Tentacle Death Trip

by Jordan Krall

  “What would Jesus do, hon?”

  Mama grunted. “I don’t think he’d do what you have in mind!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nate pulled over.

  “You know exactly what it means.”

  Nate turned the car off. “I’m just saying we’ve helped plenty of young women and it seems like simply because this one is half naked and slightly, slightly more attractive than those dirt bags we usually pick up, you’re jealous.”

  “Oh, go drink some piss, Nate,” Mama said, crossing her arms and waiting for her husband to make his move. If he’d known what was best for him, he’d have kept on driving.

  Nate called her bluff and walked out of the car. Mama watched through the windshield as her husband approached the young woman carefully and started a conversation. From the looks of it, he was doing his best to play the role of savior. Mama could just imagine the type of lies he was telling her, how he was a pastor (he hadn’t been one in nine years) or how he had set up a homeless shelter before the war (he’d gotten as far as filling out the tax paperwork). That stupid girl probably believed it all.

  After a few minutes the girl followed Nate back to the car. She smiled when she saw Mama. As she got into the backseat she said, “Hi, I’m Jane Mary.”

  “Well, well, how do you do, Jane Mary? I’m Sonia but people call me Mama.”

  The women shook hands as Nate got into the driver’s seat with a goofy smile on his face.

  “What are you smiling for, Nate?” Mama said.

  He shrugged. “Oh, nothing.”

  Mama grunted. She could smell Jane Mary already. The road whore smelt like week-old sex stains and asphalt. It was only a matter of time until she made a move on Nate.

  The three of them drove for several miles before they pulled over to the side of the road at a makeshift gas station. Post-war entrepreneurs sold synthetic gasoline that worked like shit but was enough to keep the car running. Rumors said the stuff was made from the blood of nuke mutants or Yuggs.

  Nate said, “Hey Mama, want to stay here while I check out what they’re selling? I think it’d be good if we stocked up.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Mama said, catching a quick glimpse at Jane Mary who was sleeping in the backseat. “Get me some juice if they have it.”

  “Sure thing, hon,” Nate said. He walked towards the shed to where a midget in homemade armor was holding a bag of corn. The armor was made out of cereal boxes and hubcaps sprayed painted yellow. The two men exchanged words and then the little knight led Nate around the corner of the shed.

  Mama heard a yawn from the back. Jane Mary stretched. “God, how long was I sleeping? Shit, I’m still beat.”

  “I don’t know. An hour maybe.”

  “And I gotta piss like hell,” she said, getting out of the minivan. “Need anything?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Mama said. She watched Jane Mary walk to the shed and look around. The girl inspected a few items: a turtle shell, a ceramic pot, a soiled magazine, yellow paperback books, purple jars. Then she walked around to the back of the shed.

  A few minutes passed when Mama got suspicious. Ever since picking that road whore up she knew something bad was going to happen. Her father would have called it “Godly intuition” on account that it was instincts given by the Lord to his flock. He didn’t want to tell them straight out what would happen. He’d just give clues, hints, and shadows of what was going to transpire. It was the least he could do being the Lord of all things. Why be blunt and reveal his omniscience?

  Mama got out of the car and walked over to the shed. She rummaged through some of the things for sale. “I’ll take this,” she said to the ancient woman sitting on a chair made of Pepsi cans.

  She walked around the shed and walked straight into Hell.

  Jane Mary was bent over a rusted keg. She was nude, exposing an elaborate red tattoo that covered her entire back. The armored midget was on a stepstool and thrusting his discolored penis into her mouth. Nate was on the other side, banging away at Jane Mary’s backside. He grunted like an excited pig in slop.

  Mama stared at the pornographic atrocity. Though she had expected something unsavory, she didn’t think it was going to be so grotesque. The midget was banging his fists on the back of Jane Mary’s head and the girl seemed to be enjoying it. Nate looked like he was in a trance, his eyes rolling up in his head as he got his penis wet in that road whore.

  “What the hell?” Mama said. “Hell…….HELL!”

  If she had to envision torment everlasting, this would be it: gross betrayal by a loved one.

  Nate didn’t seem to hear her but the midget stopped moving and smiled. “You want in?”

  That’s when Mama rushed at them with the turtle shell. First she started to cut Nate’s face and neck. But he kept thrusting. It was as if he knew he was going to die but wanted to get one last orgasm before he did. Mama wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She sent the turtle shell down to his crotch, severing it inside Jane Mary’s vagina.

  Nate fell backwards, his groin spouting blood.

  The midget laughed and pounded at Jane Mary’s head who was now screaming through a mouthful of penis. Mama pushed her off the keg and fell on the midget. She stabbed at the little bastard’s face, the sharpened turtle shell giving him a crude facelift.

  Finally she turned to Jane Mary.

  The girl was trembling on the ground, one hand in her crotch trying to get the dead penis out of herself. Mama saw that the girl had tattoos on her chest as well as her back. She couldn’t make out exactly what they were but it looked like a collage of screaming human faces, feet, octopi, a shovel, insects, and a cappuccino maker.

  “You little whore,” Mama said.

  Jane Mary’s fear turned into defiance. Her tattoos started to move. “You fat bitch.”

  Mama rushed at Jane Mary. She sat on her and punched her in the face, knocking her out. With the turtle shell, she started to dig into the girl’s skin. She turned her over and continued. When she was done, she had stripped the road whore of her tattooed skin.

  The pain brought Jane Mary to consciousness and she started to scream. Mama put her foot down on her neck and put pressure on it. Then she let go. The road whore wasn’t going to die that easily. She was going to know the wrath of Mama.

  She was going to know the wrath of Mama Hell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Yowzah! What an amazing race! Mama Hell wasted no time in trying to get Junko out of the running. With her handy buzz saw she really did a number on his Honda but she failed in eliminating him. But we can be sure Junko won’t take that lying down.

  Let’s not neglect old Samson and Drac. They’re making their way through the Gears. There seems to be a lot of tension there. I hope it’s not sexual tension, haha! Just kidding, folks. Yowzah!

  *

  Samson was slightly ahead of Drac now, swerving slightly back and forth to prevent him from passing. From behind him there was bizarre gunfire that sounded like the ringing of gongs.

  He sped up and looked in his rearview. Drac was standing up in his convertible, the car seemingly steering itself. Samson thought it looked humorous, the big guy standing up with his bare chest dripping with sweat, his spiked shoulder pads and glass skull glistening in the sun. His mohawk was immobile as if not made of real hair. Drac was holding up a white gun that looked like it was made of bone.

  Samson wasn’t worried about the gunfire but he wondered what else Drac had planned. He thought about post-war vehicles and how they were equipped with all sorts of weaponry. Will the world ever recover? Will people ever be willing to give up their razor chains, spinning saws, chainsaw hood ornaments, or trunks full of machine guns?

  Drac was still shooting but not doing much damage. Then Samson noticed something weird coming from the bottom of Drac’s car. Were those…..

  Tentacles?

  “Holy shit.” Dark green tendrils were moving out from under Drac’s convertible and slowly snaking their way
towards Samson’s car.

  Samson pushed a button between the seats and a cloud of white foam shot out of the trunk of his car and covered Drac.

  Samson took the opportunity to push his car to the limit and get as far ahead as possible. He looked behind him and saw Drac go off the side of the road into a field. He was relieved.

  Then he saw the motorcycles.

  They didn’t look like any he’d ever seen before. The motorcycles were made of random machine parts, bleached bone, chains, melted plastic, and spikes. Each held a gear bug, deformed and frothing at the mouth with spittle and motor oil. If the rumors were true, they had only one purpose. It was to kill people, use their bones as tools, and employ their flesh in occult-mechanical rituals.

  Samson was surprised they were able to keep up since the motorcycles looked like they were about to fall apart. One of them pulled up alongside him, giving Samson the opportunity to see a gear bug up close. Dressed in rags, the gear bug looked like a homeless robot. Sprockets, wires, bulbs, and mechanical junk were strewn together with deformed flesh. His eyes were two dull copper pieces. He opened a mouth full of black plastic.

  Samson saw a spike extend from the cycle’s wheel. The gear bug was going to try to impale him. “Fuck you,” Samson said. He hit the brakes, moved to the right, and bumped the cycle’s back tire. It flipped over, flew over Samson’s car, and exploded when it hit the ground.

  The other gear bug was coming up fast on Samson’s left side. This one was uglier than the first. He looked like a bundle of wires with a steel pumpkin for a head. A large bone spear appeared from beneath his overcoat. The gear bug pulled it back and shoved it towards Samson’s window, cracking it. He pulled it back again.

  Samson swerved to the right and then back to the left, bumping the gear bug off his motorcycle. The spear went flying through the air nearly hitting Samson’s windshield.

  “Holy shit,” he said, speeding away from the wreckage and keeping an eye on the rearview. He was expecting Drac to appear any second. That foam wasn’t going to stop him forever.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Let’s hear it for the gear bugs, huh? Those clever little buggers really gave Samson a run for his money. Yowzah!

  And Drac Dunwich. Wow! How a man could drive a car standing up in his car is beyond me but somehow the man does it. No wonder why he’s a legend! But I bet he didn’t expect that foam spray from Samson. Oh well! Now old Drac is in the depths of gear bug territory. This ain’t gonna be pretty, folks! Yowzah!

  *

  I.

  Drac Dunwich sat back down in his seat, threw his gun down on the floor of the car, and let out a string of expletives in a high, squeaky voice.

  What the hell was all that foam? That was a dirty trick. Drac would have respected Samson more if he had at least shot back or tried something more aggressive. It was doubly frustrating because Drac was very close to getting his tentacles close enough to siphon Samson’s gas. Once those things attached it was nearly impossible for a car to get away without losing its gas tank in the process.

  Now Drac was driving nearly blind in a field, wiping the foam out of his eyes and trying to not hit a tree or clump of unidentifiable metal junk.

  Then he hit a wall.

  Drac found himself in an old barn. It looked like it was a machine shop except the walls were covered in rotting human body parts instead of tools. Most people would have found it a revolting place but it didn’t faze Drac. The gear bugs liked to keep busy. He knew it wasn’t about gore or sadism. It was about survival and their particular belief in old magic rituals. They were practically falling apart because of the radiation and forced to find ways to compensate. Who was he to judge?

  Drac stepped out of his car and surveyed the damage. Other than being covered in ridiculous foam, the vehicle was okay. The tentacles slithered around his feet.

  He patted the hood. “I know you’re hungry,” Drac said. “But you’ll just have to wait. That Samson is a tricky one. It’ll be satisfying to taste him…..”

  The tentacles retracted back under the car.

  Then footsteps echoed behind him, then all around. Within seconds there were a dozen gear bugs surrounding him, some hanging off the rafters. Their metal teeth chattered.

  Drac’s voice squeaked. “You little bastards! Do what you came to do, already!”

  The little bastards listened. They all were on him at once, swinging their metal and flesh weapons.

  But as soon as they were on him, they were off.

  The tentacle hoses shot out from under the car, knocked the gear bugs over, and started to attack. One tentacle wrapped around a gear bug, squeezing him until his body burst, covering Drac in metallic gore.

  Another tentacle went straight through the torso of an ugly hunchback with a fleshy gas tank for a head. Soon all the gear bugs were left dismembered on the barn floor. Drac stood by, nodding his head and rubbing his glass skull.

  “You little bastards should have stayed away. Wasn’t going to bother you.”

  He felt a little regret at the massacre but knew it had been inevitable. The gear bugs weren’t the smartest bunch and would attack without provocation. But at least the tentacles got some exercise. Something on the other side of the barn attracted his eye. On a shelf was a pile of vile-looking texts. They were books made of scalps, sheet metal, and rusted gears. The words were written in greasy black blood and most were in a language Drac didn’t recognize. He picked up the largest book in the pile. The words Eidolik Podalik were scrawled on the front in spidery letters. Drac flipped through and quickly glanced at vulgar diagrams of biomechanical incantations: human bodies acted as conduits for infernal fuel. Pornographic pictures of gear bugs were drawn in the margins. Drac threw the book down.

  “Now we get going,” he said, wiping some foam from under his chin. “Now we get going and win this race.”

  II.

  One Year Ago

  Drac sat at his father’s ornate wooden table, sipping gasoline.

  He thought about his father who had been dead for 3 years. The man had been bed-ridden for 7 years after being paralyzed from a roadside bomb while stationed in Afghanistan as a United States Marine. He had managed to get back to the states just before the nukes hit.

  Drac had thought it would be humorous if it wasn’t so tragic. For years his father had talked about the nuclear weapons the United States had stockpiled and how they could end humanity in a one blinding flash. Then he’d ramble on about how several Asian countries had biological weapons that would jumpstart a new evolution, a grotesque one full of blasphemous species out of some forbidden abyss of science.

  Drac had always just nodded. He never believed a war would ever get to that point. Sure they may be some political posturing and some small battles but another world war? He hadn’t believed it.

  But then it had happened and Drac was a believer. For all of his father’s faults, the man had been right about world affairs.

  Drac finished his drink and looked out the window. The scavengers were out there again. They seemed to come in waves, old scholars looking for his father’s books. Ten years after the world went to shit, some people still looked for knowledge in the printed word. Drac understood most people might find that absurd but he understood all too well.

  He tapped his glass skull. The sound of the gasoline sloshing around was comforting.

  There was a sound of a car outside. He saw a limousine pull up and a man in a white suit walked out, chatted with the old scavengers for a minute, and approached the house. Drac grabbed his gun and went to the door.

  “Who the hell are you and what do you want?” he said, pulling the door open and shoving the gun in the guy’s face.

  “My name is Enzo. I represent Mr. Silver.”

  Drac squinted. He had raced in some of Silver’s races before but never had any personal contact with him. He said, “So?”

  “So…Mr. Silver has come to respect your racing prowess and would like to invite you to participat
e in a special race for him.”

  Drac put the gun down. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. Now, may I come in to discuss the details?”

  “Okay,” Drac said, letting the man in.

  They sat in the living room and discussed the details: where the race would start, the main rules of the race, and the prizes. Finally Enzo stood up and walked towards the door. “I thank you for your time, Mr. Dunwich and I will tell Mr. Silver the good news. This is gonna be one hell of a race, my friend. Yowzah!”

  “Give my regards to your boss.”

  “I will,” Enzo said. He opened the door and then stopped. “Oh, one more thing. Mr. Silver had heard of your father’s extensive collection of rare tomes. He wanted me to ask you if you had a certain item.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you have the Abgrund Abschaum?”

  “The…..Abrund Abschaum…..?”

  “Yes.”

  Drac turned to look at the bookshelf in the living room knowing full well the rare books weren’t kept there. They were stored in the downstairs bunker. “I don’t remember seeing that one…..”

  “Oh, that’s a shame.”

  “But if I find it, I’ll let you know.”

  “On behalf of Mr. Silver I’d appreciate that very much.”

  Drac nodded and shut the door behind Enzo. Visions of starry engines pulsated through his glass skull.

  He was ready for the race.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Yowzah! Yowzah! Yowzah!

  What a race, folks! Did you see Drac and his car swat all those gear bugs? I bet those little shits weren’t expecting that when they woke up this morning. In fact, I was watching some of the footage from the set-up of the race and I recall seeing some of those gear bugs doing something mighty strange in that barn…something with oil can puppets and colored candles. Weird shit!

  And now the racers are making their way into Hoghead Heaven. Let’s all say a prayer for them….They’re gonna need it!

  *

  I.

  Samson looked at the sign that read HOGHEAD HEAVEN and thought about Jesus.