No Sanctuary

Bert’s eyes flashed with impatience. “What d’ya think I’m nuts or something?”

Rick grinned and kept his eyes on Angus.

Yeah. The guy was crazy. But crazy like a fox, and Rick knew he had to be just as clever. Get into his mindset and play him along at his own game.

“He’s got our knives, so we can’t get physical,” he whispered. “Maybe if we talked him into opening the gate to this place, we could rush him.”

Right on cue, Angus set the lighted candle down on the grass. Then, like a magician performing his best trick, he fumbled at the waist of his trousers and with a flourish, produced two knives. Still in their sheaths. He held them by their belts, one in each hand, and jiggled them in the candlelight.

“You’ll not be needing these little beauties. Filth! Defilers!” he taunted, throwing the belts down onto the grass.

“Okay, Rick. Do your stuff. Start talking,” Bert muttered.

The cougars milled around in the background. Getting restless. Snuffling, giving sharp little whines.

Peering through the darkness, Rick and Bert could see them pacing around in their compound—another “cage” of strong, supple staves bound together by twine—about five yards from their own. The cats’ noses pointed skyward. Sniffing out the human scent. Slinking around their pen, one after the other, their powerful tails swinging low and threatening.

The cats were hungry—and impatient. Most of all, hungry.

“He’s out of his gourd,” Rick hissed back. “You can’t reason with a madman. We’ll just have to play it by ear. There’s got to be a chance to break out, somehow.”

He hoped to God there would be. They’d have to make a desperate move soon or they’d wind up dead, for sure. Sweat streamed from his armpits. If it weren’t so damned hot.

And still.

Like the unbearable calm you get before a storm.

The moon was a smooth around disc, hanging high in the soft night sky. Rick watched it and wondered if they’d be around to look at it tomorrow night. He grunted in disgust. Because of that stupid, damnfool idea of theirs, they were here, imprisoned in the preacher’s stinking back yard.

In this clammy, stench-ridden he/l-hole.

“Rick, look at this,” Bert pointed to the ground. A shard of glass, picked out by the moon, glimmered gently in the dark soil.

Rick screened her body with his. Bert bent to pick up the glass. She retrieved it quickly and stood up.

“Probably left by the last weary travelers,” she mouthed.

Wonder what happened to them?

Don’t ask ...

Pressing the piece of glass to her lips, she breathed a silent “thank you” to the last occupants of the cage.

Angus had his back to them, facing the cats, mumbling and whining exaggerated words of endearment. He’d left the candle burning by their cage. He seemed in a world of his own, but his rifle was still cocked and resting on his left arm.

King of the Wild Frontier.

Behind him in the cage, Rick was gripping staves, shaking them back and forth. Looking up now and again to make sure Angus was still talking to the animals.

He was.

No joy with the staves, though.

Firm as rocks.

Bert followed suit and suddenly hit paydirt. One of the staves jiggled about in her hand. They exchanged triumphant glances. Bert bent down to see if she could work another one loose.

Yes.

She began working on the twine with the glass shard.

Rick was having a hard time with his staves. He’d only worked his way through six by the time Angus quit his conversation with the cats.

Shit.

“Not much longer now kitties. Come sun-up, you’ll have the biggest breakfast you’ve eaten in a long, long time. You all, and me both—we’ll have us a mighty toothsome meal!”

Still working on the twine, Bert watched him from behind the bars. From where she was standing, Mr. Preacher-Man looked like he was in serious need of some sleep. He may be a lunatic, but he was old and frail. Should be tucked up in his flea-ridden rags by now.

Sweet dreams, turd bastard ...

She worked on the twine some more.

Yes!

It had come free in her hand. A quick wrench and she’d cleared the stave from its moorings. Adjusting her balance, she held it poised like a spear; threw back her arm and zoomed it through the air, straight at Angus.

His rifle fell to the ground.

“Ha!” he shrieked, clutching his hat and side-stepping out of the way.

“BITCH! WHORE! FILTH! You’ll rue the day you did that ...’

He tailed off as Bert bent down and slid her body easily through the eight-inch gap. With a yell, she bent and grabbed the stave again and thrust it deep into his bare shoulder. Blood spurted and spilled down the fur skins.

Looks like a wounded animal, Bert thought.

But instead of going down, he plucked out the stave, threw it to the ground and kicked it aside, blood still pouring from the gash. He came for her, slowly but surely, his arms spread wide. She caught the evil glint in his sunken eyes. He reminded her of a snake mesmerizing a rabbit.

And for a moment she was mesmerized.

Rick saw what was happening.

Zombie-like, Angus moved forward. Through the gaping holes, his eyes were mean and menacing ...

Feverishly, his bony fingers worked at the front flap of the skin trousers. They fell loose and he shook them down, stepped out of them and kicked them out of the way. His skinny body glistened with blood and sweat. The hole in his shoulder still pumped blood.

His horny erection jerked in anticipation.

Rick found a stave that moved in his grasp. He wrenched it around until it came free. He’d already cut through the twine with the glass shard.

The space between the two poles was too narrow for his body. He pushed. Tried to force his way through but couldn’t quite make it.

Shit!

Bert screamed “Rick!” as Angus knocked her to the ground.

He leapt on top of her, his filthy dog furs swinging over her body. The fur got in his way, so he grabbed his hat by the snout and flung it to the ground. Rick caught sight of the preacher’s pate, gleaming in the moonlight and ludicrously sprouting long gray hairs from its scaly patches.

Blood still ran freely from Angus’s shoulder. It flowed down through Bert’s blue chambray shirt and onto her chest. Her arms were sprayed and spattered with blood as she struggled to free herself.

With rising hysteria, Bert felt the man’s strength. He was thin, old, but wiry and incredibly strong. Tearing open her shorts, he dragged them, and her panties, down her failing legs. Then, like some greedy, parasitic vine, he coiled his own corded, bony ones around her. She struggled violently against his vice-like grip and, still under him, managed to force her knees up against his bony chest.

She screamed again. “Rick, I can’t fight him—he’s so strong! Get him off me! Pleeease!”

Her voice rose hysterically. Through it all, she could hear the cougars mewling and whining with excitement.