The Woman on the Beast_A Season for Horror

by Macie Holloway

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m a hostage and I need to get out of here fast! I haven’t eaten in four days, and so my trigger finger is very itchy. Now, drive me out or else, French Fry.”

  Lucas Von Dane felt warm urine streaming down his right leg. He was a peaceful man from a peaceful family, and had never been spoken to so sharply.

  Ashley noticed the wet streak forming down the inner leg of his pants.

  What a pussy.

  “Calm down, Mon Cheri! I am a man of Peace. I am an aid worker for the United Nations. I am not even a soldier.”

  “Empty your pockets.”

  He followed her directions, producing a box of Tic Tacs, a wet handkerchief, and very old condom package.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Now, she believed he didn’t have a weapon.

  “You know, condoms expire, right?”

  “Please put the gun down. I promise you I drive you out. I do not like the Americans. They are bullies – big bullies.”

  She lowered the gun.

  She was safely sure she could beat him in hand-to-hand contact if need be.

  He was no warrior. That much was for sure.

  “Hide behind my seat, Mon Cheri. I have to pass through security.”

  It was clear he was helping her plot an efficient escape.

  She decided to trust him.

  “Fine, push your seat forward and so I can get in.”

  “Stay low. You are very small. You can easily hide in the shadow.”

  “Thank you … uh …” she whispered as she crouched low.

  “Lucas. My name is Lucas.”

  “I’m Tracy,” she lied.

  It was doubtful a French aid worker from the United Nations knew the name of the daughter of the United States President, but Ashley didn’t take chances.

  She didn’t believe Lucas would betray her, but plan B would be firing the gun into her own temple.

  No way was she returning to her coffin below.

  He spoke French as he passed through the security gate.

  He told the other Frenchman he had to continue north to make another delivery.

  He didn’t mention he was delivering an American girl.

  Ashley noticed it was silent outside.

  She wasn’t surprised that the tunnel exit led out to a desolate location.

  The other Frenchman didn’t appear to care at all. He said, “Be careful, Lucas.”

  Be careful? What was going on? Ashley wondered.

  As Lucas slowly pressed the gas to accelerate, Ashley whispered, “Where are we?”

  “I cannot leave you here, Mon Cheri. This is a French military base. I will take you to a small town up north.”

  He seemed honest enough.

  “Thank you!” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to whisper now. We are alone on the road.”

  Ashley exhaled sharply and finally stretched upward as her back cracked painfully.

  “Oh thank God! I’m so tired of crouching. I would have never made it as a baseball catcher.”

  “I can’t be long or they will worry. I will have to drop you off at the next town. It is very small and you are not safe hiding there.”

  With one hand on the wheel, he reached for his leather wallet on the dashboard.

  “Here. Take some money. You need to take a bus or train as soon as possible. Marseille is twenty miles north and there will be plenty of other people to hide in there.”

  Ashley had lived in France long enough to know how much she needed.

  “Thank you, Lucas.”

  “I am glad you escaped Mon Cheri,” he said as he slowly pulled in behind an old bakery.

  Her eyes filled with tears as sunlight warmed her face for the first time in weeks.

  Freedom.

  “Hurry Mon Cheri, and be careful! The city is better for hiding, but very dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “The jihadists murdered 10,345 people last week in cities all over France and Great Britain. Ebola is breaking out all over the United States and now spreading to Canada. They have almost 15,000 dead already. I think you are safer in France than the United States. The news is calling it the beginning of World War III.”

  “OH MY GOD!”

  “Shhhhhh! Do not bring attention to yourself. Act natural. Walk slow. Be casual.”

  Ashley felt a panic attack coming on.

  She really had no clue how long she’d been underground and no idea what to expect in Marseille.

  “SHIT!”

  Lucas closed the door and called out the window as he drove off, “Remember Mon Cheri, ACT CALM!”

  Act Calm, Ashley, she coached herself through large deep breaths. Act calm.

  She couldn’t believe her father was finally right to be overprotective.

  Dammit, Dad! If you wouldn’t have cried wolf all my life, I would have believed you.

  She’d stopped taking him seriously long ago, and now for the first time, she seriously regretted it.

  She had very little money and nowhere to run.

  Ashley knew she was a moving target for every radical jihadist who had a bone to pick with the United States, and that was all of them.

  NOWHERE TO RUN

  As armored United States vehicles and surveillance aircraft combed Germany, France, Italy and Great Britain in search for Ashley, it wasn’t possible for the news of her disappearance to stay a secret from the world.

  While the previous year Ashley had studied in France in a private elitist college staked out by body guards and living under an alias for her safety, now she felt like a sitting duck.

  Ashley was no dummy.

  She knew it wasn’t safe for her to use a computer or a cell phone. That would mark her with a GPS signal.

  She had to think, and she had to think fast.

  As she stepped out of the bus into a cloud of black smoke, she was greeted by wailing ambulances and high-pitched screams of distress. Through the smoke she saw bloody people lying scattered in the street as paramedics rushed to their aid.

  Jesus Christ! What have I done?

  Walking quickly, she stepped out of the smoke and began desperately scanning the buildings for the nearest internet café.

  She needed to get a glimpse of the news.

  She elbowed her way through a sea of terrified faces until she finally caught a glimpse of a T.V. through a large glass window.

  She was hoping to discover a safer city to hide in. Instead, she was horrified to see her own face on the screen.

  What the fuck?

  She came closer to the door, not daring to step foot inside.

  The news blared in French, “A series of brutal attacks against all major French cities broke out today with the death toll now at 12,345. Although it is not yet confirmed, we are awaiting confirmation from terrorist jihadist groups working for the No Surrender Squad to accept responsibility.”

  The what? What the Hell does that have to do with me?

  “It is believed the jihadists are targeting Ashley Matthews, the daughter of the United States who has been studying France for over a year. The President of the United States has offered a $3,000,000 reward to anyone who has information that can lead to Ashley’s safe return. It is not yet officially confirmed if she has been abducted by the terrorists.”

  Ashley looked straight down at the ground and jetted away from the loud screens covered in images of her own face.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit, she whispered under her breath with every step.

  Ashley’s blonde hair might as well have been a fishing lure.

  Since all merchants had abandoned their stores, her first mission was to find brown hair dye.

  Tears of regret filled her eyes as she realized her selfishness had hurt the people she loved.

  Daddy must be having a heart attack.

  Oh God!

  Stefan! They’re probably targeting him because they think I’ll show up there next.

  Having her head chopp
ed of with a spoon by the No Surrender Squad was the least of her worries.

  She had to find hair color and a church.

  Ashley was highly intelligent.

  She was aware that while terrorists in the United States often targeted churches, they were considered a sanctuary to Muslim terrorists. The United States was so messed up. Baptists said Pentecostals were crazy because they prayed in tongues. Pentecostals criticized liberal Methodists because they drank wine and had female preachers. Protestants denounced Catholicism because they said it was sacrilege to worship Mother Mary, and so on … and so forth … Yet the Muslims were respectful enough of all churches to confine their bombings to buses and trains. Sure they’d chop her head off with a spoon, but they’d wait until she left church to do it. Didn’t Christians ever read the verse about a how a house divided amongst itself could not stand?

  Nope. Just like the laborers who build million dollar homes go back to their trailers, Ashley had found that Christians rarely even read the book they all claimed to be living by. They just took the fat preacher man’s word for it, raced out in time to hit the Chinese buffet, and then went around pointing fingers at gays and whores.

  Like a big troupe of demented circus monkeys.

  Ashley had read the Bible, and she believed that Jesus died out of love, and people should live out of love. It was that simple, but they analyzed and rationalized and persecuted and judged. They theorized and segregated and turned the precious act of her savior’s death into a complicated, complex system of rules and regulations that they could debate and argue over. They never had time to love anybody; they were all too busy fussing.

  What a sad world she lived in, and it was getting sadder by the second.

  Jesus, please help me find a sanctuary, and please don’t let my Daddy have a heart attack before I can get to him.

  HEART ATTACK

  President Matthews was drenched in a cold sweat of panic.

  He could not eat. He could not sleep. He could not think, until he found his daughter.

  He tried to push away his worst fear from his mind.

  Oh dear God, please don’t let the terrorists have my baby.

  He had assigned a security team to watch all communications for fear that he would have a heart attack if picked up the phone and heard a ransom price.

  He’d already had triple by-pass three years ago, and if the No Surrender Squad had abducted Ashley, his team knew he’d better be tranquilized before telling him the news.

  Dammit, Mason, he cursed himself.

  Warm tears streamed down his tan weathered face and mixed with the river of cold sweat.

  Why? Why did I have to be ambitious? I wanted to change things so badly. Now what the fuck does change mean if Ashley’s dead?

  His eyes never strayed from the locked cabinet full of guns.

  If Ashley’s head came in the mail, he was going to be right behind her.

  “Sir, the British Prime Minister is requesting you send troops to help the Freedom forces in Great Britain.”

  “FUCK GREAT BRITAIN!”

  “Permission to request assistance from the Vice President.”

  “Permission granted. Tell Henry to handle it, and get me HAIKU ON THE ROTARY PHONE!”

  His fingers were too shaky for any form of coordinated activity.

  “The No Surrender Squad has agreed to a conference call with the Freedom Forces. They claim they are willing to negotiate a peace treaty. Do you want me to tell Henry to handle that, too?”

  “NO! Tell them I’ll be there. They could have Ashley!”

  “Yes sir. We have Haiku on the line.”

  He put his hand to his forehead as a dizzy feeling swept over him.

  His security officer practically put the phone in his hand and lifted it to his ear.

  The sound of Haiku’s voice immediately calmed him down a bit.

  If Ashley was still alive, Haiku was his only hope.

  Neither man bothered to say Hello. Haiku spoke first.

  “Mason, calm down. I trained Ashley as a child, remember? She is smart. She would not call you or try to contact you by computer because she knows better than to put a GPS target on her head. No news is good news right now. She’s as independent and stubborn as you. She more than likely escaped.”

  “Oh Jesus! I bet she’s on her way to that boy! That damned boy!”

  “Ashley’s not stupid, sir. She knows if the terrorists find Stefan, they’ll be waiting on her there.”

  “So what do I do, Haiku? Tell me what to do?”

  The President’s voice was trembling.

  His heart was palpitating in his finger tips.

  “First, Mason, you calm down. If Ashley is alive, and I believe she is, then you having a heart attack is NOT going to help us find her.”

  A wave of peace finally rolled over the President’s body as he let Haiku’s logic prevail. He certainly couldn’t think straight to save his life.

  If Haiku thought she was still alive, she more than likely was. Even if he didn’t have proof, he just had a sixth sense about things and was almost always right.

  He wouldn’t have said he thought she was alive if he didn’t believe it. Haiku wasn’t the type to give false hope for the sake of comfort.

  Now, the President’s breathing finally slowed down enough that he could hear over his heart beat.

  “O.K., Haiku, I’m calm. Now tell me what to do.”

  “You go talk peace with the No Surrender Squad. Watch their eyes. You have a father’s instinct. You will pick up on it if they have her.”

  “That’s it? Go to the meeting?”

  “Yes sir, calm down and go to the meeting. If you’re too frazzled, your judgment will be altered. You need to watch for every detail. You need to listen to every word. I will be in France in twenty minutes. Ashley is still alive. I can feel it. She just knows better than to contact us. I will find her and I bring her back safe. You have my word.”

  It was the only time in his entire life Haiku had given his word without certainty.

  He had no idea if Ashley was alive.

  He only knew that if he didn’t convince the President she was, he’d be dead of a heart attack in less than an hour.

  “How do you know she’s alive, Haiku?”

  “I have my methods, sir.”

  “O.K.”

  President Matthews let out a deep sigh of relief. He trusted Haiku more than anyone.

  Haiku really wasn’t certain, but it was a necessary lie.

  If Ashley was alive, he would find her, and he knew that much to be true.

  If Ashley was dead, President Matthews was going to be right behind her anyway, and they both knew it.

  So, while he’d never been a fan of lying, he had to alter his own moral compass if he wanted Mason Matthews to make it through the night.

  Now he hardened his voice with strength and command.

  “She is alive, sir. I will find her and bring her back. Your orders are to calm down enough to pick up any hints from the meeting and keep your walk-talkie in your pocket. Follow my instructions, and I will get her back.”

  Now the President’s hands were finally still and his brain was alert enough to process.

  Haiku taking command gave him a feeling of security.

  “O.K., Haiku. I’m following your instructions.”

  “Good, sir. Take your blood pressure medication, go be Sherlock Holmes at this meeting, and I will handle everything else.”

  Haiku hung up the phone.

  He didn’t have time for goodbyes.

  If Ashley was still alive, there was a chance she wouldn’t be for long.

  MOMMY DEAREST

  “Oh Mommy … Mommy Dearest?” Atticus mocked as he returned to the room where the English Patient had been playing on repeat for an indeterminable amount of time. Now she had open wounds on her wrists from struggling pathetically in her shackles.

  “Uuuuhuuuuuhhuuuu,” Destiny grunted from her table.

 
“Time for a face lift AND a boob job.”

  Her antelope eyes grew wide again as she moaned like a sea monster. Atticus pumped her with antihistamines. A heart attack would have completely ruined his fun.

  The antihistamine Vistaril would slow her heart, but not provide any pain killing effects. It would also provide no narcotic calming, such as Xanax or Valium. It would only prevent shock and heart attack with absolutely no fun bonuses.

  He wanted her to feel every ounce of the pain she’d made him feel.

  But that’s not possible.

  When Pam and John died, Atticus finally realized there was no physical pain that could compare to pain of a truly broken heart.

  No matter how much he tortured Destiny, she would never truly feel his pain, because she’d never been capable of loving anyone but herself.

  More than anything, she valued her own life and her own beauty, and so that was all he had to take.

  She hadn’t been born with a heart. She wasn’t capable of heartbreak.

  “Let’s see … a face lift… You know what would really bring out your blue eyes? A swastika!”

  Atticus didn’t believe in God or the Devil anymore than he had believed those white-trash witches were going to fly upward to the gates of Hell, but he sure thought it was all super funny.

  Retrieving a razor sharp scalpel, he began carving a swastika that would spread over her entire face. He would make sure to do a super shotty cauterization job in hopes the swastika would form a gigantic keloid scar over her pretty young face.

  Her nubby little hot pink tongue was flapping like an angry severed penis.

  The noises were so gargled and deformed, like Charlie Brown’s teacher being choked to death slowly.

  He laughed.

  “Aw, your cute little tongue looks like a severed little pink penis! You wanted to fuck the world, but you can’t fuck anybody with that! Don’t worry, gorgeous, I’ll fuck the world for you.”

  He made sure to move the T.V. so her terrified eyes could watch the lines of the swastika carving over her gorgeous face like a Halloween pumpkin – a bloody Halloween pumpkin.

  He carved slowly, savoring every moment, and making sure to watch her heart rate and blood pressure and pump her with Vistaril accordingly.