The display was now at forty-three minutes. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to survive another round. The second time was longer than the first, meaning they were going to be longer each time. He went over to Luis. Surprisingly he was still alive. “Where’s the screw?”
Luis’ entire body was burnt. His skin had been charred from head to toe. He could barely speak. “Please don’t hurt me.”
He knelt. “Tell me where it is at, and I won’t.”
“I swallowed it.”
Herb started kicking him as he yelled, “Throw it up, asshole! Or I’m going to rip it out of you!”
Luis’s charred skin was cracking open and bleeding everywhere he got kicked. He grabbed one of Herb’s legs with both hands, but when he pulled back, the skin tore loose on his palms and fingers, revealing the muscles underneath. He was horrified, not believing that he could go through so much and still be alive. He knew he would never be able to live a normal life with his deformities. And he sure didn’t want to keep suffering. The pain was almost unbearable. He wanted to die. “Please just kill me.”
Herb started stabbing him in the chest right below his ribcage with the screwdriver. When he had torn a big hole in his flesh, he forced his hand into it, then pulled out his stomach. He ripped it open, dumped out the content on the floor, and found the screw. He held it up. “Thanks.” He tossed the organ back on his chest.
Blood was running out of Luis’ mouth as he said, “There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”
“Yeah, but you’re going there first.”
“I hope you die a painful death.”
He patted him on the forehead. “Naw, that’s not going to happen.” He laughed. “But don’t worry, I’m going to live it up for the both of us.”
“No, you’re not. Your burns make you look like a monster. Good luck with that, you dickless bastard.” Luis started convulsing. As he let out his last breath of air he said, “And good luck with the AIDs, asshole.”
Herb looked confused, then his expression changed to horror when he remembered Kurt had HIV. He looked at his blood-covered arms where the screws in Kurt’s hands had ripped gashes into them. He also had cuts on his knuckles from when he punched Kurt in the face, particularly in his teeth.
He became depressed, knowing Luis was right. He was dickless and covered with third-degree burns that were going to leave him scarred. How was he going to go out in public looking like a monster, he thought? And now he probably had HIV to go along with it. He glanced at the display. He had twenty-two minutes left. He became angry, thinking how someone had ruined his life. He knew what he had to do. He was going to survive, then make it his life’s mission, no matter how short it was, to exact revenge on whoever did this to him.
He put the screw into the pipe, then shook his head. He needed two or three more inches. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, thinking of what else he could use to stick in the pipe. The last thing he wanted to do was tear open his ball sack. As he looked around the room, he noticed Kurt’s dead body. His hands were sticking up. Then it dawned on him; he could use the bones from his fingers. They were small enough to fit in the pipe. The display was now at nine minutes. He had plenty of time. He ran over to Kurt and started ripping off his fingers. The burnt flesh was easy to remove, just like on a cooked chicken leg.
His heart was pounding as he stuck the bones into the pipe. It was working. One more and he was going to be able to reach the end of the pipe. He stuck it in, then with wide eyes, watched the first screw that had been stuck into the pipe touch the button. He took a deep breath, then pushed the button. A clicking sound echoed out. That’s all that happened. Nothing dramatic. No flashing lights. No buzzers or sirens. Just a simple click. He ran to the door, finding it unlocked. He should have thought of using bones from the beginning, he thought.
With caution, he eased open the door. There was a dimly-lit hallway leading to the left and another door to the right. The door was locked with two sets of deadbolts. It had a sign on it that read, This is the easy path if you have the keys. Horror overcame him when he noticed the hallway was covered with thousands of one-inch tall spikes. They were so close together there was no way he was going to be able to step between them. He needed to find a way to open the door. He wasn’t sure what to do. The display was at two minutes. He needed more time to think, so he piled Kurt’s and Luis’s bodies on top of Donny, then sat on them so he wouldn’t be burnt.
When the display hit zero, horror overcame him when some type of fuel came gushing from the ceiling. It was gasoline. He rushed for the door at the same time the room erupted into a huge ball of fire. The heat was so intense that he ran down the hallway, stepping on spikes as he went. They were mutilating his feet, poking holes through his flesh, tendons and between his bones. Finally, the spikes had caused such severe damage that he fell to his knees and hands. He had to keep going—the gasoline was flowing into the hallway and the flames were scorching his body.
He crawled like a wild animal down the hallway as the spikes ravaged the flesh on his knees, lower legs, hands and lower arms. Finally, he saw another door. It was about twenty-feet away. His limbs had been punctured so many times they had become inoperable. He had to crawl and roll the rest of the way, puncturing holes and tearing the flesh all over his body in the process. When he got to the door, he was relieved to find it unlocked. On the other side was a large room. It looked like he was in a warehouse. There was a bright light on the far side. He crawled across the concrete floor towards it, leaving a blood trail behind him. It was a large building, but he finally made it to a dock door that was partially open. The fire had engulfed the building behind him and he had made it just in time. He rolled off the dock and fell to a parking area. It was daytime and the sun was hurting his eyes. His body had given out from all the trauma and loss of blood. His eyes became heavy, then he slipped into unconsciousness.
Herb woke up confused. A woman came over to him. “It’s okay, Mr. Pratt. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe now.”
His vision was slightly blurry, but he noticed his arms had been amputated below the elbows and his legs below his knees. His body was covered in bandages. “Oh my God! What have y’all done to me?”
Three men came walking into the room. One was wearing a white lab coat and the other two were wearing suits. The man in the coat approached his bed. “I’m doctor Ramm.” He motioned to the other two men. “These are FBI agents. Agent Arnold and Agent Burns.”
Herb looked at the doctor. “Why in the fuck did you cut off my arms and legs?”
“You had a bad infection in them and a lot of damaged tissue that was not repairable.”
“That’s bullshit! You’re a fucking doctor!”
“Unfortunately, whatever punctured your body was covered with a tar mixture embedded with an embalming-type fluid. It destroyed a lot of your tissue and muscle mass, making it unrepairable. The infection only complicated things, requiring us to amputate as soon as possible if we were going to save your life. You still have infections in your other puncture areas, but it looks like we’re getting them under control.”
Herb looked down. “What about my nuts? Are they okay?”
“Yes. We removed the objects. They’re going to heal just fine.”
“Let me guess. Fucking screws?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. Two keys. One in each testicle.”
Herb’s eyes got big. At that moment, he knew it was the keys that would have unlocked the doors. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?”
“Everything will be okay. You’re in good hands now.”
“Do you have any idea what I have gone through? I’ve been tortured. Burned. I have no penis. Now you’ve cut off my limbs. And I probably have AIDs.” Then he remembered the others. “And there were three others that were with me. But they’re dead. Did you find them?”
The doctor looked confused. “Why do you think you have AIDs?”
“One of the
guys I was with in the room had it. I got some of his blood on me.”
“Relax. You can’t get HIV that way.”
“It’s more than that. He was sticking me with a screwdriver that had his blood on it. He also held me down and was wiping his blood into my wounds. He did it on purpose. He was crazy. Same as the other two.” He was lying, but he didn’t want to tell what really happened.
Agent Arnold walked up. “We have some questions for you. What happened to the other three men?”
“They didn’t make it out.”
“I know that. But how did you get out and they didn’t?”
Herb knew that he couldn’t tell the truth. “I tried everything I could to save them, but they ganged up on me and tried to kill me. It was self-defense.”
The agent wrote in his notebook.
“Did you catch the bastard that did this?”
“No, but we’re working on it.”
Herb became angry. “Look at what that bastard did to me! And all you can say is you’re working on it?” He tried to get out of bed. “I’m going to find the motherfucker myself and make him pay!”
The doctor held him down as a nurse injected a sedative into his IV line. “Just remain calm, Mr. Pratt.”
Herb fell into a peaceful sleep.
Over the course of eight weeks, the doctors were able to rid Herb’s body of infections. They did some skin grafts where he had been severely burned, but even with the operations, he was disfigured. His face and neck were so scarred that he wasn’t sure how he was going to go out in public. They had also removed his left pinky finger and attached it for a penis. He wasn’t too happy about that, but it was a common thing to do when a man lost his penis to cancer or was in an accident. It even had a tube running down through it so he could urinate like normal. Of course, it wasn’t the same as a real penis; no erections, no way to ejaculate, and it was small as fuck, but it was better than nothing, he thought. He had gotten some prosthetics for his limbs. They were made of cheap looking plastic since he didn’t have medical insurance. And since he was uninsured, he wouldn’t receive any more skin grafts once he was discharged from the hospital. Everything had been looking upwards, until his latest set of blood tests came back indicating he was positive for HIV.
Two weeks later he was released from the hospital. When he got home, he just sat in his wheelchair and stared into a mirror for hours on end. His face was covered in scar tissue and patches of hair on his head were missing. He looked like a monster—a monster with stubs for arms and legs, and a finger for a penis. Not to mention he was HIV positive. He was very angry. The fact that the keys had been in his ball sack would haunt him for the rest of his life. If he’d had the courage to tear it open back in the room, he wouldn’t be the monster that he had become. Even the others would still be alive. He was going to have to live with that regret.
Later that day he got a knock on the front door and he heard someone yell, “Mailman!”
As he rolled his wheelchair across the house, they kept knocking while shouting, “Mailman!”
“Alright, alright! I’m coming! Hold your horses.”
Knock! Knock! Knock! “Mailman!”
“I said I’m coming!”
Knock! Knock! Knock! “Mailman!”
“Chill the fuck out! I’m trying to open the door!” He was having a difficult time turning the doorknob. He was squeezing it between his stubs because he wasn’t wearing his cheap prosthetics.
Knock! Knock! Knock! “Mailman!”
When he got it opened, he glared at the man. “What the fuck is your problem, asshole?”
The man was dressed in a mailman uniform. “I heard a retard lives here and is almost deaf. I didn’t realize you were actually a freak.”
Herb became upset and swung one of his stubs at him. “What did you say to me?”
The man stepped back. “Easy there, partner. Don’t get your cooties on me. That shit looks contagious.”
Herb was so angry that he was slobbering. “I’m going to call the cops on you if you don’t get off my property.”
The man held up a large shipping envelope. “But I have an important letter for you.”
“I don’t give a fuck! Get your ass off my property.”
“This has something to do with what happened to you back in that room.”
Herb’s eyes opened wide. “How do you know about that?”
“I opened it and read it.”
“What kind of fucking mailman are you?” He nodded downwards. “Put it on my lap, then get the fuck out of here.”
“Can’t.” He held out a clipboard. “I need you to sign this first.”
Herb looked confused. “I… I can’t. I don’t have any hands.”
The man held out a pen. “Stick this in your mouth and sign it that way.”
“Are you fucking serious? Just give me the damn thing.”
“Can’t. I have a code of ethics I have to abide by.”
“And I take it calling someone a fucking retard and a freak isn’t a part of it?”
“Do you want the fuckin’ envelope or not? I have other shit I need to be doin’.”
Herb gritted his teeth. “Okay, okay. Put the damn pen in my mouth.”
The man stuck the pen in his mouth, then held the clipboard in front of him. Every time Herb tried to write his signature, the man would move the clipboard, making it difficult. Finally, Herb spit out the pen. “There. That’s close enough, you fucking prick.”
The man tossed the envelope on his lap. “And by the way, how in the fuck do you wipe your ass?”
Herb glared at him. “What is your name?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I’m going to file a complaint.”
“Oh. Cool. They call me Elmer Fudd down at the post office. Make sure you tell them not to send me to any more houses with fucking retards. This job is stressful enough.”
“Get the fuck out of here before I fuck you up!”
The man laughed as he walked off. “Yeah, you might spit AIDs on me. Or fuck me with your finger dick.”
Herb rolled to the edge of his porch. “How in the fuck do you know about that? Hey! I’m talking to you! Get your ass back over here! You have no right to talk to me this way!”
The man was holding his hand up, giving him the finger, as he disappeared down the sidewalk.
Herb was irate, yelling, “You’re gonna lose your job, asshole! Wait and see!” He rolled his wheelchair back into his house. He quickly forgot about the rude postman as he concentrated on the envelope. He wasn’t sure how he was going to open it. He had a caregiver coming in about an hour, but he didn’t want to wait that long. Over the next few minutes he held it between his stubs as he chewed on it, but the damn thing was one of those heavy-duty envelopes. The kind that you can’t tear. He wound up dropping it on the floor. He couldn’t wait, so he slid out of his chair, then started licking the flap to loosen the glue. It wasn’t working. He finally gave up and remained on the floor until Rosie showed up. She was a large Hispanic lady that could speak English, but chose not to most of the time. She helped him back into his chair. “Esta bien, senor?”
Herb was a little aggravated. “Yes, I’m okay.” He pointed to the envelope. “I need that opened.”
“Como te caiste?”
“English, Rosie. You know I don’t speak Spanish that well.”
“Okaaay. Why you be on the floor?”
“Don’t worry about that. Please open the envelope for me.”
She picked it up, then went and grabbed a knife from the kitchen. When she pulled out the contents and flipped through it, she frowned. “Esto es desagradable. Eres un hijo de puta enfermo.”
“Rosie! English, please!”
She tossed the contents on the kitchen table. “You some sicko.”
Herb rolled his chair close to her. “It has something to do with what happened to me. Please tell me what it says.”
She looked disgusted. “It doesn’t say nothing
really.”
“Then what is it?”
“Photos with some nasty words.”
“Show me.”
She tossed them in his lap. “Pervertido.” She walked out the front door.
He picked one up with his stubs. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a picture of him on his back naked. Kurt was holding his legs spread-eagle while fucking him in the ass. Kurt was looking at the camera while smiling, and Herb was giving a thumbs up. There was a hand-written message in black marker across the top that read, “Getting some lovin’.” He didn’t remember that happening. He became angry, knowing he’d been drugged or something. It made him sick to his stomach.
He picked up another one. Kurt was wiping his penis across Herb’s top lip. The caption read, Dirty Sanchez.
The next picture showed Herb sucking on Kurt’s penis. He tossed the pictures on the floor. He didn’t want to see the others. When he caught his composure, he took off out of the house and down the street, looking for the postman. He didn’t want him to tell his neighbors what he had seen. To his surprise, he was sitting in his truck several blocks away. He rolled up to the driver’s window and banged on the door. “Hey, dude, I need to talk to you.”
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 124
