Richard Laymon - Fiends

‘Closer.’

She moved closer.

‘Closer.’

‘No. Come on.’ One more step, and she would meet Joyce. ‘Okay,’ Darren said. He blinked water out of his eyes. ‘You’re doing fine. Really. You're making great progress. Now, I want you to touch her face.’

‘Don’t make me.’ Her voice came out whiny.

‘I won’t make you do anything. Do it for me. Do it for us. Please. You must get over this phobia about Joyce.’

‘It’s not a phobia .’

‘Then we’ll be able to get on with our lives. I’m sure you’ll even come to like her. She’ll make a fine companion for you while I’m away at work every day. Now, please. Touch her face.’

Barbara raised a wet hand toward Joyce’s cheek. And hesitated, fingers shaking.

Joyce gazed at her with merry, shining eyes.

Glass stuffed in pits.

‘You’re so close now,’ Darren urged her. ‘Don’t stop now.’

Holding her breath, Barbara placed her fingertips against Joyce’s cheek. She prodded it gently. She stroked it. The skin felt smooth and stiff. Like a fine leather shoe.

From behind Joyce’s shoulder, Darren beamed at her. ‘I’m so proud of you!’

Barbara lowered her arm. ‘I did what you asked. Now will you take…’

She gasped as the body lurched forward. Its hands brushed her sides. Before she could leap away, other hands clutched her. Darren’s hands. They grabbed her sides, jerked her forward. Tight against Joyce.

She turned her head, just in time to avoid a collision with Joyce’s face. Their cheeks rubbed.

Darren kissed her, pressed his lips against hers above Joyce’s shoulder. Pushed his tongue into her mouth.

He can’t be doing this!

Not with Joyce in the middle!

But he was doing this, Joyce in the middle, her hard breasts shoving into Barbara’s breasts, her belly and groin and thighs tight and stiff against Barbara. And moving. Rubbing against her as Darren writhed and moaned and thrust with his tongue.

Barbara chomped.

Darren cried out. His hands leaped off her.

She drove her hands against Joyce’s hips and rammed her away, slamming Darren against the tile wall beneath the shower nozzle. He grunted as his head thumped. Blood exploded from his mouth.

Barbara staggered backward to get away from the four feet sliding her way.

She spit out a chuck of Darren’s tongue.

She hadn’t meant to bite it off, but…

Horrified, she watched the bloody slab flop onto Joyce’s belly button.

I’ve ruined him!

‘Look what you made me do!’ she yelled.

Darren didn’t answer. Nor did he move. During the fall, he’d slipped lower so his head was under Joyce. His arms lay limp against the bottom of the tub. His legs were stretched out to either side of Joyce’s legs. His genitals showed through the crevice between her thighs.

The water cascading down on Joyce sent Darren’s tongue sledding down her belly.

Barbara took another step backward. Her foot landed with a splash.

The tub was filling!

He’s gonna drown!

Dropping to a crouch, she grabbed Joyce’s ankles. She pulled. The body slid toward her. She worked her hands up the legs, scooting Joyce along beneath her toward the rear of the tub.

Darren’s face came into view.

The water was up past his ears. His eyes were shut, his mouth hanging open. His mouth brimmed with blood.

‘You’ll be okay!’ she cried. ‘I’ll save you!’

His eyes opened.

Thank God!

Red spray exploded like a geyser as he shrieked, ‘BITCH!’

He sat up fast. His chest met the top of Joyce’s head and raised her body. She came up rigid like a plank lifted at one end.

Barbara, lurching to get away from Darren, slipped.

And fell forward, her knees driving down into Joyce’s belly.

Krrrrrrk!

Joyce’s head jumped forward, chin poking into her throat, face rolling against her chest. Between her breasts, her head was upside down, ponytail toward Barbara, the stump of her snapped neck straight up, catching spray.

Darren roared with rage.

Barbara snatched up the head by its ponytail.

As Darren leaned forward and reached for her, she whipped Joyce’s head against the side of his face. It caved in his cheekbone and bounced off, its glass eyes flying out and shattering against the front of the tub. Darren’s eyes rolled upward. He slumped. She swung the head around and around by its ponytail, and struck him again. This time, Darren’s left eye popped from its socket and dangled by a cord. The third blow mashed it. The fourth sent teeth flying from his mouth.

‘Joyce is durable, all right, you bastard!’

She kept on bashing his head until Joyce’s broken skull parted company with her scalp. This happened while Barbara was winding up for another strike. Her weapon suddenly went nearly weightless. She cringed as airborne head bones crashed against the shower door. Some bounced off and rained down on her shoulder and back.

She threw down the sodden mop of hair.

Then she tore off Joyce’s right arm and used it on Darren until it broke apart. She had to pause and catch her breath before ripping the left arm from its socket.

She smashed it down on the collapsed rag of Darren’s face.

The arm didn’t last long.

It wasn’t easy breaking off Joyce’s legs. But she managed. They proved to be well worth the effort.

The new kid came up the street from the house where Eddie and Sharon used to live. We’d seen him once before, the day he moved in. Even from a distance, we’d wanted nothing much to do with him. For starters, he couldn’t have been older than about twelve. For finishers, you could tell he was a dork.

So there we were, Jim and I, playing catch in my front yard on one of those really fine summer nights just at dusk. The neighborhood was so quiet about the only sound was the hardball smacking into our mitts. And this new kid came strolling up the street.

It was pretty obvious what he had in mind. He was wearing a mitt.

Not just any mitt - a first baseman’s glove. Have you ever noticed that the real dopey kids of this world always use a first baseman’s glove? I think it’s because they’re scared of the ball. A big leather scoop like that let’s them go for it without getting too close.

Anyway, he didn’t come onto the lawn. He stayed at the edge of the street, off past Jim’s side, and watched us. We pretended he wasn’t there. Easy enough for Jim, since he didn’t have to look at the kid. He kept his face toward me as we fired the ball back and forth. Once in a while, he rolled his eyes toward the sky.

Other than being too young for us and wearing that stupid first baseman’s glove, the kid was dumpy. He looked like he hadn’t washed his hair for a month, and greasy strands hung down his forehead. He had a face like a pig. Fat, with little pink eyes. And a red nose that was runny, so he kept sniffing and every so often he’d stick his tongue up to lick the snot off his lip. We wore a red shirt with yellow flowers on it. It hung unbuttoned at the bottom. His belly bulged out through the gap like gray pudding. Lower down, you could see his boxers. Like he’d hitched them up, but forgotten to hitch up his pants. They were white with blue stripes. His pants, which looked about ready to drop, were plaid Bermuda shorts. They had huge, swollen pockets, and reached down to his knees. Below his fat calves, he wore black socks. He wore sandals on his feet.

I’m not joking. That’s actually what the kid looked like.

He was a real prize.

I tried to keep my eyes off him, but it wasn’t easy, the way he just stood there off to the side of Jim, watching us throw. I wished he would go away. And I felt like a jerk for ignoring him. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, sniffing and licking his snot, and sort of smiling.