Succulent Prey

by Wrath James White

  But the guy was big. A lot bigger than he'd expected. Too big to be a junkie or a crackhead, though that stil didn't rule out a teenaged jock or a frat boy pul ing some kind of prank.

  If this sonuvabitch tries to charge me he'l wind up getting his neck broken just before I blow his damned head off his shoulders, Lionel thought. I just want a better look at him so I can aim properly. Lionel Ray reached over and pul ed the chain on the little keyless light that dangled from the ceiling overhead. The sudden burst of radiance dazzled him and he quickly raised the shotgun in the direction the figure had been standing, afraid that the intruder might try to attack him in the seconds it took his eyes to adjust to the light. The guy wasn't moving, however.

  As Lionel squinted through the harsh glare of the naked 100-watt lightbulb, he began to recognize some of the intruder's features. The man was even bigger than he'd appeared in the dark, bigger than Lionel himself. He had short, neatly cut black hair parted down the middle. Crystal-clear blue eyes. A strong chiseled jaw. High cheekbones and a smile fil ed with rows and rows of perfectly straight white teeth-teeth that had al been filed to sharp points. His body was armored with thick muscle rippling beneath the yel ow polo shirt he wore.

  "Joey? Is that you, boy? What the hel are you doin' breakin' into my garage?

  Why ain't your ass in school?"

  "I came to ask you a question." Lionel Ray lowered the shotgun and stared at his son with that angry, disappointed, and somewhat bemused expression he used to get just before he would slap Joe around when he was a kid.

  "Boy, it is way too late for games. What is this, some col ege prank or something? Some fuckin' frat boys dare you to break into your dad's garage, smash up my door and dent the damned garage door? I hope they've got money to pay for al of this or else it's coming right out of your hide!" Lionel Ray growled.

  "How soon after they found me bleeding to death in the park did you realize that one of your chickens had come home to roost? How long did it take you to recognize Damon Trent as one of your victims? I guess he was one of the unfortunate bastards who managed to survive, wasn't he? How many were there? How many kids have you kil ed?" Tears streamed down Joe's face. His father just looked annoyed and slightly amused.

  "Wel, you final y figured it out, huh? I tried to tel you before, but I didn't think you could handle it. It looks like I was right. Look at you, standing there crying like some old woman. I can't believe we're the same blood. But we are, aren't we? You've got my blood coursing through those veins, don't you? My curse.

  "How many were there?"

  "There were dozens! I don't know."

  "What did you do to them? Tel me everything."

  Lionel Ray cocked an eyebrow at his son. "Are you sure you want to know, boy?"

  "Tel me! I want to know what I am."

  "I would pick them up at parks just like that Trent kid picked you up. Sometimes I'd offer them a ride home or tel them that their mommy had sent me to bring them home. Sometimes I'd just snatch them. After a while it became easier to just snatch them off the street. Less exposure that way. Then I'd take them home. Yeah, right to this house. Down in the basement. I'd cut on them for a while. I didn't do sex with them. I wasn't into al that. I'd just cut on them. I liked to hear them scream."

  "Did you drink their blood?"

  "What? No! You mean like that fat freak who did you? I wasn't some pervert. I just liked to hear them scream."

  "Did you kil them?"

  "Some of them. Most of them, I guess. But I let a few of them go too. Mostly the real y young ones I let go. I knew they wouldn't be able to tel the police enough to send them after me. Most of them were too scared to say anything when I was done anyway. And if I was real y worried about them talking I'd just cut their tongues out or put out their eyes or both. I should have cut Trent's eyes out."

  "But why, Dad? Why did you do it?"

  "For the same reason you tore apart that librarian at your school. Yeah, you didn't think I knew about that, did you? The minute those cops showed up at my door asking questions about you I knew you were the one who did it. Like father, like son. I did it because it feels good, boy! Doesn't it, Son? Doesn't it feel good to prey on those weak, pitiful little things? It feels like your body was designed for it, doesn't it? Like you're fulfil ing your purpose in life. Kil ing off the weak. Cul ing the herd. They ain't good for nothin' no way except screamin' and dyin'. You happy now, boy? You got al your questions answered?"

  "Al except one," Joe replied, staring down at the shotgun stil leaning against his daddy's leg. He was calculating his chances of crossing the garage floor and disarming his dad before he could raise that shotgun and squeeze off a round. Maybe he wouldn't even shoot?

  Joe thought. After al, I am his son. But he doubted that. He knew his dad wel enough to know that the man valued his own happiness and preservation above any familial love or responsibility. He would shoot Joe dead if he thought his life was in danger.

  Joe began inching closer to his father. The closer he was when he attacked the old man, the better his chances would be of avoiding a steaming hole in his chest.

  "So ask then. What else do you want to know about your old dad?"

  Joe was now only a few feet away.

  "I want to know if there's a cure for what we are. I want to know how to end this." Lionel Ray began to laugh. "A cure? You can't change what you are, boy! There ain't no cure!"

  "I think there is." Joe leapt forward, springing for his father's throat. Lionel Ray tried to raise the shotgun to shoot his only son. He was too late. The blast went over Joe's left shoulder. Joe noted without emotion that his dad had been aiming for his head.

  A few shot pel ets lodged in Joe's shoulder, bicep, and chest, slowing him a bit but not stopping him. He tackled the elder Miles. His entire body slammed into the old man with the mass and velocity of a stampeding horse. They col apsed onto the hard concrete floor with a wet smack as the back of Lionel

  Ray's head cracked against the cement.

  Joe bared his fangs and clamped them down onto his father's throat. There was something terribly satisfying about hearing the man's screams.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Detective Montgomery had cal ed ahead to his partner to meet the Hayward police at the home of Lionel Miles. He then cal ed the Hayward police chief and gave him a rundown on the situation.

  "If he's heading home I doubt it's to reminisce over old times. He's got a major bloodlust going and if we don't get there fast you're going to have a body to clean up-and believe me, Joseph is quite a messy eater."

  The detective set his phone in the charger and waited for the chief to cal him back with what would hopeful y be some good news for once-like, that they'd captured Joseph Miles. He stared out his windshield, barely aware of the traffic, barely even seeing the road, thinking only about the big, maneating col ege kid as he raced down the highway back toward California. He'd been on the road for over an hour when he final y got the cal.

  "We missed him. He must have gotten there just a few hours before us."

  "So what happened? Did he kil his father?"

  "He did more than kil him. Much more." The previously robust voice of the

  Hayward police chief faded to a faint whisper. Montgomery recognized the symptom. The man was going into shock. Whatever he'd found at the home of Lionel Miles must have been more horrible than the detective had been able to prepare him for. Montgomery stomped down on the accelerator as the chief fil ed him in on al the ghastly details. Six and a half hours later, he pul ed up outside the home of the late

  Lionel Ray Miles.

  If Montgomery hadn't prepared the police chief for what he might find at the home of Lionel Ray Miles, he had prepared himself even less.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  Lionel Ray lay on the hood of his prized 1969 Lincoln Continental with his chest torn open and his heart ripped out. The gaping chest cavity had been fil ed with garlic and a rosary lay atop the piles of fresh cloves. A wo
oden stake, driven through the spot where his heart should have been, pinned him to the hood of the car. His head had been removed and lay on the floor at his feet, stuffed with cloves of garlic. The body was smoldering from where his murderer had tried to set him on fire. The Hayward police had arrived just in time to douse the fire before it did much damage. The entire street smel ed like roasted garlic and barbecued pork. The most disturbing thing was how delicious the aroma was. It made the detective even more aware of the fact that he hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

  Montgomery knew that the arson had not been an attempt to destroy evidence but rather a way to ensure that this demon would never rise again. He walked over and looked down at the sizzling corpse.

  "You poor bastard. What did you do to deserve this?"

  "Detective!" A young officer, who looked like he was fresh out of high school, ran into the garage with his eyes wide. He was sucking in breath in big gulps like a guppy in an empty tank.

  Montgomery turned around quickly, recognizing the excitement in the young rookie's voice. He knew that excitement. It meant they had found something unexpected.

  "What is it?"

  "We found more bodies. Lots of them! In the basement. "

  "What? Show me."

  The young officer led the detective quickly out of the garage, around the back of the house, and into the basement. There a big German shepherd from one of the K-9 units was busily digging up the dirt floor. Two other officers were down there beside him with brooms and shovels, uncovering a skeleton. There were already two others partial y exposed.

  "How many are there?"

  "I don't know. They're piled on top of each other. Some of them are pretty old."

  "They-they're children!" Montgomery started to get woozy.

  "How old did you say the suspect was?" one of the officers asked. "Because these bodies look pretty old. Look at the clothes. I haven't seen shoes like those since the eighties."

  Montgomery stared down at one exposed leg wearing an old pair of

  British Knights. He had owned a pair of sneakers just like them years agoback in 1992. That would have made Joseph around ten years old. These weren't

  Joseph Miles's victims. They were Lionel Ray's. That's why Joseph had come back here, to destroy the real source of the curse.

  His own father.

  It took them several days to unearth al the bodies. When they were done the count stood at twenty-five, ranging in age from six to sixteen. The oldest corpse was at least a decade old. They had al been cut to pieces. A slash across the throat was the kil ing blow. None of them bore any of the marks of cannibalism, confirming the detective's theory that the senior Miles had been the culprit rather than his son. It looked as if Joe had done the world a service by taking out his father. But where was he now?

  Chapter Forty-six

  Alicia winced as the hot water sprayed from the showerhead onto her raw, pinkish skin. It had been months since her ordeal with Joseph Miles and she had only been out of the hospital a week. She was scheduled to see a plastic surgeon at the end of the month to discuss prostheses to replace her stolen mammary glands. She had already gone through six surgeries, painful skin grafts to cover the gaping hole in her chest where her breasts had been. Now they were going to see if they could give her some kind of implants to make her chest look more normal, more like it had looked before her abduction. Alicia scoffed as she watched the water cascade down her smooth, nippleless chest. She had no il usions. She knew she would never look the same.

  She stepped out of the shower and appraised her scarred and disfigured torso. Her chest was now little more than a thin veneer of skin stretched over a rib cage. She could almost see her heart beating beneath it. She began to cry. The man she had fal en in love with had done this to her.

  "Why didn't he just kil me? Why leave me like this?"

  They stil hadn't captured Joe, but there had also been no more cannibal kil ings. He appeared to have just disappeared.

  Either that or the cure had worked. In a way she hoped that it hadn't. Every night she prayed that he would return for her. To finish the job he had started.

  She heard a noise coming from her bedroom as she gently wiped away the bathwater and tears with her towel. It sounded as if someone had opened her window. Minutes later she heard the unmistakable sound of footfal s.

  "Hel o?"

  She clutched the bath towel to her vandalized chest and peered into the room. She was not surprised at al to see Joe standing in her bedroom.

  "You got my note? On the message board?"

  "Yes." His expression was almost sad.

  "Then you'l do it? You'l do what I ask?"

  "Are you sure you want this?"

  "I'm sure. I've got a ton of pain pil s from the hospital. I'l take a whole handful. I won't feel a thing."

  "I've missed you, Alicia." A tear drizzled down his cheek.

  "I missed you too."

  "I even set us a table."

  Joe turned toward the little kitchen, and indeed a large table, way too big for her tiny apartment, stretched from the kitchen into the little dining room nook area and partial y into the living room. The table was solid oak and looked expensive. It was set with a silver serving tray, big enough to hold a large pig and one dinner setting at the head of the table. A large carving knife sat on top of the tray.

  "The table's an antique," she said. "I bought it just for this occasion. Just in case you came back."

  "I love you, Alicia."

  "I know you do. But I can't live like this," she said, gesturing toward her chest.

  "What about plastic surgery?"

  "Look at me." Alicia dropped the towel, revealing the hideous scar that transversed her chest. Joseph sucked in a breath, shocked at his own savagery.

  "They can't fix this."

  "This may take a while. My appetite isn't what it used to be."

  Alicia stepped back into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She had a few Fentanyl patches they had given her at the hospital to replace the morphine drip she'd been hooked up to after her last surgery. She peeled one of them out of the box and stuck it on her neck. There was also nearly a ful bottle of Darvocet and a half bottle of

  Percocet. She scooped them off the shelf and took a whole handful of each and went back into the bedroom. Her legs began to wobble as she turned and staggered into the kitchen. The room spun just before she lay down on the table. The Fentanyl was kicking in.

  "I want you to eat al of me. Don't leave anything. I want to be a part of you forever."

  The Percocet and Darvocet kicked in now and Alicia could no longer feel her own body. She felt like she was floating. Joe was crying when he raised the knife. He was stil crying when he began to cut through her soft plump flesh. And tears stil fel as he slid the blood moist meat between his lips and swal owed it down. She tasted just like he remembered.

  It took him a couple of days to completely consume her. She was awake for the first few hours, tel ing him how much she loved him. How happy she was to bring him so much pleasure.

  How she'd wanted this al along. And, despite himself, Joe did feel those familiar jolts of ecstasy as he chewed and swal owed her soft muscle and fat.

  She passed away that same night, yet

  Joe had continued eating as he had promised. He ate until her entire body had been consumed-skin, muscle, organs, fat, her brain. He even sucked the marrow out of her bones. He could feel her life inside of him as he walked out of the apartment with his stomach distended, fighting back nausea. He could feel her love coursing through him. He barely noticed the police cruiser until it was right on top of him.

  "Freeze! Stop right there! On your knees! Hands behind your head!"

  The cop was muscular, middle-aged, and scared. His partner came from the other side of the car looking even older and more scared. Joseph hadn't showered and was stil covered with

  Alicia's blood, but that wasn't the only reason the men were scared. Joe had seen t
heir car across the street three nights ago when he'd first snuck into

  Alicia's apartment. They had both been behind the wheel, fast asleep. They had been assigned to protect Alicia and they had failed. Joe didn't care anymore. He watched with curious detachment as they handcuffed him, cursing and praying at the same time.

  "We fucked up big time!"

  "What did you do to the girl? Go check on her, Nate. I've got him. Fuck! Man, we're going to be crucified when they find out we lost a witness!"

  "At least we caught the bastard. Who knows, they might even cal us heroes." The middle-aged cop looked at his older partner and shook his head. "I doubt that. I seriously doubt that. See al that blood? It ain't his. And you know what he does to his victims."

  The older man's eyes went wide. He ran up the walkway and into the apartment.

  Less than a minute later he was back out on the sidewalk, throwing up into the gutter.

  "Bones! There's just bones up there! He ate her! He ate al of her."

  Joe watched the man regurgitate and tried to hold his own enormous meal inside of him. He concentrated on digesting his meal. He knew that they would want to pump his stomach and he wanted to keep as much of her inside of him as he could.

  They were just putting him in the backseat of the squad car when another car pul ed up. A black detective that Joe thought he recognized was behind the wheel, and next to him sat Professors

  Locke and Douglas. The two professors sprang out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop and ran over to him.

  "Don't worry, boy. We won't let anything happen to you. We're going to help you. We're going to cure you." Professor Locke's eyes were beaming with joy. It looked like he had just won the lottery.

  Epilogue

  Joe sat behind the glass partition, staring across at the petite young lady who'd come to visit him. It was the model from his art class. The one who'd purchased the painting from him.

  "How are you doing, Joseph?"