The Lake - Richard Laymon

Suddenly, the hand let go. Nelson broke free rolling over and over…and over. Into a stinking ditch; into water that was thick, cold, and slimy.

Acrid odors hit his nostrils.

Oil and…

Sump oil, seemed like…but what else?

He scrambled out of the ditch, his shoes filled with slime, the bottom half of his pants clinging to his legs.

He heard uneven, panting breaths coming from behind; feet chugging steadily through the undergrowth; sounds of kicking, cans and other stuff being scattered out of the way.

More gasps and pants…They, whoever they were, were catching up. Hands clawed at his tunic. Sour breath warmed his neck.

“Fuck! Gerroff me, ya fuckin’ bastard, he’s mine—arrghhh…”

The whiny voice cut off short; growls of others joined in, arguing like a pack of starving hounds.

Christ Jesus! How many of ’em are there?

The trolls came to a ragged halt. Whispering, sniggering.

Listening out for me, most likely.

“C’mere!”

The voice came up close. Right behind him.

Terrified, Nelson held his breath, hugging the cleaver tight to his chest.

Then:

Can’t breathe—dear God…I can’t—breathe…

His heart rocked, lurched, fluttering around like a big wounded bird.

A goddamn angina attack!

Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

Rolled down. Dripped through his brows.

Itching, irritating. Falling into his good eye.

Stinging like salt.

Then:

“Hey. Quit that, you filthy fuckin’ pervert, you.”

A woman’s voice. Sharp. Imperative.

Sounding scared. Very scared.

A male voice now.

Gruff, threatening.

“You fuckin’ whore, you’ll do as you’re told. Paid you good money, didn’t I? On the nose. Before I got the goods. Do it my way or—”

“Or what…?

Smack. A brittle crack. A piercing squeal, reminding Nelson of pigs in abbatoirs. Stun guns rammed up their asses.

His breathing began to settle down. He kept quiet in the murky dark, his knees, his entire body shaking like he’d got the ague.

What the hell’s going on?

“Gotcha, my pretty. Come to Poppa, there’s a good li’l gal.”

Nelson knew the voice; low throaty, phlegmy. It belonged to the hand that had dragged him down here. Its owner was breathing hard.

Wanting.

The woman shrieked again.

Nelson caught the sound of wrestling bodies, grunting, gasping. Muffled screams, then—

“No, no, PLEASE, please, somebody…HELLLPPP!!”

More grunting, then rapid scrabbling sounds.

Someone panting and gasping, footsteps chugging along running away into the fuckin’ darkness…scrambling up the grass bank, sounded like.

Nelson pictured it, this desperate guy reaching up, grasping. Losing his grip. Slipping back and down into the stinking cesspit…

The woman’s sobs grew fainter. They were fading away now into whimpering little gasps.

Nelson doubled up. He started to heave at the soft, gurgling, bubbling sounds that came next.

There was more grunting and—slurping. Then disgusting wet noises, growling, and a low humming, like animals feeding.

More slurps.

Vomit shot from Nelson’s mouth. Gasping, struggling for breath, he clamped a hand to his mouth and ran.

He stumbled, running in awkward leaps and bounds; breathless, nauseous, his heart pounding like a mad thing.

Gotta get outa here, afore they…

Tears streamed down his face, into his open mouth.

His face was all shiny, runny with sweat and tears and snot.

He lurched on. Stumbling over more rough terrain, dim obstacles, jagged stumps; up another rise, then…

Thank you God!

He heaved himself onto the sidewalk. Panting hard, his lungs raw, hurting, pain erupting through his body—but halleluia, he was streetside again!

Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the pay phone he’d used earlier. He raced toward it.

His legs wobbling like jelly. His arms pumping, his breath making hissy, whistling sounds. Then:

Ahhh, NO!

He pulled up short, crying out in despair, making small, whiny noises.

“My cleaver…

“I left it. Back there…”

He gulped as a knotty hand hooked his throat.

Slipping sideways, he whirled around and wrestled free. Then, bounding forward, he turned for a moment—and caught sight of his assailant.

Jesus Christ!

A huge, bearded giant; filthy rags flying out behind.

Head down, almost touching him.

As the streams of inbound traffic flowed off the Bridge, haloes of light shot blinding beams into Nelson’s face. Grimacing, his arm flew up to shield his eye.

His breath came in great heaving gasps.

Panic gripped. His lungs were packing up…

The troll was on him…

Arms outstretched.

“No, you don’t, buddy boy…The party’s just about to take off.”

Strong, grimy hands snatched at Nelson’s tunic.

Dragging it up, twisting it tight under his chin.

Nelson’s head jerked back and sideways.

He felt his feet leave the ground. Found himself staring into bloodshot eyes. At long filthy dreads matted up with the troll’s greasy, straggly beard.

An old-time hippie gone bad.

And MAD.

Mad for flesh.

His.

Anybody’s.

The derelict leered, his wet lips pulling away from dark broken stumps. Globs of blood swung from his beard.

Unspeakable fumes fanned Nelson’s face. Transfixed like a frightened deers, his good eye swiveled and opened wide. Air hissed from his sagging lungs.

Uhhh…

The troll gave a final violent shake, then slammed Nelson hard against the railings.

TWENTY-SIX

Deana lay under her bedsheet. Wearing black sweat-clothes. And her sneakers, with the wool socks pulled up over them.

Ready to venture forth on another midnight run.

To find Warren, get the knife back, and hopefully return it to its rightful place.

But Mom wasn’t even in bed yet.

She was moving around in the kitchen, clearing dishes, running water, washing them off. Deana heard the quiet click of a cupboard door.

Mom: not wanting to wake her.

Doing her stuff and trying to keep quiet about it.

For my sake.

Hope she doesn’t decide to peek in through my bedroom door to see if I’m fast asleep.

Good thing I’m not wearing my cap yet…

Mom was in the bathroom now, humming quietly to herself.

Thinking about Mace?

You bet.

At last, Mom’s bedroom door closed.

Then opened again.

Mom wants me to know that she’s around if I should wake in the night.

Deana smiled.

Mom was so thoughtful.

Wonder what Warren’s doing now?

Probably getting ready for his nightly stroll.

With Sabre, his trusty canine friend.

Maybe I should take along some pepper, to throw in the mutt’s face if he attacks me.

Oh yeah.

That’d really impress Warren.

He’d hate me for it.

Oh well, scrub the pepper. Have to trust Warren to drag Sabre off me. If he decides to go for my throat or something…

Deana twisted her head sideways. She looked at the clock on the nightstand.

12:12.

Tomorrow already.

She held her breath, keeping quiet and still.

No sound from Mom’s room.

Okay. Let’s move it.

She swung off the bed.

Twisted up her hair and pulled a navy knit cap over it. The cap had “NY” embroidered in white on the front. She grinned a little; she always felt like a ghetto kid when she wore this one.

Looking down at her feet, her sneakers covered with the thick wool socks, she decided she looked more like a yeti.

All she needed now was a weapon.

In case Nelson was lurking out there.

Maybe the pepper’d be a good idea.

Nah.

Nelson wasn’t around last night.

Probably won’t be around tonight, either.

Mom thinks he’s snuffed it. Maybe his body’s out there at this very moment, floating in the Bay, bobbing around in the cold, dark water, being chawed by fish. Sharks even—their deadly teeth tearing off his arms and legs. Chomping on his stringy innards.

She shivered, thinking about it.

That is really gross.

Nelson was a weird guy, but he didn’t deserve a death like that.

Deana crept out into the hallway.

She stopped awhile and waited.

Bet Mom’s asleep by now.

Dreaming about Mace.

Yeah. I can see it now.

Mace and Mom. Like Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca. Staring into each other’s eyes across some crowded bar…

Play it again, Sam.

Ugghhh.

Gruesome.

She felt for her door key, caught inside her sweatshirt.

It was safe and sound.

Good.

Nothing like spending the night huddled on the stoop, Mom opening the door and saying, “Why, good morning, honey. Your own bed not comfortable enough for you?”

Now for one of Deana’s famous midnight runs.

“Gotta find Warren’s house first,” she murmured. “I reckon it’s about a block away. Up the hill. Good thing I’m fit. All this running, and tennis with Mom, keeps me in good shape.”

At the end of the driveway she looked up, then down, Del Mar. She felt a buzz of excitement; the thought of being alone in the darkness brought goose bumps scurrying up her body.

Yeah. It sure is scary.

Everybody’s asleep. Except me. I’m awake and ready for anything.

Almost.

She couldn’t see anyone around.

Staring up the street some more, her excitement took a downturn.

Del Mar. Dimly lit by too few streetlamps, making long stretches of street almost totally black. The trees were giant shadows; the houses, dark formidable places.

She suddenly felt very scared.

“Nightmare on Del Mar,” she muttered. “It’d make an awesome movie. Maybe I should write me a film script someday.”

Humming a little, she began to mark time on the spot. Shoulders back, knees pumping up and down.

Up down, up down, up down…

Usually, this exercise focused her on the run ahead.

Thank God tonight was no exception.

Feeling loose-limbed and relaxed, she began running up the incline toward Warren’s house.

A shadow stepped out before her.

She gulped, stopped, and danced back into the shadows.

The shadow came toward her.

At her.

She held her breath. Moving sideways. Backward. Any way but forward.

Every move she made, the thing blocked her path.

Weaving, dodging, dancing in front of her, stopping her from moving on.

She fought back panic, her heart hammering in her throat.

Then there was this shrunken death-head swaying before her. Its eyes gleaming at her from deep, dark sockets, its wrinkled mouth drawn into a tight black O.

Backlit by a streetlamp, wisps of hair stood out around its head like a silver halo.

Maybe it just crept out from some crypt or other…

Nah. It’s not the living dead.

It’s solid flesh and blood…

A bent, skinny old woman!

The hag grunted, then pulled up short in front of Deana. She was clinging onto an untidy bundle in her arms. The bundle poked and jerked, then out jumped a small dog. It raced across the street and disappeared down a tree-lined drive.

“Shit!” the hag shrieked. “Now look what you’ve done! Harry! Harry! Come to Mommy…Haaarrryyy!”

A small white head with pointed ears appeared at the driveway opening.

Harry.

Thank God.

Deana, not believing what she was doing, called out, “Come on, Harry…Come here, there’s a good dog!”

The tiny head darted back, then disappeared into the shadows again.

“Fuck!” The crone stepped forward, her fierce, raddled face glowering at Deana. She raised a skinny, clawed hand and whacked it across Deana’s cheek.

“Ouuchh—you bitch!”

Deana’s neck twisted up and sideways. The crack was like gunfire inside her head. Staggering back, she clamped a hand to her face.

Damn!

The punch had landed exactly where Nelson slugged her three days ago. Pain shot through her jaw again.

“Fuckin’ bastard sonofabitch,” she cursed through clenched teeth.

Let her find her own fuckin’ dog.

Huh. Harry—what kind of a name was that for a dog anyhow?

Head down, still nursing her cheek, she hurried past the old woman. Breaking into a run, she slammed smack into someone else hurrying toward her.

Dazed by the impact, Deana shook her head. She heard excited barks. Then loud wuffing noises, echoing up and down the street.

Sabre.

Thank God.

She didn’t think she’d ever be this grateful to hear a barking dog.

“What the…” Warren held on to her, tight. “It’s the midnight runner, if I’m not mistaken. What brings you out here again?”

“Warren. Am I glad to see you—” Deana broke off with a grim laugh. “My God. What an experience. I can’t believe it!”

They fell quiet for a moment, listening to the hag’s shrill voice, still calling: “Harrryyyy. Come to Mommy, darling…!”

Deana looked at Warren. Their eyes met and they grinned at each other. It was a nice, friendly moment.

Then, with a yelp of pain, Deana clamped a hand to her jaw.

Warren frowned. “You all right?” he asked. “I could drive you to an emergency room. There’s one a coupla miles from here…”

Deana shook her head.

“No? Okay. Then sit here on the wall awhile. Get your breath back.” He led her to a low brick wall. She lowered herself down, carefully, and leaned back into the bushes.

“It’s great to see you, Warren. And the mutt. Believe me—things got a bit nightmarish back there for a while.”

A large wet nose examined her knees with loud snuffling sounds. Deana smiled. Pushing the dog away, Warren said, “Sabre. Sit. Sit, boy!”

Sabre sat.

Warren dropped down by Deana’s side, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her gently to him. Feeling safe and comfortable, she sighed and snugged into the crook of his shoulder.