Terrorscape (Horrorscape)

by Campbell, Nenia

  “No.”

  “Do you think you can meet my terms then?” “Yes.”

  “Then I look forward to seeing you. Oh, and Val? This is very important. Make sure you wear white.” The line went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rainflower

  Sketchy or no, the locksmith had done a great job on the replacements. The new locks were just that: brand new, and probably more sophisticated than any other lock in the building. Of course these dorms were old and so were the mechanisms employed to defend them, so maybe that wasn't saying much. Technology was constantly evolving and so were the hackers who made their living dissecting them, locked in a perpetual cycle of predator and prey.

  Gavin, Val thought, would appreciate that. As she walked back down to Student Services, Val shook her head over her stupidity. She should have done this the moment she realized her key was gone. Then Gavin couldn't have broken into her room and left the hemlock in their dorm, and Mary wouldn't have risked her safety to avoid her.

  The receptionist on duty fixed her with a disapproving look as she handed over the spare set of keys and the receipt. As the latter disappeared into a drawer somewhere she said sternly, “Make sure you don't lose these.”

  “I won't.” “You can pay the bill at Student Accounting any time within the next three months. Sign this, please.” If I'm still alive in three months.

  There were things that no amount of locks could protect you against.

  She set her keys and cell phone on the desk. The room was messy but exactly as she had left it. Nothing seemed moved and there was no sign of a struggle. Mary had probably been taken on her way back from Stats. The math building was surrounded by a thick grove of trees—for aesthetic purposes, to compensate for the hideous 1970s architecture.

  They would also provide adequate camouflage for anyone who was up to no good. Val dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed on her bed. The pain behind her eyes had escalated to blinding agony. She popped two aspirin, chewing them dry, and a third.

  Certainly, the hows and whys were no longer of any importance. Anyway you looked at it, she was fucked. Morality transcended the human lifespan. One human life was insignificant. Inconsequential.

  She saw that now.

  She wished she'd seen it sooner.

  Her cell phone rang from the depths of her purse. Haunting violins mourning a passing spring; they sounded horribly, eerily atmospheric.

  If I pick up before the first crescendo, everything will be all right. Her fingers closed around the thin edge of her phone. Everything will be all right.

  “Hello?”

  “Last chance in half an hour.”

  What did he mean, last chance? “Excuse me?” “The Last Chance, Val. Six thirty. Don't be late.”

  “Is that a bar?” She shook her head. “I can't get into a bar.”

  “I'm sure you'll find a way. Sit at the counter with your back to the door, and remember what I said.”

  Wear white. Come alone.

  “I remember.”

  “Good.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪ She had exactly one white shirt. She knew this off-hand because it wasn't even hers, not really; Gavin had bought it for her the same night he'd run her down in the woods like a deer.

  The thin tank top, with its hand-sewn crystals, felt very inappropriate. She tried to tone it down with jeans and a sweater but still felt as if she were dressed for a date. The comparison made her uncomfortable. Even her stalker was treating this rather lightly.

  Just why, exactly, did it matter what color she wore? What right did he have to make such demands of her? And why does he feel the need to?

  Maybe it was supposed to be symbolic. Maybe it was about chess. Most things in her life were now, thanks to Gavin and his obsession. But chess had never been her game, it was his.

  My color was black, anyway. Since she missed the bus she was forced to call a cab to get to the bar. She left the dorm and paced anxiously on the curb, checking her phone every other second. The cabbie was five minutes late. Val, bursting with impatience and anxiety, snapped, “Take me to The Last Chance,” remembering last-minute to add a belated, “please.”

  The cabbie was an older man, around her father's age, with olive skin and salt-and-pepper hair, who looked generically ethnic. He flashed her an amused smile. “Yeah, right, very funny. Aren't you a little young?”

  “I'll pay extra if I have to.” She knew her voice was cold now, and she didn't care. “Just get me there before six-thirty.”

  His smile disappeared. “That's no place for a nice girl like you.”

  I'm not a nice girl. The thought surprised her—she had always been the quintessential 'nice girl.' Hell, it was practically her epitaph. Or at least, it had been.

  No, she thought. I stopped being nice a long time ago. She got in the cab—the door was unlocked—and sat down in the backseat. When he didn't start the car, she folded her arms and waited.

  The cabbie sighed. “Last Chance it is.” It was a long drive. The bar was on the outskirts of North Point where it was more rural, and therefore more susceptible to the invasion of the local flora and fauna.

  Val paid the fare and tossed a five dollar tip over the seat before slipping out of the cab. Quickly, before she lost her nerve. This fragile reservoir of strength was cracking, courage seeping out in small, gushing spurts. The car's tires grated against the gravel driveway, eventually subsiding to a muted roar where white speckled rocks gave way to smooth blacktop.

  The building itself was surprisingly innocuous, almost quaint. With the dark wood facade and the hand-painted sign flapping in the breeze, depicting an overflowing stein of beer with a full frothy head, it could have been an English pub.

  Music drifted out from the saloon style doors. An overplayed rock song from the eighties. She didn't know the name offhand but it was frequently on the radio. As the doors swung in the breeze, yellow slivers of light danced on the shadowed lawn.

  Val took a deep breath and entered the bar. Cigarette smoke hung in low, swirling clouds. The air of the bar was thick with it. A smoking bar. That was unusual, especially in this day and age.

  The inside was far less pristine than the outside. More Country Western than Ye Olde English Tavern. The varnished oak tables bore cuts and scratches, gang logos and profanity, that looked as if they had been carved in with knives. Perhaps they had been.

  Val tucked her hands under her arms. A thin layer of grime covered every surface, including the floor, and made her afraid to inspect anything too closely. At least the bar looked somewhat hygienic.

  She took a seat at the bar, facing away from the door as instructed, and pretended to study the drinks menu as she scanned the room and its occupants.

  Is he already here? There were the rough-looking men playing pool who looked like they'd gotten their vests done at a Be*dazzled party. There was the crowd clustered around the karaoke machine, watching a bleach blonde woman sing an off-key rendition of Journey. She looked down at her phone, then back at the bar. Six-thirty. Where was—

  “You won't be needing this.” She felt her phone being tugged from her hand. She was so surprised that it didn't even occur to her to fight back. Because she recognized that voice.

  Val spun around on the stool, eye-level with a designer shirt, and when she lifted her head her suspicions were confirmed as she met the hard, blue gaze of Vance Benveniste.

  He smiled crookedly. “Long time, no see.” “You…you?” This was unexpected. This did not make sense. “Surprise.” He swung himself up on the stool beside her, tucking the phone into his shirt pocket. Well out of reach. “I guess you weren't expecting me.” He raised a hand to signal over the bartender. “You're looking mighty fine.”

  “You were at the party. Mary's party. You were the one who—” Val clenched her hands. “You creep.” “That's right, Green Eyes. I'm a creep. A sexed-up ignoramus. No way someone like me could possibly pose as your precious grandmaster's rival, right, Val?”


  He was right. The possibility really hadn't crossed her mind. She hadn't suspected him at all.

  “Aw, you mean I really did have you fooled? I don't know whether I should feel insulted or flattered.”

  “Where's Mary?” The bartender came over, interrupting Vance's reply. If he'd even intended on giving her one. She watched him pass over his ID and some money. Once the bartender left again, Vance said, “She's fine.”

  “That's not what I asked.” A beer was brought to him, amber liquid in a clear frosted glass. His Adam's apple bobbed as he took an indolent swig, regarding her over the top of the mug. She kept her face frozen. Eventually he set the glass down and wiped off his mouth with the back of one hand. His lips were still moist. They reminded her of worms. The big purple ones.

  Night crawlers. They're called night crawlers. “Where is she?” Val repeated.

  “In the back of my truck—probably dizzy as hell, and with a mean mother of a headache to boot.”

  “What?”

  “Don't look at me like that, babe. I was very gentle with her. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I don't want anything from you except Mary.” Vance waved over the bartender. “A glass of water, please.” Val tried to catch his eyes, to beam into his mind what could not be said aloud, and Vance squeezed her thigh beneath the counter. “If you call for help, your friend goes bye-bye.”

  She twisted her hip away. “I wasn't going to,” she hissed. “Don't touch me.”

  The bartender glanced over in their direction, still holding the water pitcher. A few limp slices of lemons floated amongst the ice like corpses. Val felt the wet, slimy lips brush against her ear.

  “Smile for the nice man.”

  “Get off me.”

  “Remember what's at stake here, babe. Smile at him. A real pretty one.”

  Her jaw felt as if it would never unlock. The bartender set the sweating glass of water in front of her. The lemon wedge did nothing to mask the tangy, unwashed smell of the glass. She took a sip, made a face, and Vance scoffed. “Tap water.”

  Val stared down at her drink without saying anything. This was going all wrong, and fast.

  After a few more minutes, Vance set his empty glass aside. “Here's an idea. Wanna go see your friend? Maybe say hello?”

  “I'd rather stay here.”

  The Last Chance might not have been a police station but Val had the sinking sensation that if she went with Vance she wouldn't come back. Not alive.

  “Yeah, because even I can see that you're completely enjoying my company.”

  Val bit her lip. Should she risk it? Scream?

  His face hardened, like setting plastic. “Come on. Don't make me ask you twice.” She rose stiffly from the stool as he led her out by the wrist like a dog on a leash. If only she hadn't had her cell phone out. She could have texted—

  Who? Who would she have texted? She had no friends. Not anymore. The police, maybe .

  Too late now.

  Vance's “truck” turned out to be one of those gasguzzling Hummers she detested. There was even a topless hula dancer on the dash.

  First the smoking bar. Now this. There was a jangling sound as Vance struggled with his keys. “Just sit pretty right there. I need to pop the trunk…”

  “Mary?” Val edged around the massive tires the way one would a sleeping predator. “Mary?” She froze, blinking. The trunk was empty. “What—”

  “Sorry, Val.” He grabbed her from behind. This time she did struggle, but the cloth covering her mouth and nose pressed firm. “It's curtains.”

  Sickly sweetness. A stabbing pain. Fireworks. Then nothing.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  My head hurts. Mirrors of light swirled before her squinting eyes, blurring slowly into luminescent halos. The vertiginous effect they caused was worsened by the imminent dizziness that followed, pouring into her head like cold, dark cement. She shivered, violently.

  She was freezing. She was wet.

  Where am I? The air smelled strange, like birthday cake and summer. Pictures flickered through her head with Kodak clarity and she blinked them away impatiently. Starbursts erupted in her periphery as she sat up.

  Pain speared through her temples like a lancet. Val reeled back and screamed as her head knocked back against something hard and unyielding, with sharp, jagged edges. Pain made her vision go black as the sound of her cry echoed back at her from the darkness. She froze, breathing hard, and thought she must be having some sort of nightmare.

  But no, one did not feel pain in dreams. That must mean…it's real.

  She leaned forward, as much in an attempt to see as to help curb her nausea. The floor was a carpet of dark water. A salty tang lingered in the back of her throat, inspiring a vague but desperate thirst.

  The walls and ceilings were rock. Jagged, porous rock the reddish-brown color of damp clay, darker still at the water line denoting high tide. A line, she couldn't help noticing, that extended well above her head.

  He doesn't know I can't swim. Her arms, bound tightly behind her back with hemp rope, ached in protest. He's not taking any chances.

  Vance had brought her here to drown. Then she noticed the candles. They were everywhere, balanced on the outcroppings of rock. Short, squat candles that looked ugly and malformed in the shadows. All of them were either black or white, surrounding her like an army of chess pieces awaiting orders from an unseen commander.

  Chess again. It's always about chess. She turned her head—slowly, this time, so as not to hit her head against those sharp protrusions of rock —and saw a blazing wreath of orange and emerald. Lilies, silky and speckled like leopard's fur, and basil with its spicy, rain-fresh scent.

  Orange lilies for hatred, she thought with alarm. Basil, also for hatred.

  Gavin himself had given her such a bouquet. Vance hadn't just brought her here to drown; for whatever reason, he was copycatting Gavin. “Help!” she cried. “Somebody—help me!” In the darkness, she heard a laugh. “That's a cool effect. Candlelight is very flattering, from an aesthetic perspective, although there's only so much it can do.”

  Val sat upright, not sure whether she ought to be relieved or afraid. Relieved that he hadn't left her, or afraid for the very same reason. She settled for a caustic mix of both. “Where are you?”

  “I'm glad you're awake. I was afraid I'd gone overboard with the chloroform. It can be lethal in the wrong dosage, you know. I had to steal it from one of the chemistry labs. But you seem feisty enough.”

  Her shoulders tensed. His blue eyes were bright and eager, almost electric with excitement.

  She couldn't believe that she had ever thought him handsome. There was something of the demonic surrounding him—a dark, vile energy. She shivered accordingly when he touched her face.

  “What is this?”

  “Your grave.” His calm, matter-of-fact, almost cheerful tone scared her far more than angry threats could have. Anger was irrational, mercurial, erratic.

  This—this was different. Worse.

  She wet her lips. “Why are you doing this?” (You know very well why.)

  But she didn't know.

  This must have been how those girls felt. All those girls that Gavin killed. Because of me.

  Poetic justice. “You mean you haven't figured it out yet?” Vance asked, in mock-surprise. “And here I thought you were supposed to be quite the little puzzle-master. Should I tell you? Or should I let you wonder about it for the rest of your life? No—no, that won't be very long at all, and really, I do want you to know. You should know.”

  He walked closer, displacing water with each step. The tribal tattoo, she noticed suddenly, was gone. Must have been temporary.

  “A year ago, you played a game. Remember, Val? Remember the big spooky house?”

  “I remember,” she said. “I never forgot.” “Try to recall the players for me. Can you do that?” He pressed both his hands to the sides of her face. As if he were trying to do a Vulcan mind meld. “There wa
s that big lug, Brent. There was the little weasel. I forget his name—he's not important. And then there was a girl named Charlene.”

  “Charlie,” Val said automatically. “She tried to kill me. Oh my God—was she your girlfriend?” His hands tightened painfully. “She was my little sister, you twisted bitch.” Immediately, she saw the resemblance. It was as if the dead girl's face were superimposed over his. The dark hair, the blue eyes, the pale skin.

  “I had to track Brent down to get the story since you went into hiding and GM just, well. Disappeared. He told me that GM killed Charlie. Brent did. He told me that GM killed her as if she weren't even human, because she tried to kill you. Do you have any idea what that did to my family? Yes,” he answered his own question. “Yes, I suppose you would know.”

  “She was crazy.” His eyes flashed in the wavering light. “And you aren't? I know all about you, Val. You and your little eccentricities. You were so easy to find it was almost pathetic. We're all hunters in my family, you know. Deer, ducks…damsels. I was expecting a challenge. This was a farce. I mean, come on. Valerie Klein? That was the best you could do? Pathetic,” he repeated.

  Val couldn't feel her hands anymore. They had no sensation. “What are you going to do to me?” “Ah, self-preservation rears its ugly head.” He reached towards her. Val pulled away and hit her head against the rock ledge behind her again, and through the veil of pain she was aware of his angling her towards the gaping mouth of the cave. “You hear that roaring off in the distance?”

  She nodded, trying to shake him off. “What is it? A freeway?”

  “Oh no. Not even close. That, Val, is the sound of the tide coming in. In about half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, this little grotto will be completely underwater—and so will you.”