No Sanctuary (32 page)

The cougars milled around in the background. Getting restless. Snuffling, giving sharp little whines.

Peering through the darkness, Rick and Bert could see them pacing around in their compound—another “cage” of strong, supple staves bound together by twine—about five yards from their own. The cats’ noses pointed skyward. Sniffing out the human scent. Slinking around their pen, one after the other, their powerful tails swinging low and threatening.

The cats were hungry—and impatient. Most of all, hungry.

“He’s out of his gourd,” Rick hissed back. “You can’t reason with a madman. We’ll just have to play it by ear. There’s got to be a chance to break out, somehow.”

He hoped to God there would be. They’d have to make a desperate move soon or they’d wind up dead, for sure. Sweat streamed from his armpits. If it weren’t so damned hot.

And still.

Like the unbearable calm you get before a storm.

The moon was a smooth around disc, hanging high in the soft night sky. Rick watched it and wondered if they’d be around to look at it tomorrow night. He grunted in disgust. Because of that stupid, damnfool idea of theirs, they were here, imprisoned in the preacher’s stinking back yard.

In this clammy, stench-ridden he/l-hole.

“Rick, look at this,” Bert pointed to the ground. A shard of glass, picked out by the moon, glimmered gently in the dark soil.

Rick screened her body with his. Bert bent to pick up the glass. She retrieved it quickly and stood up.

“Probably left by the last weary travelers,” she mouthed.

Wonder what happened to them?

Don’t ask ...

Pressing the piece of glass to her lips, she breathed a silent “thank you” to the last occupants of the cage.

Angus had his back to them, facing the cats, mumbling and whining exaggerated words of endearment. He’d left the candle burning by their cage. He seemed in a world of his own, but his rifle was still cocked and resting on his left arm.

King of the Wild Frontier.

Behind him in the cage, Rick was gripping staves, shaking them back and forth. Looking up now and again to make sure Angus was still talking to the animals.

He was.

No joy with the staves, though.

Firm as rocks.

Bert followed suit and suddenly hit paydirt. One of the staves jiggled about in her hand. They exchanged triumphant glances. Bert bent down to see if she could work another one loose.

Yes.

She began working on the twine with the glass shard.

Rick was having a hard time with his staves. He’d only worked his way through six by the time Angus quit his conversation with the cats.

Shit.

“Not much longer now kitties. Come sun-up, you’ll have the biggest breakfast you’ve eaten in a long, long time. You all, and me both—we’ll have us a mighty toothsome meal!”

Still working on the twine, Bert watched him from behind the bars. From where she was standing, Mr. Preacher-Man looked like he was in serious need of some sleep. He may be a lunatic, but he was old and frail. Should be tucked up in his flea-ridden rags by now.

Sweet dreams, turd bastard ...

She worked on the twine some more.

Yes!

It had come free in her hand. A quick wrench and she’d cleared the stave from its moorings. Adjusting her balance, she held it poised like a spear; threw back her arm and zoomed it through the air, straight at Angus.

His rifle fell to the ground.

“Ha!” he shrieked, clutching his hat and side-stepping out of the way.

“BITCH! WHORE! FILTH! You’ll rue the day you did that ...’

He tailed off as Bert bent down and slid her body easily through the eight-inch gap. With a yell, she bent and grabbed the stave again and thrust it deep into his bare shoulder. Blood spurted and spilled down the fur skins.

Looks like a wounded animal, Bert thought.

But instead of going down, he plucked out the stave, threw it to the ground and kicked it aside, blood still pouring from the gash. He came for her, slowly but surely, his arms spread wide. She caught the evil glint in his sunken eyes. He reminded her of a snake mesmerizing a rabbit.

And for a moment she was mesmerized.

Rick saw what was happening.

Zombie-like, Angus moved forward. Through the gaping holes, his eyes were mean and menacing ...

Feverishly, his bony fingers worked at the front flap of the skin trousers. They fell loose and he shook them down, stepped out of them and kicked them out of the way. His skinny body glistened with blood and sweat. The hole in his shoulder still pumped blood.

His horny erection jerked in anticipation.

Rick found a stave that moved in his grasp. He wrenched it around until it came free. He’d already cut through the twine with the glass shard.

The space between the two poles was too narrow for his body. He pushed. Tried to force his way through but couldn’t quite make it.

Shit!

Bert screamed “Rick!” as Angus knocked her to the ground.

He leapt on top of her, his filthy dog furs swinging over her body. The fur got in his way, so he grabbed his hat by the snout and flung it to the ground. Rick caught sight of the preacher’s pate, gleaming in the moonlight and ludicrously sprouting long gray hairs from its scaly patches.

Blood still ran freely from Angus’s shoulder. It flowed down through Bert’s blue chambray shirt and onto her chest. Her arms were sprayed and spattered with blood as she struggled to free herself.

With rising hysteria, Bert felt the man’s strength. He was thin, old, but wiry and incredibly strong. Tearing open her shorts, he dragged them, and her panties, down her failing legs. Then, like some greedy, parasitic vine, he coiled his own corded, bony ones around her. She struggled violently against his vice-like grip and, still under him, managed to force her knees up against his bony chest.

She screamed again. “Rick, I can’t fight him—he’s so strong! Get him off me! Pleeease!”

Her voice rose hysterically. Through it all, she could hear the cougars mewling and whining with excitement.

The second stave broke free from its moorings. Rick tossed it away and forced himself through the gap. He’d made it! Rushing forward he flung himself at the slobbering, quaking figure jerking up and down on top of Bert. It was shoving, panting, making small whimpering noises.

Rick fought back vomit as he landed on top of them.

God, the bastard’s doing it. He’s raping her.

Rick wrenched the jibbering preacher away from Bert and threw him off her.

Angus’s back hit the ground hard. He grunted and whimpered with the shock of it. Eyes, wide-open, bulged out of his head, and his slack, slobbering mouth worked behind the blood-flecked beard. Rick stared down at the emaciated body. Still writhing in some kind of ecstasy, glistening with the exertion. The wormy penis was a thin, sharp spike, refusing to lie down. A long stream of semen slimed from it to Bert’s bare leg.

“Aaarrgg!”

Released, Bert rolled away from the conflict, tears of revulsion streaming down her cheeks.

The crud tried to fuck me ...

But be didn’t make it in.

Nearly did though.

God. How did me get into this fucking nightmare? Why aren’t we in some expensive hotel in Maui? Why are we here in this... this stinking hell-bole?

The preacher’s breath came shouting out in snarls and pants as Rick slashed him across the face with the back of his damaged hand. White hot pain seared Rick’s knuckles. But he couldn’t stop. Again and again he brought his fist back and forth across the bony skull.

Blood, his and the preacher’s both, clotted the filthy beard and spattered the ground around them.

Slowly, Bert stood up, dragged up her panties and fastened her shorts. Then squirmed as she saw the semen on her legs. Plunging her hand into her shorts pocket, she found a wad of tissue and rubbed vigorously at the mess. First one leg and then the other.

Satisfied she was as clean as she could get, she tossed the soiled paper and turned her attention to Rick.

“He’s gone, Rick. You’re only hurting yourself more. Let’s go. Jesus, Rick, just let’s go.”

She saw tears of rage and revulsion falling down Rick’s face. He looked up at her. “Christ, Bert. We didn’t need this. The sicko tried to fuck you, Bert. I mean, how did this thing HAPPEN?”

Nursing his shattered hand, he rose to his feet. She wrapped an arm around his waist and they turned to go.

Rick staggered and fell from a terrific blow from behind. Bert nearly went with him.

Regaining her balance, she whipped around and came face to face with a cougar. White muzzle, dark mask, pale golden eyes. Up so close she saw the spittle drooling from its teeth and felt the heat of its rancid breath.

Jesus. A big one. Granddaddy of them all.

A group of maybe four tawny bodies milled around the compound. The roughly made barred gate had swung open. The cats saw it and filed through at a trot.

Coming their way.

Rick stayed on his knees. No choice, the cat’s front paws were holding him down. He felt its steaming hot breath in the nape of his neck.

A wet, flashy tongue investigated his ear.

Bert’s heart sank faster and she felt sweat ooze from her armpits. Ob my God, she panicked. What sball I do? I Should know, but I can’t tbinit straigbt ...

Then, like watching an old movie, a childhood memory reeled through her mind. She saw four lions sitting upright on big round drums in a circus ring. A fat ringmaster in red coat and white breeches faced one of the lions. He held a . whip which he kept flicking at the beast. The lion pawed the air, trying to grab the whip ... The other lions grumbled, became restless. Angry roars broke out. She remembered her ten-year-old self thinking what a goddamn stupid thing to do...

IDIOT. This is not a traveling circus.

This is for real. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hungry way the cat was nuzzling Rick’s neck. Do it, girl.

Do it.

She did it.

Bending quickly, she grabbed the bloodied stave from the ground. Momentarily distracted, the cat growled and lunged for her. But she had the stave now, held like a spear, above her head. She leapt out of the cat’s reach and did a little war dance, to keep it distracted.

She gained its full attention.

The cat reached her easily in a single bound.

As it roared and swiped at her, she thrust the stave deep into its gaping maw. The cat fell back, shaking its head, gurgling blood. Sprays of it spurted from its mouth. Drenching her hair, face, body and legs. As it shook its head, more red spurted onto her—and all over Rick.

The cat pawed the ground, withdrawing from them, padding backward, uttering strangled, whimpering noises. Still shaking its head, trying to free the stave.

Its paws worked at the wood but the stave didn’t budge. With a final roar, the cat twisted over and lay panting on its side. The stave had gone through the throat and was poking out the other side.

“Come on!” Bert shouted.

Momentarily, the other cats had retreated, watching, lynx-eyed, from a distance. But they were really excited now. Creeping forward, they sniffed and butted the head of the fallen cat—then, one by one, smelling fear in the air, their noses lifted. Their interest in Rick and Bert was swift, sudden.

They closed in for the kill ...

Bert gripped Rick’s arm.

“The knives, Bert,” Rick panted. “They’re around here someplace.”

“Oh, leave them, Rick.” Frowning, she looked around in the darkness. By some miracle there they were, close to her feet, belt buckles glinting in the moonlight. Where Angus had thrown them.

She bent down, hooked them up and grabbed Rick’s good hand. Why she snapped her head around at that moment, she couldn’t say. But she did, and saw a head, half buried in the dark clumps of grass. It was a woman’s head with tousled brown hair and an eaten face. Most of the face was gone, but one eye remained. Wide open. It stared at Bert.

Swaying with shock, Bert clung tightly onto Rick’s hand. They both legged it through the cabin door and slammed it shut behind them.

For a moment, they leaned back against the door, acutely aware of the roaring cats on the other side. The door shook as heavy paws pounded and tore at the wood.

Kicking the Indian blanket out of his way, Rick made a grab for one of the wooden chairs and stashed it against the quaking door.

Angus!

Bert reached up for a quick peek through the small window in the door. It was misted with grime but she could still see the preacher.

Alive. Only just.

He was on his back, his bare, spindly legs curling against his chest. His arms were up, vainly shielding his head.

Come sun-up, you’ll have the biggest breakfast you’ve eaten in a long time ...

A strong-looking cat, a young male, was taking powerful swipes at him, rocking his body back and forth, moving him around like a rag doll. The other cats were spiteful, restless; prowling around impatiendy, swiping at each other. A couple pushed their noses in, but instinct kept them from going for the kill. The big male would take his share first.

The cat nosed around the man’s upturned butt and sniffed its way through the slowly cycling legs. Then gave all of its attention to the soft genitals ...

The preacher’s puny erection had died long since.

Piercing screams told them when the cougar made its first strike. The big male dealt with the innards, shaking its head like a cat with a rat, until the bunch of steaming gut stretched like elastic and broke free from its moorings.

Another shake and the cat dragged the bloodied entrails outside of the body, gathering the hot, dripping mess into his powerful maw. It nosed upward, a jaw-full of the dripping trophy glistening yellow in the dawn light.

Gobs of dark blood dripped from the prize, down the cougar’s chops and made slimy trails on the grass. The cat lay down, took the kill between its paws and started to eat.

Curls of warm mist rose up from around the feast.

In seconds, Angus was covered in a roiling mound of tawny bodies, each hungry cat fighting for its share of the kill.