DOA III

by Bentley Little

  But it wasn’t a garrote that Fudd held out to her. It was a chloroform-soaked towel.

  Clare awoke in Roderic’s room. She knew it instantly. Even though her senses skittered like autumn leaves in the street.

  “Oh, missy.” His mother sat erect in a fine cane chair opposite. Fudd was standing behind her. “You were supposed to take care of my boy.” Clare’s tongue felt thick and sour. “We… we broke up.”

  “Broke up? You dumped him, you silly, selfish horse’s ass! My boy is a gift to the likes of you! You know, you’re not the first to treat him similarly, and Fudd always has been kind enough to give them what they deserve. But you? For some reason, I haven’t the heart. Roderic loves you so.” She sighed, pigeon breast heaving beneath the frumpy dress. “You should listen to your phone messages, missy.”

  Clare trembled. “I—I was on vacation.”

  “I know. Cavorting, no doubt, with that detestable narcotics dealer. Unfortunately Fudd and I were on vacation, too. But if you’d phoned in for your messages you might have prevented all of this.”

  “All of what?”

  “Poor Roderic. He’s a nice boy but admittedly an eccentric one—with some odd ideas about proving his love. Fudd found him... outside.”

  Clare’s mind swam in muck. Her nightmares all came back to her. Roderic shot. Poisoned. Hanged.

  “He’s... dead?”

  “No,” she simpered. “No, thank God, he’s not.”

  Fudd scowled and plugged a cassette into the tape player on the sideboard and walked off into another room. Hi, this is Clare! I’m not home now so please...

  Then Roderic’s voice. “Clare! My love! Why won’t you believe me? I’ll prove it. I’ll prove my love for you, prove that I’d give anything for you! Listen!”

  A pause. A snap. A brief scream.

  “That,” the old woman informed her, “was my son cutting off his pinkie with a pair of tin snips.”

  The tape continued. Roderic sobbing. “There! Here’s my proof. For each day I’m without you I’ll cut off another part of myself. Goodbye, Clare.” Clare did her math, paling. She’d been away over three weeks. Fudd reappeared with a blanketed bundle in his arms. He set the bundle on the bed. Undraped it and stepped aside.

  Clare gasped. Her eyes bugged. She bent over and vomited. “Clare! You’re back! I knew you’d come back to me!” Roderic’s bright face beamed at her.

  “Ten fingers, ten toes.” Roderic grinned proudly. “And the rest, I pre-applied tourniquets and used a hacksaw. The legs and the left arm were easy. But the right arm . . . I bet you can’t guess how I did it!”

  She vomited again onto the plush Persian throw rug.

  “I crawled out to the woodpile, tightened the tourniquet with my teeth—and stuck my arm under the automatic log splitter. It did a nice, clean job.”

  She knew that for the rest of her life she would never escape the sight. Roderic swaddled on the bed. No arms and no legs. Just a living, talking torso.

  “Do you believe me now? Do you believe me when I say I’d give anything for you?”

  She could only croak a single word. “Yes.”

  “You’ve got your entire lives to spend together,” said the old woman.

  She got up and shuffled toward the door. “In time I’m sure things will work out nicely. For now, of course, Fudd will remain. To see that you comply.”

  “Cuh—comply?”

  Fudd smiled. His gloved hand twirled the garrote idly.

  “Assume your responsibilities,” said Roderic’s mother. “And without a fuss. It’s only fair.” Her stern eyes held her fast. “I expect you to take very good care of my boy.”

  Fudd locked the door behind her. It took Clare a moment to realize exactly what the old lady was saying.

  “Get your clothes off and get to it,” Fudd directed. “You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “Oh, darling,” Roderic said, “Till death do us part! We’ll have such a splendid time together.”

  For there was one part of himself Roderic hadn’t cut off, and that part now throbbed erect for her.

  Sort of.

  Jack Ketchum is the pseudonym for a former actor, singer, teacher, literary agent, lumber salesman, and soda jerk—a former flower child and baby boomer who figures that in 1956 Elvis, dinosaurs and horror probably saved his life. His first novel, Off Season, prompted the Village Voice to publicly scold its publisher in print for publishing violent pornography. He personally disagrees but is perfectly happy to let you decide for yourself. His short story “The Box” won a 1994 Bram Stoker Award from the HWA, his story “Gone” won again in 2000—and in 2003 he won Stokers for both best collection for Peaceable Kingdom and best long fiction for Closing Time. He has written over twenty novels and novellas, the latest of which are The Woman and I’m Not Sam, both written with director Lucky McKee. Five of his books have been filmed to date—The Girl Next Door, The Lost, Red, Offspring and The Woman, the last of which won him and McKee the Best Screenplay Award at the prestigious Sitges Film Festival in Spain. His stories are collected in The Exit At Toledo Blade Boulevard, Broken on the Wheel of Sex, Sleep Disorder (with Edward Lee), Peaceable Kingdom and Closing Time and Other Stories. His novella The Crossings was cited by Stephen King in his speech at the 2003 National Book Awards. In 2011 he was elected Grand Master by the World Horror Convention.

  Edward Lee is an American novelist specializing in the field of horror who has written 40 books, more than half of which have been published by mass-market New York City paperback companies such as Leisure/Dorchester, Berkley, and Zebra/Kensington. He is a Bram Stoker award nominee for his story Mr. Torso, and his short stories have appeared in over a dozen mass-market anthologies, including the award-winning 999. Several of his novels have sold translation rights to Germany, Greece, Romania, and Poland. He also publishes quite actively in the small-press/limited-edition hardcover market; many of his books in this category have become collector’s items. While a number of Lee’s projects have been optioned for film, only one has been made, Header, which was released on DVD in June 2009.

  HOSTILE by Jeff Strand

  JEFF STRAND

  A dim, buzzing fluorescent light on the ceiling was the only illumination in the windowless room. Mold covered the concrete walls, and the cement floor was decorated with a generous variety of stains.

  A man was strapped to a chair, struggling, absolute terror in his pleading eyes.

  Harry stood facing him, wearing a clean white apron. He gazed into the man’s eyes, grinned, and held up a hunting knife.

  With one quick swing, Harry slashed the knife across the man’s throat.

  The man gurgled and twitched, then his head lolled forward as he died. Only a few spots of blood tarnished Harry’s apron.

  Satisfied, Harry walked to the door. He pressed a button and a buzzer sounded.

  About fifteen seconds later, the door opened. Adam, who was young, immaculately groomed, and dressed in business casual attire, walked into the room.

  “Done already?”

  Harry nodded.

  “How was it?”

  “Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Worth every cent.”

  Adam smiled. “Good to hear, good to hear. I’m glad you had a satisfactory experience.” He looked at the corpse, then his smile disappeared. “Did you slash his throat?”

  “I sure did.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Adam gestured to a shelf that was filled with a huge variety of weapons. “All this stuff to choose from and you just cut his throat with a knife?”

  “It’s what I wanted to do.”

  “Yeah, but… I mean…” Adam walked over to the shelf and started holding up items. “You had a power drill. You had a hacksaw. You had a baggie filled with thumbtacks.”

  “I was happy with the knife,” Harry insisted.

  “You had a weed whacker! When do you ever get the chance to use a weed whacker on somebody? You had a bear
trap! You had ninja throwing stars, for God’s sake!” He picked up a large metal contraption with lots of moving parts. “You had this thing. What is it? I don’t know. But it could sure do some damage!”

  “That didn’t interest me.”

  Adam, shaking his head in frustration, walked over and examined the corpse.

  “You didn’t even cut him anywhere else! Why bother with the soundproofed chamber if all you’re going to do is slice his neck? Why not just stab a junkie behind a fucking Dumpster? You don’t go to an ice cream shop with dozens of flavors and order a single scoop of vanilla!”

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  “It’s disrespectful. A lot of work went into acquiring these resources, and it’s like you don’t even care.”

  “Look, all I wanted was to take a human life. That doesn’t mean I have to turn into some depraved freak. Sorry, but I don’t need to torture somebody for hours with a cheese grater to feel like a big man. I’m sure you get plenty of whack-nuts in here who are all like ‘Ooooh, look at me, look at me, I can rip out a woman’s toenails one by one!’ But that’s not what I’m about.” Harry walked over to the shelf. “And you know what? Your selection isn’t all that great.” He picked up a hair dryer. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “You set it to the highest heat, hold your victim’s eyelids open, and blow it directly onto their eyeball until it completely dries out and starts to cook.”

  “Okay, yeah, that would be pretty effective,” Harry admitted, setting the dryer back down. “But that’s a mentally ill thing to do. That’s for somebody who drools and wears necklaces made out of body parts. I don’t wear necklaces made out of body parts, I will never wear necklaces made out of body parts, and I don’t appreciate you trying to make me feel guilty about not wearing necklaces made out of body parts.”

  “All I’m saying, sir, is that you didn’t really take advantage of our service.”

  “Again, stop acting like your service is so great.” Harry pointed to the dead man. “He only barely looks like my father. So my daddy issues are still unresolved. Thank you for that! Thank you for failing to resolve my daddy issues!”

  “Well, maybe if you had provided us with a high-res photo like we asked, he would have looked more like your father.”

  “Well, maybe that wasn’t practical because I never get to see my father! If he were ever around for me to take pictures of, I wouldn’t need your crappy service!”

  “It’s not a crappy service,” Adam muttered.

  “It sucks. I should’ve listened to the reviews.”

  Adam grabbed a butcher knife from the shelf and quickly moved toward Harry.

  “C’mon, seriously?” Harry asked.

  Adam realized what he was doing and dropped the weapon.

  “Gonna stab me with a butcher knife, huh?” Harry asked. “Oh, that’s sooooo creative.”

  “It was in anger.”

  “After that big long lecture, you come at me with a knife.”

  “It was an act of anger. It’s not the same thing.”

  “A completely generic butcher knife.”

  “Anger! It was in anger! These are two completely different sets of circumstances. Apples and oranges.”

  Harry sighed. “I don’t want to argue any more. What if I used the weed whacker on him a little bit?”

  “You want to mutilate him after he’s already dead?” asked Adam, appalled. “Sir, that’s messed up.”

  “So what do you want from me? How do I fix this?”

  “You could pay for another session and do it right.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “The discount coupon would still apply.”

  “Nope. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Whatever.”

  They just stood there for a very long, very awkward moment, avoiding eye contact. They shifted uncomfortably, looked at the floor, checked their watches, scratched imaginary itches, and so on for about thirty seconds.

  “Okay, fine,” said Adam, wanting the socially awkward moment to end. “Grab the weed whacker.”

  Jeff Strand is a four-time nominee (and zero-time winner) of the Bram Stoker Award. His novels are usually classified as horror, but they’re really all over the place, from comedies to thrillers to drama to, yes, even a fairy tale. His book Stalking You Now is being made into the feature film Mindy Has To Die. Because he doesn’t do cold weather anymore, he lives in Tampa, Florida with his wife and cat.

  METAL HEAT by Jaap Boekestein

  JAAP BOEKESTEIN

  The basement ofthe building was huge, Pam reckoned, and almost completely dark. The single light of a strong industrial lamp formed a near perfect ten-foot circle, just touching a concrete pillar. Down the pillar hung two chains: shiny promises in the harsh white light.

  She licked her dry lips but did not waste any breath with a “Hello?” or “Are you there?” That guy Doc was either here or not, and if he was, he had heard the clanging of the heavy steel door and her footsteps when she came down the metal stairs.

  Instead Pam walked to the pillar and turned around, facing the lamp. She could see nothing but the light. Outside the empty circle the darkness was full of potential, either for ecstasy, or danger—which sometimes was the same as ecstasy—or disappointment. Without noticing herself, Pam licked her lips again. So many possibilities!

  Finally, she started to strip.

  Jacket first, she threw it to the edge of the light and the dark. The heavy leather landed with a soft thud.

  Faded black blouse, iron skull button by iron skull button. Never strip with something you have to pull over your head, it looks ungainly, she had once heard a burlesque artist tell in some documentary.

  Skirt. That was easy, just a zipper. Gravity did its work and she stepped out of the red imitation leather.

  It was warm in the cellar, thank God. Pam took off her boots.

  Stockings, garter belt. Down they went.

  What’s up, Doc? Your dick? Are you getting hot? she thought. I am not. That was a lie, but only a little.

  Bra. Almost naked now.

  Panties. Naked now.

  She stood, waited. Here I am. Come and get me, Doc. Or not. Should she be terrified? Here alone in the basement of some anonymous building, without anyone knowing? Maybe she should be, but she had lost the ability to fear things long ago. Do what you want, world. Either I get stronger or I die. Do whatever you want, I refuse to fear you.

  “Your piercings. Remove them, all of them,” an unseen man—Doc?—said. There was some New York Irish in that voice, a slight singsong twang. It was a tense voice, a bit haunted maybe.

  My piercings. For a moment she hesitated.

  Then she began.

  Now she was really stripping. Her metal! Her markings! Her medals of valor and endurance! She had to give them up.

  Nose, eyebrow, nipples, vulva, clit. She took them out, one by one. She carefully placed her darlings on the leather jacket. For the first time she felt vulnerable and naked.

  “Your ears,” Doc commanded.

  Oh... They were hardly piercings, still she took them out. All of them.

  Finally, she was naked. Really naked.

  Pam leaned with her back against the rough concrete. She breathed heavily, her fingers played with the chains and cuffs. Metal. Trusted, lovely, solid, dependable metal.

  “Cuff yourself. Feet first.”

  She did. The metal embraced her ankles and then her wrists. When she was finished she looked up. Come on.

  He kept himself in the darkness, circling her, his steps were like heartbeats. He stopped somewhere behind her, on the other side of the pillar.

  Chains rattled. Her wrists were pulled up. She had expected that. The chains stopped, her arms hung high. Not uncomfortable though. He knew what he was doing and so did she. She was not a chain virgin.

  Feet. Her legs were pulled apart, a bit. Not really far. She still stood steady.

  A figure steppe
d into the light. It was Doc, the guy from the picture he had sent her. A wiry man, bald, small jaw, deep eye sockets. Old dragon tattoos covered his chest and back. He only wore a pair of old jeans, no shoes.

  What’s up, Doc? Pam really wanted to say that, but somehow she couldn’t. Her only thoughts were: Metal. Metal. Metal.

  Oh the promises he had made! He looked at her, nodded.

  His hand was fast, but landed softly on her face.

  Sour animal smell, and more. Metal! She knew the smell of metal, the feel of metal. She knew all about metal.

  His hand did not move, it was really warm.

  Suddenly she felt it.

  A hundred pin pricks, coming from his hand.

  Electricity?

  No. The flesh of his hand grew, transformed. Tiny needles grew into bigger points which grew into not too-sharp studs. Metal studs. Oh, Pam really knew all about metal. This was metal on her skin, growing directly from that guy’s hand.

  It is true! It is really true!

  His hand moved over her nose, her mouth (she licked, metal, warm, alive) down over her throat, one of her breasts (nipple-touch-metal-pleasure), stomach, belly, thighs (Touch my pussy! Please! Awww), and finally her ass.

  Pam panted, looked at Doc, opened her mouth to ask a thousand questions.

  She did not get the chance. He kissed her.

  Tongue on tongue, no reconnaissance, no hesitation.

  Flesh on flesh.

  The first few seconds.

  His tongue changed. Two tongues, three, four, more...

  Metal, all of them. Warm, living, writhing, sucking, pinching, twisting metal. Her mouth was full with taste and sensation.

  She moaned, his hands (metal and metal) were everywhere, touching and kneading. Metal on her skin! Oh, metal on her skin! Touch and scratch. More! Harder! There! And there! And there!

  Pam fought in her chains, fought him. Not to get free, hell no! Just so he touched her more, touched her harder, made her feel more of those fucking hot hands.