In Laymon's Terms

A giggling kid let out a high-pitched bleat of joy and I turned my head.

And there it was, on the floor.

Monty’s rug.

It was one of the worst toupees I’d ever seen in my life, and it didn’t come close to matching the graying frizz of his own hair that peeked from beneath in back. Nobody could talk any sense to him about the damn thing.

A band of children passed the hairpiece back and forth, trying it on and then dragging it around on the floor and barking, treating it like a puppy.

I knew for sure that Monty was dead then. He never would’ve let the rug off his head otherwise.

Okay, so we were into it.

A nice sense of coolness filled me, like a breeze brushing over my back. I kept smiling and chatting with people as I searched through the compound. There were a couple of main buildings and I walked from one to another. I tried to keep a running head count and discovered there were more people than I’d originally thought. Every door was open and I moved from room to room. Some were private apartments, some storage areas for loads of ancient broken machinery and battered furniture. No one stopped me or seemed to care. I continued roving, inspecting every corridor and passage.

Finally I tried to turn a knob and the door was locked.

I put my hand to it and nearly got my palm seared. The door was large and metal. Wisps of smoke uncoiled from beneath, and I could smell the meat cooking inside. This had to be the kitchen.

Nobody was around. I opened my jacket and reached into the inner pocket for my slim case of tools. I picked the lock in two minutes and realized I’d lost some of my edge. It was a thirty-second job. Writing plays had made me a little soft.

I replaced the case and walked in.

Monty hung upside down from a meat hook, the massive point shoved through his ass. His wrists and throat had been cut; he’d been cleanly eviscerated and most of the blood had poured out by now. His bald head had a hell of a big dent in it. They’d taken him from behind and cracked his skull open. No wonder his rug had flown off.

I walked up and touched his flesh—it was cool but not cold. They’d done him less than an hour ago, probably about the time I found his car. I checked his teeth and found bits of beans and vegetables still stuck in them. Beneath the stink of death was the pleasant smell of that moonshine they’d offered me. They fed him and gotten him pleasantly drunk.

Chunks of his flesh were gone in mouth-sized portions, and his chest had been cracked open and fillets had carefully been cut from him. In the corner stood a large oven and open grill, the kind you find in every roadside diner. Steaks and burgers hissed and spattered.

It was ugly as hell but didn’t even rank when compared to some of what I’d seen.

I hadn’t gotten any sort of murderous vibe off them except for Chuck. Were the others a part of this or was Chuck or someone else simply working on his own?

I turned and saw the girl in the cage.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

She couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. She was naked and bruised badly, with huge pendulous breasts and lean legs covered in welts. When she saw me she scurried to the far side of the cell and hid her face.

“I won’t hurt you,” I said but she just glanced up and stared at me through flowing locks of her hair. She frowned and watched me curiously but didn’t say a word.

The little cage had an old-fashioned turn-key lock. I scanned the area but couldn’t find the key, and just as I was about to kneel and get my tools out again I heard a heavy grunting.

He came out of the pantry holding a skillet large enough for a man to sit in. He weighed an easy 350, most of it flab hanging over what had once been hard muscle. The boy knew how to eat. He smiled and I saw a mouth stuffed with way too many teeth—they came out from every angle, wrenched and twisted, canines in the wrong place, molars crushed down to the nub. His own incisors were rotted black fragments and it looked like he’d implanted others into his own gum line. Shards of coyote fangs, mangled bridges and dentures. They were jagged and infected and scraped clean by gnawing on bones.

His clothing had been made from animal pelts and scraps of three-piece suits. I did a quick count and spotted at least four Armani labels. The kitchen had been in business for a while. He wore a thick leather belt from which hung a variety of clattering utensils. A huge spoon, a corkscrew, and an egg beater hung side by side with a double-sided hatchet, a meat cleaver, and a bone saw.

Knots of scar tissue jutted from his forehead and his eyebrows had been torn off so many times that they now formed a heavy frontal ridge. It gave him an almost Cro-Magnon appearance. I’d seen it on cons before to a lesser degree, the guys who went crazy in solitary and did nothing but smash their own faces into the wall all day long.

“Howdy,” I said. “You the cook?”

Smiley dropped the skillet and drew the saw from his belt. Blood and sweat stains had given the wooden handle a red polished sheen.