“Let's move onward, Chuck,” I chided, unable to control my enthusiasm for his demise.
“What if it hurts?” he asked.
“It will do no such thing.”
He nodded his senseless approval. I ordered him to start at the base of his ear lobe, to feel for the soft spot behind it and then dig the blade in a scooping motion. I offered him a small, portable mirror for the occasion and he took it with no malice; hands not quavering, yet blanketed in gooseflesh. I shut all the curtains to my office, allowing him to feel at home, in peace for the offer he was about to provide me.
The scalpel sunk in easily through his skin, but scraped along the small jutting bone behind his ear. A shudder came over me, one of happiness, the other my pet peeve of shrieking noises; noises like metal to bone. He continued to carve away, using the mirror as his guide as well as the markings I drew. A fabulous cherubic flood colored one half of his neck, as well as the shoulder of his white t-shirt.
He then proceeded to ravage his external ear. Cartilage split impeccably as his hard working hands ripped his own ear from his head, ending with a squish and snap. Sinews of skin like peachy red threads were left behind for me to play with. He gave me the ear, sopping with blood and a strange, tawny puss. Must have been when he pierced his ear drum. I put it in my mouth and swallowed the filet-o-flesh like a raw clam; it hit my stomach and suffused through my intestines as if I had savored holy water.
Then he saw the lines drawn on his face and pushed the scalpel through the sensitive, vitreous humor that was his left eye. Eye juice sprouted viscously, dripping crimson tears down the side of his face.
When he had passed the cornea and entered the sclera, Chuck began to twist, forcing the eye into a raging circular motion. It popped into his hand like a small festered potato, and all the while not a word sounded from his drug induced stupor. He obviously needed me more than I needed him, and nothing would stop him from satisfying my needs first.
Then, it seemed, as if his foggy cognizance plundered down a black hole or some needy quicksand, as he began to convulse. I eased the situation with a kiss to his blood-greased forehead and he relaxed. I asked him to proceed, albeit his state was in no need of the further procession of self destruction, but I could not help myself.
I pointed into the mirror as little bines of blood sneaked down its silvery, mock surface. He knew what to do by then. Chuck raised the surgical instrument and entered the tender, pumping spot on his neck, the hearty carotid. He sunk it in deeply as a low choking noise commenced from his slack mouth. Then he followed my drawing like a good little boy and continued cutting until his skin parted like lips and became a separate entity from the tightness of his throat.
Muscles poured forth like mince meat pushed through a cheese grater; a display of mashed po-tissue. His Adam’s apple protruded like a pointing finger of disdain. My smile radiated a thousand suns; a forever universe of heat and passion. He saw this through his one eye and ended the entire ordeal by cutting me out his stringy carotid. Chuck offered it to me like a dead worm before he fell over in a slouch face-first. I imbibed on the entire blood vessel like sweet taffy.
I packed him away like I did all the rest, in large black garbage bags. But first I would dismember the limbs and drop them in buckets of lime and bleach and acetic acid (with a touch of water to make the acid zoom with some fervor). I’d watch the skin melt into a stew of disintegrated meat then turn to liquid at the bottom. I love my life, and my patients…
***
Cheryl Hansmith closed the black journal and shuddered by the single entry she had finished reading. Tears flowed down her cheeks and seared as if they were made of liquid metal. Her brother Chuck had been missing for almost a month before she used her police skills and put it together; Chuck’s constant sessions, the lack of any "help" or "progress" in his mentality.
When she decided to take it upon herself to investigate the show office of Dr. Robert Quinn, she found just what she was looking for…wrapped neatly in a blood-crusted silk cloth in one of his desk drawers was the magic scalpel. The same one he used on Catherine and Chuck and myriad others. His secretary was nice enough to allow her into the suite without the doctor’s consent—said that he would be right with her and asked if she could make herself comfortable. She waited, tapped her gloved fingers against everything for clues and could not help but to wonder where exactly Chuck was killed.
When the yellow-haired God walked into the room, his brow was sweaty and his body stagnant with antiseptic and disinfectant. She immediately withdrew her pistol and he made no move to run. The man simply stared down at the open journal of infidelity and impassioned killing. She read him his rights and called it down to the station and cuffed him abruptly. She hoped to hurt him just a smidge for what he had done to his clients—especially her brother.
She sat him on the leather lounge chair and stared him down; the winter moon sneaking its star white face across the city sky, florid and thin through his window. She had words for him, but none that could be said without the presence of another witness. One thing was for certain: she was curious as ever as to why he looked so handsome and had the eyes of a patron saint. And she could not wait to converse with him...
To Boil
by Lucas Pederson
Jason Raker smiled when he pulled the severed forearm from the pot of boiling water with a pair of old barbeque tongs. The smell in the kitchen, as foul and as rancid as it was, didn’t much bother him. He was hungry and such things didn‘t matter when he was hungry. The smell was like candy to him.
The blistered foot came out next, skin sloughing off, pinched tightly in the tongs.
“Yummy-yum-yum,” Jason grunted.
He set the human foot down on the table next to the forearm; different owners, of course. He liked variety. Both body parts had been boiling all day and finally they were done.
Suddenly Jason doubled over, hands clasped to his stomach and vomited all over himself. Yellowish goop and blood splattered to the floor and on to his jeans. He laughed, despite all this. Then he vomited again. Being seriously sick or in need of a hospital never crossed his lunatic mind.
When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand and then left the kitchen, still chuckling to himself. Muffled, barely audible, he heard them down there in the basement; his donors.
“Help me! Oh God! Help me! Please!”
Jason’s smile lengthened. He had sound proofed the entire basement in preparation of this. He wasn’t dumb. He had also replaced all the wooden doors in the house with thick, almost vault like, metal ones. He made sure those down stairs were padded. There was nothing worse than bruised meat after all.
Each door was locked with inch thick dead bolts on the top, middle, and bottom of them and each has a combination lock with its own unique combination. And of course Jason knew them all by heart. No. He wasn’t dumb. Even for this brave new world in the year 2270.
So in other words they could scream themselves to death down there and no one would ever hear them. Not unless someone were to listen really, really carefully. And still they might just think the noises were other things. A breeze blowing through the eves, an ionic water heater on the fritz, or maybe a ten legged stray cat trapped down in the basement.
The stench of boiled human wavered in front of his nose and he took in the rancid aroma gladly. His stomach growled. Supper time. But first...
***
She heard him just outside the door. She could hear his breathing, that slurping, gasping noise. How many days has it been now? Three? Four? A week? Maybe more? Cindy didn’t know. Time had no meaning here anyway. But it felt like an eternity.
Why is he just standing there, her weary mind screamed. She winced at the power in it.
Brushing away ratty, dirty hair from her eyes she stood up. He had already taken her virginity along with three of the five fingers on her right hand, which he had stitched the stumps back up, nice and neat as if nothing had ever happened
. Enough was enough. Since the finger cutting incident he’s been using her as his own personal sex toy; raping her over and over again, each time hurting a little more than the last. He was a sick man and she hated him. Even now she could feel his small wart encrusted penis, ramming and probing. She shuddered at the thought.
The sound of the single deadbolt sliding away made her jump in place. She held the plunger handle tight in her left hand. The door knob turned slowly and Cindy got ready, lifting the plunger handle up over her head. She just prayed she’d be quick enough and strong enough. Otherwise she was a dead girl standing. She would become one of his gruesome meals for sure.
Cindy stood on the right side of the door, her butt pressed firmly against the rusty steel sink. She was skinny enough now so he wouldn’t even see her standing there, not at first glance anyway.
But what if he’s prepared for this sort of thing? Why else would he just leave the plunger in the bathroom, she thought.
But Cindy didn’t let this thought sway her in the least. The door swung open and he stepped into sight. Cindy brought the plunger handle down as fast and as hard as her malnourished arms would allow, breaking the handle, over the back of his neck. He immediately went down like a sack of rotten potatoes, smacking face first into the floor. Blood splattered out of his gaping mouth when he hit. He twitched once and then fell very still. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not and it didn’t matter now anyway. She dropped the remains of the plunger handle and shot out of the bathroom.
The stench hit her like a brick boxing glove, making her stop cold in her tracks. Of course it wasn’t an unfamiliar smell; she had been there for some time and it was a common aroma. But it still got to her and made her sick every time. Her stomach did a lurch and she fell to her knees and vomited up what little lunch she had; a slice of white bread and a glass of rusty water. The guy liked his woman lean, like his meat.
After what felt like hours of dry heaving, Cindy finally began to feel a little better. She got to her feet, her legs trembling and her eyes searching. She had to find a way out of here. She took a step and then heard them, the others. Those still down in the basement, screaming for help. She stood still for a moment, deciding on what should be done. Then she half trotted, half stumbled to the basement door. And without any further thought she slid open the dead bolts, all three of them.
If it wasn’t for the round, black and white combination lock, she would be unlocking the others already. But all she could do was stare at it and cry. She didn’t know the combination.
Cindy slammed her fists against the steel door, bellowing sobs at its shiny surface. They had to get out too. There are mothers down there, wives, daughters, and even a son or husband or father. And when that prick had come down to bring her upstairs for his sick pleasures, the only man down there had looked close to death already. She had to get them out.
Just leave, said a voice in her head. Leave and let the cops get them out later. But what if there was no later? What if they are so close to dying right now that an hour or two would mean their end? This didn’t seem very likely, but it might be possible. And what if that evil bastard woke up? What if he saw she was gone and killed everyone and fled? Or even worse; killed everyone and came after her?
No. If she left them he would kill them all. That’s if he was still alive, of course. She had to save them now. What was that old saying? Now or never? Sure, that was it.
Cindy stepped away from the steel door and walked into the kitchen. Her eyes darted this way and that. And every now and then she’d peek over her shoulder, just to make sure no one was creeping up behind her. The smell in the kitchen made her gorge rise again and her stomach to churn. The smell was always the worst in here.
Of course it is, whispered a phantom voice from within, This is where he does all the cooking. Her stomach did a triple flip inside of her at the thought. She glanced around but found nothing that would help her open the steel door.
When she came upon the boiled forearm and foot, Cindy didn’t throw up. She was too—
Suddenly she was on the floor, her ass throbbing dully under her. And it took her a good minute to realize what had happened. She had slipped in something, but—
The chunky, slimy liquid feeling on her bare feet finally registered in her frazzled mind. And a wetness soaking through her tattered green summer dress he always made her wear, brought out a disgusted, little, panicky whine. Oh God! Oh Christ! I slipped in his puke! She felt her gorge rise further and swallowed it down with every bit of strength she had. A wave of faintness blew over her then was gone.
On her knees she crawled to the sink and yanked down the hand towel that had been lying on the counter. After cleaning the vomit from her feet and bottom she immediately left the kitchen. She just couldn’t be in there anymore. It was an awful place. She came to the living room and stopped. The room, to put it bluntly, was a pig sty. And not just a pig-sty but a nasty room all together.
Here, human bones in every variety lay in a thigh high mound near the end of an old and badly tattered sprung couch. Rats. At least a dozen of them scurried about the room, most of them gnawing on the remains of various limbs and appendages that were well on their way into decay.
The stink in this room was even worse than that of the kitchen. She has never been in this room before and the stench was so sudden it made her dizzy. Instead of boiled human, this was decaying human. Cindy took a step forward and felt a strange sort of jelly goosh between her toes. And she didn’t have to look down to know what it was. Puke. More of that sick fuck’s puke. She glanced down and to her horror she found she was standing in not puke but a small heap of nearly decayed guts. Now she wished it had been puke instead. She let go a sickened gasp and quickly stepped out of the squishy, rotten pile of intestines. It was hard to tell if they were human or animal. Cindy didn’t give a shit either way. It was gross.
She wiped her feet off on the dirty carpet and backed out of the room of death and decay. A rat, adventurous in its own twisted way, came scurrying towards her. Cindy blew out a shriek of terror, turned, and ran.
***
The last time she looked at the clock that hung over the kitchen sink, two hours had passed. Two hours and nothing to show for it but tears. She had to find a way to get those people out. Although it never occurred to her that in the two hours she had spent searching for anything to open the door, she could have already been at the police station, safe, and spilling everything about this stinking hell hole. She had found nothing in her search.
A half an hour ago she had built up enough courage to check on the bastard that laid half in and half out of the bathroom. He still didn’t look like he was breathing, which was a very good sign. Now she stood staring down at him again as he lay face down on the moldy bathroom tiles. Without any thought at all she pushed him the rest of the way into the bathroom. His head struck the toilet with a dull smacking sound. The sound you get when you strike a rock and a log together. It was a horrible sound. Cindy closed the door and pulled the deadbolt home, just in case.
In a frazzled sort of way she wished he was at least somewhat alive to know how it feels to be locked up. Eye for an eye, as they say.
That done, she turned away from the door and glared at the basement door. There was nothing she could do to get them out, that was obvious now. But it still didn’t take away the shitty feeling in her gut and heart.
Now! Go now! He’s locked up. Hurry, shouted that restless inner voice of hers. Yes, he was locked up alright. Hell, he could be dead for all I know. And that was all it took. She bolted, on legs that felt a bit rubbery under her, down the short hallway and to the front door that gave way to freedom. The front door resided in the dining room. A strange place for a front door, but that didn’t matter. This room was clean and dignified looking with its long oak table and immaculate setting. But she came to a sudden, sobbing stop.
The front door, the entrance to her freedom, also had one of those forsaking combo locks on it.
“No!” She screamed. “No! No! No!”
Just then, the phone rang. The phone? The phone! She whirled around, listening and tracking at the same time. She never even thought of looking for a phone. How many times had she passed right by it looking for something to break down or through the door to the basement? A dozen? Maybe more?
She followed the beeping ring of the phone, wiping her watering eyes as she went, through the kitchen and then into the living room; that nasty room of decay. And there it was; a fairly new GE cordless digital phone, lying on the arm of the old and battered and grimy couch, a white speck of clean amongst an ocean of dirt and decay. It was truly beautiful.
She stood, watching it ring. Part of her wanted to answer it and another part didn’t. What if it’s someone he knows? A buddy or something. What if he has a partner? She doubted the latter but it might be possible to assume, right? She reached out for the cordless, and then drew her hand back quickly as if the phone was on fire. Soon it stopped ringing and she felt a gush of relief seize her.
Picking it up was the hardest, but she managed. It felt roughly fifty pounds in her left hand. She stared dumbly at it. Her eyes lowered to her mutilated right hand. The stitches were holding good but the stumps looked a little too red for comfort. Infected, by Christ, it’s infected. He hadn’t used any peroxide or alcohol to sanitize the wounds. Of course it was infected. Cindy shook her head from side to side. No time to worry about that now.
The digital phone looked simple enough to use. She has used her fair share of cordless phones in her lifetime to know. She pushed the oval TALK button and the phone beeped on. She lifted it to her left ear and listened to the constant, never ending hum of an open line. A smile of triumph curled on her dirty face.
“Now...” said a growling, low voice from somewhere behind her.
Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Page 4
