Shivers (29 page)

He was just regaining his composure when it happened.

The door. It was
the door.

The wooden door that opened into the small room behind the lifeguard’s lookout platform was flapping open and shut with the wind. As it squeaked back to a closed position, it would suddenly shut with a
bang.
As Steven approached, looking upward, he tried to see if anyone was inside. It was too dark to tell. There was no sign of life behind the window, and he could only catch a quick glimpse through the door each time it opened.

He stepped onto the inclined platform leading up to the little shelter.

The wind died down and the door stayed ajar about two inches. There was no movement from inside as Steven climbed upward. Was he the first to arrive? he wondered.

When he reached the door he called out timidly. “Is anyone there?”

There was no reply.

As he stepped inside the shelter, his foot came down on something squishy on the floor.

There was a reddish outline on the wooden planks. A reddish outline like the outstretched figure of a man.

Suddenly the events of the past few days came rushing up to him, slamming into Steven’s mind and stomach. He couldn’t take it anymore He backed away and out of the room, spewing vomit all over the area outside the door. He leaned over the railing and continued throwing up on the sand. His body heaved with each new gush of bile.

It was bad enough his brother was missing, his own life falling apart. But now some maniac kept playing tricks on him. Crazy tricks. Or was that gruesome paste on the floor exactly what this maniac wanted him to think it was?

He ran down the wooden slope, across the beach, and back to his car.

Behind him the door banged open, shut, open, shut, over and over and over again until the wind stilled and all that was left was the calm, raging sound of the ocean.

After the engine had been sputtering away for several minutes, Adele’s car finally conked out and came to a stop on the side of the highway.

Adele tried again and again to start the engine, but it was no use. At least she had been able to move the car into the slow lane as soon as she had realized what was going to happen—though there was hardly enough traffic to worry about. It was snowing harder than ever.

Adele cursed. “Now what do we do?”

“Beats me,” Harry said. “I don’t know shit about cars.”

Adele opened the door, letting in the frigid air. “I’ll have to go out and look at the engine.” She put on her gloves and trudged off toward the front of the car. Harry stayed inside where it was warm.

After fifteen minutes went by, during which not a single car appeared in either direction, Harry exited the vehicle and went up front to ask Adele what was going on.

“Have you spotted the trouble yet, sweetheart?”

“No. It looks like we’re stranded here until a car comes along.”

Harry looked down at the engine. “Well, there must be
something
wrong. Cars don’t just stop working for no reason. Must be your engine froze up.”

“I’ve checked everything else. We’ll just have to wait.”

“We have enough gas?”

“Yes. Yes, I checked that. I’m not an idiot.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean anything. Damn—it’s cold.”

“I’ve noticed. Let’s face it—neither one of us knows enough about cars to get this thing started, or to figure out what we’re doing wrong. I know it’s hard to start a car in cold weather, but once it goes there shouldn’t be any problem.”

“Let’s see what it says in the manual. You have one in the dashboard?”

“Yes.” She touched his shoulder. “Go get it, please.”

Harry found the booklet easily. He poked out of the open door and yelled for Adele to join him inside. “No reason to freeze your ass off out there while we read it, is there?”

After closing the hood, she climbed in to snuggle up next to him and they scanned the booklet. They needed a push to the nearest service station was what it finally turned out to be.

“I haven’t seen a gas station for miles,” Adele moaned, burying her head in his shoulder. “I don’t want to walk that far in this weather.”

Neither did Harry. “You don’t have to. Someone will come along soon. Until then, why don’t we take
advantage
of this sudden intimacy, hmmm?”

“It
would
help us keep warm.”

“Too bad we can’t turn up the heat. I’d rather undress when it’s nice and warm.”

“Undress?
You mean—here? On the highway? What if somebody comes?”

“It’s late. No one will be coming for hours.” He hugged her fiercely. “Except you and me, that is.”

“Harry, I haven’t fucked around in an automobile since high school, and I’m not about to start again at this late date.”

“Can you think of something better to do?”

“That’s beside the point.”

She moved away from him, her mind clearly on the discomfort, the possible embarrassment their lovemaking might entail. She watched the snow outside as it piled up higher and higher, as it began to obliterate the view around them. Terrifying! This was a real
blizzard.
She leaned against Harry again for warmth and closeness. He smiled and said, “Maybe now is the time to talk about that better job. Y’know, the one with more money and prestige? And where you got this interesting information.”

“Oh, later, Harry,” she said. Adele had been lying about the job, hoping to screw him both literally and figuratively. She was not fond of Harry Faulkin, never had been, and she certainly had no desire to help him with his career. He was a
pig
and nothing else. He had fucked over enough careers and lives in his process of moving to the top; some of those careers had belonged to friends of hers. All she had wanted to do was involve herself in some sort of intimate relationship with the man so that whatever information she gleaned could be used against him. She would
use
him, like he had used others; especially women. It had been so simple, her deception. So easy. Now everything was quite effectively grounded for the duration. Until whenever they would get out of this car, off of this road.

But she was tired of watching and waiting. Watching the snowfall, waiting for another car to come along—an unlikely prospect at this point. She decided to use this man to appease her desire, to make him perform for
her.
He was an attractive bastard, she could not deny it. It would please her too in the long run.

But when it started, when they were both half-naked, entangled in each other’s arms, she knew that he could not even deign to satisfy her in this smallest of ways. Like other men of his kind, he was a selfish lover, unable or unwilling to move her to the point of orgasm. He experienced—relished—his ejaculation, but left her unfulfilled, forcing her to masturbate. When it was over he looked at her and smiled.

She stared at him disdainfully. They began to put their clothes back on.

“Liked it, didn’t ya? Had a good time, huh?”

“It was nothing to write home to mother about. Sorry, Harry.”

“Huh?” The verbal blow hit him like a punch in the solar plexus. “What are you
talking
about?”

“Forget it, Harry. The cold is just putting me in a bad mood.” She mustn’t lose him now. She wanted to humiliate him a lot more than
that.
It was too early to lose his interest.

“You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I did,” she said politely. What a juvenile ego the man had!

“I
know
I’m a good lay,” he said with pride.

That did it. Adele decided to tell the bitter truth. “Whoever told you that?”

“Lots of chicks.”

“ ‘Chicks’ ?”

“Dames. A lotta women like it when I do it.”

“I guess they have nothing much to compare it to. What do you specialize in, nuns?”

“Look here, what the hell is your problem?”

“You’re only a fair-to-middling lover at best, and it’s time somebody told you. That’s the only way you’re ever going to improve.”

“Look, girl, you weren’t so hot yourself.”

“Oh really?
Mr. Hot-Shot Weatherman is a lousy lay.
That’s what it will say on the ladies’ room walls at WNUC next week.’“

“You do that and I’ll kill you. I swear it!”

“Oh, you’re so hung up it’s pathetic. Haven’t you ever even tried to please a woman? To concern yourself with
her
enjoyment? One-two-three. Bam-zoom, it’s over. That’s a great lay? Come off it, Faulkin. You stink!”

He slapped her across the face viciously. The strength and pain of the assault left her face stinging for moments afterward.

“Get out! Get out of here! Get the hell OUT!”

He panicked. “Look, I’m sorry!”

“Get the hell out of here, and I mean it!”

“Where will I go?” Alarmed, he reached out to placate her. She pushed him away, her fingernails scratching against his cheeks, digging for the eyes.

“Cut it out, damn it!”

“I said
get out of here
and I meant it!”

“All right!” He clapped his hands down over her face, covering it, and pushed her head away with a violent shove. “All right. I’ll get out! So stay here by yourself, bitch. You can stay here till you rot. And don’t expect
me
to tell anyone where you are.”

He got out, slammed the door, and shimmied into his jacket. It wasn’t as cold now, but he was knee deep in white powder. It was
still
snowing, though not quite as bad as before. He realized that he wasn’t really dressed for this kind of weather.

He stormed off in the direction they had come from, his feet already soaked from the moisture seeping in through his shoes. He hadn’t expected to be in a situation like this or he would have worn boots. He gave one last look at the car when he was several yards away, spitting savagely and swearing. Then he started out again.

Looking to either side of the highway, he saw no lights, houses, or signs. He might as well walk back toward Manhattan until he came to someplace where he could find shelter or transportation. Even a warm cup of coffee would be enough for now. Leave the bitch to stay there until the summer thaw, or to get so covered up in snow that she’d be crushed to death by the first approaching snowplow. Yeah—that’d be a scream. Squashed in the snow. Would serve her right.

It was slow going. There was no wind, no sound, except for his feet struggling their way through the mounds and drifts of powder. Everything was still and eerie. At least the snow was now down to a light trickle.

He passed the time thinking about the special report he planned to do.
That
would show everyone. He’d make this town sit up and pay attention to Harry Faulkin. Hell, he’d make ‘em sit up and
beg.

Harry’s pants were all wet and covered with the white stuff. Expensive slacks too. Everything was warm except his legs. They were beginning to
feel
funny—the effects of the cold, he figured. They were tingling, hurting the way his fingers did when he placed them under extremely cold tap water. He had to stifle an urge to run off the highway, to run toward some area—any area—where the snow was not quite so high and he could free his legs from its wet and stinging embrace. His leg muscles were so terribly tired too. He wanted to rest, but was afraid to. The journey ahead seemed endless. What’s worse, he had the damnedest headache and a queasy feeling in his stomach.

He must have been a quarter of a mile away from Adele when he happened to look down and saw that his trouser legs were torn and matted with blood.

“What the hell—!”

His pants legs were literally torn to shreds. Blood was dripping down them, thin rivulets of red from the knees to the ankles. He tried to balance on one leg so that he could inspect the other.

He tottered, tried to regain control, but slipped and fell down into the snow. He saw movement all around him. Quick flashes of red were disappearing into the piles of snow that this falling body had displaced. Blood? His blood? No, the spots of crimson were moving on their own volition. Moving!

The snow was alive with some sort of small grotesqueries, little red things that had been
feeding
on his legs. His calves were covered with dozens of puncture marks!

Fighting to control his anxiety, Harry thrust his gloved hand into the nearest mound of snow, and felt around, not sure what he might discover. There! He touched something. It tried to squirm out of his grip. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it out where he could see.

At first he thought it looked like some hideous internal organ pulled from a human’s insides. A pulsating liver or heart. It was covered with blood; his blood. It was about six inches long and four inches wide, so thick he could barely hold it tight inside his fist. It squished around inside his palm, trying to wriggle free.

It looked like nothing so much as an overgrown kind of worm or larvae. Its middle was the thickest part of the body, tapering off to two points at either end. On one of those points, the mouth parts were working. Harry could even see teeth somewhere inside the almost colorless membranes.

The snow worms! The snow worms his grandma had told him about. They were
real!

And, if it weren’t for the blood consumed—
his
blood—one might not be able to see the things at all!

He got up and started running back in the direction of Adele’s Camaro. She would have to let him in; he would have to convince her of the danger. He threw the “worm” out of his hand and saw it flop into a snowbank some yards distant. He could sense the movement in the snow all around him. They were
everywhere!

He was in sight of the car when his foot hit something lying unseen in the road. He sprawled into the powder covering the highway.

Harry let out a scream as he felt mouth parts converging on his body, the little teeth tearing into his flesh.

Adele had seen him running toward the car, had seen him fall headlong into the snow, scream, and disappear.

Thinking it was a trick, but afraid that it might not be, she opened the door to investigate.