Richard Laymon - Island

“Come on, come on,” Wesley said.

“You ready?”

“Yeah. Here, take these.”

I hobbled down the slippery stairs, my sneakers squelching.

From above and behind me came the thuds of quick footfalls.

I tried to move faster.

I wished I could see where I was going.

Suddenly, I could.

They’d turned on the lights!

The mansion had its power on, after all.

I suddenly missed the darkness. The darkness seemed like an old friend that used to hide me in its closet.

Now I was out in plain sight.

But at least I could see, and move fester.

I was about three steps up from the bottom of the stairway. I leaped. The book bag sort of lifted off my back. A second after I landed on the floor, the pack swung down and gave me an extra shove. As I stumbled, a spear shot by. (Connie’s special fishing spear with the carved barbs.) It missed me by inches. It clattered and skidded on the hardwood, and went scooting down the hallway.

I thought about chasing after it.

Which would mean leaving the stairs behind.

Which would mean a fight, not an escape.

Two against one.

The spear wasn’t worth it.

From the sound of things, Wesley and Thelma were already rushing down the stairs.

Not daring to look up at them, I made my turn-around and lunged for the next stairway. About to start my race down, I heard someone cry, “Yeeee!” Then came some quick thuds.

I looked.

Wesley seemed to be poised on top of his head, about halfway from the bottom of the stairs. He was barefoot, bare-ass, bare everything. Except for the soiled white squares patching his boob and butt, all he wore was a belt around his waist.

I glimpsed an empty leather sheath at one hip as his legs and rump slammed down. The hunting knife was in his hand. He held on to it all the way as he somersaulted and crashed down the rest of the stairs.

He came to a stop on his back.

He was all sprawled out.

He looked unconscious or dead.

Up near the top of the stairway, he must’ve slipped on my pee.

And now he was out of the picture.

Now there was only Thelma…

Maybe she’ll fall, too.

She came sliding down the banister like a demented swashbuckler—legs wide apart, rail squeaking between her buttocks, a strange and terrible grin on her face, both arms raised, a machete in each hand.

She didn’t seem worried about the wooden knob atop the newel post at the bottom of her banister.

I was tempted to stick around and watch, but didn’t dare.

I turned away and started leaping down the stairs toward the mansion’s ground floor.

Somehow, Thelma dealt with the newel post. I heard thumps, but no outcry. Seconds later, I looked over my shoulder just in time to see her start down my stairway. This time, not sliding on the banister.

Pounding her way down the middle of the stairs, machetes waving above her, sweat (and maybe some of my urine) flying off her hair and skin, jowls and arms and thighs shaking, her enormous breasts hopping up and down, swinging every which way.

Each heavy step sounded like a battering ram trying to demolish the stairway. I felt the tremors through my own feet as I raced for the bottom. I also felt air coming in through my fly, and realized I’d finally run out of piss.

About four steps from the bottom, I jumped.

I landed on both feet. The book bag whapped my back. I plunged across the foyer, staggering more than running toward the front door. The razor would do me no good—not against Thelma’s machetes. Afraid of hurting myself with it, I whipped its blade shut on my way to the door.

I put on the brakes. Skidded. Not able to stop in time, I twisted sideways and slammed against the door. As I reached for the handle, I glanced back.

Thelma, chugging her way down, had about three steps to go.

I lurched backward, jerking the door open.

The veranda was brightly lit by a couple of spotlights on the front lawn. It surprised me. I wished they’d been off. Wesley or Thelma must’ve activated them, somehow, the better to chase me down.

It worked both ways, though. I could see better, too.

On my way out the door, something struck me in the back. It felt like a fist slugging my book bag. A punch, but no real pain.

The moment I got outside, I dodged to the right. As I raced for the end of the veranda, I took a quick look over my shoulder.

Thelma didn’t slow down enough. After charging onto the veranda, her momentum swung her out wide. Yelling “Wahhh!", she crashed a shoulder against a front column. The blow knocked her to a quick halt. The way her tits swung, I half thought they might fly off and land in the front yard. But they stayed attached and rebounded as she bounced off the column. She couldn’t stay on her feet after that.

I watched her crash onto the floor of the veranda.

She hit it hard with her right side.

I quit running as she skidded and rolled onto her back. By then, however, I had almost reached the railing at the end of the veranda. A fine distance for my escape. But a bad distance for any hope of rushing back and jumping Thelma; she would have plenty of time to recover and get up.

Even as I watched, she rolled off her back and raised her head and met my eyes.

She had a machete in her left hand. Her right hand was empty.

She started to push herself up.

I suddenly spotted her other machete. It lay on the veranda floor about midway between us.

How had it gotten there?

I remembered the blow to my back.

But that had happened while I was still in the doorway.

My guess (later confirmed by gashes in my book bag and journal) is that Thelma had thrown the machete at me. It must’ve penetrated my book bag and had probably been sticking out for a few seconds while I dashed along the veranda. Then, shaking loose, it had fallen to the floor.

Thelma saw me looking at it.

She glanced at it.

We looked at each other.

I suddenly felt as if I’d become the star of a Sergio Leone film. We’re just waiting for the music to stop. That’ll be the signal. With the final note, we both break into mad dashes for the machete—in slow motion.

But there was no music.

This was no film.

Neither of us waited.

There was no slow motion, either, but I can play it that way in my mind. When it happened, though, it happened fast.

As I sprinted for the weapon, Thelma scurried forward and onto her feet. She already had a machete. And she raised it high, ready to chop me.

I had the greater speed, though. My chances looked good for reaching the other machete first.

By maybe half a second.

Then I’d have to swoop down and snatch it off the floor and swing it up in time to stop Thelma from whacking my head off.

The distance between us closed fast.

She wasn’t even paying attention to the damn machete.

Her eyes were on me.

She knew she had me. I knew she had me.

This was just me. Rupert Conway, not Clint Eastwood or Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger or Mel Gibson. This was real life, not a scene in an action movie. These were real machetes.

I was about to get myself killed.

Thelma, threatening the veranda floor with each thundering stride, yelled “Yahhhh!”

I yelled, “No!” and swerved away from our collision course and dived over the white-painted railing. I smashed through some bushes. They scratched me, but broke my fall.

Thelma didn’t leap the railing. She must’ve gone ahead to the second machete, picked it up, then run back to the veranda stairs.

Which gave me a little time.

I used the time to pocket the razor, shuck off my book bag, stuff the bag under the bushes for safe keeping, scramble to my feet and get a start on my dash for the corner of the house.