Whispers - Volume 2: A Second Collection

by Stuart Keane

  Then she thrashed. She tried biting Geist and her teeth buckled, bent back and broke. She screamed again. Blood choked her, spilled from her nose and mouth. Hunter stepped forward and tore the skin and ear from the side of her skull. He placed his fingers on the skull, found a crevice and ripped the bone from the skull, tossing it in the air. It bounced off the stage.

  The brain was now unprotected and the woman, amazingly, was still moving. The brain throbbed and bounced within its now exposed home. Blood slopped and slurped around the skull, spilling like a shaking sink.

  Zhang moved in and slapped the top of his brain with his erection. Hunter did the same. Geist smiled. "And now, for the finale. I'm going to fuck a woman's brains out."

  Geist thrust so hard, muscle and sinew tore, vibrating down his shaft. He'd penetrated the back of her throat; the tip of his penis was now inside her skull, below the brain. Amid orgasmic throes, Geist addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, I now have access to the woman's skull. I can feel the brain stem tickling my cock."

  The crowd bellowed. Some were now gyrating with each other, turned on by the sadistic display before them.

  Geist continued. The brain bounced and raised an inch, pushing against the sharp bone and the brain pulsed and tore, fluid leaked and spurted Zhang in the chest.

  Zhang started to masturbate.

  Hunter dropped to his knees and grabbed a small sliver of brain, pulling it from the skull. As he did, Geist thrust again and this time, the woman screamed for the final time and her brain slipped from its home, shredding against the edge of the bone. Zhang came, spurting hot sticky semen onto the membrane, the white fluid caressed the contours in the brain and slid all over the slippery, bloody surface, turning pink as it settled. Hunter came too, missing the brain and shooting his load on the side of the dead woman's face. He wiped his cock with the brain sliver and placed it into his mouth. He groaned, like a chef who'd tasted a rare, expensive delicacy.

  Geist took hold of each side of the woman's face and thrust several times, ejaculating into her mouth, the brain popped out of the skull, bounced on the edge for a second and slithered down the side of the woman's head. It slapped the stage with a wet, soggy splat. Geist's semen, coating the stem, trailed after it like a small, white ribbon. Geist groaned and shot once more, filling the now vacated brain cavity with sticky fluid. Hunter spat into it and high fived Geist. The body collapsed to the stage, a mutilated, raped heap.

  Geist wiped his cock and whipped his hand in the air, the bloody mess slapping the stage. He faced the crowd and held his hands up. They cheered in riotous applause.

  "If anything I'm a man of my fucking word." Geist smirked and turned back to his drummer. "How long do we have?"

  Hunter licked the blood from his fingers. "They're in the venue now. Not too long."

  Time was of the essence. "The police are coming people. What's going to be our response?"

  "KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL."

  "That’s fucking right. Reading … it's a pleasure having you here for our last show. Let's make sure the show lives up to the fucking hype."

  The sirens were growing louder now. The first police car appeared at the rear of the crowd.

  The throngs of people turned to face the new arrival. A murmur stared in the crowd. It grew louder until it became a dull roar. "KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL."

  Geist looked at his bandmates. "This is it, guys, the moment we've been waiting for albeit earlier than expected. It's been an absolute pleasure playing with you today and always. Let's put Reading on the map shall we?"

  Zhang, Lobes and Hunter all nodded silently. After a pause they started playing one of their favourite songs, 'Blood is a Religion'.

  "… the crucifix makes me shed tears of blood …"

  A solitary police officer stepped out of the car and held his hands out to the crowd. "Get back people, get back. Get back now!"

  A woman in a pink tracksuit sprinted and tried to jump at him. He used his door as a shield and the woman crashed into it with severe force. The glass shattered all over him, making him step back from his makeshift cover. A second woman, this time in an orange tracksuit, threw a bottle of vodka at the car. The glass shattered, soaking the police officer and his vehicle in alcohol.

  "… so many religious texts are but a dud …"

  A hairy man wearing beige shorts strode forward and flicked a cigarette onto the flammable vehicle. The police officer erupted into flames with a whoosh and started screaming in agony. His skin bubbled and popped under the extreme heat. His waved his arms around in vain, charred skin flaking from his fingertips, trying to extinguish the flames. Pink Tracksuit was climbing to her feet. Her arm was broken, bent at a sickening angle from her sudden landing, but she continued to smile regardless. As she flung her one good arm around the burning police officer, they fell to the floor in a burning heap. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Black smoke started pluming into the evening sky.

  Then the second police car arrived.

  "… Don't preach to me about Jesus and God …"

  The back portion of the crowd surged forward, trampling the dead, barbequed bodies and surrounded the second vehicle. Glass smashed, metal groaned as it mangled between the bodies. A man thrust an arm through the passenger door window, into the car and grabbed a police officer by the neck. Wrenching his body into the car door several times, his head cracked, spraying blood across the inside of the windscreen. The driver panicked, reaching into the back seat for something.

  "… and don’t tell me I'm a lemming, a pea in a pod …"

  A man leapt from nowhere, feet first, flying through the windscreen. His feet drove through the glass and mangled the driver beneath the weight. He kicked the driver in the face several times, rupturing his skin, cracking his skull and killing him. The man continued to kick until the driver was nothing but bloody mulch beneath his bloodstained feet. The car started to rock and eventually turned over. A siren squealed and died. The rabid fans were kicking the vehicle aimlessly.

  "… blood is a religion, a way of life, a cult …"

  Zhang started up his guitar solo. Lobes looked at Geist and nodded. Geist reciprocated the nod and turned around to Hunter. Hunter saluted with his drumsticks. Whilst this happened, Zhang watched everyone and nodded along with them.

  This was it. The final moment.

  Lobes held out his arms and screamed at the top of his lungs. Blood ran down his face. His eyes melted in their sockets and drops spurted across the stage. His track marks opened and closed like tiny mouths, requesting sustenance.

  His skin started to dissolve and fell to the stage in huge slivers, smacking the metal with resounding, squelching slaps. Within seconds, his skeleton was all that remained and it collapsed, face planting off the stage onto the back of an obese security guard. The guard tore off his shirt and started licking the bodily fluids from it. He reared up to the barrier and the crowd seized him, pulling him into the crowd. Within seconds, the throngs of people tore him apart; intestines slithered and flopped over their heads and shoulders whilst everyone reveled in the crazed homicidal frenzy. As his head disappeared into the throngs of people, the maniacal grin was still present on his dead face.

  Zhang dropped his guitar onto the stage. Blood was trickling from his eyes too. He rubbed his hands up his face and over his head, smearing the claret into his damp, black hair. After a second, he took a deep breath.

  Zhang ran and leapt off the stage, diving headfirst into the psychotic crowd. Unlike James, this time the crowd caught him. The Chinese man started shaking his head violently, blood sprinkling from his mouth and nose and eyes, showering the people below him. He slipped into the crowd and started to push several people around. A small mosh pit formed and several individuals started punching and kicking one another. Zhang goaded them. They reacted violently by attacking the Chinese man. Zhang disappeared beneath a hundred bodies.

  Hunter, furiously smashing his drums, noticed blood spewing from every pore on his bo
dy. Drums banging, blood lathered the drum set as his arms began to dissolve until Hunter was a huge mannequin of blood and sinew. His fingers broke off and bounced on the drums, his arms collapsed on themselves and his head fell forward, rupturing and discharging brains all over his snare drums.

  The crowd continued. People stabbed and strangled and mutilated one another. Several couples fucked and copulated in unrelenting orgies, groups of seven or eight fulfilled their carnal desires with one another, stroking, licking, ejaculating and penetrating.

  An eight-year-old girl sat on her own, legs crossed, a Bethesda t-shirt covering her tiny frame. She plucked brains from her mother's decapitated head sitting before her and placed them in her mouth like candy.

  One person shoved a piece of barbed wire up his urethra. His girlfriend performed fellatio, spitting blood and semen several times until her tongue and lips were nothing more than raw slivers of pulpy meat. Several women started impaling themselves with dismembered limbs, stretching and tearing their orifices. Three died of blood loss. One managed to make an arm disappear all the way to the elbow before going into shock. One man tore his tongue out of his head and started playing hacky sack with it.

  Geist threw his microphone into the crowd and burst into flame. The singer stood there, his face a grimace of acceptance and undeniable pain. He watched the sea of chaos. The mutilation, the homicide, the slaughter. The final smile that crossed his charred lips was one of satisfaction, achievement. His clothes crackled and burned, his skin sizzled and cooked. As the flesh scorched and slid away from his skull, the bones started to blacken with the heat and he screamed, dying but finally home.

  "Fuck you humanity." Geist's last words as his chargrilled corpse toppled forward.

  Bethesda had come, conquered and killed.

  The lighting rig dislodged and fell to the stage. Sparks flew, igniting furniture and people alike. Several crowd members flopped to the ground, engulfed in fire. The metal bars bounced and spun into the crowd, squashing and severing multiple spectators. No longer possessed by Bethesda's mojo, screams and shrieks or pure horror filled the night air. More sirens approached. The sounds of army vehicles drew imminent. Chaos reigned supreme.

  Yet another memorable Reading festival etched in history.

  The swan song was complete.

  Hodmedod

  "Urgh … shit … where am I?"

  The acidic, fuzzy taste of a hangover lingered in his throat as his tongue peeled away from the roof of his mouth and rested lazily between his teeth. He sucked air between his lips in order to circulate some saliva, his mouth emitting a soft slurping noise. Stagnant, warm air entered his mouth and caused him to cough. Four soft coughs were enough to bring him out of his stupor.

  Nicolas opened his eyes.

  The world was a blank white canvas.

  Must've rolled under the duvet after that sick night, bro!

  Nicolas reached for the blanket. Nothing happened. His arm wouldn’t move. Grinning, he realised he must've rested on his arms throughout the night. They were both stretched out beside him. Give it a moment. The blood will start flowing again soon enough.

  Nicolas struggled to remember the previous evening. How did he get back to his bed? Despite the fog that shrouded his brain, short bursts of memory returned. He recalled partying with Paul and James in London, their home city, the latter celebrating his bachelor party. The wedding was imminent – only three weeks away – so they'd indulged liberally with strippers, drugs, and enough booze to shame a fraternity. Shreds of information returned to Nicolas, but one obvious memory raged in his throat.

  Man, I need some water.

  Why are my arms still numb?

  Nicolas tried shaking his arms.

  Nothing …

  What the hell?

  Surely, the blood should be flowing by now.

  But, it wasn’t. His arms were inert at his side. Not numb or dead.

  Tied down. Restricted.

  Tied down? There's no way…

  The familiar feeling returned to his arms and they started to feel heavy once more. Gravity took its course and all of a sudden, his equilibrium returned.

  Hang on … I'm not laying down, I'm upright. What the hell …?

  Needles prickled and poked at the muscles beneath, causing him to yelp with the sudden discomfort. Normally he'd shake the pins and needles away, but today he couldn’t. The prickling, interspersed with slight shivers, created its own little torturous ritual. Gritting his teeth in anger and confusion, Nicolas rode it out until his hands felt normal again. He sighed. His hands were flexing and closing, bringing blood back to the tips of his fingers. Once everything felt normal, he tried to lift his arms. They wouldn’t move.

  What the fuck?

  That’s when he felt the binds around his wrists. Soreness exploded down both limbs. His wrists felt raw and swollen. Numbing irritation tickled his body from both arms, and that’s when he realised his wrists were bleeding and bruised. The tender skin felt mushy beneath the mysterious manacles.

  James and Paul have a lot to answer for!

  Nicolas felt the unnerving cloud of fear and panic enveloping his mind's eye. His breath became ragged and short – raspy. He tried pulling his arms forward, but tight restriction greeted him. Whoever had bound him had done an excellent job. Despite the panic, growing irritation, and confusion, Nicolas felt a grin spreading across his lips.

  "Ha ha, nice one, fellas. Great joke. You fucked up though. You’re supposed to prank the groom, not the best man."

  Silence.

  The only sound, faint as it was, emitted from the wind. He could feel it on his legs. It caused his jeans to ruffle occasionally. That’s when Nicolas realised he was outside. A sudden chill breathed up his legs, raising the coarse hairs on his calves and thighs. He felt his scrotum shrivel and the hair on his head retracted a little. A resounding shiver rattled his body.

  A wooden pole bumped his spine. Nicolas couldn’t bend his back. When he tried leaning forward, nothing happened. The unfamiliar, cold object stretched the length of his back and remained there, snug and tight.

  Shit, they've crucified me? They've literally crucified me!

  The fuckwits!

  The wood felt cold and damp. Must be the morning dew? If I'm outside, that is.

  Carefully, he elevated his left leg into the air. His ankles weren’t bound. He slowly lowered the foot back to its normal position. He repeated this with his right leg. His feet were balancing on a knob of wood. Removing both would send him falling to the ground. With the tightened shackles around his arms, doing so would be a dangerous idea.

  You don’t know how high you are. So be cool.

  Famous last words…

  He breathed out, the white material rippled with his warm, sour breath. He inhaled and coughed once more. For some reason, he imagined beer breath was worse than bourbon breath and thanked himself that he'd opted for liquor. Whenever he breathed, the white cloth flapped slightly.

  And what the fuck is this white thing over my head?

  Nicolas shook his head left and right. The obstruction moved slightly but stopped fast under his chin. Much like his wrists, he felt a small tightness cup his jawline. The white thing, probably a pillowcase, was strapped on. The faint smell of fresh cotton confirmed his suspicions.

  "Seriously, guys, this isn’t fucking funny anymore."

  Nicolas felt like freaking out but didn’t dare. One wrong movement and he'd topple to the unseen ground. Who knew what lay down there?

  Right, summarize. You’re a lawyer. C'mon, you do this for a living—this is your livelihood, for heaven's sake. Why would James and Paul crucify you? Use the minimal evidence. You don’t believe in God but Paul does. That’s one possible reason. Churches scare you. True, another possible motive.

  Maybe they're a bunch of cunts who took a sick joke one step too far.

  A gust of wind rocked the wooden device, and Nicolas felt his body swaying left for several long seconds before set
tling again. Nausea swept through his bloodstream as his body believed he was going to topple from the unknown height. Strong, cold breeze snaked up his legs, lifting his jeans somewhat and rifling his boxers. The white pillowcase shifted significantly, the bind beneath his jawline slipped and slid to his lower lip. Still lodged, Nicolas felt it digging into his teeth.

  Oww, fuck!

  A trickle of blood oozed over his teeth and tickled his tongue. His gum was bleeding. The copper taste combined with his hangover made him retch. His cranium bounced back against the wooden pole with a clonk. He cursed under his breath and exhaled, riding the pain. He swallowed the small dosage of blood.

  The gust diminished. Nicolas listened for any noise, any indication of where he was. He heard an ever-present rustling, an eerie, calm noise on the wind. What was that? He recognized the sound but couldn’t pinpoint it.

  Fucking hangover.

  "Paul? James? Anyone? If you bastards are listening, this isn’t fucking funny anymore, get me the fuck down!"

  Suddenly, drinking a bottle of Jack didn’t seem like a wise idea anymore. The sweet taste of Jack emerged from his stomach, floating on his breath, mutating with the curse of a hangover and when the essence escaped his lips, it was pungent, sickly.

  The hangover kicked in.

  Nicolas vomited into the pillowcase. The puke shot from his mouth like hot water from a hose. His head moved forward, inches from the vomit impact spot. The weight of the liquid pushed the material back down to his jawline

  Within seconds, the vomit rolled down the white cotton, nestled against his chin, and dribbled down his neck, seeping beyond the bag and trickling down his chest, beneath his shirt. He could feel warm goo and lumps of food – probably the last-minute kebab from Abdul’s – congealing into his two-day stubble.

  The pillowcase, weighed heavy with acrid, bodily fluids, floated closer to his face. The bile slicked the tip of his nose. The smell was awful and made him vomit again; the proximity of the white material caused the second dousing of bile to spatter his face. It oozed from his eyebrows to his nose, and some dribbled in his hair. He closed his eyes and felt warm fluid streaming over his eyelids. The putrid smell of meat, chips and alcohol engulfed his facial prison.