chain.
His old crucifix. He put it on. It made him feel safer, somehow.
He looked at the picture again. Sam looked back at him, through those brown curls he used to wear, before he cut them to look older. Quickly, he put the picture facedown.
Rory's eyes stung. Tears? Hell, he hadn't cried since he was six. Why break a track record like that?
When Rory arrived at the high school, Badass told him that he'd be working the last match with him, instead of Chuck, who'd called in sick.
He shuddered.
'Hey, whatsa matter with you, man?' demanded Badass. 'Doncha like me no more?'
Taping his knee, Rory scrambled for an answer. 'I'm crazy about you. It's Banks that I —»
The locker room noises cut off suddenly. Rory looked up from lacing his boots. Banks was framed in the doorway.
'Double juice tonight, boys. We got a big crowd and I'm aiming at a bigger one next time.'
'No way,' murmured Rory, and if the room was quiet before, it was tomblike now.
Banks strode toward him, taking a blade from his own pocket. He waved the blade in front of Rory's face. 'I've
Rory was aware of everyone watching him, waiting for the smart remark.
Cold-eyed and silent, he took the blade from Banks and wrapped it tightly in his wristband.
'Good boy. I want this last match short and sweet, a five-minute bloodbath. You got me? Nice.' Banks smiled and walked out, his back to Rory.
Rory set his face and counted out the minutes to the last match.
From a distance: 'Ladies and gentlemen, making his residence in the fabulous Hamptons…'
He followed Badass out, cross thumping against his chest. Yes, she was at ringside, fat and malevolent, green eyes glowing like evil gems.
Rory climbed into the ring and began trading chops with his partner. Badass took the opportunity to hit a gusher early on. He wiggled his eyebrows at Rory, mouthed, 'What are you waiting for?' as they switched from a standing armbar to a wristlock. Badass was right, he knew it, knew Banks could fire him. Still Rory resisted.
Four minutes into the match he had a vision of Sister Loyola talking about the blood of the Lamb. He saw Sister Loyola's white face stark against her black habit.
Badass was hissing into his ear by now, as they practiced bear hugs on one another: 'Are you nuts? Did you hear Banks or what? Jesus. Tell you something. Your little pal wouldn't give me this shit. He was for real.'
Rory lidded his eyes again, sudden ice racing through his hot muscles.
He pushed away from the referee, from Badass, and stumbled out of the ring for the lockers.
His vision smeary with blood and sweat, Rory found the showers full.
He went painfully around to Banks's «office» of the evening — a little hole in the corridor, away from the lockers.
It was time to tell the bastard off. He opened the door. The office was black, deserted.
Banks wasn't there. Probably in the showers or the outer hall, berating everyone's performance. Rory looked around the tiny room.
Now what? He sank against the cramped desk. Wait here until Banks came back from yelling at the boys? He'd already run out of steam, sitting here bleeding like an idiot, all set to give Banks what for, and Banks wasn't there.
Now he was beginning to feel the blood loss. It seemed to pound in his ears. Or was it only the throb of an old heater system, echoing around this little dark room?
The hell with Banks.
Wearily, Rory got up and pushed back the door.
And she sprang at him from the hall.
He drew back, saw her take in the cross. One unaffected glance, not even a hitch in her movement. She'd been out there, waiting for him. Waiting to do what she'd done to Sam…
Sam's face in the photo. While he could still remember.
He closed his eyes and met her charge.
She surged forward, foul-breathed, clawing at him, her tongue a greedy slug lapping his face. He tried to flip her, but his knee betrayed him. She knocked him backwards with all the force of her soggy weight, pressing him into the floor.
Rory gasped, struggling to push her off, but thick spongy thighs clamped his body. Her teeth lashed across his split skin. He saw the spark of saliva dripping between them. Her breath reached his ears in eager, short grunts, hit his nostrils with the stench of rotting meat.
Rory strained. She didn't yield an inch, bearing down on him, heavy with the blood of the others, of Sam.
Teeth raked the side of his neck. His skin flashed a warning as the needle points opened a nick just inches from the main artery. Her snarling was the song of death. Weakening, desperate, Rory wrenched his arm free, frantic to ward off the relentless teeth.
The forgotten blade in his wristband ripped across her bloated chest.
And the blonde popped, exploding in blood like an engorged leech.
It washed over him, a crimson ocean, sucking at him with riptide force as it lashed against the walls. Then it subsided, a warm and stagnant pool.
When he struggled to his feet, all that remained was blood and a gelatinous sac that might have once been the blonde's outer covering.
Rory lurched to the desk, collapsed against it, his breath rasping. Banks's office was now wallpapered in a sticky scarlet film. Rory used Banks's overcoat to clean himself.
Slowly, enough strength returned for him to lever open a window, climb through, and head for the parking lot.
Rory turned, taking one last look through the open window.
'You want juice, Banks?' he said softly. 'You got it.'
SURPRISE
Rex Miller
You reached it by traversing a quaint wooden bridge that spanned a picturesque winding stream dividing the 7th green and the 8th tee. Some viewed it as a water hazard. Not Warren. To him it was just one more chance to grandstand. He never overshot the 7th and never flubbed one into the drink off the 8th. Invariably there were one or two foursomes stacked up waiting to go off the 9th and into the clubhouse. It gave people on the 8th hole a little captive gallery, so that a perfectly hit ball could be watched and admired by the golfers waiting to tee off up by the 8th green.
'You're up, Warren,' one of the guys said to him.
