In Laymon's Terms

“Over here!” Roland’s amplified voice called to them over the bullhorn. “This way!”

He jumped from the chopper, head ducked low, brandishing a rifle. “What’s happening? Where are the others?”

“They’re dead,” Jerry gasped. “Those things got them.”

“Things?”

Ignoring him, Becka and Jerry clambered into the helicopter.

“What things? What are you talking about?”

“I think they mean those things, Mr. Thompson,” the pilot hollered, pointing toward the jungle.

An army of beasts flooded from the jungle and dashed toward their location. Roland scrambled aboard, and the chopper began to rise.

At that moment, from a point closer to them, a lone figure emerged from the brush, one hand waving frantically and the other holding a battered green Jets hat tightly to his head.

“Troy!” Becka screamed.

The beasts raced toward him. His mouth opened wide, his screams lost beneath the roar of the helicopter’s blades.

“C’mon,” Jerry shouted, leaning forward. “You can do it!”

Roland raised the rifle’s scope to his eye, set the stock firmly, and squeezed the trigger. The closest beast fell to the sand.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck me!” Troy shrieked and grabbed for Jerry’s outstretched hand. Screaming, he climbed aboard as the chopper rose into the air. His shirt was shredded and bloody. A ragged furrow had been gouged in his side, and scratches and bite marks covered his arms.

Furious, the monsters howled into the sky, gnashing their teeth and shaking their fists. One of them wielded a human arm, waving it like a flag.

Becka buried her face in Jerry’s chest.

“My God.” Roland stared at the scene below. “If the media gets a hold of this before the network has had a chance to put a spin on it—I’ve got some calls to make!” He fumbled for his cell phone.

Troy sprang forward, grabbed it from him, and flung it out the window.

“Game over!”

The helicopter soared through the night, leaving the island bathed again in darkness.

Larry watched the ship, laughing as it vanished over the horizon.

The female writhed above him, shuddering as their hips pounded together. Her teeth sank deep into the meat of his shoulder. Suddenly, she disengaged herself, his penis sliding out of her with a wet smack. She knelt before him on all fours, looking back at him expectantly.

“I win,” he cackled as he thrust himself into her. Tears coursed down his cheeks. “I win! I’m the last one left on the island!”

The female screamed in orgasm, and Larry’s scream of madness sounded much like her own.

Brian Freeman

HIS STORY SPARKED a conversation I had with Richard Laymon while I was in college. This was at Brian Keene’s house, during an event fondly known as KeeneCon. I had a family obligation that prevented me from hanging out the entire weekend, but one of the main reasons I decided to sneak away for at least one afternoon was the chance to finally meet Dick in person.

Once there, I had no idea what to actually say to him, so I basically hid in the corner (like I usually do at these things) and said nothing. Finally I gathered up the courage to approach him, still with no idea what to say, and I ended up talking about the first thing to pop into my head: a paper I had written for a journalism class the previous semester.

The class was about writing feature length news articles, but the final assignment was meant to be an experiment in creating vivid descriptions. The professor told us to imagine a wife driving home with a surprise for her husband. We were to describe the drive and the surprise, “kind of like a short story.”

Well, I wrote a piece called “Loving Roger,” and I suspect it was unlike anything else the other students in the class came up with in response to the assignment. I’m still not sure why I took the approach I did, given the subject matter of the class, but the idea was just there in my head, so I ran with it like I normally would with any other story.

After I turned the paper in, it wasn’t too long before I started to have second thoughts about what I had written. Was it really a good idea to share this sort of story with someone who was going to decide if I passed a journalism class and who had influence over the department that would control the rest of my college education?

When my paper was returned to me the next week, I saw a lot of red ink at the top and my heart dropped. Then I read what the professor had written: “I don’t understand what you’ve done here, but it’s VERY creative. A+”

I passed the class.

So, a few weeks later and not knowing what else to say to Richard Laymon, I told him this story there in Brian Keene’s dining room, and then I asked him: “So is that a good sign or a bad sign?”

He paused, thought about it for a good long moment, and finally replied: “I think that’s the BEST sign.”

Everyone laughed, and I was relieved and thrilled.

“Loving Roger” was never submitted for publication, but I think it’s only fitting for the story to appear here. I just wish Dick could have read it for himself.

Brian Freeman