Deviation

by Scott M. Williams

  She studied her hand again. It was too big to fit through the cuffs. She needed to make it smaller. Her thumb was in the way, too. It would have to be modified.

  As drunk as she suddenly was, she still didn't know if she'd be able to go through with it. It went against all her base instincts. She lifted the empty bottle up in the air, holding it by the neck. The glass was extremely thick. Thick and strong. Stronger than the frail bones of her hand, that was for sure.

  “Oh, god,” she moaned. “My fucking hand.” She began to cry softly, the bottle poised in the air, ready to strike. “I'd ask for your help, god, but the priest in the other room told me you don't care. Based on my own experiences, I believe him. And the other guy in there, that Pastor of yours...”

  A loud scream suddenly pierced the air, causing her blood to run cold. She almost dropped the bottle. It was Frank's scream, she was sure of it. The Pastor was killing him

  “Oh, fuck fuck fuck!”

  The tears in her eyes almost blinding her, Dianne brought the bottle down with all her strength. As shaky and nauseated as she was, her aim was nearly perfect. The thick glass bottle collided solidly with the base of her thumb, just where the bones connected with those of her hand. There was a sickening crunch as they shattered. The pain was excruciating; she felt it everywhere. She screamed out, not even aware she was doing it. Then she lifted the bottle and struck again, shattering her hand further. She could feel the bones splintering like ice.

  For a moment, she was so immersed in pain that she felt her entire body go numb. Then the pain swept through her in a wave and she leaned forward, vomiting up the rum she'd just consumed all over her bare legs. She made a sound then that didn't seem like it could have possibly come from her; it was the most miserable, gut-wrenching moan she'd ever heard. It was almost immediately followed by another blood-curdling scream from Frank.

  Dianne dropped the bottle, urgency once again claiming her. If she didn't manage to do this now, Frank was as good as dead.

  She glanced down at her ruined hand, barely even recognizing it. It was badly misshapen and already beginning to discolor and swell. The sight of the swelling frightened her most of all; if it swelled up, there'd be no way she'd get out of the cuffs.

  Steeling herself against another monumental onslaught of pain, she tired to pull her mangled hand through the bracelet. It slid further than it had in past attempts, but it still wouldn't fit. She screamed uncontrollably as the broken bones shifted, the pain almost causing her to black out. Her vision went cloudy and she vomited again, this time a watery gruel that spilled out her open mouth and splashed down over her breasts and into her lap.

  Not allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she reached over with her free hand and took hold of the throbbing mess that was her left hand. She squeezed it, her screams taking on a new dimension as she manipulated the bones and cartilage into a slimmer, more streamlined format. She pulled again, harder, trying to force it through. As devastating as it was, as much as the raw pain threatened to render her unconscious from sheer shock, she still managed to experience a tiny thrill of victory as her wasted hand finally slid free of its shackle.

  She held it up in triumph, still screaming, tears coursing down her face.

  She was free.

  Knowing she had no time to lose, she sprung into action at once. Doing her best to ignore the sickening waves of pain that radiated from her hand, she got to her feet and staggered around to the other side of the bed. She reached under it, using her good hand, and felt around for Frank's gun. She found it at once and pulled it out, checking to make sure the safety was off. She had a feeling she'd be firing it very soon.

  She was wearing nothing but a pair of panties, stained with her own vomit. It crossed her mind to put some clothes on; they were right there on the bedroom floor. But then Frank screamed again, this time loud enough to rattle the windows. She abandoned the clothes, doubting she'd be able to pull them on with only one hand anyway, and raced through the open door.

  * * *

  Dianne wasn't sure where Frank was being tortured. She was still unfamiliar with certain parts of the house. When she found herself in the hallway, she turned quickly to the other bedroom, the one where the Brenners were being held.

  The door was closed. She tucked the gun into her armpit and then turned the knob, throwing the door open. She took two steps into the room before freezing. If there had been anything left in her stomach, it probably would have made an attempt to vacate.

  The Brenners were all dead. Someone had slit their throats. Not just their throats; someone had enjoyed killing them. They were sliced up arbitrarily, gashes all over their faces and arms and chests. Blood was everywhere. The whole scene caused her to experience vivid flashbacks of what she'd done to Cliff. She had to lean momentarily against the wall to avoid fainting.

  She would have remained there for a moment, but the Brenners had lost control of their bowels during the slaughter, and the room was pungent with the stink of shit and death. Dianne backed out, a hoarse choking sound escaping her throat. She fled down the hallway, fear and hatred and disgust battling with the pain pulsing through her with every beat of her heart.

  * * *

  “There,” Pastor McKenzie said admirably. “That's almost perfect.” He set down the hammer and stepped back, taking a good look at his handiwork.

  The crucifix was leaning against the far wall of the garage, standing almost fully upright. He'd used a collection of ring bolts and wire to hold it in place. Nailed to it, and hanging miserably by his arms, was Father Frank. The nails had been inserted just above his wrists, between the two bones of his forearms; his ankles were bound together with several loops of wire. His body hung down severely, all his weight being supported by his stretched arms. He was barely able to draw breath, due to the hyper-expansion of his chest muscles and lungs.

  “How do you like it, Frank? Does it suit you?”

  Frank was unable to answer. The pain was impossibly huge, and he felt himself slipping toward unconsciousness. It would be a blessing, and he did nothing to try and fight it.

  “Yes, I think that it does.” McKenzie stepped over to the workbench and retrieved the knife he'd used to kill the Brenner family. It was one of their own kitchen knives; a Chef Master. The rubber grip felt very comfortable in his hand.

  “Tell me, Frank. Would you like to hang there and enjoy watching me kill your little girlfriend? Or would you prefer that I kill you, so you don't have to witness it? Because I'll tell you right now, if you don't answer me I'm going to bring her in here and butcher her right before your eyes.”

  Frank tried to move his head and failed. He couldn't speak. He could barely even breathe. He tried to take some of the weight off his forearms by pushing down with his legs, but there was nothing there to support him. He made a low, mewling sound in the back of his throat, hating himself for not being able to protect Dianne.

  “Very good, Frank.” McKenzie stepped closer to him, running one finger over the blade of the knife. “You didn't really think I was going to let her live, did you? What kind of monster would I be if I did that?”

  No response from Frank.

  “I think I like the idea of removing her breasts. Disgusting things, aren't they? Too bad she's not a little boy. Then I could really have some fun with her.”

  He stepped closer and poked Frank in the stomach with the knife. Frank didn't even flinch. A small bead of blood formed where the knife had punctured his skin.

  “What'll it be, Frank? I'm giving you a choice here. I'm willing to put you out of your misery before turning her into 130 pounds of chop-meat. But you've got to answer me.”

  He jabbed him with the knife again, this time sinking the blade in half an inch. Blood ran from the wound, trickling down over Frank's abdomen to the waistband of his boxer shorts. If Frank felt it, he gave no sign.

  “Speak up, Frank! Otherwise I'll go and get the little bitch right now. I'll
drag her in here by her hair and force you to watch the whole show.”

  Frank tried to speak again, but there was simply no way to do it. His entire chest was on fire. He sucked in more air, his throat making a shrill whistling sound.

  “Okay, Frank. Have it your way.”

  McKenzie turned away from him at the very instant the garage door swung open. From where Frank was positioned on the cross, he was able to see Dianne as she stepped into the room, a look of abject horror on her face. She stared at him for what seemed a very long time but couldn't have been more than two seconds. She was almost completely naked and she had Lester's gun in her right hand. Her left hand was red and swollen and obviously broken. He felt an immense surge of pride in her, and in her ability to free herself. It was something he himself had failed to do.

  “Frank!” she screamed.

  McKenzie gaped at her, at first not realizing who she was. How could she have possibly gotten out of his handcuffs? No one had ever done that before, and he'd used them on multitudes of people, most of them with much smaller hands than Dianne. He took a step toward her, his mind spinning.

  Dianne saw him advance and wasted no time. She raised the pistol and braced herself for the recoil. She fired one shot, the noise of it like a thunderbolt echoing clamorously off the garage walls. She watched as McKenzie staggered back, a small spray of blood leaping from his shoulder. He looked down at it, stunned.

  “Stop!” he commanded. He took another step back, returning to his position beside Frank. He was still holding the knife in one hand. “Drop it or he's dead!”

  Dianne fired again. She was lost in a world of pain and desperation. The sound was somehow even louder this time, and the bullet ripped a chunk of meat from the Pastor's jaw. She'd never fired a gun before and was surprised at how easy it was. She took a step forward and fired again, this time clipping the Pastor in the elbow.

  McKenzie screamed and slashed out with his knife. The blade opened up Frank's belly and a massive assemblage of bloody intestines spilled out, sliding down his legs and splattering wetly to the concrete floor.

  This time it was Dianne who screamed. She ran forward, firing again and again. One of the bullets missed entirely, but the other hit McKenzie right in the cheek, throwing his head back and sending a great spray of blood and muscle tissue over the shelves of tools behind him. He fell to the ground, his knees coming down right in the ropey mess of Frank's guts. He was staring at Dianne as she finished closing the distance between them. She was the last thing he saw before her next bullet tore through his nose and blew open the back of his head. Then he collapsed, his body dropping lifelessly to the ground.

  Dianne moved right up to him, her finger still on the trigger. She fired once more, the bullet disappearing into the meat of his chest. She was weeping with outrage and a hundred other emotions that were congregating in her head and threatening to overwhelm her. When she finally realized the Pastor was dead, she threw the pistol aside and straightened up. She stared at Frank, who hung motionlessly from his cross.

  “Frank!”

  Frank was dying. His body had turned white as the blood continued to run out of him. He was looking at her, a sad smile trying to form on his mouth.

  “Oh, god, no!” She reached up and touched him just below the collarbone, very gingerly. “I'm so sorry! I'm so...” She began crying, tears streaking down her face. “I don't know what to do!”

  His eyes beginning to roll back in his head, Frank forced himself to crane his neck. He was only able to do it a tiny bit. It took almost the last of his strength.

  She looked at him, knowing there was nothing she could do. He was only seconds away from death, the blood still trickling out of him. “Oh, Frank. I'm so fucking sorry...”

  Frank was trying to say something. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

  Dianne moved closer, almost pressing against him. Her face was very near his. “What is it, Frank? What can I do?”

  He looked into her eyes. It was extremely difficult for him to do, because his own eyes were now without any real focus. They looked haunted, as if the real Frank was already gone.

  “Don't...” he croaked.

  “Frank...”

  “...don't... “ His whole body hitched and his eyes snapped shut.

  “Frank!”

  He was still alive. Just barely. He was fighting to speak.

  “Frank, just relax.” She realized how stupid it sounded. She began to cry harder. “Please don't be in pain. Oh, god, I'm so sorry...”

  “...don't...let them...get you...” His voice was nothing more than a faint whisper.

  She looked at him, watching him die. “I won't. I promise, I won't.”

  “...run, Dianne. Run. You've got to...”

  He stopped, his eyes losing any remaining clarity.

  Dianne screamed. She staggered away from him, too horrified to dare look at him again. She slumped to the floor near the workbench and crawled underneath. Somehow, the gun she'd thrown had ended up there and she reached out and grabbed it, holding it to her like a baby.

  She couldn't take any more. She hated this world and everything in it. She squeezed her eyes shut and wondered what the barrel would feel like in her mouth.

  28. Police

  Dianne was unaware of time passing. She was only aware of her own misery. It was everywhere, worlds of it, crushing her from every angle. She was curled up under the workbench, holding the pistol in her one good hand. Her other hand was pulsing and throbbing with a sickening mercilessness that made her think it would never end. It would just go on pulsing and throbbing for all eternity and she'd lie here in this godforsaken garage in Sterling, Colorado with the body of Frank and the atrocious pastor decomposing in the far corner.

  She sat up, bumping her head on the underside of the bench. “Fuck!” She'd never been so wretchedly miserable in her life.

  She glanced around, the horrific scene before her causing her to start weeping again. If she wasn't going to end it right here and now, she needed to get moving. It was Frank's final wish. He'd told her to run.

  “God,” she whispered. “Where will I go?”

  She wiped her face, knowing there was no time to even think about it. Not now. If the police hadn't been dispatched yet, they would be any minute. All those gunshots would not be ignored.

  She crawled out from under the bench. Her head was pounding, rivaling the relentless pain of her mashed hand. She needed pain pills, at the very least. Probably more. A trip to the emergency room. It occurred to her that she still had health insurance. She could drive to the hospital and have her hand administered to. No one really knew she was involved in anything yet. At least she didn't think so.

  She stood up and a wave of dizziness and nausea overtaking her and almost causing her to collapse. She instinctively reached out to grab the workbench with her left hand and screamed when another shock of raw pain blossomed in her hand and shot up the length of her arm. She twisted and leaned forward, bent over the bench for support. This was not going to be easy.

  It took her a minute to steady herself. When her vision cleared and she was able to move again, she began taking small steps toward the door. Something inside her wanted to return to Frank, but she knew Frank was gone. She didn't want to see him again, not the way he was now. She wanted to remember him as he'd been.

  She reached the door, which was still open, and slowly made her way back into the house.

  * * *

  Despite her shortage of time, Dianne spent two minutes in the shower, washing the blood and vomit from her body. She knew it was risky, but she simply couldn't continue on as filthy as she was. When she was finished, she dried off using one of the Brenner's bath towels. It was terribly difficult to do with only one hand, and the other one screaming with pain, but she knew she was going to have to get used to being handicapped, at least for awhile.

  While she was in the bathroom, she took a moment to rummage
through the medicine cabinet over the sink. She got lucky and found a roll of bandaging material and some tape. Knowing she was pushing her luck, she quickly wrapped her hand and wrist into a secure sort of cast. It did nothing to alleviate the pain, but it did make her feel fractionally better, if only because she didn't have to see her ruined hand anymore.

  There was a bottle of ibuprofen staring at her from the medicine cabinet. She opened it with her teeth and spit the cap out onto the floor. Then she dumped three of the pills into her mouth, washing them down with water from the sink. She left the bathroom in a hurry, returning to the bedroom to get dressed.

  As she was struggling into her shirt, she heard the first police siren. It was still very faint. More than likely, they'd send only a single car to investigate the shots. More would come later, she knew, when they realized what had transpired in the house.

  She pulled on a pair of pants, hopping around and wincing as she fought to get them zippered and buttoned. Some of Frank's weed would be a big help; his larger bag was still out in the Honda. She'd have plenty of time to smoke some later, when she wasn't so pressed for time.

  She sat on the edge of the bed to put her shoes on. She did it without much trouble, but had no way of tying the laces; it was completely out of the question. Leaving them loose and dragging on the floor, she got up and scrambled through the house, attempting to collect her things. All she really needed was the gun, her purse and her duffel bag. She would leave Frank's things where they were. It broke her heart to have to leave him behind, but there was nothing she could do about it.