Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [126]
But that wasn’t really the point. The point was that Tina Krahn, knocked-up college student and madman’s current plaything, was finally getting a real-life lesson in literature. Who said high school didn’t teach you anything?
She started mucking up first thing this morning, the sun already climbing in the sky and threatening to fry her like a bug caught in the glare of a magnifying glass. The mud stank to high heaven, but it sure did feel good against her flesh. It went on cool and thick, coating her festering skin with a thick layer of protection not even the damn mosquitoes could penetrate. It filled her nostrils with a putrid, musky smell. And it made her head practically swim with relief.
The mud liked her. The mud would save her. The mud was her friend. Now she stared at the bubbling, popping mess and she wondered why she didn’t eat a handful as well. Her water was gone. Crackers, too. Her stomach had a too-tight, pained feeling, like she was on the verge of the world’s worst menstrual cramps. The baby was probably leaving her. She had been a bad mother, and now the baby wanted the mud, too.
Was she crying? It was so hard to tell, with the heavy weight of drying filth on her cheeks.
The mud was wet. It would feel so good sliding down her parched, ravenous throat. It would fill her stomach with a heavy, rotten mass. She could stop digesting her stomach lining, and dine on dirt instead.
It would be so easy. Pick up another oozing handful. Slide it past her lips.
Delirious, the voice in the back of her brain whispered. The heat and dehydration had finally taken their toll. She had chills even in the burning heat. The world swam uneasily every time she moved. Sometimes she found herself laughing, though she didn’t know why. Sometimes she sat and sobbed, though at least that made some kind of sense.
The sores on her arms and legs had started moving this morning. She had squeezed one scabbed-over mass between her fingers, then watched in horror as four white maggots popped out. Her flesh was rotting. The bugs had already moved in to dine. It wouldn’t be much longer for her now.
She dreamt of water, of ice-cold streams rippling over her skin. She dreamt of nice restaurants with white linen tablecloths, where four tuxedoed waiters brought her an endless supply of frosty water glasses, filled to the brim. She would dine on seared steak and twice-baked potatoes covered in melted cheese. She would eat marinated artichoke hearts straight from the container, until olive oil dribbled down her chin.
She dreamt of a pale yellow nursery and a fuzzy head nestled at her breast.
She dreamt of her mother, attending her funeral and standing alone next to her grave.
If she closed her eyes, she could return to the world of her dreams. Let the maggots have her flesh. Let her body sink into the mud. Maybe when the end came, she wouldn’t even know anymore. She would just slide away, taking her baby with her.
Tina’s eyes popped open. She forced her head up. Struggled to her feet. The world spun again, and she leaned against the boulder.
No eating mud! No caving in. She was Tina Krahn and she was made of sterner stuff.
Her breath came out in feeble gasps, her chest heaving with effort to inhale the overheated, muggy air. She staggered toward one vine-covered wall, watching a snake dart out of her way, hissing at her as it passed. Then she was braced against the wall, the vines cool against her muddy cheek.
Her fingers patted the structure as if it were a good dog. Funny, the surface over here didn’t feel like rough cement. In fact . . .
Tina pushed herself back. Her eyelids were terribly swollen; it was so hard to see. . . . She forced them wide with all of her might, while simultaneously pushing back the vines. Wood. This part of the rectangular pit was held up by wood. Railroad ties or something