Richard Laymon - Fiends

The revolver dug into her belly.

Get my hands on it…

She lowered a hand, squeezed Willy’s thigh, raised her hand to the hard bulge, squeezed and fondled him there as his mouth pressed her lips roughly and his tongue pushed between her teeth. Sneaking her hand sideways, she felt the steel barrel through his jeans.

‘Wrong gun,’ he gasped into her mouth.

She pulled his zipper down and reached into the open fly.

His hand was no longer under her jersey. It bumped against her hand, and she wondered for a moment what he was up to.

As she slipped him out through his fly, he unfastened the front of her shorts.

That’s what.

She raised her hand to his belt buckle.

Her knuckles brushed the wooden grip of the revolver.

Now! Do it now! Grab it!

But her hand wouldn’t move. It stayed at the belt buckle, trembling.

Willy started tugging at her shorts. They were tight. He jerked and dragged at them until he got them down around her knees. They were loose there. When he let go of them, they dropped to her ankles.

He pushed his hand between her thighs.

Grab his gun!

A finger slipped into her.

With a gasp, she staggered backward. The shorts caught her ankles. Caught and held and tripped her.

Willy held on.

Held on and went down with her as she fell and smashed her hard against the ground.

The pistol butt rammed into her belly.

The bottle under her back broke.

From the clink it made before bursting, Marty guessed it had struck a rock.

The back of her jersey was suddenly soaked with bourbon. And maybe blood. She felt glass in her skin.

‘The bottle broke,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’Willy pulled his arm out from under her.

‘I’m cut,’ Marty said. ‘It’s under my back. It’s in pieces. It’s cutting me. You’ve gotta get off.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Please.’ There were pieces buried in her skin. She felt numb in places. Other places were starting to sting, and streams of blood were tickling along the arch of her back. ‘Just get off me for a second...

Willy pushed himself up and sat across her hips.

She started to raise her back off the ground, but he clutched her throat and held her down.

‘Please,Willy.’

Grinning, he shook his head. Either he was too drunk to understand or care about the glass under Marty, or he liked the idea of grinding her into it.

Pleading, she thought, might only make it worse.

Willy pulled the revolver out of his jeans, tossed it on the wet grass about six feet away, and unbuckled his belt.

‘Honey,’ Marty said, trying to stay calm. ‘Let go of my throat, okay?’ She crossed her arms over her belly and started to pull up the jersey. ‘I can’t get it off without sitting up.’

He leaned back, taking his hand from her neck, and finished opening his jeans. Then he took off his shirt and threw it aside.

As Marty slowly raised her back off the ground, she pulled the jersey up. It was sticky with blood. Shards of glass pulled loose from her back, dropped and tinked against others. When the jersey was off, she flung it away. Sitting upright, she wrapped her arms around Willy and hugged him tightly…

And twisted to the left so they tumbled sideways, rolling.

She came down on her side. Though she felt no broken glass, she knew it couldn’t be more than a few inches away. So she wrestled Willy onto his back. Stretched out on top of him, she pushed her open mouth against his.

Reaching out with one arm, she patted the dewy grass. Stretched her fingers.

Then had to look.

The revolver lay three or four inches beyond her fingertips.

Willy squirmed beneath her, trying to force her legs apart.

They suddenly rolled onto their sides. Farther from the gun.

Marty swung a leg over him and forced him onto his back again.

Straddling him, she reached out for the revolver.

He clutched her buttocks and thrust.

Marty grabbed the gun by its barrel.

Willy’s penis rammed deep into her, throbbing and squirting.

She swung the pistol and clubbed the side of his head.

Willy yelped. His body jerked rigid, and he suddenly went limp.

Except for the part that was buried in Marty.

Still rigid, it kept jumping and spurting for a few seconds after the rest of Willy seemed to be unconscious.

As fast as she could, Marty climbed off.

On her feet, she took a couple of steps backward, then stopped and reversed the revolver and took aim at Willy.

He wasn’t hard any more.

He lay motionless on the ground.

Marty felt blood running down her back, her buttocks, and the backs of her legs. She felt semen dribble out of her and trickle down her left thigh.

Soon, Willy moaned and pressed a hand against his ear. He squirmed a little.

When he opened his eyes, Marty thumbed back the hammer and aimed at his face.

‘Don’t,’ he said. The word came out like a groan of pain and fear. ‘Please, don’t shoot me.’

‘Dirty rotten bastard,’ she said.

‘Please.’

‘Don’t move.’ Keeping the gun leveled at him, she crouched and

picked up his shirt. She wiped herself with it and flung it at him. He cringed as if he expected the shirt to burn him. When it fell onto his legs, he flinched.

‘Don’t move,’ Marty repeated.

Trying to keep the revolver aimed at Willy as much as possible, she put on her shorts. Then she picked up her torn, bloody jersey. She put the gun through its right sleeve and used her left hand to pull the jersey up her arm and over her head. For a few moments, she was blind. But when she could see again, Willy was still on his back.

She changed the gun to her left hand, worked it under the jersey and out through the left sleeve.

‘Okay,’ she said, the jersey still rucked up above her breasts. ‘Pull your pants up.’

As he drew the jeans up his legs, Marty tugged her jersey down. It felt heavy and wet and sticky against her back. It hurt her cuts, but she was glad to be dressed.

She waited for Willy to finish with his jeans. Then she told him to put on his shirt.

When he had it on, she said, ‘Stand up.’

‘Where we going?’ he asked.

‘Back to the car. Let’s go.’

Trying to get to his feet, he staggered and fell down. But he tried again. This time, he made it.

‘Walk ahead of me,’ Marty told him.

He turned his back to her and started walking. He walked awkwardly, sometimes stumbling.

Marty followed him, staying a few paces back and out of reach. Soon after they entered the thick trees, she uncocked the gun to prevent it from going off by accident.

It seemed to take a very short time to reach the edge of the woods.

Marty followed Willy down the grassy slope to where the ground was soggy, and up the embankment to the road. Willy stopped beside the car and turned around to face her.

‘Open the trunk,’ she ordered.

‘Okay,’ said Willy. But he didn’t move.

‘Now.’

‘Whatcha gonna do if I don’t?’

‘Shoot you and open it myself.’

‘You ain’t gonna shoot me.’

‘Just open the trunk and…’

He lurched toward Marty, reaching for the gun.

She pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Willy grabbed the barrel. As he jerked the gun away from her, he punched her in the face.

Marty dropped to her knees.

‘It’s single action,’ he said. ‘You dumb fuck. Gotta cock it.’

His fist came in, smashing her face again. And again. And again. She slumped backward.

Willy said something, but she couldn’t hear him through the ringing in her ears. She tried to get up. Her legs were bent behind her and her arms wouldn’t work right.