Good Home Cookin': A Novel of Horror

by Christian Burch

  A light moaning issued from under the tarp. Gabe whistled as he hopped into the bed of the truck, looking upon the outline of the man under the tarp as it moved slowly. The squirming stopped as Gabe let loose with a few swift kicks to the general area he assumed was the man’s stomach.

  “I know you can hear me. If you so much as move a finger, or make a sound, I will gut you like a pig and dump your body in the water for the gators. You understand?”

  A nod brought a smile, and he kicked him once more for good measure and to make his point.

  “I said no moving,” Gabe said with a snicker. No movement this time. “Glad we understand one another.”

  Opening the passenger door, he withdrew a stained, wooden baseball bat. “My trust is the one thing you do not have,” he whispered.

  Humming, he skipped back to the end of the truck, twirling the bat in his hand. He swung the bat down with enough force to make sure the guy was down for the time being. No movement or noise. Gabe didn’t want him waking up while in transport to the restaurant.

  * * *

  “This is ridiculous. I told you we shouldn’t have let him drive himself.” Gary said, leaning against the side of the van.

  “Bullshit! You’re the one who went all googly eyed over the new ride like a high school girl picking out her prom dress,” Jerry said from his position sitting on the ground to the side of the club entrance. “How much longer do we wait before we cancel the gig?”

  They were supposed to be on stage, opening with the first song, in thirty minutes and Dylan was a no show. Cancelling a show never looked good and reflected badly on the band. It meant refunds, pissed off fans, and taking a venue off the list of places to perform at. A no show brought about a resolute ‘fuck you’ from the owner and a bashing of your name to every person they knew.

  Rob didn’t understand it. This wasn’t typical behavior of Dylan. Getting obnoxiously drunk during a performance was one thing, not showing up was a different animal altogether.

  “He’s never flaked on a gig before guys,” Rob said with concern. “I hope nothing happened to him.”

  “You know he’s probably shacked up at some bar around here, throwing them back as usual.”

  The doors to the club burst open, releasing a cloud of smoke mixed with the noise of a packed house. Framed in the smoke was a portly looking man. Seeing the band, the owner hurried over, his stomach drooping over his belt from one too many beers. Dark purple dress shirt, top two buttons open giving a glimpse of a gold chain nestled in his chest hair, started off the laughable ensemble. Topping it all off was a pair of tight black pants, and sunglasses hanging from his collar. His face was flushed with what one could naturally assume was anger.

  Jerry stifled a laugh and turned his head to the ground as Gary whispered to Rob, “He’s all yours bud!”

  Chapter 8

  It felt like his head was splitting in half. Dylan wasn’t stupid and heard his assailant whisper to himself before taking a deep breath. The bat glanced his head and met the floor of the bed. That’s the only reason he was still conscious. Had it been slightly higher…

  It took every ounce of his will power to stay quiet and not react to the pain radiating from the cheap shot. Fortunately it was only a few seconds before the truck’s engine roared to life and they were moving. Rolling his neck carefully from side to side hurt but he had range of motion. It would be tender for some time but he would live. Every bump sent new waves of pain through his body. The chance for escape would come and he would pounce on it. His fingers found the bat that the guy had dropped next to him.

  That was a mistake Dylan would make sure he paid for in full.

  The truck turned slightly, pitching him into the side of the bed before it hit what could have been a ditch or small animal. This guy’s driving skills left much to be desired. Biting down on his lip helped him stay quiet. He wasn’t sure if the windows were down but that’s the last thing he needed at the moment. Surprise was going to be in his favor and he intended to take advantage of it. He hunkered down, preparing to launch his attack when the tarp was removed.

  * * *

  The truck slid to a stop, and he heard his cargo slam into the back of the cab.

  “Hope that didn’t hurt too much,” he muttered to himself as he opened the door.

  The squeaking was loud and on a frequency that would make dogs go berserk. Considering the condition of his pick-up, Gabe really shouldn’t complain. The dark blue paint had become more of a pale misty color and was peeling in multiple places. The engine had started to issue an annoying clicking sound when the speedometer went over thirty. Probably a sign of trouble brewing, but fixing the truck wasn’t at the top of Gabe’s priority list.

  “I got us one,” he hollered, knowing one of his family members would hear him.

  His mom was probably in the kitchen getting it prepped, his sister cleaning and setting up the dining area, and his dad… tucked away setting up his work space. The store room was connected to the restaurant by a short hallway and held all of their food stuffs: flour, cooking oils, utensils, sugar, produce, etc. There was a large refrigerator that currently was stocked with chicken breasts, fresh fish, various vegetables and condiments, and two containers of meat from Gabe’s last prize that would be used for appetizers. It wasn’t enough to shake a stick at which was why he had to go out tonight. Once a week was normally enough but it just depended on the person’s size, and how busy the restaurant was.

  Steaks, and the Jameson special were popular items on the menu so they had to keep the meat in stock. There were times where Gabe had moments of doubt about what they did but his father had a way of squashing them… quite forcefully.

  A light came on in the store room so Gabe turned his attention to unloading his cargo. The tarp got hooked on something near the front of the truck and it wouldn’t budge. He hauled himself onto the bed of the truck to get better leverage and pulled again.

  Chapter 9

  The footsteps came around the bed of the truck on his right side and he wrapped his hand up in the edge of the tarp next to his face. The other held the bat firmly and he waited. The first tug wasn’t hard. The following one nearly tore his arm out of the socket but he leaned into it, easing the pressure. The truck sank down lower on the tires and Dylan knew the man was in the truck with him. Opening his hand freed the tarp and he took a two handed grip on the bat, anxious to see the face of his captor.

  The tarp flew off fast and he saw the man’s balance falter. It’s what he was counting on. Tucking his feet under him, he shot up and swung the bat upward with all of the strength he could muster. Slipping on the tarp robbed some of the force and momentum away from the hit but it still did the trick. The man’s head snapped back with a crack and his body tumbled backwards out of the truck.

  He heard a door open from his right and didn’t risk a glance in that direction. Head pounding and feeling slightly dizzy, he kept his hold on the bat and seized his chance for escape. Jumping over the left side of the truck, he pumped his legs and took off towards the safety of the woods. The distance was closing fast and he urged his body forward. The yell of anger and confusion from behind him only fueled his adrenaline and speed.

  Chapter 10

  Jameson’s anger exploded out of him in a roar at the scene that greeted him upon stepping through the door of the store room. His son was on the ground, not moving, and a person was running at full speed for the woods. It wasn’t hard to surmise what had led to the current predicament.

  A moan from his son answered the question on whether or not he was dead. Not that he would be too terribly upset, just meant for an increased work load on himself. Approaching his son, he shook his head in disbelief at his failure.

  The vague outline of the escape artist disappeared into the tree line. Face scrunched in pain, his son sat up and reached a hand to him. He swatted it away with disgust.

  “Worthless. You have one fucking job to do and you manage to fail at that. Now I’ve
got to go clean up after your mess. What good are you to me if you can’t carry your own weight?”

  Turning his back on his son, he strode back to the store room without giving Gabe a chance to defend and explain himself. A few seconds later, Jameson emerged from the store room, rifle in hand, and a determined look on his face. Gabe staggered to his feet, gingerly touching his jaw which ached something fierce. The guy had got quite the drop on him.

  “Go inside and help the women. Do you think you can handle that you dumb son of a bitch?”

  Gabe stood an inch or two taller than his father but the man still intimidated him. The look of hurt on his face disappeared, replaced with one of hatred and violence. Jameson’s back was to him as he trekked towards the woods.

  “Asshole.” Gabe couldn’t believe the word had come from his mouth but a part of him was proud.

  Jameson stopped and shot a glance over his shoulder.

  “What did you just say?”

  Gabe stood to his full height, puffed out his chest and repeated himself. Louder this time, “I called you an asshole.”

  Faster than Gabe expected, his father rushed him and hit him in the gut with the butt of the rifle. The air burst from him and he wavered on his feet, pleading with his body to stay upright. The last thing he wanted was to appear any weaker to this bastard who called himself a father. His knees buckled but he caught himself before falling on his face. Taking short breaths kept the pain to a minimum.

  A scream exploded from the woods interrupting his father’s current course of action. Gabe closed his eyes and thanked the stars for the reprieve.

  “We’re going to have a long talk later about your lack of respect.”

  Chapter 11

  Branches snatched at his clothing, and scratched at his arms and face. The more distance he could put between himself and these people, the better off he would be. The dark restricted his vision to just a few feet in front of him but he was afraid to slow down. He avoided colliding with a tree at just the last second due to blind luck more than anything.

  The direction didn’t matter at the moment, as long as he continued to move at a steady clip. He was bound to come upon a place to seek help from.

  A biting pain and twist from his right ankle brought him crashing to the ground. His adrenaline was soaring and he tried to get back to his feet but felt a searing pain in the lower part of his leg. Dylan’s mind had trouble believing the images it was being sent.

  The flesh of his leg above his ankle was flayed open to the bone and caught in what seemed to be a bear trap. Blood poured through his fingers as he frantically tried to pull at the teeth that were currently sunk into his leg. They moved apart an inch, then two before sliding through his bloodied fingers to close again. He screamed to the open sky as they scraped and ground on bone.

  * * *

  Jameson had strategically placed bear traps in a two mile radius around the restaurant. Sometimes an unlucky animal or two got caught in them but that wasn’t their purpose. This wasn’t the first time a person had tried running from them and he was prepared for any unforeseen circumstances.

  It wasn’t hard to determine the direction of the scream because the person was making a hell of a lot of noise. Not that he could blame him. The problem was that the more a person moved, the more damage was done by the device. The half-moon provided just enough light to see the young man sitting on the ground struggling with the bear trap. The ground around his leg was a dark crimson and his face was pale and sweaty due to the loss of blood. He was concentrating so hard on freeing himself that he had yet to notice Jameson’s approach.

  Without making a sound, he raised the rifle and sighted to the man’s chest, then fired.

  Chapter 12

  Droplets of blood continued to leak from his nose like a dripping faucet, collecting on the floor in small puddles. Gabe sat forward in the chair, hoping to keep the blood off of his clothes, waiting for his mother to come in with a towel so he could try and staunch the flow. It wasn’t his fault the guy took off running. He’d knocked him over the head with the bat prior to heading back home. You should have double checked when you parked the truck. You’re pathetic.

  He shook his head, ridding himself of his father’s scornful voice that was sure to creep back in later and fester like an infected wound.

  “Damn it,” he said harshly, as a few drops of blood landed on his pants.

  “Keep quiet Gabe,” a woman’s voice called softly from behind him. “Do you want your father coming back in here?”

  He tilted his head and sighed as his mother walked in front of him offering him a towel. Pressing it to his nose, he leaned back and glared at the ceiling. Images of causing his father extreme amounts of pain were racing through his mind like a torture collage. His mother knelt in front of him and took his free hand in hers.

  “He does love you Gabe, regardless of what you might be thinking right now. He just has those moments where he lets his anger get the best of him. Mistakes happen and deep down he understands that,” she said comfortingly, wiping a tear as it fell down Gabe’s face.

  She wore a vibrant yellow dress with a white apron over top. There were multiple red stains on the front of the apron. It would be another couple of hours before they would be ready to open for customers. Prep time was hard, long work but also the most fun… for the Rifflet family.

  “Eleanor, get in here. I need your help!”

  “Coming dear,” she answered, giving her son a loving smile before leaving the room.

  Hearing his father’s voice made Gabe grind his teeth. Jameson was harder on Gabe than he was on their daughter Elena, who was three years younger. She was his perfect little angel that could do no wrong. Gabe seemed to be nothing but a disappointment. Sniffing brought blood to the back of his throat and he spat it out on the ground instead of the alternative. He didn’t harbor a taste for that sort of thing like someone else he knew. Movement to his right brought a slight smile to his face.

  “Time to wake up my friend. You’ve rested long enough.”

  * * *

  His thoughts were a tangled mess of images, sounds, and words that wouldn’t come together to form anything useful. It felt like he was falling down a black hole with no hope of reaching the end. Voices called to him: his sister, his mom, Rob, Jerry, his ex-girlfriend Melissa, even his childhood friend Jimmy. The voices stopped as abruptly as they had begun. His eyelids fluttered as he regained consciousness. A voice spoke to him but he didn’t recognize it. Frowning, he struggled to clear his vision and place the figure standing before him.

  “Time to wake up my friend. You’ve rested long enough.”

  Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was…

  Pain pulsed in his leg. Thinking was proving difficult as he tried to produce enough saliva to wet his tongue so he could speak.

  “Where… what… happened?”

  The figure in front of him bent down and checked the rope that kept his hands bound behind his back. Another thick rope had his legs tied firmly to the chair. No response from the man. The fog in his brain was starting to break up. Parts of his memory returned but Dylan still couldn’t make sense to how he had ended up in his current situation. He vaguely remembered racing through the woods before getting tangled in the bear trap then black like there was a break in the film of his mind.

  Dylan was afraid to even chance a look at the damage to his leg but the need to know was overpowering. His vision blurred slightly as he glanced down and saw that his leg was wrapped in gauze. Someone had taken the time to treat his wound but it still throbbed.

  “The effects of the tranquilizer will wear off soon enough,” the figure’s voice broke through his pain addled mind, and he recognized the voice. The bastard who had kidnapped him.

  The room’s lighting came from two sources. One was a single bulb that hovered directly over Dylan’s head, and the other was from a lamp to his right that sat on what looked like a work bench of some sort. Sitting on the b
ench was a silver tray containing a variety of surgical tools: a hack saw, scalpel, gauze, and other instruments that caused his heart to skip a beat or two. Hanging from the ceiling next to him were two massive gray hooks. He didn’t want to dwell on what those were for.

  Dizziness settled in and he realized he’d been holding his breath while taking in his surroundings. Sweat trickled down his face as he tested the ropes on his arms and legs, hoping to find some wiggle room. His captor had made sure the ropes were tight but not to the point where they cut off circulation.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he shouted, “SOMEBODY HELP ME! FOR GOD’S SAKE, SOMEONE…”

  A filthy, stained rag inserted into his mouth cut off his screams and caused him to gag.

  “There will be none of that,” the man said, backhanding him across his face.

  Dylan’s head rocked to the side and he spit the disgusting rag onto the floor in defiance before beginning his screams anew. The veins stood out in his neck as he yelled like a man with nothing left to lose. Neither one noticed the imposing shadow that was standing in the doorway to the room.

  Gabe scrambled to put the rag back into his mouth and received a vicious bite on his hand for the trouble.

  “Fuck!”

  Jameson strode into the room, shoved his unhelpful son out of the way, grabbed Dylan by the back of his head, and brought his eyes up to his. Dylan’s protests were stopped by the feel of something sharp and metallic against his tongue.

  “If you say another word, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the stray dogs while you watch.”

  Shifting his eyes down gave him a sickening view of a long blade resting in the corner of his mouth.