In Laymon's Terms

Mike dove for it. He picked it up and pointed it at the amazons.

They didn’t even notice him.

“Hey,” he said.

The one on the far right looked down at him.

Mike fired a round into the center of her face. The back of her skull exploded in a blossom of scarlet.

He had been aiming for her chest.

The amazon next to the one he had shot started to raise her sword. Mike aimed at the belly this time. The round drilled her in the center of her left breast.

The other two started forward, stepping over the still-screaming Roger. Mike stood up to get a better aim.

He tripped over the body of the amazon Roger had shot.

He fell on his back and went tumbling over the slope.

8.

He tried to use his arms and legs to slow his descent. All he succeeded in doing was getting banged up by a number of small rocks and plants. Finally he somersaulted once more and landed in soft sand.

He had managed to hold on to the gun.

A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him up.

It was Mandy. She was bleeding from dozens of small cuts. Beneath the blood—both her own and that which the amazons had spread on her—she was covered with bruises.

She spit out something. It landed on the sand with a faint squishing sound.

There was enough moonlight to clearly see the head of Roger’s penis.

She wiped the back of one hand across her mouth. “Got any Listerine?”

“What happened to Lisa?”

“Hit her head on a big rock. She’s dead.”

“I shot two of them. I think they’re dead, too. Roger accidentally shot the one holding me. That leaves two of the women and Roger.”

“He won’t be a problem. Give me that.”

She took the gun from Mike, ejected the magazine and emptied it.

“Three rounds left. We must not have heard all of the shots.” She loaded the magazine again and slapped it into the gun.

Mike stared at her.

She shrugged. “My dad’s a cop. He taught me to handle a gun when I was about five.”

A sound came from up the slope. Footfalls. Very fast. Soft grunts.

Mandy shoved him to the sand. She fell next to him.

An amazon stopped about ten feet above them. She hadn’t spotted them. Mandy raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, like the cops on TV.

The amazon saw the movement. “Here they—”

The shot blew a hole in her chest. She fell back against the hill then started sliding toward them, feet first.

The final amazon surprised them. She was already on the beach, coming from their left. It was Greta.

Mandy rolled on her side, took a shot, missed. She tried to correct her aim and fire again but the woman was too close. Greta struck Mandy’s hand with the flat of her sword. The .45 discharged, missing Greta and flying out of Mandy’s grip. She raised her sword again and brought the blade down. Mandy rolled and the sword sank into the sand. The amazon grunted, slightly off balance. Mandy grabbed a wrist and pulled Greta to the sand. Mandy climbed on the amazon’s back and wrapped her arms around her neck. With a roar Greta rose up and fell backward, pinning Mandy to the sand. Despite the weight of the woman, Mandy tightened her grip on the amazon’s neck. She had wrapped her legs around Greta’s waist, as well.

The amazon grunted and strained, muscles and tendons standing out on her body.

“H-help.”

Mandy’s voice was weak.

Mike picked up the sword. He stood over the amazon. Her eyes were wide with steroid-fueled hate.

Mike stabbed the tip of the sword into the woman between her breasts. He pulled it down, slicing her open down to her crotch. Grey, ropy strands of intestine spilled from the wound.

Greta stopped struggling. Mike grabbed her hair and rolled the body off Mandy.

Mandy drew in great, rasping gulps of air. She was covered in blood and sand.

And she looked beautiful.

He dropped the sword and helped Mandy up.

She pressed her naked body against him. He held her tight.

Finally, he said, “So I’m a little loser?”

“I had to say that,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest. “I was trying to save your life.”

They heard the sound of sirens in the distance.

She looked up at him. “Do you feel like a swim?”

He smiled and took her hand and they walked into the ocean.

Bryan Smith

HERE AREN’T MANY writers I can point to whose influence on me in my formative years shaped me and made me the writer I am today. Stephen King is obviously one of them. And Hunter S. Thompson warped my fragile little mind at an impressionable age, too. There are a few others whose influence I regard as seminal, but Richard Laymon holds a special place on that short list.

A quote from an ad in an early issue of Fangoria resonates in my memory to this day: “Laymon is like Stephen King without a conscience.” While I think the truth is more complex than that, the quote hints at what makes Laymon’s books so compelling: that anything can, and probably will, happen to just about anybody.

Nobody is safe in Laymon’s world.

The boogeymen and monsters are always out to get you.

And anybody, even the good guys, can die.

Laymon taught me to be merciless in my fiction.