Richard Laymon - Island

At least. No telling what else he might’ve grabbed before coming over to the cages.

Not the ax, I hoped.

I hadn’t seen the ax since our “last stand,” when we’d used it as an anchor for the rope. Hadn’t seen the Swiss Army knife since then, either.

Wesley or Thelma must’ve taken both those weapons.

The Swiss Army knife didn’t worry me much. Though wickedly sharp, my razor was sharper. And the little pocket knife was outclassed, big-time, by my machete.

The ax was a different story, though.

If Wesley snuck up on me with the ax… or some major weapon I didn’t even know about, such as a chainsaw… or even a gun…

No gun, I told myself. If he’d found a usable firearm, he would’ve started using it a long time ago.

Probably.

But God only knew what other sorts of weapons he might’ve found. If he’d looked in those storage buildings behind the house… A family that keeps a tractor mower might own a vast assortment of nasty tools: a chainsaw, a scythe, hedge-trimmers, a pickax, a sledge hammer.

Most of those, I figured, wouldn’t be much worse than the ax. The ax had to be somewhere. Not in his hands, I hoped.

I’d seen, close up, the damage it had done to Andrew’s head.

The ax really scared me.

Scared the living hell out of me until the moment I found out what Wesley did have.

Then I wished he’d had the ax instead.

Wait, wait. Time out. That was jumping ahead. The last thing I want to do is jump ahead—bring myself closer to when I need to write about what’s coming, anyway, much too soon for my taste.

I wish I could just skip the whole business.

I’ve come this far, though. I’ve already written about all sorts of nasty shit that hurt to write about because it was so disgusting or horrible or personally embarrassing. What’s coming is worse than anything else, so far. I’d love to stop writing, right now, and avoid the rest.

That’d be chicken, though.

It’s not as if I haven’t known what’s coming. For days, ever since I first started to write “The Rest of the Story,” I’ve known how things turned out at the cages that night. I’ve known how painful it would be to write about. Now that the time is just about here, I can’t just call it off. Even though that’s exactly what I’d like to do.

I mean, it’s the end of the story. I’ve gone through several ballpoint pens, my entire spiral notebook and most of a smaller notebook that I found in Erin’s bedroom (everything is on Erin’s paper since “Last Words’ at the end of my journal) all to keep track of what has happened from the time Wesley stranded us on this island. I’ve probably spent some seventy to eighty hours writing. I didn’t go to all that trouble just to go yellow and quit before telling how things came to an end.

So, here goes.

Sneaking toward the fireglow, I found myself in the bushes behind one of the seven gorilla cages. From where I crouched, the cage was only a dim, black shape. It appeared to be empty, but I couldn’t be sure. The fire was still a good distance off.

Keeping the spear and machete in my hands, I crawled between the bushes and scurried across a strip of open ground toward the back of the cage. Before I got close enough for the bars to interfere with my spear, I turned to the right and hurried to the cage’s far comer. I slipped around that corner. As I crept along the side of the cage, I looked through its bars.

The fire came from that direction. It was high and far away, as if Wesley had flung a blazing torch on top of one of the cages. The back-light let me see that the cage beside me was empty. So was the next cage down. The torch seemed to be directly above the third cage.

Much farther away than it might sound.

Each cage was shaped like a rectangle, about twelve feet high, fifteen feet wide and maybe twenty-five feet long. There was an open space of about five feet between cages. So the torch must’ve been some seventy or eighty feet away from me.

Because of the distance, my angle of vision and all the bars in the way, I couldn’t see if anyone was up on top of the cage with the torch.

But I could see a woman inside the cage. Her face was anybody’s guess. I recognized her figure, though, in spite of the distance, bars, and murky light. She stood near the middle of her cage, almost directly under the torch, her naked body half-concealed by shadows but unmistakably Billie.

She didn’t walk anywhere, but turned around slowly as if looking for someone.

Maybe looking for me.

Facing my way, she seemed to stare at me. She probably couldn’t see me, though, in the heavy darkness at my end of the cages.

So where’s Wesley? I wondered. Up on Billie’s cage with the torch, or waiting to jump out of the jungle and take me from behind?

I needed a clear look at the top of her cage.

If I could climb this cage…

No. I might’ve been strong enough to shinny up the bars, but I sure couldn’t do it without setting down my spear and machete.

Which weren’t going to leave my hands. Not, at least, unless I knew for sure that Wesley wouldn’t be jumping me.

Keeping hold of the weapons, I retraced my way into the jungle. In among the bushes and trees, I watched the glow of the torch and took a route parallel to the row of gorilla cages. I stayed far enough back to keep the cages and the blaze of the torch out of sight.

For a while, I planned to sneak in near Billie’s cage and try to see if Wesley was on top.

But if I could spot him, he could spot me.

I hit upon a better idea.

Don’t look for him—ask.

Sticking to my route, I continued through the jungle. Past the torchlight. And on, and on, leaving the glow farther and farther behind me.

When I judged that I’d covered enough distance, I started sneaking to the right.

I thought I had probably overshot Erin’s cage, and would need to backtrack and search for it. Luck was with me, though. I came out of the jungle behind the middle of her cage.

After a quick look from side to side, I started crawling across the strip of open ground.

Erin didn’t seem to be aware of my approach. She stood at the door of her cage. Though she was merely a dim shape in the darkness, she appeared to have her back toward me. Her hands were raised to about the height of her head, and seemed to be gripping the bars of her door.

Pausing, I looked to my right and saw Alice’s cage. The girl was hunkered down—as if cowering or trying to hide—at the back corner nearest to Erin’s cage.

I couldn’t see anyone inside Connie’s cage. Which was closer to the torchlight, but a fair distance away from me. I figured she must be in it—just out of sight. Maybe lying down.

The next cage was Kimberly’s. The light was better, way over there. Not so much darkness as a shivery glow. What with the distance and my angle, though, I couldn’t exactly tell where Connie’s cage left off, Kimberly’s began or ended, or Billie’s began.

Someone seemed to be roaming around down there, in among the contusion of bars. I supposed it must be Kimberly, but I couldn’t be sure.

I tried to spot the torch.

Couldn’t, though. Not the torch, just its glow.

At the other end of the cages, I’d been a lot closer to it. From my new position, the bright aura of torchlight might’ve been coming from on top of Kimberly’s cage. I figured the torch was probably still above Billie’s, though.

Anyway, I stopped inspecting the place and finished crawling across to Erin’s cage. When I was almost there, I turned myself sideways. I lay down flat, mashing the tall grass on the ground alongside the bars. The grass was maybe six inches high, so it would help to conceal me. It felt cool and wet. I put the spear and machete by my sides, and propped myself up on my elbows.