Spit and Die

by Jon Athan

  “Stop it! Oh, God, I... I can't breathe! Please, it's too much!”

  “If you can scream, you can breathe.”

  Micah pulled on the skewer under her pinky's fingernail. The thin stick bent with the pressure while the tip dug deeper into her gummy flesh. A soft crackling sound emerged over Nina's screaming, then her fingernail snapped off. Half of the nail remained attached to her finger, the other half fell to the floor in front of the sheriff's boots.

  Micah continued snapping her fingernails, one-by-one. Esther was unperturbed by the violent torture, solely focused on collecting the saliva. She kept the jar under the prisoner's chin, despite her frantic movements. Nina squirmed and convulsed on the crucifix. The torture was unbearable.

  Nina's eyes widened as the final fingernail on her left hand snapped off—it was over. She slowly turned her head and stared at her hand. Blood dripped from her fingertips, like red paint from a finger-painting child's fingers. Her gummy flesh was exposed to the dirty air in the dungeon. The stinging pain lingered, too.

  As he threw the skewer on the ground, Micah said, “Grab the next tool.”

  “N–No,” Nina cried as Esther marched back to the other side of the room. “Please, stop this. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

  With a furrowed brow, Micah asked, “Why are you apologizing? Did you do something wrong?”

  “I–I don't know. I just... I want this to stop. Please, stop it. I'm begging you, sir.”

  “So, you're not sorry? You shouldn't say things you don't mean, miss. Remember: I don't like liars. Now, settle down. We still have a few minutes before the LSD kicks in.”

  Esther pushed through the curtains. She held the jar in her left hand. Three ounces of saliva rippled in the jar. She gripped a heavy meat tenderizer mallet in her other hand. Dried blood stained the mallet—Andrea's blood.

  As soon as she spotted the tool, Nina yelled, “No! Please! No!”

  Micah took the tenderizer from his wife. He beckoned to her with a sway of his head, gesturing his demands—hold the jar under her mouth, don't spill a drop.

  Nina stammered, “Pl–Pl–Please, I–I'll do any–”

  Mid-sentence, Micah struck down at Nina's left foot with the tenderizer. The mallet clinked and Nina's bones crunched upon impact. Nina tilted her head up and gasped. She wheezed as her limbs stiffened. She could only wiggle a few of her toes.

  The sheriff lifted the mallet over his shoulder, then he struck her foot once more. Her bones crunched and crackled again. The teeth of the tenderizer's head penetrated her skin, creating several jagged cuts across the center of her foot. Blood streamed down to her toes and dripped from her pedicured toenails.

  As Nina panted, struggling to control herself, Micah hit her foot again. The third blow tore a chunk of skin off of her, leaving a gaping gash on her foot. Her broken bones and crushed ligaments—white, red, and pink—could be seen through the wound. Her foot was ravaged by the tenderizer. She wouldn't be able to walk on it.

  Nina panted as she slowly lowered her head. She stared at the sheriff in disbelief. Screaming didn't dissuade him, so she could only stare. She could barely feel her foot anyway.

  Esther moved the jar and caught the drool dripping from the side of Nina's mouth. The jar reached the five-ounce mark.

  As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Micah said, “I'm not going to waste our precious time, ma'am. So...”

  He gritted his teeth and struck Nina's left shin. The bone instantly snapped upon impact, pushed inward into her muscle. As the captive howled in pain, Micah moved up and struck her kneecap with the tenderizer. Droplets of blood splattered on his face as chunks of her skin tore off her knee. The skin landed on the floor with a squishy splat sound.

  Esther grabbed a fistful of Nina's hair, then she pulled her face down. She kept the jar under her mouth, refusing to spill a drop of her saliva.

  Nina stared down at her mangled leg, shocked. Blood streamed from her kneecap down to her toes. Her leg was effectively brutalized. Thousands of thoughts echoed through her mind: it hurts, I'm dying, they're insane, they're going to kill me. However, one question stood out among the pain-induced thoughts: how am I going to get out of here with a broken leg?

  Micah threw the tenderizer on the ground and said, “I'm done with this. Get the scalpel.”

  Esther bowed, then she walked back to the other side of the room. After fifteen seconds—seconds that felt like an eternity—she marched through the curtains. She gave the scalpel to the sheriff, then she held the jar under the prisoner's chin. She was obedient and methodical. It clearly wasn't her first time torturing someone.

  Micah ran the sharp blade across Nina's cheek and said, “I know you have a boyfriend, ma'am, but you are quite beautiful. I must admit: I'm jealous. Your slim cheeks, your round nose, your beautiful eyes...” He slid the scalpel down to her jaw as he leaned back and leered at her body. He said, “Your perky breasts, your flat stomach, your nice legs... Well, one of 'em is still nice anyway. The other one will heal in time. Still, you're gorgeous.”

  Her cheeks wet with tears and sweat, Nina sobbed as she listened to the sheriff's gentle words. Her throat tightened and her stomach turned as fear pumped through her body like venom. She couldn't understand him. The man complimented her while he simultaneously threatened her.

  Nina asked, “What do you want from me?”

  She yelped as Micah sliced into the top of her forehead, directly below her hairline, as if he were preparing to scalp her. Blood leaked from the cut and dripped over her brow, like sweat after a heart-pounding race.

  The sheriff said, “Esther needs a new face, hun. Should I take yours? Hmm? Should I give her your face? Can you imagine something like that for me, sweetie? If I cut your face off, you would be nothing. Your boyfriend wouldn't love you. The boys wouldn't give you any attention at your fancy little school. Your family wouldn't recognize you. Should I take your face off, sweetheart? Should I?”

  Nina bawled hysterically. She was unnerved by the psychological attack. She wasn't a pretentious person, but she cared about her appearance. Saliva dripped from her mouth. Some of her mucus even plopped into the jar. It didn't matter, though. The couple had finally reached the halfway-mark—eight ounces of saliva.

  Micah stepped back and stared at Nina. Her pupils dilated before his very eyes. He recognized the look on her face, too. The young woman was tripping.

  As she sniffled, Nina stared at a wooden pillar towards the center of the room. As if her vision were magnified, she spotted a pattern on the wood. She furrowed her brow as she glanced over at Esther. She saw small faces on the stitches and scars on her mutilated cheeks. The hallucinogenic drug caused her to notice the little details in life. She mumbled incoherently, lost in her hazy mind.

  Micah said, “She's tripping. She'll start drooling soon. Don't waste any of her saliva and don't kill her like the other one. We could have a full jar with her alone. I'm going to check on the others.”

  Micah handed the scalpel to Esther, then he nodded at her. He turned and marched up the stairs. Esther shoved the scalpel into her dress pocket. She continued to collect Nina's saliva, ignoring the prisoner's excessive babbling.

  Chapter Eleven

  Back to Hell

  The sun setting behind him, Christopher ran through the overgrown pasture and headed back to the main road. His heart pounded, his legs burned, and his feet ached, but he didn't stop running. His girlfriend, Kiara, motivated him. She dominated his mind. He spent hours on top of the house at the abandoned housing development, cowering and strategizing, and he realized he was running out of time. Since his cell phone signal was weak, he had to personally warn Kiara about the house—about the mutilated woman.

  He stumbled out of the tall grass and fell to his knees on the dirt. Sweat dripped from his brow as he stared down at the ground. He glanced over at his left, then at his right. He couldn't help but smile. He finally reached the road. He saw his hatchback and the pickup truck on the side of the road
. He also spotted a flatbed tow truck loading his car.

  Christopher chuckled, then he whispered, “We're saved. Holy shit, we're actually saved.”

  He staggered to his feet, unable to contain his excitement. He ran across the road and approached the vehicles. He felt like he was approaching the finish line after a marathon.

  The tow driver's eyes widened as soon as he spotted Christopher. From his perspective, it looked as if a dirty, deranged hermit were rushing towards him. He threw his clipboard into the truck, then he grabbed a six-round revolver from under the driver's seat. He pulled the hammer back and aimed the gun at Christopher.

  Christopher slid to a stop near the back of the tow truck, his hands raised over his head. He said, “Wait, wait, wait. Don't shoot, man. Please, don't shoot.”

  “What the hell are you running up on me for, boy?”

  Christopher ran his eyes over the tow driver, trying to analyze his demeanor. The roly-poly man—short and chubby—wore a short-sleeve navy work shirt and matching trousers. His messy beach blonde hair protruded every which way. His blue eyes were surrounded by vibrant webs of red veins. He was clean-shaved, so his flabby cheeks were paraded for the world to see.

  A laminated name tag clung to his chest pocket. In sloppy handwriting, the tag read: Dylan.

  Christopher said, “Oh, shit. I'm sorry. There's, um... There's an emergency. People are dying, okay? I need to get to the police. Can you help me with that, Dylan?”

  Dylan raised his brow, baffled. He sneered as he glanced around the area. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The main road was tranquil, as usual.

  Dylan aimed the gun at Christopher's chest and asked, “What the hell are you talking about, you crazy son of a bitch?”

  Christopher smacked his lips and stomped in frustration. With his hands still raised over his head, he asked, “You came from the closest town, right? The town right down the road, right?” Dylan nodded—yep. Christopher said, “So, that means someone sent you here. My girlfriend and two other people must have shown up at the town and explained everything to the sheriff. Just take me to him. Please.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about. I ain't seen any new faces in town all day. I would have seen 'em, too, unless they walked around the whole damn town.”

  “So, they... they didn't get to town?”

  “Nope. Not under my watch.”

  Christopher lowered his head and stared down at his feet. He cycled through the possibilities in his mind. He thought: maybe he just didn't see them? Maybe he's lying? Or maybe they were caught by that woman?

  He asked, “So, who sent you?”

  Dylan responded, “The sheriff called me from his radio. Told me about these cars out here. He said I'd get a bonus if I trashed 'em.”

  “Can you call the sheriff now?”

  “Nope. Told me he'd be taking the rest of the day off. Unless the town is burning, he doesn't want anyone bothering him.”

  Christopher said, “Listen, Dylan, I don't have time to tell you everything, so you just have to trust me. People are dying. I saw someone get his throat slit by some... by some psychopath!” He pointed at the pasture across the road and said, “It was at an old house around half-a-mile, maybe a mile that way. I need to get help. If my girlfriend never showed up in town, then she's probably in trouble. She could be in that house, man.”

  “That house?” Dylan repeated in an uncertain tone as he wagged his revolver at the pasture. He huffed, then he said, “That's the sheriff's house. Why would someone try to kill you at the sheriff's house?”

  Christopher became stony-faced. The sheriff's house—the tow driver's words echoed through his mind. He closed his eyes and shook his head, disoriented by the revelation. He was attacked by a woman with a disfigured face at the sheriff's house. Who is she? What do they want with us?–he thought.

  He stuttered, “I–I don't know why... why they killed him or why they tried to kill me. It was... It was a woman. Her face was all fucked up. She looked like a–a monster. Shit, I don't have time to explain. We need to get help. I need to stop the others from going over there if they're not there already.”

  Dylan puckered his lips and nodded, as if he were considering something. He smiled—a wide, jolly grin. He didn't treat the situation seriously, but he pounced on the opportunity to make some money.

  The tow driver said, “Well, I can lend a helping hand in exchange for some cash.” He wagged the gun and said, “I'm a gun-for-hire, you see?”

  Christopher scowled as he fought the urge to slap the grin off of the man's grubby face. He needed a helping hand, so he couldn't hit him. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket. The tow driver wouldn't accept a credit card, so he had to rely on cash. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill and two twenty-dollar bills out of the wallet.

  He said, “Here.”

  “A hundred and forty dollars? Are you kidding me? I ain't risking my life and my reputation for chump change. If you want my help, I'm going to need more than that.”

  Christopher glanced over at his car. He couldn't give him the hatchback, it was his getaway vehicle after all, but he would happily trade his camping equipment for his girlfriend's safety.

  He tapped the rear window and said, “You can take the cash and you can take everything in the car.”

  “I don't know about that, man...”

  “I have a bunch of camping equipment in here. I have a camera, too—a good one. You can sell all of this shit on eBay and make a fortune. I just need a ride. Please, help me.”

  Dylan puckered his lips and glanced over at the hatchback. He spotted the bags and boxes in the trunk through the window. He preferred cash—it didn't feel right if he couldn't feel it in his hands—but he was willing to compromise. Although he didn't take it seriously, the situation caught his attention. A killer sheriff could make him famous after all.

  He said, “Fine. But, if anything really is going on out there, I get all the book and movie rights, okay?” Christopher shrugged and nodded, as if to say: fine, I don't care. Dylan said, “Alright, get in the truck. Don't try anything funny, either. I'm not afraid to blow your fuckin' brains out.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Christopher murmured.

  The pair climbed into the tow truck, Dylan in the driver's seat and Christopher in the passenger's seat. Dylan drove a few meters forward on the side of the road, then he spun the wheel. He did a u-turn and returned to the main road, heading away from town.

  Christopher asked, “Why are we going back?”

  “I'm your gun-for-hire, remember?”

  “Listen, I think we should go to town. We're supposed to go away from the bad guys, not towards them. Take me to the police station.”

  His eyes on the road, Dylan responded, “That won't do you no good. Micah Wakefield is the only sheriff in town. You said you came from the Wakefield house, I said he was taking the rest of the day off. So, the man must be home. Believe me, if I take you to town, we're not going to get much from that 'tarded dispatcher Micah has working at the station. He'd probably just end up calling the sheriff and you'd be in more shit.”

  Christopher sighed in disappointment. He escaped hell for a few hours—and Dylan was taking him back.

  Dylan chuckled and patted Christopher's shoulder. He said, “Don't worry. If he's really up to something, I'll have no problem blowing his brains out, too. I get cash, I save some kids, I become a... a national hero, the president will give me a damn medal, then I can retire and write a book or something. Either way, I win in the end. And that's what we all want, ain't it?”

  Christopher only wanted to save his girlfriend from the horrors lurking in the Wakefield house. He didn't argue with the tow driver. He took a deep breath as the truck drove into the long driveway. His second journey to hell began before he could say another word.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Siphoning of Kiara Foster

  Kiara opened her eyes to a blinding light. The light dawned on her from above. She recognized i
t, too. She glanced up at her arms, then down at her legs. As expected, her wrists and ankles were handcuffed to the legs of the workbench in the kitchen. She was given Lucas' previous spot, and Lucas was moved to a different room.

  “She's awake,” Daisy whispered.

  “Great. Let's get started,” Micah responded from the kitchen archway.

  The sheriff entered the kitchen. He filled a kettle with water from the sink. He placed the kettle on the stove, then he turned a knob. A hissing sound emerged as the fire boiled the water.

  Micah turned towards Kiara and said, “You get the same deal as your friend, ma'am. One way or another, we're going to collect your saliva. Spitting and drooling on your own... That's just not going to work. It would take too long. So, I'm going to hurt you.”

  Kiara screamed—a blurt of noise. She tried to lift her arm to swing at the sheriff, but the handcuffs stopped her. She tried to kick at Daisy, but the effort was fruitless. She could squirm and scream, but she couldn't move off of the table. She was trapped, helpless and hopeless.

  Micah said, “Don't bother resisting. It's just going to make me angry and you don't want that.” He approached the table and said, “I gave your friend some LSD before hurting her. I figured it would help her cope with the pain after I was done with her, but I think that was a mistake. It kicked in too soon. I didn't have enough time to really hurt her. I need to torture you without restrictions so we can finish this already.”

  Eyes welling in her eyes, waiting to pour out with her first blink, Kiara said, “You're crazy...”

  “No, I'm determined,” Micah said. He glanced over at his wife and said, “Blindfold her.”

  Kiara shook her head and said, “Get away from me. Don't touch me! Don't!”

  Despite Kiara's resistance, Daisy slid a black padded blindfold over her head. She pulled it over her eyes. The blindfold slowly covered Kiara's view of the blinding light. She heard the whistling kettle, though. The shrill noise sounded louder than usual. It drilled into her ears, causing her to tremble uncontrollably. The whistling sound dwindled as Micah turned the knob and lowered the heat.