The Nightrunners - Joe R. Lansdale.wps

by phuc

  As he fell, his right hand dropped and his finger reflexively jerked the riot gun trigger, causing him to shoot off his own kneecap. It went rolling out down his pants leg like a runaway tire.

  The worst part about it, Larry thought, is I'm not dead yet.

  Brian remedied that. He bent over the cop, put the barrel to Larry's right eye and made pudding of it when he pulled the trigger on the .357.

  That finished, Brian crept toward the patrol car.

  Nothing happened.

  No one moved and no one took a shot at him.

  He looked inside the car. A cop lay against the dash. His head had been turned to grease and gristle.

  Brian bent, looked beneath the car. There were no ankles or squatting knees to shoot at.

  Creeping to the front of the patrol car, he eyeballed around the edge of. the hood.

  No one was there. That was all for the law.

  He began to trot down the lengthy drive toward the cabin. He didn't bother with Stone. He had seen the patrolman fire and he had seen Stone's neck go to pieces. Even a snake dies without a head.

  ........

  Moses had eased back into the pines and made love to the shadows. From his hiding place, he heard Larry fire the riot gun, and from the same position, he saw Brian come out of the woods on his side and cross over to the other. Then he heard a pistol shot, the shotgun again, followed by another pistol shot. Then he saw the kid again, creeping around the patrol car, and finally back toward the cabin.

  He could have killed the kid when he first saw him, he had time, but he was deathly afraid he might miss, and he had a family, and some lost hunting dogs (Christ, he'd just left them running about loose) to worry about. If he had missed, the kid might not have.

  Then where would he be? Under some goddamn pine tree with his brains blown out, that's where.

  Besides, he was scared. So scared, he had shit his pants.

  ........

  When he heard the shotgun, Monty looked out the window and saw only the car lights.

  He ducked down, pulled the paneling back into place, and pushed the nails into their loose holes. It wasn't much, but it obscured outside vision, made them less of a target.

  He wondered about the shooting that followed the first shotgun blast, but didn't come up with any concrete ideas. Only one nebulous thought circled about in his head—

  the kids had reinforcements and were shooting wildly, blowing off steam before they blew off heads.

  He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

  If Monty had looked again, he would have seen Brian, running toward the house with the pistol, bounding like some sort of demon in the moonlight, the grotesque Halloween mask with the rubber knife in the skull flopping and wriggling like an absurd antenna.

  His hands were shaking, but Monty felt for the first time in his life as if he had balls. His father was wrong. He did have balls. He felt like letting out with some primeval war whoop at the thought of having done in the kid with the axe. It had been ugly and brutal, but he felt good about it and could not make himself feel any other way. He wished good old Billy Sylvester was here today. He'd make him eat a dog turd and smile while he ate it.

  He glanced at Becky. She had the gig cocked open and was holding it before her like a lance. For some ungodly reason passion pumped through him and he had an erection. It was the killing and the potential for violence that was doing it, causing him to become feverish with a strange kind of lust. Lost in his victory, Monty abruptly realized where he crouched. With the paneled window in front of him, his back was exposed to the unpaneled window behind him. Pimples of ice freckled the back of his neck, made the hair there go prickly.

  He looked behind him.

  No face was staring through the shattered window.

  He duckwalked over to Becky. "You all right?" he said, rising to touch her.

  "Did you kill him?"

  "Dead as he can get."

  "Good," she said softly. "How many more, you think?"

  "No way of knowing."

  "I love you," she said.

  "I love you too."

  "No matter what, I do. Remember that."

  "Never doubted it."

  ........

  Brian found Loony's body and he was very angry. Real angry. He told the giggling sonofabitch to stay put, so what had he done? Just the opposite.

  He kicked Loony in the ribs, and in an overwhelming flash of anger, lifted the pistol and shot Loony's corpse in the face—twice.

  Or rather Clyde did.

  Brian said, "Easy, Clyde, easy, man."

  Clyde said, panting, "I'm all right, all right. Just get that teacher cunt, let me have her. I want her heart."

  "I will. We will."

  ""You've been saying that, goddamnit!"

  "Now's the time."

  "Get the knife. Use the knife. I want it done with the knife. Cut her. Give her to the God of the Razor—rape her with his dick—the knife."

  Brian patted the scabbard knife in his waistband. "Right here, Clyde."

  "Now!" Clyde said.

  Inside, Monty and Becky heard voices. Two distinctly different voices. The crazy kid was at it again, talking for two. Maybe. Monty found that he was beginning to wonder.

  Monty moved to the kitchen, found a butcher knife. He could hear the voices outside.

  First one, then the other.

  Observing Becky out of the corner of his eye, he saw that each time the Clyde voice spoke, she tensed. He knew she was having a graphic instant replay of the rape in her head, and it made him crazy with anger and hate to realize it. He did nothing to control either emotion. He fertilized them, let them grow and blossom.

  The voices stopped.

  Monty and Becky held their breaths. For a brief moment the world seemed to swing back to normal. The cold night air eased through the broken window and smelled of the lake and the pines. They could hear the lake lapping at the shore, and somewhere, far away, a nightbird calling.

  Then came a sound at the front door, like something heavy falling. Monty had a feeling he knew what the sound was. The girl's body being pulled down.

  But why?

  The answer came immediately with a whacking sound.

  The kid had picked up the axe Monty had tossed at Loony, and he was playing Paul Bunyan with it on the door. He had moved the body so there would be room to swing it.

  The axe struck with a loud, hollow ring that turned into a squeak as it was withdrawn.

  Again and again. Bam! Squeak! Bam! Squeak!

  Clyde called with each blow, "Trick or treat, assholes. Trick or treat!"

  The axe rang one last note, flashed silver through a rent in the doorway, squeaked, and was gone.

  Silence.

  Becky gripped Monty's arm, and Monty gripped the butcher knife until his hand cramped.

  Without speaking, he moved away from her, across the room toward the door. He stopped by the boarded window, listened.

  Still nothing.

  He waited for the axe to start up again, realizing that it wouldn't take much more before the door went. Strips of it had fallen away, and Monty could see the night and the glow of the patrol car's lights through the rips.

  But the axe did not start up again.

  Then Monty had a horrid suspicion, and even as he was turning, what was left of the glass in the window across the way blew, and the kid came leaping in (slivers of glass clinging to his clothes, the axe gripped in both hands), and the force of the leap struck Monty and knocked him back, jarred the knife from his grasp and sent it sliding away into shadows.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Monty and Brian rolled across the floor, Monty struggling against the axe with both hands.

  Brian worked the weapon loose and slammed a short chop at Monty, but Monty jerked his head to the side, and instead of his face splitting wide open, it took off" half his left ear.

  Monty gripped the axe with one hand, pushed his other into Brian's face. His fingers slid up
under the mask and knocked it off.

  Brian twisted his head away from Monty's fingers just as Becky stepped out of the shadows, the frog gig cocked and raised.

  And Clyde's voice screamed, "I'll ram that goddamned thing all the way up your ass, bitch."

  The voice struck her like a blow, and she remembered it coming out of another face; remembered Clyde in her, his sex exploring her innards like an alien tentacle; the explosion of his seed inside her, the grunts of his savage pleasure as he finished.

  She threw the gig with all her might.

  Brian ducked.

  The gig scraped along his scalp, peeled a strip of hair and flesh away, clattered to the floor.

  At the same time, Monty hit Brian in the face with his free hand. It was a bad punch thrown from a bad angle, but combined with a twist of his body, he was able to roll out from under Brian and scramble away on his hands and knees.

  Brian tumbled to the floor, came up, went for Becky with the axe. He swung it and Becky jumped back. The axe came down on her foot, splitting through her shoe and into the flesh, between her big toe and the next.

  With a screech, Becky jerked her foot out of the shoe, and before Brian could swing again, Monty was up and rushing him.

  Brian heard him and turned. Monty grabbed the axe close to the head and tugged.

  Brian kicked Monty in the crotch and let go of the axe.

  Monty stumbled backward.

  Brian pulled the revolver from the waistband of his pants and fired twice.

  The slugs struck Monty in the hip, knocked him against the wall. He slid to the floor.

  Becky leaped on Brian's back, her fingers clawing at his face.

  He spun, trying to throw her off, but she clung tight, bent close and buried her teeth in his neck, tasting his blood. And it was sweet—sweet as revenge.

  And around and around they whirled, Brian trying to shake Becky, and she clinging to him with teeth and nails, legs locked around his waist.

  Brian ran backward, slammed her into the edge of the bar. But she still clung.

  He rammed backward again, and this time Becky felt a shock that ran the length of her spine. Her teeth came loose from his neck, her legs weakened, and when he bounced her against the bar a third time, she tumbled over it and onto the floor.

  Brian leaned over the bar, bringing his feet off the floor. He smiled, pointed the revolver at her and pulled the trigger. It clicked on an empty cylinder.

  Becky rolled to her feet, dashed for the stove and the pans of boiling water.

  Brian tossed the revolver aside, came after her, drawing the knife from its scabbard.

  Grabbing one of the pots, Becky whipped it around and splashed the boiling water into his face. The pot handle burned her hand so fiercely it tore flesh from her palm when she let it go.

  Brian howled, dropped the knife and grabbed his face.

  Becky ran at him, hit him in the chest with both palms, rushed past him.

  Brian stumbled, went down on one knee.

  Becky grabbed the gig from the floor, cocked it and turned.

  Brian was up now, holding the knife. There were golf-ball-sized patches of puss on the right side of his face, and his right eye looked as white as a marshmallow; she had scalded it to blindness.

  For a moment they stood frozen, then Brian gave it up, bolted for the window, put one foot outside and was pulling the other over when Becky jammed the gig beneath his buttocks, into his scrotum and pulled the trigger.

  The sound of his scream echoed across the lake, and he fell violently out of the window, pulling the gig from her grasp.

  Cautiously, Becky inched forward, looked over the sill. Brian lay on his stomach.

  He had twisted around so that his side was against the wall beneath the window. A pool of blood was fanning out from beneath him. His knife lay a yard away, shining in the moonlight.

  I did it, she thought. I did it!

  Exhaustion overcame her, and she leaned forward, weakly resting her hands on the windowsill.

  And in one quick motion, Brian twisted and grabbed her, clenched her hand so hard a bone snapped in it.

  Becky yelled and tried to pull free, but couldn't. Brian clung to her with one hand, and with the other he held the sill. He began to pull himself up, the mined face coming into view.

  Becky saw a long fragment of broken glass sticking out of what remained of the frame. She used her free hand to grab it, pull it out. Blood squirted from her palm, but she clenched her teeth against the pain and drove the glass into the back of Brian's clutching hand.

  Brian let go with a jerk, taking the glass with him.

  Becky stepped back from the window just as Brian made it to his feet. He held his hand in front of him, looking at the glass sticking out of it. He didn't pull it out. He dropped his hands by his side and looked at her.

  But he did not come for her. He staggered back, turned, started walking away, the gig dragging between his legs.

  He fell to his knees suddenly and stayed propped there for a moment. Then he fell to his stomach and began to crawl.

  Brian said, "I hurt . . . Hurt something awful." He began to crawl in a tight circle, like a dog that had been fed broken glass.

  Clyde's voice: "You dumbfuckingasshole . . . you stupidsonofabitch."

  ". . . for you, Clyde . . . tried for you . . ."

  "You did one peachy job . . . the cunt gets away. Hear me! Gets away."

  ". . . sorry ... so sor—God, it hurts, hurts something awful ... so bad . . ."

  "You're going to ride the blade . . . ride it, you sonofabitch . . ."

  "... I know ... I know . . . but you'll be there . . . where I can see you. Clyde, answer me . . .answer . . . me."

  ". . . Yeah . . ."

  ". . . you'll be there ... to see me?"

  "I'll be there ... we both get the blade now, you . . . sonofabitch ..."

  "I ... I was never a Superman . . . like you, Clyde."

  ". . . tell me what I don't know . . ."

  "... I ... I love you . . . Clyde."

  ", . . you too . . . you dumbfuckingsonofa . . ,"

  Brian lay still now, curled in a fetal ball, the gig poking out from between his legs obscenely.

  Becky rested her injured hands on the window-sill, leaned way out, yelled, hoping he would live just long enough to hear: "Trick or treat, you motherfucker?"

  TWENTY-TWO

  Becky went over to Monty, crying. She knelt by him. He did not turn his head to took at her.

  "Monty?" she asked softly.

  He did not answer, just looked straight ahead. She pushed the hair off his forehead.

  "Monty?"

  "I'm here," he said softly.

  She bent, touched her lips to his. "Bad? Are you real bad?"

  "Right arm is broken. Think I did it when I got slammed against the wall. Think one of the bullets kind of bounced around inside me, went down into my leg. I don't feel so good from the waist down. Can't feel much."

  "Oh, Monty."

  "Don't worry, baby. I'm not going to die. I hurt so good, so goddamned good. Like maybe I've seen heaven on the other side . . . and you know what, Beck?"

  "No, Monty, what?"

  "God carries the biggest damn club you've ever seen."

  It made no sense to her, and she didn't try to fathom it. "Monty, I'm going to make you comfortable and go for help . . . Hear me, baby?"

  But her voice was lost on Monty. He had made himself a dream. And in this dream was Billy Sylvester, and he had Billy Sylvester down, and he had his knee on the little shit's chest, and he had a candy wrapper with the biggest, greasiest, nastiest, stinkingest dog turd this side of a garbage-eating Saint Bernard's ass, and he was forcing it down Sylvester's throat, and he and his little brother, Jack, were laughing like lunatics, laughing so hard their voice? bounced off the face of the moon . . .

  ........

  After she made him comfortable, she walked out of there in search of help. But a patrol car met her bef
ore she had gone too far. They put her in back with a man who smelled of shitty pants, and he said he had been around when the shooting started, and he had run to a cabin five miles away and called some law.

  Becky leaned back in the seat and wondered how it would be now for Monty and her. She felt oddly certain there would be no more images and black dreams living in her head.

  But how would they see the world now? They had been over on the dark side and tasted a moment without rules and logic; and once those rules had been broken, shattered like wine crystal, she wondered if those pieces could ever be gathered and properly glued again.

  She could only hope, and the ability to do that, to hope, meant everything to her.

  EPILOGUE

  After Monty and Becky had been driven away and the bodies had been hauled off, a small devil duster kicked up where Brian had lain, twisted, gained velocity. It whipped around the cabin and howled like a mad little boy, rattled the glass in the windows, then it moved toward the lake where it finally played out over the water, leaving only a ripple to show its passing. And the ripple only lasted a moment, then the lake was dark and quiet and still.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE:

  PART TWO:

  PART THREE:

  EPILOGUE