Klempner-1

2033 Words

Klempner Juliana coughs and her face twists, more blood spilling now from her mouth. “Gotcha, Larry.” I watch as, in a slow exhalation, the air escapes her throat. Her eyes lose their focus and freeze into a sightless stare. “Juliana?” She doesn't move, quite still. No lift to her chest. No flutter to her eyelids. “Juliana?” She doesn’t move again. I’m quite alone. No-one knows I’m here. No-one is coming. I gaze into the abyss. ***** The blood pounds at my temples. My breath comes in short snatches. My vision is dark at the edges… Flattening myself back against the wall, I scrutinize the prone Juliana, hoping that I might be mistaken; that there’s a breath of life in her. I’m only fooling myself. Not even that. I know a corpse when I see one. Juliana was the only person who knew I was here. She murdered anyone else who might know how to find me. Or even that I existed. Arms wrapped around my knees, I shudder, muscles trembling and out of control. Head tilted back, I draw air… slowly… And again… Don’t panic… Don’t panic… Panic freezes thought, reduces us to the monkey-brain: perfect for fight-or-flight, but f*****g useless for clear thinking. Think… Breathe… A couple more breaths and I’m regaining my self-control. The initial shock ebbing, I force myself to relax and the steel cuff at my ankle drags me back to reality. Trying to ease the soreness, I shift and pain stabs up my thigh from the knee I twisted when I slipped in the water. More pain jabs down my wrist from where Juliana bit me, my nerves stretched to breaking, over-reacting to the small injury. Absently, I suck at the wound, then realize it’s actually two wounds: one where Juliana bit my hand, the other where she jabbed at me with her ridiculous spiked heels… Her spiked heels… Her spiked heels… Discomfort forgotten, I scramble forward. My lunatic hostess collapsed and died several feet away… Can I reach her? Normally by now, Juliana would have departed by normal means and I’d be left with the green gloom of the solitary indicator light from the camera. Instead, I have full light: harsh and white, but clear. What’s left of Juliana sprawls untidily on the concrete, arms and legs at awkward angles, the ridiculous 70’s Sci-Fi wig askew, make-up smeared and grotesque. She still wears her rictus grin of ‘triumph’. I don’t care… The boots… One hand stretches toward me, to where I was sitting as I realised the key was a fake. Lying flat to the ground, I stretch out, ignoring the scrape of my naked chest against the concrete… And I reach for fingers which might just be in range… My fingertips won’t quite reach hers, but it’s only an inch or so difference. I stretch… The ankle cuff bites into aching flesh… … and my fingertips just brush hers… How much more reach do I need? To get a hold? To get a grip on the hand, ideally the wrist, so I can haul the corpse towards me. Four inches? Five? I try again, straining every muscle, gritting my teeth against the torment from my ankle. It buys me perhaps two inches, but the steel cuff grinds against my too-bony ankle… … and… … I can’t stretch any further… Roaring my frustration, I slap my palm hard against the concrete, then regret it as the sting shimmers to kick-off the injury from where Juliana sank her teeth into my hand. Gasping from the pain, I relax, then crawl back to sit against the wall again. How to drag a corpse closer??? A loop of something around that outstretched hand? Lasso her somehow? Rope? Rope… rope… Rope… My tattered shirt lies crumpled beside me, still where I left it when I took it off to get into the water. Filthy as it is, it’s still pretty much the cleanest thing in sight. The worn linen doesn’t take much tearing. I chew a small hole into one hem to open up the seam, then rip. Even with my flaccid muscles, the fabric parts easily, with a small shredding sound. Five minutes later I have a series of strips eighteen inches or so long and an inch wide. I know without trying that the cloth is too flimsy as it is. Threadbare, there’s no weight to it. But just for the hell of it, I try. I could strike lucky… It’d make a f*****g change… Making a two-hands-sized loop at the end of one strip, once more flat to the floor, I stretch out, tossing my makeshift noose at Julian’s outstretched arm. It flutters across the small distance, then flops down over the dead hand. Fucking useless… … but it was a long shot anyway… Over the next few minutes, I find myself humming as, sitting cross-legged in my spot by the wall, I plait together strips of semi-rotted linen into a ‘rope’, perhaps six feet long. The strips braided together have some real body and, experimentally, I heft it, tossing it from one hand to the other… Still a bit lightweight… I weave in a couple more strands, then try again… Better… But ideally, my rope could still use more weight. Painfully, I stand, pausing to grab a couple of breaths as I straighten up. The air is stale and humid. Until now, I’d never really thought about how warm it is here; heat borrowed presumably, from the luke-warm water of the channel. Whatever my problems, cold isn’t one of them. Fresh mountain air… Clean and cold… The dance of sunlight over the mountain lake… After my lungs stop heaving, I reach up to my ‘fresh-water supply’, the small outlet that trickles cleanish water down to me. A few moments to cup hands, and suck up a mouthful of two of the brackish water, then I dangle the rope under the flow, soaking it. Wetted, it weighs nicely in my hand, and with a flick, it zips, squelching around my wrist. Back on my belly… Reaching out for that outstretched arm… Flick my noose at the hand… And it lands, sitting atop the fingers, slopping water. Got the range… Not the technique… I sniff, reel in my lasso and try again… ***** A dozen throws later, I concede that I’m not going to succeed this way. My makeshift lasso has ample range to reach but, the palm lying flat to the ground, I can’t get the loop around. At the least, I need to snag a hand to have any hope of towing Juliana closer… No… A finger would do it… It just needs a good hold… Picking at the knot to my loop of rope, I unravel it. Irritatingly, the soaking in the water, or maybe the subsequent drying, has shrunk the cloth a little and the knot has tightened. It would do my soul good to curse and fling the wretched thing against the wall, but resisting my own temper, I work away at the snarl of tattered cloth and frayed threads until it unravels. My thinking is frayed too… Dehydration? I treat myself to a break, unfolding stiff joints to stand up and taking the time to allow myself a real drink: enough to quench thirst. Refreshed, I settle down again to re-tie my lasso, this time with a slip knot, and making my loop only a few inches diameter. With a leftover strip from my shirt, I tuck a double-fold of linen under the steel edge of the ankle cuff. Even the slight pressure of my own touch, nudging the steel edge against swollen flesh, is enough to make me inhale against the pain. Edging the strip of cloth one way and another, blowing air between my teeth, I inch it right through the cuff to protrude from either side. It’s not easy; discomfort aside, the swelling of my ankle, makes it difficult to manoeuvre the cloth. Getting it f*****g over with… And with a single sharp tug, the cloth completely encircles my leg under the steel. Fuck! Huffing air, I lean back, letting the stars fade from behind my eyes. Still, the hard part’s been done… For now… … I stand again, once more reaching for my freshwater supply. A palmful splashed over the fabric, then another, and the cloth is soaked and slippery. The now lubricated cuff can move a little more freely. The cool water is a balm to my sore and heated flesh, but I know that’s likely to change in a few moments… This is going to hurt… Once more, I lie flat, angled to reach Juliana’s corpse. Wetted lasso in hand, I take a couple of breaths to brace myself… Lengthening myself, extending every vertebra, every joint, I reach… My fingertip nudges Juliana’s, and once more I stretch, shuffling my body closer. The cuff bites into my ankle, but over the damp cloth, it slides; not much, but a little… Half-an-inch… Burning coals sear my ankle… An inch… I’m touching Juliana’s first finger joints. With a wriggle of my hand, I slide the loop over the forefinger, draw the knot tight and tug… The loop slides, tightens, then slips loose again. Fuck… Relaxing again, I ease the pressure on my ankle while I sit up to reform my lasso. Then, loop in hand, I take my position again. Another breath… Strain… Ignoring the blistering pain from my ankle, I heave myself closer… And now, my fingertips brush over Juliana’s second finger joints. I can’t see. My face flattened sidelong, my cheek is pressed flat to the floor. But I can feel. The joints are just that little wider than the bones of the fingers… Wide enough? Letting my mouth scream out against the pain at the cuff which tears at bone and flesh, I slip my hand under Juliana’s clammy fingers, then slide the loop over and around, moving as delicately as I can… … and this time I have her thumb. A slow, easy pull, and Juliana’s arm straightens out, buying me another two inches… Yes! Still screaming, but now in triumph, with my outstretched hands, I clasp the fingers and rope together, pulling both, inch by fractional inch, closer. I have her hand. And now, releasing the thumb, I loop the rope around the wrist instead, hauling Juliana’s corpse closer. The body jolts and drags and flops toward me, bringing its precious cargo with it. When the corpse is within easy dragging reach, I release my hold, lie flat to the ground and scream against the pain shrieking from my ankle. Blood seeps through the wet cotton to drip onto the concrete, and my leg, from knee to foot, is a throbbing, shrieking morass of flesh. But the exhaustion of pain is over-ridden by the adrenaline high of triumph. Scrambling back, I tug the corpse into easy-reaching position. First move: I check that the heels of Juliana’s silver vinyl boots are what I took them for: four-inch, steel-tipped spikes… Tools… Peeling down the vinyl from her calves, I prise the boots off and set them to one side. Then heaving air, I scan the rest of the body… Clothes… Belt… Hairpins… What else has she on her? I have resources… At last! Fucking resources! I check for pockets first. The electric-blue spandex skirt turns out to have two small pockets; one empty, one containing a half a packet of mints. Murphy’s Law says of course that they’re sugar-free - I could have used the calories - but still, the small lozenge slipped under my tongue sets my mouth running and flavour zipping over my tongue and lips. I set the rest of the packet carefully to one side, out of harm’s way. The skirt is belted, with a cheap buckle, base metal treated to a glitzy-silver finish, but the strap is a soft and flexible leather… My eyes wander and my ambitions grow… The bag… Juliana’s bag… I didn’t even notice it as she arrived. I was too busy keeping my attention on the woman herself and the key… Fucking-failed-useless-f*****g-key… … but my eye wanders to it now. Electric-blue with a silver clasp, and stitching to match Juliana’s bloody awful outfit, it squats by the fold-up chair. Half-unzipped, something pokes out of the top; a paper bag perhaps. And as I sniff the air… Cheese? Some kind of meat? Certainly baking… The bag handles, half-circles loops with a silver-metallic finish, sit paired, stiffly upright… I measure the distance by eye. Ten… Maybe twelve feet… From somewhere off-side, something scurries and there’s that skritching-skittering sound… Spinning, I roar fury down the black tunnels, and the skittering retreats. ***** Despite riding a success-high. I’m all too conscious that I’m not firing on all cylinders and could easily drop my hard-won prizes. So the belt, threaded through the buckle to give me a handle, is firmly looped around my wrist at one end. The other end… It’s a bit of a contraption, but I’m working with what I have. Juliana’s bra, knotted to the belt by its own straps, gives me another eighteen inches or so.

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