“Oh, Jesus!”
He was sprawled on his belly, unmoving.
He can’t be dead.
Can’t be.
To her right, Mr Stevens groaned, resurfacing from the black agony of her blow to his testicles.
Think fast.
“Behind her, Mrs Stevens was giggling. It sounded like a sink being drained, as she coughed and gurgled on her own blood.
“Ha! Killed yuh fucking friend. Gun’ kill you too, cunt! Me n’ mah hubband gun’ fuck you to death.”
Slim spotted the shears, and reclaimed them, letting her pain fuel her.
“You think so, you fucking maniac? Well, now this is happening.”
Slim turned to Mr Stevens, and drove the shears down towards the mad woman’s partner.
Though he was still cupping them, the shears cut through his fingers with ease, tore through his corduroy’s like butter and punctured his scrotum like they were two blood-filled water balloons.
Then Slim turned to the woman.
CHAPTER 14
Christ, that hurts!
Preston was sat on the toilet seat.
He’d been stuck there for the last twenty minutes; might as well have been glued there, and still no dice.
He was starting to really wish he hadn’t eaten that burger.
I never even ate the whole thing, and here I am, paralysed on the fucking throne, with a stomach that feels like I’m ready to give birth.
He managed a wry chuckle, but it really wasn’t a laughing matter. This day had gone from piss-poor all the way to shit-storm.
Literally.
First, he’d only gotten to eat half his meal - though now that seemed like perhaps it was a blessing – before his girl, Macy had called, banging on some bullshit about how her kid brother’s best friend was found face down in the river, and then, before he had a chance to get over there, his own ass had rebelled against him, to the point where he’d had no choice but to run home like the fucking wind, or shit himself right there on main street!
He’d barely made it upstairs to the bathroom, and torn his jeans off, before the cramps got so bad, he was doubled over and gritting his teeth to battle the pain.
I’m suing that goddam place, if I ever get off this toilet.
Another convulsion doubled him over. The pain was excruciating.
Too scared to get off the seat; all too aware that the universe would, at that exact moment, see fit to expel his bowels all over the fucking lino, Preston reached for the cabinet fixed to the wall, just above the sink.
“Son of a bitch!”
It was too far out of reach.
He knew there were laxatives up there, but much like all the really hot pussy out there in the world, they remained just outside his grasp, no matter how hard he strained to claim them.
Looks like I’m stuck here.
Helluva way to spend the evening.
Downstairs, the front door slammed shut. He heard footsteps in the hallway and then, after a moments silence, the television came to life.
His sister never watched the television, preferring to get her kicks online.
Had to be his dad.
“Dad, can you help me out? I’m in a bit of a situation up here,” he hollered at the top of his lungs. It’d be embarrassing, but getting his hands on those beautiful, wonderful laxatives would be well worth his dad’s inevitable mockery.
It least it wasn’t Slim. She’d never let him live it down.
Preston shouted again. “Dad...a little help, please!”
No answer.
Canned laughter drifted up the stairway as though mocking his ridiculous dilemma.
Goddamit.
“Dad!” he screamed, as another convulsion gripped his insides like a steel clamp.
Downstairs, he heard Dad muttering something. Preston couldn’t discern what was being said, or to whom.
At that moment, he didn’t really give a shit.
Just get up here and help me, you jackass.
“Dad!” he yelled; louder this time.
“Hey, Preston...how about you shut the fuck up, before I come up there and make you shut the fuck up!?”
Before the shock of his father’s words could register, Preston heard a woman’s voice from below.
“Now fuck my mouth, baby. Make me gag.”
Is that my auntie?
Is that Lyn?
Preston’s mind reeled as he imagined what was going on down there. It sure as hell sounded like his auntie. But what in the hell would mom’s sister be doing with his dad?
He had no time to ponder the matter, as, at long last, his bowels relaxed, and relief washed over him.
The sensation lasted only seconds, before a rough, scraping sensation around his anus caused him to flinch with fresh pain. He felt his ass stretch wider, gritted his teeth again as he continued to push.
Then he felt the tearing.
Preston’s anus tore apart in a torrent of blood and faeces.
Preston screamed as, beneath him, his ass gushed a flood of brown and red sludge into the pan. He slid forward from the seat, howling in torment, dragging the ragged flesh of his anus with him over the rim to slide down to the bathroom floor.
Reaching between his balls with quivering hands, he felt the ruins of his ass. The hole that had been torn open was at least the size of his fist. He felt organs bulge from the cavernous wound, like swollen ripe fruit, ready for the picking.
Preston was beyond screaming now.
Black phantoms circled his vision as the foul smelling rot drained from his ravaged asshole.
He heard slithering.
A slick, wet sound.
And something that sounded like the gnashing of teeth.
Something was in the bathroom with him. It was moving closer.
It was coming for him.
For the briefest of moments, he wondered where it had come from, but in his heart he already knew.
Knowing he was done for, Preston closed his eyes and let the darkness claim him.
He was spared the horrifying vision of an army of finger-size parasites, as they climbed from both the swamp of shit and blood in the toilet and his torn up anus, and inched towards him with needle teeth and black, soulless eyes.
His world was too dark.
His ears worked fine, however, and the last thing Preston heard as the pain ebbed away and the pitch black of forever wrapped its cold arms around him, was a woman’s voice.
“Fuck my mouth, baby. Fuck my mouth like you fucked my dead, bitch sister.”
CHAPTER 15
Slim was pulling the shears from Mrs Stevens’ throat, when she heard the cough from behind her.
She turned, and let out a cry of relief as she saw John struggle to his feet, clutching his right arm.
In her rage, she hadn’t taken the time to check on him. Not that she had time. Not that she ‘d had the sense to do anything but fight, during those moments.
She rushed to him, letting the blood-slick garden shears fall from her hand.
“Are you okay?” She was crying, and laughing.
“Didn’t know you cared,” John moaned, with a wry smile.
“The hell with you. You know I love you, dickhead.”
She watched as John looked around, his eyes widening as he took in the carnage that she herself had wrought on these insane people.
The backyard was a slaughterhouse; blood pooled around the three mangled corpses, spattered up the sidling of the houses walls and dripped down the steps of the rear porch, one by one.
“Yeah, I can see that. Jesus, Slim. You did all this?”
She didn’t want to look, but had to.
Yes, she’d had done all this.
The three bodies were awash with blood; it looked black under the newly rising moon. Mrs Stevens’ neck was a ruin; her larynx was exposed from Slim’s continuous plunges with the shears. Mr Stevens face was white as alabaster stone. The few fingers that the shears hadn’t severed, still clung to t
he area where his balls had been, though now there would be nothing to clutch but flat, empty sacks of flesh’ wet deflated skin sacks. The moonlight shone back from his mannequin eyes, like he was stargazing.
The other man, Mrs Stevens own brother...
Jesus Christ, she’d been fucking him...
...was curled up in the foetal position. He’d died clutching the hole in his gut. Slim could see an exit wound on his back, the shears having skewered him all the way through.
I did this.
I had to.
I had no choice.
The thought brought small comfort.
Slim was petrified by the brutality of her own actions. She looked at her blood soaked hands, and saw the hands of a stranger.
This was a slaughter.
One committed in self-defence and in the defence of her close friend, but a slaughter nonetheless.
John came up behind her. “I’m sure as shit glad you came with me, tonight.”
“I’m not...”
“Did you see what that fucker was going to do to me?”
Slim glanced down to his groin briefly, managing a wry smile, “I can still see...”
John’s jaw dropped. “Oh, shit!” He fumbled with his penis, pushing it back into his pants and zipping it up quick as lightning. “Sorry.”
Despite the horror surrounding them, she found she could still laugh. In her head it sounded like the laughter of the mad.
She wondered if she, or any of her friends, would ever share real laughter again.
She thought of Sam.
John had been right. He wasn’t coming back.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she felt John’s one good arm turn her gently around.
“We have to go.”
“What’s happening here, John...what happened to these people?”
“I don’t know, but like I said, I saw some messed up shit on the way here earlier. Nothing like this...but seriously strange fucking behaviour, nonetheless. People are losing their shit.”
Slim couldn’t take her eyes off the fallen bodies. She steeled herself as best she could, finding her courage, gathering her thoughts. “But why? And how does this tie in with Sam and the restaurant?”
“I have no idea.” John lowered his head.
“We have to get your arm bandaged....”
“You look pretty messed up, yourself. You okay?” He looked horrified by the sheer volume of blood coating her upper body.
Most of it was the blood of others, though.
“I’m fine. The bitch shot me in the shoulder. It’s just a scratch. Let’s go inside and find some supplies.”
“We can check the house for signs of Sam while we do.”
“It’s like you read my mind,” Slim replied.
Though she knew in her heart that Sam was gone.
The house looked like any other. Slim found its normalcy almost disquieting after the chaos that had taken place just outside the structure’s threshold, not to mention the depravity they had witnessed in Sam’s bedroom.
Slim stood in the hallway, listening for any sound of life. The only noise was the ticking of the great grandfather clock that beat its steady beat in the long, dark hall. She herself had checked the dank basement as John searched upstairs, and the house was as dead as the three attackers slowly cooling in the backyard.
She watched as John hammered the touchpad on his phone, dialling Sam’s number again. His face was a landscape of sorrow and frustration.
He had initially been the one to suspect Sam had fallen foul of something or someone dangerous, but now, as he paced the floor with tears welling in his bloodshot eyes and teeth grinding together, she saw the full extent of his awareness.
Sam was gone, and John knew it.
His darkest paranoid fantasies had bled into violent reality with the first swing of those shears colliding with his forehead. These people were killers, and their ferocity had terrified Slim, so much so that her own retaliation had been every bit as instinctual and savage as that of any cornered animal.
She wasn’t sure what she feared more – the bloodthirsty killers she’d faced down, or her own brutality in dispatching them.
What had happened to these people, and what did the restaurant and its mysterious owner have to do with all this, if anything?
“John?”
“Hold on, Slim. I’m gonna call one last time,” He jammed his fingers into the glass display and drew the phone to his ear. After a few seconds, he hit ‘call-end’ and lowered the IPhone. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
“We don’t know for sure, but he isn’t here. We have to get help.”
“What did those bastards do to the Stevens’? They were like wild animals.”
“I don’t know, but we have to move. This place is dead, John. If we want answers, we’re going to have to look elsewhere. My phone’s battery is fucked, let me see yours.”
Without questioning her, John tossed the phone across the room. She caught it and started dialling.
Outside, on the street, they both heard the ring of laughter.
Slim paused. “What the hell is that?”
The laughter grew in volume, and was suddenly punctuated by a scream.
“Jesus...are there more of those crazies out there!?” John moaned.
“Have a look out the window, but be careful. Don’t open the shutters all the way. If there are more out there, we don’t wanna be seen.”
John nodded and made his way to the window, as Slim brought up the dialler on his IPhone. She watched as he opened the shutters a fraction, and felt her heart hammer as he flinched from the window.
“Slim,” he said; his tone flat.
“Yeah?”
“Who are you calling?”
“I'm calling the cops. There’s some kind of thrill-kill cult or some shit going on around here, and we’re not equipped to handle it. Not to mention there are three dead fucking bodies out back, and Sam’s nowhere to be found, and...”
“Slim, put the phone down.”
Outside, the screaming rose in pitch, chased by the maniacal laughter of two or more men. Slim shivered at its malice.
“We have to do this, John. I killed those people in self-defence. The cops will see that. We can’t just walk away from...”
“Slim, put the phone down and come here.”
Frustrated, and wanting to get the whole thing over with, Slim lowered the IPhone and approached the window.
John turned to her. “I don’t think the cops are going to help...”
Frowning, she followed his urging, and peered through the thin slit in the shutters. Outside, the streetlights had powered up as the sun set over the western horizon, casting an orange glow that burned into the darkness of the east. There were lights in a few windows, but many were dark. Slim saw faces pressed against glass across the street in one home. An elderly couple were stood together, their attention focused on something to her left, just out of sight.
Slim’s mind reeled as she realised they were both naked.
The old ladies sagging breasts hung like sacks of milk, blue veins mapping the pale flesh as they pressed and flattened against the window pane. Her hand was lowered to the old man’s groin, where she stroked his semi-hard member rapidly as they stared into the street.
“Over there,” John said, stepped aside so she could get a better view of the whole street.
“Oh fuck...”
Under a streetlight, a man was being severely beaten.
No, he was being murdered.
Two men laughed and jeered as they stomped on his crotch and sank kick after kick into his blooded, broken face. The man had ceased his screams now, and was probably already dead, yet the two attackers continued to batter him to a pulp.
The two men were police officers.
Their badges glinted golden in the streetlamps glow, as they high-fived each other, before each swinging another vicious kick at the downed man’s head.
The man on the ground move
d, just a little, but enough to show signs of desperate life. Slim silently wished for him to pass, to be out of his misery.
One of the cops, a tall blonde haired man with a clean-shaven face and front-cover good looks, grinned, as he said something to his colleague. The other cop nodded, and then the blonde bent his knees and jumped.
He came down with both boots on the victim’s head.
The beaten man only managed a feeble grunt as his head caved in like a deflated football.
Slim, struggling to hold back a scream, let the shutters fall and backed away from the horror. Her mind reeled, her heart pounded, tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away, knowing the grisly images would not wash away so easily.
Not ever.
“This can’t be happening,” she whispered.
John came to her side, holding with his one good arm the bandage that she had administered.
“It’s like a nightmare. Do you think the cops are part of this?”
“Hard to say with cops these days.”
“Not funny, Slim.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
She looked into his eyes, and saw the same shellshock burned into him as had scourged her soul.
“Is this a cult...is that what it is? Or...or a terrorist sleeper cell?”
Slim thought back to the old lady in Waldo’s Burger Emporium and her harsh words to the child.
She thought about Meg’s little sister and her poor dead cat; hadn’t her parents taken her to the restaurant last night.
She thought of Dad, slavering over that damned burger and, she was sure of it now, telling her under his breath, to fuck off.
Dad!
“Shit!” she dialled her home number, with badly shaking hands.
“What is it?”
“You were right, John. It’s the fucking meat! There’s something in the food in that place...in Waldo’s! They’re drugging people. Some sort of psychedelic or something!”
“Who are you calling?”
“My dad was eating there earlier!” Slim almost screamed.
The home phone rang, whether three times or a thousand, Slim couldn’t tell, and then the call was connected.
“Hello?” It was her dad.
“Dad...Are you okay!?” She was aware of the killer cops so close by, and tried to keep her voice low, but fear for her father betrayed her caution.
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