“You do realize people are going to come looking for me. My friends are probably already on their way here.”
A coughing fit took hold of Dylan and he tasted blood in his mouth. Not a good sign.
A deep laugh echoed through the room and Jameson’s face reddened as he turned around to face Dylan. He slapped his side, took a breath and continued his charade of laughter. As the last of the tranquilizer left his system, it was replaced with a white hot anger that reinvigorated him and he spoke loud enough to break through the mocking gales of laughter.
“Laugh it up while you can asshole. I may be as good as dead but I swear to God if I get out of these ropes I will kill every one of you sick fucks!”
The laughter stopped abruptly.
Dylan licked his lips and stared defiantly at Jameson. For a moment nothing happened. No one had ever spoken to him that way and he was a bit shocked.
“One thing that my kids were taught early on was respect. A lesson that you obviously failed to learn,” Jameson said softly as he walked over, a large carving knife held in his hand.
He knelt down to the side of Dylan and cut thin lines into the skin of his stomach. Rational thought went out the window along with part of Dylan’s sanity as he realized this could be the end.
Jameson’s attention was solely on outlining the sections of meat he was going to remove. Dylan’s head collided with Jameson’s face in a wet smack. Holding the left side of his face, Jameson staggered away. No broken nose but Dylan was satisfied at what little pain he could dish out.
“Most people beg for their life, cry, and whimper which can make this slightly bothersome,” Jameson said in a slightly amused tone. “You continue to resist and fight, which is going to make this next part more fun than usual for me.”
The knife plunged into Dylan’s side and began to cut downward. The breath expelled from his lungs in a pain-filled scream. With one hand Jameson tugged down on the skin and muscle, as the other continued carving. Dylan’s eyes rolled back in his sockets as Jameson stripped a six inch piece of his stomach away and placed it on a sheet on the metal tray. Jameson measured it at two inches thick.
“Perfect. Two more pieces should just about do it.”
Chapter 17
Thirty minutes later
Eleanor strode into the store room searching for more dough and flour for her pies. She did her best to ignore the heavy, labored breathing from behind her. The faster she moved, the sooner she could leave the room. There was a reason they each did their own parts. She didn’t have the ability to do what her husband did. The screams of pain would stop her. The nosy part of her directed her eyes to the chair in the center of the room.
Sweat dripped from his brow and coated his chest. His black jacket was torn and his leather pants were ruined. Blood leaked from numerous wounds and ran down the drain in the floor he was seated above. There were three significant hunks of meat missing from his abdomen that Jameson would use for the special of the day, aptly named “Jameson’s Catch”. Dark red gauze, previously white, was packed into the three deep wounds: two on his sides, and one in the middle of his stomach. The gauze was to keep him from bleeding out on them and being of no further use. Something they had learned the hard way early on.
It was amazing how much pain and suffering the body could endure and still function. The pain had to be excruciating. Eleanor wasn’t sure how aware he was or if he was even awake at the moment.
Ingredients in hand, she made her way to the door but a whisper halted her as she opened it.
“Why... don’t… you… just… kill… me?”
“I promise it will be over soon. Just close your eyes,” she said in a soothing tone.
His head dropped to his chest in defeat. Closing the door behind her, Eleanor hustled into the kitchen and bumped Elena with her hip as she passed.
“He’s fading fast but I’ve got to finish these damn pies. Can you go in there and get enough blood for the pasta sauce and the Gator Bite sauce please? And do try not to make a mess sweetheart.”
With a bounce in her step, Elena picked up a thin knife along with two medium pots, and headed to the store room.
* * *
Wasting no time, she placed one bowl in his lap and tilted his head back gently so that his head rested on the back of the chair. Elena walked behind him and crouched down, resting her chin on his right shoulder. She caressed his head, trying to lure his eyes open. His eyelids fluttered a few times.
“That’s it,” she urged, kissing his forehead then brushing her lips lightly against his.
Her hand checked for his pulse. Faint, but there. With one hand she lifted the pot up level with his chest. The other rested the blade against his exposed throat. She could feel the bristles of his five o-clock shadow rub against the back of her hand.
“I’ll make it as quick and painless as possible,” she whispered into his ear.
Epilogue
8:00 AM
Stale coffee, expired breakfast sandwiches and a cashier with an attitude created one hell of a combination for Warren. Three hours after responding to the call had resulted in nothing but questions and frustration. The footprints next to the wrecked car were not easy to follow and still didn’t explain where the hell the guy had gone. Inquiring to dispatch if any other officers had any glimpse of this Dylan Masterson had only sent his mind into more of a frenzy. People just didn’t disappear without a trace. This was real life.
Something didn’t sit right with Warren and he couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly what it was. Mac didn’t seem to care and wasn’t happy with the idea of digging deeper. As far as he was concerned, it was someone else’s problem now. Their shift was over.
“Seven fifty eight.”
Even the cashier’s voice caused his neck to spasm in anger.
“Really? That’s got to be a mistake,” Warren replied, looking at the old sandwich, coffee, and bag of bugles that Mac insisted he get.
“No mistake dude. That’s the total. Pay it, or leave.”
His attention was engrossed in the latest issue of Playboy he had open behind the counter. Warren could have had his pistol in the kid’s face and not gotten a reaction. He hadn’t looked up once since the bell over the door announced Warren’s presence.
The impact of his hand on the counter caused the cashier to jump and knock the magazine off of the counter. Warren leaned partway over the counter and roughly grabbed him by the front of the shirt.
“Listen closely you stupid, unaware son of a bitch. I’ve had a long week, been up all night, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your bullshit. I get enough of that from work. Either your register is reading the barcode wrong or you just don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.”
Warren pulled the punk’s face down to look at the items on the counter so he could get a close up view before shoving him back against the opposite end of the counter. Racks fell to the floor, spilling their contents.
“There’s a police discount. It’s on the house. My apologies sir,” the kid said, out of breath.
Warren would regret losing his temper later, but at the moment he felt terrific. It felt amazing to release all of his pent up rage from the past few hours.
“I appreciate it,” Warren said, gathering up his items as the bell dinged signaling the arrival of another customer.
Without another word, he walked past the newcomer hardly sparing a glance. Tossing the bugles at Mac, Warren started the car and backed out of the gas station.
“Was he any help?”
“That asshole in there wouldn’t have noticed if the building fell down around him.”
“So what’s our next move?”
There was only one place to stop to refuel, grab a bite to eat, or rest on the Alley and they were currently at it. Its location was approximately seven miles from the site of the Mustang.
“This isn’t your typical drunk driver scenario. He didn’t magically grow wings and fly away. The blood on the ground near the vehicle and the chewed up
tires are bugging the hell out of me.”
Warren slowed as an older looking restaurant came into view. A sign near the side of the road dubbed the place ‘Hunger Pains’.
“I guarantee you they’ve got better food than this shit,” Warren said, tossing the unappetizing breakfast sandwich out the window as he pulled in. “How do you feel about some good home cooking?”
Wondering What To Read Next?
First, a big thank you for reading my latest story and I hope it provided you with an escape or get away from the real world for a period of time. I would greatly appreciate it if you would write a review on Amazon. I can’t begin to explain how important reviews are for authors. If you would like to know about future releases, book signings, and get FREE STORIES, join my list and become a Horror Junkie here.
Dear Fellow Reader
Good Home Cookin’ was a hell of a story to write. The idea came to me a few years back when I was working on Haunted and just didn’t have the time to devote to it. I was working as an after care counselor for middle and high schooler’s at the time of this story’s genesis. We cooked pizza rolls, chicken tenders, French fries, etc. for the kids on some days. On one such day, one of them was messing around and as a joke, another student said, “You better stop messing around or Mr. Burch will use you for the chicken tenders.” Bam! Instantly the beginnings of the story you just read began to take hold. It started out as a mere short story and blossomed into a mammoth of a story.
This is the first of a series of novellas called Our Family Recipe. Part two is called For Here or To Go? and will come out in April. The third installment is called Order Up and will be out in May. If you would like to know about future releases, book signings, and random facts… follow me on Twitter and Facebook.
Good Home Cookin': A Novel of Horror Page 5
