Dead Bitch In A Bathtub
Page 3
The door at the top of the staircase was kicked in.
The corpses were coming down for her.
NOW IS THE TIME
Crowding the door, the mass numbers of corpses pushed their way down the stairs. Her father was gone. Whatever he'd done, he couldn't do it anymore. These hundreds of bodies overtook him. Sid bought her time. But what had he really accomplished? Why didn't the man tell her what to do? What was the gift he was talking about?
Brooke caught sight of the three perverts who attacked her from before. They were at the head of the group, including the one with a big bite missing out of his head. The three corpses each held odd tools. A screwdriver. A nail gun. A wrench. Pinch clamps.
She knew what they wanted to do with her.
People liked to exploit "the famous." She was a perfect target. Drug addict. Washed up musician. Called talentless from the start. Smut magazine centerfold. The world chewed her up and spit her out.
Her toe suddenly ached. Excruciating pain channeled up her foot and throughout her entire body. She was suddenly aware of her skeleton. Her internal organs. Every ounce of blood that was once dead in her veins suddenly cycled at two hundred miles an hour. Her skin turned from blue to the color of skin when someone cupped a flashlight in their hand.
This was the gift.
Her father spread the gift thin to save himself, but when he found out she was dead and here with him, he sacrificed himself to save her.
She prayed for somebody to find his corpse so he could be put to rest.
She prayed that somebody would find her corpse so she could be put to rest.
In the meantime...the time was now to fight!
She remembered how her big toe was missing, and what had happened to that corpse's face.
Brooke stripped off her coat, then the dress, then the boots. The crowd thought she was catering to what they wanted. It was time to exploit Brooke Lasker, and she was okay with it, because she was daddy's dumb slut washed up musician whose only talent was owning a vagina and showing it to the world and degrading herself in the name of the audience's entertainment.
Come a little closer, she thought. Keep on coming closer. I'll show you something all right. It'll entertain the shit out of you!
Her skin lit up brighter, glowing a deep amber. Not quite fire. The color of her bodily processes taking on a new function.
Becoming a weapon.
Naked, they cheered her on. They were nothing against what was coming, because they had no more goodness inside them. They were dead bodies who were never found or properly mourned. They were twisted, fucked up versions of their former selves. She didn't care if they were victims. They exploited the suffering, and she was going to do everything she could to spare herself that suffering.
The three corpses didn't care what she was capable of doing. They wanted to carve her up, split her in twain, and exploit her.
She extended both hands and fingers out straight.
Boom-ba-boom-boom-ba-boom-boom-ba-boom-boom-ba-boom!
Her fingertips became cannons. Blood the gunpowder. Bone the buckshot. She watched the three corpses disintegrate before her eyes. The blasts cut through them and shredded the waxen corpses behind them, turning them into flesh fodder. They spattered the walls and ceiling. Through the rain of flesh, putty, and hunks of jellied organs, more corpses were coming in after her.
Her body matched her mental impulses.
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Both her hands up to the wrist lit up a burning red, burning bright like freshly forged steel. Hands melting to the wrists, the flesh stumps hardened. Her stumps became bigger cannons.
B-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
Both stumps fired bone shrapnel and burning hot muscle tissue, over a thousand degrees of hot burning meat!
Fire consumed corpses. One woman's hair down to her feet were dancing with flames that spread to others, each corpses going up like dry kindling.
Sets of hands grabbed her shoulders and legs. Bone spikes jutted up through the skin, spinning like bone saws, and turning their grabby hands into wet debris.
Another set of hands tried to reach between her legs. It was the corpse she shot in the face when he tried to cut her up with the table saw. A blast of acid hot blood blasted out between her legs, melting him into a sickly greenish black puddle of nastiness.
Powering through them, she walked up the stairs, stomping on dismembered pieces, sizzling bodies, and melting corpses.
They weren't sorry. Hands kept touching her. Copping feels. They only wanted to keep exploiting Brooke Lasker.
A head severed by bone bullets kept whistling, so she blasted it with her stump cannon. It went up like a foot stepping hard in a deep puddle of water.
Her left arm sloughed off, coming off like half melted cheese. Her arm hit the ground and turned into a useless black husk in seconds. She was sizzling in patches of her body. Cooking within. Parts of her inner workings were showing through. Thirty percent of her bones were gone. Half her blood. More than forty percent of her muscle tissue.
Brooke knew her father would've wanted her to run and hide, but she wasn't like him. Who knows how long it'd take for somebody to find her dead body in her sister's bathtub? If they tormented her, she could only evade them for so long. So why not enjoy showing them how tough of a bitch she was before she turned into a helpless bag of bones? She endured whistles and requests of sex on tours. This was her time to say "Go fuck yourself!" to everybody. The world had it coming for a long time.
Up the stairs, she vaulted forward to meet more corpses. Out one eye shot an amazing payload of skeletal shards. Fifty corpses were thrown into the walls and came undone in pieces from the sheer force of the blast. More blood shot out her eye as if someone spit it out from a long tube with a surge of air. The blood sizzled bodies in twain, every inch of their flesh fizzing to evaporation.
Brooke was getting carried away. She couldn't stop. It was a high. Being so hot after being so cold. Her body was an active, living thing. She wasn't dead anymore. She was very much alive. A gift indeed!
Her long dreadlocks wrapped around head after ahead, the dreadlocks going taught and squeezing brains out of heads. Her good arm blasted out of the socket and out a broken window outside. Half a mile of area went up in a strange burst of fiery red colors and explosions. Trees were debarked. Bodies were de-fleshed.
The corpses were still coming!
Both her knees detonated. Shard bombs scraped off faces and shredded flesh. The dismantling of her body caused Brooke to hit the ground back-first. Upon landing, both legs shot out like missiles leaving a vapor trail of blood. She had no had arms or legs. Her other eye shot itself out, allowing more skull shrapnel to destroy her enemies. Her spine was trying to make itself into a weapon, as were her shoulder blades, while every ounce of blood was boiling, piping hot for destruction—
DEAD BITCH IN A BATHTUB
A week after Brooke Lasker died in a bathtub, her sister returned to the cabin in Estes Park. The house was overflowing with water. The bathtub was still running. Her husband rushed to turn off the water, fearing the house was broke into, or worse, the perpetrators were still there. The carpet was water logged. Becky followed her husband into the bathroom, suddenly afraid to venture into the rest of the house alone. She was about to break into a fit of cursing about the damage to the cabin until she located Brooke's corpse floating in the tub. The body was a strange shade of gray, bloated with gases and water. The sight was ghastly, as was the smell.
Her husband turned off the water, and Becky rushed out of the room sobbing. She ran to the phone and dialed the police. Her husband didn't say anything about the syringe that had somehow ended up beside the toilet or the strange expression of relief on Brooke's face—or was that just his imagination?
The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance coming nearer. Under ten minutes, the ambulance had bagged Brooke's body, and an hour later, plans for the funeral were already underway.
FIFTEEN
YEARS LATER
Ed McMillan enjoyed rolling up his pant legs and dipping his feet into the lake after a day of working at his job programming websites. Once the cold water shocked his skin, he came alive. The fresh air. The open sky. The cool water. It all served to clear his mind and erase that cooped up feeling. He was fully relaxed when several huge air pockets burst on top of the water. The water seemed to boil for three seconds. Then up from the water a skeletal reached right for him. The bone hands seized his forearm and gripped him tight. Ed fell back unleashing his shock in high octaves, the corpse somehow falling onto the grass with him. He swore the corpse's mouth opened as if to say something.
He called the cops. Five minutes later, a crew collected the remains of Sid Lasker. The investigation would solve a long running mystery. Ed would later be prescribed three different medications to help him with his night terrors and insomnia. No matter what he did, a day wouldn't go by that he imagined what it felt like for a corpse to lunge out of the water and grab him.
In the coming twenty-six years, he would finally marry a woman named Sheryl Hillard. They would have two kids. They would ultimately get divorced. Then he'd lose his job and commit suicide on a pontoon boat. The boat would tip over, releasing his corpse into the water. Nobody would ever find his body, or ever claim it from the violent purgatory Brooke and Sid Lasker had escaped.
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