Killercon

by William Ollie

  “Double click ‘em,” Zweitic said. “Go ahead!”

  Bryan opened the folders, one by one. “Despair, Into The Darkness, A Simple Mistake, The Woman She Was, Wall Of Pain.”

  “Figure it out yet?”

  Bryan turned. “The hell is this,” he said. “A joke?”

  “Does this look like a fucking joke to you?” Zweitic pressed the blade to Bree’s side, and Bree mumbled incoherently. He shoved it in and she moaned. “Shit, she’s so fucked-up she can’t even feel it.” He chuckled. “Where’s the fun in that?” He drew the blade out, and showed it to Bryan. “See?” he said. “Blood doesn’t splatter, it seeps, just like I told you. But you don’t know that, do you? You don’t know shit because you haven’t done the research.” Zweitic licked the side of the blade. “Research, motherfucker, that’s where it’s at!”

  Zweitic dropped Bree, and blood spread out from her, onto the carpet. He stepped over her and nudged Larry with his shoe. “Dead to the world, Bryan. Now it’s just you and me. You and Red33.”

  “Look—”

  “Not too shabby for a dipshit, huh? Isn’t that what you called me? Moron? Hilarious fucking piece of shit? Compared to your dumb ass, I’m a goddamn genius. Did you notice the missing letter in Chadwick’s email address, that Hell Bent was missing the second E? It’s easy if you know what you’re doing. But I wouldn’t expect a moron like you to understand. Hell, you and your cronies sent your manuscripts to a perfect stranger. All I have to do now is print ‘em up and turn ‘em in.”

  “Look, Johnny.”

  “They’re all dead, Bryan. Greystone, Greaton, Crabtree—and that fucking Chadwick. You should’ve heard that cocksucker beg. Are you gonna beg? I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you piss all over yourself.”

  Bryan moved toward the door—Zweitic feinted with the knife and he stopped.

  “That’s it,” Zweitic said. “Run for it.”

  “Johnny—”

  “Look in the bag, Bryan.”

  And Bryan knew what he would find before he even looked. He opened the sack, and there was Damien Crabtree’s bloated, blood-soaked face staring back at him, the white stump of his spinal cord trailing his head like a bizarre kite’s tail.

  “I’m gonna gut you like a fish, Bryan. You and your friends. And when I’m done, I’m gonna cut a hole in that pretty little bitch and fuck it. Then it’s off to Boston and that no-show-son-of-a-bitch Huntley.” Zweitic laughed. “Meet the new King of Horror!” he called out.

  “My ass!” Bree said, and lashed out at Zweitic’s crotch, receiving for her efforts a laugh and a heel to the face as Bryan swung the sack, which sent the knife flying when it smacked Zweitic’s hand. Then the head bounced off his face and the bag split open, the impact of which sent Zweitic falling backwards, over Bree and over the coffee table, bouncing up off the sofa before Bryan could even move.

  They dove for the knife, Damien Crabtree’s head spinning crazily after them as Bryan found the handle.

  A fist pounded his kidney.

  Pain exploded in his side.

  He dropped the knife and rolled onto his back.

  And Zweitic was on him, hands around his throat, laughing and squeezing, lifting the knife and plunging it down, Bryan grabbing his hand, grunting and pushing with all his might as the knife came closer and closer. He looked to his side and Crabtree’s head rose up; Bree, gripping a handful of hair, hammered it against Zweitic’s cheek, and he fell to the floor, he and Bryan grappling for the knife and wrestling to their feet seconds before Bree pushed them crashing through the sliding door, onto the balcony as they passed through a showering hail of busted glass.

  A knee pounded Bryan’s gut.

  He doubled over and fell to his knees, looked up and saw the knife coming for him, and Larry flying feet-first through the air, into Zweitic’s chest, the knife clattering to the ground as the startled maniac hit the railing and the railing came loose. He hung for a moment, eyes bulging, his hand clawing for safety as he teetered over the edge.

  “Help me!” he cried out.

  “Get real, pal!” Larry said, and then kicked the railing, sending Johnny Zweitic screaming into the dark.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Bryan sat in the hotel restaurant, wondering if he would ever be the same, if he could even go back to writing horror after what he had witnessed last night: Billy-boy’s knee, that guy’s melting face; Crabtree’s head rolling across the carpet, Bree bleeding out on the floor and that crazy bastard hurtling to the pavement.

  Red33 was right about one thing: Bryan had never seen anything like that.

  He took a sip of coffee, staring out the window as the sun sailed over the Orlando Skyline, the cars rolling down I-4 dwarfed by the high-rise office buildings downtown. He hadn’t slept, and as tired as he was, sleep was the last thing he wanted. Because there was no telling what Bryan would see when he finally did close his eyes.

  The convention was going strong, the dealer’s room bustling with activity, but Bryan had steered clear of it. He simply had no interest, nor the stomach for glad-handing and pimping books. What he needed now was coffee and plenty of it. He took another sip, turned to get his waitress’ attention, and saw Larry walking through the restaurant in the same Hawaiian shirt from last night, a square white bandage covering the side of his head, his eyes dull, his face gaunt and pale.

  “How is she?” Bryan asked when he got to the table.

  “Still unconscious, but she’s out of surgery, and, well.” He sighed. “They think she’s gonna make it.”

  “She’s lucky.”

  “She had Rohypnol in her system.”

  “Ro-what?”

  “That friggin’ date-rape drug, the doctors told me. They think I’m her brother.”

  “Holy shit, Larry,” Bryan said, frowning. “That’s why she was so—”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “I have no fucking idea.”

  “The fuck was he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zweitic wasn’t his real name. The cops said he had a wallet full of fake I.D’s. They ran his prints and came up empty. They’re fucking clueless.”

  “Unfucking believable,” Bryan said.

  “You know they found that Greystone guy handcuffed to his bedpost this morning, don’t you?”

  “I heard.”

  “Had some woman’s half-rotted head crammed between his legs, like he stroked out while it was giving him a—”

  “I know, I heard.”

  “And your buddy, Greaton? That crazy fucker jumped off his balcony. Cops found a suicide note in his room.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Got all that shit from the cops down at the hospital. What? You didn’t know he jumped?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Yeah,” Larry said. “He did.”

  “I’m going home.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, today.”

  “What do you mean, you’re going home today?”

  “That Snake prick from the pool hall?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He walked out of the hospital last night, broke into my house and attacked Carrie.”

  “My God,” Larry said.

  “Told Carrie he sent his cousin after me Wednesday night and they found him staked through the heart in the back of his truck.”

  “What!”

  “I guess if the cops put two and two together…”

  Larry groaned. He put his hands across his face and shook his head, then placed them flat on the table. “Holy shit,” he said, then, “What do you mean, he told Carrie? Is she all right?”

  “She killed him. Got the upper hand somehow and killed him.”

  “Jesus, Bryan. I’m so sorry. But, look, if he’s dead he can’t tell the cops anything.”

  Bryan shook his head… Good ‘ol Larry.

  “We’re home free. They ever come around, we don’t know shit.”

  Bryan checked his
watch again. It was 10:45. “Well,” he said. “I need to get going.”

  “What, you’re leaving now?”

  “I’ve got to get home, Dude. My wife almost got her ass killed last night.”

  Larry closed his eyes and laid his hands on his face, rubbing his fingers across his eyelids. He took them away, opened his eyes, and said, “Yeah, you’re right. You need to get your ass on home—pronto. Look, I’ll get Bree squared away and we’ll get together when I get back.”

  Bryan leaned back in his chair, staring at his weary neighbor. “No offense, Larry, but I don’t think I want to see you for a while.”

  “What?” Larry said—he looked shocked. “You think this is my fault?”

  “None of this would’ve happened if we hadn’t gotten together.”

  “So you’re blaming me… for what, giving you a ride when you needed one? For being with you when you signed the breast of a girl who was hanging out with a bunch of Hells Angels wannabes? Maybe you’re mad at me for stopping that burglar from sneaking through your window, for stopping that maniac from throwing you off the balcony last night.” Larry smiled. Then his smile turned into an affectuous grin, and Bryan smiled, too. “Come on, Dude. You know none of this is my fault. We just stepped in a giant pile of shit, that’s all.”

  And Bryan knew he was right, because where would he have been without his wacky neighbor, who had saved his ass on more than one occasion, had kept his wife from harm that night and led him on an adventure he would never forget. None of it was Larry’s fault, and he could have bolted and left Bree on her own but he was trying to do the right thing.

  “Aw, hell,” he said. “You’re right.” He made a fist and held it out, smiling as Larry bumped it with one of his own.

  “Right on, Dude.”

  Bryan pushed back from the table and stood, grabbed his luggage and the carryon that had been sitting behind his chair. “Shuttle’s gonna be leaving in a minute. I need to be on it.”

  “Cool, brother,” Larry said. He got up and followed Bryan out of the restaurant, down the hallway and through the lobby, neither of them talking until they reached the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

  “Well, hell, good luck, Dude. I’m gonna catch a taxi back to the hospital. I wanta be there when she wakes up.”

  “Here,” Bryan said, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of bills. “I found this in his suitcase while you were getting help last night.”

  “No shit.”

  “Put it toward her bill.”

  Larry nodded. “Good man, Bryan.”

  “Hey Larry,” Bryan said, and Larry said, “Yeah?”

  “You’re still a good man to have around.” He smiled and held out his fist, which Larry bumped before he turned and walked away.

  Epilogue

  Bryan climbed into the shuttle. He was the only passenger and he left his bags in the middle of the aisle. Grabbing his carryon as the bus pulled away, he zippered it open and pulled out a laptop computer. Moments later the XP logo flashed across the monitor’s display, then he was staring at a smattering of icons, and five folders lined up across the middle of the screen. He highlighted the folders, hovered his finger over the keyboard’s Delete key, but didn’t delete them. He sighed, double-clicked the folder bearing Robert Huntley’s name, and then double-clicked the document inside. The word processor came to life, revealing a title with Robert Huntley’s name beneath it, and Huntley’s address. He sat there, regarding the address for one long moment. Then he deleted Huntley’s folder, turned off the computer and settled back into his seat.