Slaughterhouse High

Their hips came close enough to hers that she could feel hints of hard cock on either side.

At any moment, Futzy Buttweiler would have his say. They would dance and dance and finally futter the dead couple. Then it was off to some place private, a place where she could show these cute boys lots of good things to share.

*****

On the far edge of the gym, still near the hallway, stood Dex and Tweed holding hands.

There would be time enough to get closer to the Ice Ghoul, check out the sprawl of Pesky and Flense, how their bodies were arrayed and how best to approach them when midnight came.

At the moment, Dex felt oddly detached from it all.

The phones had unsettled him.

The dead girls as well, dripping blood down the hallway.

And now the principal.

Mr. Buttweiler and Miss Phipps were huddled by the bandstand. They had been huddled there for some time.

What was the delay? Why didn't he start?

The doors to the gym were clear, everyone but a few stragglers inside again.

But something kept Mr. Buttweiler from the mike, and now Mr. Versailles and Miss Brindisi came in to confer as well.

Dex thought he must be imagining it, but their eyes seemed often to peek up and glare at him and Tweed.

Had they done something wrong? Had the paperwork been screwed up? Had they been sitting under the wrong number? What was the penalty for that? And would they get a chance to show what had been written in their packet before the law came down, by mistake, on them?

Dex patted his coat. Something springy responded from the inside pocket. Relief. The paper with their location and number.

"What?" asked Tweed.

"Nothing."

"Come on."

"Just making sure the paper's there."

"What paper? Oh you mean the one about where to sit. Why?"

"Nervous habit. I don't know. What if we sat in the wrong place?"

Tweed squeezed his hand. "Silly, we did just what the paper told us to do. Besides, what difference does it make? We've got our designated victims. Jeepers, I can hardly see them through the crowd."

"Yeah, you're right," said Dex. "I wonder what the hangup is."

"Mr. Jones can't play for beans, can he?"

Dex laughed. "Sure can't."

Yet another reason for the principal to start speaking. Shut up the noodling muted trumpet and Festus Targer's random bass thumps and steel-brush cymbal circlings.

Futzy Buttweiler would release some hot air about the girls, about sacrifice, prom spirit, motherhood, and apple pie.

Then Jiminy Jones would call the band members back to the stand. Tweed would pick up her 'bone and Dex would strap his sax to his neck and stick a reed in his mouth to moisten it and secure it on the mouthpiece and they'd be off and away into the music again, flying high.

But the minutes slid by and Futzy Buttweiler kept conferring with the faculty.

Dex's elation at surviving had begun to turn into something else, something unsettled, an uh-oh not yet fully understood.

"My God," said Tweed in a dreamy voice, "this is a special night. There's ozone in the air."

Dex sniffed. "If you say so."

"Silly. I is so. So let's have a smile. There, that's better. Is my yummynums impatient for Mr. Buttweiler's immortal words? Me too. Just soak in the atmosphere, Dex. Okay? We're not gonna pass this way again."

"Right-o," said Dex, giving Tweed's hand a squeeze.

But in his heart, the dread just got thicker and thicker. Come on, Futzy, he thought. Say it. Get this show on the road.

And for the love of Christ, stop staring at us!

14. Prom Askewity

Tweed's dad shut off the TV and his Personal Flogger. Wincing from the welts, he shrugged out of the device and wiped his eyes with a tissue.

The same damned dirge rose from his lips, his voice quavering as Tweed's memory persisted.

Smiling.

Standing at the door.

"Good night."

A vision. The sudden flash of her life. She had popped from Cam's womb, growing much too fast toward womanhood.

And now?

The answering machine on his nightstand caught his attention.

A one. Not a zero.

A deep red number one, staring back at him.

Why hadn't he noticed it there on the phone?

How had he missed the ringing?

Before his bath. Toothbrushing as sinkwater furied from the faucet. Humming a foamy fossil-fossil-fossil mazurka.

Matthew bet-no, he knew -that that was when the call had come.

He hit Play.

An unfamiliar woman's voice scoured inside his head, using his daughter's name. She berated him and confirmed his worst fears.

Matthew had to play it twice to get it all, its harsh message of death and possible salvation so unsettled his mind.

There was a tight fear in him and a sobbing.

But there was also anger. At himself, at Corundum High, at the entire warped ritual so ingrained in the culture.

If this unknown caller spoke the truth-and her words carried conviction-Tweed and Dex were either dead or saved. Either way, it was too late to do anything about it.

But his anger grew. It refused all reason, shaping its own reasons, acts that impelled.

Kill the killer.

Leap to the gym lectern and grab the mike.