“Who’s turn is it tonight?” someone asked around a mouthful of the girl’s flesh.
“I do believe Helen has the honors tonight,” Marshalll said.
“Lucky,” said someone at the end of the table who was sucking on a small white finger bone.
And with that Marshalll reached into the gaping hole that had been the girl’s chest and cut loose her heart. He handed it to an impish woman across the table whose once-green dress was now black with thick blood and peppered with small chunks of meaty gristle. She said thank you and sawed a wedge free from the heart, letting the blood collect in the basin before her. With a theatrical curtsy she began eating it. He eyes rolled back in her head, intoxicated by the taste. The young girl’s bowels evacuated, a clear indication she had finally succumbed. This didn’t seem to make a difference to the maniacs eating her. They made no move to wipe it away. I could smell the new scent of feces up at my height. Maybe these psychos thought it was just part of the delicacy.
Someone to Marshalll’s left produced a small hammer and smashed it into the girl’s head. Crack! Crack! Crack! Until he’d split open her skull, at which point he drove his fork inside and started pulling out bits of her pink brain. He passed the pieces around the table so everyone could eat some.
At this point I realized I was crying, realized I was squeezing the guns so tightly I might shatter them like eggshells. Who had she been and what had she done to deserve this? More to the point, who the fucking hell were these sick fucks?
The dinner guests leaned back in their chairs, their clothes dotted with blood and their faces and hands stained a deep maroon. A few of them got about picking the meat out of their teeth while others merely rubbed their full bellies. Some old fat guy at the far end was sucking on a rib bone, getting every last bit of meat off of it.
The girl on the table was nothing but a ravaged cadaver, pink bones and torn meat, slick with red goo. Her face was a giant hole. Her intestines were roped out across her thighs . . . or what had been her thighs. Her jaw was exposed through tattered cheeks. Both her eyes were dissolving in the bellies of these beasts.
I slowly rolled over and stared up at the chandelier, saw the etchings in the base. Pictures. Something that looked like hieroglyphics from Mars. Maybe they were supposed to be angels, or maybe demons, or maybe demigods from another realm. It looked like they were wolves with six arms dancing and waving swords. Kind of like the painting in the bedroom. None of it mattered but I couldn’t stop staring, not really seeing it to be honest, but rather watching the images of that girl being eaten alive roll through my brain like seaweed on a massive Pacific swell.
Red Tide. The smell of brine and blood. Something more than murder happening beneath me. Pictures of multi-armed wolves and blood rituals and human cannibalistic orgies.
Get a grip, Roger. Get to Victoria, find her and get her out of here.
Beneath me I heard our host’s voice yet again. “I trust everyone is sated? Does anyone need more wine?”
A collection of grunts and burps. Etiquette was apparently selective at this point. A man’s voice, deep and lethargic. “To wit, Marshalll, I can’t eat another bite. Fantastic find, though, I must say. Perfectly sweet and tender. I feel her youth in me already. Veles will be pleased.”
“Yes, wherever did you find her?” This from that beehived witch. “There was so little fat that my jaw barely aches.”
“I have my methods,” Marshall responded. “I have some feelers out in the community, good friends, people who know how to find things. Now don’t look at me like that. There has been no disclosure as to our meeting, and the terms were made perfectly clear to these hired hands. They are men who ask no questions except when they will be paid, which they are upon delivery.”
“But I saw a man here earlier . . . . He looked distrustful to say the least. All those tattoos. And did I hear that the police came by?”
“The police were here for a minute on a prank call. They are long gone. Not the first time the police have poked about, you know that. And I repeat, my help ask no questions and take their pay. Trust me, Belle. They’re petty thieves that would be laughed out of any courtroom. Isn’t that right, Judge?”
The same deep lethargic voice from before: “Oh yes, it’s pure nonsense to believe less. Let anyone in this room stand in the legal arena against said riffraff I’ve seen Marshalll employ. The outcome is assured in our favor. Still, Marshalll, we must be careful.”
“I am always careful. And to show you how much I have been careful and how much I have been anticipating tonight’s events, I have a surprise for you all.”
There was mass bleating from the table as everyone tried to guess what the surprise could be. Curious, I rolled over and resumed my bird’s eye view on the whackadoo party. I tried hard not to stare at the decimated corpse on the medical table, its arms and legs still bound in cuffs, but it was a beacon to my eye. It would be a beacon to a blind man’s eye. I could see straight through to her spine.
Marshalll raised his hands again, quieted everyone down. He was good at that; the response he got was almost Pavlovian. “As you know it’s been six months since our last meeting. Greta was supposed to host last time but alas was taken from us before her time. Lucky her. She was called upon to serve.”
There was a collective reply: “Praise Veles.”
“Praise him,” Marshalll said. He coughed and resumed. “Which means, we have been without for an extra three months. Our great lord has been weakened by our brief reprieve.”
“It did give us time to finish the Observation Room,” said Marshalll’s wife, Maryellen. I saw her teeth were still stained red, as were her lips. There was a splotch of blood near her ear.
Behind her, Ben the Lovable Security Guard showed the slightest hint of a smile. I wondered why he and the rest of the gunmen weren’t eating, but decided not to dwell on it too hard. He didn’t look like a cannibal, didn’t have the glassy-eyed stares of the rest of the dinner party, but he sure as hell looked like he wanted nothing more than to rip someone’s head off of their shoulders. I’m sure death was no big deal to him. Pretty sure he was getting off on the whole thing.
“It did indeed,” Marshalll replied to his wife. “But more to the point, it gave me ample time to plan this party and so I have arranged for a special dessert for everyone tonight.”
“Oh, Marshalll, I can’t eat another bite,” said the judge. He rubbed his rotund belly to illustrate his point. I thought about shooting him in the gut, spilling his insides onto the table in front of him, hoping his friends would eat him.
I let the thought drift away.
“I will blow up if I ingest anything beyond air,” said Belle the Beehive. “Much as I enjoyed the meal, a lady must behave as such.”
Marshall picked up a bottle of wine, held it to his nose. “We’re all friends here, Belle, do not fret about such nonsense. I will be bringing dessert out in a little bit. Consider it my gift to you all for making the long drive out here. Eat what you can, the rest can be taken home. It is for Veles we unbuckle our belts this night. We must make him proud.”
Some of the guests giggled, some rolled their eyes the way your friends might at a bar when someone orders an extra round no one really wants. Still, I could tell they were gonna eat whatever it was. And whatever it was, I was sure, was going to be alive.
Victoria.
I slithered back toward the spare bedroom, listening to Marshalll’s upbeat words as he poured himself more wine.
“I suggest we retire to the Observation Room and I will have brandy and port served. Donald, you are a port fan, if I remember. As I mentioned, we have had the room remodeled so dessert will be served there in a little bit. I propose we digest what we can and let our stomachs settle in the meantime. Judge, you will love the new telescope we purchased. The stars are divine. Now, if everyone would follow me, the night is still young.”
CHAPTER 15
From inside the bedroom I heard the guests leaving the din
ing room, making their way past the chaise lounge and down another hall. I waited a minute longer until I heard their voices drift up to the same level of the house as me, and then continued up another level.
For the sake of caution I peered back around the doorjamb and down at the girl on the table. Two goons remained, watching like bored children at church while two other men in rubber uniforms, each carrying a small surgical saw, unlatched the body, cut off the hands and feet, and placed everything in a large plastic cocoon-like sac, the kind you fed into a large furnace or buried way out at sea somewhere.
They carried the limp plastic case from the room and disappeared, leaving the two gunmen alone to make friends with each other. But they didn’t even bother to glance at one another let alone talk. To see their tight jaws and stone cold eyes you’d think they were under some kind of spell. I’d read my fair share of comics with villains who used hypnosis on people, but always felt it was a cheesy and outdated plot device. But now I wasn’t so sure. These guys looked like they’d walk off a cliff if you commanded it. Still, I recalled the way Ben had stepped to the table to silence the girl when she was waking up. They clearly still moved of their own accord to some degree. If only I had silencers on my weapons, I would have done the world a favor right then and there.
Instead, I made my way back down the stairs, into the small sitting room, looked around for a sense of sanity. More portraits here just like the ones I’d seen before--old men with mutton chops and high collars, black and white photos of some families that looked like they’d been created in mad science experiments. And two paintings that showed more dancing wolves with swords, only this time they were all staring up at some orange man with one eye. The word PSOGLAV was painted in what resembled a blood stain at the bottom. I had no idea what it meant.
Next to this was one of my own paintings. I wanted to tear it down and strangle Marshalll with it. I wanted to slash it and burn it and take back the notion I’d made money off this lunatic.
You want to feel his blood run down your arms, Roger. You want to crack his ribs and spill his life onto the street.
Skinny Man again. He’d been silent for a bit but was back.
“Let it rest, asshole. I already told you you’re not real.”
Real enough for you. You’re the one arguing with me. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I chewed your sister’s cunt in half?
The gun came up so quick and smashed into my head I didn’t even realize I did it. My busted nose sang out behind my eyes. The pain cut through me and cleared away the voice, allowed me to focus once again.
“Ow.”
A small hallway ran off the back wall. It must run almost parallel to the larger hallway the guests had gone down. That it was skinnier than usual made me think it was perhaps a separate hallway for the staff, and if so, that could make moving down it a pretty stupid choice. All the staff seemed to be armed for war or ready to butcher someone. But, fuck it.
As I snuck down it, trying my best to be quiet, I weighed the options of either going back to the shed and just shooting the fucking chain on the trap door, or finding an inside access to whatever subterranean rooms this place held. I opted for plan two, remembering I was still contending with machine guns and cannibals.
The walls in this tight hallway smelled off, like they were covering something fetid. There was a nice collection of mold around the baseboards. I almost screamed as I passed by a small mirror and saw my reflection, not realizing it was me but thinking it was a goon trying to surprise me. The doctors were going to have a hard time putting my nostrils back in place.
Deeper now, I could no longer hear the Donner Party’s conversation two stories up. But I wasn’t too concerned with that. I was more concerned about what would happen if I didn’t find Victoria before the rubber men or Ben went to get her. The hallway turned left and passed by two closed doors. Staff quarters, perhaps. I stopped briefly outside them both and listened, but heard nothing from the other sides.
This hallway ended at yet another kitchen, this one dirtier and rank with some kind of vinegar stench. The lights were off but an orange nightlight over the sink threw coffee stains of wan light against the walls. A collection of knives and cleavers lay on the counter near some cutting boards, all stained brown. In the dim light it could easily have been blood. More shivers raced down my back. It reminded me of Skinny Man’s basement, the way he had left out his carving implements for us to stare at. The way he’d managed to get inside our heads when he wasn’t even in the room with us. You know, it’s your own imagination that is your worst enemy.
Only in that instance Skinny Man had lived up to everything my own brain could devise.
And then some.
“Could just be porkchops, dude.” My whisper of hope didn’t work. Even if it was just beef or pork blood, it didn’t change the fact a girl had just been eaten alive tonight. It didn’t change the fact I was in some bloodthirsty Twilight Zone.
Two doors were on opposite walls here. I tried the one to my left, opened it slowly with my guns pointed ahead of me. Inside was a small pantry, shelves stocked with canned goods and large bags of flour and rice. A chunk of dried meat hung from a rope at the back. Could have been a smoked ham, could have been a woman’s thigh. What looked like a butcher’s stamp of quality could just as easily have been a tattoo.
Shut the door and move on. Don’t think about it.
I opened the other door, found myself standing at the top of a set of wooden stairs that descended into blackness.
The cellar.
Actually, I should capitalize that--The Cellar--because with a mansion this big the basement was bound to go on forever.
I felt around the inside wall for a light switch but couldn’t find one. My hand brushed through the soft wisps of cobwebs and nothing else. Didn’t see a switch or bulb anywhere on the wall near the door in the kitchen either.
Down into the darkness, buddy. You’ve done it before.
I took a step, heard the stair groan. Took another, felt the air get just a bit colder. I kept going like this, steady and cautious, guns in front of me. A mustiness tickled my nose. Shadows engulfed me as I continued; the air became heavier. When I reached the bottom, I waited for my eyes to adjust, relying on what little light crawled down after me from the kitchen nightlight. It took a few seconds before I could ascertain my position. There was an enormous cavern to my right: the underneath of the mansion. I walked carefully into the darkness, slowly making out stone walls and wooden doors and old furniture covered in sheets and tarps. A freestanding mirror threw my image back at me and gave me the heebie-jeebies. I was beginning to hate mirrors big time.
Another twenty paces and the light from upstairs was no longer able to penetrate the darkness. To say I was scared and tense is an understatement. I had no way of knowing if anyone else was down here with me. I didn’t even know what direction I was shuffling in. Would I knock something over and attract the Goons? Would I suddenly feel an arm around my neck as someone attacked me?
Was that breathing I heard?
Yep, but just my own.
Maybe you’ll run into your friend, Tooth’s, corpse.
Figures Skinny Man would pop up when I couldn’t see where I was going. “I’m gonna figure out a way to get to Hell so I can kill you again.”
Looking forward to it.
As I moved my ears were able to guess the size of the room. Hard to explain, but if you ever go into a ballroom and close your eyes, you’ll know what I mean. You can just tell the place is huge.
Then I heard it. A whimper. Far away, but definitely human. A girl’s voice. I stood still listening, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It seemed to just drift around my head and play with my inner ear. It was incredibly faint; if I’d been breathing any harder I wouldn’t have heard it.
It stopped for a few seconds then picked up again, and this time I was able to follow it off to my left. I let it pull me forward like I was under a spell. My shin bang
ed into something hard and wooden and I grit my teeth but managed to keep from yelping.
Eventually I came to a wall. More paintings leaned against it. I could see them because a thin ribbon of dim yellow light fell on my shoes, betraying the outline of a door right in front of me. If the light on the other side had been out I would never have found it. I pulled it open and smelled dirt. Not dirt as in someplace messy, but actual dirt.
Earth.
It was a tunnel, like a mineshaft. Dirt floor and walls, with rickety-looking crossbeams providing support. A sallow yellow bulb hung from a cable about twenty yards down. It flickered and buzzed.
In times like this you swallow inadvertently just to find out you still have spit. I didn’t have any, because all my body’s moisture was sweating out of my palms.
Homes should not have dirt tunnels under them. Homes should not have paintings of wolf creatures and medical tables for strapping down live people either.
The girl’s timid crying came from the opposite end of the tunnel. I knew it was Victoria, I could just tell. I’d longed for so long to kiss her that I knew every sound her voice could make. Knew what she sounded like yawning, stretching, laughing, sneezing.
This tunnel obviously went under the back lawn to the room beneath the shed, but that knowledge didn’t make me move any faster. I was still just trying to wrap my head around all of this.
Just as well, Roger. You never save the girl first. You didn’t save that poor bitch upstairs.
That was enough of a guilty push to get me moving. I stepped slowly, watching out for booby traps, once touching the dirt wall to see how sturdy this tunnel was. The dirt broke away in clumps and cascaded to the ground. Shit, the whole thing would probably collapse if I farted too loud. I followed the tunnel until I reached yet another door. Victoria’s cries were plain as day on the other side. A man’s voice was talking, laughing, having a conversation with someone. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could tell he was tormenting Victoria.
Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga, Book 2) Page 13
