Go Kill Crazy!

by Bryan Smith

  It had only been a day since the assault on the de Rais compound and the reality of her friend’s death was still hard to grasp. She missed the crazy bitch more than she ever could have imagined. The only thing distracting her from her grief was the weirdness going on with Casey. Something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t talk about it. All Echo had been able to surmise was it had something to do with Cora Wilkinson. Ted’s sister kept dragging her boyfriend off for private talks. Casey returned from each of them looking more troubled than before. According to Cora, she had a business venture she hoped to involve Casey in, but Echo knew that was bullshit.

  For one thing, what kind of business venture requiring that much private discussion could have arisen in the brief time the two had known each other? Especially given everything else that had been going on? As cover stories went, it was one of the most cynical Echo had ever heard. Casey had no business background or acumen whatsoever. He was a mechanic. A good one, yes, but bending a wrench was really all he knew.

  Echo mulled all this over as she paced the floor in room 2035 at the Renaissance Hotel late that afternoon. Cora had shown up again only moments ago to whisk Casey away to yet another “meeting”, this in room 2040, one of the other suites Big Ted kept on permanent reserve at the hotel. This time it was eating at her more than ever.

  If Dez had taught her anything of any real value, it was to never let anyone take you for a chump.

  Fuck this.

  She grabbed her handbag off the table and started toward the door. Lana, lying on the bed nearest the window, looked up from the iPad Ted had given her. “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m taking care of business.”

  Echo walked out of the room and stalked down the hallway to room 2040.

  Once they were inside room 2040, Cora ordered Casey to remove his clothes. By now he knew better than to resist. The only thing keeping Echo alive was his compliance with Cora’s wishes. The bitch had armed thugs awaiting her orders in room 2036. One word from her and they would pay Echo and Lana a visit.

  Casey still hoped to find a way out of this crazy predicament. There had to be something he could do to neutralize the woman’s intense interest in him.

  But time was running out. They were scheduled to catch a flight to Tampa early in the morning. If no exit strategy presented itself before then, he might have no choice but to accompany her to Florida and hope he could figure something out once he got there. The drawback to that was the likelihood of losing track of Echo’s whereabouts for another longish period of time. He doubted she would stick around the area for long once he was gone. That would be regrettable, but it would be better than rebelling now and condemning her to death.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. Cora licked her lips and eyed his buff physique with a lustful expression. He unbuckled his belt and began tugging it free of the belt loops. He considered wrapping the belt around Cora’s throat. Though killing her would solve the immediate dilemma, a host of other complications would immediately ensue, starting with what to do about Big Ted and the assassins-on-retainer in room 2036. There were just too many obstacles to overcome to make it a viable way to go, at least at this juncture.

  On the other hand, it was possible having the guts to act now and take his chances might be the only way he could be with Echo again for the long haul, which was something he wanted very much. Now that he no longer had to worry about Keely, a lot of things had become clearer than ever to him. If he wanted something difficult bad enough, decisive action was necessary to make it happen.

  Cora removed her own top and approached him. She smiled in a naughty—and smugly superior—way and cupped the crotch of his jeans with a soft hand. His cock responded instantly to her touch. This was something he couldn’t help. The thing had a mind of its own. And, despite his hatred of her, Cora was very attractive.

  She pressed her breasts against his bare chest and made a hungry sound low in her throat. “Your bitch will be dead by the time I’m done making you come.”

  Casey frowned. “What?” His hand tightened around the buckle end of the belt. Her words repeated in his head, the meaning penetrating more emphatically this time. There would be no reprieve for Echo. The assassins weren’t just a contingency plan. “You bitch.”

  Cora laughed and tugged at his zipper tab. “You’ll get over it.”

  Casey began to raise the belt.

  Gunshots boomed in the hallway. Bullets blasted the door open. Cora screamed and reeled away from him as Echo stalked into the room with a raised Glock and an expression so furious she looked like rage incarnate. Casey recognized at once there was no chance of soothing that fury fast enough to avert catastrophe.

  But that didn’t stop him from trying.

  He raised his hands and showed Echo his most beseeching expression. “This isn’t what it looks—”

  Fool me once, shame on you.

  Fool me twice, fuck you.

  This variation on the old saying was something her dad used to say a lot when she was little. It had stuck with her all these years and today it seemed more apt than ever.

  She fired twice at Casey.

  The first bullet clipped the side of his neck, making his body jerk backward. The next bullet went between his eyes and ended his life. Cora had her back against the room’s big window, her slender form outlined against the city skyline. Echo shot her once between the boobs. There was a bright splatter of blood on the window when she slid lifelessly to the floor.

  Voices out in the hallway.

  Big Ted’s booming baritone.

  Other male voices Echo didn’t recognize.

  She stepped back out of the room and saw Ted to her right—his cowboy hat perched cockeyed atop his head—and armed men to the left. She dealt with the armed men first, putting each down with a single bullet. She had no idea who they were or where they had come from, but instinct told her they were connected in some way to Cora and Big Ted.

  The door to room 2035 opened and Lana popped out into the hallway. She gasped when she saw Echo swing the Glock toward Big Ted. “Don’t!”

  Echo grimaced. “Sorry, baby.”

  She blew Ted’s brains out as he was backing toward the open doorway behind him. He slumped against the doorframe and slid slowly to the floor.

  Echo looked at Lana. “Cora was fucking Casey. I killed them.”

  Lana peeked inside room 2040. “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry about Ted.”

  Lana looked at her. “It’s all right. You had to do it. He would’ve killed you.”

  Echo smiled. “Thanks for understanding.”

  Doors were opening and then slamming shut again up and down the hallway. For the briefest of moments, it was almost amusing. Guests at a ritzy joint like this were not accustomed to gunfire in the hallways.

  The girls exchanged a look.

  Echo said, “We should probably go.”

  Lana nodded. “Let me grab my shit.”

  She disappeared back inside room 2035 for a moment, quickly reemerging with her purse slung over her shoulder and the iPad clutched in her right hand. She saw Echo’s furrowed brow and laughed as they hurried down the hallway. “What? I had to come out of that relationship with something.”

  Sally Richardson walked east along the side of the highway as the sun began its slow early evening descent toward the horizon. She had been walking for several hours. She had awakened earlier to find herself suddenly sober in a house full of dead people. There was blood everywhere. Some of it was from the people who had lived in the house. And some of it was from Thomas and Joshua, who had cut their own throats.

  It was too bad about Thomas and Joshua. They were fun guys. The only problem was they had bought into John Wayne de Rais’ bullshit, whereas for Sally the whole cult thing had never been anything more than an excuse to go wild and live outside of society’s rules. She remained interested in pursuing the same brand of fun, but maybe this time without the expectation of ritual suicide, be
cause that shit was lame.

  She heard a car begin to slow down behind her, but she kept her eyes straight ahead and continued walking. A lot of people had offered her rides already today. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. She was a cute white girl with blonde hair. Her clothes were rumpled and her white shirt was stained with blood spatter. Even that failed to put off a lot of people. The only surprise was that some budding serial killer hadn’t attempted to stuff her into his trunk, which was kind of a disappointment. Boy, did she have a surprise waiting for any motherfucker like that.

  She smiled, thinking about it. Hello, Mr. Sex Killer, say hello to Mr. Stabby.

  Sally figured this walking thing would get old after a while, but for now it was what she wanted to do, though she was no longer certain why she had set out on foot in the first place. The latest stolen creep van had still been parked at the curb outside the house, but for some reason she had walked right on past it, continuing out to the main road and beyond. Though she was no longer high, she still felt a bit out of sorts, but she supposed anyone would after engaging in such spirited hijinks for so long.

  A black Impala rolled up next to her. It was one of the big models from the long, long ago. Big and long. The thought made her giggle. The driver’s side window was down. A female voice called out to her. “Hey. You. Blondie. Want a ride?”

  Sally stopped in her tracks.

  The Impala stopped next to her.

  She turned toward the car and stepped close for a peek inside. It was the first time she had stopped to interact with anyone since the beginning of her journey. Even as she did it, she couldn’t say why she was doing it. It was pure instinct.

  It felt right.

  There were two women inside the car. Both were gorgeous with lots of tattoos, long legs and black hair. The one behind the wheel had Bettie Page bangs and was wearing dark sunglasses. Some kind of heavy rock music was playing at low volume on the radio.

  “What is that you’re listening to?”

  A smile from the Bettie Page lookalike. “That’s ‘Death Valley ’69’ by Sonic Youth.”

  Sally opened the door and slipped into the backseat.

  The Impala started off down the road again.

  The woman in the shotgun seat turned toward her, grinning. “I’m Lana and this is Echo. What’s your name?”

  “Sally.”

  “Sally.” Lana drew the two syllables out, as if savoring them. “Nice. I like a good old-fashioned name. Where are you headed, Sally?”

  Sally shrugged. “Wherever you’re going.”

  Echo glanced at the rearview mirror. Sally glimpsed rows of perfect white teeth when she smiled. “You look like you’ve been walking a while. I bet you were offered other rides. Any reason you got in with us?”

  Sally nodded. “You both have black hair. You needed a blonde to balance things out. Also, I was suddenly tired of walking. That shit’s overrated.”

  Echo and Lana glanced at each other.

  Then they burst out laughing.

  Echo put the pedal to the floor and the Impala roared toward the sunset.

  About the Author

  Bryan Smith is the author of numerous previous novels and novellas, including The Late Night Horror Show, 68 Kill, House of Blood, Depraved, The Killing Kind, The Dark Ones, The Diabolical Conspiracy, and The Freakshow. Bryan lives in Tennessee with an array of animals. He enjoys beer, loud rock and roll, bad B movies, Britcoms, and a lot more of the usual kind of stuff. Visit his home on the web at www.bryansmith.info.

  Look for these titles by Bryan Smith

  Now Available:

  The Late Night Horror Show

  When the movie starts, the horror becomes real.

  The Late Night Horror Show

  © 2013 Bryan Smith

  It was a run-down old multi-plex in a seedy part of town. But it had a special late-night festival of the cheap horror movies one group of friends loved, movies filled with zombies, vampires and backwoods maniacs.

  How could they know it was a very special screening indeed? After the friends split up and their chosen movies began, they found themselves transported out of the life they knew and into the blood-drenched worlds of the films. Worlds where the living dead roam the countryside, the decrepit mansion of a vampire and his minions dominates the night sky, and the shrill scream of a buzz saw is always right behind you.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Late Night Horror Show:

  There was something odd about that music. The sound was discordant. Jarring and shrill. But that wasn’t the odd thing about it. What was odd was how tantalizingly familiar it was. The defining element of the music was the sound of seemingly one thousand tortured violins being violently assaulted by an army of escaped mental patients bent on wringing the soundtrack of hell from their undoubtedly stolen instruments. Rapidly repeated, stinging bursts of sudden sharp sounds, followed by longer and more ominous-sounding notes in a lower register.

  The overall effect was so like something he’d heard a million times before, with perhaps a couple of minor variations, perhaps wedged between the more familiar notes as an afterthought, a way of warding off a copyright violation lawsuit.

  Yet…he couldn’t quite put his finger on why it was so damn familiar.

  What the hell is that monstrous noise?

  John Dorsey stirred from his semidoze and squinted at the fuzzy images on the television in his living room. There was nothing wrong with the picture. And his eyesight was usually fine. The fuzziness was instead a result of the many beers he’d consumed since his breakfast earlier that morning. Wait…was it still morning?

  He swiveled his head slowly to the right, squinting harder than ever now.

  “Ah.”

  Sunshine was visible through the half-drawn blind above the buzzing air conditioner. Didn’t quite solve the mystery. Could be late morning still. Could be afternoon. Could be early evening. But something about the glaringly bright quality of the sunshine made him doubt the last possibility. It was still relatively early, though not so early that he hadn’t had time to put a respectable dent in that case of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  Speaking of…

  He glanced down at his dangling right hand, which was hanging over the arm of his recliner. The top of the can was held very lightly by the tips of his fingers. Even the slightest lessening of his grip would send it tumbling to the carpeted floor. He frowned and got a more solid grip on the can. He then sat up straight and trained his eyes on the television.

  Little less fuzzy now.

  Huh. Interesting.

  A woman on the screen was attired in a very skimpy bikini. Nice body. Long, black-as-sin hair flowing over milk-white shoulders. She was screaming and running down a long, shadowy hallway. Someone was chasing her. A dude, naturally. Very large, of course, and wearing some kind of freaky mask. It was easy to see why you’d want to run away from him. Partly it was the ugly mask, but mostly it was because of the huge, whirring chainsaw held high over one of his shoulders.

  “Jesus. Not another Chainsaw sequel.”

  This one looked to be the worst yet. The production values were clearly far below the norm for the series. This one looked like one of those schlocky shot-on-video pieces of garbage that had a tendency to sit unrented for years on the shelves of failing video stores everywhere. And the chainsaw-wielding psycho on the screen didn’t look right at all. The mask looked cheap. A flimsy piece of plastic shit you might buy for a buck at Walmart the day after Halloween. Nothing at all like a mask stitched together from dead human flesh. And the guy lacked the classic Leatherface physique. John’s mouth curled in disgust. Clearly this was a case of some hack with a camera “rebooting” or “reimagining” the franchise. The only question was how in God’s name these obvious amateurs had managed to wrest away the rights to…

  He frowned again.

  “Huh.”

  The woman had reached the end of the hallway. The door there was locked. Of course. It had to be locked. Otherwise, she
couldn’t turn to the camera, as she was doing now, splay a hand across her mouth, and scream again as the dude with the chainsaw at last got close enough to begin the butchery.

  A title in wavy yellow letters splashed across the screen.

  Chainsaw Maniac!

  John raised the can of Pabst to his mouth. “The hell is this?”

  Of course. Should have been obvious from the beginning. Not an official Chainsaw sequel, but instead a cheap rip-off. As the faux-Leatherface character raised his weapon and began to lower the whirring blade toward the cringing babe, the tempo of the music increased again. Now that he’d come out of his beer-induced stupor, his synapses were firing faster and he was able to place why the music was so familiar.

  He snapped the fingers of his left hand and jabbed a forefinger at the screen. “Psycho! You cheap bastards are ripping off Bernard Herrmann’s score!” He chuckled and raised the can to his mouth again. “Hell, of course you are. So many others have done it, so why not you, right?”

  He laughed.

  The laughter cut off abruptly as it dawned on him that there was a disturbing lack of refreshing cerveza streaming down his horribly parched throat. He scowled at the empty can as he shook it. “Someone has stolen my beer. This offense cannot be tolerated. I declare global thermonuclear war as just retribution.” He chuckled. “Unless, of course, a diplomatic solution is hastily arranged.” He pitched his voice higher and jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Marie! Another beer! Stat! The fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

  He laughed some more. Then he frowned. This wasn’t like him. This…jocularity. This delirious good humor. No. No. That wasn’t quite fair. It was what he’d once been like, a lifetime ago, or, in normal people terms, approximately five months ago. Which, imagine this, happened to coincide with his layoff from the well-paying job he’d held for nearly a decade. Yes, a thing like that, especially in today’s barren job market, was enough to crush any man’s spirit.