Laymon Laymon - The Woods Are Dark

They went silent. He stepped in front of the oldest male. “You’ll have to take care of the others,” he said, unlocking the right wrist. “I’ll leave you the key. We’re going on ahead. If I can, I’ll hold the car for you.” The other cuff fell loose. He slapped the key into the man’s palm. “Good luck.” He turned to Neala. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s haul it.”

They started to run. Robbins took the lead, holding back to stay with the women. They were much slower than he’d anticipated. Damn it, he should have parked the car closer. He’d left it much too far away, wanting to come in on foot. Sneak in, sneak out. With luck, he might have taken Neala out quickly and silently, and been on the road before anyone knew. If he hadn’t shot that one bastard…

They were almost to the edge of the clearing when Neala grabbed his arm. “Wait,” she gasped. “We’ve got to wait.”

“What?”

She pointed to the group that was still at the distant row of trees, the man busy unlocking cuffs.

“Forget ’em,” Robbins snapped.

“How’ll they find the car?”

“Doesnt matter. Come on.”

“Christ, Neala!” Sherri snarled.

“Look!” Robbins pointed at a far-off figure loping across the field toward the group. “There’s another. Another.” Scanning the clearing, he could make out half a dozen dark shapes: some running, others limping, another scurrying across the ground like a crab.

“Oh my God!” Neala gasped.

“In a few minutes, there’ll be dozens. They’ll get us, too, if we stick around much longer.” He pulled Neala into the woods. She tried to struggle free, at first. Then she was running close behind him. He dashed between the dark posts of tree trunks, kicked his way through waist-high bushes, dodged thickets too dense to penetrate, leapt onto the back of a fallen tree and jumped down to its other side.

Pausing while the women caught up, he listened.

The howling had stopped, but he heard Krulls nearby: feet crashing foliage, wheezing breath, the gibber of their strange language.

“Almost there,” he whispered.

“They’re everywhere,” Sherri muttered. “We’ll never make it.”

“We’ll make it.”

They kept running. Finally, they reached the top of the road where Robbins had left his car. He scanned the area. “We’re all right,” he said. “Come on.”

Crouching low, he ran to the car. The women stayed close behind him. He grabbed the nearest handle. He was about to tug the door open, but a movement caught his eye. He looked up.

The face in the car window twisted, showing teeth.

Neala yelped with fright.

Robbins stared at the face. It was badly scarred. The nose was a ragged flap, as if it had been chewed off in a fight.

There were five other faces inside the car, all turned his way.

Something clutched his foot. He lurched backward, knocking into the girls, kicking the hand that had his ankle. Three Krulls started squirming out from under the car.

The doors opened.

Robbins swung his rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim, at the noseless face, and fired. The top of the head flew off.

“Let’s go!” he yelled.

“Where?”

He fired again, this time taking out the eye of one by the rear door.

“Run! For Christsake run!”

Free of the cuffs, they ran. Lander led the way, taking them across the clearing toward the place where the other three had vanished into the forest.

He took them that way in spite of the gunshots, in spite of the woman moving toward them from that direction. She was alone, a stooped old crone with white hair and pendulous breasts flapping down to her waist. She was armed with a machete, but her crippled back prevented her from moving fast. Lander simply planned to run around her.

“Dad!”

With a quick glance around, he saw a man on the heels of Cordelia. Two more were close behind. Ben dropped back and threw a shoulder block into the nearest one. They both tumbled sideways.

Looking ahead, Lander saw the old woman hobbling toward him. He lunged sideways as the machete slashed. He heard it cut through the air, saw it flash past his cheek, felt the breath of its close passage. He tripped and fell. The crone came after him, swinging. She stood over him. Raised the machete.

Whimpering, Lander shut his eyes tightly.

The blade didn’t fall.

“Lander!”

He looked. Ruth was behind the old woman, clutching the upraised arm, dragging her backward.

He clambered to his feet. He drove a knee into the sagging stomach. Foul breath blew into his face. Reaching up with both hands, he twisted the machete loose.

He hacked sideways, careful to miss Ruth’s arm across the hag’s throat. The blade slashed into one of the hanging breasts. Horrified, he watched the pale sack of flesh fall away.

Ruth let go as the woman dropped to her knees, screaming. Lander swung the machete straight down. It missed the center of the head, glanced off, took away half the scalp, and chopped into the shoulder. He tried again, this time splitting the head.

With a quick jerk, he pulled the blade free. He ran to where Ben and Cordelia were straggling with three men. One had Cordelia around the waist, trying to lift her. She kicked backward and squirmed. Lander circled, but the man turned, too, keeping Cordelia in the way. Finally, Lander threw himself against his daughter. The man stumbled backward and fell. As he hit the ground, Cordelia twisted free and Lander swung. The blade bit into an upthrust arm. The man bellowed with pain. He rolled out of the way, and Lander’s next blow missed. Then he was on his feet and running.

Lander turned to Ben. The boy sat astraddle one, punching down at the face. A second man was behind Ben, about to bash him with a club. Lander caught the standing one in the spine. With a cry, the man jerked stiff and dropped his club. A white club. A bone with a ball joint at one end.

“Dad!” Cordelia called.

He tried to pull the machete free. It was stuck in the man’s back.

“Dad! My God!”

Ruth was already far away, forty or fifty yards away, almost to the edge of the forest—slung over the shoulder of a tall, pale figure.

Lander whirled around. “Ben, get off!”

Ben rolled away. The half-conscious man raised his head. Lander kicked it hard, and the man went limp.

He turned in time to see Ruth disappear into the woods.

“Stay with me!” he yelled, and began the chase.

Just to the right, three people ran out from among the trees.

“Over there!” Lander called to them. “Over there! He’s got my wife!”

The two groups met, and entered the forest.

Neala’s feet throbbed with pain. Dozens of times, she cursed that little prick, Timmy, for taking her shoes. The pain and anger helped her hold on to reality as she followed the man named Robbins to his car, found it full of Krulls like a strange family about to embark on a vacation, watched him shoot two of them dead, and ran for her life away from the car.

Finding the other group again had been a relief, at first. Strength in numbers. But the man, Lander, didn’t care about staying quiet and hiding. He wanted only to find his wife, even if it got the rest of them killed.

“We’ll never find her,” Robbins said after ten minutes of wandering through the dense trees. “We’d better give it up, and try to make our way to the main road.”

“Go ahead,” Lander snapped. “Who needs you?”

“You’ll get your kids killed.”

“I’ve got to find my wife.”

“Hell, she’s probably already dead.”

“No.”

“How can we possibly find her?” asked the girl. She sounded desperate, on the edge of tears.