A Time of Predators

“Why, Rick, that’s not true! I—” Debbie stopped, her face scarlet. It was a put-on, she realized, Ricky’s idea of a joke. But then she saw that a fine sheen of sweat covered his face, and she was uneasy, almost frightened, so she said, “Hadn’t you better get the tool you needed from here and we’d better... I mean, if you and I are going back down to the cabin this... afternoon...”

Her voice trailed into puzzled silence, and Rick put an oddly gentle hand on her arm, detaining her as she turned toward the door. His voice sounded funny, as if he were sick or something.

“You’d better wait a minute, Deb,” he said.

“But... why?” She looked from face to face, uneomprehendingly.

“Because of your friend, Professor Halstead!” exclaimed Julio, darting forward. “Because you have betrayed us into very great danger!”

“I... betrayed into great... but...” She was truly frightened: maybe they were all high on speed or hair spray or something, like some of the girls in the dorm bragged about sometimes. Then it struck her, full force, and she cried at Julio, “You! You mean that you three, you and Heavy and Champ, you... you raped her? Like the professor—”

“We had to do it, Debbie.” But the voice which spoke was Rick’s, not Julio’s; and for an instant the two of them were frozen, face to face, outside time together, isolated from the others. Seeing the expression in Debbie’s eyes, Rick cried, “She saw me, when I was stomping that queer. And that other night, she... she begged for it...”

Debbie ran for the door, catching them enough by surprise so that she had thrust an arm and shoulder out, her mouth opened to scream, before hands dragged her back and smothered her cries.

The hands which had snatched her from safety were Rick’s.

“See?” hissed Julio. “You see what she would do? Now you know why it is necessary to teach her to keep her mouth shut.”

Debbie stared into Rick’s face; his eyes were bloodshot but a stony finality dwelt there also. The whole fabric of her existence dissolved like cloth in acid. Then Rick, with a convulsive, almost blind movement, thrust her at Champ. His hands circled her arms like articulated steel straps.

“Ricky...” she pleaded. “Oh, God, please, Ricky, don’t—”

“You’d better... gag her first.” His face was stark white; he had aged a dozen years in as many seconds. “And make sure you tie her up when you’re... through. I’ll... meet you down at the cabin.”

Heavy’s hand closed hotly over Debbie’s mouth, mashing her lips against her teeth. Her eyes rolled wildly, like a fire-trapped mare’s, as Julio dragged an old mattress out from behind the workbench. He dropped it by the Ford, and began fumbling at his pants.

“I got seconds,” Champ said hoarsely from somewhere above her.

She heard the door shut quietly behind Rick.

Hands jerked her roughly forward, flipped her over on the grease-stained mattress so a wad of oily rag could be thrust into her mouth. Other, eager hands plucked at the waistband of her trim beige skirt, then jerked at her panties. Then, for a long time, there was only the continuing nightmare of sweat and thrusting pain and the lesser abrasions of the mattress cover against her back. Finally there was nothing.

Curt awoke feeling hollow, drained, without purpose. He tried to tell himself that this evening he would be going down to the cabin to meet Debbie and possibly her boyfriend, or else to face the predators; but he knew it was a fraud. He knew he wouldn’t be going. Perhaps, he told himself, he lacked the necessary edge of hatred or of anger. Or perhaps it was just that the years had taken too much out of him. But if even Preston was afraid to go...

Classes would start, Curt would return to teaching, and would, in time, recapture his enthusiasm for it. Perhaps he would start once again on his book. Perhaps...

The phone rang. It was 1:47 P.M.

“Curt Halstead here.”

“Don’t go! Don’t... they’ll be waiting for you, all of them!”

Curt recognized the weak and anguished voice immediately; he leaned forward tensely. “Debbie, what have they done to you? Where...”

“They wouldn’t... stop...” The hysteria in her voice brought sweat to his face. It ran down his chin and stung where he had shaved his neck too close. “There was a mattress... they took turns...”

He tried to make his voice even, conversational. “Debbie, everything is going to be all right, you’re doing fine, just tell me where—”

“Ricky just... left me alone with them. He just...” She suddenly whimpered, “Please, please... help me...”

Curt dashed the sweat from his eyes, reached for the phone book to balance it on his knee. “Debbie, where are you?”

“I... Heavy’s place. They... they wouldn’t stop.”

“You’re doing fine, Debbie. Heavy what? What’s his last name?”

“Heavy.” Her voice seemed farther away, abstracted. She gave a long sigh, then said very distinctly, “Heavy Gander. Please help me.”

“Gander.” Curt leafed through the G’s, ran his finger down a column. Only one. Gander, Charles. “Debbie, is the address three-eight-seven Cuesta Avenue?”