Jackpot

by David Bernstein

  He also grabbed himself a present, something extra special. Something money couldn’t buy. It was waiting for him back home, and he couldn’t wait to get back, take his time enjoying it.

  Booker stopped off at Home Depot and stocked up on supplies, purchasing a mini blowtorch, utility knives, a folding camping shovel, nails, straight razors, a ball-peen hammer, a claw hammer, a hacksaw, three rolls of duct tape, a package of rubber bands and zip ties, pliers, a pair of eight-inch pruning shears, a large bottle of Super Glue, four chains, each two feet in length, and four heavy duty locks. On his way to the checkout, he remembered one more item, and added ten Tyvek coverall suits, which came with booties and gloves, to the cart.

  Except for the folding shovel, he managed to fit all the tools, including the torch, into the toolbox in the back of the van. The shovel went behind the passenger seat, while the coveralls fit under the driver’s seat and in the glove box.

  Inside the cargo area, Booker opened up his suitcase, pulled out four sets of handcuffs, then used the locks to attach the chains to the U bars. When he was finished, two chains hung from opposite walls, while the other two lay on the floor. When cuffed, his prey would be suspended by his or her arms, the limbs outstretched in the air. A tall person might be able to kneel, diminishing the suffering a bit, but so be it.

  Ready to roll, he pulled out of the parking lot and drove around the back roads, looking for a lone jogger, biker, or someone with car trouble, but there was no one. After an hour had gone by with no results, he thought he might have to pull the old home invasion snatch and grab. But then as he crested a small hill, he saw her—a slim female figure running alongside the road.

  Booker blew past her and headed over another small hill where he stopped the van. He killed the engine, then hit the hazard lights button.

  The van’s rear left tire deflated. Then the hydraulic jack came down and lifted the car, making it appear as if the driver was simply changing a flat tire. An expensive idea Booker had thought of, and thanks to his multitude of millions, Rennie had brought to fruition.

  Booker grabbed his taser, exited the van, and knelt by the jack.

  Using a small mirror, he kept an eye on the road behind him. A few minutes later, the woman came over the hill. Her long brown hair was tied back, the ponytail swinging wildly. He watched her approach, ready to zap the bitch, when she veered across the road and continued along the other side. Damn. Booker ground his teeth in frustration. He could chase her down, but there was a chance she’d outrun him, maybe even head into the woods where he’d lose her.

  Booker let her go. Once she disappeared around a bend in the road, he hopped back into the van, and pressed the fake hazard button again. The rear left tire inflated and the hydraulic jack folded back into place. He started the van’s engine and sped off.

  He came upon the girl in a minute. She was still on the opposite side of the road, concentrating on her breathing as she ran uphill, a sweat stain like butterfly wings on the back of hers spandex top. His own perspiration built along his spine and hands. This was far from his first rodeo, as the saying went, but each time was a thrill, and now he was using his new toy. It was a shame the flat tire ruse didn’t work out as he’d have hoped, but at least he had been able to try it out.

  Booker slowly pressed the gas pedal down, not wanting the engine to rev and alert the girl. He eyed her bouncing ponytail and couldn’t wait to cut it off and shove it down her throat for ruining his fake flat tire trick. It was going to be a hair sandwich, drenched in his piss for this bitch. Then he was going to slice off her lips, sew her pie hole shut, and make her puke out of her nostrils.

  As he came upon her, he hit the gas, shot forward, and yanked on the steering wheel. The van swerved in front of her, cutting her off by inches. The girl’s face was a mask of confusion and terror. She locked terrified eyes with Booker, and must’ve, on some level, known what was happening. She spun around to run in the other direction, but Booker was ready.

  He threw the door open and jumped out with feline grace, then raised the taser and pulled the trigger. The gun fired with almost no sound. The two darts, trailed by thin wires, shot forward, hitting the girl between the shoulders. She went down as if the life had been drained from her.

  Booker kept the trigger depressed as he ran up to her, allowing the electric current to continue, the woman appearing as if she was having a seizure. He released the trigger, pulled out the darts, and hit the woman over the head with the butt of the taser, knocking her out.

  Tasers hurt like hell and caused a person to be helpless, but didn’t have after effects of a stun gun. They came in handy at long range but the effects were brief.

  Booker popped open the rear doors using his remote keychain, scooped up the woman, and tossed her inside. Taking a quick glance around, making sure there were no factors indicating his or the woman’s presence, he hopped back in the van and took off, making sure not to leave rubber marks.

  He wanted to get her home, play with some of his new toys there. But not his special machine. No, this girl wasn’t special enough for that. Her death would be beautiful, glorious, but she meant nothing to Booker. Just a slab of meat for him to amuse himself with.

  He thought again of the mansion he would have built, and his stomach churned in anticipation. He had worked hard on the plans, had gone through countless revisions. But in his mind, it was perfect. It would be his heaven. Frank had said there were still a few more legal issues to take care of first. When Booker expressed how important this was to him, how impatient he was becoming, Frank said he would start looking for land, would find him something perfect. In the meantime, Booker made a few alterations to his little house. Figured it would keep him busy while he waited.

  But driving his death van with a fresh victim in the back, he didn’t know if he could wait. Maybe he could pull over somewhere, play for a little bit, then take her back to the house.

  His dick was already hard thinking about it. The urge was too strong to resist.

  Just up ahead, he saw a dirt road snaking off of the main street, weaving into the woods between the trees. He didn’t know if the van would fit, but he swung it onto the road anyway. Branches scraped along the side of the van, but he managed to squeeze through. As they went along, the path opened up into a clearing, surrounded by trees tall enough to conceal them.

  This wasn’t the first time he had to find a secluded hiding spot when his need was too strong.

  It was like having to take a piss. Yes, he had a perfectly good toilet at home, but if you have to go bad enough, you pull over and squirt on a tree. When too much time passes between kills, his anticipation becomes so overwhelming he just has to have a release, now, at least a little taste to calm him before driving them home and taking his time with them.

  Memories of the last time flashed across his mind, bringing a grin to his face. He’d picked up a hooker—easy and boring, but he’d needed a quick kill—and told her he wanted her to spend the night at his place. She’d gotten uneasy the farther from civilization they had traveled, but assured her that once she saw his mansion and the hot tub she wouldn’t want to leave.

  That time he had found a dark alley between two abandoned buildings, and as he pulled in and cut the lights, she told him she wanted to go back. She’d take him to a nice hotel. He didn’t want to deal with a whiny cunt, and smashed her face into the dashboard, breaking her nose and knocking her out. He’d spent the entire night torturing her. He sliced off her eyelids so she’d have to watch. He cut off her lips and glued her mouth shut, then began with the real fun. He held a lighter to her inch-long nipples and melted the flesh, the erect pieces of meat sizzling away like little sausages. He’d soldered her vagina closed and force fed her a couple gallons of water, slowly so as not to drown her, and when she was ready to burst, he sliced her open with his straight razor and cackled as a river of piss and blood exploded forth.

  This went on for hours, Booker taking his time as he slowly whittled her
down piece by piece, removing the skin from her fingers and toes, then calves and thighs. Finally, for the grand finale, he fucked her vacant left eye socket, plunging deep into her, hoping to reach her brain. She’d shuddered and made a choking sound as he came into her head, then went limp only seconds after. He left her remains in the alley where the feral dogs could make a meal out of her.

  Booker reached down and squeezed his throbbing cock as it pressed up against his jeans. He shut the van off and listened to the almost unnerving silence. The jogger should be awake by now, pounding against the walls, screaming for help.

  He heard nothing from her.

  Booker pressed the green button next to the faux hazard button. A small seven-inch LCD screen extended upward from the dash. A grainy, green image of the back of the van was displayed, the camera’s night vision enabled due to the lack of windows. The woman was on her knees, banging her hands against the van’s walls. A smile spread across Booker’s face and he ran his fingertip over the monitor’s image.

  Booker grabbed one of the Tyvek suits and exited the vehicle. He stood still for a few moments, listening. The only sound he heard was the chirping of a few birds, the chattering of insects.

  The van was stupendous, pure genius. The fucking lotto had allowed him perks he could only have dreamed of, and this was only the beginning.

  Booker slid into the coveralls, reloaded the taser with a new charge, then headed to the back of the van. He inserted the microchip-attached key into the door’s lock and opened it. He should’ve tied the woman up, secured her to the U hooks, but he’d wanted to get away from where he’d abducted the jogger as quickly as possible.

  Booker opened the left door and stood back, pointing the taser at the stunned woman. “Well, hello there, pretty.”

  “What the fuck is this?” she said, her eyes meeting his before falling to the weapon.

  Booker could tell she was thinking about running. “Any sudden movements, and it’s fifty thousand volts for you.”

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “If only you knew.”

  Booker sighed, then pulled the taser’s trigger, sending two darts, along with the electricity, into the woman. She collapsed, convulsing. Booker stepped up to her and pulled his knife from its sheath on his belt. He released the trigger and stabbed the woman in her right calf, making sure the blade went all the way through the meaty muscle.

  The woman screamed and yanked her legs back. Booker held onto the knife as it tore free. Blood spewed across the van’s floor.

  “I warned you not to move,” Booker said, licking the blood from the blade. “Tangy. You eat a lot of red meat, don’t you?”

  “Motherfucker,” she hollered. She was pressed against the far wall where the cockpit door was located, a trail of crimson leading to her.

  “If I’d stabbed a little higher up on your leg, you’d be in real trouble. Slice your femoral artery, and it’s goodnight, forever. But don’t worry; I plan to keep you alive, at least for a while. So let’s be a good girl and do everything I ask.”

  “I’m…I’m bleeding to death,” she cried, squeezing her leaking calf with her quivering hands.

  Booker rolled his eyes. Tough girl one moment, a real pussy the next. “It’s a minor wound, nothing worth fretting over.” He held up a finger. “Be right back.” He paused, looked into her eyes. “If you run, I’ll chase you down and make that knife wound look like a mosquito bite, you understand?”

  She answered with a whimper, and Booker took that as a yes.

  He walked casually to the front of the van, opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Even though he was anxious to get home, he almost hoped his prey would run, or at least attempt to. An old school chase through the woods would be exhilarating, and he imagined giving the limping girl a head start, let her fall down a few times before pursuing her. He only wished he had a chainsaw with him. And a skin mask would be nice.

  Booker reached under the passenger seat and pulled on the spool of twine, cutting off a two-foot piece.

  Sitting up, he looked at the LCD screen and saw the woman in the van. He shook his head. She hadn’t moved. Damn.

  Booker exited the van and headed toward the back. He opened the other door, allowing more light in. The woman flinched, inching farther against the van’s cockpit door. He tossed the twine to her. “Tie this around your leg, just below the knee. Not too tight, but tight enough to stem the bleeding.”

  She snatched up the twine and immediately tied it around her leg as Booker had suggested. “Cuff your right wrist to the chain,” Booker said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Cuff yourself,” he repeated.

  “No.”

  “You really want me to come in there and do it?” He patted the knife on his belt.

  The woman slid to the center of the van and cuffed her wrist. The chain was only two feet in length, keeping her arm up and hanging. “What now?” she said.

  Booker climbed in.“Do anything to me, and you’ll starve out here. There’s no one for miles and I don’t keep the cuff keys on me.” He approached her, smiled, then punched her in the gut. She hunched over and grunted in pain, the wind knocked out of her.

  Booker yanked up her left arm and cuffed her wrist to the other side of the van. Now her arms were outstretched, scarecrow-like. He punched her again, then cuffed her ankles to the chains on the floor.

  She was still gasping, gulping for oxygen after the gut punches, and Booker waited until she caught her breath before grabbing her by the back of the head and staring into her half-lidded eyes.

  “You know I recently won the lotto? Not some pathetic scratch-off amount, either. No, I won the big one. I’m a multi-millionaire, and this van, my kill van, is a product of my winnings. You should feel honored. You’re the first to spill blood in here.” He bent down, wiped his fingers across the blood pooling around the van’s floor, then wiped it across her face in an X.

  The woman whimpered, let her head hang as snot and saliva stretched from her face.

  Booker let her weep for a few minutes, studying her, imagining what he was going to do to her. No, he wouldn’t kill her out here. She would come back home with him. She would be part of the game—he needed contestants anyway. But not until he had just a little more fun.

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked his knife from its sheath, and ran the blade across her forehead, right along the hairline. The woman screamed and bucked as blood oozed down her face, staining her teeth red, pooling at the bottom or her mouth where her tongue splashed around in it. Booker shoved the blade against her throat. The woman quieted to a soft whimper.

  “That’s better,” he said, softly.

  He ran his finger across the new cut, letting his nail slide along the opening.

  Just as she opened her mouth to scream, his hand darted forward, used his thumb, fore, and middle fingers to pinched her lips together, squeezing hard, then sliced the plump, reddened flesh until both lips came free. Blood cascaded over his fingers, and poured out of her face, covering her chest and legs.

  Booker dangled the slug-like morsels in front of her face, then opened his mouth and plopped them inside. He chewed them like two boiled shrimp as she screamed.

  After devouring the flesh, he clunked her over the head, knocking her unconscious. Her head went limp and a steady flow of blood streamed from her tattered mouth. Booker opened his toolbox, grabbed the Super Glue, and sealed the lipless woman’s mouth closed. When he was finished, he used smelling salts to wake her, her screams immediate, but muffled.

  Over the next hour, he tortured the woman. He cut off the tips of her fingers from the nail up, severed both ears from her head, then glued them on backwards so that the right was on the left and vice versa. She kept closing her eyes, which pissed him off, so he removed her right eyelid using a scalpel. She’d thrown up in her mouth a few times, trickles of vomit leaking from her nostrils, and he loved the look on her face as she thought she might suff
ocate. She had to swallow it back down, quickly.

  Booker had lost track of time, and before he knew it, the day was darkening into dusk. Images of what awaited him at home erupted in his mind like fireworks, and he put all his tools away quickly, tittering to himself. He worked a piece of the woman’s lip out from between his back teeth with his tongue, then realized how hungry he was.

  “Well, I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I think it’s time we blow this pop stand.” He cauterized her wounds with the mini blowtorch, and was ready to leave when he paused, putting a finger to his lips. “You know, I almost never do this, but—”

  Booker grabbed her face with both hands, pulled in opposite directions until her mouth ripped back open, the tattered and bleeding flesh now caked with semi-dried clumps of glue.

  The woman gasped, taking in lungfuls of air as blood and vomit and saliva poured from her mouth like a dark brown soup. Chunks of it got caught in the ragged flesh where her lips used to be, and she thrashed as the stomach acid sizzled over the wounds.

  “Feel free to scream your lungs out,” Booker said. “Let’s see how sound-proofed this baby really is.”

  The woman began to shriek as he slammed the doors, then he put his ear up to the metal and listened. Didn’t hear a thing. It was like the van swallowed her up. Nice one, Rennie.

  He grabbed the shovel, slipped out of the blood- covered Tyvek suit, and walked about a hundred feet into the woods. There, he dug a small hole about two-feet deep and buried the balled up suit, covering the freshly turned soil with leaves and branches.

  Satisfied, he returned to the van and drove away. An hour later, starving and parched, he stopped at the Quik Stop.