Rick slowly turned to look at the fat boy. His eyes were hooded, and his left leg, still outthrust in its pathetic pose of nonchalance, jerked as steadily as a heartbeat. His laugh was a caricature. “You know as well as I do that he’s dead, Heavy.”
Heavy shifted uneasily, belched again. He reached for a sandwich but the platter was empty. Julio dead? Or up on the Coast Highway right now, thumbing a ride? “All... I’m gonna make some sandwiches, Rick. You want one?”
Rick watched Heavy lever his bulk up off the couch; his lip curled. “Go ahead, stuff your belly. He ain’t get at us in here.”
Heavy waddled into the kitchen, by the Light of two candles busied himself over the bread board. What the hell gave with Rick? He’d thought Rick was going to shoot Julio, he really had. He mayonnaised bread thickly, opened a can of Spam, salivating slightly at the spiced aroma of the meat. If only it were light out, he could cannibalize the Triumph to get the wagon started. Or if he were up on the highway, even afoot, or swimming out of the cove to the next beach to the south...
He stopped for a moment, meat knife in hand; then he went back to the front room. “Hey, Rick, I bet I know how that Halstead got by Julio and Champ. I bet he just swam out around the rocks from the next beach south and in through the cove — it’d only be about half a mile...”
“Shut up!” Rick snarled. “He came by them, down the driveway. The stupid, yellow bastards...”
Under Rick’s fury, Heavy retreated to the kitchen. Man, drat Rick sure was getting strange. He went back to his sandwiches. He wished that he had a gun like Rick did, to go up to the highway... Then he thought of that long steep narrow driveway, flanked by concealing black trees. Well, maybe he wouldn’t. But he bet that if he were down on the beach right now, he’d swim for it. Only, the door was locked and the key was in Rick’s pocket. Of course, a window could be pulled open, but...
He stopped again, considering. The fog would hide him from Rick once he was on the beach, or even from Halstead if he was there. Roll out the window quick, down to the water, swim out of the cove. Go down to Mexico somewhere, nobody could find him... His old man wouldn’t miss him anyway, and...
Heavy clambered laboriously up on the sink, with a quick frightened look over his shoulder toward the living room where Rick sat, out of sight, and jerked up the window. A blast of cold air swept through, snuffing one of the candles.
“Heavy! What the hell are you — Heavy!”
Grunting, he dove in head-first panic, hit in a totally graceless front roll, so his pants ripped all the way up the seat with a great snoring sound. Then he was running. The .32 splatted, three times, but he was already down behind the lip of the dunes in the thick ropy fog. Crouching, he ran about thirty feet, then thrust his head up cautiously. Yeah. Rick already was pulling the window back down. Safe.
The fog goosebumped his flesh, and the ripped trousers admitted a shocking amount of cold air to play across his backside. He trotted straight down to the water, ponderously hippo-like, shoes full of sand and nostrils full of the wet iodine odor of beached kelp. His belly swayed almost sedately as he moved.
At the water, Heavy paused. It seemed so damned lonely out there in the darkness where unseen breakers smashed themselves to foam on black rocks; he would rather be up on the highway, where the fog would stop traffic so he could maybe get a ride. But death — his death, the finish of the entity called Heavy — might lie that way.
He kicked off his shoes and socks, shuddering when his feet touched the icy sand. God, it was cold. He dropped his pants, removed his shirt, stood elephantine in skivvies and T-shirt. He made a bundle of the clothes, with the shoes inside, set the bundle on top of his head, and fastened it there with his belt buckled under his chin. He would want those dry clothes when he reached the next beach.
Wading in was like being progessively paralyzed from the feet up. His teeth started chattering and he went numb. When he was in up to his neck, he began stroking out into the fog. Instantly he was isolated in a world of gray-black icyness which muted even his own splashings. He swam awkwardly, holding his head up to keep the clothing dry. At first only the growing roar of the waves guided him toward the entrance, but then he could see the occasional gray turn of a breaker on black rock. Helped by the ebbing tide, he entered the turbulence near the entrance within a few minutes.
Careful now. Don’t get swept up on the rocks...
A heavy wave hammered him against black granite rendered invisible by darkness. His face went under; he was dragged bumping and scraping along the rock face for a few agonizing seconds, his flesh shredded by sharp-edged barnacles. Kick free! Kick free!
He was off the rocks, but somewhere in that struggle his clothing had gone; only the belt hanging around his neck remained. He pulled it off, finally glad of the numbness from the icy water which kept him from feeling the pain of the dozens of superficial gashes he had suffered.
Don’t panic, he told himself. Go back. You can’t make it.
A breaker smashed over him, filling his unprepared and gaping mouth with salt-bitter water. He gulped, belched, momentarily panicked, got control. Back. He had to go back, he...
The backwash of waves off the narrow neck of the cove struck him, spun him, and suddenly he was out beyond the cove and into the open ocean. All right. Don’t panic. Go on then, you’re through now, go...
He churned wildly, fighting for his life, for his legs had been gripped by the slimy tentacles of... of...
Kelp.
Wow. Just kelp. He rode with the lift of the next wave, was free. But panic still nibbled at him as he thought of the huge leathery sea plants rising up from the ocean floor below him. Underneath him lay perhaps half a hundred feet of icy night ocean, filled with kelp like dead fingers, clutching like unknown sea beasts...
Thrashing, he was in it again, enwrapping foliage gripping him, dragging him down. He fought in blind terror against it, and then the first cramp hit him.
It was a giant fist that struck his churning stomach an unbelievable blow and jerked every muscle of his flaccid body with agony. He went down, was suddenly clear of the kelp except for the nude brushing of smooth stems; he caught one, hung on, dragged himself upward. But as he pushed his head free, to gulp air, another wave washed over, filling his mouth with water.
Another cramp struck him. He sank again, gasping, choking, getting more water into his lungs, flailing with arms and legs that sent out erratic shock waves. Heavy was drowning.
Blood from his abraded hide filled the water, attracting a lean torpedo shape from the open sea. It arced in toward the kelp, drawn by blood and those erratic movements which, to a shark, always mean that something is in trouble and hence is potentially food. It would not attack yet, of course, despite that deliciously maddening scent of blood. Despite the viciousness of its attacks, the shark is a cautious predator. It is thus that it has survived, unchanged, for 350 million years.
Eventually, of course, it would move in to feed.
In the cabin, Rick thought: Who needs them? Of course, he had to get up from his chair every few minutes to check each window, carefully, automatic in hand. But it v/as worth it to have no more worries about which one would betray him next. No loyalty, no guts, that had been the trouble with them all along. If he’d had the proper backing from that first night with Rockwell, none of this would have happened. Not that he was to blame for what had happened to Rockwell.