Richard Laymon - The Lake

Whoever’s out there, he thought, will think maybe I’m a drunk. Or a dopehead…If I’m lucky, they’ll leave me be. If’n I’m not lucky…

A throaty chuckle rumbled in the darkness.

A hand grabbed his ankle. Yanked him farther, much farther down the slope.

Into a deeper, darker place.

The smell was awful. Rank. Like bad meat.

He scrabbled and clawed at weeds and tufts of grass frantically trying to halt his progress…

The hand pulled harder.

Someone sniggered.

“S’matter, boy? Don’t ya want to join us down here? My, aren’t you the party pooper? We want ya to join us.” The voice rose a notch. “Don’t we, guys? Always a hearty welcome for new blood around here…”

Nelson sobbed. His heart lurched again; this time it bounced around his chest like a big chunk of rock.

“ Please… let…me…GO!”

Another yank and he was on the move again.

Undergrowth tore at his face, burning the flesh in raw, hurting patches.

He struggled like a mad thing, rolling from side to side, wrestling to free himself from the viselike grip.

The hand held firm.

It dragged him across more rough ground. Garbage—jagged cans, glass, sharp objects—scraped and cut into him as he bumped and jolted along.

Still gripping his hatchet.

Can’t let it go…Gotta use it to hack my way outta here…

Suddenly, the hand let go. Nelson broke free rolling over and over…and over. Into a stinking ditch; into water that was thick, cold, and slimy.

Acrid odors hit his nostrils.

Oil and…

Sump oil, seemed like…but what else?

He scrambled out of the ditch, his shoes filled with slime, the bottom half of his pants clinging to his legs.

He heard uneven, panting breaths coming from behind; feet chugging steadily through the undergrowth; sounds of kicking, cans and other stuff being scattered out of the way.

More gasps and pants…They, whoever they were, were catching up. Hands clawed at his tunic. Sour breath warmed his neck.

“Fuck! Gerroff me, ya fuckin’ bastard, he’s mine—arrghhh…”

The whiny voice cut off short; growls of others joined in, arguing like a pack of starving hounds.

Christ Jesus! How many of ’em are there?

The trolls came to a ragged halt. Whispering, sniggering.

Listening out for me, most likely.

“C’mere!”

The voice came up close. Right behind him.

Terrified, Nelson held his breath, hugging the cleaver tight to his chest.

Then:

Can’t breathe—dear God…I can’t—breathe…

His heart rocked, lurched, fluttering around like a big wounded bird.

A goddamn angina attack!

Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Rolled down. Dripped through his brows.

Itching, irritating. Falling into his good eye.

Stinging like salt.

Then:

“Hey. Quit that, you filthy fuckin’ pervert, you.”

A woman’s voice. Sharp. Imperative.

Sounding scared. Very scared.

A male voice now.

Gruff, threatening.

“You fuckin’ whore, you’ll do as you’re told. Paid you good money, didn’t I? On the nose. Before I got the goods. Do it my way or—”

“Or what…?

Smack. A brittle crack. A piercing squeal, reminding Nelson of pigs in abbatoirs. Stun guns rammed up their asses.

His breathing began to settle down. He kept quiet in the murky dark, his knees, his entire body shaking like he’d got the ague.

What the hell’s going on?

“Gotcha, my pretty. Come to Poppa, there’s a good li’l gal.”

Nelson knew the voice; low throaty, phlegmy . It belonged to the hand that had dragged him down here. Its owner was breathing hard.

Wanting.

The woman shrieked again.

Nelson caught the sound of wrestling bodies, grunting, gasping. Muffled screams, then—

“No, no, PLEASE, please, somebody…HELLLPPP!!”

More grunting, then rapid scrabbling sounds.

Someone panting and gasping, footsteps chugging along running away into the fuckin’ darkness…scrambling up the grass bank, sounded like.

Nelson pictured it, this desperate guy reaching up, grasping. Losing his grip. Slipping back and down into the stinking cesspit…

The woman’s sobs grew fainter. They were fading away now into whimpering little gasps.

Nelson doubled up. He started to heave at the soft, gurgling, bubbling sounds that came next.

There was more grunting and—slurping. Then disgusting wet noises, growling, and a low humming, like animals feeding.

More slurps.

Vomit shot from Nelson’s mouth. Gasping, struggling for breath, he clamped a hand to his mouth and ran.

He stumbled, running in awkward leaps and bounds; breathless, nauseous, his heart pounding like a mad thing.

Gotta get outa here, afore they…

Tears streamed down his face, into his open mouth.

His face was all shiny, runny with sweat and tears and snot.

He lurched on. Stumbling over more rough terrain, dim obstacles, jagged stumps; up another rise, then…

Thank you God!

He heaved himself onto the sidewalk. Panting hard, his lungs raw, hurting, pain erupting through his body—but halleluia , he was streetside again!

Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the pay phone he’d used earlier. He raced toward it.

His legs wobbling like jelly. His arms pumping, his breath making hissy, whistling sounds. Then:

Ahhh, NO!

He pulled up short, crying out in despair, making small, whiny noises.

“My cleaver…

“I left it. Back there…”

He gulped as a knotty hand hooked his throat.

Slipping sideways, he whirled around and wrestled free. Then, bounding forward, he turned for a moment—and caught sight of his assailant.

Jesus Christ!

A huge, bearded giant; filthy rags flying out behind.

Head down, almost touching him.

As the streams of inbound traffic flowed off the Bridge, haloes of light shot blinding beams into Nelson’s face. Grimacing, his arm flew up to shield his eye.

His breath came in great heaving gasps.

Panic gripped. His lungs were packing up…

The troll was on him…

Arms outstretched.

“No, you don’t, buddy boy…The party’s just about to take off.”

Strong, grimy hands snatched at Nelson’s tunic.

Dragging it up, twisting it tight under his chin.

Nelson’s head jerked back and sideways.

He felt his feet leave the ground. Found himself staring into bloodshot eyes. At long filthy dreads matted up with the troll’s greasy, straggly beard.

An old-time hippie gone bad.

And MAD.

Mad for flesh.

His.

Anybody’s.

The derelict leered, his wet lips pulling away from dark broken stumps. Globs of blood swung from his beard.

Unspeakable fumes fanned Nelson’s face. Transfixed like a frightened deers, his good eye swiveled and opened wide. Air hissed from his sagging lungs.

Uhhh…

The troll gave a final violent shake, then slammed Nelson hard against the railings.

TWENTY-SIX

Deana lay under her bedsheet. Wearing black sweat-clothes. And her sneakers, with the wool socks pulled up over them.

Ready to venture forth on another midnight run.

To find Warren, get the knife back, and hopefully return it to its rightful place.

But Mom wasn’t even in bed yet.

She was moving around in the kitchen, clearing dishes, running water, washing them off. Deana heard the quiet click of a cupboard door.

Mom: not wanting to wake her.

Doing her stuff and trying to keep quiet about it.

For my sake.

Hope she doesn’t decide to peek in through my bedroom door to see if I’m fast asleep.

Good thing I’m not wearing my cap yet…

Mom was in the bathroom now, humming quietly to herself.

Thinking about Mace?

You bet.

At last, Mom’s bedroom door closed.

Then opened again.

Mom wants me to know that she’s around if I should wake in the night.

Deana smiled.

Mom was so thoughtful.

Wonder what Warren’s doing now?

Probably getting ready for his nightly stroll.

With Sabre, his trusty canine friend.

Maybe I should take along some pepper, to throw in the mutt’s face if he attacks me.

Oh yeah.

That’d really impress Warren.

He’d hate me for it.

Oh well, scrub the pepper. Have to trust Warren to drag Sabre off me. If he decides to go for my throat or something…

Deana twisted her head sideways. She looked at the clock on the nightstand.

12:12.

Tomorrow already.

She held her breath, keeping quiet and still.

No sound from Mom’s room.

Okay. Let’s move it.

She swung off the bed.

Twisted up her hair and pulled a navy knit cap over it. The cap had “NY” embroidered in white on the front. She grinned a little; she always felt like a ghetto kid when she wore this one.

Looking down at her feet, her sneakers covered with the thick wool socks, she decided she looked more like a yeti.

All she needed now was a weapon.

In case Nelson was lurking out there.

Maybe the pepper’d be a good idea.

Nah.

Nelson wasn’t around last night.

Probably won’t be around tonight, either.

Mom thinks he’s snuffed it. Maybe his body’s out there at this very moment, floating in the Bay, bobbing around in the cold, dark water, being chawed by fish. Sharks even—their deadly teeth tearing off his arms and legs. Chomping on his stringy innards.

She shivered, thinking about it.

That is really gross.

Nelson was a weird guy, but he didn’t deserve a death like that.

Deana crept out into the hallway.

She stopped awhile and waited.

Bet Mom’s asleep by now.

Dreaming about Mace.

Yeah. I can see it now.

Mace and Mom. Like Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca . Staring into each other’s eyes across some crowded bar…

Play it again, Sam.

Ugghhh.

Gruesome.

She felt for her door key, caught inside her sweatshirt.

It was safe and sound.

Good.

Nothing like spending the night huddled on the stoop, Mom opening the door and saying, “Why, good morning, honey. Your own bed not comfortable enough for you?”

Now for one of Deana’s famous midnight runs.

“Gotta find Warren’s house first,” she murmured. “I reckon it’s about a block away. Up the hill. Good thing I’m fit. All this running, and tennis with Mom, keeps me in good shape.”

At the end of the driveway she looked up, then down, Del Mar. She felt a buzz of excitement; the thought of being alone in the darkness brought goose bumps scurrying up her body.

Yeah. It sure is scary.

Everybody’s asleep. Except me. I’m awake and ready for anything.

Almost.

She couldn’t see anyone around.

Staring up the street some more, her excitement took a downturn.

Del Mar. Dimly lit by too few streetlamps, making long stretches of street almost totally black. The trees were giant shadows; the houses, dark formidable places.

She suddenly felt very scared.

“Nightmare on Del Mar,” she muttered. “It’d make an awesome movie. Maybe I should write me a film script someday.”

Humming a little, she began to mark time on the spot. Shoulders back, knees pumping up and down.