Quake

  'Like the both of you weren't dying.'

  'She was sure heavy,' Pete said. 'Jeez, that was awful.’

  'I'm glad we did it, though,' Barbara said.

  'Yeah. Me, too. guess. Gross, though.'

  'Well,' Heather said, 'I figure you wasted maybe an hour, and all because you wouldn't let her stay in the alley.'

  'I don't think it was that long,' Barbara said. Then she wondered if Heather was wearing a watch. She didn't think so, but she wasn't sure. She twisted around for a look. But forgot all about wristwatches when she saw Heather leaning back against the pickup truck, legs stretched out straight, smiling at the cat by her right side as she stroked it with a gory hand.

  'Aw! Jesus H. Christ!'

  'What?' Pete asked.

  'Look at her!' Barbara dropped back against the tire as Pete leaned forward. He gazed past her.'Heather!'

  The girl raised her eyebrows and continued to pet the cat. 'She's a nice kitty.'

  'Have you lost your mind?' Pete blurted.

  Barbara scrambled to her feet. 'I'm getting out of here.'

  'Yeah,' Pete said. 'God almighty, Heather.'

  Barbara leaped over the girl's legs and hurried toward the alley.

  'You two sure freak out easy,' Heather said. She sounded amused.

  Clear of the car port, Barbara felt the sun pound down on her. She squinted, and looked both ways. Nobody seemed to be coming. Except for Pete. He hurried forward, hunching down slightly when he left the shade. In the car port, Heather was already standing. 'If you think I'm gonna stay here…'

  'We just don't want that cat around us,' Pete said.

  'It's a psycho,' Barbara repeated. 'It killed Mrs Klein.'

  'That doesn't mean she's a bad kitty.' Heather came out o the shadowy car port, the cat swaggering along beside her. 'She felt trapped, that's all. She was only trying to survive. You can't go blaming her for that.'

  'Just keep it away from us,' Pete said.

  He and Barbara started walking, but they continued to look back. Heather and Susie were gaining on them. 'Just stay back there,' Barbara said.

  'I don't want to.’

  'What do you want?’

  'The front.'

  'Okay, take the front.'

  As Heather and the cat approached, Barbara took Pete by the arm and guided him toward the other side of the alley.

  'It'd be funny if it weren't so sad,' Heather commented 'Scared of a nice little kitty.'

  Barbara wrinkled her nose when she saw all the blood on Heather. Not only was the girl's hand a mess, but the cat must've put a lot of effort into rubbing itself against her. There was blood on the side of her white sock and on her calf. The tan fabric of her baggy dress was smeared with blood on the side from her thigh almost to her armpit.

  'Look what it did to you,' Barbara said.

  Heather looked, and shrugged. 'I'm not any dirtier than you.'

  'Yes, you are. And I don't have blood all over me.'

  'You oughta wash that off,' Pete said as Heather walked by.

  'Doesn't matter. My dress is mined, anyhow.'

  'Maybe, but you don't want it on your hands all day.' He looked at Barbara. 'We need to find someplace where she can wash up.'

  'Won't be easy,' Barbara said.

  They'd both gotten blood on their hands carrying Mrs Klein into her house. Barbara had been frantic to get it off. It made her feel contaminated by the woman's death. She hated the rusty brown color and the tacky feel of the stuff.

  She had hurried to the kitchen sink and twisted a faucet handle, forgetting that the quake had knocked out the water pressure - her memory returning when the faucet was silent and nothing came out. 'What're we gonna do?' she'd gasped. 'I've gotta get this off me!'

  Pete had remained calm. 'Don't worry. We'll think of something.'

  After a discussion that included searching for pre-moistened towelettes (good luck finding any), using Pepsi (sticky) or water from the toilet tank (gross), they'd pounced on Pete's idea of dipping paper towels into water from melting ice in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. It had worked great.

  Now, Pete came up with a fresh idea. 'Maybe a garden hose that still has some water in it.'

  'Can't get much out of a hose,' Barbara said. 'she'll just get bloody again messing with the cat.'

  Heather suddenly looked pleased. 'Let's wash Susie. we can find a swimming pool or something around here.'

  Pete frowned, apparently thinking about it. 'Yeah,' he said after a few moments. 'You never know. This is sort of a lousy neighborhood, but if we start looking in back yards…'

  'Courtyards of apartment houses have swimming pools,' Barbara pointed out. 'A lot of them do. Maybe even some around here. Couldn't hurt to keep our eyes open. One thing though.' She looked from Pete to Heather. 'If we do find a pool, I wanta have a crack at it before it gets screwed up with blood and cats. Okay?'

  Pete smiled. 'Yeah. Me, too.'

  'Let's find us a pool,' Barbara said.

  ***

  Stanley opened a curtain to let in more sunlight. Seeing nobody on the other side of the window, he gazed down at himself. He looked as if he'd been wallowing in blood. 'Beautiful,' he murmured.

  He rubbed his hands over his body. He liked where the blood felt slippery, but didn't care much for the sticky places where it was drying. He wished he could mix it with oil, so it would stay slippery everywhere. A large mirror above the fireplace had survived the quake. He stepped close to it. His reflection was large, but the bottom of the mirror cut him off halfway down his chest. So he went to the far side of the room. From there, the mirror showed him only to the waist. So he stood on the sofa. Able to see himself all the way down to his knees, he was stunned by how large and powerful and savage he looked. Like some sort of jungle warrior, naked and wild, washed in the blood of his enemies. The blood on his face was mostly around his lip and down his chin.

  'Anyone might think I'd eaten him,' he said. He laughed, but the grin made him look stupid, so he made a fierce face. Much better. He growled. He sucked in his belly and flexed his muscles.

  'Oh, yeah,' he murmured.

  It's me, he thought. This is how oughta look all the time. Except work out better and build up some muscles. And let my hair grow. I can do that. Nobody to tell me no, Nobody to make fun of me. This is me. Naked and wild covered with blood. The blood made him a little itchy, but he could live that. A minor nuisance. He stood on the sofa for a while longer, posing himself in the mirror. He wished he could go outside like this. That'd be stupid, though. Hugely stupid. Even if he was lucky enough to avoid meeting anyone he didn't want Sheila to see him drenched with blood. She might guess that it wasn't his. He jumped down from the sofa. Wandering through the rooms he looked for water. He found no water, and no blood except for the blood on the carpet around Ben.

  He had an urge to lie down there and squirm around.

  'Gotta get back to Sheila,' he told himself. 'Had enough! fun here.'

  Instead of squirming in the blood, he sprawled on the sofa. He rolled and writhed, rubbing himself against the nubby upholstery. He left a great amount of blood on the sofa. After climbing off, he wiped himself with both of the sofa's pillows. The pillows worked especially well on his neck and armpits, his groin and the crease of his rump. By the time he finished with the pillows, he was no longer wet. But he looked as if his skin had been stained with reddish-brown shoe polish. He felt sticky and itchy all over. He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head.

  'Gotta do better than this,' he said. He had to find water. A swimming pool!

  He knew just where to find one. He'd seen it from the roof of Mother's house - his house. Amazing what you could see from up there. Though the house was only a single story high, it seemed to tower above the neighborhood when he stood on it. It's the standing that does it, he had figured out. Puts my eyes about six feet higher up than everything else.

  He'd gone up there often. Not often enough, though. And he'd never
dared to stay for very long. The problem was, his perch atop the roof not only gave him a great view of the neighborhood, but it gave the neighbors a great view of him. The nearly flat plain of the roof, surrounded by knee-high walls, provided nowhere to hide unless he lay down. Not only that, but there were often helicopters in the sky. He didn't dare take binoculars up with him. Nor did he dare to spend much time looking down at the surrounding houses. No privacy at all, up there. He'd gone up, anyway, for a few minutes at a time - usually taking a bucket of asphalt 'roof patch' with him so he would appear to have a legitimate excuse. On those occasions, he'd relished the view: his mother's back yard; beyond the cinderblock wall to Sheila's yard and patio and back door and windows; the rear grounds of the houses to the right and left of Sheila's place; the back yard of the Taylor house, his first neighbor to the north; the Donaldsons' on the far side of the Taylors; Judy and Herb's house directly to the south, and the Benson place on the other side of Judy's. It was the Benson place that had the pool. Behind their small stucco house, with a redwood gate across the driveway and fencing around the borders the back yard, the pool was like a guarded secret. Stanley supposed he would never have known of its existence at all, if he hadn't spotted it from his roof. He had never seen anyone in the pool, or even sunbathing on the padded loungers beside it. When on the roof, he occupied most of his time keeping an eye on Sheila's house. Hoping for a glimpse of her. Or a glimpse of Barbara. Though the girl was no match for her mother, she was still a great-looking piece, well worth watching. The best on the block, after Sheila. With Judy running in third place.

  The Bensons had never interested him until now. He did know that they were a middle-aged couple and they rarely seemed to be home. Judy had once mentioned that they were school teachers. Stanley doubted if he could recognize either one of them, though he knew that he'd seen Mrs Benson and had judged she was nothing worth looking at. He also knew that they had a fine-looking swimming pool in their back yard. They're bound to be gone, he thought. Barbara's at school. That's what Sheila'd said. So if these Bensons are teachers, they'll be at school, too. Probably.

  'Doesn't matter,' he said.

  He put on his cut-off pajama pants again. As he snapped the waistband shut, he saw that the front was spotted with blood. Not a lot of blood, though. He had enough scratches and minor cuts on his body to explain it away. He thought about leaving his fly open. That'd be stupid, he decided. You don't wanta look too conspicuous. So he tucked himself inside the fly and fastened a snap in the middle. Then he stepped into his moccasins. He took his saw to a window and used a curtain to wipe the blood off its handle and blade. That it? he wondered. Think so. Lifting the saw to his brow, he offered a salute to the dismembered corpse on the floor.

  'So long, Ben - it's been good to know you. Been a treat. Been a hoot.' He laughed and went to the front door of the house. Opening it a crack, he peered out. He saw no one, so he stepped outside. On his way across the yard, he looked all around. He saw a few people here and there, milling about in the distance. They were too far away to matter - so far away that they hardly seemed to exist, at all. He heard distant noises, too: sirens and alarms, bangs, engine noises of cars and trucks and airplanes and helicopters, even a tinny voice amplified by a loudspeaker. But all these noises were far away, and the neighborhood itself seemed oddly quiet. A ghost town, he thought. My ghost town. All mine.

  From the curb, he looked across the street and down the block. Past the Taylor house, past his own house, past Judy's… He wondered how Judy was doing. Should he pay her a visit? No no no. A waste of time. She's right in the tub where left her. It'd take Houdini to get loose, the way had her tied to that chair and the faucets. As he started to cross the street, he gazed at Judy's house. He remembered the look and feel of her. It'd only take a minute to drop in and check on her, he thought. Make sure she isn't getting loose. He laughed softly. It'd take a lot more than a minute. First, he would have to untwist the hanger and free her hands and take the chair off her. Then for the fun. But he wouldn't want to kill her, so he'd have to make her secure again after he got finished. Re-do the bit with the chair and hanger. Only then would he be able to go next door to the Benson's pool. He wanted to do it. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He got stiff, thinking about it. He was stiff when he walked past his own house. He looked at the broken picture window and imagined Mother sprawled on the floor of the living room. If she could see me now! 'Just what do you think you're doing, young man? Have you lost your senses? Get inside this minute and put on some clothes! What's got into you? You look like some sort of a pervert, galavanting around that way. You're positively indecent!'

  By the time he had left his house behind, he was laughing regularly, and no longer aroused. He decided not to bother with a visit to Judy.

  'She'll keep,' he said as he walked past her house. Anyway, he'd already had her. She'd been terrific, but would be a shame to use himself up on a third-rate gal like Judy when he had Sheila waiting for him.

  What'll I tell Sheila about Ben? he wondered. Better come up with a good one. Maybe tell her they rescued the kid just fine, but she couldn't be moved, so Ben volunteered to stay with her. Hell, he thought, can tell her anything. Doesn't really matter. She's in no position to cause trouble. The worst she can do, stuck down there, is start yelling. If she tries that, I'll shut her up quick. He pictured himself leaping down onto her. What'll I do to her? What a question. What won't I do to her? The real question is, where to start? Start by making her shut up. Stanley had to stop thinking about it, however, when he found himself in front of the Benson place. It reminded him of house facades he'd seen during tram rides through the back lot of Universal Studios. The house's front still stood. It looked just fine except for the shattered picture window. He could see sky through the window. Behind the front wall, the house was down. 'Perfect,' he said. If the Bensons weren't away from home, they were no doubt underneath it. Their driveway was empty, though. More than likely, the couple had driven off to work this morning and were marooned at a distant school or two. Stanley crossed the front lawn to the driveway. The redwood gate at the far side of the house was padlocked shut, but the stucco wall to its right had been knocked down. Stanley detoured around the gate, climbing over broken stucco and lathe and plaster, then jumping to the pavement and continuing up the driveway. As he walked toward the back, he scanned the ruin of the house. The roof had caved in completely, taking down most of the interior walls and crushing whatever else might have been inside the house. The front wall, of course, still stood. So did most of the northern exterior wall. It had gotten off better than Sheila's place, but not by much. He saw nobody. He thought about calling out, but decided against it. If there are dead Bensons in the vicinity, they aren't likely to hear me. Ira Benson is trapped, who cares? Not me. Besides, someone might hear a shout and come to investigate. I sure don't need that, he thought. All want is a couple of minutes to wash off in the pool. Get myself all spiffy clean for my sweet Sheila.

  Behind the wreck of the house, he spotted the pool. He halted, shocked. Empty! No! Can't be! He could feel the cold water. He longed to plunge in and glide through the chill. He had to wash the blood off his body. He needed to get clean for Sheila. And the itch was driving him mad! 'No fair,' he muttered, feeling his throat tighten. 'No fair!' He had counted on the pool. He felt cheated, betrayed. Everything had been going so well, until now. Shaking his head, he shambled closer to the pool. Do people drain the things in June? he wondered. For a spring cleaning, or something? No, that's crazy. This is the time of year when you'd want to be using them. Maybe the Bensons are idiots. He wished they were here, so he could kill them. There must be other pools somewhere, he told himself. He didn't know where, though. And he sure couldn't afford the time to go searching for one. Sheila was waiting. He needed to get back to her and cut her free and…Stanley suddenly smiled. At the shallow end, which was all he'd been able to see at first, the bottom of the pool was dry. But walking closer, he noticed that the blue t
ile floor sloped downward toward this end, the deep end. Partway down the slope, water glimmered. He hurried forward and stopped at the edge of the pool. Below him, the water looked blue and cold. The Bensons didn't drain it, he realized. And the pool looked undamaged, so the water hadn't leaked out through breaks. The earthquake, he realized, must've done this - sloshed out tons of water, tidal waves of it - leaving nothing but a few feet of water at the very bottom of the deep end. He wondered where all the lost water had gone. There was no trace of it, now. During the hours since the quake, the runoff must've spread out, spilled down drains and onto neighboring property, been absorbed by the ground. The concrete apron surrounding the pool had obviously been baked dry by the sun. Amazing, he thought. He'd heard of earthquakes throwing water out of swimming pools, but he'd never heard of a pool being emptied by one. It isn't quite empty, he reminded himself. It left enough water for me.

  'Saved some for the fishies,' he said.

  My luck hasn't gone bad, after all. He couldn't get into the water from here. At this height, jumping into such shallow water would probably break his legs. Even the chrome ladder, over at the corner, didn't reach down far enough to let him enter the water without a risky drop. So he hurried to the other end of the pool and stepped out of his moccasins. The concrete seared the bottoms of his feet. Quickly, he slipped back into the moccasins. He kept them on as he trotted down three tile stairs and walked on the bottom of the pool toward its deep end. As the bottom slanted downward, the walls surrounding him seemed to grow. They were higher than his head by the time he stopped at the edge of the water. He looked around at them. This is great, he thought. Nobody can see me down here. Nobody's here to see me, but even if people were around, I'd be out of sight. Unless they're right on top of me, looking down, they'd never know I'm here. 'Fantastic,' he muttered. My own, secret place.

  This, he realized, was even better than if the pool had been full to the brim with water. A lot better! I could even bring somebody here, he thought. Like Sheila, after I get her loose. We'd be outside, but still have all the privacy we need. And we'd have water. I could wet her up. I could do stuff to her in the water, and that way she'd be all clean and cool and slick. Holding images of Sheila in his mind, he stepped out of his moccasins and walked into the water.