Immediately there was a guttural growl that ascended into a high-pitched whining. Josh smelled gasoline. He already knew what the sound was, and his gut clenched. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Neanderthal standing there holding a whirring chainsaw that was streaked and clumped with dried gore.
“If you don’t beat the clock, friend Josh,” Lord Alvin said, leaning forward, “the lady and the child will join my mannequin collection. Their heads will, I mean.” He lifted a finger, and the chainsaw rattled to a halt.
“Heads will roll!” Imp jumped and grinned. “Heads will roll!”
“Of course,” the madman in the purple robe added, “if they kill you out there, it won’t matter very much, will it? We’d have to find a big body to go along with your head, wouldn’t we? Well? Are we ready?”
“Ready!” Imp shouted.
“Ready!” the black-bearded brute said.
“Ready!” the others hollered, dancing and capering. “Reaaaady!”
Lord Alvin reached over and took the dowsing rod from Imp. He tossed it to the floor about three feet away. “Cross that line, friend Josh, and you shall know wonders.”
He’ll kill us anyway, Josh knew. But he had no choice; his eyes met Swan’s. She stared at him calmly and resolutely, and she tried to send the thought “I believe in you” to him. He gritted his teeth. Protect the child. Yeah! I’ve done a damned fine job, haven’t I?
The black-bearded man and another of the lunatics hauled Josh to his feet.
“Kick ass,” Leona whispered, the pain in her skull all but blinding her.
Josh was half carried, half dragged out of the pet department, through the housewares, the sporting goods, and then out along the center aisle to the row of cash registers at the front. A third man was waiting, armed with a double-barreled shotgun and a ring of keys dangling from his belt. Josh was thrown to the floor, the breath whistling between his teeth, “Legs,” he heard the bearded man say, and the one with the keys bent down to unsnap the padlocks.
Josh was aware of a steady roaring noise, and he looked at the windows. A torrential rain was falling, some of it sweeping in through the broken glass. There was no sign of the horse, and Josh hoped it would find a dry place to die in. God help us all! he thought. Though he hadn’t seen any of the other maniacs when he was being brought to the front, he knew they were out there in the store—hiding, waiting, getting ready for the game to begin.
Protect the child. The rasping voice that had come from PawPaw’s throat was fresh in his mind. Protect the child. He had to get across that line in five minutes, no matter what the crazy shitters threw at him. He would have to use all the moves he remembered from his football days, have to make those rusty knees young again. Oh, Lord, he prayed, if You ever smiled on a dumb fool, show those pearly whites right now!
The last padlock was unsnapped, and the chains were removed from Josh’s legs. He was pulled to his feet, his wrists still shackled tightly together, the chain curled around his forearms and hands as well. He could open and close iris left hand, but the right was balled shut and immobile. He looked toward the rear of the K-Mart, and his heart lurched; the damned place seemed as long as ten football fields.
In the pet department, Swan had laid her head on Leona’s shoulder. The woman was breathing erratically, fighting to keep her eyes open. Swan knew Josh was going to do all he could to reach them, but she knew also that he might fail. Lord Alvin was smiling at her beatifically, like a saint’s smile on a stained-glass window. He regarded the watches on his wrist, then pointed the electric bullhorn toward the front and blared, “Let the Straitjacket game start… now! Five minutes, friend Josh!”
Swan flinched and waited for what would be.
Forty-two
The straitjacket game
Josh jumped at the sound of the bullhorn. Before he could take one stride forward, an arm clamped around his neck from behind and started squeezing. It was old Blackbeard, he realized. Bastard’s trying to nail me right off!
Instinctively, Josh threw his head backward in what was known as a “Reverse Coconut Butt” in the ring—but this time he let it go full-throttle. His skull smacked into Blackbeard’s forehead, and suddenly the restraining arm was gone. Josh spun around to finish the job and found Blackbeard sitting on his ass, his eyes glazed and his forehead already purpling. The other lunatic swung the shotgun up. “Go,” he ordered, and he grinned with green teeth.
Josh had no time to waste; he turned and started running full-bore along the center aisle.
He’d taken six long strides when a baseball bat swung out along the floor and clipped his right ankle. He fell, hit the floor on his belly and slid another eight feet across the linoleum. Instantly he twisted to face his attacker, who’d been hiding behind a counter of socks and underwear. The man, who wore a red football helmet, rose up and rushed Josh, swinging the bat for a game-ending home run.
Josh drew his knees to his chest, kicked out and up and caught the maniac right in the stomach with both feet, lifting him about four feet in the air. The man came down on his tailbone, and Josh scrambled up to kick him in the groin as if he were making a fifty-yard field goal. As the man contorted into a shivering ball, Josh got his left hand around the bat and snatched it up; he worked his grip down to the handle, and though he had no real leverage, at least he had a weapon. He turned to continue along the aisle—and faced a skinny dude with an axe and another bastard with a blue-painted face who was carrying a sledgehammer.
No way! Josh thought, and he darted along one of the other aisles, intending to swing toward the pet department from a different angle. He skidded into a female mannequin, and the brown-haired head tumbled off the shoulders to the floor.
“Four minutes, friend Josh!” Lord Alvin’s voice announced.
A figure with an upraised butcher knife burst from amid a rack of dresses in Josh’s path. Can’t stop! Josh knew, unable to lock his knees in time. Instead, he plowed forward, threw himself off his feet in a body block that slammed into the knife wielder and drove him into the dress rack, which collapsed around them. The man struck with the knife, missed, struck again and snagged the blade in fabric. Josh got astride his chest and brought the bat’s shaft down on the man’s skull—once, twice and a third time. The body quivered as if plugged into an electric socket.
A stabbing pain hit Josh in the neck. He looked around and saw a dungareed, leering maniac holding a fishing rod. The line was taut between them, and Josh knew there was a hook in his skin. The lunatic fisherman wrenched on the rod as if he were landing a prize marlin, and the hook ripped out of Josh’s neck. The rod was snapped again, the hook flashing toward Josh’s face, but he ducked it and scrabbled out of the dresses, regaining his feet and running for the pet department again.
“Three minutes left, friend Josh!”
No! Josh thought. No! The bastard was cheating! Another minute couldn’t have passed yet!
He sprinted past a well-dressed mannequin in the men’s department—but suddenly the mannequin came to life and leapt on his back, fingers clawing at his eyes. He kept running as the man held on, the jagged fingernails carving Josh’s cheeks, and ahead of him stood a lean, bare-chested black man with a screwdriver in one hand and a garbage can lid in the other.
Josh ran full steam at the waiting assassin, then abruptly stopped, sliding across the floor. He hunched over and spun his shoulders. The man on his back lost his grip and hurtled through the air, but Josh’s aim was off. Instead of crashing into the black man, as Josh had hoped, the well-dressed lunatic sailed over a counter full of summer shirts and hit the floor.
The black man attacked, moving like a panther. Josh swung the bat, but the garbage can lid was there to deflect it. The screwdriver drove in at Josh’s stomach; he twisted away, and the weapon grazed his ribs. They fought at close quarters, Josh desperately avoiding the thrusts of the screwdriver and trying vainly to get a good strike with his bat. As they grappled, Josh caught movement on both sides—more of the
m, coming in for the kill. He knew he was finished if he couldn’t get away from this crazy bro, because a husky man with garden shears was almost upon him. The black man’s teeth snapped at Josh’s cheek; Josh saw his opening and dropped to his knees, scooting between the man’s legs like a greased pig. When the bro whirled around, he was met by a blow that crumpled his face and knocked teeth through the air. He took two wobbly steps and fell like a tree.
Josh kept going, the breath wheezing in his lungs.
“Two minutes!” Lord Alvin crowed.
Faster! Josh urged himself. Faster, damn it! The pet department was still so far away, and the sonofabitch was rushing time! Protect the child! Got to protec—
A maniac with a white-powdered face rose up from behind a counter and slammed a tire iron across Josh’s left shoulder. Josh cried out in pain and tumbled into a display of Quaker State oil cans, agony shooting from his shoulder to his fingertips. He’d lost the baseball bat; it was rolling across the aisle, way out of reach. The white-faced madman attacked him, flailing wildly with the tire iron while Josh fought in a frenzy. The tire iron smashed down beside Josh’s head and burst one of the cans open, and then they were fighting like two animals, kill or be killed.
Josh caught the man in the ribs with a knee and drove him back, but he leapt in again. They rolled in motor oil across the floor, Josh’s opponent squirming like an eel. And then the man was up on his feet; he charged Josh, the tire iron upraised for a blow to the skull.
But his shoes slipped out from under him in the oil, and he crashed to the floor on his back. At once Josh got astride him, one knee trapping the tire iron and the other knee pressed to the man’s throat. He lifted both hands and heard himself bellow with fury as he brought the chain down, at the same time putting all his weight on the throat. He felt his knee break through something soft, and the scarlet imprint of the chain was left on the distorted face like a tattoo.
Josh struggled to his feet, his lungs heaving. His shoulder pounded with excruciating pain, but he couldn’t give in to it. Keep going! he told himself. Move, you fool! A hammer sailed past him, clattering into a display of hubcabs. He slipped, fell to his knees. Blood was in his mouth and crawling down his face, and the seconds were ticking. He thought of the roach on the barn floor, the survivor of insecticides and stomping boots and a nuclear holocaust. If such a thing as that had the will to live, then he damned well did, too.
Josh stood up. He ran along the aisle, saw three more figures coming toward him; he jumped over a counter into another aisle. A left turn, and a clear aisle lined with housewares, pots and pans stretched before him.
And way down at the end of it sat Lord Alvin, watching from his throne. On the wall behind him was the sign Pets. Josh could see the dwarf jumping up and down in the shopping cart, and Swan’s face was turned toward him. Crybaby lay so close, but so far away.
“One minute!” Lord Alvin announced through the bullhorn.
I’ve made it! Josh realized. Dear God, I’m almost there! It can’t be more than forty feet to the dowsing rod!
He started forward.
But he heard the low growl and the rising whine, and the Neanderthal with the chainsaw stepped into the aisle to block his way.
Josh stopped with a jolt. The Neanderthal, his bald head shining under the lights, smiled faintly and waited for him, the chainsaw’s teeth a blur of deadly metal.
Josh looked around for some other way to go. The housewares aisle was an unbroken sweep of kitchen items, glasses and crockery except for an aisle that turned to the right about ten feet away—and three maniacs guarded that portal, all armed with knives and garden tools. He turned to retrace his path, and about five yards away stood the madman with the fishing rod and the green-toothed lunatic with the shotgun. He saw more of them coming, taking positions to watch the finale of the Straitjacket game.
The ass is grass, Josh knew. But not just his—Swan and Leona were dead if he didn’t reach the finish line. There was no way except through the Neanderthal.
“Forty seconds, friend Josh!”
The Neanderthal swiped at the air with the chainsaw, daring Josh to come on.
Josh was almost used up. The Neanderthal handled that chainsaw with childish ease. Had they come all this way to die in a damned K-Mart full of escaped fruitcakes? Josh didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he just said, “Shit!” Well, he decided, if they were going to die, he was going to do his best to take the Neanderthal with him—and Josh stood to his full height, swelled out his chest and let loose a roaring laugh.
The Neanderthal grinned too.
“Thirty seconds,” Lord Alvin said.
Josh threw his head back, released a war whoop at the top of his lungs, and then he charged like a runaway Mack truck.
The Neanderthal stood his ground, braced his legs and swung the chainsaw.
But Josh suddenly juked back out of range, the chainsaw’s breeze brushing his face as it swept past. The other man’s rib cage was an open target, and before the Neanderthal could bring the chainsaw back around, Josh kicked those ribs like he was aiming at next week.
The man’s face scrunched up with pain, and he went back a few feet but did not go down. Then he was balanced again, and now he was rushing forward and the chainsaw was coming at Josh’s head.
Josh had no time to think, just to act. He flung his arms up in front of his face. The saw’s teeth hit the chains around his wrists, shooting sparks. The vibration sent Josh and the Neanderthal reeling in opposite directions, but still neither one fell.
“Twenty seconds!” the bullhorn blared.
Josh’s heart was hammering, but he was strangely calm. It was reach the finish line or not, and that was it. He crouched and warily advanced, hoping to trip the other man up somehow. And then the Neanderthal sprang forward, faster than Josh had expected the big man to move, and the chainsaw slashed at Josh’s skull; Josh started to leap back, but the chainsaw strike was a feint. The Neanderthal’s booted right foot came up and caught Josh in the stomach, knocking him along the aisle. He crashed into the counter of pots, pans and kitchen tools, clattering around him in a shower of metal. Roll! Josh screamed mentally, and as he whipped aside the Neanderthal brought the chainsaw down where he’d been lying, carving a foot-long trench across the floor.
Quickly, Josh twisted back to the other side and kicked upward, hitting his opponent just under the jawbone. The Neanderthal was lifted off his feet, and then he, too, crashed into the housewares display—but he kept tight hold of the saw and started getting to his feet as blood dribbled from both corners of his mouth.
The audience hooted and clapped.
“Ten seconds!”
Josh was on his knees before he realized what was scattered around him: not only pots and pans, but an array of carving knives. One with a blade about eight inches long lay right in front of him. He put his left hand around its grip and forced the fingers shut with sheer willpower, and the knife was his.
The Neanderthal, his eyes clouded with pain, spat out teeth and what might have been part of his tongue.
Josh was on his feet. “Come on!” he shouted, feinting with the knife. “Come on, you crazy asshole!”
The other man obliged him; he began stalking down the aisle toward Josh, sweeping the chainsaw back and forth in a deadly arc.
Josh kept moving backward. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, saw the mad fisherman and the shotgun wielder about five feet behind him. In a fraction of a second, he realized that Green Teeth was holding his shotgun in a loose, casual grip. The ring of keys dangled at the man’s belt.
The Neanderthal was advancing steadily, and when he grinned blood drooled out.
“You’re going the wrong way, friend Josh!” Lord Alvin said. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Time’s up! Come on and take your pill!”
“Kiss my ass!” Josh shouted—and then he whirled around in a blur of motion and drove the blade up to the hilt in Green Teeth’s chest, just above the heart. As the madman�
�s mouth opened in a shriek, Josh clamped his left hand around the shotgun’s trigger guard, wrenching the weapon loose. The man fell to the floor in a spray of arterial blood.
The Neanderthal charged.
Josh turned in what seemed like nightmarish slow motion. He fought to hold the shotgun steady, trying to get his finger on the trigger. The Neanderthal was almost on him, and the saw was coming up for a vicious, sideswiping slash. Josh braced the butt of the shotgun against his chest, felt the awful breeze of the chainsaw. His finger found the trigger, and he squeezed.
The Neanderthal was within three feet, the chainsaw about to bite flesh.
But in the next instant a fist-sized hole opened in his stomach and half his back blew out. The force of the blast shook Josh and almost knocked the Neanderthal out of his boots. The chainsaw flashed past Josh’s face, its weight spinning the dead man like a top along the bloody-floored aisle.
“No fair!” Lord Alvin shouted, jumping up from his throne. “You didn’t play right!”
The corpse hit the floor, still gripping the chainsaw, and the metal teeth chewed a circle in the linoleum.
Josh saw Lord Alvin throw aside the bullhorn and reach into his robes; the madman’s hand emerged with an extra gleaming finger—a crescent-bladed hunting knife, like a miniature scythe. Lord Alvin turned upon Swan and Leona.
With the shotgun’s blast, the other psychos had fled for cover. Josh had one shell left, and he couldn’t afford to waste it. He sprinted forward, leaped over the jittering body, and barreled for the pet department, where Lord Alvin—his face contorted with a mixture of rage and what might have been pity—knelt before Swan and grasped the back of her neck with his free hand.
“Death! Death!” Imp shrieked.
Swan looked up into Lord Alvin’s face and knew she was about to die. Tears burned her eyes, but she lifted her chin defiantly.
“Time to go to sleep,” Lord Alvin whispered. He lifted the crescent blade.
1987 - Swan Song v4 Page 42