4
Olive crawled past William and scurried towards the stairs. She was smiling. For the first time in five years, ten months and thirteen days, she was really smiling. This was the chance she had been waiting for, the chance she had dreamed about. Her fantasy.
William said, “Help me, please.”
Olive didn’t say anything to the man. She just looked at him and looked away. Then she climbed the stairs like a spider, pretending he wasn’t there. Later she could help, or not help, or do whatever she needed to do. But right now she had to think about herself, she had to escape.
She entered the room filled with clothing and tried to stand up straight. She couldn’t. After years in the cage it hurt too much to stand; plus her balance was wrong, thanks to Nicolas’ little surgeries on her feet.
Didn’t matter. At least, right now it didn’t.
Olive didn’t want to stretch; she wanted to see her mother again, her father again. She wanted to spend time with her younger brother Dale. She wanted to go back to school, play video games and be on the track-and-field team. She wanted to go to baseball games and complain that the seats were bad and the ref was blind. She wanted to read magazines and listen to music. She wanted to organize her dolls and put them in her dollhouse. She wanted to get away from Nicolas.
On the way up the stairs she heard someone yell. No––not someone. Him. He was screaming and yelling again, being insane.
Was this good news, or bad news?
She didn’t know. It would definitely be better if he was asleep but he wasn’t, and nothing was going to stop her from trying to get outside, because being outside, even for a minute, would be the best thing that happened in years.
She made her way to the top of the stairs and pushed open the door. It opened slowly; the hinges sounded like they belonged inside a haunted house: CREEEEEEEAAAAK–AK–AK. Once the hinges stopped squeaking she listened to the sounds of Nicolas grunting and cursing and pounding his fist against the wall. POUND. POUND. POUND. The noises were coming from inside the closet, which was beside her; the doorknob was next to her head.
Thinking about Nicolas made her cringe. She could just see him opening the closet door and saying, “Ah ha!” Then he’d drag her downstairs and cut off another finger and piss in her face and talk about setting her on fire. Or maybe he’d lop off an arm this time. After all, this was bad. Trying to escape was very, very bad. And if she found herself caught there’d be a serious punishment attached to her crime. Extreme punishment.
POUND. POUND.
“That’s good,” Olive whispered. “Be loud. Be really loud.”
Suddenly the noise stopped.
Olive put a mangled hand to her mouth.
Did Nicolas hear her whispering? Did he know she was there? No. That was impossible, wasn’t it? She was being quiet. Wasn’t she?
Nicolas pounded on the wall again, crying as he did so. POUND. POUND. POUND. POUND. He followed the pounding with a good long scream.
Olive grinned a frightened grin and scuttled down the hall, towards the front door. She reached for the knob, knowing that freedom was just a few feet away.
But––
She only had three fingers now, two on her left hand and one on her right: two pinkies and a ring finger. Not much to work with, but she would work with them. Oh yes. She would do whatever she had to do because she was getting out. The time for escape was now. This was her chance, her only chance.
Nicolas kicked the door––not the wall but the door––and Olive nearly jumped out of her skin.
He could come out of the closet at any time, she thought. Any time at all!
Kneeling at the front door, she wrapped her fingers around the knob. She tried to turn it. Didn’t work. She didn’t have a good enough grip. She tried again. Same result. She put a palm on each side of the knob, pressed her hands together and tried her luck again. Now it worked; the knob was turning.
But it wouldn’t open! She couldn’t believe it!
The doorknob was turned all the way and she was pulling on the door and it wouldn’t open! It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t––
“Oh,” she whispered.
The door was locked.
Olive’s eyes widened. Unlike the lock on her cage, this was a lock she could open. This was a lock she would open! Come hell or high water she was getting through that door.
She put a pinkie to the lock and gave it a push. The lock turned so easily she could hardly believe it. With a hand around the knob, she turned and pulled. The door creaked and cracked and made lots of strange sounds but it was opening.
Thank heaven; it was opening!
A cool summer breeze hit her in the face. She thought she might be dreaming and hoped that she wasn’t. She wasn’t. As abused and mentally fragile as she had become, she knew that her escape was really happening. Outside was right there, less than two feet away. Oh God, she felt like crying.
She crawled back a foot, giving the door some room to swing open. Then she did it: she moved through the doorway and onto the porch. She closed the door very quietly and made her way down the steps and along the driveway, hunched over, walking on her hands and feet like a primate.
Laughter came. It was a sick laugh, one that didn’t sound connected to comedy in any way, but there it was. She was laughing, and tears rolled down her face.
Olive realized something: she hadn’t stood up straight in years. She tried again but couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not here. She had to keep moving and worry about her posture later. Slumped over, she lost her balance often. Walking was difficult with every toe amputated, but she would do it; oh yes she would.
She moved past the fire truck, which seemed large and completely out of place sitting in the driveway. Once she was past it she had a choice to make: follow the road left or follow the road right. She couldn’t see much in either direction: the moon and the stars, the trees and the sky. That was about all. The moonlight wasn’t much help. It was dark. Real dark.
She turned right and continued her journey. It wasn’t a bad choice; it wasn’t a good one.
Stone Crescent was like a lollipop: it went around in a circle. She needed to get off the circle if she wanted to get noticed by the people of Cloven Rock. She needed to get onto Stone Path Road and into town.
She followed the loop, hoping a car would pass. None did. The road swerved left and right, but mostly left. She didn’t realize she was walking in a circle. And she didn’t see Stone Path Road when she came to it. Not the first time, the second time, not the third time either. Stone Path Road looked the same as everything else, like darkness.
After two hours and forty-five minutes she became tired and slightly dizzy. Being in no condition for long distance hiking, she made a decision. She would lie down at the side of the road and sleep. A car would come by soon, she trusted. It had to. It just had to. She had no idea that Nicolas was still only a few hundred feet away. Had she known, she would have continued on.
5
5:34 am. “Where is Pumpkin?”
Cathy didn’t answer. She kept screaming and crying and holding William’s corpse close to her body.
Her high-pitched voice was annoying, and before long Nicolas decided enough was enough. He turned away from her, walked up six steps and looked into his cupboard. He put his hand on the hedge clippers, then he touched the blowtorch, and finally he decided on the sledgehammer. The sledgehammer was good. It was sturdy and heavy. Too bad there wasn’t much room in the cellar to use it.
He lifted the tool and made his way down the stairs, approaching his plaything with evil on his mind. He grabbed her bony ankle and dragged her from the corner. His beady eyes were slightly askew behind his glasses, making him look crazier than ever.
Cathy screamed louder, holding William’s corpse like her life depended on it. It didn’t; the corpse couldn’t help her. What she needed to do was beg for Nicolas’ forgiveness, and even that wouldn’t be enough.
Nicolas pulled her into the center o
f the room. The corpse slipped from her remaining fingers and a moment later Nicolas released her. As she flopped to the ground, writhing in mental agony, he positioned himself above her, holding the sledgehammer––not in a traditional way, but the way an executioner would hold his battle-ax while waiting for the condemned man to arrive––with the mallet at his feet, not over his head. And when he raised it up, he raised it to his waist, balancing it above Cathy’s teeth.
Cathy was on the floor, squirming and laughing, screaming with her eyes opened very wide. Something changed inside her mind and she looked right at him, right into his face with knowing awareness. She howled like an animal, saying, “SHE GOT AWAY! OLIVE GOT AWAY! YOUR PUMPKIN IS GONE, NICOLAS! SHE’S GONE, GONE, GONE!”
Nicolas continued holding the business end of the sledgehammer a foot and a half over her face. It swayed left and right like a pendulum. He said, “What did you say? What!? How dare you speak to me like that! She’s not gone! She’s not gone! She’s mine, you hear me? Mine!” “SHE’S GONE, SHE’S GONE, SHE’S G-O-N-E! OH, YOU STUPID MISERABLE PSYCHOTIC FUCKER, SHE’S GONE AND SHE’S NEVER COMING BACK! NOT NOW! NOT EVER! SHE ESCAPED YOU! YOUR BABY ESCAPED YOU!”
“Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that––!”
“I’M SAYING IT YOU STUPID PRICK! OH LORD, I’M SAYING IT!”
“I’ll kill you!”
“DO YOU THINK I CARE? I WANT YOU TO KILL ME! DON’T YOU KNOW THAT? I WISH YOU HAD DONE IT YEARS AGO! KILL ME! KILL ME, YOU PATHETIC PIECE OF SHIT! DO IT! DO IT NOW BEFORE I GET UP AND WALK OUT OF HERE THE WAY PUMPKIN DID!”
“You’re not going anywhere!”
“KILL ME YOU BASTARD! I DARE YOU TO!”
Nicolas heard enough. His hands were shaking. His nostrils were flared. His knuckles were turning white from holding the wooden handle so tight.
Raising the sledgehammer another two inches, he screamed, “YOU WANT ME TO DO IT? YOU WANT ME TO KILL YOU? OKAY BITCH! I’LL DO IT! IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT I’ll GIVE IT TO YOU! I’LL KILL YOU RIGHT HERE AND NOW! HERE IT IS BITCH! HERE IT IS, RIGHT IN YOUR FUCKING FACE!”
∞∞Θ∞∞
5:37 am. Nicolas mashed the mallet into her eyes, crushing her skull like a beer can. He raised the weapon up and slammed it down again. Cathy’s head cracked open. Blood, brains and bone rolled free. Legs trembled. Hands flinched. Her nightmare ended, and the next time Nicolas hit her she was already dead. But that wasn’t enough to stop him from smashing his fury into her empty shell until her head looked like mush. Nothing would stop him. And when he finally grew tired of beating her with the hammer he kicked her four times and threw the weapon across the room.
Now he was done––now, and not a moment sooner.
And with that, it was decided: the town would pay for this outrage. Everyone would pay.
Every. Fucking. One.
6
5:40 am. Nicolas stormed his way upstairs. He was furious! He wanted to kill everyone, everywhere––right now! This was shit! Complete fucking donkey shit! How did Pumpkin escape? How did she get out of the house? It made him so MAD! He felt like sticking his hand into a blender and turning the knob to mince. Maybe that would ease his thinking. Maybe that would make things better.
After stomping through the house, he kicked his way into his laboratory and considered slamming together a mix of sulfuric acid and nitric acid right then and there, real fast like. But building nitroglycerin wasn’t something you ‘slammed’ together when you were pissed off at your babies. He was mad and crazy, but not mad enough and crazy enough to try something like that.
“FUCK!” He screamed. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” He tore a handful of hair from his head and cracked his knuckles against his ears. “HOW DO YOU BUILD NITROGLYCERIN? ONE PART SULFURIC ACID AND ONE PART NITRIC ACID! HOW DO YOU MAKE DYNAMITE? THREE PARTS NITROGLYCERIN, ONE PART DIATOMACEOUS EARTH AND A SMALL FUCKING ADMIXTURE OF SODIUM CARBONATE! AND HOW DO YOU BLOW UP THE TOWN? YOU PUT DYNAMITE IN EVERY HOUSE AND SET THE WORLD ON FIRE!” Nicolas clomped out of the bedroom, balled his hand into a fist and punched a hole in the wall. “FUCK!”
He went into his bedroom, tore off his robe and kicked off his slippers. He threw on pants without underwear, shoes without socks, and a white golf shirt that had a snappy green alligator above the left breast. He combed his hair real nice and checked his teeth in the mirror. They were clean, but not clean enough. He entered the bathroom, brushed his teeth and clipped his fingernails, making sure they were rounded and spotless. After that he shaved and applied a generous amount of aftershave. Perfect. He looked like a lunatic.
Reaching into his pocket he found his keys sitting next to a stick of gum. He pulled the gum from his pocket and tossed it on the floor.
A new idea came: he hustled his ass to the basement, pulled the chainsaw from the cupboard and grabbed the sledgehammer from the corner of the room. He took both items upstairs and blasted his way outside.
∞∞Θ∞∞
5:45 am. The morning was beautiful in Cloven Rock. The sunshine was bright, the air moved with a gentle wind and no matter which way you looked, the day seemed absolutely gorgeous. But Nicolas wasn’t looking at the beauty of the landscape; he was looking at his car and thinking about the bitch inside the trunk. With an ugly smirk he squeezed the sledgehammer in his left hand. Then his smirk became a sneer and with his right hand, he lifted the chainsaw high.
Chainsaw/Sledgehammer.
Chainsaw/Sledgehammer.
Chainsaw/Sledgehammer.
Chainsaw.
He dropped the sledgehammer, flicked the saw’s safety switch and yanked on the cord. The machine came to life, easily and without delay.
“Big Beth!” His voice was barely heard over the roar of the spinning blade. “You in there? Are you? I got something for you! Here comes a big fat surprise!”
Nicolas didn’t have time to fuck around. He didn’t have time to make the most of the situation and enjoy the subtleties of the terror he was about to inflict. It was time to kill people, simple as that. He was about to rip the town a new asshole, starting with that rotten whore he had stashed away.
Holding the saw tight, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keychain. He shuffled the keys through his fingers until he found the appropriate one. The key entered the lock. His wrist turned. He heard a CLICK and the trunk was unlocked.
Then came a big fat surprise all right: Beth kicked the trunk with her knees and the trunk flew open. Almost comically, it nearly bounced shut.
Beth squealed.
The last thing she needed was a surprise attack that started and finished with her getting locked in the trunk again. It was almost funny but holy hell, it wasn’t. She stuck her knees up just in time and the trunk lid bounced into them.
“Look at you!” Nicolas screamed as Beth worked her body into a sitting position. “Look! Coming out swinging, are you? Do you know what you look like?”
Beth felt like she had spent six weeks living inside a used coffin. Her hair was wet, her face was dirty and her eyes were glossy and red. She had bugs crawling on her skin and maggots in her hair. Her lips were dry, turning white and starting to crack. She was dehydrated. Her arm was bloody and mangled, with a wound that was getting more infected by the minute. And she stank. Oh boy, did she ever. She smelled like Pauline Anderson’s corpse, fresh urine and old sweat mixed together in a tub of compost. On top of everything else, she was scared; it was easy to see. Her eyes were wide, her teeth were clamped together and her muscles were as tight as a hangman’s rope.
Do you know what you look like? he had asked. Truth was: yeah, she supposed she did. She looked like a woman that had tasted hell, a woman with nothing left to lose, a woman that had spent the night in the trunk of a madman’s car, lying next to a dead body, wondering if she’d ever see her family again. She wasn’t happy about it, not one little bit. And she wasn’t going down easy; she wasn’t going to give up living without a fight.
Beth lifted the crowbar as high as she was able. She sai
d, “Back!”
Nicolas started shouting: “Oh, you want to play do you? Okay bitch! We can play! We can play all morning long! I haven’t had breakfast yet… how about you? Did you get something to eat while you were in there? Did you break off a little piece of Pauline Stupid-Head for a late-night snack? Yum! Pauline tastes good, yes? She tastes good to me, you fat fucking cow. Her fingers taste like steakhouse ribs!”
Beth didn’t hear much of what Nicolas was saying; the chainsaw was too loud and piercing. She understood the gist of it though: Nicolas was explaining that he was crazier than a hen-house fox and he was going to chop her into pieces. Simple.
She swung the crowbar wildly. “Stay back I say! Back!”
Nicolas moved a little closer and revved on the engine. “What’s that? You want me to saw your face off? I can. Won’t be a problem. I can saw off your arms and legs off too.”
“Get the hell away from me!”
Nicolas’ glasses sat low on his nose, threatening to fall from his face. He didn’t seem to notice, or care. His focus was firmly directed on Big Beth, the ugly man-dyke with a neck like a tree trunk and a head like a bowling ball.
Terror Town Page 31
