Killers Page 7

  “You won’t do it,” she said. “We have a connection.”

  “Think so?” He opened the shears. “Stick your big toe between the blades and find out.”

  Lucy groaned, her hand still down her pants.

  She set her big toe on the bottom blade.

  Luther looked up, said, “Watch—”

  His face dropped, and then a smile stretched his lips.

  The blast of pepper spray hit him dead between the eyes, Lucy leaning forward, squirting it into his mouth and nose, and when the spray ended, Donaldson kicked Luther in the chest.

  Luther fell back and dropped the shears, his hands clutching his face.

  “You fucking bitch!” He pawed at his eyes.

  Donaldson laughed. “Tell me, Luther, did she get lucky just now?”

  Luther clambered onto his feet, one hand outstretched, his face buried in the side of his jacket.

  “I can’t fucking see!” he screamed. “It burns!”

  Luther stumbled like a drunk toward the opening of the barn.

  Donaldson stuck his hand into the old hay, becoming frantic because he couldn’t find the key. After ten seconds of desperate groping, his fingers locked onto it.

  “Grab the pitchfork,” Lucy said as he undid the cuffs. “Wait behind the door for him to come back.”

  Donaldson heaved himself up to his feet and took a staggering step toward the wall of rusted farm implements. He grabbed the pitchfork, and then paused.

  “Hurry!” Lucy said. “Hide before he comes back!”

  “I’ve been maced before. Hurts like hell. Even if he washes off, he’s not coming back for at least ten minutes.”

  “You going to sneak up on him, get him by his car?”

  Donaldson shook his head slowly.

  Lucy let out a short pant of air. After a moment, she nodded. “Hermit crabs can’t change who they are.”

  “No,” Donaldson said. “They can’t.”

  He raised the pitchfork and staggered toward her.

  Lucy stood up.

  “You goddamn lying little bitch,” Donaldson said, thrusting the fork at her.

  Lucy jumped back, wincing as her legs took the weight. Then she ran awkwardly toward the tools.

  Donaldson got to her just as Lucy was pulling a scythe from the wall. She tugged it off the nail and swung it hard and fast. Donaldson ducked and the sickle blade slammed into the wall, its tip embedding a quarter inch into the wood. Lucy yanked it out as Donaldson came at her with the pitchfork, sidestepping as the prongs missed her by inches.

  She raised the scythe and swiped again, catching Donaldson in the bad arm. When the tip went in, she twisted the handle, dropping the fat man to his knees with a whimper.

  Lucy pulled the scythe out and cocked it back.

  “We could’ve been amazing together,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Donaldson grimaced. “But killing you is going to be even more amazing.”

  She swung the scythe at his neck but Donaldson raised his weapon and caught the blade between the prongs. Rising, he jabbed the pitchfork toward the ceiling and sent Lucy’s scythe flying across the room, where it clattered against a dormant tractor.

  Donaldson backed her up, cornering Lucy against the wall of tools.

  “Okay, D. You got me.” Lucy raised her hands. “Is this really what you want?”

  Donaldson put his weight into the thrust, stabbing her through the fronts of both thighs.

  Lucy fell to the floor, screaming for Luther, and she continued to scream as Donaldson plunged the sharp, filthy tines into her legs, over and over and over.

  By the time he’d worked his way up to her pelvis, she was just screaming incoherently.

  By the time he started on her arms, all the fight had gone out of her.

  Panting, Donaldson set the pitchfork on the ground and leaned on the handle. He used his good arm to mop some sweat from his brow.

  “You still alive there, little girl? Or have I reached one hundred and thirty-one?”

  Lucy moaned softly.

  A pool of blood spreading out beneath her.

  Footsteps at the opening of the barn’s sliding door drew Donaldson’s attention. Luther stood in the threshold. He was holding something that the shadows kept hidden.

  “That mace hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” Donaldson said. “I straightened Lucy out for you, but if you want to come give her a few pokes, by all means, help yourself.”

  Luther walked into the barn, and as he reached the lantern’s field of illumination, he stopped.

  Donaldson saw what he held. He said, “Oh shit.”

  “Drop the pitchfork,” Luther said. His face was swollen, his eyes red as strawberries. The gun in his hand was a semi-auto.

  “You mean drop this, or you shoot me? Don’t be an asshole, Luther. I’d rather have you shoot me than—”

  The first shot blew out Donaldson’s right knee, toppling him over.

  Luther strolled over while Donaldson howled.

  “Still rather have me shoot you, Fat Man?”

  He aimed and fired. Donaldson’s left knee exploded.

  A feeble, breathy sound caught Luther’s attention. He turned and saw a smile on Lucy’s face.

  She was laughing.

  “Knees are supposed to hurt the most,” Luther said. “Tell me if that’s true.”

  Two more shots, and Lucy’s laughter became sobbing.

  Luther went to the wall and chose a tool to play with.

  After twenty minutes of exhausting his imagination with that one, he went on to get another.

  On Luther’s third tool, Donaldson went into cardiac arrest.

  Happily, Luther kept a portable defibrillator in his car, and it only took three shocks to get the fat man’s ticker back on track.

  Then he started in again.

  Dawn approached.

  Soon there wasn’t much Luther could do, even trying really hard, to illicit more screams from the duo.

  Donaldson tried to say something but it came out too soft for Lucy to understand.

  They lay side-by-side on the floor of the barn. There were bits of them everywhere.

  Lucy could barely speak.

  “What…D?”

  “Is…he…gone?”

  “I think so.”

  The barn was quiet. Somewhere, across the field, a rooster was arguing with the sun.

  “Why aren’t we dead yet?” Lucy asked.

  “Because your friend is very…very…” Donaldson coughed up a chunk of something. “Good.”

  “I can’t feel anything anymore,” Lucy said.

  “Me neither.”

  “I believe I can fix that.” Luther had returned.

  He held a red plastic container.

  “I’ve read that in most witch burnings, the victim died quickly from smoke inhalation,” Luther said. “Or from breathing in the fire itself. So I’m going to try my best to keep the flames on just the lower parts of your bodies.”

  Luther poured gas on them. Donaldson turned his head, caught Lucy’s eyes.

  “You know what, little girl? I never should have picked your ass up.”

  “Hitchhiking can be dangerous, D,” Lucy said.

  They reached for each other and held hands as they burned.

  For the continuing adventures of Luther, read Desert Places, Locked Doors, Break You, Shaken, and Stirred, the upcoming Jack Daniels/Andrew Z. Thomas thriller by Blake Crouch and J.A. Konrath

  For the previous adventures of Lucy and Donaldson, read Serial Uncut by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn

  In Which Blake and Joe Interview Each Other About the Experience of Writing KILLERS…

  Joe: So here were are again. Back in 2009 we wrote SERIAL as a kind of experiment. We each created a serial killer, wrote a section without showing each other, then pitted our creations against one another to see who would win. I’m astonished that a simple 7000 word story done for our own amusement has garnered so much attention. We sold film rights, au
dio rights, appeared in an anthology with Stephen King (SHIVERS VI), and have given away over 350,000 ebooks. Why do you think so many people liked that story?

  Blake: I think most people have a dark side, and that stories like this give them an opportunity to safely explore it.

  KILLERS turned out to be quite a bit longer than SERIAL, or even really what we intended.

  Joe: We had more to do in KILLERS. In SERIAL, we had to establish our baddies, then try to kill each other. In KILLERS we had to establish them, help them escape, pit them against each other, then bring in Luther. Speaking of Luther…

  Blake: My favorite villain I’ve written (although Lucy is a close second) in terms of sheer writing fun. One of the interesting things we did with KILLERS, was take these two depraved human beings, two hunters (Lucy and Donaldson) and then turn the tables on them. Make them the hunted. Make them victims.

  Joe: I was kinda feeling sorry for them at the end. Remind me why we brought Luther into this, other than to punish our characters.

  Blake: Luther is going up against Jack Daniels in the upcoming novel we’re working on called STIRRED, which will conclude both your JD series and my Andrew Z. Thomas series. At the end of SERIAL UNCUT, Luther sees Jack Daniels on the television, talking about Donaldson. He figures if he’s going to go up against this very formidable cop, he should drop in on Donaldson and find out about their run-in (which occurred in the novella TRUCK STOP).

  Joe: Luther also knew Lucy from your novella BAD GIRL. Both BAD GIRL and TRUCK STOP were combined with SERIAL to create SERIAL UNCUT. We also brought in Mr. K (the villain from my seventh JD novel, SHAKEN) and Taylor (from AFRAID and TRAPPED.)

  Blake: One big, psychopathic family.

  Joe: So, will we do the same thing with KILLERS? Make a KILLERS UNCUT?

  Blake: I think the chances are very good that a KILLERS UNCUT will appear in the mid-March - April 2011 timeframe.

  How was writing KILLERS different from writing SERIAL?

  Joe: One thing we did, which I loved, was use Dropbox and Google Docs. We used Dropbox previously with Draculas (co-written with Jeff Strand and F. Paul Wilson). Dropbox is a program that lets people share the same document by saving it in a folder that appears on both people’s computers. But Google docs was new.

  Blake: Google docs made the collaboration experience even better, I think, since it allowed us to type in the same document at the same time, and edit each other as we worked. With SERIAL, we wrote it by sending emails back and forth, which now seems kind of clunky. We also kept the instant message feature of Skype open while we wrote so we could ask questions and make comments as we went along.

  Joe: I loved it. As with SERIAL, we didn’t read each other’s set-up scenes. So I had no idea how injured Lucy was, if she was lying, if she had weapons, etc. When we both wrote the third part, together, we were really trying to figure out what the other person was thinking. It was a lot like playing chess.

  Blake: I was able to trick you into thinking Lucy was paralyzed from the waist down, and that impacted how Donaldson treated her in the final section. Also, I had Lucy hide a few crucial items in sensitive places…

  Joe: When Lucy mentioned where the handcuff keys were, I IM’ed you and said “You gotta be fucking kidding…” Turned out to be a pretty funny scene. While SERIAL had some black humor in it, I really didn’t expect to be laughing while writing the sequel.

  Let’s talk for a moment about point of view.

  Blake: We each wrote our opening scenes (prior to Lucy and Donaldson getting together) from a perspective called 3rd limited, which means you write through your character’s eyes, and narrative is colored by their feelings, their view of the world, and the characters they interact with. But once Lucy and Donaldson got together, the game between you and I was on. For us to write in 3rd limited would have given away what our characters were planning. So we had to write in strict third person with no internal monologue. No indication of what the characters were thinking or feeling. Only action and dialogue. In that sense, it’s a little bit like a screenplay.

  Joe: What you see is what you get. And we didn’t read each other’s opening section until after we finished the novella.

  Blake: That was a fun experience, finally getting to see what you had done with Donaldson.

  Joe: I made myself wince when he was taking off his arm brace.

  Blake: That was one of the most uncomfortable scenes I’ve ever read. What is it with you and bone manipulation?

  Joe: Have you ever broken a bone? Hurts like hell.

  Blake: Never. Only cracked ribs, and it was miserable. The pain lasted for months.

  Joe: Your opening with Lucy looking at her skinned legs was pretty intense. I was convinced she had no feeling in them.

  Blake: Is this the most intense, disturbing stuff we’ve written to date? More so than the original story, SERIAL?

  Joe: I dunno. Most of the awful stuff happens to Lucy and Donaldson, who deserve it because they’re murdering scumbags. I think this may be the most graphic thing I’ve done, but I think it isn’t unbearable to read because they had it coming. You?

  Blake: Definitely the most graphic, and that’s not surprising since it deals with the aftermath of a terrible accident that couldn’t have happened to two more deserving people.

  Joe: The original SERIAL has more than a hundred 1-star reviews on Amazon…

  Blake: I think it’s possible this could top that.

  Joe: Those 1-star wonders were written by people who got SERIAL for free and had no idea what to expect. I’m guessing anyone who picks this up will know what’s in store.

  Blake: Boy, I hope so. Will Google docs change how people write?

  Joe: We did this interview with Google docs. It’s pretty cool technology. Two writers, working on the same page at the same time, is certainly something I never expected to be able to do. I also didn’t expect it to be so intuitive, and so much fun. Easy, too.

  So in KILLERS UNCUT, I want to bring in Alex and Charles Kork (serial killers from the Jack Daniels books), Sheriff Eisenhower (from ENDURANCE), Mr. K (from SHAKEN), and Jack herself. Who are you going to include from your backlist?

  Blake: Luther will be back of course, along with Javier from my novel SNOWBOUND, Isaiah from ABANDON, and possibly a few other surprises.

  Joe: And then we’ll combine SERIAL UNCUT with KILLERS UNCUT and have SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT, which will be a complete novel.

  Blake: We’re going to release a print edition of SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT, which will also include BREAK YOU, a bridge between LOCKED DOORS and SHAKEN.

  Joe: Have we seen the last of Lucy and Donaldson? Technically, we didn’t say they died…

  Blake: Yes, the final installment of their story will take place in the burn unit.

  Joe: Hell no. They heal and become circus sideshow performers.

  Blake: Lucy will finally get to play her guitar.

  Joe: Not if Donaldson kills her first…

  This bonus excerpt is from the eBook Serial Uncut by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, and J.A. Konrath. It features all the characters from Killers…

  Tampa, 1978

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you about the dangers of hitchhiking?” the driver said. “You never know who’s going to pick you up.”

  Donaldson wiped sweat from his brow and eyed the driver through the half-open passenger side window of the Lincoln Continental. The driver was average-looking, roughly Donaldson’s age, dressed in a dark suit that matched the car’s paint job.

  “I’m roasting out here, man,” Donaldson said. And it wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been walking down this desolate highway for damn near three hours in the abusive, summer sun. “My car died. If you want to rob or kill me, that’s fine, as long as you have air conditioning.”

  Donaldson forced a bright smile, hoping he looked both pathetic and non-threatening. It must have worked, because the man hit a switch on his armrest, and the door unlocked.

  Must be nice being ric
h, Donaldson mused at the fancy automatic locks. Then he opened the door and heaved his bulk onto the leather seat.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  The car was cooler than outside, but not by much. Donaldson wondered if the man’s air worked. He placed his hand against the vent, felt a trickle of cold leaking out.

  “Happy to help a fellow traveler. I’m Mr. K.”

  “Donaldson.”

  Neither made a move to shake hands. Mr. K checked his mirror, then gunned the 8-cylinder engine, spraying gravel as the luxury car fishtailed back onto the asphalt.

  Donaldson adjusted his bulk, shifting the .38 he’d crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The pants were loose enough, and Donaldson portly enough, that he doubted Mr. K noticed.

  “You’re sunburned,” Mr. K said.

  “Sun’ll do that to you.”

  Donaldson touched his bare forearm, lobster red, and winced. Then he flipped down the visor mirror, saw how bad his face was. It looked like his old man had slapped the shit out of him, and hurt almost as much.

  “Your car a Pinto?” Mr. K asked.

  “My car?”

  “A Pinto. Saw one about five miles back.”

  Donaldson contemplated the harm in admitting it. He supposed it didn’t matter. Before he’d abandoned the car, he’d wiped it clean of fingerprints.

  “Yeah. Blew a rod, I think.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for the police?”

  Again, Donaldson deliberated before answering. “I don’t like pigs,” he finally said.

  Mr. K nodded. Donaldson doubted the man shared his sentiment. His hair was short, he was well-dressed, and he owned a fancy car. Cops wouldn’t hassle him. They were too busy hassling people with long hair and beards and ripped jeans.

  People like me.

  The highway stretched onward, wiggly heat waves rising off the tarmac. There wasn’t much traffic. Only about twenty cars had passed Donaldson during his long walk, and not one had so much as slowed down. Bastards. Whatever happened to human compassion?

  “Did you kill the car’s owner before you stole it?” Mr. K asked.

  Alarm bells sounded in Donaldson’s head. He frantically pawed at his .38, but Mr. K slammed on the brakes.