Quake

  'Can you feel it?' he whispered, pushing against her. She didn't respond. 'Answer me.' She didn't.

  'This is a test,' he whispered. He clamped both nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

  'Tell me when it hurts'

  He squeezed. Not gently. She didn't flinch rigid and scream with pain, as Stanley thought she might. But she did moan. She did squirm slightly. As if disturbed in her sleep. Then she started to cough. A wet, rattling cough. Stanley cupped her breasts loosely so he could feel them lurch and bounce, slapping against his hands as she was wracked with spasms of coughing. Don't wait till she stops. Get her now while she's screwed up! Clutching her breasts, he pulled her backward until she was tight against him, then put his feet on the bottom and stood up, lifting her. The water was almost waist-high. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted the chrome ladder fixed on the side of the pool, near the corner. It didn't extend down very far - it was intended for use when the pool was full. He wondered if he would be able to reach the lowest rang. Hoped so.

  Wading backward, he dragged Sheila toward the ladder. She twisted and writhed, and couldn't stop coughing. At the corner of the pool, he swung her around and shoved her at the wall. She didn't bring up her arms in time to stop the collision. Her body made a wet, smacking sound when it hit the tiles. Her forehead thumped. Stanley's hands felt pleasantly trapped between the wall and her breasts. He kept them there while Sheila coughed a few more times. Then he slipped them free. He stepped away from her back, grabbed her upper arms, and spun her around to face him. She tried to push him away. The effort was feeble. So much for our Amazon, Stanley thought. Bash her around enough, she ain't so tough. He thrust her bound arms high.

  Her wrists reached almost to the ladder's lowest rung. Pinning them to the wall with his left hand, he caught the dangling strand of barbed wire with his right. Though he jabbed himself a few times, he drew the wire up and wound it around the side rail and bottom rung of the ladder. With a few twists, it was secure. He stepped back. 'Fabulous,' he muttered. In his wildest fantasies, perhaps Sheila had almost looked like this. But perhaps not quite so beautiful, so vulnerable, so ready for him. Most of the filth and blood had been washed away. Except for a few bright red trickles sliding down her forearms from fresh wounds on her wrists, her skin looked clean and glossy. It ran with streamers of silver water. It dripped diamonds. Arms raised high, she stood straight and tall, her head back. Each time she coughed, her body shook. Between coughs, she panted for air. The shaking and panting did wonderful things to her breasts. The ruffled surface of the water encircled Sheila's waist like a fluid, transparent skirt, vaguely pink. Just below it, the fine curls of her pubic hair sparkled like gold. Stanley could see through them as if they weren't there. Her legs seemed to blush in the sunlit, blood-tinted water. Stanley knew they weren't moving, but they appeared to undulate.

  My Sheila, Stanley thought. Just the way always dreamed, only better. While he was gazing at her, she lowered her head. She grimaced at him, eyes squeezed almost shut, teeth bared. She coughed a couple more times, then sniffed.

  'Are you all right?' Stanley asked. She didn't answer. 'You look spectacular.'

  He moved closer. He dipped his hands into the water by her hips, then slid them up her sides to the smooth hollows of her armpits. Then he explored the sleek muscles of her upraised arms before sliding his hands down to her breasts. He watched her breasts as he fondled them, hefted them, pressed them together, squeezed them. Sometimes, Sheila moaned. She likes it, Stanley thought. She squirmed and made quiet wincing sounds when he pinched her nipples. When he pulled and twisted them, her back seemed to stiffen and she hissed through her teeth. He caught one of her nipples between his lips. He flicked and wiggled it with his tongue, then opened wide and sucked in her breast until his mouth was full of the slippery, cool flesh. He tested its springiness with the edges of his teeth. What if I bite it? Bite it off and eat it? She wouldn't look so great afterwards, but imagine the screaming. And the taste. And she'd turn into part of me, flesh of my flesh… Sheila attacked him with her knee. Stanley felt it thrust in and slide up between his thighs. A groin shot - sapped of its power by the weight of the water. If we hadn't been in the pool… But we are. Yes yes. As the knee rushed upward, Stanley shut his legs to trap it. But the water slowed him. By the time he clamped his thighs against the sides of Sheila's knee, it was already touching his scrotum. Instead of crashing into his testicles, her knee simply stopped, barely touching him, and hoisted Stanley upward. His feet lifted from the bottom of the pool. His mouth lost hold of her breast, which popped out with a squelchy, sucking noise. Rising out of the water, he saw the fierce look on her face. The agony. And despair, because she had failed. Stanley was riding her knee like a pony, pointing at her with his stout penis. He didn't even fall off. He simply rode her knee up, and rode it down.

  'Wanta try again?' he asked. She glared at him.

  'You could've hurt me, you know. You could've ruined everything.'

  'That was the point,' she said.

  'I know.'

  Stanley punched her in the stomach. There was no water in the way to slow down his fist, so it landed good just above her navel. It sounded like smacking wet meat. Her breasts jumped nicely. Her legs jerked upward to double over but couldn't. Her breath blasted out and was smashed backward against the side of the pool. Stanley punched her once more in the same place. Not only did her breasts bounce like before, but this time her eyes bulged wildly and her knees broke the surface of the water so that she hung there by the barbed wire around her wrists. Hung there and squeaked as she tried to haul air into her lungs. Fabulous! Stanley shoved his hands into the creases behind her knees. Clutching her there, he pulled the knees wider apart and drew them toward him and stepped between them. As he lifted them above his hips, her dripping cleft came up out of the water and tilted toward him. He plunged into her. He thrust up hard, rising on his tiptoes to reach high and deep, staggered by her tight, gripping slickness. It had never been like this for him. Not even close. This was better than he'd thought possible. I'm in her! In Sheila. I'm fucking her. Yes. Sliding his hands up the backs of her thighs, he clutched the solid globes of her buttocks. He clung to them and tried not to move. Don't move a muscle, he told himself. Don't, or you'll lose it. Hang on. You're in her. In her as in as it gets. Hang on. Make it last. Try to think of something else. That'd be a neat trick. Suddenly, the hug of Sheila around his shaft was too much. Or maybe the knowledge that he was inside her, inside Sheila, finally, was more than he could stand. He felt himself swelling tight with a massive urgency. Even if he didn't move, he was past being able to stop. Even if he tried to think of something else. No use holding back. Go for it. Gripping her ass, he quickly slid almost all the way out. When only his tip was still embedded, he rammed hard into her again. He felt as if he were being clutched and sucked up. Torn from his throat was a noise he'd never made before. 'RA -AHHH.' And he was pounding inside her, throbbing, pumping, grabbing her by the hips and trying to shove himself higher and deeper, jolting her so hard that he had trouble hanging on. Slam it to her, slam it to her, slam it to her. Yes yes yes! 'Stop it! Leave her alone!'

  He heard the shout - a woman's voice from close behind him. But the voice couldn't stop him. He kept thrusting, squirting.

  'Get away from her right now!' Someone I know, he thought. But who? Judy! Sounds just like her. How the hell did Judy get loose? 'Get away from her or I'll shoot!' Shoot?

  He quit thrusting. He was done with Sheila, anyway -at least for now.

  'I'll stop!' he gasped. 'Don't shoot!'

  'Put your hands up!'

  He let go of Sheila's hips and raised his arms. Though longer supported by his hands, she stayed against him, impaled.

  'Judy?' Stanley asked, not looking back.

  'You better believe it.'

  'Don't shoot.' He took a few quick breaths. 'I give up.'

  'Get away from the woman.'

  He nodded. Then he tried a couple
more thrusts. Look Ma, no hands! Great. I could do her all over again.

  'You fucking bastard!' Judy cried out.

  And a new voice said, 'Here, give itto me. I'll shoot him.' He pulled out fast and turned around.

  When he'd last seen Judy, she had been naked at the house in her bathtub, feet bound to the faucets, a chair on her chest, her arms wired together with a hanger.

  Now, she stood directly across from him, looking down on him from the edge, only the width of the pool away. She was dressed.

  It looked like the clothes she'd been wearing that morning. Her arms were straight out in front of her. She was using them to hold the revolver that was aimed at his chest. The revolver was big and shiny. It looked like something Harry might use.

  Standing by Judy's side, tugging the sleeve of her shirt, 'was Weed. 'Give it to me,' Weed said. 'I'll blow his fucking head off.'

  Judy shook her head. 'Don't do that.'

  Weed. She looked exactly the same as Stanley remembered her: skinny and mean, her scalp hairless except for black stubble like a two-day growth of whiskers, her eyebrows pointed, her eyes tiny, her chin sharp. She still wore the gray tank top that was cut off just below her ribcage. The golden ring in her navel glinted in the sunlight. Her jeans looked ready to drop from her lean hips. She held a butcher knife in her left hand. Stanley'd had big plans for her. If only he could've found her before. Seeing Weed with Judy, a lot of things suddenly made sense. He hadn't searched for her in Judy's house. But that was obviously where she'd gone to hide from him. And while there, she must've found Judy in the bathtub and set her free. Two of his victims, joining forces. And coming for him. Shouldn't have cut through Judy's back yard. Shouldn't have made Sheila scream so much. Tipped 'em off, and now they're here like a couple fucking harpies. It's like somekind of a nightmare, Stanley thought. Maybe it is a nightmare. Maybe none of this is real, and I'm asleep. Or in a coma. Maybe I never even got out of the house this morning, and I'm trapped there under…Bullshit, he thought. Forget the 'Owlcreek Bridge' bullshit, this is real. It better be real, or was I only dreaming I fucked Sheila. It's real, he told himself. So deal with it.

  'I surrender,' he called. 'Don't shoot. You don't wanta hurt Sheila. I mean, that's a big gun. It'd shoot right through me and right through her, too. You don't wanta kill her, do you?'

  'Of course not,' Judy said. 'Just you.'

  'I give up. See?' He raised his hands even higher. 'I won't try anything. I promise. Just tell me what you want me to do.', With the barrel of the revolver, Judy gestured to her right. 'Move that way.'

  He looked back at Sheila. She was still panting for air, her head was upright between her raised arms. She was watching him, her eyes narrow. He faced Judy again. 'She won't be in the line of fire if I move over there. What's to stop you from shooting me?'

  'I could shoot you where you stand.'

  'And kill Sheila.'

  Hand on Judy's arm, Weed leaned closer to her and spoke softly. Stanley heard the murmur of her voice, but couldn't make out any of the words. Judy nodded. Keeping the revolver aimed at Stanley, she sidestepped to the corner of the pool and started walking toward him. Oh, no, he thought. Then he gasped, 'Shit!' as Weed, straight in front of him, leaped off the edge. She dropped toward the water, the bottom of her tank top gliding up. Her breasts were tanned as dark as her belly. They had wonderful nipples that stuck out, and Stanley wanted to feel them in his mouth. She vanished for a moment in the middle of a splash. When Stanley could see her again, she was soaking wet, her tanned skin gleaming, her tank top clinging to her breasts. She waded toward him. The water was high enough, on Weed, to cover the ring in her belly button. The blade of the knife in her left hand was at least twelve inches long. Should've kept after her, Stanley thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Could've taken her down and had her. And taken her out of the picture. Now she's gonna kill me. If she doesn't, Judy will.

  As Weed sloshed closer, he looked over his shoulder. Judy stood at his corner of the pool, not far from the shiny chrome arches of the ladder's rails. From there, she had a clear line of fire at him; her bullet would pass high over Sheila's head.

  'I could've killed you!' he shouted at Judy. 'I spared your life! You owe me!'

  Her upper lip twitched. 'I owe you dick,' she said.

  'I saved your life!'

  'You raped the shit out of me!' she yelled. With the thumb of her right hand, she hooked back the revolver's hammer.

  SNICK-CLACK

  The black tunnel of the muzzle pointed at Stanley's head. Oh, God, I'm dead. He didn't want to see the gun go off, so he turned his face. And found himself looking at Weed. A stride away, she swung the butcher knife at his neck with a hard sideways slam as if she planned to lop his head off.

  The earth shook.

  ***

  The afternoon roared, and the alley shuddered under Barbara's back. Startled out of a dream, she thought, Christ, a quake!

  She thought she was at home, so she tried to hold on to the mattress of her bed. Her groping hands met pavement. She jerked open her eyes. Sky above her. A lurching, shimmying garage to the left, nothing nearby on the right. Nothing to fall on me. I'll be okay. It's the stuff that falls on you… Suddenly, the roar faded. The earth stopped jolting and pounding her, but seemed to continue swaying slightly. An aftershock, she told herself. That's all it was. All? Had to be better than a six-point. But not like the big one, not even close. Now that it was over, Barbara realized that she was hurt. From the feel of things, something had clobbered the back of her head. The alley, maybe. Had the quake knocked her down? She couldn't remember, but it seemed likely. Her head felt as if it had been smacked a good one. Grimacing, she raised her arms to clutch her head. And let out a cry as the movement stoked a fire in her left side. The starkness of the pain frightened her. What happened to me? She suddenly remembered the gunfight. Pete! She'd seen Pete go down, shot by Earl. She'd been hit, herself, but she'd stayed on her feet long enough to shoot Earl while he'd been spinning around to fire at Pete. He'd gotten off his shot at about the same moment that Pete had fired at him - an instant before the blast from Barbara's shotgun had slammed into his back. While Earl was going down, so was Pete.

  Then me, Barbara thought. I stayed up long enough to watch them both get shot. Probably bashed my head when fell. The pains tore a cry out of her as she shoved herself up on her elbows. Below her left breast, her blouse clung to her side like a sodden, red rag. That's where he shot me, she thought. Jesus H. Christ. Shot. I'm actually shot. Forget it. It didn't kill me. Worry about it some other time. She quickly checked for other wounds. Her blouse was open a few inches, and the bare skin between its edges looked okay. The right side of her blouse wasn't too bloody. She looked okay from the waist down. So she raised her eyes and tried to spot Pete. Maybe he's alive. Maybe he was only wounded, like me. Beyond her outstretched body, she saw motorcycles and bodies. A couple of the bikes had fallen over, but most of them still stood upright. Something didn't look…The Lincoln. The huge, white car was gone. Explains how the bikes got knocked over. Who drove off? she wondered. The woman? Some scavenger? Not Earl, that's for sure. That's him, there. The guy on his back. How'd he get on his back? Doesn't matter, she told herself. Where's Pete? She couldn't see him. But a lot of dead bikers were sprawled and piled in the alley. Pete had been standing beyond most of them at the time of the shootout. I just can't see him 'cause of all the bodies in the way. 'Pete!' she yelled. No answer came. She decided not to call out again. The wrong sort of person might hear her. As gingerly as possible, she sat up. The effort made her tremble, and the pain filled her eyes with tears. Blinking to clear them, she looked about for the shotgun. Gone.

  'Hell with it,' she muttered.

  Then she struggled to stand, whimpering, flinching at times with sudden stabs of pain. When she was up, she swayed and almost fell. Spreading her feet, she kept her balance. Her side felt as if it had been scorched with a white-hot rod. She wiped tears from her eyes. She began staggerin
g toward the bodies. They hadn't been stripped. What's with the vultures? Barbara wondered. They don't like biker duds? Just haven't gotten here yet, more than likely. She changed her mind, however, when she halted above Earl's body. Maybe he'd still been alive after she'd blown him off his feet and he'd made a face-first dive at the pavement. She supposed it was possible that he'd turned over by himself. More likely, though, he'd been rolled onto his back by someone else. Someone wanting to get at his mouth. His mouth, wide open, brimmed with blood. Using her foot, Barbara pushed against his cheekbone. His head turned sideways, the blood dumping out. With her sneaker against his ear, she managed to tilt his face upright again. She peered into his mouth. Gory in there, but she couldn't see well enough to tell whether or not his gold crowns had been removed. To see that, she would need to hunker down over him and take a long, hard look. The way her head ached and the way her wounded side throbbed with pain, she didn't want to do that. Doesn't matter anyway, she told herself. I promised him I wouldn't let any damn scavenger take his teeth. So what. He shot me. He shot Pete. We killed him. Somebody took his teeth, tough tacos. She glanced around, searching for his pistol. It wasn't near his body, nowhere to be seen. Gone, just like Barbara's shotgun. Looks like somebody took the guns, she thought. She moved on, walking in among the bodies. Looking at the bloody mouths. Someone had been at them with pliers, she was sure. Didn't take their clothes, scalps, tattoos or motorcycles. Maybe stole their wallets; she had no intention of checking. Scavenger specialists.

  Not my field, honey. I deal only in guns and crowns. How about knives and bridges? Never touch 'em, sweets. I'm losing my mind, Barbara thought. She tongued her own teeth. And wondered if some filthy, jibbering vulture had searched her mouth while she was out cold. Stuck his fingers in. Poked around with pliers. She began to feel as if she might throw up.