by Bryan Smith
Bryan Smith
Queen of
Blood
This one is for my brother Jeff, a fellow pulp fiction junkie. Long live femme fatales, rumpled but tough private eyes, and old paperbacks with yellowing pages.
They Were All Dead.
And soon he’d be dead, too. He held out no hope of divine deliverance, harbored no illusions of the cavalry (police) riding up to his rescue at the last minute. Violent, painful death awaited him, probably at some point within the next few minutes. It was a strange and horrible thing, the idea of the remainder of your life being down to a handful of torturous minutes. Thinking about it elicited another helpless whimper. He didn’t want to die. Quite the contrary. He wanted to be around for many decades to come, even if that meant living with the guilt of being responsible for the deaths of his friends all that time. Yes, even then.
All he had to do was get to that axe.
Somehow haul his battered body upright.
And then be ready for the bastards when they came for him.
So he drew in a deep breath and began to crawl toward the axe.…
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
They Were All Dead
Part I : Blood Rising
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part II : The Crimson Highway
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part III : New Year’s Day
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Critics Praise
Other Leisure Books By Bryan Smith
Copyright
Headline from the May 1 edition of the Chattanooga Herald:
“HOUSE OF BLOOD”CONTINUES TO MYSTIFY
CHATTANOOGA, TN—Nearly a year has passed since the revelation that an old mansion high in the east Tennessee mountains for years doubled as a house of horrors and a prison for luckless travelers. In that time, remarkably few survivors of the so-called “House of Blood” have been willing to speak to the press.
The known facts are few. Authorities have been as unforthcoming with details as the survivors. The cloak of silence has fueled wild Internet speculation, including persistent rumors of a strange, perhaps supernatural element to the mystery. Many have claimed the house was ruled over by a centuries-old entity, a vampire, perhaps, or an alien creature masquerading as a human man, a man known only as “The Master.” And while it may be safe to dismiss these notions as obvious hoaxes and flights of fancy, the truth is they will continue to flourish so long as the public is kept in the dark about what really happened.
A month ago, this reporter set out to learn that truth, only to be foiled at every turn by a seemingly impenetrable wall of lies, misdirections, and general obfuscation. Each of the top law officers in the county refused to talk to the Herald for this story, citing the “sensitive nature of the ongoing investigation.” Authorities at the state and federal level also refused comment.
Repeated attempts to contact the handful of survivors who spoke with the media in the immediate aftermath of the “liberation” (as they called it) invariably met with the same stony silence. Dream Weaver, 31, is perhaps the best-known survivor. The stunning blonde was a media darling in those first weeks, but she has become as reclusive and elusive as Howard Hughes was in the latter stages of his life. She appeared on magazine covers and was featured extensively in television interviews. Late night talk hosts famously made fun of her colorful name. She eventually married Chad Robbins, 31, another survivor of the House of Blood.
Neither Ms. Weaver nor Mr. Robbins could be reached for this story. One source reports that Weaver and Robbins have separated, though the Herald has been unable to confirm this prior to going to press.
We also attempted to contact the man known as “Lazarus,” who functioned as a sort of guru to those imprisoned in the cavernous region beneath the infamous house, a place known simply as “Below.” He has been described as “charasmatic” and “almost godlike.”
He appears in only a minimal amount of news footage from that time, and even then only in fleeting glimpses, behaving, some say, like a man deliberately avoiding the spotlight. The blurry images of “Lazarus” have been analyzed and picked apart by legions of amateur online sleuths. One investigator claims to have identified him as a Virginia businessman missing since the early 1990s. Others insist the man is one of a handful of long-believed-to-be-dead rock stars, with the majority of theories centering around Jim Morrison and Elvis Presley. Though these theories are clearly absurd, they will continue to proliferate in the continued absence of any real answers. No one the Herald has talked to has seen or heard from “Lazarus” since shortly after the revolt at the House of Blood.
Most of the Master’s accomplices died in that revolt. However, two have remained missing and unaccounted for, Giselle Burkhardt and a woman identified only as “Ms. Wickman.” Though both women are regarded as highly dangerous (both have been on the FBI’s 10 Most Wanted List for several months), the Herald has learned that authorities are particularly keen to find Ms. Wickman, whose role at the House of Blood has been likened to that of an SS commandant at a concentration camp….
PART I:
BLOOD RISING
CHAPTER ONE
Five months later
Blood was everywhere.
Sticky gore was on his face and in his hair, hot little rivulets of it trickling down from the gash behind his ear and the larger wound at the crown of his skull. The salty tang of it stung his mouth. Dean wiped more blood from his eyes with a shaking hand and saw bright red splotches on the dirty hardwood floor of the old farmhouse. He lifted his head and saw yet more blood on the nearest wall, huge crimson smears. It looked as if a crazed housepainter had splashed several cans of dark red paint all over the fucking place. Here, in the foyer, all over the goddamned floor. On the front door. And over there, the staircase bannister, it was covered with a slick film of red.
...blood everywhere...
His blood. Some of it. More blood entered his mouth. Check that. A lot of it. Lisa’s blood. A fuck of a lot of Lisa’s blood. John’s blood. And don’t forget Debbie. Some of the biggest splashes had erupted from the stump of the poor dimwit’s neck when the crazy woman with the axe lopped her head off.
The air was pungent with the combined stenches of spilt blood and recent, violent death, with underlying aromas of piss and shit, the ripest of the latter emanating from the seat of his own soiled britches.
So much blood.
So much motherfucking blood.
Here.
There.
Blood…everywhere.
Then, the absurd capper to it all, the guitar riff from AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood, You’ve Got It” began to echo in his head. He closed his eyes again and gritted his te
eth, trying to will the old song away—but it just kept playing on an endless loop, that maddening, relentless riff and the dead singer’s voice on the chorus.
Over and over and over. Holy hell, how incredibly fucked up was that?
His eyes fluttered open again. Drank in the carnage again.
He heard voices. Muffled. He strained his ears and realized the sound was coming from outside. Then came an abrupt burst of mad laughter. The sound made him shake with fear and anger. How could anyone do the things these people had done and laugh about it?
But the answer was obvious. These weren’t just people.
They were monsters.
And any moment now they’d be back inside, back to finish the night’s grisly work. Because he was the only one still alive. He sniffled, the hard reality hitting him again. His friends were all dead. And they had died horribly. After hours of torture and unspeakable violations.
Suffering beyond quantifying.
The memory of the awful things he’d seen taunted him, a dark promise of the shape of his own near future. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, they’d saved him for last. He had been beaten. Tortured. Mutilated. Two fingers were gone from his left hand, the stumps a charred mass of blackened flesh where they’d cauterized the wounds with an acetylene torch. But they’d spared him the worst of it, measuring the pain and trauma, keeping him alive and forcing him to watch helplessly as his girlfriend was flayed alive.
He sniffled again, wiped more tears from his eyes.
Something glinted in the periphery of his vision. He turned his head slowly to the left, wincing as fresh jolts of agony sizzled through his body. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the axe propped against a side of a broken down old sofa in the living room. Lantern light flickered in the room. The old house had no electricty. The old Sutton place had been abandoned for decades. Once in a while kids from town would come here to party and fuck, but even that was a rare occurrence these days. The creaky, termite-infested farmhouse was just too creepy and gross a place to take girls. But tonight had been different, of course. What better night to visit the old Sutton place than Halloween, right?
It hadn’t taken much to convince the girls to come out here. The mood of the evening was just right. A clear night sky with a bright moon hanging overhead. A cool fall breeze rolling in. That and a few Corona Lights did the trick. How promising the evening had seemed at the outset. A creepy, fun Halloween with his best friend and their girls. There’d be more beers to drink. Some weed to smoke. Thighs and breasts to grope in the quiet rural darkness. Ghost stories to tell as the evening lengthened toward dawn. Just like last year at the lake.
Only not like last year, as it turned out. Not even a little bit.
He should have known something was wrong upon reaching the end of the old house’s long dirt driveway. For one thing, another car was already there, a gleaming black Bentley parked alongside the long front porch. The old car was no abandoned relic. Its windows were tinted. A silver hood ornament sparkled in the brilliant moonlight, as did the chrome hubcaps. The vehicle was immaculate in every way, and its sleek lines made it look vaguely predatory. The beautiful antique looked as out of place parked outside the old Sutton place as a supermodel in a room full of crack whores.
An argument ensued. They had come so close to turning around and leaving.
My fault, Dean thought, bitterness consuming him as he stared at the blood-smeared blade of the axe. I had to have it my way. Had to show them all what a big man I am. How fearless…
He’d argued more forcefully than anyone, bordering on belligerence. In the end the others gave in. They always did. They did it to shut him up, not because they’d been swayed by the strength of his arguments. If only they’d stood up to him for once. If only…
No.
He couldn’t let himself off that easy. Not now. And never again. They were all dead and it was all his fault.
And soon he’d be dead, too. He held out no hope of divine deliverance, harbored no illusion of the cavalry (police) riding up to his rescue at the last minute. Violent, painful death awaited him, and probably at some point within the next few minutes. It was a strange and horrible thing, the idea of the remainder of your life being down to a handful of torturous minutes. Thinking about it elicited another helpless whimper. He didn’t want to die. Quite the contrary. He wanted to be around for many decades to come, even if that meant living with the guilt of being responsible for the deaths of his friends all that time. Yes, even then.
All he had to do was get to that axe.
Somehow haul his battered body upright.
And then be ready for the bastards when they came for him.
So he drew in a deep breath and began to crawl toward the axe. I can do this, he thought. I have to do this.
His hands trembled as the fingernails of his right hand dug into the rotting hardwood floor. He bit down hard on his lower lip and suppressed another whimper. He willed his hand to be still and pulled himself forward another few inches. Then he extended his left hand and gained another few inches. That was harder. The mangled flesh there throbbed horribly. He bit down harder on his lip to stifle a scream. Teeth penetrated flesh and drew blood. The scream stayed inside him, a fire burning in his chest, aching to explode. He extended his right hand again. Then the ruined left hand. He repeated the process several more times, progressing with great deliberation but seemingly infinite slowness. It was maddening. The sheer frustration almost caused him to give up. Then he heard more muffled laughter and anger engulfed him again.
Ignoring the pain as best he could, Dean began to move faster, wriggling forward on bloodied elbows and slightly upraised knees. He began to make serious progress, passing through the archway separating the foyer from the living room. He focused on the bloody axe with a single-mindedness that allowed no awareness of anything else.
He began to grin as he neared the blade. Just a few feet away, now. And then he was there, an electric burst of triumph sparking within him as his right hand closed around the axe handle. He had it, his coveted weapon.
Now he just had to tap one last reservoir of strength, somehow get to his feet and prepare to make his last stand. And he would do it. By God, he would. He hadn’t come this far to punk out now.
He drew in another deep breath, steeling himself.
His grip tightened around the axe handle.
Then something flashed through his field of vision, a dark blur. He was aware of pressure on his wrist before his eyes could process the image of a woman’s high-heeled black shoe pinning his hand to the floor. Then the image crystalized, searing itself into his mind with blazing intensity. The polished black shoe was as elegant as the woman’s finely turned ankle. Black was her whole motif. Black shoes, black stockings, and black dress—a fitting wardrobe reflecting the darkness dwelling within the one the others referred to alternately as “Mistress” and “Ms. Wickman.”
She applied more pressure to Dean’s wrist, eliciting another sob.
Her laughter was soft and mocking. “Such a naughty boy. I suppose you imagined you might use this on me.” She wrenched the axe from Dean’s grip and tossed it across the room. It struck the far wall and clattered to the floor. “I hope you realize it was intentionally left where you might see it upon regaining consciousness.”
Dean wanted to scream, but he didn’t have the strength for it. His spirits dipped to their lowest ebb yet. There had never really been any chance for revenge. The hope he’d felt moments ago had only been an illusion. This whole exercise nothing but another sadistic mindfuck. A game.
Anger flickered within him again. He wrapped the remaining three fingers of his left hand around her ankle and attempted to twist her foot off his wrist. He burned inside with the need to topple her, get on top of her, rip her flesh with his fingers and tear her leering eyes out. But he failed to budge her even one millimeter, her leg as unyielding as an iron girder.
Her strength was unnatural. She was a slende
r woman, about forty, average weight and height. Not unattractive. High cheekbones, but a gaunt, almost ghostly pallor. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a bun, lending her features a slightly pinched, severe sexuality. A shade of lipstick so dark red it was almost black painted the thin lines of her lips, which were curled now in a disdainful sneer. So she was spooky looking, yes, but at first glance she had not appeared to be some kind of evil superwoman. Not someone capable of lifting a teenage girl above her head and throwing her clear across a room. But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Debbie flying through the air, then striking the wall and bouncing off it like a rubber ball.
It defied logic. It was crazy. Impossible.
But…
“You’ve underestimated me again, haven’t you, Dean?” She knelt down, pried his fingers from her ankle. “I’m going to hurt you again, child.”
An anguished, keening wail issued from Dean’s pulped lips. “Noooooo. Please…please don’t. I’ll do anything…”
Ms. Wickman snapped his index finger.
Dean screamed. His body convulsed as the pain arced through him, his feet beating a jittery rhythm on the hardwood floor. Through the pain, he was only dimly aware of the front door creaking open. Then there were voices. Those young people. Her followers. They were coming inside, no doubt drawn by the scream.
Ms. Wickman snapped the middle finger of his left hand. The scream this time filled the dust-laden living room like an explosion. He tried to get up. Pure pain instinct was driving him. But Ms. Wickman planted a knee between his shoulder blades and that was that. She was too strong. Stronger than any human woman should be.
“One finger left, one stubby little thumb,” she said, leaning close, her voice an insinuating, malicious purr. “I do enjoy your begging, Dean. Would you like me to spare this one?”
Dean thought about the way this sort of thing usually went in the movies. Your typical cinema hero, facing yet another round of torture, would spit in his tormentor’s face and say, “Fuck you.” Or some witty alternative.
