The Woods Are Dark

by Laymon Laymon

  They followed him to the other tree.

  “Everybody shut up!” he snapped at the four.

  They went silent. He stepped in front of the oldest male. “You’ll have to take care of the others,” he said, unlocking the right wrist. “I’ll leave you the key. We’re going on ahead. If I can, I’ll hold the car for you.” The other cuff fell loose. He slapped the key into the man’s palm. “Good luck.” He turned to Neala. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s haul it.”

  They started to run. Robbins took the lead, holding back to stay with the women. They were much slower than he’d anticipated. Damn it, he should have parked the car closer. He’d left it much too far away, wanting to come in on foot. Sneak in, sneak out. With luck, he might have taken Neala out quickly and silently, and been on the road before anyone knew. If he hadn’t shot that one bastard…

  They were almost to the edge of the clearing when Neala grabbed his arm. “Wait,” she gasped. “We’ve got to wait.”

  “What?”

  She pointed to the group that was still at the distant row of trees, the man busy unlocking cuffs.

  “Forget ’em,” Robbins snapped.

  “How’ll they find the car?”

  “Doesnt matter. Come on.”

  “Christ, Neala!” Sherri snarled.

  “Look!” Robbins pointed at a far-off figure loping across the field toward the group. “There’s another. Another.” Scanning the clearing, he could make out half a dozen dark shapes: some running, others limping, another scurrying across the ground like a crab.

  “Oh my God!” Neala gasped.

  “In a few minutes, there’ll be dozens. They’ll get us, too, if we stick around much longer.” He pulled Neala into the woods. She tried to struggle free, at first. Then she was running close behind him. He dashed between the dark posts of tree trunks, kicked his way through waist-high bushes, dodged thickets too dense to penetrate, leapt onto the back of a fallen tree and jumped down to its other side.

  Pausing while the women caught up, he listened.

  The howling had stopped, but he heard Krulls nearby: feet crashing foliage, wheezing breath, the gibber of their strange language.

  “Almost there,” he whispered.

  “They’re everywhere,” Sherri muttered. “We’ll never make it.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  They kept running. Finally, they reached the top of the road where Robbins had left his car. He scanned the area. “We’re all right,” he said. “Come on.”

  Crouching low, he ran to the car. The women stayed close behind him. He grabbed the nearest handle. He was about to tug the door open, but a movement caught his eye. He looked up.

  The face in the car window twisted, showing teeth.

  Neala yelped with fright.

  Robbins stared at the face. It was badly scarred. The nose was a ragged flap, as if it had been chewed off in a fight.

  There were five other faces inside the car, all turned his way.

  Something clutched his foot. He lurched backward, knocking into the girls, kicking the hand that had his ankle. Three Krulls started squirming out from under the car.

  The doors opened.

  Robbins swung his rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim, at the noseless face, and fired. The top of the head flew off.

  “Let’s go!” he yelled.

  “Where?”

  He fired again, this time taking out the eye of one by the rear door.

  “Run! For Christsake run!”

  Free of the cuffs, they ran. Lander led the way, taking them across the clearing toward the place where the other three had vanished into the forest.

  He took them that way in spite of the gunshots, in spite of the woman moving toward them from that direction. She was alone, a stooped old crone with white hair and pendulous breasts flapping down to her waist. She was armed with a machete, but her crippled back prevented her from moving fast. Lander simply planned to run around her.

  “Dad!”

  With a quick glance around, he saw a man on the heels of Cordelia. Two more were close behind. Ben dropped back and threw a shoulder block into the nearest one. They both tumbled sideways.

  Looking ahead, Lander saw the old woman hobbling toward him. He lunged sideways as the machete slashed. He heard it cut through the air, saw it flash past his cheek, felt the breath of its close passage. He tripped and fell. The crone came after him, swinging. She stood over him. Raised the machete.

  Whimpering, Lander shut his eyes tightly.

  The blade didn’t fall.

  “Lander!”

  He looked. Ruth was behind the old woman, clutching the upraised arm, dragging her backward.

  He clambered to his feet. He drove a knee into the sagging stomach. Foul breath blew into his face. Reaching up with both hands, he twisted the machete loose.

  He hacked sideways, careful to miss Ruth’s arm across the hag’s throat. The blade slashed into one of the hanging breasts. Horrified, he watched the pale sack of flesh fall away.

  Ruth let go as the woman dropped to her knees, screaming. Lander swung the machete straight down. It missed the center of the head, glanced off, took away half the scalp, and chopped into the shoulder. He tried again, this time splitting the head.

  With a quick jerk, he pulled the blade free. He ran to where Ben and Cordelia were straggling with three men. One had Cordelia around the waist, trying to lift her. She kicked backward and squirmed. Lander circled, but the man turned, too, keeping Cordelia in the way. Finally, Lander threw himself against his daughter. The man stumbled backward and fell. As he hit the ground, Cordelia twisted free and Lander swung. The blade bit into an upthrust arm. The man bellowed with pain. He rolled out of the way, and Lander’s next blow missed. Then he was on his feet and running.

  Lander turned to Ben. The boy sat astraddle one, punching down at the face. A second man was behind Ben, about to bash him with a club. Lander caught the standing one in the spine. With a cry, the man jerked stiff and dropped his club. A white club. A bone with a ball joint at one end.

  “Dad!” Cordelia called.

  He tried to pull the machete free. It was stuck in the man’s back.

  “Dad! My God!”

  Ruth was already far away, forty or fifty yards away, almost to the edge of the forest—slung over the shoulder of a tall, pale figure.

  Lander whirled around. “Ben, get off!”

  Ben rolled away. The half-conscious man raised his head. Lander kicked it hard, and the man went limp.

  He turned in time to see Ruth disappear into the woods.

  “Stay with me!” he yelled, and began the chase.

  Just to the right, three people ran out from among the trees.

  “Over there!” Lander called to them. “Over there! He’s got my wife!”

  The two groups met, and entered the forest.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Neala’s feet throbbed with pain. Dozens of times, she cursed that little prick, Timmy, for taking her shoes. The pain and anger helped her hold on to reality as she followed the man named Robbins to his car, found it full of Krulls like a strange family about to embark on a vacation, watched him shoot two of them dead, and ran for her life away from the car.

  Finding the other group again had been a relief, at first. Strength in numbers. But the man, Lander, didn’t care about staying quiet and hiding. He wanted only to find his wife, even if it got the rest of them killed.

  “We’ll never find her,” Robbins said after ten minutes of wandering through the dense trees. “We’d better give it up, and try to make our way to the main road.”

  “Go ahead,” Lander snapped. “Who needs you?”

  “You’ll get your kids killed.”

  “I’ve got to find my wife.”

  “Hell, she’s probably already dead.”

  “No.”

  “How can we possibly find her?” asked the girl. She sounded desperate, on the edge of tears.

>   “We can’t if we don’t try,” Lander said. “We can’t if we do nothing but cower in the bushes like whipped curs.”

  “It’s our only chance,” Robbins said.

  “’A coward dies many times. A brave man never tastes of death but once.’”

  “I’m with Mr. Dills,” said the boy. “We’ve got to save her, even if it means taking some extra chances.”

  “Fuck it,” Sherri said. “I’m not gonna risk my ass…”

  Lander yelped as a pale figure dropped out of a tree. The knees rammed his shoulders, driving him down. Neala saw a knife in the upraised hand. Robbins fired. A hole appeared between the small breasts. The girl tumbled forward and hit the ground face first.

  “Holy fucking shit!” Sherri said.

  Neala stared down at the body. The girl was naked. Blood gushed from the ragged hole in her back.

  “Let’s go,” Robbins snapped. “The shot’ll bring ’em running.”

  He pulled Neala by the hand.

  They ran. They ran for a long distance. Neala’s feet throbbed with pain as she kept pace with Robbins, but she didn’t complain or slow down. For the first time since her capture at the diner, she felt hopeful. She was no longer anyone’s prisoner, Robbins seemed determined to save her, and the Krulls had dropped out of sight. Maybe she would survive the night, after all.

  Finally, when she thought she could run no farther, Robbins stopped.

  “We’ll just… catch our breath,” he gasped.

  Neala nodded.

  Sherri, who’d been running a short distance behind her, caught up. She sagged against a tree trunk.

  “Where’re the others?” Robbins asked.

  “Coming.” Sherri flopped an arm sideways. “Back there someplace. Christ on a crutch!”

  Neala heard the crunch of rushing feet. Off to the left. She raised her voice to call out. “Ov—” Robbins clapped a hand across her mouth.

  “Shhhh.”

  His hand had a pungent odor of gun smoke.

  “Might not be them,” he whispered.

  “Hey!” called a voice. The boy’s voice. “Where’d you all go?”

  Robbins nodded and dropped his hand.

  “Over here,” Neala called.

  A few moments later, the boy and girl joined them.

  “Sorry,” gasped the boy. “Got sidetracked.”

  “Dad?” The girl staggered as if lost in a dark room. “Dad? Where are you?” She looked at Robbins. “Where’s my dad?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  She turned to the boy. “Oh God, Ben, what’ll we do?”

  “He’ll show up. We’ll just wait.”

  “Five minutes,” Robbins said. “Who’s got a watch?”

  The girl raised her hand, and Neala saw a gold band on her wrist. For a moment, she was puzzled that the watch hadn’t been stolen, back in town. Then she thought about Rose Petal. No surprise, really, that the old bag didn’t care about such loot. Too far gone for that. Her big thrill was bouncing her hammer off skulls. And her son, the sadistic…

  “What’s the time?” Robbins asked.

  The girl pressed a button. Red numbers glowed at her wrist. “Ten thirty-two.”

  “We’ll give him till ten forty.”

  “Then what?” the girl asked.

  “Then we move fast.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  “We’re giving him eight minutes.” Robbins’s voice was a quiet, calm whisper. “If he hasn’t shown up by then, he probably won’t show, period. He either got lost, or the Krulls nailed him. Either way, we could stick around here till the Krulls lick our bones, and it won’t do your father any good.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Maybe he’ll get here in time,” the boy said.

  The talking stopped. They waited.

  Neala looked into the trees. Except for a few shreds of moonlight, the woods were as dark as a shut closet. The father was out there, someplace. But she didn’t expect him to show up. If anyone came out of there, it wouldn’t be him.

  She rubbed her arms. She turned, staring into the darkness.

  If anyone came out…

  She stepped close to a tree, and leaned back against it. The bark felt rough through her shirt. It felt good.

  At least they can’t come up behind me.

  Robbins asked the time.

  “Ten thirty-five,” whispered the girl.

  Only three minutes had passed.

  Neala moaned. She crossed her arms. Her nipples were erect and aching, as if she had a chill. She covered them with her hands, and the comforting pressure eased the tightness.

  Off to the right, a twig popped.

  Neala looked in that direction. She saw only trees, and bushes, and darkness. Nothing moved. No more sounds came.

  But she kept her eyes on that patch of darkness. She barely breathed.

  Because someone was out there watching.

  She could feel him. She could almost see him, but not quite.

  Someone.

  Someone not the girl’s father.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After dropping away from the others, Lander had doubled back. He’d paid close attention to the landmarks, earlier, hoping to find his way to the girl’s body.

  Soon, he reached a fallen aspen he recognized. Its roots were exposed, as if it had been ripped from the ground like a weed. He stepped past its high clump of roots, and past the pit they’d left in the earth. Just ahead, he should find the tree where the girl had waited and attacked and died.

  He hurried through a thicket, and found the tree.

  The girl was gone.

  For a while, he wandered through the darkness. Perhaps he had misjudged, slightly. After all, one tree looks pretty much like another. He crisscrossed the area. He backtracked to the uprooted aspen and tried again. Finally, he gave up. Either he was totally lost, or the girl’s body had been taken away.

  She was dead?

  Had to be. The bullet took her direcdy between the breasts.

  He dropped to his knees where she must have fallen, and patted the ground cover. The dead twigs and leaves were wet. Blood, or only dew? He held his hands close to his face. In the dark, he couldn’t see whether the wetness was blood. He made a tight fist. As he slowly opened the hand, he felt a slight stickiness. He licked his palm, and tasted the salty flavor of blood. The realization made him gag.

  He crawled backward, away from the wet patch of ground. Then he remembered his reason for seeking out the place of death. He began to paw the ground, raking aside the litter of the nearby trees and bushes. Soggy leaves clung to his fingers. A thorn scratched the back of his hand. A worm curled around his forefinger. And then he found it. The girl’s knife.

  Flung from her hand as she was hit, the knife had swept sideways, burying itself under a layer of leafy debris.

  The curved handle fit snugly in Lander’s grip. The blade was at least seven inches long. Standing, he pushed it under his belt.

  He wished he’d kept that old gal’s machete, a much more formidable weapon than this knife.

  Thinking about the machete brought back what happened in the clearing. For a few seconds, the memory of the carnage paralyzed him. He forced himself to concentrate on Ruth.

  He had to find her.

  Somehow.

  But where do you look?

  He didn’t know, so he headed back toward the clearing. It was where he’d last seen her; it seemed like the best place to start looking.

  He ran until he was winded, then walked. Once his breath was back, he began running again.

  At last, he saw moonlight through the trees ahead. He moved the last few yards quietly, pressed himself to the dewy trunk of a tree, and found himself at the edge of the field. The bodies were gone.

  Beyond the row of dead trees where he and the others had been shackled, he saw movement. Two figures were slowly heading toward the far side of the field.

&nbs
p; Ruth had disappeared in the opposite direction. But maybe these creatures—these people—had a gathering place in common. It was possible. Even likely. Better to follow these than to wander the forest aimlessly.

  If he moved directly across the clearing, they’d be sure to see him. He might lose them, though, circling around to stay out of view.

  He needed a way to conceal himself, a way to turn invisible…

  ’The Purloined Letter,’ he muttered.

  His heart raced. Good old Poe.

  In seconds, Lander had stripped down to his boxer shorts. He hesitated, then, reluctant to remove them. But he didn’t have a choice. Not if he wanted to look like one of the enemy, blend in, become invisible and safe. Quickly, he pulled them off.

  He left his clothes behind, keeping only the knife, and stepped into the open. The figures across the field were still heading away. He ran toward the dead trees, watching the pair. It hurt to run naked. He wanted to clutch his genitals to stop them from slapping his legs, but it would look conspicuous.

  You’ve got to blend in, he warned himself. Look like they do, act like they do. They don’t hold their balls when they run.

  He changed his stride to an awkward, wide-legged lope. After experimenting, he found a more comfortable rhythm. His penis still swung wildly, but his testicles didn’t get battered so much.

  As he neared the row of dead trees, he saw the Krulls stop. Were they watching him? He trotted in a circle around two of the trees, looking at the ground as if searching for something. He glanced at the distant figures. They remained motionless.

  Approaching the nearest tree, Lander began to urinate. He looked toward the others. They turned away, and continued toward the woods. The two, he now realized, were dragging a third. Taking a body somewhere?

  Soon, they vanished into the trees. Lander rushed across the field to the place where he’d last seen them. He ducked under low-hanging limbs, paused, and listened. He heard movement nearby in the underbrush.

  For a long time, he followed the sounds. He tred quietly staying so far behind that he often feared he would lose his quarry. Listening carefully, though, he always detected them again. They were obviously making no attempt to be silent. At times, they even talked. Lander couldn’t make out the words, but from the voices, he guessed that both speakers were females.