Lot Lizards Read online

  "Huh-hey, Phil," Claude whispered from behind him, craning his head around to look over his shoulder. "Hey, duh-don't cry, Phil. C'mon, Phil, don't...don't cry..."

  Bill and Byron stared at one another for a long moment, both of them afraid to speak. Then Byron asked, "What do you suppose we should do?"

  Bill massaged his chest with four fingertips; it felt empty, cold...decaying. "I've got an idea. First we'll have to get the keys from them, then take the garlic out there and put some in at least one of the trucks to keep the girls out...until sunrise if we're lucky. Just keep it away from me. I feel bad enough as it is."

  "What about the queen? What about your son?"

  Bill closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "I just...don't know."

  CHAPTER 15

  Although she was wrapped tightly in a blanket with only her head exposed from her nose up, Shawna was not completely shielded from the bone chilling cold. But even the cold was overpowered by her fear.

  She and the blond and the girl in the ski cap hid behind a large oak tree in Shawna's front yard as a group of four young people—two boys and a girl—strolled down the nearly deserted road in front of the house heading toward the truck stop.

  "Oh, c'mon," the girl in the ski cap said in a voice that was no louder than the subtlest breeze, "they won't see us."

  "They won't see us," the blond replied, "but the girl is different."

  "Yeah, but you know how she gets when we're gone too long, and we've been gone too long already."

  How who gets? Shawna wondered frantically. Who are they talking bout?

  The ski cap girl continued: "I told you we should've taken one from the truck stop and—"

  "And set off a panic? A search? While everybody's snowed in?"

  The two couples in the road stopped for a snowball fight, then began making a snowman on the road's shoulder, laughing and exchanging jovial profanities, their voices carrying in the night.

  So they waited for safety while Shawna trembled...

  ... and while Byron shined his flashlight cautiously into the trailer Bill had pointed out. The Carsey brothers had refused to tell them which key opened the lock—Phil had said, "I won't tell you because I don't want to kill you. You wanna die, you figure it out yourself."—so Byron had tried one after another until one worked. Bill remained invisible in the darkness, keeping a safe distance from the garlic that Byron had loaded into two small heavy duty boxes. Bill looked bad, really bad, like he was dying—He's already dead, Byron thought humorlessly— and Byron was more afraid than he'd ever been; he was afraid that he couldn't do this alone if Bill died...in fact, he was sure of it.

  Once he'd slid the door upward, the flashlight's beam cut through the trailer's blackness and spilled over shiny black rectangular boxes. Caskets. Maybe thirty or more. In nice neat rows.

  "Hoooo-leeee shit," Byron breathed.

  He and Bill had agreed, somewhat reluctantly, that as soon as Byron had put garlic in all the caskets they could get to, so the girls couldn't return to the safety of their truck before sunrise, they would have to explain the situation to everyone in the truck stop. Once the girls realized their predicament, they would try to come inside, so the rest of the garlic would have to be spread all around the outside of the building until after daylight. Then they would take it from there. They were afraid, however, that there would not be enough garlic in the basement to be effective. In fact, having looked over the supply, they were almost certain there wouldn't be enough, in which case they would have to enlist the help of the other people in the building. Both of them were afraid, however, that no one would believe them, that they would be up against a number of very annoyed, and perhaps very amused, people, not to mention a few pissed off truckers looking for a fight.

  "What is it?" Bill responded in a whisper from somewhere in the dark.

  "Well...if everybody could see this, maybe they'd listen to what we have to say. Caskets. Lotsa caskets." He hefted the two boxes of garlic into the trailer then climbed in himself, taking his .38 from his jacket pocket. Any one of the caskets could be occupied and Byron felt his knees trembling. He reached down with his left hand, which held the flashlight, touched the lid of the closest casket, waited a moment, then threw it open.

  Empty.

  Putting his gun back in his pocket, he scooped a handful of garlic cloves out of the box and scattered them in the casket, then another handful. Then he lowered the lid.

  Bill had warned him that the creature in the next truck—the queen—might be aware of what he was doing, so Byron kept looking over his shoulder at the open door, nervous, afraid. But he continued what he was doing—putting two handfuls of garlic cloves in each casket—as quickly as he could, then scattered the remaining cloves around the trailer floor before grabbing the boxes and hurrying back out. He pulled the door down, hopped off the bumper and he and Bill returned to the truck stop to spread the news, wondering if the queen in the next truck had sensed what they'd done...

  ...and under other circumstances, she might have. But, at the moment, she was terribly preoccupied. With her hunger.

  In the trailer with the creature, Jon was literally numb with fear; he could neither move nor feel his limbs and remained curled up in the dark, back pressed to the wall of the trailer. But he could still see and hear.

  There was constant movement in the thick darkness and the sound of dry skin rubbing together, of hard claws clicking against one another. And the sounds the creature made in her throat...

  Gurgling sounds...hisses... wet, bitter mumblings.

  "'Yes, Mistress,' they said...'we'll be quick...you won't hunger long...'"

  He felt the touch of her trembling fingers on his face now and then, like the caress of dead snakes, and she stroked his hair sometimes as she rambled on and on, her voice bubbling in her throat like boiling blood.

  "I may not be able to wait child...do you know what that means? You are beautiful. Do you know that I can hear your heart beating?"

  He said nothing, just held his breath for a long while.

  "Do you know that I can feel your heart beating without even touching you? Do you know that? I could rip your heart out so fast you would still see it beating. I could feed it to you before you lost consciousness. Your heart...your beautiful beating heart..." Her voice became a terrifying growl, almost a rumble: "Where are those little sluts?" And then—

  —silence. Nothing.

  What's she doing? Jon thought frantically. What's she doing that's so quiet and why isn't Dad here and where did everybody go and WHAT IS SHE DOING?

  The silence continued...

  ... as Jenny got a cigarette break and headed straight for the telephone behind the register.

  "It's out," the cashier said as Jenny picked up the receiver.

  "What, all of them?"

  "All the ones in here, anyway. They're electronic, remember? All that computerized shit," she spat. "Might wanna try the payphone out front."

  Jenny rolled her eyes and fished through her pocket for change as she pushed through the crowd toward the front entrance, not bothering to grab her coat.

  Her whole body tensed when she stepped out into the cold. She squinted against the stinging snowflakes and cursed when her stiff fingers fumbled with the quarter then punched the wrong number into the telephone. She got a ring on her second try.

  It rang four times. Six. Eight.

  "C'mon, Grace," she muttered, her breath billowing from between chattering teeth, "pick up the damned phone."

  A dozen times. Fourteen.

  Jenny's throat felt tight when she hung up and tried again.

  Still no answer.

  What could be wrong? she wondered, glancing toward her house. It was so dark, though, there seemed to be no house there at all.

  "Oh, Lord," she said aloud, depositing the quarter again. "Oh, Lord..."

  ...inside the truck stop, Bill and Byron approached Adelle, Doug and the girls in the travel store and Bill explained what Byron
had done.

  Doug took Bill's arm and led him away to a rack of black Harley-Davidson teddies. Byron followed.

  "Listen," Doug whispered firmly, "I'm not sure exactly what's going on here, but if this is some kind of prank, a hoax to get your wife back, or something, I'll throw you into court so fast you'll wish it had never crossed your mind."

  Bill started to speak, but Byron beat him to it: "Hey, friend, if this is a hoax, it's got Allen Funt beat all to hell. Besides, I would've kicked the shit outta this guy by now, he was trying to pull something over. But it's no hoax and we ain't got no time to deal with you right now."

  "It's okay, Byron," Bill said calmly. "Look, Doug, all I want to do is save my son, okay?" In a whisper, he added, "If that's still possible. Afterwards, you'll never see me again. I swear."

  Doug softened then, averting his eyes a moment. "If s just...the whole thing is so—"

  "—yeah, crazy, I know," Bill interrupted. "But we've gotta live with it." He slapped Doug on the shoulder and turned to Byron, nodding toward the restaurant as he said, "Let's go..."

  ...while outside, the blond carried Shawna effortlessly over a snowy field toward the truck stop. With each jarring footstep, Shawna felt colder and more terrified—even when it seemed she could never be more terrified—of her destination.

  We're gonna take you to see somebody...somebody who'll like you a whooole lot...

  ...a whooole lot...

  The way the girl had said it—with a voice full of meanness and a snide smile framing her blood-darkened teeth—made Shawna shudder more than did the cold.

  They crossed the field diagonally, heading for the rear of the truck stop. After going over two fences and pushing through the surrounding hedges, they entered the back lot, creeping between the rows of parked trucks until—

  —the blond froze, stiffened and pressed her fingers hard into Shawna's back and shoulder.

  The girl in the ski cap dropped to her knees holding her head and began to cry softly.

  The blond staggered, trembling, and fell to one knee making grunting sounds. And then—

  —it was over.

  The girl in the ski cap sobbed.

  The blond gasped, "She's angry. We've taken too long."

  "I told you, dammit, I told you."

  "Just shut up. We'll have to hurry, that’s all."

  Shawna was lifted again and the girls quickened their pace...

  ...as Jon's heart quickened its pace. The creature was growing more enraged. He sensed her moving about in the darkness, caught glimpses of her as she paced, heard her claws clicking together and her fangs making snick-snick sounds as her jaws opened and closed. She made a sudden movement in the darkness and Jon felt her hands on his shoulders, could see the vague outline of her head directly in front of his face and heard an odd rustling sound...like sheets of leather being shaken...

  She stroked his throat and her claws scraped lightly across his skin. Her tongue, wet and cold, licked his cheek, worked its way down to his throat where her lips closed...sucked...

  "Don't be afraid," she whispered. "You'll feel no pain. Only a moment of extreme—"

  There were three knocks on the trailer door and she pulled away from him. The door rumbled upward and faint light penetrated the darkness. Two young women climbed in hesitantly, one of them carrying a frail little girl in her arms.

  "We're sorry," one said, pulling the door down.

  "We hurried," the other added, "but with the snow—"

  The creature rushed forward and grabbed the little girl up in her arms, growling, "I don't want to hear excuses!" She backed away from the two women silently and stood still for a long moment, then the women dropped to their knees, clutching their heads and crying out in pain.

  One whimpered, "Nuh-nuh-no, nuh-noooo!"

  The other screeched, "Stop! Pluh-heeeze stop!"

  Silence. The women fell back against the closed door, groaning.

  "Get the light and turn it on," the creature hissed, turning to Jon, holding the girl close. "I want him to see this. I want him to see what his father really is."

  There was a metallic click and light shined in the blackness.

  And Jon screamed...

  ...as Jenny slammed the receiver back onto its hook and turned to stare out at the white-speckled night. The wind was blowing harder and snowflakes pelted her face as she tried to light a cigarette, cupping her hand around the lighter.

  She had to get home. Something was wrong.

  Stop it, she thought. They're probably all in bed—it's nearly three-thirty, for crying out loud—or maybe the weather's screwed up all the lines. So stop panicking.

  But the sickening sense of urgency wouldn't leave her stomach.

  Even if they were in bed, she thought, heading back inside, Grace would wake up and answer. And if the lines were down, I wouldn't have gotten anything at all.

  She would ask for enough time to hurry home and if Dina didn't give it to her, she'd go anyway.

  In the restaurant, Jenny winced against the three streams of harsh light, looking for Dina. She spotted her by the counter talking to one of the busboys, the newest one. Dina did not look happy. Jenny took a deep breath and approached her.

  "...and if it took you that long to do it," Dina was saying quietly and calmly, "I don't know how you can possibly do your job competently. And frankly that worries me, so I hope you'll keep my concerns in mind."

  He nodded and hurried away, and then Dina turned to Jenny.

  "Look," Jenny said, "I know this is the wrong time, but I need my break now. I think something is wrong at my house. My little girl wasn't well earlier and—"

  "She's been sick for a while, hasn't she?"

  "Yes, very sick."

  "Well then, it isn't unusual that she's not well, is it?"

  "But no one is answering the phone."

  "The phones are down."

  "Not the payphones. I got a ring but there was no answer."

  Dina frowned. "What exactly is wrong with your daughter?" she asked, folding her arms.

  Jenny tried not to flinch. Had Dina heard something? From whom? Jenny wondered. She'd told no one what was really wrong with Shawna. Grace was the only one who knew. Yreka was not a town with a terribly open mind and Jenny knew word would get around quickly. She was afraid she might even lose her job and she simply couldn't afford that. So she told no one that Shawna's cancer was a complication of the AIDS virus which Shawna had contracted from a blood transfusion as a baby. Instead, she used half truths to answer questions about her daughter, as she did with Dina.

  "She has bone cancer."

  "Mmm. Well...try calling again and if you still don't get an answer...take a few minutes to go over there and check. But!" She held up a finger, smirked and narrowed her eyes slightly. "Punch out first. Do it on your own time."

  Jenny heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you. If I go, I promise I'll—"

  "All right everybody, we need your attention!"

  Both Jenny and Dina flinched and spun toward the booming voice. Byron was standing in the middle of the room with a gaunt pale man.

  Dina muttered, "What in the hell is he doing?"

  The din of the crowd lowered slightly, but most people paid no attention.

  The man beside Byron started to speak but Byron touched his arm and shook his head. Byron reached into his coat pocket and removed a gun, held it up and shot it at the ceiling.

  After a wave of simultaneous gasps, the room fell silent and no one moved.

  "Okay, listen up!" Byron shouted. "We've gotta problem and we need the help of everybody in this room. Everybody in this building! We're all stuck here, right? We aren't going anywhere, right? There's been a spill on the freeway and if s closed and we're all gonna be here for a while. For hours. Maybe till sunrise or later. Now with that in mind, I want you to know that this guy—" He gestured toward the man beside him. "—has made me aware of a problem we've got outside this building. We are all in alot of danger. Unfo
rtunately, you aren't gonna wanna believe me when I tell you why we're in danger and all I can say is I sure as hell wouldn't be doin' this shit if it weren't true. So listen up! If you don't..." He looked around for a moment, almost as if he were uncertain of what he were doing, "...you're on your own." He turned to the man beside him and nodded.

  The man seemed to think carefully for a moment, then took a moment longer to shift his shoulders, as if he were gearing up for something as—

  —Dina walked away from Jenny, stalking toward Byron with a stiff back, head tilted back and chin jutting. She stopped two feet away from him, took a deep breath, held out a hand and said quietly, "Give me the gun, Byron. Give it to me."

  Byron looked at her in disbelief.

  "You know this will mean your job, Byron, unless you stop now." She waggled her fingers and stiffened her outstretched arm.

  Byron sucked his lips in and his eyes became wide. "You can have my job!" he shouted. "You can have my fuckin' job after this! I quit! Now you —" He swung his arm up and put the gun in her face; his hand trembled. "—shut the fuck up!"

  Dina's hand dropped to her side heavily and she backed up several steps, jaw slack.

  Facing the crowd, Byron said, "Now this man is gonna talk, and if there's a brain in your fuckin' head, you'll listen to him!" He turned to his companion and said quietly, "Go ahead..."

  ... while Jon shuddered in the silent darkness. He suddenly had to urinate and the urge, coupled with his fear, was so intense that he was afraid he might wet his pants.

  Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, Jon saw that the little girl was in a bundle beside him, staring at him with wide, watery blue eyes, her hands doubled in fists just below her chin.

  But the woman-thing crouched before him was what frightened him the most. Her hair was black with grey streaks, disheveled and bushy, with some strands reaching her shoulders and others stopping at a level with her jawline, and it shined as if it were wet. Her nose was flat, its bridge lumpy with ridges and her skin, which was lined with wrinkles so fine that they resembled bloodless paper cuts, was the color of water-diluted milk and stretched tight over cheekbones that looked almost as sharp as the fangs that hung like slightly yellowed icicles between the thin grey lips of a pronounced snout. She was naked; patches of fine grey hair grew from her round breasts, swirling around erect brown nipples, and a strip of it ran down the middle of her concave belly between the ridges of a pronounced ribcage, blending into the dark triangular thatch that grew thickly between her stringy muscular legs. Thick black nails—like those that curled from her bony fingers—rose from her hairy toes and hunched over their ends, tapering to knife-like points. But the worst of it all, the thing that made Jon's mind reel, rose from behind her shoulders and stretched high above her head, pressed together and folded to her back, with black leathery skin as wrinkled as raisins.