The Lake

Listening out for me, most likely.

“C’mere!”

The voice came up close. Right behind him.

Terrified, Nelson held his breath, hugging the cleaver tight to his chest.

Then:

Can’t breathe—dear God…I can’t—breathe…

His heart rocked, lurched, fluttering around like a big wounded bird.

A goddamn angina attack!

Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Rolled down. Dripped through his brows.

Itching, irritating. Falling into his good eye.

Stinging like salt.

Then:

“Hey. Quit that, you filthy fuckin’ pervert, you.”

A woman’s voice. Sharp. Imperative.

Sounding scared. Very scared.

A male voice now.

Gruff, threatening.

“You fuckin’ whore, you’ll do as you’re told. Paid you good money, didn’t I? On the nose. Before I got the goods. Do it my way or—”

“Or what…?

Smack. A brittle crack. A piercing squeal, reminding Nelson of pigs in abbatoirs. Stun guns rammed up their asses.

His breathing began to settle down. He kept quiet in the murky dark, his knees, his entire body shaking like he’d got the ague.

What the hell’s going on?

“Gotcha, my pretty. Come to Poppa, there’s a good li’l gal.”

Nelson knew the voice; low throaty, phlegmy. It belonged to the hand that had dragged him down here. Its owner was breathing hard.

Wanting.

The woman shrieked again.

Nelson caught the sound of wrestling bodies, grunting, gasping. Muffled screams, then—

“No, no, PLEASE, please, somebody…HELLLPPP!!”

More grunting, then rapid scrabbling sounds.

Someone panting and gasping, footsteps chugging along running away into the fuckin’ darkness…scrambling up the grass bank, sounded like.

Nelson pictured it, this desperate guy reaching up, grasping. Losing his grip. Slipping back and down into the stinking cesspit…

The woman’s sobs grew fainter. They were fading away now into whimpering little gasps.

Nelson doubled up. He started to heave at the soft, gurgling, bubbling sounds that came next.

There was more grunting and—slurping. Then disgusting wet noises, growling, and a low humming, like animals feeding.

More slurps.

Vomit shot from Nelson’s mouth. Gasping, struggling for breath, he clamped a hand to his mouth and ran.

He stumbled, running in awkward leaps and bounds; breathless, nauseous, his heart pounding like a mad thing.

Gotta get outa here, afore they…

Tears streamed down his face, into his open mouth.

His face was all shiny, runny with sweat and tears and snot.

He lurched on. Stumbling over more rough terrain, dim obstacles, jagged stumps; up another rise, then…

Thank you God!

He heaved himself onto the sidewalk. Panting hard, his lungs raw, hurting, pain erupting through his body—but halleluia, he was streetside again!

Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the pay phone he’d used earlier. He raced toward it.

His legs wobbling like jelly. His arms pumping, his breath making hissy, whistling sounds. Then:

Ahhh, NO!

He pulled up short, crying out in despair, making small, whiny noises.

“My cleaver…

“I left it. Back there…”

He gulped as a knotty hand hooked his throat.

Slipping sideways, he whirled around and wrestled free. Then, bounding forward, he turned for a moment—and caught sight of his assailant.

Jesus Christ!

A huge, bearded giant; filthy rags flying out behind.

Head down, almost touching him.

As the streams of inbound traffic flowed off the Bridge, haloes of light shot blinding beams into Nelson’s face. Grimacing, his arm flew up to shield his eye.

His breath came in great heaving gasps.

Panic gripped. His lungs were packing up…

The troll was on him…

Arms outstretched.

“No, you don’t, buddy boy…The party’s just about to take off.”

Strong, grimy hands snatched at Nelson’s tunic.

Dragging it up, twisting it tight under his chin.

Nelson’s head jerked back and sideways.

He felt his feet leave the ground. Found himself staring into bloodshot eyes. At long filthy dreads matted up with the troll’s greasy, straggly beard.

An old-time hippie gone bad.

And MAD.

Mad for flesh.

His.

Anybody’s.

The derelict leered, his wet lips pulling away from dark broken stumps. Globs of blood swung from his beard.

Unspeakable fumes fanned Nelson’s face. Transfixed like a frightened deers, his good eye swiveled and opened wide. Air hissed from his sagging lungs.

Uhhh…

The troll gave a final violent shake, then slammed Nelson hard against the railings.

TWENTY-SIX

Deana lay under her bedsheet. Wearing black sweat-clothes. And her sneakers, with the wool socks pulled up over them.

Ready to venture forth on another midnight run.

To find Warren, get the knife back, and hopefully return it to its rightful place.

But Mom wasn’t even in bed yet.

She was moving around in the kitchen, clearing dishes, running water, washing them off. Deana heard the quiet click of a cupboard door.

Mom: not wanting to wake her.