Bryan Smith - The Killing Kind

“I know you enough. I can’t really explain it. Being next to you all day just sort of felt…right? You know?”

Rob shook his head. “No. I don’t know.”

“I think you do. You do, and you’re just trying to hide from it.”

“No.”

“Yes. It’s that simple human-chemistry thing. That special heat you feel only once in a while, with someone really special. I felt it almost from the beginning.” She slid out of the chair and came across the floor to him on her hands and knees, moving right through the big, wet stain where the boy had bled out on the floor. She crossed her arms over his knees again and smiled up at him. “Yeah, I’ve been a fucking cunt to you. But that’s just how I am.”

Her hands were moving up his thighs again, pressing firmly as they reached for his crotch.

Rob gulped. “Oh, God…”

She slithered up his body and pushed him backward onto the bed. She straddled him again and leaned close, her soft lips less than an inch from his. His hands went to her knees, brushed flakes of drying blood, and almost jerked away again. Almost. “You want to stay alive, Rob? Here’s my advice to you.” Her tongue flicked his lower lip, eliciting a shudder. “Stay interesting. Let me know you feel it, too.”

Rob’s hands moved from her knees, up silken thighs, over her delectably round ass, and settled at the small of her back. She let the full weight of her body settle against him and they writhed slowly against each other, maintaining eye contact, still not kissing.

Then his hands went to her shoulders and he rolled her over.

She laughed.

A sound he silenced with his mouth.

It was hungry, fierce, desperate.

Electric.

And Rob screamed at the end.

March 18

The hours passed in a haze of half-remembered horrors and confusion. The stench of the corpse filled the tight, hot space, covering her like a suffocating blanket. The smell of her own vomit beneath the death smell, steadily tickling her gag reflex, a slow torture that never seemed to end, though there was some small measure of relief after she at last managed to work the strip of duct tape off her mouth. The car’s tires hummed over interstate asphalt. She heard the roar and buzz of countless other cars and big trucks, along with the occasional blare of horns or blast of passing sirens. So many people so close to her, all of them passing her by, totally oblivious to her plight. She drifted in and out of sleep. Once she woke up and knew they had stopped. She heard voices from the car. A man talking. The crazy man. And a woman. The woman laughed. And just as Julie was summoning the strength to scream, the mystery woman screamed. The sound was pure fear at first, but then it changed, became more shrill, and went on and on, an awful evocation of blinding, desperate agony.

Until it abruptly stopped.

Then they were on the road again. Julie heard country-and-western music, the old, really twangy stuff, coming from the car’s stereo. She cried some more and eventually fell asleep with the music in her ears. Then she woke up and knew at once they had stopped again.

The trunk came open and blinding daylight made her blink fast. The first thing she saw was the dead man, her dried vomit in his wild, matted hair. Next she saw the trunk lid standing tall above her. Then hands, reaching for her. She was yanked from the trunk and thrown roughly to the ground.

She cried out as her knees hit the ground first. She kept tumbling, pitching forward and then onto her side, rolling twice before coming to a stop on her back. The man loomed over her. He was bare chested, his muscled torso gleaming in the sun. He wore very tight jeans and white sneakers. More of John’s pilfered belongings, she guessed. The too-tight jeans were far cleaner than the filthy pants he’d been wearing. His body was cleaner than she remembered, too. But his attitude toward her hadn’t changed a bit. She saw it in his hard eyes and the way his upper lip kept twitching.

He was holding a shovel. “You’ve got work to do, cunt.”

He threw the shovel at her. The blade struck her hip and made her cry out again. “Ow!” She sat up and took a look around. They were in a field somewhere, parked next to an expanse of wilderness. She looked at the crazy man. “Where are we?”

His lip twitched again. “Ain’t any concern of yours, bitch. You got a hole to dig. Get to it.”

“I thought I told you not to talk to me like that.”

His hands curled into shaking fists. “Shut up. Shut the hell up. You do what I told you or I’ll thrash you.”

“I don’t think so.”

There was murder in his eyes now, a palpable need to kill. “Don’t test me, little bitch. You’ll be sorry, I swear.”

Julie brought her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms over them. “Lulu will be pissed off if you do anything to me. You know that. I’m special, remember?”

“I remember.”

There was an undertone of bitter resentment in the words. Hearing it made Julie uneasy. The man’s Lulu delusion was keeping her alive for now. But the man’s drive to rape and kill was strong. Logic told her those urges would override the delusion at some point. And then she’d be fucked. Fucked and very, very fucking dead. And someday crime-scene photos of her defiled and decaying corpse would be saved on some other morbid kid’s computer. She needed to buy time somehow, and the only obvious way was to go along with whatever he wanted, all the while keeping an eye out for an opening, some way out.

“I’ll dig the hole, okay? Just try to be a little nicer to me, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Dig. The fucking hole. Right now.”

Julie picked up the shovel and used it to steady herself as she stood up. She wiped grass and bits of dirt from her bare body and looked at him. “I don’t wanna do this naked, dude. You got any clothes for me?”

He smirked. “Got some of that woman’s things in a bag. You can dress after you dig the hole.”

Julie shook her head. “No. Now.”

“After.”

Julie scowled. “It’s because you’re a fucking pervert, right? You just want to stare at me.”

He almost smiled. “Like to do a lot more than stare.”

“But Lulu won’t let you.”

He wiped moisture from his mouth with the back of a hand. “Right. For now. She’s changed her mind on things before.”

Julie rolled her eyes.

I’ll bet.

“Whatever, man. If you get wood and wanna spank it, please do it in the car, okay? I don’t need to see that shit. That too much to ask?”

The man just laughed.

Julie thought about whacking him upside the head with the shovel. It was a good, sturdy tool, with a clean, sharp blade. Probably taken from John’s garage. A solid blow to the head from this thing would put most guys down for the count, at least long enough to do some more damage before he could get up again. But this guy was no normal dude. He was big and crazy. He would probably see it coming. He’d just take the shovel from her and spank her with it.

“So. This hole. Where should I dig it?”

“Anywhere. Right where you’re standing is fine.”

“Uh-huh. And how big should it be?”

“Big. It’s a grave.”

Julie gulped. “Um…”

“Not for you.”

Julie glanced at the body in the trunk. “Oh, right.”

“You killed Clyde. My only friend. It’s only right you should do the work. And when you’re done digging the hole, you’ll put him in the ground and bury him.”

Julie’s nose crinkled. “This is gonna take a while. Hours, maybe.”

He smiled. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Julie glanced down at her bare feet. “I should at least have shoes for this. Or sandals. You can still have your sexy show and my feet won’t get all fucked-up.”