Ghouls

“Thanks for the stigmata,” Kurt said. Blood burned out of his palm like scalding water. “I’m gonna twirl that scalpel right up your crapper, you old piece of shit.”

“Oh?” Willard replied. Like a fencer, he lunged forward, stepping out and swiping the scalpel in a tight figure eight with each driving step. Kurt’s skin prickled from a mixture of terror and embarrassment; he scurried back like a frantic tightrope walker. The first two swipes missed. The third nicked his shoulder, and the fourth drew a perfect bleeding line across his chest. He felt the blade pass through a nipple.

“How’s that for an old piece of shit?” Willard said, poised for another strike.

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt, motherfucker. I’ll send you the bill after your arraignment.”

“Young man, by the time I’m through carving, there won’t be enough left of you to even wear a shirt. Ah, yes, yours will be a death of the most deliberate slowness.”

“Fuck you, and your mom and dad, too.”

“Don’t stand there and gab!” Sanders yelled. “Defend yourself! Get your feet apart, lean low! Stand like you’re ready to fight, you stupid schmuck!”

This was not one of Sanders’s more illustrious days. Just as he was about to get up again, Willard pulled down an entire wall shelf of glassware on him. A rich variety of bottles, flasks, and storage flagons clunked Sanders repeatedly in the head and back. Glass burst all around him like fireworks.

Grunting, Kurt hurled a big binocular microscope, but Willard ducked out of the way with little effort. The microscope clanged against the pen frame, then thudded to the floor. Within the pen, the two macabre figures remained inhumanly still and staring out with swollen, vitreous eyes.

“Crafty hands,” Willard said. “It will be my pleasure to cut them off.”

“You’re crazier than a rat in a shit heap, Willard. You make Henry Lee Lucas look like Bozo the Clown.” Kurt picked up a pair of retractors—the only thing he could get his hands on— and tried to hold them up threateningly. “What do you think you’re going to do, anyway? Kill us all and just continue with your ‘work’?”

“Yes. Precisely.”

This standoff wouldn’t last; Kurt knew he’d lose if he didn’t do something now. The pistol lay temptingly between them on the counter.

Kurt tried to edge in, but Willard made his move too fast, a graceful charge of swipes and sidesteps. Kurt said “Fuck!” very loudly four times in a row, as he was nicked by the scalpel four times in a row.

To beat Willard off the mark, Kurt needed just a second’s lead, and there was only one way to get. He switched the retractors to his left hand. No choice, he thought with relatively little fear. I’m gonna have to give Willard something to cut.

He stepped forward and jabbed the retractors at Willard’s ribs. Willard’s scalpel blazed down and up, punching hard into the undermuscle of Kurt’s forearm. The blade felt like a white-hot rivet; the rush of pain nearly dropped Kurt to his knees.

They both reached for the gun at the same time.

Kurt’s hand landed on it first. Willard’s scalpel then promptly nailed Kurt’s hand to the counter.

Blew it, Kurt thought. That’s all, folks.

Willard picked up the gun. He cocked the hammer in an even motion, keeping the barrel leveled. He aimed the gun at Kurt’s face—

—and froze, staring down.

Something green and round rolled across the floor, toward Willard. Sanders had quickly curled up into a fetal- like ball, sticking his fingers in his ears, and from the back of the room, Vicky screamed. Kurt detached his hand from the counter and dove aside—when he realized that the object on the floor was a hand grenade.

The grenade went off at Willard’s feet. The room erupted around a single white-green flash and a deafening pop! Shelves of glassware burst instantaneously, ceiling panels fragmented and fell in hundreds of pieces, and the whole house seemed to give off a spasmodic, tremulous shudder.

The force of the blast had blown Willard off his feet. He screamed as he was propelled backward and slammed against the pen frame. At once, the sleek corded arms snaked out and surrounded him, three-fingered hands fastening on to whatever they could grab.

Willard didn’t scream for long.

He was very quickly pulled into the pen through the bars, piece by piece by piece.

— | — | —

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Back upstairs.

The house was unnaturally quiet, as an afterstorm calm.

“Damn it, don’t move,” Vicky said.

“That hurts like shit!” Kurt articulated.

“Stop being such a puss. Do you want to get an infection?”

“She’s right,” Sanders added. “God knows what kind of germs that scalpel had on it.”

Kurt frowned at him cuttingly. “I’m touched by your concern…fucking maniac. You’ve got to be nuts to set off a grenade in a room that small. We’re lucky we’re not all chock full of shrapnel.”

“Pipe down and relax,” Sanders said. “It was only a concussion grenade; they can’t kill you unless you sit on them. All they’re good for is a big boom. Besides, what else could I do? If I hadn’t thrown that grenade, Willard would’ve blown your head right off your shoulders.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. That’s two I owe you.”

“Would you shut up and quit moving around!” Vicky said. She took away the alcohol swab, and Sanders began to tape up the last pressure bandage from his field, individual first-aid kit. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, though that didn’t make Kurt’s arm hurt any less.

“These cuts are no joke,” Sanders told him. “It’s a miracle he didn’t hit any major nerves or arteries.”

“At least the bleeding’s stopped.” Vicky’s face darkened to a cast of pure worry. “You sure you feel all right?”

“I feel fine,” Kurt said. At least as fine as your average pincushion. He held up his bandaged arm and hand. Jesus, I’m the fuckin’ mummy. “You guys do pretty good work, I’ll say that much.”

“This is strictly jury-rig,” Sanders said. “You’ll want to get to a hospital ASAP.”

“The hospital can wait. I’ve got a bit of a problem to take care of first.”

Nobody said anything at that.

Kurt wanted a cigarette but willed himself not to ask Vicky for one. Have some backbone, you coward, he thought. The pile of money from Willard’s floor safe was still on the desk; Kurt was amazed that he couldn’t have cared less about it. He looked Sanders down. “So I guess you’re just going to disappear now, huh?”

“Not just yet. I’d feel bad letting you take on the ghala by yourself. No offense, but you’d lose your ass.”

“No offense taken. I’ve grown quite attached to my ass over the years,” Kurt said, but he wondered about the odds. “You have some kind of plan?”

Sanders had broken down the Ml6 on the coffee table, and was removing cleaning gear from its Fiberglas stock. “A simple LRRP bushwhack ought to work. Willard said that only two ghala escaped. If we time it right —”

“Wait a minute,” Vicky bullied in. “Did you guys leave your marbles at home tonight? This is obviously too much to handle yourselves. We’ve seen what these things can do. Let the county police take care of it.”

“Only as a last resort,” Kurt said.

“Bullshit!”

“Vicky, I can’t call Lieutenant Choate and tell him he’s got a couple of ghala to smoke out. If we do it ourselves—”