Death Row Apocalypse

by Mackey, Darrick

  The source of the pain came from two rows of shoelace-thick black cord stitching. Each stitch of the cord was buried deep into her skin and was overlapped by the next stitch, creating a crisscross pattern half an inch wide. The pattern extended from the base of her throat and ran down between her breasts, across her navel, and reached all the way down to her pubic bone. A second parallel row of crisscross stitching mirrored the first, extending identically in every way, and spaced exactly one inch from the former. Ten chrome ringlets were evenly spaced along the parallel tracks, five on each side, with each ring tied intricately within the crisscross weave. In addition to this there were another six chrome ringlets. Three rings had been anchored deep into her chest, running vertically either side of her chest bone. Blood trickled freely from each stitch and each ringlet and was kept company by sharp pain as she drew in every breath.

  Lisa tried to scream as her mind attempted to make sense of the impossible vision before her eyes, but no sound came. The gag successfully kept Lisa mute and added to her panic. In desperation she struggled against the restraints that anchored her in place. Raising her body on her elbows, she put all her strength and weight into the effort and was rewarded with nothing more than bruising her wrists and ankles, and allowing her vision to take in the room in all its gore. She froze as her mind tried to shape and bring meaning to what her eyes focused on. Her brain quickly and correctly identified a large can in a corner with dismembered arms and legs hanging over the sides. Blood covered the room from floor to ceiling, which was adorned further still with pieces of flesh. Her heart sank, and with her mind teetering on the edge of sanity, the realization of where she was became all too real.

  In the silence of the room, she cried a muted cry. Hot tears flowed in rivers as she sank into despair. Alone, naked, and cold, and more helpless than an infant, she lay there on the cold table, knowing without question that she was the next girl to disappear; to be hacked apart while alive, then delivered to her distraught mother in a few plastic carrier bags was the only future before her. She would die in this place and didn’t—couldn’t—understand the reason why. Her life had resulted in a total sum value of zero.

  A door behind her opened, and she heard someone approach. Lisa tried to turn her head to look at her kidnapper but faced instead a damp cloth. She tried to scream. Panic, fear, and an ultimate knowledge that it was all over for her now were too much to take. She lost control and involuntarily relaxed, flooding the table with urine before succumbing to a chemical slumber for a final time.

  Sheer and utter agony pierced her mind and racked her body, dragging Lisa’s consciousness into the evening sun. Beyond the pain and agony that threatened her conscious mind, she felt the warmth of the sun’s rays hit her body for one last time. As Lisa opened her eyes, she saw that she was far above a rich emerald grass, and she wondered briefly how the grass could be so vibrant. She was supported by half-inch black nylon rope, attached to ankles and wrists and pulled tight so that she was spread-eagled. Attached to the six ringlets that were anchored to her ribs and ten ringlets embedded within the stitches were another set of ropes, which hung loose and led first to the trees either side of her and then down to the ground. Below her and in front were two large men, one of which held a camera, while the other held on to a set of ropes that ran from him to Lisa but first to the trees either side of her. Lisa was no longer gagged, but the pain was so intense that she could barely breathe, let alone cry out in any way. She wanted this to be over, and she willed herself to simply die, but her body refused to comply.

  Lisa’s final voluntary motion was to raise her head to the setting sun one last time before she passed from this world, but as she did so, the man that held the ropes pulled with all his weight and strength combined. Her skin stretched as it was pulled from either side, and rivers of blood started to pour from her open wounds. Years working out in a gym with massive weights had increased his body mass and strength to almost superhuman proportions. Even so, the man strained for all he was worth, until his head looked like a ripe zit ready to pop.

  The skin running the full length of Lisa’s torso was stretched so far that it simply tore, at first only by a little, but then like a zipper being drawn. The tear separated the two sets of parallel stitches, opening her up like a torn shopping bag.

  The chrome ringlets were anchored behind and around her immediate ribs, so that when, with the power he exerted, her ribs were pulled outwards and to the sides, they snapped away from the central breastbone.

  The simultaneous “unzipping” of Lisa, along with cracking her chest wide open, resulted in a horror spectacle that none could have imagined. Everything within Lisa’s torso emptied out in one go. Ripping away from her body, her internal organs hung suspended, until the falling mass of intestines picked up enough inertia to pull the remainder of her innards out of her now-deceased carcass. The thwak and splat of her internals were caught on camera, along with all the previous preparations and especially the footage of her being “unzipped.” All of which would appear on YouTube the next morning. Needless to say, death came mercifully quickly to Lisa.

  Her corpse too would be discovered on her mother’s property, but for her, the parts were placed in plastic carrier bags beside her body. Here again, the first to discover the gruesome scene was one of the early-morning reporters. At the very least, her mother now had her daughter back, and would be able to grieve over her loss and visit her grave from time to time.

  It was only a week or so later, after number thirteen had been discovered, that I’d been given the location of the final two members of Ms. X’s cell.

  I watched and waited for three days from my vantage point across the lake. There had been very little to write home about. In fact, the only sign that someone was at home was smoke rising from the chimney and the lights turning on in the evening. I hadn’t seen a single silhouette from anyone inadvertently passing between the lights and the curtains. So I continued to watch and wait.

  I thought I was in for the long haul as I waited into day three. My vantage point was a hide made from a wall of brush, which I sat behind in relative comfort and was almost directly opposite the two-story house about one and a half miles from my position. I had a one-man microtent, a sleeping bag, and enough provisions for about a week. The CIA had been generous this time, even to the point of supplying me with the aforementioned tent and supplies. They had assured me that the final members of the IKSM cell were for the time being alive and well, enjoying a late-spring break here by the lake.

  It was early May, almost two weeks after the indescribable murder of victim number thirteen, Lisa. Her remains had been dumped at the entrance of her home early in the morning. Someone from the paparazzi had discovered the Wallmart-style plastic carrier bags containing her remains in the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately, Lisa’s family got to hear about the discovery while they watched the breakfast news as they ate. It took all of five minutes from the time that Lisa’s unceremoniously deposited remains were found to the moment the discovery was beamed live all over the state. The press were like highly trained ninjas, but instead of being deadly assassins, they were skilled in the art of news gathering and broadcasting. The end result was the same, though: shock and awe, death and despair, and always leaving the witnesses and viewers damaged in some way.

  It was just a few minutes past six in the morning, and the night sky had somewhat dissipated into a twilight state. Through my binoculars, I checked the house on the far side of the lake and found that the kitchen lights were on. The view was not clear by any means. If any of you know Ocean Pond, then you know how the moisture in the air hangs over its expanse this early in the morning. The house occupants intrigued me somewhat, as they were not usually early risers. In fact, most days they did not appear to rise until midmorning. As I watched, I could just make out the forms of two men leave the house and get into a white paneled van. They then drove toward National Forest Road and disappeared from view. It was time for me to mo
ve, and, grinning to myself, I thought of all the fun that was yet to come.

  I was once again assured that the properties either side of my targets were closed for renovation and had been that way for the past two years. I wasn’t worried about witnesses, as this too had been taken care of. It was a win-win situation.

  Apparently, the owners had run out of the necessary funds halfway through the costly renovations and so decided to put their projects in mothballs, as it were. This was the first blatant lie that the CIA fed me. Little did I know that my pet project today was under more surveillance than the City of London. Two full CIA and FBI tactical teams had set up shop in both of the neighboring properties. It was only later that I discovered this, and the fact that I was to be the leading actor in the movie they were shooting would seal my fate. In any case, this movie would end up NC-17 rated.

  I parked my rental car in the neighbor’s driveway, making sure it could not be seen from the road. Not forgetting my bag of tools, I slung it over my shoulder and headed for the rear of the property. As I walked into the clearing at the property’s rear, I noticed ropes of different sizes hanging from two trees about four yards apart and almost slipped over in what at first I thought was mud. I crouched to take a closer look and discovered the remains of thick coagulated blood. The weather had been unusually dry the last couple of weeks, but even so, for blood to have lingered for two weeks in a forest with a diverse range of insects was almost impossible. I wiped the soles of my shoes on some long grass as I approached the rear porch and ascended the wooden steps silently, but still managed to leave bloody footprints behind.

  The inside of the house had been lavishly decorated. Whoever had furnished the property certainly had a few dollars spare to invest in sprucing up the old place. The CIA had provided blueprints of the structure, including photos of each room, but no matter how good the photo or photographer, it’s never as good as being there yourself. I decided to take myself on a little tour, starting in the basement, where I knew that the terrorists had spent countless hours destroying innocent children. As I approached the basement door, having already descended a dozen or so steps, I could smell the copper-rich air, which hung like smoke and caressed my senses. “Hello, old friend,” I said to nobody. At the base of the door was a thick bathroom mat, its dark stains giving silent narration to the macabre scene behind it.

  Pushing the door open, I saw . . . nothing. The stale odor of human waste hit me first, and I found myself gagging a little as I tried to breathe. The room was in total darkness, but I managed to find the switch and brought light to the room, and I almost wished I hadn’t. The sight before me was, even for me, amazing, with the remains of sliced and diced children covering not only the floor but also the walls, where small pieces of flesh clung. Arterial blood spray covered all four walls, including the ceiling. In the far corner of the room was a trash can with a blue plastic liner. From it, partial and fully intact limbs threatened to fall out. The trash can was full and must have weighed some two hundred pounds. Around its base both new and old blood alike had been spilled or leaked from it.

  In the center of the room stood a waist-high table, its surface stained forever with the life fluids that had seeped into its porous grain. Around the legs and under the table were dozens of cords, plastic tie-wraps, and ropes. All were severed after performing their function, then discarded to the floor, along with the sticky remains of countless young lives. In the far right-hand corner of the cellar a waist-high pile of clothes was gradually growing toward the ceiling and had already made almost half the distance. Against the far wall and mounted on a tripod was a Sony digital video camera. This was most likely the camera they used to capture and edit the video before uploading to YouTube. The room was artistry the likes of which I had only ever imagined. Its purity and honesty would have touched my soul if I had one.

  I vowed then that not only should these two die, but they should be made to pay in kind, and I would entice and encourage every ounce of pain from their bodies before they croaked. They deserved my respect, and I would show them my trade, and we would as brothers bathe in blood. It’s just a shame that they were . . . well . . . religiously fucked up.

  As I left the room, the sense that these two were not artists but were maniacs killing for fanatical reasons started to soil my opinion of their work. And by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, I had developed a new opinion, and I was happy to once again be clear on what needed to be done.

  As I made my way upstairs to the upper floor and headed for the bathroom, I realized what the issue was with me: it was the children and the innocent. I discovered, as unlikely as it sounds, that I actually have a sense of right and wrong. Okay, maybe that’s still somewhat of an exaggeration, and perhaps it’s not as evolved as the average human being’s, but still, this was a positive thing for me. Having showered, I toweled off and dressed myself in a clean set of clothing that I’d brought with me before returning downstairs and making breakfast for myself. I may as well have a good breakfast; it was going to be a long day, and I’d need the energy to get me through.

  The sun had set and with it the light from the brilliant day faded quickly behind the horizon. Glaring headlights darted this way and that as the white paneled van hugged the edge of the winding road through the forest. As the van approached the house, darkness had fully engulfed the isolated homestead and literally swallowed the white van as it came to a stop, turning its headlamps off.

  The cloud cover was absolute. Every celestial body was shrouded in black velvet—that was, until the brilliant white light of the van’s interior light blazed through the pitch-black night, illuminating the immediate area. Having pushed aside the sliding side door, two men carried the limp form of a young woman out of the van and dropped her to the gravel road surface. The larger of the two picked the woman up and flipped her over his shoulder like a jacket. Both then made their way up the steps and into the house without saying a single word to each other. As the door closed behind them, it seemed to the rest of the world that it had just been excluded from a party it had no right knowing even existed. The absolute dark that was the night drew in to literally smother the house, where even the powerful electric lights emanating from the rooms could barely penetrate the night outside.

  Turning on the lights, the two burly men carried the limp woman between them into the cellar, even though any one of them could have carried the woman easily enough on their own. They dumped her body unceremoniously on the bloodstained table and began cutting away her clothes immediately, using knives that had been strategically hidden at the center of their backs, held in place by the thick leather belts. They worked away, removing layer after layer of clothing, until the woman was totally naked.

  The two men began to sweat, at first only a little but then profusely. Two minutes later, and both men lost the ability to think, to stand, and to act. Like a pair of drunkards, they struggled to stay upright and held on to the table for additional support. Both men dropped together almost simultaneously, the first having collapsed after his knees buckled beneath him. The second went down with a little less finesse and struck his chin on the table, breaking his front teeth and severing a good portion of his tongue. Fresh bright-red blood pooled around his head as he finally passed from consciousness, having barely registered the loss of his tongue.

  I had watched the two arrive in their van and had planted the gas canister in the cellar shortly before they entered the house. My friends from the CIA assured me that the odorless gas was powerful enough to take down a herd of elephants, let alone the budding Schwarzeneggers. Having heard the minor commotions coming from the cellar, I assumed that the gas had done its job, so I walked calmly down to the basement.

  Donning the provided gas mask, I carefully pushed open the door to the cellar and took in the situation without taking one step further. Both terrorists were down and out for the count. For once the CIA were 100 percent true to their word; the stuff had really worked quite well. One of th
e terrorists had obviously gone down the hard way. I could tell by what looked like a severed tongue, plenty of blood, and some tooth fragments. Stepping up to the fallen duo, I kicked both men in the face just to see if they were really unconscious, and they were. So I kicked once more, but a lot harder, just for the fun of it.

  On the bloodstained table lay their latest victim. Not as young as their normal catch, but still very good looking. The woman’s chest was gently rising and falling, and I couldn’t help check her out. She was young, maybe twenty-five or so, and had a body that most guys wouldn’t mind going to prison for. I swear she could probably turn a nun to lesbianism. She was lucky, she was still alive and would be home by tomorrow, with only a few bruises and a great story to tell her grandkids one day.

  Carefully I lifted her and put her down beside the cellar door, and then I undressed the two thugs and secured their hands and feet together using thick plastic tie-wraps. I then secured the first thug’s left wrist and foot to the second thug’s right wrist and foot. Using the plentiful supply of rope that was down here, I secured their remaining limbs, pulling tight on the rope so that both men were now spread-eagled on the cellar floor with no chance of escape. Having finished with the preparations, I located the gas canister, which was hidden beneath a pile of children’s clothing, and shut off the valve. I really didn’t fancy being the victim of my own trap. Taking some extra ties and leaving the basement door wide open, I then carried the woman upstairs to the master bedroom and placed her on the bed. With her hands and feet securely fastened to the bed frame, she would wake later, confused and scared but alive and well. As I threw the bedcovers over her naked body, I couldn’t help but notice that she had a strawberry-shaped birthmark on her upper right thigh. Lifting the covers to expose her thigh, I took a second look at the fruity mark—sue me; I’m a guy. Closing the door behind me, I left her to sleep off her chemical slumber and headed to the kitchen.