The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

by Stephen Hand

  If only Morgan could see into Erin’s mind, her memories, he would have known that he was being driven up to the Hewitt place, where Sheriff Hoyt, Old Monty and his boy, Leatherface, were going to have a whale of a time.

  Now it was the can-opener’s turn.

  Erin had already broken the two blades, failed with the scissors, and found the corkscrew totally useless, which left the can-opener.

  Pepper was good with the flashlight now and finally Erin could see the ignition switch coming loose. Yes! It was definitely coming. The casing was moving bit by bit out of the plastic surround.

  If she could just lever . . .

  Erin concentrated, careful not to push too hard for fear of breaking her last useable tool. But the more the ignition moved, the faster she worked at it, until at last it broke free of the steering column.

  “Finally,” Erin sighed, relieved at the sight of the exposed ignition wires.

  Then she pushed the can-opener back into place and pulled out the tweezers, thinking that everything anyone had ever said about the trusty Swiss army knife was an understatement. This little baby was going to save their lives.

  Something walked in the darkness towards the van.

  “Where’d you learn how to do that?” asked Pepper, impressed.

  “In juvy. They called my youth misspent.”

  Pepper looked dumbfounded. “You were in juvenile hall?”

  Erin pulled out five wires that had been connected to the ignition block and began to strip the ends of them with her teeth. “Yup.”

  The other girl watched her with something close to amazement. Erin was the last person she would have guessed was a juvenile delinquent. Pepper thought Erin really did have a problem when it came to dope and drugs. She’d thought Erin was straight. But if she had been that straight, she wouldn’t have gone down to Mexico alone with the three guys. So if Erin wasn’t totally square, what—?

  The baby.

  Erin was pregnant. Maybe it had changed her in some way.

  It was the wrong time to be analyzing stuff, but Pepper’s beleaguered mind enjoyed the break, taking five from it all. She wished these guys had never picked her up. Perhaps that was unfair, but she’d come along with them and some sick twist of fate had taken a sledgehammer to her life. After today, none of them would be the same again.

  Erin was oblivious to all the sweet girl’s internal thoughts. She had to concentrate on the wires, touching the bare cable ends together, trying one pair, then another, then—

  The engine roared to life.

  “YES!” cheered Erin, and she quickly twisted the two good wires together.

  Pepper squealed with victory as Erin turned on the headlamps and put the van into gear. And this time the useless piece of shit didn’t stall.

  They were outta here.

  The lights were on behind nearly every window of the house. And there were other lights round the back of the building. Morgan couldn’t see the outdoor lights, but he noticed how they threw a white glare from the rear of the house, casting the brute rectangular block of stone into stark relief.

  Hoyt pulled up on a grit patch in front of the main entrance. At no point during their drive did he use the cherry on his roof. Nor did he use the siren. But then he wasn’t in any hurry; he’d already made his arrest.

  The sheriff applied the hand brake then climbed up out of the car. He left the headlights on and Morgan could see the beams crash up against the pale brick of the farmhouse. This was no police station.

  Morgan coughed and spat more blood onto the floor of the vehicle. He’d picked up countless scratches and cuts from the broken glass of the bourbon bottle, and the handcuffs were so tight they’d rubbed the skin off his wrists. But mostly, the boy was now in shock.

  Hoyt opened the rear door. He was holding a flashlight. No beam.

  “Get out.”

  A flat command. No communication, no empathy, no threat—just an order.

  Morgan’s first reaction was to stay put. He’d already been beaten by the sheriff, so what was the bastard going to do out at this place? Maybe if there was someone inside the farmhouse, Morgan could ask them for help. They might even have a phone. If he could just persuade Hoyt or anyone, to let him phone his parents.

  Best play ball.

  Morgan got out of the car—clumsily with his hands in front of him—and as he stood up, the sheriff took a good long look at his swollen, bruised, cut mouth. There was blood all over the kid’s shirt.

  New York, my frigging ass!

  “Where . . . are we?” Morgan said, or at least that’s what Hoyt thought he’d said because the boy was struggling to get a single shit-ass word out.

  “Shut up, faggot.” The sheriff had more important things to do than play twenty questions, trying to understand some fuck-wipe with a busted trap.

  He snapped on the flashlight and stabbed the powerful white beam into the boy’s eyes. Morgan had only just got used to the dark—he raised his hands and squinted, his eyes watering—so he had no way of seeing the vicious shove of Hoyt’s right hand as it bolted forward and pushed Morgan over onto the ground.

  The boy landed face first in the dust but quickly rolled over onto his back. It was just like the mill all fucking over again! Lying on the ground with that bastard walking around like he was some kind of god.

  Hoyt just looked down at the boy.

  “You and your friends should have left that girl alone,” he spat. Then he raised his boot over Morgan’s head.

  Morgan’s eyes opened wide.

  No.

  NO!

  Hoyt brought the boot down hard, stamping the screaming little shit into oblivion.

  Pepper wrapped her arms round Erin and briefly hugged her from behind as the vehicle started to roll. Erin took care not to over accelerate; she didn’t want to risk slamming the wheels into a ditch or pitching the whole van forward into a tree.

  She slowly turned the van round to face the narrow road they’d come in on. Then she put the beams on full, hit the gas, began to drive and—

  Erin lurched, her whole body thrown forward in the seat.

  Behind her, Pepper fell, landing awkwardly on Morgan’s beanbag.

  They didn’t understand.

  The van wasn’t moving and it felt as if the front end had dropped. The front of the van had dropped!

  Erin shook her head, “What the fuck?”

  Then she separated the ignition wires, cutting the engine, and grabbed Pepper’s flashlight. She had to go see what the hell had happened.

  Pepper got to her feet and looked out through the side windows as Erin got out and took a look around the van. She didn’t have to look for very long. When she reached the front passenger side, she found that the whole front wheel had fallen off! But how? It was impossible.

  “Come on,” she called, asking Pepper to join her.

  They had to get the wheel back in place as quickly as possible and it wasn’t going to be easy. The tire was a massive racing slick and it would take the two of them to jack the van and then lift the wheel back into place. Yet another delay they could really do without. If Sheriff Hoyt came back, as he said he would, before they finished, they’d be well and truly boned.

  Pepper got out through the side door and—whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa; rewind the tape a little.

  The whole front wheel had fallen off.

  How?

  Erin shone her torch at the gleaming chrome rim lying on the ground. There was something about it. Something—

  “Somebody stole the goddamn lug nuts!” she shouted.

  The van had been tampered with so that once the wheel started to roll, it came free and fell off.

  Who the hell?

  She quickly checked the three remaining wheels and found that the nuts had been removed from all of them. They had to be around somewhere.

  Not exactly thinking straight, Erin pointed the flashlight down by the fallen wheel, then under the van, and around the other side, but she couldn’
t find any of the missing lug nuts.

  “What are we gonna do?” shuddered Pepper.

  She couldn’t believe they were still there. Just when she thought they were finally gonna get away—another problem. It was her school dream all over again, except this time she wasn’t just frustrated, she was scared out of her goddamn mind. She was sure the fear was making her crazy.

  Just then, Erin saw something glinting in the torchlight.

  She stepped over, praying it would be the—it was an empty bottle of bourbon. The bottle couldn’t have been there long because the remaining traces of liquor were still wet and the bottle was clean. Somebody must have dropped it there recently, maybe the person who’d messed with the van.

  Damn! The search was getting Erin nowhere.

  Pepper tried to help but the lug nuts had just vanished.

  After a few more fruitless minutes, Erin decided to unscrew the spare down from the outside of the rear door of the van. She didn’t want the spare itself but the five lug nuts holding it in place. That way, she could put one nut on each of the wheels. It wouldn’t be perfect and it wouldn’t last forever, but it should do for getting out of town.

  They’d also need the jack to put the fallen wheel back in position. The tool was stored somewhere in the back of the van and Erin planned to fetch it once she’d removed all the lug nuts from the spare.

  Pepper looked on as Erin walked over to the rear door, took one look at the nuts, and cursed.

  “Shit.” She rubbed a hand through her hair, “Andy took the tire iron.”

  She remembered he’d taken it with him up to the Hewitt house and never returned.

  Was there one, just one, thing about this day that didn’t completely suck?

  They were wasting time. Sure, things were quiet enough now, but Erin didn’t know how long it would last. She couldn’t believe that Old Monty or the freak with the chainsaw hadn’t come after her yet—maybe it was because the sheriff had been here—but Erin knew they really needed to get away from this place. Something was coming, she could feel it.

  And did the dark mill have to look so damned frightening? Every time she looked up at the place, it made her feel nauseous. All those revolting skulls in the moonlight.

  There was someone in the woods watching.

  Erin could feel it moving, or at least she thought she could.

  She’d been struggling to turn the lug nut with her bare fingers for so long, she couldn’t tell whether the movement was in the metal, or in the skin of her bleeding, blistered hands.

  So far, she’d failed to remove a single nut. Pepper had tried to help but only got in the way—there just wasn’t enough room for the two of them to work at the spare simultaneously. Which is why Erin had suggested shifts—though, in reality, she had no intention of giving the other girl a shot.

  Pepper didn’t look like she had what it took. While Erin, on the other hand, had been forced to share Kemper with shop all through their relationship. And you can’t do that without learning a few things.

  Suddenly Erin stopped.

  She’d heard something, she was sure of it; somewhere in the trees behind her. Something was coming. Christ, she was positive. But the wheel—the van was on three wheels!

  She looked over at Pepper. “Get in the van.”

  The quiet urgency in Erin’s voice was unmistakable. But the van was on three wheels.

  Pepper frowned, “But—”

  “Do it!” shouted Erin, and almost immediately the two of them were back inside; Erin behind the wheel and Pepper on the back seat, the bloodstains soon forgotten in the face of her renewed terror.

  Erin quickly blew on her fingers to help dry the sweat and blood, and then she took hold of the ignition wires and crossed the ones that would start up the engine.

  The van rumbled and began to move forward, lumbering, unbalanced, wounded, but still moving forward.

  Erin remembered reading somewhere that the average walking pace for a man was just over two miles per hour, while a fast walking pace was maybe four or five. But if someone was running, he could probably manage a speed of—

  Screw it.

  She floored the gas pedal and hoped for the best. If another wheel came off, it came off. But right now, she didn’t feel like she had any choice.

  And from the darkness behind them came the unrelenting scream of the chainsaw. It was sudden, erupting with a jagged splutter from the cover of the trees.

  No, not again!

  Erin checked the rearview but it was dark outside. And she couldn’t be sure over the sound of the turbocharger whether she really was hearing that god-awful sound or just imagining it. Maybe the axle was grinding or something.

  But Pepper could hear it as well.

  And she couldn’t believe it.

  She’d never doubted what Erin had said about the farmhouse but somehow hadn’t been able accept it—a chainsaw wielding guy sporting dead people’s faces? It just wasn’t possible. Even now, Pepper was not convinced about the ripped-off faces but she was absolutely certain there was someone out there with a chainsaw.

  “Don’t stop!” she cried.

  “I’m not!” shouted Erin in reply.

  And she pushed the disabled van almost to its limit within the confines of the dirt trail. They only had a few more yards to go and they’d be back on the access road where she could probably pick up more speed.

  Pitching and swaying like a boy with one leg missing, the van heaved forward, jolting lopsidedly between the decaying trees of the surrounding grove. The headlights were working fine, but the way ahead was a confusion of deadwood and straggling undergrowth. One wrong turn and they’d be in trouble.

  Suddenly the van dipped sharply and, for one terrible moment, Erin thought another wheel had come off. She put one hand on the dash—to keep from falling out of her seat—and used her other hand to wrestle with the steering wheel.

  She could hear the chainsaw now. Which meant that her worst fear had just come true; the maniac was here and he was coming after them.

  When she’d faced him up at the house, he’d seemed unstoppable; he’d crushed Andy like a bug. He was totally insane. And the skin . . .

  Erin had to choke back an almost overwhelming wave of repulsion caused by her memory of that sick mask with its crude stitching and torn eyeholes.

  The kind of evil represented by that flesh-wearing bastard was entirely beyond Erin’s comprehension. No amount of words, abuse or psychological jargon could ever hope to explain the ugly existence of that squealing, fat pervert in his dead skin mask. His very heartbeat was an insult to humanity. The chainsaw rushed forward, grinding, turning, retching—carried by strong hands and a deviant strapped-on face. Inside the mask, his eyes were rolling like the cutting chain. Rolling inside the mask. Rolling to bring them death.

  The van lurched and shook.

  They could both hear the chainsaw growing nearer and Pepper was close to screaming point.

  But Erin remained focused. She was trying to keep the vehicle straight when a second tire came loose and rolled out from underneath the left rear wheel arch.

  Almost immediately, the van went down and dug its nose hard into the earth. Pepper fell to the floor but Erin managed to hold on to her seat, ready for the impact.

  The remaining wheels continued to turn but the Dodge was going nowhere.

  Erin clutched at the steering, holding it more and more tightly as if she could move the vehicle by willpower alone. She was tense, disheveled. Her great escape plan had been shot to fuck. Now she was just another victim.

  She leaned forward in her seat, her face almost up against the windscreen, urging the van forward.

  “FUCK IT!”

  The turbocharged engine roared as she stepped on the gas, feeding more and more power into the transmission, only to grind the axles into the dirt. Yet still she persevered. They could still get away if just she tried hard enough.

  The chainsaw came screaming through the window, sharp metal te
eth catching the cracked edges of the bloodstained suicide hole and hurling the red crystal shards in all directions—hacking in and out of the van, spraying broken glass, screaming and spinning and filling the rutting wagon with exhaust poison. The violence ripped through the closed door, raggedly squealing for disembodied limbs.

  Pepper screamed and Erin pushed harder on the gas, the laboring engine and the rampant chainsaw locked in a death dual of decibels.

  Stressed beyond limit, the back window finally exploded, leaving the chainsaw free to gouge through the metal of the rear door. Dust clouds mingled with exhaust fumes, bright golden sparks erupted from the epicenter of the saw, and finally Pepper was able to look back and catch her first devastating sight of Leatherface—his facial skin encasement aglow with hot saw fever.

  “What do we do?” she screamed.

  The van was going nowhere and Pepper was really losing it.

  Erin had to do something. But what? That bastard had them cornered. He was right outside the vehicle. If they went out, he’d catch them. But if they stayed in there . . .

  Erin couldn’t think straight. It was all happening too fast, and the noise of that chainsaw was chewing up her concentration just as easily as it was now ripping random lines through the rear of the van. Kemper’s van. The roar of the maniac power tool was bearing down upon them with the blind fury of a crippling cerebral hemorrhage. Their bodies would be shaken to bloody pieces in a red hurricane of epileptic dissection.

  Erin climbed into the back and grabbed hold of Pepper. They huddled in the center of the van not knowing what to do or what would happen next.

  Suddenly the chainsaw moved away from the rear door and circled the van as if it was weighing up another assault—they could hear it, their eyes darting in all directions, wondering where . . .

  Silence.

  Then the ripping explosion of glass and gasoline fumes returned as the chainsaw came crashing through the driver’s side window and tore into the upholstery of the seat Erin had been sitting in moments before. The high pitch cutting chain slashed the seat cover apart, churned up the foam cushioning, and then withdrew.