Slaughterhouse High Part 17

Caught breath, three haunches away.

"Hey, relax," said Flann. "All I hear is my heart. And yours."

"Mmmm, you're warm."

"You too." There was a slight rustle, as of tinsel brushing against a gla.s.s ornament.

"Do you think we should?" Yield filled her voice.

"Who's to know?" More rustling and Brandy's vulnerable moan. "I'm going to suck my sweetie's lovelobe."

The killer stepped free of concealment.

Flann was stylishly hunched over, almost a ch.o.r.eographed flamenco pose. Brandy's eyelids were closed, her chin nestled upon his left shoulder as he mouthed her lovelobe. From his right hand hung her silken lobebag, limp as a finger puppet.

A gleam of debutante eyes opening. Flann's embroidered suit-back, a stretched target. The brutal drive of cloaked resentment.

Then came a pin-cushion zit of pierced felt, the ice pick's keen tip driving through expensive cloth.

The body accepted puncture and impalement as though they were crude afterthoughts, the sudden flair of the ice pick handle stopping its forward hurtle in a pit of depressed serge.

Flann's head pitched forward as three bodies sandwiched unbalanced against the wall. A shove at his suit helped unflesh the weapon.

Brandy's eyes widened. Her mouth readied a scream.

Her boyfriend flailed about, arms whipping wide and ineffectual. The lovelobe his teeth had abruptly severed hung like a blood-engorged tick from his lips. Staggering like a drunk upended in a slippery room, he fell away, his skull making a loud smack against the white wall.

Screams now, m.u.f.fled in the insulated room.

Screams wrapped in puffs of breath.

Brandy's left hand rose to her maimed ear, blood gush vining down her frail wrist.

The ice pick lifted once. It pinned the girl's right hand rising to resist, pinned it like a stuck b.u.t.terfly against her left breast, and filled her heart with steel.

Her eyes held, even as they clouded with death. Healing lay in Brandy's empty gaze. And in Flann's. Those eyes begged to be icicled, as had Sheriff Blackburn's.

Behind them through racks of meat waited the fat ghoul, an icicle dagger upraised at the end of his ma.s.sive arm.

That would do fine.

But time pressed.

Do Queen Brandy first. Then her lover. Come out of the cold, regain warm pa.s.sageways, again dare the fear of heights.

The next bit of payback would be a challenge and a thrill, courage and sheer strength tested to the limit. But close by awaited love and healing and an end to years of torment.

Through the motor hum and the meat racks, the leaden-footed dancers' shoetops scuffed across the floor.

Gerber Waddell sat in his supply closet, the door closed, a dim lightbulb over his head.

Like a great ape after eating, Gerber settled cross-legged on the floor, scratching his belly through janitorial denim.

Thoughts struggled to pierce his rage.

Something not right was seeping through the school tonight. This weren't your ordinary prom, no way, no how.

He was used to grisly thoughts on prom night.

Young bad flesh in rich clothing.

The antic.i.p.ated smack.

That's how Gerber always heard it in his head when they brought the victims in. Smack! An echo from the slash that few if any saw, 'cept for its aftermath, which he had to clean up lest it settle into the walls.

Couldn't have it settling into the walls.

Had to make them pristine again.

Well tonight, he was hearing lots more oof too, feeling bad things transpire, almost as if he were right there and they were happening in front of him.

He had a feeling there'd be lots more cleanup than usual. Lots more walls to make pristine.

They didn't pay him overtime neither.

He remembered the hospital geeks.

In particular he remembered good ol' Gary the nose-picking nurse, who must've thought Gerber was some piece of meat that cared not a whit about the niceties of living. Nope, good ol' Gary could just, privileged as you please, snuk a finger up into his nostril right in front of the sliced-up brain guy lying on the bed.

Gerber's head had hurt after the operation. But otherwise, he hadn't felt any different. He wanted to shove an ice pick up Gary's nose, get a b.l.o.o.d.y booger on its tip, maybe take some of his brain out along with it.

His hand went to the utility belt: Axe head. Plastic pouch o' screwdrivers. Empty place.

Gerber looked down.

No ice pick.

He sighed.

Always losing stuff. The Bleaks was always getting on him about that, about stuff being lost around the house.

Missus Bleak always pig-yammered at him out of her lipsticked oinker of a yap, till he'd had enough and cried in front of her like a big baby. But in his head she was taken apart, all that flab torn open so the blubber came spilling out on the rug and he weren't about to clean might mind you, dance on it. Nor would he care a tinker's d.a.m.n about his boots, nope, he'd just make sure he didn't slip on the grease and bang the back of his head where the surgeons had left the deep dimple.

Did they need him at the prom?

Probably so, but G.o.dd.a.m.n if he would go where they wanted him to go. Not with all the early unscheduled oof in his head, not with all the unruly visions of struggle warring up there.

He didn't want to see n.o.body.

I better get up, he thought. Head off to the next place. Where was that? His feet would know, as they always sooner or later did.

It was quiet in the supply closet. Quiet and close and difficult to breathe. They oughta make these denim suits with air holes, not make a head janitor sweat.

Maybe they wrung 'em out, he thought. Maybe they grabbed 'em out of Missus Bleak's bathroom clothes hamper. Maybe they fueled Corundum High with his sweat.

Gerber smiled.

Them teachers ain't got nothin' on me, he thought. Them s.h.i.tty students, they pa.s.s through this place like a digested meal. Gerber, he repairs the walls and linings, frees up blockages, keeps the little s.h.i.ts moving through until they blat out the low-slung b.u.t.tock end o' things.

But there be rumblings in these walls more than usual. They angered him, and frightened him.

Never you mind that.

Nope, I won't.

He got up, swirling with his palms on the concrete floor and shoving off, then letting his feet figure out where to take him next.

Kyla Gorg looked askance at her lover. "Hey come on, Patrice. The drawing's random. Even if it wasn't, and really some muckety-muck picks who's to be killed and where, they wouldn't be stupid enough to use the same location two years running."

"Yeah maybe," said Patrice, worrying a thin layer of chiffon between her pudgy fingers. "But there's always a first time."

"We're safe as a snug bug in a rug here. So chill out, okay?" Kyla thought her date was such a chickens.h.i.t.

Generations had survived prom night.

They could too.

"It's so creepy." Patrice was scandalized. "I can't believe they'd seat us here. Ugh, you can almost smell the blood."

"Oh, stop it!"

Kyla surveyed the dim cold kitchen, a rare look at a place ordinarily out of bounds.

Two other couples were tucked like ungainly dolls amidst sink units and stoves and preparation tables, murmuring in a darkness lit only by one feeble fixture above the cash register.

The white sign that bore their number had seemed to float on the wall when she and Patrice came to it. In this precise spot, the year before, Melody Jinx and her date had waited and bled and died.

Surely the area had been scrubbed down. But the wall paint was ugly green anyway and what Kyla had touched felt, well, greasy.

Tell herself a million times it was only her imagination, she could still see blotches of gore all around them. Melody's ghost, seeping through the walls and floor where Melody had eaten a cleaver, seemed to wrap them in cold mist.

Again Patrice's worry-wart voice: "I wonder where he is."

"Fido?"

"Of course Fido. Who else?"

"Fido's never going to be ours," Kyla said, with what seemed to her like grown-up resignation. "We have to face it, now that we're graduating."

"Don't say that!"

"Come on, Patrice. Folks expect us to triple up with an overweight man, just like on Fat and Fed Up."

"Ugh, I hate that show. And I hate overweight men."

"You like me, don't you?" Kyla asked.

"Sure I do." A ghostly jellyfished hand came down on Kyla's knee and orange-juiced there its a.s.surance. "But thin old, wiry old Fido is who I want. He's nice and cuddlable and cute and sweet and kind and scrumptious."

"And out of reach."

"We don't know that. Not for sure. And the night is far from over."

Kyla said nothing.

What was the use?

Give Patrice a last try at her dream, the one she'd first dared to voice in tenth grade.

It had been fun to moon over Fido in private, a secret pa.s.sion they used to fuel their lovemaking. Kyla had often pictured him with them as her lover's whip cut across his quivering flesh. Oncea"amazing experiencea"they had closed their eyes, stroking and sucking at one another, imagining it was him: Fido Jenner, split, blimped, making it with himself.

"I'll bet Ms. Foddereau's the slasher," said Patrice.

Kyla pictured the teacher's flat seamless face. Echoes of her dry humor. The old crone stood before a butcher block, working her b.l.o.o.d.y hands into an open pork belly.

"I'll bet it is," said Kyla.

That sly smile, that seemingly offhand remark about fat, the ripple of a chuckle it had set off in cla.s.s the year before.

Kyla warmed to the idea. "Boy, if it is, I'd love to see her try to surprise us. I'd love to overpower the superior little b.i.t.c.h and wrench her chin up while you sever her trachea, slicing deep to the spine with that bone saw up there." Among knives on the opposite wall, the bone saw gleamed.

"Yeah, bring her on!"

"We'll filet the smile right off her friggin' face," Kyla said.

"Butcher, cleave thyself."

The grimness silenced her, cutting short her glee. A teacher, probably right this moment, was ending two of her cla.s.smates' lives.

Not many friends amongst them, but they were okay kids. The prospect of beholding a slain couple sobered Kyla, even as it touched some atavistic nub of delight inside her.

"Patrice?"

"Yeah?"