I started moving carefully through the room. It was a locker room of some kind. There was glass and debris all over the floor, and one entire row of metal lockers had the paint blistered off their surfaces; the flash blast had caught them through the windows, a lot of years ago. My sneakers didn’t make a sound coming through the room.
The door was hanging on one hinge, and I stepped over—through the inverted triangle. I was in the swimming pool area. The big pool was empty, with tiles buckled down at the shallow end. It stunk bad in there; no wonder, there were dead guys, or what was left of them, along one wall. Some lousy cleaner-up had stacked them, but hadn’t buried them. I pulled my bandanna up around my nose and mouth and kept moving.
Out the other side of the pool place, and through a little passage with popped light bulbs in the ceiling. I didn’t have any trouble seeing. There was moonlight coming through busted windows and a chunk was out of the ceiling. I could hear her real plain now, just on the other side of the door at the end of the passage. I hung close to the wall, and stepped down to the door. It was open a crack, but blocked by a fall of lath and plaster from the wall. It would make noise when I went to pull it open, that was for certain. I had to wait for the right moment.
Flattened against the wall, I checked out what she was doing in there. It was a gymnasium, big one, with climbing ropes hanging down from the ceiling. She had a squat, square, eight-cell flashlight sitting up on the croup of a vaulting horse. There were parallel bars and a horizontal bar about eight feet high, the tempered steel all rusty now. There were swinging rings and a trampoline and a big wooden balancing beam. Over to one side there were wall-bars and balancing benches, horizontal and oblique ladders, and a couple of stacks of vaulting boxes. I made a note to remember this joint. It was better for working out than the jerry-rigged gym I’d set up in an old auto wrecking yard. A guy has to keep in shape, if he’s going to be a solo.
She was out of her disguise. Standing there in the skin, shivering. Yeah, it was chilly, and I could see a pattern of chicken-skin all over her. She was maybe five-six or -seven, with nice tits and kind of skinny legs. She was brushing out her hair. It hung way down the back. The flashlight didn’t make it clear enough to tell if she had red hair or chestnut, but it wasn’t blonde, which was good, and that was because I dug redheads. She had nice tits, though. I couldn’t see her face, the hair was hanging down all smooth and wavy and cut off her profile.
The crap she’d been wearing was thrown around on the floor, and what she was going to put on was up on the vaulting horse. She was standing in little shoes with a kind of funny heel on them.
I couldn’t move. I suddenly realized I couldn’t move. She was nice, really nice. I was getting a real big kick out of just standing there and seeing the way her waist fell inward and her hips fell outward, the way the muscles at the side of her tits pulled up when she reached to the top of her head to brush all that hair down. It was really weird the kick I was getting out of standing and just staring at a chick do that. Kind of very, well, woman stuff. I liked it a lot.
I’d never ever stopped and just looked at a chick like that. All the ones I’d ever seen had been scumbags that Blood had smelled out for me, and I’d snatch ‘n’ grabbed them. Or the big chicks in the beaver flicks. Not like this one, kind of soft and very smooth, even with the goose bumps. I could have watched her all night.
She put down the brush, and reached over and took a pair of panties off the pile of clothes and wriggled into them. Then she got her bra and put it on. I never knew the way chicks did it. She put it on backwards around her waist, and it had a hook on it. Then she slid it around till the cups were in front, and kind of pulled it up under and scooped herself into it, first one, then the other; then she pulled the straps over her shoulder. She reached for her dress, and I nudged some of the lath and plaster aside, and grabbed the door to give it a yank.
She had the dress up over her head, and her arms up inside the material, and when she stuck her head in, and was all tangled there for a second, I yanked the door and there was a crash as chunks of wood and plaster fell out of the way, and a heavy scraping, and I jumped inside and was on her before she could get out of the dress.
She started to scream, and I pulled the dress off her with a ripping sound, and it all happened for her before she knew what that crash and scrape was all about.
Her face was wild. Just wild. Big eyes: I couldn’t tell what color they were because they were in shadow. Real fine features, a wide mouth, little nose, cheekbones just like mine, real high and prominent, and a dimple in her right cheek. She stared at me really scared.
And then … and this is really weird … I felt like I should say something to her. I don’t know what. Just something. It made me uncomfortable, to see her scared, but what the hell could I do about that, I mean, I was going to rape her, after all, and I couldn’t very well tell her not to be shrinky about it. She was the one cumup, after all. But even so, I wanted to say hey, don’t be scared, I just want to lay you. (That never happened before. I never wanted to say anything to a chick, just get in, and that was that.)
But it passed, and I put my leg behind hers and tripped her back, and she went down in a pile. I leveled the .45 at her, and her mouth kind of opened in a little o shape. “Now I’m gonna go over there and get one of them wrestling mats, so it’ll be better, comfortable, uh-huh? You make a move off that floor and I shoot a leg out from under you, and you’ll get screwed just the same, except you’ll be without a leg.” I waited for her to let me know she was onto what I was saying, and she finally nodded real slow, so I kept the automatic on her, and went over to the big dusty stack of mats, and pulled one off.
I dragged it over to her, and flipped it so the cleaner side was up, and used the muzzle of the .45 to maneuver her onto it. She just sat there on the mat, with her hands behind her, and her knees bent, and stared at me.
I unzipped my pants and started pulling them down off one side, when I caught her looking at me real funny. I stopped with the jeans. “What’re you lookin’ at?”
I was mad. I didn’t know why I was mad, but I was.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Her voice was very soft, and kind of furry, like it came up through her throat that was all lined with fur or something.
She kept looking at me, waiting for me to answer.
“Vic,” I said. She looked like she was waiting for more.
“Vic what?”
I didn’t know what she meant for a minute, then I did. “Vic. Just Vic. That’s all.”
“Well, what’re your mother’s and father’s names?”
Then I started laughing, and working my jeans down again. “Boy, are you a dumb bitch,” I said, and laughed some more. She looked hurt. It made me mad again. “Stop lookin’ like that, or I’ll bust out your teeth!”
She folded her hands in her lap.
I got the pants around my ankles. They wouldn’t come off over the sneakers. I had to balance on one foot and scuff the sneaker off the other foot. It was tricky, keeping the .45 on her and getting the sneaker off at the same time. But I did it.
I was standing there buck-naked from the waist down and she had sat forward a little, her legs crossed, hands still in her lap. “Get that stuff off,” I said.
She didn’t move for a second, and I thought she was going to give me trouble. But then she reached around behind and undid the bra. Then she tipped back and slipped the panties off her ass.
Suddenly, she didn’t look scared any more. She was watching me very close, and I could see her eyes were blue now. Now this is the really weird thing …
I couldn’t do it. I mean, not exactly. I mean, I wanted to fuck her, see, but she was all soft and pretty and she kept looking at me, and no solo I ever met would believe me, but I heard myself talking to her, still standing there like some kind of wetbrain, one sneaker off and jeans down around my ankles. “What�
��s your name?”
“Quilla June Holmes.”
“That’s a weird name.”
“My mother says it’s not that uncommon, back in Oklahoma.”
“That where your folks come from?”
She nodded. “Before the Third War.”
“They must be pretty old by now.”
“They are, but they’re okay. I guess.”
We were just frozen there, talking to each other. I could tell she was cold, because she was shivering. “Well,” I said, sort of getting ready to drop down beside her, “I guess we better—”
Damn it! That damned Blood! Right at that moment he came crashing in from outside. Came skidding through the lath, and plaster, raising dust, slid along on his ass till he got to us. “Now what?” I demanded.
“Who’re you talking to?” the girl asked.
“Him. Blood.”
“The dog!?!”
Blood stared at her and then ignored her. He started to say something but the girl interrupted him. “Then it’s true what they say … you can all talk to animals … ”
“You going to listen to her all night, or do you want to hear why I came in?”
“Okay, why’re you here?”
“You’re in trouble, Albert.”
“Come on, forget the mickeymouse. What’s up?”
Blood twisted his head toward the front door of the YMCA. “Roverpak. Got the building surrounded. I make it fifteen or twenty, maybe more.”
“How the hell’d they know we was here?”
Blood looked chagrined. He dropped his head.
“Well?”
“Some other mutt must’ve smelled her in the theater.”
“Great.”
“Now what?”
“Now we stand ’em off, that’s what. You got any better suggestions?”
“Just one.”
I waited. He grinned.
“Pull your pants up.”
IV
The girl, this Quilla June, was pretty safe. I made her a kind of a shelter out of wrestling mats, maybe a dozen of them. She wouldn’t get hit by a stray bullet, and if they didn’t go right for her, they wouldn’t find her. I climbed one of the ropes hanging down from the girders and laid out up there with the Browning and a couple of handfuls of reloads. I wished to God I’d had an automatic, a bren or a Thompson. I checked the .45, made sure it was full, with one in the chamber, and set the extra clips down on the girder. I had a clear line-of-fire all around the gym.
Blood was lying in shadow right near the front door. He’d suggested I try and pick off any dogs with the roverpak first, if I could. That would allow him to operate freely.
That was the least of my worries.
I’d wanted to hole up in another room, one with only a single entrance, but I had no way of knowing if the rovers were already in the building, so I did the best I could with what I had.
Everything was quiet. Even that Quilla June. It’d taken me valuable minutes to convince her she’d damned well better hole up and not make any noise; she was better off with me than with twenty of them. “If you ever wanna see your mommy and daddy again,” I warned her. After that she didn’t give me no trouble, packing her in with mats.
Quiet.
Then I heard two things, both at the same time. From back in the swimming pool, I heard boots crunching plaster. Very soft. And from one side of the front door, I heard a tinkle of metal striking wood. So they were going to try a yoke. Well, I was ready.
Quiet again.
I sighted the Browning on the door to the pool room. It was still open from when I’d come through. Figure him at maybe five-ten, and drop the sights a foot and a half, and I’d catch him in the chest. I’d learned long ago you don’t try for the head. Go for the widest part of the body: the chest and stomach. The trunk.
Suddenly, outside, I heard a dog bark, and part of the darkness near the front door detached itself and moved inside the gym. Directly opposite Blood. I didn’t move the Browning.
The rover at the front door moved a step along the wall, away from Blood. Then he cocked back his arm and threw something—a rock, a piece of metal, something—across the room to draw fire. I didn’t move the Browning.
When the thing he’d thrown hit the floor, two rovers jumped out of the swimming pool door, one on either side of it, rifles down, ready to spray. Before they could open up, I’d squeezed off the first shot, tracked across and put a second shot into the other one. They both went down. Dead hits, right in the heart. Bang, they were down, neither one moved.
The mother by the door turned to split, and Blood was on him. Just like that, out of the darkness, riiiip!
Blood leaped, right over the crossbar of the guy’s rifle held at ready, and sank his fangs into the rover’s throat. The guy screamed, and Blood dropped, carrying a piece of the guy with him. The guy was making awful bubbling sounds and went down on one knee. I put a slug into his head, and he fell forward.
It went quiet again.
Not bad. Not bad atall atall. Three takeouts and they still didn’t know our positions. Blood had fallen back into the murk by the entrance. He didn’t say a thing, but I knew what he was thinking: maybe that was three out of seventeen, or three out of twenty, or twenty-two. No way of knowing; we could be faced-off in here for a week and never know if we’d gotten them all, or some, or none. They could go and get poured full again, and I’d find myself run out of slugs and no food and that girl, that Quilla June, crying and making me divide my attention, and daylight—and they’d still be laying out there, waiting till we got hungry enough to do something dumb, or till we ran out of slugs; and then they’d cloud up and rain all over us.
A rover came dashing straight through the front door at top speed, took a leap, hit on his shoulders, rolled, came up going in a different direction, and snapped off three rounds into different corners of the room before I could track him with the Browning. By that time he was close enough under me where I didn’t have to waste a .22 slug. I picked up the .45 without a sound and blew the back off his head. Slug went in neat, came out and took most of his hair with it. He fell right down.
“Blood! The rifle!”
Came out of the shadows, grabbed it up in his mouth and dragged it over to the pile of wrestling mats in the far corner. I saw an arm poke out from the mass of mats, and a hand grabbed the rifle, dragged it inside. Well, it was at least safe there, till I needed it. Brave little bastard: he scuttled over to the dead rover and started worrying the ammo bandolier off his body. It took him a while; he could have been picked off from the doorway or outside one of the windows, but he did it. Brave little bastard. I had to remember to get him something good to eat when we got out of this. I smiled, up there in the darkness: if we got out of this, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting him something tender. It was lying all over the floor of that gymnasium.
Just as Blood was dragging the bandolier back into the shadows, two of them tried it with their dogs. They came through a ground floor window, one after another, hitting and rolling and going in opposite directions, as the dogs—a mother-ugly akita, big as a house, and a Doberman bitch the color of a turd—shot through the front door and split in the unoccupied two directions. I caught one of the dogs, the akita, with the .45, and it went down thrashing. The Doberman was all over Blood.
But firing, I’d given away my position. One of the rovers fired from the hip and .30-06 soft-nosed slugs spanged off the girders around me. I dropped the automatic, and it started to slip off the girder as I reached for the Browning. I made a grab for the .45 and that was the only thing saved me. I fell forward to clutch at it, it slipped away and hit the gym floor with a crash, and the rover fired at where I’d been. But I was flat on the girder, arm dangling, and the crash startled him. He fired at the sound, and right at that instant I heard another shot from a Winchester, and the
other rover, who’d made it safe into the shadows, fell forward holding a big pumping hole in his chest. That Quilla June had shot him, from behind the mats.
I didn’t even have time to figure out what the fuck was happening … Blood was rolling around with the Doberman and the sounds they were making were awful … the rover with the .30-06 chipped off another shot and hit the muzzle of the Browning, protruding over the side of the girder, and wham it was gone, falling down. I was naked up there without clout, and the sonofabitch was hanging back in shadow waiting for me.
Another shot from the Winchester, and the rover fired right into the mats. She ducked back behind, and I knew I couldn’t count on her for anything more. But I didn’t need it; in that second, while he was focused on her, I grabbed the climbing rope, flipped myself over the girder, and howling like a burnpit-screamer, went sliding down, feeling the rope cutting my palms. I got down far enough to swing, and kicked off. I swung back and forth, whipping my body three different ways each time, swinging out and over, way over, each time. The sonofabitch kept firing, trying to track a trajectory, but I kept spinning out of his line of fire. Then he was empty, and I kicked back as hard as I could, and came zooming in toward his corner of shadows, and let loose all at once and went ass-over-end into the corner, and there he was, and I went right into him and he spanged off the wall, and I was on top of him, digging my thumbs into his eyesockets. He was screaming and the dogs were screaming and that girl was screaming and I pounded the motherfucker’s head against the floor till he stopped moving, then I grabbed up the empty .30-06 and whipped his head till I knew he wasn’t gonna give me no more aggravation.
Then I found the .45 and shot the Doberman.
A Boy and His Dog Page 2