Richard Laymon: The Stake

“Six months, maybe, to write one. About twenty-five years to learn how.”

“You’d better just stick to repairing televisions,” Barbara said.

“We coming up on the turnoff?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

“We didn’t get any chance to explore the place last time,” Pete said. “Spent too much time screwing around back at that pile of rocks.”

“Watch it, buster.”

“Anyway, we had to get home for some party you were having, so we just drove right on through Sagebrush.”

God, Larry thought, he’d meant it literally. Otherwise Barbara wouldn’t have reacted that way. They’d actually screwed in that old ruin. Inside those tumbledown walls. No door. No roof. Right out in the open, almost.

For just a moment he was there. On top of Barbara. Her eyes were half shut, her lips peeled back, her naked body writhing under him as he thrust.

He banished the image, ashamed of his minor betrayal and the desire it stirred. No harm in daydreaming, he told himself. He had such fantasies often, and not just about Barbara. But he’d never cheated on Jean. He planned to keep it that way.

“You’re coming up on it,” Barbara said.

Pete slowed nearly to a full stop by the time he made the right-hand turn. The road ahead looked as if it had gone ignored by a generation of repair crews. Only a few faint traces remained of its center line. The gray, sunbaked asphalt was cracked, crumbling, pocked with holes.

The van pitched and bounced, swerved to miss the worst of the potholes. Larry found himself hanging onto the armrest.

“You want to slow down?” Barbara suggested.

“You want to get there, don’t you?”

“In one piece, if that’s feasible.”

A bump rammed the seat against Larry’s rump. His teeth clashed.

“Goddamn it!” Barbara snapped.

“Okay, okay. Didn’t see that one coming.”

After he eased off the gas, the ride was still rough, but not punishing. Larry relaxed his grip on the armrest. Looking out his side window, he saw the rusted-out hulk of an overturned car. Its roof was mashed in and it had no wheels. It was well beyond the embankment bordering the road, surrounded by the desert’s litter of broken rock, by cactus and scrub brush. He couldn’t imagine how it had come to be belly-up. He considered mentioning the wreck, but decided to keep silent. The thing would probably inspire another story concept from Pete.

No doubt a perfectly mundane explanation for how it got there. Maybe it broke down and was abandoned by the roadside. People had come along later, pushed it out there for the hell of it, and flipped it over. Had nothing better to do. If someone wanted to salvage the tires, rolling the thing probably seemed more sensible than jacking it up one corner at a time.

Not just someone.

Larry felt a quick rush of joy.

A roving band of desert scavengers. A primitive, bloodthirsty pack.

Maybe they don’t just wait for breakdowns. Maybe they block the road or booby-trap it, then ambush the unlucky travelers. They slaughter the men. They take the women back to their lair — maybe an abandoned mine — for fun and games.

Not bad. Worth toying around with later to see if he could make it work. He needed a new idea. And soon.

“Just around the bend,” Barbara said.

Larry peered out the windshield, but the view ahead was blocked by low, rocky slopes. The road curved through a gap between the desolate rises.

Maybe I can work the ghost town into the scavenger idea, he thought as they entered the narrow pass.

“Thar she blows!” Pete announced.

Along the road leading into Sagebrush Flat were the remains of shacks that had been picked apart by the desert winds. Houses of stone, adobe, and brick had fared better, but even those looked battered, their doors hanging open or gone, their windows smashed. Here and there boards lay scattered on the ground near doorways and windows. Larry supposed that the lumber had once been used to seal the dwellings.

The weathered walls of the old houses were pocked with bullet holes, scribbled with sketches and messages in spray paint. Contributions from visitors to this dead town, making a playground of its carcass.

Many of the yards were bordered by broken-down fences. Along with cactus and brush, Larry saw pieces of old furniture in front of some houses: a sofa, a couple of cane chairs, an aluminum lawn chair with its frame twisted crooked. One house had a bathtub off to the side. Another had an overturned bathroom toilet that looked as if it had been the subject of target practice. The rusted hood of a car was leaning against a porch. Nearby lay a couple of tires, and Larry recalled the abandoned, tireless car he’d seen a few minutes ago.

“Isn’t exactly Beverly Hills, huh?” Pete remarked.

“Love it,” Larry said.

“Gee, and we forgot our spray cans,” Jean said. “How can we properly deface the place without our paint?”

“We could shoot it up some.” Pete reached beneath his seat and came up with a revolver. It was sheathed in a beltless holster. Larry recognized it as the .357 Smith & Wesson that he’d fired a few times when they’d gone shooting last month. A beauty.

“Put that away,” Barbara said. “For godsake.”

“Just kidding around. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

As he concealed the handgun under his seat, Barbara said, “Men and their toys.”

Pete swung the van off the road and stopped beside a pair of gasoline pumps. He beeped the horn a couple of times as if signaling for service.

“God,” Barbara muttered.

“Hey, wouldn’t it be something if a guy showed up ?”

Larry gazed past the pumps. The porch stairs led up to a country store with a screen door hanging by a single hinge. A faded wooden sign above the doorway identified the place as Holman’s. A row of windows faced the road. Not a single pane was still intact. The window openings looked like mouths with sharp glass teeth.

“Might as well start here,” Pete said.

“Great,” Larry said. He thought it might be interesting to go through some of the houses they’d passed on the way in, but those could wait for another day. He was more eager to explore the downtown area.

He climbed out of the van. The wind and heat hit him. Jean grimaced when she stepped down. The wind blew her hair back, made her blouse and skirt cling to the front of her slim body as if they were wet.

“Better lock up,” Pete called.

“There’s nobody around to steal anything,” Barbara said.

“Would you rather I take the magnum along?”

“Okay, okay, we’ll lock the doors.”

Larry took care of their side. They met Pete and Barbara in front of the van.

“I would feel better if we took the gun with us,” Pete said.

“Well, I wouldn’t.”

“You never know about a place like this.”

“If you think it’s dangerous, we shouldn’t be here.” Barbara tossed her head to clear her face of blowing blond hair. The wind parted her untucked blouse below the last button, and Larry glimpsed a triangle of tanned belly.

“Might be rattlers,” Pete said.

“We’ll watch our step,” Jean told him. Like Larry, she was no doubt eager to end the gun debate before it could escalate into a quarrel.

“Yeah,” Larry said. “And if we run into any bad guys, we’ll send you back here for the artillery.”

“Oh, thanks. While you guys hide.”

“You wouldn’t mind, would you, honey?”

He answered by clamping a hand on Barbara’s rump. The way she flinched and jumped away, he must’ve done it hard. She whirled toward him. “Just watch it, huh?”

“Let’s see what’s in Holman’s,” Jean said, and hurried toward the stairs.