Coven

was that simple. If you want the girl, you go through me first. Becalmed, then, he opened the door and stepped into the aisle.

Penelope peeped around. The massive figure had stopped halfway down the corridor. He held the ax from shoulder to hip.

“Hey, you fat tub!” Mr. Sladder yelled. “Puttin’ in some overtime with the knife and fork, huh? Fellas don’t come no fatter, that’s for dag sure.”

The figure faltered. “I’m not fat,” it said. “A trifle overweight perhaps, but I wouldn’t say—”

Mr. Sladder laughed. “Trifle! Who you kiddin’ trifle? I seen sea cows in Disney World skinnier than you, ya big tub!”

“This is absurd,” the figure said. “I won’t stand for this.”

“I’m surprised you can stand at all, fat as you are.”

The ax raised. The figure, offended, took a step—

—and Mr. Sladder fired the pistol.

Penelope flinched. It wasn’t like TV—the tiny gun made a loud, irritating pop! Then came a ping! A bullet ricocheted off the giant, flat ax blade. Mr. Sladder fired again. The figure howled, fell down, and crawled out the exit.

“He shot me!” he bellowed outside. “He shot me in the ass!”

“Dag straight!” Mr. Sladder affirmed, waving his stump. “Come on back for another if ya like, fatso!”

Penelope squealed, this time in delight. The tiny gun had worked! But then Mr. Sladder said, very slowly:

“What in creepin’ Moses is this?”

Two more figures stepped in the doorway, sleek, slim. They were just standing there. They looked like… women.

—Hello, they said.

But what was that? What was going on?

—We want to eat, please!

They began to step forward.

“You just turn right around!” Mr. Sladder ordered.

The twin silhouettes continued.

“I ain’t kiddin’, sweethearts! Dag dabbit, I ain’t one fer shootin’ a couple of gals, so don’t ya come no closer!”

The figures weren’t stopping, and clearly weren’t going to.

“Daggit! I warned ya, so here it comes!”

Four even shots slapped in Penelope’s ears; she clenched her teeth. When she looked again, the two figures were still coming.

Mr. Sladder scurried back, dragged Penelope out. “Come on, honey. Dag Saturday night specials, can’t hit fudge with ’em. I musta missed all four times.”

“Shoot more!” Penelope screamed.

“I ain’t got no more bullets! Now come on!”

They scrambled down the main stable walk, pushing through swing doors, bam, bam, bam, one after another. Mr. Sladder burst through the last one before the exit and—

chunk.

But it wasn’t a chunk as much as a resonant, wet splap! Mr. Sladder was standing straight as a pole, head bent back. The ax blade was buried in the middle of his face, bisecting his eyes.

“Dag fat psychopath,” he gurgled, staggering back. “Run, Nellapee…” Then he collapsed like a bag of sticks.

Penelope’s blouse was torn open as she turned to run. Two big soft hands plopped on her breasts and pulled. Instantly she was aloft. She was being carried away.

She kicked and screamed. Hot breaths brushed her ear. It was the ax-wielder, the horse-killer. He must’ve come around the other side of the stable. His big hands roughly kneaded her breasts and crotch as he carried her on.

—Be careful with her! the odd slushy voice demanded.

Slats of moonlight passed Penelope’s face. The horse killer seemed to be sniffing her hair, and then he was licking her neck. The harder Penelope squirmed, the more securely she worked herself into his grasp.

Then she thought: Plums.

It was an errant thought, yet very clear in her mind. Plums. The average person certainly would find it peculiar for a young woman to think of plums while being abducted by a madman in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, the image glowed: squashing plums, bursting them. She thrust her hand into the figure’s trousers, into his briefs. His erection felt like a hot bone. Thinking of plums, she grabbed his testicles and squeezed them so hard her hand cramped.

The plums, disappointingly, did not burst. But the figure’s wavering deep yowl was reward enough. He dropped her at once and folded up in the impact of pain.

Penelope ran.

She trampled down the corridor, banging through swing doors. No footsteps could be heard pursuing her. Next she squealed in joy, for in a moment she bolted through the exit.

The open night air felt good on her exposed breasts. She used the moon’s ghostly light to guide her out the gate and to the dark outline that was her car. I made it! she thought. I escaped! God only knew where the horse-killer was taking her, and what he planned to do. Penelope careered around her Datsun ZX, jumped in behind the wheel, and slammed the door. She reached for the ignition, had her fingers on the key, was about to turn the engine over, and only then did she realize in slow, sinking horror that someone was sitting beside her in the passenger seat.

—

CHAPTER 6

“Good to see you, Wade! It’s good to have you back!”

“Wha—” Wade said. A waxlike, idiot grin opposed him as he stepped through the vestibule. The lobby was dismal with cluttered dark and geometric edges of tile shine. Standing thinly before him was Dean Saltenstall.

“It’s a pleasure to be back, sir,” Wade, said, you back stabbing two faced grinning fruitbar.

The dean offered his hand, which Wade shook with some reluctance.

“Affluence is no excuse for one to become separated from the real working world. Isn’t that what life’s all about? Honest work?”

What do you know about honest work, you blue blood hypocritical fuck? “I couldn’t agree more, sir.”

“Good, good! Then let’s go.” The dean’s grin never faltered. “We start at the bottom and we work our way up, right, Wade?”

Wade didn’t know what the old crank was talking about, but he suspected that the reference to starting at the bottom might have something to do with cleaning toilets for minimum wage. They moved briskly down dim halls which smelled of floor wax. Their heels clapped on shiny tile. Wade followed the dean’s back, wishing for a slingshot.

“I’m quite proud of our lab facilities.” The dean looked like a sapling in a pinstripe suit. Preposterously overstyled grayish hair made his tight tanned face appear fake, like bad cosmetic surgery. “And I’m equally proud of our maintenance staff.” He stopped at the door. The door read “Janitorial.”

And the dean was beginning to snicker.

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” the dean said.