Shut The Fuck Up And Die! (7 page)

“
M-Mona . . . .”

He tried to reach for her, to grasp her hand
and keep her from drifting into the void, but his arm hung limply
by his side in direct defiance of his brain. At the same time, the
cup of tea slipped from the fingers of his other hand and shattered
against a floor that seemed to rush up to meet it. Reality wavered
in and out of focus and Matt felt himself falling backward as the
old woman’s face appeared like a thin-lipped specter in the
fog.

“
What . . . was . . . in . . .
tea?”

As darkness rushed in around him, Matt could
hear someone cackling as if from a great distance. It seemed to
spiral through the veil that enshrouded him, rising and falling on
the waves of fatigue that crashed against his consciousness. Tinged
with madness and savage glee, it was the sound of a witch who
rendered fat from babies in her bubbling cauldron; it was the
merriment of a demon bubbling up through the anguish of the damned;
it was the embodiment of every insidious creature that had ever
sipped from the cup of despair with a thirst that could not be
slaked.

“
I’ll be pretty, so very,
very
pretty . . . so pretty . . .
.”

As Matt was sucked into the chasm that
enveloped him, one final thought rose to the surface of his
mind:
Mona . . .

And then there was only darkness.

SCENE FIVE

For the first time in weeks, Darlene
Honnicker felt hope unfurl within her soul. She’d heard the muffled
voices from downstairs: the deep tones of a man and the softer,
less distinct, cadence of a woman. The words were nothing more than
a rhythmic lull that had been robbed of meaning by distance and
wood; but they were the sounds of someone other than more familiar
voices that made her cringe like a beaten puppy with each uttered
syllable. Perhaps cops, she’d thought. Maybe her captors weren’t as
clever as they thought. Maybe they’d left some sort of clue behind
when they’d snatched her: a credit card that slipped unnoticed from
a wallet, tire tracks that were so distinct only a handful of
vehicles in the county would match them . . . . It happened on TV
all the time. Just when things seemed at their bleakest, some
handsome FBI agent would kick in the door and snatch a broken and
crying woman from the clutches of death. She could almost picture
them in their dark suits, hands resting lightly on the holstered
pistols while their eyes picked up some small sign that the old
woman and her sons weren’t alone in this house. They’d exchange a
look with arched eyebrows, pull their weapons in one fluid motion,
and then their voices would boom through the silence:
Get down! Down! Put ‘em where I can see
‘em!

She tried to scream, to let them know
that she was here, that she was alive; but the ball gag that
stretched her mouth into a painful
O
seemed to cram the sounds back down her
throat, making her wretch and cough on the despair that burned like
acid against her already strained vocal chords. Tears leaked from
the corners of her eyes and the salty solution stung the thin cuts
on her cheeks and lips . . . but she couldn’t give up. Not with
help so close. Not when all that separated her from the promise of
freedom was one wooden door and a set of rickety stairs.

She knew what she had to do. But the mere
thought of it made her feel as if a fiery ember simmered somewhere
in the pit of her stomach. Bile rose in the back of her throat, its
bitterness overpowering the flood of saliva that had absorbed the
rubbery taste of the gag and she tried to breathe slowly through
her nose. Her heart fluttered in her chest and she squeezed her
eyes shut so tightly that the day old gash on her temple ripped
open anew.

Do it, just do it, girl . . . .

Her arms trembled and she bit down on the red
ball as if she were some savage predator and it the throat of her
prey.

You can do this, Darlene. You have to . . .
.

Downstairs, the voices continued their
wordless singsong . So close that they were probably directly
underneath her; but with the nails in her hands, they may have as
well been on the moon.

On the count of three, okay?

Images of home flooded her mind: her
grandmother’s quilt draped across the headboard, the overflowing
garbage can in the kitchen, the telephone ringing as her sister
called to gossip about what Louise Hambright had done after Sunday
services. Children laughing and playing on the street outside.

One . . .

She wanted it back, all of it back. The
boring daily routine, the dishes and vacuuming, the way Mr.
Thompson next door would try to look down her blouse when he
thought she wasn’t looking. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like much
of an existence; but it was life . . . and it was hers, damn
it.

Two . . .

Her muscles felt as if they were contracting
in an attempt to flee as far from her hands as they could possibly
get. Urged on by the warning hammered out by her heart, they
tightened and pulled, stretched until they felt as if they were on
the verge of snapping like old rubber bands. But there was no
choice . . . it had to be done.

Three!

Darlene yanked her hands upward, ripping the
scabs that had begun to heal around the rusted metal of the nails,
and the torment slammed into her like a sucker punch of white hot
nausea. Blood and cloudy, green pus squirted from the twin wounds
as drops of sweat were forced through every pore on her body. She
was freezing and feverish all at the same time, reality swimming in
and out of focus while little flash bulbs of light burst in her
field of vision. She wanted to double over, to throw up, to chew
through her wrists just to end the agony of the nails rubbing
against raw flesh and exposed nerve endings . . . but she had to
keep trying.

The ball gag subdued the scream that seemed
to rattle within her head and the heads of the nails pressed
cruelly down upon her wounds. Her body shook as if fault lines were
shifting somewhere within her and split-second blackouts pummeled
her consciousness like jabs from an insane prize fighter. Her naked
body glistened beneath a sheen of sweat as chill bumps crept over
every inch of exposed flesh.

Oh Jesus, dear God, sweet Lord, Jesus,
Jesus, Jesus . . . .

She didn’t care if she had to tear holes the
size of quarters in her hands, if the ripped tendons and shredded
muscle meant that she would never again be able to flex her
fingers: saviors were downstairs, people who could deliver her from
this rustic pit of Hell. She ignored the squish of raw flesh
against uncaring metal, fought through the cloud of acid that
seemed to curl and roil about her, and willed the spike to
shift.

Just wobble like a loose tooth in a baby’s
mouth. Show some sign of giving, of weakening . . . .

The nails, however, remained firmly embedded
in the scarred wood. Bits of tissue hung from crags in the rust
like fleshy prayer flags and the metal was slick with blood that
oozed around the base like a liquid flower unfurling crimson
petals.

Darlene slumped forward and her forehead hit
the edge of the table with a sharp whack. She panted through her
nose and swallowed the vomit that kept trying to shoot through her
esophagus as her hands slid back to the tabletop. Tears rolled from
her eyes and streamed down a face that was as pale and waxen as a
corpse.

Everything from the follicles of her hair to
her toenails shrieked with electric-like jolts of molten agony and
the little vein bulging against her temple quivered with each
irregular swish of blood. Her heart felt as if it were convulsing
like an epileptic in the throes of a seizure and she just wanted to
close her eyes, to let the darkness take her and morph the pain
into a muted dreamlike sensation that drifted on the dark seas of
unconsciousness.

Rest . . . rest and try again, for God’s
sake, don’t give up girl . . .

Through the pounding of her own pulse and the
Lamaze-like gusts of air that flared her nostrils, Darlene heard a
deep laugh from somewhere behind her. It started as a chuckle,
something that may have been nothing more than a pain induced
hallucination; but within seconds, it had built into a rolling
guffaw that seemed to radiate from every corner of the dusty
room.

“
Well, ain’t that sweet.” A voice
quivered between snorts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d reckon she
were tryin’ to get away, Daryl.”

She felt a finger against her back, tracing
patterns in the sweat that trickled down the canal of her
spine.

“
Sure looks to be that way t’ me,
Earl.”

Hands squeezed her shoulder so tightly that
fingertips dug into her collarbone like drill bits. At the same
time, something rustled against her damp hair and she felt warm air
tickle her ear as a voice that smelled like bitter coffee and
rotten meat whispered.

“
Now why would you want to go and do
that for, darlin’? Don’t you like our little time
together?”

Daryl walked to the front of the table and
grabbed a fistful of Darlene’s hair. He yanked her head up so that
he was staring directly into her glassy, dilated eyes.

“
What in tarnation were you doin’ all
that foolishness for?”

His eyes flitted to his brother and something
about his tone and stance was like a schoolboy trying to impress
the teacher with a shiny, red apple.

“
She’s all bloody and tore up now,
Earl. Shit, look what the stupid bitch done did to her
hands”

The flesh that puckered around the nail
shafts looked like meat that had been chewed up between the cogs of
some machine. Ragged strips flapped in the current of blood that
poured from the wounds and the tissue beneath seemed gnarled and
bulbous, as if it had been ground to a near pulp and then shoved
back up through the holes.

Earl jerked the chair out from under Darlene
and she started to fall backward as fresh screams tried to force
the red ball out of her mouth with their force alone. The nails
pulled at her mangled hands and her feet scrambled for purchase
like a cartoon character trying to run in a puddle of oil. Somehow,
she managed to regain her balance and she stood there, practically
laying over the table while her knees shook and buckled.

“
Cunt don’t need her hands for what I
got in mind.”

From behind her, Darlene heard the sound of a
zipper being undone as Daryl’s high pitched giggle echoed through
her head.

“
Once my brother there is done, then
it’s gonna be my turn. Like that, don’t ya? Yeah, I know you do.
You like ‘ole Daryl best, don’t ya, sweetheart?”

Darlene squeezed her eyes shut and her hands
instinctively tried to form into fists; but this only sent fresh
spasms of pain through her already sensitive nerves. It felt as if
millions of fiery needles gouged and scraped somewhere inside her
hands and the blood gushed from the holes more rapidly now as her
heart rate ramped up to a breakneck speed.. She sank her teeth into
the hard, rubber ball and tried to pretend that it was a throat:
either one of these bastards, it didn’t matter which. She would rip
away chunks of flesh like a rabid dog if given half a chance, would
chew and tear until strands of the jugular were wedged between her
incisors like little slivers of roast beef. Just let one of these
low-life, redneck sons of bitches try to kiss her for a change . .
. just let them fucking try . . . .

“
Earl! Daryl! You boys get your sorry
asses down here this minute, hear?”

Even through the floorboards, the old woman’s
voice was shrill and piercing. Earl slammed his fist into the wall
as he cursed beneath his breath; Daryl, however, had frozen like a
possum in headlights. The color seemed to drain from his face and
his bottom lip quivered so slightly that it almost seemed as if it
were the thin layer of drool, and not the chapped flesh, that was
actually moving.

“
Damn it, boys! Don’t you make me come
up there . . . “

Earl’s voice bellowed, though the frustration
that was reflected in his grimace was carefully camouflaged with
what he hoped to be a tone of respect.

“
We’re comin’, Mama. Be right
there!”

Yanking up his zipper, he dropped his voice
to a low growl.

“
This ain’t over, darlin’ You just
stand there and think about all the things I’m gonna do to you when
I get back. And, I swear to God, if you try any more of that
foolishness, I’ll slice your fuckin’ tits off. You hear me,
girl?”

Darlene nodded her head so rapidly that
droplets of sweat flung from her soaked hair like a spray of
mist.

“
Alrighty, then. Guess we have what I’d
call an understanding.”

“
I’m a’gonna count to five and if’n I
don’t hear you boys comin’ down those stairs, may the God Lord help
your souls . . . .”

“
Come on, shit for brains. What the
hell you gawkin’ at?”

Daryl trudged after his brother, pulling at
the hairs of his mustache as he walked. The two walked through a
short, dark hallway lined with doors and then descended a flight of
stairs that wobbled and creaked beneath Earl’s bulk.

By the time Mary had counted to four, they
two brothers stood in front of her; Earl stared at the young couple
slouched over on the couch and the corners of his lips turned up
into a smile. Something cold and hard glinted in his eyes and he
ran the tip of his tongue along his top lip as he allowed his gaze
to follow the contours of Mona’s body. Daryl, on the other hand,
stood slightly behind his brother’s enormous frame and wrung his
hands together as if he were holding an invisible cap. His head was
slightly bowed and he only allowed himself quick peeks at the
unconscious couple out of the corner of his eye.