“I’m not sure anyone knows,” he said. “The Krulls were here first. Nobody seems to know where they came from. Plenty of theories, though. Some say they’re the Devil’s children, some say a Stone Age tribe of some land.”
“If they’re Stone Age, where’d they get the steel weapons?”
“From us. We give them what they want. Except guns.”
Neala shook her head.
“Anyway. My high school history teacher had a theory that the Krulls are descendants of a band of Vikings that came up the Pacific coast and worked their way up the delta.”
“What do you think?”
“I think they might’ve descended from some crazy old mountain man—a demented Daniel Boone.” She saw a wry grin as he shrugged. “What the hell, nobody knows. I’ve got a neighbor, Joanne Early, who thinks they’re Martians. Whatever they are, they’re in control. They used to raid town about once a month, but then our forefathers got smart and started delivering strangers to them. That worked out nicely, because the townspeople robbed the folks before taking them out.”
“They’re still at it,” Neala said, looking down at one of her bare, bloody feet.
“Both sides get something out of it. And as long as the Krulls get eight or ten victims a month, they leave us alone.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever tried to stop them?”
“There’ve been a few attempts. Not many, though. A fellow named MacQuiddy went in, once, with a bunch of men from town. They called themselves the Glorious Fourteen. That was back in the thirties. For a time, back then, word was out that Barlow was a good place to avoid. Travelers stopped coming through, and our people stopped taking victims out to the forest. So the Krulls came into town, one night. They snatched a dozen of our women and children. The Glorious Fourteen went in to rescue them, and never came out.”
Neala watched his eyes roam over the field of heads. “Nobody ever comes out,” he said.
“Will we?”
“We’ll sure give it a try.” Johnny put an arm across her shoulders, and she leaned her head against him.
She felt good, being with Johnny.
Better than she’d felt with any man since Derek. That was nearly two years ago. The breakup had left her stunned. She spent six months living like a hermit: hating Derek, hating all men, yet dwelling on the times they’d had together and dreaming of his return as if she enjoyed the twist of pain that such thoughts brought.
When the loneliness finally drove her from the house, she met only desperate men. They wanted her body close to them in the night, because they had the loneliness, too. Many tried to be cooclass="underline" they talked big, and drove Porsches, and pretended. Others displayed their sensitivity like a raw wound, whiners pleading for attention. Few and far between were the normal guys, the confident ones she might want to know better.
She suspected most were already married-busy raising children and dogs.
And now, here was Johnny Robbins. You couldn’t say he was normal, not after growing up in a town like Barlow and doing the terrible things he’d done. But he was strong and confident. He could be gentle. And he spoke straight.
He was so different from those other men—so solid. Someone to rely on.
Someone she might love.
Her eyes filled with tears. She sniffed, and Johnny looked at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“It’s just all so horrible.”
“I know.” His hand stroked her hair, the side of her wet face.
“We’ll never get a chance to know each other, Johnny. I mean, to spend time and do things.”
“We’ll get the chance,” he said.
She shook her head. A sob wracked her body.
“We will. You can count on it.”
His face moved close to hers. He looked into her eyes, and smiled gently, and pressed his mouth to hers. They kissed for a long time. Neala wanted it never to end.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cordie lay on the ground, curled up and shivering at the foot of the tree, afraid to move. She’d stayed that way for a long time.
Hours must have passed since the woods echoed with the monstrous yell of the beast and she’d seen its dark shape stride through the trees. Hours since she’d heard Ben’s pleading, terrified voice. God, he must’ve met an awful death.
The thing had come her way, and passed her by.
But it might be lurking near.
She couldn’t stay on the ground much longer. She had to urinate badly, and she didn’t want to wet herself.
Finally, she rolled onto her belly. She raised her head. Her eyes searched the forest. The air had a blue-gray cast, and she could see a long distance into the surrounding trees.
With sudden dread, she realized that the night’s protective darkness was gone.
She got to her knees. Her right arm, numb from being crushed by her body for so long, hung useless at her side. Slowly, feeling returned to the arm. It tingled and burned. She shook it. She flexed her fingers. When the arm felt usable again, she stood up.
She turned slowly, studying the woods. She seemed to be alone.
Quickly, she lowered her pants. She squatted and let herself open. Her stream sounded terribly loud hitting the leafy ground. Eyes on the woods, she wished the noise would end. But she wasn’t willing to stop the flow; getting rid of the aching tightness felt so good. Finally, she finished. She stood and pulled up her pants.
For a few moments, she stared in the direction that Ben had run. She didn’t want to see his body. She couldn’t just leave, though. Not without knowing, for sure, that he was dead. To know with absolute certainty, she had to see him.
She walked slowly, trying to move with total silence. In spite of her care, each footstep caused a quiet crush of the forest debris. Not much of a sound. But enough for others to hear. Too much. She took longer strides. Though her footsteps were louder, that way, she wouldn’t need as many to reach her goal.
A goal she didn’t want to reach. She wanted only to hide.
But she had to find out.
She kept moving. She knew just where to look. All night, in her mind, she had seen Ben dart into the trees, heard him running, heard his voice. He hadn’t gone far. No farther than the distance, back home, between the front door and the kitchen.
When she saw his legs, she stopped. He was on his back, one leg straight out, the other bent sideways at the knee in a position that looked painful. The rest of Ben was hidden behind a tree.
His pants were all covered with blood.
“Ben?” she asked. The word came out as quiet as a breath.
But much too loud.
She took a step, and saw more: the lap of his pants, the bloody stomach of his shirt. She inched closer. The tree uncovered more: his chest, his out flung right arm. With another step, she would see his face.
God, she didn’t want to!
Not dead.
Twisted and hideous with Ben’s final horror.
It would serve no purpose. He was obviously dead. She didn’t have to see his face to know that.
God, to look at it…
The face she had kissed, so long and hard, only last night.
She began to cry.
She took a step backward until the tree concealed all but his legs. She stared at them. They were blurred by her tears.
Those shoes.
She’d flung one out the car window at a drive-in movie, last week.
“Oh Ben,” she moaned.
Then she ran. She knew she was making too much noise, but she didn’t care.
Let them get me. Let them!
She ran hard. Away from Ben. Running blindly, tears in her eyes, head thrown back. Better to look at the sky, the blue morning sky, than whatever might be coming to kill her.