Karl Wagner: The Year's Best Horror Stories 11

“The Grab” is a story that would have fit perfectly in one of the old E.C. horror comics—drawn, no doubt, by Jack Davis.

My old college roomie, Clark Addison, pulled into town at sundown with a pickup truck, a brand-new gray Stetson, and a bad case of cowboy fever.

“What kind of nightlife you got in this one-hearse town?” he asked after polishing off a hamburger at my place.

“I see by your outfit you don’t want another go at the Glass Palace.”

“Disco’s out, pardner. Where you been?”

With that, we piled into his pickup and started scouting for an appropriate night spot. We passed the four blocks of downtown Barnesdale without spotting a single bar that boasted of country music or a mechanical bull. “Guess we’re out of luck,” I said, trying to sound disappointed.

“Never say die,” Clark said.

At that moment, we bumped over the railroad tracks and Clark punched a forefinger against the windshield. Ahead, on the far side of the grain elevator, stood a shabby little clapboard joint with a blue neon sign: THE BAR NONE SALOON.

Short of a bucking machine, the Bar None had all the trappings needed to warm the heart of any yearning cowpoke: sawdust heaped on the floor, Merle Haggard on the juke box, Coors on tap, and skin-tight jeans on the lower half of every gal. We mosied up to the bar.

“Two Coors,” Clark said.

The bartender tipped back his hat and turned away. When the mugs were full, he pushed them toward us. “That’s one-eighty.”

“I’ll get this round,” Clark told me. Taking out his wallet, he leaned against the bar. “What kind of action you got here?” he asked.

“We got drinking, dancing, carousing, and The Grab.”

“The Grab?” Clark asked. “What is it?”

The bartender stroked his handlebar moustache as if giving the matter lots of thought. Then he pointed down the bar at a rectangular metal box. The side I could see, painted with yellow letters, read, TEST YER GUTS.

“What’s it do?” Clark asked.

“Stick around,” the bartender said. With that advice, he moved on.

Clark and I wandered over to the metal box. It stood more than two feet high, its sides about half as wide as its height. THE GRAB was painted on its front in sloppy red letters intended, no doubt, to suggest dripping blood. Its far side was printed with green: PAY $10 AND WIN.

“Wonder what you win?” Clark said.

I shrugged. Leaning over the bar, I took a peek at the rear of the box. It was outfitted with a pound of hardware and padlocked to the counter.

While I checked out the lock, Clark was busy hopping and splashing beer. “No opening on top,” he concluded.

“The only way in is from the bottom,” I said.

“Twas ever thus,” he said, forgetting to be a cowboy. He quickly recovered. “Reckon we oughta grab a couple of fillies and raise some dust.”

As we started across the room toward a pair of unescorted females, the juke box stopped. There were a few hushed voices as everyone looked toward the bartender.

“Yes,” he cried, raising his arms, “the time is now! Step on over and face The Grab. But let me warn you, this ain’t for the faint of heart, it ain’t for the weak of stomach. It ain’t a roller coaster or a tilt-a-whirl you get off, laughing, and forget. This is a genuine test of grit, and any that ain’t up to it are welcome to vamoose. Any that stay to watch or participate are honor bound to hold their peace about what takes place here tonight. Alf s curse goes on the head of any who spill the beans.”

I heard Clark laugh softly. A pale girl, beside him, looked up at Clark as if he were a curiosity.

“Any that ain’t up to it, go now,” the bartender said.

The bartender lowered his arms and remained silent while two couples headed for the door. When they were gone, he removed a thin chain from around his neck. He held it up for all to see. A diamond ring and a small key hung from it. He slid them free, and raised the ring.

“This here’s the prize. Give it to your best gal, or trade it in for a thousand dollars if you’re man enough to take it. So far, we’ve gone three weeks with The Grab, and not a soul’s shown the gumption to make the ring his own. Pretty thing, isn’t it? Okay, now gather ’round. Move on in here and haul out your cash, folks. Ten dollars is all it takes.”

We stepped closer to the metal box at the end of the bar, and several men reached for their wallets—Clark included.

“You going to do it?” I whispered to him.

“Sure.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Can’t be that bad. They’re all gonna try it.”

Looking around at the others as they took out their money, I saw a few eager faces, some wild, grinning ones, and several that appeared pale and scared.

The bartender used his key to open the padlock at the rear of the metal box. He held up the lock, and somebody moaned in the silence.

“Dal,” a woman whispered. She was off to my left, tugging on the elbow of a burly, bearded fellow. He jerked his arm free and sneered at her. “Then go ahead, fool,” she said, and ran. The muffled thud of her cowboy boots was the only sound in the room. Near the door, she slipped on the sawdust and fell, landing on her rump. A few people laughed.

“Perverts!” she yelled as she scurried to her feet. She yanked open the door and slammed it behind her.

“Gal’s got a nervous stomach,” Dal said, grinning around at the rest of us. To the bartender, he said, “Let’s get to it, Jerry!”

Jerry set aside the padlock. He climbed onto the bar and stood over the metal container. Then he raised it. The cover slid slowly upward, revealing a glass tank like a tall, narrow aquarium. All around me, people gasped and moaned as they saw what lay at the bottom, barely visible through its gray, murky liquid. A stench of formaldehyde filled my nostrils, and I gagged.

Face up at the bottom of the tank was a severed head, its black hair and moustache moving as if stirred by a breeze, its skin wrinkled and yellow, its eyes wide open, its mouth agape.

“Well, well,” Clark muttered.

Jerry, kneeling beside the glass tank, picked up a straight-bent coat hanger with one end turned up slightly to form a hook. He slipped the diamond ring over it. Standing, he lowered the wire into the tank. The ring descended slowly, the brilliance of its diamond a dim glow in the cloudy solution. Then it vanished inside the open mouth. Jerry flicked the hanger a bit, and raised it. The ring no longer hung from its tip.

I let out a long-held breath, and looked at Clark. He was grinning.

“All you gotta do, for the thousand dollar ring, is to reach down with one hand and take it out of the dead man’s mouth. Who’ll go first?”

“That’s me!” said Dal, the bearded one whose girl had just run off. He handed a ten-dollar bill to Jerry, then swung himself onto the bar. Standing over the tank, he unbuttoned his plaid shirt.

“Let me just say,” Jerry continued, “nobody’s a loser at the Bar None Saloon. Every man with grit enough to try The Grab gets a free beer afterwards, compliments of the house.”

Throwing down his shirt, Dal knelt behind the tank. Jerry tied a black blindfold over his eyes.

“All set?”

Dal nodded. He lowered his head and took a few deep breaths, psyching himself up like a basketball player on the free-throw line. Nobody cheered or urged him on. There was dead silence. Swelling out his chest, he held his breath and dipped his right hand into the liquid. It eased lower and lower. A few inches above the face, it stopped. The thick fingers wiggled, but touched nothing. The arm reached deeper. The tip of the middle finger stroked the dead man’s nose. With a strangled yelp, Dal jerked his arm from the tank, splashing those of us nearby with the smelly fluid. Then he sighed, and shook his head as if disgusted with himself.