Quake (35 page)

    Without looking back, she waved him forward. Caspar hurried after her. He gained on her for a few moments, then slowed his pace. He stayed about twenty feet behind her as they made their way toward Sunset.

    'Let's do some catching up,' Clint said. Holding the knife inside his right pocket, he gestured Mary forward with other hand.

    She started to hobble.

    With her left hand at her chest, she held her top shut. She carried the knife in plain sight.

    'Better hide the knife,' Clint reminded her.

    Without argument, she swept it upward. The knife and hand that held it disappeared inside the front of her top.

    'Move it along, now,' Clint said. 'Come on, you can do better than that. Pick it up, pick it up.' Mary quickened her pace. 'Em, you go now.' Em hurried past him.

    Her right arm, bent at the elbow, hitched up the back her T-shirt so high that some bare skin showed above top of her shorts. Clint felt a sudden ache, glimpsing the skin. Not exactly lust. Partly that, but more a strange mix of desire and of loss. And a great, awful tenderness. Can't let anything happen to her. Can't. No matter what. She's what's best in the world, girls like her and girls like Barbara. Have to take good care of her. He had a thickness in his throat, but he smiled about the back of Em's Roadkill T-shirt. The cloth was so thin and clingy that it took on the shape of her forearm, her fist, and the broad tapering blade upright over her spine. The point of the knife was between her shoulder blades. The knife's almost bigger than she is, he thought. Such a toughie. And damn it, she shouldn't have to be going around in this world with a knife in her shirt like some sort of pint-sized Saint Joan.

***

    'What're you doing?' Sheila asked.

    'Nothing,' Stanley told her. He had exhausted himself earlier by hoisting the remains of Crash out of the tub. Breathless, drenched in sweat, heart slamming, he had sat down in his favorite place beyond the foot of the tub. It only taken him a few minutes to recover. But he'd stayed where he was, sometimes mopping himself with the towel while he stared at Sheila.

    'Are you just going to sit there?' she asked.

    'I guess so. It's a nice view. And this way you can't get your hands on me.'

    'Sure,' she muttered.

    'You look like you're sweating blood. All shiny red, dripping. Do you want to rub it off?' He raised his towel 'Please.' She lifted a hand to catch the toss.

    But Stanley laughed and draped the towel over his shoulders. 'Nah. You look beautiful just the way you are. You look like a wild woman. A gorgeous, naked, wild woman.'

    'You wanta do more than look, Stan. You know it and I know it.'

    He grinned. 'But what are we going to do about it? asked.

    'You have to finish sawing through this beam.’

    'Uh-huh.' He bobbed his head. 'But what happens to me when you're no longer pinned down? There's the rub, so to speak. The sad fact is, you're not only gorgeous but extremely tough. Muscles, muscles, everywhere. If I set you free, you'll try to take me apart.'

    She stared up at him. Her face was bloody. In the shade of the beam above it, the whites of her eyes had a pale blue tint. 'Maybe we can make a deal,' she said.

    'What sort of a deal?'

    'You help me get out of here, and I won't do anything to you. I won't try to hurt you.'

    'Will you let me fuck you?'

    She pressed her lips into a tight, straight line, and nodded.

    'Yeah,' she said. 'Okay. If that's what it takes to get out of here.'

    'No fighting? I get full cooperation?’

    'Yes.’

    'Promise?’

    'I promise.'

    'Liar, liar, pants on fire! Woops! What pants?'

    'I'm not lying, Stan. Quit the games. Just let me out of here. I'll do anything you want.'

    'Why is it that I don't believe you?'

    'Believe me.'

    'Maybe if you hadn't grabbed my ankles when all I wanted to do was play a little footsies with your tits… '

    'I'm sorry. That was a mistake.'

    'A big big big mistake.’

    'What do you want me to do?'

    'There might be something.'

    'What? Name it.'

    'Because, the thing is, I've got half an inclination to just leave you down there, call it a loss, and wait around to see who else shows up. Maybe your husband, for instance. But do you know who's bound to show up sooner or later? Barbara. I'll bet she's on her way home right now. I've seen her in a bikini. She's got a sweet, young body. Is she a virgin? she is. I'll bet she has a…'

    'You don't want her,' Sheila said. Her dry, husky sounded fairly calm, but Stanley heard a tremor in it. 'I'm the one you want. She'd be a lousy substitute, and you know it.'

    'But she hasn't got your muscles. If she fights me…'

    'I won't fight you. I'll do anything you say.'

    'Will you? We'll see about that.’

    'You'll see.'

    'At the first sign of resistance, it's over. You're history and I nail Barbara.’

    'I won't resist.'

    'And you'll do exactly what I tell you to do.’

    'Exactly.'

    'Very good. We'll see how it goes.'

    With that, Stanley got to his feet. He made his way alongside the hole in the floor and crouched over Eagle's hairless body.

    The barbed wire was wound four times around Eagle's waist, its ends twisted together in front. Why on earth anyone would wear a barbed wire belt. Maybe so he'll have some handy, Stanley thought, for occasions like this. Or maybe it's just a fashion statement. After untwisting the ends of the wire, Stanley used Eagle's straight razor to slash the belt loops. Then he nudged the belt higher, past the top of the leather pants, so the four loops encircled Eagle's bare waist. Holding one end, he stood up and stepped to the other side of the body. Then he pulled hard. By the time all four loops had unwound, Eagle looked as if he wore a frayed, red ribbon around his waist. Stanley coiled the wire. It was slippery. There were bits of skin on some of its sharp little points. He stepped over the body and placed the wire on the floor near his saw, scissors and straight razor. Then he climbed down onto the edges of the tub. When he leaned over the middle beam, his leg and back muscles began to tremble. 'Boy,' he said, 'am ever gonna be sore tomorrow.' Sheila didn't open her mouth.

    'Okay, now let's see if you're as good as your word.'

    'I am.'

    'Give me your hands.'

    She raised her arms from her sides and stretched them toward him.

    'Put them together.'

    She did, and Stanley watched the way her breasts got squeezed between her upper arms.

    'Very nice,' he said. 'Keep them that way.'

    He reached out and grabbed the coil of barbed wire. When Sheila saw it, her eyes opened wider. But she said nothing, and held her arms up toward him, hands together. He began to bind her wrists, winding the wire around them, drawing it between them, bending it, twisting it, pulling it tight. Sheila twitched a few times when barbs dug in, but she never protested or struggled. Finally, her hands seemed securely bound together and Stanley had his 'lead' - five or six feet of leftover wire extended from between her wrists.'So far, so good,' he said.

    'You didn't have to do this,' Sheila told him.

    'Sure, I did. You may now put your hands down, but be careful where you put them. You don't wanta poke yourself. He paid out the lead and watched her. Wrists bound tightly together with the barbed wire, she had trouble finding a new position for her arms. Finally, she swung them up rested them against the edge of the overhead beam. She looked as about to perform a high dive. Sans diving board. Sans swimsuit. Sans pool. Stanley moaned with delight, then set aside his end of the wire and anchored it down with a chunk of plaster. He picked up the saw. Its blade was smeared with Crash's blood. He shook it. The wide blade shimmied and made whangy sounds.

    'Shake for me, Sheila,' he said. 'Shake like the saw.' She pressed her lips together. Keeping her arms up, she shook her body from side to side.

    'Harder!' He shook the saw harder. 'Hard as you can!'

    She shook so hard that sparkles of bloody sweat skittered over her skin. Her breasts flung off a crimson spray.

    'Oooo, beautiful. Beautiful. But that's enough.' He quit shaking the saw.

    The rough shudders of Sheila's body ceased. Stanley watched how her breasts continued to sway. Then the only movement came from her hard breathing.

    Stanley twisted himself awkwardly to the left and fit the saw blade into the cut of the beam. He worked it into the slit until it would go no deeper, then began to pump the saw back and forth. Wood dust began dribbling down into the narrow space between the wall of the tub and Sheila's right thigh. He remembered how she had talked him out of making the cut in the middle. Seemed like years ago. Who's giving the orders now? He glanced at the old cut. Shallow. Awfully shallow. She had stopped him before he'd made much progress at all. I could go back to it, anyway, he thought. Just to show her. Screw that. I'm almost done. But he was winded again, wheezing for breath, sweat spilling down his body. Every muscle in his neck and shoulders and arms, in his back, in his buttocks and legs seemed to be jumping and twitching out of control. He stopped sawing, climbed down backward into the tub, and stretched. With the towel, he mopped his hair and face. He plucked the clinging seat of his pajama pants away from his rump, but it stuck again the moment he let go.

    'Almost done,' he gasped. 'Hot work.’

    'I'll bet.'

    'But don't worry… I'll have you…, outa there.'

    'Looking forward to it,' Sheila muttered.

    'Sure you are.' He wiped his face again. 'Tell you something… I am. Looking forward to it. You've got no idea… I've been watching you… Never thought I'd… get a chance at you, but…, thanks to the quake…, my lucky day. Thank God for earthquakes.'

    Sheila's right foot suddenly jerked. Her knee shot upward and her thigh slammed the underside of the beam. Stanley flinched at the quick blast of exploding wood. The saw jumped from its slit. As it lifted into the air, the slit spread wide at the top. Sheila's thigh came punching up through the bottom. A spike of splintered wood leaped after the saw.

    'No!' Stanley yelled.

    Her blow knocked the beam on end. It stood upright between her legs like a two-foot post. Stanley looked around, trying to spot the saw. It didn't seem to be in the tub. With the fists of her wired hands, Sheila rammed the beam near its top. It scooted toward Stanley and tumbled. As it came towards him, he hopped backward. It thudded against the bottom of the tub, skidded and pounded the toes of his left foot through the soft leather of his moccasin. Yelping in pain, he saw Sheila shove at the overhead beam. She slid forward. The moment her head was clear of the wood, she sat up. But she can't stand up, Stanley told himself. She drew her legs in, crossing them, leaning forward. The hell she can't, Stanley thought. Damn it, she'll get out even if she can't use her hands. He thought about leaping onto her. That might be just what she wants. Can't tangle with her, she'll destroy me. She was suddenly on her knees. Stanley squatted and grabbed the sawed-off chuck of fourby-eight at each end. He stood up with it. As he raised overhead, he saw that Sheila already had her feet on the bottom of the tub. She was still crouched, but rising. She had her eyes on him. She looked fierce - but wary.

    'This'll bust ya!' Stanley yelled. Bust ya good! Don't make me do it!'

    'Don't,' Sheila gasped. She shook her head. 'Put it down. Put it down.'

    'I'll bust ya with it!'

    'You got me, Stan. Okay? I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to use that.’

    'I'll cave in your head!’

    'No. Please.'

    'On your knees,' he said.

    She sank to her knees and stared up at him. He hurled the heavy stump of beam. It crashed into the debris on the floor beyond the far end of tub.

    'Thank you,' Sheila said.'You're welcome,' said Stanley.

    Then he crashed his knee into her forehead. Her head jerked away from him. The other beam caught her across the back, just below her shoulders. It stopped her with a massive jolt. As she started to slump, Stanley crouched in front of her. The leftover length of barbed wire dangled from between her hands. He picked it up. He pulled. Raising Sheila's arms from where they hung in front of her. Tugging them toward him. She opened her eyes and gave him a lazy look. She was hardly aware of what was happemng. He continued to pull. She toppled forward. He pulled hard enough to straighten her arms so she wouldn't be able to break the fall with her elbows.

    'Are you gonna give me any more trouble?' he asked. She groaned.

    'Is that a yes or a no?'

    She didn't answer.

    'Who are we kidding?' Stanley asked.

    She squirmed a little.

    'You'll keep on giving me trouble as long as you've got any breath left in you.'

    The sound that came from Sheila was more like a growl than a voice. But Stanley was pretty sure of what she said: 'That's right.'

    He forced himself to laugh, but he felt an odd little shiver race up his spine and tingle his scalp.

***

    Clint didn't see Loreen go down. She'd entered the jam of abandoned vehicles on Sunset with her arms outspread as if ready to embrace all comers. Caspar had followed her in, but stayed well behind her, apparently realizing that his presence might disrupt Loreen's protective aura. Caspar must've had his eyes on her. Clint had been sidestepping through a narrow space between two cars, facing a Mazda where the body of a man was sprawled across the hood. The man's throat had been slashed. Not only was he naked and scalped like most of the other bodies, but someone had spray-painted his genitals black. Em, moments ago, had turned her head away fast after a glimpse of the man. Clint was wondering if he should say something to her. But what could he say? It's all right? It's not all right, not even close. Some sort of madness happened here, he thought, and we're walking through what's left of it, and maybe it isn't over yet. This sort of stuff doesn't happen. Not even in L.A.

    It's like some kind of…

    'Loreen!' Caspar suddenly cried out.

    Clint saw him, two lanes ahead, scurrying sideways between a couple of cars, struggling to get through. 'Answer me, Loreen!'

    'What happened?' Mary called, herself in an open area just ahead of Em.

    'I don't know!' Caspar shouted. 'Loreen!' He looked 'She just went down. Maybe fell?''Where?' Clint asked.

    Caspar pointed, the red silk sleeve of his blouse swaying in the hot breeze. 'Behind that van.'

    The gray van was in the next lane over, and a bit to the left of where Caspar stood. Though Clint hadn't been paying much attention to her, he supposed she must've gone that way in search of a safe passage. Since starting across Sunset, she'd done a lot of meandering to avoid areas where burnt cars were still smoking or where there was little or no space because of vehicles being bumper to bumper. They had all followed her lead. What the hell happened to her? It's my fault, Clint told himself. I should've led the way. None of this hunting for good places to cross; avoiding a few smoky wrecks, he would have taken them straight to the other side of Sunset, simply climbing over trunks when there were no spaces between vehicles. Should've done it, Clint thought. Might've been a bit rough on Mary and the Blotskis, but we'd be finished with this by now and nobody'd be missing.

    'Loreen!' Caspar called again. Staggering clear of a narrow pathway between the cars, he ran toward the van. 'Wait for us!' Clint shouted. Caspar paid no attention.

    Mary, ahead of Em, had stopped between the lanes and seemed to be watching Caspar's dash for the van.

    'Mary!' Clint said. 'Stay put.'

    As if sensing the need for quickness, Em leaped out of his way. He stumbled free of the bumpers and caught a glimpse of Caspar's head beyond the next two lanes. 'Follow me,' he gasped at Em and Mary. As he started to give chase, he shouted, 'Caspar! Wait for us!'

    Caspar didn't even slow down.

    Clint poured on more speed. But he didn't get far before Mary called, 'I can't…!'

    He glanced back. Em was only a stride behind him, arms pumping, the big butcher knife jerking up and down in her right hand.

    Mary wasn't keeping up. No wonder, Clint thought. Like Em, Mary ran with her knife out. Her other hand was busy clutching the front of her blouse shut. The sodden blouse clung to her. It was torn, soiled with dirt, streaked and stained and blotched with blood from the injuries that it covered. Her torn skirt showed legs that were dirty and scratched and bloody. Mary's red face was swollen, scratched, dripping sweat, twisted with pain. She's a wreck; and I'm making her run like this. She oughta be in a hospital bed. Clint stopped running. He turned forward again and looked for Caspar. Couldn't spot him. But cars and pickups were in the way. Maybe the old man had simply crouched or bent down.

    'Caspar!'

    No answer came. Clint called out again.

    'They got him, too?' Em whispered.

    'I don't know,' Clint said. 'Just be ready for anything. You too, Mary.'

    Mary sleeved sweat out of her eyes, and nodded. Clint took the knife from his pocket. He started again, but slowly. Every few steps, he glanced back to be sure that Em and Mary were staying close behind him. All around them, nothing seemed to move. It's like sneaking through a graveyard, Clint thought, a hot, smoky graveyard. Where mad killers might be waiting to pounce.

    Someone must have pounced on Loreen and Caspar. What else could've made them disappear? Clint tried to think of a good explanation that didn't include murder. He had no luck. And we're heading straight for where it happened. Maybe this isn't such a good idea, he thought. It's the only way we'll ever know. Besides, what if they aren't dead? Maybe they need help. We can't just run and forget about them. Deciding to approach the van from a different way than Loreen and Caspar, Clint stayed two lanes away walked on past its front. Then he climbed onto the hood of a Mustang. He got to his feet and looked for the Blotskis. No sign of them. He couldn't see much, though; a large pickup hid most of the van from his view. Nor could he see down close to the street. The Mustang wobbled slightly under him. Turning, he watched Em climb onto its hood. He took hold of her arm and helped her up. Mary came next. The three stood together atop the Mustang's hood and surveyed the area.

    'Caspar?' Clint called again.

    'How could they just vanish like this?' Em asked, speaking softly as if afraid there might be strangers trying to listen.

    'They never even yelled or anything, you know?’

    'It must've been awfully sudden,' Clint said.

    'Could they be playing a trick on us?' Mary asked.

    'Why would they do a thing like that?'

    'They hate me, for one thing.'

    'I doubt if it's a trick,' Clint said. 'What do you think?’

    'Somebody got 'em.’

    'Oh, God.'

    'Whoever got all these others…'

    'It was by the van over there?' Em asked, pointing with her knife at the bit of van that showed beyond the pickup. 'Apparently,' Clint said.

    'So that's where the killer is… or where he was up till a couple of minutes ago, anyway.'

    Clint nodded. 'But probably more than one.'

    'They're probably watching us right now,' Mary muttered. 'Or coming.'

    'Maybe we oughta hide our knives,' Em whispered.

    Clint almost smiled. 'Don't worry. When they show up, they'll be on us so fast…, just keep your knives ready.'

    'Aye-aye, sir.'

    'Where the hell are the cops when you need them? Mary asked.

    Clint shook his head. The pair of officers who belonged to the patrol car were gone or dead. All the other cops were probably in Los Angeles. Many, he supposed, must be trying to produce some order. Some were certainly dead.

    'Where the hell is anybody?' Mary added.

    'Who knows,' Clint said.

    Em smiled. 'There's still us.'

    'Not for long,' Mary said. 'I'm supposed to get killed, remember?'

    'You know what think?' Em asked. 'I don't think she's much of a fortune-teller, after all. You know? I mean, the way things are starting to look, she's the one who hit Caspar…'

    'Let's go,' Clint said. He stepped to the edge Mustang's hood, glanced both ways, saw nobody, and jumped down. Keeping watch, he waited for Em and Mary. Em leaped and landed on her feet with a springy bounce. Mary sat then lowered herself to the street like a timid child into a swimming pool.

    'This way,' Clint whispered.

    Unwilling to turn his back on them - afraid that Mary might suddenly vanish like the Blotskis, he sidestepped alongside the pickup truck toward its rear. He glanced all around, but never let his vision stray from companions for more than a few seconds at a time. They looked scared, but alert, as if they expected trouble but had no idea where it might come from. The bed of the pickup truck was empty. Clint thought about climbing in. The bed would make a good observation platform; from the far side of it, they'd be able to look directly at the place behind the van where Loreen and Caspar had apparently gone down. But this was a bruiser of a pickup with big wheels, an elevated chassis, and high side panels. There would be no easy way to climb in. It'd be a major struggle, especially for Mary.

    'We going up?' Em asked.

    Clint shook his head. 'Too high.'

    'It isn't so high.' She stood on tiptoes to peer over the panel. 'I bet we'd have a great view.'

    'Let's just go around.'

    'I could hop up there for a second, just to see.'

    Her suggestion gave Clint a sick feeling. It was a way he had felt watching Barbara, on their vacation in the mountains last summer, when she'd wandered too close to the edge of a cliff.

    'No,' he said. 'You're not going up there by yourself. Not a chance. We stick together. And we watch out for each other. Nobody goes anywhere alone.'

    Nodding, Em shrugged with one shoulder.

    Clint sidestepped the rest of the way to the rear of the pickup. The Porsche behind it had left a good, wide space that led like a corridor to the driver's door of a Mercedes that was stopped behind the van. He saw no one.

    'Stay close,' he whispered, and started through the gap.

    'Wait,' Em whispered. She tugged the back of his shirt. 'Just a second.' She stepped around him, dropped to her hands and knees, then bent her elbows and lowered her head to the pavement. She peered underneath the pickup truck. A kid on her knees, butt in the air, checking under for boogeymen. Clint dearly hoped she wouldn't find any. He watched her head swivel very slowly, stopping sometimes, then continuing to turn. Soon, she was looking straight forward at the area under the Mercedes. After a while her head resumed its slow movement to the right. At last, she was gazing past her right shoulder at the space beneath the Porsche.

    'Anything?' Clint whispered.

    Em slowly pushed herself up. When she turned, Clint felt his stomach sink. Mary moved in beside him and clutched his arm.

    They both stared at Em.

    'They're under there,' Em whispered.

    'Oh, no,' Mary murmured.

    Em's lips twitched.

    'What do you mean?' Clint asked very quickly, quietly. 'Who's down there? Where? Loreen? Caspar?'

    'Not them. I'm pretty sure. People, though, and underneath…'

    'Dead people?' Clint asked.

    'I don't think so.' Mary groaned. 'How many?'

    Em raised and dropped her shoulders. 'Nobody under these,' she said, nodding to either side at the pickup and the Porsche. 'Nobody under that, either.' She pointed at the Mercedes in front of them. 'But there's like, I think, maybe four people under the van. Maybe more. There were tires in the way. I couldn't really tell…'

    'Did they see you?' Clint asked.

    'Maybe. I only saw a couple of actual faces. And it's dark under there. I couldn't tell what they were looking at. Maybe their eyes weren't even open, for all know.'

    'What makes you think they were alive?'

    'Some of 'em were moving.’

    'Oh, God,' Mary muttered.

    'Coming out?' Clint asked.

    Em shook her head. 'Just, you know…, fidgeting, squirming, like that.'

    Mary gave Clint's arm a quick tug. 'Maybe they're just hiding! They might be scared, and…'

    'Then what happened to Loreen and Caspar?'

    'I don't know, but…'

    'These people got 'em,' Em said. 'I'd bet anything. Killed 'em, maybe threw their bodies in the van, or something. This bunch isn't just hiding, I can tell you that. I saw what they look like.'

    'You said you couldn't see them very well,' Mary pointed out.

    'I saw enough.' Em lifted her gaze to Clint and stared into his eyes. 'What're we gonna do?'

    Before he could answer, Mary tightened her grip and said, 'We've gotta get out of here.'

    'No,' he said. 'We have to get through here.'

    'They're just waiting for us,' Em said. She looked as if she were trying hard not to cry.

    'They won't get us.'

    'But I don't think they're the only ones,' she told him.

    'What do you mean?'

    'It doesn't make any sense, you know? That Loreen happened to go straight to the only place where a bunch of people were waiting to grab people. I think maybe…, they might be all around us. And we've just been lucky so far?'

    Mary made a quiet groan.

    'It's possible,' Clint muttered. What the hell isn't? he thought. All this at Sunset Boulevard seemed like madness. One person, alone, couldn't have committed such slaughter and mutilation; Em had supposedly seen at least four people lying in wait for them. If that many had reverted to savages, why not twenty? Why not a hundred? Or a thousand. A thousand wild savages, banded into tribes. Lurking everywhere. Don't even think about something like that, Clint told himself. There can't be that many. Can't be that many people so messed up by a little thing like an earthquake - not even a major quake would knock apart every civilized restraint and turn them barbarians. Not even in Los Angeles, he thought. And a voice in his mind said, Oh, yeah? 'What'll we do?' Em asked.

    Clint faced Mary. 'Are you with us?' he asked.

    'Have I got any choice?’

    'You could go back.’

    'By myself?.'

    'I have to go on ahead,' Clint said. 'I have to get home.'

    'Even if it kills you?'

    'It won't.'

    Mary smirked. 'Famous last words.' She frowned at Em. 'What about you?'

    'I'm sticking with Clint. No matter what.'

    'He's already married, you know.'

    'It's pretty amazing to me,' Em said, 'that you can find it in yourself at a time like this to still be such a snot.'

    'Both of you stop it,' Clint said. 'Are you with us, Mary, or not? That's all I wanta know.'

    'I'm supposed to go off by myself…?'

    'It's up to you. If you go back, you go back alone.'