by Baker, Alex
“Wait…what? Constance, you’re not thinking straight.” The detective said the words, but they were followed quickly by memories of the spells the Russian had with bloody noses. She was now in jeopardy of losing both of them if she did not get the girl to a hospital and track down Roofy. How much time did he have?
“He’s going to need you,” the teen strained.
Laura trembled with urgency. The girl seemed to be accepting death and giving up. The hand the detective worked on came free, dropping from the rope and hanging listlessly. Desperate, she lifted up on Constance’s torso and started on the knot in the rope round her neck. “We’re getting out of here.”
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Detective Stenks. Although, I have to tip my hat to your resilience. I'm not quite sure how you found me, but I am confident I can pry the answer out of you.” The thickly accented voice came from behind Laura, and judging by the echo, the man was at the other end of the garage. She eased Constance down, letting the ropes take the girl’s weight, and took a deep breath. With one fluid motion, she had drawn her weapon, spun around, and fired.
The shot hit the far wall. Ambrose, drawing on heightened reflexes, dodged off to the side and made a move that put him half way to her.
In the time it had taken the surprised detective to adjust her aim, the attacker was on her.
Ambrose swatted the gun from her hand with pure brute force, sending it flying off to the other side of the room. He followed it quickly with a punch to Laura’s stomach, which doubled her over and sent her to the floor.
The detective moaned in pain, from the brick-like assault, as she rolled on to her knees and hunched over. How in the hell had he moved so fast? Drawing in a deep breath, the cinching in her muscles easing, Laura caught a whiff of a familiar musky odor. He had been in the police department, posing as the janitor. The killer had been stalking her too, and she had played right into his hands.
“Come now. Surely you enjoyed that, given what I have learned of your…tastes. I’ve studied you quite a bit lately.”
Laura kept her gaze pinned on him as he walked calmly around her. She tried to place the accent but couldn't. South African, maybe? Even in her dire situation, she knew it was important to take note of any detail she could. It may be crucial, if I get out of here alive, she thought.
“Heroine and victim domination, correct?” Ambrose kept an intentionally slow, confident pace to unnerve the detective. Experience had taught him that it was the little things that maintained the edge of control. “Or, did you not notice the girl’s attire? Dressed just like a female hero,” he chided and leaned over so that he was face to face with her. “You.”
Despite the collared trench coat and fedora, his close proximity allowed Laura to make out his features. Her attacker was a slightly older than middle-aged man, clean-shaven, salt and pepper shoulder length hair, strong jawed, and marked with a nasty scar that carved up from under and around his chin to his bottom lip. The attributes that made her skin crawl, though, were his glazed over, cat-like eyes and dual fanged upper teeth.
Having played opossum long enough to draw him in, she lunged with a punch. “You sick freak!”
Without a twitch, he had caught her wrist. Ambrose squeezed until he wrenched the expression of pain out of her that he wanted. “Just think of the pleasure you will get watching me sodomize her helpless, young, pristine body.” He backhanded her across the face with volatile intent, leaving her to hang limply in his grasp. As soon as she started to lift her head, he slapped her again.
Laura groaned, thinking about the pain. For so long, she had craved it, but it had been different. She had been in control, dominating her male subjects even when she was the one that was bound. Now, she just wanted the pain to stop. It reminded her of what she had spent so long tucking away. Wrist on the verge of snapping, jaw throbbing, and eye swelling, she could hear the drops of blood hit the oil stained concrete floor as they dripped from the corner of her mouth. Mustering her strength, Laura faced her attacker, cringing repulsively as he licked his lips with a surgically altered, forked tongue.
“And you, my dear detective, will watch every second of it.”
48
El Angel tightened the choke hold on Roofy. “What, no response, amigo?”
The big Russian's arms were slack, dangling by his side.
“Giving out on me already? And, I expected more from you.”
Answering the jibe on cue, the demon possessed Russian replied, “Roofy has left the building, El douche.”
Miguel applied more pressure, but it was not making a difference. He could not understand where his opponent's new raw strength had come from. Mere moments ago, he had dominated the large Russian with ease, but now, he was stunned by the pain in his arm as Roofy grabbed and twisted it and rose to his feet.
Reversing the choke hold into an arm bar on the surprised luchadore, the demon prepared for his grand entrance. “Allow me to introduce myself.” With intense exertion and exuberance, the big man delivered a clothes line, driving the Mexican wrestler into the mat. “I'm Mister Apocalypse! Yeah!”
Without hesitation, Mr. Apocalypse landed a leg drop across Miguel's neck and upper chest, causing the luchadore to gasp for air. In fluid motion, the now possessed Russian nipped up, pulled his opponent off the canvas, and whipped him into the ropes. Like a freight train, Apocalypse speared Miguel hard enough to make him feel like he was being cut in half.
El Angel lay in a lump on the mat, clutching his gut and coughing up small amounts of blood. It appeared his opponent had changed as well. He recognized the look: the dark complexion, sinister smile, malicious edge interlaced in his voice, and coal black eyes. He had seen it the night Roofy crippled him. Coupled with that, the Russian now spoke perfect English.
The demon, paying him no attention, sauntered off to the corner, where he busied himself with the top turnbuckle.
Miguel had made his way to his hands and knees, drool and blood dripping from his mouth to the mat below. “It's not possible.” He turned to see what the Russian was doing, but with the man's back to him, there was little that could be made out. “The recacimiento padre assured me I would be superior...that I would crush you.”
“Uh-huh,” the demented Roofy muttered, unimpressed, from the ring corner.
El Angel made it to his feet, still clinching his abdomen and hunched. “I am evolved, damn you!” he yelled, infuriated and distraught.
“Yeah, into somebody's ass-boy,” Apocalypse said, top turnbuckle pad in hand as he faced Miguel.
In a rage, the luchadore tackled the mocking demon over the ropes and down to the floor below. Beating his opponent to his feet, Miguel grabbed a chair and delivered a vicious blow, which was mostly blocked by an arm.
Blocking another chair shot from his crouching position, Apocalypse spied the top part of a ladder under the ring, and it sparked an idea.
“Eat this!” El Angel brought the chair down across Apocalypse's back, as the demon steadied on one knee.
The deranged Roofy responded by swatting the chair away. “My turn, El douche-o.”
Angered, snarling, and bearing fangs and razor-sharp teeth, the two grappled and clawed at each other.
Breaking free, Apocalypse delivered a devastating punch to the luchadore's temple. Pressing his advantage, he continued to pound away, driving Miguel into submission. Not allowing the downed man time to recover, the demon picked him up and pressed him over his head, bellowing like a wild animal. With all the enhanced strength his demon possession brought to the Russian's body, Apocalypse rammed El Angel down, back first, across his knee. The sound of bone cracking echoed in the empty auditorium, along with the luchadore's blood curdling scream. The demon pushed his crippled opponent unceremoniously to the floor. “Now, this looks familiar.”
El Angel writhed in pain. “My...legs...can't feel...”
The possessed Roofy had turned his attention to the ladder, which he pulled from under the ring. “Shh. I'm try
ing to work over here.” Reaching a full ten feet higher than the ring post when fully extended, he placed the bi-fold ladder near the ring corner.
“Padre...padre...help...”
“Whining. So unbecoming.” Apocalypse grabbed Miguel by the ankle and dragged him to the ladder. “Need you over here for a sec.”
The luchadore yelled out in pain the whole way.
“Now, where's the girl?”
“Go screw yourself!”
Apocalypse responded by planting a knee in Miguel's back and pulling back on his neck, causing the luchadore to roar in agony. “Let's try that again. Where's the girl?”
'The padre...the padre will save me,” the Mexican wrestler muttered as he tried desperately to fight off the shock setting in on his battered body.
The demon yanked back harder, bringing another ear-splitting scream from his victim as broken bones ground against each other and tore muscle tissue. Waiting until the luchadore's shrieking subsided, he whispered sadistically, “No one is coming to save you. Now, tell me.”
“Need...the padre...he will heal me...help me walk again...”
The luchadore was either too stupid or too devoted to break. The demon needed to change tactics. He released his hold and allowed the Mexican wrestler to relax. “Let's do this. You tell me where he has the girl, and I will take you to him.” Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, Apocalypse reassured him sympathetically, “I just want the girl. I'll give you to him, and I'm sure he'll fix you right up.”
“Yes. He will fix me. Abandoned body shop...on Las Fortunas...take me to him...you promised...”
Apocalypse scooped Miguel up, slung him over his shoulder, and climbed the ladder. Delirium and falsehoods always worked.
“Wait. You said you would take me,” the luchadore moaned, panicking.
“Oh, I am.” Straddling the top of the ladder, the demon held the Mexican wrestler by the throat, letting him dangle in the air. “I just didn't say whether you would be dead or alive,” he said diabolically, positioning the helpless luchadore up on his shoulders and facing into the man's belly area.
“No!” The plea resounded off the empty walls of the arena but fell on deaf ears.
Leaping into the air, the demon plummeted them toward the ring.
Driving El Angel down back first in the direction of the uncovered support post, the demon yelled out in excitement, “Apocalypse Bomb!”
The impact buckled and collapsed the corner of the ring. Bones snapped, skin ripped, and blood splattered as the exposed post pierced Miguel in the middle of the back and emerged out of his front, just under the sternum.
Mr. Apocalypse stood up from the floor, where he had landed. “Say, you don't mind if I borrow your car, do you?”
49
The old, termite ridden, wooden work table deteriorated under the impact of Detective Laura Stenks' body, as she screamed in pain. The throw had sent her a good twelve feet, and now, she lay mingled with the debris.
Constance, near comatose, hung helplessly from the car lift as Ambrose stroked her hair and rubbed her face. “She tasted so sweet,” he hissed, slowly licking her cheek with his forked tongue. “And, I'll suck the last drops of juice from her tender body,” he paused, cradling the girl's face in his hand, “or maybe, you would like to join in?”
Laura's arms trembled as she pushed her bruised and beaten body up off the floor. “I won't be part of your sick fantasies,” she defied, disgusted by the way her attacker licked his lips at her.
Ambrose walked deliberately toward her, mocking the detective as he went. “My sick fantasies? Really, detective, do tell.”
Laura's gritty determination had not totally abandoned her yet. Every muscle aching, she forced herself to one knee. “So help me God, you do anything to that girl...”
“Oh, but I have done things to her,” Ambrose interrupted and continued his approach, almost waltzing as he stepped. “So many inhumane things.”
Laura stared up into those empty, sick eyes as Ambrose glared down on her like a conqueror. It was over. It was all over. That poor girl had been mangled by a crazed maniac. He had abused her like Laura had been abused. Her childhood was spilling out in front of her like some sort of deranged replay. She was not much younger than Constance when her world fell apart.
Mother had been strict, controlling every aspect of her young life. Homework was done and inspected before dinner. Chores were listed and to be completed on time. Clothing was plain and demure, meant to not attract attention from boys. Speaking of boys, the topic of dating was not to come up at all. She had not been alone, though; Dad was also bent to mother's will. They were her employees. Her subjects.
So it went, day in and day out, until the evening Laura went into her parent's bedroom. It was forbidden territory, with trespassing being punishable under her mother's law. She would never have violated the rule, but the cat could be heard screaming from the guarded room. Interrupting mother, while she watched her programs, read, or did whatever it was she had engrossed herself in when relaxing, was unthinkable. Deciding it was the least of two evils, Laura sneaked in and followed the sounds, which were coming from inside of mother's oversized closet.
Opening the door, the trapped cat ran out, and that should have been it. Laura knew she should have closed the door, but her eye had caught something. The door was almost closed, and it should have ended there. Damn her for being a curious child. She couldn't help myself. There should have been clothing in there. How was it her fault there were no clothes? There were chains, straps, sexual toys of all shapes and sizes. It was an S&M dominatrix's chamber. Laura was so overwhelmed, that she never heard the footsteps. Mother had caught her red-handed, holding one of the bondage pieces.
The woman berated her, accusing her of being dirty. She was not to be trusted. More importantly, she was to be reprimanded. It was decided that the punishment should fit the crime. Laura was tied to her bed, using the very straps she had discovered, and mother, the dominatrix, went to work. The sodomy and sadism lasted so long, Laura lost count of the number of toys and devices used.
The small television in her room had been left on, for what reason, Laura never knew. What she did know was that she had lost her virginity at the hands of her mother to the sounds of an Amazing Woman marathon. In the corner, Laura's father sat, where he had been ordered to, and watched the entire desecration unfold.
The next day she went to school, so sore she could barely walk. Midway through the day, the teacher had sent Laura to the clinic because she noticed blood on the front of her pants. She stayed in the medical room until it was time to go home, afraid to let them contact her mother. It was so much easier to tell the nurse it was her period. What was not so easy was having the other kids call her a slut and a whore, as they chose to believe the physical ailments were due to being promiscuous. What was Laura's other choice, to tell them the truth?
How was she supposed to handle that? She had been so young. Just like Constance, she had her whole life ahead of her, and it was being skewered by somebody's twisted fantasies. There had been no one to help Laura, but maybe she could help the teen. There was one thing left she could do.
“Take me instead. Take me. Let her go.” It had been an impressive house of cards; it truly had. Now all the walls came tumbling down. Emotionally naked, tears ran down Laura's bruised face, making streaks in the dirt covered skin. “She's just a girl. Oh, God, please, she's just a girl,” Laura Stenks pleaded with all the conviction that years of repression allowed.
Ambrose wrapped his hand around her throat mercilessly. “I'm going to take you, Detective.” He dragged her across the floor by the neck. “And, in ways that will leave you despising your body and life, what little bit I allow you to suffer with before I take it from you.” Ambrose slammed her into a sitting position in the wooden chair that had sat in the middle of the garage. “Until then, you will sit in this seat and watch.” He leaned in close, making his next statement as personal as he could. “If I see you clos
e those pretty eyes, I will sew your eyelids open.”
Terror welled up inside Laura as she could see no bluffing in his expression. If only there were someone who knew the trouble they were in. Thoughts of the big Russian suddenly popped into her mind. Where had he gone? What had happened to him? “Roofy?” she stammered.
“Already taken care of, my dear.” Ambrose backed up a few steps, in Constance's direction, and basked in his triumph. “You will die alone and in much pain. No one is left to save your lost soul.”
A chill ran through Laura as she realized the end was coming, and it was going to be gruesome.
Ambrose turned and took two steps toward Constance then stopped.
The detective wondered what he was doing. It almost appeared that he was listening for something. Wait, was that a car engine?
50
The world exploded in front of Laura. A late-model Grand Prix, with a man dressed in luchadore style wrestling garb chained to the front, plowed through the closest sliding garage door. Debris had flown in all directions, and as the detective was thrown backwards from her chair by the force of the impact, she watched the vehicle smash into Ambrose. The sadistic man was vaulted violently into a collection of aged tool chests that were clustered on the opposite side of the room. Laura landed hard and a sharp pain reverberated through the back of her head. Everything went black.
The demon possessed Roofy exited the car and pointed at the mangled body hanging over the hood and bumper. “Brought your boy with me, loser.”
“Roofy,” Constance muttered weakly, jarred into consciousness by the intense noise. Just seeing him again was enough to invigorate her, even if ever so slightly.
“No more Roofy. It's Mister Apocalypse. You've looked better, by the way.”
The teen struggled to hold her head up, her free arm still dangling down. “What have you done with him?” The coal-black eyes that smoldered of evil intentions were far removed from the caring man she knew. The voice was gruff, the English fluid, and his whole appearance seemed darker to her.
