The hellish paralysis broke. Vera moved away from the entry, prepared to turn, to leave, to run away as fast as she could—
“Hey, Vera! See anyone you recognize?”
Indeed she did, in that final glimpse. Kyle had raised two objects in the feeble light—two heads.
And despite the missing skullcaps, through which the brains had obviously been evacuated, Vera easily recognized the faces on the severed heads. The accountant, Mr. Terrence Taylor. And Lawrence Mulligan, chief of the Waynesville Police Department.
Vera ran back down the hall, her cheeks bloated from disgust. And Kyle’s raucous voice followed after her like a trailing banner:
“You’re wasting your time, Vera! You’ll never get out of here! You’ll never get away…”
««—»»
I’ll get away, you asshole, Vera determined. The elevator opened immediately. She jumped in, punched the UP button, and the doors quickly thunked closed. At once she was rising. Come on, come on! The lift felt so slow now. All she had to do was get to the atrium and she could flee. She’d run down to the main road, and she’d keep running till she could flag a motorist. She wouldn’t waste time going back to her room for her shoes or car keys. It wouldn’t take the elevator long to go back down to that hellhole, admit Kyle, and bring him up after her—
Seconds seemed like grueling minutes.
Her heart was racing.
Then:
Thunk!
The doors opened. She dashed out, scrambled through the pantry, then skidded on her bare feet around the corner of the service line. I made it! she celebrated. Another ten seconds and I’m out!
Kyle stood in the room-service entrance, arms crossed. He grinned. He’d redonned his jeans, one foot proverbially tapping as he waited for her. He began to whistle some truck-stop tune.
“How the FUCK!” Vera screamed.
Kyle shrugged. “There’s another elevator at the other end of the hall.”
“You motherFUCKER!”
“Hey, women have called me worse things, that’s for sure.”
Vera backed up inadvertantly, nudging the pantry door.
The door locked behind her.
Now there was only one way out: through Kyle.
“They’re devils, Vera,” Kyle said, and took a step. “They’re demons. They’re our brethern of our lord’s earth—”
More bits and pieces of the book reassembled in her mind. But all she could think about actively was one thing: getting past Kyle. And there was only one feasible way to do that.
I’ll have to kill him.
It was with a surprising confidence that the thought occurred to her. She scampered down along the aluminum-topped service line, past the ovens, ranges, and fryers, and stopped at the cutlery rack.
By now, Kyle’s chuckle was all too familiar. “You can’t kill me, Vera. Not like that. I’m not quite like you, you know? I’m not from around here.” Then he laughed again, as if amused at her antics. His bald head shined like a chrome trailer hitch in the harsh fluorescent glare. Hairless, she thought, scrabbling toward the knives. The book said Magwyth and his acolytes were hairless. At the same time her hand slid a Sheffield #11 fileting knife out of its rack holder. She turned quickly. The exquisitely sharp knifepoint flashed like a finely cut diamond.
Kyle took a few more steps toward her, unafraid. “Don’t do this, Vera,” he pleaded. “I mean, I know we never really got along, but I always did like you. I’d hate to see something shitty happen.”
“Fuck you, you evil, bald mother fucker I—”
“Talk about a woman’s wrath, moly holy—” Kyle paused, squinting, then shook his head. “Or is it holy moly? Shit, you’d think after all this time, I’d get my quips right.”
Spittle flew as Vera screamed, “If you take just one more step so help me I’m gonna cut your bald head right off I swear to God!”
“Not much point in swearing to God here,” Kyle suggested. Then he took another step. “It’s funny how women always blow their lids, or flip their tops…or is it flip their lids? Whatever. But why don’t you listen to reason before you going running around like a head without its chicken? Why don’t you join us? You’ll live forever, like me, like all of us. And let me tell you something—it is a trip to live forever.”
Live forever, huh? Vera thought. You’re not gonna live another five seconds, you pompous dickbrain.
And with that conclusion, Vera lunged forward, both hands firm about the Sheffield’s polished wood handle. The 440 carbon-steel blade sunk at once into the pit of Kyle’s sternum, and the sick grisly sound was music to Vera’s ears.
She stepped back. The knife was sunk to its hilt.
Then Kyle smiled. He withdrew the knife from the bloodless wound and tossed it to the floor.
“No more Mr. Nice Guy,” he said. “It looks like what you need is a serious adjustment in attitude, Vera. And I know just the ticket.”
Kyle came forward, unbuckling his jeans…
««—»»
Paul was scrabbling, screaming—all to no use. She’s so strong! he couldn’t help but think during his struggle. He’d punched her in the face as hard as he could, kicked her, choked her, yet she didn’t seem to notice at all. Instead, she tossed him around like a fluffy toy, dragged him about the strange cave-like room by his hair, and twice slapped him in the face so hard he vaulted through the air. I am in some serious shit, he groggily realized.
“It was all a setup, Paul,” she said, now vising her hand under his throat and carrying him to the other side of the room. “But I guess you didn’t know that, did you? No, of course not. He wanted your girlfriend, so that’s why he sent me.”
Stars burst before Paul’s eyes. He didn’t know what she was talking about, and really was in no shape to give it much thought.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” the bald woman said.
She dropped him onto the tuft of pillows.
“But I’m glad you did because I really liked fucking you that time in your apartment. What do you say we do it again?”
“Not tonight,” Paul gasped. “I—I’ve got a headache…”
Yes, this was her, all right, this was the redhead who’d drugged him, seduced him, and ruined him. Minus the red hair, of course, which he now logically assumed was a wig, though he couldn’t fathom why. In fact, he couldn’t fathom much of anything just then, not while he was getting his ass royally kicked by this woman.
She crawled right up on top of him, her downcast grin like an evil beacon. Her flawless body slithered in its perfection; she was like a cat: nimble, quick, deliberate. A moment later, she was sitting right on his face.
“I’m the Zyramon,” she said, “Zyra for short. And you really were a great lay, probably the best hum-job I’ve had in a couple of hundred years. And you’re gonna do it again, Paul. I gotta have it.”
Paul’s stomach churned with his terror. She’d planted her bald pubis directly against his mouth, the large clitoris protruding like a teat. And that gave Paul an idea…
Bite it! he thought. Bite it right off!
“And don’t get any ideas about biting me, Paul,” she said a split second later. Then she placed her thumb over his left eyeball. “’Cos if you do, if you bite me, I will sink my thumb right through your eye into your brain. You wouldn’t want me to do that, would you?”
“Uh…no,” Paul mumbled. “No, I would not.”