Richard Laymon: The Traveling Vampire Show

“Shit.”

“That, too.”

“Ha ha,” Rusty said, unamused.

We picked up our pace slightly, knowing better than to run. Though we tried not to watch the dog, each of us glanced at it fairly often. It kept lurching closer.

“Oh, God, this ain’t good,” Rusty said.

We weren’t far from the stadium. In a race, we might beat the dog to it. But there was no fence, nothing to keep the dog out if we did get there first.

The bleachers wouldn’t be much help; the dog could probably climb them as well as we could.

We might escape by shinnying up one of the light poles, but the nearest of those was at least fifty feet away.

A lot closer than that was the snack stand. It used to sell “BEER—SNACKS—SOUVENIRS” as announced by the long wooden sign above the front edge of its roof. But it hadn’t been open, far as I knew, since the night of the parking disaster.

We couldn’t get into it, that was for sure (we’d tried on other occasions), but its roof must’ve been about eight feet off the ground. Up there, we’d be safe from the dog.

“Feel like climbing?” Slim asked. She must’ve been thinking the same as me.

“The snack stand?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“How?” asked Rusty.

Slim and I glanced at each other. We could scurry up a wall of the shack and make it to the roof easily enough. We were fairly quick and agile and strong.

But not Rusty.

“Any ideas?” I asked Slim.

She shook her head and shrugged.

Suddenly, the dog lurched ahead of us, swung around and planted its feet. It lowered its head. Growling, it bared its upper teeth and drooled. It had a bulging, crazed left eye. And a black, gooey hole where its right eye should’ve been.

“Oh, shit,” Rusty muttered. “We’re screwed.”

“Take it easy,” Slim said. Her voice sounded calm. I didn’t know whether she was talking to Rusty or the dog. Or maybe to both of them.

“We’re dead,” Rusty said.

Glancing at him, Slim asked, “Have you got anything to feed it?”

“Like what?”

“Food?”

He shook his head very slightly. A drop of sweat fell off the tip of his nose.

“Nothing?” Slim asked.

“You’ve always got food,” I told him.

“Do not.”

“Are you sure?” Slim asked.

“I ate it back in the woods.”

“Ate what?” I asked.

“My Ding-Dong.”

“You ate a Ding-Dong in the woods?”

“Yeah.”

“How come we didn’t see you?” I asked.

“I ate it when I was taking my piss.”

“Great,” Slim muttered.

“I didn’t have enough to share with you guys, so…”

“Could’ve saved some for the Hound of the goddamn Baskervilles,” Slim pointed out.

“Didn’t know…”

The hound let out a fierce, rattling growl that sounded like it had a throat full of loose phlegm.

“You got anything, Dwight?” Slim asked.

“Huh-uh.”

“Me neither.”

“What’re we gonna do?” Rusty asked, a whine in his voice. “Man, if he bites us we’re gonna have to get rabies shots. They stick like a foot-long needle right into your stomach and… ”

Slim eased herself down into a crouch and reached her open hands toward the dog. Its ears flattened against the sides of its skull. It snarled and drooled.

“You sure you wanta do that?” I asked her.

Ignoring me, she spoke to the dog in a soft, sing-song voice. “Hi there, boy. Hi, fella. You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You looking for some food? Huh? We’d give you some if we had any, wouldn’t we?”

“It’s gonna bite your hand off,” Rusty warned.

“No, he won’t. He’s a good doggie. Aren’t you a good doggie, boy? Huh?”

The dog, hunkered down, kept growling and showing its teeth.

On the ground around us, I saw small pieces of broken glass, little stones, some cigarette butts, leaves and twigs that must’ve blown over from the woods, a pack of Lucky Strikes that was filthy and mashed flat, a few beer cans smashed as flat as the cigarette pack, a headless snake acrawl with ants, someone’s old sock… a lot of stuff, but nothing much good for a weapon.

Slim, still squatting with her hands out and speaking in the same quiet sing-song, said “You’re a nice doggie, aren’t you? Why don’t you guys see if you can climb the nice snack stand, huh, doggie? Yeahhh. That’s a good doggie. Maybe Dwight can give Rusty a nice little boost, and they can wait for me on top of the nice little snack stand? Is that a good idea? Huh, doggie? Yeah, I think so.”

Rusty and I looked at each other.

We were probably both thinking the same things.

We can’t run off and leave Slim with the dog. But she TOLD us to. When she says stuff, she means it. And she’s smarter than both of us put together, so maybe she has some sort of fabulous plan for dealing with the thing.

I rebelled enough to ask Slim, “You sure?”

She sing-sang, “I’m so sure, aren’t I, doggie? Are you sure, too? You’re such a good doggie. It’d be so nice if you two lame-brain dingle-berries would do as I ask, wouldn’t it, fella?”

With that, Rusty and I started easing ourselves backward and sideways.

The dog took its eye off Slim and swiveled its head to watch us. The threats in its growl told us to stay put, but we kept moving.

With only one eye, it couldn’t watch both of us at once.

Ignoring Slim straight in front of it, the dog jerked its head from side to side like a frantic spectator at a tennis match. Its growl grew from threat to outrage, drowning out Slim’s quiet voice.

She reached to her waist, grabbed her T-shirt and skinned it up over her head.

The dog fixed its eye on her.

“Go, guys!” she yelled.

Rusty and I dashed for the snack stand. I slammed my side into its front wall to stop myself fast. As I ducked and interlocked my fingers, I saw Slim in a tug-o-war with the dog. She had her right knee on the ground. Her left leg was out in front of her, knee up, foot firm on the ground to brace herself against the dog’s pull.

Rusty planted a foot in my hands, stepped into them and leaped. I gave him a hard boost. Up he went. I half expected him to drop back down, but he didn’t. I didn’t bother to look. Instead, I kept my eyes on Slim and the dog.

The dog, teeth clamped on its end of her T-shirt, growled like a maniac, whipping its head from side to side and back-pedaling with all four legs as if it wanted nothing more out of life than to rip the T-shirt out of Slim’s hands.

On both feet now, she stood with her legs spread, her knees bent, her weight backward. The stance, her shiny wet skin and her skimpy white swimsuit top, almost made her look as if she were water-skiing. But if she fell here, she wouldn’t be going into the nice cool river. And the dog would be on her in a flash, savaging her body instead of the T-shirt.

“Get up here,” Rusty called down to me.

Slim’s arms and shoulders jerked hard as the dog tugged.

She saw me watching. “Get on the roof!” she yelled.

And as she yelled, the dog let go.

Slim gasped and stumbled backward, swinging her arms, the shirt flapping. Then she went down.

The dog attacked her.

Shouting like a madman, I ran at them. Slim was on her back. The dog stood on top of her, digging its hind paws into her hips while it fought to rip her apart with its claws and teeth. Slim, gasping and grunting, held on to its front legs and tried to keep the thing away from her neck and face.

I grabbed its tail with both hands.

I think I only meant to pull the dog off Slim and give her time to run for the shack. But what happened, instead—I went slightly berserk.