Depraved 2

by Bryan Smith

  “Why the hell did you--”

  He stopped talking when his head swiveled back in her direction and he saw the automatic pistol aimed at his stomach. It was the gun Jessica had taken off Zelda. A suppressor was affixed to the barrel. That same look of dumbfounded disbelief came and went again, giving way to a more fearful expression as the reality of what was happening registered.

  Jessica’s face was a stony mask as she said, “What’s your name?”

  The man swallowed a lump in his throat. “Billy. You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

  “That depends on how well you take orders.”

  “I’m great at it. Ask anybody.”

  A corner of Jessica’s mouth twitched. “That’s good to hear, Billy. Maybe you’ll get to keep on living a while. Listen close, because this is important. We’re not going to the garage. In fact, you’re not going to work today at all.”

  “Yeah? Well, where am I going?”

  Jessica smiled. The impromptu plan she’d hatched was so insane she figured it had either no chance at all of working or was the best of all possible plans. “You ever hear of a little shithole way out in the sticks called Hopkins Bend?”

  6.

  The men who grabbed Daphne after she came out of the woods stuffed her in the trunk of a long blue sedan from the 70’s. She had to share the space with a beer cooler, a number of empty cans and bottles, some jumper cables, and a rotten spare tire. The trunk’s interior smelled putrid, as if something had died and rotted inside it not very long ago. The clear implication sent her into an uncontrollable fit of screaming terror. She flailed and beat her fists against the lid of the trunk. Bottles shattered and shards of glass nicked her bare flesh as she kicked her feet. Someone in the car eventually turned on the radio and tuned it to a station broadcasting old school country and western, turning up the volume on a Johnny Paycheck song to mask the sounds of her distress.

  Daphne couldn’t get over the unfairness of it all. She had fought hard and bested that redneck cretin with the diseased cock only to be taken by other redneck cretins shortly thereafter. She should be on her way home now, speeding out of this backwoods pit of hell in Adam Vanek’s blood-splattered Saab. Instead here she was, tucked away in some dirty trunk as if she were of no more consequence than a bag of garbage.

  Not fair! Not fair at fucking all!

  The car left paved road and began to jounce up and down as it traveled rougher terrain, a rutted dirt road, perhaps. The jostling caused one of the glass shards to slice into one of her legs. The pain elicited a squeal of misery. At the same time it gave her the bare bones of a plan. It was likely doomed to failure, but she had to try something to have any hope of survival. Soon the men driving this old heap would reach their destination. She would then be roughly removed from the trunk and dragged off to meet her miserable fate.

  Gotta be ready before that happens.

  Daphne shifted her ass around and put it against the back of the trunk. The shard of glass that had cut into her calf carved a slightly shallower groove across her ankle as she moved. She clenched her teeth and pushed through the pain as she patted the area where her calf had been in search of the glass fragment. Before long, she found it and carefully probed the fragment, her explorations proving her guess about its size correct. It was the bottom piece of a large whiskey bottle. The solid feel of its base molded against her palm was reassuring. A large and very sharp shard jutted from the base like a stalagmite. Wielded with precision, it had the potential to inflict lethal damage. She would have to strike fast once the trunk was open and hope luck was on her side for once. There were two of them, but if she caught them by surprise—

  One of the car’s tires went into a deep dip in the road and bounced back out an instant later. The bounce was hard enough to dislodge her grip on the bottle fragment. As Daphne commenced a frantic, grasping search for her makeshift weapon, the car began to slow down. There was also a sense of it turning again. Seconds later, it was traveling down an even bumpier stretch of road. The car’s frame squealed in protest while the contents of the trunk were in constant motion. The dangerous bottle fragment continued to elude Daphne as the car picked up speed again. Smaller pieces nicked her fingers and palms as she began to despair.

  Just as the car began to slow again, however, her fingers slid over the fragment’s rounded bottom and she clutched at it with reckless tenacity, spilling even more of her blood as she drew it to her chest and held it close. In the unlikely event she was able to get the better of her captors and get back to civilization, she was going to need a lot of stitches. But that would be okay. She could live with stitches. Stitches would mean a prescription for some serious painkillers. And if that happened, she intended to abuse the hell out of the motherfuckers, maybe take enough to take the sharpest edges off some of the horrible memories of this day.

  Poor Adam.

  She felt bad about the way she had led him on for so long. Her own conflicted feelings regarding the men in her life couldn’t absolve her of the guilt. He would still be alive if she hadn’t been playing games with him and taking him on all those secret excursions. She guessed it was natural to second-guess yourself in situations like this, but no amount of rationalizing would ever get her around that grim bottom line.

  The car slowed to a crawl and soon came to a stop. The sound of country and western music stopped as the driver shut off the engine. But Daphne still heard music from somewhere outside the car, more of that shitkicker crap. She also heard boisterous voices and laughter. Wherever she had been taken, it was somewhere with lots of people around, which meant she might have options other than carving up rednecks.

  Daphne started screaming again, this time at the highest possible volume she could muster. The trunk would muffle the sound somewhat, but she was sure she was generating enough noise to draw the attention of some of those people she had heard.

  The car’s frame shifted and there was a squeak of old hinges as the big men who had taken her got out. The doors slammed shut with solid metallic thunks. The sound of boisterous voices nearby got louder, other people greeting the kidnappers in a disconcertingly jocular way. Daphne’s heart sank as she realized these men were among friends, which reduced her already dim hopes of rescue to somewhere in the zero percentile range. She screamed some more anyway. There wasn’t much else she could do.

  But she stopped when she heard the sound of a key rattling in the trunk’s lock. She tightened her grip again on the bottle fragment’s rounded base. A craven voice somewhere inside her urged her to allow the men to remove her from the trunk without a fight. The hard truth was she wasn’t getting out of this alive. Nothing she did would change that. But she might prolong her life just a little longer if she didn’t attack her captors. The key ceased rattling in the lock and the trunk popped open. A narrow sliver of light penetrated the blackness enveloping her. The sliver began to widen…

  Daphne relaxed her grip on the meager weapon and let it fall from her hand.

  You’re a fucking coward, another inner voice said. You should fight these bastards to the death. Is a few more minutes or hours of life really worth enduring whatever these sick fucks are about to do to you?

  Daphne sniffled.

  Yes, she thought. God help me, but it absolutely is.

  Her captors peered in at her as Daphne squinted against the sunlight. They were big, beefy guys, each of them easily in excess of six feet tall with thick middles and arms that looked as big as her thighs. One wore a T-shirt with a cartoonish depiction of the current president on the front and a racist slogan beneath it. You couldn’t get away with wearing a shirt like that in most parts of the country, but out here in the heart of hillbilly nation it was a hip fashion choice. The other one had a thick beard and wore overalls. His bare arms and shoulders were tanned a rich shade of leathery brown. Perched atop the bearded one’s head at a jaunty angle was a red ball cap that said “BUD” across the front in white block letters. Daphne wasn’t sure whether this was me
ant to indicate his name or beverage preference. The cap didn’t look like an official Anheuser-Busch product, so she guessed it could go either way.

  The bearded one slapped his pal’s arm. “Mama Hunt gonna be real pleased with this one.”

  Racist T-Shirt Guy nodded. “Might even pay us double. Goddamn, though, I wouldn’t mind a chance to suck on them titties some before they get hacked off.”

  The bearded one grimaced. “I hear you, but we gots to get paid.”

  Daphne blinked up at them in numb silence. Then the horror of what they were saying penetrated and she started screaming again. The bearded one reached into the trunk and slugged her across the jaw. The blow silenced Daphne and briefly sent her spiraling toward unconsciousness.

  The men grabbed her and hauled her out of the trunk. Her woozy head wobbled as they held her upright. One of the men drilled a fist into the small of her back. Pain shot up her spine as she pitched forward onto her knees. Tears stung her eyes and she found herself muttering half-intelligible pleas for mercy. She shrieked in agony as one of the men seized a handful of her hair and jerked her to her feet.

  Daphne flinched when she felt a hand against the small of her back again. This time, however, the touch was gentler. She was only being prodded forward. Her vision came back into focus as she took her first hesitant steps. A long, low building was some two dozen yards in front of her. Rustic-looking swings dangled from chains at either end of the covered porch. There were people in the swings. Couples and children. Other people were loitering in the gravel parking lot in front of the building.

  Rednecks and hillbillies, every damn one of them.

  A big painted sign above the covered porch read, MAMA HUNT’S DINER.

  Below that, in smaller print: Est. 1901.

  Daphne frowned.

  A diner. A fucking restaurant. What the hell?

  She flashed back to the words her kidnappers had exchanged after opening the trunk. These men were bringing her to this Mama Hunt person, who apparently was an ancient redneck crone, given the establishment date the sign claimed. Her eyes widened as their mad talk of hacked off titties took on a more horrifying dimension. She was about to be turned over to the proprietor of this place, who would pay her captors a kind of finder’s fee. And then she would be chopped into little pieces and turned into…

  Daphne’s stomach fluttered.

  Food. Oh, God, they’re gonna fucking eat me!

  The people milling around outside the diner eyed her curiously. There was no evidence of alarm in any of those avid expressions. The urge to scream at them for help, initially strong, withered and died. It must be obvious to everyone present she was here under extreme duress, yet no one appeared the least bit concerned for her safety.

  Of course not, she reflected. All they see is a tasty meal.

  One of the children playing on the porch put down a weird-looking rag doll and got up to open the diner’s front door for them. Daphne heard a din of conversation as she was pushed through the door. A bored-looking hostess glanced up from her station. The girl’s eyes flicked to the man gripping Daphne’s arm.

  “Hey, Floyd,” she said, addressing the bearded sadist. “Fresh meat?”

  Floyd chuckled. “Damnedest thing. Me and Cletus spotted that Hopkins Bend sheriff’s vehicle Earl uses parked behind an abandoned car by one of them blocked-off roads. Wasn’t nobody in it, so we stopped to check it out. No sign of Earl, but then this one comes running out of the woods right into our arms.”

  The hostess reached up to pluck at a strand of her pinned-up frizzy blonde hair. Daphne got the feeling she was sweet on Floyd. How any woman—even one with this chick’s vacant-looking eyes—could want a man so vile was beyond her understanding.

  “Lucky catch. What happened to Earl?”

  Floyd shrugged. “Don’t know. Couldn’t find him, but I reckon he chased this one into the woods. Guess she gave him the slip and was about to get away when we happened along.”

  “Bitch gave Earl the slip all right, but her boyfriend wasn’t so lucky,” Cletus interjected, moving into Daphne’s field of vision to stand near the hostess. “His brains were splattered all over that other car.”

  A look of reflexive distaste crossed the hostess’s face. “Well, I hope you did something about that.”

  Cletus grinned. “Nah. We called Delmont. Him and his crew are taking care of it.”

  “That’s good. Take this one on in to Mama Hunt. She’s in back.”

  Floyd tipped the bill of his cap at the hostess. “See you at the Busted Barrel tonight, Lexus?”

  Daphne laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Hold on. Your name is Lexus? Like the car? You’re shitting me.”

  Floyd gave the back of her head a hard swat. “Shut your mouth. You got no right to speak to your betters like that.”

  Daphne was flabbergasted by this statement.

  My betters? Really? God help me.

  Lexus smirked. “Least I got a name. ‘Because I’m a person. You ain’t anything but dinner.” Her eyes flicked to Floyd again. “I’ll be at the Barrel, baby. Can’t wait.”

  She laughed as Floyd guided Daphne out of the little waiting room.

  The big man steered her through an archway into a large dining area that was roughly the size of a middle school cafeteria. The space was crowded with wooden picnic tables. Mama Hunt’s was a popular place. Only a few of the tables were empty. Heads turned Daphne’s way as Floyd prodded her down a wide aisle through the center of the dining space. There was a lot of cheerful banter as some of the patrons congratulated Floyd and Cletus on their catch. Again, there was no detectable compassion in any of the faces looking her way. All Daphne saw was a disturbing eagerness, a collective sizing up of a particularly tasty morsel.

  About halfway down the aisle, Daphne glanced to her left and noted a set of double mahogany doors marked PRIVATE. There was another set of double doors at the back of the dining area, the kind that flapped open. Floyd slammed Daphne’s face into the narrow vertical opening between the doors, causing her to cry out as they entered a large, bustling kitchen. There were pots and pans simmering everywhere she looked, as well as several large ovens. Kitchen staffers in aprons were running around in a manic way, tending to various cooking tasks as a man dressed all in white walked among them, barking out orders. Daphne was astonished. It was as if she had wandered into the kitchen of a major big city restaurant rather than some backwoods diner catering to hillbilly cannibals.

  No one paid her any mind as Floyd deftly steered Daphne through the chaos. Her eyes were drawn in many directions at once. Much of the food being prepared was standard country kitchen fare. Green beans, pork chops, grits, gravy, biscuits, bacon, and mashed potatoes, among many other hearty offerings. But any impression of normality was demolished once they reached the back of the kitchen and entered a smaller room used for butchering animal carcasses. A big steel door at the back of the room indicated the likely location of a meat freezer. But these were not the things that instilled fresh terror in Daphne’s heart. This was where the live food was kept, the human kind, and she wasn’t the only unfortunate here today.

  Two women and a man hung suspended from a beam. They were in manacles connected to thick lengths of chain. A system of pulleys was attached to the beam, allowing for easy lifting and suspension. The women hanging from the rafter—a blonde and a brunette—were young and attractive, though that was marred somewhat by the abuse they had endured. One was slender, with the taut musculature of a runner. The other had more meat on her bones. She had a curvaceous build and long blonde hair. A smattering of colorful tattoos decorated her arms and legs. Clean her up and she could be one of those sexy alternative pinup models or burlesque dancers. The man, however, was so obese Daphne was surprised the rafter could sustain his weight. He had an enormous bloated belly. Two of the strung-up unfortunates—the woman with the runner’s build and the fat man—no longer had feet. These extremities had been surgically removed, with crimson-stained bandag
es covering the stumps.

  The door to the meat freezer came open with a waft of cold, misty air. One of the most beautiful women Daphne had ever seen emerged from the freezer and shut the heavy door behind her. Her salon-styled dark hair hung past her shoulders in lush waves. She had a face with the kind of striking bone structure that could have made her a star in Hollywood. Her outfit consisted of stylish black riding boots, designer jeans so tight they looked spray-painted on, and a form-fitting black top that emphasized a rack that was nothing short of majestic. Daphne was stupefied by the woman’s appearance, her brain initially unable to process the presence of such a goddess in a place like Mama Hunt’s Diner. The woman’s looks were so distracting it was briefly possible to overlook the sight of the blood-dripping meat cleaver clutched in her right hand.

  This lasted until the goddess approached the strung-up woman with the runner’s build from behind and buried the cleaver in her back. The woman’s body spasmed as the sharp steel punched through her flesh. She screamed loud enough to hurt Daphne’s ears, but the kitchen staff never flinched. They continued to go about their jobs as if nothing unusual was happening. Even the woman who had performed the horrifying act displayed a disturbing nonchalance. The only people with a different reaction were Cletus and Floyd, who were giggling like demented schoolchildren.

  The goddess signaled two large men in bloody aprons with a tilt of her chin. The men had been stationed at long wooden tables, where they were busy butchering animal carcasses. But now they abandoned their posts as one of them moved to operate the pulley system while the other stood ready to collect the screaming woman in his muscular arms.

  The goddess left them to this task as she approached Daphne and her giggling captors. “Hello, boys. Is this exquisite specimen for me?”

  Floyd nodded. “Yes ma’am. She’s, like, way above average in the looks department. Naturally, we figured you might take a special interest in her.”