Ruthless: A Shock Horror Collection
edited by
Shane McKenzie
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Pill Hill Press on Smashwords
Ruthless: A Shock Horror Collection
Copyright © 2010 by Pill Hill Press
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Ruthless: A Shock Horror Collection
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION by Bentley Little
BEBBEL by John McNee
SANCTITY OF PASSION by Daniel Fabiani
TO BOIL by Lucas Pederson
YOUR TENDER LOVING TOUCH by Danny Hill
PUMPKIN SOUP by Jessy Marie Roberts
TRUE LOVE by Shane McKenzie
THE BLOODMITES by Jared Donald Blair
ADAPTATION by Lesley Conner
FINALLY ALONE by David Bernstein
RISE UP NANKING by A.J. Brown
MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER by Tom Olbert
SAUCY by Nate Burleigh
CRANKIN by John Arthur Miller
BIRTHDAY SONG by Thornton Austen
THE ABORTIONISTS by Aaron J. French
LITTLE MESSIAHS by Eric Stoveken
STRENGTH by Alec Cizak
THE WORLD WITHOUT SOULS by D. Krauss
LITTLE BLENNY BUNTING by Airika Sneve
Introduction
by Bentley Little
Extreme horror has gotten a bad rap.
In the realm of serious literature, William Faulkner—who wrote exclusively about a Mississippi county populated by a serial arsonist; a suicidal man, his slutty sister and retarded, castrated brother; a woman who slept for years with the corpse of the man she killed; an impotent criminal who raped women with a corncob, and a white trash man in love with a cow—showed once and for all that literary merit could not be determined by subject matter. He proved to the world that even topics seemingly more suited to the grossest sort of pulp could be serious, nobel-prize-winning literature.
But the namby pamby gatekeepers of horror never seem to have gotten that memo. These prissy little prudes tsk tsk every time an unapproved orifice is violated or blood is spilled in a manner that they deem inappropriate. They sniff disdainfully that real horror fiction doesn’t need to depict bloodletting in such detail and that writers who wallow in such filth should not be taken seriously.
Well, fuck them.
With Ruthless, Shane McKenzie has proved yet again that politesse is overrated, that it’s not necessary to be smooth and restrained, that sometimes horror needs to be rough and messy.
The philosopher Thomas Hobbes famously stated that life is “nasty, brutish and short.” The same description could be applied to these stories. Which means that, despite their outrageous depictions of extreme violence and gore, the pieces in this book are ultimately an honest reflection of life as seen from a Hobbesian worldview.
Sounds good, huh?
In fact, that’s probably the argument I would make if I wanted to be a pretentious asshole and defend Ruthless on an intellectual level against the criticism of the literary establishment.
But I don’t.
Because the truth is that the appeal of horror is not intellectual, it is emotional. These stories don’t address the head but the heart—or, more accurately, the gut. They hit us where we live, forcing us to experience the fear and terror of their varied protagonists, to read about the acts and situations most people would be afraid to even imagine.
The twenty stories here are all over the map. They take place in big cities and small towns, in suburban kitchens and college labs and hellish carnivals. They happen now and in the future and in times that have never been. But what they all have in common is a willingness to look unflinchingly at pain and death and suffering, at evil in all of its gruesome hideousness.
This is not to say that graphic sex and violence are the only criteria for horror. In our online age, when anyone can self-publish and the correctly named “vanity press” has been misleadingly rechristened the “indie press,” too many wannabe writers think that all they need to do to establish their credibility as artists is describe carnage in explicit detail. And there’s a cadre of post-literate fans who enable them, who buy into that bullshit. But the hard truth is that the fundamentals of good storytelling still apply. Shane McKenzie understands this, and the pieces he has chosen for his debut anthology reflect his respect for the written word. Some work better than others, of course, but that’s always the case.
I’m not going to waste any more of your time hyping these stories, or pontificating about the meaning and importance of extreme fiction. You’re already here. You’re holding this book in your hands.
So read it.
Because this is the real deal. Hardcore, kick-ass, take-no-prisoners horror. It’s gross, it’s disgusting, it’s rough, it’s raw.
And if you don’t like it, well, fuck you, too.
Bebbel
by John McNee
Bebbel hates the silence.
His world, presently, is all black and pain. And silence. An unholy trinity. But it’s the silence that he hates most.
He swings back and forth on his wires. Suspended in the void; lost in the black. And he’s surrounded on all sides, but it’s so lonely. So quiet.
He’s not the man he once was, is Bebbel. His mind isn’t for thinking. It’s for reacting. He needs stimulation. He needs distraction. What can he do with silence? Silence is for thinking and he doesn’t think. He fears and he hates, but that’s not thought. He’s not capable.
He used to think a lot in the dark. He thought about his old life. He longed for the days before the show, and the people he knew and loved. But that’s all gone. That’s not who he is anymore. He can’t recall it. He’s lived longer in here than he ever did out there, and it’s all there is of him. No man anymore, is Bebbel. A freak. A freak in a world of freaks. An exhibit. Part of an act to be packed away between performances. Packed away in the black. And the pain.
And the silence.
He hates and he waits, does Bebbel. Nothing more to do.
But hate and wait.
There are others here. In the black. Spoiled for company, really, is Bebbel. Not that any of them are much use. They sit and swing, hunched and crouched, bent, broken, hobbled, strung, mang
led, and mutilated. There’s not a one with a thing to say.
He senses them out there, close by, packed away like him. He used to wish they’d say something. Make some kind of noise. Not that he can reply. Not much of a conversationalist, is Bebbel. Not anymore. But just to hear another’s voice would be something. A murmur in the dark. A sound to break up the endless quiet. He doesn’t wish for that now. Wishing is thought and Bebbel doesn’t think. He’s emotions, is Bebbel. He’s reactions. He’s not thought.
He hates the silence.
He waits for noise.
Hate and wait.
Hate and wait…
***
Metal on metal. Keys in the padlock. Chains slap against corrugated iron. The bolts are drawn back. The shutters rack up and the generator rumbles into life.
Oh yeah… Show-time.
Fat Charlie comes marching in from the side door and Bebbel recognizes him by the sound of his clumping boots and the smack of his mouth as he chews his tobacco. He’s waving a flashlight around, is Fat Charlie, giving everyone the quick once-over. Just to make sure everybody’s ready for the performance. The white beam glances on knotted flesh, burnt leather, jagged bones. The light turns on Bebbel and, for a moment, he’s blind. He tries to raise a hand against the glare. Behind his mask he murmurs something, some kind of protest. Fat Charlie gives him a quick smack on the side of his leather-clad head and he quiets down.
“That’s enough out of you,” Charlie adds, and spits, sending a jet of brown saliva onto Bebbel’s goggles.
Bebbel says and does nothing. Fat Charlie moves on and out, slamming the door behind him. There are shouts on the other side of the wall, and a jangle of keys. Next thing, motors above begin to purr and the whole container starts to move.
They’re in an elevator, Bebbel and his pals. Going up.
The troupe makes a little noise, excited-like. They don’t talk, exactly. None are quite capable anymore. Those with teeth have had their tongues cut out. Those with tongues have had their vocal chords severed. Those with vocal chords have had their lips sewn shut. But they manage some eager sounds. A haphazard chorus of grunts and groans in the dark.
They arrive at the top of the shaft, and the sounds of the outside world start to bleed their way past the concrete, steel, and iron. Bebbel can hear music, laughter, crowds of youngsters screaming in unison, the thunder of the roller-coaster, and all the unmistakable noises of the fairground.
Sally puts a lot of effort into the cover. The crowds that come for the rides and the games and the candy-floss get all they could hope for and more. More fun than they can handle. But it’s all a front.
And a privileged minority that knows of Sally’s most impressive attractions, and the small black tent in which they can be found.
That privileged minority is gathering now, on the other side of the velvet curtain. They’re forcing themselves to take their seats, though they can hardly bear to sit, they’re so excited. It’s a different sort of crowd, is this, to the one outside. Generally older. No children here. No popcorn. No candy-floss. They’re all washed and shaved and turned out in their finery. Charcoal gray suits, satin gowns, and diamonds. Dressed more suitably for a night at the opera than a backwater county fair.
They’re not all locals, this crowd. People travel hundreds of miles to catch one of Sally’s performances. It’s a rare thing. Few in the audience know each other or would even care to. They can’t claim to have anything in common, excusing a shared knowledge of Sally’s world—the dark subculture that stays hidden, just beneath the surface of the everyday—and an interest in its strange delights.
Bebbel’s thin fingers start to twitch. They always do this close to show-time. The rest of his troupe is just the same. Knuckles cracking and joints a-popping. All limbering up. Not that Sally ever demands much from them in the manner of acrobatics.
A hush falls on the crowd beyond the curtain—signal that the tent’s lights have been dimmed. A band begins to play. Small thing. Accordion, snare drum, and double bass. They manage the best fanfare they can as Sally takes to the stage.
Wild applause signals her entrance.
And there really is no mistaking Sally.
She’s truly something else, is the Keeper of the Dark Secrets. Something else. Just under six feet tall in her bare feet, she tends to favor thigh-high leather boots with tall heels tapering to pin-points. On her torso she wears a laced bodice of black and silver—everything black and silver—trailing grand long skirts that drag across the floor behind her like flowing rivers of oil. Thin strips of satin are wound around her breasts and shoulders, the porcelain-white of her flesh showing through the gaps between the fabric. Similar strips—like black bandages—coil around her elbows and forearms, down to her palms. Her fingers are bare but for a few silver rings of unknown origin. Her only other piece of jewelry is an ebony tiara with four silver horns and a single diamond in its center.
Sally’s hair is dirty blonde, long and wild. Her face is young and beautiful, her features so pale and delicate, they might threaten to blow away in the wind. A light dusting of makeup highlights her hooded eyes and plump pink lips. The rest of her face and body is the color of the snows.
Truly something else.
“Thank you,” she says, lilting in that sing-song Southern drawl of hers, somehow still clearly audible over the noise of her audience. “Thank you all so much.” Pressing her hands to her breast, like an award-winner overcome by the adoration of the crowd. “Thank you… Please… Thank you.”
Bebbel can’t hope to understand the emotion he feels when he hears Sally’s voice. It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable concoction of adoration and terror, and he only feels this way around her. The rest of the troupe is the same way. In a corner of the darkness, he hears the echo of running water as one of his companions pisses himself.
The sound makes him thirsty.
“Thank you,” Sally continues, as the crowd finally gets control of themselves and simmers down. She smiles. “This ain’t quite the main event.”
Several in the audience laugh. For most of them, the sight of her alone is more than worth the price of admission.
“I welcome you all,” she continues. “I am surprised—and not a little humbled—to see so many of you. It swells my heart to know the followers of my art are in such great numbers. Hell!” She grins. “It does more’n that. Makes me wetter than July!”
That gets a laugh. A round of applause. Sally laughs herself and the band starts up again. Quiet, so as not to drown her out. A minor waltz this time.
“For those that don’t know or haven’t guessed, my name is Sally,” she says. “I am the Keeper of the Dark Secrets. Black magicks passed down from the Age of the Immortals. Tools of creation and destruction wielded only by the sages of the ancient Underlords…” She straightens up, arms out, puffing up her chest, breasts straining against the satin straps. “And me.”
The man on percussion strikes a cymbal at that. More applause.
“What you will witness tonight is just a small taste, a flavor of the beautiful cruelty at the center of our universe. I will illustrate for you—with the assistance of my troupe—how malleable are the creations of God to the wills and fetishes of the most unholy. I will show you the power of the darkness.” She paces the stage, pin-point heels damn near punching holes in the wood under her feet. “I am an artist,” she says. “The Dark Secrets are my pallet. The human body is my canvas. Those of you coming here tonight expecting a freak show… you’ll get your freaks. But not freaks of nature. Freaks of design. For your enjoyment.”
She marches to a far corner of the stage, long skirts trailing after her. Drum roll. “Without further ado, then,” she says, “The Carnival of the Dark Secrets!”
Applause. Of the most undeserving kind.
The curtain comes up. An organized spark ignites a low wall of flame in a semi-circle at the front of the stage.
Hokk is first out the gate. Easy for him, being on wheels and all. T
here isn’t much of him that’s original man. No legs. Everything below the belly’s been hacked away, replaced by bent metal and the rusted frame and wheels of a tricycle. He bends his back and hauls himself forward, gnarled claws pummeling the floor. His skull is compacted, the back of his head scooped out. No eyes. No tongue. A trio of metal tubes protrude from his eye sockets and gaping mouth. He half-scuttles, half-bikes to the front of the stage and thrusts his misshapen head into the flame. Fuses in the metal tubes catch alight. He raises his head and his face is fizzing with sparks. He spins about on his wheels and the light of the sparklers appears to trace a spiral through the air. It’s like ballet, is this. Choreographed. Hokk is well-trained. Better than any of the others. But he has been at this the longest.
“Hokk,” says Sally. Applause.
Hokk turns and rolls back into the throng of the troupe, past Lupi, Ignit, Bebbel, and all the others. He rolls right to the back of the platform and touches the sparklers to a paper fuse. The rear wall explodes into heat and light. Big scare. Nice effect. The whole carnival is illuminated.
Those that can do so rush forward, away from the fire. Applause as they approach the front of the stage. Turano and Frenchie—arms and legs fused together so they can never be parted—roll into the center, back onto back onto back. A single bolt fastened through the jawbones of each keeps their heads locked in place, one pressed against the other, bent low.
Emery slides out like a snake on his grossly stretched belly. Cax scuttles forward on limbs stripped to bone; the bones varnished and filed to points. Bidaro follows a little behind, moving awkwardly on cauterized stumps. His mouth gapes open, exposing a swollen black tongue pierced by a thick metal hook. There’s a rusted chain attached, maybe six feet long. At the other end is a heavy tank of green liquid in which his severed hands and feet bob like dead white fish. He drags it with him wherever he goes.
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