Slaughterhouse High

"He deserved it," said the woman. "Christ, where's your head? He would've killed us. That axe lying on the floor was meant for us."

He nodded. "We got caught. Then he got caught."

"Damn deputy at the jailhouse nearly lost his nuts to my knee. If he hadn't had backup, I'd've gotten away."

"You from Topeka?" he asked.

"Kansas City. They surprised us at dawn."

"I thought I'd be safe behind the library. I wasn't. Do you think anyone's upstairs?"

"Doubtful," she said.

As the puffiness lifted from his head, he noticed her lobebag. His own state-provided bag knocked at the neck skin below his cropped lefty. He groped it, smooth cloth that no doubt matched his tux, and at the top, elastic and probably some kind of adhesive to clamp it lightly to the stub.

"Any idea how we lucked out?" he asked.

"My brain was real hazy, but I heard somebody say something, or thought I did. And I saw the killer's arm come up with a tightly gripped knife. A shirt of dark blue. Maybe denim."

Fear rushed through him. "You don't think he's upstairs?"

She laughed. "If he were, I'd shake his hand."

"He's probably a maniac. Maybe he's a black sheep wasting his entire family, and he's sitting upstairs right now at the kitchen table eating a sandwich." His voice fell to a whisper. "Maybe he's stopped chewing on account of now he can hear our voices and realizes we're not dead."

"You don't get it, do you? What we have here is one of the anti-slasher crowd who's decided to make a point: Kill the school's designated slasher. Crash the prom. Then, when no couple is slaughtered, reveal the deed and deal another blow to a savage system of sacrifice. What we've got to do is support him. We need to go to the prom, hang out through the time allotted for the killing and the search, and reveal ourselves once nobody's killed and our guy stands up and gives his speech."

She's joking, he thought.

Then it occurred to him that she was serious.

"Are you crazy?" he asked. "Even if you're right, we'd become martyrs along with the killer."

"I don't think so. We'd be national heroes. There might be a trial. But we'd be too hot to convict, and we're certainly not accomplices to his crime. Then there'd be speaking and signing tours-"

"Signing what?"

"Our book of course. I'm Winnie Hauser, by the way." A hand shot out. His rose and he let Winnie shake it. "The barbarity of prom night would be over and there'd've been created a link between housed and homeless that maybe just might get people's attention."

"You are crazy."

"There'd be food and warmth, showers and a fresh change of clothes every day dependably. The anti's would see to it. We would be their poster children. And when the power shifted, we'd be in an ideal spot to make sure things were done right."

He considered.

Then he shook his head, the dummy lobebag tapping stupidly at his neck. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take this dead guy's cash, a closetful of clothes, and as much food as I can cram into his car, and head south, to Fort Lauderdale maybe. Give up your stupid dreams, that's my advice, before you get killed."

She tacked upon him. "If I'm wrong about our savior, they'll think Notorious. And while… hey wait…"

Shit. She'd noticed.

"Come over here. Into the light."

He didn't move.

Winnie grabbed his arm. Yanking him toward the bulb, she turned his head and stared at his right ear.

He avoided her eyes, knowing what she saw.

Not the smooth stub of normal folks, but the imperfect tuck, like the knot atop an orange, of a dodger.

"You're a promjumper," she said. Contempt there. His silence confirmed it. "You grew up among them, attended their schools, enjoyed every advantage… and then you ran!"

"Spare me the litany," he said, pulling away. "I chickened out, okay? I paid and paid plenty."

Pursuit, capture, and two savage lobectomies raced through his memory.

Winnie approached him.

Softer: "What's your name?"

"Brayton. Kittridge."

"Well, Brayton Kittridge," her hands were warm on his neck, "this is your chance, don't you see, to make things right again. You come with me, confront the demons of the prom, and you can redeem the past. But if you shy away, I promise you, when they track us down and torture us and we find ourselves strapped in on Notorious, I'm gonna fix you with such a glare of hatred as we burn, that it'll put their physical torments to shame.

"And I can do it, too!"

Poor feisty woman. Winnie thought she could read him and fix him-fix ordinary folks too, no doubt-as easily as she might mend a broken toy.

But he had been there.

Unlike Winnie, who had been brought up among the proudly rejected and knew nothing of the ones who rejected her, he understood their vile little hearts, the beast she expected to confront and best in one night.

Without him, she would do something dangerous, maybe even try to attend the dance unchaperoned.