Where the hell was she anyway? He was getting closer to the edge of town with each passing moment… was it possible he’d be wrong? That she hadn’t been hiding at all? Perhaps even now she was miles from this place, hitchhiking along some country road, praying that someone would pick her up who would end it all. Perhaps a drunk driver who would crash them into the river when he took out the guardrail of a bridge. Or one of those traveling amateurs who kill twelve or so helpless women, hiding them in garbage dumps and shallow graves almost as if they are ashamed of their work. They pretended to aspire to greatness but never really possessed the courage to reach out and take it. Even the homo-erotic clowns in the funeral home parking lot possessed more honor than these would-be saviors. At least those buffoons had some measure of pride in what they did; at least they understood exactly what all the killing was for. Even if they did it so badly.
But, no. He was positive that wasn’t the case. He was meant to rescue her from all of this, it was his destiny, the labor he must complete before his full glory could be completely known. He had to claim his prize, to prove that she had not, indeed, bested him back in the kitchen.
The kitchen… that seemed so long ago now. As if it had all taken place in another life, perhaps to a different person. And, in a way, it had. The God had always been slumbering within him, waiting for The Great Change to awaken it, to allow him to ascend to glory. He’d just never possessed the courage to simply take whatever it was he desired. If he was angry, he should have struck down the person who ired him; if he was lustful, he should have taken the woman who had stirred his loins with passion. Things would have been so much different if only he’d realized all this so much sooner.
But, as Jane used to say, better late than never. It was probably the only true wise thing to ever come out of her mouth. And because it was better late than never, he would find Polly. He would find her, he would take her, and then he would save her.
And she would thank him for it.
He’d allowed his mind to wander, to drift off into thoughts of things to come. Which was dangerous out here. You had to keep yourself in a constant state of hyper-awareness, to remain as sharp and focused as a laser sight. Every little sound, the slightest of movements in a darkened window, that prickling sensation on the back of your neck that made you wonder if someone were watching you, lurking in the shadows as they awaited the opportunity to pounce: these things were very real, very important. These things would keep you alive. Richard knew this. And yet, somehow, he’d still allowed that bitch to distract him again.
Something that felt like a runaway brick wall plowed into his body with enough force to lift him off his feet. For a moment he was pressed tightly against a mass of rock-hard muscle, being carried by the momentum of whatever had slammed into him, and it was how a bird must feel right after it had flown full force into the grill of a speeding car. But then he was soaring through the air, the city nothing more than a streaked blur around him, falling and flying all at the same time, struggling to recapture the breath that had been forced from his lungs by the collision.
His back skidded across the road and the machete flew from his hand, clinking faintly as it tumbled over the asphalt. Before he’d even had a chance to roll, something solid and heavy crashed down onto his groin, something that felt like a boulder dropped from above; Richard doubled over as nauseating pain radiated from testicles that now throbbed like twin hearts. He instinctively cupped his hands over the tender area but then fresh pain exploded in his lip as the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. Again and again something pounded on his lips and nose with flat, wet smacks and he was vaguely aware of a face leering down at him, eyes ablaze with the thrill of the hunt and lips pulled back into a sneer of brutal enjoyment.
Richard’s fingers grasped for a handful of hair but it felt short and bristly, as if it had been shaven close to the scalp, and they found no purchase. He went for the eyes instead, raking at his attacker with fingers hooked into talons; but the man threw his head back slightly and the fingernails simply peeled curls of skin from the cheeks instead.
And still the fists rained down like a pair of pistons: hammering, bashing, pummeling, jarring teeth loose from gums, shattering bone in the bridge of the nose, spraying droplets of blood as the knuckles connected again and again with Richard’s battered face.
He writhed beneath the man, trying to squirm free even as his left hand groped blindly along the gritty street, searching for the familiar handle of his weapon. But this dude was thick, as dense and hard as an iron girder, and from that first moment of impact he’d refused to give up the edge that the element of surprise had blessed him with. He was a fucking death engine, fueled by high octane adrenaline and concentrated testosterone: no need for guns or knives or clubs; no need for anything, really… except those two solid fists wrapped in boxer’s tape and their lethal fury.
Bursts of darkness had begun to blossom in Richard’s field of vision, like time-lapse flowers unfurling their black petals in a world that seemed slightly blurry and out of focus. Small at first, no bigger than pinpoints. But as his face continued to absorb the shock of each new punch, they fed on the pain like it was fertilizer, growing in size and number.
All of the storybooks had it wrong. Death wasn’t some gangly skeleton enshrouded in a black cloak: no… the true bringer of darkness was a juiced-up meat head in a yellow wife beater and spandex shorts that barely contained the muscles bulging against them. And he was simply going to kneel on Richard’s chest as if it were a prayer rug and offer up blood sacrifices to whatever dark god he served. He would usher his victim into the inky waters of the river Styx and Richard’s short reign as Lord of this World would come to an untimely end.
And it was all her fault.
That stupid, distracting little cunt.
Polly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The brightness of the lights reflected off the cleaver, momentarily blinding Polly again with the unexpected glare. She squinted her eyes and pressed her face into her inner elbow as she opened her hand and allowed the tool to jangle against the street. She’d actually forgotten that she was holding it. No wonder they wouldn’t let her pass. It was all some big misunderstanding. Raising both arms into the air, palms facing outward, she turned in a slow circle.
“No,” she yelled out, “it’s okay. I’m not one of them. See? I’m not armed! It’s okay!”
Once she’d made a complete revolution, she took a few steps forward. Very slowly. Very deliberately. She didn’t know how well these guys were trained. Were they soldiers hardened by the sand and heat of distant deserts? Or green recruits who might get spooked at any sudden movement and reflexively pull the trigger on an unarmed woman? No sense taking chances.
“I don’t want any trouble! I just want to leave, okay?”
Her feet were mere inches away from the yellow stripe. The stripe which had quickly become a sort of magical barrier she had to cross. As if none of the insanity within the city could possibly spill over that bright paint. Just beyond was freedom. Just beyond was hope.
Do not attempt to cross the yellow line!
She stopped in her tracks and her wrists swiveled slightly on her raised hands as if in an exaggerated shrug. She didn’t understand… maybe they hadn’t heard her.
“I’m not one of them!”
She yelled louder this time and her voice echoed through the silence.