The Pulp Fiction Megapack. John Wallace
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died in her throat with the coming of merciful unconsciousness.
Once again pain brought consciousness back to the blonde. Again the woods rang with a spine chilling scream that turned the stomach of the unseen spectators to ice.
“They’re—they’re barbecuing her,” Miriam said, with stark horror in her voice. “They’re cooking her alive.” She covered her eyes with her hands.
Below the body of the tortured girl was twitching with pain, her eyes glassy with the glare of madness. Again the medicine man approached, this time with a sharp edged knife, and his eyes were fastened on the softness of her white, round throat.…
* * * *
When Miriam awoke, she was in her room, and the man was at her side, washing her face tenderly with water.
“Did they—” she asked weakly.
“Just lie quiet,” the man urged. “You’ll be all right.” He tried to push her head back on the pillow.
She forced her way to a sitting position. “But I’ve got to know. Did they kill the others, too?” she demanded.
The man shook his head. “No, they agreed to play his mad game. He gave them an hour start, picked two of the natives to act as bloodhounds, took a little nap. That’s when we left.”
“Do you think—?” she started to ask, when a noise outside the house interrupted her. They crept to the window and watched. Suddenly they could make out the forms of Martinez and his two guides. Each of the guides carried a little bundle.
The man turned to her. “Do I think they made it? No. Let’s not worry about it until it’s our turn. In the meantime, try to get some sleep. We may need all our strength before very long now.”
She nodded and he was gone out the window in a flash. Sleep eluded her, and when it came, it was filled with nightmares of blood-drinking man-hunters and cannibals. She awoke in a cold sweat to find it morning.
She dressed with shaking fingers, to be interrupted by a knock on her door. “Food ready below,” was the accented announcement. It was punctuated by the insertion of a key into the lock and the squeak of falling tumblers.
Finished her dressing, the girl found her way down the uncarpeted stairway to a large unfurnished room off the hallway, where the rest of the little company was gathered for breakfast.
Phil, the aerialist, was there in his female makeup; the concert pianist was fluttering nervously as she came in. “Where are the rest?” the pianist asked. “This young lady here,” she indicated Phil, “told me they were sent back last night.” She shivered, pulled her jacket about her thin shoulders, and looked about nervously. “I wish I’d been sent back with them. I don’t like all this.”
The conversation was cut short by the entrance of a native waiter with a steaming dish of food. “Where is our esteemed host?” Phil asked him. “I see the place set only for three people. Doesn’t he eat with us?”
The waiter showed sharp, filed teeth in a wolfish grin. “Master no eat now. Him sleep all day, him no sleep all night. Him not hungry now.”
The short meal was a silent one. Neither Phil nor Miriam felt inclined to discuss the night’s discovery in front of the nervous pianist, and the latter seemed too engrossed in her own thoughts to start a conversation.
At the conclusion of the meal, the wispy little woman scurried to her room, leaving Miriam and Phil to make the most of each other’s company. They walked out into the bright sunshine, and found their way down to the pier. The boat was no place in sight.
“What were they carrying last night, Phil?” Miriam asked, her voice tense with emotion. “Was it—”
“I don’t honestly know what it was,” the man admitted, “but I intend to find out. You’d better get to your room, and I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” the girl interrupted him. “I’m in this with you, and I want to know everything that’s going on. Besides, I may be able to help—”
He smiled and squeezed her arm. “Good gal. I really didn’t think you’d allow yourself to be shanghaied that way,” he admitted. “Just thought that maybe you’d like to take a nap—”
“There’s nothing I’d like less right now than a nap,” the girl admitted with a shudder. “Everything about this place drips horror. I even get the shivers at the thought of going back into that house—even in the daytime. Where are we going, by the way?”
“While you were sleeping last night I did a little bit of snooping. There’s some sort of a room under that main hallway that faces out back toward the woods. They went in there last night, but they were out of the range of the window, and I couldn’t see what they were doing. I want to see that room. Are you game?”
The girl nodded hesitantly. “Y-yes, but what about Martinez?” The very speaking of his name sent chills up her back. “How about the two natives he brought back with him last night?”
“Think nothing of them,” Phil whispered. “They went back to the woods shortly after, and Martinez is probably sleeping off a drunken stupor. The only one in the house is the native who served us breakfast. We can take care of him easily enough.” He took her hand in his. “Not scared, soldier?”
She nodded. “Scared to death. But that’s not going to stop me. Let’s go.” He patted her shoulder, and winked.
* * * *
The iron grip of fear turned her stomach to water the moment she entered the shadow of the house. In the daylight, she could see that it was a rambling old, ivy covered building that had apparently stood on the island for at least a century. Its towers were notched, evidently to give refuge to defenders if the need arose to repel an attack. Inside, horror was a real thing, its chill fingers falling on her heart like some slimy leech. She fought down a wild desire to scream and obediently followed the lead of her companion.
He walked with cat-like sureness, covered the entire length of the hall, then motioned her back against the wall. Peering across his shoulder, she could see the native padding about the dining room clearing away the remnants of breakfast.
Waiting until he had left the room, they followed the wall to a half hidden opening behind some drapery. Beyond was a flight of well worn steps that led down into the musty rooms below. The stairs were well worn and slimy, and Miriam had to stuff her fist into her mouth to keep from exclamation when she stepped on a scurrying rat or some other subterranean animal that had scurried under her feet.
At the foot of the stairway was a passageway that led to a worn old door that was fastened by a stout padlock. The darkness of the corridor was suddenly split by a pocket flashlight that Phil pulled from under his skirt.
“Just our luck,” he muttered. “Doesn’t look as though we could break it open, either.” He bit his lower lip savagely in vexation. “I’ve got to get in there, Miriam, I’ve just got to.”
Her voice almost stuck into her throat. “The native. Maybe he knows where the key is. Maybe you could make him tell?”
The flashlight went out, leaving the passage again in dank darkness. “You’ve got an idea there,” he said. “I’ll go get him. He’ll talk, if he knows anything,” he promised.
She felt him press the flashlight into her hand, then another cold metallic object. It was a gun!
“Just in case I don’t come back,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to use it. There are six shots in it. Be sure you only use five.” He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, then she heard him feeling his way back toward the stairs.
It seemed like ages that she stood there alone in the damp, cold darkness. It seemed like an obscene wet black blanket had been dropped over her head, and she gasped for breath. Fingers seemed to be groping from the walls, and in her mind’s eye she could see the blistering, cooking flesh of the blonde girl