Thomas was confused. “How was Mr. Johnson supposed to stop the signal?”
“By allowing the flame to melt the circuit board that was contained in the plastic box.”
Thomas grabbed his groin area. “Oh God!” He thought for a moment. “How would you know that?”
“Because I have learned how Skull thinks. And it only makes sense when factoring the design of the contraption and transmitter.”
“Do you think Mr. Johnson knew that was an option?”
“Absolutely. I have no doubt that Skull explained that to him. Mental torture is something he gets off on.”
“How did he get the transmitter inside his ball sack?”
“The medical examiner found an incision that had been recently sewn closed on the backside of his scrotum.”
“That’s freakin’ sick.”
“That’s the kind of things that Skull does to his victims.”
“So, what happened?”
“Well, as far as he could tell, it was obvious that Mr. Johnson resisted as long as he could due to the severe burns on his body. The investigators determined he had been trying to avoid the flame between two and three hours based on the speed of the contraption and the degree of burns. His entire body had bruising and scrapes from where he had rubbed against the concrete wall as he hysterically moved around. The pain must have become so intense that it became less painful to let the flame burn his privates. And desperation probably played a large role in that as well, knowing he had no other choice if he wanted the pain to stop.”
“Or maybe he knew his only chance at survival was to do it.”
“Of course. People can do some amazing things when they’re desperate and scared.”
Thomas was eager. “Well, what happened next?”
“The flame had burned his testicles until they ruptured, and his penis was charred and basically shriveled into a stub.”
“Was he able to stop the machine?”
“Yes. Some of the components on the circuit board had been melted.”
Thomas looked confused. “Then how did he bleed to death?”
“The flesh around his wrists had been severely cut by his restraints from jerking around.”
Thomas shook his head. “What an unlucky bastard. Were Skull’s other victims tortured this bad?”
“Some were; some were worse.”
Thomas had a horrified look. “Some were worse?”
Jim nodded his head. “This one was a game that was designed to last a short period of time. Some of his other victims had been tortured for days. And something else: unlike a serial killer, there is no repetition in the way he tortures and kills his victims. Every one of them that I have investigated were tortured and killed in a different way. It’s almost like he does it on purpose.”
“Are there any similarities?”
“Yeah, they’re gruesome.” Jim thought for a moment. “Well, there are some similar things.”
“Like what?”
“Pulling out his victim’s intestines, sewing their eyes open, securing their tongues with long piercing rods, removing the sides of their face, cauterizing wounds with a torch…”
Thomas interrupted. “Oh my God! Really? What a sick fuck.”
“Oh yeah. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“You said he wasn’t repetitious. Sounds like he is to me.”
“Some of the things he does I said were similar. And even then, they’re done in different ways.”
“How?”
Jim paused for a moment. “I’ll tell you more about that later—the SWAT team will be here shortly and we need to get ready. And remember, we’re dealing with a calculating and sadistic killer, so follow my lead.”
Thomas nodded. “I understand.”
Jim leaned forward in his chair. “One more thing; I know he’s watching us and he probably already knows who you are. I need you to heed this warning: stay close, and don’t do any Rambo shit.”
Thomas had a look of concern as Jim went back to the console with Ron.
Product of Pain and Suffering
Seth reclined back in his recliner to get comfortable as he smoked a cigarette.
Wyatt poured some whiskey into the glass. He started to take a drink, but paused. He looked at the glass, then towards Seth.
“Trust. You must have trust, Wyatt. If I wanted you dead, I would come up with something more creative than poisoning you. You should know that.”
Wyatt took a small sip. “I’m not really in the mood for whiskey this early in the morning.” His eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting conditions of the room and he could see that Seth was staring at him. He changed his mind and finished off the whiskey. He set the glass down. “I have so many questions and don’t even know where to begin. He pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He glanced at it for a second. “I guess one of the most unanswered questions is why do…. You know, do the things you do?”
Seth laughed. “Fuck up lowlifes? You don’t have to beat around the bush with me. There is nothing that you’re gonna ask that will be upsetting.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If I don’t want to answer, I will tell you so.”
Wyatt sat forward in his chair. “Okay. Why do you take the law into your own hands and what caused you to start doing it in the first place? Why do you punish your victims so gruesomely? Why do…..”
Seth held his hand out to get his attention. “Slow down a bit. We have all the time in the world.”
Wyatt looked at his watch.
“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. And I also have a question for you.”
Wyatt looked up with a surprised expression. “Uh, okay.”
“What’s the deal? Why are you so nervous?”
“Anyone would be nervous in my position.”
“You know I only go after lowlifes, so you shouldn’t be worried.”
“I know, but for curiosity sake, who is considered a lowlife in your book?”
“They are the parasites of our society that prey on innocent people; sex offenders, murderers, abusers, the occasional gangbanger and street trash.”
“Why have you taken it upon yourself to punish them?”
“Why not? You should appreciate that someone is willing to bestow justice as I do.”
“But we have laws.”
Seth extinguished his cigarette in an ashtray. He looked at Wyatt with a serious look. “Should I turn a blind eye to what I see as most of society does?”
“Of course, not. That’s what our judicial system is for.”
“Is our system fair?”
“It’s all we have.”
Seth lit another cigarette. “You’re right. So, what do you think about a child rapist that serves less than five years for his offense?”
“What can I do about it? He served his time, according to the law.”
“Typical answer. What if it was your seven-year-old daughter that he raped?”
Wyatt sat forward and glared at Seth.
Seth leaned forward in his recliner and stared back. “What if this guy had broken into your house in the middle of the night when you were away and raped your daughter; would five years in prison be satisfactory for ya?”
Wyatt gritted his teeth. His eyes were filled with anger. “I’d kill that son of a bitch!”
Seth leaned back in his recliner. “See, now you know how I feel. Your attitude is what’s wrong with society. People don’t give a shit what happens to others just as long as their little world isn’t interrupted.”
Wyatt filled his glass with whiskey. He took a drink, then stared at the floor. Seth could sense he was upset. “I know what happened to your wife two years ago. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Wyatt took another drink. He looked up at Seth with sadness. “We had only been married seven years.” A tear ran down his cheek. “The investigators said the cause of the fire was suspicious. They said I was a suspect. I ha
ve no idea how the fire started, but it’s heartbreaking to be accused of such a horrible thing—I would never harm my family.”
Seth stood up. “Cops blame everyone; don’t sweat it.” He walked over to a window. He pulled a curtain slightly back so he could see out. “The important thing is you got your five-year-old daughter out of that fire.”
Wyatt wiped the tears from his face with his thumb. “I didn’t know where my wife was at. When I awoke and found the house was on fire, I reached over to wake her, but she wasn’t next to me, so I immediately ran to Laura’s room to get her out of the house. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital.”
“That’s right. You got your daughter to safety and went back in for your wife. You passed out due to smoke inhalation. You were rescued by the fireman.” Seth let go of the curtain, turned, and faced Wyatt. “Your wife was found on the couch in the living room.”
Wyatt looked up with sadness. “She sometimes had a hard time sleeping and would watch TV in the living room so she wouldn’t wake me.” He took a drink from his glass. “I should have checked there. It’s my fault she’s gone.”
Seth sat back in his recliner. “You have to stop blaming yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
Wyatt looked down. “I’ve tried to convince myself of that.” He looked at Seth. “I have a daughter I need to raise, so I force myself to go on with life.”
“As time goes on, the pain will dull, but it will always be with you. That’s one of the reasons why I inflict such a horrific amount of misery to the ones who cause pain to others.”
“Did something happen to you that caused you to do this?”
“I’ve had some traumatic experiences in my life.”
“Would you tell me about them?”
Seth reclined back. He took a long drag from his cigarette. “When I was a young man I was forced to watch as my fiancée was killed by some ruthless thugs. When I was a child, I witnessed my parents get run over and killed in our front yard by a drunk driver.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you became a vigilante?”
“I didn’t set out to be such. I just wanted to punish the assholes that had taken my loved ones. One thing led to another and I became what I am.” Seth smiled. “I’m a product of pain and suffering, and I’m very happy to share the savings.”
Wyatt smiled back. “Somehow, in all this, you still have a sense of humor. And you seem very normal.”
“Well, I’m not one of those fuckers that sits in the dark putting on lipstick if that’s what you mean.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Not at all.”
“That’s good, because I wear lipstick during the daytime.”
“Huh?”
Seth laughed. “Just joking, pal.”
“So, I assume you found your parents’ and fiancée’s killers?”
Seth nodded to indicate yes.
Wyatt pulled out a binder from his bag. He opened it. “I have numerous news articles and police reports about the people that you have killed.”
Seth interrupted. “Refer to them as scumbags, lowlifes or parasites. Assholes will work too.”
“Okay. I have all the articles about some of the scumbags that you killed.” He held up the binder to show how thick it was. “You have been creating quite a stir for the last eight years now.”
“Nice scrapbook.”
Wyatt frowned. “It’s not a scrapbook; it’s my research.”
Seth laughed. “Okay.”
He flipped through the pages. “Which one of these scumbags killed your fiancée?”
“No one in that folder. And there were three of them.”
Wyatt looked confused. “Why didn’t they make the news?”
“You only read about the ones I left on the streets.”
“I have a few older reports and articles; are these related?”
“No. The three assholes got to visit hell on earth and were never found.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back then I was into long-term punishment. I did occasionally leave a scumbag where they could be found, but most were taken to my house to a hidden chamber.”
Wyatt’s eyes opened wide. “You mean there are more than what’s in this binder?”
“Yes.”
Wyatt was intrigued. “How many did you take to your house?”
“Three hundred forty-two.”
His mouth fell wide open. “What? I don’t understand. How many?”
“You heard me correctly. During those years that’s what I did.” Seth laughed. “Now I make house calls.”
Wyatt leaned forward in his chair. “Wow. I didn’t know.”
“Of course, you didn’t—no one knew the extent of it. The cops only knew about the ones I left here and there, or when I occasionally left my signature mark behind when I took an asshole. But they did have a suspicion that I was responsible for more than what they could prove.”
Wyatt looked eager as he flipped through the binder. “There are only a handful of articles dating back further than eight years. They add up to about thirteen killings.”
“In total I left forty-seven scumbags on the streets.”
“Did the cops know about all of them?”
“Yes, I left my mark on each of them.”
“Why did you leave it?”
“It was supposed to set an example to the other scumbags, but the police, or I should say the FBI, classified most of the things I did back then. Also, I didn’t want to get blamed for shit that I didn’t do.”
“Speaking of classified, that explains why the public didn’t have access to that information and why I only have some of the things you have done.” Wyatt stood up and walked over to the window. “What happened eight years ago?” He turned and looked at Seth. “If you were originally taking lowlifes back to your house, then why are you now leaving them on the streets? And it seems you are on a crusade. You have committed an act of vengeance every month or two for the last eight years. Something must have changed.”
“Part of it was because it was time to move on. Also, the FBI was getting too close.”
Wyatt looked at his watch, then started to move the curtain so he could look out the window.
“Are you expecting someone?”
Wyatt released the curtain and looked at Seth. “What do you mean by hidden chamber?”
Seth extinguished his cigarette, then lit another one. He noticed Wyatt was staring. “I know; it’s a bad habit.” Seth blew a smoke ring. “Now back to your question. My chamber is basically a large underground room that I built under my house many years ago.”
“Where is it located?”
“Texas.”
Wyatt leaned against the wall next to the window. “Do you still have it?”
“Yes, but now it’s mostly empty. Like I said, the FBI was getting close, so I relocated some of the scumbags to another location and got rid of the rest. But I did leave six in the chamber.”
Wyatt looked confused. “Why would you move dead bodies? Are you attached to them?”
“Who said they were dead?”
Wyatt gasped. “I don’t understand.”
“Unlike the shit I do now, I didn’t kill the ones I took back to the chamber. They were forced to suffer for as long as I could keep them alive.”
“How many are still alive?”
“Back when I made the move there were one hundred thirty-four out of the three hundred forty-two. I took fifty-three to the new location, left six, and got rid of the other seventy-five that were still alive. Twenty-one of the fifty-three that I had moved have since died off.”
“I thought you tried to keep them alive.”
“I did. Some lived for over twenty years.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. The human body can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.”
“Why did you move only fifty-three?”
“I wasn’t done with them.”
“What do you mean?”<
br />
“They were the worst of the worst and deserved more than what they had already gotten.” Seth could tell Wyatt didn’t understand. “They were predators such as rapists, molesters and killers that prayed on the weak, and I have no mercy for their kind because they have no mercy for their victims.”
“Why did you leave six behind?”
“For the FBI in case my house is searched and they find the chamber. They were left for a reason that is unimportant at this time. I’m sure it will be classified if they are found.”
“Do you not trust me? I trusted you by coming here.”
“That’s fair. I could have cleaned everything up, bulldozed my house and filled in the chamber, but by leaving it, it will allow me to know if the FBI is getting closer to my past. My house looks normal inside and out and wouldn’t cause a concern if it was searched, but if they find the chamber, they will have to take the scumbags to the hospital, alerting me so I won’t walk into an ambush.”
“That doesn’t make sense. They would be smart enough not to spook you.”
“That’s not true—it would be unethical and against the law if they didn’t get them medical treatment.”
“But you wouldn’t know they were gone until you were already in the chamber. By then it would be too late.”
“Each of the scumbags has an implanted transmitter that sends out their GPS location, so I would know if they’ve been moved. I do have cameras that I can monitor through the Internet, but a good electronics guru could send me a bogus loop, so I can’t depend on those.”
“That makes sense.” Wyatt looked at his notes. “You said there were seventy-five that were still alive that you didn’t move. What happened to them?”
“Some of them had lost their mind, or had become vegetative, so I put them down instead of messing with them any more. Also, there were some whose bodies wouldn’t have been able to make the move, so down with them as well.”
Wyatt was feeling nauseated. He sat on the edge of his chair. “Put down? You mean killed like an animal?”
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 50