The Ferryman

by John E. Siers

  “Believe me,” he told her, “the news media will figure it out. If they can’t find you, they know enough to check with DHS to find out if you’re dead. DHS will tell them yes and give them the date of death, but no other information.

  “LifeEnders doesn’t keep it secret when they hit somebody, so the media will call here and get a ‘No Comment’—which is all they ever get from us. They keep trying, mainly so they can use it as an excuse to say you must have come here for a Ferry Ride. We don’t do real celebrities that often, but when we do, that’s the standard media playbook.”

  “I’m not that much of a celebrity yet,” she told him, “but I will be, starting around Monday. OK—are you ready to sign me up now?”

  “Yes, that pretty well covers it, except for one thing: How do you want us to do it?”

  He held up a hand to stop her immediate reaction. “You can leave that to us. Just tell us whether you want it quick and painless, slow and painful, or anywhere between those extremes; but if you have a specific method in mind, now’s the time to talk about it. Some things we don’t do, but I’ll let you know if you pick one of those.”

  She sat back with a thoughtful look.

  “I want to be impaled!” she declared.

  “Huh? What exactly…”

  “You know what I mean. I want to get speared, harpooned, whatever you call it, right through the heart. It’ll be quick, won’t it? I mean, one minute I’m standing there, the next minute I’m stuck to the wall, dead.”

  “Oh…for a second there, I thought you meant impalement—the medieval method of execution.” he replied. “Wouldn’t expect anybody would want to go through that.”

  “What’s that? Never heard of it.”

  “One of the nastier forms of execution. They would take the condemned prisoner and insert a long, pointed stake into his rectum. Then they would hoist the victim up, stick the other end of the stake into a hole in the ground, and lower him down onto it. The stake would drive deeper into the body as the victim slid down the pole.

  “Sometimes they would guide the stake along the victim’s spine, so it would miss the heart and lungs. Sometimes they would put a crossbar on the stake so the victim could only slide down so far, so the heart and lungs wouldn’t get pierced. Then they would just go away and leave the victim there, impaled on the stake. Historical accounts said victims sometimes took several days to die.”

  “Ugh…No thanks. I’ll just take the spear between the tits, thank you. That won’t be so bad, will it?”

  “It’ll be painful,” he said, “but it won’t last long. Trauma to the heart—a bullet, a knife, a spear, whatever—disrupts the blood flow to the brain. Most victims go unconscious almost instantly, due to shock. I’ve never seen anyone last more than 10 seconds or so.”

  “Yeah…that’s what I want.” She sat up in the chair, having to pull herself forward to let her short legs dangle over the front of the cushion.

  “In fact,” she continued, “I want it to be just like I saw in an old movie. I mean, it was a really old movie, probably 1950-something. It was about that guy Samson, you know—from the Bible. He was supposed to marry this girl, but something went wrong at the wedding. He got into a big fight and somebody threw a spear. He ducked, and his bride-to-be got it right between the tits—nailed her to the wall.”

  “He goes over to her later where she’s still standing, drooped over the spear. He grabs her by the hair and lifts her head up, and she’s just got this sad look on her face, like ‘Oh no! I’m dead’…now that’s the way I want to go out—stuck to the wall.”

  “Samson and Delilah, 1949 Cecil B. DeMille epic,” Mark told her. “Starred Victor Mature as Samson, along with Hedy Lamarr and Angela Lansbury. Both Lamarr and Lansbury were Hollywood sex icons at the time, but Lamarr got the title role as Delilah. Lansbury got the spear between the tits about halfway through the film.

  “But…” he cautioned, “you should probably consider that the spear-between-the-tits scene wasn’t very realistic,” he advised. “They actually placed the spear well below her tits, so she could slump forward over it. If she’d really been speared like that, it would have missed her heart and left her suffering in terrible pain for a long time before she died.

  “And that brings up another thing—Hollywood censors of the day wouldn’t let DeMille show any blood—especially not a woman’s blood. They were shocked at the very idea of a woman dying violently on the screen at all, but they let it pass, because the movie didn’t actually show the spear hitting her. The movie also made it look quick, painless, and most of all bloodless.”

  “Again, in reality, there would have been a lot of blood. By the time Samson picked her head up, the whole front of her dress should have been a bloody mess.”

  “Bottom line is, we can do that—spear you through the heart and stick you to a wall—but it will be a lot messier than the movie and will probably involve at least a few seconds of pain before you check out.”

  “I’m OK with that.” She nodded. “I just wish I could see it happen, you know, like up on the big screen—a starring role at last.”

  Mark thought about that for a moment. Hey…give the client what she wants.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he told her. “We’ll set up a camera and a large flat screen so you can watch it happen. Can’t guarantee how much you’ll see before it fades to black, but…”

  “That would be cool,” she said. “Now…where do I sign?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Honey Do

  Honey Ryder walked through the front door on schedule at 11 AM Sunday morning. Despite her haste to get it over with, she hadn’t asked for an earlier arrival.

  “Went to church this morning,” she told Mark. “Probably won’t help me in the end, but I had to do it anyway. So…are we ready?”

  “Yes…just need you to imprint the contract one more time.”

  She did so, and he got up to escort her to the x-room, where they’d set up the scene for her final performance.

  “I was wondering,” Mark asked, “did you want wear a gown like Lansbury had in the movie? Lisa thought you might, so she watched the movie and put together something simple that should fit you.”

  “Yeah…that would be pretty neat,” she agreed. “I seem to remember her boobs weren’t too covered up, and she had on some kind of filmy long skirt. You sure you won’t miss? I want it right between the boobs—I mean, don’t mess ‘em up…I paid too much for these things.”

  He heard the nervousness in her voice, but she didn’t stop walking.

  “Don’t worry…we won’t miss,” he assured her.

  He led her into the x-room to the little stage they had set up, where Lisa waited with the gown over her arm.

  “Is that my costume?” she asked. “Guess I’ve got to get naked—don’t think they wore underwear back in bible times.”

  She started stripping down. She was used to costume changes on Hollywood movie sets and showed no sign of modesty.

  “It’ll be quick, won’t it?” She turned to him as Lisa helped her put on the gown. “You promised it’ll be quick.”

  “Yes, it’ll be quick,” Mark assured her. “If it looks like you’re suffering at all, I’ll step in and put you out of it. We don’t let people suffer here.”

  Unless they want to, of course, and even then we limit it to half an hour. Nobody’s asked for a real impalement yet—not sure I’d do it if somebody did.

  Lisa led Honey to the little platform on the stage and switched on the camera. The large flat screen lit up and showed her standing there against the dark crimson drapery that covered the wall behind her. The makeshift gown was white with azure blue trim. A broad blue sash went around the waist, and the skirt just barely cleared the floor. The halter top was gathered by a band at the middle, displaying Honey’s spectacular cleavage to best advantage.

  “How’s that?” Lisa beamed with pride. The gown fit perfectly—she’d gotten a full set of Honey’s measuremen
ts from the security camera system three days ago. She’d produced the gown in half an hour on her cutting table and sewing machine.

  “Wow…” Honey stared at the screen. “That’s…amazing. I really do look like a star. Eat your heart out, Cecil B. DeMille…”

  “OK…step up here.” Lisa stepped forward again and adjusted Honey’s position on the platform, easing her back between two rods protruding from the wall.

  “Put your arms over these…think of them like staging marks, to make sure you’re in the right place.”

  She reached behind and attached wrist bands, securing the little woman’s hands behind her back—not too tight, but enough to make sure she would stay in place with her arms over the rods that protruded just an inch below her armpits.

  “Got to show off your spectacular hair.” She undid the clasps that kept Honey’s hair piled up on her head, with a fall trailing down to the center of her back.

  “Yeah…don’t forget that…” Honey’s voice was becoming more stressed. Unleashed, the full length of her hair cascaded down over her shoulders almost to the floor. Lisa gathered it around in front and arranged it down her sides so it neatly concealed the rods under her arms but left an unobstructed view of her chest.

  While Lisa worked, Mark made preparations as well. With the stage lighting her face and the rest of the room in darkness, she couldn’t see him as he uncovered the air cannon that would launch the spear.

  The rig had enough power to punch its custom-made spear through Honey and bury it inches deep in the heavy wooden beams behind the curtain. The barrel was angled downward slightly so her body wouldn’t slide forward off the shaft when it nailed her to the wall. The laser aiming device was dead-on accurate.

  Lisa stepped back off the stage and nodded to him. Mark checked the laser sight once more—a tiny green dot flashed briefly on her chest—then touched an icon on his pad. The screen faded to black, and music came up, a full-orchestra introductory theme he’d borrowed from one of the movies she’d been in.

  The screen came alive with a title and credits displayed on a parchment scroll against a crimson background. He’d gotten that idea from the DeMille epic they were imitating.

  The Final Curtain

  Starring Honey Ryder

  Charon’s Ferry Productions

  He looked at Honey, who was staring at the screen with a mixture of wonder and fear. The credits faded to black, the music reached its climax, and the screen dissolved into the live camera image. The expression on her face changed to sheer terror as she realized what was about to happen.

  “Nooooo…I don’t wanna die!” she wailed as he pressed the button.

  The cannon fired with a pneumatic thump that sent the spear streaking to its target. Her wail cut off as the four-bladed head tore through her heart, her spine, and the curtain behind her, burying itself deep in the wooden wall.

  Her legs kicked out convulsively, and the platform skidded out from under her, leaving her feet kicking the air six inches above the stage floor. She opened her mouth to scream, only to choke on her own blood. Suddenly her features relaxed and the last bloody breath came out of her. Her head dropped forward but didn’t quite touch the shaft of the spear. She stopped kicking, and her legs hung limp, her feet turned inward, toes pointed down.

  “And…fade to black,” Mark said. “Cut. That’s a wrap.”

  He stepped up on stage to survey the scene.

  “Not quite like the original.” He reached out and lifted her head by the hair to look at her face once more. In the movie, Lansbury’s eyes and mouth had been closed at the end. Honey’s were wide open, and her terrified expression was a long way from the soft, sad look the movie star wore in the scene.

  And then, of course, there was the blood. The spear wound had produced a lot of it, soaking the front of the sash and skirt. The spear had also cut cleanly through the halter in the front, leaving Honey’s blood-spattered breasts on full display.

  Censors would have freaked back in 1950, Mark thought with an amused chuckle. Not quite like the original, but far more realistic—probably too much realism even for today’s movies.

  In the modern age of computer-generated special effects, movie producers tried to shock viewers with displays of bloody violence, but most—in Mark’s experience—fell short of reality. The Hollywood assholes would probably puke and piss and shit themselves if they ever actually saw the real thing, he decided.

  “Nicely done,” Lisa remarked.

  “Dead before Monday,” Mark said, “as promised. Let’s get her down from here.”

  “Why do we love it so much?” Lisa asked as they surveyed the scene after sending Honey to the tank. “I don’t mean the sex; I mean the actual killing. I have an orgasm—or something very much like it—every time I hit the button to drop somebody. I didn’t have one the whole time the bikers were raping me, but I had one when I shot them…and yeah, I had one when I saw Honey take that spear between the tits. The thrill of the kill…and I know you feel it, too.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he admitted. “I think it’s just natural instinct. Humans have always killed other humans. Being a good killer is a survival trait at the most primitive level. We feel good about it because that killer instinct tells us we should—we’re survivors, we’ve got what it takes.

  “We try to suppress it when we become ‘civilized’—laws against killing, diplomacy to avoid wars—but it never goes away. And now, our so-called ‘civilized’ society says we can kill people without restriction, without penalty. It’s even socially acceptable—not for everybody, of course, but for a select few like us. If that doesn’t unleash the old primitive instinct, nothing will.”

  “So it’s all society’s fault?” She gave him a skeptical look.

  “Oh, hell no!” he declared. “I’m not going to use that old bullshit as an excuse. This is all on me—I’ve got a bloodthirsty dragon inside me that wants to be let loose. What I have to do is control him to make him stay within the limits of what society allows. I always wonder if I could do that if they didn’t allow me to let him loose once in a while.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ve got a she-dragon inside me as well,” she said. “Sometimes she scares the hell out of me—like when I pumped 18 rounds into Langsdorf and Moreno—but I have to live with her, try to keep her under control.”

  “I think everybody has that dragon,” he told her, “but in most people, it’s the size of a lizard, and it’s afraid to come out from under its rock. Ours just happen to be the real, fire-breathing, flesh-eating creatures of ancient legend.”

  “Yeah…I guess it’s lucky we found each other,” she said, “but we will have to have kids someday…wouldn’t want dragons to become extinct.”

  He chuckled at that, then looked around the room again. “Right now, I think it’s time for the dragons to clean up their mess. Then we can close up shop for the day.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “After all this excitement, my dragon is telling me she’s got a hot date with your dragon tonight. And besides…tomorrow’s Time Out Day.”

  Despite the advanced warning, Mark and Lisa were shocked when the Honey Ryder story hit the news feeds.

  Authorities are searching for actress Honey Ryder, after a report came to light that she was the principal procurer of children for Hollywood producer and accused pedophile Andrew Papadrious, who was assassinated by a LifeEnders agent earlier this month as he arrived at the courthouse to face murder and sexual molestation charges.

  Ryder was allegedly paid large sums of money—and given film roles in Papadrious’ productions—to deliver children lured from a church-sponsored children’s charity, where she volunteered as a counselor for inner-city education programs aimed at preschoolers and grade-school kids. The two missing nine-year-old boys Papadrious is alleged to have murdered were involved with the program.

  In addition, five other children from the program, ranging in age from six to twelve, have come forward with claims of sexual abuse when Ryder
took them to the Papadrious mansion on alleged field trips. All of the families were congregants at Saint Agnes church, the program’s sponsor. We contacted the church but were not able to find any members of the ministry or staff who would speak with us…

  The news stories never mentioned Honey’s dwarfism, though it was obvious from the photos they showed of her. They asked that anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts contact the news station—not the “authorities” mentioned in the lead-in of the story.

  Forget justice—they just want a juicy story, Mark thought. Fuck the media…and the white horse they rode in on.

  “What are you thinking?” Lisa asked.

  “I’m thinking that nailed-to-the-wall, spear-between-the-tits ending was better than she deserved. She was going straight to hell, and she knew it.”

  “I wonder if that church—Saint Agnes—was the one she went to yesterday morning,” Lisa said. “I guess it would be the place to go if she was looking for forgiveness.”

  Late that afternoon, Mark got a call from Jay Morgan.

  “Hey, Devil Dog…what’s up?” He relaxed when he saw Morgan’s smiling face. Calls from LifeEnders could be…interesting, to say the least, but Morgan’s cheerful look was reassuring.

  “Semper Fi…” Morgan drawled in his pure Texas accent. “How’s business, man?”

  “Can’t complain. What can I do for you?”

  “Just checking…did you guys whack the dwarf?”

  “I presume you mean the late Honey Ryder. Yes, we did. She signed on Thursday, came in yesterday after the 3-day. I checked the lists as usual—you guys had nothing on her.”

  “You’re right, we didn’t—it’s all good, glad you got the business. I’m only checking because we’ve had three people try to put a hit on her since the news broke this morning. One’s a gang lord from down in that neighborhood—doesn’t like people molesting kids on his turf. Another one’s the parent of one of those kiddie stars that got molested.