Consumed - Volume 1: An Extreme Horror Anthology.

by Kyle M. Scott

  He could still remember the beating he too - each burning lash of the whip, the exquisite parting of his flesh and even the smell of his freely flowing blood. It was a memory he would return to in moments of loneliness for comfort and peace. Mother had never come to realize he enjoyed receiving pain with almost the same dumb enthusiasm with which he enjoyed inflicting it. For Roland, it was simply another means to be close to her.

  ***

  Roland sat in his cave, watching the rain fall through the narrow entranceway and listening to the wind whistling amongst the pines; allowing his thoughts to become lost in his memories. He felt a keen and bitter loneliness these days, and he was hungry…always hungry

  Since Nathan had lost half of what passed as his brains on that campsite floor, the forest had become a far more dangerous place to hunt. There had been manhunts for months afterwards as word reached the local community of a clan of monsters running wild in the deepness of the woods. Eventually, of course, the searches and the panic had died down to become mere rumor, and life had gone back to some sort of normalcy for Roland and his poor mother. The hills were far less populated in the days and months that followed Nathans demise, save for the occasional thrill-seeking teenagers who entered the woods looking for proof of the local legend – ‘The Tennessee Terror’.

  They often found that proof, and a whole lot more besides, thought Roland, smiling.

  At least those kids had provided a source of nourishment. At least they had done that. The last year had seen the hills bring forth an ever diminishing choice of prey. Mother had said that all legends fade away after time, and that’s just what Roland believed had happened. The thrill-seekers lost interest, and the locals - knowing the woods could house many deadly things - knew better.

  This winter had been the worst though; an unending struggle to survive the harsh and bitter cold and scrape through on the miserable rations they could scavenge. Their hillside sanctuary lost all of its warmth and comfort, and had begun to feel like a tomb. Roland and mother had fed when they could on the creatures of the forest, and had managed to etch out an lowly existence for themselves, but the lack of man-flesh was becoming very telling on both their psyches and their health. Roland had become far thinner, much quicker to anger and had great trouble thinking, or holding thoughts.

  As for Mother… well, Mother had simply ceased to be sane.

  He’d often wake at night to find her babbling to herself in strange tongues, or masturbating with whatever bone she had left over from the previous night’s measly meal, pushing the bone deep inside herself and grunting like an animal as she did so. Frequently, on returning from yet another unsuccessful hunt, she’d be found doodling on the cave walls with her own shit; whistling as she worked her feces into the stone.

  The final straw had been when he’d awoken one winter night to her screaming, and found her gnawing off her own fingers, one by one. The screams alternated with moans of hungry satisfaction and she swallowed the flesh she’d ripped free with her broken teeth.

  She’d already worked her way through three of the gnarled, stunted digits, and was hard at work on the forth, when he’d rushed for her, and in his fear had yanked her to her feet and attempted to bring her to her senses. She had laughed as he cried; and even as he slapped her across her cheek and, when that failed to bring her to her senses, he’d smashed her face into the hard stone to shut her up

  She laughed even as blood dribbled from her ears and her skull cracked open like a rotten, bloated melon. She’d laughed all the way into oblivion.

  Later, when all the commotion was over, Roland had learned, to his great surprise, that his mother had died while pregnant with child.

  The child, of course, was his. That had been four weeks ago.

  The meat had kept relatively well.

  ***

  And now here he was, gnawing on the last of his own mothers withered feet. There was nothing else left of her, though she‘d been as useful in death as she had become in life. Her flesh had sustained him this far, but now…now he was right back to where he started.

  He glanced over at the pile of stripped bare bones, at his mother’s caved in skull, and sighed. It had truly been a rough few years. He missed his family dearly. His loneliness was growing to be all-encompassing. And his stomach….his stomach was growling like a wild dog.

  Roland lay his head down on the soft sheets that lay spread across the caves surface and drifted with his dark thoughts. Where to go from here? His family all gone, his home nothing more than an empty shell full of stinging, hurtful memories and his belly a clutching, cramping, constant reminder that times had to change. In time, his thoughts turned to all he‘d learnt from his magazines and picture books. To those fast, whizzing metal beasts called cars. To the Cinema and its moving pictures and endless magical adventures. To long journeys on the choo-choo train, traversing the great American landscape without moving a muscle. It would all be so fun.

  Most of the only fun Roland, or his brother Nathan, had ever truly enjoyed was in the simple act of fishing; something their mother had taught them very early on in life. The small river where they had fished and found sustenance in their happier, boy-years was all but a swamp now. A man-made oil slick, fit for no living creature, and certainly not fit for hunting. They had often thought of moving onto pastures new, to cleaner, deeper, greener lands where they could hunt freely and live off the land. Of course, that had never happened. In the end, they had to stay close to Snivilisation, because, after all, human flesh was the most tender and delicious of all meats.

  And hunting humans was even more fun than hunting fish.

  The morning dwindled by slowly as Roland journeyed down the half-remembered highways and byways of his addled mind. Morning turned to day, day to dusk, and dusk into a cold, starless, and seemingly unending night.

  His hunger was becoming a serious problem now. At regular intervals, he could feel the sickening, familiar agony as his stomach snarled, twisted and raised its hackles in anger. He hadn’t shit in three days. Not enough meat in me to even do m’business, he bemoaned.

  Roland, after much dull consideration, decided enough was enough. He would feed, and he would do it any way necessary. It was in his desperation, and in his hunger, that he hatched his plan.

  ***

  With hurting muscles, spinning head, and a heavy heart, he rose to his feet and fought the demons of exhaustion. He lit one of the torches he had always kept handy just inside the caves walls with his lighter. A device he had procured from a man named Harold. He and his brother had brought the nice man back home one night, despite his protestations. They had talked for long hours with the man, even though the man had seemed fearful of them and not at all too talkative. They had learned much of Harold’s life; his children, his job, and his home.

  They had talked and talked until boredom and hunger chased away humor and curiosity, and when they eventually came at Harold with knife and axe, they had made sure to kill him quick. One blow through the center of his skull had turned Ben from friend to food supply. And he had felt like that, like a friend.

  Perhaps Roland could make more friends like Harold.

  With his light in hand he made his way to what he liked to call his ‘toy store’. A small enclave at the very back of the den where he stored his many cherished toys. All those wonderful, strange little ornaments from the world beyond his own, that had so fascinated him for so long - dolls, small plastic cars, a bike, something called a ‘camera’ (which he’d never figured out how to use), and a whole plethora of clothes, torn and bloodied from countless nights of rape and dismemberment.

  It was to the clothes that he was headed.

  From the witching hour till the onset of dawn, Roland tried on a variety of outfits which he thought may be fit for his plan. The many children’s clothes were obviously no good, and much of the adult clothing looked like those of a child when adorned on his massive frame. It was a long, arduous task, but with time and perseverance, he fina
lly found what he was looking for.

  Now all he needed was some money. And he had plenty of that.

  ***

  He sat on the cliffs edge, where he had sat so many nights before, and watched the first light of the coming sun slowly begin to illuminate the small town below. How many nights had he and his brother sat here watching the color run back into the world? They were plentiful, he knew that much. It made him smile at the thought…he telling stories from his books, and Nathan laughing alongside him, perhaps at his well-told-tales, perhaps at some drooling phantom thought in his own head. It hadn’t mattered. They had been together.

  Of course, Nathan would look down on the small town and its inhabitants with fear. And with Snivilisation seeming even more alien to his brother than it was to Roland, he would curse those down there, as would a mountain lion curse a herd, grazing across wild waters, so close yet so far. Those people down there were prey when alone or in small numbers, but in large groups - as Roland had assured him they were in the larger towns - Nathan had seen them as something to be feared. Accursed food, so close yet forever out of reach.

  Roland had no room for such fears anymore. He had only room in his head and in his heart for hope…

  ***

  The town was deserted as he made his way across a small stream and nestled himself among the close-grown trees and bushes that served as a border between the concrete world and the threshold of the wilds. He was close enough now to see that he was wrong in his assertion that the streets were empty of life. A few people were going about their day at this early

  hour. A man strolled by Roland’s hiding spot, unaware of watchful eyes as he puffed on his pipe and blew clouds of smoke in the air. Two elderly women stood side by side at the far end of the street, deep in conversation about subjects that he suspected would be way outside his thinking, while their two dogs shit by their sides in unison. Other than these early rising folk, he may as well have been setting foot into a ghost town.

  These lonesome denizens of the dawn only held Roland’s attention momentarily, as his eyes set on an even more fascinating sigh - the streets themselves.

  There was a wonderful display of dolls of all shapes and colors in one window. Another was adorned with countless bottles of ‘alcohol’. He’d tasted many of these and even though they made him feel funny and a little sick after a while, he liked the taste very much. Here, there was wine, whiskey, vodka, and many more bottles he had never laid eyes on before. Over the street and to the south, yet another window boasted rows and rows of ’magazines’, similar to those he had back home. Some of them with cartoons on the front, and some with pretty women, (the likes of which he’d seeded and eaten only very rarely).

  He had never, ever been this close to Snivilisation, and in being here, he felt a keen surge of fear and excitement, not unlike that which would overcome him on the many campsite raids he and Nathan had enjoyed. He wanted to dive in; to revel in this new, strange land of plenty. He could bathe in wine if he so wished.

  The strolling man had long since passed by now, heading to whatever wonders awaited him over yonder hill, and the two women were still lost in their own little worlds, as Roland gazed with eyes anew on the wonders that sprang at him with every turn of his head.

  In the shade of a doorway directly in front of where he crouched, with the stillness of a long time hunter, stood a large, round bellied man dressed all in white, and the man was unmoving. Roland quickly recognized the man as being made of plastic and only pretend, and he understood that the word above the door, ‘Barber’, meant that this was a place where men came to have things done to their hair. He had of course, seen many strange ‘hairstyles’ before, and as scalping was something of a pastime for his dear departed mother, there were even a few of them adorning to the cavern walls as decoration back at home.

  Without knowing, his misshapen hands ran through his own hair. Long strands of his filthy, dirt-caked mane stretched and pulled apart as he peered out into this wonderful new world. He wondered whether he could have a hairstyle for himself.

  Before long, the inevitable pull of his hunger snapped him out of his reverie, and his fleeting good mood passed him by. He must eat. And it was just at that moment that, like a portent, a sight befell Roland like none he had ever dreamed to see in his life. A sight that he’d marveled at for hours at a time in his picture books and magazines. A building of a very particular kind...

  Lights burned bright through the windows, revealing a veritable wonderland of vegetables, meats and beverages. Pretty clothing hung on plastic women for all the morning to see, and above it all, written in bold, blood red, was a sign. It read: Alistair’s.

  For the first time in his natural life, Roland’s sloping, bulbous eyes gazed upon a convenience store.

  And all his remaining apprehension fled.

  ***

  Jerry couldn’t give a rat’s ass about groceries. Or stock taking for that matter. His fuck-head of a father had set him up with this damned position straight out of high school and, this miserable town being what it was, with no jobs and less opportunities, he had been stuck in this damned dump ever since. Still, it paid for his weed, and it was always nice to have a little cash to throw at the ladies.

  Not that Jerry was in the habit of treating the ladies to long drives and candlelit meals. Fuck no! The pittance Jerry earned each week working at Alistair’s was put to far better, far more effective use. His technique was simple, too.

  Buy cheap liquor, find young girl, lie his way into her confidence, and then ply her with all the booze the bitch could handle. Get her good and wasted, till she could tell up from fucking down, and then have his way with her.

  Tried and tested, ‘The Jerry Method’, as he boastfully proclaimed it to his buddies, was fool-proof. The little sluts never knew what hit ‘em. And in a town this small, no little girl would ever want her proud Daddy or his drinking chums knowing just what she’d been sucking and fucking on the night previous. As a safety precaution, Jerry made it clear as crystal just what would happen to them should they decide to blab. They’d keep their damn mouths shut if they knew what was good for them.

  And so far, they had. There was no line of shotgun-toting rage-filled fathers knocking on the door of Jerry Osmond. No Siree-bob…not a single fucking one.

  Last night had been something of a letdown though…

  He’d been eyeing young Lucy Peers for a long damn time; ever since high-school, in fact. She’d been three years below him at the time, and was far too popular and above her station to ever even look his way, despite the age difference. As Jerry saw it, all the young pussy was looking for an older guy. It gave them status among their slut friends. You have an older guy banging you, you rise to the top of the witches coven. It was written in stone. Lucy was different though. The holier-than-thou little dick-tease had strut her stuff through the halls of Pinewood High like she owned the goddam place. Never once succumbing to Jerry’s many covert advances. Bitch thought she was too good for him, back then. That had all changed last night though.

  She was now in her last year of her fine hometown education, and no doubt looking to the future with hopes and dreams that reached far higher than this shit-pile town could ever provide. She’d come of age. And with that, she’d gotten horny.

  Not that she’d showed any signs of being horny, or of wanting Jerry when he met her at Bill’s house party, but he figured it was a given. She’d been doing the rounds when he spotted her. Flirting with the all the guys, and acting like her shit don’t stink none. She’d avoided Jerry at every turn, though he reckoned this was down to nerves. After all, he was a looker, and had been working out regularly since his high-school days. The sort of guy that makes a girl wet between the legs and dizzy in the head. He understood she probably felt intimidated by his presence. That was okay, he could wait.

  Sure enough, after a few hours and a few too many drinks, the bitch had overreached. She looked pretty fucking ill, in Jerry’s estimation, thoug
h, not so ill that she couldn’t or wouldn’t open her legs for a well-positioned knight in shining armor.

  He’d followed her outside as she stumbled into the cool evening air, presumably for a breather, and had offered her a ride home. She’d looked wary at first, sure, but soon Jerry’s soft spoken words of compassion and understanding had won her trust. The whole conversation had bored him half to deaf to be sure. He couldn’t give a lick-of-a-dick about her home problems, or her pending school finals. But he listened, and he smiled when required, and he let the prissy cunt spill her guts as only a drunken damsel in distress can; sighing when she unburdened her woe’s and laughing gently when she perked up. He was a good guy. It was obvious.

  In no time, he was parking his car at the side of the road, and offering her a night-cap before he dropped her off at home. As drunk as she was, the fresh air had took the edge off, and as she was clearly feeling a little less woozy, he’d assured her a few more drinks wouldn’t hurt. Like all the rest, she’d been more than happy to down a few free shots. Just enough to send her over the edge or reason, he reckoned.

  So, it had come as one hell of a surprise when things had turned shite-ways on his plan.

  There she was, drifting in and out of consciousness, when he’d unzipped his already rock hard junk from its denim prison, and pushed her head towards it, when she started to pull away from him! Somehow, even with a keg-full of beer and Scotch in her, the fucker had held on to her senses. Unbelievable!

  He’d spend a small fortune on the Scotch, at least half a day’s pay, and here he was - having to force the whore to suck his dick. And she had some fight in her too. Lucy, it transpired, was a regular fucking warrior princess.

  She’d kicked and screamed, scratched and punched, until the whole thing had gotten far too unsettling for Jerry. He was a man of simple needs and simple wants. This was fucking ridiculous. Where most of his conquests were docile and submissive by this point, this cunt was ferocious. It became all too obvious, all too quickly, that she was wasting both his time and his money, and was much more likely to bite his dick off than suck it.