A blaring horn from out on the street rescued him from the rat-infested living room nightmare. He opened his eyes to an already bright day; it seems he had overslept. The horn sounded again, but this time he climbed out of bed to look out the window. A cement truck was idling in his driveway, its giant cone shaped mixer slowly spinning. Three burly men were standing next to it smoking and looking bored.
As he watched, the large black rat ran from somewhere at the edge of his house, dashed down the driveway and underneath the truck. One of the construction workers jumped and took two quick steps to get away. One of the remaining guys laughed while the other picked up a rock and threw it at the rat. It landed in the grass mere inches away from the rat, spurring it to scurry around even faster before disappearing back into the edges of the house.
Good shot, Austin thought, but you’ll need to do better than that. That bastard’s a tricky one. Damn, I’ve got my work cut out… but he will die, yes, he will die.
He turned away from the show at the window, dressed, and went out to greet the men. After introductions were made and his instructions were given, they opened the cellar’s storm doors and poured the cement into the opening. He had requested a fast setting concrete, because he wanted it to dry before any critters like his little rat friend would have a chance to walk through it.
When they finished, there was a smooth, shiny eight-inch thick layer of concrete on the floor. Austin had wanted it thick so he could install anchor bolts for his grinder, hydraulic press and other tools.
He closed the twin cellar doors, swung the hasp shut, and installed a new combination lock on it. As he walked to the front of the house, someone called to him.
“Austin, hey Austin, I see you’re limping. Are you okay?”
He turned to see Jason walking up the drive.
“Hello Jason. I’m fine, just fell and twisted my ankle, that’s all. How are you?”
“Doing well,” Jason replied. “It looks like you scraped your nose when you fell.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Austin sighed.
“Finally got the floor poured, huh?"
“Yep,” Austin said. “Now I just have to wait for it to dry. I’m about to go put some fans on the stairs to get some air moving down there so it’ll dry even faster.”
“Makes sense,” Jason said. “Listen, my daughter is having surgery tomorrow and I’m heading down there to stay with her for a few days. Would you mind keeping an eye on things while I’m away?”
“Sure,” Austin answered. “I hope she’s okay. Is it anything serious?”
“No, she’s having hernia surgery and just needs some help with the kids and doing things around the house. I figured I’d go lend a hand.”
“Well, that’s really nice of you Jason, you’re a good man. I’ll keep an eye on your house. I hope your daughter’s surgery goes well.”
“Thanks Austin, I appreciate that. And, take care of that ankle, we’re not spring chickens anymore and it takes more time for stuff like that to heal.”
“Roger that,” Austin replied, automatically regressing to his military vernacular.
Jason turned to leave and Austin watched him get into his truck and wave as he drove off. Austin turned to go in the house and noticed the rat standing in the grass twenty feet away, staring at him again.
“You’re going to die tonight my nasty little friend, if it’s the last thing I do. And stay out of the cellar, I don’t want your little footprints ruining my floor,” Austin said and walked into the house.
Austin limped to his bedroom, pulled his two box fans from the closet, and carried them to the cellar door. His sore thumb had been mildly complaining the entire time. When he got to the cellar, he placed both fans on the stairs and angled them down at the floor by leaning them against the railing for stability. He turned them on high and nodded with satisfaction at the amount of airflow. When he had returned to the top of the stairs, he turned around to take one last look at his brand new floor… and saw that damn rat standing at the bottom of the stairs. His perfect wet cement was no more. The rat’s footprints were plainly visible along with the line of its tail from its trek across his floor.
“You little son of a bitch! Look what you’ve done to my new floor!”
He turned around to grab the broom. He was going to trap and kill this thing once and for all. The little bastard must have scurried up the steps while he was turned away because it now ran between his legs and into the kitchen. Austin attempted to give chase but tripped over the box fans on the stairs and fell into the kitchen, his feet still on the cellar stairs. He instinctively put his hands out to arrest his fall. His thumb screamed at him when it slammed into the kitchen floor, and his arm buckled from the impact, slamming his face into the floor too. A resounding crack signaled the crushing of the cartilage in his nose, and blood vessels ruptured allowing the crimson liquid to flow freely from his nostrils. He tried to push himself up, but that ignited his thumb, making him instinctively lift his hand off the floor. In his younger days, he would have been able to hold his body weight with one arm, but that time had passed long ago. His face fell back towards the floor and he frantically brought his left hand underneath him before his face was pummeled, smacking his thumb on the floor for the third time.
“SHIT!”
He rolled onto his back and tried to will the pain away. Blood from his nose coursed into his throat, choking him. He sat up and coughed and a blood mist erupted from his mouth, arcing through the air and splattering on the floor and wall next to him.
Anger consumed him like nothing he had encountered before. His body shook and he ground his teeth together. All coherent thought fled from his mind, and suddenly, the only thing that mattered was killing the rat. The rat was the cause of all of this and it had to die!
He sat up and looked over his shoulder, back towards the cellar door. The rat stood at the threshold, watching him, its whiskers twitching frantically. The smell of Austin’s blood, which was now spilling from his nose, down his face onto the kitchen floor seemed to excite it and it bared its teeth at him.
“LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID, YOU ASSHOLE!” He yelled through clenched teeth. “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU DEAD, DEAD, DEAD!”
He quickly stood and turned around, lunging for the rat and it bolted down the stairs. Austin tried to follow, but his feet were now entangled in the fan cords and he tripped, falling headfirst into the stairwell. He held his hands out in front of him to break his fall, already dreading the pain he knew he was coming. His hands broke through the rotten steps as they shattered like plates of glass. His head continued forward, slamming his already broken nose into the next step, which unfortunately, was firm and free of rot. Overwhelming pain short-circuited his brain and his consciousness fled as if being chased by the hounds of hell, and he passed out. His back arched and his upper body fell face first through the hole in the stairs followed by his legs, flipping him. He landed on his back with a loud splat and sank through the eight inches of wet concrete. It covered most of his body, his head, hands, and feet were the only things protruding from the cement…
The fans moved the air across the surface of the concrete, drying it quickly. When he awoke an hour later, it had dried enough that he could not move. He wiggled his hands and feet, desperately trying to free himself, but to no avail, he was stuck.
He called out, knowing it was futile as his only neighbor in a mile was gone and no one would hear him, but it was the only thing he knew to do, and besides, it was worth a shot.
“Help me! Somebody please help me!” He yelled, looking up at the steps, hoping for someone to come running down saying, “What? What is it?”
The stairs stayed empty. No one came to see what was happening. He was alone in a house in the woods, trapped in the cellar. His voice already felt hoarse and raspy from calling out, and that cursed rat was watching him from the darkness of its once covered hole.
The rat stepped out of the hole and ran over to where Austin lay trapped.
It stood on its hind legs and looked at him.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Austin asked, fear creeping into his voice. The presence of the rat at a point when he was so vulnerable made him nervous.
“I’ll get up from here, and I’ll kill you, you stupid rodent. You’d better not bite me again! I’m not afraid of you!”
The rat turned and looked at the hole in the wall, drawing Austin’s attention to it. Another rat exited and joined the first. Then another, and another, until ten rats, all just as big as the first, stood in front of Austin.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. “Where did all you guys come from?”
He suddenly shifted from nervous to deeply afraid. Something didn’t feel right about the way these rats were acting. It was almost as if they possessed some kind of pack intelligence and were waiting for the right moment to attack him. Would rats really attack a full-grown man?
More movement caught his eye and another group of ten rats joined the first, all intently watching him. The first rat walked to his hand, and sniffed a wound incurred from his fall. Austin shook his hand at the rat, trying his best to scare it away.
“Get away from me,” he said, his voice cracking in fear as he noticed the other rats gathering around his exposed body parts. One of the rats rushed in and bit his top lip, tearing the soft pink flesh. Fresh blood ran down his chin, pooling in the hollow of his neck and he howled in pain. Excited from the smell of blood, the other rats darted in to take small bites from his face. He tried to scream, but his fear was so great that voice simply left him.
The rats mauled him with their sharp teeth. The rats were gaining confidence and coming at him quicker with each passing moment. He was able to grab one of the rat’s plump bodies when it climbed into his hand and he squeezed as hard as he could. The rat screeched its rat scream and the other rats came to its rescue. Sharp teeth chewed at the back of his hand, tearing veins in two and separating tendons from bone. His fingers and toes were being eaten one small piece at a time. The captive rat continued to scream. His hand relaxed a bit as he could no longer make a fist, and he suddenly felt his index finger pop free at the knuckle. A rat, carrying his finger in its mouth, passed in front of his field of vision. He sobbed and hoarsely screamed over and over, helpless to find any relief. He knew he was dying, but he still held on to the hope that this would somehow stop. If they stopped right now, he could probably survive. Stop! Please Stop! I can’t stand the pain! Oh, God! Please make them stop!
Even more rats came out of the wall to join the fray. Small teeth shredded flesh from his exposed areas. Blood began to fill the cracks in the concrete around his body and several rats lapped it up from the growing pool like small dogs. The rats worked quickly and efficiently and his extremities came apart fast.
The skin from his face was gone and rats had started shredding pieces of his ears. Biting and tearing, biting and tearing. They pulled strips of skin from his head and ferried away their prizes, dragging long sections of hair and scalp behind them. His left foot was the first to come free and now he felt them begin to burrow into his calf. A rat was now under his skin and working its way up his leg! He could feel it at his knee, where it seemed to have gotten stuck and began chewing at his tendon and muscle, trying to find a way past. Other rats had also forced themselves into the same opening.
Another rat had begun chewing at his exposed neck which sent Austin into a new level of panic. No! No! Stay away from there! That’ll kill me! The rat bit through his carotid artery and blood gushed from the wound. Holy Shiite Muslim. I didn’t even get to kill the one bastard I had in my hand. This can’t be how it ends!
As he died, more rats joined in on the neck feast and he felt them clawing their way in.
The blood flow slowed, but the pieces that were left of his body rippled and moved as the rats poured out of the wall and dug into his carcass trying to get their share of the fresh, warm meat.
The End
Read an excerpt from
The Fresinnius Chronicles
Germany, 1878
The scream ripped through the hospital room and shot down the sterile hallways, the echo not having a chance to return before the next scream drowned it out. The dismembered finger dropped into the stainless steel pan with a light metallic ping and the doctor moved the bone saw to the next digit.
“Gunnar, keep him quiet!” The doctor hissed. “I can’t think with all the racket he is making.”
“Yes doctor.” The large orderly snatched a towel from the table and shoved it into the patient’s mouth.
The bone saw sliced through the next doomed finger with a quick thrust from the doctor’s skilled hand and the patient screamed again, but the towel effectively muffled the sound.
“Much better, Gunnar. Now keep him still, he’s moving too much.”
Blood ran down the gutters of the Gleason embalming table and pooled into the glass mortician’s jar. With all of the fingers removed from the patient’s right hand, the doctor moved to the other side of the table to gain easier access to the left hand. He stopped at the head to gather more data points. He spread the patient’s eyelids and moved his hand in front of the patients face. The patient’s terrified eyes followed his movements, hoping the torture would end soon.
“Patient is still fully aware and there is no evidence of lethargy, despite the blood loss. The pain is pumping adrenaline into his system, providing a temporary relief and slowing the effects.”
The young, female nurse in the corner dipped the quill into the India black ink and scribbled the doctor’s notes onto stiff paper. She had been the doctor’s research assistant for the past year, witnessing many disturbing things. She stayed with him because she thought the information gained was worth the lives of the maniacal inmates they tested, but her conscience grew heavier with each “patient”. The amount of money they paid her also helped ease the guilt. Non-intrusive brain research was the wave of the future and she wanted to be on the cutting edge of it. This research could prove invaluable one day.
The doctor continued around the table and picked up the patients left hand. He held the tip of the thumb and brought the bone saw down and across the connecting knuckle. He watched the patient closely, observing how he coped with the pain. He wondered if the brain possessed mechanisms that could turn off pain when needed. If so, how are they accessed and how much pain is required to make them react. As the thumb separated from the hand, the patient’s eyes glossed over and took on a faraway stare. His skin turned pale and clammy, and he shivered despite the heat from the gas lamps. This time the patient only grimaced and closed his eyes; there was no scream.
“Patient is exhibiting signs of shock. I believe this is where the brain is shutting down the pain sensors. It is going into survival mode; even the bleeding has slowed. The patient has lost a lot of blood and may not last much longer; we need to get this data while we can.”
The nurse carefully transferred the doctor’s dictations to paper. It was hard to keep up with his quick, staccato voice and still keep the writing legible.
The doctor was in ecstasy, the thrill of medical research and discovery through experimentation overpowered any other emotion or thought. He was doing valued research into human limitations and it was worth any price. Specifically, the lives of some of society’s worst human beings, murderers, only good to sacrifice in the hope of improving the future of the masses.
He put the stethoscope to the patient’s chest and listened. His heartbeat was fast, arrhythmic, and the doctor knew he was going to die soon. He grabbed the bone saw, intent on seeing the body’s reaction to an emergency amputation, and quickly sawed the arm from the body. The patient, already in shock, did not react. He did not scream, or thrash in any manner. His eyes fell open, but didn’t focus and by the time der doctor was finished…he was dead.
“Damn it!” The doctor howled in frustration. “Why did he die so soon?”
He spun on his orderly and grabbed his throat with both hands. The doct
or pushed him against the wall, seething with anger and squeezed the orderly’s throat harder. Gunnar tapped on his shoulder, as if trying to say, “Excuse me old chap, but I believe your shoe is untied.”
The doctor closed his eyes and squeezed even harder, feeling the cartilage of Gunnar’s esophagus begin to crack. The tapping continued, somehow polite and submissive. The doctor was furious…
Suddenly, he opened his eyes and saw a small imp standing before him, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Master,” it said and bowed low when Fresinnius glared at it. “You told me to wake you when it was time and… it is time.”
Fresinnius’ head cleared instantly and then he was on his feet. He snatched something small and shiny from the table and strode from his chambers into the halls of Hell. He walked outside and made his way to the massive gates made from the rib bones of the Gorgol, a huge demon from ancient times whose time in Hell was cut short by desiring to be in the master’s place. How ironic, Fresinnius thought, and motioned for the gatekeeper, a small bald demon in the form of a man, to open the gates. Balzac, Satan’s second in command watched Fresinnius from afar with hate-filled eyes as he walked out of the gates and began his journey into the material world.
About The Author
Mark Tompkins is an American author with a passion for horror and an insatiable need to entertain his readers. Influenced by the great masters of the genre, his horrific tales will send your psyche cowering into the darkest corners of your mind. His love for horror lives in his highly imaginative and descriptive novels and short stories.
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