Dark Souls: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller: Book 1 (Ravaged World)

by Sam J Fires

  Before the girl could fully recover, he pulled out a set of five razor blades, pulled her mouth open, and forced them into her throat, one by one, while she looked on in tearful horror, unable to do anything to halt this monstrous penetration. After they’d all gone in, he had held her mouth shut as the blades worked their way down her throat and into her stomach, no doubt slicing at her insides. He regretted that he was unable to see the true effects of his work, with only his imagination to entertain him.

  He made sure to increase the drug dosage, ensuring she was kept docile, but fully aware of what was happening to her, unable to quell the growing pain in her stomach and the all-too-certain internal bleeding.

  He kept her like that for an entire day, taking note of the bruising appearing on her body. He took pictures on his phone, as well as some videos, to make sure that the memory and sensation of the act would always be with him. Then, like a child who had grown tired of playing with his favorite toy, he took the last remaining switchblade and sliced her throat, watching as blood spilled over onto the plastic sheeting he had laid down, as she took her last, gurgling breaths.

  He buried the body out in a shallow grave in a woodland area half an hour away from his house.

  He often found himself coming back to her grave, feeling a sense of gratitude to his first. Before, his fantasies had been exactly that; he’d never known for sure whether he could indulge in such prolonged torture. She’d helped him realize what he was capable of, and who he was.

  As he moved onto fresh victims, he took himself to new heights, increasing the levels of depravity. He wondered how many bodies he could work through before he would slip up. That was the most exhausting part of this ‘job’. He had to be careful every single time he selected another victim. He only needed to make one careless mistake, and it would all be over. He did contemplate whether the endless stream of pictures and videos would play a part in his undoing. He would also daydream about the snapshots from the videos being included in a true-crime book all about him.

  He managed to work his way through about twelve bodies before the secrecy started to eat away at him. He craved recognition like the artist who needed to have his work appreciated by an audience.

  Rather than turn his victims into trophies, he started sharing the videos he made on the internet. It felt like a disturbing rite of passage. He had spent years watching these videos, being inspired by them, and now he would be the one doing the inspiring, like the cinema-fanatic who finds himself on the other side of the camera in adulthood.

  He was careful to read the comments and find out what it was that people liked about his work. It irked him somewhat that so many viewers were using these videos as masturbatory content. He wanted to inspire followers, not jerk-offs.

  One comment caught his attention: ‘Be original. Never let yourself fall in with the sheep’.

  That gave him the momentum for his next batch of victims. In addition to the forced swallowing of razor blades, he would also make sure to slash their arteries. Enough to get the flow of blood going, but not so quick that they’d be granted a quick death. It was like watching a race to see whether the insides or the outsides would give out first. He felt as though he was in control of his victims’ destiny.

  Then there was the publicity that came with it. A nationwide manhunt was on the lookout for him, trying to pick up on any clues that might lead them to him. So far, he’d been able to elude them at every turn.

  One perk that he discovered was reading the theories. The Sculptor realized that in the absence of fact, fantasy and conjecture ran wild. Online forums were coming up with an abundance of ludicrous explanations. Some believed that he was born with a facial deformity, and he was taking his frustrations out on the rest of the world. While he wouldn’t have considered himself as poster material, he was still a conventionally attractive man. Some theorized that he wasn’t born a monster but was made one through systematic abuse. In truth, while his parents hadn’t been the most attentive, they were perfectly normal. There was no rational explanation for his behavior, no singular event that could explain it all away. He had simply crashed into the world like a destructive anomaly. Sometimes he’d find himself going onto these forums to simply stir the pot, launching in with his own made-up but potentially reasonable theories.

  One day, he was out looking for a new victim. Another young woman he’d picked up off the streets. He couldn’t quite trace her accent beyond a European dialect, but he knew that nobody would miss her. Nobody missed these kinds of women.

  He’d gone through the similar routine of bringing her home, drugging her, and holding out the razor blades for her to swallow…

  …when the door to his flat suddenly burst open.

  Before he had time to react, the blades were knocked out of his hand, and he was tackled to the ground. As handcuffs closed around his wrists, the woman was helped to her feet. She began to read him his rights, with no trace of accent at all. He watched as she removed the wire concealed beneath her top. As the charges were laid out, they hoped that he’d say something to protest his innocence. But he only said two words.

  “Well played.”

  The evidence they had against him was overwhelming, the whole courtroom had been shocked by the sheer depravity of his actions. The judge had been all fire and brimstone. The Sculptor displayed no emotions other than giving a wry smile to his defense counsel as the judge had handed down the death sentence.

  Inside the prison, at first, there was a kind of unholy worship towards him. Inmates who had committed some of the most brutal crimes in memory held him in high esteem. There was even talk of a book deal. The Sculptor received regular visits from a journalist who was interested in writing a tell-all about his escapades. He relished the chance to impart his twisted view of the world, but over the series of interviews, it became clear that the book wasn’t intended as a celebration of his escapades, but a warning to others lest they meet the same fate as his victims. After finding this out, the Sculptor ceased contact with her.

  Even his infamy faded away over time, as though the world had woken up to the idea he’d been little more than a fad and there were new horrors to occupy the nightmares of the public.

  Finally, his death date came rolling around. The Sculptor hadn’t been afraid of death. He’d known for a long time that ‘you live by the sword, you die by the sword’, but he wondered whether he’d made the impact he needed to. He always had this feeling that his work on this planet was not done, and it was a travesty that he hadn’t had more time to pursue that passion.

  Three days before he was due to be injected with the chemical cocktail that would end his life, the Sculptor was granted a stay of execution. A savage crimson storm ripped through the planet, destroying everything; buildings…people…values. Crime and punishment were now but a constraint tied to the old world. The Sculptor used this opportunity to escape, to go out into the world and find out how he could recreate himself as a horror among others.

  Finally, he met a man who would show him the way. The man who would teach him how to manipulate the sand particles to form glass. The man who would ensure his legacy and would take the Sculptor to greater heights than ever possible.

  CHAPTER 16 - LEA

  Lea stood there, watching as the woman sputtered and coughed up blood, an impossible task due to the deep shard of glass embedded in her throat. Lea rushed over to her. “It’s okay,” she offered reassuringly. “We’re going to get you out of here.” She tried to get a grip on the shard, which was still surprisingly sharp, as though it had just been splintered off.

  “No, don’t pull it out!” shouted Vincent.

  It was too late. Lea pulled the shard out. A torrent of blood erupted from the woman’s throat through the fresh hole. She looked up at Lea with horrified eyes…before she finally expired.

  “Now, why did you have to do that?” came the voice over the intercom. “Most of them don’t survive the initial crafting. That one was a real fighter. You�
�ve just gone and wasted all that effort. I’ll need to set up a replacement exhibition. I think I have just the two people in mind for it.” The intercom went silent, and the lights went out, plunging Lea and Vincent into blackness.

  In the darkness, Lea could hear Vincent hyperventilating. Once her flashlight had illuminated his figure, she slapped him hard across the face, “Keep it together, man. This is what he wants. He wants you in pieces so he can do the deed. Don’t give him the opportunity.”

  Vincent nodded and the two continued down the corridor, taking care to step over the now-dead woman’s body, “I don’t suppose you happen to remember the way to the control room, do you?” asked Lea.

  “Not off the top of my head, no.”

  “Well, let’s just hope we can find him before he tries any other parlor tricks,'' said Lea solemnly. She took out her machete, ready to plunge it into the Sculptor's face if he was brave enough to show it. “Come on out, show yourself,” she called out. “Want to make this a fair fight? Or can you only attack when you’ve got the element of surprise?”

  “Always go with the surprise.” Except this time, the voice didn’t crackle. It sounded closer, as if it were a mere few feet away.

  It was said a few feet away from her.

  “Vincent, look out!” screamed Lea as they both felt something slice against their legs, causing them to drop to the floor in pain. They were trying to get back up on their feet when the blade came by again, this time, slicing their arms. Lea almost dropped her machete, although her fingers were able to maintain their grip.

  “Shine your flashlight down to the end of that corridor,” commanded Lea. Vincent did as instructed and shone his flashlight to the right while Lea shone hers to the left.

  At first, nothing moved in the darkness. Suddenly a tall shape, inches away from Lea moved enough for her to detect a figure. She brought the machete forward, plunging it into where she imagined the shape’s stomach to be.

  The shape stumbled away, there was a loud clattering noise, and then something heavy fell, landing in a crumpled heap. Lea beamed her flashlight down on the injured man, who was regarding the knife wound in his gut. “You’ve hurt me,” he said breathlessly.

  “So, you’re the infamous Sculptor, I presume?” Lea said, immediately realizing how corny this sounded.

  “Is that what they’re calling me?” he sighed, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, most visionaries don’t control the names the media bestows on them.”

  Now that the danger was over, Vincent felt an immediate shame at his panic and tried to push it into the past with a show of authority. “Once I’m done gutting you like a fish, you won’t give a damn what you’re known as.” He held out his hand to Lea. “Give me the machete.”

  “Wait,” pleaded the Sculptor.

  “I’m sorry? Did you actually just say ‘wait’?” asked Vincent, “What about Morgan Shepherd? Did you ever bother waiting for him? And poor Sophie? How they must have suffered...”

  “Oh, I’m not too bothered about you killing me,” said the Sculptor flippantly. “I’ve known that my card has been marked for a long time now, but I have many secrets to tell.”

  “You want to confess to us?” asked Lea, aghast.

  The Sculptor shrugged. “I told you I wanted a captive audience. I’m sure you’d like to hear why I chose the victims that I did.”

  “Victims?” repeated Vincent.

  “That’s right. Just because I haven’t thrown all the bodies into the middle of the marketplace for the world to see doesn’t mean that I don’t have a few more stashed away somewhere, like the young lady you discovered in the corridor.

  “I’m sure you’d like to know where the rest are so you can give them proper funerals. I doubt you’d want some little kid stumbling across them and then to spend the rest of his days peeing his pants over what he saw.”

  Lea was horrified by what she was hearing. Part of her just wanted to put him down like the mad dog that he was.

  But she couldn’t help feeling curious. A man like this would have been harboring evil intentions long before the apocalypse. Why had he chosen to indulge them now? He could have had a clear field to take his murderous fill any time over the last ten years when humanity was arguably at its most vulnerable. Why do it when mankind was starting to find its footing again?

  There were so many questions that needed answering. Lea knew they’d never be answered if they killed him here and now.

  “I say we get what we can out of him,” Lea said to Vincent in a hushed voice.

  “You’re serious? You’ve seen what this man is capable of, first-hand. I’m still bleeding out.”

  “As am I. But there are a few things I need to know for my own sake.” She shone her flashlight in the Sculptor’s eyes, who didn’t blink from the overwhelmingly bright light.

  “Okay,” the Sculptor said brightly, “where do you want to host this little Q and A?”

  “I say we take him to the control room,” chimed in Vincent. “I’ve had it up to here with his gruesome gimmicks. At least in there, it won’t be possible for anyone to get the drop on us.”

  “All right,” said Lea, the facts of the situation were slowly sinking in. She was now feeling sick to her stomach. “Take us to the control room.”

  “I’ll happily escort you both to it, but er…,” he gestured to his stab wound. I think I’m going to need a little help along the way.”

  Lea rolled her eyes and reached down to hoist him up to full height. He winced from the pain. “Easy with the stretching, you’ll tear me in two.”

  “You’d be getting off lucky,” remarked Vincent. “If it was up to me, I’d be slicing you into little bits.”

  The two made their way down the corridor, still feeling that strong sense of dread even though the danger had supposedly passed. As they moved, Lea caught glimpses of the Sculptor’s face. She could see he still hadn’t relinquished the same gleeful smile, even after being stabbed. It made Lea apprehensive of what was to come.

  CHAPTER 17 – THE SCULPTOR

  Once the three made it to the control room, Vincent turned on the light, feeling grateful for the gift of vision. They then went about securing their captive to a chair. Using the only thing they could find - duct tape; they ensured he couldn't move or do anything with his hands.

  “So, how do you want to start this?” asked their prisoner, who seemed completely unphased by the wound he’d received, even though he was in a room with two people who were inches away from killing him. “You’re not going to bother asking me why I do what I do?”

  “I’ve heard it all before,” said Vincent, disgusted. “You nutjobs always have the same reasons. For some of you, it’s about the sex, others it’s about the power, and sometimes, just for the hell of it. You like to see people squirm. I’ll bet that’s the only way you can get a hard-on.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” the Sculptor smiled at Vincent, “I don’t do what I do for any of those reasons. Frankly, I’m a little insulted that you’d try to lump me in with those other lowlifes. With so little vision, they might as well be blind. I’ve told you, I’m an artist, first and foremost.”

  “Somehow, you don’t strike me as a watercolor guy,” said Vincent scornfully.

  The Sculptor shrugged – or at least tried to, as the tape was restraining him to the chair. “Every artist has to make do with the materials available to him.”

  “You know,” said Lea, raising her machete so that it rested just underneath the Sculptor’s chin. “Most artists are only truly appreciated after they’re dead. So, unless you want to join Michaelangelo, Picasso, and everyone else, start telling us what we want to know.

  “How long have you been killing?”

  “Oh, for a long time now,” he answered wistfully. “My first kill came when I was about…” He looked Lea up and down. “I can’t imagine being much older than you are right now. To be honest, my first couple of kills were so…dull. There was nothing specia
l about them. Nothing to make me stand out from the rest of the crowd. And I was stupid. I left clues for the cops, taunting them, all to get recognition. In the end this got me a one-way ticket to jail. In there I had plenty of time to think, dwell on my mistakes and learn.

  “It was my luck the storms hit when they did. You could say my window of opportunity was opened. Afterward, I spent some time here in the sanctuary, trying to survive with the rest of humanity. I’ve got to say, nothing kills a killer’s career like being crammed into a confined space with the rest of humanity. I had to be patient. I had to wait for the dust to settle. I earned myself a living, I blended in, I became…one of you.” He mustered as much contempt as possible for the last three words.

  Vincent was pacing up and down, trying to make sense of the man’s horrifying account. “I don’t understand. You realize you could have had a good life, made a good trade? No one would have been any the wiser as to what a nutjob you were. Besides, people have other concerns. If you’re one of those glory hounds holding out for copycats and terrible films, I’m afraid you missed your chance”

  “True, I could’ve remained hidden. Yes, my time for maximum fear had long since passed me. But like the alcoholic who tells himself ‘one more drink’, I couldn’t let good talent go to waste. I was going stir crazy. And then, I was approached.”

  Both Lea and Vincent, who by this point had stopped listening to his warped spiel, looked up in surprise.

  “I was given a mission. This was to destabilize Travistown and remind people what fear can look like. To give people something to be truly scared of.”

  “A mission?” repeated Lea. “So, the farmer…that wasn’t random?”

  “Of course not. Morgan Shepherd was on his way to being one of the most prolific farmers in Travistown. He was one of the few that had proved you could grow something in this world, but he had to go. Now, with him dead and the farm exposed to the elements, Travistown might have to go without its fruits and veggies.”