The Lake

screeched to a halt. Then, with a crashing of gears, it swerved around him, almost knocking him off his feet.

Through a hazy blur, he caught the driver’s face, bloated, maniacal, mouthing profanities. The near-side window dropped down. The man shook a meaty fist at Nelson.

“What are you, punk—a fuckin’ loony, or WHAT? You wanna die? Do us all a favor, lemme help ya do it!”

The driver’s big face shoved itself through the window. A wad of phlegm shot out like a bullet, hooking itself on Nelson’s tunic.

Noisy blasts and honks peppered the air.

Sobbing, Nelson hurled himself back onto the sidewalk. The hatchet escaped his grasp and clattered to the ground. He scrabbled around on his knees, his hands circling the gritty path. Then, with a cry of relief, he caught the blade, fingered it carefully, and felt his way down till he found the heft.

Cradling it lovingly to his chest, he rocked back and forth, his face turned skyward.

“Thank you, Lord,” he said, sobbing huskily. “I found my cleaver. The only thing left… from Nelson’s magnificent, goddamn career… His dear old cleaver…”

He rocked a while longer, crying like a baby, then wiped his eye on the sleeve of his tunic.

That’s better.

His good eye was clear now.

“Thank you, thank you…” He wagged his head up and down. The Lord was on his side, he knew it.

Raising his arms in triumph, he hoisted the cleaver high, its blade shining in the glare of the streetlamps.

A siren wailed behind him.

He jerked around.

Cops!

Pressing into the shadows, he became one of them.

Bastard cops!

After him.

The shadows suddenly gave way to an embankment. He scrambled upright and tentatively put one foot over the edge. Then the other…

Soon he was slipping and sliding down over rough grass. Clutching at weeds, stretching out his arms, hanging on to the cleaver; trying not to tumble headlong into the awful darkness below.

Crying out, his feet caught at tangled roots and bushes. He lurched forward, slipped again, lost his footing, and landed smack on his butt. He slipped down some more and panicked. No way could he stop.

He plummeted down.

Still clutching the cleaver.

“Yo… What have we here?”

Grabbing at the weeds with his free hand, Nelson shoved his heels into the turf. He shuddered to a halt and went quiet. His heart lurched. He gripped the hatchet tighter.

Whoever’s out there, he thought, will think maybe I’m a drunk. Or a dopehead… If I’m lucky, they’ll leave me be. If’n I’m not lucky…

A throaty chuckle rumbled in the darkness.

A hand grabbed his ankle. Yanked him farther, much farther down the slope.

Into a deeper, darker place.

The smell was awful. Rank. Like bad meat.

He scrabbled and clawed at weeds and tufts of grass frantically trying to halt his progress…

The hand pulled harder.

Someone sniggered.

“S’matter, boy? Don’t ya want to join us down here? My, aren’t you the party pooper? We want ya to join us.” The voice rose a notch. “Don’t we, guys? Always a hearty welcome for new blood around here…”

Nelson sobbed. His heart lurched again; this time it bounced around his chest like a big chunk of rock.

“Please… let… me… GO!”

Another yank and he was on the move again.

Undergrowth tore at his face, burning the flesh in raw, hurting patches.

He struggled like a mad thing, rolling from side to side, wrestling to free himself from the viselike grip.

The hand held firm.

It dragged him across more rough ground. Garbage—jagged cans, glass, sharp objects—scraped and cut into him as he bumped and jolted along.

Still gripping his hatchet.

Can’t let it go… Gotta use it to hack my way outta here…

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.