Owen braced himself and raised his booted feet. He took a breath.
“THREE!”
He punched out with both feet, as hard as he could. The bottom of his boots connected with the black dog’s massive muzzle and he heard an audible crunch. The beast yowled in pain, but it shook it off and kept coming … harder than ever.
Again, Owen told himself. He pulled back his feet, half-expecting at least one of them to stay behind in the animal’s jaws, and kicked again. This time the dog gave a high yelp of real pain and reared back. Got him that time, Owen snarled, if only to himself.
The instant the animal’s muzzle cleared the opening, Randy hauled on the door with all his might – more strength then he thought he had. The force of it actually pulled him forward, and for one instant he found himself looking out at the open yard in front of the boat house and the Dutch Colonial beyond.
The dog was gone – disappeared as if it had never been there – but there was a man standing next to the house, midway between the porch and the boathouse. He wore a heavy-weight Pendleton shirt; his hair was a wild, knotted mess, his beard matted and unkempt.
He was standing next to a grinding wheel that was still spinning in the lamp light, holding a huge axe.
He wasn’t looking at them. He wasn’t paying any attention to the madly barking dog or the shouts from the shed. In fact, he was half-turned away, bent over the wheel, intent on sharpening his axe to a vicious point.
In the moment he saw him, the man twitched and looked at Randy – just for an instant, less than a heartbeat – then went back to his work.
Randy’s glimpse came and went in the literal blink of an eye. He didn’t have time to see any more or call out a word. The door slammed shut with a cavernous bang! And they were alone in the boathouse again.
Alone, but nothing close to safe.
It was the man’s eyes that bothered Randy. There was a look in them, a frenzied glare as he bent over the sparkling, shining axe.
It scared him more than any vicious dog.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“There’s a man out there.”
Owen looked at Randy and tried to push the pain away one more time. “What are you talking about?”
“Outside. By the house. There’s a man there. It must be the owner, what’s his name, Lutz. He’s sharpening an axe.”
The experience with the dog had stolen most of the energy reserves from both of them. Randy sank to the ground again, across from Owen, as the whirring and grinding outside went on and on.
How long can it take to sharpen one fucking axe? Randy asked himself. Five minutes? Ten? He’s been out there for half an hour, goddamn it. What the hell is wrong with him?
Randy peered at the suppurating burn on his leg. It hurt so much the intensity literally soared off the scale: his nerve endings were fried, and everything from his left thigh down was just a vast, burning, throbbing ache. I’ve heard this can happen, he remembered. You go numb before … before you lose the leg.
He pushed the thought away – there was no point – and leaned forward to take a careful look at the wound in Owen’s side.
It was worse than ever – that was obvious at a glance. The infected area seemed to have doubled in size; bright red streaks stretched out from it in all directions, like the fast-growing roots of an evil tree. Owen groaned at the relatively tiny pressure of the blood-soaked parka on his skin. That’s bad, Randy thought. He watched with alarm as Owen’s head fell back and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.
Randy reached out and slapped him lightly on the cheek with one gloved hand. “Wake up, Owen. Come on, man. Don’t pass out of me now.”
Owen gasped and his eyes flew open. Randy could see: It took him a long time – too long -- to realize where he was, what was happening.
Owen smacked his dry lips. “Jesus,” he said, “Isn’t he done yet?”
As if on cue, the shrill sound of steel against stone stopped, and the whirring buzz of the spinning wheel began to slow and fade.
“He’s finished,’ Randy said. He turned back to the door. “This is our chance.” He leaned forward and cracked the edge of the door, this time careful to hold onto it in case the dog – or anything else – attacked from the shadows.
The man with the axe was standing next to the grinder, running his thumb carefully across one of the glittering edges of the tool. The large black dog sat at his feet, tail wagging, staring lovingly up at its owner. It panted heavily, its short breaths blossoming into clouds in the freezing air. As Randy watched, the grinding wheel slowed to a stop and fell silent.
The man would surely be able to hear them now. He had to.
“Now!” Randy said.
In chorus, the two men made as much noise as they could – screaming, shouting, pounding the walls of the boast house – anything to attract his attention.
“Heeellllp!” was the best Owen could do. He could feel the last of his energy leaking away with the blood and pus of his wounded side. He started to slip into unconsciousness again, but forced himself back and shouted again: “Heeelllpp!”
“Please!” Randy screamed. “Help us! We’re in the boat house, right here, right here! We need your help!” He bellowed at the top of his lungs until his air gave out. Then he waited for the grinder to respond.
The man with the axe never even looked up. He just stared lovingly at the vicious looking double-edge blades and stroked first one, then the other edge with his thumb. Over and over, up and down.
Randy filled his lung and tried one last time. “HEEEEELLLPPPP!”
This time, the dog’s ears twitched and it abruptly stood and turned towards the boathouse … but the man still didn’t move. It made Randy stop short. If the only attention he attracted was the animals, they could be worse off than ever: it had nearly killed them once already. On the other hand, he told himself, if the dog does come, his owner will have to notice. At least we’ll have his attention. He redoubled his efforts, pounding on the door, shouting as loud as he could.
He was so intent on the task he didn’t notice when Owen finally slipped into unconsciousness one more time.
And the dog did react. Its ears perked again, and it quirked its head at the boathouse, curious and confused. Randy rattled and banged the door and shouted again, and the dog began to bark even more loudly than it had before.
It sounded like it wanted to kill them both. Was eager to kill them.
“Good boy,” Randy said under his breath, pausing to gather himself.
But the owner didn’t care. He just hefted the axe and rested it in the crook of his arm, then turned and walked away towards the house.
Randy couldn’t believe it. “Hey!” he shouted. “HEY, what are you DOING? WE’RE OVER HERE!”
Randy hollered again and again until his throat was raw. But even as the dog’s barking grew louder and stronger, the owner continued walking away, paying no attention to his pet or Randy’s shouted pleas for help. As he reached the far corner of the house, the man in the Pendelton whistled loudly without turning back and called gruffly, “Harry! Come here!”
The dog immediately stopped barking, turned, and loped off after his owner. A few seconds later the two of them disappeared around the far edge of the house and were gone.
Randy found himself on his knees, gasping for breath. He was still sitting, staring out into the cold night, when Owen groaned and opened his eyes again.
“Did it work?” Owen’s voice was feeble and thin as paper. “Is help on the way?”
At first Randy didn’t answer. He was too stunned, too shocked. Finally he shook his head and sighed. “No,” he finally said, so softly he wasn’t sure that Owen heard him. Not at first. He cleared his throat and said, “He went back into the house and took the dog with him,” just a little louder.
“He didn’t hear us?” Owen asked, fighting to stay conscious.
“I don’t know.”
“Wow,” Owen said. It was a tiny little sound. His hand reached out
blindly and found Randy’s arm. “Wow,” he gasped again, his fevered thoughts fighting to understand.
“Guess … guess we’ll just have to take care of it ourselves.” Randy said. He took a deep breath, gathered his strength and forced himself to his feet. When he spoke, he spoke with all the positive force he could muster. “Okay,” he said. “We can do this. The van isn’t that far away. Just rest for a few seconds and then we’ll get started.”
Owen wanted to be strong, but he was terrified at how weak he had become. His shoulders slumped and he had to fight not to break into tears. What the hell’s wrong with me? he asked himself. I’m not a blubberer, no matter how tough things get. He tried yet again to gather his thoughts, to pull himself together, but … God, it was so hard.
“Randy,” he finally mumbled out. “I don’t think I can do this. I want to, but I’m … I’m not sure I can even stand up.”
Randy stared at Owen for a long beat. His friend’s face was beet-red and literally pouring sweat. He was obviously burning up. It’s a bloody miracle he’s still conscious at all, he thought. But he also realized that there was no way he could carry Owen out of here without at least some kind of help, however feeble. He was weak himself, and his leg would never take the stress.
“Owen,” he asked, “do you ever go to church?”
Owen gaped at him and swallowed. “No,” he said. “Not since Mom died. You know that. Swore I wouldn’t.”
“Well, do you at least know the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Well … yeah. I learned it in Bible School when I was six. Everybody did. Even my Jewish friend Jonathan knows the damn Lord’s Prayer. But--”
“Then here’s what we’re gonna do,” Randy said, cutting him off. “I’m going to help you stand up, and then you and I are gonna recite the Lord’s Prayer and walk out of here.”
Owen shook his head, utterly confused. “What difference will--”
“No more questions,” Randy said. “No more delays. Come on!” Randy bent from the waist, ignoring the excruciating pain in his leg, and slipped a hand under Owens right armpit. Somehow, with more grit than plan, he got Owen all the way to his feet, leaning half on the wall and half on Owen himself.
Finally, after a couple of hard bumps, he moved them both through the door. He leaned Owen against the outside wall of the boathouse and slumped back against it himself, fighting to catch his breath. They couldn’t stay like this. He knew that. If they paused too long they wouldn’t get any further.
Fuck that, he told himself. He quickly straightened, clutched his crucifix tightly in one hand, clutched at Owen’s coat with the other, and pushed them off the wall.
First they had to get across the lawn to the gravel path. Then up the path to the driveway. Then along the driveway to the curb, and beyond that the van, just a short distance further.
It’ll never happen, he said to himself as he hobbled and staggered, dragging Owen, blocking the blinding pain in his leg. But it has to.
“Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name,” he said. He could feel Owen’s knees beginning to buckle. He hauled him upright with all his might. “Come on, Owen. Say the words.”
He started over. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come; thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.”
Much to his surprise, Owen’s eyes fluttered open. He took a huge breath, as if he’d been underwater, and his chest swelled.
“Atta boy,” Randy said, feeling he was about to falter himself. “You got it now.”
They said the next lines together as they stumped across the grass to the gravel path. “Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
They nearly tripped as they stumbled from the grass to the gravel. It was less steady, harder to get footing, and it felt like it went uphill, if only a little. Up fucking HILL, Randy said to himself, ashamed of cursing on the inside as he prayed aloud. But really, god damn it. I don’t remember it being even a little bit uphill when we came in.
They took the path one step at a time. Owen was swaying like a drunk, but making progress, and they continued together: “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
The made it to the side of the house. Randy crashed into the clapboard, scrabbled at it for support, even though he was actually terrified of even touching it after all that happened. But he was fully aware: they had no choice. He coughed from deep in his lungs, the air so cold it raked at his throat. “More than halfway there, buddy,” he said. “I can almost see the van.”
It was a lie: the darkness had closed in around them entirely; he couldn’t even see the end of the driveway. But you have to hope, he told himself. You have to.
He dragged at the younger man and almost shoved him down the drive. “Come on, man,” he said, still coughing and gasping for air. His leg was burning like acid. He could feel the infection rising up, grasping for his thigh, his groin. “Come on, almost there.”
They recited the last line as they staggered, wounded and bleeding, down the driveway of 112 Ocean Avenue, moving through the cold and the dark, like explorers returning from Hell.
“For thine is the kingdom … and the power … and the glory, forever and ever.”
They were almost there: at the end of the drive, at the dip into the street. And now he really could see the van, squatting against the curb. Just a few more yards.
Then Owen’s legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the asphalt in the middle of the night bound, darkened street.
“No,” Randy said. “No fuckin’ way. Get up. Get up and do that last line again, Owen,” He hauled on the icy, wet, blood-soaked coat of his partner and forced him to his feet. To hell with the leg, he said. To hell with the pain, I don’t care. We are getting the fuck out of here. We are getting the fuck OUT of here.
“Last line!” he said, and half-dragged, half-carried Owen to the Danvers & Company van.
“Forever and ever,” they said together. And one last time: “Forever and ever.”
They hit the back of the van with a metallic, ringing BANG, and Randy almost burst into tears. It wasn’t even locked. They hadn’t even bothered. Now they just had to get inside and go, go.
“Amen,” he said, his cheek so tight against the metal of the van he thought it might freeze there.
“Amen,” said Owen, still standing. “Amen.”
CHAPTER NINE
Randy eased back against the faux leather driver’s seat and let the warm air of the van’s heater flow over him. We made it, he told himself. We actually go out of there.
The seat next to him was tilted back as far as it could be, so that Owen could at least stretch out. He had passed out completely even before the sliding door of the van chunked to a close.
Randy breathed and breathed again. The pain in his leg was deeper and more devastating than ever; it had become a part of him, somehow; a steady, raging agony that he couldn’t escape. But the continuous roar of it made it somehow easier to cope with, at least for a while longer.
It was just so warm here. So nice, after all the fear. So …
Randy jumped as if he had been touched by a live wire. I passed out myself, he realized with mounting horror. If I do that again, I might not wake up. It would be the worst irony of all: to escape from the nightmare of 112 Ocean Avenue, only to die in the damned van on the way to the hospital.
Hospital, he told himself, and leaned forward – pain flaring – to shove the car into gear. Thank God it was an automatic; he couldn’t possibly have handled the clutch with the throbbing mess his left leg had become.
The engine gave him its usual ticking purr, and he pulled away from the curb, still thinking Hospital. But which one; where? He didn’t know Amityville that well. Back in Hicksville he’d go straight to St Francis or even into the city, but that was almost an hour from here. There had to be something closer. Hadn’t they passed some kind of hospital or medical center o
n the way? He’d scarcely noticed it, but he was sure there had been something, somewhere along Merrick ... but where?
The van hit a pothole and jounced roughly. He heard Owen groan as a bolt of sheer agony shot up from his rotting leg and he gasped in surprise and pain. Shit, he told himself, just find something. You can’t just drive around …
He turned off of Ocean Avenue onto Merrick, confused. Should he turn onto Broadway? It was a throughway, but how far would it be to a medical center, and could he see it from such a major road. He was sure they’d passed something and they didn’t come that way. No, he thought. Injured or not he was sure he’d seen a hospital somewhere along this long boulevard of car sale yards, stores and large, well-kept homes. Just … keep going, he ordered himself, fighting off the pain and shock with less and less success. Just …
“HE SHOT THEM!”
Owen screamed at the top of his lungs. It made Randy jump again, then yelp at the pain that caused. He turned in the seat as he drove, to look at his friend. Owen was still stretched out, but his arms were up, reaching for something, grasping for something.
“HE KILLED THEM ALL! MURDERED THEM! I REMEMBER NOW, HE – LOOK OUT!”
Suddenly he was pointing to the windshield. It took Randy a precious moment to realize what he was trying to tell him, then he turned, shouting himself, to look where he was going –
A line of Christmas carolers – all dressed in white, looking more like angels that holiday celebrants – was crossing the street directly in front of them. Without a thought, Randy lifted his only working leg and jammed it down on the brake pedal. The tires of the van squealed like a living thing and the entire vehicle lurched wildly to the right.
“Shit!” he cried out. “Shit, shit, shit!” He was vaguely aware of Owen bracing himself against the sudden movement as he tore at the wheel, skidding on the frozen road, the engine roaring in complaint. An instant later the flat nose of the van punched into the muddy soft shoulder and slammed to a stop less than a foot from the line of singers.
Amityville Horror Christmas Page 7
