‘The keys!’ Wesley blurted. ‘He got the keys!’
‘I got ’em,‘ Thelma said.
‘You sure?’
I switched the razor to my left hand, reached up with my right, grabbed the banister, and pulled.
‘Right in my hand,’ Thelma said. ‘He had ’em, but I got ‘em away from him.’
On my feet, I looked back toward the doorway. Thank God Wesley and Thelma had decided to have a discussion instead of a hot pursuit.
‘Good going,’ Wesley said. ‘Here, give them to me.’
The way they were thumping around in the room as they talked, I figured they must be grabbing stuff. Not just the keys, either. Weapons, more than likely.
What if they’ve got flashlights?
I took a step down. My feet skidded on the wet stair. I might’ve fallen again, but I kept a good grip on the banister. In the meantime, I was still going. You can’t just shut things down at the drop of a hat, not if you’ve been holding it a while, and especially if you’re scared. Anyway, I’d probably only been at it for half a minute or less even though it seemed like ages.
Somewhere along the way, my tool had gotten out of alignment with my open fly. Which meant I’d been splattering the insides of my own shorts. A lot came back at me, the rebound drenching my groin and spilling down my legs and soaking my socks.
‘Come on, come on,’ Wesley said.
‘You ready?’
‘Yeah. Here, take these.’
I hobbled down the slippery stairs, my sneakers squelching.
From above and behind me came the thuds of quick footfalls.
I tried to move faster.
I wished I could see where I was going.
Suddenly, I could.
They’d turned on the lights!
The mansion had its power on, after all.
I suddenly missed the darkness. The darkness seemed like an old friend that used to hide me in its closet.
Now I was out in plain sight.
But at least I could see, and move faster.
I was about three steps up from the bottom of the stairway. I leaped. The book bag sort of lifted off my back. A second after I landed on the floor, the pack swung down and gave me an extra shove. As I stumbled, a spear shot by. (Connie’s special fishing spear with the carved barbs.) It missed me by inches. It clattered and skidded on the hardwood, and went scooting down the hallway.
I thought about chasing after it.
Which would mean leaving the stairs behind.
Which would mean a fight, not an escape.
Two against one.
The spear wasn’t worth it.
From the sound of things, Wesley and Thelma were already rushing down the stairs.
Not daring to look up at them, I made my turn-around and lunged for the next stairway. About to start my race down, I heard someone cry, ‘Yeeee!’ Then came some quick thuds.
I looked.
Wesley seemed to be poised on top of his head, about halfway from the bottom of the stairs. He was barefoot, bare-ass, bare everything. Except for the soiled white squares patching his boob and butt, all he wore was a belt around his waist.
I glimpsed an empty leather sheath at one hip as his legs and rump slammed down. The hunting knife was in his hand. He held on to it all the way as he somersaulted and crashed down the rest of the stairs.
He came to a stop on his back.
He was all sprawled out.
He looked unconscious or dead.
Up near the top of the stairway, he must’ve slipped on my pee.
And now he was out of the picture.
Now there was only Thelma ...
Maybe she’ll fall, too.
She came sliding down the banister like a demented swashbuckler - legs wide apart, rail squeaking between her buttocks, a strange and terrible grin on her face, both arms raised, a machete in each hand.
She didn’t seem worried about the wooden knob atop the newel post at the bottom of her banister.
I was tempted to stick around and watch, but didn’t dare.
I turned away and started leaping down the stairs toward the mansion’s ground floor.
Somehow, Thelma dealt with the newel post. I heard thumps, but no outcry. Seconds later, I looked over my shoulder just in time to see her start down my stairway. This time, not sliding on the banister.
Pounding her way down the middle of the stairs, machetes waving above her, sweat (and maybe some of my urine) flying off her hair and skin, jowls and arms and thighs shaking, her enormous breasts hopping up and down, swinging every which way.
Each heavy step sounded like a battering ram trying to demolish the stairway. I felt the tremors through my own feet as I raced for the bottom. I also felt air coming in through my fly, and realized I’d finally run out of piss.
About four steps from the bottom, I jumped.
I landed on both feet. The book bag whapped my back. I plunged across the foyer, staggering more than running toward the front door. The razor would do me no good - not against Thelma’s machetes. Afraid of hurting myself with it, I whipped its blade shut on my way to the door.
I put on the brakes. Skidded. Not able to stop in time, I twisted sideways and slammed against the door. As I reached for the handle, I glanced back.
Thelma, chugging her way down, had about three steps to go.
I lurched backward, jerking the door open.
The veranda was brightly lit by a couple of spotlights on the front lawn. It surprised me. I wished they’d been off. Wesley or Thelma must’ve activated them, somehow, the better to chase me down.
It worked both ways, though. I could see better, too.
On my way out the door, something struck me in the back. It felt like a fist slugging my book bag. A punch, but no real pain.
The moment I got outside, I dodged to the right. As I raced for the end of the veranda, I took a quick look over my shoulder.
Thelma didn’t slow down enough. After charging onto the veranda, her momentum swung her out wide. Yelling ‘Wahhh!’, she crashed a shoulder against a front column. The blow knocked her to a quick halt. The way her tits swung, I half thought they might fly off and land in the front yard. But they stayed attached and rebounded as she bounced off the column. She couldn’t stay on her feet after that.
I watched her crash onto the floor of the veranda.
She hit it hard with her right side.
I quit running as she skidded and rolled onto her back. By then, however, I had almost reached the railing at the end of the veranda. A fine distance for my escape. But a bad distance for any hope of rushing back and jumping Thelma; she would have plenty of time to recover and get up.
Even as I watched, she rolled off her back and raised her head and met my eyes.
She had a machete in her left hand. Her right hand was empty.
She started to push herself up.
I suddenly spotted her other machete. It lay on the veranda floor about midway between us.
How had it gotten there?
I remembered the blow to my back.
But that had happened while I was still in the doorway.
My guess (later confirmed by gashes in my book bag and journal) is that Thelma had thrown the machete at me. It must’ve penetrated my book bag and had probably been sticking out for a few seconds while I dashed along the veranda. Then, shaking loose, it had fallen to the floor.
Thelma saw me looking at it.
She glanced at it.
We looked at each other.
I suddenly felt as if I’d become the star of a Sergio Leone film. We’re just waiting for the music to stop. That’ll be the signal. With the final note, we both break into mad dashes for the machete - in slow motion.
But there was no music.
This was no film.
Neither of us waited.
There was no slow motion, either, but I can play it that way in my mind. When it happened, though, it happened fast.
As I sprinted f
or the weapon, Thelma scurried forward and onto her feet. She already had a machete. And she raised it high, ready to chop me.
I had the greater speed, though. My chances looked good for reaching the other machete first.
By maybe half a second.
Then I’d have to swoop down and snatch it off the floor and swing it up in time to stop Thelma from whacking my head off.
The distance between us closed fast.
She wasn’t even paying attention to the damn machete.
Her eyes were on me.
She knew she had me. I knew she had me.
This was just me. Rupert Conway, not Clint Eastwood or Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger or Mel Gibson. This was real life, not a scene in an action movie. These were real machetes.
I was about to get myself killed.
Thelma, threatening the veranda floor with each thundering stride, yelled ‘Yahhhh!’
I yelled, ‘No!’ and swerved away from our collision course and dived over the white-painted railing. I smashed through some bushes. They scratched me, but broke my fall.
Thelma didn’t leap the railing. She must’ve gone ahead to the second machete, picked it up, then run back to the veranda stairs.
Which gave me a little time.
I used the time to pocket the razor, shuck off my book bag, stuff the bag under the bushes for safe keeping, scramble to my feet and get a start on my dash for the comer of the house.
When I looked back, Thelma was charging down the veranda stairs. She turned toward me and broke into a run, pumping her two machetes.
Now that we were out in the open, I figured she didn’t stand a chance of catching me.
Not unless I fell down and broke my leg, or something.
I’d never broken a leg in my life, so it didn’t seem likely to happen tonight.
After turning the corner of the house, I slowed down a little. No point in wearing myself out. Anyway, I needed to think.
For a while there, my survival had looked iffy.
Now that I’d gotten out of the mansion alive, I had to make up my mind about what to do next.
I wanted the keys to the gorilla cages.
They were probably still inside the house.
I could hardly go after them with Thelma on my tail.
Wesley might not remain out of action for long. It had looked like a very nasty fall, though. It could’ve put him out of commission for hours, or days, or for ever.
So Thelma seemed to be my main problem. Sure, I could outrun her. I could hide, or run circles around her. But I didn’t want to fight her. Not while she had those machetes.
They were my real problem.
She had to be disarmed.
Bet she can’t swim with them, I thought.
The lagoon crossed my mind, but I rejected it. For one thing, how do you get there from here? For another, the ocean was dead ahead.
Swim out to the boat, I thought.
I remembered the two dinghies tied at the dock.
Can’t leave either of them behind.
Dealing with them would take a while.
Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t slowed down. I poured it on and sprinted at top speed for the shore.
How The Chase Ends
If I’d had another ten seconds, maybe I would’ve had time to slice through the mooring line of the second dinghy. As it was, I only cut through one.
My plan, formed as I dashed for the cove, had been to cut both the dinghies loose, hop into one, and tow the second away from the dock. Which would force Thelma to swim after me, leaving her machetes behind.
Probably not such a terrific plan, anyway.
But I didn’t get a chance to find out, because Thelma came pounding onto the dock before I even had a chance to start cutting the second rope.
I dropped the line of the first dinghy, sprang up and ran like hell for the end of the dock.
My sneakers clumped on the planks. Thelma, barefoot, slapped and thudded after me, wheezing for breath.
Again, she didn’t stand a chance of catching up.
On my way to the end of the dock, I flipped the razor shut and dropped it into my pocket.
I raced to the very edge, then dived.
My dive carried me way out over the water. I hit the surface flat out with a whop that hurt. Then the water shut down on top of me. I stayed under and kicked hard, trying to pick up speed.
No big splashing sound came from behind me. I kept waiting for it. My headstart hadn’t been much; Thelma should’ve already reached the end of the dock.
Obviously, she’d decided not to jump in.
Needing air anyway, I kicked to the surface. As I filled my lungs, I looked back.
I was closer to the dock than I’d expected or hoped. The shoes had probably slowed me down - as had my big, baggy shorts. Even though I wanted more distance between myself and Thelma, I began treading water.
The shoes made it tough, but I wasn’t about to kick them off and lose them. Pumping my feet as if I were racing a bicycle, I managed to keep my head above the surface.
Thelma, pale in the moonlight, was stepping down into the first dinghy. She held her arms out for balance. Beyond her hands, the blades of her machetes gleamed like silver.
She set the weapons down inside the boat. Then she bent over the outboard motor.
For a few seconds, I could only see her rump and the backs of her thighs. Then the drifting dinghy gave me a side view. Thelma had already planted one hand against the motor’s cowl. With the other, she jerked its starter cord. Her breasts swung like crazy. The motor coughed but didn’t start. She gave the cord another pull. The motor sputtered and caught.
Next thing I knew, she was sitting down and steering the boat in my direction.
I started swimming like mad for the cabin cruiser.
In this race, Thelma had the advantage. The dinghy was no speed-demon, but it moved faster than I could swim.
I had a fair headstart.
Not good enough, though. At the rate Thelma was coming, she’d overtake me long before I’d reach the cruiser.
I swam as fast as I could, and didn’t look back. The growing noise of the motor told me all I needed to know.
From the sound of things, Thelma was straight behind me, coming on, probably planning to run me over and chop me with her propeller blades.
I caught a deep breath and plunged for the bottom.
The motor sounded like a tinny, grumbling buzz as the dinghy passed over me. Abruptly, the pitch lowered. My guess, Thelma’d throttled down.
The noise faded, then swelled.
Thelma had turned around.
She’s going to stay up there, I realized. Circle and wait me out. Knows I can’t stay down forever. When I come up for air, she’ll try to nail me.
Rolling onto my back, I looked up and saw the moonlight shining on the water. I also saw the dark underbelly of the dinghy. It glided over the surface like a shadow.
I had a shark‘s-eye view of the dinghy.
Inside my head, I started hearing the theme music from Jaws.
If I were a Great White, I could shoot straight up and ram the dinghy hard enough to capsize it. In the water, Thelma’d be at my mercy.
Ramming the dinghy wasn’t likely to work, though, me being a little guy and having nothing to push off against. If I shot up like that, playing shark, I might rock the dinghy a little bit. Mostly, though, I’d simply end up shoving myself downward off its hull.
While I considered these things, the boat slowly circled above me. And my lungs began to burn from holding air too long.
Getting some fresh air shouldn’t be terribly difficult. I could probably surface a safe distance from the dinghy, grab a breath, and have enough time to submerge before Thelma could reach me. Just a matter of picking the right moment to pop up. And being quick about it.
A fresh breath would give me extra time, but it wouldn’t solve my main problem.
If I could keep going up and snatching breaths ...<
br />
Doing that, I might swim all the way to the cruiser. Or back to the dock.
What would that accomplish? She’d be right there, ready to chop me.
Sooner or later, she’ll run out of gas.
At first, the idea thrilled me.
No gas, no motor. The dinghy would be useless to her. She’d end up drifting around aimlessly. She’d either have to sit there and hope for the best, or start swimming.
Perfect!
But I had no idea how empty her tank might be. For all I knew, the gas might last for an hour.
An hour of me bursting to the surface, every minute or two? No way. I might be able to pull off a stunt like that three or four times, but then she’d catch on. I wouldn’t last ten minutes.
Unless the dinghy was already running on fumes ...
Not much chance of that.
But maybe I could think of a way to kill her motor. Something that didn’t involve an endless wait.
By the time I’d gotten that far with my thoughts, my lungs ached so much that I could no longer think straight. I looked for the dinghy.
Damn!
It had just reached the far curve of its circle - as far away as it was likely to get. With each passing moment, now, it would be moving closer to me.
I rushed for the surface, jabbing my arms up, kicking hard. I went up so fast that I almost lost my shorts. I felt them slipping, but didn’t dare make a grab for them.
When they were down around my thighs, I remembered the razor in my pocket.
If I lost the shorts, I’d lose the razor.
So I reached down, grabbed the waist with one hand and held on. An instant later, I burst up out of the water. I gasped for air. With both hands, I pulled up my shorts.
The‘ma’s head suddenly jerked sideways. She’d spotted me. She shoved the steering arm. The bow swung sharply and pointed at me. The motor noise swelled to a roar.
I dived.
A near miss. I felt the shivering water of the prop-wash against my back.
That’d be one way to stop the motor, I thought. Let it hit me.
Which probably would stop it. But the price seemed a bit steep.
During family vacation as a kid, I’d spent enough time in outboard motor boats to have them quit on me any number of times. Not always because of a fuel problem. If the prop hit a large rock... got tangled with weeds.
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