Bob didn’t seem convinced.
“What are all these shacks?” he queried. “They’re covered with brush. It’s almost like they’re hidden out here in the woods.”
“I don’t know,” Sheree said, but she had to admit, something about the row of long shacks disturbed her. Many of them were windowless, or only had windows high up toward the roof. And, from somewhere, she thought she smelled—
Barbeque?
“You don’t think Carol…”
“No, Bob, I’m sure she didn’t go into any of those shacks,” Sheree retorted. “I told you, she’s drunk. She just wandered off in the wrong direction.”
“Yeah but…” Bob sniffed. “Is it me, or do I smell some damn good barbeque?”
“I smell it too,” Sheree admitted, walking on. “It’s probably a smokehouse or something. That fat redneck kid, he said he was a chef. Ashton’s his hero.”
“Fuckin’ Ashton,” Bob muttered. “I knew that coming out here was a dumbass thing to do. He got his goddamn eel but…I lost Carol!”
Bob began to blubber outright; Sheree patted his shoulder. “Stop worrying. We’ll find her.”
They walked on. Their footsteps crunched. Sheree could see the dual beams of their flashlights cutting into the darkness ahead. But suddenly—
A louder crunch resounded, then a noise as if Bob—or someone—had grunted oof!
—and all at once, Sheree could no longer see the dual beams of their flashlights sprouting ahead. There was only the single beam of her own.
Stricken, she glanced madly around, aiming the light. There was no sign of Bob anywhere!
“Bob!”
No reply.
Jesus Christ! He was standing right next to me a second ago!
Her light whipped all around. “Bob! Where are you?”
But there was no Bob—anywhere.
First Carol and now Bob? she fretted. Now she was genuinely scared. The acid still buzzed through her system, making every leafy rustle fraught with terrifying significance.
“To hell with this,” she whispered under her breath. She began to run back to the pier as fast as her sneakered feet would permit. “Gotta get back across the lake! Gotta get Ashton!”
But when she got back to the pier…the pull-ferry boat was gone.
««—»»
“That’s a good, fine girl,” James complimented. “I’d do it myself, of course, if it weren’t for this blasted bad disc in my back.”
Upon instruction, Rochelle had cranked the pull-ferry back ashore, whereupon she and James had gotten into the boat, and now she was, with more than a little exertion, cranking in the opposite direction, toward the island. James sat anxiously in the stern as she worked the crank. Just three more people to kill, he thought, wringing his hands, and the secret will be all mine! But killing that bulbous fraud Ashton had been the best. Just recollecting the murder of his rival produced a throbbing erection in his pants.
The scenery didn’t help.
Oh, dear. What a sight!
Rochelle’s petite bottom jutted out as she continued cranking the boat across the water. James couldn’t stand the moon-lit vision, and in the next moment he’d released his boner from the front of his pants.
“God, my nose hurts,” Rochelle muttered, cranking. Her back to him, she couldn’t see what he was doing. But then she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, for God’s sake!”
“I can’t help myself, sweetheart,” James confessed, masturbating openly. His balls flopped up and down as he jerked the shaft. “Your beauty sets me ablaze.” His pulse rose; sweat broke out on his brow. He looked sheepishly at Rochelle. “Please, hon. I’ll only need a minute. You don’t mind stepping out of those shorts, do you?”
Rochelle sighed, her shoulders slumping. She let go of the crank, then slid the white shorts off. “Such a fine, wonderful girl,” James said to himself. He squeezed drool out of his cock, rubbed it around the glans. Next he was on his feet, knees wobbling, and he was parking his wet dick into Rochelle’s vagina from behind.
“Now,” James breathed. “Keep cranking…”
Not a happy camper, Rochelle got back on the crank; all James need do was stand there grasping her hips. As her upper-body went up and down, her lower body fell into a sufficient sexual rhythm.
“Yes, yes,” James muttered his pleasure. He began to stroke back now, amplifying the union of their genitals.
“Be careful, Mr. James!” she shot over her shoulder. “You’ll tip the boat over!”
James didn’t hear her. “Okay, my darling little thing! Now!”
“Now what?” she griped.
“You know,” James pleaded like a child.
Rochelle couldn’t have frowned with more disdain. As James’ penis continued to slide back and forth, Rochelle began to urinate.
Yes, yes! Now the hot flood poured back on James; his pleasure stung. “Keep cranking, Mommy!” he wheezed. “Keep cranking!”
Rochelle kept cranking and pissing. Urine gushed from the slit of her sex, either pouring off of James’ balls into the bottom of the boat or soaking James’ pants.
Closer, closer. James’ hips pounded her rump. And when he thought again of that fat stooge Morrone lying dead, James shuddered and went rigid, rising on his tiptoes. At the moment of his orgasm’s first spasm, he pulled a trifle too hard on her hips and—
WHACK!
—Rochelle’s hand slipped off the crank, and the crank flew up and hit her square…in the nose.
When she collapsed forward, James remained standing, his climax, regrettably, not yet complete. Rochelle, in dire pain, squealed on the boat’s floor, her hands clasped to her face. “It hit me right in the nose!” she shrieked, blood trickling.
Blast! James thought. Her and her goddamn nose again, and right in the middle of my—
Primal instinct compelled James to jerk off the rest. Thin jets of semen landed on Rochelle’s back. Ahhhh, ahhhh, he thought. Good Mommy, good Mommy…
Shorts off, face bloody, cringing in pain, and lying in her own urine, Rochelle cried like a baby. Her fingers daintily touched her nose. “It feels like a rotten tomato now!” she wailed.
Spent now, James exhaled, greedily stroking the final sensations out of his softening penis, which he eventually put back into his pants. He licked his hand, tasting the girl’s ambrosial urine.
“It hurts so much!”
When she turned around in the moonlight, James had to chuckle. Her nose, indeed, looked like a squashed tomato. “There, there, dear. It’ll be all right,” he said.
“No it won’t!” she rebelled, tears streaming. “It’s ruined!”
“Once we’re done with our chores on the island,” he reminded her, patting the little gun in his belt, “this veritable treasure trove of Crackjaw eel will make me rich. I’ll buy you a new nose! And anything else you want. On this, you have my word.” Then James finally leaned over to help her up and—
“Whoa!” he shouted.
—his knees buckled and he fell overboard.
At the sound of the splash, Rochelle reclaimed her composure; this might prove a bit more serious than her nose. “Mr. James!” she cried out, looking over the edge of the boat. The lake barely rippled. She’d heard the splash but nothing else after that. “Mr. J—”
««—»»
“—ames!” M. Gerald James was able to hear beneath the water. Bubbles exploded from his mouth; something felt wrapped around him. He couldn’t see, and that was probably a good thing. He seemed to be cocooned in writhing snakes a foot thick, and pressed against an expanse that was like a cool wall of slime. The wall seemed to heave back and forth. James was blind beneath the treacherous water, and he was about to drown. Suddenly it was not blood that coursed through his veins but sheer electric terror, and just as suddenly, all the things he loved—cooking, being pissed on, Crackjaw eel, and committing murder—faded into nihility. All that remained was his life, which was now being clutched away by some—