Blake Crouch: Serial Uncut

"Come on, big boy! I'm right here! You can make it!"

Donaldson staggered out of the woods holding a tire iron, and when the moon struck his eyes, they were already half-closed.

He froze.

He opened his mouth to say something, but fell over instead, dropping like an old, fat tree.

Donaldson opened his eyes and lifted his head. Dawn and freezing cold. He lay in weeds at the edge of the woods, his head resting in a padded helmet. His wrists had been cuffed, hands purple from lack of blood flow, and his ankles were similarly bound. He was naked and glazed with dew, and as the world came into focus, he saw that one of those carabiners from Lucy's guitar case had been clipped to his ankle cuffs. A climbing rope ran from that carabiner to another carabiner, which was clipped to a chain which was wrapped around the trailer hitch of his Honda.

The driver-side door opened and Lucy got out, walked down through the weeds. She came over and sat on his chest, giving him a missing-toothed smile.

"Morning, Donaldson. You of all people will appreciate what's about to happen."

Donaldson yawned, then winked at her. "Aren't you just the prettiest thing to wake up to?"

Lucy batted her eyelashes.

"Thank you. That's sweet. Now, the helmet is so you don't die too fast. Head injuries ruin the fun. We'll go slow in the beginning. Barely walking speed. Then we'll speed up a bit when we get you onto asphalt. The last ones screamed for five miles. They where skeletons when I finally pulled over. But you're so heavy, I think you just might break that record."

"I have some bleach spray in the trunk," Donaldson said. "You might want to spritz me with that first, make it hurt even more."

"I prefer lemon juice, but it's no good until after the first half mile."

Donaldson laughed.

"You think this is a joke?"

He shook his head. "No. But when you have the opportunity to kill, you should kill. Not talk."

Donaldson sat up, quick for a man his size, and rammed his helmet into Lucy's face. As she reeled back, he caught her shirt with his swollen hands and rolled on top of her, his bulk making her gasp.

"The keys," he ordered. "Undo my hands, right now."

Lucy tried to talk, but her lungs were crushed. Donaldson shifted and she gulped in some air.

"In…the…guitar case…"

"That's a shame. That means you die right here. Personally, I think suffocation is the way to go. All that panic and struggle. Dragging some poor sap behind you? Where's the fun in that? Hell, you can't even see it without taking your eyes off the road, and that's a dangerous way to drive, girl."

Lucy's eyes bulged, her face turning scarlet.

"Poc…ket."

"Take your time. I'll wait."

Lucy managed to fish out the handcuff keys. Donaldson shifted again, giving her a fraction more room, and she unlocked a cuff from one of his wrists.

He winced, his face getting mean.

"Now let me tell you about the survival of the fittest, little lady. There's a…"

The chain suddenly jerked, tugging Donaldson across the ground. He clutched Lucy.

"Where are the car keys, you stupid bitch?"

"In the ignition…"

"You didn't set the parking brake! Give me the handcuff key!"

The car crept forward, beginning to pick up speed as it rolled quietly down the road.

The skin of Donaldson's right leg tore against the ground, peeling off, and the girl pounded on him, fighting to get away.

"The key!" he howled, losing his grip on her. He clawed at her waist, her hips, and snagged her foot.

Lucy screamed when the cuff snicked tightly around her ankle.

"No! No no no!" She tried to sit up, to work the key into the lock, but they hit a hole and it bounced from her grasp.

They were dragged off the dirt and onto the road.

Lucy felt the pavement eating through her trench coat, Donaldson in hysterics as it chewed through the fat of his ass, and the car still accelerating down the five-percent grade.

At thirty miles per hour, the fibers of Lucy's trench coat were sanded away, along with her camouflage panties, and just as she tugged a folding knife out of her pocket and began to hack at the flesh of her ankle, the rough county road began to grind through her coccyx.

She dropped the knife and they screamed together for two of the longest miles of their wretched lives, until the road curved and the Honda didn't, and the car and Lucy and Donaldson all punched together through a guardrail and took the fastest route down the mountain.

The Next Day, Location Unknown

The TV droned on in the background.

"…is Gregory Donaldson, age 56, who was in the news a week ago for assaulting a police officer in Wisconsin. He's been linked to over fifty homicides going back thirty years, and found hidden in the upholstery of his vehicle was a large collection of Polaroid pictures, apparently showing him viciously murdering numerous victims. The woman chained to Donaldson, as of yet unidentified, is described as a person of interest by the FBI. They've just released a statement suggesting that fingerprint and DNA evidence could point to her being a serial killer. A task force has been formed to try and close the books on dozens of unsolved murders spanning nineteen states that this duo may have been responsible for.

"This is the arresting officer in the recent Marshal Otis Taylor case, Chicago Homicide Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, who encountered Donaldson eight days ago at a Murray 's truck stop on Interstate 39 in Wisconsin during her confrontation with Taylor."

The scene on the television changed from the trench-coated reporter standing in front of the hospital to an attractive woman in a pantsuit being mobbed by reporters in a parking lot.

"There are predators out there," the cop said. "We've been lucky to nail three in a week. But there are others. Many others. Recreational killers are incredibly hard to catch, but even the smartest of them screw up eventually."

Hmm, Luther thought, turning his attention from the television set to the crying, bleeding man hanging from the ceiling.

Jacqueline Daniels… I really should look her up.

For the continuing adventures of Mr. K, read Shaken, the 7th Jack Daniels thriller by J.A. Konrath.

For the continuing adventures of Orson and Luther, read Desert Places and Locked Doors by Blake Crouch.

For the continuing adventures of Taylor, read Afraid by Jack Kilborn.

In Which Blake and Joe Interview Each Other About the Experience of Writing Serial and Serial Uncut.

Blake: I know it must be a great thrill getting to work with me, probably the real reason you wanted to become a writer in the first place. Did the experience live up to the dream?

Joe: I can't remember where we met for the first time. I think it was Jon Jordan (editor of the Crimespree zine) who gave me one of your books and said, "Read this, this guy is sick like you." He was right. But to answer your question, yes, the experience lived up to the dream. I've collaborated on stories with several authors (Jeff Strand, Henry Perez, Tom Schreck, F. Paul Wilson) but nothing ever came so fast and furious, with so little need for revision. We cranked out almost 8000 words in something like five hours. This might be a good place to talk about our co-writing process.

Blake: You pitched this idea to me in an email: "Now, let's consider hitchhiking. You aren't supposed to go hitch hiking, because the driver who picks you up could be crazy. You aren't supposed to pick up hitchhikers, because they could be crazy. Now if we were to collaborate, I write a scene where a driver kills someone he picked up. You write a scene where a hitchhiker kills the guy who gave him a ride. Then we get these two together…"