Animals

by Jonn Skipp; Craig Spector

  Then Vic was standing by the car door again: his features his own, recognizably human. There was no mistaking the smile on his face.

  "You may not believe it, punk, but this is your lucky night.

  "You get to live."

  Vic hopped into the car, started it up. Syd tried to stand, couldn't. The sedan wheeled around, spun out, took off, sending back a shower of gravel and grit.

  Syd coughed and sputtered as the big car pulled away, his vision blurred and blinded. He couldn't read the license or make or model, couldn't even see the back of Nora's head through the frost-encrusted window.

  By the time he could see or breathe again, the sedan was but a glowing blur on the crest of the hill. And by the time he stood, it was gone completely: swallowed by the night, and the road, and the cold. Taking Nora with it. And leaving Syd shaken. Defeated. Alone.

  24

  THE NEXT SEVERAL hours were a groggy, broken man's descent: a drunken tumble down the well of madness and despair.

  Syd sat near the end of the bar, his eyes staring at some distant receding horizon while his sight turned wholly inward. There was no shortage of torturous images there, no dearth of painful memories and excruciating might-have-beens. They collided in his head with a shower of sparks where his dreams of the future used to be.

  And—indestructibly burning at the center of it all— was the prismatic, multifaceted image of Nora. An image that radically shifted from one moment to the next, depending on exactly where he stood. As the hours passed his mind moved constantly, viewing her from every conceivable direction. Trying to get a fix on who she actually was, the better to grasp the parameters of the vacuum she'd left behind.

  There was Nora the catalytic agent and life-changing force: sweeping out the dead wood of his shipwrecked life, urging him to rebuild and set back out to sea. There was Nora the party animal cum fertility goddess: reawakening in him a boundless, transcendent appetite for life. There was Nora the vulnerable and tragic enigma, caught mysteriously weeping in the middle of the night. There was the dominant Nora, built of thunder and flame. The submissive Nora, led away on a chain.

  And then there was the new face he had only seen tonight. The secretive face.

  Of the Nora who lied.

  And that was the bottom line here, wasn't it? That she had fucking lied to him: about her supposedly broken-up relationship with Vic, and God only knew what else. That Syd was ultimately nothing more than a pit stop on a long and twisted road that those two would probably be traveling forever.

  The wounded part of him desperately needed to believe that was true. To think anything else was entirely too painful, pointed far too many fingers back in his direction. How could he have been so stupid, so utterly suckered by his own desperate hunger? Against his better judgment, against all sense or reason, she had breached the defenses of his little fortress of one. He had let her in.

  And she, in turn, had released something within him.

  And that was the point where his sanity threatened to skid completely out of control, go careening off into the uncharted abyss. Because something very weird had happened in the parking lot, and in one incandescent nightmare flash Syd had borne witness to something that he could neither accept nor deny. Acceptance was tantamount to deciding that yes, the world really was flat, after all, and there really were monsters waiting just over the edge, ready to eat you up. It was stupid. It was impossible. It was simply too much.

  And if anyone had told him that three days ago, he would have laughed.

  But he had seen it, and the certainty of the vision was a red-hot poker thrust into the deepest folds of his brain, igniting that long-hidden itch. Missing pieces of the lost weekend suddenly jigsaw-clicked into place. And Syd's reality, already frayed at the edges, began to unravel entirely.

  As he recognized the face Vic had revealed.

  The face so much like the creature in his dreams . . .

  "No," he said quietly, feeling a lid of denial slam down in his head, sealing off the knowledge. "No," he repeated, fighting his way back to the room in which he sat. He reached for his bottle, trying to insulate himself from himself with alcohol. His hand trembled as he brought it to his lips.

  He looked around the room. The rest of the patrons at the bar kept a respectable distance; whatever they were saying about him, they were keeping it amongst themselves. And Jules was simply Jules: a silent, beneficent presence behind the bar. He didn't hover nearby, didn't say a word; but every time Syd's bottle emptied, a full one mysteriously appeared in its place.

  There were some critical things to be said between them: explanations and, even more important, apologies. But it was tough for Syd to even think about Jules, and way too soon for them to talk. The fact that Jules understood this—that Jules was so fundamentally cool—only made it that much harder. It underscored what an asshole Syd had been, how completely undeserving of such consideration.

  So when it came down to last call, and Jules suggested that Syd stick around for a couple, the offer was gratefully accepted.

  It was twenty minutes to two.

  THE YELLOW SHUTTER Inn was a low-slung cinder-block structure rimming the tarmac of Route 18 just north of Atlasburg. It advertised both half- and full-night rates, with a mid-afternoon "executive special" for the lunch-hour quickie; its rooms boasted water beds, mirrored ceilings and in-room porn, and reeked of industrial-strength disinfectant and spent lust; its parking was discreetly situated away from prying eyes, around the back.

  All in all it was a sleazy little affair, and its stock-in-trade was sleazy little affairs: marital infidelities and workplace flings, with the odd pickup or truckstop trick filling out its nightly roster of seamy couplings and low-rent fantasies. The clientele as a rule wanted two things: to get kinky, and to not get caught. As such, they tended to assiduously ignore both the faces of those who shacked up next door to them and the noises they made from behind those closed doors.

  Which was exactly why Vic had chosen it.

  It was one forty-five when he sat down on the edge of the bed to pull his boots back on. He was mindful to keep the sloshing to a minimum, not that it really made much difference. Nora was deep in Noraland: her body gone fetal on the bed, her brain blasted into oblivion.

  They'd been there a little over two hours: long enough to complete the preliminaries of round one, namely reestablishing dominance.

  The no-tell motel had been part inspiration, part calculation: under other circumstances he would have killed Nora's little hero on the spot and hiked it over the nearest state line, then dealt with her mood in due time. But the bitch had gone and made her little power play, and that had complicated matters. For one thing, Vic knew that she wasn't kidding. Worse yet, she'd dissed him in front of the whole bar: daring him to show his true self, just begging him to make a mess. As if she was just itching to blow their cover, bring things crashing down around them. As if he would ever actually let her get away with it.

  No, no, he thought. Not like that. Granted, he was pissed enough to consider it as they pulled out of the lot, what with that little dipshit following them out and all. And Nora's attitude as they hightailed it down the highway made it even harder: she sulked and drank and stared out the window so sullenly that it was all he could do to keep from yanking her chain clean out.

  He diddled with it absently as the miles unwound before them, one long arm slung over the seat back, inches away but not touching her. Not yet. They drove on in silence for a while, covering distance, merging with the night. When he offered her the bag of pharmaceuticals she absently grabbed a handful, washed them down with a long pull off the bottle he conveniently provided.

  He told her he'd missed her. She said nothing. He joked that fun was fun, and she'd given him a good run this time. His voice was all honey and ground glass. He laughed, made a crack about the look on Syd's face at the moment of the Change, wondered absently if he'd loaded his pants in the aftermath. Her silence was deafening.

  Li
ttle by little, Vic began to burn.

  By now they should be at each other's throats: Vic egging her on and fending her off, Nora lashing and snapping to beat the band. It was foreplay, the fight before the fuck. It got their juices running. It was simply the way it was. Or at least the way it used to be, back in the good old days.

  But this . . .

  At least the last time, she'd taken a chunk out of him by way of payback. Vic could respect that. But now she just sat, staring and stewing, lost in her own private Idaho. And it was starting to bother him.

  "Hey," he said softly. Nora did not look, did not turn. "Hey!" Louder this time.

  He gave the chain a perfunctory little jerk; her head whip-cracked around to pin him with eyes at once steely and bright with tears. "Aw, c'mon, baby," he said. "Be nice."

  And though his tone went suddenly silken, the words came out laced more with threat than entreaty. Nora looked away, took another drink. Vic shook his head. "Baby, when you gonna learn?" he said.

  "You and I belong together."

  With that his fingers snaked along the seat back, started working their way through her hair. She bristled, stiffened, staring dead ahead. "There's nobody else in the world for me," he said. His fingers probed the wild cascade of hair, found the spot at the base of her skull. Her eyes closed, her whole body tightened like a guitar string being tuned. Gently, with surprising tenderness, he began to massage: tracing sensual little hieroglyphs. Nora began to vibrate, in spite of herself.

  "And there's no one else for you but me," he said. "You know it's true."

  Nora's eyes stayed closed, as a solitary tear stole out and rolled down her cheek. Vic's fingers kept moving, playing her strings. A low moan welled up, halfway between desire and lament. Vic smiled to himself, unseen in the darkness.

  And then the Yellow Shutter had appeared like a beacon in the night, and suddenly Vic knew just what to do. Nora waited in the car as he checked them in, and by the time he got her to the room she was resigned enough to accept her discipline, and just wasted enough to want it.

  The room was small and tacky, fake pine scent clinging to the fake-leopard wallpaper. Vic ushered Nora in, tossed their bags in behind her. Nora was pliant by then, shell-shocked and damned near comatose. As Vic peeled her clothes off he caught the first whiff of discharge; the wad of sodden tissue confirmed it.

  " Whew; you're ripe," Vic scolded, unable to keep from smiling as he stripped her bare. Nora shuddered, and Vic instantly picked up on it, read her perfectly. "You really think he could do it for you? Huh?" Unclipping the chain, letting it slip to the floor. "Think anybody can?"

  He threw her belly-down onto the bed, proceeded to pull the rope from his ditty bag. "Bitch," he hissed. "So you're gonna blame me for your problems?" Nora moaned as Vic yanked her legs apart, began to tie her off.

  Her arms came next; she offered no resistance as he hoisted them over her head. Vic was thrilled to note that the management had conveniently provided eye-hooks, thick steel anchor points bolted deep into the four corners of the bed frame.

  I love this place, Vic thought. He finished her off, making sure the knots were nice and tight.

  Nora lay bare-assed and spread-eagled. Her hair hid her face. That was okay. That wasn't the part of her he was primarily talking to. Vic grabbed a pillow and shoved it under her belly, to improve the elevation. The milk-white half-moon hemispheres of her ass rose invitingly before him. Vic beamed. So she wanted him to make a mess; well, okay. The ropes weren't the only things that were nice and tight.

  Vic stood and stripped, his erection fiercely throbbing. He crawled back onto the bed, let his face slip down into the dark folds between her legs. Her blood was thick, like honey on his tongue.

  He licked one long finger by way of foreplay, wormed it into her ass. Her back door was irised shut, the only part of her that still offered him resistance. Vic withdrew his finger, then spread her creamy cheeks. "It's good to have you back," he said.

  Then fucked her ass until she bled.

  And though at first she tried to hide it, to bury herself in her shadowland and deny him even the tiniest of cries, he could feel her starting to yield. He could feel it in the tremors that rumbled through her flesh, like the shockwaves following an earthquake. He could feel it in the way her sphincter quivered with each successive thrust. As he moved he spoke to her, his mouth close in her ear, invading her mind as he violated her body.

  "No one else can do this." He pressed deeper, tearing through her walls. "And nothing else matters." She clenched that much tighter, tried to shut him out. "There's only one thing that matters. . . ."

  Fresh blood flowed, easing his passage. He could feel it coming, building to a head. Vic wound up, pelvis arching as he leaned in close, his voice as soft as thought. "You belong to me," he told her.

  Then rammed the message home.

  There was that one final moment of resistance, and then Nora groaned and opened wide to receive him. You belong to me. Her ass bucked and writhed, fighting him even as she surrendered. You belong to me. The last shred of fight was swept away like a sapling in a floodpath as Vic hammered at her, kept hammering until she could resist no more.

  Her screams, when he came, were music to his ears.

  HE LAY THERE afterward, listening to her breath. He was happy, sated. The satisfaction went worlds beyond mere sex. In the end, he knew, it was not about getting off. It was about giving in.

  He waited until he was sure she had passed out before getting up and cleaning himself off.

  As he dressed and sat to pull his boots on Vic reached back, patted her naked backside. Nora was definitely down for the count. Good girl. Her flesh glistened in the dim light from the bathroom; her sweat smelled of pain and resignation, the sweet funk of defeat. One whiff made him hard all over again.

  And just in time, too, he thought. After all, it was just about time for round two.

  And his other unfinished business of the night.

  25

  BY TWO TWENTY-FIVE the last of the stragglers had cleared out, leaving Jules to finish closing up for the night. The front door was locked. The speed racks were stocked and racked and ready, the ashtrays and trash cans emptied, the sinks and bar all wiped till they gleamed. Bonnie and Heather, the night waitresses, had barely cashed out and split their tips when Jules looked up from doing the books, told them to go ahead and leave. On the way out the door they each stole a quick sidelong glance at the lone figure huddled at the end of the bar. Jules smiled and nodded as they waved good-bye, told them each to have a good one.

  Then the door clicked shut behind them, locking Jules and Syd in.

  And Jules breathed a hefty sigh.

  Now for the real work, he thought. He put away the ledgers, locked out the register, cued up some Buddy Guy tunes and pulled two icy longnecks out of the cold chest. He ambled down to the far end of the bar and set one in front of his friend.

  "Cheers," he said, clinked Syd's bottle with his own.

  Syd lifted out of his trance, nodded glumly. Jules took a long pull off his beer, set it back on the bar, waited. Patience was a virtue. There were a million things to be said, but if experience were any guide, they might be a while in coming.

  To his surprise, Syd cut to the chase fairly quickly. He picked up his beer, took a gulp. "Thanks," he said. His voice quavered, raw with anguish.

  "Anytime," Jules replied, took another sip of his own. "You okay?"

  The laugh that came had not a trace of humor in it. "Oh, yeah, never better," he said, then stopped to swallow the fist-sized knot in his throat. "Shit," he mumbled. "I'm such an asshole."

  "Sometimes," Jules concurred. "But I don't know many people who aren't."

  "I can't believe it," Syd continued, shaking his head, almost as if he were talking to himself. "How could I be so fucking blind!"

  Jules paused, shrugged. "Love," he said. "Fucks with your reflexes."

  "Yeah, well," Syd countered, "never again." He drained his beer, set
it down with a hollow thunk.

  It was Jules's turn to be cynical. "Uh-huh," he muttered. He finished his beer, scooped up Syd's bottle. "There's three things that I'm sure of," he said. "One is that you've had a very shitty night. The second is that there's no way in hell that you are in any shape to drive."

  "What's the third thing?" Syd asked.

  "I'll tell you when we get home," Jules said.

  Syd shook his head grimly. "I don't think I can go home right now."

  "I meant my home." Jules turned and tossed the empties. Syd looked at him as he grabbed his jacket and came around the bar, as if he didn't quite get it. Jules smiled, laid a big hand on Syd's shoulder.

  "I got two cold sixes of Sam Smith's Pale Ale and the new Sarabande digital remasters of Muddy Waters' lost sessions," he explained. "Now you tell me, who else is going to properly appreciate that?"

  For the first time in hours, Syd managed a smile. It was weary, halfhearted, clouded with emotion. But it was a start. He nodded, rose from his stool. He wobbled slightly, adjusting to the change in altitude.

  "Whoa." He groaned as his bladder woke up and sent urgent telegrams to his brain. "I think maybe I better take a leak first."

  Jules nodded back. "I'll go warm up the car," he replied.

  They split off, each heading in their respective directions. Syd weaved across the dance floor, alcohol and exhaustion making his brain bob like a Ping-Pong ball in an oil slick. As he reached the mouth of the hallway he turned, suddenly hit with the urge to thank Jules again. For being there. For being a friend.

  "Hey, Jules . . ." he began.

  But Jules was already gone.

  JULES'S TEETH WERE chattering by the time he reached his car, a big black Chrysler New Yorker parked nose-in near the southeast corner of the building. Syd had once remarked that riding with Jules could turn a trip to the 7-Eleven into a near-religious experience; it was like floating down the road with your favorite band wailing in the back.