by Bryan Smith
And it didn’t matter one bit that she was a girl. Or that he was bigger and probably stronger. She possessed the savage quickness of a feral thing. And she would never hesitate to wound or inflict pain. These things were every bit as obvious as her beauty. He had never felt so intimidated in his life and was terrified at the thought of doing anything else at all to anger her.
She set the tote bag on the floorboard.
The sun glinted off something shiny in her hands.
Rob frowned. “Handcuffs?”
She reached across him and grabbed his left wrist. She slapped one of the bracelets around it and snapped it shut. Then she snapped the other one around the steering wheel. Rob gaped at the sight of his cuffed hand.
He looked at her. “Is that really necessary?”
“I’ve found the judicious use of restraints an effective way to keep morons like you in line.”
“Seems a bit overkill to me. And I’m not a moron.”
“I don’t care what you think. So shut up and drive, idiot.”
Rob put the Galaxie in gear and tapped the gas pedal. The car rolled away from the pump.
“Stop.”
Rob stepped on the brake pedal and looked at her. She was staring at the strip-mall parking lot again. The Galaxie was stopped at the edge of the Kwik Mart’s lot. The street between the strip mall and the convenience store was temporarily clear of traffic.
He coughed. “Um…should I just drive over there?”
“No. Wait.”
They waited.
Several minutes passed.
A van pulled out of the strip mall’s parking lot and turned right onto the street.
The girl punched his shoulder. “Follow that fucking van.”
Rob stared after the van for a moment before obeying the command. The road between the strip mall and the Kwik Mart was a narrow two-lane deal. He’d gotten a good glimpse at the people inside the van as they’d pulled onto the street. It was filled with several young people roughly the same age as his abductor. They were all maybe three or four years his junior. College age. But they didn’t look like this girl at all. They looked…well…normal.
His hesitation was brief, but long enough to be noticeable.
He tried to think of a nonsinister reason why she would want to follow the kids in the van.
Nothing came to mind.
The gun was in her hand again. She pressed it against a spot on his thigh. “This is where your femoral artery is. I shoot you here, you bleed out fast.”
Rob stepped on the Galaxie’s gas pedal.
There was a blare of horns as the old car shot out into the street. Rob ignored the subsequent angry gestures. He cranked the wheel hard to the right and hurried to catch up to the receding van.
CHAPTER TWO
March 22
She could no longer stand the sound of his voice. Seriously. This is how fucked-up things had gotten between Zoe Martin and Chuck Kirby, her boyfriend since the summer between their junior and senior years at Smyrna High School. Her head started hurting every time he opened his mouth. It set her teeth on edge. It didn’t matter what he was saying. Or what the tone of it was. He could be happy and laughing, cracking jokes. Or angry and lashing out at her (though that was pretty rare). He could say something sweet, the kind of thing that should melt a girl’s heart, and it would only make her want to throw up.
Thing was, they’d just been together too long.
More than three and a half years now, coming up hard on four full years. Spring break was here, which meant summer was just around the corner. The prospect of yet another anniversary as Chuck’s girl stirred feelings of desperation and dread. Sometimes she could feel her youth melting away, disappearing in slow but relentless drips down a cosmic drain. Every passing day was another lost chance at something new. It made her so fucking sad. And maybe that made her immature, a notion she’d lost some sleep over in recent months, but she’d come to accept her feelings as genuine. She didn’t care if it meant she was shallow. She was young, still a few months shy of legal drinking age, so she was allowed. The time had come to embrace immaturity while she was still in a stage of her life where that was acceptable. In two short months her junior year at Vanderbilt University would be history. As would her relationship with Chuck. She wanted to be truly carefree again, to revel in her youth and experience a level of emotional freedom that hadn’t been hers since high school. There would be a time for a forever relationship somewhere else down the line.
Somewhere way down the line, preferably.
And with someone other than Chuck.
She’d made the decision weeks ago.
She’d kept it to herself so far, whispering nary a word of it to anyone, not even her closest friends. This goddamn excursion to Myrtle Beach was the main reason she hadn’t made it official yet. The trip had been in the planning stages since the end of the previous summer. Chuck’s father, a big-shot developer, was paying for everything, the ostentatious beach house and the van rental being the primary expenses. The big Chevrolet Express guzzled enough gas to give your average environmentalist a coronary, but Conrad Kirby’s platinum-card largesse rendered even the rising fuel prices meaningless. Everything was covered, down to the incidentals.
But it wasn’t just the money holding her back.
There were her friends to consider.
Annalisa Collins and Emily Sinclair. Not just her friends, but her best friends, a connection extending back into childhood, long before Chuck had come into the picture. So Conrad’s undeniably generous invitation had been extended to them, as well. Zoe just didn’t have the heart to ruin it for them. So she’d decided it’d be easier to just delay the big breakup drama a little longer. She wouldn’t do it right after they returned either. Too tacky, that, not to mention a touch too obvious. After a lot of thought, she’d come to the conclusion it would be best to wait until just before the end of the spring semester. That way she’d get free just ahead of the dreaded summer anniversary. Sure, Chuck would be upset for a while, but he’d get over it.
It was something to look forward to.
In the meantime…
“You shouldn’t have been so mean to that girl.”
Emily was talking to Chuck again, giving him more shit about the run-in with the goth chick back at the strip mall. Unlike Zoe, she was not at all reluctant to confront Chuck or call him out on his bullshit. Zoe generally thought Chuck was all right. A touch too arrogant, sure, but some of that was to be expected, given his privileged upbringing. But underneath all that he was a decent, caring guy.
Still…Emily was right.
He had been pretty mean.
Chuck and Joe Walker, his best friend, were up front, with Chuck planted behind the wheel and Joe slouched down in the shotgun seat, an open tallboy can of Bud held between his legs. Chuck grunted. “Ooh, Little Miss Bleeding Heart’s all offended and shit.”
Joe laughed and knocked back a swig of beer. “Yeah. Em’s all about cultural diversity and respectin’ our mutual fuckin’ differences and shit.” He twisted in his seat and poked his head through the gap, a grin lighting up the part of his handsome face visible beneath the black shades perched atop his nose. “Good thing she’s such a good lay.”
Emily’s tone turned frosty. “Hmm…Want to guess who won’t be getting any for a while?”
There was a snort from the back, and Annalisa’s exuberant voice rang out. “Yeah, right! You’re like this one.” She nudged her boyfriend, Sean Hewitt, who was back there with her. “Too horny to go without more than a day. I’ve heard the stories. He’ll come begging for it, you’ll mess with him a little, and then you’ll both wind up making enough noise to scare the neighbors half to death. Go on, tell me I’m wrong.”
Zoe glanced up from the copy of Entertainment Weekly open in her lap and saw Emily struggling to hold back a smile. She gave up and shook her head, hiding the smile by twisting it into a smirk. “Whatever. He will have to beg for it, though, I guarantee th
at.”
Joe shrugged and laughed again. “I’ll beg all you want, baby. Hell, you can tie me up and spank me for being such a bad boy, too.”
Emily’s smirk deepened. “Yeah. And maybe even make you wear a dress again.”
“Again!” Chuck looked like he wanted to puke. “Oh, man. My best friend’s a fucking cross-dressing perv. Gross, dude.”
Emily chuckled. “Perfectly harmless fetish.”
Joe knocked back some more beer and laughed. “Dude, you’d do it too if it meant you got to hook up with that every night.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of his girlfriend. “No shit, man, and I’m not just saying this because I’m already half-buzzed and it’s barely noon, but Em is the greatest fuck of all fucking time. I’d shoot a man in Reno for just one taste of her sweet, sweet pussy.”
Zoe made a face. “You’re disgusting.”
Joe grinned. “Disgusting, but adorable.”
Emily rolled her eyes and heaved the sigh of the long-suffering. “Joe, because you worship the ground I walk on, I can cut you some slack for the stupid things that come out of your mouth. But your friend up there is a fucking douche bag.”
Zoe slapped the magazine shut and gaped at her. “Emily!”
Chuck laughed. “Oh, you’re gonna get it now. My girl won’t take that kind of talk about her man. Will ya, honey?”
Sean Hewitt chimed in from the back. “Catfight! Hot lesbian catfight!”
The comment elicited a boisterous round of laughter and hooting. Joe started looking for his camera and making comments about putting up a video on YouTube.
Emily looked at Zoe. She was still smiling, and there was a disquieting knowing quality in the cast of her features. Zoe stared back at her and, as always, was struck by her friend’s classic, elegant beauty. She looked like a film star of the 1940s. Refined, assured, oozing intelligence and sexuality, with a slender neck, kissable lips, and the cheekbones of a silver-screen goddess. The kissable part Zoe could attest to, having made out with Emily a time or two. That radiant face was framed by dark hair cut in a choppy style. Looking at her now, Zoe realized her friend bore a passing resemblance to the goth girl Chuck and Sean had treated with such obnoxious derision. The resemblance was pretty close, actually, with Emily as a less garish and more sophisticated version of the younger girl. And maybe that was a little part of why Emily was so pissed at Chuck.
The larger part being that she simply hated his guts.
Emily’s eyes flicked toward Chuck. “Oh, please. She’s no more your girl than I am. And I’d rather be flayed alive and fed to rabid weasels than touch you.”
The van’s interior went deathly silent. Zoe’s heart began to race. Emily couldn’t know about her plans to break up with Chuck. Right? Or had she gotten too drunk one night and told Emily something she couldn’t remember? It was vaguely possible, but she hadn’t done a lot in the way of excessive drinking since making her decision. Nonetheless, paranoia took root inside her and made her want to scream.
It was too soon for this.
And pretty much the worst possible time for it.
Chuck glanced at the rearview mirror. “You’re full of shit, Emily.”
An amused grin played at the corners of Emily’s mouth. She looked at Zoe again. “Am I, Zoe?”
Zoe seethed inwardly. There was only one way to defuse the situation and prevent the vacation from turning into a total disaster before it was barely under way. Shit. “I’m your girl, Chuck. Em’s just fucking with you, but she does have a point. You shouldn’t have been such a dick to that girl.”
Chuck slapped a palm against the steering wheel. “But she was a freak! Christ, you saw her!” His voice took on the thick, warbly tone Zoe thought of as his Retard Voice. “Oooh, look at me, I’m all fucking alternative. I’m all goth as fuck. Look how different I am. Look at all my piercings and tattoos and my freaky fucking clothes. Oh, I’m just so much cooler and with it than all you square preppy fags. Oooohhh…” He cleared his throat again and shifted back to his normal tone. “And fuck it, I’m not apologizing for anything. I hate that shit. People like that are the biggest posers of all. Maybe she learned herself a good fucking lesson today.”
Joe barked laughter. “The one and only Chuck Kirby, ladies and gentlemen. The man, the myth, the legend…”
“The fucking asshole,” Emily added, but this time she was ignored.
Joe opened another beer and slurped foam from the top of the can as it burbled out of the opening. He wiped his lips and leaned between the seats to show Emily a foamy grin. “Can’t let any go to waste. That’d be alcohol abuse.”
Emily sighed again and glanced at Zoe. “Boys. How I hate them.”
Zoe shrugged, a what-can-you-do? gesture. “Yeah.”
Joe gasped. “How dare you! We’re not ‘boys.’ We’re men. We’re…we’re…”
“Barbarians?” Chuck suggested.
“Yeah!” Joe swigged more beer. At this rate he’d be passing out later in the afternoon. “We’re barbarians! We’re fucking cavemen!”
He held his hand up for a high five and Chuck obliged him.
Zoe listened to them trade beery inanities back and forth and felt the beginnings of a fresh headache. Every stupid thing out of Chuck’s mouth just made it worse. She snared some Tylenol from her purse and washed the pills down with a gulp of Coke.
She picked up her magazine and again tried to concentrate on it.
But it wasn’t easy.
She could feel Emily staring at her. It made her anxious and paranoid. She had the uneasy sense that her friend could see her every thought. Eventually she turned away from Emily and closed her eyes, pretending to fall asleep.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
CHAPTER THREE
March 15
The days were getting warmer, but it wasn’t quite full spring yet, and the nights in Tennessee still possessed enough of a chill to set teeth to chattering, especially this close to the border with Kentucky. The breeze didn’t slice through your flesh quite the way it did up north when the weather was cold. But any sane person would find the conditions nippy enough to at least wear a light jacket or sweatshirt.
However, the man sitting cross-legged in a grassy field adjacent to a stretch of I-40 was not sane. At all. The earth beneath him was still slightly damp from last week’s rains. With his eyes closed and his head tilted upward, he appeared to be in a meditative trance. He sat perfectly still and outwardly looked as peaceful as a Buddhist monk.
However.
He wore only a ragged and dirty piece of clothing that had once been—in its former life as a young woman’s halter top—as brilliantly white as a mound of uncut cocaine. The bit of flimsy fabric was tied in a knot around his waist and the little flaps in front and back just managed to cover his genitals and ass cheeks.
The doctors who had cared for this man up until a month earlier would not have referred to him as “insane” in any official documentation. That word long ago fell out of vogue in the medical community, mostly because it has come to be seen as too limiting a term, or too inflammatory or insensitive, a relic of a less enlightened time. The man’s doctors instead said that he exhibited a number of symptoms typical of various abnormal brain syndromes. Schizophrenia, bipolar syndrome, psychosis, etc. His chart back at the facility, where he’d spent the bulk of the last fifteen years, contained reams of notes detailing what was described as hallucinations and an elaborate but clearly delusional belief system, including reports of his frequent consultations with a “spirit guide” he called Lulu.
The man knew the details of his chart well. He’d snagged it on his way out of the loony bin and carried it with him in his bag. It made for very interesting reading when he wasn’t raping or eviscerating someone. Although he’d not been labeled insane anywhere within those pages, he knew what his doctors really thought. For instance, there’d been the time Dr. Freeman had referred to him as a “fucking psycho” when instructing a team of orderlies to remove
him from his office.
Well.
Their opinions of him no longer mattered.
They were all dead. Zebulon Elias Geddy had slaughtered them in the process of escaping the facility and he’d done so without regret. Lulu said they deserved to die, and that was good enough for him.
Telling him who should die was just one of the many ways in which Lulu was useful. She would often also tell him how he should go about killing the people she identified as wicked. Tonight, for example. She had specified that a particular target deserved to suffer an especially prolonged and agonizing death. Zeb always did his best to do what he was told, although there were times when Lulu would fall silent in the middle of a killing and he would be forced to improvise.
“Woooooo-eeeeeeee!”
Zeb’s eyes fluttered open.
A man was dancing in the tall grass some twenty feet straight ahead of where Zeb sat. The dancing man was wiry, his slender, rawboned body a whirling mass of flesh that looked translucent in the moonlight, legs spinning him about in a drunken stagger, arms upraised and stretched out to his sides in imitation of a helicopter’s rotors—in this case, apparently, the rotors of a badly damaged helicopter on the verge of a flaming spinout toward the ground below. The man made chugging sounds between crazed whoops, noises meant to mimic the sound of failing rotors. Here in the dark, you could squint and almost imagine he was a child on a playground, engaged in a bit of innocent, rambunctious fun. A few things made it impossible to buy into the illusion completely. The haggard, gaunt features. The livid knife scar down his left cheek. The explosion of bushy, scraggly hair atop his head, which might have resembled a cut-rate clown’s bedraggled fright wig had it not been so irretrievably, disgustingly foul, quite likely not washed in years. But all of this only served to make him look like a career hobo. Unpleasant, yes, but hardly remarkable.
The man’s name—supposedly—was Clyde Weatherbottom.
Two other things distinguished Clyde from your garden-variety psycho vagrant: (1) He was completely nude. (2) Wound in the fingers of his right hand were many long strands of formerly lush (and now sticky with coagulating blood) blonde hair. The hair was attached to the severed head of an attractive young woman.
