Andrew Neiderman - Deficiency

First, I'll go for my run, he thought, and then I'll find out from the motel owner where I could go for breakfast close by. It would be a big breakfast today. Maybe even steak and eggs. He got into his sweats, put on his running shoes, and opened the door.

It was a much cooler morning than he had anticipated. He could actually see his breath. The sky was clear and a darker shade of blue. Across the way the branches of trees denuded of their leaves turned the scene into a field of skeletons, bones growing out of tree trunks, scarecrows picked clean by oncoming winter, nature's vulture. The bark of many of the trees looked streaked with dried blood. A pair of crows seemed to be looking his way, nervously lifting and dropping their wings as if they were churning up energy for a quick getaway should it be required.

"Hey!" he screamed at them.

One flew off and then the other, after a moment of courage, followed quickly. They circled and disappeared to the right.

He laughed and then stepped completely out of the room. When he looked down the railroad car-designed motel building, he saw his was the only vehicle. He had been the only customer last night. The owner had been right about the dropoff of his business. How the hell did this guy exist? he wondered. He could see the light was on in the office. Walking at a brisk pace to warm up, he started in that direction. When he reached it, he glanced at the newspaper machine at the front door and stopped instantly. The resemblance between him and the drawing on the front page was very clear, very sharp. So much so, it was as if he was looking into a mirror that reflected only one's highlights, but enough of them to make it clear that one was looking at oneself. He read that the police were looking for this man for questioning about the death of Paula Gilbert, a country singer who had performed at the Old Hasbrouck Inn. There were no other details about the man they were looking for, but what he had read and the picture drawn was enough to disturb him deeply. This was the first time such a thing had occurred, and he hated the idea of being the hunted. That's what I do. That's my purpose, he wanted to shout.

His eyes lifted from the machine to the window of the office door. Through it he could see the motel owner staring down at the front page of the paper. He seemed to sense his presence and lifted his eyes, too. They confronted each other. Panic rose to the surface of the owner's face, coming out of it like a thick, red blotch. His eyes brightened like two tiny lights warning outsiders not to enter his thoughts, recording was taking place within.

Without hesitation, he lunged at the door and stepped into the office. The motel owner backed away from the counter.

"Good... morning..." he said, practically choking on each syllable. "How was, was your room?"

"Full of snakes," he replied.

"Whaaa."

"Snakes!" he shouted. "Snakes, everywhere. You put me in a den of snakes!" The owner shook his head vigorously and continued to back up.

"What are you talking about? What snakes?"

In response, he moved quickly, practically leaping over the counter until he was at him, his hands grasping the man at the neck and practically lifting him off the floor as he drove him back into his living quarters, smashing the door open and pushing him in until he stumbled and fell to the floor, carrying him over with him as he went down.

The man struggled to break free and was doing well, his panic giving him unusual strength. Quickly, realizing the motel owner might break loose, he drove his knee onto the man's Adam's apple and pressed all of his weight there. The motel owner's face began to explode with terror. His eyes bulged, rising like hard-boiled eggs being squeezed in the middle. His mouth contorted, the lips losing all their shape, and the blood that rose to the surface of his face seemed to jell and clog in the pores of his skin. His choking grew more and more intense. He clawed and swung and tried to buck like a wild horse so he could throw his aggressor off, but nothing worked. He began to lose consciousness. His tongue edged its way out from under his clenched teeth and peered about like a desperate thick-headed snake. It trembled along with the rest of him until he gasped a final time and then sunk into himself, dropping into his death like a rock sinking in water.

Still he pressed his knee into the dead man's throat as if he had to put a stamp of success on this kill. This sort of battle and killing wasn't something he liked doing. Killing the old lady was one thing. That was nearly effortless on his part. This was a whole different scene, a victim who put up real resistance, so much in fact that he was surprised himself at how successful he had been. Producing death in the women he was with for sexual and feeding reasons came subtly at first and then with an ecstatic easiness that gave him pleasure. This sort of struggle with a man who could offer some opposition required a much bigger physical effort and was therefore far uglier to him. For one thing there was no sexual enjoyment, and for another it made him feel dirtier. The man's sweat was on his hands and the stench of his death, imagined or otherwise, was already rising up to his nostrils.

He stepped back and looked down at him.

Drool ran out of the sides of the man's mouth and down his chin. It was revolting. He hated him even more in death than he had in life.

"You know," he said, "when I first set eyes on you, I knew I was going to have to stamp you out. You're too ugly to live. And what kind of a life did you have anyway, huh?" he shouted at him, waiting as if he expected the corpse would smile and nod and agree he had no reason to be. He would be as grateful as the old lady had been. Or at least, he should be.

"This place...it's a world of death. You should have put yourself to sleep in one of the empty rooms.

"No, instead you were going to do me harm, weren't you? Me, who has ten times the reason to live than you do. You're... you're... an ant, a bug," he said and stepped on the man's swollen abdomen. The mushy feeling disgusted him. He gazed around the pathetic-looking apartment. The furniture looked as if it had all been rejected by a thrift shop. Not even a charity would accept it. The rug was worn so thin, he could see floorboard beneath it in spots, and the sofa dripped stuffing and showed broken springs beneath. The room actually stunk with staleness.

"This putrid life you led, it disgusts me," he muttered. He seized the man's right ankle and pulled the body along the carpet, his head bobbing and turning as though he was saying, "NO! Stop!"

He deposited the corpse in a corner so no one could look through the door and see it lying there. He even sat him up, leaning him against the wall so there would be less of his legs in sight. His head fell forward and he stared down at the owner's coal-black hair, bald spots now quite visible.

"So much for your stupid dye job," he muttered.

Then, he stepped back and tried to remember what he was going to do before all this had exploded in his face.

Oh yes, jog, he thought and started out. When he looked at the paper on the counter again, he stopped. His gaze went from the drawing to the door and then back to the drawing. He couldn't go out there now. Not with that picture plastered everywhere. Someone was sure to spot him.

He backed away as if someone was coming to the door. It was as quiet and deserted looking as it had been, but this situation was no good. Get in the car and drive away, he thought. Go where people won't see the picture and read the description.

"Maybe we should reconsider when you take your vacation, Terri," Hyman Templeman said. She and her mentor met first thing every morning to go over what they knew to be the day's expected events. "As soon as Curt can travel, take him and disappear for a while."