Each had the hand of a dead woman—the old gal hacked to death by Lander. They dragged her behind them as they walked. Her weight seemed to give them a lot of trouble.
Neither woman was large: one short and pudgy, the other taller, and lean. The lean one seemed young, perhaps a teenager. Thick, light-colored hair hung halfway down her back. Low on her hips, she wore a skirt of fur. She carried a lance. The other, who had a furry tail hanging down her rump, carried a machete. Probably the dead woman’s weapon.
As Lander watched, the women tried to pull the body over the trunk of a fallen tree. They grunted and tugged. An upthrust limb blocked the dead woman’s shoulder. Muttering, the lean one let go. Lander found himself looking at her breasts as she hopped off the trunk. He could barely see them in the darkness, but the moonlit glimpses forced a response. The growing erection made him ashamed. He couldn’t look away, though. He watched the girl kick the corpse in frustration, then bow to pick up the legs. As she bent down, the rear of her skirt lifted. Lander supposed she was naked beneath it. Though the darkness prevented him from seeing her buttocks, his penis grew even more stout.
The girl straightened up, clutching the dead legs by the ankles. She lunged toward the fallen tree. The other woman leaped backward, pulling the arms. The body tumbled over the trunk, and disappeared. Lander watched the lean girl climb onto the trunk, and jump off.
He waited a moment, then followed. When he caught sight of the women again, they were at the shore of a stream. They talked briefly, and nodded. Then they let go of the body. They put down their weapons. The slim one opened her skirt, and tossed it to the ground. The other untied a narrow strip at her waist, and removed her decorative tail. Side by side, they waded into the water.
The stream, Lander judged, was thirty or forty feet wide. Instead of crossing it, they stopped a few yards offshore where it was hip-deep. They splashed themselves, and briefly dunked their heads. Then they began to rub each other.
At first, Lander thought they were simply bathing. Perhaps it started that way. But the brisk rubbing changed to lingering caresses. Their bodies slid together. Their mouths met.
Lander watched them, his erection straining. He felt guilty, as if he were no better than a Peeping Tom. Worse, his excitement seemed like a betrayal of Ruth. How could he stand here, entranced by these women, when Ruth was in danger—possibly in torment?
At this very moment, someone could be raping Ruth.
I could do the same to these, he thought.
He watched the slender one rise to the surface and float on her back. Her legs parted. The other’s head moved between her thighs. The face pressed her groin, and she began to moan.
They’re weaponless. I could kill the grubby one. I could rape the pretty one, then kill her. It would serve them right. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
A rape for a rape.
Watching the moonlit, shiny skin of the slim one, he could almost feel her. The cool, slick flesh. The breasts small and firm, with stiff nipples. The tight hole that gripped his cock as he pushed roughly into her.
God, it would be magnificent!
Such stuff as dreams are made of.
And he could do it, he really could. Already tonight, he’d killed three or four of these people. Why not two more?
Don’t wait. Go in now, while they’re tangled and helpless in their embraces, their bodies heaving with lust. They won’t know what hit them.
What about his plan to follow them?
Ridiculous. They wouldn’t lead him to Ruth. That was wishful thinking, nothing more.
This was real. The chance to have the pretty one. He’d never had such a young, pretty woman.
Probably no older than Cordelia.
He watched her writhe in the water, heard her quick moaning. God, to be able to take her in his arms, push his throbbing cock into her, watch the agony of pleasure twist her face!
He waited, though, unable to force himself to step from behind the thicket, unwilling to attack.
Do it! he told himself. Do it now!
He couldn’t.
He trembled. His erection shrank away.
He was afraid.
Not of the women in the stream.
Afraid of the rapist and killer crouched waiting inside the skin of Lander Dills.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cordie glanced at the red numbers on her wristwatch. “Okay, it’s ten forty. You guys are gonna leave now, right?”
“There’s no point waiting any longer,” Robbins said.
“You’re right.” Cordie took a deep, trembling breath. “What’re you gonna do, try and get to a road?”
“Eventually. We’ll keep heading east, and try to get out of Krull territory.”
“Yeah, well, good luck. You too, Ben.”
“Cordie?”
She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans, and looked away. Ben took a step toward her. “No. Don’t, Ben. You go with the others.” She turned and ran. She heard quick footsteps, and knew Ben was following. She ran harder. Damn it, he wasn’t supposed to come. “Go with them!” she called over her shoulder.
Reaching out, Ben grabbed her shoulder. He dragged her to a stop.
The others were out of sight.
“What do you want to do?” Ben asked. “Get yourself killed?”
“I can’t leave. Mom and Dad are out here. I’ve got to find them.”
“I’ll go with you, then.”
“No, don’t.”
“I haven’t got a choice, do I?”
“Go with the others. They’re headed out. They’ve got a gun.”
“I can’t.”
“Ben, please.”
“I can’t leave you. The same reason you can’t leave your parents. I love you, I guess.”
“Oh Ben.” She pulled him tightly against herself. She kissed his mouth. Twisting a handful of his hair, she pulled back his head. “I hope you don’t regret it,” she muttered.
“I won’t.”
“Let’s find my folks, and get our tails out of here.”
“This way,” Robbins said.
“Shouldn’t we go after them?” Neala asked.
“They made their choice.”
“We’re better off without ’em,” Sherri said.
“Come on.”
Neala, still with her back to the tree, squinted at the place in the darkness that had kept her filled with dread. She didn’t move.
“Neala?”
“No, there’s…Over there. Someone’s hiding.”
“I’ll check.”
“No!”
“Don’t worry.” He walked toward the place, unslinging his rifle and holding it ready.
“No! Don’t, Johnny! Let’s just go.”
He looked back at her. She thought she saw a smile on his face.
“Let’s just go,” she said more softly.
“All right.” He turned away from the place Neala feared, and walked toward her.
She watched behind him. Her heart lurched as she glimpsed a quick movement. Something pale. A face? Whatever she’d seen, it vanished in an instant.
Johnny, seeing her alarm, looked back.
“It’s nothing,” Neala said.
“You sure?”
Sherri stepped up beside Johnny, blocking Neala’s view. “What’re we standing around for?”
Neala shook her head.
“I’ll take up the rear,” Johnny said. “We’ll head east.” He pointed in the direction they’d been heading before they stopped. “That way. Not much civilization out there, but we’ll be okay once we get clear of Krull territory.”
“How far’s that?” Sherri asked.
“About twenty miles.”
“Oh shit.”
“Let’s get started.”
Neala pushed herself away from the tree. She glanced behind Johnny and Sherri, but saw nothing in the darkness.
She led the way. Sherri followed, staying close, and Johnny kept behind Sherri. At first, sh
e ran too fast for the terrain. She tripped, and Sherri stumbled over her, stepping on her leg.
“You all right?” Sherri asked, gently helping her up.
“I’ll live.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Thanks a heap.”
Sherri patted her rump. “Think nothing of it.”
With Sherri in the lead, this time, they started running again. Neala ran more slowly than before. She tried to watch where her feet were landing, but the darkness hid all but glimpses of the ground.
The second time she tripped, she saw what did it.
A hand.
She yelped as she dived forward. The ground slammed her breathless. Rough hands turned her over, and a bony, white-skinned creature scurried up her body.
A man. A hairless man with the hollow face of a death’s-head. He bit her mouth, and laughed, and wetness dripped from his eyes.
Neala heard an awful thud. The head jerked away from her. The man flopped off, onto his back. She gazed at his erection, a loathsome thing like a rigid, pale snake. Then Johnny blocked her view. The rifle butt smashed into the horrible face, breaking through it.
“It’s all right,” Johnny whispered. He helped her up.
Neala shook her head. She wiped tears from her eyes. Her shirt hung open, leaving her right breast uncovered. She closed the shirt. Not before noticing the fingernail scratches. They felt like burns on her tender skin.
“Did he hurt you?” Johnny asked.
“A little. I think I’m okay.”
“The filthy pig,” Sherri muttered. She stepped close to the body. “Christ, look at him.”
Neala didn’t.
“A fucking albino.”
Neala tried to fasten her shirt. The buttons were gone, so she overlapped the front and tucked it in.
“Shit,” Sherri said, still inspecting the body.
“We’d better get moving,” Johnny said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When the women were done in the stream, they waded ashore. The lean one wrapped the skirt around herself, and fastened it in place. The other tied on the bushy tail and adjusted it so it hung down the split of her rump, as if it were her own natural tail.
After picking up their weapons, they lifted the arms of the corpse and dragged it into the water. The body floated behind them as they waded in, swam across, and climbed the opposite shore.
Lander waited until they were out of sight. Then he rushed to the stream. He crossed it silently, breaststroking. On the other side, he quickly caught up to them. He followed for only a few minutes before reaching a firelit clearing.
He crunched in the bushes, looking out, thankful that he’d held back from attacking the women. If one had cried out…
They dragged the corpse between two heaps of foliage that looked, to Lander, like large beaver dams, six to eight feet high.
The chubby woman called out. Half a dozen figures crowded around, and lifted the body overhead. With all the enthusiasm and cheers of a winning football team, they bore the body away.
Lander was reluctant to leave the safety of his hiding place. For a few moments, he studied the area. He saw several other tall mounds. They seemed to be shelters, huts fashioned crudely of twigs and leaves. From where he stood, he could see no one. But he heard sudden wild shouts and laughter. He had to see more.
Cautiously, he stepped into the open and dashed to the nearest hut. Staying close to it, he worked his way toward the front.
He crouched, and stared.
A dozen fires. Twice that many huts. A few figures wandering aimlessly, a few sitting by fires, and a big crowd gathered around a central fire. In the midst of the crowd, Lander saw a machete rise and fall. A cheer went up.
The crowd parted. The lean girl, the one he’d wanted to rape, made her way out of the group. Some males followed, harassing her. They seemed to want a share of her take. She laughed and waved them away.
Only one persisted. He hurried alongside her as she walked toward Lander. They talked. He held out his hand. The girl dipped something out of the bowl she was cradling. She dumped it into his outstretched hand, and he shoved it into his mouth.
They sat together at a fire, facing Lander. The girl was wet, probably sweaty. Her breasts shimmered in the firelight.
Golden.
Lovely.
Lander was hard again. He touched himself. His shaft twitched. In seconds, he could relieve the tight, aching need. His fingertips lightly stroked while he considered it.
The release would be good.
Not nearly as good, though, as pumping his load into that girl.
I won’t do that, he told himself. I’m not a beast.
But still, she was so young, so lovely. He fingered his engorged organ and watched her reach into the bowl.
God, he would like to shove…
The bowl, he suddenly noticed, had tangled white hair. The girl lifted it from her lap, offering more to the young man, and Lander saw its face.
The face of the old woman they’d dragged in. The woman Lander had killed.
The boy reached into the head. His hand dripped as he filled his mouth.
Lander turned away, gagging. He rushed from the hut, smashed through a thicket, shouldered a tree and stumbled away, twisting from the impact. As he landed on his back, he rolled to his side and vomited.
He crawled away from his mess. Slowly, he got to his feet. He brushed some dead leaves and pine needles off his wet skin, and thought about returning to the stream to wash up.
Go back to the stream, and keep going!
Get as far from this village of maniacs as his feet would take him. Try to find Cordelia.
What about Ruth?
Oh God, what about Ruth?
She might be somewhere in that village right now. Alive. Waiting for her turn to become food for these fiends.
Hell, there was a good chance of it. If these monsters had any sense at all, they would keep her alive for a while. Consume the dead carcasses before slaughtering more. It only made sense.
He had to go back.
Look for her, save her if he could.
The knife fell from his hands. He dropped to his knees, trembling.
What if they caught him?
What if they took him alive?
A coward dies many times, a brave man never tastes of death but once.
Shit. Fuck Julius Caesar. Fuck Shakespeare. Once is all it would take.
But he couldn’t survive, if he abandoned Ruth. He wouldn’t have a life afterward. Only guilt, and nothing more. It might as well end here.
The buck stops here.
The words made him feel better.
The buck stops here!
When the going gets tough, the tough get going.
We band of brothers, we honored few…
The buck stops here!
Picking up his knife, he turned toward the village. In the distance, a cheer went up.
He started to run. He ran until he reached the back of the nearest hut. He worked his way alongside it. The girl was still seated by the fire, eating her grisly prize.
Others were still gathered around the main fire. One at a time, they broke away, each with a small portion of dripping flesh.
He saw no sign of Ruth. Perhaps she was kept in the darkness beyond the fires, perhaps inside a hut. Perhaps not here, at all.
A creature swung his way out of the crowd. He looked more like an ape than a man. A deformed ape, hunchbacked and legless. Though he had no feet of his own, he held a foot in his mouth. Nobody begged a bite of it, as they had begged the girl. Instead, they hurried out of his way. They seemed afraid of him. He propped himself backward against a hut, to free his hands, and began gnawing the foot.
Lander forced himself to look away from the man. He circled around to the rear of the hut, peeked to be sure nobody was nearby, then dashed across the dark space to the next one. After a quick check, he ran to the next. He crept along, staying close to it, and saw half a dozen f
igures gathered in front of the neighboring hut. They were seated in a circle, chattering in a language that sounded almost like German, and sharing a thigh. All but one. A girl lay on her belly between a man’s outstretched legs, her mouth latched onto his erection.
Backing off, Lander rushed into the trees. He worked his way past the group, staying hidden but close to the clearing, watching them until they were out of sight.
This seemed like a much safer way of searching for Ruth, so he stayed among the trees as he continued his passage around the village.
Soon, he was directly across from the main fire. The group there had diminished to a handful. A single man was squatting near the fire, cooking his morsel at the end of his spear. A few women—two obviously pregnant—knelt nearby, tearing at a heap of entrails. Lander hurried on.
Between two huts at the far end of the village, he found Ruth. She hung inside a tripod of tall, stout poles, suspended by one foot. Her left arm was broken backward at the elbow. As Lander approached, he watched her naked body turn slowly in the breeze.
“Oh you bastards,” he muttered. “Oh you fucking bastards.”
He touched Ruth’s face. His hand came away sticky and dripping.
He turned. Saw the bastards not far away, some sitting near fires, a few wandering about, one pair rutting in the dirt. He wanted to kill them, kill them all.
But not yet. First he would take Ruth away, and bury her.
Knife clamped in his teeth, he shinnied up one of the poles. The tripod wobbled. Ruth’s body swayed and turned. Her loose foot brushed across his back.
Lander slashed the cord that held her. She dropped. Her body thudded on the earth.
She groaned.
Lander let himself fall. “You’re alive!” he gasped.
“Lander?”
“Oh Jesus! Oh my God, you’re alive!”
Glancing around, he saw Krulls heading his way.
Three of them. Two males, one female. They approached Lander slowly, more with curiosity than alarm. All were armed: the woman and one man with knives, the other man with a hatchet. The weapons weren’t in their hands, though. The hatchet hung at the man’s side, the woman’s knife dangled in front of her bushy pubic mound, the other man’s knife was tucked into a belt at his waist.
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