Red, White, and Blood

by Christopher Farnsworth

  The frat boy gave him a halfhearted protest but couldn’t keep the look of relief from his face. It was no big surprise. Guys always jumped up when he asked for volunteers, but maybe one in ten of the horny college pukes could actually get it up for sex on camera.

  The trouble with amateur porn, Lane thought, not for the first time, is all the goddamn amateurs.

  Thank God he always had plenty of drunken skanks to fill the tapes. That’s why he was on Lake Havasu, better known as the “amateur porn capital of the world.” He’d started out here when he was at ASU, amazed at the acres of exposed, tanned flesh on display. You could practically step from houseboat to houseboat across the entire lake without ever seeing a woman wearing clothes.

  “All right, let’s do the girl-on-girl,” he said with a sigh.

  “We’re losing the light,” his cameraman said, pointing out the obvious. The sun was almost down behind the mountain range surrounding the reservoir.

  Lane ground his teeth before replying. “Hey, what’s that thing on your camera, Nick?”

  The cameraman looked at him blankly for a full second. Then he looked at the light on the camera as if seeing it for the first time and broke into an idiot grin. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Right.”

  He gave Lane a thumbs-up. Lane ground his teeth some more and hoped to Christ there would be some usable footage. He’d have to talk to Nick about the bong hits. He wasn’t going to lose a girl-girl orgy just because the nimrod forgot to take the lens cap off.

  Once everything was rolling properly—he checked the viewfinder himself, just to make sure—he picked five girls from the group on the houseboat and arranged them on the deck.

  Then another boat pulled up with the flag of a different fraternity flapping over the side. Two more guys on Jet Skis raced up, nearly colliding with the houseboat. Together they kicked up enough water to douse all the girls on deck—instant cold shower.

  “Delta rules, douche bags!” a blond giant in the pilot’s seat of the other boat shouted. A rain of empty beer cans followed. The girls ducked for cover. The frat boys on Lane’s boat began throwing stuff back.

  “Motherfucker!” he screamed. He opened the tackle box near his feet and took out the gun he kept there.

  “Whoa, dude, relax—” the blond guy at the wheel said, suddenly sober.

  “Fuck you! Get the fuck away from my fucking shoot!” Lane bellowed. He waved the gun in the air.

  The Deltas didn’t have to be told twice. They spun about so fast their boat nearly capsized. The Jet Skis were already a half-mile away.

  Nick blinked at Lane. “I didn’t know you had a gun.”

  Lane scowled at him and showed him the gun in the light. It was made mostly of plastic. “It’s a flare pistol, you asshole. Come on. Let’s find someplace a little more private.”

  THE SKY WAS pitch black by the time they anchored in a cove far away from the main crowds. The parties were still going on the other side of the lake, but they were dim lights and distant echoes.

  It had taken a lot more booze and some of his own stash of drugs to get the girls back in the mood. He’d been patient, letting them get dry and warm in the main cabin under the deck of the boat, which was fitted with couches and overstuffed chairs. Lane worried he’d doped them up too much, but then they started touching and rubbing each other despite their glazed eyes.

  The first soft moans rose from the girls like tiny butterflies. There was something real here, something spontaneous despite all the obvious and cheap tricks Lane always used to engineer these scenes. Everyone in gonzo porn lived for this, but rarely ever saw it—a genuine, unguarded moment; unrehearsed and irreproducible, as if the cameras really were not there.

  Until the heavy thump from on deck broke the spell. The girls blinked and the moment burst like a soap bubble.

  “Son of a bitch,” Lane shouted. He was going to motherfucking kill whoever did that. The frat boys crowded into the cabin got out of his way fast once they saw the look in his eye.

  He stormed up the stairs to the houseboat’s deck, screaming at every step, “All right, you limp-dick closet cases, who did that? Because I am going to cut off your fucking head and—”

  Lane wasn’t able to get out any more of his plans. In a split second, he realized everything had changed. It took his THC-saturated neurons a moment to absorb this new reality.

  Sheets of water drenched the boat and lightning struck the lake from boiling black clouds. Lane wondered when it had started raining. The day had been clear and blistering.

  The boat had been untied from its mooring in the cove at some point. They were now floating out in the middle of the lake. With the rain and the darkness, he couldn’t find the shore.

  That was all bad news. But the worst part was right at his feet. Lane gagged.

  Even in the darkness, he could see the deck was covered in blood.

  His eyes followed the river of gore right to the headless corpse of one of the Kappas where it lay on the hardwood planks.

  Only then did he notice the man looming over the corpse: a very large man wearing a rain slicker and holding an obscene, bloody machete. The machete swung right for his head.

  “Oh Christ,” Lane said in a very small voice and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t blaspheme,” a cold voice said from behind his right ear, and Lane realized he wasn’t dead. He opened his eyes again.

  There was another man, his arms locked with the killer’s, keeping the machete at bay.

  Lane didn’t know what to do. They struggled without making a sound.

  The man who’d saved him—wearing black, his skin pale as talcum powder—spared him a glance. “This is not as easy as it looks,” he snapped.

  “What?” Lane still couldn’t believe he wasn’t dead.

  “Run,” the man snarled, and Lane moved just as the stalemate broke. The killer shoved downward. The machete sunk into the doorjamb of the cabin, right above Lane’s head.

  Lane fell down the stairs.

  Nick met him at the bottom. “Dude, what’s going on? We’re ready to go again—”

  Lane screamed incomprehensibly. But Nick and the others got the message when the two men tumbled down the stairs a moment later, still struggling for the blade.

  Running. Screaming. Chaos.

  Nick got to his feet just in time to be impaled. The machete punched through him with an audible scraping of bone. The camera dropped from his shoulder and bounced into a chair.

  Nick’s death was an afterthought for the killer, Lane could see. He kicked the man in black away and whirled his blade through the remaining frat boys.

  He was headed for one girl who had not made the stairs, terrified beyond all movement. She huddled in the corner as if pinned there.

  Oh, she’s dead, Lane thought.

  But the man in black leaped up and rode the killer to the floor again. He pounded his fists against the bloody rain slicker and tried to get purchase under the hood. His fingers scrabbled for a grip and yanked. Lane thought he should have heard the head snap off at that angle.

  But whoever—whatever—was under there wasn’t cooperating. He rolled with the force of the twist, throwing the man in black to the floor again.

  The distraction had given the girl a moment to run upstairs. The killer bounded up after her, his slicker flowing like a cape, leaving everyone else as afterthoughts.

  The man in black ran after him.

  And Lane, not knowing what the hell he was doing, grabbed the camera and followed them both.

  THE KILLER WAS GONE. So was the girl.

  The rain kept pouring down, but the camera was a sport model and almost totally waterproof. He’d wanted to do some fancy underwater shoots with the girls, maybe call it “Going Down Below” or something—gotta keep those perverts interested, give them something new—but now he focused on the man in black, who stood in the hissing rain like a statue.

  He flipped on the lights.

  Before he knew what was happening,
he was pinned against the wall of the houseboat by his throat, the camera on the deck.

  “What are you doing?” the man asked, not loosening his grip in the slightest.

  Lane said something like, “Frgxl.”

  The man in black dropped him. Lane gasped for air.

  “Stay out of my way,” he said.

  “Wait,” Lane croaked. “Who the hell are you? Who’s that guy? What’s going on?”

  “My name is Nathaniel Cade,” he said. “Ordinarily, there would be someone here to explain things to you. Someone more—”

  Lane tried to help him out. “Someone less scary?”

  “Someone more human,” Cade said. Lane made a mental note to stay quiet.

  “He could tell you how this works. But he’s not here. So listen closely. Find someplace to hide. Do not come out until you see daylight. This will all be over by then. One way or another.”

  He turned to go, but Lane grabbed his arm. Another mistake. Cade shrugged, but the tiny movement knocked Lane back like he’d been hit with a baseball bat.

  “What?” Cade said, facing Lane again, eyes darting in every other direction.

  “It’s not a big boat, but—but—”

  Cade leaned in closer. This didn’t help Lane concentrate. His words came out in one explosive burst of verbal diarrhea: “There’s a small elevator shaft for dishes and bottles and stuff between the upper and lower cabins they use it when they have parties on the boat you can get up there that way you don’t have to use the stairs that should help right?”

  Cade nodded. “Useful,” he said.

  Then something hit Cade from out of the dark. The sudden impact slammed them both down the stairs again.

  Lane hit his head at the bottom. He must have blacked out. When he opened his eyes, the rain was still lashing at the boat. Cade was still, one more body among the other pieces of bodies on the floor.

  Carefully, Lane crawled over to him and shook him. “Hey. Hey, man. Hey. What happened?”

  He realized Cade’s eyes were open and glaring at him. Cade’s head moved, but the rest of his body did not.

  “While you were talking, he severed my spine just above the T7 vertebrae.”

  “Oh. Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s going to take me at least five minutes to regain full use of my legs.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  “That’s more than enough time for him to kill every one of you on this boat.”

  “You didn’t come out here alone, did you? I mean, aren’t there cops or something just waiting to come on board?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t be serious. Wait. Didn’t you say something about another guy?”

  “He’s on medical leave.”

  “Awesome.”

  Lane slumped to the floor again. He heard screams from above. Lane found a bottle of vodka that was, miraculously, unbroken and mostly full. He took a deep swig.

  Cade looked at him.

  “Are you going to try to help them?”

  Lane belched a ball of vodka fumes. “No way, hombre. You said he’s going to kill us anyway. No sense rushing things.”

  Cade hoisted himself up on his arms. “He can kill you. I can stop him. But I need you to do something.”

  Lane took another hit off the bottle. The warm, liquid feeling of well-being cushioned everything around him, especially the chopping noises coming from the upper decks of the boat. “Pass,” he said.

  With surprising speed and power for someone dragging himself by his hands, Cade gripped Lane by the arm and squeezed. Lane dropped the bottle and gasped in pain.

  “I wasn’t asking,” Cade said.

  LANE FOUND HIMSELF on the upper deck of the boat, walking as quietly as he could.

  It looked like a slaughterhouse’s trash bins had been emptied over every available surface.

  Rain hit the canopy covering the upper deck. There was no sign of the killer or anyone else left alive. He was about ready to say screw it and jump over the balcony into the lake when he heard something behind him. He spun and pointed his only weapon, the flare pistol.

  It was the girl; now the only girl, the final girl. Everyone else was dead. She uncurled herself from the place she’d hidden, an empty compartment under the seats that should have held life preservers.

  “Ah shit,” he said.

  “Quiet,” she whispered at him. “He could be back any moment. We’ve got to swim for it.”

  “Which direction?” Lane hissed. “I can’t see dick out there. You could swim in circles for hours until you drown.”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  “Maybe he’s gone.”

  Of course, that was when the roof above them tore open.

  The killer used his blade to slice open the canopy, pouring inside with all the rain and pooled water. He stood, dripping.

  The girl screamed and ducked behind him. The killer took an unhurried step toward them both.

  Lane shoved the girl and they ran.

  They slid down the stairs, past the main deck, into the cabin, where Cade said to lead him—

  The room was empty again, except for the bodies. Cade was nowhere to be seen.

  The killer appeared at the other side of the room, walking down the opposite stairs. Taking his time. Inside the gloom of his hood, Lane could see gleaming teeth set in a feral grin.

  They were so completely fucked.

  The killer took another step. Then another.

  He was less than four feet from Lane and the girl.

  Then the hull of the boat behind him seemed to burst open, a panel knocking free of the wall and slamming into the killer.

  He turned, and there was Cade, crammed into the small dumbwaiter compartment, a length of hose in his hands. He sprayed something all over the killer.

  Lane smelled it. Gasoline. Crawling around under the deck, Cade had found the fuel lines. He drenched the killer in diesel.

  Lane realized Cade was shouting at him. “Any time now would be good,” Cade said.

  Lane looked dumbly at the flare pistol and finally figured it out. He aimed and pulled the trigger.

  A white-hot flower bloomed at the end of the barrel. It grew until it reached the killer, who blossomed into a thousand more tiny, dancing flames.

  Cade pulled Lane and the girl away. He limped, but his legs moved. He carried them over his shoulders, up the narrow stairs and out onto the deck.

  It felt like a rocket launching behind them as they flew out over the water.

  When Lane made the surface again, debris was still coming down from what was left of the boat. All his equipment, all his footage, all his drugs—all gone.

  At least the rain had stopped. The sky was clear and the moon and stars lit up the lake in shades of purple and deep blue. The shore was closer than he’d guessed.

  He saw the girl—he realized he’d never learned her name—floating nearby, arms wrapped around a life preserver.

  “You all right?” he felt compelled to ask.

  “The fuck do you care?”

  Fair point, Lane thought. He kept treading water, looking around for something to hold on to. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’d want to share that—”

  “I’m going to sue the shit out of you,” the girl said.

  So no, then. Something funny occurred to him. He smiled. “You know,” he said, “if this were a movie, this would be the part where the killer jumped out—”

  The water between them exploded. A horrifically burned body, pieces of rubber rain slicker melted into its flesh, thrashed and dove at them like a shark in a feeding frenzy.

  It raised its machete, still in one badly charred hand, over the head of the girl.

  Then Cade erupted from the water as well, moving like a torpedo. He slammed into the killer and took them both down into the depths of the lake.

  Lane and the girl treaded water amid the wreckage for a short while.

  “I don’t think they’re coming back,” he finally said.r />
  Something bumped his arm. His camera bobbed near him. Amazing. Watertight as well as waterproof. He was glad he’d spent the extra money on the rental.

  The girl let him hold the life preserver as they kicked their way to the shore. He dragged the camera along with his other hand. She walked past his prone form, headed for the road.

  “I’m still going to sue your ass,” she said.

  “Good luck with that,” Lane said. “You signed a release.”

  “Asshole.” She kept walking.

  Lane was too out of breath to respond. After a little while, he figured she must have made the road. She’d be fine. There were hundreds of boats that would be overjoyed to have a hot, naked chick join the crew.

  As for him, Lane planned to lie here until the sun came up and then maybe for a while after that. But not too long. He had a golden ticket right next to him in the shape of a video camera. Some of the footage would be blurry, sure, but he knew that some of the good stuff survived. His instincts for a good scene hadn’t completely failed him when he was scared shitless. What he had on this footage was deeply weird, but it was authentic. It was going to vault him right into the big time. He saw the tabloid news shows bidding for it. Then maybe his own reality-TV deal, something like Kevin Lane Presents: The Unexplained: Uncensored. Mix up sex and the supernatural. That could be a big hit.

  Lane lifted his head at the sound of something breaking the surface of the lake.

  From out of the water, first his head, then his shoulders. Cade. Walking. Not swimming, but walking, as if he’d hiked to shore all the way from the bottom of Havasu.

  Lane discovered he was not too tired to be terrified. He was just too tired to do anything about it.

  Cade, without breaking stride, picked up the camera and kept on walking.

  “Hey,” Lane said. “Hey! That’s mine!”

  Cade ignored him.

  “Ah, come on, man! That’s all I’ve got left!”

  Cade stopped and looked at him.

  “You could lose more.”

  Lane took the hint and collapsed back into the sand.

  Not long after, he got a job selling cars.

  Nation… Nation… You know I’m no fan of [MAKES AIR-QUOTES] “President” Samuel Curtis. And now we have even more proof of his unfitness to take the office that he was never actually elected to in the first place. Curtis is spending millions of your hard-earned tax dollars on a roadtrip in what appears to be the bastard offspring of Darth Vader’s helmet and the bus from the 1994 Damn Yankees 12-city reunion tour. “Ooooh, look at me, I’m the president, I’m so special, I have to ride in a big armor-plated bus instead of wandering from city to city on foot.” Frankly, this is outrageous. I mean, look at this list of things we’re paying for on the Magic Curtis Carpet ride: Secret Service agents; bottled water; air-conditioning; even a traveling physician and a supply of the President’s own blood. As Future President-for-Life and Man’s Man Skip Seabrook pointed out, Curtis can’t even go among the people without a bulletproof vest. What a little girl! Listen, Mr. Curtis, if you can’t dig a bullet from your flesh with a sharpened stone like Davy Crockett or John Wayne, then you have no place in the White House. That’s why we have moonshine and leather belts to bite on, sir.