DOA III

by Bentley Little

  Under the covers, I push my cock down between my legs to stifle my erection. I’m waiting for the ritual. Blood sample, vitals, dosing. The needle. That’s the best part.

  When Libby comes he/she tells me this is the last of them. I feel a little strange. Disappointed? I don’t know. Despite all the weirdness, I’m getting used to being here. I think I’m starting to get institutionalized. Like a prisoner who doesn’t want to leave the sanctity of jail. Here, I get fed, I have a bed, I can think a lot and for the most part, I’m left alone. There are no outside pressures.

  Plus, I’m going to miss those tits.

  The needle goes in, I savour the sensation, and even let out a sigh as it pricks my vein. I normally avert my eyes. This time, I watched.

  Fish for dinner. Fish? What the fuck. I couldn’t eat it. Couldn’t even be around it. I wanted pork.

  Day: 10

  So, no dosing today. No ritual. No nothing, in fact. It says in the paperwork that after the last dosing you are kept under observation for thirty-six hours. Sort of a come-down period, I imagine. What am I supposed to do for thirty-six hours? I don’t feel any different. Still can’t sleep. Don’t even want to.

  Still having… urges. If anything, they are getting stronger. More depraved. My thoughts keep being dragged back to the windpipe. How glorious it must feel to slip my stiff penis into that warm, wet hole. I also find myself fantasising about eating human flesh. Slicing chunks of someone’s arms or legs, frying it, and eating it. Maybe that’s the ultimate act of dominance. You fuck someone, maybe in the windpipe, then feed off them. Consume them.

  In the afternoon I go to the toilet, drop my trousers, and sit on the seat. I don’t feel the need to go, but my stomach is cramping. I am literally full of shit. Unfortunately, that’s normal for most journalists. I need to get all this waste out of me somehow. I sit there for twenty, thirty, forty minutes. Fifty. I strain periodically, but not too hard in case I rupture something and shit out my intestines. Something slithers and stirs in my bowels, like a snake, but still nothing comes out. I poke my fingers up my ass to see if there’s a blockage. At least, that’s what I told myself I was doing.

  Eventually, I give up and go back to bed. I look out of the window at the grey skies and rain, and I realise I don’t want to go out. Ever. In here it’s a controlled environment. Outside it’s a fucking zoo, where crooks prosper at the expense of others and working slobs like me get used and discarded. What am I going to do out there? I have no job, no family, no prospects. My old life, where I had everything I wanted, doesn’t even exist anymore. It was snatched away. Right now, if someone asked me to do the whole trial again from scratch, I would bite their hand off. Literally. But nobody does. So I lie still, covers pulled up to my chin, pondering what to do next.

  Suddenly, it comes to me.

  Day: 11

  I lay awake all night. Thinking. Then, at 9 am I pack my things, fill in some more forms, say goodbye to Libby, flash him/her my best smile, and walk calmly and confidently out of the door. I’m not going home. Nothing to go home for. What I need is to find a hardware store. I’m going to buy a kitchen knife. Or even better, a machete. The biggest, sharpest one they have. Then, I’m going back to the office.

  I don’t know if my security pass still works. Security in the media world got a whole lot tighter after the Charlie Hebdo massacre in Paris. But I’m not bothered if the pass doesn’t work anymore. I’m on good terms with both Laura in reception and Dan, the security guard who sometimes fills in for her when she goes on her breaks. I scored him some coke once at a party. He owes me one. I’m sure I won’t have any problems getting inside the building. I’ll just say I’ve come to finish clearing my desk or to pick something up from HR.

  When I’m inside I’ll head straight for the fourth floor where Ted Readham, my old editor, works. No doubt he’ll be at his desk, sitting on his throne. Arrogant fuck. But a stupid fuck. Trusting fuck. He sits with his back to the elevator. That’s good. I’ll be fast. I can sneak up behind him, hack off his head, and stick my cock right down his windpipe. To the hilt. I reckon I’ll be able to get a good few thrusts in before the police arrive. Who in the office is going to stop me? They’ll all be too horrified. I can see it now. The carnage. The blood. If I give it to him good, I might even have time to cum. I’m already hard.

  My only regret is that there won’t be enough time for me to cook any of his meat. I guess I’ll just have to eat him raw.

  The dark fiction of C.M. Saunders has appeared in over 30 magazines, ezines and anthologies, including Raw Nerve, Fantastic Horror, Trigger Warning, Liquid Imagination, and the Literary Hatchet. He is a hybrid author with nine long-from releases under his belt, the most recent being the novel Sker House and the charity novella No Man’s Land: Horror in the Trenches, available through Deviant Dolls Publications. He is represented by Media Bitch literary agency. He welcomes stalkers to contact him via his website: cmsaunders.wordpress.com

  BEER BATTERED by K. Trap Jones

  K. TRAP JONES

  We started out early in the canoe and the lake was calm as could be. I was two sheets to the wind; caught five keepers and drained an ungodly amount of Natural Light when I heard it.

  “You hear that?” Denton said, pissing off the side of the boat.

  “Yeah, I hear it.”

  The sun was in full effect, making it difficult to see anything from the direction of the noise. It sounded off again as my feet shifted within the piles of empty beer cans. Denton pinched off his piss current every time only to start back up a few seconds later.

  “Could be vultures. Do they make noise like that?” Denton said, shaking himself off.

  “Birds don’t howl. At least I don’t think they do.” I finished off another beer.

  “Those vultures are nasty pieces of shit. Did you know they don’t have a single feather on their heads? Makes it easier to burrow their beaks into the rotting corpses,” he continued, packing a can of Skoal.

  It made perfect sense, but I wasn’t sure whether he was making it up or not. I had good reason to doubt. I’d known Denton for as long as I could remember and he wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the desk. Not his fault though; he just fell out of too many trees when we were young.

  We tried to be quiet, but two southern boys in a canoe, well, it wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Between the spitting and drinking, it was almost impossible to find any type of silence. However, every time we heard the noise, we did our best to freeze like we were playing Red Light, Green Light.

  “Could be Bigfoot,” Denton said.

  “I doubt Bigfoot would be down here in the South. It’s too fucking hot. Nah, his hairy ass is somewhere cold, like Canada,” I answered, putting in a fresh dip.

  “Probably right. I bet he pounds some sweet Eskimo poontang. Sneaking into an igloo on a cold night.” Denton moved his hips back and forth, humping the air.

  “Stop that shit, you’re gonna tip us. Bigfoot ain’t banging humans. His dick’s probably as big as my leg. I mean, he’s got a big fucking foot; therefore he has a big fucking dick. He would be splitting Eskimos in half. Damn thing would skewer them before he even busted a nut.”

  “I bet when he cums it’s like one of them Roman candle fireworks going off. Just bam, bam, bam,” Denton said, rocking the boat again. “Hey, does that shit freeze? Up there in Canada, if you toss water in the air, the shit turns to snow. Let’s say you unload on some chick’s ass, would it freeze to her skin?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I’m not Canadian. If people are fucking outside in the winter, they got bigger problems to deal with. I can’t even take a cold shower without my dick becoming a second belly button.”

  “Maybe that’s why everything’s white up there. Maybe the big guy is fucking Mother Nature bareback every night and unloading on her perky mountains.”

  “Exactly, that’s why we live down here.” I popped another beer. “With blizzards, he must be getting one of those good nuts which makes your sp
ine tremble.”

  The noise echoed from the trees again.

  “It’s coming from over there,” Denton said, raising his beer. “Shit, might as well check it out. Fish ain’t biting anyways.” I reeled in the lure.

  Shifting around the dip in my lip, I kept my eyes on the shoreline for any movement. The fog from the morning was still swarming within the dense trees. I ain’t gonna lie. I was nervous; real nervous. Damn Bigfoot could be anywhere and I couldn’t see shit with all the lingering shadows, plus I’m not exactly sure as to how many beers I had. After carving the boat into the dirt, we crept up the shoreline.

  “You think Bigfoot gets fleas?” Denton stated.

  “What?”

  “With all of that fur... or is it hair?”

  “Shut up for a second, I hear something. Give me the machete.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “You didn’t bring it?”

  “You told me to go back and get the bait. When I did, I put it on the table.”

  “Sweet fucking Jesus, man. You’re killing me, you know that?”

  “The best I got is this bait knife.”

  “If this is Bigfoot, we’re done for. He’s gonna log stomp our skulls into mulch. And we better hope he ain’t horny. No matter how tight you squeeze those cheeks, if he comes a knocking, no backdoor is gonna stop him.”

  “That’s not funny. If I get raped by Bigfoot, I won’t be happy,” Denton said, tightening his belt.

  Peeking through a bush, I could see it. Fucking thing was brutal looking from what I could make out. Definitely wasn’t Bigfoot; it was too small. More like a pig with a thick brown hide and blackened hair which stood on end. Its ass was facing me while it had some guy pinned against a tree. The horns atop the head were burrowed deep into the torso of the man. He was one of those fancy runner types wearing matching sweatbands and shit. Blood was seeping from his mouth, coating his fluorescent orange shirt. I kind of felt bad for him being torn to bits and all, but not enough to break cover. To make matters worse, the guy lifted his head.

  “Help,” he mouthed, staring at me.

  Pulling back from the bush, I sat in front of Denton. “Is it Bigfoot?” he said with an eager grin.

  “No, not Bigfoot, but it’s definitely fucked up. There’s an angry damn boar gutting a dude.”

  “Serious?” Denton said, trying to pass me.

  “The thing is covered with intestines, I think.”

  “Damn. So, that’s what the smell is. I thought it was rotten potato salad.”

  “The guy’s still alive.”

  “No shit? I wanna see.”

  “Hold on a second. Let him bleed out first. It’s all kinds of fucked up with him looking over here. It’s awkward, like the time you wanted to watch Becky and me in the back seat.”

  “We had a rule,” Denton said. “When one of us gets some, the other could watch.”

  “Let me see if he’s dead,” I said, sticking my head back through the bush.

  The man was trying to drag his dangling organs back into his torso even as the beast was gnawing. His throat convulsed with an ungodly sound and he puked atop the creature’s head. The sight of the man holding his own stomach outside of the body broke my threshold of tolerance. Beer-battered bile spewed down my chin as the slightest cough leaked from my mouth.

  Shit.

  My eyes never left the beast as it turned and looked. With an elongated snout and tusks like a sabre-tooth tiger, I damn near lost it. Bloody entrails were dangling from the set of cracked horns. Falling backward, I scurried within the dead leaves.

  “Run!”

  “What?” Denton said, trying to pick me up. “We gotta get out of here!”

  We ran as fast as our jean shorts and drunken vision would allow. Denton jumped into the canoe, turned around and froze. Noticing he wasn’t moving, I stopped with my hands on the edge of the boat.

  “Hold up,” Denton whispered.

  I remained still. Our eyes were about a foot away from one another. He was speaking through the smallest crack in the side of his mouth.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “It’s right behind you.” “What’s it doing?” I whispered back.

  “It’s staring at you. The dude—it’s wearing him as a hat.” “I need to get in the boat.”

  “No, stay still.”

  “Help me,” the man moaned from behind, draining my courage. “How in the hell is he still alive?” Denton whispered. “He looks like a meat puppet.”

  “Fuck you, I’m getting in.”

  “No, no,” Denton said.

  “Why not?”

  “It will swallow your ass if you move. I don’t think it cares about me. Its red eyes are only looking at you. Push me off first, there’s no reason for three of us to be eaten.”

  “If I live through this, I will kill you.”

  “It doesn’t like your anger. It’s got horns, man. Oh shit, I think it’s slurping on the guy’s heart.”

  “Get a beer. On the count of three, I will push off and jump in as you throw the can at it.”

  “I don’t know; there are a lot of teeth showing. It really looks pissed. It wants to fuck you up something bad.”

  “One.”

  “Okay, okay, hold on,” Denton said, reaching for a beer.

  “Two.”

  “Do I open it or just throw it? Should I shake it up first? Can you shake up beer like soda?”

  “Three!”

  At first, I didn’t know how the beer can did this, but the loudest explosion sounded off. I landed face first in the canoe with ears ringing uncontrollably. My head hurt instantly and my vision blurred, but I didn’t give a shit as I felt my ass was still intact.

  “What the hell?” I said, rubbing my head to relieve the pain.

  “I shouldn’t have shaken it up,” Denton said, pushing beer cans away from him.

  “Hey, you in the boat!” a voice said from the shore.

  We both peered over the canoe’s edge as it spun in the water.

  Some guy dressed in combat fatigues was waving at us.

  “Tagged a big one!” he said, adjusting a large weapon on his shoulder. “It’s all right, come on back.”

  With our brains pounding against our skulls, we reluctantly paddled to shore.

  “Name’s Stan. Sorry about that there. Ole Betsy here has quite the kick back.” He patted the long smoking barrel. “This here is a M1 Bazooka; anti-tank rocket launcher. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

  Denton and I just stared at the guy. It was as if we were blasted out of reality. He was completely decked out in army gear from the helmet all the way down to the boots. He even had dog tags.

  “I’m a WWII collector. I have everything, even got me one of those German Lugers. Greatest generation of our time, if you ask me. Looks like you fellas found a good one here.” He knelt down next to what was left of the beast.

  “What is that thing?” I said.

  “That right there is a hell hog,” he replied without an ounce of sarcasm.

  All I wanted to do was fish. I was perfectly happy on the lake. I had more beer and dip than I could handle. Instead, I had to deal with potential Bigfoot, a gutted jogger, a man from WWII, and a hell hog. Needless to say, the day took a turn for the worse.

  “These dirty bastards burrow up from the Devil’s asshole and wreak some demented havoc. I’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately,” Stan said, holding the shattered remains of the skull. “They use the horns to skewer their prey. The tusks tear through the ribs where they feast on the innards. Nasty little shitheads; I saw one devour a full buck in under a minute. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

  “There’s more?” Denton said, looking around.

  “This one here is a scout. They creep around a lot. I first caught the things trespassing on my land eating rabbits and whatnot. Normally, when you see a lone one, it ain’t too bad to get a kill shot on them, but they’ve been increasing in numbers. You were lucky; this one didn’t get
too pissed off. When they get real mad, they burst into flames. It’s kind of like armor. Real tough to kill after that. I’ve never seen one with two heads though,” Stan said, holding up the dead guy’s mutilated skull.

  “It was eating someone when we found it,” I stated.

  “Ah, well, that makes more sense. What a shame,” Stan replied, tossing the human head aside without care.

  “Smells like bacon,” Denton added.

  “Yeah, they cook up real nice, but the meat is a little tough. Makes for some good jerky though.”

  Right about then was when we heard several howls echoing across the lake. All our eyes shifted toward the opposite shoreline where smoke was funneling up through the trees.

  “Well, that’s new,” Stan said.

  “This one had some weird markings on his chest,” I said.

  “The Devil’s brand; certified hellish meat from the contaminated bowels of the planet.”

  The howling intensified.

  “Looks like we have a situation brewing.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have gone fishing today,” Denton mumbled.

  “Best you boys come with me. I got plenty of guns and ammo back home. We don’t have much time before they reach this side of the lake.” Stan lit up a cigar.

  After loading up our cooler, we grinded through the dirt on his Willys MB jeep with a pair of mounted Gatling guns. He had a knack for explaining every piece of WWII memorabilia he had. While driving, he could control both by the elongated handles with customized triggers. The dirt road twisted through an endless amount of trees. Once we passed through a large gate, Stan pressed a button on the dash. Looking back I saw not only the gate close, but large spikes erecting from the dirt road.