Scavenger: A Tale From Death Throes (GRAPHIC CONTENT)
The dream again… He was standing in front of the street merchant.
"Better get your ass in gear!" Specialist Martinez yelled through the propped open door of the HMMV. "This ain't Walmart dude!"
They’d been on patrol when Sergeant Mike Lipscomb saw a stand on the side of the road, peddling movies. He'd been in Khost Province for six months and was running out of stuff to watch on his laptop. It was a perfect opportunity to pick up some cheap DVD's. Most of the movies were still in the theaters and he'd really wanted to see some of them. He finally managed to pick about six of them, talking the vender down to three for five dollars instead of two. He maneuvered around his holster, dug inside his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the vender. The vender smiled, stuffed the DVDs into a worn out plastic bag and handed it to the Soldier. Mike thanked the vender in English and turned back toward the vehicle just as Specialist Martinez began to yell at him again.
"Come ‘on dude! Hurry up!"
"I'm coming dammit!" Mike yelled back… and the vehicle exploded.
Within the prison of his nightmare, the vehicle exploded...then exploded...then exploded again. There was a flash of bright, white light, and then the medics were pulling the charred remains of Specialist Martinez from the smoldering debris.
Another flash…
He guided Rebecca into room 117, pushed her onto the bed, made love to her.
Another flash…
Mike was in the shower, the curtain pulled to the side, and a hand thrust inward. Mike looked down at the handle of the hunting knife, buried to the hilt, in his belly. He tried to get to her, crawling on the bathroom floor, but it seemed that the further he crawled, the further away the door became. Exhausted, Mike rolled onto his back. Above him, peering down at him was the face that would be forever burned into his mind. The stranger smiled, gave a little wink, and then brought the heel of his boot down on Mike’s forehead.
Another flash…
He was lying in a pool of his own blood, feeling the life pour from him. He could hear her screaming for him to help her, to save her. In reality, she was sleeping when the monster cut her throat and never made a sound... But in Mike’s dreams, her screams could wake the dead... how he wished that were true.
He woke suddenly and sat up in the hospital bed, the sound of her screams still echoing in his head. His regular nurse was standing at the foot of his bed with a clipboard in her hand and a scowl on her face.
"Good morning, Mr. Lipscomb," she said, "You have physical therapy in half an hour. I suggest you get yourself ready."
Mike spent the better part of a month in the hospital recovering from his wounds. The first couple of weeks, his hospital room was filled to bursting with family members, friends, and police officers. They all wanted details. Did he see anything…did he hear anything…did he know who was doing such terrible things; for all of their questions, his answer was no.
The most persistent of the police who came to visit Mike in the hospital was the cop who found him, Officer Litherland. He thought that Mike knew more than he was telling and made no secret of it. The Scavenger Killer had been leaving a trail of dismembered corpses across three counties for months, Officer Litherland said.
"I never saw the guy," Mike said… and he stood by his story. The killer murdered the only person left in the world that Mike Lipscomb gave a shit about. There was no way in hell that he was going to leave it up to the cops to find justice. Another week, maybe two, Mike thought as the nurse left his room; then, the bastard is going to pay.
It didn’t take long for Mike to find the bastard. When he was finally released from the hospital, he began to hit all of the local roadhouses and dive bars in the area. From the shaggy, unkempt way the killer looked, Mike assumed that the man was local and not rich. It was a stretch for sure, but one that paid off.
Three days after he got out of the hospital, Mike found the Scavenger Killer sitting in The Watering Hole, a local bar that catered mostly to truck drivers and bikers. The Killer was sitting at the bar when Mike walked in. Mike saw his face, clearly reflected on the mirrored wall behind the bar. His first instinct was to approach the man, place the barrel of his 9mm pistol to the back of his head, and decorate the bar with his brains. He kept his cool though. He knew that in order to escape the situation with his own freedom
intact, he'd have to play it safe, wait until the asshole was alone somewhere and then pop him. When the Killer paid his tab and left the bar, Mike counted to fifty in his mind, and then followed him out.
The man turned off the highway a few miles south of town on a gravel road. Mike would've followed him up to his house and killed him on the spot if the damn cop wasn't following again. He continued to drive on; just a normal guy, out for a nice drive in the country. At least he knew where the bastard lived. It was just a matter of time.
***
This cop thinks I’m stupid
...
The cop followed him to the bar again. Mike ordered his third shot and stared at the back of the killer's head for a few seconds before pounding it down. Tonight will be the night, he thought but I'm going to have to shake bacon-boy somehow.
On the other side of the bar, the sound of multiple gasps caught his attention. The majority of the patrons were standing in front of a mounted television, watching a breaking news story about The Scavenger’s latest victims.
"The man was stabbed multiple times," the anchorwoman said. "It’s been reported that Mr. Chesterfield was found in the garage with his throat cut, while his wife was reportedly bludgeoned to death. More details at eleven…"
They didn’t say what body parts were missing
, Mike thought as he stared at the back of the killer’s head. It didn’t escape his attention that during the news update, almost everyone in the bar rushed to the television…everyone, that is, except for himself, the bar tender, and of course, the bastard on the stool.
The killer, whose name was Anthony Teller paid his tab, used the bathroom, and left the bar. Mike waited a few minutes before following him out. He already knew where the man lived, so there was no need to risk being spotted following him. Besides, bacon boy had followed him to the bar and was probably still waiting outside to shadow him home.
Just as Mike thought, the cop was still in the parking lot. After the few drinks he’d slammed down, Mike couldn't contain his anger any longer. He decided to approach the cop and give him a piece of his mind. After all, it was America. Police can't just follow people whenever they felt like it.
The conversation was extremely short and extremely one sided. Before Mike could approach the window, he saw the wide gash in the cop's throat. He jumped back from the car, making sure not to touch anything. You poor bastard, he thought. You should’ve left this one to the real men.
After he got behind the wheel, Mike fished behind him, pulled the 9mm from the back of his pants, and sat it on the passenger seat. The cop's death was sad and tragic…collateral damage…just like the couple the night before. Mike had followed Anthony Teller to the Chesterfield’s home and watched from the shadows as the cold blooded son of a bitch knocked on the door and then punched the sweet looking old lady in the face. Every fiber of his being wanted to help her…screamed to, but Mike couldn’t move. He didn’t want to take the chance that something would go wrong. He popped open the glove box and pulled
out a small bottle of rum. After a couple of large gulps, he put the bottle back inside the box and slapped it shut. Collateral damage, he thought. Who am I trying to kid? I’m going to hell. He put on his seatbelt, started the car, and pushed the stick into first gear.
"I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch."
***
Mike pulled onto the gravel road and turned off his headlights. He eased the car along slowly, trying to avoid making too much noise. Just before he reached the clearing at the end, he turned off the ignition, picked up the 9mm from the passenger seat, and got out of the car. It was time.
The cabin was centered in the clearing. As he crept toward it, Mike tried to be mindful of twigs and other debris that could give him away. He stepped on a brittle stick and paused, heart racing, before moving slowly on again. He picked up his pace as he got closer to the cabin. His heart went into attack mode, his fight or flight response dialed to kill. By the time he reached the cabin door, he was nearly at a full run.
Mike leapt into the air and kicked the door just above the knob. It flung open and smashed against the wall of the cabin. The pistol was out in front of him, held in both hands, ready to fire. His initial intent was to bust in, gun blazing, and shoot anything that moved, but the sight of the three men, none of them the killer, sitting around a circular table with a large iron bowl in the center of it, made him pause. It wasn’t a long pause, just long enough for the wooden baseball bat to slam into the back of his head.
The blackness of unconsciousness lightened slowly; bringing forth a terrible, dull pressure that felt like it wanted to burst out of Mike Lipscomb’s skull. He opened his eyes. Through his fogged out, hazy vision, he saw four men sitting around a table, laughing and going over what looked like some kind of paperwork. He tried to move and found that his hands and feet were bound together. From his position on the time and traffic-worn couch, Mike had a clear view of Anthony Teller’s face. The man was chomping on a cigar and looking at a small notebook.
"So," Teller said; "who finished their list?"
"I got everything but the woman’s pinky finger," said the chubby, older man who was sitting to Teller’s right.
"Shit," the man to Teller’s left said. "I still needed a woman’s big toe."
"What about you Junior?" Teller asked.
"I still needed blue eyes," the kid who sat directly across from Teller replied. "This game is harder than I thought. "
Teller laughed and threw his list on the table. Then, he reached into the large bowl, lifted out a penis and began to flop it around, and in front of the other men’s faces. They recoiled in horror and Junior nearly fell out of his chair.
"Well, with this…," Teller said, "I got my list complete! Good game boys…now pay up."
The other men around the table began to groan and reach for their wallets.
At the sight of the penis in Teller’s hand, Mike Lipscomb nearly choked on his gag. He gazed down at his midsection and gawked in terror at the blood soaked stain on the front of his pants.
The men to Teller’s left and right handed him a hundred dollar bill and stuffed their wallets back into their pockets.
"You’re one lucky son of a bitch," the older man said as he sat back down in his chair.
"Shit," Teller said, "Luck had nothing to do with it. I played that son of a bitch."
He looked over at Mike.
"Ain’t that right, boy?" He said. "I played you like a geetar!"
Then, he turned back to his son.
"Come on Junior," he said, holding out his open palm, "be a good sport now."
Junior reached down, pulled up his pant leg, and slid a hunting knife from his boot. He held the knife up, and then brought it down on the table top, burying the point into the wooden surface.
"Not so fast, Dad," he said. "Uncle Tony…What color eyes did I say I needed?"
"Blue," the older man said.
"And what color eyes does our new friend here have?"
The old man looked over at Mike and smiled.
"Why… I do believe that they’re blue, Junior."
The young man, stood up, pulled the knife free from the table and turned toward Mike. When the boy’s shadow fell across him, Mike tried his best to fight, to struggle. When death finally came for him, he welcomed it with open arms.
THE END
Find the whole Death Throes Collection on Amazon Kindle : http://www.amazon.com/Death-Throes-ebook/dp/B00CJD4QXI/ref=la_B0085AH54Q_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1369763866&sr=1-1
"Better get your ass in gear!" Specialist Martinez yelled through the propped open door of the HMMV. "This ain't Walmart dude!"
They’d been on patrol when Sergeant Mike Lipscomb saw a stand on the side of the road, peddling movies. He'd been in Khost Province for six months and was running out of stuff to watch on his laptop. It was a perfect opportunity to pick up some cheap DVD's. Most of the movies were still in the theaters and he'd really wanted to see some of them. He finally managed to pick about six of them, talking the vender down to three for five dollars instead of two. He maneuvered around his holster, dug inside his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the vender. The vender smiled, stuffed the DVDs into a worn out plastic bag and handed it to the Soldier. Mike thanked the vender in English and turned back toward the vehicle just as Specialist Martinez began to yell at him again.
"Come ‘on dude! Hurry up!"
"I'm coming dammit!" Mike yelled back… and the vehicle exploded.
Within the prison of his nightmare, the vehicle exploded...then exploded...then exploded again. There was a flash of bright, white light, and then the medics were pulling the charred remains of Specialist Martinez from the smoldering debris.
Another flash…
He guided Rebecca into room 117, pushed her onto the bed, made love to her.
Another flash…
Mike was in the shower, the curtain pulled to the side, and a hand thrust inward. Mike looked down at the handle of the hunting knife, buried to the hilt, in his belly. He tried to get to her, crawling on the bathroom floor, but it seemed that the further he crawled, the further away the door became. Exhausted, Mike rolled onto his back. Above him, peering down at him was the face that would be forever burned into his mind. The stranger smiled, gave a little wink, and then brought the heel of his boot down on Mike’s forehead.
Another flash…
He was lying in a pool of his own blood, feeling the life pour from him. He could hear her screaming for him to help her, to save her. In reality, she was sleeping when the monster cut her throat and never made a sound... But in Mike’s dreams, her screams could wake the dead... how he wished that were true.
He woke suddenly and sat up in the hospital bed, the sound of her screams still echoing in his head. His regular nurse was standing at the foot of his bed with a clipboard in her hand and a scowl on her face.
"Good morning, Mr. Lipscomb," she said, "You have physical therapy in half an hour. I suggest you get yourself ready."
Mike spent the better part of a month in the hospital recovering from his wounds. The first couple of weeks, his hospital room was filled to bursting with family members, friends, and police officers. They all wanted details. Did he see anything…did he hear anything…did he know who was doing such terrible things; for all of their questions, his answer was no.
The most persistent of the police who came to visit Mike in the hospital was the cop who found him, Officer Litherland. He thought that Mike knew more than he was telling and made no secret of it. The Scavenger Killer had been leaving a trail of dismembered corpses across three counties for months, Officer Litherland said.
"I never saw the guy," Mike said… and he stood by his story. The killer murdered the only person left in the world that Mike Lipscomb gave a shit about. There was no way in hell that he was going to leave it up to the cops to find justice. Another week, maybe two, Mike thought as the nurse left his room; then, the bastard is going to pay.
It didn’t take long for Mike to find the bastard. When he was finally released from the hospital, he began to hit all of the local roadhouses and dive bars in the area. From the shaggy, unkempt way the killer looked, Mike assumed that the man was local and not rich. It was a stretch for sure, but one that paid off.
Three days after he got out of the hospital, Mike found the Scavenger Killer sitting in The Watering Hole, a local bar that catered mostly to truck drivers and bikers. The Killer was sitting at the bar when Mike walked in. Mike saw his face, clearly reflected on the mirrored wall behind the bar. His first instinct was to approach the man, place the barrel of his 9mm pistol to the back of his head, and decorate the bar with his brains. He kept his cool though. He knew that in order to escape the situation with his own freedom
intact, he'd have to play it safe, wait until the asshole was alone somewhere and then pop him. When the Killer paid his tab and left the bar, Mike counted to fifty in his mind, and then followed him out.
The man turned off the highway a few miles south of town on a gravel road. Mike would've followed him up to his house and killed him on the spot if the damn cop wasn't following again. He continued to drive on; just a normal guy, out for a nice drive in the country. At least he knew where the bastard lived. It was just a matter of time.
***
This cop thinks I’m stupid
...
The cop followed him to the bar again. Mike ordered his third shot and stared at the back of the killer's head for a few seconds before pounding it down. Tonight will be the night, he thought but I'm going to have to shake bacon-boy somehow.
On the other side of the bar, the sound of multiple gasps caught his attention. The majority of the patrons were standing in front of a mounted television, watching a breaking news story about The Scavenger’s latest victims.
"The man was stabbed multiple times," the anchorwoman said. "It’s been reported that Mr. Chesterfield was found in the garage with his throat cut, while his wife was reportedly bludgeoned to death. More details at eleven…"
They didn’t say what body parts were missing
, Mike thought as he stared at the back of the killer’s head. It didn’t escape his attention that during the news update, almost everyone in the bar rushed to the television…everyone, that is, except for himself, the bar tender, and of course, the bastard on the stool.
The killer, whose name was Anthony Teller paid his tab, used the bathroom, and left the bar. Mike waited a few minutes before following him out. He already knew where the man lived, so there was no need to risk being spotted following him. Besides, bacon boy had followed him to the bar and was probably still waiting outside to shadow him home.
Just as Mike thought, the cop was still in the parking lot. After the few drinks he’d slammed down, Mike couldn't contain his anger any longer. He decided to approach the cop and give him a piece of his mind. After all, it was America. Police can't just follow people whenever they felt like it.
The conversation was extremely short and extremely one sided. Before Mike could approach the window, he saw the wide gash in the cop's throat. He jumped back from the car, making sure not to touch anything. You poor bastard, he thought. You should’ve left this one to the real men.
After he got behind the wheel, Mike fished behind him, pulled the 9mm from the back of his pants, and sat it on the passenger seat. The cop's death was sad and tragic…collateral damage…just like the couple the night before. Mike had followed Anthony Teller to the Chesterfield’s home and watched from the shadows as the cold blooded son of a bitch knocked on the door and then punched the sweet looking old lady in the face. Every fiber of his being wanted to help her…screamed to, but Mike couldn’t move. He didn’t want to take the chance that something would go wrong. He popped open the glove box and pulled
out a small bottle of rum. After a couple of large gulps, he put the bottle back inside the box and slapped it shut. Collateral damage, he thought. Who am I trying to kid? I’m going to hell. He put on his seatbelt, started the car, and pushed the stick into first gear.
"I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch."
***
Mike pulled onto the gravel road and turned off his headlights. He eased the car along slowly, trying to avoid making too much noise. Just before he reached the clearing at the end, he turned off the ignition, picked up the 9mm from the passenger seat, and got out of the car. It was time.
The cabin was centered in the clearing. As he crept toward it, Mike tried to be mindful of twigs and other debris that could give him away. He stepped on a brittle stick and paused, heart racing, before moving slowly on again. He picked up his pace as he got closer to the cabin. His heart went into attack mode, his fight or flight response dialed to kill. By the time he reached the cabin door, he was nearly at a full run.
Mike leapt into the air and kicked the door just above the knob. It flung open and smashed against the wall of the cabin. The pistol was out in front of him, held in both hands, ready to fire. His initial intent was to bust in, gun blazing, and shoot anything that moved, but the sight of the three men, none of them the killer, sitting around a circular table with a large iron bowl in the center of it, made him pause. It wasn’t a long pause, just long enough for the wooden baseball bat to slam into the back of his head.
The blackness of unconsciousness lightened slowly; bringing forth a terrible, dull pressure that felt like it wanted to burst out of Mike Lipscomb’s skull. He opened his eyes. Through his fogged out, hazy vision, he saw four men sitting around a table, laughing and going over what looked like some kind of paperwork. He tried to move and found that his hands and feet were bound together. From his position on the time and traffic-worn couch, Mike had a clear view of Anthony Teller’s face. The man was chomping on a cigar and looking at a small notebook.
"So," Teller said; "who finished their list?"
"I got everything but the woman’s pinky finger," said the chubby, older man who was sitting to Teller’s right.
"Shit," the man to Teller’s left said. "I still needed a woman’s big toe."
"What about you Junior?" Teller asked.
"I still needed blue eyes," the kid who sat directly across from Teller replied. "This game is harder than I thought. "
Teller laughed and threw his list on the table. Then, he reached into the large bowl, lifted out a penis and began to flop it around, and in front of the other men’s faces. They recoiled in horror and Junior nearly fell out of his chair.
"Well, with this…," Teller said, "I got my list complete! Good game boys…now pay up."
The other men around the table began to groan and reach for their wallets.
At the sight of the penis in Teller’s hand, Mike Lipscomb nearly choked on his gag. He gazed down at his midsection and gawked in terror at the blood soaked stain on the front of his pants.
The men to Teller’s left and right handed him a hundred dollar bill and stuffed their wallets back into their pockets.
"You’re one lucky son of a bitch," the older man said as he sat back down in his chair.
"Shit," Teller said, "Luck had nothing to do with it. I played that son of a bitch."
He looked over at Mike.
"Ain’t that right, boy?" He said. "I played you like a geetar!"
Then, he turned back to his son.
"Come on Junior," he said, holding out his open palm, "be a good sport now."
Junior reached down, pulled up his pant leg, and slid a hunting knife from his boot. He held the knife up, and then brought it down on the table top, burying the point into the wooden surface.
"Not so fast, Dad," he said. "Uncle Tony…What color eyes did I say I needed?"
"Blue," the older man said.
"And what color eyes does our new friend here have?"
The old man looked over at Mike and smiled.
"Why… I do believe that they’re blue, Junior."
The young man, stood up, pulled the knife free from the table and turned toward Mike. When the boy’s shadow fell across him, Mike tried his best to fight, to struggle. When death finally came for him, he welcomed it with open arms.
THE END
Find the whole Death Throes Collection on Amazon Kindle : http://www.amazon.com/Death-Throes-ebook/dp/B00CJD4QXI/ref=la_B0085AH54Q_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1369763866&sr=1-1
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