Serpent's Kiss

by Ed Gorman

  "You try that again, and I'll kill your mother first. You understand me, cunt?"

  She nodded, sobbed.

  His groping hand found her buttock. Began gliding gently over its curve. Then he started squeezing so hard it hurt.

  "Maybe I'll do you back door. Maybe that's the way you'll like it," he said.

  He had an erection again. He pushed it between the mounds of her buttocks.

  Her hand started to tighten on the handle of the gun.

  His hand shot out, grabbed hers. "What the hell you think you're doing?"

  My God. Has he found the gun? If I don't have the gun then there's no hope-

  "You put your hand down here when I need it."

  He twisted her entire arm, yanking her hand behind her back. He set her fingers on his erection. He had somehow managed to unzip himself.

  Her fingers recoiled at the touch but when he jerked on her arm, making it feel as if he'd snap it in two, she had no choice but to let him guide her hand back to him.

  "You and I are going to be friends," he said as he stroked her hand up and down the shaft of his erection. "Very good friends."

  Abruptly he let go of her arm and pushed himself down between her legs, his penis brushing against her vagina for the first time.

  "You make any noise, cunt, and I'll kill your mother first. You hear me?"

  Unable to speak, she only nodded.

  "Good. Then we'll get along fine."

  He jammed himself up inside her.

  Her entire insides caught fire with a pain that brought swimming darkness to her eyes and a dying cry to her throat.

  Any sound, and he'll kill Mom.

  He started moving around inside her, finding his rhythm, taking his pleasure.

  She was still completely dry. Each thrust only made her feel the drier. Each thrust only made her clench her fists and bite down on her tongue the harder.

  "Oh, God, cunt, you really feel good."

  The tremulous sounds of his domination were almost as bad as the actual feel of him inside.

  His strokes got longer now. His breathing was obscenely loud.

  She knew he'd be finished in moments. And then he'd kill her. He had no other reason to keep her alive.

  She had to move now.

  Sliding her hand under the blanket, she wriggled her fingers like snakes up the couch until she felt the handle of the gun.

  His hand clamped her wrist!

  So he'd found out about the gun after all. So now there was no hope whatsoever.

  But it had only been a move of passion, his grabbing her arm. He was thrusting faster and deeper; faster and deeper. Despite herself, she was getting wet down there.

  Faster and deeper.

  She grabbed it then and pulled it quickly into her chest, hidden away from his sight. The gun felt huge and wonderful in her palm.

  When he came, he bit her so hard on the neck that he drew blood. She started to whimper-apparently he was afraid she was going to scream-and he picked up the knife and pushed it hard against the back of her neck.

  "Don't say a fucking word, bitch. Not a fucking word."

  She would have to do it quickly, she knew he was much faster and stronger. There was a good chance he would see the gun before she had time to use it, and take it from her.

  He withdrew from her and started to stand up. She could hear the couch springs squeak from the pressure of his knees.

  She could hear his trousers rustle as he began to pull them up.

  And then she rolled over and pushed the gun up, holding it tight in both hands.

  His face reflected both astonishment and fear.

  The first place she shot him was in the groin.

  She shot his penis off. Limp, it dropped off like a piece of brittle statuary. Blood began pouring from the hole in his crotch. For good measure, she put another bullet in the bloody cleft the first bullet had left behind.

  The second place she shot him was in the chest.

  By this time, however, he had tapped into his rage so he was coming for her.

  She scrambled backward off the couch, getting tangled up in the blankets and screaming.

  He reached down and slapped her so hard that she didn't have time to get a shot off.

  He grabbed the gun from her and tossed it behind him on the living room floor.

  Then he picked up his knife from the couch, leaned down and grabbed her hair, and pulled her face up to his.

  "I'm going to enjoy this, cunt. I'm really going to enjoy this."

  Please, Dad. Please pray for me. Please help me.

  Even with the gun, she had not killed him. And now he was going to kill her.

  He put the cold, clean edge of the knife against her jugular and was about to draw it across her throat when the gunfire broke out.

  At first, Marie had no idea what was happening.

  But as the killer's knife fell from her throat, and as the killer began to pitch forward dead as the bullets slammed into his back, she saw standing there the best friend she'd ever had, her mother.

  Even in the frenzy and horror of this moment, Marie took time to note wryly that Kathleen, after escaping her bonds, had first done the proper thing. She'd put on a robe before coming out into the living room and saving her daughter's life.

  By now neighbours were in the hallway, thundering with words and excited exclamations.

  Kathleen, composing herself, setting the empty gun on the coffee table as if she'd just finished a perfunctory round of target practice, went to the door.

  Marie found her own robe and rose dazedly to her feet. The killer was sprawled face down across the couch. The peppermint stripes of the sheets were soaked red with his blood.

  His face was turned in profile and he shocked her by speaking. He reached out a hand and touched her robe, streaking blood down the light blue cotton.

  His face angled up toward hers. He had changed somehow-the rage was gone and in his eyes there was the sense of a different man.

  He said, "I don't know what they'll do to you. Your name was on the wall. You were supposed to die. They'll punish you for this."

  And then his face fell again to the couch, and he died.

  Marie, shuddering, wondered what he'd meant. I don't know what they'll do to you. Your name was on the wall. You were supposed to die. They'll punish you for this.

  But then neighbours were pouring through the door. And sirens were exploding on the night nearby. And best of all her mother, Kathleen, was hugging her.

  The long night had ended at last.

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  SHE HARDLY EVER left her room. The others frightened her. She was not sure why but she did not trust them.

  So long into the night she stood at the window, watching, watching, not sure for what, just knowing that at some point she would understand the compulsion to stand here until her legs grew sore and tired.

  And then one night it happened and for long weeks afterward, she wondered if it hadn't all been a dream.

  But no, she knew better than that. It hadn't been a dream. She had indeed visited the tower that stood at midnight in the silver rain like a beckoning finger.

  For a time, she was troubled and of course they gave her shots with long silver needles, and her doctors cooed and whispered and reassured, but she did not tell them of course. Not about the hole in the tower where the serpent had slithered free, nor the way the serpent had come across the floor to her and-

  She just accepted their shots and slept their sleep and mouthed their words…

  …and then one day at last she went home.

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  AS USUAL, MARIE fixed dinner and brought it into the living room where her mother sat in her pink robe and her pink fuzzy slippers. She really was a very good looking middle aged woman.

  "Program started yet?" Marie said, taking one of those long, crippled steps that she would never get used to.

  "Not yet, hon."

  "Good. I want to see it."<
br />
  Her mother looked at her curiously. "You're sure, hon? I mean, you're sure you feel up to it?"

  Marie sighed, then shrugged. "Uh, I guess so. If it gets too much I'll-I'll just go in my room and read."

  Marie sat down on the couch next to her mother and watched TV. There was a station break and a dogfood commercial and a tampon commercial and a Pepsi commercial and then a familiar face and voice filled the screen.

  "Good evening. This is Chris Holland of Channel 3 News." Then the camera shot widened out and in the night behind her you could see Hastings House, including the tower. "Six months ago, a man escaped from this mental hospital and went on a murderous rampage in this city that lasted thirty-six hours and claimed five lives. In the past, other people who stayed in this hospital also became murderers. There is a rumour this happened because of the strange powers to be found in the tower you're looking at now.

  "Are there any truths to these allegations? Exactly what's in the tower anyway? And is it true that a hundred years ago a very powerful and sinister cult buried the bones of the children it murdered in the ground where the tower now stands?

  "Some people familiar with these cases insist that the descendants of the cult still operate in this city, helping possessed individuals find their prey and kill them to satisfy a dark god that takes the form of a serpent."

  The camera pushed in now for a close-up of Chris's face.

  "I've spent the last six months doing an intensive investigation of my own into all these questions. In fact, I should be a little bit grateful to the whole thing. The Dobyns murders saved my job. And even got me a modest promotion."

  She shook her head fetchingly. "But I'm not here to talk about myself. I'm here to talk about nineteen murders that have taken place in this city over the past one hundred years. Murders that may not be as commonplace as once seemed."

  And with that, they were into another commercial.

  The TV show lasted sixty minutes, and during it the trouble in Kathleen's stomach began again.

  Ever since her stay at Hastings House and her strange dreams of visiting the tower late one night, she had felt a curious pressure in her belly. Just lately there was movement down there, too, as if something were moving around inside.

  She wished she'd never gone to stay at Hastings House. But following the night when Richard Dobyns raped and nearly killed Marie right here in the apartment, Kathleen had gone into a depression so deep that no amount of outpatient counselling seemed to help. So the psychologist she saw recommended a brief stay in Hastings House. Marie had visited her every day. That was the only thing that had made Kathleen's stay tolerable.

  "I really like her, don't you?"

  "Hmm? I'm sorry, hon. I guess my mind was drifting off."

  "Chris Holland. Don't you think she's doing a good job?" Marie said.

  "Oh, yes, hon. A very good job."

  And just then, Kathleen felt it again, the sensation of something heavy in her stomach shifting position.

  What could it be?

  FOUR NIGHTS LATER

  IN THE ALLEY, behind the tavern, you could hear it all, the cursing and the laughter, the sudden bursts of excitement over the game on the television and the equally sudden anger as chairs were thrown back and men started throwing punches at each other. It was this way every night-month in, month out; year in, year out. The only things that changed were the country and western tunes on the jukebox and even they had a certain dead sameness in melody and lyrics alike.

  The woman waited in the alley. The night wind chafed her face and legs. Sundown, a quick brilliant red and gold, had died like a guttering fire along the horizon and now there was only darkness and the cold steady chill of the wind.

  She had been here, in the shadows of a large, ancient garage directly across from the back door of the tavern, for twenty minutes.

  Certainly the man would come along soon enough.

  And just then the door opened to a rush of music and laughter and the stink of beer and cigarette smoke and then he was there.

  He was probably in his early thirties, chunky, balding, sort of cute in a chipmunk kind of way, dressed in a heavily lined zipper jacket, faded blue jeans and work boots, and dangling a steel lunch pail from the thick fingers of his right hand.

  He stood in the wind, teetering as if he were so drunk he would pitch over on his side, finishing his cigarette and looking up the alley to the parking lot. He was driving, of course. American roads were filled with people at least as drunk as he was.

  It was a narrow little alley, almost a cul-de-sac, and so when she took three steps out of the shadows of the garage, he saw her at once.

  He took his cigarette from his lips and flicked it to the ground. "You look like you're lost, lady."

  It was easy enough to see on his suddenly smiling face that he was quite appreciative of her good looks, even if she was ten years older than him.

  She shrugged. "Just kind of lonely, I guess."

  The only real light in the alley was the soft blue neon reading TAVERN above the back door. You could see he was trying to get a better look at her but that there wasn't enough light.

  "You with somebody inside?" he said. He was still weaving a bit but lust had given him an edge now. At least he didn't look as if he were going to fall over any longer.

  "No. I'm alone."

  She let her words sink in.

  "Now that's a real shame."

  For the first time, she smiled. She had a good smile and she knew it.

  He got excited and put his hand out to take her shoulder. "I got a car."

  "You got somewhere in mind to go?"

  "Uh, sure." She could tell by his hesitation that he was married. He was trying to make some quick plans. "This other little tavern I know. You can get real cosy in the back."

  He pulled her closer now, just the way she wanted him to.

  She brought the straight razor up from her coat, flicked open the blade, and slashed it quick and deep across his throat.

  He was so disoriented from shock and liquor that all he could do was stand there and gape at her. He didn't even seem to notice a pain yet.

  She helped him appreciate the moment better by slashing the razor back across his throat.

  This time he tried to scream.

  But it was too late for that, of course.

  She watched as he grasped at his throat, then as his legs collapsed under him, then as he clutched at the air for help.

  All the time he was making gagging noises; all the time his chest was becoming soaked with his own blood.

  In less than a minute he was dead.

  The woman folded the razor, slid it back into her pocket, and started walking away.

  In moments she was out of the blue glow of the neon above the back door. Then there was just the hard clear winter light of distant stars.

  Her feet crunched ice as she walked down the alley.

  Kathleen wanted to make some sense of it, of course, but there was no sense to be made. She had just killed a man and would like to kill others.

  In her stomach, the snake shifted position once more, and again she thought of what it had been like carrying a baby to term.

  But this was a far different thing she was giving birth to now. A far different thing.

  She walked through the night to a bus stop where a bus that reminded her of a huge glowing insect picked her up and took her home.