Edward Lee - Succubi

Dawn sat down on the grass, bawling. Several other pats began to wander. Mike grabbed Duke by the collar and began escorting him off the field. “You just lost your Class III, Duke.”

“Shag my balls, queer. Your girlfriend licks my crack.”

“Now!” Erik yelled.

Duke lunged, then rammed his elbow back into Mike’s throat. Simultaneously, Erik rocketed the volleyball into Charlie’s face. Nurse Dallion was running up: “Erik, what are you—”

“Sorry,” he said. He really was, because Nurse Dallion was nice. He slugged the heel of his palm right into her forehead. Suddenly, the pats were running all over the place. Erik glimpsed figures dashing. Duke was stomping Mike’s face, then breaking. “Motherfuckers!” Charlie yelled. Erik had time to palm heel Nurse Dallion in the head again, and that was it for her. Charlie grabbed him, lifted him up, and Erik spun. He raked Charlie’s glasses off, kicked him in the groin, then stomped on the glasses. They crunched.

Charlie’s teeth were gritted in pain. One hand held his groin, the other reached out. “I’m sorry,” Erik grated, and kicked him in the head.

Erik broke for the trees.

Two minutes, he told himself. If we’re lucky.

Mike, Charlie, and Nurse Dallion were all out cold. The pats fled every which way. “Fly, Fleance! Fly!” Harry the sterraphobe quoted Shakespeare. Dawn was still blubbering in the grass, while Chad shouted to the sky, “I’m no fag!” as he urinated on the net post.

Erik disappeared behind the stand of trees.

“I took care of this big fucker sure as shit,” Duke was gloating. The lawn super lay limp. Duke pulled two clumps of keys out of the guy’s overalls, and his wallet.

“Jesus Christ!” Erik yelled. “You killed the guy!”

Duke looked up, disinterested. The supervisor’s neck was broken. Erik grabbed the keys and gratingly shouted, “Come on!”

The lock on the service gate was a big Rollings Mark IV with a tubular keyway. Erik fished out the only tubular key on the ring; the big lock snapped open instantly.

This is too easy, he considered. “Walk,” he whispered to Duke. “Walk normal. We’re just two lawn guys walking to our truck.”

Duke loped along beside him, whistling “Hail to the Redskins.” The Ford keys had black plastic shrouds; Erik isolated them at once. Ten seconds later they were pulling the big pickup out of the lot.

“Shit yeah!” Duke exclaimed. “The faggot was right! We’re out of this shithole!”

“We’re not out yet,” Erik reminded him. “We still have the main entrance to get by, and the security guards.”

“Those creamcakes? I’ll bust all their heads.”

“You shouldn’t have killed that guy.”

“Fuck him. Killed Mike too, the faggot. Heard his windpipe crunch.” Duke laughed. “Sounded like steppin’ on walnuts.”

Jesus, Erik thought. “Get ready to talk,” he grated. “I can’t talk, so you’re going to have to.”

This was what would make or break them; Erik doubted Duke’s expertise at method acting. Quickly, Erik opened the super’s wallet. “Phillip Alan Richards,” read the name on the driver’s license. In the back of the pickup were several five-gallon gas cans. “Tell them we’re making a fuel run for Mr. Richards,” he said.

“Fuel run, sure.”

The guard at the entrance stopped them. The gate was down. Shit, Erik thought. He might have to drive through. He might have to kill the guard, and he didn’t want to do that.

“We’re makin’ a fuel run for Mr. Richards,” Duke said. “Lawn King.”

The guard nodded. He handed Erik a clipboard through the window. A sign out log, Erik thought. He scribbled a name, wrote the time in the Out column, then paused. Tag Number, the next column requested. His eyes scanned up the sheet, found the name Richards signed in at 7:23 a.m., put the following tag number in his column, then passed the clipboard back to the guard. The guard glanced into the pickup bed. Then he glanced in the cab again.

“Later, guys.” He raised the gate and waved them on.

Erik pulled through. Slow, he thought. Normal. A moment later he heard the phone ringing in the guard booth. Erik turned the pickup truck off the court and onto the main road.

Ten seconds later the elopement alarm began to blare at the hospital.

Erik pressed the accelerator to the floor.

—

Chapter 5

The old man saw horror in his mind. He saw them.

He saw them naked, praying before their blasphemous slab.

He saw their open faces, their soft hands reaching out—for something. What? The sound of their incantations made him sick, but not nearly as sick as the things they’d made him do. Scieror, they’d dubbed him—a cutter. Bring us ælmesse. Wîhan to this pig.

He couldn’t resist them, none of them could. He’d been good with the cnif, a master; the sensation defied description. To flense a woman, to fillet a man. Once they’d made him cut off a girl’s head and bleed her into the chettle. Broo for the cuppe! and they’d laughed, drinking. Then they’d made him watch as several wreccans had fornicated with the corpse.

Give lof! they’d cry. Give lof!

Others stoked the fire, for smaller and more potent lof.

He’d even eaten with them.

“Don’t worry, dear,” came the wifmunuc’s soft voice now. “This will make you feel better.”

“No, please.” They’re killing me, he thought.

Several figures surrounded him. He lay paralyzed on the bed. They’d been doing this to him for weeks now—he felt more dead every day. Several of the younger ones looked on from behind, their faces bright in wonder, their naked bodies glowing in youth. But he was wizened now, shriveled like a dried fruit.

“You’re sure this is safe?”

A man’s voice replied, “Quite sure. It merely retards the heart rate for a time and restricts the cerebral blood vessels. The brain damage will be minor but significant enough to produce the desired effects.”

“Good. Just don’t kill him.”

A needle jabbed his arm. A cold rush.

From her black mentel, the wifmunuc extended her hand. “Come, girls. You may come and touch.”

They approached timidly at first, then scampered forward. Their small breasts bobbed as they leaned over. When the syringe was retracted, one licked the blood off the puncture. Soon the hands roved his old skin. They giggled.

“It’s providence,” whispered the wifmunuc. “What a wondrous thing, yes? To lay our hands upon the flesh of providence.”

The girls seemed awed. They were finicking with him, like an animal at a petting zoo. I’m a showpiece, he thought as his vision darkened. The room felt warm, his blood turned to sludge. He shuddered as a soft hand gently squeezed his genitals.

“No, honey, you mustn’t do that. He’s a very special hüsl.”

The hand slipped away.

Just let me die, the old man thought. But they wouldn’t do that. They’d kill him, instead, day to day, a piece at a time. Now he could scarcely see at all.

Worse were the things he saw in his mind.

Just let me die and go to hell.

“Enough,” came the wifmunuc’s maternal voice. “We mustn’t get him too excited.”

“Such lovely girls,” commented the male voice.

“Yes, aren’t they?”

The hands drifted away. The young figures stepped back.

“The doefolmon comes soon,” elated the wifmunuc. “You can play tonight, if you like.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed one.

“We’d like that!” exclaimed another.

“But you must eat first, for sustenance. Let us go and eat now.”