Richard Laymon - Flesh

Helen clamped the peanut can between her knees. Scowling down, she plucked the wet fabric away from her skin. She was wearing the same faded, stained, shapeless dress that she had worn only yesterday when they went to the mall. Or a different one, Alison thought, that looked the same. She had several. They were hard to tell apart. She sniffed a fistful of the wet cloth. “A definite improvement,” she said.

“They’re gone,” Alison called from her recliner.

Helen’s bedroom door eased open and she looked around as if to make sure the coast was clear before venturing out. Satisfied, she approached Alison. “So, how was he?”

“He looks like an after-shave commercial.”

“Huh.” Helen ran the back of a hand across her nose. “He’s probably a jerk. Every guy she goes out with is a jerk, you ever noticed that?”

“I don’t know,” Alison said.

“They are. Someday, she’s going to be sorry.”

“I hope not.”

“You go out with enough jerky guys, sooner or later…”

“What kind of pizza we going to get? Salami, sausage?”

“I got some menus in my desk.”

“Get ’em.”

Jake was still trembling when he climbed out of his car. With the flashlight in his left hand and the machete clamped under his arm, he stepped to the trunk. The point of the key missed the lock hole a few times before he managed to fit it in. He turned the key. The trunk opened. He put the machete and flashlight inside, next to the can of gasoline, then slammed the trunk shut.

On the front stoop of his house, he clutched his right hand with his left to hold it steady and got the key into the door lock. Inside, he engaged the dead bolt, then slipped the guard chain into place. Though evening light still came in through the windows, he made a circuit of the living room and turned on every lamp. Along the way, he found himself checking each window and looking behind the furniture.

“Nerves of steel,” he muttered.

In the kitchen, he hit the light switch. He checked the windows and backdoor to make sure they were secure. Bending at the waist because his leather pants were too tight for squatting, he opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of bourbon. A drop of sweat fell from his chin and splashed on the toe of his boot.

Stepping to the sink, he yanked a yard of paper towel off its roll. He mopped his face and wet, stringy hair.

Then he filled a glass with bourbon. He took a few swallows and sighed as the liquor’s heat spread through him.

He carried the glass down the hallway, turning on lights as he went, and entered his bedroom.

He turned on his bedroom light. He looked around. The curtains were shut. The closet door was open, just as he had left it. Taking another drink, he stepped past the closet and looked in. He wandered to the other side of his bed. He had an urge to get down on his hands and knees and peer under the bed.

Don’t be a jerk, he thought. You’re home now. This isn’t the goddamn Oakwood Inn, this is home and there’s nothing under your bed except maybe some dust bunnies.

Besides, it’d be too much effort in this outfit.

After taking another swallow of bourbon, Jake set his glass on the dresser. He unzipped his leather jacket and pulled it off. His blue shirt, dark with sweat, clung to his skin. He tried to open the buttons, but his fingers shook so badly that after getting the top button undone he yanked the shirt up and pulled it over his head.

He unbuckled his gun belt, swung it toward the bed and let go. The holstered revolver bounced when it hit the mattress. He stared at it while he opened his pants and tugged them down to his knees. Sitting on the bed, he popped open the leather strap and slid the revolver free. He placed it close to his right leg, then bent down and pulled his boots off. His socks felt glued to his feet. He peeled them off. He slid the tight pants down his calves and kicked them away.

In the lamplight, his legs were shiny with sweat. He rubbed the clammy skin of his shins, turned his legs and looked behind them.

There were no quarter-size holes.

Hell, of course not. Nothing could’ve gotten through the boots and leather pants. Not without me knowing it.

Jake stood up. His rump had left sweat marks on the pale blue coverlet. He drew down his sodden shorts and stepped out of them.

Okay, I’m a jerk, he thought.

Picking up his revolver, he dropped to his knees and elbows. He lifted the hanging edge of the coverlet and peered into the dark space under his bed.

A pair of eyes looked back at him.

He yelped. He jabbed the gun barrel toward the eyes. He almost pulled the trigger before he realized he was looking at Kimmy’s Cookie Monster doll.

Stretching out an arm, he pulled it out from under the bed. He pressed it to his cheek.

God almighty, what if I’d shot it?

Just a stuffed animal, he knew that. But, like all of Kimmy’s dolls, it was somehow more. It was part of Kimmy, as if she had breathed some of her own life into it. He could hear her say in a low grumbly voice, “Me want cookie !”

Jake had a tight lump in his throat.

“Close call, Cookie,” he whispered.

He pushed himself to his feet. With the chubby blue doll in one hand and his revolver in the other, he headed for the door. He planned to put Cookie Monster back in Kimmy’s bedroom. Then he changed his mind and set it on his night-stand next to the telephone.

Barbara’s side of the closet still had her full-length mirror on the outside of the door. He swung the door shut and looked at himself.

You’d know if it got you, he thought.

Maybe it can make you forget. If it can turn you into a cannibal…

There were no wounds on his legs. His scrotum was shriveled and his penis looked as if it wanted to disappear. He slipped a hand between his legs, checking on both sides of the tight sack and behind it. He prodded his navel, and shivered as he imagined his finger going in all the way. But his navel was okay. The rest of his front appeared all right, though the knife scar under his right nipple looked a little more white than usual.

He turned around. He looked over one shoulder, then the other. He probed between the sweaty cheeks of his rump.

You’re all right, he thought, unless the damn thing went up your butt. Couldn’t have done that, though, without going through the leather pants, and the pants didn’t have any holes.

Satisfied that the thing hadn’t invaded him, Jake took another drink of bourbon. The glass was almost empty. He carried it, along with his revolver, into the kitchen. After refilling the glass, he opened a drawer and took out a large, clear plastic freezer bag.

He wondered if he’d flipped his lid.

Nobody will ever know about this, he told himself. It makes you feel better, so do it.

Some kind of cop, scared as a kid.

He slipped his revolver into the bag and pinched the zip-lock top shut along its seam.

Jake locked himself into the bathroom. He searched the floor, the walls and ceiling, the sink, the tub. Then he turned on the shower. He had a couple of drinks while he adjusted the heat of the spray, then set the glass on the toilet seat and climbed into the tub. He slid the frosted glass door shut.

The built-in soap dish had a metal bar above it for holding a washcloth. He slipped the barrel of his bagged revolver between the bar and the tile wall, wiggled the weapon until he was sure it wouldn’t fall, then picked up the soap and began to wash himself.

The strong, hot spray felt good. Jake told himself that he couldn’t be much safer: the door was locked, he’d checked the bathroom, he was shut behind the shower doors, and his revolver was within easy reach. Nothing could get him.