Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  Pulling my arm from her body, I stepped out of the bathtub, and she slid a little further down the length of the bath. As her head began to disappear underneath the water, I tenderly placed one hand under her neck to prevent it from going underneath, an action which I have to admit was a strange thing to do. She was dead, so why in God’s name did I do that? It wasn’t as if she could possibly drown.

  The bathwater was now a deep maroon, and its luscious color reminded me just how thirsty I had become. Ms. X’s silky jet-black hair floated in the water like fine strands of oil, along with her bobbing intestines and buoyant breasts. It was a strangely peaceful scene, and one that I had thoroughly enjoyed creating. To be honest, earlier when I saw that she had very little time remaining in this world, the urge to punish her for hurting the boy had hit me hard. I’m not used to emotions that intense and couldn’t resist the temptation in stopping her heart with my bare hands. Maybe I’m more human than I thought.

  Ms. X’s skin, once dark and exotic, was now pale and lifeless. As I write this, I wonder whether the dead prune up in the same way as the living when they are submerged in water for long periods of time. I could kick myself for not having waited a little longer to find out. Instead, I pulled the plug and watched patiently as the bloody water drained away, leaving her somewhat bloodless corpse lying in the bottom of the tub. The bathroom was now my playground, and as I pulled her from the tub, the last rivulets of pinkish water disappeared from sight as they flowed away. It was now time for my fun to start in earnest. The plan was daring and would likely be exhausting. In any case, it certainly would be a challenge, even for me.

  My objective was to remove all of her internal organs piece by bloody piece. For the budding morticians amongst you, I started with removing the transverse colon, followed by the small intestine. As these are rather long, I cut them at regular one-foot lengths, and though I was careful I still managed to spill digested contents over the floor. I should have thought further ahead and taken a mask with me, for the smell coming from the intestinal remains was almost too much to bear. Pushing on with tears forming in my eyes, I placed the segmented parts into the trash bag and breathed a massive sigh of relief when I had thrown the last of the foul-smelling organs into the bag. In a similar fashion I continued removing and cutting away each organ in turn, perhaps not with the skill of a surgeon but certainly as effectively as any mortician. Working up and into her body cavity, I removed the stomach, spleen, and liver, then also placed these in the growing trash bag. With no small amount of effort, I reached up and into her chest, and with both my hands deep in her chest, I worked blindly. I relaxed and, laying my head on her cooling breasts, I finished slicing through each of the large arteries to finally liberate her heart.

  Had I not killed her, she would have in all probability lived a long and healthy life. Her heart was free from fatty tissue and looked to be in prime condition. In fact, had I been so inclined, I’m sure it would have tasted very good. The final hurdle was upon me now: removal of her lungs was indeed a challenge and would have been better met with a bone saw to cut open her rib cage. Nevertheless, I removed each of her lungs and dumped them into the trash bag with only relief on my mind.

  This was the first time I had ever attempted such a feat. Removing all the internal organs was fascinating, and I had thoroughly enjoyed getting my hands dirty. As I sat on her hips, her still-warm bodily fluids covered my arms, feet, and calves. I felt the irresistible urge to rub the tacky fluids into my skin and bathe in her remains. But I resisted that particular temptation, no matter how tantalizing the prospect. I promised myself that next time I would do something a little less extravagant, or maybe I should bring a couple of beers with me and make a night of it.

  The thought of a cold one sent my taste buds tingling as I pulled myself away from Ms. X. Even though I’d managed to drain most of her blood while she lay in the bathtub, there was now a red sea covering the tiled floor. It was covered, and I was covered. How the hell Dexter ever managed, I really had no idea, but now I had to move all her parts downstairs.

  I was running out of time rapidly. Already the evening’s entertainment was taking its toll on my reserves and left me feeling like I’d been running a double marathon! Daylight would soon be approaching, and along with it there would be visitors, so I placed her body, along with the bag of internal organs, onto a large beach-size towel and dragged the bundle downstairs, leaving a red stain on the polished wood behind me. Into and across the living room I dragged the bundle and headed toward the main entrance. I checked my watch; it was 5:30 a.m. The time was passing way too fast. Where the hell had it gone?

  Leaving the bundle by the main entrance, I returned upstairs, taking the steps two at a time whilst being careful not to slip on the smeared blood. I reached the bathroom and climbed into the shower. A five-minute shower would be all the time I could spare, but I still managed to clean away the night’s work while avoiding the temptation to extend the shower and soak in its glorious heat. Drying off, I then put my clothes on and made my way back to the living room, grabbing my jacket on the way.

  I had planned on leaving her corpse inside the house. However, the thunder had stopped and so had the rain, which seeded another idea. It struck me that perhaps Ms. X should be a little more exposed. This would accelerate her discovery and perhaps make the event a touch more public and gruesome.

  Opening the main entrance to check on the conditions outside, I saw that the weather had indeed changed for the better and would allow for the final scene to be painted with my mental image. The early signs of dawn were rapidly approaching, and so without wasting another second I dragged the bundle out onto the driveway and deposited Ms. X on her back dead center on the drive. I positioned her corpse so that she formed the shape of a crucifix, with her feet pointed toward the sidewalk and her head toward the house. Then, taking the trash bag containing her internal organs, I literally poured them from the bag, covering the area from her feet down toward the sidewalk. When I’d completed the task, I turned to take in one last view of my handiwork. Not bad, I thought. The internal organs leading to the sidewalk were indeed the icing on the cake that I had imagined. There was no way anyone was going to avoid seeing the grisly scene.

  I took the file from my inside jacket pocket. I had grown fond of the instrument and carried it with me as a matter of course these days. I held her head up with one hand and slammed the file fist-deep into her crown. As always there was that brief crunch, followed by a faint squelch, as the brain meat parted to accept the file. I had become highly proficient with this method, to the point where I could perform the strike one-handed. I never missed the sweet spot ever! Moving the file in small circles, gradually getting larger, until I hit the familiar barrier, where the file rasped against the inside of her skull, I continued for one more rotation and then stopped. Looking into her now-boss-eyed gaze, I kissed her cold, lifeless lips and let her head flop down like a rag doll’s, hitting the concrete with a painful-sounding crack.

  I left the house—a house that no real estate agent, no matter how good, would ever be able to sell or, for that matter, even give away.

  That day I slept the sleep of the dead as my body recovered from the physical exertion of the previous night. While I had enjoyed every aspect of the hit, I realized that if I wanted to carry out physically demanding hits, then I had to get fit. I considered this as I turned on the TV and sipped a freshly made cup of tea. I switched through the channels. Each news channel was reporting my mischief from the previous night. Ms. X’s house was surrounded by police keep-out tape, while a massive throng of onlookers mulled around, looking to get a better view of the slaughterhouse. One live segment showed several white-faced agents leave the house in a hurry, stopping briefly to vomit on the lawn before heading toward their cars. Forensic investigators in protective white suits could be seen entering and leaving the house carrying plastic bags. Several investigators were using shovels to pick up Ms. X’s various parts and deposit th
em into larger plastic bags, through which the blood-soaked meat could be seen pressed against the thin, almost-translucent material. One investigator tripped and spilled the contents of his bag on the sidewalk for everyone to see, and a TV reporter’s camera zoomed in on the offal. The resulting image of Ms. X’s stomach and intestines could only be truly appreciated on a high-definition 4k display. The clumsy investigator then tried to place the parts back into the bag by scooping the internal organs by hand. He retched several times before completing the slippery task. Frankly, I was surprised that the station was allowed to broadcast this amount of detail—surprised but also pleased.

  All in all the story had exploded. It had literally gone viral, hitting both conventional news outlets as well as online ones. Within only a few hours the news had reached every corner of this world. The killer had been identified as the same serial killer responsible for the Blender Butchering—i.e., me. No funny puns or ridiculous one-liners were generated this time. This murder had horrified everyone, and later that same day digitized photos leaked onto the Internet, displaying the bathroom just how I had left it. There were also a couple of images taken with Ms. X lying on the driveway, looking skyward with her comical boss-eyed gaze. Deep down I suspected that the images had not been leaked at all but had purposely been placed on YouTube by one of Ms. X’s group. Either way, I really didn’t care who had released them to the unsuspecting public. It no longer mattered to me; it was business, and the first member of the cell had been disposed of.

  An all-out police hunt for me ended almost as fast as it had begun that same evening. With no witnesses and no prints left behind, the police had very little to go on, and I later found out that my friends from the CIA may have had something to do with the lack of evidence at the scene. In any case, it seems my CIA friends were happy with my work. During the police search, investigators had discovered a cache of photographs and plans in the house, detailing some of the cell’s most recent terrorist activities, and had put two and two together to finally add it all up correctly. They closed the recent case of the kidnapped and dismembered boy and broke the news to the press that the cell leader, Ms. X, was responsible. They also explained and confirmed that she was now the victim of the serial killer known as the Blender Butcher.

  Interestingly enough, during a live conference with a leading psychologist, the news channel reporters then started to suggest that the Blender Butcher was in reality a vigilante of some kind and not just a serial killer. I turned the TV off after they began talking about costume designs.

  Ms. X had been discovered early Saturday morning by one of her many associates, guaranteeing that my employer’s message would be relayed and received by the cell. One by one this cell would be taken out by yours truly. It’s an interesting fact that man has an innate ability to deal with conflict. He’ll cross the line and kill, often without a moment’s hesitation. But when faced with a real monster, he will run and hide in fear. It was now their turn to live in fear. Some ran, some hid, but eventually I would track them all down one by one. They would all meet their end, and I would start with the man who had discovered her body. His details had been given to me, along with the congratulatory note from the CIA, which simply read, “FUCK!!” Apparently I had shocked them as well.

  Chapter - 10

  - Video Nasty -

  As soon as Eddie rose from the dead and started his frenzied feeding, everyone in the viewing gallery became glued to the horrific scene that played out before them. The only sounds coming from them were of disgust as blood sprayed and tissue tore. They, of course, cried out to warn the guards, telling them to get out, but the guards could not hear their warnings.

  Eventually, when all the occupants of the chamber had been reborn as zombies, they entered the executioner’s chamber and disappeared from sight. The camera crew and old couple were given a very welcome break from destruction. Just as it is impossible to draw one’s attention away from an accident in progress, so the gallery occupants were unable to pull their attention away from the mind-fucking devastation in the next room.

  The crew checked their cameras while swearing and questioning:

  “Fuck, did you see that?”

  “This is big! Real big!”

  “This can’t be fucking real!”

  The old couple just stared at each other’s ashen faces, then back to the abattoir before them. Suddenly the awful din of the prison sirens erupted. The deafening noise interrupted the relative silence, terminating the short interlude rudely. Conversation became impossible in the gallery as the wail threatened to shatter eardrums indiscriminately. The old couple had gone immediately to the door, seeking to escape the mind-numbing volume, but found it locked shut. The prison alarm system was designed to lock the gallery in case of any security alarm activation, thereby protecting the occupants against any possible inmate attack. The old woman began yelling, then bashing her fists against the solid door. Her husband joined in with the effort. Even so, their combined thumping was still in vain. The door remained where it was and may as well have been a mountain for all the good the bashing on its surface did them. The camera crew had placed their hands over their ears in an effort to shut out the piercing noise but failed dismally to keep out the dreadful din. The crew had watched the old couple try to get out and were obviously aware of the security measures that were now in force, as they made no move to assist them, and besides, they were more interested in recording and broadcasting the nightmare in the adjacent room than making an escape to safety. They watched and tracked Lucy with their cameras as she exited the executioner’s room, quickly pulling the door closed behind her. Everyone wondered how she had managed to avoid being slaughtered by the manic zombies, and they watched as she turned and froze, taking in the gruesome scene before her.

  Lucy quickly snapped out of her daze and sprang toward the door, slipping on the thick maroon blood covering the floor. She tried to keep her balance, but her arms and legs seemed to have a mind of their own as she fought to remain upright in her panic to escape this chamber of hell. Off balance and totally out of control, she hit the tiled floor hard, splashing blood down her blouse. Her eyes were wide in terror, and rivers of tears burnt into her flesh as she scrambled on her hands and knees through a thick mixture of bloody fluids toward her immediate salvation, the exit.

  The small audience watched as the emergency response team arrived and stopped at the execution room door. They were outfitted with black helmets with transparent visors, elbow- and knee-protection pads, a baton, and lastly three-foot riot shields. The warden could have imagined that since the guards were fully prepared, they were ready, willing, and eager to give the troublesome inmate a good beating. They stopped abruptly at the door, though, as the first two guards took in the view, then promptly turned away. One guard vomited, immediately creating a flowing multicolored pizza on the inside of his visor, which he had forgotten to raise prior to the eruption. While he tried to wipe the greasy spew off his visor with his gloves, the others from the four-man team took turns to look inside the chamber. Managing to keep their lunches firmly in their bellies, they then carefully crept into the room, pulling out their riot batons and raising their shields to prepare for a battle they could not possibly win. As the four entered the chamber, they kept to the wall opposite the executioner’s room and gallery window. The guard leading the team scanned the room for any sign of life, especially the convict variety. His eyes briefly fell on the corpse before him, and then he made eye contact with Lucy, who was on all fours and currently making a beeline for the exit. A look of horror covered his features as he took in her appearance. She was covered in blood from head to toe. Her face was a vision of pure terror. Her tears had created long, dark rivers that now streaked her perfectly applied makeup. The leader of the group motioned for her to cross over and come to him, but she shook her head and pointed back toward the executioner’s door, unable say anything and unwilling to stick around any longer than absolutely necessary.

  Lucy
was about to finally leave the execution chamber when the alarm was silenced. The din of the siren was Withd by the howling and banging coming from beyond the door to the executioner’s room. She stood and turned one last time before leaving, and saw that the guards had taken up positions outside the executioner’s room and were preparing to open the door. As one guard tried to open it, it was slammed shut, having opened barely an inch. Again he tried, and again the door was slammed shut. A second guard joined him, and they worked together, pushing with their combined weight and strength against the door. It finally opened in spite of the zombie’s impacts, and they charged into the room literally headfirst. The remaining guards, true to form, were at their backs in no time, and they all moved as one into a hell that there was no coming back from. Their fates were now sealed forever.

  The feral growling and roaring that could be heard belonged only to the most vicious of creatures, creatures that had no right to even exist. Those sounds emanating from the executioner’s room suddenly ceased and were immediately Withd by the screams of sheer terror and pain coming from the guards. One by one the screams were silenced, until the only sounds from the room were of ripping flesh and chewing. These were oddly similar in many ways to the sounds a big cat makes when tearing apart and devouring an antelope or other such animal.