by Sam West
“Open your eyes, bitch. Or I’ll cut off your eyelids.”
She didn’t know who was talking anymore, and neither did she care. When she opened her eyes, all three of them were standing over her. They were caked in blood and bloody lumps of her fiancé. Mark had intestines looped around his neck like a scarf, and the fat pig was holding Grant’s hand.
For some reason, it was mainly this fact that caused everything around her to dim. Graininess overtook her body and her mind and she welcomed it in.
Please God, just let me die.
But those bastards were having none of it. Someone kicked her in the ribs and a hand slapped her across the face, bringing her to.
“Oh no you don’t bitch, you don’t wanna miss any of this show,” one of them said in an all-too-clear voice.
There was a brief pressure at her feet and hands, and then her limbs were free. The briefest flare of hope in her chest was immediately extinguished when she was flipped onto her back with her legs held open. The fat one knelt between her spread thighs and fingers grazed her vagina.
When she worked out it wasn’t his hand, but Grant’s hand, she flipped.
She bucked and thrashed, but one man stood on her hands and the other held her legs steady in the air.
Agony exploded in her lower region; it felt like her lower belly had been set alight from the inside. When she glanced down her thrashing body, she saw the fat bastard was knife fucking her. Laughter echoed all around her and she screamed at the top of her lungs.
Searing pain in her face effectively silenced her protests when a fist slammed into her jaw.
In that moment, all she wanted to do was die.
“Nice and roomy now. Plenty of room for Grant to give her a good old fist-fucking.”
The vile words were met with another round of laughter, and then there was pressure on her vagina, a pressure that quickly turned unbearably tight and was accompanied by white-hot pain.
Hands gripped her wrist, and for a second she felt a slight sting at the base of her little finger on her right hand. In a matter of seconds, that little sting turned into another raging hurt. Hot wetness trickled down her forearm as the sound of metal sawing through flesh and bone reached her ears.
Her eyes rolled back in head, and thankfully all the horrors in her world dialled down a notch with her free-flowing blood.
Dimly, she became aware of a change of atmosphere in the room. Through the haze of blanketing pain, she heard voices, felt movement.
“Police! Freeze!”
The words were shouted, yet they sounded so far away. She struggled to the surface of consciousness, the strangest feeling stirring within her.
Hope.
More shouting, more movement around her. Empty space around her where seconds before cruel hands had been.
Uniformed men swarmed into the room. She heard footsteps pounding the stairs and felt their presence all around her.
“Jesus Christ,” a male voice said from somewhere near her, followed by the sound of him heaving up his guts.
Then came the gun fire – a succession of rapid, muffled shots.
The silence was heavy in the aftermath. She lay on her back for a moment, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
“Miss? Don’t move, the paramedics will be here any minute now.”
All she could do was groan in reply to the kindly voice.
“They attacked us. We didn’t have a choice,” another voice said.
“These cunts, they think they’re fucking untouchable. They think they’re fucking gods.” someone else said.
With great difficulty, she lifted her head, her neck shaking with the effort.
“Easy there, sweetheart,” one of the men said.
She tried counting the policemen in the room, but she gave up after five because it was too difficult. They all wore full uniform, the ridging of their grey, bullet proof vests making her think of Robocop.
The almost-giggle died on her lips, turning into a strangled sob when her gaze settled on Grant and the bloody mess that used to be his torso. Her three captors lay sprawled out on the ground, blood oozing from their bullet holes.
Another man in uniform appeared in the door. Before him, he had Steven in a headlock.
“Lookie what I found upstairs.” Over Steven’s shoulders, he locked eyes with Julie. “Did this boy hurt you?”
“Get off me,” Steven slurred, struggling feebly in the man’s grip. “They made me do it.” He looked out of it. His eyes were glazed and he seemed hardly able to stand.
“Shut the fuck up, you fucking scum. You really think you and your fucking scuzzy mates can get away with selling home-movies like that at the local fucking sex shop?” He turned his attention to Julie, his intense blue eyes boring into her, as cold and as merciless as chips of ice. “Did this boy hurt you? Just say the word, miss. Say it.”
Faintly, she nodded once.
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
The policeman put his gun to Steven’s head and pulled the trigger. Steven crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood, bone and brains.
The room began to spin and her head fell backwards. She closed her eyes and let the darkness in. Dimly, she became aware of a pressure on her undamaged hand, and an unfamiliar male voice floating to her from the darkness.
“What’s your name?”
The voice pulled her back from the abyss, and her voice in return was strong and quiet.
“My name is Julie.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about her fiancé, about what was next.
“Keep going, Julie,” he said. “Keep going.”
And so she does.
And she knew that she always would.
The End.
Hello intrepid reader, you have reached the end of ‘Snuff Club’. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Below, I have enclosed the start of ‘School Reunion: An Extreme Horror Novella’.
If you like what you’ve read, please check out my author page over on Amazon for the full list of titles.
Thanks again, and sweet nightmares to you all.
Sam.
CHAPTER ONE
Jasper Black pinned the last photograph to the corkboard and reversed his wheelchair so that he could view all six photographs at once. The sight made him smile. This was going to be so much fun. His gaze was helplessly drawn to the first picture he had pinned to the board, just like it had been throughout the entire process.
Kendra Ball. The love of his life. At thirty-three, she was as gorgeous now as she had been then. More so, if that was even possible. The picture had been taken of her as she unlocked her car door, and her lustrous, brown curls whipped around her sweet little face. She was a doctor now. How ironic. He hated doctors.
His gaze shifted to the next two photographs which were side by side, just as those same two people always had been in school. Jean Glover and Maria Walker. The fucking, bitch slag whores. Jean was a porker now, a fat, single-mother with four kids by three different men. Maria had kept her looks in a hard, washed-up kind of way. Maria was a two-bit stripper in some dive strip-bar and her photo had been taken as she twisted her toned body around a pole. Her breasts were unnaturally large and round, the skin over them stretched taut and thin. Her once-pretty face was etched with hard lines which no amount of make-up could erase.
His gaze settled on the next two photographs, also side by side. These were of Craig Ellison and Wayne Drake. The class jocks.
Or as Jasper preferred to think of them, the complete fucking cunts.
Just looking at those two fuckers made his lungs tighten unbearably, forcing him to reach for his respirator. He sucked down on the oxygen, each breath filled with hatred; hatred for them. It wasn’t fair that scum like them had the use of their legs, that they had the rest of their lives in front of them. He glared at the picture of Craig Ellison, feeding his hatred. His face was partly obscured by the pint glass, but there was no mistaking his narrow green eyes with the perman
ent arrogant glint. He was a fair few pounds heavier than he had been in school – all those beers and takeaways, no doubt – but he wore it well. Craig worked hard and partied harder, he was site-manager for a construction company and most weekends he boozed and picked up women.
His gaze drifted to Wayne Drake. Now there was a different story. Unlike Craig, Wayne appeared to have left his bullying ways behind him. He was married with two kids and had a job as an accountant, of all things. The thought of Wayne Drake crunching numbers when all he used to crunch was skulls was entirely laughable. He also looked like a completely different man; gone was the footballer’s physique and floppy blonde hair and in its place was a balding, bespectacled, middle-aged guy with a thickening girth. Of all of them, he found Wayne’s transformation over the past twenty years to be the most shocking – it truly was like the original Wayne had been beamed up by aliens and a stranger had taken his identity.
It’s not what you are now, it’s what you were that matters to me.
Last but not least, his gaze shifted to the final photograph, isolated at the bottom of the corkboard. The borderline, functioning alcoholic Kevin Hendricks, there for no other reason than he was the one-time boyfriend of Kendra Ball. Life had not been kind to Kevin. Two years ago, his wife and daughter had died in a car accident on the way home from the school-run. One year ago, he had been sacked from his post as Headmaster due to unsubstantiated accusations of indecent assault on a bunch of sixth-form girls.
Jasper had done much research on his ‘subjects’ and he didn’t think he did it. Sometimes it didn’t pay to be so handsome. Not that Jasper ever had such a problem.
Life for Kevin Hendricks was about to get even less kind. He smirked behind the respirator.
Yeah, well, Kevin, you don’t know the meaning of misery. Try being a cripple riddled with cancer. Now that’s what you call a hard fucking life.
There was a knock, and one of his staff members poked his head round the study door.
“Sir? Your guests have arrived and are seated,” the young man said.
“Are they awake?”
“Not yet.”
“Perfect, you may escort me through.”
Jasper was quite capable of pressing a button on the armrest of his state-of-the-art, electric wheelchair and taking himself into the game room that had taken a month to design and prepare, but he enjoyed having people do his bidding. What other pleasures did he possibly have in his miserable little life? What else was his money good for if not to be waited on hand and foot?
Well, his sizable wealth was about to be good for something, that was for sure. It was going to be good for a shit-load of fun.
Jasper’s heart tripped in a way it had not done for years as he was wheeled out of his office which was as big as an average public library with twice as many books – first edition, of course – and he made every effort to compose his facial features into a semblance of grave sincerity.
Let the games commence. The class of ninety-nine were about to get together for the final time.
CHAPTER TWO
Kendra Ball opened her eyes and gasped when needle-sharp pain stabbed her retinas.
Too bright.
The throbbing pain in her head pumped in tandem with the squeezing, pulsing pressure behind her tightly-shut eyes.
Slowly, she became aware of all the other hurts. A stiff neck. Numb feet. Aching bones, like she had a fever.
Where am I?
Tentatively, she opened her eyes for the second time, squinting in the glare of the artificial light.
Nothing she saw made any sense to her. Nothing was familiar. Her eyes opened fully and instinctively she went to stand up. She couldn’t; her arms jerked, sending a hot surge of pain racing up her arms and shooting into her neck. Her backside didn’t even leave the seat.
She looked down at herself properly for the first time, taking in every last detail of her captivity in a matter of seconds. Her wrists were shackled to the metal arms of a chair and her ankles to the metal legs. When she tried to rock the chair, it didn’t budge. Instead, the back of her head connected with a hard surface, and when she twisted her head round to look, she saw that the back of the chair extended up past the top of her head.
A metal chair bolted to the floor? What the fuck is this?
This realisation caused sweat to trickle into her eyes, making her blink. This couldn’t be happening. This was the stuff of horror movies, things like this didn’t happen to ordinary people like her. This was impossible.
The rest of the horrific scene slowly sunk into her skull. She was in a room of indeterminable size due to the edges of it being cast in shadows. It wasn’t an ordinary light above her, but a floodlight mounted on the high ceiling. It lit up the surface of the large and highly-polished circular table she was sitting at, blinding her to the rest of her surroundings.
And she wasn’t alone. Five others joined her round the table, each person in a metal chair identical to her own, and each chair evenly spaced around the table at roughly a metre apart. Every one of those five heads lolled on their necks, their faces cast into shadows by the strong, overhead light.
Out-cold. Or dead.
She began to shiver, despite the heat that the spotlight threw off above her head.
It’s not a floodlight. It’s a spotlight. This is a god-damn stage-set.
The overriding sense of unreality grew and she blinked back the tears. She wouldn’t cry, not yet. She racked her brains, trying to think back to the last thing she was doing before she woke up here, to the last thing she remembered.
As if that’s going to help. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she pushed down the rising panic. Come on, think…
It was Saturday afternoon, and she had been running low on groceries. Seeing as it was just her to feed and she was going to a friend’s for dinner anyway, she had decided to walk to the shops rather than drive to the supermarket. She remembered walking along the busy main around and stopping to nip across. A car had pulled up in front of her and then…
And then what?
A half-remembered blur of slamming car doors and a guy lunging for her… and then nothing.
“Hello? Is anyone awake?” None of the people stirred. “Is there anybody there?”
Her voice sounded thin and reedy, further strengthening her suspicion that this was a big room.
Silence greeted her as she squinted into the darkness.
“Hello?” she tried again, louder this time. An overwhelming urge to scream bubbled up inside her but she refused to give in to it.
“Can you hear me?” she said, her voice cracking.
She was no longer talking to the shadowy corners of the room, but her companions around the table. Not one of them so much as twitched. She lowered her head and took deep, shuddering breaths, doing her best to calm her racing heart and get her thoughts under control.
Oh God, what is happening to me? Where am I?
Only then did she notice that she was no longer dressed in the last thing she remembered wearing – her favourite blue pullover and black jeans.
This isn’t one of my dresses…
The realisation that someone had stripped her and re-dressed her in this clinging, black cocktail-dress made her stomach lurch and her head spin. She stared in disbelief down at herself. The edging of a frilly black bra she didn’t recognise poked out above the neckline of the low-cut dress; one of those push-up jobs that she usually shied away from because she thought her chest too large and she harboured the notion that such underwear was ‘unsuitable’ attire for a doctor. Her gaze travelled lower and she saw that her feet were bare.
She moaned, a pitiful sound that hung impotently in the air around her. “Please. Why are you doing this?”
Gritting her teeth, she balled her fists and pushed with all her might against the metal handcuffs. She did the same at her feet, ignoring the sharp pain that bloomed in her wrists and ankles.
“Fucker,” she gasped, going slack in the chair.
She tensed up again when a low whirring sound reached her ears. There was movement to her left and she snapped round her head, squinting into the darkness. A man in a wheelchair emerged from the shadows.
“Tut, tut, Kendra, I really didn’t think you were the type of woman to swear under any circumstances.”
Kendra could only stare in disbelief at the man. The closer he got to her, the more familiar he seemed, although for the life of she couldn’t place him.
“Let me go,” she said when he wheeled right up next to her, killing the electrical motor.
“Hello Kendra, you’re looking well. It’s been so long.”
She swivelled sideways in her seat as best she could, glaring at the man.
“Who are you?”
Although as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew. A shadow passed over his face, but a shadow of what, she wondered. Hurt? Anger? The moment passed, and his mask of indifference was firmly in place once more.
“Do you really not remember me?”
She did. Of course she did. There was no mistaking that bright orange hair. It was still just as unruly and coarse, but now he had a receding hairline and a bald-spot to boot.
“Yeah, I remember you,” she said softly.
She neglected to mention that she couldn’t remember his name for the life of her. Unless you counted ‘Ginger Tosser’ as a name.
“So who am I?”
His first name came to her in a flash.
“Jasper…” Carrot.
She bit her lip, not believing she had almost said Carrot.
Her stomach summersaulted and she licked her dry lips. She stared at the skinny, twisted little man in the wheelchair, at the big, watery blue eyes magnified further behind the glasses and the little snub nose that was just plain wrong on a bloke.
Come on, Kendra, bloody think.
She knew she had to answer his question, knew that it was quite possibly the most important question she had ever been asked in her life.
But what’s the bloody answer?