Richard Laymon: The Stake

As he stared, saliva began to spill over his lip. He tried to shut his mouth, but the stake was in the way. He jerked his left hand up to catch the drool, but not in time.

A string of spit dribbled onto the vampire’s arm.

Mumbling, she slid a hand out from under her pillow, brushed the wetness, rolled onto her back and frowned as if perplexed. Still, her eyes were shut. She took the hand away. It fell onto the mattress beside her hip. It rubbed the sheet, then rose and came to rest on her thigh, the end of her thumb sinking into the thick nest of hair at her groin.

As he watched, full of dread that she might awaken, yet trembling with a fever of desire, he took the stake from his teeth. He knew he should wait no longer.

But he hesitated. His eyes roamed her sleeping form.

Though she might be centuries old, her face and body were those of a teenage girl. She looked no older than seventeen or eighteen. She looked lovely, innocent, delicious.

If only she were human, and not a foul, loathsome creature of the night.

He ached to kiss those lips which had sucked so much innocent blood. He ached to caress those breasts, to savor their velvety smoothness, to feel the soft rub of those nipples against his palms. He ached to spread those legs and slide deep into her heat.

If only she weren’t a vampire.

Such a shame. Such a waste.

Get it over with, he told himself.

He leaned farther forward, knees pressing against the side of the mattress, and raised his hammer high. His other hand twitched and fluttered as he lowered the tapered shaft toward her chest. The shaking point passed over her left breast, moved slightly higher, hovered half an inch above her skin.

There.

One strong blow and...

Her eyes leaped open. She gasped. She clutched his wrist, twisted it with all the might of her demonic powers. Crying out, he watched in horror as the stake dropped from his numb fingers and fell, blunt end first, toward her other breast.

A feeling of utter desolation swept through him like an icy flood.

Without the stake...

As it bounced off her breast he strained against her grip, praying to retrieve it. But her fierce hold was too powerful. The stake slid out of sight beyond her rib cage.

He knew, then, that all was lost.

Still, he swung the hammer down at her face. Crying out, she yanked his trapped wrist. She flung up her other arm, blocking the blow as he fell toward her.

He sprawled across her chest. An arm clamped tight against his back and she bucked beneath him, squirming and turning, tumbling him over her body. He no sooner hit the mattress than she scurried onto him and smashed a knee into his groin.

His breath blasted out. Stunned with agony, he saw the wooden shaft in her hand. Watched her raise it above his face. He tried to ward off the blow, but his stricken muscles failed to obey.

He had just enough breath to choke out a scream as the stake’s point punched through his eye.

“How about a little detour on the way home?” Pete asked. He started his van moving. Its tires crunched over the gravel of the parking lot.

A detour. Sounded good to Larry. But he said nothing. He knew that Pete’s suggestion had been directed to those in the seats behind them. If the wives didn’t go for it, the matter was closed.

“You aren’t gonna get us lost again, are you?” Barbara asked.

“Who, me?”

“He gets us on those back roads, no telling where we’ll end up.”

“I always get us home, don’t I?”

“Eventually.”

Pete glanced at Larry. A corner of his mouth turned up, lifting that side of his mustache. “Why do I put up with this, I ask you?”

Before Larry could come up with an answer, Barbara leaned forward and hooked a tawny forearm across her husband’s throat. “Because you love me, right?” she asked. She nipped the ridge of his ear.

“Hey, hey, calm down. You want to run me off the road?”

She wore a sleeveless blouse. A sprinkling of freckles showed on her deeply tanned shoulder. Though the air conditioner was blowing cool air into the van, the skin above her lip gleamed with moisture under a fine, curly down. Larry didn’t want to be caught staring, so he looked away. Just ahead, an old-timer dressed like a prospector was leading a burro along the road’s dusty shoulder.

Larry wondered if the guy was for real. Silver Junction, the town they were leaving behind, was full of characters in old west getups. Some seemed like the real article, but he had no doubt that most were simply playing the role for the benefit of the tourists.

“So how about it?” Pete asked as Barbara released him. “Want to do some exploring?”

“I think it’d be fun,” Jean said. “You in a hurry to get home, Larry?”

“Me? No.”

“He always hates to lose a day,” she explained. “I have an awful time trying to drag him out of the house.”

“The day’s already shot,” he said.

“Same to you, fella,” Barbara said.

“Whoops. Didn’t mean it that way. It’s been great.” It had been a nice change from his usual seven-day work schedule. Fun being out with Pete and Barbara, wandering the old town, watching the gunfight on Main Street, having a burger and a couple of beers in the picturesque saloon. “I need to get out more, anyway, or I’d run dry.”

“Everything we do ends up in his books,” Jean explained, “but he still hates to be dragged away from his almighty word processor.”

“That’s what keeps a roof over our heads.”

Pete tipped his head back as if to carom his voice off the top of the windshield, the better for Barbara to hear. “Let’s take him to that ghost town.”

A ghost town.

A warm, pleasant tightness came to Larry’s chest and throat.

“You think you can find it?” Barbara asked.

“No sweat.” He turned to Larry, grinning. “You’ll love it. Just your kind of place.”

“It’s pretty spooky, all right,” Barbara said.

“He’ll be in hog heaven.”

“I bet you get a book out of it,” Pete told him. “Call it ‘The Horror of Sagebrush Flat.’ Maybe have some weirdos lurking around, chopping up everyone.”

Larry could feel himself blushing a little with the stir of pride that came whenever people started referring to his grisly novels. “If I did,” he said, “you wouldn’t read it.”

“ I will,” Barbara assured him.

“I know you will. You’re my best fan.”

“I’ll wait for the movie,” Pete announced.

“You’ll have a long wait.”

“You’re gonna make it,” he said, nodding at Larry and narrowing one eye.

Barbara gave the back of his head a gentle whack. “He’s already made it, dickhead.”

“Hey, hey, watch it with the hands.” He smoothed his mussed hair. The thick black hair was threaded with strands of gray. His mustache, with a lot more gray in it, looked as if it belonged on an older face.

“You’ll be a wizened, silver-haired old coot,” Larry said, “before they ever make a movie of one of my books.”

“Ah, bull. You’ll make it, mark my words.” He tilted his head. “ ‘The Beast of Sagebrush Flat.’ I can see it now. I’ve gotta be one of the characters, right?”

“Of course. You’re the guy driving.”

“Who’s gonna play me? Has to be someone suitably handsome and dashing.”

“Pee-wee Herman,” Barbara suggested.

“You about ready to die, honey?”

“De Niro,” Larry said. “He’d be perfect.”

Pete raised an eyebrow and stroked his mustache. “Think so? He’s kind of old.”

“You’re no spring chicken,” Barbara said.

“Hey. Thirty-nine. Hardly counts as one foot in the grave.”