Flesh

by Richard Laymon

  Roland picked them up. They felt heavy.

  “Grade A tempered steel. The links’ll withstand a direct pull of twelve hundred pounds.”

  Nodding, Roland tugged the bracelets. The connecting chain snapped taut. “Fine,” he said. “How much are they?”

  “Twenty-four fifty. Interested in a case?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Anything else? We’ve got a sale on the Navy MK.3 Combat knife, regularly forty-nine ninety-five. A real beaut of a knife. Like to see one?”

  Roland shook his head. “No, this’ll do it.”

  “Cash or charge?”

  That was all there was to it. No embarrassing questions, no snide remarks. Relieved, Roland left the store with his purchase.

  And spotted Celia. Now, there was a gal he wouldn’t mind trying the handcuffs on. That other gal, too—the one in the jumpsuit. Looking at that one, he could see himself cuffing her hands behind her back and pulling down that zipper all the way past her waist.

  Oh, yes. Either one of those gals. Cuff them, and they’d be at his mercy.

  But he hadn’t bought the cuffs for that. He would never have the guts, anyway.

  I’m not crazy, he had told himself.

  He’d bought the handcuffs only because of the bet. With them, nothing could prevent him from winning, as long as the restaurant had a secure fixture to which he could fasten one bracelet. It was bound to.

  A door handle. A pipe. Something.

  A brilliant idea.

  Sitting in the darkness cuffed to the bar rail, however, Roland wasn’t quite so sure the idea was brilliant. What if something happened and he had to get out?

  Like a fire, for instance.

  Good thing he had blown out the candles.

  The place isn’t going to burn down, he told himself. Don’t worry about it.

  He couldn’t help worrying about it.

  Suppose Dana started the place on fire to drive him out so he’d lose the bet? No. She’s not that crazy. A little crazy. That time at the movies when he reached across to get the popcorn from Jason and accidentally brushed her breast with his arm, she’d dumped her drink on his lap. Once when they went to the drive-in, she made him get in the trunk of Jason’s car so he could sneak in without paying, then she had talked Jason into leaving him there for almost an hour.

  She really hates my guts, Roland thought. But she won’t burn the place down. That was too crazy even for Dana.

  Probably.

  What she might do is leave.

  No, she wants the Polaroids. She’ll come in for them.

  That doesn’t mean she’ll give me the key.

  When she finds me cuffed here, she might just take the photos and go. Or worse.

  Roland’s mouth went dry. A cold hand seemed to clutch his stomach.

  I’ll be at her mercy.

  Oh, shit what’ll she do to me?

  It wasn’t a question of whether Dana would do something to him—it was a question of what.

  You’ve got all night to wonder about that one.

  Why didn’t I think of that before I cuffed myself to this fucking rail?

  He jerked his left hand. The steel clattered and the edges of the cuff dug painfully into his wrist.

  A twelve-hundred-pound pull. That’s what the salesman said it would take to break the links.

  Roland felt along the floor at his side. He touched the flashlight, picked it up, and shined it at the card table. The bottles glinted in its beam. The key was up there, out of sight.

  The table was eight or ten feet to his left.

  With his cuffed left hand, he slid the bracelet along the rail. It made an awful, metallic scraping sound that sent a shiver through him. But it did move. Sliding it, he would be able to move sideways until he was close to the table. Then maybe he could hook a foot around one of the table legs and drag the thing over to him—and get the key.

  Worth a try, he thought.

  What about the bet?

  No problem.

  Roland grinned.

  Just let me get the handcuff key, I’ll stay. A cinch.

  A cinch because he realized that the restaurant no longer frightened him much. What really frightened him was knowing that Dana, at dawn, would come in and find him handcuffed.

  I’ll get that damned key, he told himself.

  He squirmed sideways off his sleeping bag, his back rubbing the smooth wood of the bar counter, his left hand scooting the cuff along the brass rail with that awful grating noise. A noise that made his teeth ache. A noise that tormented him like the scrape of fingernails down a blackboard.

  He stopped to rest.

  The silence was soothing.

  Just a little more distance to go, and…

  Roland heard a sound.

  It was a soft thump, such as a rope might make dropping from a height onto the hardwood floor.

  It came from…where?

  Off to the right.

  Roland’s flashlight was aimed in the general direction of the table. The bright center of the beam shook.

  He listened. He heard his heartbeat and the rain and nothing more.

  What could make a sound like that?

  A snake? A snake flopping off the bar?

  His skin suddenly crawled with goose bumps.

  How could a snake get in here?

  Hell, the place had been deserted for years. Maybe it fucking lives here.

  Or Dana snuck it in. She might do that. Pick one up at a pet shop.

  The bitch.

  Dana bought a snake to scare him out, and Roland bought cuffs to keep himself in.

  If she bought the thing, it’s harmless. They don’t sell poisonous snakes. Do they?

  Roland needed to see it—to see what it was, and where.

  Maybe the light’ll drive it off, he thought.

  He swung the beam sideways, planning to check the floor to the right. It passed in front of him and had already moved on before he quite realized that he’d seen something between his feet. The beam jumped back to it.

  Roland lurched. The back of his head thumped the bar. Urine sprayed his thigh, filled his jeans as he jerked his hands back.

  The thing was fast. It squirmed like a sidewinder going for his right foot.

  But it wasn’t a sidewinder.

  It wasn’t a snake.

  Roland lifted his right foot off the floor, away from its head, and shot his left at it. His heel caught the thing and sent it skidding and flipping away. It came straight back at him.

  It had slimy yellow flesh webbed with red and blue veins. Its eyes had the dull gray look of phlegm. Its head—or mouth—made wet sucking noises as it flattened then spread open.

  Roland raised both legs as high as he could. He was still urinating, the stream hitting the inside of his jeans and splashing back, showering his genitals and running down his buttocks. He kicked down hard with his right heel, but missed the thing and flung his leg high again.

  It didn’t try to leap for his upraised foot. Instead, it darted forward and hit the back of his leg just to the right of his groin.

  Roland’s throat constricted, ready to emit a cry of agony and horror.

  But he felt no pain.

  Only a hot, tingling pressure that sent a delicious shiver through his body.

  He grabbed the thing, but didn’t try to tug it off. Instead, he held it gently. It felt warm and powerful. Soon it was gone, leaving a hole the size of a quarter in the leg of his jeans.

  And in his leg.

  The wound didn’t bother Roland.

  He opened his waist button, lowered his zipper, and curled onto his left side. He slid his hand inside the seat of his jeans. He wore no underpants. The denim was sodden against the back of his hand, and the skin of his rump was wet.

  The creature moved inside him, just beneath his flesh. With a hand pressed to the mound it made, he could feel it sliding along. His skin sank into place again after it had passed. He felt it turn toward his spi
ne. Bending his arm behind him as much as possible, he caressed it through his skin until it was too high up to reach.

  He put his hand to the back of his neck in time to feel the skin rise beneath his palm. Moments later, the thing stopped moving.

  A sudden jolt hit Roland—pleasure so fierce it made him squirm and moan for release.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alison hung her dripping raincoat and hat on a rack near the door of Wally’s Saloon. Fortunately, the rest rooms were just off to the side; she could change out of her waitress costume without having to pass through the crowd of drinkers.

  In a toilet stall, she took off the uniform. She took off her slip and bra. Crouching, she removed her jumpsuit from her flight bag. Beneath it was the negligee. The sight of the royal blue fabric made Alison ache as if all her insides, from throat to bowels, were being squeezed and wrung.

  That bastard. Oh, that bastard.

  Screw him. Who needs him.

  She stepped into the jumpsuit, pulled the soft fabric up her legs, pushed her arms into the sleeves, and raised the zipper. Then she stuffed her bra, slip, and uniform into the bag, and left the stall.

  She leaned close to a mirror. Her short hair was matted down somewhat from the rain hat. She ran her fingers through it, shook her head, and it looked okay. Her eyes were still a little red from the crying she’d done after leaving Gabby’s. The hike through the rain, however, had left her cheeks with a rosy glow.

  The jumpsuit clung to her breasts. Her nipples made the fabric jut. She wondered if she should put her bra back on. Did she really want to go into the bar this way?

  Hell, why not? Give the guys something to look at.

  Besides, the soft warm fabric felt good against her bare breasts.

  She trembled as she slid the zipper down. In the mirror, she saw the pale skin below her sternum throbbing from her heartbeat.

  She stared into her eyes.

  Are you really going to do this? she wondered.

  Damn right. Two can play this game.

  This is crazy.

  No, it’s not. Evan doesn’t want me, somebody else will. It’ll serve the bastard right.

  But the zipper really was too low. If she bent over, everyone in the vicinity would get an eyeful. So she raised the zipper a couple of inches, then left the rest room, flight bag swinging at her side.

  As usual, Wally’s was crowded and noisy. It was the university’s watering hole, so she recognized most of the patrons. She greeted a few friends on her way to the bar. Some asked where Evan was, and she answered, “Busy.” Which was, she thought, the plain truth.

  She dodged Johnna Penson as the girl backed away from the bar with a pitcher of beer. Johnna saw her and grinned. “Hey-ho, what’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “Where’s lover boy?”

  “Scared to come out in the rain. You seen Celia?”

  “Just missed her. She took off with Danny Gard and some other guy. See ya.” Johnna squeezed past Alison.

  Alison stepped up behind a guy who was waiting to order.

  She realized that she had expected Celia to be here. The support of a friend would’ve been welcome. On the other hand, she could just imagine Celia’s reaction. “You don’t want to do it, pal. It isn’t you. You’re hurting, but you aren’t gonna solve anything by putting out for the first guy who smiles at you. Believe me, you’ll regret it.”

  So what if I regret it?

  You just want to pay him back, she thought. You’re stooping to his level.

  Maybe I’ll just have a beer or two, and go home.

  Who you trying to kid?

  We’ll just see what happens, okay? Any objections?

  The man in front of Alison stepped out of the way, and she moved in against the bar. “A mug of draft. No, make it a pitcher.”

  She set her flight bag onto the counter and dug out her purse while the bartender filled her order. After paying, she slung the strap over her head to free her hands, picked up the pitcher and frosty mug, and turned away.

  Moving through the crowd was an ordeal. Alison nodded, smiled, said “Hi” to people she knew, said “Excuse me” to strangers, squeezed between people, trying not to bump her drink or theirs, and finally found a deserted table near the front wall. It was a small, round table with two chairs. She put down her load and sat facing the mob.

  No sooner had she filled her mug and taken a sip than a man walked toward her, smiling nervously.

  That sure didn’t take long, she thought.

  Her heart thumped faster as he approached. She had seen him around campus, but didn’t know his name. He was tall and lean, with a boyish face and a scrawny, pale attempt at a mustache.

  Not wanting to appear interested, Alison lowered her gaze to her beer.

  I’m not so sure about this, she thought.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  She looked up. Smiled. Said, “Oh, hi.”

  He patted the back of the unoccupied chair. “Anyone sitting here?”

  She shook her head.

  “Mind if I borrow it, then?”

  Feeling foolish, she shook her head again.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said.

  Alison watched him carry it to a nearby table, where he joined a couple of friends. Her face burned.

  “Terrific,” she muttered.

  All he wanted was the goddamn chair.

  And now I’m without it, so if some guy does come along he won’t have anywhere to sit.

  I ought to get out of here.

  Can’t leave all this beer behind.

  Give the pitcher to someone, make a gift of it.

  Pour it over that dork’s head.

  Instead, she drank what was in her mug, refilled it, and warned herself not to guzzle. This whole deal, she thought, is iffy enough without getting smashed. Take it easy.

  She sipped slowly.

  At the far end of the room, just beyond the dance floor, a huge television screen was suspended from the ceiling. It showed music videos, the volume so high that it could drive you mindless if you were near the speakers.

  The noise had never seemed to bother Evan. It had driven Alison nuts, but she’d suffered with it, time and again, just to keep him happy. He loved to watch her dance—always looked as if he wanted to reach out and tear her clothes off.

  What the hell am I thinking about him for?

  What if he shows up?

  Alison looked toward the entrance.

  Suppose he shows up with Morgan the Organ-grinder and sees me sitting here alone like a fucking wallflower. Wouldn’t that be cute?

  One more good reason to am-scray.

  She refilled her mug.

  Better take it easy.

  Alison looked again at the video screen. A hairless woman wearing a loincloth and skimpy top of leopard skin was twisting and writhing to the music. She had shiny blue skin (same color as my nightie, Alison thought, the one that Evan, the shit, will never be lucky enough to see me in). The gyrating blue woman had a snake around her leg. Its head vanished behind her thigh, then reappeared against her groin. The snake slid higher, angling toward a hip, its thick body rubbing her through the loincloth as she writhed in apparent ecstasy.

  Lord, Alison thought.

  She took a sip of beer, her gaze fixed on the screen.

  The snake curled around the woman’s bare torso, circling higher. Its head came out beneath her armpit. It moved slowly across her breasts. Its tail was still flicking across her left breast when the head showed up beside her neck. The woman, squirming and rubbing her sides and belly (in lieu, Alison thought, of where she’d be rubbing if the producers weren’t worried about taking a final step out of bounds), turned her face toward the head of the snake and pursed her thick, shiny lips.

  “Excuse me?”

  Alison flinched.

  A young man was standing in front of her, just off to the side. She was surprised that she hadn’t noticed his approach.

  “Sorry if I
startled you,” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “That’s quite a video, huh?”

  She felt herself blush. Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of beer. “Pretty far out,” she said.

  “Are you with someone?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He didn’t look familiar to Alison. He appeared more mature than most students, and better dressed in his slacks and white, crewneck sweater. His black hair was neatly trimmed. Instead of a beer, he had a cocktail in his hand—probably a martini.

  She pegged him as a law student.

  “Some guy made off with the other chair,” she said.

  “No problem.” He wandered away. A few moments later, he came back with a chair and sat across from her. “I’m Nick Winston,” he said, and offered his hand.

  “Alison Sanders.” She shook his hand. “Law student?” she asked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You have that look.”

  “Old, you mean?” he asked, grinning.

  I prefer older men, she thought. But she stopped herself from saying it. “Just more together than the rest of us,” she told him.

  “You a psych major?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “You have that look,” he said.

  “Neurotic?”

  “Introspective.”

  “Nah, I’m not introspective, just depressed.”

  “And what, may I ask, could cause a beautiful, obviously intelligent young woman like you to be depressed?”

  “‘I see myself dead in the rain.’”

  “Ah, an English major.”

  She smiled. “Right.”

  “Do you really?”

  “What?”

  “See yourself dead in the rain?”

  “Nope. Just felt like spouting some Hemingway.”

  “Don’t you find his outlook rather juvenile?”

  Her appreciation of Nick Winston slipped a notch. “What do you mean, juvenile?”

  “Well, in particular, his portrayals of women. They’re like the fantasies of an adolescent. Maria, for instance.”

  “I love that sleeping bag scene.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “Well, now.”

  Alison found herself blushing again. “I just mean, I think it’s very romantic.”

  “Romantic, perhaps, but idealized to a ludicrous extent. Have you ever experienced intercourse in a sleeping bag?”