Killercon

by William Ollie

“What?”

  “Fucking faggot.”

  “What?”

  Red grabbed a handful of hair and pulled Damien’s head back, smiling as he said, “Drop your fucking hands.”

  Damien’s arms fell limp. Hands trembling against the sides of his legs, he said, “Please… Take the knife away. Let’s talk about it.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, muscleman? Then you could pound the fuck outa me. Not exactly the kind of pounding you had in mind though, is it?”

  “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

  “You fucked up, Damien. You fucked up, big-time. You should never have sent me that story.”

  “The fuck are you talking about? I don’t even know you.”

  “He thought about the wife and daughter he’d left behind, wondering if they would ever know what he had gone through to keep them safe, to keep them alive. To keep them from… him.”

  “What?”

  Red sighed. “There you go with the fucking ‘what’ again. What’re you trying to do, make me go all Samuel L on your ass?”

  He pressed the knife a little deeper, drawing blood this time.

  Damien winced. He tried pulling away but Red’s grip was strong.

  “Please,” Damien said, his muscular body beginning to shake, tears filling his eyes and rolling down his cheeks “I don’t want to die. Please, I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Red sighed. “What a surprise,” he said, then, “Anything?”

  “Yes, anything… just, please… take the knife away.”

  “Will you blow me?” Red laughed as the rest of his words came chuckling out, “What am I talking about?” He punched the knife through Damien’s throat, whipsawing the serrated edge backwards like he was gutting a fish. “Of course you’ll blow me. You’re a goddamn faggot!”

  Damien’s hands flew to the great yawning slit that had been carved into his neck, desperately clawing as his body slammed backward against the foot of the bed, eyes bulging while Red laughed and blood pumped from his wound, Damien’s mouth gaping up and down and up and down, until it couldn’t move at all, and his hands slid slowly down his blood-soaked chest.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Floating on a cloud, that’s how Carrie would have described it—drifting on a gentle breeze, high above the ground as fingers touched her, rubbed her, explored her. Her lover was nameless, faceless. She was his for the taking, and he was taking her places she had never been. He smelled of cheap cologne and cigarettes, but she didn’t care. He stroked her neck and she hugged her pillow, touched her breast and she grabbed his… hand.

  Carrie’s eyelids flew open and the hand grabbed her throat—she tried crying out but it quickly tightened, drawing a gasping croak from her as she looked up through wide, terrified eyes.

  “Well, well, well. Little Miss Flytngale,” the man said. He was thin, his pale face illuminated by moonlight filtering through the bedroom window. Long hair hung black across his shoulders. Eyes wild, pupils dilated, he held up a stained, gauze-covered stub at the end of his tattooed left arm. “We meet again.”

  Carrie struggled against the pressure on her throat.

  “I don’t wanta hurt you. I just wanta know where your husband is.” He paused for a moment, staring at her. “I’m gonna let go,” he said. “But if you try anything—anything at all—I’ll make you wish to God you hadn’t.”

  He relaxed his grip and Carrie drew a wheezing breath into her lungs.

  “Okay?”

  She nodded and the hand moved down to her side, to the bed, and then came up clutching the biggest butcher knife Carrie had ever seen. Rusty-brown streaks stained the blade, but Carrie was pretty sure it wasn’t rust.

  “You… you’re that guy. We life-flighted you… Clyde.”

  “Goddamnit.” He touched the blade to her throat, pressing its tip to the soft flesh beneath her chin. “The name is Snake. Snake! Compriend½?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure… Snake.”

  “Just like a goddamn woman. Known ya thirty seconds and you already pissed me the fuck off.”

  “I… I’m sorry,” Carrie said, eyes sweeping the room for an escape route, though she knew the only way out was down the hallway, unless she was willing to go crashing through the closed bedroom window—which she wasn’t.

  “Where is Bryan Kenney?”

  “He’s not here.”

  The blade dug in and Carrie yelped, tilted her head back and a thin line of blood trickled down her neck.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Snake said, and then stroked his stump across her face, casting off a nauseating smell as the wet gauze brushed against her cheek. “You see this? Your fucking husband did this to me. And he fucking did something to my cousin, too.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yeah, my cousin. I sent the motherfucker up here to ice that pussy son of a bitch and they found him dead in the middle of niggertown, layin’ in back of his pickup beat all to hell with his own baseball bat. Which is how I know he done it, ‘cause that goddamn Louisville Slugger wasn’t in Danny’s truck. Beat to fuck and staked through the heart with a pick-axe. I don’t know how that wimpy cocksucker got the upper hand on my dumbass cousin, but he did. And now he’s gonna pay…” The blade still at Carrie’s throat, Snake pressed his stump to her lips. “Gonna pay for this, too… Okay, one more time—if you wanta live to see morning, where the fuck is your husband?”

  “He’s in Florida, at a convention.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” The knife went away and Carrie eased her head back against the pillow. She sighed and Snake placed the blade’s sharp edge beneath her nose. “Lie to me,” he said, “and I’ll cut it the fuck off.”

  “Please,” she whimpered.

  He paused for a moment, smiling as a tear rolled down her face. “Now, when is he coming home?”

  “Sunday evening.”

  Snake took the knife away. “Cool, that gives us the whole weekend to, ah… get acquainted.”

  Oh, my God, Carrie’s mind whispered. She felt weightless, as if all the blood had drained from her body. She was floating, all right—in a wooden casket down the River Styx.

  “Look,” she said, as calmly as she could. “You can’t stay here all weekend. I have to go to work in the morning. I’ll be missed. Somebody’ll come check on me.”

  Chuckling, Snake said, “Yeah, right. Who’re you, the fucking President?”

  “Please, you don’t understand.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m gonna be here all weekend, and I’m gonna fuck you every which way but loose. And Sunday night, after I’ve plugged every goddamn hole you’ve got, you and me and Bryan Fucking Kenney are going to have a Halloween party none of us will ever forget.”

  Snake nodded at the nightstand beside Carrie. “Reach over and turn that light on.”

  The lamp clicked on, bathing the room in a soft yellow haze.

  Snake kicked off his shoes, unfastened and unzipped his jeans and dropped them to the floor, where he stepped out of them and stood clutching his knife, his cock pointing to Carrie like a human weathervane.

  Carrie looked away.

  “Please,” she said, whimpering.

  “Hey, don’t blame me. I’m not the guy who went scrawling shit on some other guy’s chick.” He laid the knife on the center of the mattress, at the foot of the bed.

  “Spread your legs,” he said, and then climbed onto the bed, knees digging into the mattress as he stroked Carrie’s breast, rolling a nipple lightly between his thumb and index finger.

  “Please,” Carrie said, tears welling in her eyes.

  Snake brought his hand to her face, and pressed his thumb against her eyeball. “Say please one more time—start crying. I’ll gouge your eye out and fuck the socket.”

  He removed his thumb, and Carrie blinked the tears away.

  “There ya go,” he said. “Now… smile.”

  And Carrie smiled.

  “Danny was right: you’re fucking beaut
iful. That’s how we found you, you know.” His hand went back to her breast, squeezing and kneading her nipple, Carrie smiling while her stomach twisted into a queasy knot of despair. “I told Danny your buds called you Flytngale. You and your personalized license plate pulled up right in front of him at the drugstore and he followed you straight home.”

  And Carrie remembered: the parking lot, smiling at the guy as he bent down to tie his shoelaces; the truck that stayed in her rearview mirror all the way to Rolling Meadows. And then what? He came back that night? And Bryan did what? What did he do, him and Larry? Because that goofy bastard was involved in this somehow—she knew it. The pool hall, that silly little girl, the wild chase on I-77. And now this!

  “Unbutton my shirt. I wanta feel your tits against my chest.”

  Carrie undid the buttons.

  Snake slid the shirt off and tossed it to the floor, reached back and grabbed the knife. “Grab your neckline and pull it tight.”

  Carrie gripped the top of her negligee, stretching it wide while Snake sliced the blade down its center, the sheer fabric whispering as it parted.

  “All the way loose,” he said. “Rip it.”

  And Carrie did, pulling until the gown split apart at the hemline, and Snake laid the knife behind him on the bed. Eyes glued to her breasts, he cupped one, leaned over and put a nipple in his mouth, biting and sucking and grunting, his stiff cock rubbing against her pubic mound.

  Carrie closed her eyes, because that was the only way she could keep smiling, by closing her eyes and imagining it was Bryan’s mouth on her, not some lowlife scumbag reeking of Old Spice and tobacco.

  “Grab my cock,” he said, and Carrie did, Snake shuddering as she gripped it, hot drops of saliva dribbling onto her chest.

  “Guide it in,” he told her, and she did that, too, something deep inside her cracking like a dead tree branch as Snake shoved himself in. She opened her eyes to see his pale skin reflected in the dim light, sweat pouring down his face, his neck, across The Devil’s Own emblem tattooed on his chest as he lay over her, moaning, rubbing his chest against her breasts.

  The stump brushed her cheek and Carrie grabbed it, digging her fingernails in, ripping and pulling and kicking the knife to the floor as Snake’s head reared up and he screamed, the fingers of his good hand clawing at the ceiling while something spattered from his ripped stitches, and Carrie, twisting sideways, sent him howling from the bed.

  Then she was off the mattress and running, through the door and down the hallway, Snake’s bare feet pounding the carpet behind her as she ran screaming through the kitchen, across shards of glass that cut her feet but she didn’t care, because she was out the back door and around the side of the house, into the frigid night, her flimsy gown billowing behind her while Snake screamed, “You’re dead, bitch! Dead!” so close she thought he might reach out and grab her.

  And then he did.

  His hand gripped her gown and Carrie lurched sideways, and they both fell sprawling to the grass. He grabbed her foot and she kicked her way free, crawling forward as she turned her head. He was right behind her on his knees, pushing himself up with his good hand while his naked and bleeding stub dangled at his side.

  Carrie scrambled to her feet, and saw a short piece of two-by-four lying in the yard. She dove for it, grabbed it and came up swinging, stunning Snake with a blow to the side of his face. Blood and busted bits of teeth flew from his mouth as his jaw went sideways and he fell howling to his knees, and Carrie brought the thick length of lumber down on his shoulder, drawing from him a high-pitched keening that rose up from his throat, as blood that looked black in the moonlight washed out of his mouth and onto his chest, and the back of his hand trembled in front of his face as if pleading for mercy.

  “My ass!” Carrie sneered, and then swung the board against his forehead, once, twice, three times, again and again as he lay crumpled on the ground.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Bryan couldn’t believe it, Bree getting them kicked out of the party by knocking a drink out of Cliff Trujillo’s hand, and then giggling uncontrollably like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Not that anyone had actually asked them to leave, but who wanted to stick around after that? Certainly not Bryan, and from the looks of it, not Larry, either, who seemed to be trying to get Bree upstairs as quickly as possible, before she passed out. Or maybe he wanted her to pass out.

  Ah, what the hell, Bryan thought, as he and Larry and Bree rode the elevator to the tenth floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened, and Bree followed Bryan and Larry into the hallway.

  “Who wants to join the Mile High Club?” she called out, braying laughter behind her words. “Oh, thass right,” she added, “you’re already a memmer… er, member. That’s it, member. Your member’s already a member!” And she laughed again.

  Bryan shook his head.

  “Thass okay, we can start our own club. The Ten-Story Club.”

  He sighed.

  “I wanta fuck all you motherfuckers!”

  “Jesus, Bree,” he said.

  Smiling, Larry said, “How about just one of us?”

  Bree looked at him, lolling her head from side to side. “Get real, pal!” she called out, punching him on the shoulder as she walked straight into the wall.

  She turned and looped an arm around each of their necks, kissed Larry on the cheek, and said, “I luvvv you guys.”

  “Hey, where’d y’all go?”

  Bryan turned to see Zweitic step out of the stairwell in the same blood-drenched outfit Bryan had been seeing all night, swinging an exact replica of the bulging plastic Halloween sack as the guy in 517—he could see the outline of a face pushing against the decorative, orange plastic bag. There was blood on his pants and blood on his white Reeboks. Red smears on his face and all over his hands.

  “Whoa, Dude,” Larry said. “What’d you do, break the blood bank?”

  Zweitic laughed. “Check it out,” he said, and then spun completely around.

  Nodding, Larry said, “The old bag was right. That special effects guy is a genius. That looks real as shit.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Bryan asked.

  “A severed head.”

  “Ha!” Bryan said. “Just what I thought.”

  “So where you guys going?”

  Laughing, Larry said, “Stonezilla here got us kicked outa the party.”

  “No way.”

  “She slapped a drink out of Trujillo’s hand,” Bryan said. “Went all over his nice new suit.”

  “Man, I miss all the good stuff. Hey, let’s go to my room and burn one.”

  “I don’t know,” Larry said. “It’s gettin’ kinda late.”

  He had an arm around Bree, who was giggling, her eyes closed as she slumped against his side.

  “Yeah, right, Dong Juan,” Zweitic said, then, “C’mon, y’all. I’ve got a camera in there. I wanta take some pictures.”

  “Take ‘em tomorrow, man,” Bryan said. “I’m friggin’ tired.” He glanced at his watch. It was three o’clock in the morning.

  Zweitic shook his head. “No way, Bryan. I ain’t splashin’ this shit all over me again. Come on, I wanta get some pictures.” He gave Larry a playful push. “C’mon, Dude, I’m all wired-up here. Let’s toast one more.”

  Bryan sighed. “Ah, hell,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They followed Zweitic down the hall, past Larry and Bree’s room, Bree mumbling incoherently, Bryan casting a weary eye on his door when they passed it. Zweitic already had his keycard out when they rounded the corner on the way to room 1012. When they got to the door, he opened it, and Bryan followed Larry and Bree inside, shaking his head as the inebriated girl stumbled along.

  The end table lamp was on when they entered the room.

  Moonlight spilled in through the open Venetian blinds pulled halfway across the balcony’s sliding glass door as Larry and Bree made their way down into the suite, and they all gathered around the coffee table.

 
“Hey, Bryan,” Zweitic said, nodding at a laptop computer sitting open beside the television, across the room on the armoire, the large red letters scrolling slowly across the screen’s deep blue background. “Check it out.”

  Bryan glanced at it, shrugging his shoulders. “Pretty cool.”

  “No, the text, man, read the text.”

  Larry pulled out his plastic container of drugs and Bryan crossed the room.

  An I scrolled by, followed by a clear field of blue, a few seconds later more letters appeared.

  Bryan turned to Zweitic. “What were you gonna do with that?” he asked him.

  Frowning, Zweitic said, “With what?”

  AMME floated across the screen.

  “That rubber knife when those two morons were raising hell in the hallway.”

  “Oh, that.” Zweitic laughed.

  He pulled his knife and Bryan looked over his shoulder at the computer. “What the…” he said, as RED33 appeared at the screen’s edge, and Zweitic said, “This!”, and pounded the butt-end of the knife against Larry’s skull, dropping him like a sack of bricks at Bree’s feet—Bree, who didn’t even notice he had fallen, stood beside Zweitic, swaying, her eyes closed, her chin resting on her clavicle.

  “The fuck?” Bryan said.

  “Heads up, Dude!” Zweitic called out, tossing the sack to Bryan, who snagged a handful of plastic while Zweitic looped an arm around Bree’s throat and pressed the knife to her side.

  “Don’t,” Bryan said.

  “Sarah Jessup wanted to go back, before the storm, before the accident, and find the woman she had been so long ago… the woman she was before it all faded away.”

  Bryan gasped, and stood with his mouth hanging open, because Johnny Z had just recited word-for-word the opening line of the manuscript Bryan had sent to Rich Chadwick. “How could you know—”

  Zweitic chuckled. “What? The beginning of your novel?” Using the knife, he waved Bryan back to the computer. “Touch the space bar,” he said.

  Bryan pressed it and the screensaver disappeared, revealing a desktop with a scant smattering of icons, and five folders lined up across the middle of the screen, each one listing an author: Damien Crabtree, Graham Greystone, Rick Greaton and Bryan Kenney, the last remaining folder listing Robert Huntley, the only author on the list Bryan hadn’t seen at the convention.