by Bryan Smith
A man with wild, filthy hair sticking out in all directions stood naked before her. His eyes looked wild, too, like the eyes of a feral animal. He was so scrawny, like a flesh and blood stick figure, but there were hard muscles under the stretched-taut skin. A substance that might have been dried blood was matted in his chest hair. And as Julie watched, his limp penis started to rise.
Instinct drove her back a step, but he seized her by a wrist and yanked her inside the house. He slammed the door shut and dragged her screaming into the living room.
He snarled at her. “Shut up, bitch!”
He backhanded her and she went stumbling backward. Her feet got tangled and she fell. The glass top of a coffee table shattered beneath her as she landed on it. Shards of glass cut her and drew blood. She screamed as her assailant seized her slender throat with one strong hand and lifted her up again. She felt his penis leap against her and tried to scream again, but the hand clamped to her throat limited her to a barely audible gurgle. The man laughed and licked her face with a tongue that felt dry as sandpaper. The feel of it on her flesh made her insides curdle.
He sucked on her lower lip and breathed into her mouth. His stink made her eyes water. Bile rose into her throat and she wondered if she would choke on it—the man’s iron grip allowed only a very thin air passage. He pressed himself against her and said, “Gonna fuck ya now, sweet thing.”
The tip of his engorged penis poked through a rip in her torn halter. The feel of it sliding over her flesh repulsed her. But even through her terror, Julie saw how she might have a slim shot at extracting herself from this nightmare. He was so intent on sampling various parts of her anatomy—his free hand ripping the halter to pieces to paw at her breasts—that he had neglected to fully restrain her. Or maybe it wasn’t neglect. Maybe he didn’t consider her a threat. Or thought she’d be too terrified to fight back.
Think again, you freak.
Her right hand came up and long fingernails jabbed into an eyeball. He howled in agony and let go of her. Julie staggered backward and struggled to catch her breath as she watched the man flail about with a hand pressed over the wounded orb. Blood streamed between his fingers. He stopped thrashing long enough to look at her with his one good eye and screamed at her, “you’re gonna die for that, bitch!”
He started to come at her again, but screeched as a piece of broken glass pierced the bottom of his foot. Julie took a quick look around while the crazy man hopped about and mewled like a baby. The living room was outfitted in the standard way. Large entertainment center. A long sofa and a couple of recliners. And a large liquor cabinet with an impressive array of bartending tools arranged in a rack above it.
Yes!
Julie grabbed a corkscrew, flexed the handles to extend the screw to its full length, and charged her attacker. The man was sitting on the edge of a recliner as he worked to pull glass shards from his bleeding foot. He looked up and saw her coming, but not in time to retreat or ward off the attack. The fear evident in his remaining eye as it widened was gratifying. The corkscrew slammed into his temple and his body began to convulse. Julie yanked the screw out and plunged it into his other eye. Now the eyes sort of matched again—pierced and bleeding. The thought made her giggle inappropriately even as a new wave of sickness rose up inside her. She pulled the corkscrew out of his eye. She stared at his throat, watched the slowing pulse ticking beneath the flesh.
There, she thought. That’s where the carotid is.
The corkscrew slammed into the man’s throat and there was another leap of blood. Julie was covered in it now. Her own and that of the man who’d tried to rape her. She giggled again. We’re all the same on the inside.
Julie stabbed him with the corkscrew several more times. She kept doing it even after she knew he was dead. There was a strange sort of fascination to watching the instrument puncture flesh. It was sort of the way she felt when pulling the petals off a flower, ruining it a little bit at a time. And the really weird thing was how little any of this bothered her now that he was no longer a threat. It was actually sort of fun, the way she’d always imagined it might be. But she did finally tire of stabbing the corpse and climbed off it.
She stood panting in the center of the living room, wondering what she should do next. Call 911. Obviously. But something made her hesitate. The man she’d killed was clearly an uninvited guest here. The thought made her laugh. Like, no shit, right? Like John and Karen would have this freak over for dinner or whatever. No, he was an intruder. He’d probably killed the whole family. And their bodies were somewhere else in the house. It was this thought that kept her hand from going to the cell phone in her pocket.
She wanted to see.
Yeah, it kind of sucked that John was probably dead. She could never kiss him now. Or fuck him. She could admit it now. That would have been the ultimate goal. But now she was just as hot to see his corpse. She had a vast collection of crime-scene and autopsy photos stored on her laptop. And here fate had dumped her into a situation where she had an opportunity to make a prolonged inspection of the real thing. It was a chance she simply couldn’t pass up. And hell, the cops would never know she’d lingered over the scene a while.
She crept out of the living room and into a long hallway she knew led to the bedrooms. There was probably no real reason for stealth at this point, but she couldn’t be certain everyone in the house was actually dead yet, so she moved forward with caution. About halfway down the hallway, she began to hear a sound she identified at once as the squeak of bedsprings, that rhythmic motion associated with intercourse. The sound was coming from the master bedroom at the end of the hall. She moved a little closer and was able to hear a series of muted grunts. The bedroom door was partly open. She could see a corner of the bed. She pressed her back against the wall to her right and edged carefully down the remaining length of hallway. After reaching the bedroom, she peered around the doorjamb and reeled at the horrific scene.
John’s head was on the floor. His headless body sat slumped in a chair against the far wall. His legs were spread and she could see a gaping, bloody hole where his genitals had been. Nancy was on the floor. She had been gutted. Her abdomen was a bloody, ragged mess. A length of intestine was coiled about her slender neck. There were several large, dark splotches on the beige carpet that could only be blood.
Karen was on the bed, legs spread wide as the big man on top of her continued to grind away and make those grunting noises. Karen’s legs were long and sleek. Julie noted with some surprise a pretty butterfly tattoo on her right foot. But the muscles in those shapely legs looked strangely slack for someone having sex. Then awareness of what was actually happening on the bed seeped in and Julie reached into her pocket to pull out her cell phone. She flipped it open and stared at a black screen.
Fuck.
She’d forgotten about turning it off after responding to the text from Alicia. If she turned it on now, that stupid chiming tone it made would alert the powerfully built necrophiliac to her presence. And then he’d kill her, of course. She had no illusions of handling this man as easily as she’d handled the other one. He’d just take the corkscrew from her and jam it up her ass. Or some other orifice. Her stomach knotted at the thought. The smart thing here would be to scoot back down the hallway and get the hell out of the house. But she desperately wanted a picture of the atrocity occurring on the bed. It would be the crown jewel of her morbid photo collection. She could maybe hurry down to the kitchen, turn the phone on there, and hurry back. But no, judging by the increasingly frenzied nature of the man’s grunts, it would all be over by then.
She thought, This is the single stupidest thing I have ever done or ever will do, the end, no doubt about it at fucking all.
She pressed the phone’s power button. Then she clasped both hands tightly around the phone and pressed it to her chest. The hope was to muffle the electronic chimes enough that the man wouldn’t hear them. But of course, the sound came through clear as a bell.
The ma
n paused in midthrust and looked over his shoulder at Julie, who stood framed and vulnerable in the open doorway. His hair was long and white, and fine, like the hair of a hermit in a fairy tale. Only this hermit was built like a lumberjack on steroids. His nostrils flared and his lips curled in a snarl. His pitiless eyes conveyed a promise of pain and savagery. He climbed off the corpse and Julie saw Karen’s head lolling on the pillow, mouth slack, eyes still and staring at nothing.
The man grinned.
Then he charged her.
Julie screamed and bolted back down the hallway. She flew through the living room and made it as far as the foyer before the big man caught up to her. He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to a stop, eliciting another scream. Then he slammed her to the floor and fell atop her. He pressed a powerful forearm against her throat and pawed at the remains of her shredded halter with his free hand. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t get her hands free to jab at his eyes. She felt his erection swell against her and knew there’d be no stopping the rape this time. She cursed her stupidity. She’d been dumb not to get out when she had the chance. Obviously. And she cursed her morbid nature. The two things seemed inextricably tied at the moment.
The man abruptly stopped groping her. The pressure on her throat eased and Julie coughed and spluttered. The man’s face was turned away from her. Shock etched itself across his features, deepening the age lines and making his face resemble a Halloween ghoul mask.
He looked down at her again. “You killed my friend.”
Julie coughed again and cleared her throat. “I didn’t have a choice. Look, you don’t have to force me to do anything. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry about your friend.”
The man’s teeth were clenched tight. His whole body shook with rage. He closed a hand around her throat and began to squeeze. “You fucking whore. Fucking little slut. You killed my only friend!”
A detached part of Julie’s mind marveled over the absurdity of a man as depraved as this stone psycho feeling grief for the loss of anyone. But the emotion did appear genuine. His eyes watered. A thin stream of moisture began to move down one cheek. The pressure on her throat increased and Julie’s vision began to blur. Realizing she was likely in her last moments of life, she thought maybe she ought to ask God for forgiveness. She had allowed a number of evil and wicked thoughts and ideas to live and breathe inside her brain. Surely God would frown on that. But before she could begin to consciously form her plea, the pressure on her throat eased up again. She blinked moisture from her eyes and stared up at the curious sight of a man listening to something only he could hear.
His head was tilted to one side and his brow was furrowed. He stared up at the ceiling. He shook his head and said, “No. It’s not right.”
Julie frowned.
What the fuck?
The man shook his head again. “No. She killed Clyde.” His mouth twisted in a scowl. “I know. I always listen to you, Lulu. But this cunt has to die.”
Lulu?
Julie almost laughed. This deranged, sick fuck was hearing voices. Voices telling him not to kill her.
Hooray for mental illness!
The man’s shoulders sagged. “All right. Yes. Okay.”
Julie summoned a smile. “It really is okay. You’ll see. I’ll—”
She didn’t get to finish the thought.
The man cocked a fist and slammed it into the side of her head, turning out the lights for a while.
CHAPTER TEN
March 22
Chuck needed some time away from Zoe. She was giving off a weird, standoffish vibe. That coldness was nothing new. It’d been going on for months, but had become worse recently. She didn’t always refuse his advances, but getting her to shed her clothes took a lot more work than it once had. And it was getting to be pretty goddamn frustrating. It didn’t take a genius to see where things were going. They were almost over. It bummed him out. They had been together a long time. It wasn’t the end of the world, he guessed. He was young and good-looking. There would be other girls. Hotter girls, even. The idea of exploring all that fresh meat once he and Zoe were finally, really through had its appeal.
Still.
Here they were. Probably on their last vacation together. They should be having one last good fling, along with a lot of wild vacation sex. He couldn’t help thinking of Christmas break at his parents’ house. Zoe had been insatiable that week. The frequency. All those different positions. The crazy experimenting. Hard to believe that was only a few short months back. Now he was lucky if she let him fuck her once a week. He’d probably been stupid to hope she would knock off the frigid routine for vacation.
He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, babe. I need some fresh air. I’ll be back in a bit.”
A muffled voice answered from the other side. “All right.”
The monotone reply made him linger at the door a moment longer before departing. He wondered how she would have sounded if he’d said, “Hey, babe, I’m going outside to step in front of a bus.”
Would he hear that same dead voice say “all right” to that as well?
He thought he would.
Fuck.
This was crazy. The situation was starting to get to him. He felt like he was on the verge of a genuine depressive episode, which was way unlike him. His eyes misted a bit. He knew he had to get out of there before he had some kind of embarrassing breakdown. He left the motel room without another word, barely resisting the impulse to slam the door on the way out.
Damn her, anyway.
He wanted to be all macho about this. All blustery and don’t-give-a-shit, the way he was with everything else. But that was turning out to be harder than he’d imagined.
His thoughts turned back to earlier in the day and that incident with the goth chick. He’d given her a hard time for no good reason. Oh, he sort of half-believed the bullshit explanation he’d spewed earlier, but the real truth was more pathetic. The girl was just a victim of his frustrations. He was upset about the way things were going with Zoe and so he’d vented some of his anger on a stranger. The girl had just been unlucky enough to line up in his sights at exactly the wrong time. Thinking about it now, he felt bad.
Sorry, whoever you were.
He lit a cigarette and leaned against the second-floor-balcony railing. The rental van was parked directly below. A neon vacancy light blinked and fizzed at the other end of the motel’s half-full parking lot. The original plan had been to make the trip to Myrtle Beach in one long day of driving. But there’d been too much fucking around and drinking going on for that to happen. The numerous lengthy pit stops to drain overinflated bladders hadn’t helped matters. Chuck was a little bummed about not being able to wake up in Myrtle Beach the next morning, but in truth he was grateful for the opportunity to get off the road. He was looking forward to a good night’s rest. Hell, who knew? Maybe a fresh sunrise would wash away all the bad feelings of the day and allow for a fresh start. Probably not, but a guy could hope.
He stubbed the cigarette out and flicked the butt over the side. Just as he was turning away from the railing to go back inside, a door to his left opened and Emily Sinclair stepped outside. She saw him and smiled. That was a little odd. She didn’t spare a smile for him too often. Never, in fact. She left the door to her room partly open and joined him at the railing.
She tapped the cigarette pack in his hand with a glossy nail. “Give me one of those.”
Chuck laughed. “Well, as long as you’re asking nicely…”
He passed the pack to her. She tapped a cigarette out and placed it between her plump lips.
She stared at him.
Chuck laughed again and lit her cigarette. She turned her head slightly and blew a stream of smoke just past his face. She smiled again. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Chuck leaned against the railing again. No point going back inside now. Zoe was probably still in the bathroom, hiding away from him. And Emily was actually being sort of friend
ly toward him, an extremely rare thing. As long as she didn’t mind his company, he would stay out here.
Emily leaned over the railing and stared in the direction of the malfunctioning neon sign. “So…Chuck?”
He glanced at her. “Yeah?”
She exhaled more smoke and still didn’t look at him. “Wanna fuck me?”
Chuck’s jaw dropped open. He turned fully toward her and stared at her in astonished silence for several moments. If she’d suggested he join her in a conspiracy to assassinate the president, he would not have felt this flabbergasted. After a while, he managed a nervous laugh. “You’re fucking with me. Right?”
She smiled, but still didn’t look at him. “Nope.”
He frowned. “But…you’re Zoe’s best friend.”
“That’s right.”
His frown deepened. “What kind of friend comes on to her best friend’s boyfriend?”
Emily dropped the half-smoked cigarette and extinguished it with the tip of a high-heeled shoe. “The horny kind, Chuck.”
“This is crazy. What about Joe?”
Emily indicated the partly open door behind her with a jerk of her head. “Take a look in there. But be quiet about it.”
Still frowning, Chuck stepped past her and peered through the small opening. Joe was on the bed. He was naked. His wrists were tied to the brass headboard. He was blindfolded. A pair of red panties had been stuffed into his mouth as a gag. Loud snoring indicated unconsciousness, which wasn’t surprising given the amount of beer the guy had consumed. Chuck’s pulse ticked upward and his face reddened. Seeing his best friend like this was embarrassing as hell. He became aware of a presence behind him and gasped when Emily pressed herself against him and reached around to grab his crotch. The erection was immediate and painful. She squeezed it through his jeans and gave it a hard twist, eliciting another gasp.