Stay Dead (Book 3): The Condemned

by Steve Wands

  She couldn’t see what the painting was of, or even tell what colors he was using. The distance and the grime on the window made everything look like a sepia photo filter on her phone’s camera.

  Rachel wondered if she should knock or just walk on in. What was the proper etiquette for such things in Dreamland? After a moments hesitation she said, “Fuck it,” and walked into the cabin.

  The painter turned around in shock, holding a long bristle brush in his right hand and wiping paint off his left onto his pants.

  Rachel looked at the painting, her expression now mirroring his. It looks like her but in some sort of witches outfit standing before some gnarly looking trees. She looked at him for a moment then down at the workbench adjacent the easel. Atop it were paints and brushes, pallet knives and cutting knives, and amidst it all was a torso. No head, no limbs, just a torso with it’s ribs cracked open and jutting upward.

  “It’s you…” said the painter in a sotto voice.

  “What’s with the body?”

  “You can’t get red like that from a tube,” he said matter of factly.

  A tube? She wondered, and then realized he meant a tube of paint, like the many he had around the torso. Blood as paint.

  “You paint with it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is that supposed to be me in the painting?”

  “Yes. But I must apologize. You are far more beautiful in person.”

  “Says the crazy guy who paints with blood. What do you know of books written in blood and bound in flesh?” Rachel asks and wonders if she is just as crazy.

  “Of that, I know a lot. And I’ve made one just for you.”

  16 SCREAM LIKE A PIG FOR THE KING, BABY

  (back to top)

  Terry spun around to retreat and head back the way they came, but the doors they had gone through were locked tight. Terry tried to ram them open but something big and heavy was keeping it closed. Then he smelled gasoline. Niko pulled him backwards, pointing to the ground as gasoline came from under the doors.

  “Fuck!” Terry yelled, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Breaking the calm collected facade he’d managed to keep until now, “We’ve got no way out!”

  Then it started getting hot. Some maniac on the other side lit the gasoline on fire and the flames started growing, instantly blackening the doors.

  “We’re gonna have to go through this,” Dusty said, disbelieving. Then he turned to Harburn, “Radar, phone home!”

  Harburn turned to him grimly, “You know it won’t matter.”

  “John—Sarge, call the Nest, man, get us the fuck out of this!”

  Barely able to hear him, Torrent simply looked at him, “Knuckle up,” he said, and began walking down the hallway of horrors. Three steps into it and he was already unsure of his footing. The thick coating of blood clung to the treads of his boot as he lifted his foot, dripping down like cheap pancake syrup.

  Dusty stood for a moment, then, as his commanding officer suggested, he knuckled up, “Alright you sick motherfuckers…you wanna play?! We’ll fucking play!” He kept his rifle slung over his back and withdrew a second Beretta M9 sidearm. He took the suppressors off and placed them in one of his cargo pockets. It was time to lock and load. Dusty quickly but cautiously caught up to Torrent and the two of them began firing.

  A large bald man with a robust black beard that sat on his face like a mass of ants burst from one of the doorways, wielding a riot shield and a razor wired baton. He grinned a toothless smile and flicked his tongue at them. He seemed almost happy to die as Torrent riddled his exposed flesh to mince meat. Torrent ripped the shield from his dying grasp and took it as his own.

  Not seeing any other options, Niko, Grant, and Terry followed behind them. Terry took a knee once away from the heat of the fire and began to pluck off prisoners down the corridor, adding to the carnage of the corridor.

  Niko and Harburn kept a safe distance behind Torrent and Dusty, they came upon the first doorway which they had already cleared, but Niko swept it again just to ensure no surprises were to be had. The room was a small office, with a copier machine adorned with gore on its glass screen and a fax machine covered in blood. Photocopies of ruined faces littered the floor. A small desk and chairs sat neatly to one side, spattered in blood. Niko called, “Clear,” and continued forward.

  SIGO Grant Harburn looked fit to vomit once more but he didn’t so much as dry heave. Not that anything would’ve come out if he did start to vomit. He was in shock, though he didn’t realize it. Being a Signal Officer in Iraq he didn’t see much carnage or battle time, and if he did, he might not have made it back.

  Though he was the kid of the group, he was still a soldier, but it seemed being on the front lines was not something he was suited for. He was a wiz in other respects and damned resourceful. Torrent had never seen a kid so young move so fast in his career. After a year as an FNG Harburn was handling communications for entire platoons. This horror show in the corridor, however was not his element. This wasn’t exactly anyone’s element, but it most certainly wasn’t his. He didn’t think he’d ever sleep again. If, in fact, he’d survive to see his cozy little bunk in the mountain.

  The voice came over the speaker system once more, “I found some music in the library I thought you all might like. The choices were limited, and rather dated, but beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?” The King started to giggle as static was replaced by Singapore, the first track on Tom Wait’s Rain Dogs album.

  The song added an extra unneeded layer of surrealism to the whole bad scene. The music was almost jolly and eerie while Tom’s gruff vocals conveyed a somewhat darker atmosphere.

  Bodies fell not at all in sync to the staticky song playing overhead, when out of one of the doorways came a flaming Molotov cocktail. Torrent raised the riot shield in time as the glass broke against it and erupted into a wall of fire that fell to the floor and momentarily cut them off. Torrent tossed the shield and stepped back, his arm and face felt sunburnt. Neither him nor Dusty were ready to jump over the dying flames but they unleashed a volley of weapons fire that shredded the walls and prisoners all the same. Sheetrock dust and blood mist co-mingled into a pink mud as it fell to the ground, adding to the soup of the day that layered the floor.

  Moans of agony began to replace what only moments earlier had been maniacal laughter.

  “John, you get the feeling these clowns have a death wish?”

  “The thought did cross my mind…” Torrent said wearily.

  They were halfway down the corridor now, slowly walking through the human ruin and early putrefaction that adorned the walls and oozed from the ceiling. The sounds of chains clanging together bounced around the corridor. Torrent could see none of the inmates wielding chains or shackled by them either, he knew they hung from the ceiling in some spots but it sounded more like something was moving them, or someone as opposed to any air that might be circulating.

  Then with the next step a midget with long wild hair dropped down on them from a hole cut into the ceiling. He wrapped a chain around Dusty’s neck as he fell, taking the big man down with him. Torrent kicked the small man, but he held on tight, pulling the chain tight as Dusty gasped for breath, his face turning purple.

  Then a monolith of a man charged from the down the hall and blindsided Torrent, knocking him down. He stomped Torrent once in the chest, causing a cracking sound to erupt from his chest and a cry of pain to escape his lungs.

  “Get down!” Terry yelled to Niko and Harburn as he tried to line up a shot to take the big man down.

  The monolith was as thin as a rail but as strong as an Ox and as Torrent gasped to catch his breath the big son of a bitch picked him up by his head and tried to squeeze it like an orange. Dusty still fought for air and to be rid of the pint size terror that was essentially strapped to his back but he also had the wherewithal to aim his Beretta at the lanky maniac trying to make juice out of his brother-in-arm’s head. He squeezed off two shots, and only one grazed the m
an’s leg. But the man gave him nothing, not even the satisfaction of a wince.

  Torrent kicked the man in the crotch, and much to the same effect of Dusty’s graze, the man gave nothing. He simply took it. As if he were born for punishment.

  The attacker yelled, “For the King! For the glory!”

  Joining his proclamation the little man added in, “For King Cane! Prophet of the Unwinding!”

  Torrent tried to chop the man’s grasp and break free, but the man didn’t budge. Terry still couldn’t get a clean shot on either of them. Niko moved forward quickly. Her rifle at the ready. Dusty squeezed off another shot, this time angering the Lurch of a man. Niko charged, trying to get in close for a clean shot as Torrent kicked at the man’s knee, knocking him down and finally breaking free.

  The monolith pulled a large shiv from his backside and was ready to plunge it into Torrent as he reached for his rifle but Niko put a three round burst center mass and knocked the giant down into the shallow sea of red mud.

  Dusty screamed in pain as the pint-sized assailant bit his ear and tore a chunk of it off. Niko took the rifle and smashed the butt of it into the tiny assailant’s head, causing him to spit the sizable piece of ear out. Bleeding profusely, Dusty ripped the chain off his neck and got up, emptying his clip into the small man’s body.

  “Motherfucker,” was all he could say as he pressed down onto what remained of his ear.

  They were almost finished with the gauntlet, seeing the end of the corridor in sight. They were already covered in blood and leaving a hefty trail of bodies behind them. Those bodies would soon be getting back up to try and kill them all over again. Torrent hoped they had enough time to access the control room, lock it down and move on before they did. Though Singapore had stopped playing and the album was almost through, Terry kept thinking about one of the lines in the song; We're all as mad as hatters here, and feared they indeed were.

  Standing near two doorways across from one another. Almost symmetrical. Terry took the one on the right and Torrent the one on the left. Dusty kept his hand pressed to his ear which still throbbed in pain, but the bleeding was thankfully slowing to a trickle.

  Niko and Grant held the back of the line, keeping an eye behind them at all times. Terry screamed. Niko and Grant ran to the doorway. Dusty and Torrent a step behind them. They burst into the room and saw Terry on his back clutching a baton with nails and barbed wire adorning its tip that was stuck to the side of his face.

  Terry kicked his attacker in the gut, sending him backwards. As he stepped forward to grab the baton Niko punctured his chest with a volley of shots, sending the attacker plummeting to the ground.

  “Didn’t see him,” Terry coughed, the nails in his cheek affecting his speech.

  “Don’t talk,” Niko said, taking a knee by his side.

  Dusty swept the rest of the room, “Clear,” he said.

  Niko looked at the baton stuck to Terry’s face. Several nails were driven by the blow into his cheek and cheekbone. It was already swelling. “We have to pull this out immediately.”

  Terry looked at her and nodded, “Do it already.”

  “SIGO, hold him down. Dusty, we can probably use you too,” She said, thinking if Terry resisted Grant would easily be thrown off.”

  As Dusty stepped over, Torrent held his shoulder. “I’ll get this,” he said. “You cover the door and make sure we’re in the clear.”

  “Roger that.”

  Torrent knelt down, looking Terry in the eyes, “Just look at me,” he said as he held onto his shoulders and pushed down. “Do it,” Torrent said, bracing for Terry to buck.

  Niko weaved her fingers through the nails on the tip of the baton, allowing her to pull them straight out. She pulled them out as fast as she could without being reckless. Terry’s face turned red as he screamed in agony. His face instantly swelled more and the holes in his face oozed blood.

  Niko threw the baton to the side and opened a travel medical kit from one of her many pockets. She used a small bottle of alcohol on his wounds and then quickly bandaged Terry with gauze. The blood already showing through. “That’ll have to do for now,” she said, getting up.

  They helped him to his feet and he was thankful the baton hadn’t struck him an inch or two higher. He’d be missing an eye, or sitting there dead with a few nails in his temple. “It’s good enough,” he said, speaking from the good side of his mouth, “thanks.”

  The rest of the corridor was clear. Any other denizens had fled or were hiding in the control room.

  Torrent kicked in the door to Control Room C, though if he’d just turned the handle he’d have been able to casually walk in. The room was covered in human confetti and the walls had the words PLAY TIME written on them in blood. Much like the other control room, monitors were everywhere and a large switchboard sat at the main station. What was on the monitors this time however was very different. One was The King, staring at them from what looked like a throne in the center of one of the prison blocks but was an old electric chair. The King was naked and wearing a makeshift crown of razor wire and a cloak made of human flesh. He held a scepter that looked crafted of human bones and atop it was what looked like a human heart, affixed to the top with razor wire and duct tape.

  The other monitors showed the absence of the chaos they’d viewed in the other control room. There was an eerie stillness and quiet throughout the remaining images. The gore remained, the heads on spikes, the blood paint, and the decor of depravity.

  Then Torrent had a sick feeling in his gut, he swung around to look behind the door, to see if all the prisoners had managed to fit in the corridor beyond it. And as he looked down the hall he was relieved to see nothing new aside from the dead now twitching back to life, but in this knowledge he was not comforted. Something was wrong…again.

  “Customs would dictate…” the voice overhead began, and the man on the monitor could be seen holding a small headset with a microphone, “…that upon arriving in a Kingdom, you should seek out the King and pay your respects. But I’m not hurt. No, John, I’m not hurt at all.”

  Niko turned to her commanding officer, “Do you know this freak?”

  “No. I…I don’t think I do,” the sick feeling in his gut grew sicker still.

  “No, Niko, he doesn’t know me. But I, in a way, know all of you. We share a thread, you see, of the cosmic fabric that binds us all together.”

  Harburn looked around the room, “he must’ve bugged the place.”

  “There is no bug, Grant. And there is no need to touch the switchboard, but I know you won’t believe me, so go ahead and lock it down. When you’re done, I’d like you all to come and see me. The King requests your audience.”

  “Awfully full of yourself Skeletor,” Dusty yelled towards the speaker.

  “Come to me.” King Cain said softly. “Come to me…”

  And they did.

  17 WHEREVER THE MUSE TAKES YOU

  (back to top)

  “What do you mean, you made one just for me? Can you stop freaking me out for one fucking moment?”

  “I’ve dreamt of you for years—”

  “You’re not helping the freak factor any.”

  The painter paused, gave a small smile, and then continued, “Well, I have. In my dreams you are a witch—a most powerful necromancer. You carry with you one of the tomes of flesh. The one I have fashioned for you.”

  “This doesn’t make sense. This is a dream. You’re a dream. Dreams can’t have dreams. You can’t dream about me. First it’s creepy, second, it’s making my head hurt.”

  “Dreams are as real as the waking world. This is my reality.” He put his brush down on the workbench, not bothering to rinse it off in the murky jar of paint-dirty water. “Let me show you.”

  “Show me slowly, psycho.”

  The painter walked towards her, and she backed away. He moved to another workbench in which a large package sat. It was rectangular in shape and wrapped in a thick brown paper and tied with a
string. Rachel thought it looked like how they used to package meat at the deli near her childhood home. He grabbed the package with two hands and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” She asked, but had a pretty good idea of what it was.

  “Open it. It’s what you came here for.”

  She moved to the workbench he took it from and placed it back down. She turned back to him and he grinned in delight. Go on, his expression said. She undid the simple not in the string and began to unfold the paper. She stepped back, the package unwrapped to reveal a large flesh bound book. The cover looked to have a nose and ear, flattened and dry of course, but still resembling the forms even though transformed.

  “You made this? For me?”

  The painter nodded.

  “Is this skin from the torso over there?”

  He nodded again.

  “Who was he?”

  “She was a young woman. A life-drawing model. Some might even call her a muse.”

  Disgusted by the revelation, “You murdered her to make this for me?”

  “Does it matter to you since this is your dreaming world? In this world you can do anything you want, and when you wake you can dismiss it all as dream or nightmare. Just the mind working out some shit.”

  “But it’s real to you.”

  “Yes. This is my reality. Mine. Not yours. Are you perhaps bothered that you dream of monsters like me who dream of witches like you. Are you disturbed by the notion that someone you don’t know, and have never seen would kill for you in order to give you a gift?”

  She was out of words to say. This was her dream, and like dreams, it wasn’t making much sense to her. Instead of trying to make it do that, she opened the book. She felt her fingers tingle at the touch. Inside were beautifully rendered pictures of atrocities committed to flesh. Images of monsters, dead things, perverse things, things you couldn’t even give a name to. And there was text. Some decipherable and some not. Some were letterforms she had never seen in languages that did not exist. But she found that when she ran her fingers over it, she could understand it’s meaning.