DOA III

by Bentley Little

  Just as the man reached the foot of the garage, she stood up, and as he walked past the compressor she came roaring forward with the hammer’s head and landed it square into his chest with a thunderous crack. He tried to scream but only a wheezing came out as his mouth went wide and his face went white. He fell backward and landed flat on his back, hard, and the knife flew from his grasp and slid underneath the car.

  Wasting no time, Emma swung the hammer up again and brought it down on one of his knees, shattering and dislocating it. Now he did scream. He tried to roll over but she was too quick, cracking him in his other knee, shifting it too far, breaking it. The man howled as the kneecap popped out of place and the baby cried louder in unison.

  Emma basked in the sounds of pain that for the first time weren’t coming from her.

  She was tempted to bring the hammer down onto his face, but she didn’t want to kill him.

  Not yet.

  Crippled, the man couldn’t go far, so Emma flung the hammer away and turned to the workbench to see what she could find. She wanted to restrain the fat bastard’s hands first, so he couldn’t make a grab at her, but she felt that the ropes and chains coiled in a crate weren’t exactly what she was looking for. She wanted something more befitting of her former captor. Finding the vice grip mounted on the workbench, she grabbed his wrist and lifted his right hand to it, giggling. The man was still overcome by his broken knees and ribs, so he didn’t put up a struggle as she placed it into the vice’s teeth. She wheeled it upon his hand and he cried out as it tightened upon his knuckles. She had to put all her body weight into the turning bar to make his knuckles snap, but it was worth the extra effort.

  She looked down at him, a mad rictus grin on her puffy face.

  “Who’s the bitch now?” she asked.

  He started to babble an apology and she reared back and kicked him in the balls. He gasped, his eyes going even wider with pain. She savored the moment—Christ, she really enjoyed it—then reared back and gave him another dick shot. He tried to cover his nuts with his free hand and she backhanded him.

  “Move your hand, bitch!”

  He refused, so she went to the workbench.

  Emma grabbed the machete at first and tested the blade. It was dull; too dull. She tossed it aside and kept looking.

  The baby was bawling, and it sent a weird quiver through her.

  Shut up! Shut up goddammit, or I’ll give you something to cry about, you silver-spooned little fucker!

  She found a small hatchet that looked brand new. She pulled it off of the board and swung it up with both hands. The man didn’t even have time to react. She brought it down upon his free arm, cutting through to the bone. He shook and flailed but the vice grip refused to let go of the other arm. She kicked him in the balls again and again, and when his hand returned to defend them she hacked another gash in his forearm. She realized that removing it completely would take too long and, worse yet, would cause him to pass out and probably bleed to death.

  That’s no kind of send off for my bitch.

  Blood gushed from the man’s wounds and he had begun to shake violently. Emma slammed the hatchet’s blade down into the workbench so that it stuck. Then she slid open the largest drawer of the tool chest, giddy as a girl with a large box on Christmas morning. Inside she found a power drill that already had a drill bit inside of it, a battery for it, and a nail gun that already had its battery in it. She smiled picking it up, suddenly glad that she’d been made to do all the handiwork at the kennel. She picked up the nail gun and grabbed the man’s free wrist with her other hand. He tried to pull away but his wounds made it too painful to do so. She placed his palm on the bench, pressed the nail gun to the back of his hand, and fired before he could get out his plea. Just to be sure, she fired two more, securing him.

  Now she had him pinned to the bench, twisted at the waist, his legs lying crooked and useless. She thought about all the awful things he’d done to her and wished she was able to cum on his face; but knowing this piss-slurping, ass-fucking freak, he’d probably enjoy it. She thought about how he had raped, tortured and beat her and the urge to snatch the life right out of him was pitch black and powerful. She envisioned splitting his skull with the hatchet or beheading him with the table saw. She thought about using the soldering iron on his nipples and filing down his teeth. But then, remembering how he had sucked the tender insides of her vagina raw with that vacuum, a new plot suddenly popped into her brain.

  With the bicycle pump attachment tip at the end of the compressor’s hose and the man’s jeans unbuttoned, she pulled his flaccid cock out and licked the tip of the needle. She pointed the head of his dick up and then spat on his pee hole, rubbing it with her thumb. He stirred slightly, dazed by pain, whimpering. The needle was a little wider than his dickhole so she had to force it in. The man squealed like a warthog being butchered. He thrashed but the two-inch long needle was already stuffed into his urethra.

  “I know how much my boy loves his blowjobs,” she said.

  “No... don’t…”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Emma gave him a crazed smile with all the teeth of a jack-o’-lantern. She turned the compressor on high, giving his dick enough pressure to inflate a monster truck tire.

  She realized that the prong collar was still around her neck, so she removed it and attached it to his. It was too tight for him but she was still able to latch it by pinching his neck flab together. He had passed out from the agony of his dick inflation and put up no resistance. The leash wasn’t still on the collar, so she went to the workbench and retrieved a length of the same nylon rope that had bound her to the chair she’d been in for days. She made a tight knot in the chain’s loop and tested it out with all her might, pulling hard.

  The man came awake, screeching as she yanked the rope up into the air. His face turned purple as the prongs sunk in, sending sinister quivers of joy through Emma’s heart. Watching him suffer like this filled her with an elation that was beyond mere pleasure. It was otherworldly in its euphoria—more powerful than any drug she’d ever known. She grew hysterical torturing him and couldn’t resist giggling.

  Her nipples stiffened.

  I can see why he likes this so much.

  Not only did she thrive on giving him his comeuppance, she also marveled at her sheer creativity as she turned the garage into a little shop of horrors. Above all, she savored the sick delight of totally dominating him. Here he was, crippled, pinned by nails and a vice, his arms half butchered, his dick swollen and bleeding, his nuts engorged and his neck inflamed, and still she pondered what to do next.

  Some part of her knew now that she had been warped, perhaps forever changed. But her utter dominance over him gave her a twisted thrill that was beyond any drugs, theft, money or even sex. But this power was sexual in nature. She knew that by the way her pussy had gone moist as she’d sent the air up through his urethra and into his bladder, where she wondered if she had caused any tearing. She imagined the bladder popping like a child’s balloon and his body going toxic from his own piss.

  That’s when she remembered how he’d made her taste her own shit a few days ago, the same day that he had bashed her front teeth out. She stood up and looked around. The baby was crying so loudly now that it was hurting her concentration, so she paused her game and went to it.

  “What the fuck’s wrong?” she yelled.

  As she picked it up the stink wafted up her nose and she knew why it had been bawling all this time. Laughing, she laid the baby down on the workbench and unbuttoned its one piece. She rolled it up and then ripped the tape away from the diaper, pulling it away slowly, smiling wide at the foul, green treasure waiting within. She slid the diaper out from under the baby, leaving much of the filth still smeared on the baby’s genitals.

  She tried not to breathe as she stepped closer to the man slumped against the workbench with his head resting on it. She moved to him with the diaper in hand, then took him by the nose and pinched i
t shut as she used it to lift his head. When he opened his mouth to breathe she smashed the nasty end of the diaper into his mouth and let the swampy feces pour in and sluice through the gaps between his teeth. With his head still tilted upward, she worked his Adam’s apple to make the runny dump slide down his throat. Once he swallowed it he began to heave, his belly contracting. Knowing the vomit was coming, Emma slid the oil pan out from beneath the workbench to collect it. It came out in a savage spray, both from his mouth and his nostrils. The puke fell and splattered and she applauded him.

  “Good boy!” she said, patting him on the head.

  Then she upturned the pan over his head.

  “Even better than cum.” She laughed as the shit-vomit dribbled down his face.

  “Please,” he said. “You’ve had your fun.... ya got your payback. Please, just let me go. I won’t chase ya. I can’t even move. I need a hospital.”

  “Ohhh... does my little bitch have a tummy ache? Well, we can make you think about something else instead.”

  He began to cry now, still begging.

  She walked back to the toolbox, took out the power drill and slapped in the battery. The drill bit seemed too small though, too thin. She pulled open the top drawer and found the largest one—about three inches around and nine inches long with sharp curves. Knowing she’d need some assistance, she grabbed a can of WD-40 and sprayed the drill bit until it was dripping. She buzzed it into life with two quick taps of the trigger.

  This thing has some serious power.

  Emma went over to the man and stood behind him. Pinned to the bench and slumped over on his stomach, he was unable to turn back. He had no leverage and was too wounded to thrash.

  “Whatever you’re thinkin’ about,” he said, “please don’t do it.”

  His pants were already undone and it was easy to slide them down over his butt. His fat, hairy, pasty ass greeted her with a big, black smile. She dragged each leg to the side, causing him to whine as his broken limbs scraped against the concrete. She poked around for his asshole and, finding it, she put her thumb into it, dry, and was pleased that it was a nice, snug fit.

  “Looks like you’ve got an ass cherry to pop too,” she said.

  She wiggled her thumb inside of him, letting her long nail scratch the tender flesh. His flabby cheeks shuddered. She slid her thumb back out and moved in with the drill. She forced the bit up into his anus and slid it up slowly, inch by inch, letting him wonder at what point it would end. She got it all the way up and knew that its edges must already be cutting him because he had gone very still and was holding his breath.

  “Dear god…” he whispered.

  “Don’t you shit now,” she said. “A bitch that shits is doing so in self-defense, and I don’t take kindly to that.”

  She pressed the trigger and held it down.

  The drill spun to life and ravaged his colon, blood pouring out of his gaping asshole, slicking her hands. She spun it around inside of him, first clockwise and then counter clockwise, making sure that every bit of his rectum was torn apart.

  Sure enough, he did exit his bowels, but it didn’t even faze her. A bizarre state of consciousness had flushed her now, her sanity flaking away like old paint. She pressed her crotch against the body of the drill, letting it vibrate against her vulva as she thrust the drill in and out of his ass, fucking him with cold spins of the steel. Her nipples grew so hard that she thought they may burst, her sopping pussy soaking her crotch.

  Now own him, the voice said. Make him yours, forever.

  As the man screamed in agony and shuddered in his death throes, Emma screamed in orgasmic pleasure and shuddered in her newfound rapture. Her breathing grew rapid and the smell of gore and feces filled her snorting nostrils like spring rain. She moaned and moaned, screaming to the heavens, then came harder than she ever had—actually squirting for the first time.

  She fell backward, twitching in her intoxicating delirium.

  When Emma came out of her orgasm, she scooted over to the man who slouched there in a large blood pool. More had poured out of his open mouth and his eyes had rolled back so that they showed solid white. She checked for a pulse, which he no longer had.

  Wanting just one more giddy, little thrill, she went back to the sledgehammer that had saved her life and let it have the honors. She brought it down on his head, splitting it open like a melon. She gave it two more whacks until the head came apart, exposing the grey, rubbery meat of his brain. She reached in with her hands and dug into it with her jagged nails, tossing it like a salad, half wondering why, half transfixed by the depravity of it. At last when she was finished playing with it she sniffed her fingers curiously and then wiped them on her shirt.

  The baby had stopped crying and was in the deep sleep that comes after the wailing and fright of not being heard or helped. She was not surprised to find that something about its sleep soured her stomach. Emma looked down upon the infant and for a moment she was mesmerized by its beauty and innocence. It was clean, pure and untainted by the cruelty of the world, the very cruelties Emma had unjustly had to endure, the ones that had shaped her into the deranged woman who now looked down at this child with an all-new perspective.

  How fair was it that Emma had suffered, while others remained untouched? How fair was it that she was born to nothing, and this little brat born to wealth and privilege? How fair was it that the man had enjoyed torturing her for days while she had only enjoyed about an hour of torturing someone, and now craved so much more?

  Someone would have to level things out. Someone would have to show this baby what the world was really like, to teach it good—really fucking good.

  She went to the man’s body, snapped the prong collar free and popped off several prongs, fitting it, then placed it around the baby’s neck and sealed it tight. The infant’s face twisted into a hot pink ball of discomfort that sent a warm ripple across Emma’s flesh. She picked the baby up and held it close, feeling its tiny body pushing away from her, rejecting her, rejecting everything, and she walked out of the garage and into the pitch-black night beyond.

  She’d come here for treasure.

  Now she’d gotten it.

  Kristopher Triana is the author of Body Art, The Ruin Season and Growing Dark. His next horror novel, Full Brutal, is slated for release next year. Triana’s fiction has appeared in many magazines and anthologies. Some of his stories have been translated to Russian, and Body Art is scheduled for a German edition. His fiction has drawn praise from Publisher’s Weekly, Rue Morgue Magazine, Cemetery Dance and more. Triana is obsessed with all aspects of the horror genre, and has amassed a staggering collection of cult films, horror books, movie memorabilia, busts and Halloween masks.

  He works as a professional dog trainer and lives in North Carolina with his wife.

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  "Death, violence, and inappropriate sex"

  - Neil Williamson, author of The Moon King

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  Extreme Horor meets Hardboiled Fiction

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  "Take one part Sid Vicious, one part H.P. Lovecraft and shake. Throw in a dash of the thrill kill thug life and you have Mother's Boys."

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  Table of Contents

  NOTCHES by Sean Eads and Joshua Viola

  THE BROKEN HEARTED by T. Fox Dunham

  N WORD by Shane McKenzie

  SKIPP’S SPLATTERPUNK ALPHABET SOUFFLE by John Skipp

  TAKEAWAY NIGHT by T.M. McLean

  BURNT by Luciano Marano

  JUNK by Ryan Harding

  THE PACKAGE by Kristopher Rufty

  RED by Richard Christian Matheson

  8 OUT OF 10 by Daniel I. Russell

  THE MACHINE by Bentley Little

  POSTHUMOUS by Lloyd Kaufman & Lily Hays Kaufman

  BURY THEM DEEPER by David Sandner

  THESE BEAUTIFUL BONES by Betty Rocksteady

  SUBJECT #270374 by C.M. Saunders

  BEER BATTERED by K. Trap Jones

  L’AMUSE BOUCHE by Hal Bodner

  PROUD PAPA by Adrian Ludens

  CRY THE BANSHEE by C. Cameron Rossi

  TERRORSLUTS FOR ETERNITY VERSUS THE UNGODHEADS OF THE INTERDIMENSIONALS by Alistair Rennie

  WE BELIEVE IN 5B by Airika Sneve

  TAKING ROOT by Christoph Weber

  THE BLISS POINT by Wrath James White

  WOEFUL CITY by Garrett Cook

  RITCHIE by Eric J. Guignard

  I’D GIVE ANYTHING FOR YOU by Jack Ketchum and Edward Lee

  HOSTILE by Jeff Strand

  METAL HEAT by Jaap Boekestein

  REPULSIVE GLAMOUR by John McNee

  THE BITCH by Kristopher Triana