CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Cordie lay on the ground, curled up and shivering at the foot of the tree, afraid to move. She'd stayed that way for a long time.

Hours must have passed since the woods echoed with the monstrous yell of the beast and she'd seen its dark shape stride through the trees. Hours since she'd heard Ben's pleading, terrified voice. God, he must've met an awful death.

The thing had come her way, and passed her by.

But it might be lurking near.

She couldn't stay on the ground much longer. She had to urinate badly, and she didn't want to wet herself.

Finally, she rolled onto her belly. She raised her head. Her eyes searched the forest. The air had a blue-gray cast, and she could see a long distance into the surrounding trees.

With sudden dread, she realized that the night's protective darkness was gone.

She got to her knees. Her right arm, numb from being crushed by her body for so long, hung useless at her side. Slowly, feeling returned to the arm. It tingled and burned. She shook it. She flexed her fingers. When the arm felt usable again, she stood up.

She turned slowly, studying the woods. She seemed to be alone.

Quickly, she lowered her pants. She squatted and let herself open. Her stream sounded terribly loud hitting the leafy ground. Eyes on the woods, she wished the noise would end. But she wasn't willing to stop the flow; getting rid of the aching tightness felt so good. Finally, she finished. She stood and pulled up her pants.

For a few moments, she stared in the direction that Ben had run. She didn't want to see his body. She couldn't just leave, though. Not without knowing, for sure, that he was dead. To know with absolute certainty, she had to see him.

She walked slowly, trying to move with total silence. In spite of her care, each footstep caused a quiet crush of the forest debris. Not much of a sound. But enough for others to hear. Too much. She took longer strides. Though her footsteps were louder, that way, she wouldn't need as many to reach her goal.

A goal she didn't want to reach. She wanted only to hide.

But she had to find out.

She kept moving. She knew just where to look. All night, in her mind, she had seen Ben dart into the trees, heard him running, heard his voice. He hadn't gone far. No farther than the distance, back home, between the front door and the kitchen.

When she saw his legs, she stopped. He was on his back, one leg straight out, the other bent sideways at the knee in a position that looked painful. The rest of Ben was hidden behind a tree.

His pants were all covered with blood.

"Ben?" she asked. The word came out as quiet as a breath.

But much too loud.

She took a step, and saw more: the lap of his pants, the bloody stomach of his shirt. She inched closer. The tree uncovered more: his chest, his out flung right arm. With another step, she would see his face.

God, she didn't want to!

Not dead.

Twisted and hideous with Ben's final horror.

It would serve no purpose. He was obviously dead. She didn't have to see his face to know that.

God, to look at ita The face she had kissed, so long and hard, only last night.

She began to cry.

She took a step backward until the tree concealed all but his legs. She stared at them. They were blurred by her tears.

Those shoes.

She'd flung one out the car window at a drive-in movie, last week.

"Oh Ben," she moaned.

Then she ran. She knew she was making too much noise, but she didn't care.

Let them get me. Let them!

She ran hard. Away from Ben. Running blindly, tears in her eyes, head thrown back. Better to look at the sky, the blue morning sky, than whatever might be coming to kill her.

She crashed into a thicket. Its limbs gripped her legs, but she churned through, kicking and grunting. It couldn't hold her back. As she broke free, though, it caught her trailing foot. It tripped her. She plunged forward, shrieked, and twisted wildly to keep from falling onto the naked boy.

The boy who'd attacked her last night.

The one slaughtered only minutes before Ben.

She hit the ground. Got to her hands and knees. Glanced at the body. Saw blood and ants, and the pulpy stump of neck where his head should have been.

Scrambling to her feet, she ran. She knew she was making too much noise.

Now, she cared.

As soon as she was well away from the body, she stopped. She looked around her.

There!

A dense thicket, off to the right.

She rushed to the high cluster of bushes. She circled it, trying to see inside. The closely packed, leafy branches blocked her view.

Perfect!

Dropping onto her belly, she squirmed forward. She pushed her way through the leaves and springy, low-hanging tendrils. Deeper and deeper into the thicket.

Finally, she stopped. She looked to each side, and saw no hint of the outside world. She rolled. Directly above, she could see a few tiny patches of sky.

Something tickled her arm. She looked. An ant.

Her fingertip got it. The ant left a tiny skid-mark on her skin. "Not yet," she muttered.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Neala woke up. Her head was on Johnny's lap. They were still outside, Johnny sitting with his back to the cabin wall.

He smiled down at Neala. His eyes were bloodshot. His face, dark with a day's growth of whiskers, was torn by scratches and streaked with the brown stains of dry blood. This is how soldiers must look, she thought.

Reaching up, she touched his rough cheek.

"Guess I could use a shave," he said.

"And sleep. Did you get any sleep at all?"

"What's that?"

His hand caressed Neala's forehead. It felt big and warm and comforting. She drew it down to her mouth, and kissed it. Then she slipped it inside her shirt. She closed her eyes as the hand moved lightly over her breasts. It stroked the skin of her belly. She felt his hardness push against the back of her head. The hand returned to her breasts, less gentle now, squeezing and plying her rigid nipples.

She moved his hand away, and stood. Her stiff muscles ached and burned as she stretched. She smiled down at Johnny. He watched as if he knew what would happen next.

She opened her shirt, and slipped it off.

"Are you sure?" Johnny asked. "Here?"

She kept her eyes on Johnny. If she turned to the field of impaled heads, she knew she could not go through with it. "Here's the only place we can," she said.

"Inside?"

"Sherri." She tugged at her belt, and opened it. "Here's fine. In the sunlight." She unfastened her corduroys, and slid them down her legs. Stepping out of them, she stood before Johnny, clad only in her brief panties. She slipped them off. The morning breeze licked her skin. The sun was warm.

She crouched in front of Johnny, and helped remove his boots and socks. Standing, he peeled off his T-shirt. As he opened his pants, Neala stroked his broad shoulders. His chest was smooth and muscular and tanned. She fingered his nipples.

He bent down to lower his pants. Then he embraced her. He was warm and big. His tongue pushed into her mouth like the phallus of a small, insistent animal.

For a long time, they held each other. They touched and probed. Then they spread their clothes on the ground.

Neala lay on her back.

Johnny knelt between her legs. His shaft was huge and solid.

It filled her, stretched her, hurt her, but the pain only sharpened her desire. She whimpered into his mouth. She clutched his buttocks as he drove into her with long, endless strokes that seemed to plunge deeper with each thrust.

Then it was too much.

He pounded, pumping, flooding her, and she tried not to cry out as she quaked with her own spasms more intense than any she had ever known.

The cabin door squeaked. Opening her eyes, Neala saw Sherri step out.

"You done?" she asked, her voice sarcastic.

"For Godsake, Sherri!"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to me."

"Get out of here! What's the matter with you!"

Shaking her head, Sherri gazed into the distance. "Nothing's the matter with me. I just wonder about you two."

"If you'll go inside for a minute," Johnny said, "we'll finish up and get dressed." His voice was calm.

"Don't you like an audience?"

"Damn it, Sherri!"

"Well, you've got one. Just thought I'd let you know." She pointed.

Neala turned her head. "Oh God," she moaned. She gripped Johnny's sides.

"They've been out there since you started," Sherri said. "Just a couple, at first. Must be fifteen or twenty now. I guess they liked the show."

"Don't worry," Johnny whispered to Neala.

He raised himself. He was still inside her, still erect. With a look of tenderness and regret, he slowly slid out. Moving on his knees, he grabbed his rifle. He stood, shouldered it, and aimed toward the scattered group beyond the barrier of heads.

Neala began to gather the cast-off clothes. She glanced up. Sherri was staring at her. "Give me a hand, damn it!"

Nodding, Sherri crouched and picked up Johnny's boots, his socks, his pants. That took care of it. Neala rushed ahead of her into the cabin.

Sherri stopped in the doorway, and looked out. She stayed in the doorway as Johnny moved toward it.

Dropping her bundle of clothes, Neala grabbed Sherri's arm and tugged her inside.

Sherri swung around. "Leave me alone!"

"Sherri, for Godsake, you're actinga"

Sherri clutched Nealas hair and jerked her head back. "Shut up," she hissed. "Just shut your fucking mouth!"