Death City

by Sam West

  As he spoke, the image on screen cut to his handsome face once more. He was grinning at the camera, revealing straight, white teeth.

  “Who knows why I am the way I am? I’m not one for analysing myself too deeply, I suppose that there is just something missing from me, something missing from my genetic makeup. My parents are quite normal, I have never been abused or mistreated in any way, yet here I am, your bona fide, coldblooded psychopath. I look normal. I look better than normal, I’m sure you agree, and I have no problem attracting women, it’s keeping them interested that’s the hard part. One night stands are hardly a problem, but I confess, they do get a little tiresome after a while. And even if I do attempt going on a date, we never seem to get beyond the first one. I suppose I don’t like them in the conventional way, and none of them are interested in the real me…”

  Ryan’s onscreen face suddenly looked uncomfortable and the real Ryan frowned in confusion. It was at around this point that he had lost the thread and gone and ruined what could’ve been a beautiful introduction:

  “I mean, it might be quite nice to actually meet a woman who understands me. Somebody who gets me. Isn’t that what everybody wants, when it all boils down to it? That soulmate type of someone – someone who loves you for what you are, not despite what you are? It would be kinda cool to meet a girl like that…”

  Onscreen Ryan suddenly fell silent and then the screen went black.

  “Well, that’s just great,” Ryan grumbled to himself, staring in irritation at the blank screen.

  He was totally going to have to redo the whole thing.

  I’ll do it later.

  Holding onto the camera, he folded up the tripod and slotted it under one arm, then made his way across the living room.

  “Oh, what am I doing?” he said with a small chuckle.

  He was still wearing his clothes.

  Idiot.

  Resting the camera apparatus against the wall next to the living-room door, he quickly shrugged out of his plain white t-shirt. Next, he prised his feet out of his red converse trainers by stepping on his heels, then he unbuttoned his expensive, designer jeans that didn’t necessarily look expensive. Ryan may have been loaded, but his style was understated. He liked to look good, but at the same time, he didn’t want to go around dressed as immaculately as Patrick bloody Bateman, drawing attention to himself. Being a coldblooded psychopath was one thing but advertising this fact by dressing like the stereotype of one was quite another.

  Am I so coldblooded? he wondered.

  Because after watching that recording of himself, if he didn’t know better he would’ve say that he was going soft.

  It was just self pity, that’s all.

  But was it? There was no denying it, there was a part of him that was lonely – a part of him that thought it would be nice to share stuff with a special someone.

  A special someone who was into pain. He wasn’t thinking about that naff, BDSM bullshit – none of that crap with the role-playing and the whips and the leathers and all that other sad equipment.

  Ryan wanted the real thing. A girl who liked being beaten. Someone who would actually enjoy it when he used his fists on her.

  When he cut her.

  He didn’t suppose that a girl like that existed.

  Stop it.

  Assertively, as if to dispel the intrusive thoughts, he slid his jeans down his long, nicely-muscled legs, taking his snug-fitting, black undershorts with them.

  That done, he was ready. Scooping up his tripod and camera, he padded barefoot out of the living-room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Are you ready to be a movie star, Claire?”

  Claire, however, didn’t answer, she was too busy crying and trembling.

  He gazed thoughtfully down at her. She was leaning against the wall and shivering violently, dripping wet from the bucket of soapy water he had tipped over her in an effort to sluice away the shit.

  At first, he had assumed that she was shivering because she was cold and wet, but that couldn’t be it because it was warm down here in the basement. Not only that, the water had been warm as well. Not for her comfort, mind, but because hot water was better at removing lumps of shit than cold water.

  Something was wrong. Sure, she was drenched, but that simply couldn’t be why she was shivering so violently.

  This basement was warm in the summer, and cold in the winter. At this precise moment, it was the perfect non-temperature temperature – just right for his upcoming filming session.

  Only then did it hit him.

  She’s not cold, she’s running a temperature.

  Fuck.

  Now that he looked at her more closely, there was no doubt about it; in the fifteen minutes or less that he’d been gone, she appeared to have developed a fever. Her colouring was high, although it was hard to tell with how generally blotchy she was, and the bitch was positively rattling against the stonewall.

  Ryan gritted his teeth in irritation. This was just bloody marvellous. Shit, she had to be contagious, and the last thing he bloody wanted was a dose of flu.

  Too late now, you’ve already got up and personal with her. If you’ve got it, you’ve got it, nothing you can do about it now.

  But still. He was bloody seething.

  “Why, bitch, why? Why would you do this to me?”

  She didn’t answer, and just sat there rattling her sticky-out bones. Christ, she was looking less attractive by the second. Maybe he should just kill her now and be done with it. Chalk this one up to experience and next time, remember to start making his movies straight away before they lost their looks and got bloody sick on him.

  Selfish fucking bitch.

  He took a step closer, peering down at her. Gently, he prodded her with his big toe. She was largely unresponsive, her body slack and her eyes closed. She wasn’t asleep though, or passed out, if the little whimpering noises she was making were anything to go by.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered, turning his back on her and striding over to his camera equipment that he had dumped in the corner of the vast, barren basement.

  He began to set everything up, muttering to himself about how unfair it all was.

  “I expect you did this on purpose didn’t you?” he called over to her as he fiddled with the tripod. “Bloody women, how do they do it? They’ve got a bloody knack for ruining things.”

  Once the tripod and camera were set up to his satisfaction, he stooped down slightly and peered into the camera, making sure that everything was okay. Claire was nicely in frame, and he didn’t have to fiddle with the lighting settings as the overhead, fluorescent strip lighting illuminated proceedings just fine. In fact, it was perfect. The harshness of the lighting lent the whole thing an industrial, callous vibe, and a little shiver of pleasure coursed through him.

  It was fucking perfect.

  The smile dropped from his lips when he looked at the shivering girl; perfect, apart from the fact she was sick, that was.

  Sighing deeply, he went over to his toolbox and carried it over to Claire, making sure to keep it arm’s length from her, lest she should get any bright ideas like last time.

  The camera was now rolling, and a rush of sexual pleasure gripped him. His cock stiffened and he tingled all over in anticipation at what he was about to do.

  Opening the toolbox, he gazed misty-eyed at the array of tools within.

  “Choices, choices,” he murmured, his fingers hovering for a moment, before wrapping around a pair of pliers.

  Experimentally, he snapped them open and shut – snap snap, like a hungry little piranha.

  With his free hand, he reached out to fist the girl’s hair, irritation churning in his guts at the fact her eyes were still closed.

  He rattled her head. “Open your fucking eyes.”

  Or eye, rather, seeing as she could only open one, but he figured that would be nit-picking.

  She didn’t respond, and her shivering now appeared to be even more pronounced.


  His erection softened somewhat, but not completely.

  A low moan escaped her cracked lips, a foul stench emanating from her mouth. It was the stink of decay and…

  And what? he wondered.

  Decay and desperation. The stink of despair, he realised.

  And it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

  “Hey, Claire, want to make your movie now?”

  She just remained hunched over, her side mashed against the wall, shivering and whimpering like a beaten, rain-drenched dog, chained up and forgotten outside on a wet winter’s night.

  He fisted her hair and dragged her away from the wall, flexing his biceps for the camera as he did so, being sure to suck in his stomach so that his six-pack undulated.

  She was mostly floppy, still whimpering in that pathetic way. Roughly, he shoved her backwards so that she lay sprawled on the floor. Immediately, she rolled onto her side, curling into the foetal position and drawing up her knees so that they were level with her hips.

  Ryan, however, was having none of that.

  He pushed her onto her back, unmindful of the long chain that connected her ankles – the chain was long so that her legs were still able to be spread, leaving her always available to fuck. He straddled her stomach, and brought the pliers down to a nipple, gently sliding the opened blades over the puckered bud.

  But she remained unresponsive. The sweat that sheened her body and face was no longer in individual beads, but in one joined-up, glistening sheet. Neither was she moaning quite so loudly.

  It was as if she was fading away.

  Ryan slapped her round the face and her head snapped sideways. A low moan escaped her lips, but her good eye remained closed.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Then he closed the jaws of the pliers. The girl bucked, jerking as if she had been electrocuted, a fountain of blood erupting from her nipple.

  The rubbery tip dangled loosely from her breast, a smooth, red sheet of blood gliding over her breast and ribcage.

  Then, without warning, she projectile vomited. Some of it hit him in the chest, scorching hot, narrowly missing his face. It was streaked with blood, and wet strings of black that didn’t look at all right.

  And the foul stench of it made him gag.

  “Fuck!” Ryan shouted, scrambling to his feet. Where the fuck had that come from?

  He stared down at her, but now she was lying still, caked in that multi-coloured vomit. Her stomach could only be empty – and that vomit looked suspiciously like she had puked up her own fucking stomach-lining.

  Jesus,” he said, alarmed to discover that he was trembling.

  What in the fuck was wrong with her?

  “Claire? Claire?”

  Leaning over, he shook her by the shoulders, but there was no response. Her mouth hung open, dripping that disgusting shit she had just puked up, her good eye staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

  No. This couldn’t be happening.

  But it was.

  The bitch was dead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He shook her more vigorously, refusing to believe that she was actually dead. Her body wobbled like a ragdoll’s and a wave of anger crashed through him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to have many glorious hours together of torture and sex, but she had gone and died on him?

  “Wake up,” he screamed into her face. “Will you just fucking wake up?”

  And then he slapped her around the face – hard. Her head snapped sideways, the angry red imprint of his hand marking her cheek.

  “Fuck!”

  After that, things got blurry. The rage descended over him, a mist that clouded his brain. He wasn’t thinking straight as he laid into her with his fists. Each blow that landed on her face and torso had no effect – it was like hitting a punchbag made of flesh.

  Eventually, he stopped. Dismounting her, he sat on the floor next to her, panting loudly, his heart hammering. Only when he stopped, did he realise that he had been crying.

  Hastily, he wiped his eyes, glancing at the camera.

  Well, this movie has got to go…

  The bitch had gone and ruined everything.

  He remained sitting there, elbows on bent knees, head in hands, flaccid cock dangling between his thighs.

  He let out a shaky breath, feeling utterly stupid for shedding a tear. He had no idea why he had been crying. Disappointment, maybe?

  Just breathe, he told himself. You need to get your shit together.

  His thoughts turned to the clean-up job. There was always going to be a clean-up job, he knew this, hence he was in the basement with the easily cleaned, stone-floor.

  But still. He didn’t exactly relish the task that lay ahead – it wasn’t as if had gotten to do the fun part before the shit part. But first, he had to chop up the body. This was stage one of his disposal plan.

  Chop her up, put the bits in industrial-strength black sacks and burn her in the open fireplace over the course of the winter. Simple. The bones he would pick out and dispose of with the regular rubbish. Or maybe he would keep some of the smaller ones and make a necklace, or something. A souvenir. That could be cool.

  Just as he was thinking about the dreary tasks that lay ahead, a guttural moaning reached his ears, causing him to near jump out of his skin.

  “What the fuck…” he gasped, swivelling around and scooting backwards from Claire on his arse.

  He stared in disbelief at the woman who he had just violently attacked for daring to die on him before he was ready for her to do so.

  Except she clearly wasn’t dead.

  But that’s impossible.

  He had been so sure that she had been dead. But then, he reasoned, it wasn’t as if he had checked for a pulse, something he really should’ve done when she had fallen silent the way that she had.

  I am an idiot.

  Another wave of irritation washed over him as he appraised her body and face – because beneath the vomit, he had gone and ruined her looks before the filming had even properly started.

  But what the fuck is wrong with her?

  The uneasiness continued to roil in his guts. She was just wrong, there was no other word for it. The way she was snapping her mouth like that was just deeply weird. Just gnashing her teeth together, not chewing, exactly, but just kind of snapping. It put him in mind of a crocodile, and he shuddered.

  He gasped in shock when she lurched into a sitting position, swivelling her head to fix her one, good eye on him. That crocodile analogy further took root in his mind when he saw the cold, glassy cast to that eye – it was the look of a coldblooded, hungry predator.

  She lurched unsteadily to her feet, despite the beating he had given her. Incredulously, he watched her take a step towards him…

  And consequently fall flat on her face when the chain jerked against her ankle.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, truly stunned.

  She sat up once more, her expression unchanged, her mouth snapping at him. Once again, she got to her feet.

  Her body was kind of lopsided, like she had broken bones. Not that it seemed to bother her in the slightest. A low moan escaped her lips, but it didn’t sound like a moan of pain.

  It sounded hungry.

  If anything, it sounded like the moans of the zombies in the video game that he had been playing earlier.

  He studied her, cocking his head to one side. She stretched out her arms towards him, but this time she didn’t try to walk towards him… Like she had learned that she couldn’t.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Claire? Huh? What’s happened? Are you a zombie now?”

  He took a step towards her, just out of reach of her flailing arms, peering deep into her eyes. There was no doubt about it, she looked dead. Her teeth snapped at him, her mouth chomping on nothing, her fingers snatching at the empty air just in front of his face.

  “Are you dead, Claire?”

  Only one way to find out.

  Turning
his back on her, he made his way over to his toolbox, and pulled out the biggest knife in there – a hunting knife with a gently curving blade that was so sharp it could cut skin without applying any pressure whatsoever.

  He carried it over to Claire and stood before her once more, his head cocked to one side as she reached for him. He sliced at her hand, a great long gash appearing from the base of her middle finger all the way to the wrist bone.

  And not for a second did she stop trying to grab at him. His gaze fixed on the wound with interest. There was no explosion of blood, as one might expect, but more of a steady trickle.

  A great calmness descended over him as he put two and two together. The blood wasn’t gushing out of her because she had no blood pressure.

  She had no blood pressure because her heart wasn’t pumping.

  “You really are a zombie, aren’t you Claire?”

  With a nimble grace, he lurched forward and stabbed her in the chest, stepping back again at lightning speed.

  The knife, being as sharp as it was, slipped into her heart with ease. Once again, the blood didn’t spurt and pump, but just gently oozed.

  Her heart had been ruptured, but she was still standing.

  She didn’t die because she was already dead.

  “Well, I guess the zombie apocalypse is upon us,” he said to the girl. “Unless you’re a one off. But I doubt very much that you are.”

  He felt no fear, no anger or sadness, just an all-consuming sense of inevitability. It was as if he had always known. Like he had been waiting for this his entire life.

  “But what turned you?” he said to the dead-eyed girl with the snapping mouth and the blood oozing from her ruptured heart.

  It was that which troubled him more than anything. He had seen every inch of her body – she hadn’t been bitten before he had captured her. Something had turned her during her captivity in his basement.

  And during that time, the only thing that had passed her lips was tap water.

  Ryan never drank tap water, having always stuck to bottled water and coke. He drank coffee, but that was made with boiled water.