasperated with herself. Embarrassed. Pissed off. In a nut-shell, she was just too damned inexperienced. The demanding Deena had eventually gotten impatient with her—she, and her fumbling, inadequate responses. Within a week Bonnie had been out on her ear with a bunch of insecurities as high as the Empire State.

  And Deena moved onto that total dork; the dumbest of all dumb broads, Caroll Helliman.

  Bonnie flushed at the memory of that particular put-down. Yeah. That really had been a swinging blow to her pride and dignity. She knew she was better at most things, including sex, than that slut Caroll, who acted no better than cheap trailer trash, with her minis up to her ass and those fancy low-cut blouses of hers. Plus a gnat-size brain that got no further than the color of her lipstick. Jeez, Deena musta been desperate.

  Caroll’s folks were loaded, though. They were in real estate. Had a hunk of their own the size of Disneyland. But, no matter how many sackloads of dough they had, Bonnie decided, it’d never buy “class” for their sleaze of a daughter.

  What the hell. She’d bounced back from that and had had a smoldering affair with raven-haired Lindy Carson, nubile daughter of one of the night porters at UCSC.

  That went sour when she caught the lovely Lindy naked and cavorting in the shower with half of the college baseball team. From then on in, it had been “no way, Jose” for Bonnie. Sex was off the menu.

  Romance was for the birds, so to speak.

  Then along came Andrea. Fragile, elegant, graceful Andrea, with her upturned nose, glossy blond hair and slender legs that went on forever. Yeah, Bonnie decided. Andrea was the one for her, all right.

  Now, here on vacation in the Sierras, the question had to be asked. Was she the one?

  I’ll work on her some more. She doesn’t play ball, I’ll find somebody else who will, thought Bonnie, knowing that if Andrea didn’t come across now, she might as well chuck it in.

  Plenty of others out there.

  May well be, but there’s only one Andrea.

  It’s make or break time.

  “Bonnie ...” Andrea twisted her hands, looking slightly embarrassed.

  “What is it? You can’t stand the sight of me? You wanna phone home and ask your Mom if it’s okay to be a dyke? What’s the problem, Andrea? Spit it out.”

  Andrea spat it out. Slowly and with feeling.

  “You know how I get these hunches sometimes ... like premonitions?”

  Jesus Christ, that’s all we need ... Three teenage fuckin’ hoods.

  Now we get a message from beyond.

  “You have mentioned them before. Go on.”

  “Well,” Andrea twirled a strand of sweat-damp hair around her finger.

  She was obviously ill at ease. Bonnie prepared herself for some bad news.

  “What would you say if I said don’t let’s go back by way of Dead Mule Pass?”

  Andrea picked at the hem of her T-shirt, uncomfortable, knowing that Bonnie was staring at her, open-mouthed.

  “I just get this feeling, Bonnie,” she went on quietly. “It’s a really strong feeling that we should take another route.”

  Andrea slipped off the rock and faced Bonnie. Then, reaching out, she caressed Bonnie’s shoulder. The touch was gentle and timid, like the flutter of a small bird. With mounting impatience, Bonnie shrugged it off.

  “Please,” Andrea said in a small voice. She knew she would cry in a minute if Bonnie didn’t say something nice to her.

  Like, lt’s okay. You’re with me. I’ll look after you. Or, Don’t mind me, I didn’t mean what I said about you and Rick.

  Instead she got a gesture of bored resignation from Bonnie and, “Er ... okay. If that’s what you want.”

  Bonnie slid off the rock and hunkered down to open her pack.

  Pulling out a well-thumbed map of the Sierra Nevada mountains, she spread it on the rock before them and began to trace out another route.

  “There isn’t another recognized route to Mulligan Lake,” she announced eventually. “We could go up this ridge, here, and then drop down, by-passing Dead Mule Pass. But it’s out of the way; we’re not likely to meet many other backpackers along there. You get into trouble on the Mulligan Lake Route, and you’d see other hikers and maybe a ranger on patrol to help out.

  “Sorry, but the way I see it, Andrea, the main route is the only way to go.”

  “Damn.”

  “But we’re not likely to hit a problem, are we? I mean, the terrible trio have gone their own way by now. And the mad preacher is probably rounding up repentants somewhere else.”

  “PietISt, Bonnie.”

  “Hey. Somebody’s gotta act responsible around here. We can’t go wandering off down some lonesome ol’ trail nobody uses. Nobody except those with no business on the official route, that is. Talk sense!”

  “Okay,” Andrea lifted her chin defiantly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She swung up her pack, shrugged her arms into the straps and adjusted her load. Bonnie followed suit. She glanced sideways at Andrea’s self-righteous expression.

  “Okay. Okay,” she said, with a dramatic sigh. “We’ll do it the hard way. Main route to Mulligan Lake, it isn’t. Trail of the lonesome pine, it is.”

  Bonnie stomped on ahead. She wasn’t happy about choosing the ridge route. They had their knives, and could throw a mean rock if trouble broke out. And she still had her brother’s hatchet ... But what if one of them broke a leg or fell into a crevasse—anything could happen.

  And probably would, she thought, gloomily.

  One of them had to stay behind, they could get chomped by a goddamn cougar.

  “You’re not happy with this, are you, Bonnie?”

  Andrea was striding out, abreast of Bonnie now. She took a peek at Bonnie’s set face.

  “The hell I’m not happy with it. But, my mystic munchkin, if you’ve got a funny feeling about reaching Mulligan Lake by the tried and tested, we’ll go the ridge route. No problem. The map says it’s the quickest route anyway, so that’s one consolation. ”

  They were climbing now; a cluster of pines up ahead told them that the trail— what trail? —began right here. They kept on trucking. This way, they’d soon get through and back to their vehicle in no time.

  Not worth hassling about.

  Who needs the main route anyway?

  They pressed on up the rough grass track. Then, “Bonnie, are you hearing what I’m hearing?”

  Bonnie stopped and listened.

  “Yeah, guys’ voices,” she replied.

  “What d’you reckon? Men or boys?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. Whatever they are, they sure sound as if they’re whooping it up.”

  Andrea stopped, hand on hip, and listened some more. The whoops got louder. Men. A group of men, gotta be backpackers were headed their way. But they sound more like booligans than your average biker, she thought.

  More shouts. Bursts of coarse laughter rang out through the trees ahead. The voices:

  “Hey, Wilbur. I fancy a bit o’ skirt! How ’bout you?”

  “You’ll be
lucky ’round these parts! Don’t see no skirt hereabouts. Can you see anything that vaguely looks like a skirt, from where you’re standing, Bud?”

  “Not from where he’s standin’, he can’t. He’s busy takin’ a leak!”

  “Aw, leave it out, Wilbur. Go get yourself another beer.”

  Loud guffaws echoed through the dark trees.

  Bonnie and Andrea tensed as they heard footfalls coming toward them on their left, through the forest undergrowth. The footfalls got closer, but they still couldn’t see the guys.

  Then, “Shoulda brought that Nicole along. She’d oblige us, all three. Yessirree. An’ then ask for more!”

  They heard whoops of laughter, lewd, suggestive. Then it simmered down to muffled, low-key banter.

  Andrea and Bonnie couldn’t quite hear what was being said.

  The next gust of laughter seemed a helluva lot nearer to where they were standing. Holding their breath, they looked at each other, wondering what to do.

  “ ’nother can of beer, Wilbur?”

  “Sure, Dean, chuck it across ...”

  The slap of a hand catching a beer.

  “They’re shit-faced ...” Bonnie whispered. “But it sounds like maybe they’re settling down. Taking a goddamn rest. And we’ve got to walk along the path, right past them—there’s no other way!”

  “So what? We just ignore them. Pretend we haven’t seen them and just, well, just walk on by...”

  “Oh yeah. Great. Andrea, haven’t you learned your lesson yet? We got rid of The Three Thugateers, now we meet up with a second bunch, with bells on this time. We had enough hassle with the first lot. Now we got these wiseguys who look as if they mean business. Serious business. And sounds like they’re gagging for it, too. And you say walk on by? The $64,000 question is, sweetcakes, will they let us ‘walk on by’? You bet your sweet life they won’t!”

  Bonnie fumed under her breath. She snatched off her straw hat and fanned her flushed cheeks with it. Andrea could be a real dork, sometimes.

  “Hey! What have we here? Guys, come on over. Think we just found ourselves a coupla playmates!”

  The speaker appeared to the left of them. Right out of nowhere. Must’ve been walking through the trees, caught sight of us and then side-stepped out onto the path.