Island

by Richard Laymon

  As she leaped along, she ranted. ‘See what you get? Huh? This is what happens, Rupie. This is what you get. You were mine. Mine! You blew it. Blew it big-time, boy. Now you’re gonna pay. You’re fucked. Big-time. Wesley’s gonna ream ...’

  She ran out of cage. One moment she was springing along beside me, the next she wasn’t. I heard the bars ring from the impact. She let out a grunt, sounding surprised and hurt.

  I looked back and saw her prancing away from the bars as if she’d been hurled back by a giant, invisible spring. Then she slammed down on the floor of her cage.

  She sounded like a slab of steak tossed onto a counter top.

  Which made me realize the floor of her cage must be concrete. Until that moment, I hadn’t given any real thought to the subject. I’d just assumed the gals must have earth and bars under their feet.

  Not that it seemed to matter, either way.

  Concrete was probably better when the cages needed cleaning. It would hurt you more, however, if you fell on it.

  Connie appeared to be sprawled on her back. She wasn’t trying to get up.

  Had she knocked herself out?

  I really didn’t care, except to be glad that she, at least, might not be causing me any more trouble for a while.

  God knows, she’d already caused enough.

  After her crash, I slowed down but kept moving. For a couple of moments, I forgot about Wesley.

  Then he called, ‘There you are!’

  I turned toward the sound of his voice.

  And there he was. Standing on top of Billie’s cage—legs spread, a blazing torch raised in his right hand, his left hand propped on his hip. In the firelight, his body gleamed like gold. A golden statue. Hercules gone to flab.

  He’d lost the chest bandage; maybe in his fall down the stairs. The fall must’ve opened his wound, too. The split across the front of his left boob looked like a grim mouth, puffy-lipped and dribbling blood as if it had recently caught a fist. It made thin, dark streamers down his chest and belly, down to his leather belt. A few strands of blood had worked their way down his left thigh.

  The wound obviously didn’t bother him much. Neither did I. He was getting a charge out of the whole situation. Two things gave it away: his grin and his hard-on.

  ‘Step right this way, little buddy,’ he called to me.

  As I walked toward him, I saw that Connie still lay sprawled on the bottom of her cage.

  Knocked out or faking? I wondered.

  Hope she split her head open, I thought.

  The next cage over, Kimberly stood at her bars, watching me. Her raised hands clutched the bars to either side of her head. She didn’t try to cover herself. Maybe she thought I couldn’t really see her. I could, though. She was much closer to the torch than Connie. The air in which she stood seemed to be tinted with its dim, hazy glow. She looked almost distinct, but veiled. As if draped with a shroud of wispy black fabric that revealed her, but cloaked her with darkness.

  I could actually recognize her face. I could see the entire front of her body - ribcage and breasts, the dark coins of her nipples, all the long slender way down past the dot of her navel, the hollows slanting down and inward from her hips to the smooth mound between the tops of her legs, and then her legs, parted and slim and sturdy. All visible, but darkly veiled.

  All wounded. In spite of the murky light, I saw dark places where her skin should’ve been unblemished. I saw smudges, stains, patterns of narrow marks and stripes.

  My throat turned thick and tight because of how she’d been hurt. I felt my eyes sting. At the same time, heat surged through me. It made me feel ashamed, but I couldn’t help it.

  ‘Don’t let him get you,’ Kimberly said as I walked by, staring at her. ‘If he gets you ...’

  ‘Shut up, down there!’ Wesley called.

  ‘... he gets you, we’re all sunk.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Kill him, Rupert.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘One more word and momma-bear’s going up in flames!’

  Kimberly’s right hand slipped sideways between the bars. She raised two fingers.

  I don’t think she meant it to be the peace sign from the bygone days of the hippies.

  I think she meant it to be Winston Churchill’s V.

  Hell, I know that’s what it was. A Navy brat like her, Andrew’s daughter, descended from a Sioux warrior, tough and proud.

  V for Victory.

  ‘Keep coming,’ Wesley told me.

  I gave Kimberly a nod, and walked on past the end of her cage. Up top, a ladder crossed the open space between her cage and Billie’s. Just as the twins had said.

  The ladder was extended to a length of about fifteen feet. Five or six feet at its middle bridged the gap. The rest of it overlapped the tops of the cages, maybe five feet on each side.

  Wesley was standing away from the ladder, more toward the middle of Billie’s cage. Near his feet, I saw the gasoline can and a cardboard box.

  The box that held his ‘bombardier’ goodies.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Stop right there.’

  I stopped.

  Billie stood almost directly beneath him, well-lit by his torch. The light wavered and shimmied on her body as if she was underwater. Her skin, copper in the shifting glow, gleamed with wetness.

  The gasoline.

  Her short hair was drenched, matted to her skull in tight golden coils.

  Again, the gasoline.

  And gasoline darkened the concrete under her bare feet. It had spread out around her, forming a shallow and lopsided puddle in the middle of her cage.

  When I looked up from the puddle, she gave me a shrug.

  Like a little girl who’d peed on the floor, couldn’t help it, and was left embarrassed and resigned.

  Why was she standing in the middle of the gas?

  Wesley’s orders, I supposed.

  He must’ve commanded her to stand still while he poured the gasoline onto her head, while it ran down her body and made the puddle. Then he’d ordered her to remain standing in the same place.

  Move a muscle, and I’ll torch you.

  And I had no bucket of water for her. Because I’d stayed too long with Erin and Alice, because of Erin’s hand on my leg.

  And because of Connie’s roaring jealousy.

  I should’ve had the water for Billie.

  Her toilet bucket was off in a rear comer of her cage, upside-down. Apparently, she’d been using it as a seat. Obviously, it had nothing in it.

  She’s gonna burn!

  I could think of only one way to save her: stop Wesley from setting the gas on fire.

  ‘Look at you, look at you,’ he said. ‘You’ve gone quite native.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My first order of business is to neutralize you, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ll do anything you say,’ I told him.

  ‘Excellent. Drop your weapons.’

  ‘Don’t,‘ Billie said, her voice firm and clear. ’You’re the only chance we’ve got.‘

  ‘Shut up, Billie darling.’

  ‘He’ll burn you,’ I said.

  ‘Let him.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  Above her, Wesley bent over. He reached into the cardboard box with his left hand, and came up with a paperback book. He lifted it by a comer of its front cover, so that the book hung open. Then he lowered the torch and held its flame beneath the pages.

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  Fire crawled up the book.

  ‘Don’t do it!’

  I threw down my spear and machete.

  Wesley tossed the book underhand. It tumbled through the night, blazing. And dropped onto the grass near my feet.

  ‘That was sure a close call,’ he announced.

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ I said, stomping out the flames.

  ‘Oooo, such language! You’ve been listening to Connie. A very bad influence, that girl.’

  ‘What do y
ou want?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me see. What do I want? I want you to step into your new accommodation, over there.’ Swinging his torch, he pointed out the empty cage beside Billie’s cage. ‘Step right in and shut the door.’

  With my first step in that direction, Billie gasped, ‘No! Rupert, you can’t honey. If he locks you up ...’

  ‘I’m not gonna let him burn you.’

  ‘Very wise, little buddy.’

  ‘You have to take him down,’ she said.

  ‘Shut up with that kind of talk, bitch! I’ll cook your cunt right now!’

  Ignoring him, staring me in the eyes, Billie said, ‘Kill Wesley. At least maybe you’ll be able to save the others. Let him burn me, but kill him.’

  ‘You asked for it!’ Wesley yelled. He bent down and reached into the cardboard box.

  ‘Wait!’ I blurted. ‘Wait a minute!’

  He looked at me.

  ‘If you burn her up, you won’t have her to mess with anymore.’

  He grinned. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘You get turned on by her pain, don’t you? If she’s dead, she won’t even feel what you do to her. She won’t flinch or cry out or bleed or anything. It won’t matter how hard you whip her, or ...’

  ‘Who needs her?’ Wesley asked. Even as he said it, though, he took his arm out of the box, no book in his hand, and stood up. ‘I’ve got all the rest of them. And there’ll be plenty more, once they start having babies for me.’ Grinning, he shook his head. ‘Good old Thelma, she always wanted babies. God save us all. Can you picture it?

  What if they came out looking like her? Who’d want ‘em? Wouldn’t be good for shit, girls ugly as that.’

  ‘Billie’ll have beautiful babies,’ I said. ‘Just look at Connie. That’s proof of how her babies will look. And you want to burn her up? Are you nuts?’

  ‘You’ve got a point there, little buddy. I tell you what, go on and step into that cage, and maybe we can give her a stay of execution.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Wait,’ Kimberly said. ‘What happened to Thelma? Where is she?’

  Wesley let out a harsh laugh. ‘Gosh! I forgot to ask! How’s my Thelma? I sure hope you didn’t hurt my dear, sweet little wife.’

  I looked over at Kimberly’s cage. She stood at its nearest comer, facing me. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I told her. ‘She was trying to kill me, and I ... I’m pretty sure she’s dead. She went down in the cove.’

  Kimberly was silent for a moment. Then she murmured, ‘It’s all right. I mean ...’

  ‘All right?’ Wesley blurted. ‘It’s fucking perfect! Thank you very much for ridding me of the ugly cow! She did have her uses, but... I do believe that we’re all much better off without her. My God, what a pig! Three cheers for Rupert! Hip hip hooray!’ On hooray, he thrust his torch high. ‘Hip hip ... hooray!’ Up went the torch. ‘Hip hip ... hooray!’ He rammed the torch at the sky.

  Then, laughing, he performed a weird little dance on top of Billie’s cage: stomping his feet on the bars, waving the torch, twisting and shaking, swinging his hips, thrusting with his pelvis. He probably would’ve jumped and twirled, but was afraid of stepping between the bars.

  I hoped for him to slip and fall. I even thought about snatching up the spear and making a try for him while he danced. But Billie would burn if anything happened to make him drop the torch.

  His wild gyrations sent sweat pouring down his body, flying off his hair and skin.

  ‘So long, Thelma!’ he yelled. ‘Nice knowing you! Nice, my ass! Ha hah!’

  Billie, looking straight up at him, suddenly blinked and ducked her head and rubbed her face.

  Then she began to dance.

  In silence, she swayed and turned, swung her shoulders, jumped from one foot to another.

  Wesley noticed. He quit dancing himself, and bent over. Huffing for breath, he looked down at Billie through the bars. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Dancing.’

  ‘Knock it off.’

  She didn’t stop. Though she remained in the center of her cage as if shackled there by Wesley’s threats, she hopped from foot to foot, waved her arms, bowed, twirled, shook and leaped.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to dance about,’ Wesley said.

  ‘Do, too,’ she called out.

  ‘Knock it off.’

  ‘It’s my rain dance!’ she shouted. ‘I’m calling up a storm!’

  And her dance suddenly broke into a savage frenzy. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. The way she leaped and writhed, she must’ve had manic drumbeats in her head.

  Instead of ordering her to halt, Wesley stared down at her, captivated by the view.

  I was captivated by the view.

  It wasn’t something you could look away from. Not if you were a guy.

  My God, it was like watching some sort of pagan ritual, the way she cavorted naked in the firelight, bowing and rising, spinning, whimpering and grunting with the effort, her feet splashing in the puddle of gas, her shiny buttocks flexing, her glossy breasts jumping and bouncing and swinging, her face agleam and streaming as if dipped in oil, sweat leaping like melted gold off her hair and nose and chin and nipples and fingertips, sweat spilling down her neck and chest and breasts, down her back and belly, her buttocks, her pubis, her legs, sliding down like golden run-off from a torrent of rain.

  A downpour.

  A squawl.

  It’s my rain dance! I’m calling up a storm!

  Spoken to Wesley.

  Meant for me.

  Dropping to a crouch, I grabbed the spear out of the grass. Wesley still stood atop the cage, bent over and watching Billie.

  He didn’t look at me as I straightened up, raised the spear above my shoulder and hurled it at him.

  Wesley’s Last Stand

  He still had his head down when the spear struck him. It caught him near the top of his left shoulder, punched him there but didn’t stick, bounced off the bone and leaped out of the thin covering of flesh, its other end whipping upward as if a pole-vaulter was taking off from his shoulder.

  He roared.

  The whole spear leaped off into the dark behind him. He raised his sweat-slick, dripping face. His eyes bulged. He bared his teeth at me.

  Straight below him, Billie had stopped dancing. She stood in the puddle of gas in the middle of her cage, her head tipped back. Her body gleamed and dripped as if she had just climbed out of a swimming pool. She whined with her struggle to breathe.

  ‘You dirty little fuck!’ Wesley shouted at me.

  And jammed the torch down between the bars at his feet and let it go.

  ‘No!’ I yelled.

  The torch fell.

  A moment later, it touched off the gasoline. The gas erupted with a heavy WHOP! like a mainsail snapped by the wind. The sudden brilliance hurt my eyes. As I squinted, a hot wind rolled against my body.

  Wesley had been right about needing sunglasses.

  The cage looked as if a bonfire had erupted in the middle of its concrete floor.

  I saw Billie in there. All firelit and bright and shiny, her back to me.

  Running. Leaping onto her upside-down bucket. Using it like a step for leaping again. High up at the far back comer of her cage, she caught hold and latched herself to the bars, curled tight with her knees up.

  Depending for her life on the sweat of her mad dance, sweat meant to sluice the gasoline off her skin and bathe her with saving moisture.

  I didn’t know if it would work.

  Afraid to see her burn, I turned my gaze to the top of the cage.

  Where flames leaped for Wesley.

  They wrapped the cardboard of his ‘bombardier’ box, licked the sides of his gasoline tin.

  With a squeal of alarm, he kicked the gas container and knocked it flying. The punt sent it well past the far side of Billie’s cage, sprinkling gas from its spout. It clamored against the empty cage that he’d intended as my cell.


  I looked back at Wesley to find him prancing across the bars like a ballerina as the flames tried to climb his legs. Just as he got away from them, he lost his footing. He crashed down belly-first on the ladder. It jumped and shuddered under him, raising a terrible racket.

  Before the ladder had a chance to settle down, he shoved himself to his hands and knees and started crawling across it.

  Away from the fire of his own making.

  A fire that had already fallen to half its size.

  But he didn’t know that. He wasn’t looking back. If he’d seen how the fire had diminished so abruptly, he probably wouldn’t have been so quick to flee.

  Billie still clung to the bars at the distant comer of her cage.

  She still had her hair.

  From shoulders to buttocks, her skin looked ruddy, shiny wet, uncharred.

  She’d made it!

  Now the job was to kill Wesley.

  I snatched up the machete and raced for him.

  Halfway across the gap, he saw me coming. He let out a yelp and crawled faster, the ladder shaking and clattering beneath him.

  I ran full-speed between the cages. With the ladder looming over me, Wesley almost to the other side, I leaped and reached high, slashing with my machete.

  Missed him, the ladder, everything.

  I’m not a tall guy. I must’ve missed the ladder by a foot.

  Gave him a good scare, though. He’d squealed when I swung at him. As I put on the brakes, the clamor of the ladder let me know he was scurrying like mad.

  The ladder noise suddenly stopped.

  I turned around in time to see Wesley look for me over his shoulder and try to stand up.

  He should’ve been watching his feet.

  The right one stepped down between two of the bars. He cried, ‘Yaaah!’ as his leg shot down. He flapped his arms. His other leg bent at the knee and scooted out from under him. His bare ass struck the bars.

  And there he sat, his right leg hanging down into Kimberly’s cage.

  He made whimpery, frightened sounds.

  Before he could even start to free himself, Kimberly jumped.