But the sounds that came next were even worse. The window was still cracked open, so Sally heard all the wet sounds of muscles being torn apart, ligaments popping, and bones cracking. These last sounds were what made her break down into wailing cries. But even through her weeping, she could still hear the coyotes feeding.
Fifty yards away, with a perfect view of the van and the carnage, Miles Laurence smiled. This was good shit! He wished he could see the girl’s death too, but he doubted she’d move from that van any time soon. Besides, even with all the expensive equipment they were using, it was getting too dark to film. They had great digital video cameras, and he could increase the light and color on the computer when he edited the footage, but it was almost full night now. You can only enhance just so much before you lose picture quality.
“That’s a wrap,” Miles said to the three men with him. “Okay Tommy, call the boys back and get ’em in their cages.”
“Sure, boss.” Tommy turned toward the van, raised a dog whistle to his lips, and blew the signal to summon the coyotes back from their hunt.
This part of the gig was the safest part; the coyotes weren’t hungry anymore. Didn’t have to worry that they’d turn on their masters after they’d already eaten. Releasing them, now that’s when there was some danger. Starving the beasts for days to get them ready for their kills tended to make them hostile. Perfect for what Miles wanted, but you had to be very careful at the same time.
The animals came bounding back through the deepening darkness. Wayne got them settled into the cages while Miles and Paul finished taking down the cameras and video equipment.
Miles smiled to himself again. Yeah, this was some great footage! These tapes would pull in top dollar. That family was perfect! Miles didn’t know how Reggie’d gotten them to take this road, but he always figured something out. That was his specialty—finding the best pigeons and luring them to where and when Miles needed them. He’d plant a small radio-detonated charge in their wheel well while they were preoccupied, which Miles would activate when they drove by to blow out the tire and set his scene.
Looking around at his crew as they tore down the equipment, Miles beamed with pride. “Good job everybody; I think this is the best one yet. I’d be proud to stamp my name on this one...if I could.” He smiled and the others laughed in response. “Paul, I can’t wait to see the footage you got of the father, down the road.”
“It was beautiful, man! I ain’t never seen anyone run so fast. You shoulda’ seen the look on his face! But ain’t a man alive can outrun our boys here.” Paul glanced at the coyotes in the cages, then back at Miles. “How much you figure we’re gonna make from this set?”
Miles shook his head. “Can’t really say till I get the editing done and see how it all comes out. But it’ll be a lot. Over a hundred grand easy.”
Most people still refused to believe that an underground snuff film industry even existed, and that was fine with Miles. The only exposure he wanted was to the clients who bought his films. He’d built up a respectable clientele over the years, and the market kept growing. People loved the reality TV shows, but all the recent third-rate copycats had lots of people looking for something more, and they were finding it in the snuff film underground. He’d become obsessed with making this kind of film after seeing his first Faces of Death video as a teenager. He was now one of the most successful snuff producers around.
Traditionally, snuff films were sexual, but Miles was always looking for a new twist. He liked experimenting with ground-breaking styles, and he’d always liked the theme of “man against nature”—with nature winning. He smiled again at the thought.
With the coyotes in their cages, it was time to tie up loose ends. “Hey Wayne, go down and get the remote cameras, and check for residue from the tire explosive. Then get the little girl out of the van.”
“You want I should kill her, Boss?”
Miles rolled his eyes and sneered at him. “No, you idiot! That’d be a freakin’ waste! Bring her back and we’ll take her with us. We can use her for something else later on. She’s pretty cute, isn’t she?”
Wayne nodded as a vicious grin spread across his face, and he headed down towards the van.
Patricia Lee Macomber
NEVER MET Richard Laymon face-to-face. Time has a way of stealing important moments from you when you don’t pay attention. But I spoke to him on the phone several times. The first time he called was for HWA business. It was fairly late in the day and I’m sure he was at home and when I picked up the phone, he was laughing. It wasn’t just any laugh, but one of those deep, hearty laughs that are given only to people who are happy deep down inside, not the sort of people who are happy for an hour or a day, but genuinely happy. And he apologized for it. But his laughter had made me smile on a bad day and I remember thinking that something—someone—on the other end of that line was the cause of that laughter. No matter what Richard was talking about, he always had laughter in his voice. It’s rare to find someone who’s that profoundly happy. It’s even rarer to find someone who can bring that same kind of joy into your own life, just by talking to you on the phone. What a wonderful gift!
Patricia Lee Macomber
HE OLD BOOKSTORE stood forlornly among the other, newer shops. It had once been a grocery, a church, a clinic, a candy store. With its band of candy-striped awning around the roofline and the large, overly heavy wood door, it seemed to be the place—the only place—where real books could be found in Stantonville.
Charlie Drier flew down the street on a Western Auto steed with playing cards on the spokes and a jet stream of leaves in his wake. He flashed past the other children, Christmas-dreaming through the toy store window and flew past the park where trees gently wept.
It was winter, land of snowballs and plows. Cold like an ice cube against a bad tooth. It was white, pristine snow, the LSD colors of gaudy Christmas decorations painting the sidewalk in an on-off spill of snow paint.
All the other children had sugarplums in their dreams. For Charlie, there were only the books, the store, and an old wooden stool. He breezed through the door like he owned the place, removing his hat and stuffing it in his back pocket so as not to lose it.
“Good afternoon, young Charles,” Mr. Standish said with a smile. He tilted back his head, peering through those half-glasses and chuckling. “And what have you for me today?”
Charlie fished through his pockets, his mouth curling and puckering, betraying the sorry state of his financial affairs. “Two pennies and an old fuzzy gumdrop.” He held forth one open hand, proffering his treasures to the bookseller.
“The pennies I’ll take. But I think I’ll pass on the gumdrop, if it’s all the same to you.”
Charlie dropped the pennies into the man’s pudgy hand, checked his blue eyes for a hint of surprise, then pocketed his hands once more. “Anything new?”
“Nothing new here, Charlie. Only old books.”
With a sage nod, Charlie turned and rushed toward the back of the store.
He doubted that Mr. Standish cared much for his book rental fees. In Charlie’s mind, the old man probably just wanted to gauge how important the reading of such books was to Charlie. Either way, it worked out just fine for Charlie. He got to read his pick of the books and all it ever cost him was the price of whatever happened to be in his pockets at the time.