A Feast of Flesh: An extremely gory horror novel (Flesh Harvest Book 2)

by Jacob Rayne

  Just keep attacking it so it can’t get the chains loose, he thought.

  It swung for him again. He threw one of the stakes at it, drawing a cry as it drew blood from the creature’s face. He quickly unfastened the chain around his own feet and dropped, clinging to the empty hook that tantalised with its prospect of salvation.

  The creature was still too pained and enraged to realise it was being set up.

  Osmo grabbed the hook and wound loose a few feet of chain. He let out a cry and dug the hook through the creature’s thigh.

  The flesh was tough, the muscle tougher, but he managed to get it through the gap between the bones.

  He wound the chain round its leg tight, taking out as much slack as he could, and ran into a sledgehammer blow from the creature’s head. His teeth ground down on each other, sending flakes of enamel raining down into his mouth.

  He tasted blood from where the shards of remaining teeth had dug into his tongue.

  His senses in total disarray, he implored himself to get back to his feet.

  But his body was refusing to move.

  106

  The creature’s struggles to escape its binds were a grim lullaby as Osmo tried to resist the numbing darkness that was doing its best to claim him.

  He fought to keep his eyes open; one of the hardest fights in a life filled with violent encounters.

  The image of his daughter in her funeral garb stirred him into action.

  He would not, could not, let them win.

  His fuzzy brain trying to figure out where the button for the chains was, he managed to haul himself to his feet.

  He ran over to it, smiling when he saw that there was a light on the control panel. Hopefully this run of good luck would carry over to the fucking thing working.

  The creature still fought, serving only to impale itself further on the hooks. It cried out, a wounded animal suddenly all the more dangerous.

  He pressed the button and the yellow light changed to orange then red.

  Osmo cursed as the chains jolted for a second then froze again.

  ‘Looking for this?’ Dwayne said, holding the key aloft in a bloody hand.

  Osmo’s eyes fell upon the key and he let out a cry as Dwayne opened his mouth wide, shoved the key to the back of his throat and swallowed.

  ‘You’re fucked now,’ Dwayne said, once the waves of peristalsis had carried the key to his stomach.

  Osmo grinned and shook his head.

  Behind them the creature was still impaled on the hooks. Its attempts to get free were in vain, serving only to create more blood and pain for itself.

  Osmo could tell it was panicking, not thinking clearly, and hoped it never calmed itself enough to figure out how to remove the chains. While his enemy watched the creature with a sorrowful look hewn into his blood-spattered features, Osmo moved in.

  Dwayne’s heart seemed to sink as he saw what Osmo had in mind, especially when he raised the knife and his smile widened to truly insane proportions.

  ‘You’ve landed yourself in a whole world of pain,’ Osmo drawled.

  Dwayne hissed at him, and lunged forward, but Osmo flattened him with a hard rugby tackle and within a split second had him on his back.

  Osmo knew he was fucked if the creature got out of the chains so he brought the knife down at a frenzied pace.

  The monster seemed to have settled itself down and was now approaching the problem logically.

  One of its clawed hands was already struggling to remove the hook from its leg.

  Osmo could see it was maybe a minute at most from completing this task.

  He plunged the knife down again and again, creating a wide hole in Dwayne’s stomach. Dwayne’s cries for help fell upon deaf ears.

  Osmo’s blade pierced his chest, finally shutting off the hideous cries.

  Osmo reached into one of the many wounds he’d made in Dwayne’s stomach and began to sift through the contents, gagging at the gobbets of raw meat that spilled forth.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered, seeing that the creature was almost free from the ankle chain.

  His finger hit something hard and he grinned until he pulled it forth and saw that it was a tiny finger bone.

  He retched again, and vomit poured from his lips as his hands pulled out a steaming chunk of intestine, but he saw a gleam among the dark blood and pieces of dead flesh.

  He pulled the key out, wiped the reeking mass of blood and undigested people from it, and ran to the control panel.

  His trembling fingers scored marks across the box as he struggled to get the key into the hole.

  The creature screamed in triumph as it pulled the hook loose from its thigh with a spray of dark blood. Osmo realised his plan was over if the creature got loose, so he put on the knuckleduster knife, drew two of his stakes and ran in.

  The control panel beeped and the yellow light turned to orange.

  He ducked under its wild swing, which covered him in its stinking blood, and slugged it as hard as he could in the scar he’d given it months earlier.

  The creature’s breath deserted it in a mausoleum scent as the lethal blade jammed up to the hilt in its belly. It dropped to its knees, as Osmo had hoped it would.

  He pulled the blade out, stopping for just a second to marvel at the impressive gouts of blood pouring from the wound he’d created.

  His honed reflexes allowed him to duck its desperate attack and slam one of the stakes through the back of its knee joint.

  It squealed in agony, a cry so pitiful it threatened to rob his attack of its vigour.

  He was not deterred, stamping hard on the stake until it sunk in to the hilt, pinning the creature’s meaty limb to the floor. It struggled desperately to remove its trapped leg.

  Osmo dodged the next strike, managing to escape with a small cut across his throat. Another inch and that would have taken my throat out, he thought with a maniac’s grin.

  He rammed the second stake into its other knee, grinning wider with each stamp of his foot.

  With the stakes driven fully home, the whimpering creature was pinned to the floor in two places.

  He prayed this would be enough to fulfil his plan.

  ‘This is for my family,’ he said, spitting into its screaming face.

  Its jaws snapped shut mere inches from his face, sending death breath flooding into his nostrils, but he had judged the distance perfectly.

  ‘You ain’t fucking eating me,’ he hissed and ran over to the control panel.

  It seemed to realise his intent when he punched the button, as it began freaking out, flapping its wings in a vain attempt to lift its immense frame from the stakes which pinned it to the floor.

  Glad I made those fuckers barbed, Osmo thought with a grim smile.

  The creature was pulling the stake up, pausing as the barbs wrenched holes in its flesh. It let out a pained cry and let go of the stake for a second.

  It bellowed its frustration as it pulled the stake free from its leg, only for the barb to stick in the gap in the grating, anchoring the limb to the floor.

  The yellow light changed to green and ancient machinery seemed to let out a triumphant cry at finally being put into use after so long in atrophy.

  As the gears above their heads ground against their wheels, the chains began to pull apart with a horrendous squeal.

  The racket was audible only briefly as the creature began to howl, its cry one of utter terror, agony and despair.

  Osmo saluted the creature, a shit-eating grin on his face.

  There was an ear-splitting squeal when the chains above stalled for a second, struggling to cope with the exertion.

  The creature howled as the powerful machinery began to stretch it.

  It was easy to see the tension the machinery was exerting on its neck.

  For a horrible second it looked like the chains weren’t going to be powerful enough to accomplish the decapitation of the monster, and, for an even worse one, it looked as though the stakes were going to
come out of the creature’s legs, but the barbs held, digging deeper into the thick muscles and anchoring it harder.

  The gears kept turning and, with a horrendous tearing and cracking sound and a shower of gore that was nothing short of spectacular, the creature’s head was torn loose of its body.

  Blood jetted a full ten feet, coating Osmo in the vile fluid. It clung to every inch of his frame, soaking him, contaminating him.

  He felt sick at the feel and smell of it.

  The creature’s twitching, headless carcass slumped forwards, covering the floor in a rapidly growing pool of diseased blood.

  It was a relief when the chain continued along its path, taking the abominable head into the next room.

  He watched the creature’s blood spill onto the floor, then he found his way out of the abattoir, knowing that the atrocities within would be forever burnt into his mind.

  107

  One anonymous call to the police later, Osmo sat in the seat of the car he and Campbell had used to get to the abattoir what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He’d never felt so alone in all of his life.

  His head was filled with an eerie static, very much like white noise, and he had a feeling this meant that the infection was already starting to take hold.

  Tears rolled down his face as he realised he was the only survivor from his friends.

  They’d all perished.

  Even Campbell.

  Sobs racked his skinny frame as he remembered the monster into which Campbell had been changing, as he relived the sickening feeling of the blade sliding through his friend’s heart and sending warm blood spurting out onto his hands.

  ‘God bless ya, Officer Campbell,’ he said.

  His doubts that he was starting to change were confirmed when he was suddenly hit by a thirst worse than anything he’d ever experienced. His body started to shake. As a chronic alcoholic he’d had his fair share of tremors and those had been a cakewalk compared to the ones currently wracking his entire frame.

  I’m turning into one of those things, he thought.

  Not a fucking chance.

  No, he vowed to go out in a blaze of glory.

  Before he changed his mind, he touched the flame of the cigarette lighter to the rag he’d stuffed into one of the many petrol cans in the back of the car, revved the gas, brought the clutch up and bellowed, ‘Grace, Marie, Graham, I’m coming.’

  The years of pain and torment were burnt from his body in a haze of obliterating fire that tore through the abattoir, destroying everything and everyone in its path.

  As the abattoir walls crumbled beneath the devastating force of the explosion, Oscar ‘Osmo’ Momente died with a smile on his charred lips.

  108

  The police arrived shortly after, the fire brigade in tow to control the raging inferno that had wrecked the old abattoir.

  They found a car crashed into the western wall of the building, devastated in the explosion.

  A charcoal husk of a body hunched over the wheel, lidless eyes staring into the inferno, teeth bared by the burning away of his lips.

  As the fire brigade battled the flames and the cops took in what remained of the scene, the charred corpse came to with a cry of pain.

  He hurt from arsehole to eyelids.

  After a quick glance to make sure none of the cops were watching, he climbed out of the car and crept into the bushes.

  In the flurry of activity, he went unnoticed.

  The thirst was already raging so he sought to find a lone victim detached from the herd.

  A few miles from the abattoir he smiled when he saw a lone man walking his dog.

  Easy pickings.

  Osmo dived in and drank his fill before disappearing into the night. His appetite wasn’t satisfied yet.

  Not even close.

  Bonus

  Not read Flesh Harvest yet?

  Start here…

  I

  Oscar ‘Osmo’ Momente winced as the tyres of his battered, black Ford Mondeo crunched the gravel on the long track leading to the farm.

  ‘Hey, is that it there?’ Osmo’s daughter, Marie, asked.

  ‘Shh,’ Osmo hissed, fearing the slightest noise would bring down undue attention on the car and its four inhabitants.

  To their right was a large stone farmhouse, the single illuminated window like an accusatory eye that watched their trespassing. Far ahead on the left was the only other light save the moonlight. This light to the left was their destination – the spa that had been built on the abandoned farmland.

  They’d had a call from someone who worked at the spa to say that their missing dog, Misty, had been spotted nearby.

  ‘Isn’t that barn around here?’ Graham, Osmo’s seven year old son, asked.

  ‘Quiet, honey,’ Mrs Grace Momente insisted, noting the lines of worry that scored her husband’s face.

  They wound along the snaking path, Osmo not daring to go faster than five miles an hour lest he alert some unseen guard to their presence.

  ‘It’s as creepy as I thought,’ Marie whispered to her brother.

  He nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Do you really think this is where all those people ended up?’

  ‘Yes,’ Graham said.

  Osmo glared at them in the rearview mirror.

  ‘Come on, Oscar, no one outside the car is going to hear that,’ Grace said.

  ‘I don’t think we should make any noise at all. You’ve heard what they say about this place.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Personally, I’d have left the dog. It’s not worth the four of us being chopped up and—’

  ‘Oscar, shut up, the kids.’

  ‘They know all about it.’

  Graham and Marie nodded bashfully.

  ‘See. Now, can everyone please shut up?’ Osmo said. ‘I’m as scared as you all are. Let’s find out what happened to Misty and get out of here.’

  Osmo took the car down a track which wound to the left, into a huge field where the spa sat in the far left corner. As they negotiated a tight s-bend, Marie gasped.

  Osmo glanced from the side window to see a tall man with cadaverous skin standing on the corner of the field. His heart started to pound until he noticed that it was clearly a scarecrow. The man wore a battered black fedora and a long brown trench coat. His long, greasy hair and beard were matted together in thick clumps, hiding most of his pale face. His eyes were staring glassily ahead.

  Osmo looked away, pleased to get the creepy scarecrow out of his eye line.

  ‘Dad, he just moved,’ said Marie, the panic in her voice impossible to miss.

  ‘It’s just the wind, honey,’ Osmo said.

  ‘The others didn’t move,’ Graham said, pointing to the other figures that stood sentry around the field. There were five that Osmo saw in the quick glance he took before he had to concentrate on the road once more. ‘If it was the wind the others would have moved too.’

  ‘Just your imagination,’ Grace said, unable to suppress the shudder that ran through her.

  Marie and Graham eyed the macabre figures suspiciously, watching for the slightest hint of movement. They saw none, so tentatively relaxed. The tramps remained still, their arms held out against the wooden poles like paupers re-enacting the crucifixion.

  Osmo pulled up outside the spa.

  ‘I’ll go in,’ Grace said, noting the worry on her husband’s face.

  Osmo nodded. ‘Thanks, honey. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’

  ‘I’m scared too, dad,’ Marie said. ‘But we’ll be ok. I think it’s too late for Misty though. I think the thing in the barn got him.’

  Osmo said nothing, just gulped.

  Grace didn’t acknowledge her daughter’s comment. She put the tales of the ‘Thing in the barn’ down to urban legend, but couldn’t deny the creepiness of the place. She went up to the spa’s glass door and knocked gently on the frame.

  Osmo winced at the noise and glanced around
furtively. He knew they were really pushing their luck being out here and wished he hadn’t brought his family with him, but the truth was that he needed them for moral support. Nothing moved in the field, so he slumped back in his seat, inching his car door shut.

  Grace smiled at him, mouthed a sorry, then held up her fingers in the peace sign. Two minutes, that gesture meant.

  Eager to get it over with, Osmo waved her inside.

  She turned the handle and disappeared into the spa.

  Osmo, Graham and Marie eyed the field while they waited. In the distance, they saw the dim outline of the barn. A number of people had disappeared in town over the last year, and a rumour had started that said the bodies were being taken to feed something that dwelled in the barn. Osmo knew he was too old to buy into such shit, but the bodies had to be going somewhere and this was as good an explanation as any.

  The moon was a bleached sickle scything through the overbearing darkness and tumorous clouds that hung above them. The sickly pale light cast the field in an eerie glow, making even the most normal thing seem like a figment of a living nightmare.

  Osmo breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. His skin crawled. The stories had really gotten into his head.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Graham asked.

  Marie shrugged with the kind of nonchalance that one about to enter her teenage years can easily muster. ‘I think it’s a dinosaur.’

  ‘I heard it was a werewolf,’ Graham said.

  Osmo wanted to join in, but he was too on edge. ‘Can we cut this out, kids? It isn’t helping.’

  ‘Ok, dad.’

  ‘Your mother’s been in there a while,’ Osmo said, trying to sound flippant.

  ‘You know mam,’ Marie said. ‘Her two minutes is like twenty, especially if she gets gassing.’

  This brought a welcome chuckle from Osmo, lightening the mood a little. ‘Yeah, if she gets banging her gums we might be here till sunrise.’

  Marie snorted laughter.

  Graham didn’t say anything. He didn’t like it when they talked bad about his mam.

  ‘I’ll give it a few minutes then I’ll go in after her,’ Osmo said. ‘Sure she’s just talking to the receptionist or something.’