How to Successfully Kidnap Strangers (18 page)

He slowly moved across the room, hands reaching out, feeling for the wall or the door or
anything
that wasn’t the infinite emptiness of darkness.

He found the door relatively quickly, pulling it open quietly and slowly. Candlelight greeted him from down the hallway. Lewis walked toward it, slowly, relying on tiptoes to avoid obnoxious creaking. He made it halfway down the hall when a bedroom door next to him opened and a man walked through it. Lewis didn’t hesitate. He lunged at him, tackling him against the wall. The man screamed. Lewis punched him in the face, then wrapped his hands around his neck and pulled him up, dragging him back into the bedroom he’d just escaped from. His freedom was now evident to everybody in the cabin. Progressing toward them would do no good, especially when one of them now had his gun. Instead, he’d return to the darkness and wait for them to come to him. Now that the hostage had his own hostage, anything was fair game.

These fuckers were going down.

“Let me go, goddammit,” the man said.

Lewis tightened his grip around his neck. “I suggest you silence yourself before I do it for you.”

He continued backing up until he made contact with the wall opposite the door. He slid down into a sitting position, pulling his new hostage with him. He wrapped his arm around his neck, tightening his hold. The man struggled, but Lewis was too strong, and a moment later the man went limp into unconsciousness.

Lewis needed a plan. He needed one
now.
They would be storming into the bedroom any second. The only advantage he had was the lack of lighting, but of course that meant he couldn’t see shit either. He didn’t have any weapons. All he really had at his disposal was this new hostage. Maybe he could threaten to snap his neck or something if they didn’t back off.

Then what? Maybe he’d demand his gun be returned, and his car keys. Get in his car, get as far away from these freaks as possible. Surf the ocean with his beloved heads. Get out of this country once and for all. This had just been a speed bump, nothing more. Soon, he’d be back on the road, heading toward the border.

He heard screaming from the other side of the cabin. People shouting. They were confused, scared. Afraid of the big bad killer on the loose. Lewis smiled. Good, they should be afraid.

Someone, he wasn’t sure who, shouted, “Police!” and Lewis’s smile faded. Had they really called the cops? That wasn’t good. He could outsmart a bunch of dumb writers. But the police were another story. Not that the police were any smarter—they just had more firepower.

Now what was he supposed to do?

“Uh, please don’t kill me,” a voice said in the darkness.

Lewis jumped. “Who said that?”

“Me,” said the voice. He wasn’t that far from Lewis’s spot on the floor. He sounded close enough to touch.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Jared. I’m an award-winning editor.”

“How long have you been in this room?”

“I have no idea where I am. But my head sure does hurt. But listen, if you have any need to hire an editor, maybe we could work something out. I edit for you and you spare my life. What do you think? Any projects opening up?”

“I’m . . . I’m not a writer.”

“Most writers aren’t.”

“Are you with the publishing company, or are you one of those they’ve abducted?”

“I’m . . . I’m Jared. I just told you that. Blood stings when it gets in your eyes.”

“That’s true.”

“Are you going to kill Nick?”

“Who’s Nick?”

“Nick is an asshole.”

Lewis thought about it. “I probably will, yeah.”

“Can I help?”

42. OFFICER DOUGHNUT TO THE RESCUE

“Un-fucking-tie me, goddammit,
” Harlan said. “I’m not going to run away. I just want to be able to defend myself in case that psychopath kills the rest of you.”

Eliza cut the duct tape from his wrists with the knife she’d snagged from the kitchen.

“That fucker’s in there, doing God knows what to him,” Louise said. “We gotta go in.”

“He might cut your heads off,” Harlan said, stretching his newly freed hands.

“With what?” she asked. “Dude doesn’t have shit.”

“Then how did he free himself?”

“Maybe he’s a magician, who knows.” Louise stared at the door, quiet for a moment, then she threw her hands up like she was ready to brawl. “Fuck this, let’s just charge him.”

“Well, Billy has a gun,” Eliza said. “Maybe we should—”

The front door burst open. A tall man stormed inside, waving a pistol at them. “Police! Everybody get on the ground!”

They all stood, staring at the man with the gun, confused. Harlan felt a huge weight relieve itself in his stomach, and for a moment he was convinced the weight was a massive turd slipping from his asshole. But alas, it was just stress.

“Finally,” Harlan said, smiling.

“Shut up!” the cop said. “Get on the ground!”

They did as they were told.

The cop stared at Louise. “Aren’t you the woman who assaulted a child with a muffin today at a Pic-n-Pac?”

“No, that doesn’t sound like me.”

“Damn, you look familiar.”

“Uh, dude?” Louise said. “Just, uh, so you know, there’s this serial killer in the other room, and he has my boyfriend hostage. Who knows what he’s doing to him.”

The cop paused, taking his time to process his words. “Lewis Hill.”

“Yeah, man, his name is Lewis. You already know about him?”

The cop—if he even was a cop—seemed to tighten. “He’s wanted for the murder of his wife.”

“Shit, man, he’s killed a lot more than his wife.”

Eliza nodded. “There’s a whole bunch of severed heads with his name on them. Plus, the bastard murdered our friend.”

The cop hesitated before answering, swallowing loudly. “Sergio Placid.”

The room was quiet. Then Eliza said, in a whimper, “Oh, Serg.”

“We fucked up,” Louise said. “We really fucked up.”

“And now you’re going to prison,” Harlan said, almost laughing. “You stupid assholes deserve everything you get.”

“Oh fuck you,” Louise said.

“Shut up!” the cop shouted, waving his gun. “Stop talking.” He nodded at the bedroom. “Is he armed?”

He waited, but nobody responded.

“Goddammit, is Lewis Hill armed? You said he had a hostage?”

Again, the room was quiet.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

“Dude,” Louise said. “You told us to stop talking.”

“She does have a point,” Harlan said.

The cop grunted and kicked Harlan in the side of the head. “You fucking people. This should be a sacred place.”

“Who
are
you?” Eliza said.

Harlan tried to sit up, but his head was pounding and the cabin was spinning before his eyes. “Whoever you are, I’m reporting you,” he said, and the cop kicked him again. This time he just stayed on the floor. There was no reason to sit back up if he was going to get kicked again.

“Is he
armed?
” the cop asked.

“We don’t know,” Eliza said. “But he’s crazy. I saw him kill Sergio. He . . . he was like an animal.”

The cop nodded and took off toward the bedroom. He reached out for the door, but it swung open just as he was about to grab the knob. The wooden frame bashed into his face, sending him flying backward into a stack of paperbacks piled on the ground. A candle that’d been resting on top of a stack of books soared across the cabin and landed on another tipped-over pile of books, only it landed upside down, the wax spilling over a sea of scattered pages. Still on the ground, the cop turned around, raised his pistol, and fired blindly into the dark room. Someone inside screamed.

Everybody held their breath, waiting. Around them, the paperbacks lining the cabin ignited. Nobody seemed to notice but Harlan.

The homeless editor stumbled out of the bedroom, groaning and holding his bloody stomach. “I should have moved to Portland,” he said, and collapsed.

“Was that him?” the cop asked, climbing to his feet. “Did I get the sick bastard?”

“Nah, man,” Louise said. “That was just Jared.”

43. POLITICALLY CORRECT DECAPITATIONS

Lewis hadn’t noticed
the window in the bedroom before due to the blinds behind pulled down, but on account of an incredible streak of luck, he accidentally bumped into it. He pulled the blinds up and opened the window. He couldn’t believe they’d shot that other guy. The bullet was meant for Lewis, of course. Next time, he wouldn’t be so lucky.

His hostage, the one named Stephen, was starting to become more aware of the situation, so he bashed his head into the wall a couple times before pushing him outside. His body made a soft thud as it landed in the dirt. Lewis climbed through and followed him out. The hostage started getting to his feet in a pathetic escape attempt, but Lewis was on him before he could gain any real distance.

“Not so fast,” Lewis whispered, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and leading him around the cabin. His entire day had been wasted. He was not leaving without at least some kind of reward. This guy had a decent-sized head. Sure, in the past he had only targeted women, but times were different. He needed to not be so sexist. The world was no longer so politically incorrect. His collection could use a little variation. Hell, why even limit himself with humans? He could add dogs, cats, fuckin’ goats—the sky was the limit.

He would be the king of heads.

He remembered the first time he’d killed somebody. It’d been a complete accident. It was bowling night, so he’d gone out with the boys, drinking and temporarily abandoning responsibility. Afterward, he’d stumbled through the parking lot, drunk and pissed off about his poor bowling skills. A girl was walking around in the dark by herself. She seemed lost, like she needed help, so he offered her a ride. She gladly accepted. Half a mile down the road, she casually mentioned she’d blow him for twenty dollars. He was just drunk enough not to give a shit about consequences, and pulled his truck off on the side of the road. This was back when he still had his truck, before he traded it in, at Helga’s request, for something shitty and fuel-friendly. He leaned back in the driver’s seat and unzipped his jeans. Five minutes later, just as he was on the verge of completion, the girl jammed a gun under his jaw and told him to hand over his wallet. After she stored his wallet in her purse, she ordered him to get out of the truck and begin walking the opposite direction. She said the truck now belonged to her, along with the rest of his bullshit pride. Then a car passed them, and he took the opportunity to knock the gun out of her hand. She freaked out and jumped out of the truck and fled down the road. Lewis chased after her, from behind the wheel. He didn’t even realize he was going to run over her until her body became a sudden speed bump. Then her corpse was behind him, in the middle of the road, torn to shreds. Fortunately, he kept gardening tools in the back of his truck, including a shovel. As he buried the dead girl in the woods close to where he’d run her over, all he could think about was how his life was ruined, how his reality was shattered. But those feelings had been false. They were just fears planted by the media. Thoughts he was told he was supposed to think. In truth, he kind of felt good. Hell, he felt great. And when he dumped her body in the shallow hole and stabbed the shovel into her throat, he felt goddamn amazing.

Lewis would not allow some imbecile writers to stop him from continuing his destiny. He would kill until God himself came down from the heavens and put him down like a rabid dog.

He continued around the cabin, hungry to retrieve his collection. Up ahead, the man named Nick stood in front of the building. For a moment, Lewis thought he didn’t see him, that he was shielded by darkness, his one true ally. But that fantasy was destroyed when Nick raised Lewis’s own gun and shot at him.

44. AUTHORS, REVIEWERS, & SERIAL KILLERS

Nick had shot
the serial killer but the serial killer didn’t seem fazed. They just stood there, glaring at each other. Stephen stood to the side of Lewis, exhausted and defeated. Lewis held him by his shirt collar. Yet he wasn’t shot. Or at least, he didn’t look like he was shot.

Then Nick realized he’d missed.

“Shit,” he said, and fired the gun again.

Stephen screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his knee.

“Fuck,” Nick said, and tried again.

Not even close.

Lewis tackled him before he could get off another shot. The gun flew from his hand. Nick hit the ground hard. The world vibrated and he forgot how to breathe for a moment. Lewis sat on his stomach and pounded into his face.

Was Lewis growling?

Shit, Nick was a dead man. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t even move. He should have ran when he still had the chance.

Somewhere, miles away, Stephen was crying about his knee.

Nick smelled smoke. He wondered if he was smelling death. His own death. He turned his head to the side, saw the cabin. It was on fire. It was beautiful. Lewis punched him again. Everything was spinning. He missed Sergio. He missed his parents. He wanted to go home. He wondered if that publishing company had read
The Owls in the City
yet. They probably hated it.

Someone shouted, then Lewis fell off Nick’s stomach. Nick focused his eyes, saw Harlan standing above him. He was holding a severed head, gripping it by the long, black hair connected to the scalp.

Nick meant to say “Harlan”, but it came out as “Jesus?”

“Shut up,” Harlan said. He stepped over Nick and moved to Lewis. He raised the severed head and swung it at him, then swung it again, bashing it into his face.

“That’s for grabbing my dick!” Harlan shouted, and hit him again. Lewis lay on the ground, motionless. “And for letting me get kidnapped! And for not telling me I spent half the goddamn day next to a bag of heads! And this is for all the shitty literature in the world! You fuck! You mother
fuck
!”

Harlan didn’t stop swinging the head until Nick pulled him away.

Nick felt weak, his face bloody and aching. He looked at Harlan, watched him panting, trying to catch his breath. He was still holding the head.

“You saved me,” Nick said. “Thank you.”