Midnight's Lair (31 page)

    The belt around her midriff was starting to slip. Before they left the dock, Greg had wrapped her with the belt to secure her folded handkerchief against her wound. She had argued against taking the time necessary to apply the makeshift bandage, but he had insisted.

    'If you lose so much blood you pass out on me,' he told her, 'it'll slow us down even more - I'd have to pick you up and carry you.'

    'It's not bleeding that much.'

    'We aren't going anywhere until you're patched up.'

    'Okay,' she said.

    And so, standing on the dock in the utter darkness, Darcy opened her windbreaker and took off her belt. She dug her sodden handkerchief out of the front pocket of her pants and gave it to Greg. She felt his fingers gently exploring her skin. Winced as he touched an edge of the wound.

    'We've already lost so much time,' she whispered.

    'A couple more minutes won't make that much difference.'

    'Might make all the difference.'

    'Face it, Darcy, we're not going to catch up with them.' He placed the handkerchief against her wound. 'Hold that.' She did. She gave the belt to him. 'They've got too much of a headstart,' he said. 'They'll reach the others before we're even halfway there. And when they realize how many they've got to contend with, they probably won't attack at all. They might just watch for a while, or they might turn back. And run into us.'

    'We've gotta go after them.'

    'I know.'

    'So many are already dead.'

    The belt encircled her body, just below her breasts. Greg touched her fingers. 'Got it,' he whispered. Then he tightened the belt. It closed around her like a tourniquet and she hissed at the pressure on her raw flesh. 'If it's too loose, it won't do any good.'

    Darcy nodded and then realized how foolish it was to nod in such a darkness. 'It's okay.'

    She felt for him and found his shoulders and pulled him against her. In an instant, his cold skin turned warm where it met her chest and breasts and belly. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, and beating of his heart. Greg stroked her hair.

    
If we go,
Darcy thought,
he might be killed.

    'If we can't overtake the savages,' she said as she held him, 'at least we might be able to call out and warn the others that they're coming. If we're even too late for that, we can join in the fight.'

    'You've done enough fighting,' Greg told her.

    'We might save lives. Even if we save just one…' But what if it costs Greg his life?

    
Maybe we shouldn't go.

    'Whatever we do,' Greg said, 'there's no point in staying here.' He eased away from her. For just a moment, his hands moved lightly over her breasts. Then they found the sides of her face. He drew her forward, kissed the side of her nose, then her mouth.

    'Ready?' he asked.

    'Yeah.'

    Darcy heard a quiet snap. 'What was that?' she asked.

    'Elastic. I took the bone out of my shorts.'

    She laughed and couldn't believe she was laughing. 'You actually… had that thing in your underwear?'

    'Right in there with the other bone.'

    'Uh.'

    'Let's move.'

    Her laughter died.

    Greg led the way, Darcy keeping a hand on his shoulder.

    Somehow, they managed to walk the length of the dock without falling into the lake. When the concrete walkway was under their feet, he guided Darcy to the left until they reached the railing. With its metal bar to follow, Greg picked up speed.

    'Faster,' Darcy said.

    Soon, they were jogging through the total darkness.

    The belt remained in place until she began breathing hard. Each time she exhaled, it slipped down a bit. Now, it hung around her waist and she felt warm trickles of blood sliding down her belly.

    
It won't kill me,
she thought.

    
We must be at least halfway there.

    
Halfway.

    'Greg?'

    He stopped.

    'Let's try yelling. We're close enough, they ought to be able to hear us if we yell out a warning.'

    'You think so?'

    'Sound carries a long way in here.'

    'All right. But it'll give away our position. As soon as we do it, let's get off the walkway. Don't want those…'

    'Yeeeeah!' The far-off cry of a woman.

    Other voices too faint to distinguish.

    Then, 'Let go of me! What do you want?'

    A chill spread up Darcy's back.

    'I didn't think they'd really do it,' Greg whispered.

    Someone screamed.

    The black air shook with shouts and screams.

    

    

    Katie started to cry.

    'What's happening?' Jean whispered in a frantic voice.

    'An attack,' Wayne whispered. 'Some kind of… I don't know.'

    He heard growls, gasps, thuds, even laughter. And the crying of his daughter.

    The three of them had sat there and kept silent until a few moments ago, as if, like Wayne, Katie and Jean understood that the silence was their protection, a shelter that hid them from the invaders. Now, the girl's crying threatened to give them away.

    'Katie,' he said. 'Don't. Shhhh. Please, honey.'

    
If they hear us, they'll get us!

    
Who? Who's doing this?

    When it began (a minute ago? five minutes? seemed to be going on forever) he'd thought it was a joke -someone taking advantage of the darkness to throw a fright into a girlfriend or wife. Then someone cried out, 'Oh sweet Jesus, he's dead!’ and Wayne knew it wasn't pretend. In seconds, he was engulfed by cries of alarm and pain.

    
It'll stop soon,
he'd told himself.

    
It'll just fade out and end, like the Los Angeles earthquake when he was a grad student there back in 1972. When the earthquake hit, he'd known he was going to die, but he'd done nothing, just sat there on his bed, and it had gone away.

    
It'll be like that. If we just sit real still and don't make a sound, it'll stop and we'll be all right.

    But it wasn't fading. It was swelling, growing, getting worse.

    Wayne felt as if he'd been sucked into the plot of one of his own grim novels.

    And thought,
those are books. What is this shit!

    
She's got to stop crying!

    Reaching into the dark, he touched Katie and she yelped. 'It's all right, honey,' he whispered. He stroked the side of her face, reached beyond her and felt Jean. The girl must be sitting on her mother's lap, just as she'd been before the fires in the elevators died. 'Don't worry. Nothing…'

    'Don't let them kill us, Daddy.'

    
What can I do?
he thought.
I'm a goddamn writer. I'm no Chuck Norris.

    
A fucking wimp.

    'Daddy.'

    'Lie down and keep quiet and don't move,' he said. 'Both of you. Jean, get on top of her.'

    Then he twisted himself around, turning straight into an explosion of blood that slapped his face and stung his eyes and filled his mouth.

    
Got the fat lady,
he thought.

    
They're close. Fucking close. We're next!

    The blood kept spraying his face. He crawled into it. His hands met the woman's thick calves. Her legs were still crossed, but jumping as if she'd been plugged into a socket. Wayne slapped a hand down on her dress. Found the handbag. Hissed and ducked aside as a thread of fire streaked down his ear and cheek. But kept the handbag and tore it open and dug inside and grabbed the matchbook.

    With palsied fingers, he plucked out a match and struck it.

    For an instant, there was a bloom of light.

    He glimpsed the woman sitting in front of him, bouncing and twitching. Her eyes were rolled back. Her slashed throat spat blood. The blood doused the match but before the darkness dropped over his eyes, Wayne saw a crouched figure lurch past his side.

    Toward Katie and Jean!

    He bit down on the matchbook and sprang forward, slamming the fat woman onto her back. Her head thumped the rock floor. Kneeling on her soft, shuddering body, he found her shoulders, found her cable-knit shawl, tore it off.

    'WAYNE!'

    Katie screamed.

    He scurried backward, balling up the shawl. Whirled around. Struck a match and saw in the shuddering glow of the flame his wife huddled on top of Katie (did as she was told, for once) and a man crouched over her back ready to slash with a straight razor.

    A man - a teenager? - with a face as white as bread dough, wild, tangled black hair and a bushy beard. He wore a quilted pink bathrobe trimmed in lace, its front soaked with blood.

    As the match flared, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

    He seemed stunned by the light.

    Then his other hand flew up to cover his eyes and he started to slash down at Katie but the shawl in Wayne's hands was already a ball of fire. As the blade whipped down, Wayne dived at him and shoved the blazing garment into his face.

    He shrieked. Wayne smashed him backwards, landed on top of him, rolled clear, thrust himself up to his hands and knees and jerked his head toward the light.

    The attacker, beard and hair afire, squirmed on his back and kept screaming as he struggled with the flaming shawl. It seemed to be tangled in his arms. By the time he flung it aside, the sleeves of his robe were burning. He lurched to his feet. He twirled and flapped his arms, then lurched past Jean and started to run. He dashed past sprawled corpses, past bodies huddled in terror, past someone lying prone who darted out a hand and tripped him. He stumbled, fell, shoved himself up and staggered onward.

    
Maybe hoping to reach the stream,
Wayne thought.

    He was still running when Wayne crawled over to Jean and Katie. 'Are you okay?' he gasped.

    'Yes,' Jean told him. 'Yes.'

    'Did you get him, Daddy?'

    'You betcha.'

    

    

    As Kyle slashed her throat, blood gushed over his hand. He let go of her hair and stepped backwards away from her shuddering body. A moment later, her head struck the rock floor of the cavern.

    He clamped the pocket knife between his teeth and moved forward. Her blood splashed his pants, his jutting penis. When he was beyond the spray, he turned toward the place where she must be lying, and knelt.

    Scooted on his knees until they bumped against her. Reached down and touched her bare leg. Her shin. It was trembling.

    
Still alive. Fuck her fast while she's still alive and shaking.

    
Before they show up.

    He crawled over her and got between her legs.

    Behind him, the chaos went on. The mad sounds of struggle and slaughter.

    Kyle's whole body quivered with terror and need.

    The crazies were back there, doing their number, and no one knew he was here with Paula. He was invisible. He could do whatever he wanted with her. No one would ever know.

    
They'll blame it on the crazies.

    He slid his hands up her shaking thighs, slipped them up beneath her damp skirt.

    Skirt?

    What's…?

    Pulling his hands out from under it, Kyle reached higher and touched more wet fabric. A blouse? He squeezed the soft mounds of her breasts through the cloth. From the feel of them, she wasn't wearing a bra, but…

    Where the hell did she get the clothes?

    He'd stripped off her kilt and panties before she broke away from him. Her blouse had come off in his hand when he grabbed her crossing the stream.

    Paula's naked.

    This isn't Paula.

    He remembered the pursuit through the darkness. He'd been right behind her. She was just out of reach when he got past the railing, and he'd stuck out his arm and clutched her hair… someone's hair.

    
Nailed the wrong person.

    
I'll never get her now,
he thought. And then he thought,
who cares?

    He tore open the blouse and filled his hands with the big, warm breasts. Then, he shoved the skirt up her legs and felt for her panties. She wore none.

    
Great.

    
Who is she?

    
Who cares.

    Kyle folded the knife and slid it into his pocket. Bending down, he rubbed his face on her breasts. He kneaded one of her breasts and took the other into his mouth and sucked it in deep.

    There was a high shriek. But not from the woman. From somewhere behind him.

    
Big deal.

    Another tourist bites the dust.

    He bit this one, and felt blood swell into his mouth.

    The shriek got louder.

    Then there was light.

    Orange, fluttering light.

    Kyle thrust himself up, suddenly alarmed, and was about to look over his shoulder when someone with a burning head and flaming robe tumbled to the cave floor beside him.

    No more than a yard away.

    He felt the heat of the flames.

    He thought,
Christ, now everyone can see me!

    
The crazies can see me!

    He started to get up.

    And saw the face of the woman he had killed.

    The face was shiny red.