Animals

by Jonn Skipp; Craig Spector

  It was just a couple blocks to 17th Street, with its garish neon and carnal, neo-carnival atmosphere. The streets were teeming, the tacky sidewalk souvenir shops bright-lit and bustling with life.

  When he got to Fishnet's, Fernango the bouncer nodded. Vic had been acknowledged; a regular now, practically part of the family. There was, as always, a good-sized crowd, but he had no problem finding a place at the bar. The bartender saw him coming as well, set him up from the second he landed.

  When Tristana came out, she was easily five times as hot as when he'd first seen her take the stage: writhing with shamanic abandon, firing unadulterated lust over the heads of the overheated throngs. Where before she'd been going through the motions, now there was a genuine burning passion.

  But she only had eyes for Vic, and vice versa. The rest of the patrons didn't seem to notice their hidden dialogue; they were too busy responding to Tristana. As sexual totem, as fuck muffin-slash-fantasy figure par excellence. They were mesmerized.

  Vic scoped the crowd as he watched her work, decided to play a little impromptu fiscal dick-measuring game called up the ante. He would target some sweaty, fervid herbivore with a fistful of dollars and a bellyful of beer, then sidle up adjacent to him and proceed to hand Tristana fives to his ones, tens to his fives, twenties to his tens and so on, making the clown pony up to match him for the illusion of her affections.

  Tristana sensed the scam instinctively, played up to the sucker like crazy, giving him the extra smile and flash that told him beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was the one she really wanted, he was the one who made her all hot and sticky, ooh baby, ooh baby gimme another twenty to show me that you love me. . . .

  In between sets, she would come down and sit with each mark in turn, keeping their libidos greased, before toddling off to the shadowy corner table where Vic lay waiting. Physical affection was strictly verboten on the premises—especially where boyfriends were concerned-— but the look in Tristana's eyes told him that she was pleased. They made a beautiful team, and they both knew it.

  So when he told her to give him her money, there was but a split second of doubt that flitted across her features before she dipped into her bag and forked it over. Vic slipped the wad of bills into his pocket and smiled.

  Trust.

  The second set was even better; Vic and Tristana tag-teaming the crowd as he fed her back the cash in ever-increasing quantities and she pushed her own considerable sexual repertoire to the limit, all with astonishing results. The bar grew even more packed: men began streaming through the door in droves, driven by an unseen impulse. Like cattle to the slaughter, like lemmings toward the cliffs of their collective desire, it was as if they could smell the charge from blocks away, knew instinctively that this was the place they needed to be. While up on the runway, Tristana whirled and gyrated, pushing psychic buttons they never even dreamed existed.

  Vic hung back, sending her the subtlest of cues, picking each successive mark with a nod and a glance. Thoroughly enjoying himself, and the show. Completely in awe of her power.

  All the while seeing a new world unfurl in his mind.

  By the middle of the third set, Tristana had raked in close to six hundred dollars, and she was riding high: strutting up and down the runway in complete control, crossing into other dancers' kill zones at will, exerting her utter dominion over all. The crowd hooted and roared and drank with abandon; the other girls grumbled and gave way, trading knife-edged glances even as they yielded her ground. The management counted the profits and happily turned a deaf ear to their complaints.

  The hours unfolded, wending inexorably toward closing time and the fulfillment of their hearts' desires. Vic had never felt quite so happy. He decided he would ask her to come away with him tonight, felt certain of her reply. Tristana was tough, and as such, she was unused to exposing herself emotionally. But love is willing vulnerability, under any other name; and she didn't have to say a word for him to know she loved him, too. The look in her eyes said it all.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, all was right with his world.

  And then Nora came walking in.

  It was to Vic's eternal shame that he never even saw her coming, didn't have a fucking clue. One second, he was watching his new love dance, a big grin pasted across his kisser; the next thing he knew, Nora was standing beside him with the coldest, craziest expression on her face he'd ever seen. Her breath reeked of liquor, blood, and rage. She hissed at him.

  You sonofaBITCH.

  Every drop of stripjoint sweat on his body went instantly frigid. Every hair stood on end. He knew what was coming before it came, what she was going to say before she even said it.

  Are you gonna take care of this? Or do I have to do it for you?

  Tristana was at the far end of the runway, oblivious to the exchange. In desperation, Vic tried to feign ignorance. No chance. She knew, she knew, there was no way around it; denying it only made it worse. He found himself wracking his brain, searching out escape routes that didn't exist. He could feel the terrible killing power of the Change, surging through Nora and radiating outward.

  And he knew, in that moment, that it was too late. She would stop at nothing. She had nothing to lose. She would do it right here, in front of everyone, bring the whole place crashing down around their ears—put the cops on their trail, kill herself, kill him—before she would let this violation go unavenged.

  You can't make me do this, he tried to say, but he knew it wasn't true.

  You OWE me, motherfucker, she spat. We were meant to be together, remember? Well, now we are. For better and for worse, in sickness and in health, forever and ever and you fucking OWE ME THIS!!!

  And then she turned and stormed out, leaving Vic to his choices.

  When closing time came, he tried his best to pretend that nothing was wrong. Tristana, of course, was way too smart to buy it; and so she followed him around to the back of the club in a desperate attempt to pry loose his sudden, terrible secret. The Mercedes was parked back there in the alley, the trunk ajar and waiting. Nora was nowhere to be seen. She had thought of everything.

  He brought them to a halt by the back of the car, making it look entirely coincidental. To his surprise, he found that he was shaking. She asked him what was wrong, slipped deftly into his embrace. He nestled her head against his chest.

  Nora stepped out from around the corner.

  Just remember, he whispered, that I love you. Kissing her lightly on the forehead. He cradled her face in his hands. She made a soft sound of unmistakable passion.

  Then he seized her skull, twisting viciously. . . .

  And it should have ended just like that.

  But, of course, it didn't.

  Because Tristana's instincts were strong, and she picked up on Vic's intent a split second before he could do the deed. Fear and confusion flared, were instantly incinerated by a single overriding impulse.

  Tristana locked her neck, began to fight.

  She was much stronger than he'd expected; she kicked and thrashed and raked her nails across his face. It bought her maybe another ten seconds of survival. Long enough for her to twist her head to come face-to-face with him. Long enough to see the tattoo on his bulging forearm, see Nora emerge from the darkness, see it all for what it was.

  The look of sorrow in her eyes was matched only by the contempt, in the moment before she died. They fused together to burn into his brain forever, transmitting a single indelible message:

  You pussy.

  And then her neck muscles gave out, with a slingshot bonecracking snap. . . .

  And it was done. One second, she was a living, breathing embodiment of all his dreams; the next, she was a hundred and twelve pounds of limp and sagging meat: forever gone, useless in his arms.

  It had been years since he'd allowed himself to cry, and it seemed strange to be doing it now. Her dead weight knocked him back a step, as if her flesh knew its final destination, was only trying to help. He kissed her
once more, mouthed the words I'm sorry. Then he gently laid her out on the plastic trunk liners that Nora had so thoughtfully provided.

  Suddenly, he was being elbowed roughly but indifferently aside. He fell back without protest, though he felt his heart constrict. Nora was there—half-human, half-beast, completely deranged—looming over the body, her features lit from the trunk light below. Without hesitation, she slit Tristana's dead throat, peeling upward in an ugly, brutal swipe. The face came clean away, leaving behind a deathmask of muscle and skull that could have belonged to anyone.

  This is mine, Nora said, holding up her souvenir.

  Then she reached down with her free hand and slit the carcass from vulva to sternum, viscid tubes and exposed organs flopping to either side. A final desecration. Her last disrespects. Nora dug up under the breastbone to wrench the dead heart free, then helped herself to a big steaming bite.

  Savoring the spark. Getting off on it.

  You can take care of the garbage, she told him, as she tossed the leftovers into the trunk. Nora stalked off into the shadows.

  Leaving Vic alone, moaning over the seeping remnants of his dream . . .

  OVER THE OCEAN, a storm front was gathering. Already, its dark clouds had swallowed the moon. He felt its imminence in the pit of his stomach. A sinking sensation. Too appropriate for words. Vic wiped the last of this evening's tears on the back of his hand, snuck a glimpse at the clock.

  It was twelve-fifteen.

  For the first time, it fully occurred to him that Nora had been gone an awfully long time. Nearly half an hour. What the fuck was that about? Not that he was in any hurry to experience her return—just the thought of her, at this point, made his blood congeal in his veins—but it struck him as strange. She'd told him she'd be right back.

  Oh no, said a voice in his head.

  Vic looked at his half-empty glass of whiskey, then across the table at Nora's drink. She had drained it before she left for the bathroom. She hadn't ordered another.

  Oh christ no, said the voice, more emphatic.

  He clamped down hard, methodically ran down the list of reasons why panic was pointless, the worst of his options. He thought about the last year and a half spent together: eighteen months in which she'd never once tried to run away. He thought about the permanent shattering of will, her terrible crippling resignation. He thought about the words forever and ever.

  He thought about the way she'd looked while gutting Tristana.

  He looked at the clock again.

  A sickly churn began to cycle in his gut, physical corollary to the voice in his head. A second voice chimed in now, infinitely more practical. Go look for her, it said.

  He stood, a bit unsteadily. Something slipped from his lap, tumbled to the floor. Vic looked down, struggling to focus. Something shiny lay coiled at his feet. It was fine-tooled and delicate, easily five feet long, with a tiny silver clasp on the end.

  Her chain.

  Oh god.

  Vic stood paralyzed, unable to accept the evidence of his senses. He suddenly realized how completely he'd been suckered, how very deeply he'd been spiked.

  "Oh, fuck," he muttered, half-falling back against the wall. "Oh, fuck." Waiting for the dizziness to pass. The thought of dragging himself another step farther was incredibly difficult: a deep soul-exhaustion settled over and through him like a fog that freezes bone.

  But beneath the killing fog was the understanding that she had planned this, she had deliberately done this to fuck him up; and what was worse, she had waited until tonight. Which meant that she'd known she was going to do this even before she made him kill Tristana.

  Which meant that Tristana had died for nothing.

  No, worse: as an instrument of Nora's revenge.

  And she had used his hands to do it. . . .

  "You bitch." Feeling the fog burn off, the withering lethargy disperse. "Oh jesus god you fucking BITCH!" His strength returned in a bloodred tidal wave. Suddenly, it was standing still that had become impossible. Vic pushed off from the wall, fists clenched and teeth bared, his whole body coursing with murderous animal rage. He stormed into the bar, following her trail. It went right past the rest rooms, and straight out the door leading to the street.

  Oh, you bitch. You didn't . . .

  But as a matter of fact, she did.

  Vic did the mental math. She had roughly a thirty-minute lead. He didn't want to think about how far behind the eight ball that put him. He went out the door, moving fast, and did not look back.

  Atlantic Avenue ran parallel to the boardwalk, all the way up and down the length of the beach. Hotels loomed huge along the seaward side; clubs and tourist traps hawking doodads or overpriced drinks festooned the inland side of the street.

  Nora's trail headed south. There was not much traffic, either by car or on foot. All the trawling young college meat that he passed on the street meant nothing to him. They were, to his eyes, less substantial than ghosts.

  At the Hilton, Nora's trajectory shifted inward. He practically blew through the glass revolving doors. The sound of canned Top 40 dogshit emanated from Chico's, the hotel lounge; a cow-eyed couple quickly ducked to one side as he barreled through the lobby toward them. He peered through the giant aquarium to the dim-lit interior.

  A complete waste of time. Nora hadn't taken off running for a drink with an umbrella in it and a slow dance to the sound of Wilson Philips wannabees. He turned, heading out the door that led to the boardwalk.

  And as he ran and he ran, tracking her from one bar to another to another, it didn't take long to figure out that she was leading him on a wild-goose chase. And in the process, leading him farther and farther away from the Seaside Hideaway. Away from his room, his car, all his belongings . . .

  . . . including all those credit cards he hadn't felt like carrying . . .

  "GODDAMMIT!" he screeched, as he spun on his heel, using every last molecule of strength at his disposal, going fuck fuck fuck you conniving little CUNT! as he pushed himself harder, hoping against hope that she had played the thread too long, was still trying to throw him off the trail instead of doubling back and doing what he would have done . . .

  . . . and it took him less than four minutes to travel the mile-and-a-quarter distance: some kind of record for a biped, even without the human and hurtling metal obstacles in his path. He arrived at their hotel, slipped in a side entrance, not wanting to be seen. There was nobody at the elevator when he got there. No one to distract him. No one he would have to kill. He thought about how long she'd been gone. Easily an hour and change, more than doubling her lead time since he'd left Viper's.

  Vic took a deep breath, tried to keep it in perspective. These things had a way of balancing out. She might have a head start, but he excelled at playing catch-up.

  And he had a pretty good idea where ol' Nora might be heading. . . .

  The elevator came. There was nobody inside. So much the better for the human race. And when I find you, he mused, stepping in. Ooh baby, when I do . . .

  He didn't hear the first police sirens till the doors were almost closed. All the way up, he kept telling himself it's okay, it doesn't matter, it has nothing to do with you. Which worked just fine and dandy, right up until he began to hear the caterwauling voices from above.

  And all the smells of death assailed him.

  Vic numb. The jumble of screaming, shouting, heaving voices told him less than the stench in the air. He smelled brains—two, maybe three—and yards upon yards of unfurled digestive tract.

  The doors slid open on ten. Blood and meat had graffitoed the corridor walls directly across from Room 1019. She hadn't even kept it contained to their suite. But then again, why would she? She was a bright girl. She'd sought maximum impact, in the shortest possible time.

  He elbowed aside a hurling coed and came to a stop in front of the door. "Holy shit," he hissed softly, surveying the carnage. He saw shreds of Navy white, mostly stained with Navy red, put the jigsaw pieces together in
his mind. Three squids. She had picked up three sailors, brought them back to her place for a groovy gangbang.

  Well, they'd gone off with a bang, all right. Actually, more like a groovy ka-BOOMH! He almost laughed when he thought about it; in fact, one split second later, he did. He found that he couldn't help it. It was just so fucking perverse.

  He realized that he should be very upset—that li'l Nora was already gone—and moreover, that he was standing in the middle of Setup City. He had to admire the beauty of how she'd spiked him; and besides, he needed a place to put all this fresh psychotic energy.

  A storm was coming, that much was for certain. And the cops would be here any second. Vic hoped she'd be listening to her dashboard radio.

  The elevator doors opened. Vic smiled.

  It was time for a Change.

  33

  IT WAS JUST past midnight when the front door to 716 Raymire Street exploded in a shower of oak and leaded glass. The sky to the east had clouded over forebodingly, peals of distant thunder rumbling down the windswept, empty streets.

  The door was heavy and strong, painstakingly stripped and refinished. It gave way practically on the first blow, sent long shards of destruction raining down on the patterned Italian tile of the entrance hall.

  Syd came roaring in through the wreckage, his every move crackling with murderous intent. The house was dark and still, but otherwise amazingly unchanged: its warm wood floors and cool white walls almost exactly as he'd left them, another lifetime ago.

  He roamed from room to room, spreading annihilation in his wake as he smashed and gouged and tore his way across the face of what was once his home. All the while howling out her name.

  Calling for Karen, in a voice no longer human.

  Because Syd had changed; oh, yes, indeed. As he'd fled the mountain, a wildfire had lit in his soul: fueled by the sudden revelation of futher betrayal, unchecked by sanity or reason. Mental tinder, ignited by the spark of betrayal, magnified a millionfold until it burned out of control in his brain. The fire spread through his body, raced under his quivering skin.