Benny was on the top bunk with his brother, halfway under the blankets; he had a strange expression on his face.
“I’m practicing my defensive plays on him,” he said coolly, punching Bobby lightly in the stomach, eliciting a breathy oof!
“Well it’s bedtime now so get into your own bunk.”
Benny swung his legs over the edge, climbed down the wood ladder, and flopped onto his mattress.
“You’ve almost outgrown your bed,” she said, stepping across the carpet, past the golden trophies, the binders of baseball cards, the posters of Derek Jeeter, John Elway, Randy Johnson.
“He’ll be thirteen next year,” Bobby said, his voice uneasy and weak. “Then he’ll get his own room.”
“That’s right,” Karen said, kissing the boy on the cheek and tucking him into the blanket.
“I don’t mind staying in this room,” Benny said.
Karen kneeled beside him. “But you’re going to be a teenager soon, Benny. You’ll want your privacy. Trust me. What happens when you want to have one of your girlfriends over?”
“I hate girls,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “All they do is complain, cry, and make noise.”
Karen laughed. “Well, I doubt you’ll feel that way much longer.”
She got up and went to the door. “You boys brushed your teeth, I hope?”
“Yes, Mom,” they said.
“All right, goodnight then, have sweet dreams.”
“Goodnight.”
She switched off the light.
***
“Time for the final act,” she said, locking the metal door behind her. The girls were huddled against the wall, naked, using each other as pillows, trying to fall sleep.
“Ah ah ah,” Karen said, “come on, get up, you can rest later. Right now we’ve got God’s work to do.”
Blinking, they did their best to assume the kneeling position. Blood-smeared handprints covered their inner thighs.
Karen slid a chair before them, its legs scratching across the floor. From the shelf she removed an object draped in cloth, which she cradled in her lap as she sat down. “I have something very special here,” she said. “Want to know what it is?”
They looked at her but said nothing, their faces showing fatigue, their eyes contempt.
“Come now,” Karen said, pouting. “You can’t be tuckered out already. I have one last thing to show you, and then tomorrow I’ll dump you behind the shopping mall—or some other awful place—and you can return to your wretched lives. Doesn’t that sound nice? I hope this experience has impacted you. And next time, perhaps you’ll think twice before opening your legs.”
This news seemed to invigorate them, to give them hope. Picking up their chins, they did their best to concentrate.
“That’s better,” Karen said, removing the piece of cloth and letting it drop to the floor.
The girls gasped, made retching noises, and the black one said, “That what I think it is?”
Karen nodded, holding up the jar. “This is an aborted human fetus. Not either of yours, of course. No, this one was scheduled for stem cell research over at the university, but luckily a friend of mine is a medical professor there and he liberated it for me. He’s always been a proud member of our church.”
She shook the container as one might shake a jar of pickles; the fetus swirled about in the amber liquid. Its underdeveloped head, tiny tummy, stumpy legs, reaching arms—so beautiful is proof of God’s existence, she thought wistfully. So beautiful is the miracle of child. Unscrewing the lid, she stuck in her nose and inhaled the chemical aroma. “Ah, the scent of budding life,” she said.
She held the jar out to the girls, but they wrinkled their noses in disgust at it. “Smell it!” she demanded. And they did.
“Now, you have to watch as I do this,” she said. “I’m serious. If any of you close your eyes, I’ll punish you, and then we’ll be forced to start over. The faster we get through this, the faster you can go home, understand? You do want to go home, don’t you? Where it’s nice, warm, and comfortable?”
They nodded.
“Good. Just remember, no shutting your eyes.”
Reaching into the container, she extracted the soggy fetus and set the jar by her feet. The misshapen wrinkled body dripped fat amber drops onto her pants. Taking a deep breath, she brought the fetus before her mouth and started to eat it.
God is great, she thought, closing her eyes and swallowing, God is good, let us thank him for our food...
Little Messiahs
by Eric Stoveken
Leonard awoke from a chloroform daze knowing that he was in trouble. Adrenalin cut the pharmaceutical fog, and Leonard took in what he could of his surroundings. The room was a minimalist tableau lit by a low watt bulb dangling from a decimated fixture in the center of the room. The floor and the ceiling had recently been painted black, the scent of the paint still filled the room, and the walls were padded with soundproof foam.
Leonard’s hands and feet were taped to the arms and legs of an old wooden chair. He had been stripped to his boxers and tie. His mouth was gagged and filled with blood, shivers wracking his body every time he bit down.
The chair was grabbed by unseen hands and flipped onto the floor. The move was not done with excessive force, but the ease with which it was executed suggested impressive strength behind it. Leonard suffered a broken nose and a split lip. The chair was returned to its proper position, and the voice of his captor came from behind Leonard's right ear.
"Do I have your full and undivided attention?" The assailant waited for the indistinct and pained mutterings that struggled to get around the gag before continuing. "I guess this is not exactly helping your communication skills." A hand crept around Leonard's head, ripped the duct tape off of his mouth and removed a large ball of aluminum foil. The sight of the gag not only explained the previous shivers down the spine but aroused several new spasms as well.
Leonard started screaming for help and was smacked hard in the back of the head. Blood rushed to the front of his skull, intensifying the throbbing in his nose and the ringing in his ears. "We will have none of that. It gives me a headache. Besides, the room is soundproof so any cries for help are just plain silly. So, now that you are able to speak, how are you feeling?"
"What do you want from me?"
"Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that question? And every time, it's asked as if I have a clearly defined motive. Granted, I do; but generally people who do this kind of thing do not. Furthermore, people ask as if my motive needs to relate to them specifically or be of such a nature that my revelation of it will lessen this ordeal. Neither of these is true and the question is pointless. Everything will be revealed in time. Now back to my question. How are you feeling, Leonard?"
"You know my name."
"It's amazing what you can learn from someone's wallet, Leonard. Your response does not answer my question."
"I'm scared, alright? Is that what you want to hear?"
"Excellent. Fear. We shall work from there, Leonard. Regarding your question as to whether or not that was what I wanted to hear, I will say this: the only thing I require of you during our time together is honesty. If you were sexually aroused by my treatment, I would want you to tell me so. Granted, fear will make my job easier, but so will your cooperation and candid description of what you are feeling."
Leonard had not yet seen the face of the man who held his life in his hands, but he had listened carefully. The captor had been pacing back and forth behind him. The sound of his footsteps said he was wearing dress shoes. This implied a fairly formal dress code. The shoes were certainly not the sneakers or heavy boots that Leonard expected of a psychopath.
The voice was solid, but not deep; with the scratchiness of a lifelong smoker. His tone was intelligent and world weary, though not necessarily old. "Well then. What do you say we begin?"
The light went out; Leonard could hear pieces of wooden furniture moving somewhere in front
of him.
The stranger working methodically in the darkness. Eventually, the faint sound of breath placed the stranger directly in front of Leonard.
The light snapped on and Leonard's eyes readjusted and gazed upon his captor. He looked like the most average middle-aged show salesman in all the land. Leonard was taken aback by the milquetoast entity that stood before him. He had a paunch, faint traces of laugh lines etched in his cheeks and a receding hairline. He was dressed, simply, in slacks and a button down shirt of an indiscernible brand or quality.
The assailant chuckled. "Not quite what you expected, am I? Fear not. You will be far more surprised with me by the time this is all over." He paused, gauging Leonard’s response. "You’re probably wondering what I have in store for you."
"I think I have a pretty good idea."
"And you are wrong," he replied with chilling confidence. The stranger was sitting on a chair just like Leonard's. On either side of him were folding tables with boxes on them, the contents of which could not be seen from where Leonard sat.
From the pocket of his shirt, the man produced a scalpel, which he fidgeted with dexterously as he spoke. "My name is . . . Roger," he explained. Leonard noticed Roger's meaningful pause and upward gaze before giving his name, as if he were making it up. If Leonard had no chance of getting out alive, he would have been told his assailant's real name. The pseudonym meant hope. "You should be honored by your selection. Your life may yet have some value in this world."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"What a stupid question. If I am sane, I would tell you so. If I am mad, I will certainly deny it and give you the same response. You may as well ask me if I am a pathological liar.
"Enough logic games. We won't worry about the outside world or the rules and mores that define it. We are going to live in the moment, and in so doing dedicate all our energies to the task at hand." Roger took the scalpel and removed a jagged patch of skin from Leonard's left arm. The scream that followed lasted longer than Roger liked.
Annoyed with the pitiful shriek, Roger took the butt end of the scalpel and sharply struck Leonard's broken nose. The pain was minor, but snapped the prisoner into silence. "Leonard, if you start caterwauling every time I touch you, this is going to take longer than it has to.
"Now we are presented with an open wound on your arm. This is terribly inconvenient for you, because, while it is painful right now, there is potential for infection and gangrene. That much exposed flesh can lead to blood poisoning and a slow painful death. Not fun, Leonard.
"I have beside me two boxes. In one I have the makings of a modern first aid kit. There are bandages, tape, antibiotics, and topical antiseptics. Everything that I need to care for that wound in a sterile and proper manner is in that box. You like that box, Leonard. The other box is filled with other ways of treating the injury. Iodine for that 1940's style medical attention. Kosher salt and whiskey should we opt for a more civil war era approach. Then there's the Tabasco sauce and sandpaper."
The prospects sent Leonard into a fit of fighting against his bonds and screaming for help that would never come.
"Now, now. This is not the sort of thing that I am prone to rush to judgment on. Each box has its merits that need to be weighed carefully. However, if you act like a child, I will be forced to make a snap decision. I may choose box number two simply because it requires less patience than box number one."
Leonard sunk into deep silence.
"You may have noticed that I have a lot of hatred inside of me and what may be described as 'a real mean streak'. Some might even say that I have too much hatred and cruelty for one man. They would be far more correct than they could ever understand. On a related note, you will be experiencing more pain than any one man should endure. You will feel as if you have died a thousand deaths by the time this is through.
"Which brings us back to the issue of the boxes. These boxes contain more than just instruments of pain or relief. They also contain the possibilities thereof. I can be merciful or cruel; and you need to try and guess which one I will opt for. It is in your nature to try and anticipate my next move. That's a good way to drive yourself mad, attempting to crawl inside my head. So what would inspire me to take mercy on you? Quiet obedience maybe? Or do I want to see you spew invective at me like a drunken biker? What do I want from you, Leonard? I'm going to sit here for a little while and watch you think about that."
Roger leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Leonard’s look, an almost defeated pout, was more or less unchanging. Were it not for the determined defiance with which he cast his eyes downward, Roger would think that his victim had been broken far ahead of schedule. Dragging deeply, Roger decided to bide his time, waiting for Leonard to make some sort of move.
After ten minutes, Roger began removing the contents of the first aid box, silently cataloguing its contents as he set them down on the tray. When this brought no reaction, he shifted his attention to the other box; removing the bottle of hot sauce and juggling it from hand to hand. This continued for a couple minutes until he lit another cigarette and inspected Leonard. The same defiance was in his eyes, the same pout on his lips. The cut on the bridge of his nose had begun to scab, so Roger extinguished his cigarette on it, bringing Leonard back to full attention.
"I'll be right back. I warn you that this meditative bitterness bores me and I may be tempted to force some animation into you when I return. Think about what I have said and let's see if you can choose your fate." The light went out and the door opened and closed behind Leonard, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
The pain had faded into a white hot noise in the back of his head. It was Roger's apparent creativity, not the immediate pain, that worried him. He did, however, expect sterile treatment of his injury. Complications could narrow the window of opportunity for Roger to do whatever he needed to do. A lukewarm comfort, if that, was all that Leonard had.
Leonard knew he was in for more pain and suffering then he had ever imagined. Moments of fleeting kindness were the best that he could hope for. He needed to do everything in his power to bring those moments about. He tried to think.
The door opened in the darkness before Leonard could come to any meaningful conclusions. Footfalls shuffled into their position in front of him. Something was placed on one of the tables. Roger's voice crept through the darkness. "So, what box do you think I'm going to use, Leonard?"
Leonard could feel something in the air inches above his open wound. Not being able to see what it was or when it was coming drove reason from him and almost sent his ability to speak with it. "I don't know! I don't care! Just do it!"
"You couldn't bring yourself to see this situation through my eyes, could you?"
Leonard could feel the invisible hand creeping closer to the wound.
"I'm very disappointed in you."
At the moment that he most anticipated the burn of cayenne and vinegar on open flesh, the lights came on revealing no hand near his arm and Roger sitting serenely in his chair. On the table next to him, a microwaveable burrito sat awaiting the hot sauce.
Before Leonard could take in this unthreatening scene, he cringed against his bonds and let out the whimper of a man beneath the dentist's drill.
Roger chuckled quietly. "A thousand deaths, my friend. Each one worse than the one before."
Leonard stared at his captor with his head still buzzing from the adrenaline and enough anger to impress him.
"Which I guess means I'll be committing a thousand murders." An odd remark, Roger's statement caused Leonard's face to drain of vengeance in exchange for curiosity. "Speak while you still can," Roger warned.
"It's odd the way you talk about all this."
"How do most people you know talk about kidnapping a man and torturing him for an extended period of time for reasons that he cannot begin to comprehend?"
The point was well taken; but in spite of his comprehension, Leonard found a bizarre reply falling out of his mouth before
he could even think. "Most of the people I know call it marriage." He had made a joke. A joke cracked at a man who had broken his nose and cut a swath of skin from his arm and who had the ability to expand upon these injuries for an unspecified amount of time. Perhaps, insanity was setting in.
"Good answer. There is something that I can admire. Flippancy in the face of an uncertain future." Leonard cautiously noted that Roger had still not used the term “death” in any literal sense. Roger's amusement proved contagious and Leonard attempted a smile, trying to blend, to bond with the man who could kill him at any moment. Roger's demeanor remained cool. He pivoted sharply, glaring at his prisoner. "Now what would your wife say if she heard her husband talking like that?"
Leonard's smile vanished as abruptly as his captor's. "How the hell did you know I was married?"
"You're wearing a wedding ring, Leonard. Now answer the question. What would Christina say if she heard you talking like that?"
Leonard steeled himself. Roger was trying to rattle him by mentioning his family. "I think she would be too traumatized by this situation to even speak."
"How right you are." Again that chilling certainty. "Tell you what. Because of your humor in the face of danger, I shall attend to your wound in a compassionate and sterile manner. Fair enough?"
Leonard now feared for his family as well as himself, but he struggled to remain cordial. "Thank you."
His gratitude was laughed at. "You'll be taking that back before this is over." With nothing else, he set to work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic that, while stinging, was far kinder than anything in box number two. The wound clean, the captor laid down a couple layers of clean sterile gauze and taped the bandage securely in place, wrapping the tape around the arm, being careful not to inhibit circulation. "There. How does that feel?"
"Much better. Again, thank you."
No sooner had the word "you" been uttered then Roger pulled a night stick out of his belt, bringing it down with bone cracking speed and focus on the bandaged wound. Leonard let out a scream that was silenced when he was knocked unconscious by a sharp blow to the side of the head.
Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Page 18