“What I chose to do with my body is nobody’s business but mine.” Stacy nearly spit it out through gritted teeth. She seemed locked into a silent, screaming rage that threatened to break through at any moment.
“What you do with your body is my business.” Kirk approached her, jabbing his finger at her. “Because if you continue to fuck up your body, it destroys any chance we have of continuing this relationship.”
“Why are you doing this?” Stacy screamed, burying her face in her hands. “Why are you doing this to me, why—” Her face was turning red and her eyes were beginning to leak. She choked the words out in sobs that snapped Kirk into action.
He grasped her shoulders and shook her. “I’m doing this because I care about you! I’m trying to make you—”
Stacy brushed his hands away and stepped back, crying openly now. She held her hands up to her ears as if to stop the barrage of criticism aimed at her. “Stop it, I don’t want to hear it—”
“—understand, that you need help, you need to see a professional about—”
“WILL YOU STOP IT!”
Kirk stopped as if he suddenly slammed into a brick wall. Stacy stood her ground, her face red and wet with tears. Her breath fast and heavy, as if she’d just run a marathon. Kirk caught himself before he launched off into another tactical error. He had to bring it all up; the drinking, the drugs, the suspicion of her having affairs behind his back. He would have to proceed slowly and not hit her with everything at once. It was already getting out of hand; he knew she was going to be in some kind of denial, but not like this.
“Listen,” Kirk said, his voice soothing. He held his hands up, palms outward. “Let’s talk this thing out.”
“No, we’re not going to talk this out.” Stacy’s tone was charged with emotion. She glared at Kirk, her chest rising and falling. “I want you out of my house.”
“Jesus, Stacy—”
“I said I want you out of my house!”
A glimmer of movement caught Kirk’s eye as he leaned into the argument. He looked past Stacy’s shoulder out at the white sands of the beach. Stacy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you hear me? I said—”
Kirk held his hand up, still looking past Stacy’s shoulder. His eyes widened.
Stacy whirled toward the beach. Her scream lodged in her throat in a wretched gasp. “Oh my God!”
The creatures were only twenty feet from them. To Kirk they looked like giant crabs from one of those shlocky B-movies. Nuclear Crabs on the Rampage, directed by Roger Corman, based on the novel by Guy N. Smith. Kirk had lived his whole life on the Maine coastline and had never seen crabs like this before. They were as big as a fucking St. Bernard.
Kirk grabbed Stacy, who stood rooted in shock. The creatures were advancing quickly and he could hear the clicking as their claws clacked together. He made to spin Stacy around and push her into a run toward the parking lot. “Run!” He shouted. “Jesus, Stacy, run!”
Stacy went apeshit. She fought against his grasp, screaming at him hoarsely. She slapped at his hands, at his chest as he tried to get her to run. “Get the fuck away from me, get away from me—”
She was in panic mode and if he didn’t get her out of here they would both be attacked. The creatures were scuttling rapidly toward them, gaining momentum. Getting closer.
Still clutching Stacy’s shoulder’s, he made to move her forward in his flight to escape. He could hear the hiss of the creatures lunging at them and the clattering of their claws and then suddenly Stacy turned, twisting out of his grip. Kirk teetered on the brink of falling backward, then she pushed him and he did fall, flat on his back into the sand. He scrambled on the ground in his haste to escape. Stacy was already running pen-mell toward the parking lot to her Trans-Am. Kirk rose to his knees, stood up to run but was dragged down to the ground from behind. He ate a mouthful of sand as his face hit the beach and then something sharp pierced his ankle.
He had never felt pain so great. It ricocheted up his leg and rocked into his skull. His mind seemed to keel over and his vision blurred for a moment. When it cleared, a pair of stalked eyes were glaring down at him, tiny jaws clicking. And then the agony blossomed as that great, terrible claw came down again and tore a chunk out of his hip.
Kirk yelled and this time he did move. He hobbled forward in a slithering motion and ate sand again. There was the pressure of a tremendous weight on his back as a creature climbed on top of him, poised for attack. Kirk squirmed like a rat caught in a trap. Only pure adrenaline kept him going, surging through his bloodstream rapidly and pouring out of him via the hole in his leg.
The creature at his side seemed too hungry to even immobilize its prey. It dipped its claws into Kirk’s back, ripping chunks of flesh and stuffing them into its mandibles. Kirk screamed, squirming beneath the weight of the creature on his back. His eyes glassed over and his mind was drifting. He clawed frantically at the sand.
The last thing Kirk Fischer saw was Stacy’s Trans-Am rapidly diminishing in the horizon with the squeal of spinning tires. The rest of the creatures grouped around him and joined their brethren. A few jabs of their segmented tails later, and Kirk was reduced to a bubbling mass of sizzling flesh which they ate their fill of.
Fifteen minutes later the creatures moved inland, leaving the tattered remains of a black leather jacket and an empty six pack of long necked Budweiser—hardly enough to acknowledge Kirk had never left the beach.
Chapter Seven
It was too bad Melissa hadn’t been able to stick around, but Rick did have a ton of chores to get through before starting on his next novel. Still, her absence weighed on him as he eagerly explored his house. He had hoped she would have traipsed through with him, sharing his enthusiasm and surprise as he uncovered the dwelling’s many features. But he would have to do without her for now. It was time to unpack and settle in.
It was a modest, one-story farmhouse. There was a living room, a kitchen with a dining room, and a den. There were three bedrooms, the largest of the trio tucked in back of the house with its own bathroom and shower. A second bathroom was off the main hall. Rick christened the middle bedroom as his office, and began moving his computer equipment in.
The house was equipped accordingly with worn yet homey furniture. The kitchen had all the necessary tools of the trade; pots and pans, dishes, glasses, silverware. The den contained a television, a VCR and a so-so stereo system. The master bedroom contained a king-sized waterbed with satin sheets. The bed sat across from the walk-in closet with mirrored sliding doors. All the better to watch if he ever got lucky and found a steady honey to do the horizontal bop with.
Rick spent the next two hours unpacking and stowing things. Clothes went into the closet or in the dresser. His computer and laser printer went in the office, along with his files and supplies. The few books and odds and ends he brought along remained in the living room. He’d brought his CD collection and some reading material, along with some VHS tapes. His stay in Phillipsport wasn’t intended to be permanent, but the more things he brought from home, the better he felt.
Once he was semi-settled in, he called Cynthia Jacobs. His agent.
He rang her up from the extension in the office. She picked up on the first ring and sounded surprised to hear from him. “So, you made it to Phillipsport?” Her voice came in strong and syrupy, dripping with sex. It instantly reminded him of the first time they’d combined business with pleasure.
It had happened at a convention in Nashville. They’d been conducting business for three years by mail and phone, but that was the first time they had the opportunity to meet in person. They’d both gotten drunk at a party, talking aimlessly. They’d stumbled to their rooms and as Rick bade her goodnight, she swept him up in a sweeping embrace, hug, smooch, squeeze, fondle. They ended up making love in her room. At the time it happened, Rick never thought that it was a wrong thing to do. She made the first move, he was drunk, she was drunk and attractive, and why not take advantage of each other? What
else was a man supposed to do when seduced by a drunk, horny, sexy older woman?
He regretted it almost as soon as the convention was over. He knew it was unethical business-wise, but then she had made the first move. Still, it bothered him and he seriously considered dumping her for another agent. When you came right down to it, what kind of agent fucks her client on a business trip? He voiced his concerns to her over the phone one day and they talked about it. She said that she had no interest in pursuing anything relationship-wise and was sorry she’d come on to him. It had been very unprofessional of her and she promised it would never happen again. That made him feel better about the situation.
The problem was that every time they met she slipped. On his first trip to New York they had lunch and in the cab she’d rubbed his crotch and directed the driver to a hotel in Manhattan. Rick went with the flow. In the months that followed they indulged in each other whenever the chance arose, but things never went further. She remained his agent, she handled his publishing affairs and everything was hunky dory. The more time passed, the less he was nervous about it. Maybe it was unprofessional to be engaging in an affair with her client, but their sex life was unrelated to their business life. That was all the justification he needed.
“I got in town late this morning,” Rick said, trying to sound casual. He gave her a quick summary of his trip, the accident, and his meeting of a few of the locals. He could tell she was frowning as she conveyed her concern. “Are you okay?” She asked. “You weren’t hurt that bad, were you?” Rick assured her that everything was fine, that he’d already made at least one new friend, possibly two others. He quickly told her about Melissa Peterson and at the mention of another woman, he heard a sharp intake of breath on the other line. He quickly changed the subject to what the weather was like in town and she
seemed to forget about the blunder. She’s jealous.
“So you think you’ll be able to start working on the book soon?”
“I’m gonna try to get to work on the book tomorrow morning.”
“You know, you could have moved to New York for a new locale,” she said. She sounded coaxing. “You didn’t need to move all the way to the boondocks. How am I supposed to see you?”
“I came up here to get away from the normal, day-today surroundings I had in Philly,” Rick said. “I needed a change of pace.”
“Like I said, you could have come to New York.” It sounded like she was smiling on the other end. “You could have stayed with me.”
Rick cringed at the thought. Since the bigger deal had gone through, words that had been absent in her vocabulary began to make their presence with alarming regularity. Words that hinted at marriage entrapment. The last time they spoke she’d ended the conversation with a love you. Rick managed a smile. “I wouldn’t have gotten any work done.”
“Hmm, you’re probably right,” Cynthia breathed. God, but she had a sexy voice. Too bad she was so goddamn possessive and smothering. It made him not want to have anything to do with her. He hadn’t been involved with her sexually for three months, and she was still pursuing him. Business calls always included some attempt at coercion. The vibe he was getting now echoed that their personal life was now crossing over into his publishing deals. Especially since the bigger deal had come through. The minute that happened she began steering him toward a more commercial novel. “Something like what Dean Koontz writes,” she’d said. Maybe now was the time to switch agents.
“Listen, I’m gonna start the new book tomorrow.” Rick began, trying to get the conversation back onto business. “I’ll call you.” He looked at his watch calendar. “I’ll call you Friday afternoon and let you know how far I’ve gotten.”
“Do you think you’ll have twenty pages down?” An abrupt switch in tone to business.
“I don’t see why not, if I can get ten pages a day done, including rewrites.”
“If you do by the time we talk, you might want to send them over.”
“Okay.”
“And maybe if you get a quarter of the way done by say, the end of the month, you can come down to New York for the weekend. We’ll spend it together.” Her tone had changed back to that seductive purr again.
Six months ago, Rick would have jumped at the chance. But now that he was seriously thinking about changing agents he knew that wasn’t going to be the case. Still, he had to provide an illusion of slight interest until he figured out a way to talk to her about the direction she was trying to take him in. The world didn’t need another Dean Koontz. “Sounds good,” he said. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“Okay.” Her voice was a throaty purr. “Bye, Rick. Talk to you soon.”
“You, too,” Rick said, and they hung up.
Rick sighed as he sat at the desk, the caress of her voice massaging his brain. Yep, he definitely needed to have a little talk with her. Pronto. He shouldn’t have slept with her in the first place. That had been a mistake. On both their parts.
With that bit of business out of the way, he rose and strode into the kitchen to see what he was going to do for dinner.
* * *
Starting work the next morning was tougher than he thought it would be.
He stared blankly at the screen of his laptop. About the most he had done thus far was boot his system and go into Microsoft Word. He’d written the words PROLOGUE in the middle of the page, center space. Now the cursor was sitting at the left of the screen, waiting for the words. But none came. At least not yet.
Rick drummed his fingers on the desk. He’d called out for a pizza last night and chowed down in the den. There was a big screen TV, along with a big, comfy sofa. He’d popped in one of the Friday the Thirteenth movies that he found lying around and settled down for a couple hour’s worth of mindless, splattering entertainment. Once the pizza was consumed, he raided the refrigerator. Not much to be had, so he hiked to the local mini-market down the road and came back with a case of Black Label beer, two liters of Coke, a loaf of bread, lunch meats, ground beef, and some fruit. He also nabbed some microwave popcorn. He spent the rest of the evening watching VH1, drinking Coke and eating popcorn. He wanted to drink beer, but he’d taken the first of the prescribed painkillers Dr. Jorgensen had given him last night and he couldn’t drink alcohol while on them. Tanking up on massive quantities of carbonated beverages was the next best thing.
He fell asleep on the sofa in front of the big screen TV.
After a quick breakfast, a pot of coffee and a shower, he headed straight for his office. Got his files together. Read over some notes he’d made for the next novel. Fired up the computer. And promptly proceeded to stare at the screen for the next thirty minutes.
It just wasn’t happening. He had a stunning idea for a ghost story, one that involved past life regression and New Ageism. Cynthia had suggested doing something along those lines. He’d balked at first, but an idea sparked in his head not too long afterward. He’d tried plotting it out, but it wouldn’t come together no matter how hard he tried. Great idea, but no meat.
His thoughts started wandering and he fired up the CD player, which he’d set up in the office. Rush’s Hemispheres filled the room with its intricate melodies and progressive chord changes. Still, nothing.
He decided to call the garage about his car. He should have heard from them by now. He turned the stereo down and hunted in his wallet for the phone number Rusty had given him for Carl’s Garage before he had left the drugstore yesterday. He found it, and punched in the number.
A rough voice answered. “Carl’s.”
“Hi, I’m calling about my car.” Rick gave him the vital stats, and the guy told him he’d be right with him. Rick waited.
“Sorry for the wait,” the guy said a few minutes later. “But I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Your car’s shot to shit. I’m not only going to have to replace the entire radiator and fan as well as all the belts, but you’re gonna need some extensive body work on it. The whole front grill is crushed and the side paneling is smas
hed. The body work alone is gonna run over two grand, and I’ll tell ya right now that your insurance company will probably just write the car off as a complete loss. You call them yet?”
“No, I haven’t.” He had forgotten all about it in all the excitement.
“Well, I’d check with them before you authorize me to do anything else.”
“Okay. I’ll do that right now.”
“Talk to you later.”
Rick replaced the receiver with a sinking feeling in his chest. Great! No car, and he was miles from home. It would be at least two weeks before he could get a new set of wheels after the insurance people started their machine. What a great day this was starting out to be.
Rick rose and went into the kitchen. The mid-day sun brought streaks of light through the curtains. It bathed the kitchen in warmth. No hint at all of the rainstorm that had hit last night. It was too nice to sit in the house all day and work. He had a severe bout of writer’s block and he didn’t have a car. The depression he felt over that pretty much took the wind out of the writing sails for today. And it really was too nice to stay cooped up inside. He hadn’t really seen Phillipsport yet, and he was dying to see what kind of burg he’d settled into for the winter. Besides, a walk might be just the thing to get the creative wheels grinding.
He grabbed his wallet and keys from the desk and stepped outside. He put his black leather jacket on and zipped it up. He looked up at the clear blue sky, blinking as he put his sunglasses on. My, but it was a fine, fine day.
He set off down the road toward town with a contented smile on his face. He didn’t even notice the tall, dark storm clouds amassing behind him from the north.
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