Spit and Die Page 3

  In a low tone, just above a whisper, he asked, “Did you hear that? It sounded like someone walking, didn't it?”

  The group sat in silence, glancing every which way. The wind whooshed around them. Bushes rustled while insects chirped in the overgrown grass. The fire crackled and popped. The rest of the world remained silent. For a moment—just a second—they felt like they were the last people on earth.

  James burst into a chuckle. He said, “I'm sorry. I'm just fucking with you.”

  Christopher smiled and said, “Yeah, I thought so.”

  The rest of the group laughed in relief. It was only the wind—it was a phrase kids said when something went bump in the night, but it also conjured some comfort in their adult minds.

  Nina and Kiara remained concerned while the men laughed. Andrea and Carlos still whispered at each other. They flirted through storytime, ignoring the nasty tale of mayhem.

  Christopher stood up and said, “I think it's time we put this fire out. We should get some sleep. I'm going to sleep in my car with Kiara after I put all of this shit away. Are any of you going to sleep in the tent or should I put that away, too?”

  “Us,” Andrea eagerly said. She grabbed Carlos' arm and said, “I think we're going to sleep in the tent. I need a night away from that truck to get some fresh air. Besides, I think Carlos could use some comfort during his time of need. Right, Carlos?”

  Carlos stuttered, “Y–Yeah. I–I mean, sure. I'll share the tent with you.”

  “Perfect.”

  Under his breath, James whispered, “You're way too easy, Andie. You dumb slut...”

  Andrea didn't hear him, though. She said, “Come on, Carlos, let's snuggle.”

  The couple giggled as they rushed into the tent. The tent rustled as they immediately kissed and disrobed. They didn't bother to grab their pajamas from their bags.

  As he folded the chairs, Christopher said, “I'm going to wake up around six. We should be out of here by seven. I'll lead you to the closest town, then we can part ways. Well, unless you want to join us at the festival.”

  Lucas responded, “I don't know. We'll think about it. We'll see you in the morning. Thanks for the drinks. Good night.”

  “Good night, man.”

  After cleaning up and putting the chairs away, the groups retreated to their vehicles. Lucas and Nina shared the bed in the camper. James slept alone in the truck's cab. Christopher and Kiara slept in the hatchback. And, Andrea and Carlos made love throughout the night in the tent.

  Chapter Four

  Where Am I?

  Andrea awoke, a broken breath escaping her pale lips. She quietly grunted, unable to muster the energy to cough. Each slight breath burned her lungs. Her nostrils stung, too. Her brain throbbed, her heart pounded. A headache? A migraine? A heart attack?–she couldn't think clearly enough to self-diagnose herself.

  She blinked erratically as she glanced around, searching for answers to her many questions. Her blurred vision distorted everything around her. She felt a tight grip around her ankles, though. She wore Carlos' flannel shirt and she felt the garment rising up to the small of her back. She was being dragged.

  Tears welling in her eyes, she mumbled, “Whe–Where... Where am I? Wha–What's happening?”

  Her head swayed as she searched for anything familiar. She appeared to be in the dimly-lit hallway of an old, musty house. She spotted picture frames clinging to the walls above the console tables, which were placed at regular intervals. She also felt the splinters scraping her bare ass and back. She was being dragged across floorboards.

  She couldn't see her captor, though. A blurred figure marched in front of her, holding both of her ankles with one hand. Andrea whimpered as they turned and walked through a doorway to the left. The old floorboards changed to icy tiles. Her legs fell to the floor, limp and weak. Before she could say a word, her captor lifted her off of the ground and tossed her onto a metal table.

  Again, Andrea glanced every which way. She found herself in a small kitchen—and she was certain of that. The counters, the sink, the stove, and the refrigerator gave it away.

  Dozens of filmy glass jars sat on the shelves above the counters. The jars appeared to be filled with a murky liquid. Chemicals and bottles of pills sat on the racks across from the foot of the table. The acrid scent of the chemicals lingered in the room. Like a dentist's light, a bright light dawned on her from above. The light blinded her, causing her to rapidly blink.

  Andrea sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could shake her head, but she couldn't move the rest of her body. She twitched and squirmed, but she couldn't stand and run. Paralyzed, she thought, someone actually paralyzed me. Terrifying thoughts raced through her mind. Nina's concerns about strangers and good Samaritans echoed through her head.

  Kidnapped by a group of human traffickers—the idea seemed plausible.

  The captor grabbed Andrea's cheeks and moved her head to the side. He placed a glass jar under the side of her mouth, catching the drool dripping from her lips.

  Andrea's eyes darted left-and-right, but to no avail. She could see and feel the steel table under her. The light above her, however, distorted her vision. Her captor looked like a dark figure—a shadow.

  She stuttered, “Car–Carlos? Carlos... is that you? Wha–What do you... What do you want from me?”

  The captor placed more pressure on Andrea's face, pinning her head onto the table with all of his might. Andrea wheezed and groaned, terrified. More drool dripped from her mouth, streaming into the dirty jar. Saliva slowly filled the jar, milliliter-by-milliliter. An ounce became two in a matter of minutes.

  Some mucus even plunged into the slimy liquid, but it didn't seem to bother her captor. Saliva filled three ounces of the sixteen-ounce jar.

  Rapidly breathing through her nose, Andrea asked, “You... You want my saliva? Is that it?” She panted and whimpered. She loudly swallowed, then she muttered, “What the hell is happening?”

  The captor gently slapped Andrea's cheek, then he pushed her head closer to the jar. The captor's plans were confirmed: he wanted to siphon her saliva. Andrea thought: Why? What kind of sick game is this?

  A stream of drool fell into the jar—the more she cried, the more she salivated. She feared she was producing more saliva than usual, though. From her experience, only two things could cause excessive salivation: illness and drugs. She wasn't sick, so she assumed she was drugged.

  She mumbled, “You... You can't do this to me. Please... Please, don't hurt me.”

  Saliva filled a quarter of the jar. Yet, the captor still pushed down on her head and squeezed her cheeks, forcing more saliva out of her mouth. The process wouldn't end until saliva filled the jar to the brim—and that fact terrified her. What happens when they're done with me?–she thought. Horrific ideas flooded every crevice of her brain.

  She suspected Carlos and his friends played a role in her capture. She feared drugs were flowing through her veins. She believed she would be killed after the jar was filled. She couldn't stop herself from sobbing. And, as she cried, more saliva dripped from her mouth. Due to her uncontrollable fear, she couldn't escape the lose-lose situation.

  Andrea tightly closed her eyes and cried, “You can't do this to me... You can't hurt people like this, you psycho... Fuck you... Fuck you!”

  She swung her arm at her captor, causing the person to stagger away from the table. Andrea stumbled off of the table while her captor struggled to hold the jar in his hands. The person seemed more concerned with the jar of saliva than his own victim.

  Andrea lurched out of the kitchen, her legs like noodles. She collided with the wall on the other side of the hallway, dazed. She looked around and searched for an exit, but to no avail. Due to her blurred vision and the lack of light, she could barely see.

  The corridor appeared to be endless. There were several doors to the left and right, all of them calling her name. While leaning on the wall, she walked down the hall to her right. The floor tilted left-
and-right and the walls spun around her.

  “Back where I came from,” she whispered. She sniffled and cried, “It's my only option. I have... I have to go back from where I came from.”

  Clinking and clanking sounds emerged from the kitchen behind her. Her captor was busy securing the jar of saliva.

  Nauseous and exhausted, Andrea leaned on a console table in the hallway. She needed a moment to catch her breath. She stared down at the table—it looked antique. A stack of letters sat on the table. The small print on the envelopes was illegible. She turned her attention to the picture frames on the wall above the table. The frames held old black-and-white photographs. One of the photographs depicted a man with a long beard standing behind a timid boy.

  Andrea whispered, “Who the hell are these people?”

  Her foot hit the table as she staggered away. The table screeched on the floorboards as it nearly tipped over. The hallway grew longer with each step. The door at the end of the hall miraculously moved away from her. She was chasing a moving finish-line.

  The sound of a creaky floorboard—a thud followed by a shrill squeal—echoed from over her shoulder. She glanced back and gasped. The shadowy figure stood in the corridor, watching her. The captor's presence terrified her, but his weapon was far more horrific. The person held a heavy meat tenderizer mallet in his right hand.

  Andrea stumbled forward and screamed, “Help! Somebody help me!”

  She feared she wouldn't reach the door at the end of the hall before her captor caught up to her. So, she burst through the closest door to the left—the door under the staircase.

  She shrieked in fear as she tumbled down another flight of stairs. Her bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the house. The sound of her bones crunching on the sharp edges of the wooden steps joined the ruckus. Her right shin snapped, one of her ribs cracked, cuts formed on her limbs, and her entire body felt sore and bruised. She rolled to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, her blood staining the concrete floor beneath her.

  Hissing in pain, she stuttered, “Sh–Shit... Wha–What... What the hell happened?”

  She staggered to her feet, then she leaned on the wall and glanced around. She found herself in the basement—a basement that resembled a serial killer's dungeon. She whimpered as she hopped forward on her only good leg, awed by her discovery.

  To her left, a tube television sat on top of a dusty entertainment center. Stacks of VHS tapes without labels surrounded the TV—some sat on top of the dusty entertainment center, others formed piles on the floor.

  A queen-sized bed hugged the wall to her right. Old, tattered novels and outdated textbooks filled a shelf above the bed. The books appeared to be about black magic, new religious movements, and even voodoo.

  An old radio and a lamp sat on the nightstand beside the bed. The bulb on the lamp emitted a mustard-yellow light. Beyond the bed, a dusty purple curtain split the room down the middle. She couldn't see through the curtain.

  Andrea leaned on the foot of the bed. She took a minute to recompose herself, trying to organize her thoughts while fighting through the pain. Each breath stung like alcohol being poured on an open wound and each thought ran away from her. She looked back at the stairs and gasped.

  Eyes wide and lips quivering, she panted in fear and whispered, “What the hell is this place?”

  A human-sized crucifix was pinned to the wall near the foot of the stairs. Dried blood stained the old wood. Rusty nails rolled on the floor under the crucifix.

  One question ran through Andrea's mind: how many people were crucified in the house? Judging from the blood and nails, at least one person was nailed to the cross—one too many.

  She turned back and stared at the curtain, disgusted. She stuttered, “I–I have to get out of here.”

  She couldn't run up the stairs or she would surely bump into her captor. So, she stumbled through the curtains in hopes of finding an underground exit. Instead, she discovered another shocking revelation. She held her hands over her cheeks and screamed. She nearly staggered down to her knees due to the sheer shock.

  Nude, Carlos lay on an operating table. All of his limbs were severed with precise cuts—surgical, even. His arms were severed below the shoulders, his legs were chopped off at the upper thighs. Dark blood still jetted from the stumps—no gauzes, no tourniquets, no cauterization. He was left to bleed out—and so he did.

  Teary-eyed, Andrea stared at Carlos' head. Bruises, bumps, and cuts covered his face. His lips were swollen and his nose was broken. A streak of blood reached from his nose to his chin. His eyes remained open, though. She had seen the hollow look in Carlos' eyes before. She saw it at funerals, she saw it in videos of death online.

  The look of death couldn't be forgotten.

  Shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, Andrea said, “Oh, God... Oh, God, this can't be happening. No, no, no. No, damn it!”

  Her teeth chattered as she examined the area under the operating table. Health and anatomy textbooks were stacked on the floor beside the table. Scalpels, scissors, forceps, clamps and saws—among other surgical tools—sat on a utility cart next to the table. The tools were drenched in fresh blood.

  Most horrifying of all: skinned faces hung on the walls around the surgery area, clipped onto a thin piece of rope like laundry on a clothesline. The faces belonged to the killer's past victims. Carlos' face would be removed soon, too. The room appeared to belong to a deranged doctor—a psychopathic killer who enjoyed experimenting on his victims before removing their faces.

  Andrea held her hand over her mouth and retched. The carnage caused her stomach to turn. Vomit clogged her throat, causing her to feel a choking sensation. She turned towards the curtains, ready to run out of the room. She took one step forward, then she stopped.

  The curtains swung open with a loud whoosh sound.

  Andrea's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She finally saw her captor's face—and it was grotesque. She couldn't speak, she couldn't scream, she couldn't run. A raspy croak escaped her sore throat and tears dripped from her bloodshot eyes with each blink. She watched as her captor lifted the meat tenderizer over his head.

  Before she could say a single word, the killer struck down at Andrea's head. Thud—the noise echoed through the dungeon as the tool struck the woman's brow. A gash immediately formed on the left side of Andrea's forehead. Blood squirted from the grisly laceration. Shocked by the attack, Andrea staggered in reverse until her back hit the wall behind her.

  The vicious killer lifted the mallet over his head, causing his victim's blood to rain down on him, then he struck Andrea again. A hair-raising crunching sound accompanied the second thud. Andrea's head was caved in at the brow. The top-left side of her skull collapsed, crushing her eyeball in its socket.

  A wave of dark blood, slimy veins, and even brains leaked out of her eye socket, dangling over her rosy cheek. Even her skull, stained with blood, was visible through the lacerations on her brow. Her torture wasn't over, though.

  As she slid down to her ass, her back to the wall, the captor repeatedly struck Andrea's head with the mallet. Blood splattered on the captor's arms, face, and clothing. Bits of her pink brain exploded every which way with each powerful strike. Her splattered brains slid down the wall behind her along with the rest of her scalp and blood. A few of her teeth even ejected from her gums and rolled across the floor.

  Breathing heavily, the killer dropped the mallet and stepped in reverse. The captor admired his work. With the mallet, he obliterated the top-half of Andrea's head. She couldn't be recognized—no way, no how. The killer walked past the curtains, leaving the dead lovers in the basement.

  Chapter Five

  Missing

  “They're gone! They're fucking gone!” James shouted, hysterical. He banged on the camper as he approached the back of the truck. He yelled, “Wake up! Wake up, damn it!”

  Nina moaned as she stretched. She rubbed her eyes and playfully whimpered, frustrated by the sudden awakening. Lucas grunted and groa
ned as he squirmed on the bed. He struck the side of the cargo bed with his elbow. The gesture said: shut the hell up out there, we're trying to sleep.

  James hit the tailgate and shouted, “They're gone! Can you hear me in there? Huh?”

  “Give us a damn minute!” Lucas shouted, clearly frustrated.

  As she checked her phone, Nina said, “It's barely 5:30. Is he drunk or something? What does he want?”

  “I don't know. Let's just get up already.”

  “He knows you're driving all day, right?”

  “Yeah. He just doesn't care. Come on.”

  The couple climbed out of the truck in their undergarments. They quickly dressed themselves on the side of the road, tossing on the same outfits from the previous day.

  As he tossed his t-shirt over his head, Lucas walked around the truck and said, “Alright, we're up. What the hell is going on out here?”

  His arms outstretched away from his body, James said, “They're gone.”

  “Who's gone, James?”

  “Andie and that punk.”

  “Hey,” Christopher sternly said, standing in front of his hatchback. He wagged his finger at James and said, “Carlos is no punk, alright?”

  “Whatever, man. Andie is gone. That's all that matters.”

  As she approached the group, Nina asked, “What do you mean they're 'gone?' They just... disappeared or something?”

  With his hands on his hips, James said, “They're not in the tent, they're not in any of the cars... I don't see 'em standing around here, either. Do you?”

  Nina bit her bottom lip as she looked around the area. The sunrise painted the sky with tints of orange, purple, and blue. The road was desolate on both sides. No one wandered the fields, either. Andie, she thought, where did you go?

  Lucas approached the tent. From two meters away, a pungent scent caused his nose to scrunch. An unpleasant smell stained the area around the tent—the scent of chemicals. Pinching his nose, he knelt down and opened the flaps. The interior was messy. Aside from the scent, however, there was nothing out of the ordinary in the tent. There were no signs of a struggle.