Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection

by Shane McKenzie

  She dipped a spoon into the liquid and tasted it, added a couple of pinches of sea salt and some fresh ground black pepper to the broth, then tasted it again.

  It was missing something.

  As she lowered her spoon into the soup a third time a trickle of blood that had escaped saturation by the bloody towel shimmied down her finger and splashed into the soup. The red droplet disappeared into the simmering liquid.

  She was surprised to note the soup tasted better.

  She turned the heat down to low and stirred in two and a half cups of milk and half a cup of cream. She needed to whisk the soup constantly as it came up to temperature. It could not boil or it would separate into an oily disaster.

  She felt something wet trail out of her nose and over her upper lip. Her tongue flicked out, lapping up the offending moisture.

  Blood.

  The air was too dry for October, and the lack of moisture gave Kaylee daily nosebleeds. She scrunched her nose up in an effort to control the bleeding, but it streamed more heavily out of her left nostril.

  She lifted the bloody towel to her nose to quell the flow of blood, but it was coming out too quickly, too fast, the towel already saturated with the sticky red fluid.

  Blood rained into the soup, the light golden color of the cream mixture exploding into brilliant hues of red.

  Fascinated, Kaylee continued to whisk, watching as the crimson blood drops swirled and played in the creamy pumpkin soup. She threw the towel into the sink and gripped the whisk with her injured hand, the glint of white bone catching her eye as she flexed and twisted her middle finger.

  She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the reddish, creamy concoction. Her eyes drifted shut as she tasted the soup. It was rich and succulent, by far the best she had ever cooked. It still needed a little something. More blood, maybe.

  Her guests would be eating the soup in less than half an hour. She had to finish up soon.

  Grabbing the knife from the cutting board, she ran the tip of it over the soft flesh of her wrist, suddenly slashing down until blood spewed from the cut. She held her wrist over the pot, siphoning all of the blood into the soup and whisking it in, then tasted. Better. Saltier and earthier.

  It needed texture, she thought to herself suddenly. She opened up a drawer and pulled out the kitchen shears. She held the tips of her long, brown hair over the pot and snipped, the dried ends falling into soup.

  It was not enough. It was not perfect.

  Frantically, she picked up the cheese grater and held it over the pot. Leaning over, she put her freckled and flushed cheek against the metal teeth and moved her face up and down against the grate.

  She screamed, chunks of her flesh falling into the soup. Blood sprayed the counter, the spatter making twisted and macabre trails down the white wall behind the stove. She pressed her face harder against the grater, grinding against it until she heard bone hit the stainless steel.

  She looked into the soup. Grotesque blobs of flesh floated atop the ruddy liquid. She whisked the globs into the soup, then tasted it again.

  Almost there. So close. Her guests would beg to know the secret ingredient, what she had added this year that had given the soup such depth and flavor. But she would not tell. They would never find out. It was her Halloween trick-or-treat.

  More texture, she decided.

  She cracked her front tooth against the edge of the counter, then reached into her mouth. It was loose. Pinching it between her index finger and thumb, she jostled it back and forth, trying to force it out. She could hear squishing noises as the air and the blood seeped out of her swollen gum.

  With a hard yank, the tooth was free. She put it in a small zip-lock plastic baggy and set it on the cutting board. Picking up her cast iron skillet, she hammered down on the tooth, smashing it over and over into tiny chunks. She opened up the bag and dumped the small particles in to the soup pot.

  Her large Cuisinart blender was sitting on the countertop, plugged in to an electrical outlet. The final step in preparing the soup was to blend it until it was smooth and creamy.

  She ladled half of the soup into the blender and turned it on, gently pressing down on the pulse/ice crush button and watching the soup whirl around in the small appliance.

  She poured the pureed soup into a mixing bowl and then added the last of the chunky mixture into the blender. The appliance whizzed to life as she pressed the pulse button again. She took the lid off of the blender and put her injured hand into the piping hot liquid, pressing it down as far as she could against the razor sharp blades.

  The blender was switched to the low setting, its blades roaring to constant action. Kaylee shrieked in ecstatic agony as the machine pulverized her tender flesh.

  She removed her minced hand and turned the machine off. With her uninjured hand, she poured the fleshy puree back into the stock pot, and then added the contents of the mixing bowl. She turned the heat up to high.

  Kaylee opened up the crisper drawer in her refrigerator and removed a bunch of fresh parsley. She laid it on the cutting board and hacked at it with her good hand. Fresh parsley was the perfect herbaceous garnish to pumpkin soup. It added freshness and color.

  The soup was steaming, coming up to temperature. She dumped the hastily chopped parsley in to the soup and gently folded it in with a large wooden spoon.

  Five minutes until dinner.

  She leaned closer to the pot, inhaling deeply. It smelled delicious. Her head sank further into the pot, her nose almost touching the liquid.

  Her tongue gingerly stuck out to taste the soup. It burned, singing her taste buds.

  She lowered her nose and mouth into the soup. It was blistering hot, the creamy liquid boiling her skin. Desperate for breath, she sucked in, the scalding liquid scorching her nasal passage and shooting down her esophagus into her lungs.

  Her knees gave out. The pumpkin soup was infusing all of her senses, was all she could taste, see, hear, smell, touch. It was all around her, all consuming.

  Her last thought before she slumped to the floor in a dead heap was the soup could have used a pinch of nutmeg.

  True Love

  by Shane McKenzie

  She opened her eyes, taking in gulps of air. The sound of applause filled her ears as she gained consciousness.

  Where am I? What’s going on?

  Amy tried to stand up, but the straps on her arms and legs held her in place. She rocked in the chair but couldn’t move.

  A full audience sat to her left, all wearing strange masks. They clapped their hands as she struggled. The white, expressionless masks gave them a ghostly look. As her mind became less groggy, she noticed that she wore no clothing. She could feel the eyes on her bare flesh and wanted to scream. As she thrashed in her chair, the audience grew more excited.

  A loud click came from above, followed by a blinding light. Two spotlights hit the stage. Amy squinted as the light shone on another person sitting across from her.

  “Andrew?” she said, staring at her fiancé. He sat naked and bound to his chair. He met eyes with his lover, strapped and bare in front of him.

  “A-amy?” he said with a look of disgust, “What the fuck is going on?”

  “I don’t know. I just woke up here.”

  He struggled with his restraints, every muscle in his body bulging as he twisted and thrashed.

  The audience grew quiet as they stared at the exposed couple.

  The squeak of a rusty wheel became audible above the sound of shuffling feet. A small person walked toward them, his face covered by, what looked like, an executioners mask. He pulled along a wagon, metal instruments piled into it. Stopping in front of the couple, he dropped the wagon handle to the floor. Amy thought he might be a child until he got closer, his proportions giving him away. He stood in front of them, glancing back and forth between the two.

  “We shall begin,” said a voice from above, booming through the room. The audience responded with loud applause.

  Amy looked at A
ndrew, his eyes scanning their surroundings. He continued his attempt to escape, the veins in his neck bulging. Warm tears ran down her cheeks as she watched her one true love acting in desperation.

  “Baby, it’s gonna be alright.”

  “Let us the fuck out of here!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips.

  “Amy,” said the voice from above, “Do you love Andrew?”

  She looked all around, trying to find the source of the voice. The audience sat still, awaiting her answer. The mini-executioner stood his ground, still as a statue.

  “With all of my heart.”

  Mumbling came from the audience as they whispered to each other.

  “And Andrew,” said the voice, “Do you love Amy?”

  “Fuck you!”

  The midget knelt to his wagon and revealed a scalpel, the metal shining in the spotlight. He took a step toward Amy, and with no hesitation, pressed the cold metal into her flesh. She screamed as the blade dragged downward, slicing open her shoulder. Blood poured from the wound, crooked red lines running down her arm.

  “Stop!” yelled Andrew, “please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt her.”

  “Andrew, do you love Amy?”

  “I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” Tears and mucus ran down his face.

  Amy felt a strong love for Andrew as she watched him weep in his chair. Nobody she had ever met could make her feel the way he did. She wanted to kiss him, hold him to her bosom, and tell him how much she loved him.

  “Good Andrew, I knew you would come around,” said the voice. “We brought you here to put that very love to the test, to see how much about each other you truly know.”

  The audience began clapping again, their anticipation bursting for the game ahead. Amy watched as they whispered to each other. Her shoulder stung and spewed blood.

  “Andrew, what is Amy’s middle name?”

  Amy knew he wouldn’t cooperate with this game so easily. His stubbornness defined him.

  “Let us go right fucking now!” he yelled, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  The midget reached into his wagon and waddled toward Amy. He held a pair of pliers to her breast, squeezing the flesh of the dark nipple. She screamed, staring down at her chest, then back at Andrew. The executioner held the tool in place, awaiting Andrew’s cooperation.

  “Okay, God damn it,” said Andrew. “It’s Catherine. Her fucking middle name is Catherine.”

  “Correct,” said the voice. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

  The audience exploded into applause.

  The midget dropped the pliers back into the wagon and stood by, awaiting the next question.

  Amy’s pulse quickened as she waited for her turn. Andrew never told her his middle name, always felt embarrassed by it. That God damned stubbornness was going to cost him now.

  “Amy, what is Andrew’s middle name?”

  She sat in silence, staring at him. She cursed him for not trusting her. The executioner grabbed a hammer from his wagon of weapons, looking back toward Amy.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  Andrew stared at her as if she should have known. His eyes grew wide as the midget marched toward him.

  “Leave him alone!”

  The executioner raised the hammer above his head. Andrew strained against the straps. The hammer slammed down onto his big toe, splitting the nail and skin. Andrew let out an agonizing scream. Amy choked as she watched, the audience cheering in the background.

  Blood oozed from the toe as the midget did the same to the other foot. Andrew responded with more thrashing, screaming in pain. Amy saw the leather of the straps tightening around his arms and legs as he struggled.

  “Now you see how our little game works,” said the voice. “A wrong answer leads to unfortunate punishment.”

  Amy stared at Andrew, blood pooling around his feet. He breathed in deep gasps, his hair wet and drooping over his face.

  “Amy, what is Andrew’s favorite food?”

  She felt her spirits rise as she remembered countless meals with her fiancé. She was the open minded one, open to trying new things. He loved what he loved, no exceptions.

  “Fettuccini alfredo!”

  He looked up at her, his face twisted into a grimace. He shook his head as his breathing grew quicker.

  “That is incorrect I’m afraid,” said the voice. “According to our sources, he’s a T-bone steak and potatoes man.”

  The midget rummaged through his wagon, pulling out a small ax. The audience responded with more cheering as he walked back toward Andrew.

  Again, wasting no time, he raised the ax into the air and slammed it down on to Andrew’s forearm. Blood splattered the executioner’s mask as he wiggled the ax free.

  Andrew shrieked between sobs, watching as the midget moved to his other arm. After severing that arm at the elbow, he tightened the straps above the spewing stumps. Andrew gurgled and moaned.

  The mini-executioner grabbed the severed limbs and beckoned toward the crowd. They responded with cheers, jumping from their seats to address him. He threw one arm into the audience, then the other like souvenir t-shirts at a football game. Amy watched as they scrambled toward the limbs, wrestling with each other to claim the prize. She felt the blood rush to her face, her heart thumping in her chest.

  “You fucking liars!” she yelled, “I know that answer was right, I’m his fucking fiancee for God’s sake!”

  “We have our sources my dear,” said the voice, “and I’m afraid you are incorrect.”

  Amy thought hard, looking back at their relationship, all the meals they had together. She couldn’t remember him ever ordering a steak, not once.

  “Amy,” said Andrew, his voice barely audible above the mumbling audience. “I’m sorry.”

  Blood leaked from the stumps of his arms, trickling onto the floor.

  “Don’t be sorry baby, we’re gonna get outta here.”

  “Andrew,” said the voice, “it’s your turn.”

  The midget stood by his wagon, waiting for his next chance to wreak havoc.

  “What is Amy’s favorite food?”

  Andrew looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the speaker. His breathing came in short gasps, mucus stretching from his lip. Amy could see him shaking, his skin turning pale.

  “Eg-eggplant parmesan,” he muttered, “with a c-cesar s-salad.”

  “That is correct.”

  Fresh tears rolled down Amy’s cheeks as she watched Andrew slump back into his chair. He fought to hold onto consciousness, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with her.

  “Amy, how long have you two been in a serious relationship?”

  “Three years, five months, and ten days,” she said, remembering every day she spent with her love.

  “Correct.”

  The audience booed, hungry for more blood. The executioner shuffled his feet, anxious for the next question.

  “Andrew,” said the voice, “when was the last time you were intimate with Amy?”

  For a second, Amy thought he had passed out, but then he spoke, barely audible.

  “Last night,” he said, “we made love last night.”

  Amy’s stomach dropped as she stared at her wounded lover.

  Last night?

  They weren’t even together last night. He told her that he had to work late. She stayed at home and read her novel, sipping coffee as she waited for him.

  What was he talking about?

  “That is incorrect, I’m afraid.”

  “Andrew, what’s going on?”

  He glanced up at her, a look of surprise on his face. He seemed to realize that he messed up, that he blurted out an answer without thinking.

  Before Amy had time to think this through, she heard metal being pushed around. The midget held his hammer again, but also held two metal spikes. The crowd came alive as he waddled toward Amy.

  He held the spike above her knee, the point of the metal dimpling her skin. Amy plead
ed with him, begging him to stop. He slammed down the hammer, driving the spike into her leg. She screamed, sweat and tears dripping down her face. Her hands gripped the chair, her fingernails digging into the wood. She struggled, wiggling as the midget walked to her other leg. He repeated the process, the metal penetrating her bone. Amy screamed and bared her teeth at the small man.

  “You mother fuckers, I’m gonna fucking kill you!” screamed Andrew, the sheer act of yelling causing him to grimace.

  The audience went wild, some standing to cheer, others whistling. The executioner faced them, his hands in the air, taking in his fan’s embrace.

  Amy shivered, any small movement brought shockwaves of pain. She looked up at Andrew, feeling anything but love at that moment. At a time like this, how the hell do you get an answer like that wrong?

  “What were you thinking?”

  He shook his head as he stared back at her.

  “Amy, I will ask you the same thing,” said the voice, “when was the last time you two were intimate?”

  Amy never took her eyes off of Andrew, the pain in her legs almost too much to bear. She remembered the last time. Remembered how he lifted her into the air and fucked her where he stood. She told her friends how sore she was the next day.

  “Thursday, three nights ago.”

  “Correct.”

  The audience booed again, anxious for their executioner’s next trick.

  Andrew screamed, grabbing the attention of the crowd. Their snickering quieted as they all stared at the blubbering man.

  “You bastards,” he said, “you fucking bastards.”

  The crowd burst into laughter, elbowing each other as they cackled.

  Amy’s thoughts were full of questions as she looked down at her wounded thighs. Her stomach threatened to empty itself as she stared at the gushing blood, the heads of the nails shining in the light. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine she was somewhere else.

  The booming voice from above brought her back to reality.

  “Amy, has Andrew ever been unfaithful to you?”

  Amy thought back to their relationship, how perfect everything seemed. Andrew used to tell her that she was the only thing in the world worth living for, how he would do anything in his power to make sure she was happy. They used to lie around all day, making love and talking. She couldn’t imagine her love, the only person to ever make her feel this way, ever doing anything to deceive her. The look on Andrew’s face as he awaited her answer made her feel differently.