that?
“Bax!” she shrieked.
He looked up.
The shadow of the boardwalk was eating her, sucking her in.
No, not the shadow.
Two vague, hunched shapes dragged Kim by her wrists.
“No!” he yelled.
She was already gone to the waist. Her moonlit lap bucked and tossed. Her legs kicked.
Baxter caught one flailing ankle. He clutched it with both hands. In spite of the oil, he held on to it. But he didn’t stop her. He was dragged along with her, his knees rucking up the blanket and pushing ruts in the sand.
“Stop!” he shouted. “What’re you…?”
His voice froze in his throat.
Beyond the two attackers, in the darkness under the boardwalk, were others. They scurried out from behind the pilings—bent, ragged shapes. Eight of them? Ten?
Baxter released Kim’s foot.
The moonlight lost her.
“Don’t leave me!” she squealed.
Baxter staggered to his feet.
He stood motionless, knowing he had time to flee. Then, with a growl of fierce despair he rushed into the dark. He hurled himself at the pair dragging Kim. He tore them down. On top of them, he yelled for Kim to run. Bony arms hooked around him. Fingers clawed his skin. Teeth clamped on his arm and thigh. He cried out with pain and punched and tried to push himself up, but the savage things clutched him, bit him. He gagged on their stench.
“Get up! Bax! Quick!”
“Run!” he yelled. Damn her, why hadn’t she run? Didn’t she see all those others?
Where are the others? he wondered. They should’ve been on him by now.
He pounded a fist into one of the foul shapes beneath him. This time, he did some damage. The guy wheezed and jerked and released him. He drove an elbow down into the midsection of the other.
Suddenly he was free. On hands and knees, he scurried off their twisting bodies. He looked up and saw Kim.
She had found a club of driftwood. She stood tall in the dark of the shadow, between Baxter and the hideous pack, swinging the wood as if she were Davy Crockett defending a wall of the Alamo with an empty musket. None in the pack seemed brave enough to attack and risk a blow.
Baxter stared at Kim—astonished and proud and afraid.
He struggled to his feet.
And glimpsed a smudge of motion high to his left. He turned his head in time to see a crone leap from the top of the boardwalk’s railing. She sailed down, arms out like the wings of a giant bat, black rags flapping. Kim saw her. Tried to leap back. But the hag folded over her, smashed her to the sand.
The silent pack rushed in.
Baxter rushed the pack.
Eleven
Mag and Charlie shambled out from beneath the boardwalk and made their way toward the stairs.
“No fair,” Charlie said. “No fair no fair.”
“Clam up,” said Mag.
“Gonna miss out!” he whined.
Mag cuffed his arm.
He grabbed the hurt and stumbled out of reach. “Gonna miss out!”
“We was picked,” Mag said. “’Sides, we’re gonna have us some fun.” She waved the motel key at him and grinned.
“I wanna be in on it.”
“Well, you ain’t.”
“No fair.”
They climbed the stairs. As they scuffed across the boardwalk, Charlie heard a faint, muffled scream. He knew it came from the Funhouse. Without him. Moaning, he punched the side of his head.
“Hey.”
He scowled at Mag. She dug into a pocket of her coat, pulled out a pint bottle, and offered it to him. He snatched it from her hand. A couple of hits, and he felt a little better.
Still wasn’t fair, though.
He took another tug at the bottle, then reached it back toward Mag.
She waved it away. “G’on, keep it,” she said. “I got more.”
Whenever he saw Mag around, she seemed to be equipped with a fresh bottle. And it was usually good Scotch, not cheap wine. He didn’t know what her story was, but figured maybe she got disability pay. She didn’t seem crippled up, but she might’ve pulled a cheat on the state. That would explain her riches. Disability was a lot more than general relief, maybe three times as much. On the
“Bax!” she shrieked.
He looked up.
The shadow of the boardwalk was eating her, sucking her in.
No, not the shadow.
Two vague, hunched shapes dragged Kim by her wrists.
“No!” he yelled.
She was already gone to the waist. Her moonlit lap bucked and tossed. Her legs kicked.
Baxter caught one flailing ankle. He clutched it with both hands. In spite of the oil, he held on to it. But he didn’t stop her. He was dragged along with her, his knees rucking up the blanket and pushing ruts in the sand.
“Stop!” he shouted. “What’re you…?”
His voice froze in his throat.
Beyond the two attackers, in the darkness under the boardwalk, were others. They scurried out from behind the pilings—bent, ragged shapes. Eight of them? Ten?
Baxter released Kim’s foot.
The moonlight lost her.
“Don’t leave me!” she squealed.
Baxter staggered to his feet.
He stood motionless, knowing he had time to flee. Then, with a growl of fierce despair he rushed into the dark. He hurled himself at the pair dragging Kim. He tore them down. On top of them, he yelled for Kim to run. Bony arms hooked around him. Fingers clawed his skin. Teeth clamped on his arm and thigh. He cried out with pain and punched and tried to push himself up, but the savage things clutched him, bit him. He gagged on their stench.
“Get up! Bax! Quick!”
“Run!” he yelled. Damn her, why hadn’t she run? Didn’t she see all those others?
Where are the others? he wondered. They should’ve been on him by now.
He pounded a fist into one of the foul shapes beneath him. This time, he did some damage. The guy wheezed and jerked and released him. He drove an elbow down into the midsection of the other.
Suddenly he was free. On hands and knees, he scurried off their twisting bodies. He looked up and saw Kim.
She had found a club of driftwood. She stood tall in the dark of the shadow, between Baxter and the hideous pack, swinging the wood as if she were Davy Crockett defending a wall of the Alamo with an empty musket. None in the pack seemed brave enough to attack and risk a blow.
Baxter stared at Kim—astonished and proud and afraid.
He struggled to his feet.
And glimpsed a smudge of motion high to his left. He turned his head in time to see a crone leap from the top of the boardwalk’s railing. She sailed down, arms out like the wings of a giant bat, black rags flapping. Kim saw her. Tried to leap back. But the hag folded over her, smashed her to the sand.
The silent pack rushed in.
Baxter rushed the pack.
Eleven
Mag and Charlie shambled out from beneath the boardwalk and made their way toward the stairs.
“No fair,” Charlie said. “No fair no fair.”
“Clam up,” said Mag.
“Gonna miss out!” he whined.
Mag cuffed his arm.
He grabbed the hurt and stumbled out of reach. “Gonna miss out!”
“We was picked,” Mag said. “’Sides, we’re gonna have us some fun.” She waved the motel key at him and grinned.
“I wanna be in on it.”
“Well, you ain’t.”
“No fair.”
They climbed the stairs. As they scuffed across the boardwalk, Charlie heard a faint, muffled scream. He knew it came from the Funhouse. Without him. Moaning, he punched the side of his head.
“Hey.”
He scowled at Mag. She dug into a pocket of her coat, pulled out a pint bottle, and offered it to him. He snatched it from her hand. A couple of hits, and he felt a little better.
Still wasn’t fair, though.
He took another tug at the bottle, then reached it back toward Mag.
She waved it away. “G’on, keep it,” she said. “I got more.”
Whenever he saw Mag around, she seemed to be equipped with a fresh bottle. And it was usually good Scotch, not cheap wine. He didn’t know what her story was, but figured maybe she got disability pay. She didn’t seem crippled up, but she might’ve pulled a cheat on the state. That would explain her riches. Disability was a lot more than general relief, maybe three times as much. On the
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