Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection

by Shane McKenzie

  Marla finished the water, which had a yellow tint to it this time. The man lowered the white box, resting it at Marla’s feet. He held out his hand, accepting the empty bottle. “Remember, quiet,” he whispered before gently closing the lid.

  Marla swallowed, the sensation of a peach pit stuck in her throat. She was grateful the spider and snake weren’t with her, but this new terror frightened her nonetheless. The man’s words about staying quiet and his gentleness with the lid indicated whatever was with her was easily agitated.

  Minutes passed, Marla resisting the urge to release her bladder, when she heard a low buzzing sound. The buzzing grew louder as if a hundred tiny high end motors were running, her toes vibrating against the wooden box. Bees. The bastard had placed a bee hive inside with her.

  A buzzing sounded in the air. A bee had left the nest. Another followed, the sound multiplied. More and more began taking off, filling the box. Their wings worked frantically, the tiny, but threatening, buzzing noise alarming as they flew around, bouncing off the walls. Soon the coffin was abuzz with the stinging insects. Marla’s skin covered in them. Bees smelled fear, it excited them. Marla’s breathing intensified, speeding up like a charging locomotive.

  She tried to relax, remembering the nature shows she’d seen on television. Most bee keepers, even without netting, walked away from hordes of bees without many stings, if any at all. She simply needed to stay calm, unmoving.

  The buzzing grew louder as the air continued to fill. Bees flew about, landing everywhere, crawling over her face and in her ears. They nestled in her hair, getting stuck, frustrated, and flapping their powerful wings to break free. Marla twitched as one crawled between her lips. She crushed it quickly, but not before it stung her. She let out a small squeak, keeping her eyes closed, fighting the pain.

  Bees lined her body like moving skin, tickling her. The worst were the ones under her shorts and shirt, like a thousand unwanted caressing hands. Her body was naturally tense, but still. Her breathing came in controlled, even breaths through her nose.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain struck her belly. Marla bit down, fighting against the need to yell. Warmth gushed on to her legs, dampening her pants, her bladder no longer able to contain itself.

  She received another sting on her leg as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.

  As time passed she’d acquired five more stings: One on her left beast, two on her face, one on her scalp, but the most painful being the one on her spine. She wasn’t sure how the little devil got under her, but it had.

  Some time later, exhausted and in unimaginable agony, both mentally and physically, a slot opened on the side of the box. “Hold your breath,” the man’s voice said. Marla wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but she took a long intake of air and held it in.

  A cool, damp air, coming from the slot, covered her skin. Slowly the bees stopped tickling her. The buzzing died down. Soon the insects were silent, unmoving.

  The lid opened, the cold air sucked out. She opened her eyes, the man standing over her held a hose. The sound of a vacuum filled the air as the man began sucking up the bees. He made sure to get the ones in Marla’s hair. After vacuuming the bees the man shut the lid. Marla lay in the dark, ready to pass out. Her body ached and throbbed with the fierceness of a hundred root canals. She had to do something before it was too late. The maniac was using a deadlier creature each time, increasing the poison and pain until she died. The antidotes were used to prolong her suffering.

  The lid opened again, Marla’s eyes not as sensitive to the bright lights. The man held a bottle of water, tossing it to her. She had to do something.

  Marla downed the water, another antidote, its taste sour. The man retrieved the empty bottle before bending down and picking up a black box. He placed it at Marla’s feet and removed its top, quickly. A loud hissing sound came from within. The hulking figure stood, laughing, holding his belly.

  Son of a bitch, Marla thought. The sick fuck is really enjoying himself. She’d had enough. Dying wasn’t going to be an option today, especially by the hands of this freak.

  Looking into the box, she saw a large black snake, the bright lights reflecting off its scales like a warning sign. No longer caring, realizing the antidote was flowing through her veins, Marla reached into the box. She grabbed the snake by the back of its head. The angry reptile hissed and spat, its tail whipping wildly. Marla, seeing the man coming at her, flung the serpent at her tormentor.

  The man put his arms out, trying to keep the flailing snake away. It landed on him, wrapping its tail around his forearm. The snake’s mouth opened wide, revealing two glistening poison-filled fangs, and bit the man in the center of his chest. The maniac grabbed at the snake, stumbling backward, trying to pull it free. The creature refused to let go, like some kind of attached alien sucker. The man’s eyes rolled up as he fell over, crashing to the ground and convulsing as the poison went to work.

  Marla watched, mouth agape, in terror yet relief at the same time. The man continued convulsing and began foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. After a minute, he stopped moving, except for a few minor spasms. A pool of bubbles leaked from his mouth. The snake slithered away.

  Marla stood, legs shaky, body racked with agony. She stepped out of the coffin. Looking around she saw the confines of a basement. Six halogen lights on stands surrounded her along with a video camera. The red recording light was glowing.

  Marla bent, pulling the man’s mask off. She didn’t recognize him. A stranger. Just some deranged lunatic.

  She found a set of stairs and climbed, the wood creaky. Her head was foggy and she more than once had to steady herself, but she made it to the top. She opened the door and found herself in a kitchen.

  The room was eloquently decorated. The windows had flowered drapes, the floor was Italian tile, the table decorated with lace doilies and the sink was of French design. On the refrigerator were pictures of a happy family: a man, his wife, and young boy and girl. All had warm smiles and looked to be enjoying their time together. The man in the photos was the same man lying dead in the basement. Marla felt a chill run up her back.

  “Honey,” a female voice sounded from around the corner. “You finish your video yet?”

  Marla grabbed a steak knife from the cutlery block. A five-foot-seven, petite blonde came around the corner. She wore a pink skirt, white blouse, and high heels. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “You got out?”

  Marla stood, knife out, too confused for words.

  “Did you kill my husband?” the woman asked. “Please, tell me he’s dead.” Tears began falling down her cheeks.

  “Yes,” Marla finally said. “He’s dead.” She lowered the knife.

  The woman broke down, falling to her knees. “I’m finally free.”

  Marla came over. The poor woman had been a prisoner. She felt for her, wondering if she’d survived the same ordeal to become the sicko’s prize. Marla hugged the woman. “It’s over now. It’s over.”

  Marla patted the woman’s head until she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her stomach began burning. She shoved the woman away and tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She fell to the floor, unconsciousness taking hold.

  Hours later she awoke in semi-darkness, a sliver of light coming through the slot in the coffin’s side. “No, no,” she cried and began pounding against the familiar confines.

  From the slot, Marla heard the female’s voice. She sounded far away. “Yes, yes, bitch. You killed my hubby.”

  “Let me out, let me out,” Marla yelled.

  “Don’t worry, baby doll,” the woman said. “You’re all alone in there this time.”

  Something heavy thudded the box’s top before breaking apart. The sound kept repeating itself, becoming softer. Pieces of dirt fell in through the slot before jamming it up. Complete, well-known darkness filled Marla’s space. She began laughing hysterically. She finally had the place to herself.

  Rise Up Nanking

  by A.J. Brown
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br />   Kym Pau Lie jerked awake. His eyes fluttered and he listened for a sound he wasn’t sure he had heard. A single heavy thud echoed through the apartment, bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head trying to push away the remnants of sleep.

  The knock came again, sounding more like wood on wood than the hand of a visitor. Kym sat up on the couch and glanced at the clock across the living room. It read just past four in the morning.

  “Who knock on my door?” he called in broken English.

  He stared at the entrance, waited for a reply.

  Another thump on the door came, this one much harder.

  Kym licked his lips and swallowed; his skin prickled with goose bumps, his heart revved up. He reached over to the edge of the couch and grabbed his cane. He stood, his knees popping and his back begging him to sit back down.

  “Who there?” he asked.

  The single rap at the door came again. Kym frowned. “Who there? Answer me.” He took several hobbled steps toward the door. He stopped just short of opening it and listened; waited for another knock that didn’t come. After several minutes Kym unlocked the door and the dead bolt. He slid the chain free and opened the door.

  With the exception of the small white light near the stairwell just down the hall, all was dark. Kym looked in both directions, his eyes slits, and searched the black corridor. He saw nothing, no one. He shook his head and grunted, then rubbed a wrinkled hand through his thinning white hair.

  Kym turned to go back inside. A blinding pain started in his jaw and raced up into his cheekbone as something hard struck him. Kym crumpled to the floor, his jaw on fire and blood spilling from the split bottom lip and the holes where two teeth had been. He spat one of them out onto the floor; the other one slid down his throat. Tears spilled from his eyes.

  Looking up, Kym saw a lone figure standing in the shadows, his muddied boots the only thing visible in the dim light of the front room. One of the boots came up and landed solid against his ribs. Kym fell onto his back, his lungs burning and his mouth open, trying to suck in some air. He held his ribs and rolled onto his side, his knees to his chest. Nausea filled his stomach.

  A dull crack echoed through the small apartment and Kym’s head erupted in a pain of white and yellow circles that danced in his vision. His world swam away as he faded from consciousness. Just before passing out, Kym heard a command given to someone he couldn’t see. It was in a familiar Chinese dialect.

  Take him to the rice fields.

  Kym woke face down in a puddle of mud. Rain poured down and the world was cast in gray tones. He lifted his humming head and grit slid off of him. On his knees he realized he was naked. Kym’s face hurt and the sound of old locomotives rushed through his ears with each heavy heartbeat.

  A sharp jab in his back sent Kym sprawling back to the ground, his hands out in front of him but not keeping him from landing back in the mud. He spat out the dirty water and grunted as the pain of another poke came between his shoulder blades. He shook his head trying to get rid of the wave of disorientation that swept over him. A third prod came and Kym rolled onto his back and sat up.

  A machine gun pointed at him. He followed the barrel up the arms and to the face of his captor. Kym’s bladder released. A dead Chinese soldier stood in front of him, the skin on his face peeling off and the tissue beneath it a sickly gray color.

  Angry words spouted from the Chinese man's decaying mouth.

  Get up! Get up! Or I'll shoot you! I kill you!

  Kym stole a quick glance around as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood in a rice field. Though the rain fell down all around them, the ground looked dry and harvested. Thousands of bodies lay strewn about, most of them barely skin and bones with black hair still growing from long dead skulls.

  The bones moved, many of them standing and taking on flesh. Kym watched as the paddy field became alive with men, women, and children. The sounds of weeping and begging swept through the air, followed by the loud cracks of gunshots.

  Kym looked for the Chinese soldier but he was gone. He turned in time to see a Japanese man bring the butt of a rifle down on the head of a small boy. It split with a hollow crack and the child crumpled to the ground; one eye popped from the socket. A woman screamed and dropped to the ground to cradle her child. Tears streamed down her dirt stained face as she lifted the boy in her arms.

  The Japanese soldier grabbed the woman’s arm and jerked her up. She dropped the child to the ground and struggled to break free. Kym thought the man looked familiar; his features, the tone of his voice. The man yelled at her, warning her that no one would cry for her when she was dead. He threw her to the ground next to her child.

  The woman glared up at the soldier, hate in her eyes. The soldier turned his rifle around, pointed it at her. The bayonet appeared sharp, even with rust and bloodstains covering it. He yelled for her to get back to work. When she didn't comply he thrust his rifle forward, the bayonet tearing into her throat despite her attempt to protect herself. He jerked the rifle from side to side and her lifeless body flailed about until he pulled the bayonet free. He drove the blade into her body several times, jabbing it down into her breasts, stomach, face, and crotch.

  A young Chinese man looked up from his rice and quickly glanced back down. The soldier smirked and grabbed the man’s arm. He pointed to the woman.

  Fuck her! Fuck her now, or I'll kill you!

  The man shook his head but the soldier slapped him hard across the face. Blood spilled from the man’s lips and his eyes filled with tears.

  You will fuck her! Now!

  He shook his head again in protest. The soldier turned his bayonet on him and rammed it into one leg. The man fell to the ground. The soldier lifted him up and shoved him forward. He motioned for other soldiers to pull the woman’s black pants off and to do the same to the man. They pushed him on top of the woman. He screamed and tried to get off of her but several steel bayonets punctured his legs and shoulders and he fell forward again.

  The man begged for mercy.

  Fuck her! Or I will kill you!

  The man shook his head again. An instant later he slumped over, the front of his skull missing.

  Kym closed his eyes and tried to push the images away. They flooded his mind, memories of a time long ago that he tried hard to forget. When he opened them again the scene had shifted, the rice field no longer there, the dead child, mother, and man gone as well. He wasn't naked but in full military regalia, like in his youth when he was a member of the Japanese army. He held a gun in his hands. At his feet lay a man in civilian clothes, his body ran through several times with a bayonet. Laughter amid screams rose up and he glanced to either side of him. Other Japanese soldiers, much like him, drove their blades into the living bodies of civilians. They laughed as they taunted the dying.

  Kym threw the rifle down and stumbled backward, his hands shaking and his heart hammering. He fell over the leg of a corpse and tried to catch himself. His hands hit the decaying body of one of the dead, pushed through its chest cavity with a wet splut. Kym screamed and rolled off the body.

  He was old again and when he stood his knees and ankles popped and his muscles groaned in protest. The landscape had changed again.

  He stood at the edge of a firing line, staring at a group of nearly two hundred young men roped together like bales of hay. One man sagged within the restraints, his head a pulpy mass of beaten flesh. The captives stood on the edge of a giant hole. Kym stood in a line with other soldiers as ancient as he was. Their eyes were frantic and they all held machine guns.

  At the end of the line stood the Commander, his arm raised above his head.

  FIRE! he yelled and lowered his arm.

  The soldiers released a barrage of bullets on the civilians. Smoke billowed from the guns, clouding Kym’s vision. He saw several men slump over and others topple backward. The smoke cleared and the civilians that didn’t fall back into the hole lay on the ground near its edge.


  “No,” he cried and backed away. Again, he tossed his weapon down. Kym ran for the Yangtze River, his legs groaning, his heart racing, fear swelling in his chest. He stopped just short of the water. Hundreds of bodies floated in the blood clouded river. Many of them piled up along the banks, while others floated with the current downstream.

  Kym grabbed his head and fell to his knees. He cried out and closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them he would be back in his tiny apartment in the not so nicer part of town. Instead, all around him were many soldiers, their pants down to their ankles. Dead women and young girls lay about the grounds. Those who weren’t dead were being raped, slapped, and stabbed by the soldiers. As they finished with each female they killed them and left them with the other bodies.

  The same soldier who had killed the people in the paddy field stood, his pants down, a woman on her knees in front of him. He held a knife to her head and yelled for her to keep going. The look of fear was unmistakable in the young woman's eyes. The soldier's eyes rolled back as he let out a loud moan. He grunted and brought the knife across the woman's neck. Blood sprayed from the gash and she dropped to the ground, her body shaking and her eyes filled with shock.

  A wave of nausea spilled over Kym and his legs grew weak; sweat beaded on his brow and the wounds on his face, head, and ribs resurfaced in a pounding anger. His head grew light and his knees buckled. As he fell, several arms caught him and lifted him back to his feet.

  With his world in a haze, Kym couldn't make out who held him up. Death hung in the air, mixed with blood, smoke, sex, and . . . fear. A vague memory surfaced of a Japanese Commander telling his soldiers of how defiant the Chinese had been; it would not be tolerated; lessons had to be learned.

  The scent of gasoline, flames, and burning flesh seared Kym's nostrils. He gagged as he tried to catch his breath in the haze the stench left behind. They pulled him through the streets of Nanking, his feet dragging along the ground, over the bodies of the slain. Amid the chaos, Kym heard the crying and screaming of the wounded; the begging and pleading from those about to die; the gunshots and laughter as executions were committed. He smelled the smoke and the blood and the shit and the dead. He could taste the polluted air, its mixture of scents turning his stomach. Worse still, he saw the deeds carried out; the soldiers cheerfully murdering innocents for the fun of it; the rapes; the baby killings.