Killercon

by William Ollie

  “What?”

  “Aw, nothing.”

  “What did you say?”

  “This really sucks.”

  “What?” Rick said, frowning.

  “You’re the only one I really liked.”

  “Huh?”

  A fist pounded Rick’s gut and he doubled over, wheezing and gasping for air as a hand grabbed his shirt and another grabbed hold of his belt, and in one sweeping motion The Great Rick Greaton was tossed flailing over the balcony’s edge.

  Red leaned over the railing, peering into the darkness, wondering what it must be like down there, what the guy had been thinking on his way to the ground. He pictured Greaton busted open like a giant watermelon, gore and guts and entrails decorating the sidewalk—if he even hit the sidewalk. Whatever he did hit, Red had heard the thud ten floors up. He thought about sneaking down and stealing a look, but that would’ve been foolhardy, and whatever Red was, he was nobody’s fool. He walked back inside and took a seat on the small leather sofa, opened Greaton’s laptop and turned it on. Moments later the Windows98 logo flashed across the monitor, then a plain, generic desktop. Red fired up Greaton’s word processor and a blank page appeared on the screen. He checked for recent documents, but found nothing of interest. Leaning over the keyboard, he centered the cursor in the middle of the page, and typed:

  I JUST COULDN’T TAKE ANYMORE.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The bar was nearly empty, just a few stragglers left to keep Bree and Bryan company while they waited for Larry and Zweitic, who had left them to haul the beer up to Larry’s room. Probably up there burning a joint, Bryan thought, but he couldn’t have cared less—he still had a nice buzz going from the one they’d toasted in the parking garage, not to mention the lines Larry had doled out.

  The same gum-popping waitress appeared at their table, tired now from all the walking she’d done on her shift—still looking good to Bryan, though.

  “Ready yet, sweetie?”

  “We’re still waiting for our friends to show up.”

  “Well, we’re about to close,” she said, and then scurried across the room to another table.

  “Why does he wanta buy us all a drink, anyway?” Bree said. “I thought that was why we got the beer.”

  “I should be buying him one, for what he did back at the Krystal.” Bryan closed his eyes, a shiver crawling up his spine as he pictured the raw and blistered face melting away in a torrent of hot grease—creepier now, without the soundtrack.

  Bree nodded over Bryan’s shoulder. “There’s Larry,” she said.

  A moment later the heavy wooden door swung open, and in walked Zweitic.

  He had changed clothes, and now wore jeans and a loose-fitting white t-shirt. His sheathed rubber knife was wedged between his belt. When he got closer, Bryan saw that his hair was damp around the edges.

  “What’d you do, take a shower?”

  “Yeah, felt great, too.”

  “Not me,” Larry said.

  “Yeah, I know what you were doing,” Bryan said, and Larry sat down, smiling.

  “Yeah, well,” Bree said. “They’re about to shut this place down.”

  Zweitic glanced at his watch. “Oh, shit,” he said, and then jumped up, hauling ass toward the bar.

  “What did you do, Larry?” Bree asked.

  “Beat off, probably,” Bryan said.

  “Very funny, Dude.”

  “He’s damn sure horny enough.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, gee, Larry,” Bree said. “Let’s see now. You just about stare a hole through every woman who crosses your path.”

  “Not every woman.”

  “Every woman, Larry, including me.”

  “Well, you can’t blame me for that. Look at you—you’re friggin’ beautiful.”

  “Careful, Larry.” Bree smiled, her eyes sparkling as she said, “Flattery might get you more than you bargained for.”

  Like it hasn’t already, Bryan thought, remembering the scene from the airplane.

  Zweitic appeared at the table, carrying a tray with four mixed drinks in long-stemmed martini glasses. Chunks of pineapple floated atop the ice cubes lacing the amber concoctions, one of which was handed to each of his three friends before placing the tray on an empty table and sitting down with his drink.

  “The hell is this?” Larry asked.

  “This, my friend, is a Honolulu Hammer.”

  Larry shook his head. “A chic’s drink,” he said.

  “Boy, Larry,” Bree said. “There go your points.”

  Larry lifted his glass and took a nice long drink. “Ah,” he said. “That is good.”

  Bryan shook his head, and Bree winked at him.

  Zweitic tipped back his drink. “Ah,” he said. “Nothing like capping off a fun-filled evening with an exotic libation.”

  “Libation,” Larry said. “What, is that how you writer’s talk? Where’s your friggin beret?”

  “What’re you talking about?” Zweitic said as the waitress stopped by.

  “Oh,” she said. “Bypassing my tip, are we?”

  “I gotta tip for ya,” Larry said. “Stop by room 517 on your way home.”

  Rolling her eyes, she huffed out a derisive, “Yeah, right”, before turning and walking away.

  “What? She thought I was hitting on her?”

  “Weren’t you?” Bryan said.

  “Hell no.”

  “I rest my case,” Bree said, adding, “Mmm” as she downed a healthy amount of her drink, fished out a piece of pineapple and crunched it between her teeth.

  Smirking, Larry said, “I rest my case.”

  Bree glared at him.

  “Maybe you should rest your mouth, instead,” Bryan said, Zweitic laughing as Bree said, “Touché.”

  “Hey,” Larry said. “I took the stairs down, just for the hell of it. They’re having parties on several floors. Doors are open and people’re wandering from room to room.

  Bree, having finished her drink, set the glass on the table next to Zweitic’s. Bryan did the same with his empty while Larry’s stood half-full.

  Bryan looked at his watch. It was 1:45.

  “Well, hell,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  “What’dya think?” Larry said on the way down the hall. “Take the stairs and check out each floor as we go? Or just head straight to 517?”

  “Nah,” Bryan said. “Let’s hit 517 first. I want to see if Greaton’s there.”

  “You didn’t get enough of him at the bar?”

  “Yeah,” Bree said. “What’s up with that?”

  “That guy knows more about crafting a story than I’m ever going to know.”

  “But he can’t pay his own way to a convention,” Bree said.

  “Tell her, Johnny Z.”

  Zweitic chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. “He is the great Rick Greaton.”

  “Who ain’t got a pot to piss in.”

  Laughing lightly, Zweitic said, “He’s that, too.”

  They made their way to the elevator, Zweitic and Bree in front, Bryan and Larry following, Larry—Bryan noticed—never taking his eyes off Bree’s ass, Bryan glancing at it a time or two, himself, as the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.

  Zweitic depressed a button and the doors closed. The elevator started to rise, and he said, “Some night, huh?”

  “No shit,” Larry said.

  “What do you think they’ll do to that woman?” Bree said. “You know, the one back at the Krystal.”

  “Toss her crazy ass in jail,” Bryan said, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall.

  “That’s fucked-up, isn’t it?” Larry again. “Some drunk comes in starting a bunch of shit, and some innocent fucker pays for it.”

  “Well,” Bryan said. “You know what they say about God and drunks and fools.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  “That’s why Larry gets away with so mu
ch shit,” Bree said, as if she had just stumbled across the secret of everlasting life.

  The elevator came to a chiming stop and the doors opened. Somebody screamed, “OH GOD!” and they hurried into the hallway to find a young man lying on the carpet, moaning, clutching the side of his blood-drenched white shirt while another hovered over him, a gory, clotting mass spilling out the side of his head.

  He grabbed his friend’s elbow.

  “Get up!” he yelled as he turned to Bryan and Larry, his face a twisted, anguished mask. “He’s gotta fucking knife! He’s crazy!”

  Bryan’s jaw dropped and Bree took a step back.

  “Who?” Larry said, eyes darting wildly back and forth as Zweitic stepped to his side, Bryan staring down the hallway as Zweitic’s hand flashed down to his knife

  The guy pulled his friend screaming to his feet. “Down there!” he called out, the two of them hugging and crying, dragging each other backward toward the elevator.

  A door banged open and Bryan nearly jumped out of his shoes.

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP OUT THERE!” a bare-chested old man roared at them. He stood in the doorway, his white hair standing straight up on his head, an enormous beer-belly hanging over his red and white striped boxers, a pair of black silk stockings running all the way up to his knees.

  The bloody companions laughed.

  Bryan turned and they started howling.

  “The fuck?” Bryan said.

  “Look at that motherfucker!” the bloodier of the two said, as he pointed at the old man, whose face was getting redder by the second.

  His friend pointed at Bryan. Laughing hysterically, he said, “And look at your face!”

  “Goddamn it!” the old timer said, and then slammed his door shut.

  “What the fuck?” Bryan said again.

  “Room 502. They’re doin’ movie blood down there,” the friend said, and then both of them hopped into the elevator.

  “Awesome!” his buddy said as the doors came together.

  Bree chuckled. “Jesus,” she said. “I think my heart may have stopped.”

  Larry shrugged his shoulders, a big smile painting his face.

  “That looked so fucking real,” Zweitic said. “Did you see that guy’s head? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a car crash.”

  “Geez,” Bree said. “What was in that drink?”

  “One part vodka, one part amaretto, a splash of pineapple juice and a splash of grenadine,” Zweitic said. “Shaken, not stirred if you please, Moneypenny.”

  Bree gave her head a little shake. “I feel funny,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?” Larry said, smiling as he stepped over and draped an arm across her shoulder. “How funny do you feel?”

  “Oh, Christ,” Bryan said. “C’mon, y’all.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Room 517 was crowded, overflowing with many of the same people Bryan had seen in the bar. At first glance he didn’t see Rick Greaton, or Graham Greystone. He moved around the room, nodding at Reggie Bannister, who smiled and nodded back, even though Bryan was quite sure the man had no idea who he was. Several people milling about the room had the same blood-drenched get-up as the two in the hall. One guy had a ragged flap of bloody skin hanging from his neck, as if he’d been hanged, or maybe someone had slashed his throat. Another carried a bloody knife and a bulging plastic Halloween sack. Bryan was sure if he asked the guy, he’d say he was carrying a severed head. A woman wearing pigtails and a cheerleader’s outfit had sticky red smears all over the front of her white sweater, dried bits of flaking brown stuff around her mouth. She laughed, and Bryan noticed a prosthetic mouthpiece full of rotten, misshapen fangs.

  And there went the Cenobites. Bryan followed them, just to see where they were going, and was led straight to Damien Crabtree, who stood in the middle of a small group of people, tall, trim and well-muscled, athletic in appearance with movie-star good looks, laughing as one of the Cenobites stuck a paperback book in his face.

  Larry and Bree appeared beside him. “Check it out,” Larry said, holding up a bottle of Rolling Rock.

  Bryan gave him a pat on the back. “Good for you, Sparky,” he said.

  “Want one?” Larry said.

  “I’m good.”

  “Who’s that motherfucker?” Bree asked.

  Bryan cocked his head sideways. “That’s Damien Crabtree,” he said, and then looked at Larry, mouthing the word, Motherfucker?

  She looked up at Bryan, her eyes barely visible behind the thin slits of her sagging lids.

  Larry shrugged and took another drink of beer.

  “Daaamien,” Bree said, like a little girl taunting an older brother. “Daaaaamien.”

  Bryan glanced around the room. Zweitic stood talking with Brian Keene and Cliff Trujillo, nodding his head and laughing. He looked at Bryan and winked. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would work out, after all.

  “Daaamien!” Bree sang out, and Crabtree looked her way, all smiles and million-dollar-teeth as Bree unbuttoned her jeans, zipped down the fly and pushed them to her ankles, Bryan’s eyes bulging, Larry grinning as Bree turned. Head swooping down, she grabbed her ankles and pointed her firm ass toward the ceiling, swaying it back and forth beneath the thong underwear she wore.

  “All for you, Damien!” she cried out, and the crowd went wild. “All for youuuu!”

  Crabtree strolled across the room, grinning from ear to ear, stopping behind Bree, who was still swaying back and forth. Uncapping a felt-tipped pen, he laid a hand on the lower part of her back and she stopped. Then he scrawled out: Thanks for that! Damien Crabtree across the top of her buttocks. He held up his hands, smiling and acknowledging the cheering crowd, and then left the room.

  “Jesus, Bree!” Bryan said.

  Bree stood straight. Frowning at Bryan, she said, “What?”

  “Pull your friggin’ pants up!”

  “Why’re you so mad? You got my tit, didn’t you?”

  Bryan shook his head.

  “Bryan got my teeyit, Bryan got my teeyit,” she sang out in the same little girl taunt she’d used on Crabtree, turning tit into a two syllable word as laughter filled the air around them.

  “Bree!”

  Smiling, Bree pulled up her pants, zipped and buttoned them and put a hand on Larry’s ass. The other hand disappeared beneath his shirt, snaking its way slowly up his chest.

  Larry put an arm around her and pulled her close, took a long swig of beer and looked over at Bryan, bobbing his head up and down, smiling as if he were Al Bundy being swarmed by The Swedish Bikini Team.

  Incredible, Bryan thought, and then went searching for a beer.

  * * *

  On his way to the elevator, Damien stopped and looked over his shoulder at the empty passageway. A few steps later, he turned to see a guy emerging from 517. He waited, back against the wall, smiling as the guy approached him, just like Damien knew he would.

  “Hi,” Damien said.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “I saw you checking me out in there.”

  “Me and everybody else. What are ya, six-five, two-hundred pounds of solid steel? Who could keep their eyes off you?”

  Chuckling, Damien said, “Two-hundred? Hell, my cock weighs more than that.”

  “Umm.” The guy licked his upper lip as he looked over Damien’s shoulder, toward the elevators. “I think you were looking at me.”

  Damien shrugged. “Well…”

  “Looking at these?” He lifted his shirt, giving Damien a birds-eye-view of a set of perfect washboard abs. “I work out a little, too,” he said, as Damien brushed a hand across his stomach, the hand lingering a moment before sliding down to the tight edge of his jeans.

  “Maybe we should go up to my room?” Damien said.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  They walked to the elevator.

  Damien summoned it by depressing a small rectangular pad, which lit up when he touched it. He stepped back, admiring the guy’s trim physiqu
e.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Red.”

  “Not from the message board.”

  “What message board?”

  “Aw, nothing. Forget about it.”

  Red shrugged his shoulders. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “Tonight I’m Red, tomorrow I’ll be Blue.”

  “Be black and blue when I’m done with you.”

  Red chuckled.

  The elevator sounded its arrival and the doors popped opened.

  Damien and Red stepped inside to find a middle-aged couple waiting for the door to close. The man was fat, pushing fifty at least. He wore pleated Dockers shorts, tan beneath a blue Polo shirt, which was covered by a black pinstriped Orlando Magic jersey several sizes too large. The woman wore jeans and a long-sleeved denim shirt with multicolored flowers embroidered on its front. A thin line of red across her pocket spelled out Cornhuskers.

  Damien brushed a strand of hair away from Red’s forehead and looked deep into his eyes, as if they were the only two people in the world.

  “Oh, my God,” the man said, and the elevator doors whooshed shut.

  Damien pulled the door open, slipped the keycard into his pocket and stepped inside. “I wonder what they’d done if I’d given you a blowjob.”

  “Stroked out, probably,” Red said. “Hell, they almost did anyway.”

  “I wanted to, you know, fall down on my knees and blow you right in front of them. I wish I had.”

  Red followed him to the foot of the bed, and then backed up to the dresser.

  “Well,” he said. “Like my ‘ol granpappy used to say: there’s no time like the present.”

  Damien dropped to his knees, and ran a hand across Red’s crotch.

  “A wise man, that granpappy of yours.”

  His hands slipped under Red’s shirt, Damien shuddering as they drifted across those well-defined stomach muscles. He unsnapped Red’s jeans, unzipped the fly and a blade touched his neck.

  “Don’t move a muscle. Put your hands by your side and keep them there.”