Dreams and Reality Set 3: Cannibal Dreams and Butchered Dreams

by Hadena James

  Even with serial killers, a good glare from me is enough to stifle some of their enthusiasm. This was not the case with this guy. He smiled wider.

  The chains holding me weren’t that well wrapped. I had some room for movement. However, they went around my waist, wrapping several times, fastening me to the chair. This meant that unless he was going to decapitate me or killing me quickly some other way, there was a good chance the chains were coming off.

  My would-be killer’s clothes were filthy. He smelled of body odor and rotting food. His pupils were dilated far too wide. His teeth were a mess. There was a chemical scent to the body odor. If this guy wasn’t on meth, I would have to reevaluate my intelligence level.

  He wasn’t my first meth head serial killer, just the first that had managed to capture me. I’m guessing the motel was a normal hunting grounds for the guy. I would definitely be speaking with Rollins when I got out of this place.

  “What’s with the fingers?” I asked, attempting to engage the guy. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by me, especially while he had me chained up. Most drug addled killers couldn’t be intimidated like normal serial killers.

  “Fingers, fingers, fingers,” he giggled. “I like fingers. Crunchy. Crunchy. Crunchy. Like pretzel sticks. Fingers. Crunchy.”

  “Oh boy,” I said.

  This was going to be interesting. I got the impression that he didn’t enjoy eating the fingers. If he did, they wouldn’t be decaying in jars. For some reason, this guy just liked to keep the fingers. It was about more than trophies. The decay indicated that he had taken them in and out of the jars. Or that the jars contained nothing more than water. Even the most unstable serial killers knew better than to store their trophies in water for preservation purposes.

  If I was going to go up against a meth addict, I was going to need to rethink my game plan. I had no weapons and the basement didn’t seem to hold much except the jars of fingers and the shelves they sat on. Unfortunately, the shelves were obviously a meth induced DIY project. They were made of cheap pressed wood, cannibalized from other things. The shelves weren’t the same sizes and some of them were so unlevel that the jars had slid to one side.

  Decaying fingers in jars weren’t exactly a great weapon either. The jars might be useful, but I wasn’t all that interested in shredding my hands wielding pieces of broken glass against this guy. I didn’t know if he was in the high stage or moving to the tweaking stage. One was a lot more problematic than the other. If he was high, he’d be easier to overpower. His lack of actual, coherent sentences though, lead me to believe he was moving out of this stage.

  The tweak comes before the crash. It’s the period during which a meth addict is the most dangerous. They have hallucinations and their aggression level rises. This is also the stage when they enter a full psychotic break with reality. One of the side effects for a non-psychopath in a psychotic break, was the inability to register pain. I’d be dealing with a rage-fueled version of Malachi. Despite the fact that I occasionally baited him into exactly those sorts of situations, they were situations I could control, because I had created them. That was not the same as this guy.

  My assessment of the basement had taken only a few seconds. But they were precious seconds. The idiot in front of me began to massage my hand. He didn’t have a weapon in his hands and while the chains weren’t exactly tight, they weren’t loose enough for me to punch him either.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Name? Name. Names. Many names. So many names. To go with the fingers. Names. What’s your name?”

  I frowned at him. He was bending down, leaning his face close to me. His breath moved across my hand. His mouth opened and he sucked two of my fingers into his mouth. He stopped, releasing the tainted digits and grinned. His hands attempted to undo the chain that held my arm to the chair. As it released, I understood exactly how he removed the fingers and exactly how to get out of my current predicament.

  He sucked both fingers back into his mouth again. I had no idea what sort of germs this guy might be carrying. I would need antibiotics when I escaped. I would need a tetanus shot and maybe an update on several other vaccines.

  Most people’s instinct would be to try and pull their fingers straight out of the offensive orifice. As his teeth scraped my skin, this was not my instinct. I flexed my fingers, curling them at the middle knuckles. Pressure increased on the skin, but it was more because of my own movements. My short fingernails scraped his tongue and he moved them more out of reflex than pain. However, it made room for my fingers against the back of his front teeth and the bottom of his mouth.

  The bottom of the mouth is an interesting spot. It’s sensitive to touch, because aside from chewed foods and liquids almost nothing ever touched it. Unchewed food tended not to slip below the tongue. There is also very few layers of skin between the outside and the jaw bone. As a result, no one liked to have it touched.

  My fingers pressed down against it and the pressure from his upper teeth lessened. It increased on the bottom. I felt both of them break against my finger bones. I was definitely going to need some serious medications. I pressed harder, forcing his head down. He fell out of the chair, struggling to get away from me. In his intoxicated state, this was easier said than done. I struggled against the chains while digging my nails into the thin skin of his front jaw.

  He jerked away. My fingers still had his teeth in them. I balled my hand into a fist and punched him regardless, feeling the teeth bury themselves deeper into my skin. He stood and I punched him again. The blows were strong, landing squarely on his jaw and then his cheekbone. Something in my hand crunched. Pain shot up my hand, but I could ignore the broken bones.

  My struggling and aggressive movements were freeing me from the chains. My bottom moved easier in the chair. Without thinking, I began moving my legs, loosening the chain even more. I now realized that it was a single, large chain. Using my broken hand, I grabbed the chain and punched the meth head in the face again. This time I was rewarded by the sound of his bone breaking.

  He fell to the ground and rolled for a few moments. He was more stunned than hurt and I knew this. There was only a few moments to completely remove my restraints. As I worked to release my legs, he got back up. He grabbed my other free hand, this time putting three of my fingers in his mouth. This guy had a real thing about fingers. I couldn’t punch him with my hand in his mouth. The force would have been devastating to me. I repeated my earlier movements, curling my fingers and pressing down. The broken hand finally freed my legs. I stood, keeping hold of his lower jaw. Now though, I had leverage. I put my thumb on the underside of his jaw and began to pull outwards as well as pressing down.

  His jaw dislocated with a satisfying pop. His hands flailed wildly around us, not connecting with anything. Noises emanated from his throat, but without his jaw working, they weren’t articulated.

  There was a wet sucking noise. Warm liquid rushed over my hand, filling his mouth with blood. My gaze found his smile unnaturally widened. I removed my fingers.

  Removing his jaw seemed to have an effect on him. He lay on the floor, his hands clawing at his face. I kicked him in the face, feeling his jaw shatter beneath my boot. All the facial damage and bleeding was taking its toll on him. I found the stairs and began climbing them. He attempted to follow, but the stairs were a hindrance. It was like he couldn’t figure out how to go up them. I made it to the top, closed the door behind me, and shoved a large dresser in front of it. Where this guy had gotten a dresser or why he had decided to put it in the hall was beyond me. Not that it mattered at the moment.

  There was a phone in the kitchen. I grabbed it and called Malachi.

  “Special Agent Blake,” his voice sounded strained.

  “You let me get kidnapped by a serial killer. What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted into the phone.

  “Oh my god, are you ok?” Malachi asked.

  “No! The bastard is a meth head and tried to bite off my fingers.
”

  “Where are you?”

  “That is a great question. I’m in the kitchen of a meth head who likes to bite off fingers. That’s where I am.”

  “Go outside and see if you see any street signs.”

  “I know what to do. How could I be twenty feet from you and still get kidnapped by a serial killer? An unorganized tweaking serial killer on top of that!” There was a loud bang at the door.

  “What was that? Aislinn, get out of the house!” Malachi shouted.

  “Un-fucking-fathomable,” I said as the dresser toppled over and the door opened enough for the killer to begin squeezing through.

  “Aislinn!”

  “Track the damn call.” I set the phone down on the counter, leaving it off the hook. The killer was now in the hallway, attempting to get over the overturned dresser. I shook my head. The guy was more zombie than human at this point. I walked over and kicked him in the forehead. He went down. His chest rose and fell, his hand twitched, his leg jerked. He was alive, but his time was limited if he didn’t get to a hospital. I picked the phone back up. “Send an ambulance.”

  “Are you ok?” I heard Malachi ask. I ignored him. My rage was still up. The darkness still engulfed me. I hadn’t even realized it was there until now. Realizing it didn’t make it go away. I stood in the kitchen, watching the killer bleed, and waiting for the cavalry.

  Eighteen

  Rollins came through the door first. Paramedics were close behind him. One tended to me, three others dealt with the drug addict I’d beaten up. Malachi came in last, very last, even after the uniformed officers.

  “My Taser?” I asked. “Is it here?”

  “No, it’s in your luggage. I got part of a license plate.” Malachi told me.

  “Great, it did me no good, but I appreciate the effort.” I snipped at him.

  The moment we were alone, I was going to kick his ass too. There was a good chance Rollins was going to feel a little bit of my wrath as well. Malachi hadn’t been the only one twenty feet away. If it had been the SCTU, I wouldn’t have had to try to rip the jaw off the killer.

  “You have teeth in your fingers,” the paramedic told me. “And I’m positive the hand is broken.”

  I looked at my hand. It was swollen and turning colors. My fingers looked deformed and crooked. The hand itself was also misshapen, looking clubbed.

  “The reconstructive surgeon can remove the teeth.” I told him. “Can I get a tetanus booster and do you guys give hepatitis boosters? What other things might I need? Antivirals? Antibiotics? He’s a speed freak. What sort of diseases are common in speed freaks?”

  “Uh, you’ll be treated, he’ll be tested. If you’ve had your hepatitis shots, you don’t need boosters. When was your last tetanus booster?”

  “I do not know, probably in July.”

  “Then you don’t need one.”

  “Can I have one just in case?”

  “No.” The paramedic told me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Tetanus is the least of your worries. Methamphetamine users are more likely to carry hepatitis, HIV, AIDS, and a whole list of bacterial infections. You’ll be given antibiotics quickly, both a large dose and an IV drip. The teeth give you a secondary pathway for infection. Since you crushed your hand, it could be a difficult recovery. They are going to have to do surgery to repair it, thereby increasing your risk for infection that much more.”

  “Great. Killed by gangrene and hepatitis.”

  “Are you a hypochondriac?” The paramedic asked.

  “No.” I answered.

  “No, she’s a germophobe.” Malachi gave a twisted grin.

  “When my hand heals, I’m going to break your nose.” I told him.

  “I look forward to it,” Malachi wiggled his eyebrows at me. I sighed. Sometimes, dealing with Malachi was a losing battle. I was still pissed at him and Rollins. However, I was beginning to think Rollins deserved the brunt of my anger. It had been him that put us in that crappy motel and made me a vulnerable target.

  They put the killer on a gurney and began to wheel him out. I looked around the house for the first time. It was amazingly well kept for a meth head. There was furniture. Usually, most drug addicts sold their furniture to buy drugs.

  “What’s the deal with this place?” I asked.

  “We’re checking on it,” Rollins finally spoke to me.

  “Hmmm,” I looked at him. It was probably a good thing my Taser was in my luggage.

  “What?” Rollins asked.

  “I’m Tasering you in my head because I do not actually have one. When I get out of the hospital, I expect to be put in a real hotel, one with security measures.” I told him.

  “Noted,” Rollins looked away and decided to go busy himself somewhere away from me.

  “Ready?” The paramedic asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “There are reporters outside already.” Malachi looked at me. “And they’re asking why the SCTU didn’t realize there was a second serial killer at work when they were here last week.”

  “Good lord, it has only been a week?” I heaved an even heavier sigh. I wanted to sleep. Being anesthetized wasn’t ideal, one day I’d go under and not wake up, but I slept well when I was under. There were no dreams on anesthesia. “Unwrap my hand.”

  “I can’t do that. It shouldn’t be exposed to air.”

  “It will give the reporters a good story and give us an edge.” I looked pointedly at Malachi.

  “I’d do as she says.” He nodded.

  The paramedic unwrapped the hand he’d just bandaged. He wasn’t happy about it and his slow movements ensured I knew it. When the hand was unwrapped, I looked at Malachi. Blood no longer dripped from the wounded fingers. This was a problem. The press liked blood. Patterson would freak out when he saw it. Scabs had formed over the teeth. To the horror of the paramedic, I picked them off. The blood began to flow again.

  “What are you doing?” The paramedic began searching through his supplies.

  “Don’t worry, you can do all that in the ambulance. Although, I’ll probably scab over again by the time you get around to wrapping it again. I clot fast.”

  “Ready?” Malachi asked. I nodded. Our superiors were not going to be very happy with us. I was about to give an impromptu press conference to bait Patterson Clachan.

  “Marshal Cain!” “Special Agent Blake!” Voices overlapped as a group of about six reporters stood outside on the sidewalk, shouting at us. My dealings with the press had not always been good, as a matter of fact, I’d say they had all gone terribly awry. I hoped this one didn’t spiral into another press-related nightmare.

  “I’ll give a short statement, no questions,” Malachi took control. I stood beside him, letting the blood drip from my fingers onto the ground. Reporters were having a hard time looking at me. “In the early morning hours, someone broke into Marshal Cain’s motel room and Tasered her. He then abducted her and brought her here. She managed to fight him off and escape to a telephone at which time she contacted the FBI. We arrived on scene and Agent Rollins took control. This is his investigation. The VCU and SCTU are consulting on another case at this time, it was a coincidence that Marshal Cain was abducted. I want to repeat that. In no way is this case related to our current case. The SCTU and VCU did not miss a second serial killer working in Columbia as is being reported. There is no evidence that this man is a serial killer. There is evidence that he is a drug user and that Marshal Cain was abducted because of the suspect’s drug addiction. More information will be released in the coming days, as we learn it.”

  “Marshal Cain!” A woman yelled at me, thrusting a microphone towards me. “Did you rip the suspect’s jaw off?”

  “It is impossible to rip off a person’s jaw,” I lied. It could be done. I had almost done it. The tearing sound of his flesh had stopped me.

  “How did you escape?” A man yelled at me.

  “I fought him off.”

  “No, how did you esc
ape?” The man repeated the question. I couldn’t tell the press I’d nearly ripped his lower jaw off and beaten him with a chain.

  “I just told you.”

  “What was he going to do to you?” A different man asked. I sighed and glared at him. He moved away from the front.

  “I said no questions,” Malachi bellowed. “We will give you information as it becomes available. Now, Marshal Cain needs to go to the hospital. We ask you to respect her privacy during this time. Agent Rollins will be giving a statement after we have learned more.”

  Malachi touched me. His hand on the small of my back. It was a gesture for the press. We both knew how to stage a good story. They’d be confused about whether to write about the possibility of a romantic entanglement between the SCTU and the VCU or the possible serial killer. It would be harder since instinct told me that the victims were probably the “disposable” part of humanity; prostitutes, drug users, and the homeless. The press didn’t cover these stories very often, they had more salacious stories on the burners.

  I entered the ambulance. The paramedic immediately went to work on my hand. The bleeding had indeed stopped.

  They ran the sirens all the way to the hospital. We ended up at Boone Hospital. I was rushed in and given immediate attention. A doctor came in only minutes after my arrival. He frowned at me.

  “What did you do?” He asked.

  “I beat a killer with a large chain wrapped around my fist. Although, I’m fairly certain I broke the hand before I wrapped it in the chain. When you X-ray it, you’re going to find teeth embedded in my fingers. I’m a heavy clotter and scabs have formed over the wounds. I’d like to get those out as soon as possible as well as starting on antibiotics. I do not know what sort of bacteria grow in the mouths of drug addicts.”

  “I’ll give you a local and peel off the scabs,” the doctor told me.