The man had suddenly broken into a run. He raced around the corner of the fence. Claire took off, chasing him. “Marty!” she called. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer.
Gorman hurried after them both, reaching the corner with a few strides, then slogging along the rear section of fence.
What craziness is this? he wondered.
But he certainly did not want to be left behind.
As he tried to catch up, he felt a familiar but longforgotten mingling of despair and humiliation. The residue of childhood “games” in which he had too often been the victim. Hey, let’s ditch him! Let’s ditch Gory! C’mon, let’s lose him! And off his pals would go, trying their best to leave him behind, lost and alone.
Gorman knew in this case that he was not being ditched. Marty had seen something. But the awful, desperate feelings remained and tears blurred his vision as he struggled to keep up with the runners. “Wait up!” he gasped.
They didn’t wait.
But suddenly they stopped.
Gorman grabbed a bar of the fence to halt himself. Gasping, he wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Marty muttered.
Claire staggered away, bent over, and started to vomit.
Marty was aiming his flashlight upward. Gorman followed its beam to the top of the fence.
Brian’s legs hung down, one on each side. He was naked. He was on his back. The body looked as if it had been slammed down hard onto the pointed uprights. Gorman’s sphincter went cold and tight as he saw where one of the spikes had penetrated. The other bars had entered in a straight line, the final one piercing the back of his skull. His left arm drooped strangely. Gorman realized it had been broken backwards at the elbow.
Marty’s light skittered down the length of the fence. Gorman followed its quick course. There was not another impaled body. The man turned toward the hillside. “Janice!” he yelled. His beam swept over the weeds and bushes, and stopped on something about thirty feet up.
A rumpled blanket. Scattered clothes.
Claire shrieked out her daughter’s name and lunged toward the slope. She scrambled up it, falling to her knees, crawling, getting her feet under her and scurrying higher. Marty raced after her.
Gorman stayed where he was. He watched them for a moment, then turned his gaze to the body. He ached as if he could feel the spikes in himself. He wanted badly to run, but the thought of fleeing, all alone in the dark, filled him with dread. He was shaking. He clutched a bar of the fence to steady himself. The cold iron was wet and sticky. He jerked his hand away and stared at it. The smears looked black in the moonlight. He raised his eyes to Brian’s body.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel so terrified.
With his clean right hand, he reached into a pocket and took out his cassette recorder. He switched it on. “I am standing, as I speak, beneath the body of Brian Blake—my friend, my associate, the man who survived the horror at Black River Falls only to meet a hideous death at the hands of the Malcasa beast. He met his fate in the dead of night, while…”
“Hardy! Goddamn you, get up here!”
He nodded, and backed away from the fence. Before starting up the slope, he slipped the recorder into his pocket without turning it off. If only he’d had the presence of mind to record everything from the moment Marty and Claire entered his room! Of course, he’d had no way of knowing at the time that the encounter would lead to such a marvellous tragedy.
Brian slaughtered by the beast. And in such a grisly fashion. It was almost too good to believe. The book would skyrocket!
Not only that, but Brian wouldn’t be around to collect his share of the proceeds.
Incredible!
Now, if only Janice’s body is up here, nicely mutilated…The parents will demand her half of the profits, but perhaps their claim wouldn’t stand up in court.
“Look at this, you bastard!” Marty snapped, shining his light on the ground. Gorman recognized Brian’s jacket and Hush Puppies. He saw garments all over the ground: a sweatshirt and brassière, cowboy boots, jeans, panties. The tangled blanket was dark with blood.
“Apparently,” Gorman said, “they must have been…”
“Shut up!”
Claire was a distance away, sobbing as she searched through bushes.
“I’m sorry,” Gorman said. “Honestly, though, I had no idea they…”
“You got her into this, goddamn you! I’ll kill you if she…”
“Perhaps she’s all right. She might have fled.”
“You’d better pray she did.” Turning away, Marty shouted up the hillside. “Janice! Jaaan—nice!”
Gorman crouched and picked up Brian’s camera. The flash attachment was in place. He peeled off the lens cap, and raised the camera to his eye. Peering through the viewfinder, he aimed at the blanket. The girl’s jeans and panties were also in frame. He snapped a shot. In the quick burst of light, he saw that the panties were pink, the blue jeans faded, the blue blanket splashed with crimson. The automatic film advance buzzed.
The Horror photos had been printed in black and white. For this book, Gorman would insist on color plates. At least a few for the hardcover edition.
He turned the camera toward Janice’s boots. They were close together, one standing at a slant, propped up by the sole of the other.
Fabulous.
She died with her boots off.
As his fingertip sought the shutter release, Marty blocked the view and drove a fist into Gorman’s belly. The blow smashed his wind out, knocked him backwards. The camera flew from his hands. His back hit the slope. He skidded downhill. His legs flipped high and he somersaulted. The earth pounded his knees, his belly. He clutched at weeds to stop his slide. Through his loud gasps for breath, he heard Claire shouting for Marty to stop.
The man came charging down.
“No!” Gorman cried.
Still in motion, Marty kicked at his head. Gorman shoved his face into the weeds. He felt the breeze of the passing shoe. Looking up, he saw that the momentum of the kick had thrown the man off balance. Marty flailed his arms and fell backwards. He landed on his rump. As he slid, the edge of a shoe scraped Gorman’s ear.
Gorman grabbed the shoe and twisted it sharply. He heard a crackly sound of tearing cartilage. Marty flinched with pain. His mouth sprang open and he let out a cry.
“Marty!” Claire yelled. She started down.
In seconds, Gorman would have her to contend with. Two against one. It’s not fair!
He tugged Marty’s foot. When the groaning man was close enough, Gorman punched him in the groin.
“Leave him alone!” Claire shouted. “Don’t touch him, you bastard!”
She was only a few yards away.
Gorman found a rock the size of a coconut, and slammed it down on Marty’s forehead. He felt the skull crush under its impact.
A whiny sound came from Claire. She was climbing the slope backwards, shaking her head from side to side with tight little jerks, her arms batting the air for balance.
Gorman got to his knees. “It’s all right,” he told her. “Don’t be frightened. We’ll get him to a doctor.”
Claire suddenly whirled around and bolted up the hillside.
Gorman went after her. “Don’t run!” he called. “We can’t help Marty if you run. Wait up!”
She kept going.
“Goddamn it, wait! I won’t hurt you!”
Her foot landed on one of Janice’s boots. She stumbled, but didn’t fall.
Gorman hurled the rock. It caught her between the shoulder blades and bounced off. She went down, sprawling flat, and scurried to get up again. Gorman pounced on her back. His weight smashed her to the ground. Clutching her hair, he tugged her head toward him and stretched his right arm out past her shoulder and brought his fist back sharply to strike her face. The position was awkward. He couldn’t get much power behind the punch. But he pounded her face again and again, very fast. She was crying and attempting to turn her face away. When she managed to grab his wrist, he yanked it free and drove his elbow down hard on her shoulder. That sent a shudder through her body, so he kept hammering down with his elbow, each blow making her cry out and squirm, until finally he somehow struck his crazy bone. His arm went tingly and numb.