Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  “You hit like a girl.” She giggled, raising her fists like a boxer.

  Brock thought about fighting this cunt, but then remembered that Lance needed help. He ran toward the boy, jumped in the air, and crescent kicked his boot into this psycho’s solid chest.

  The boy stumbled back, shoved Brock’s foot into the ground and punched him in the ribs.

  Brock cringed. White-hot pain shot upward through his body.

  Another fist crashed into his face. The girl slammed her elbow into the corner of his eye. His skin tore neatly and blood pulsated in thick torrents. He was certain that these two meant to inflict great pain.

  Finally, Brock caught a glimpse of Smiley’s face and side-kicked her in the jaw. She stumbled back, slipped on the ice, but regained her balance. She settled. And Brock rammed his fists successively into her chest, ribs, and face.

  “You’re dead,” the boy shouted. Brock dropped the girl and ran toward the boy. Brock deflected the boy’s fist while he attempted to punch. Leveraging his weight with his hip, Brock tossed the boy up and over his shoulder. The boy was heavy, but he flew and twisted through the air. Finally, landed on his back. A heavy cloud of steam escaped his mouth. He was winded. Brock didn’t halt. He slammed his fist square into the boy’s face. He repeated this process even though his knuckles were battered, bruised, skinned, and maybe broken. Then the girl jumped on his back. She placed him in a chokehold. Brock reached backward, grabbed her wrists, and tugged forward. This action enabled him to pull his head free from her arms. Like slipping out of a noose. Still holding her arms, he flung her forward over his back. He used all of his strength to slam her into the icy sidewalk. Watching her lay there, he felt confidence rise within him. The air shucked out from her lungs. Instinct dictated. Brock slid to the right. He watched the boy miss and slam the metal pipe into the snow-covered cement. A hollow clank rang in his ears. With the back of his fist he hammered Smiley in the face. Then he kicked her in the stomach. Afterward, he leaned forward and stomped on the boy’s face.

  Confusion struck. Brock’s vision went hazy.

  He threw a sloppy punch at Smiley’s cousin.

  His vision spun. His stomach weakened. Vomit heated his throat. Acid bubbled upward.

  He attempted to kick, but slipped and fell. His sight found the syringe that had been plunged into his neck. There was no liquid and the plunger was deflated.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been laying there but laughter echoed along the lining of his eardrums. The cackles were mean spirited, damning, twisted and emulated madness. He was scared. The evil laughter frightened him more than the physical beating.

  Fists and feet punched and kicked every area of his body. No flesh was spared from this brutality. The black sky pushed his vision into the blankness of night. He tried to focus on the stars, but the punches and kicks denied focus.

  Another large needle punched through the skin of his neck. The last sensation he felt was bitter cold. He was defeated. Doom crept in like poison.

  Chapter 15

  A Cold Place to Die

  1

  T he cold was bitter. Not freezing. And Brock frantically wiggled his arms. Disregarding the hard edge of pain in his wrists that were bound to something metal. He felt blood run from the jagged tears in his wrists and hands. Rolling onto his back, he attempted to scream. Muffled gags of soft anger were the extent of his attempt. Torn cloth had been stuffed into his mouth and gagging was all he could muster. Tilting his head amplified the pain, which lingered in the many cuts and bruises along his neck and face. Fresh, painful lumps jutted out from the back of his head and throbbed terribly. Dried blood acted as an adhesive on his eyelids. Forcing his eyes open, blood cracked like dried superglue. Exerting his threshold for pain, he blinked into clarity. The image before him eluded terror. An icy sensation lined the acid wash of his stomach.

  Harsh LED light penetrated his pupils. Sanity fled. He couldn’t tell if the images in front of him were real or mirages. Six large figures dressed in black wore ridiculous rubber Devil masks.

  A thought struck.

  That black van outside the boxing gym.

  “Wakey, wakey.” Brock recognized the familiar, laidback voice.

  A moment passed before an image paired with the voice, the familiar, throaty tone.

  Brock’s eyes widened. Attempting to swallow, his throat locked. No saliva remained in his mouth. Spittle and foam escaped his lips.

  Grady was here.

  Lowering himself, Grady removed Brock’s gag.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Brock struggled.

  Trying his best to appear inconspicuous, Brock’s eyes darted in all directions. Surveying his surroundings. Straining to see through his damaged eyes was difficult. Sight finally permitted clarity. The walls were tall, maybe seventy feet. This building was a warehouse the size of a football field. Another thought struck; there was a gaggle of warehouses tucked off of a desolate road near interstate 40. They were holding him outside town along the dirt road that led toward a scattered gaggle of dairy farms. Law enforcement rarely took interest in these parts. No reason to, so far as they knew. But Brock knew this area—all the good drug infested underground rave parties were held in these warehouses. On one of those nights he’d dropped a tab of LSD and chased it with ecstasy. Candy-flip. That experience took place in this specific warehouse. He remembered dancing his ass off to some local DJ that was untalented. To him the music had sounded like pots and pans being thrown at cement floors.

  “You, sir, I’m doing you... you big stud. You are going to die. Think of it this way; only the good die young.” Grady found Brock’s predicament to be hilarious. “I can tell by the way you’re checking the place out that you maybe-sort-of-know where you are, but still can’t quite place yourself.” Grady stopped pacing. Oddly, his demeanor was still approachable. The smile on his face set everyone at ease.

  Guess not this time.

  What the hell possessed this guy to lead such an evil existence?

  That’s right, he and Lance were fucking his girlfriend—but how did he find out—oh, maybe because they’d had sex on top of him? Jizzed on his face.

  “Look... ” Brock started.

  “Brock, shut up. I don’t care about Brianna. You’ll find that out soon.” Grady turned to his rubber-masked friends and smiled. “I sought you out about three months ago. It doesn’t take long to find the leaders of any college campus. These likeminded friends of mine are the ones responsible for the drowning victims you’ve heard about. You know... all the white athletic types that’ve washed up in nearby riverbeds. We like victims to be a challenge. You should be flattered. Plus, you know a couple of these Smiley Devils.”

  A large body lifted his hand and waved condescendingly. Brock knew that this was Toby, the bartender at The Quarter. He must have told Grady about the GHB.

  “Those were accidents. Drunk ass-wads walking home, stumbling... falling into the river.” Brock became defensive out of fright. After taking a deep breath he realized that he was only trying to convince himself because he was terrified that Grady was telling the truth.

  “Drunk ass-wads walking home and stumbling into... ” Grady repeated and then motioned his arm outward, displaying the Smiley Devils. “Us. They stumbled into us. The most enjoyment we receive is reading articles about town councilmen blaming alcohol and out of control youth. Sure, those elements fall into the equation, but they don’t pull the metaphorical trigger. People like Ricky Mack and Toby and certain waitresses at diners set the stage. Pick the prey so to say. And then this happens.”

  “You’re full of shit.” Brock needed this conversation to continue. Just a few minutes so that he could figure a way out of this mess. He needed to pump Grady’s ego. Keep him talking. If Grady stopped speaking he might start killing. Brock was certain that Grady was telling the truth. Still, riling him up might throw him off. Change his mind. Get him to make a mistake. Enable an escape route. Maybe, maybe not, but Brock had to t
ry something. And where the Hell was Brianna and Lance?

  “We’re good about making these deaths look like accidents. Just go online and Google ‘Smiley Devils.’ You’ll find that these strange deaths occur around college campuses. We operate all across the country. But you, Brock, you are different. You’re my greatest challenge. The Dark Lord cast golden fire around you. You’re special.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Brock asked. “You dress up in black robes and worship the devil. That shit’s stupid.” Brock watched Grady’s sly grin morph into a stern, angry expression. He couldn’t let Grady smell his fear. Grady needed to know that he wasn’t going to play the scared-beg-for-your-life role. The role Grady expected of him.

  “I’m going to fight you to the death. And after I kill you... I’m going to skin you, char you, and eat your flesh. Then I will torment you in Hell. I’ve also set you up to take the blame for this massacre. I’m going to drag your name through the mud so that even in death you are tormented.”

  This satanic crap was getting the best of Brock. He could tell that Grady believed every word of it. The way he spoke was reminiscent of a legitimate evangelical pastor. The ones he saw on TV that truly believe in what they are preaching. For now, he needed to keep the banter going. “I have to fight all of you assholes?”

  “Nope, just me. If you win you’re free to go.” He glanced at the whack jobs in the rubber masks. “My friends won’t touch you. In fact, if you win they’ll give you the keys to my car. You can go back to town and inform the police about what I’ve done. You’ll be a hero by the end of it all. Imagine the headline: local college student breaks up satanic cult in rural Wisconsin. That’s what the people want to hear.”

  “Why?” Brock was naturally curious now.

  “Satanic panic. People want to believe that we’re out there, in their small communities... that we’ve penetrated the safety net of suburban college towns. People need to know that evil exists. It cancels out their boredom. Creates paranoia. People are desperate to know that the devil exists and that regular people are out there, sacrificing humans.” He stopped and smiled. “Satanic Panic. I like that.” He shook his head. “If you win the fight, you’ll be the testimonial that these ideas exists.”

  This freak was out of his mind. Oddly, he was convincing. Small town folks enjoyed campfire tales of evil serial killers, unsolved mysteries, and Satanists performing evil deeds in the dark woods. Brock opened his mouth to say something. A familiar voice distracted him from behind a stack of wooden pallets wedged against the back wall.

  “Where’s Brianna? What did you do with her?” Lance hollered through a broken mouth. He gargled on his own blood.

  Brock tilted his head then turned until his eyesight found Lance.

  Tied to a chair, Lance had been brutalized. The chair had been knocked over. His bound feet were visible from above the stack of wooden pallets. Brock leaned forward until he could see Lance. His face was bloody. His lip was swollen to the size of a fat caterpillar.

  “Brianna isn’t here. She’s not safe either. I can’t wait to get her for you. But the plan is simple. If Brock kills me with his fists then he’ll have to pass another test. Then, if he passes that test he’ll learn about what we’ve done with Brianna and where to find her. I’d like to think that he won’t get that far, but he’s good. Tough. You know what I mean?”

  “Fuck you. Where is she?” Lance yelled. “If you let her go... ”

  Brock felt Lance’s blazing eyes from behind. The sensation was nearly tangible.

  “You’ll what?” Grady asked.

  There was a powerful silence.

  The sound of twisting rubber masks annoyed Brock.

  The Smiley Devil’s were averting their gazes.

  “I’ll kill Brock if you let her go,” Lance spoke in monotone.

  Grady stopped pacing. His eyes widened. He smiled. “Say that again.”

  Brock and Lance made eye contact. Brock knew that his friend was simply trying to pull off an escape tactic. He’d never kill his oldest and dearest friend. Would he?

  “I’ll do it, I’ll kill my best friend if you let her go.”

  Grady laughed. So did the freaks in the rubber masks. “So if I untie you and give you a knife you’ll just kill Brock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lance, let me take care of this. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brock was annoyed.

  “Grady,” Lance called out. “I want to kill him. Please let me kill him.”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking serious. I can’t stand him. All I care about is Brianna.”

  “Let me chat with my associates,” Grady announced as he made his way over to the group of Smiley masks that circled around him.

  Brock looked at Lance. He remembered his friend as a child, riding bikes together in the woods behind their homes. He remembered Lance falling off his bike and then helping him up. Laughing at his misery. And then it struck him: Lance hated him. Lance was in love with Brianna. Lance was jealous of the fact that Brianna loved Brock. Most importantly, if Lance hated him—as much as he imagined that he did—in this moment, then he would be glad to kill him. Killing Brock would give Lance an out for both their dreadful friendship and out of this twisted situation. Gripping the side of his chair he pulled at the duct tape that bound him. There was a small pocket of wiggle room. As nonchalantly as he could he exploited this space.

  “I think that I have an answer for you, Lance.”

  “Please. I want to kill my best friend. If you give me Brianna’s location then I’ll do it.”

  “You will?”

  “I swear.”

  Grady walked toward a stack of wooden pallets tucked into the corner of the warehouse. The rest of Grady’s Smiley Devil friends laughed behind their rubber masks. And when Grady retrieved the wood axe from behind the stack of pallets the Smiley Devils burst into laughter.

  “If you chop his legs off, then his arms, and then his head, and in that order... I will let you walk out of here. Additionally, I will give you Brianna. And I assure you that you’ll never hear from us again.”

  “What assurance do I have?”

  Brock wished that he could muster a burst of strength. All he could think about was ripping through his binds, grabbing Lance by his scrawny neck, and twisting until it cracked and he died. But what if his friend was merely trying to get loose, get the axe, and then help. Could Lance be on his side? Simply try and get a weapon to save them both. It made sense. Lance wouldn’t kill his best friend. He’d been loyal for so many years. Sure, there was the “being in love with Brianna” thing, but that had been going on since they were kids playing kick-the-can in the neighborhood. Chasing each other through the streets of their small town.

  A small tear in the duct tape gave him hope. Still he had to remain secretive. Reaching around his back without wincing was hard, but the blood caked to his face masked many expressions. With quick fingers he tugged at the tape.

  There was no way his best friend would kill him?

  In this moment, hope died.

  2

  Grady begged to know what Lance was thinking. Literally, his life depended on this answer. A simple thumbs-up would mean that Lance lived. Thumbs down meant his soul would depart and descend into the fiery pits of Hell where it would await its master.

  Seconds prior, Grady alerted the Smiley Devils to shoot Lance if he attempted retaliation. The Smiley Devils would shoot him. That was a certainty. They would shoot the axe out of Lance’s hand, and then shoot his legs, repeatedly, until they were shredded flesh and bone particle. After that, they would watch him flail and flop and bleed and scream. They’d laugh while committing heinous, awful evil things—evil things that revved the heartbeat of those who enjoyed the greatness of atrocity.

  What would it hurt to find this answer?

  Grady went to Lance. Untied his hands, and then freed his feet.

  “If you try anything stupid..
. ”

  “What can I do? There are six of you. Seven if I include you.” He relaxed. Stood tall. Glanced at each masked face. “Hell, what are the odds that you would take me into your group?”

  Grady laughed, unable to believe Lance’s approach, his strategy. Nervous ticks were unremarkable and visibly nonexistent. He found this odd. Normally, when a desperate victim begged for their life using this methodology they possessed specific ticks. Flustering of the face, spastic cheek muscles, even involuntary twitching of the eyes. Lance looked stoic. Hard. Silently excited. He would do well at the card table.

  Maybe Lance would make a fine addition?

  Then again, Lance was the pussy of the pack. Brianna had bigger balls than this guy, but not now. Now, Lance flirted on the opposite side of decency. Possibly seducing greatness. Hell, Grady didn’t know if his actions were an attempt to escape or not. Maybe Lance did hate his best friend. He certainly filed enough reason to hate his supposed friend, to be jealous of him, and to benefit from the removal of his physical existence from earth.

  “Here.” Grady handed Lance the wood axe. Then he stepped back, far enough away that Lance’s anticipated swing wouldn’t reach his flesh.

  Grady looked to the Smiley Devils and nodded. Then he raised his hand and motioned for his gang to lower their guns and knives and hatchets.

  Lance stepped toward his friend of many years, all his years. Well, Grady didn’t know if Brock and Lance were true friends—brothers—in the diabolical present. Their sexual devices and deviances had compartmentalized their loyalty to one another and created an excellent pathway for the Dark Lord to strike and seize their souls. On a more logical playing field, too much bad blood had boiled the softness from their friendship. It was a sinking ship that would not hold water. A leaky bucket at best.

  Funny what sex will do.

  “You understand that this is for Brianna?”

  “Fuck you. You’re really gonna do this?”