Long Legs
By Torrent
Troy Parris had been assigned to the registration desk for the day. He was
the Ranch's best judge of who was acceptable for special programs like this
weekend's - and who would be politely turned away and put on the van back to
Asheville. The young woman who came through the automatic front door just before
noon was clearly acceptable. Tall, slender, long-legged. Close-cropped platinum
blonde hair. Big blue eyes, innocent yet intelligent. A lovely mouth. She was
everything they had hoped for, and more. Yes, she'd do just fine.
"How can I help you, Miss?" Parris asked.
She smiled a cautious smile. "I have this letter," she said. "It's from the
Ranch. I'm supposed to meet someone here, a Dr. Distruggio."
"And your name, Miss?" Parris asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Greta Grabowski," she said. Her smile momentarily faltered. Parris could
understand. It was the wrong name for someone so beautiful. Good thing the Hunt
Club used only first names for the girls who came in for weekends like this one.
"Just a moment," he said, then he disappeared through a doorway into a back
office. Greta looked around the lobby. A powerfully built, middle-aged man and
an attractive young woman were sitting across a low table, laughing quietly. A
bellhop was looking through the glass doorway, rocking back and forth on his
feet. Where had the desk clerk gone? He was cute, Greta thought. More than cute.
Very handsome. And a nice, reassuring voice. He seemed too classy for the job.
The door behind the desk opened, and Parris emerged. At the same moment,
another man appeared at Greta's side. He had striking features: an unruly mop of
curly black hair, thick black eyebrows, doleful eyes and a long, melancholy
face.
"I am Dr. Distruggio," he said, "and I am so happy you've come." He took her
extended hand in both of his and clasped it gently. "You are even more beautiful
than your photo."
Greta blushed. "Thank you," she said. "And thanks for the check. I really
didn't know what to think when I read your letter. I wasn't sure ....Well, I'm
still not sure what this is all about."
"But the check, it was good, no? There were no problems?" asked Distruggio.
"No, it was fine," Greta said with a nervous laugh. "It didn't bounce or
anything like that."
"Excellent!" said Distruggio. "Now, where is your luggage?" He clapped his
hands, and the bellhop rushed over.
"Luggage?" asked Greta. "Well, all I have is this backpack. The letter said
not to bring very much."
"Fine, fine," said Distruggio. "Michael take Miss Grabowski's backpack to
Room 106. And Troy, the key."
Parris handed Greta a large, old-fashioned brass key. Embossed on the big
wooden key chain were the words "The Hunt Club." Funny, she thought, since the
name of this resort was The Ranch.
"Your room is on this floor, right down that corridor. Go, freshen up," said
Distruggio. "Then we shall meet again here in the lobby in, say, fifteen
minutes, and I'll take you to our restaurant for lunch. It has a spectacular
view of the valley. And very good food."
He and Parris watched as she walked away and disappeared around a corner.
"Great body," said Parris.
"Lovely face," said Distruggio.
"She'll be a terrific runner with those long legs," said Parris. "I'm not
sure anyone will be able to keep up with her."
"It will not matter," answered Distruggio with a sigh. "No matter how fleet
of foot, they always make a mistake. She, too, will make a mistake. And then
...." He paused and waved his hand, as if brushing away an unwanted vision.
"You're uncomfortable with all this?" asked Parris.
"How shall I put it? I am on the staff of the Medical Center. I have
participated in experiments far more grisly and repulsive than anything the Hunt
Club has endeavored. But they were for the sake of science. We learned from
them, even if the consequences for the subjects were quite painful, and always
fatal. But this? This is merely to satisfy the blood lust of men with great
fortunes and great, perverted appetites."
"The Medical Center is a major stockholder in The Ranch," said Parris. "Why
don't you use your Center connection to pressure us to stop this?"
"Because I am merely on staff at the Center," answered Distruggio sharply.
"Just as you are merely on staff here."
###
Two miles away, in a barn on a low hill near the western edge of the Ranch,
two patrons were getting a jump on the weekend's festivities. They had paid
$15,000 apiece for a chance to do so, and they liked what they saw: an
attractive, Latin-looking young woman with tousled black hair. She wore tight
blue jean shorts and a pale orange tank top.
Sims, the hunt master, held her arm firmly and was talking to her through
clenched teeth. "Get your goddam clothes off, Sonora. Take them off for these
gentlemen."
"I'm no whore, Mr. Sims. I just clean rooms," she whimpered. Her eyes were
filled with tears.
"I'm not asking you to fuck these gentlemen. Just take your clothes off."
"What's the matter, Sims?" asked one of the "gentlemen," an obese man in his
early forties. "If she doesn't want to cooperate, hell, we'll just strip her.
Right, Davis?" The other man, taller, a bit older and with a four-day growth of
beard, nodded. "If necessary, Tom. But I thought she was here to sort of warm us
up for the weekend. She doesn't seem to be caught up in the spirit of things."
Sims thought for a moment, then released the young woman. "Sonora, I'm
sorry. I know you don't understand what's going on." Then he turned to the men.
"I'm going outside for a smoke. Do whatever you want with her, just keep it
inside this barn. There's plenty of space for her to run and try to hide. She
might make a pretty good game of it."
"And when we catch her?" asked Davis.
"Then she's yours," said Sims. "You paid for her. You can do whatever you
want with her." He moved quickly to a narrow doorway, stepped through and pulled
the door shut behind him.
"Well, it's just us chickens, honey," said Tom. He walked slowly toward her.
Davis moved forward, too, a little to his right.
Sonora backed away. "I'm not a whore," she said in a small, scared voice.
"Why, no one said you were, honey," said Tom. "Which is fine, cuz we're not
looking for whores. We're looking for prey."
Sonora was confused. Pray? Did they want her to pray?
Suddenly, Tom and Davis both lunged toward her. She stepped back and bumped
against a wall. Tom grabbed her wrist.
"Son of a bitch," he cried, as she jerked free. But Davis was on her in an
instant. He grabbed her shoulder and punched her in the face.
The woman fell backward, blood spurting from her nose. Davis yelled and
sucked his fist. Tom lurched past him and kicked her in the side. She groaned
and rolled away from him, trying desperately to get far enough to get back on
her feet.
But Tom was quick for a fat man. He straddled her, then dropped to one knee,
which landed in the middle of her unprotected belly. Her breath whooshed out of
her, and she tried to double up, but he knocked her back down.
He stood, and Davis joined him. They looked down on the bloodied,
semi-conscious woman. "That wasn't so hard," said Tom, but his heavy breathing
said otherwise.
"Bitch nearly broke my knuckles," Davis said ruefully.
"Maybe you should run some cold water over that," Tom said. "It'll stop the
swelling."
"It's a different kind of swelling I came here for" said Davis savagely. He
unzipped his pants and pulled out his prick. "Let's get on with this."
Tom pulled her arms over her head and held down her wrists, while Davis
ripped off her shorts. She wore nothing beneath them. Davis knelt, straddling
her, and felt his dick getting harder. Then he felt a jolt of pain. Sonora had
kicked him in the balls.
As he staggered backward, moaning in agony, she pulled her legs up, over her
head and kicked at Tom. He had been squatting on his haunches, and he fell over
backward trying to escape her. Sonora scrambled to her feet, reeled dizzily for
a moment, then began searching for a way out.
The nearest door was the one Sims had left through. He was probably still
just outside, smoking. But they had come in through another door, a wide one.
Tom was back on his feet and charging after her. She ran toward the far end of
the barn, which was half hidden in shadows. She saw the door, the wide one, but
it was shut and secured by a wooden bolt. She could hear Tom's footsteps and
breathing behind her. To her left, a glint of metal caught her eye. A scythe.
Tom tackled her, and they both fell to the wooden floor. He flipped her over
onto her back and began scratching and mauling her, like an animal. He moved up
her body, from belly to chest to neck and head. She tried to cover her face with
her hands, but he pulled them away. One of his fingernails slashed her left eye,
and she screamed in pain. Her cry seemed to startle him. He paused for a moment,
trying to catch his breath.
Sonora held one hand over her bleeding eye and tried to think. The scythe.
If she could just get to the scythe. Then Davis staggered over and pulled Tom
off of her.
"It's my turn now," he yelled. "I'm going to rip the tits off this bitch."
Sonora struggled to her feet and lunged into the shadows. She could barely
see, but her hands found the scythe, hanging from a wooden post. She lifted it
down and swung it just as Davis reached her.
The blade slashed his shoulder, and he recoiled in pain. She stepped
forward, back into the light. Tom was on his feet, looking perplexed.
"What the fuck did she do to you?" he asked.
Sonora swung the implement menacingly, forcing the men to retreat. But it
was very heavy, and she was weak with fear and exertion. The door at the other
of the barn opened, and Sims stepped in.
"What the hell's going on here?" he called.
The distraction was just what Sonora needed. As the two men turned toward
Sims, she dropped the scythe, rushed to the big door, slid back the bolt and
pushed it open. The sunlight nearly blinded her as she squeezed through.
Sims was furious. "You let her get away," he shouted. "I told you not to let
her leave the barn."
Davis, holding his bleeding shoulder, shot back, "She had a weapon. We
didn't know she had a weapon."
"You dumb shits," he hissed. "You let her make fools of you. Now I'm going
to have clean up this mess."
He pulled a compact two-way radio from his belt and punched a button.
"Jimbo," he said. "Take the Jeep and run the fence-line in Sector Four. We've
got a cunt on the run. What dogs do we have available?" He paused and frowned.
"Gunter's bloody beasts? Well, they'll have to do. Bring them over to the barn.
She left her knickers, so they shouldn't have much trouble picking up her
scent."
He put the radio back on his belt. "You've caused a lot of trouble," he
said.
"Well, we paid a lot of money," said Tom. "And what the hell to we have to
show for it?"
"I'll find out what you have to show for it soon enough," answered Sims.
Then his face softened a bit. "That cut looks pretty nasty," he said to Davis.
"Take the cart and get yourself to the infirmary. It's a low building just this
side of the hotel. Do you feel steady enough to drive?"
"Yeah," said Davis. "I guess so. I just wish I could get my hands on that
bitch."
# # #
Greta felt relaxed. She had had two glasses of a local Sauvignon Blanc with
lunch, and now she was looking out of the wide dining room window on a peaceful
valley. A line of trees about half a mile away marked what must be a stream.
Beyond it was another rise, like the one the hotel stood on. Someone was just
coming over the far hilltop, a small figure, far away.
Distruggio was droning on about the Ranch, about how it was intended for
business and non-profit retreats in a natural setting, with hiking and riding
trails instead of golf courses and tennis courts. He talked about the program
for the weekend, which seemed to involve some sort of athletic competition. He
was such a bore.
The figure was coming toward the hotel. It disappeared into the trees that
lined the stream and soon emerged on the near side. It appeared to be a woman.
From this distance, Greta still couldn't see what she was wearing. She almost
looked as if she were nude. Then something else caught her attention. Some sort
of animals had come over the rise where the woman had first appeared. Could they
be deer? No, not deer. They ran, then stopped and put their heads down toward
the ground, then they ran again. Dogs. Yes, they must be dogs. Big ones.
The dogs were approaching the stream. Meanwhile, the woman had stopped, as
if uncertain which way to go. Finally, she turned and ran back toward the trees.
Is she trying to hide, Greta wondered. Had she seen the dogs on the other side
of the stream? No, the trees would have blocked her view.
"Would you like another glass of wine?" Distruggio asked.
Greta turned to him. "No, thank you. I'm feeling a little tipsy."
When she looked out again, neither the woman nor the dogs were visible. They
must have met in the woods, she thought. What must it be like, to meet big dogs
in the woods? Big dogs, with big dicks. She laughed softly.
"Do I amuse you?" asked Distruggio, with a puzzled smile.
"No. Well, yes, I think you're quite amusing. But I feel very tired. I'd
like to take a nap before the reception tonight."
"But of course," said Distruggio. Then he glanced out the window. "What a
lovely view. I find it very restful."
They rose, and he escorted her back to her room.
# # #
Sims followed the dogs on horseback. They had a head start, and he lost
precious seconds when his mare, the usually docile Giselda, reared as a pheasant
burst into flight from the tall grass. He worried he would arrive too late. When
he reached the stream, he realized he had.
The dogs had lost interest in their quarry and were sniffing through the
cattails along the farther bank. One lifted a leg and pissed on the trunk of a
weeping willow tree. Sonora, or what had been Sonora, lay on her back, her head
and upper torso underwater. Through the ripples, he could see that her throat
had been torn, but her face was peaceful, eyes half shut. The running water had
washed away all the blood.
She's like a wood nymph, he thought, a wood nymph or a water sprite who ran
into something evil in the forest - an ogre, perhaps. Or a pair of 180-pound
mastiffs.
# # #
Greta had left a message with the desk to call her at five o'clock, but the
gentle knock that awakened her seemed to come within seconds of her closing her
eyes. She was wrong. The clock on the bed table said 3:33. She had been asleep
at least an hour.
"Just a minute," she called. She grabbed her T-shirt from the chair and
pulled it over her head. Should she put on her khaki shorts? Naw, the heck with
it. Bikini panties would do. Give whoever was at the door a real thrill.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Troy Parris, from the front desk," came the reply. "Just checking to see if
everything's okay. Hope I didn't disturb you."
She opened the door a crack and looked out. He stepped back a bit. To
reassure her, she thought. It was his way of saying, I'm no rapist, honey, just
here to say hi.
"You didn't disturb me." She paused. "Want to come in?"
"Not necessary," he said, with a slightly embarrassed grin.
"No, come on in." She pulled the door open but remained behind it. He walked
into the room, then turned back to look at her. "I'm only halfway decent," she
said. "Hope you don't mind."
"I'd be crazy to mind. You really are quite beautiful."
"Thanks," she said. "Beautiful girls seem to be the specialty here. I saw
several in the dining room. There was even a woman, I don't how beautiful,
running around naked down in the valley. I saw her through the window at lunch."
"Really," said Parris. "And what exactly did you see?"
"Not much. She was so far away. She came down a hill and crossed the stream,
then went back into the trees. And there were a couple of dogs. They must have
following her."
"How interesting." But he didn't seem interested in her story. He sat on the
edge of the bed, looking at her intently. She was leaning back against a bureau,
her legs slightly apart.
"You look horny," she said.
He paused before answering. "Looking at you makes me very, very horny. I
would like to fuck you into the middle of next week."
"Great. I love Wednesdays." She moved toward him, and he pulled her belly to
his face. He kissed and licked her navel, then he pulled down her panties and
slid his tongue down through her blonde bush and caressed her clitoris. She
moaned softly and stroked his hair. He stood, moved behind her and cupped her
breasts in his hands.
"Kneel," he whispered. "Put your knees on the floor and bend over the bed so
I can fuck you from behind." She did as he commanded. She heard him unbuckle his
belt and heard his pants fall to the floor. Then, suddenly, savagely, he was
inside her.
He fucked with wild energy, and she responded with equal passion, her wet
pussy gripping his throbbing dick. Then he slowed the pace, and it felt even
better. "Get on the bed, on your back," he said hoarsely. She pulled herself off
his prick, lunged onto the bed, then rolled onto her back. He straddled her on
his knees. "Suck it," he commanded, leaning forward. She took his dick in her
mouth and worked it expertly with her lips and tongue. He groaned and filled her
mouth with cum.
"God," he cried, "you're too damned good to lose."
# # #
The reception was in a room directly above the dining room, with a window
looking out on the same scene. The valley was suffused with golden light from
the setting sun, but Greta wasn't concerned with the scenery. As she entered the
room, wearing a simple white cocktail dress and a fake but impressive pearl and
emerald necklace, she knew she was in competition with the other women in
whatever it was the Ranch had in mind for the weekend. Of course, she always
felt competitive with other women, at least when they were roughly her age and
good looking.
She was facing some stiff competition this time. A quick glance told her
that there were five other women, all knockouts, and more than twice that many
men. A big-breasted woman in a tight black dress came forward and held out her
hand.
"Hi, I'm Mariah," she said. "You must be Greta. That was the only name tag
left on the table."
"You're right. I'm Greta. And I hope you're not as confused by all this as I
am."
Mariah laughed. "Sorry. I'm clueless."
They walked over to a table and Greta put on her name tag. A waiter asked
her for a drink order. "What are you drinking, Mariah?" she asked.
"Gin and tonic."
"I'll have the same," said Greta. "Who's the guy with the shoulders?" she
asked in a lower voice, nodding toward a powerfully built man with gray hair and
steel-rimmed eyeglasses. He wore an expensive looking shirt and slacks and an
air of enormous confidence. Two other men were talking with him, but they kept
glancing at Greta and Mariah.
"He's Gunter McTeague, the big boss, the president of the Ranch," said
Mariah. "I just met him. Come on, I'll introduce you."
The men turned to them as they approached. "Hello again, Mariah," said
McTeague, "and this young lady must be Greta." They shook hands. His was huge
and meaty. It was a hand that could do enormous damage.
"Greta and Mariah, I want you to meet Bob and Paulie."
Greta smiled and said, "No one seems to have a last name around here."
"No, that's not quite right," said McTeague. "Mine's McTeague. And you've
met Mr. Parris and Dr. Distruggio, I believe. We who are here to serve you have
last names. You who are here as guests will be on a first-name basis. I think
most of you would prefer it that way. Am I right, Paulie?"
"Quite right, McTeague," said Paulie. He was younger than most of the other
men, and he wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. His hair was
thinning, but he wasn't bad looking, thought Greta.
Another man joined their group. His arm was in a sling, and he had the look
of someone in a perpetually sour mood.
"Davis," said McTeague, "you haven't met Greta."
"So, are you on staff, Mr. Davis?" she asked.
He stared at her coldly. "Davis is my first name," he said.
"Oh, I'm sorry." She paused, embarrassed. "What happened to your arm?"
"It's my shoulder. I cut it doing something nasty to a girl like you." Greta
was taken aback. The others, except for McTeague, laughed nervously.
"Maybe you've had enough to drink for now," said McTeague. His voice was
soft, but he sounded like he meant business.
Greta and Mariah left the group and moved around the room, meeting others.
Greta could tell from the look on the men's faces, and the sidelong glances of
the women, that she was doing well in the competition, at least when it came to
looks. She felt pleased, and a little drunk. She was on her third gin and tonic.
A low platform and a microphone had been installed at one end of the room,
and Greta wondered if they were going to have listen to some long, boring
speech. Or maybe a sales pitch for time-shares. Good grief, could the people who
ran this place really have paid everybody here $3,000 to come listen to how nice
it was to spend two weeks a year in the hills of North Carolina? But when
McTeague stepped onto the platform, it was quickly apparent that he wasn't
selling - at least not real estate.
"I know some of you are probably wondering what this is all about. At least,
I know you young ladies are a bit confused. The men have an unfair advantage.
They've paid for this weekend, and they did so on the basis of a very detailed
prospectus, plus good word-of-mouth advertising and photos of you ladies."
"So I was right all along," whispered Mariah. "It's an escort service. I
guess I can live with it."
Greta smiled and put her face next to Mariah's. "Maybe escorts. Maybe
blowjobs al fresco." They giggled.
"I think," said McTeague, "that you've probably noticed that all six of you
young women are not only lovely but athletic looking. We did research on each of
you before extending invitations. For instance, Layla here is a belly dancer."
He waved his hand toward a compact woman in a tight dress that appeared to be
made of snakeskin. She flashed an embarrassed grin.
"Dawn is an aerobics instructor." A slender woman with a baby face framed by
tight blonde curls waved tentatively and then looked down, blushing.
"Greta ran track in high school, 400 meters, I believe, and she still runs
daily." Greta smiled, but inside she was worried. How the hell had they found
out about what she did in high school?
"Mariah may not look like an athlete, considering her very curvaceous
build," McTeague continued, "but she lifts weights. And she has appeared in an
illustrated calendar published by the MacKenzie Athletic Club. Last year's Miss
March, wasn't it?"
"Right. Miss March," said Mariah. Then, in a whisper to Greta, "Damn. They
really do their homework."
Tiffany and Mickie - redhead and blonde, respectively - were introduced, and
their special brand of athleticism briefly described. "Those are what you might
call our contestants," said McTeague. "Let's give them a big hand."
There was polite applause, but the atmosphere in the room seemed to Greta to
have darkened. She glanced back at the doorway. Two men stood there, unsmiling
men in black turtlenecks and grey slacks. One was big, the other huge. She
hadn't seen them earlier.
"What about the guys, McTeague?" called out Mariah. "Aren't you going to
tell us a little about each of them?"
"Heavens no," said McTeague, with a little laugh. "You really don't need to
know them. You're not going to be forming lasting relationships." Several of the
men chuckled knowingly.
Tiffany, the redhead, spoke up. "I'm not sure I like this," she said. "I'm
not a hooker, and I don't think these other girls - other women - are either. I
didn't come here to be someone's weekend plaything."
"No, you came here because you received a check for $3,000 and a letter
promising you another $10,000 if you showed up here and participated in our
program." "But you didn't describe your program," protested Tiffany.
"That didn't stop you from coming, or from cashing our check," replied
McTeague.
"Well, it's not going to stop me from leaving, either," she said angrily.
She looked around at the other women, as if hoping they would join her. None
did. The room was very quiet as she walked purposefully toward the door. One of
the men - the bigger of the two, who had curly blond hair and a baby face -
stepped into the doorway and blocked her.
"Get out of the way," Tiffany commanded. The young man said nothing. The
beginning of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. She swung at him, a
wild, desperate, right-handed swing. He caught her wrist with his left hand and
slammed his right fist into her belly. Her knees buckled, and she fell forward,
into him. Her face rubbed its way down his body until it was resting against his
crotch. He grinned wickedly.
"Loopy," said McTeague. "Will you bring her down to Bunkhouse One, please?"
Loopy lifted her off the floor, flipped her over his shoulder and disappeared
into the hallway outside. The other man took his place blocking the doorway.
Everyone in the room seemed in shock. Mariah held Greta's arm and sobbed
quietly.
"It's just as well this happened," said McTeague. "It saves a lot of
explanations.
"You girls are here as quarry. Tomorrow morning, you will be given a brief
head start, then you will be pursued by the gentlemen here. They will be in
teams of two, selected on the basis of their interests and personalities. You,
their quarry, will be selected by lot."
"This is fucking crazy," said Layla.
"Call it what you will, it is great sport," said McTeague. "Our guests pay
handsomely for it, and we have always given them their money's worth."
"What happens after the chase," Greta asked in a shaky voice.
"After?" said McTeague. "What happens afterward is up to our gentlemen
guests. Assuming, of course, that they catch up with you. If you escape - and
you, young lady, look like the type who very well might escape - you will be
kept here until the next hunt."
He looked toward the door. "Now, then, your escorts have arrived."
Three more men, dressed the same as the first two, had entered the room.
"Ladies, please remove all of your clothes and leave them on the floor," said
McTeague. "Including your shoes. You have some walking to do tonight, outdoors,
and those spiky heels are completely unsuitable."
Greta said, "And if we don't strip?"
McTeague replied calmly, "Then my young associates will do the job for you.
They're quite good at it." Two of the "escorts" started moving toward them.
"Okay," said Greta. "Just asking." She pulled the straps of her dress off
her shoulders and wiggled until it fell around her ankles. She wore white
panties but no bra. The other women were also disrobing. Mariah decided to make
a show out of it - might was well, she thought, it could save my life. She
stripped slowly and lasciviously, caressing her large breasts and then running a
hand down between her legs. She batted her eyes at McTeague, and ran her tongue
over her lips. He looked back at her with a grim smile.
"Okay, girls, let's finish up," he said. "Leave your handbag, Greta. All of
you, leave your handbags. You won't be needing them. And some of you have cell
phones, which of course aren't allowed. When you get to your sleeping quarters,
the clothes you packed will be there, at least the clothes suitable for
tomorrow's sport. You were all told to bring shorts, white T-shirts or tank tops
and running shoes. Did they comply?" he asked, directing his question to one of
the men at the door.
"Yes, sir, pretty much," came the reply.
"Good. Well, you ladies all look quite lovely in the buff, don't they
gentlemen?"
The would-be hunters assented with whistles and cat-calls. The women huddled
together and were led out of the room. Greta was last, pausing at the doorway to
shoot an angry glance at McTeague, before one of her guards grabbed her arm and
pulled her away.
"Now, gentlemen," said McTeague, "a few points about tomorrow's hunt before
we adjourn downstairs for dinner. The girls' clothes will be collected and put
into individual plastic bags. That's on the remote chance we have to use dogs.
The clothes will provide the scent to follow."
"Ah, the sweet smell of pussy," said Tom.
"Quite right," answered McTeague. "Pussy is a powerful aid to our dogs.
That's why I'm so glad to have our young ladies' panties.
"Next, please note that the ladies have left without being fed. That's on
purpose. We want them hungry and scared, but not so scared or so weak from
hunger that they can't give us a good workout tomorrow."
He paused and took a sip of water. "They will be released one at a time, and
the hunting teams will follow two minutes later. The young ladies will wear
steel collars with built-in sensors. If they get too close to the fence around
the Ranch, we will intercept them. We haven't lost one yet. Meanwhile, each of
you will have a map of the Ranch, a knife, six feet of nylon rope and a two-way
radio. Well, we call it a radio. Actually, we have our own private cell phone
system, complete with towers. Don't worry, the signals are scrambled. Only
receivers on our network can unscramble them.
"Now, as to weapons. Two of you have brought your own. Bob and Paulie, I
believe you brought hunting bows." Bob and Paulie nodded. "The rest of you will
have a choice of pneumatic tranquilizer dart guns or 12 gauge shotguns,
depending on whether or not you want to take your quarry alive. If you use the
dart gun, or even if you use a lethal weapon and your quarry survives, you may
want to take her to the Abattoir. It's a big wooden building about a mile and a
half from here; you'll see it on your maps. It's filled with interesting
equipment: chains, racks, whips, electrified dildos. You name it, and we've
probably got it. The floors are tiled, so the rooms are easy to clean up
afterward. Any questions?"
"Back to the hunt itself. What about rifles?" asked one of the men.
"Not allowed," said McTeague. "Too much chance of a bullet taking out a
fellow hunter or a member of our staff a mile away. Any more questions?"
"Yeah," said Davis. "These bitches must have told somebody - friends,
boyfriends, family, whoever - that they were coming here. What happens when they
don't return?"
"The Ranch is supported by some of the most powerful individuals and
institutions in this state," said McTeague. "When we assert that a young woman
met with a tragic accident, that will be the final word on the subject. I
guarantee it."
"You've thought of everything," said Paulie.
"It's our business," said McTeague. "And, now, your business is to join Sims
and me and a few other members of our staff downstairs for supper."
# # #
The six young women, stark naked, huddled together as they walked along the
gravel path. There was only the faintest glow left in the western sky, and they
could barely see each other, or the men who silently accompanied them. The air
had turned chilly, and Greta shivered and hugged herself. The skin on her arms
had turned to goose bumps.
They passed through a clump of trees and came to a clearing.
"What's that?" whispered Mariah. A long, low building lay ahead of them.
Near the building was a large rectangular wooden frame, with a pale form inside
it. A floodlight on the building suddenly blazed, and they saw that the pale
form was the body of a woman, hanging upside down, her ankles and wrists tied to
the corners of the rectangle. Her abdominal cavity was empty. She had been
gutted, and there was a jagged, gaping wound in her throat. Yet there was no
blood.
The women gasped and turned away, all except Greta, who sucked in a deep
breath and kept her eyes on the grisly spectacle.
"Is it Tiffany?" Mariah asked in a small frightened voice.
"No," said Greta. "I don't think so. This woman had dark hair, not red. And
I think she's shorter than Tiffany. I don't know for sure. It's hard to judge
with her hanging there like ...." Her voice faltered, and she struggled not to
burst into tears.
A door from the bunkhouse opened, and the big man named Loopy came out. He
had his hands in his pockets, and he grinned at them.
"Take a good look, girls. Some of you, maybe all of you, are going to end up
spread out like that, with flies laying eggs in your innards. And wait til the
coons get this one later tonight. Boy, she'll really be a sight in the morning.
"Well, come on inside. Your bags from the hotel are in there, with your
casual clothes. Unless, of course, you want to run buck naked tomorrow. Pleasant
dreams." When they had all gone through the door, he locked it from the
outside. They could hear him talking and laughing with the other men.
It was dark inside, except for a light at the far end of the long room. Two
rows of eight beds each lined the walls. Mariah found a switch, and a naked
light bulb suddenly filled their end of the room with harsh light. Lying on the
floor between two beds on their left was Tiffany. She was moaning softly.
Mickie and Dawn rushed over to her and helped her get to her feet.
"What did they do to you, honey," Mickie asked. Tiffany's moans had now
turned into full, body-shaking sobs. The other women embraced her and tried to
comfort her.
"It was so awful," she said between sobs. "He pushed me into the kitchen and
forced me to bend over a table."
"Who? Which one did this?" asked Dawn.
"The big guy, the one they called Loopy. He pressed me face down on the
table, then he reached into a bowl full of margarine and smeared it all over my
vagina. Then he fucked me from behind. And it was huge, so huge ...."
She started crying again. Greta watched from a few feet away. She felt
embarrassed. And aroused.
"Then what?" asked Mickie.
"Then he came inside me, and he pulled it out and told me to lick it clean"
She sobbed again, tried to speak, couldn't and rested her head on Mickie's
shoulder.
"It's okay, honey. It's over," said Dawn.
"But ... but ... but I hate margarine," cried Tiffany, then the sobs started
again, louder than ever.
Greta turned away. She didn't want anyone to see that she was smiling.
# # #
Back in the hotel dining room, two busboys were clearing away the last of
the evening's plates. McTeague and Sims sat in a corner, smoking cigars and
talking quietly. "What do you think of this group?" McTeague asked.
"Pretty typical," said Sims. "Men with more money and testosterone than
sense." "I was talking about the girls."
"Oh, well, they're a hardy, good-looking lot. Should give these chaps a run
for their money. Especially the long-legged blonde."
"Greta?"
"Yes. She looks to be something special. We may have to take over at some
point. Not sure these chaps can keep up with her."
"I'd like a crack at her," said McTeague with a cruel laugh. "In more ways
than one."
"Yes, I entirely agree. But I don't like having to finish what they start.
Had to do that this afternoon with that little tart, Sonora. Ginger and Jeebies
got her at the stream. Ripped her throat out."
"Yes, I heard. They are a ferocious pair, aren't they?" McTeague said, with
a hint of pride. "Well, it all worked out for the best. I put poor Sonora to
good use."
"How so?" asked Sims.
"Had her hung her up outside the bunkhouse. Gutted. All her most valuable
organs harvested. Should scare the shit out of those girls when they arrive."
They fell quiet, nursing their brandies and cigars.
"I still can't get used to it," said Sims. "It's like Lord Halifax said:
'There is a cumulative cruelty in a number of men, though none in particular are
ill natured.'" McTeague grunted. "I don't know anything about your Lord
Halifax, but I know these clients pay handsomely for chance to hunt. And the
Ranch pays us handsomely for helping them."
"You're right, of course," said Sims. "I guess it's just my British
upbringing. Fair play. Sporting chance. All that rot I was taught as a lad.
These girls don't really have a sporting chance, do they? They're dead meat once
they check in here."
"Just keep thinking of the money," McTeague advised. "The money and the
chance to spread lovely, fresh, healthy organs all across the land. Why, you
might almost say it's our Christian duty to keep this enterprise going."
(To be continued.)
II
Greta is dreaming. She dreams she's lying on her back, looking up at a
cloudy sky. One of the clouds looks like the head of a dog. Yes, it's a dog with
big ears, and his tongue is sticking out. Mariah lies between Greta's legs,
licking her pussy. It feels wonderful. Greta shivers with pleasure and closes
her eyes. When she opens them, the sun has come out from behind the clouds.
She found herself awake, staring up at a skylight in the bunkhouse. Mariah
lay asleep next to her, her large breasts resting against Greta's shoulder.
Greta slid out from beneath the coarse wool blanket and stood up. The other
women were still asleep, each in her own bed. Only Greta and Mariah had slept
together.
Maybe I'm oversexed, Greta wondered.
Then she heard the sound of men's voices outside. She crept to a window and
looked out. The big man named Loopy was there, along with four others. Two
carried shotguns. Loopy was talking into a two-way radio. He clipped the radio
to his belt and told the others, "Okay, time to get these sluts up and moving.
Our great white hunters are on their way."
He walked over to an iron triangle hanging from a pole and began banging it
with an iron rod. The clanging was louder than Greta had expected. She retreated
to the bed where Mariah was awakening in confusion. The other women were also
stirring.
"They're coming to get us," Greta told Mariah. "Be brave."
A door opened, and Loopy walked in.
"Okay, girls, up and at 'em. Get your clothes on and get your asses
outside." Mickie, who wore only a T-shirt, was nearest him, and he suddenly
grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. With one big forearm pressing her neck,
he ran the other hand down her body, then inserted three fingers into her slit.
"Nuthin' like the taste of pussy in the morning," he said with a grin. Then
he licked his fingers, released Mickie and left.
"The son of a bitch," Mickie sobbed, falling to her knees and trying to pull
her shirt down to cover her crotch.
Tiffany knelt beside her. "Come on, honey. Get your shorts on. We're going
to make it. Somehow, we'll get through all this."
They had all been told, in the letter inviting them to what once looked like
a profitable weekend, to bring shorts, T-shirts or tank tops, and running shoes.
Greta had chosen a white, ribbed tank top and khaki shorts. It looked like the
others had pretty much the same idea. All except Layla. She wore shiny black
bicycle pants and a grey top that barely covered her nipples and left her belly
exposed. Not very practical, thought Greta. But she did have nice tits.
The triangle clanged again, and Loopy called, "Don't make us come in there
after you." Instinctively, the women gathered together and hugged, then headed
one by one outside.
Greta was first. When she emerged into the sunlight, there were several
whistles from the men. "Get a load of them legs," said one. "What I wouldn't
give to get between 'em."
"The fuckin' hunters are giving a lot more than you ever could, Danny boy,"
said Loopy. "So just forget about it."
Whistles and wisecracks greeted each of the other women. Mariah, with her
big breasts, drew an especially enthusiastic reaction.
"Line up, girls," said Loopy. "Line up and pay attention." He held up a pair
of stainless-steel semi-circles, attached by a hinge. "This is a collar," he
said. He reached out and pulled Mariah out of the line. "Turn around and face
them," he commanded. "And push up your hair so your neck's exposed."
Mariah did as she was told.
"The collar attaches like so," he said, closing the two semi-circles around
her neck and clicking the ends into place. "There's an electronic gizmo in it
that's activated when you get close to the fence around the Ranch. When that
happens, the little radio inside lets us know where you are. The ranch is big,
but there's a road running all the way around it, just outside the fence line,
and we've got guys in Jeeps, guys with guns. They're stationed every half mile
on that road. You might make it through the razor wire to the outside, though I
doubt it. But even if you did, one of our guys would be on you like one of them
Jurassic velociraptors."
The other men began attaching the collars. The one who stood in front of
Greta looked like a college kid, a good-natured jock. She smiled tentatively at
him.
"Being sweet won't do you no good," he said in a low voice. "All of you
cunts is going to die today."
He stepped back and looked expressionlessly at her. She felt defeated. Ever
since she was 15, she had been able to handle men with a smile that was three
parts friendliness and one part pure lasciviousness. It wasn't going to work
here.
More men were coming up the path the women had followed the night before.
They passed the big wooden frame, but the body of the gutted woman had been
removed.
McTeague joined Loopy. "Have they been cooperating?" he asked. "So far, so
good," said Loopy. "I explained about the collars."
"Excellent," said McTeague. Then he turned to the women. "Now, listen
closely. Each of you will be given a chance to get as far from here as you can
in two minutes. At the end of two minutes, the hunters who've drawn your name
will begin pursuit. Since you'll be leaving separately, you won't be able to
stick together. So get any notions of teamwork out of your pretty little heads.
It's every girl for herself out there.
"The Ranch is big, over 5,200 acres. The northern half is hilly and heavily
wooded. We're in the southwest. The hotel is over there." He pointed east, where
the men had just come from. "There are buildings of various sorts scattered
about. You can hide, or try to hide, anywhere you want. After all, you're
running for your lives.
"As for our hunters," he said, turning to the men, "they will be operating
in two-man teams, and though they are restricted to bagging their assigned prey,
they can radio me anytime they run into another team's quarry. So, in a spirit
of cooperation, we should be able to round up all of these young ladies before
nightfall. And while their bodies are yours, to be disposed of as you wish,
remember that the Medical Center will pay $1,500 each for usable hearts and
livers, $500 each for kidneys and $150 for corneas."
"Fuck you," yelled Tiffany. "I'm not playing this game."
McTeague moved toward her. She tried to back away, but one of the staff men
grabbed her from behind and pinioned her arms.
"You don't have to play," McTeague said calmly. "You can just let the pair
of men who drew your named take you directly to the Abattoir. That's where we
discipline naughty girls like you. I don't ordinarily participate in such
exercises, but in your case I would make an exception."
Then he hit her with a backhanded blow that snapped her head to the left.
She went limp in the embrace of the man behind her.
"Tiffany will be released last," McTeague said, in an even voice. "That will
give her a chance to come to her senses." He rejoined Loopy and pulled a
stopwatch out of his pocket. "Okay, Greta, you're up first."
Greta hugged Mariah and stepped forward. "I'm ready," she said. "Who'll be
chasing me?"
McTeague waved toward Davis and Tom. "Great. A fat man and a cripple," Greta
said, in a deliberately loud voice. "This should be easy."
"They won't go easy on you when they catch you," said McTeague. "Alright,
start running."
Greta had already decided on her course. With long, effortless strides, she
ran northeast, toward a low hill that led to the forested northern half of the
Ranch. When she reached the crest, she found herself looking down into the
valley she had seen from the hotel dining room the day before. The hotel was on
the farther side, its windows gleaming in the sunlight. Greta glanced back at
the group of men. She figured she had almost a half-mile lead before two men
detached themselves from the group and headed toward her. Davis and Tom were
trying hard, but they moved slowly. She smiled and continued running. She wanted
to put as much distance as possible between herself and her pursuers. She would
need time to set up an ambush.
# # #
Back at the bunkhouse, the second runner, Mickie, had started out at a very
fast pace, headed northwest, toward the nearest big stand of trees. The men who
were to pursue her, two brothers named Tony and Raymond, were doing calisthenics
to loosen up. They appeared to be in good shape.
Bob and Paulie were checking their gear. Another hunter, Jeff, came up and
said, "I've never seen a bow like that. What kind is it?"
"It's a compound bow," said Paulie, "very powerful, but very smooth."
"What kind of arrows do you use?"
Paulie pulled one from his quiver and handed it to Jeff.
"Boy, it's really light," said Jeff.
"Yeah. The shaft is made of graphite."
"But the barbs here look like they're slanted the wrong way," said Jeff.
"They're swept forward, instead of back."
"Yeah," said Paulie. "But when the arrowhead enters an animal - Layla, for
instance - the blades swing back and lock into place. Sort of like a toggle
bolt. These kinds of heads do a lot more damage."
Jeff whistled softly.
"Hey," said Bob, in a tone of mock indignation. "What about me? What about
my nifty crossbow? These bolts will do just as much damage as my friend Robin
Hood's arrowheads. Watch this."
He raised the crossbow and aimed at a stack of firewood next to the
bunkhouse. There was a sharp twang, and the top log split in two. Bob looked
around the group for approval. The men were laughing appreciatively. The faces
of the four remaining women were filled with fear.
Layla's lips trembled, and she started crying. She had been selected as Bob
and Paulie's quarry.
"Retrieve that bolt, Bob," said McTeague. "You and Paulie are up next. After
Miss Layla gets her head start, of course." He winked at her.
One by one, the women fled and the men pursued. Mariah was last. Her hunters
were Jeff, who she thought had a rather gentle appearance, and Dozney, a large,
athletic man with a completely bald head. He hadn't smiled once that morning, or
at the reception the night before. After McTeague announced that Mariah would be
his and Jeff's quarry, he had kept his dark eyes on her. He was trying to spook
her, she thought. Well, it was sure working.
When McTeague gave the signal, Mariah ran up the hill and tried to follow
Greta, though of course Greta had long ago disappeared. But what worked for
Greta, a trained and graceful runner, wasn't appropriate for someone with
Mariah's generous build. Her breasts flopped wildly, and her knees began hurting
before she had gone 200 yards. Jeff and Dozney started after her at a trot.
No use expending too much energy. This was going to be a cinch.
# # #
Things weren't going easily for Davis and Tom, however. They had started
quarrelling even before reaching the summit of the low hill that Greta had
climbed so quickly. Tom was winded, and he kept yelling for Davis to slow down.
Davis, despite his shoulder injury, was all for pressing ahead at full speed.
When he reached the crest of the hill, he saw Greta, far in the distance.
She had veered off to the right, down from the ridgeline toward the tree-lined
stream. Once in the trees, she could continue north to the broader woods. At
that point, tracking her would be difficult.
Davis would be the first to concede that he wasn't really an outdoorsman,
and God knows Tom wasn't - fat Tom, in his overpriced safari outfit. Davis
complimented himself that at least he wore something appropriate: a grungy
camouflage jacket and plaid Bermuda shorts. You were supposed to fucking relax
on a weekend like this one.
He heard Tom wailing behind him. He was yelling about how McTeague and Sims had
said the teams should stick together. Don't get separated. Yada, yada, yada.
Fuck Tom. Fuck Sims and McTeague. Fuck 'em all. He had paid $60,000 for this
hunt, and he wasn't going to let this slow-footed piglet hold him back. He
quickened his pace, and Tom's yelling began to fade in the distance.
# # #
One by one, the women fell to the hunters. Mickie was hit in the breast by a
tranquilizer dart and carried to the Abattoir, where she would die a slow and
agonizing death. Jeff and Dozney caught up with Mariah before she had gone a
mile. She turned and surrendered, promising a wide and enticing array of sexual
favors. But Dozney stuck a knife in her stomach, and Jeff finished her off by
stabbing her in the back. Then they cut off her beautiful breasts for souvenirs.
Layla was felled by an arrow in her left buttock while she fled. Paulie and Bob
then tied her to a barn door and took turns filling her guts with arrows and
crossbow bolts. They produced a nice, tight pattern. Not a single projectile was
more than five inches from her navel.
# # #
Davis had followed the creek north, wading upstream in the middle of it, and
the going was difficult. The terrain got more and more rugged, and he was being
forced to climb. At one point, he had slipped on wet rocks and had reacted
instinctively by reaching for an overhanging branch. That reopened the wound in
his shoulder.
All in all, the day was not going well. To make matters worse, he kept
getting urgent radio messages from Sims and McTeague. They wanted to know where
he was. Tom had snitched to them, no doubt. He hadn't heard directly from Tom
because the radio system only allowed communication between the hunters and
"Base," meaning wherever Sims and McTeague were at the moment. Radio traffic
among the hunters would be too confusing, Sims had said.
Fuck him, Davis muttered to himself. Fuck 'em all. He'd track her down and
bag her. He'd use his hunting knife to rip her guts out, because he made
$250,000 a year doing tax law and he didn't need to be peddling sluts' organs to
some fucking medical center for chump change.
Davis was so wrapped up in his internal monologue that he almost failed to
notice that he had reached a point where a smaller tributary flowed into the
stream. Which way should he go? Greta had angled down from the hill to the
stream, and twice since then he had seen her, well ahead of him, splashing as
she ran. He was gaining on her, but now he had to decide which way she might
have gone.
He looked to the left, up the main stream, which now ran through a deep
ravine. He could see something white through the trees. Maybe it was just some
kind of water bird, like the egret he's seen a few minutes earlier. But maybe it
was her.
The tributary was little more than an unpromising rivulet. He decided to
explore that distant splash of white in the green gloom of the main stream.
Greta watched him from atop a rock outcropping above the ravine. She had
tied her tank top to some bushes below, hoping Davis would spot it. Her strategy
seemed to be working. He was plodding through the water. The shoulder of his
camouflage jacket was stained dark red. He must be bleeding.
When he was almost directly below her, Greta picked up the stone she had
chosen. It was rounded on one side but had a jagged edge on the other. She
guessed it weighed 25 to 30 pounds. She lifted it over her head and stood for a
second like some magnificent, bare-breasted Amazon. Then she heaved it just as
Davis, who sensed danger, looked up. He caught the rock square in the face, with
a sound like an axe hitting a watermelon, and fell backward into the water. His
face was a mass of blood.
Greta retreated from the ledge and hurried down a circuitous path that led
to the water. She hoped Davis wouldn't regain consciousness before she got to
him.
She needn't have worried. He lay staring up at the sky. At least, one eye
stared skyward. The other had been knocked deep into his skull. He didn't seem
to be breathing.
She reached out and placed her hand on his throat. No pulse. Good. She took his
jacket and cap. She would need them. Her fair skin and blonde hair had made her
too easy to spot. She took his knife, his radio and his map, too.
She picked up the dart gun, examined it, then tossed it into the water. She
had fired guns before, but she hadn't ever seen one like this and there wasn't
time to learn how to use it.
Then she pulled off Davis's shorts and underpants and let the water carry
them downstream. She considered cutting off his dick, as a warning to her other
pursuers, but that seemed too barbarous. They were into mutilation. She'd be
satisfied with survival.
She looked at the map. The Ranch was more or less rectangular, longer from
north to south than east to west. The stream ran down the middle, from the hills
in the north to a lake at the southern edge, not far from the hotel. A smaller
stream, flowing from the northeast, joined it near where she was standing. That
meant she was about a mile or less from the northern fence line. There were
numbered buildings scattered about, mostly in the southern half. From the legend
at the bottom of the map, she found the bunkhouse where they had spent the
night. About half a mile north of it was another large building. It was called
the Abattoir. The word sounded vaguely familiar. There were also a barn and
several cabins in this area.
The only buildings in the north were a maintenance shed in the northwest and
a second bunkhouse, at the northeast corner of the Ranch, next to the smaller
stream that flowed into this one. That seemed promising. She retrieved her top,
then headed down to the tributary and began the trip upstream to Bunkhouse Two.
###
It was Dawn who found Davis. She was running upstream, with her two pursuers
- a veterinarian named Fred and a restaurant owner named Guido - close behind
her. She stopped, transfixed by the sight of Davis's bloody, broken face. Fred,
splashing toward her, raised his dart gun but quickly lowered it when he spotted
Davis. The three of them stood looking down, a few feet from the body.
"Jesus," Dawn said, covering her face with her hands.
"We better call McTeague," Fred said. He leaned down, felt Davis's throat,
then clicked on his radio. He gave a description of where they were, then added,
in response to a question from McTeague, "No, he's definitely dead. Might have
fallen, but he's wearing no pants. Makes me wonder if he was trying to rape the
girl he was chasing - Gertie or whatever her name was - and she hit him with a
creek stone or something."
After a bit more conversation on how Davis might have come to such an
unfortunate end, Fred turned off the radio and looked at Guido and Dawn. There
was an awkward silence. How do you resume a chase - a life-and-death chase -
after an interruption like this, Fred wondered. Then Guido, who had been very
quiet, answered that question by cold-cocking Dawn with the butt of his dart
gun.
She crumpled and landed face first in the stream. Fred picked her up and
tossed her over his shoulder. "We'll take turns," he said. "It's a pretty far
piece to the Abattoir."
"Okay," said Guido. "And maybe we can stop now and then and fuck her."
# # #
For McTeague, the day was going terribly wrong. He had lost a hunter, the
first time that had ever happened. And seconds after getting that news, he had
received a request by radio from the assholes who had caught the redhead,
Tiffany. They wanted to let her go.
Sure. Let her go. Let her go straight to "60 Minutes" and "Good Morning
America." Let her be the keynote speaker at the next NOW convention. Let her
fuck up all that McTeague had worked so hard to create: a program where
successful American men could spend their hard-earned money in healthful outdoor
activity, while providing needed transplant organs for those cursed with heart
and kidney diseases and other infirmities.
Like hell, let her go. But he told the hunter on the radio, yes, her release
could be arranged. Just take her over to Bunkhouse One and ask for Loopy.
Sims was sitting nearby on a stump, trying to explain to Tom why it wasn't a
good idea to continue trying to pursue Greta on his own. "We're going to find
Davis, and you two can team up again. We'll explain to him how important it is
for you two to stick together."
"Well, you'll have to explain it to him very loud," said McTeague sourly.
"He's dead. Two hunters just found him turning cold in Deerkill Creek, just
upstream from the Rill."
"Damn," said Sims, his eyes narrowing.
"Really, he's dead?" said Tom. "How'd it happen?" He sounded more curious
than upset.
"Not sure how it happened. I want you and Sims to get over there and take a
look. I've got other business to attend to."
After Sims and Tom left, McTeague radioed Loopy. "I'm on the way over
there," he said, "but I've got a problem I need you to handle. A couple of
hunters will be bringing that girl named Tiffany. They've chickened out. They
want to let her go." He paused, then continued, "Yes, it is very funny, indeed.
Downright hilarious. But we've got to humor them. I know you roughed her up a
bit last night, but I want you to be very courteous with her and them. Promise
them she'll be okay. Tell them if they have any questions, I'll be at the
bunkhouse in a few minutes."
He began walking at a brisk pace. Anyone watching him would have been
impressed that a man so broad could move so swiftly, and with such a spring in
his step. But inside, McTeague was weighed down with worry. A hunter dead. Two
others who wanted to welsh on their deal with the Ranch. And a cunt on the run
who could be dangerous. When he arrived at the bunkhouse, he found Loopy sitting
on the steps. He had a big grin on his face, and he was holding a rope that was
tied around Tiffany's slim neck. Another rope held her wrists together behind
her. Her eyes were red from crying, and there was a welt on her left cheek.
"Where are our mighty hunters?"
"I done what you told me, Mr. McTeague," said Loopy. "I told them we'd keep
her here a while, then let her go. And the sorry sons-a-bitches believed it.
Just shook my hand sort of apologetically and headed for the hotel. The cunt
here started wailing, of course, but they seemed glad to be rid of her."
"How'd did they catch you?" McTeague asked, turning to Tiffany.
She looked down and said softly, "I turned my ankle. They were right behind
me."
"So, did they shoot you with a tranquilizer dart?"
"No, they just ran up and asked if I was okay. They were real gentlemen.
Unlike this son-of-a-bitch." She glared angrily at Loopy.
McTeague sighed heavily. "What a day. What a thoroughly rotten day." He
removed his hat and scratched his head. What should he do with her? If he killed
her here, he or Loopy would have to carry her to the Abattoir. He decided to
make her walk. Sure, the going would be slow with her twisted ankle, and she'd
hear the screams of the others when they got close. But that might not be all
bad. It's not like she would be able to run away.
In fact, why not give her a full tour of the facilities, including the annex
where Distruggio collected his grisly harvest? And the pad outside, where the
Medical Center helicopter came in to pick up its precious cargo. She had been
troublesome from the start. Let her suffer and die with full knowledge of what
was in store for her lovely little body. And since her hunters had no stomach
for the job, he would do it himself with his bare hands. No whips or ropes or
chains. No knives or electrified dildos. Just good, solid punches, with Loopy
holding her upright. He needed a workout.
# # #
When Greta reached the second bunkhouse, she saw the fence gleaming about a
hundred yards beyond it. Too close, she thought. The steel collar around her
neck didn't tingle or give any other indication that it might be activating. But
why take a chance? Her stomach told her why. She was weak with hunger. She had
found a granola bar in the pocket of Davis's jacket and had eaten it greedily,
but that hadn't come close to satisfying her.
The bunkhouse appeared deserted. Maybe there was a kitchen inside, with a
pantry full of food. She tried a door on the near side. It was locked. But maybe
she could find an unlocked window. She moved quietly around the building,
reaching up and trying each window. No luck.
As she walked along the north side, she grew nervous. Here, she was closest
to the fence. She wondered if, in some security building far away, an alarm was
sounding and men were grabbing guns. Then, as she reached the east side of the
building, she saw something that drove away all thought of danger: a small
wagon, the kind she had seen earlier being pulled by electric carts. It was
filled with cardboard boxes. She ripped one open. Toilet paper, roll after roll
of it. She tried another. More toilet paper.
Then she spotted a plastic box with a blue lid. Inside were jars of olives,
cocktail onions and maraschino cherries, and two cans of peanuts. She clutched
the box to her chest and headed back into the woods to enjoy her feast.
# # #
Greta's worry about setting off an alarm had been justified. McTeague had
just finished beating Tiffany to a bloody pulp when his radio beeped. It was
Security. They had picked up a brief signal from the north fence near Bunkhouse
Two, then nothing. Silence.
She must have realized she was too close, McTeague thought. Clever lass. So
now she would probably head back down the Rill, where there was plenty of tree
cover. Maybe Sims could intercept her. Except he was with Fat Tommy, and that
would slow him down. He flipped the radio to Sims's channel and beeped. Sims
quickly responded. He was no longer at the creek. He and Tom, with some help
from a security detail, had carried Davis's body to the infirmary.
That meant no one was close to where Greta likely was headed. Damn. The
bitch had been trouble from the get-go. He'd just have to try to find her
himself. And he'd take Loopy along for company.
"What's your choice, Loopy, darts or the shotgun?"
"Don't matter to me, Mr. McTeague," said Loopy. "I'm not so much interested
in shooting her as getting her down and fucking her to death."
"Then let's give it our best," said McTeague, slapping him on the shoulder.
By God, he loved joining in the hunt, even though that prig Sims disapproved.
# # #
But McTeague had guessed wrong. Greta had not headed back down the Rill, at
least not very far. About half a mile from the bunkhouse she headed west,
climbing a steep, heavily wooded hill. As best she could tell from the map, this
hill would curve southwest and then south, the ground rising all the way. The
southern face seemed to be the highest spot at the Ranch.
She stopped after about half an hour and sat on a broad stone that formed a
bench projecting from the hillside. She opened a bottle of olives and ate them
all, followed by a handful of peanuts. Now she wished she had explored the
supply wagon more carefully. It would have been nice to have a Diet Pepsi or
even a beer. Oh, well, she'd have to make do with the fluids the olives and
onions and cherries were packed in.
It was peaceful on the hillside. Birds were chirping, ground squirrels
scurried busily, and at one point she had seen a doe through the trees. The deer
looked at her intently, as if trying to read her mind - or send her a message -
then it fled in graceful leaps.
Buzzards wheeled high above her. The cleanup crew, Greta thought. Dirty
work, but someone's got to do it.
She put the empty olive jar back into the box and continued climbing the
hill. The woods now were mostly pines. Nice smell, she thought. When she reached
the crest, she found she had a great view of the Ranch - at least the southern
half of it. But since the south face of the hill dropped off in a steep cliff,
and she was at the edge of it, anyone looking up from below wouldn't have much
trouble spotting her, too. Still, she found it difficult to tear herself away.
How could such horrors occur in such a beautiful place? Here were hills and
forests full of birds and deer - and madmen. What a puzzle.
She heard someone yell in the distance. It was a man, down in the valley
near the stream. Had he seen her? Who was he calling to? She froze. Would moving
simply draw attention to her atop this cliff? Maybe they hadn't seen her yet.
Two other men came out of the woods and joined the first. They seemed to be
looking up at her, but how could she tell from this distance? Then they turned
and headed south, away from her. She sank slowly to her knees and exhaled. Thank
God.
# # #
The setting sun cast long shadows across the path from the bunkhouse to the
hotel. Sims and McTeague were quarrelling.
"She's not going anywhere," said Sims. "I mean, this is a big place, but
it's a 5,200-acre prison. She can't get off the premises without us knowing.
What's more, she hasn't had any food. She's getting weaker and weaker. Let's
take our time and do a thorough search."
"I don't like it," countered McTeague. "She's not the helpless creature you
make her out to be. She killed Davis. I don't know how, but she killed him. And
she's managed to avoid being seen for nearly eight hours now. We checked her
background some more. She did a lot of camping. Even hunted with her grandfather
when she was a kid. I say we let the dogs go after her."
"I'm not against using dogs," said Sims. "But not your bloody mastiffs.
They're a danger to everyone at the Ranch. I know a fellow in McDowell County
who has a couple of outstanding Plott hounds. I'll give him a call and see if
they're available."
"And what if they track her down and she does to them what she did to Davis?
Did you think of that? Say what you will about my mastiffs, Ginger and Jeebies
aren't going to end up losers in a fight. If they find her - when they find her
- they'll rip that slut apart."
"Okay," said Sims, wearily. "But just give me a chance with the hounds
first. If they're not available, or if they try and fail, then Ginger and
Jeebies can have their fun." And so can you, he thought to himself.
# # #
Greta had found what looked like a safe and comfortable place to spend the
night: a stand of pine trees a few hundred yards from the cliff. The ground was
covered with pine needles. They were piled so thick, they were like a mattress.
She spread Davis's jacket on them, then lay on her back and looked up at the
stars. The sky was so lovely. She wished she could fly high above the hills and
the forest, high above humanity - and inhumanity. Her eyelids fluttered. She was
so tired. Something flew across her patch of sky. An owl, she thought. Then, as
if on cue, she heard a soft hoot, hoot from nearby in the woods.
Greta dreams that she's lying in the woods, exhausted and confused.
Someone is climbing on top of her, someone heavy and dark. She feels his phallus
probe the lips of her pussy, then it plunges in. It's huge. She wants to scream,
but his powerful hands are around her throat and his thumbs are crushing her
windpipe. She is dying yet profoundly aroused, more aroused than she had ever
been before. Her life is being squeezed out of her, and her body is shuddering
with ecstasy.
She awoke covered with sweat and trembling with fear and desire. Then, as if
someone else were willing it, her right hand slipped down into her shorts and
began to caress her pussy. With her other hand, she rubbed her breasts. Her hips
began gyrating and she moaned softly.
Someone, or something, moaned back.
Greta froze.
Again, there was that sound, like a low, soft moan. Then a rustling in the
pine needles to her left. She dared not turn her head to look. Something touched
her left shoulder, then moved to her exposed belly. Whiskers tickled her. The
snout hesitated inches from her crotch before proceeding down her leg. Then
whatever it was ambled off, back into the woods.
She breathed a long sigh of relief. She had been inspected by some guardian
of the forest and found unthreatening, even a bit boring. She began laughing,
then her laughter turned to tears. All the stress of the past 24 hours poured
out in sobs. And so she drifted off to sleep again, and again she dreamed.
Greta is looking at the sepia photograph of her great-grandmother that
she had seen at Grandpa Grabowski's house when she was a little girl. The family
called the old lady Baba Sowa. In the photograph, she wears a glittering pince
nez and has an aquiline nose. As Greta watches, Sowa is transformed into an owl.
She turns her head slightly, looks straight at Greta with those glittering eyes
and says, "You will die at the hand of no man."
(To be continued.)
III
Greta was awakened by a raucous band of crows, and by something else: an
insistent electronic beeping. It sounded so much like the alarm clock back at
her apartment in Youngstown that she was confused when she opened her eyes and
saw blue sky and trees overhead. She sat up, and the crows began flying away -
lazily, as if to show they weren't afraid of her.
She wondered what time it was.
Beep, beep. There it was again. It was coming from one of her shoes, a
few feet from her. Then she remembered that she had put Davis's radio in her
shoe the night before.
Beep, beep. Should she click it on and listen? Maybe they were trying to
reach Davis. Maybe they didn't know he was dead. Maybe she could learn something
that would help get through another day alive.
Or maybe once she clicked on, they would somehow know exactly where she
was.
Beep, beep. "Here goes nothing," she said to herself, as she punched the
"on" button. What she heard was a conversation between two or three other
parties. They seemed unaware that she had tuned in. "Cleared Sector Nine. No
sign of her." "Okay, we're clear down here, too. Let's move on to Seven."
"Jimbo, how are things at your end?" "We've looked in and all around Bunkhouse
Two. She must have been here yesterday, because we found a supply cart with a
bunch of open boxes. But she's long gone. We're going to move south."
Greta smiled. At last, she had caught a real break. They were combing
the Ranch, sector by sector, and the area around Bunkhouse Two was clear, as far
as they were concerned. If she could just get back there, she could break into
the bunkhouse, sleep in a real bed, and have all the cocktail onions a girl
could ask for.
She headed north.
Which is precisely what McTeague hoped she would do. He knew she had
taken Davis's radio, and he knew she had been to Bunkhouse Two. But where she
was now was anyone's guess.
If they couldn't find her, maybe they could get her to come to them. The
beeping and the radio conversation had been carefully planned. He wanted Greta
to think she was eavesdropping. He wanted her to come out of hiding and make it
to Bunkhouse Two. He wanted it so much that he had told the hunt crew, and that
fatuous fat-head, Tom, to steer clear if they saw her.
Let her come to Papa, he thought. I'll reel her in like a lovely little
trout.
# # #
Greta moved cautiously through the trees, scanning the clearing ahead of
her. There was no sign of life, except for a couple of barn swallows zipping
back and forth over the near side of the bunkhouse. Still, she waited a little
longer. Just to be safe, she thought. Then she smiled grimly. Who could be safe
in a place like this?
She stepped into the clearing and walked purposefully toward the
bunkhouse. As she turned a corner, there was a blur of something big moving
fast, and that something smashed into her. She bumped into the wall and fell to
her knees. When she looked up, she was looking into the cold grey eyes of
McTeague.
"You're up awfully early on a Sunday morning," he said. She struggled to
her feet and faced him, trying to be brave. Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw Sims walking toward them. "You've caused us no end of trouble, young lady,"
McTeague said. Then, so fast she had no time to defend against it, he slapped
her face.
It was the hardest she'd ever been slapped, and she tasted blood. He
stepped back and drew his hunting knife.
"No," cried Sims. "Tom paid for his chance. You can't kill her yet."
"Oh, I'm not going to kill her," McTeague said. Then he plunged the
knife into her left thigh and twisted it. "I'm just going to give Fat Tom a
fighting chance."
Greta fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Why this? Why didn't the
son of a bitch just finish her off?
McTeague's voice cut through the fog of pain. He was talking on the
radio. "Tom, we've had a bit of good luck. We're at Bunkhouse Two, and who did
we run into but Greta herself. Seems she's had a bit of an accident. If you
hurry over, you may catch her." He paused and listened to Tom's reply. "Read the
goddam map, Tom. You're not far away. Just hurry over, and keep your eyes open."
He looked down at Greta. "Start running, you miserable cunt. Start running and
hope this fat pig of a hunter doesn't find you and do to you what I'd like to
do."
She rose unsteadily to her feet. Her leg throbbed. Run? Hardly. She
hobbled to the edge of the woods, turned and looked back at the two men. Sims
was protesting and gesticulating. But McTeague was looking at her with the smile
of a funeral director.
# # #
Tom had gotten the call from McTeague while hiking with Loopy along the
edge of the Rill. McTeague and Sims hadn't wanted him to try to track down Greta
unattended, so Loopy was tagging along to provide protection. Now, after hearing
from McTeague, Tom moved with renewed energy. They had spotted Greta. Better
yet, she was hurt. This time he had a chance.
They came to the edge of a clearing. In the woods on the other side,
something was moving. Something pale. It was Greta, and indeed she appeared
hurt. She stumbled, picked herself up and pushed on - toward them.
Tom turned to Loopy.
"Let me handle this," he whispered. "I paid for it. Go on back to the
hotel."
Loopy shrugged. Greta looked pretty harmless. He would have enjoyed
watching the fun, but the customer is always right. He turned and walked away.
Greta came into the clearing without stopping or looking. She was in too
much pain and too weak to take precautions. She just wanted to get as far away
from McTeague as possible. Tom rushed her when she was only a few yards away.
She looked up, startled, then he tackled her. She fell to the ground,
with Tom on top. She tried to hit and scratch him, but he grabbed her wrists and
pressed them to the ground. His face was only inches from hers.
"This is it, bitch," he said. "This is where you check out." He released
her wrists, sat up and punched her in the jaw. She went limp. Tom struggled to
his feet. Then he saw the stab wound in her thigh. Nasty, he thought. Let's see
if she's really out. He stepped heavily on her leg. She groaned and tried to sit
up. He stepped back and kicked her in the chest.
Then, as she turned over and tried to crawl away from him, he stomped
twice on her lower back. She quit moving. Tom was breathing heavily. Between his
exertion and sexual arousal, he felt almost dizzy. Gotta think this through, he
told himself. He regretted having sent Loopy away. He would be handy right now,
to carry Greta to the Abattoir. Maybe he could radio for help, he thought. But
he discovered his radio was missing. Must have fallen off during the hike. Well,
he still had six feet of nylon rope in his backpack and a hunting knife on his
belt.
He pulled Greta's wrists together behind her and began tying them. He
didn't know much about knots, but he devised something he felt would hold.
Greta was stirring again. She seemed to have trouble breathing. He
pulled off her pants and shoes and flung them into the bushes. Then he stuck his
hand into her pussy. He wiggled his fingers, trying to get her wet. Greta's mind
was out of commission, but her body was still responsive. Quickly, her pussy was
lubricated. Tom unzipped his shorts and fucked her.
Afterward, he leaned down next to her and drew his knife. He held it
close to her face. "I'm going to get some company so we can all enjoy you,
sweetie pie. And when I get back, I'm going to carve you up like a Thanksgiving
turkey."
He laughed at the notion of her trussed up on a platter. Then he gave
her one last, savage kick in the side and headed northeast. That should take him
to McTeague and Sims. Read the goddam map, McTeague had said. Well, he had read
it, and he knew exactly where he was going.
# # #
Greta lay quiet for several minutes, until she was sure Tom was gone.
Then she began struggling with the rope that held her. The knot was clumsy,
complicated and ineffective. It didn't take her long to slip free.
When she got to her feet, a wave of nausea almost sent her back to the
ground.
How could she go on?
How could she not?
Tom had headed toward the bunkhouse, so they would be coming from the
northeast. They'd probably figure she was headed downstream. Instead, she went
due east.
The woods grew thinner, which meant she was becoming easier to spot, but
she pushed on. And when she came to an asphalt path that ran south, she turned
on to it without thinking. She didn't notice when a shadow glided across her
path, but she saw it when it returned half a minute later. Something big, she
thought. Big wings. Then she felt sick again, and the thought of whatever it was
overhead disappeared.
But that something didn't disappear. It was a buzzard, and it had become
interested in Greta the moment she staggered out of the woods and onto the path.
Whatever this pale two-legged animal was, it was clearly in distress. Experience
and instinct told the buzzard that this was a meal, or soon would be. It swooped
lower and picked up the scent of blood.
The buzzard's excitement grew as Greta fell face first onto the path. It
glided down and landed clumsily a few feet from her. The black bird approached
cautiously. Just then, another shadow glided across the path, and a second
buzzard landed on the other side of this promising new form of road kill.
The first buzzard moved closer, looking for Greta's eyes. However
primitive its brain, it knew that plucking out the eyes disabled still living
animals quickly and sent them into shock. Also, eyes were tasty.
Greta smelt a foul odor. She looked up just as the buzzard lunged at
her. She slapped its head away and tried to roll to safety, bumping into second
bird, which scrambled to get out of her way.
The buzzards retreated and watched. This was going to take some time,
but they were in no hurry. Greta pushed herself up until she was on her hands
and knees. She looked down and saw blood still flowing from her stab wound. This
made her dizzy again, and she sank back to the pavement.
The buzzards waddled closer. One extended its neck and bit into Greta's
bare behind. She moaned and twitched but couldn't fight back. The other hopped
onto her extended forearm, leaned forward and ripped off the upper part of her
left ear. The pain no longer registered. Greta lay motionless.
More shadows passed over this gathering, and within seconds two more
buzzards had landed. They arranged themselves as if at an intimate dinner party,
two on each side of the table. They sensed Greta was beyond resistance. One
grabbed her shoulder in its powerful beak and yanked her over, onto her back,
exposing her face, breasts and belly. The others closed in.
# # #
"It was right here. I left her right here."
"Are you sure, Tom," said McTeague. His voice was calm, but Sims took
one look at him and knew a storm was brewing.
Tom was running around the clearing in growing confusion. "I left her
tied up," he said. "And she was unconscious. Someone must have come and taken
her away."
McTeague's face darkened.
"Wait," said Tom. "There's her shorts. And a shoe. See, I told you this
is where I nailed the bitch."
"Okay," said McTeague. "We'll take over now. You just get back to the
hotel. Anywhere but here. I want you out of my sight."
Tom was set to protest, but Sims, standing behind McTeague, motioned him
to keep quiet. He turned angrily and marched off in a direction he hoped would
take him to the hotel. It was time to get the hell out of this rip-off joint.
This whole expensive enterprise had been a disaster.
McTeague lifted his radio and spoke quietly. "We're in a clearing about
50 yards from Tower Four. Bring Ginger and Jeebies." He picked up Greta's
shorts.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Gunter?" Sims asked. "There are
people wandering all over the Ranch right now. Those dogs are dangerous."
"But at least they're here," McTeague shot back, "unlike the Plott
hounds you promised. Ginger and Jeebies will do what I command." He sniffed the
crotch of Greta's shorts. "They'll get a whiff of this, then they'll track her
down and rip her apart. I only wish I could be there to watch."
Sims lit a cigarette, and McTeague whistled softly. He seemed lost in
thought. After a few minutes, they heard barking in the distance. Then the
mastiffs rushed up to McTeague, wagging their tails, eager for attention and
approval. McTeague wrestled with them, hugged them, let them slobber all over
him. He loved them more than he had ever loved any other creature on earth.
He rubbed Greta's shorts against their snouts. "Here's what you're
after, my darling, ferocious pets. Go get her. Go get her and do your bloody
worst." The dogs ran around in circles for a few seconds, then headed south.
McTeague watched them with an expression of pride.
Sims watched, too, but he was filled with apprehension.
# # #
Troy Parris was driving the electric cart as fast as it would go, which
wasn't very fast, especially when pulling a wagon full of bed linens. This
wasn't one of his regular duties, but he was happy to be outdoors.
As he came around a turn, he was confronted by a congregation of
buzzards. They looked up from whatever it was they were eating, recognized
danger and reluctantly waddled off in the other direction, not yet ready to give
up their meal and get airborne.
Troy hit the brakes and gasped. The meal was a young woman. One look at
her platinum blonde hair and long, lovely legs told him it was Greta. He leapt
out of the cart and knelt beside her. The upper half of her left ear had been
ripped off, and her right eyelid was bleeding. But the eyeball was intact, and
the other eye hadn't been touched.
He felt her neck. Her heart was still pumping, thank God. He examined
the rest of her. There was a bloody cut in one shoulder and what looked like a
stab wound in her leg. He turned her over gently. A hunk of flesh had been
ripped out of her right buttock. She was in pretty bad shape, but none of the
wounds appeared life-threatening.
He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the supply wagon. She
murmured incoherently. "Quiet, honey," he said softly. "You're going to be okay.
Just be real quiet." He covered her with a bed sheet, but within seconds blood
had seeped through. He grabbed a dark blue woolen blanket and spread it over
her. Then he started up the cart and headed for an abandoned cabin he used for
assignations with several women on the staff. No one came around the cabin
except him and his occasional lovers, and he would gladly forego lovemaking
until he had nursed Greta back to health.
Somewhere in the woods dogs were barking, then Troy heard someone scream
for help. You're on your own, buddy, he thought. I've done all the rescuing I'm
going to do today.
# # #
The mastiffs weren't especially adept at tracking game, but this was an
easy assignment. The trail was fresh and the scent overpowering. They loped
along, slowing occasionally to sniff the ground or piss on a bush, and within a
few minutes they spotted a fat human walking ahead.
Tom turned and froze when he heard the first bark. Two huge dogs were
headed straight for him.
"Down boy, down boy. Holy shit! HELP!"
Those were his last words. What followed were wild gurgles and screams,
as the dogs did their deadly work. One attacked his face and throat. The other
went for where the scent from Greta's shorts was strongest. Tom's jugular and
testicles were severed at almost the same instant.
# # #
It had been eight days since Greta had fled into the woods, trailing
blood. Eight days of intensive searching. And nothing.
"This is unacceptable," said C. Marston Moulton, chairman of the
foundation that owned the Ranch. He was also vice chairman of the Medical Center
and senior partner in one of the state's most powerful law firms. He was
presiding at a meeting of the executive committee and the senior staff in a
conference room at the Ranch.
"We've lost two hunters and now a hunt master. And we can't find a
helpless, injured young cunt. We're not dealing here with Wonder Woman, for
Christ's sake. What the hell kind of outfit is this?"
McTeague squirmed in his chair and was about to speak. But Jimbo
Robbins, head of security, saw an opening. "The way I see it, Mr. Moulton, she's
most likely dead. Mr. McTeague says he stabbed her pretty deep. I suspect she
wandered off into the woods and bled to death. By now the coyotes and raccoons
and buzzards and all the other birdies and beasties have pretty much stripped
away all the soft parts."
"Very graphic, Mr. Robbins," said Moulton. "Thank you for sharing -
especially just before lunch. But if we want to be grisly, consider this: If she
is, in fact, a rotting corpse, how come the Plott hounds that the late and
unlamented Mr. Sims finally brought in from McDowell County didn't find her? How
come the bloodhounds I had shipped in from Tennessee failed as well?"
Robbins fell silent.
"Mr. Moulton," said McTeague. "I'm as upset as you are at how things
turned out. Especially the loss of Tom Dishman to the mastiffs. I told Sims it
was a bad idea, turning the dogs loose. It wasn't their fault. It was just a
case of bad human judgment."
"It certainly was," said Moulton, "though I still think Sims should have
been given a chance to defend himself to the board. Your summary execution looks
to me like a case of bad judgment, too."
McTeague's face reddened, but he didn't respond.
"Well, that's all water over the dam, sir," said Robbins. He was
enjoying McTeague's discomfort and wanted to exploit what looked like a possible
opening for advancement. "Our goal now is to find her and, if she's alive, kill
her. The collar she's wearing cannot be removed without a key, at least not
without removing her head." He chuckled, but no one else smiled. "It has a tiny
transmitter," he continued, "and when radio units attached to the steel fence
posts pick up the signal, they amplify it and send it to Security. My suggestion
is that we remove several of those fence post units and carry them through the
woods, sector by sector, and see if we get a beep."
Moulton thought this over and said, "Good idea. How long do the
batteries in the collars last?"
Robbins triumphant smile faded. "I don't know, sir. We always change
them before each hunt. I'll find out." He turned to Loopy, who was sitting
against a wall. "Go get the specs on the Q-3 system, will you? They're on top of
my desk."
"If I may," said McTeague, "I'd like to suggest another step, a
complementary step. We've checked all the buildings, of course, except those
used by staff. I'm not making any accusations, but it's possible someone on
staff is hiding her. It's unlikely, but let's make sure."
"I'm surprised you haven't already done that," said Moulton. "Well, by
all means, get on with it. And if anyone did, in fact, help this young woman,
they must be terminated, too."
"Of course," said McTeague.
The conversation shifted to other topics, including how to deal with
increasingly insistent questions from the survivors of the two hunters. Already,
there was talk of lawsuits.
Loopy returned and handed a folder to Robbins. Robbins examined them and
appeared shaken. "Five days, six at most," he said, almost in a whisper. "The
batteries in the collar are probably spent."
Moulton took a sip from a glass of ice water and said, "That means she
might not be on premises at all. She could have gotten past the fence without
our knowing."
"That's unlikely, sir," Robbins said defensively. "She was hurt bad, and
she would have had to get through coiled razor wire. She would've been sliced to
pieces."
Moulton rose. "I'm tired of excuses and might-have-beens. I want
results. I want the bereaved families satisfied - without shelling out a lot of
money. I want our whole security system overhauled. And I want that cunt found.
Fast."
# # #
Greta's recovery was slow but steady. The infirmary nurse, Roberta,
would do anything for Parris, and frequently had. Now she gave him antibiotics,
bandages and pills for pain and fever. She had even slipped over to the cabin
one evening to put stitches in the wound in Greta's leg and to bandage her
behind.
"She's got a nice ass," Roberta said with a wry smile. "You spend much
time there?"
"I hardly know her, Bobbie," said Parris. "I mean, okay, I did screw her
once, the first day she was here, but that's all. I brought her here because I
just felt sorry for her. Jesus Christ, you can't just let someone get eaten by
buzzards. Especially when they're still alive."
On the day the board and senior staff were meeting in the conference
room, Parris had slipped over to the cabin with a plastic container full of
tomato and artichoke soup and several chicken sandwiches. Greta's appetite had
returned, though she was still weak and shaky. After lunch, as Parris sat in a
rocking chair, Greta knelt before him and gave him a long, slow blow job. It was
the best he'd ever had. Then he took her to bed, and gently licked her pussy
until she came. He wanted to lie next to her and sleep the afternoon away, but
he was scheduled to go on duty at the desk at two o'clock. A corporate board
retreat was to begin that evening, and guests would be checking in all
afternoon.
When he closed and locked the front door of the cabin, he saw McTeague
and Loopy approaching.
"Hello, Troy," said McTeague. "What brings you here?"
"The usual," Parris said, blushing.
"Anyone we know?" McTeague asked, teasingly.
"Yes, but I'm too much of a gentleman to tell."
McTeague laughed. "Okay. I don't want to embarrass you or her."
He and Loopy joined Parris as they walked to the asphalt path. "See you
later," Parris said, and headed for the hotel.
"Wanna check out the cabin?" Loopy asked. "No," said McTeague. "I trust
Troy. And I don't want to make things difficult for his lady friend. It's
probably the new girl in the kitchen. He beds them all, sooner or later."
# # #
Loopy had been told from early childhood that he was stupid, and he had
more or less come to believe it. But he had a good nose for lies, and he was
pretty sure Troy Parris was lying. So after he and McTeague had checked several
other buildings and returned to the hotel, he slipped away and went back to the
cabin.
The shades were drawn on the front and side windows, but in back, where
there was a screen porch, one window was half open. Made sense, he thought, it
was a pretty warm day. As quietly as a 270-pound man could, he climbed the
steps, opened the screen door and crept over to the window. He needn't have
worried about the creaking boards. An electric fan inside was turned on, and the
noise would have drowned out his approach.
He found himself looking into one of the cabin's two bedrooms. The room
was pretty dark, but he could see that no one was there. He continued watching.
He had nothing more important to do. After about 10 minutes, someone passed in
the hall outside the bedroom. He didn't get a good look, but he was sure it was
a woman. A slender woman. With pale hair.
Loopy knew the layout of the cabins. She would have been going from the
other bedroom to the kitchen. He waited. In a few minutes, she returned. He got
a good look. It was Greta.
He wondered how he could break the news to McTeague without triggering
an explosion. McTeague had been a good boss, had paid Loopy well and entrusted
him with important assignments. But he had a terrible temper, and Loopy worried
that his rage might be turned on the messenger, not just on the subjects of the
message. By the time he got back to the hotel, he had decided to lay it out
plain and simple.
Greta was in the cabin. Troy had betrayed him. Those were the facts.
Loopy would do whatever McTeague needed him to do.
(To be continued.)
IV
When Parris arrived at the cabin, McTeague was sitting next to the
fireplace, waiting for him. Greta was there, too. She was standing on her toes,
her wrists tied behind her. A sock was stuffed in her mouth, and her steel
collar had been replaced by a noose. The taut rope ran up and over a ceiling
beam, and the other end was tied to a steel hook in the wall. Greta's eyes were
filled with fear and dismay.
Parris wondered which of them his boss would kill first.
McTeague said, "Hello, Troy. Glad you could come by. Hope you don't mind
if Loopy joins us." At that moment Parris felt a big hand on his shoulder. Loopy
pushed him into the room. Parris hadn't spoken, but McTeague said, "No use
offering excuses. No use pleading for mercy. You betrayed us. You betrayed the
Ranch. You betrayed me."
His voice, which had been calm, grew louder. "I gave you your job. Gave
you countless opportunities to fuck the help, fuck the young women chosen for
the hunt, fuck the fucking raccoons if that's what you wanted. And you betrayed
me."
McTeague had risen and now stood close to Parris. Loopy held the back of
Parris's neck with one hand and had twisted Parris's left arm behind him with
the other. So when McTeague's blow came, Parris had only his right arm to try to
fend it off. He failed. The punch caught him on the side of the jaw, and his
knees buckled.
Loopy pulled him back up again and now had his forearm across Parris's
neck. McTeague went to work on Parris's belly, groin and chest. The blows were
methodical and powerful. After six or seven, McTeague stepped back. Parris was
limp in Loopy's arms.
"Now, Greta," said McTeague, when he had caught his breath, "we're going
to have a contest. We're going to see which of you has the stronger life force."
He picked up another rope from the sofa and tossed it, too, over the beam. One
end was formed into a noose, like the one around Greta's neck. He placed it
around Parris's neck, then pulled the rope taut. Loopy let Parris go, and the
weight nearly pulled the rope out of McTeague's grip. But he quickly got
control. He pulled until Parris toes barely touched the floor. "Strip him,"
McTeague said. Loopy ripped off Parris's shirt. The buttons popped off and
scattered on the floor. Then he loosened Parris's belt and pulled down his pants
and underpants.
"Shit," said Loopy, looking at Parris's penis. "What's all the fucking
excitement about? Mine's twice that size."
"Hold him up," McTeague said. Then he tied the rope to the handle of a
heavy wooden chest next to the sofa. "See if that'll hold him."
Loopy carefully let go of Parris. The chest budged, then stopped.
"That should do it," McTeague said. Parris's his toes were inches from
the floor, and his face was turning purple. McTeague went to Greta and pulled on
her rope until she, too, was suspended by the noose around her neck. Her legs
twitched as she desperately sought a foothold.
"A real pair of swingers," said Loopy, laughing at his own joke.
After half a minute, Parris began to get an involuntary hard-on.
"Guess he's thinking about you, darling," Loopy said to Greta. But she
was having problems of her own. Her face was turning purple, too, and she was
making little gurgling noises.
McTeague slapped her. "Stay awake and pay attention," he said. "The
object of this game is survival. If Troy succumbs before you do, we'll let you
live. For a while. If you die first, we'll do our best to revive Troy so he can
see what we do to your body."
Greta, of course, was oblivious to everything he was saying. Lack of
oxygen was slowly killing her. Meanwhile, Parris's body began shaking violently.
He had been unconscious even before they hanged him, but now bodily systems more
primitive and essential than consciousness were at work. The shaking subsided to
a tremor, then stopped. His erection went limp, and he pissed on the floor.
McTeague felt his chest. "No heartbeat," he said. He turned to Greta.
"You win."
# # #
Out of gratitude, McTeague let Loopy decide how Greta would die. And as
the young man outlined his plan, McTeague realized that, when it came to mayhem,
Loopy was an idiot savant.
McTeague had never heard of Ralph's Arena, but that wasn't surprising.
It appealed to folks in a different social stratum. The important thing was that
those folks enjoyed much the same kind of excitement that the hunters at the
Ranch paid so much for - though the setting was an oversized gym in a grimy
mining town, instead of hills and forests and a handsomely appointed hotel.
Sam Marx, who owned the arena and who had known Loopy since he was an
extremely delinquent juvenile, was at first reluctant to participate. He had
never been to the Ranch, though he had heard rumors about it. He was doubtful
about dealing with a lot of snooty WASPs. But he showed up anyway, a big man in
his early 60s. In his double-breasted suit, he looked like a film noir
gangster. This impression was enhanced by his thick black eyebrows and droopy
eyelids, and by the cigar clenched between his teeth.
Over drinks on the hotel veranda, Loopy explained what he had in mind.
As McTeague listened, it seemed almost as though Loopy and Marx were speaking a
foreign language. They talked about the relative merits of Mean Mountain
Mossback, Bigger Bertha, the Demon Sisters and the Midnight Midgets. At Loopy's
mention of the midgets, Marx's face lit up. "Great idea," he said. "They're down
in the Spartanburg right now, and I think we can probably get them by the end of
the month."
"Excuse me," said McTeague. "I'm totally lost. I understand Loopy wants
to use our young lady in some sort of snuff show, which is fine with me, but who
the hell are the Midnight Midgets?"
Marx snorted. "Only one the best goddam acts we've ever booked at
Ralph's. Hugely popular. Humor, pathos, raunchiness, and intense, raw violence.
They've got it all." He stopped and frowned. "But where's the babe? This won't
work without a pretty spectacular babe. You know, big tits, big hair, big eyes."
"That part I understand," said McTeague. He turned and gestured to one
of his security men, who led Greta out onto the veranda. She wore only white
bikini panties. Marx rose and bowed slightly, a courtesy that seemed incongruous
under the circumstances. Greta looked at him with expressionless eyes.
"She's a bit on the scrawny side," Marx said. "What happened to her
leg?"
"I stuck a knife in it," said McTeague.
Marx glanced at him. "I would have thought you had people who would do
that sort of thing for you." McTeague's face darkened, but he said nothing. Marx
gently pushed Greta's hair back from her face. "What about her ear? Did you do
that, too? And her eyelid?"
"No, that was done by .... Well, let's just say that neither Loopy nor
I was responsible," said McTeague.
Marx walked behind Greta. "I hope you don't mind, miss, but I'd like you
to push your panties down just a bit. Yes, that's it." He pointed to a raw,
deeply indented spot that had yet to heal. "And that?" he asked.
McTeague had grown exasperated. "Look," he said. "We're not selling a
thoroughbred mare, we're offering someone to be knocked around a ring and then
killed, for the delectation of a crowd of rednecks. Do you need Miss America for
this?"
Marx didn't answer. He continued examining Greta. Finally, he said,
"You're a lovely young woman. You'll be one of the loveliest ever to appear at
Ralph's." Turning to McTeague, he said, "You've got a deal. The Medical Center,
with which we, too, have a relationship, will get one quarter of the gate." He
moved closer and added, in a low voice, "I'm not in the killing business,
McTeague, but I doubt she will survive the Midgets."
They shook hands, and Marx handed McTeague and Loopy cigars.
# # #
Loopy and Greta climbed into the back seat of Marx's long black '79
Cadillac. Marx got behind the wheel. The windows were tinted so dark that
McTeague couldn't see Greta's expression as the car pulled away. He hoped she
was fearful and crying.
In fact, she was very calm. Loopy and Marx started talking about great
wrestling acts and some of the stupid things people did on amateur night. After
a while, Loopy said, "Mr. M, do you mind if I persuade this young lady to give
me a blow job?"
"Be my guest, son," Marx replied. Loopy grabbed Greta by the back of her
neck and squeezed hard. She winced but didn't cry out. "You know what I want,
bitch," he whispered. "Do it." She unzipped his pants, leaned over and began
sucking his dick. Tiffany had been right. It was enormous.
In less than half a minute, Loopy gave a mighty groan and filled her
mouth with cum. "That was nice, honey. Say, Mr. M, you want to pull over and let
me drive while she does you?"
"No thanks, Loopy," said Marx. "I've been faithful to my Molly for 40
years. I'm not going to break that record."
"Gee," said Loopy, "you Jews are more Christian than the Christians. No
offense intended."
"None taken. I presume you meant it as a compliment."
"Absolutely," said Loopy, though he had never before used "Christian" as
a compliment.
They drove on in silence until Greta startled them both by asking, "Who
are the Mighty Midgets?"
"It's the Midnight Midgets," Marx corrected her. "Though they're not
really midgets. They're dwarfs. You know, with short legs. All four of them are
under four feet tall. Used to be six in the act, but one fell off a bar stool
and broke his neck and another entered a monastery. I know it sounds crazy, but
it's God's truth."
"And I'm expected to fight all four of them?" Greta asked.
"Not exactly, Miss. You'll wrestle two at a time. It's like a tag team,
only you don't have a teammate and they do. They can bring in the other two for
relief as needed. No offense, but I'm not sure the replacement duo will be
needed. You don't look very strong."
Greta considered a reply but decided to skip it.
"These are tough little peckerheads," Marx went on. "I've seen 'em wear
down big, strong men. You grab one and toss him out of the ring, and the other
is biting your calf or punching you in the balls. Not that you have balls, of
course, but you get my drift?"
"And if I toss both of them out of the ring, or subdue both of them one
way or another, then what?"
"Then the other two little bastards come after you. It's quite a show.
They're as persistent as blackflies at a beach party."
Great, thought Greta. From sadist hunters to hungry buzzards to
bloodsucking midgets.
"I'm sorry about all this, Miss," Marx said. "Really, I am."
"Then why don't you just let me go?" asked Greta.
"No way," interrupted Loopy. "No way. You could ruin things for a lot of
people, including me."
"I'm afraid Loopy's right," said Marx. "Letting you go is out of the
question. The best you can hope for is that you'll survive your bout with the
midgets. Then we'll find some other opponents. Or maybe the best thing would be
for the midgets to kill you quickly. You know, put you out of your misery, so to
speak."
Greta thought about this. She wasn't miserable, just very weary. All she
had been through had given her a quiet confidence in her ability to survive. But
it had also left her exhausted in mind and body. What difference did it really
make whether she died in bed after a long life or was snuffed by midgets in a
wrestling ring? They drove on in silence for another half hour, then Loopy
grabbed her by the neck again and whispered, "Do me."
# # #
The midgets were booked for the last weekend in August. This gave Greta
12 days to prepare. She was living in a couple of rooms over a practice gym
attached to Ralph's. The arena was a dark brick jumble of a building at the end
of what once had been a busy shopping street. Now, most of the storefronts were
boarded. Connie, a big, raw-boned woman who worked for Marx, was Greta's keeper.
She was gruff but kind-hearted. She fixed Greta big breakfasts and hearty
dinners. "Gotta fatten you up," she said. "Like Hansel and Gristle."
Greta was allowed to work out in the gym. She lifted weights and skipped
rope. She even tried a couple of punches at the heavy bag, but she quit after
she broke a nail.
Sam took her and Connie into the arena one night and turned on all the
lights. In the middle was a shabby boxing ring. The covering on the ropes was
frayed and the mat had bare patches. Ringside seats were folding chairs. Further
back there were benches.
"It'll hold over 600," Marx said proudly. "We've packed in as many as
720 for really big events."
Ralph's was an institution, the center of what was left of the town's
social life. And it was affordable. For a typical wrestling night, ringside
seats were $25, and most of the rest were $10. For big attractions, and the
Midnight Midgets were definitely a big attraction, ringside cost up to $50. And
if the crowd was big enough, Sam opened up what he called the "sky boxes." Kids
could climb onto the rafters for $2 each. They got a great view and a chance to
throw peanuts on the crowd below. Every now and then, one fell. Three had died
that way, and another would spend the rest of his life being pushed around in a
wheelchair and pissing in a bag. But no one would have dreamed of suing Ralph's,
or Sam Marx personally. That would just spoil things for everyone else. Besides,
shit happened.
# # #
It was Friday night, the big night, and Ralph's was packed. The warm-up
act was a pair of local bullies who pounded the hell out of each other, but the
crowd didn't need much warming up. When the ring announcer introduced the
Midnight Midgets and the four little men ran down the aisle and clambered into
the ring, the cheers were deafening.
Then the midgets did their standard opening, running crazily all around
the ring, vaulting over one another, sometimes colliding, always in motion. One
attached a choke collar and leash to another, who scampered around on his hands
and knees and then raised a leg and pretended to piss on the announcer's
trousers.
The midgets wore black boots, black mesh tops and black jockstraps with
shiny black codpieces. They were misshapen, ugly and irrepressible. Octavius was
the leader, or at least he was supposed to be. The others - Federico, Polio and
Stone - constantly challenged him. And whenever he loudly and insultingly
referred to them as Curley, Larry and Moe, all hell would break loose. They'd
gang up on him, pummeling him and kicking his shins. Twice he had ended up with
a broken nose after such altercations, and once he got so pissed off he knocked
Federico out cold. When Federico hadn't revived after five minutes, a doctor
from the Medical Center was called in. The crowd had roared with laughter when
Octavius loudly implored his fallen brother to wake up before the doc harvested
his kidneys.
After a few minutes of such madness and mayhem, the announcer again took
the mike, and the midgets and the crowd fell silent.
"Facing the Midnight Midgets in mortal combat tonight is a lovely
newcomer to wrestling, Princess Starlight. Let's give her a very big welcome."
Greta walked slowly down the aisle, accompanied by Connie. A white silk
robe hung from her shoulders and hid her body. Connie climbed a short stepladder
and parted the ropes. Greta climbed after her and entered the ring gracefully,
regally, just as Marx had told her to. Not that she needed coaching. She knew
just what was expected this evening. She would give this crowd her best, even if
she died doing it.
Connie removed her robe, and Greta raised her arms above her head, like
a ballerina or a figure skater, and slowly turned around and around. The crowd
was awestruck. She was gorgeous. She wore only a G-string with silver sequins.
Body makeup sprinkled with silvery flecks made her gleam like a fairy queen.
Even the indignity her body had suffered at the hand of McTeague had been
transformed. Her left thigh was wrapped in a silvery bandage that looked like a
royal garter.
"Princess Starlight is new to wrestling, ladies and gentlemen," said the
announcer, "but she is used to performing before crowds. This ecdysiast
extraordinaire has tantalized audiences on three continents. She has stripped
and gyrated before prime ministers and presidents, plutocrats and pashas. She
has won the hearts and hardened the pricks of the rich and the powerful on three
continents."
The boilerplate was the work of Marx, who had an old-fashioned view of
promotion and marketing. He had also penned the copy for flyers and posters
proclaiming Greta an "oracle sans auricle, who hears the voices of the
long-dead and sees into the future." This approach wouldn't have worked in most
venues, but the crowd at Ralph's had come to look forward to it.
Finally, the introductions over, the announcer climbed out of the ring,
and the referee entered. The crowd hooted and jeered. His name, during his
wrestling days, had been Bad Bill, but he was now, by consensus, Blind Bill. He
did his part in the ring with wonderful officiousness, and everyone loved to
hate him.
The overhead mike hovered just above him as he called Octavius and Greta
to the middle of the ring. "Okay, now, I want a good, clean match. No more than
two midgets in the ring with the lady at one time. And if she happens to be on
the ropes, the midgets who are outside are to leave her alone. No punching her
or tripping her or holding her.
"Princess Starlight, you'll be taking the midgets on two at a time
because you're nearly twice as big as any one of them. We believe in fair play."
Then he stepped back and said in a louder voice, "Okay, shake hands and
come out RASSLIN'!"
Greta extended her hand. Octavius grabbed it and yanked her forward. She
tripped on his extended foot and landed flat on her face. In an instant, he was
on top of her, one arm around her neck. With his other hand, he reached down and
squeezed her left breast hard. Federico joined him in the fun. He pinched and
twisted her nose, then he slapped her face half a dozen times, forehand and
backhand.
Greta was dazed. It had all happened so quickly. If this kept up, she
was finished before she had a chance to fight. But they didn't keep it up.
Octavius released her, stood and raised his arms. Federico joined him. They
paraded around the ring to the applause of the crowd.
Greta struggled to her feet and staggered over to the ropes. She wanted
to climb out and go home. As if she had a home to go to. Stone and Polio
attacked just as she was lifting one leg over the middle strand. They shoved her
back into the ring, then climbed to the highest rope and leaped at her. Polio
missed, but Stone landed right on her injured leg. Greta cried out in pain and
grabbed her thigh. The bandage had been ripped off, and the ugly stab wound was
exposed. Connie had put stitches in it, but they had burst, and now blood was
flowing freely.
"Blood, blood! Bloody flood!" yelled Octavius. The other midgets took up
the cry, "Blood, blood! Bloody flood!" Soon the whole hall was filled with the
chant.
Greta managed to get to her knees, but Stone, in the exaggerated motions
of a circus clown, tiptoed up to her from behind and kicked her in the butt. His
boot landed in the same spot the buzzard had taken a bite out of, and now more
blood flowed.
"Blood, blood! Bloody flood!" The chant was louder and more enthusiastic
than ever. Greta was on her hands and knees. She lowered her head. Rage and a
grim determination filled her heart. Suddenly, she lunged forward and tackled
Federico. She climbed on top of him and started punching him in the face as hard
as she could.
Meanwhile, the referee had gotten into the act. He grabbed Polio under
one arm and Stone under the other and hauled them over to the edge of the ring.
"Out, you little bastards," he yelled, as he sent them tumbling through
the ropes and onto the arena floor.
"Blind Bill, over the hill. Blind Bill, over the hill," someone cried.
And the crowd took up this new chant. Octavius, after surveying the scene with
an expression of boredom, sauntered over to where Greta was pounding Federico.
"Shall I help my little brother?" Octavius asked loudly. "No," cried
some the crowd. "Yes," cried a larger group. "Take her down and stomp her,"
yelled one lone voice. Others took it up, "Stomp her, chomp her, mash her guts."
Octavius came at Greta from behind. He reached one hand around her face,
his thumb in one of her eyes, and pulled her backward. She fell onto the mat,
and before she could protect herself he slammed a booted foot into her belly.
Greta curled up in anguish. Octavius then kicked her viciously in the
kidneys. She screamed, stretched and again rolled onto her back. Her body was
wracked with spasms.
Octavius helped Federico to his feet. Federico, his nose bleeding and
his right eye swollen shut, knelt and kissed a big emerald ring on Octavius's
left hand. It was, as the crowd knew, the Ring of Invincibility. All this
ceremony was intended to give Greta a chance to recover. But she had been badly
hurt, and the best she could do was to roll over again, onto her stomach. Polio
ran into the ring and pretended to bite the referee's leg, while Stone tossed
the leash and dog collar to Federico. He slipped the choke collar around Greta's
neck and pulled sharply just as she was trying to get up. She toppled over onto
her side. Then he pulled her by the neck around the ring. She tried desperately
to loosen the collar, but she couldn't get her fingers under the chain.
The crowd roared its approval. "Bitch in heat, hit and beat!" someone
cried. Then that chant filled the hall. Federico dragged Greta to a corner of
the ring and tossed the end of the leash over the ropes to Stone, who grabbed it
and pulled with all his might. Greta was slowly lifted off the mat and against
the ropes, her head pulled so far back that she was facing the crowd upside
down. She was completely defenseless and choking to death.
Polio jumped down to the floor of the arena, crawled under the ring, and
emerged with a huge wooden mallet. It looked like something from a movie
cartoon, something made by the Acme Mallet Co. This was always a favorite with
the crowd. Someone called out, "Hammer of Thor, bang the blonde whore. Hammer of
Thor, bang the blonde whore."
Greta was close to losing consciousness. Octavius, with a great show of
ceremony, had ripped off her G-string. He and Federico pulled her legs apart,
then Federico pushed aside his codpiece and grabbed his prick. He did a little
dance, then tried to rub it against Greta's pussy, but even with her legs
spread, it was too high for him to reach.
Polio shoved him aside and raised the mallet. Greta, of course, couldn't
see the blow coming. With a mighty swing, he brought the Hammer of Thor down on
her right foot.
It crushed a dozen delicate bones. Even though she was on the verge of
asphyxiation, the pain was excruciating and she screamed a scream that was
stifled in her constricted throat. At that moment, the leash broke, and Stone,
whose whole weight had been supported by it, hurtled backward off the edge of
the ring and into the crowd. He landed in the lap of a huge woman whose massive
behind covered two folding chairs. The woman pushed the midget onto the floor
and rose slowly.
"It's Maxine," someone shouted. Then a new chant began: "Maxine, lardo
queen. Maxine, lardo queen." She waddled over to the stepladder, and two men
pushed her from behind.
Meanwhile, Greta, free at last of the collar, had managed to wrestle the
mallet from Polio and had given him a mighty whack. She could no longer stand,
so she was on her knees, trying to contend with Federico and Octavius, who were
dancing just out of reach.
She didn't see Maxine force her way between the ropes. She didn't see
Maxine's small, angry eyes in a face that resembled a huge ball of dough. Greta
knew nothing of this new danger until Maxine reached down and grabbed her by the
neck. She pulled Greta upright, spun her around, then sent her sailing into the
ropes with a mighty shove. Greta bounced off the ropes and landed face down with
a thud. The midgets started to move in, but they retreated as Maxine stepped
forward, straddled Greta and sat down so suddenly that the whole arena shook.
Her 350 pounds forced the air out of Greta's lungs in a loud whoosh.
Maxine leaned forward and pulled Greta's head back. She slipped a huge forearm
across Greta's throat, grabbed her thick wrist with her other hand, and began to
rock backward. The last thing Greta saw was Octavius dancing in front of her,
brandishing his prick. The last thing she heard was the crack of her own neck.
It took all four midgets and the referee to pull Maxine off Greta. When
Maxine was back on her feet, the crowd roared, and she blew kisses to them.
Greta's body lay lifeless and preternaturally flat. Blood trickled from
her nose and mouth, forming a little red puddle on the mat. The coroner, a stout
man in overalls, examined her and pronounced her dead. A trim young doctor from
the Medical Center, who had accompanied him into the ring, concurred: Greta was
quite dead.
Then the coroner dragged her by one arm to the edge of the ring, climbed
down and flipped her over his shoulder. As he carried her out, a freckled
12-year-old girl stroked Greta's hair and said, "It sure is purty."
Her younger brother rubbed his hand across Greta's back and shouted,
"Look, glittery shit!"
# # #
McTeague was in the kitchen, discussing the dinner menu with Henri, the
chef. "There will be seven of us," said McTeague. "Two board members, a
prospective donor, three Hunt Club alumni and myself. Carnivores all. How about
that pork tenderloin you do so well, the one with the orange glaze?"
"An excellent suggestion, Monsieur. And we have fresh avocadoes that
would be quite nice for salad. And scalloped potatoes?"
"Yes, that sounds fine."
There was a knock, and they looked up to see Loopy standing in the
doorway. He had a long package under his arm.
"Loopy, I'm so glad to see you," said McTeague. "How did it go? With our
lady friend?"
"It was truly awesome," said Loopy. "The midgets really worked her over,
then this big fat woman - well, I've got a videotape, and I don't want to spoil
it for you."
"It's a long box for a videotape."
"Oh, this," said Loopy. "No, this is from the Medical Center. They sent
it to show their appreciation."
"Well, that's a rare treat," said McTeague. "We're usually sending them
packages."
"Yeah, well, wait til you get a load of this," Loopy said. He ripped the
top off the cardboard box. Inside, packed with frozen gel in sealed plastic
bags, were two human legs. McTeague didn't need to see the stab wound in one of
them to know they were Greta's.
"Damned nice of them," he said.
"Distruggio said to roast 'em like lamb," Loopy said. "He suggested some
kind of Italian herb. It's written down in the note on the box."
"Henri," said McTeague. "Change of plans. I want you to roast these. And
there will be eight for dinner. My young friend Loopy will join us." He paused
for a moment, then added, "Cook the entire legs, but serve only the thighs
tonight. Freeze the calves. I'd like to save them for my dogs."
"I have not seen your pets lately, Monsieur," said Henri.
"No, I sent them to my sister in Knoxville. Because of the recent
unpleasantness. But now that this whole unfortunate affair has blown over,
Ginger and Jeebies will soon be back where they belong."
"Very good, monsieur."
McTeague and Loopy walked out into the dining room and stood in front of
the big window. "Looks so peaceful, doesn't it?" said McTeague.
"Yeah, I've had a lot of fun here."
"But you still plan to leave?"
"Yeah, me and a buddy was going to Mobile and New Orleans next month,
but I have to put it off til spring. I found out there's a federal warrant out
for me, so Judge Vinson, he suggested that me and my brother Al go to Canada for
a while."
"Well, if you ever need any references, I'd be delighted to help. You've
been a loyal employee and you've shown a lot of initiative." He put his arm on
Loopy's shoulder. "I think you're a natural for the security business."
They talked some more, until Loopy said, "If it's okay, I'm going to run
over to Bunkhouse One. I kinda got a date with this girl who works in
housecleaning." McTeague laughed. "Go ahead. Have your fun. Then come by and
have dinner with a bunch of old farts."
"Thanks, sir. I wouldn't miss this dinner. I guess the next best thing
between being between Greta's legs is eating them."
# # #
At the home of Sam and Molly Marx, in a quiet, unpretentious subdivision
about a mile from Ralph's, Sam was sitting at the kitchen table in his
underwear, reading the paper. "It says here they're cloning humans," he said.
"Like they did to that sheep."
"Maybe it will be a blessing," said Molly, who was busy on a complicated
needlepoint project.
"It doesn't seem right," said Sam. Then he sighed.
"You're worried," said Molly, "and don't tell me it's this cloning
business What's the matter?"
"It's that girl who died Friday night."
"The one the poster called an 'oracle.' What did you mean by that?"
"Well, it's strange," said Sam. "She told me that she wasn't afraid to
die, but if she did, the midgets wouldn't be the ones to kill her."
"She thought she could defeat the Midnight Midgets? She must have been
meshuga."
"No, she didn't know anything about the midgets. She just told me she
had a dream that told her she would die at the hand of no man."
"But she did," said Molly. "The midgets are men - small men but still
men - and they killed her."
"No. The midgets didn't finish her off. Big Maxine did. Squashed her
flat and then broke her like a dry twig. It was terrible."
Molly put down her needlepoint. "What are you saying, Sam? You were in
love with this girl?"
"No, of course not. I've never loved any woman but you. But she was
about the age that Sara would have been. I should have found a way to protect
her."
"It's a violent business, Sam. But without Ralph's, this town would dry
up and blow away."
"I know," Sam said sadly. "Well, maybe you're right about the cloning.
Maybe it will be a blessing. Maybe the Medical Center will find a way to
reproduce this young woman. They got her body, of course. I'm sure they've
carved her up. Desecrated her corpse. It's terrible what they do there. No
prayers, no vacher, no burial."
"But it helps people," said Molly. "People get organs they need. Just
last week Ruth Bayer got a coronet transplant. It's a blessing."
"No. It's corneas, not coronets," Sam said gently. "Anyway, cutting up
corpses is wrong. And I'm ashamed I give them so much business."
They fell quiet. After a while, Molly asked, "What do you know about
this girl? What was her name? Was she Jewish?"
"No. She was Polish Catholic. At least, she said her father was Polish
Catholic. Her mother was some kind of Protestant."
"The Polish Catholics did terrible things to Jews back in the old days,"
Molly said, without looking up from her work.
"This isn't the old days. Greta - that was her name - I'm sure she
didn't hate Jews. Young people in America today, they don't hate Jews. Or blacks
or Mexicans. They don't hate gay Ghanaians or Croatian cross-dressers. They're
all very tolerant."
"Yes, they just shoot anyone who comes along," said Molly.
"No, only a few crazy ones shoot people. Most don't give enough of a
damn to kill anyone."
"So, did you sleep with this Greta?"
Sam put down his newspaper. "Molly, Molly, I've never so much as kissed
another woman in 40 years. Except for those phony kisses people do when they
pretend to be glad to see one another."
Molly looked up and smiled at him. She put away her needlepoint, got up
and kissed the top of Sam's head. "Come to bed," she said.
"Go on up," he said. "I'll be there in a minute. Save my place." He
always said, "Save my place." After Molly left, he sighed again, deeply, and
scratched his chin. He had lied to Molly. While he had never shtupped another
woman since he was married, he had kissed Greta, and it wasn't the sort of
social kiss that polite Southerners are always doing.
It had happened Friday morning. He had gone to the little apartment next
to the gym, and Greta was sitting at the table, crying. Connie was fixing
breakfast and trying to ignore Greta's sobs. "What's the matter?" Sam asked.
"What can I do?" Greta stood and glared at him, her face full of pain and anger.
She wore only an undershirt and panties, and she was the most beautiful thing he
had ever seen. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead she began sobbing and
pounding his chest. Finally she collapsed against him.
He embraced her, tentatively, tenderly. He was filled with compassion.
And something else. "I'm sorry, little Greta," he murmured. "I'm sorry I can't
save you." She took a deep breath, stepped back and straightened her shoulders.
"I know," she said. "I know you can't. So I'll try to put on a good show. Your
bloodthirsty mob will get their money's worth."
"Maybe your dream was right, Greta," Sam said. "Maybe you'll survive. I
believe in dreams." She smiled a strange smile, then stepped forward and kissed
him lightly on the lips. He pulled her to him and kissed her long and
passionately.
Then he pushed her away. Her beauty pained him. To look at her was to
risk a broken heart. Maybe that was why, in the movies, lovely young women were
put in mortal danger and sometimes snuffed. Maybe that was why, at Ralph's, the
crowd was so uncomfortable at first, when beautiful women were on the card, and
cheered so lustily when these young beauties were eliminated.
Love and death. Eros and Thanatos. Freud had written about that sort of
thing. A very deep man. And a Jew. Turned the world of psychology upside down,
with all that business about the unconscious.
Sam suddenly became aware that his musings had left him with a very firm
hard-on. He headed upstairs, hoping it would last long enough for Molly to
enjoy.
THE END
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