Ghouls

Picked it up.

And dropped it when Lenny’s second strike connected. Like a lump of granite, his fist sailed down and slammed into the back of her head. The impact flattened her; her vision blanked. She could see nothing for seconds, and only dull fuzz for seconds more.

Lenny was laughing. “You always gotta have things the hard way, huh? Well, that’s jus’ fine with me.”

He stepped on her hand. Vicky shrieked. Then he came down on her back with his knee. His laughter deepened; he grabbed her hair and banged her head against the floor several times. Vicky couldn’t breathe.

He flipped her over and mauled her breasts, buttons flying off her blouse. He pushed up her bra. She glimpsed his face through dizzy spangles of light—he was grinning at her, chortling like a pig. Suddenly pain wound through her chest; he began twisting her nipples as if to twist them off. He seemed to enjoy the way her shrieks rose the harder he twisted.

“Gettin’ hot, baby?” he said. “Ain’t this really the way you like it?”

She squirmed under his weight. Each time she tried to thrash away, he punched her in the stomach. Only terror kept her conscious now; her vision cleared unmercifully and showed her his intent, evil face. When he shoved his hand down her pants, her arm flew up blindly, and she poked him in the eye with her thumb.

Lenny fell off her, both hands over his eye. Vicky slipped away from him, too aware that he’d only been stunned—she’d never make it out of the house.

The big glass ashtray lay off to the right.

She sprang forward, on hands and knees, in a sudden ignition of energy. Behind her she sensed movement, Lenny regaining his wits. Her knees and palms burned across the carpet. She fell on the ashtray and picked it up.

Lenny had already risen to his feet. Vicky got up on her knees, pulled back, and threw the ashtray as hard as she could. It seemed a wild, misguided throw; nonetheless, it flew through the air like a missile and struck Lenny solidly in the middle of his forehead. She didn’t hear the sound of the blow, just the ashtray clunking to the carpet afterward. She felt triumph, delight, victory, when Lenny fell hard on his back.

She felt horror when he got back up again.

There was blood on his face now, the gash in his head glistening and running red. The scariest part wasn’t that the blow hadn’t knocked him out. It was the way he looked at her then, bloodied but unhurt, with eyes of ice.

She wondered if he would kill her.

“So you want out, is that it?” he said, standing still. “You wanna walk out on ol’ Lenny boy.” Blood pulsed down his face as he spoke. “And where’re you gonna go? Tell me that? Who’s gonna take you in, huh? Pretty Boy Morris? Even he’s got more class than ta take in a rube little piece of trash like you.” Then he paused, his wet red grin widening. A line of blood slid quickly down his chest.

Vicky tried to plead with him, but the words swelled in her throat. She tried to move, tried to get up and get away, yet her wrists and ankles seemed manacled to the floor.

“But wherever you go,” he continued, “I hope you ain’t gonna have ta rely on your looks ta get you there, ‘cause I’m gonna ugly you up real good.”

Finally she spat out broken words. “Please let me go. Please just let me get out of here.”

“Sure, baby. If you wanna leave, I won’t stop you. But you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I give you somethin’ ta remember me by.”

He broke from where he stood, and took long, quick steps across the room. The last thing she saw as she screamed was his hands opening and closing as he reached down for her.

««—»»

Kurt could barely see anything at all through the rain. The windshield wipers were on high, but they did little more than swipe the water around to make room for more. He leaned forward, chin nearly touching the steering wheel, and he had to squint just to make out the double yellow line on the asphalt. The road seemed to be splattering before him, breaking up. The headlights didn’t improve visibility as much as articulate the density of the rain. Several times he almost went off the road, even at just a few miles per hour. At this rate it would take half an hour just to get back to the station.

As he made the next bend, the headlights reflected off something on the shoulder, something erect and raw-white with a band of pink. He slowed nearly to a halt.

“What the hell?” he mouthed aloud. It was a person walking along the right-hand shoulder. The figure stopped when he did. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window a few inches. A face almost touched the glass; two wild eyes looked at him through the gap. Only a complete jackass would be walking the Route this late, in this weather, he thought. And it didn’t surprise him the least to see that the face belonged to Joanne Sulley. The temptation was there, of course, to roll the window up and drive on without a word; he couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling. Instead, he said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m walking home,” she said, her defiance pathetic in the rain. “It’s not against the law to walk home.”

“No, but it’s against the law to walk home with no pants on.”

“Well, I’m wearing my G-string.”

“Thank God. I was beginning to think you were uninhibited.”

Her hands pressed the window, fingers curling over the lip. “Will you drive me home?”

“This is a police car, not a Checker cab.”

“Come on, you’re a cop,” she whined. “You can’t let me walk—I could get raped.”

“That’s right, you could. And walking the streets at three in the morning with no pants on probably won’t reduce that possibility.”

“Gimme a break,” she not quite pleaded. “I don’t want to walk home in this shit.”

“The solution is quite simple, really. Buy a car.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not busy right now. You can drive me home.”

“Only if you say please.”

She glared at him. “Please!”

“Pretty please.”

“Goddamn it!”

Kurt shrugged and reached to roll up the window.

“Pretty please!” she shouted.

“All right.”

She got into the car as if fleeing killers, and she slammed the door so hard he thought the window might break. Kurt could’ve laughed at the sight of her, so he did. Rain beaded every inch of her exposed skin, of which there was a lot. Her tube-top was water-logged, her hair a tangled brunette mop.

“You know,” he said, “just because you dance at the Anvil in a G-string doesn’t mean you can parade around town in one.”

“If you must know,” she said without looking at him, “I didn’t have time to get dressed. Don’t ask me to explain.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Jesus Christ, you’re dripping on my seat.” He let the cruiser resume its slow crawl through the rain, wipers thudding. The car rocked in the wind.

Joanne was pushing droplets off her thighs; it made a sound like a squeegee. “Got a cigarette?” she asked.

“Sure, but none for you.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Give me a goddamned cigarette.”

“Plenty of butts in the ashtray. Help yourself.”

Her lips pressed into a smirk. “It’s obvious that you don’t think highly of me—”

Kurt laughed out loud.

“—but you don’t have to be rude.” She paused, focusing on him. “Why, I bet if you gave me a chance, you’d like me a lot.”