Gristle

by Mark Allen

  The woman had never sat at the table. Her “room” was a padlocked dog kennel, eight feet long, five feet wide, six feet tall, lined with dirty straw that reeked of urine and excrement. She ate here, slept here, voided her bowels here, and sometimes was abused here … though other times they took her out of the cage to torment her. The abuse was almost always based on the infliction of pain; hence the patchwork of scars all over her body.

  She had never been raped in the most basic sense of the word—a fact that still shocked her—though they did occasionally grope her and force her to touch them sexually. Their cocks were large and lumpy, as if the skin was filled with marbles, and while she would never enjoy stroking them to climax, better in her hand than in her mouth. Their sperm was hot and thick and smelled like rotten eggs and she would rather kill herself than have that slime splash the back of her throat.

  This was her life now. Imprisoned, caged, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and torment. She looked down into her cupped hands at the monstrously large brown recluse spider sitting calmly in her palm. Disproportionate even to the spider’s huge body were the fangs jutting from its mouth. But the woman knew she was in no danger. When you’re living in a nightmare, sometimes your friends come in strange forms. “Forever, Mr. Brown,” she whispered to her eight-legged companion that looked more like a tarantula than a brown recluse. “That’s how long they’ve kept me in this cage. I don’t know how much more I can take…”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked down at her arms and legs, a torso that bore more signs of suffering than she could even count. Dressed in only burlap rags that barely covered her, the scars were starkly visible and easy to see, a map of misery carved into her flesh.

  She leaned over and raised the spider up to her face, so close that she swore she could see pearls of venom on the oversized fangs. “I know I couldn’t have made it this far without you,” she said. “You’re my eight-legged angel.” She almost kissed the spider, but thought better of it. When your best friend is a venomous arachnid, some boundaries are best left uncrossed.

  She heard a stick snap outside and shivered. They were back. Her precious moments of peace were over.

  “Hurry, Mr. Brown, they’re coming! Go! Go! Go!” Her voice was urgent and the spider responded, darting out of the cage, scuttling across the floor with a speed that no ordinary spider had the right to possess, and then ran up the wall to the blackest corner of the cabin where it settled in the center of its web, waiting and watching.

  The cabin door banged open and the woman immediately began to tremble. She lived in hell and now the devils had come home. The leader of the group—the others called him Boss—walked in first. He stood at least 6’ 4”, maybe taller, his head a festering, misshapen oval of bony knobs and grotesque warts. He glanced at her dispassionately with feral eyes and she glimpsed the predatory intelligence glittering in his gaze. He was the smartest of the pack, capable of actual speech rather than the mere grunts and growls the others relied on to communicate. A sawed-off shotgun was slung across his shoulder, baling twine tied to the abbreviated barrel and grip to form a sling.

  Behind him loomed Mongus, a muscle-bound ogre who looked like a massive NFL linebacker afflicted with hyper-acromegaly. His pumpkin-sized head featured beady, soulless eyes on a fat face with unclean folds. Whenever he came close, the woman could see green fungus growing in his facial crevices. He carried a huge, medieval-looking double-bladed axe as easily as most men carry a plastic spoon. She had witnessed him using it enough times to know he kept the edge well-honed.

  Cyclops and Junior were the last to enter the cabin. Both of them had to duck under the doorjamb to keep from banging their heads. Cyclops had a bulging blue eye protruding from the left side of his face, but on the right it was just smooth, unbroken skin, without even the hint of a socket. Tucked into his belt was a short-handled, five-pound sledgehammer. It was the only weapon the woman had ever seen him use. The others sometimes mixed and matched weapons, but not Cyclops. If it couldn’t be pulverized with the sledge, then he wasn’t interested.

  Junior lived up to his name. Obviously the youngest of the bunch, but just as hideous as his brethren, if not worse. Though she would never dare give utterance to the thought, the woman figured his IQ was no more than one notch above a turnip.

  As if to prove the point, he turned and leered at her with small, stupid eyes that looked like raisins. When he gave her a slobbering grin, his piggish snout and buckteeth sent revulsion and fear pulsing through her in equal measure.

  She averted her gaze, looking down at his hands, but that didn’t help—his three fingers caressed the handles of the dozen knives tucked in his belt in a suggestive manner that could only be described as demented, dumb-beast sexuality. You didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what he was thinking; the bulge at the front of his pants provided rigid testimony. She wondered what he wanted to stick in her more: his dick or his blades.

  I should just kill myself, she thought for the thousandth—maybe millionth—time since her abduction.

  But she never did. Never even tried. It wasn’t just her belief that suicide was a sin—though that definitely played a part—it was a deep-rooted will to survive. Yes, killing herself would rob these bastards of the thrill of torturing her, but it would also mean they had broken her. She refused to give them that satisfaction.

  She hooked her fingers through the metal links of her cage and watched as Cyclops clomped over to the stove, grabbed the ladle, and stirred the soup pot. It was just water; nothing floated to the top. They hadn’t eaten in days. She could sense their growing desperation and it fueled her own fears.

  Because desperate men do desperate things.

  Cyclops hurled the ladle against the wall, then roared and pointed a sausage-size finger right at her while looking askance at Boss.

  Stark terror shot through her. God, no, please, don’t let this happen!

  Boss shook his head, but Cyclops was insistent, his rebellion edged with rage, stomping and grunting and thrusting his finger at her more emphatically. His angry demeanor let Boss know he would not be denied, not this time. Even from her cage, the woman saw fury in Boss’ eyes—he did not like being challenged—but he seemed to realize this was a losing fight, so he finally nodded acquiescence. He plucked a leather apron from where it hung on a rusty nail, slipped it on, and then approached the kennel where the woman cowered in fear.

  Screaming wouldn’t help but she couldn’t stop herself. Her cries reverberated off the walls, bouncing back in the form of futile echoes. “No, please! Don’t! Please!” Boss ignored her pleas, reached into the cage, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and dragged her out. She struggled as she was wrenched across the floor, but she was no match for Boss’ strength. There was nothing she could do but weep and wail as he picked her up and slammed her down on the table. Her spine jarred from the violent impact and pain radiated through her body. But she knew it was nothing compared to the pain about to come.

  With the breath knocked out of her, she couldn’t even beg for mercy as Mongus held her down while Boss retrieved a chainsaw from the corner of the cabin. It was a big, brutish machine, caked in oil and sawdust … and blood. When Boss fired it up, it roared like a ravenous demon and spewed exhaust smoke. Tears poured down her face, washing some of the dirt off her face as she prepared herself for horrible agony. She had witnessed others suffer this grisly fate; now it was her turn at the table.

  She regained her breath in time to plead, “Why are you doing this to me?” But the throaty rumble of the chainsaw drowned out her voice. Boss slapped the whirring metal teeth against her left arm just below the shoulder. She screamed as flesh and bone dissolved. Blood sprayed the air in a crimson sluice. Her entire body shuddered as the chainsaw chopped off her arm. The pain was beyond anything she could have ever imagined. Cyclops and Junior jumped up and down like kids at a party, laughing obscenely.

  Holding the woman down, Mongus was in closer proximity to the blood spray a
nd it rained all over his face in a red splatter. A deformed tongue snaked out of his mouth and licked the gore from his lips. He turned his head to the side and spat out a bone chip.

  Through a blurry haze of shock, the woman felt the chainsaw finish cleaving off her arm. Cyclops scurried forward, snatched up the limb, and tossed it in the soup pot. Consciousness began to contract, blackness swirling around the edges of her vision, dark tentacles threatening to drag her down into the void. Half-conscious and delirious with pain, she almost giggled when she saw her own hand sticking up over the edge of the kettle, fingers twitching as if to say goodbye.

  She began praying. Not because she believed it would help, but because there was nothing else she could do. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want … the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want … the Lord is my shepherd …” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, as if that would help her desperate supplications reach beyond the smoke-stained ceiling rafters.

  When she opened them, Boss was leaning over her face with a portable blowtorch in his hand.

  “Save your prayers,” he growled. “Ain’t no God here.”

  Maybe not, she thought, somehow managing internal coherency despite her flickering consciousness. But the devil sure is.

  And then all coherent thought evaporated in a hot blaze of renewed agony as Boss turned the scorching flame onto her blood-gushing stump. She screamed as she heard the sound of her own flesh sizzling and smelled the stink of burnt meat as her wound was brutally cauterized.

  She could take no more. Her final scream turned into a whisper as the darkness engulfed her in its merciful embrace. She sank down into the black depths where neither pain nor prayers existed.

  In the upper corner of the room, Mr. Brown’s six eyes were transfixed on the horrific tableau below, wet and glistening in the murky light.

  Chapter 4

  We’re a Happy Family

  A blinding, relentless light pulled Jack from his slumbering stupor and a dream—nightmare—in which he was making love to Trisha, only to find at the peak of their passion that she turned into a decomposing corpse beneath him. The horrific mental imagery dissipated when he cracked open his eyes and then immediately winced as they were lanced by the sunlight stabbing through his bedroom window. He sat up and clutched his pounding head, which was brutally hammering home the fact that he had drunk way too much last night. No surprise there; he had drunk too much almost every night since he lost her. One of his relatives had once asked him if he was seeing a therapist to deal with his grief. He had told them that he was seeing two of them, and their names were Jim Beam and Wild Turkey. His relative had chuckled at the joke, not realizing Jack wasn’t joking.

  His stomach suddenly revolted. He bolted from his bed and stumbled into the bathroom, barely having time to lift the lid before he puked into the toilet. He slumped to his knees, a drunkard sinner kneeling before his porcelain god and spent several wrenching moments paying penance in vomit. Cold sweat beaded his brow when he thought it was finally over. He thought wrong. Dry heaves turned to wet ones and water that was almost crystal clear gushed from his mouth.

  He’d forgotten to eat anything last night, again. When would he ever learn?

  “Oh shit,” he managed to mumble before his guts rebelled for what felt like the hundredth time, forcing him to huddle over the bowl. His knees were starting to hurt. After spending so many mornings in this position, you would think he would have learned to put a rug or mat in front of the toilet.

  When he finished, he managed to pull himself upright and lurched over to the sink where he washed his mouth out—Listerine, the alcoholic’s friend—and splashed water on his face. When he looked into the mirror, his red eyes looked back and accused him of self-destruction. It was an accusation that he could not deny. He rubbed a hand over his bleary features and muttered, “Man, you are not a pretty sight.” Probably the understatement of the year.

  No longer wanting to face his own degeneration in the mirror, he turned to look at the clock radio perched on a nearby shelf. The large numbers were even redder than his eyes and informed him it was 10:42 a.m. It took him a few foggy seconds to realize why that was important, but then his brain kicked into gear. Something close to panic hit him. “Great! Just fucking great. Of all the times to tie one on.” He continued to silently berate himself. Stupid! You’re so fucking stupid, Jack.

  He needed a shower, but there was no time. He quickly changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair, and then sprinted to the Jeep.

  ******

  At Brighton Juvenile Detention Center, Kevin Colter slouched on a bench outside the main building. After three years behind the fence, it felt strange being free. The “nice” thing about prison was that you didn’t have to think much for yourself. The officers pretty much told you when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, when to relax … hell, they practically told you when to do everything except take a crap and jerk off. Those particular activities were left up to your own discretion.

  He could clearly remember the day he had been brought to the Detention Center, bussed there along with a handful of other so-called delinquents. Guilty of various crimes—his happened to be robbing Norman’s General Store—they had all felt like men, but in hindsight they had been nothing but naïve children. Being inside forced you to grow up fast and the meat grinder of the justice system turned soft boys into hard men. It hadn’t been pleasant, but now that it was over, Kevin was thankful for the hardening. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to what came next. He had missed many things while behind the fence; his father wasn’t one of them.

  He ran his fingers, knuckles calloused from numerous brawls on the recreation yard, through what little hair still tufted his head—they gave all the juvies a jailbird haircut—and idly wondered what he would look like if he grew it down to his shoulders like some ‘80s hair-metal rock star. Maybe he would buy a bandana and enter a Bret Michaels lookalike contest.

  Thoughts of rock ‘n’ roll fakery dissipated as the piercing squeal of tires protesting their punishment announced his father’s arrival. Jack took the corner way too fast, nearly rolling the Jeep, and screeched to a halt in front of Kevin. A cloud of road dust drifted in the Jeep’s wake.

  Jack glanced at the dashboard clock. 11:06 a.m. He was late, but not by much. He rolled down the window, gave Kevin a smile, and said, “Ready to go?” It was a stupid question—after three years in prison, of course he was ready to go—but Jack didn’t know what else to say. He hadn’t spoken to his son in thirty-six months, so conversation was bound to be awkward from time to time. Maybe all the time.

  Kevin just sat and slouched and stared at his father for several long moments, the distaste on his face unmistakable. Then he straightened up, stretched, grabbed a small duffel bag, and made his way over to the Jeep. Jack was struck by how much he had grown. Beneath the baggy t-shirt, it was pretty obvious that his son was now a well-muscled man. Before Kevin had been sentenced to juvenile detention, Jack would have easily beaten him in a fight. Now the outcome wouldn’t be so easy to predict.

  But it wasn’t a physical confrontation Kevin seemed to want—it was a verbal one.

  He climbed into the Jeep and slammed the door much harder than was necessary. Wasting no time on false pleasantries, he growled, “You’re late.”

  Even his voice is huskier, Jack thought as he whipped the Jeep around and shot back out onto Route 86. The tension he felt translated to his foot, which stomped heavy on the gas pedal. When he realized the needle was pegged at a point on the speedometer that no police officer would find acceptable, Jack forced himself to slow down. Judging from Kevin’s sullen tone, he was about to have a bad day and catching a speeding ticket would only make it worse.

  Careful to keep his voice neutral, Jack said, “Nice to see you too. And I was barely late. I overslept.”

  “In what, a barrel of booze?” Kevin sneered. “You smell like shit. How hard are you hitting the bottle these days, dad?�
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  Jack resisted the urge to turn and glare at him. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road. “I don’t ‘hit the bottle,’ Kevin. I have a social drink now and then, that’s it.” The lie fell smooth and easy off his tongue.

  But he could tell his son wasn’t buying the deception. Kevin’s stare burned a hole in the side of his head. When another quarter-mile had rolled beneath the Jeep’s wheels, Kevin suddenly reached for the glove box.

  “No!” Jack said, throwing out an arm to stop him.

  Too late. Kevin held up the full flask like a prosecutor triumphantly revealing a damning piece of evidence. “Yeah, pops,” he drawled sarcastically, “because every social drinker keeps a flask in the glove box.” He shook his head in disgust.

  So much for keeping it neutral, Jack thought. Aloud he said, “I’m your father and I don’t have to explain myself to you.” He hated how defensive the words sounded even to his own ears.

  Kevin was silent for several moments, then said, “You’re right, you don’t have to explain anything.” For a moment, Jack actually dared to hope Kevin was calling a truce, but then his son added, “I’d probably drink myself stupid too if I’d killed my wife because I was such a pussy.”

  The words were designed to hurt … and hurt they did. Jack would have preferred Kevin just whipped out a knife and started slashing him. It would have been less painful.

  He was quiet for several miles, distracting his pain by listening to the sounds of the road, the thrum of the tires on blacktop, the rush of the wind, a bluesy Aerosmith rocker crooning low-volume on the radio. Despite Kevin’s presence just an arm’s reach away, he felt isolated and alone.

  Up ahead a road sign appeared that read “Welcome to Vesper Falls!” It had once simply said “Vesper Falls,” but the town board had voted to purchase a bigger, fancier sign and add the “Welcome to” and the exclamation point. Jack figured you could add a thousand exclamation points and it wouldn’t make Vesper Falls any more exciting.