The Pulp Fiction Megapack

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  “But I want to talk about it. I have to! I’m not going to get hysterical, but I can’t sit here waiting for that death to come to me, and not even think about it. Isn’t there something we can do?”

  “It’s not going to hurt you,” Sargent said. His muscles were drawn so hard they ached, his eyes narrowed, fierce. “If I only knew who, or what—”

  “Perhaps it was the crazy man and now that he’s gone nobody else will be killed. But somehow I feel that—that it’s going to come to all of us. I keep remembering what he said, that we are all going to die.”

  It was then Sargent noticed for the first time the speed with which the bus was moving. The rain was as thick across the windows as ever but the sound of it was drowned by the roar of the motor and the whine of the tires. Abruptly the machine lurched to one side and began to bounce violently.

  Pete Meadows yelled: “Damn it! Where are you going? Are you mad? Slow down! You’re off the highway!”

  And in answer the driver began to laugh, a loud, rolling, furious laughter. Sargent jerked forward, feeling the hairs lift along the back of his neck. The girl clutched at his hand.

  For the laughter ahead was that of a madman! It was worse. It was laughter from hell.

  “Slow down, before—” And then it happened.

  The bus stopped as though a giant hand had caught and twisted it sideways. Sargent was flung hard against the seat ahead of him, smashed down to the floor. He saw Pete Meadows plunge headlong in the aisle, the gun bouncing from his hand. He heard the jagged scream of the blonde and the guttural shout of the scar-faced man.

  Then the hellish laughter flooded through the bus again and for a moment there was no sound except it and the beat of the wind and the rain.

  The second that followed seemed ages long to Sargent, the things that happened simultaneously seemed each separate and distinct like white-hot irons burning their pictures into his brain.

  He saw the man whom he had thought was the driver standing at the front of the bus facing them—and that man was hell itself! His face was triangular like that of the devil, his eyebrows V-shaped and red, his ears pointed. And from his mouth rolled the laughter that was like that of devils rejoicing over tortured souls.

  In that same instant Pete Meadows came to his knees in the aisle, saw the man at the front of the bus, cursed, and dived for his gun. The man did not stop laughing. The blonde was screaming insanely, the scar-faced man gibbering thick, terrified nonsense. The priest had been knocked to his knees in the aisle and crouched there. Jane Brownfield was half on the seat, half off, both hands holding to Sargent’s arm.

  Meadows got his fingers on the gun and started straightening. The man with the face of hell kept laughing, his head thrown back, eyes flaming.

  Meadows’ gun came up, stopped, wavered. The muscles around his mouth began to quiver. His eyes opened so wide in his blackened face that only the whites were showing. Then the gun clattered in the aisle and he had both hands at his throat, tearing it, ripping the flesh away in long gouges. His back began to arch and he was screaming. The cry had no beginning but was born full-throated and horrible, drowning out the laughter, the wind and rain, driving every sound out of existence except its own terror and agony.

  Then the man fell backward among the other bodies and the scream was gone. Through the bus rolled again the sound of devil laughter, the hiss and mutter of the storm.

  Sargent got slowly to his feet, pushed the girl behind him and held her there. The blonde’s cries had become a low, choked sobbing as she stared at the man in the front of the bus. The scar-faced fellow was panting heavily, crouched in his seat, his eyes wide with an unholy fear. Even in that brief glance Sargent knew that it was not death this man feared; it was something beyond and more horrible than death.

  The hellish laughter drooled to an end. The flame-colored eyes swept over them. The man chanted: “You shall all die. All of you. Are you prepared?” His gaze fastened on the blonde.

  “No!” she screamed. “I don’t wanta die. I don’t—”

  “You’re going to die,” the creature said. “Is there anything you want to say first?”

  It was Sargent who answered. Horror was like raw steel in his chest. His brain felt crushed and he had to force it to action. Twice he had made abortive movements toward the thing at the front of the bus, and twice he had stopped. If It could kill Pete Meadows as It had done, without even ceasing to laugh, without moving its hands, there was certainly no chance of reaching It in a wild rush down the aisle. “It’s a man. Deformed, hideous, but It’s a man,” Sargent had kept telling himself.

  So now he spoke to It, hardly recognizing his own voice. “Why do you have to kill us? Why do you have to kill this girl first?”

  The man laughed again, low and terribly. “I am Death,” he said. “I have come for all of you because one of you is most guilty.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  The man paid no attention but looked at the blonde again. “Is there anything you want to say before you die, anything that will make death easier?”

  “Yes.” She was barely able to speak. “I—I want to confess to that priest. I ain’t never been religious, but if I’m—” she choked.

  “You have two minutes,” the man said. “You may save your soul, but not your body.”

  She stood up, staggered, but caught at the seat top. Somehow she crossed the aisle to the priest and kneeled in front of him. Under the beat of the wind and the rain Sargent could hear the low mutter of her voice as she spoke.

  * * * *

  Jane Brownfield was not crying, but her labored breathing, the way in which she fought back hysteria was audible. Sargent put his left hand on hers, squeezed it. Then he leaned forward in his seat, tense. If the devil-faced man would take his eyes off them for one second, would glance at the girl kneeling close in front of him, then would come his chance.

  But the man didn’t. He stood there, laughing softly, never looking at the girl but always watching the passengers with eyes like red flame. Outside, the demons of rain and wind beat against the bus, shaking it with their fury.

  Abruptly the man said: “Your two minutes are up. You die.”

  Sargent tensed forward for the moment when he would look down to kill the blonde. That would be his chance to rush. Not much of one, but the best he could hope for.

  And then terror beyond bearing struck him. It was as if fear were some material object which had suddenly been crammed into him until his entire body was splitting from the pressure. He tried to cry out, but his throat was clogged with fear, and fear had crushed his lungs against one another with awful pain.

  For the man had never glanced toward the blonde, had never taken his eyes from the other passengers and had made no movement. But with the words “You die,” the girl screamed and lunged to her feet. Her face was already turning purple, her back curved like a drawn bow as she clawed at her throat and staggered into the aisle. Her shriek ripped through the bus, banged against the windows—and cut short as she fell.

  Jane Brownfield made a short, moaning cry. “How—? He can’t— He’s not human!”

  Sargent was too sick and hopeless to answer. He had been so certain that the devil-faced man would bend over the girl to kill her, that he would have a chance to attack. But the man had not even glanced at her. It was impossible for him to have killed her. And yet—she had died horribly as the others had.

  “It’s your turn, Scarface,” the man said. “If you want to confess for the sake of your soul, do it. You have two minutes.”

  The big man stood up, the scar livid and twitching along his cheek. Even now he did not seem afraid of death but of the weird manner in which it was coming and of something beyond death. “Yes, I want to confess.” He went and knelt before the priest.

  Once more that long and awful period of waiting began. The sound of the man’s voice, low and mumbling, the beat of the storm, the sound of his own heart and husky breathing.

  Jane Brownfield too
k Sargent’s hand, pulled him around to face her. There were tears in her eyes but her voice was almost steady. “He’ll kill one of us next. We’ve only two minutes.”

  Sargent did not answer. He leaned and kissed her. Then abruptly he was sitting straight, his hands fierce around hers. “You’re not going to die!” he whispered. “I’ll get you out of this. I’ll get us both out. I’ve got to, now.”

  “Your time’s up. You die,” the man said in the front of the bus. And in the same moment the scar-faced fellow began to scream.

  Jane put her face hard against Sargent’s chest. He kept his arms around her, and though neither of them looked, they could hear the big man’s feet staggering blindly, hear the tremendous agony of his shriek, and they could vision the purpling face, the gory throat as he ripped at it. There came the thud of the body and the scream cut short.

  “All right, mister. It’s your turn.”

  Sargent pushed the girl away and stood up quickly. “I want to confess before I die.”

  The devil-faced man said: “To hell with this confession business. I’m getting tired of it.” His eyes were on the girl now, hot and lustful.

  “A man’s last wish,” Sargent said huskily. “You’ve got to let me.” He stepped quickly down the aisle.

  “Let him have his way,” the priest said.

  The man hesitated, said: “Get it over with.” He was watching the girl and the red flame of his eyes burned brighter.

  Sargent went down on one knee in the aisle. The priest said: “Both of your knees, my son.”

  “Like this?” Sargent’s movement was almost too swift for the eye to follow. His right fist came up from the floor as he straightened. With one hundred and seventy pounds behind them the knuckles landed on the priest’s jaw, raising him completely out of his seat and snapping him backward. And in the same motion Sargent turned and dived for the devil-faced man.

  It wasn’t much of a fight, but as Sargent got up from the unconscious body Jane began to jerk at his arm. “Why did you hit the priest?” she cried. “And look at him—his face is purple! He’s dead!”

  “Of course he’s dead. He had the blow gun in his mouth and when I cracked his chin he got one of his own darts in him. At least I’d be willing to bet that’s what happened. It had to be either the make-believe priest or the devil-faced man killing these folks and it wasn’t the devil-faced fellow. We both watched and made sure of that. Now that I’ve got through beating his makeup off, you can see he’s the lunatic death-and-sin guy who got off the bus when it stopped. He probably knocked the driver on the head, put on his coat and hat and climbed in when nobody was looking.”

  “But why did the priest—? Why would he kill anybody?”

  “I don’t know who that fellow is—or was. But it’s a cinch he was no priest. And what the reason behind the whole thing is I can’t exactly say, but when the police find out who everybody is, they’ll figure out the motive without much trouble. They’ll probably persuade this devil-faced-lunatic to tell them, after we drive the bus on to the next town.”

  A blinding glare of light at police headquarters and the threat of a rubber hose that was never used made the man who had disguised himself first as a lunatic, then as the devil, talk readily enough. Standing back in the shadowed darkness of the room, Sargent listened. He could scarcely see the police standing around him, but he was aware of them.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” the man said. “All of you must remember that. It was Pete, the fellow dressed like a priest, who killed them.”

  “Why did he kill them?” the police lieutenant asked. “Start at the first.”

  “All right,” the man said. “I’ll tell. But I didn’t kill them. Pete killed them. It was because he had to get O’Neil—the one with the scar.”

  “Start at the first,” the lieutenant said again.

  The man took a deep breath. “It was started in South America eight years ago,” he said. “Pete and O’Neil and I were back in the Chaco together. We found some ruins there. And in one of them was a ruby, the size of an egg. It was enough to make us all rich. But O’Neil double-crossed us. He stole the ruby and the boat, leaving us in a swamp. We would have died—we almost did—but some Indians found us. It took five years to get away from them and make the coast. It took three more years to find O’Neil. We learned he still had the ruby, but he was a killer and we were afraid of him. It was Pete’s idea to frighten him into telling us where the ruby was. Pete knew how superstitious he was. He was worse than a nigger. So we set out to scare him. We pulled spiritualist tricks on him. We hounded him. He thought us both dead and he started seeing ghosts. He heard moans at night and all that sort of thing. He tried to run away, but we followed him. He was still running when we pulled this last trick on him on the bus.”

  “And did he tell where the ruby was when he confessed?” It was the lieutenant’s voice out of the dark.

  “Yeah. I know he did because Pete wouldn’ta killed him if he hadn’t. But Pete didn’t tell me—and Pete—”

  “Pete,” the lieutenant said, “is in the same shape you’ll be in after the executioner finishes with you.”

  Later Sargent repeated the story to the girl. “All very simple,” he said, leaning down and kissing her. “But I don’t think we’ll ride a bus on our honeymoon.”

  SERVANT OF THE BEAST, by L. Patrick Greene

  The man lay full length on a ledge of rock overhanging the swift-flowing river. He seemed to be alone in a desolate waste of stony kopjies—ridge after ridge of them in endless profusion. The hot rays of the African sun beat down fiercely upon the man, but, though the rock felt red hot to the touch, he did not change his position and rarely shifted his gaze from the scene below him.

  A large python lay coiled up on a nearby rock. Even in repose the huge reptile suggested a brutal strength. Its eyes, drowsily opening, shone black with evil malice—cold and cruel. The man and the snake had much in common—the same basilisk glance, the hidden menace and cunning.

  A klipspringer, that small buck of the Mashona hill country, was browsing close by, unconscious of the lurking perils.

  Once the man put out his hand to take up his rifle, then shook his head in indecision.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. “I’ll wait a little longer.”

  Of a sudden his muscles tensed and his eyes contracted to pin-points. The buck moved uneasily, and the python stirred fitfully in its sleep. It was as if the evil intention of the man had been, by some strange telepathy, conveyed to the mind of the timid klipspringer, as if the snake recognized the presence of a kindred spirit.

  From out of the labyrinth of rocks and toward the river there walked a man.

  Through the sights of his rifle the human on the rock watched. His finger gently caressed the trigger.

  When the newcomer had reached the river he stooped to drink.

  Shifting his aim to the buck, the man on the rock fired. The animal sprang high into the air and, falling, toppled down the rocks almost to the river’s brink.

  He fired again, and the man in the river stumbled in his stride; his hands outstretched before him as if seeking purchase on the air. For a moment he swayed backward and forward, then fell headlong into the river and was carried away by the swift current.

  The man on the rock smiled grimly, then clambering down the rock to where the buck had fallen, he slung it over his back and, whistling a cheerful tune, hastened in the direction of the camp.

  * * * *

  As the sound of the rifle shots reached the camp, a girl sprang up joyfully.

  “Dad!” she cried. “Dick’s made a kill.

  “We’ll soon have some broth made that will make a new man of you.”

  The man on the roughly constructed cot smiled. His flowing beard and long white hair gave him a patriarchal appearance; his deep-set blue eyes were the eyes of a dreamer.

  “You’re a hard-hearted nurse, Dorothy,” he said. “I ought to be helping the others. I know that we are getting near our
goal.”

  The girl’s face clouded.

  “I wish you’d give up the search, Daddy,” she sighed. “It seems that we’ve had nothing but bad luck lately. First of all the native carriers desert with most of our provisions, then you come down with fever and—”

  “The fever has gone now,” the sick man interrupted, “and as for the carriers deserting, Jan’s a host in himself.”

  At the sound of his name a tall, mightily-muscled native came toward them.

  “You called, baas?”

  “No. Your name was used in speech.”

  “Jan, what do you think of this search?” the girl asked.

  He grinned and opened his hands with a gesture of resignation.

  “Shall I question the baas’ will? I am well content. Why does Missy ask?”

  “It does not matter.”

  Jan returned to his place by the fire.

  The girl was silent for a while, then, looking steadily at her father, she said:

  “I don’t think Jan trusts Burgess, and I—”

  “Don’t be silly.” The sick man hesitated a moment. “Yesterday,” he continued presently, “Burgess told me that he loved you and asked me to use my influence.”

  “And what did you say?” The question came quickly.

  “I told him that I would do what I could. I wish you would marry him, Dorothy—He’s rich and can take care of you properly. Besides, if this search should turn out to be a wild-goose chase—not that I think for a moment it will—I owe him a lot of money.”

  “I know,” she answered soberly, “and Dick’s poor.”

  A gay whistle sounded.

  “What luck?” she cried as the man who had been on the rock came into view.

  “Only a klipspringer.”

  He handed the buck to Jan.

  “Only one?” There was a hint of raillery in the girl’s voice. “We heard two shots. You don’t usually miss your aim.”

  “I didn’t this time,” he said with a smile. “There’s the klipspringer.”

  He turned to help Jan with the task of cleaning and skinning the buck, and the girl sat down on a nearby boulder to watch them.