Jul. 9, 2009 - Chapter 5

Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, It is true. I, Phileas Tambov, have completed TWO Chapters of Six Feet Under, and now for your reading enjoyment, here is Chapter 5.

*WARNING*

The content which is to be displayed is extremely graphic. If there are young children reading this right now please take them away before continuing. Reader Discretion is advised.

Chapter 5

            Dr. Silas Gehrig pulled along the sled he’d used for fifteen years along the ice. It had been a good day of ice fishing and he wanted to get back to his wife and show her the tremendous catch. He had been able to catch fifteen fish of all sizes, and knowing how much his wife loved a good fish he wanted to hurry home as fast as he could. 

“Won’t she be happy?” he said to himself as he slowed up, exhaling into his hands to warm them.

            Silas was also happy, not only because he had been so successful, but also because he prided himself on the sharpness of his spud bar. It had helped him carve out some of the holes he required for this expedition, and so he gazed longingly at it for a while before beginning to pull his sled again. The canyon that held the lake was becoming darker, and why not? It was in fact five thirty and darkness was creeping over fast; though this was no serious change. It had been overcast and cloudy all day, only once did the sun peek through the clouds.

            At the age of forty-seven one might think that Silas was too old to ice fish or for that matter teach in colleges. He was indeed ready to retire. But after all, what is a man to do if he can’t ice fish? Or enjoy outdoor recreation for that matter. There were a lot of things that he was doing that most of the American Public thought he couldn’t.

“Shows what they know,” he thought to himself, “ah well Silas you old coot, maybe you are getting too old for this.”

            He smiled and continued pulling the sled along behind himself. The biting wind stung his face and his lips became numb. Not that Silas cared. He knew that a hot meal was on at home, and he wasn’t going to miss out on it. Well, maybe he could. A devilish smile broke out across his face again; the things that he thought about when he wasn’t teaching. The temperature seemed to drop again, and Silas brought out his pocket thermometer that read the exact temperature of the air in seconds once it adjusted.

            The reading on the thermometer shocked him. He was speechless for a few seconds and then regained his composure.

“Negative thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit?!” he exclaimed, “That can’t be right, maybe I need to get this thing calibrated.”

            He paid no heed to the thermometer and trudged on. Closer to the edge of the canyon that led to a small tributary there was snow beginning to pile up. The sloshing of wet snow echoed across the walls of the canyon, giving Silas an eerie feeling. The path became visible ahead. Silas was grateful, but he was getting tired fast.

            Silas trudged up the sloped path and sighed to himself. The very thought that the thermometer had been right gave him the chills; but somehow he attributed that to the cold of the December evening. The crunch of the snow echoed lightly off the canyon walls, and he marveled at the effects of sound. How one minute they could be certain, crisp and clear, and the next become muffled and so distorted one might think their hearing was going. Silas chuckled at the thought and pressed on, stopping a little ways up. He was sure his car wasn’t this far up the path. He looked behind him to see a man walking up. Then he stopped.

“Probably just another fisherman.” He said to himself, shaking the feeling that this person might not be a very stand up person.

            The cold forced Silas to move on, feet numb, hands numb, almost every part of his body was numb. The crunch, crunch, crunch of the snow continued, louder this time. Not sure of why this man was following him, Silas picked the pace up even more. Even this increase of pace didn’t seem to help. From the sounds of the crunching snow behind him, the man was picking up his pace as well, and he was holding on the line that Silas was on. When Silas stopped again, the man stopped.

“Can I help you sir?” Silas asked, “Are you lost?”

            Silas heard a chuckle from below, and wasn’t sure what to do. The chuckle turned into a hearty laugh, and a nervous smile spread across his face.

“Oh you can help me,” the shadowy figure said, “just like you helped yourself, to that next door neighbor of yours.”

            The blood dropped from Silas’ face. How could this man know about that? His vocal chords couldn’t function. He couldn’t utter a sound to even remotely ask how this man knew. Silas made his legs work and he began to move across the path, hoping to reach his car. There was a bend in the canyon where the walls came close together, only big enough for one sled. Stumbling in the snow, Silas tripped over a thick root growing out of the ground that hadn’t gotten snow covered and he went headlong into the snow bank on his right.

            The footsteps behind him kept pace and then stopped as they were just a few feet behind him. Silas’ heart was in his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, he couldn’t even blink.  Slowly he stood up and then turned around. The man behind him wasn’t what he expected to see. He had on a gruesome mask, blood red, with what looked like tears coming down from the many holes and slits in it. Silas backed up, but then he soon found he was met by the canyon wall.

“Please, please don’t hurt me!” he pleaded, “I’ll give you anything you want! Money, my fishing gear! Just don’t hurt me!”

            An evil cackle resonated from the mask. That laugh was not a reassuring thing for Silas. Fear had never gripped his entire body like this in his whole life.

“You think I want your money? Please, if I wanted your money,” the masked man said, getting up close to Silas, whispering it in his ear, “I would just take it. I’m here…” the man paused, looking both directions, “for your soul.”

            This made Silas laugh. Now he knew it was a joke. The man began to laugh as well, good and heartily. They both laughed until the echo of the canyon was paralleling their own laughter.

“Ahahaha. That’s a good joke. Are you going to the parking lot as well?” Silas asked as he picked up the rope that was attached to his sled.

            He fully expected the man to take off that gruesome mask and then chat with him. But he did no such thing. He didn’t even speak. The fear slowly crept back up into Silas’ body, seizing his every joint. In a flash the man grabbed the Spud Bar he so prized. Silas felt himself being lifted off of the ground, but he couldn’t see what was holding him. Suddenly he was thrown backwards into the canyon wall, pain thrashing through his every nerve.

            The spud bar came hurdling out of nowhere, slicing into his left shoulder, pinning him to the canyon wall. No one can do that! Silas let go a scream that would have waken the dead. The man in the mask walked forward and stood under him, cackling like a maniac.

“WHO ARE YOU!?” Silas screamed through the pain.

“Who wants to know?” the man asked with a jeer, “I’m your worst nightmare.”

            The pain and the fear that wracked his body made him convulse like nothing else. His own blood was freezing to his skin as it dripped down his back. It was like nothing Silas had ever encountered before.

Silas questioned the man again, this time in a cowering, faint voice, “What do you want from me?!”

“I told you,” the man said, his voice dripping with malice, “your soul.”

“THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A SOUL!” Silas screamed in defiance.

“Oh there is,” the man said, flipping a ten inch buck knife in his hand, “there is.”

            As if in slow motion Silas watched the man flip the knife around to the handle, and then raising his arm the man plunged it into his leg, dragging the serrated blade downward, very slowly. The pain was so intense Silas could not hold in his scream. The man cackled insanely as he continued pulling the blade all the way down to Silas’ calf, almost to the ball of his foot. Fresh blood oozed from the wound, like honey from a freshly pulled cone in the hive.

            The loss of blood began to make Silas light-headed, and he incoherently began to babble and plead for his life.

“Please,” he said, “let me live, I’ll give you anything you want, do anything you want! Just let me live.”

“Let you live?” the man sneered, “A pathetic little pig like you? You’ve always got what you wanted; one of the most beautiful women on the planet, a prestigious job, a very fat salary. Even your little next door neighbor bends to your every whim. And yet you deny the existence of a soul? You are just what I thought you were. A coward; a coward who doesn’t even want to face death! You toy with everything and everyone around you, as if you were God! How does it feel now?”

            Just then the man ripped the knife out of his side. The cascade of the blood poured onto the snow. It made a sloshing sound that almost made Silas want to throw up.

“The pain I cause you now, doesn’t even compare to what you’ll face in the next life.” The man said, foreboding tone on his lips.

“THERE IS NO NEXT LIFE!” Silas screamed at him, every fiber in his body wanting to refute this man and what he was saying, “We live, we die AND THAT’S ALL!”

The man began to cackle for a moment, growing louder every laugh that resounded from behind the mask, “THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT TO THINK! Deep down, you know that I am right.”

            The man caressed the tip of Silas’ right index finger with the tip of the knife, and then without warning the blade plunged beneath the nail and then emerged half-way down from the last knuckle, separating flesh from bone. The man held up Silas’ hand, and the flesh that was now no-longer attached to his finger. The smell of the blood and the sight of his own bone showing was enough to make him faint, even have a heart attack. That’s what he begged for silently, but it was not to be. Hot tears began to fall from his face, turning to ice before they even hit the ground.

            The salty tears rolled down the path, going into the darkness. Silas loathed every minute he was pinned to the wall, each new sensation of pain becoming worse than the last. All he wanted was for it to be over. He could feel heat beginning to engulf his body, and at first he was glad. But the heat intensified, and he wasn’t sure what was happening. It was all so strange. Silas began to smell sulfur, and then the heat began to rise again.

“This, this isn’t possible,” Silas said in a very weak and drained voice.

“Oh yes, yes it is.” The man whispered in his ear, “It is perfectly possible!”

The man backed up and grabbed something that Silas couldn’t make out, “Tell Satan Red Sam says hi.”

            A ball of fire engulfed Silas as he screamed in protest. What seemed like hours passed as his flesh roasted, and the smell made him hungry, and then sick as he realized what he was thinking. A tunnel of fire opened before him, and before he could do anything, he was sucked down it, never to return.

One day later…

            The county sheriff, Earl Duluth pulled up beside the empty car. He had gotten the call early that morning about two bodies they found in the canyon that lead to the lake. Well, actually what someone had said was that there was one body in the canyon, and one dead on the middle of the ice. Earl knew this wasn’t an ordinary call, and so he walked down the canyon. There, the caller, a male in his early thirties, dark red hair, brown eyes about six feet tall stood staring at the dead body before him.

“I found him like this,” the man said as Earl walked up beside him, “Stuck to the wall and burned.

“Where’s the other body,” Earl said, not really phased by the burnt body hanging by a spud bar.

“There.” The man pointed in the direction where the body was, and he walked behind the sheriff as they went down to look.

“I don’t really know what happened, I came out here to fish and I saw the dead body on the wall. I couldn’t take the sight and I was going to go and throw up, over near the bush at the top of the hill? When I saw this body.” He pointed to the corpse that lay on the edge of the ice.

            It was dismembered in two parts, but there was no blood around it at all. In fact, the muscle where the torso and legs should have been connected was light pink, not red.

“That’s odd,” Earl said, “Well, I guess I’ll right this up and have the boys down at the morgue come by and take care of it. What’s your name son? So I can get it on record.

“Sam,” the man said, “Just Sam.”

Jul. 9, 2009 - Chapter 4

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I HAVE DONE IT! I will now post not one, but TWO Chapters of Six Feet Under! Ah it feels good to write again!

*WARNING*

The content which is to be displayed is extremely graphic. It Also contains a scene of extreme child abuse. Before I recieve any cristicism on this I would like to note that this is crucial to the book, and I hold anyone who abuses a child in very low reguard (meaning I feel they should be punished for their actions unless they shape up and become responsible) If there are young children reading this right now please take them away before continuing. Reader Discretion is advised.

Chapter 4

1993…

            Kevin woke up from the shock of another nightmare. Just as horrible as the last three he had the past week. It seemed as though over and over he was being haunted by images of his mother. The sun streamed through the boards on his window in the attic. His sister Beth was just waking up. Beth. She was with him through thick and thin all these years. Those brown eyes, that red hair and wonderful smile made it almost tolerable when he was whipped for making some minor infraction.

            All they had was each other. Morning ‘till dusk, dusk ‘till morning they could count on each other to survive. Most people, if they saw they way these children were treated, would say that the father was a monster. In some ways he was. Brent was a distraught man, shattered since his wife died at the birth. As many do after they loose a loved one or encounter a tragedy, he took up drinking. Of course he cared for the children dearly, but the pain was greater, as was his anger. He wasn’t very abusive until they reached the age where they could do things.

            Constantly he would have them do chores around the house and in the fields; plowing, planting, taking care of the garden and crops, working around some of the animals, cleaning, all sorts of manual labor. Brent was always depressed, and so did little but drink heavily and occasionally cry in agony. Even if one thing wasn’t done right he would lash out at the children, sometimes blaming them for their mother’s death. They had an old broken down shed which he would use for whippings. Rarely would he strike one of them.

            Day by day the children learned to fear their father, but still the whippings continued. Kevin didn’t see why their father tortured them so, but how is an eight year old boy supposed to understand? All he and Beth could do was survive each day. The whips their father used had a different meaning to each of them. There were three; one which was just a plain bullwhip for minor infractions, a homemade cat o’ nine tails, which had small picture nails and bits of rock and glass in it to increase the pain for infractions bigger than the minor, but not bigger than the severe infractions, the third and most feared whip was the “Master Whip”. This whip was very special. It had a gold handle, though the whip itself was only two feet long.

            But this was only a minor detail, for it was made out of a chain, a chain that had serrated links specifically crafted by Brent for the most severe infractions, namely steeling an egg, trying to run away or breaking something when they were cleaning. He had never used that whip on them, but they feared the pain it would bring should they disobey.  Each time he took them to the shed to be whipped they trembled as his had floated over each one. It was a psychological trick to make them think he might choose the Master Whip.

            Kevin wiped his eyes and sat up. He heaved a sigh of sadness and went to the small box that held his clean clothes. He discarded the ones he was wearing into the other box and began dressing. Normally one would think that siblings would dress in separate rooms, but because the attic had no such rooms, and their father would punish them if they went into separate rooms to dress, they tolerated each other in the process. The best time to dress was when one of them was not awake yet, or willing to look the other way.

            Kevin dressed himself in a small plaid shirt and a pair of farm jeans. He knew that today was the day he had waited all year for; the day that the calf was to be born from their only milk cow.  He knew that if he was too excited his father might do something drastic, but he wasn’t sure what. Not only that, but he wasn’t sure what condition his father would be in, and if he would even be ready to help their cow give birth.

            Kevin crept down the stairs to the living room and looked in. There he was. His father was laid out on the couch, fast asleep. The old alarm clock sat next to his head, ticking away. All of the sudden it rang and his father jumped up from the spot he sat in, holding his head in agony. Kevin knew his father had a very bad hangover, and his heart sank. In a blur of plaid and white his father grabbed the alarm clock and threw it out the window. Letting several expletives fly he went into the kitchen and soaked his head in cold water.

            Unsure of what to do, Kevin cautiously entered the kitchen and began to make some coffee for his father. He reached up to the highest cabinet to get the coffee can that his father always used, when he was sober at least. His fingers brushed against the can, but he couldn’t quite reach it. Kevin got a grip on it and began to pull it forward. As Kevin pulled it down, he lost his grip on the can and it came crashing down to the kitchen floor, causing all the grains of coffee to spill all over the floor.

            Brent’s head came out of the water like a flash to find out what the commotion was.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” he said as he looked at Kevin, then back at the coffee spilled on the floor.

Kevin stuttered, trying to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. He wanted to run but his feet were rooted to the floor. Brent advanced on Kevin faster than anyone in that situation could react. He grabbed Kevin by the back of his shirt and heaved him off the ground.

“What did you do boy?” he asked in a menacing voice.

Kevin just stared at him, speechless, afraid of what his father might do if he spoke.

“I ASKED YOU WHAT YOU DID BOY?! LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!” Brent bellowed.

“I…I…I…” Kevin began to stutter.

“You…You…You…What boy? Spit it out!” Brent said, calming down his voice; the aggression was still lingering.

“I was going to make you some coffee,” Kevin started, voice shaking, “but the can slipped and spilled.”

Brent smacked Kevin’s head, not hard but enough to get his attention, “I told you never to go get that coffee unless I say so!”

“But, but, but…” Kevin started to protest.

“NO BUTS!” Brent shouted, “When I say something you LISTEN! Got that?”

            Brent was on the warpath, and there was no stopping him when he was mad. Brent took Kevin out to the shed and tied him face forward. He brought out the three whips and set them on the small work bench next to Kevin. Fear was choking Kevin, it engulfed his every thought. He was silently praying that his father might have mercy on him and not choose the Master Whip.

            A twisted grin spread across his father’s face. His hand drifted over the Master whip, and then he reached down and picked up the Cat o’ Nine tails.

“Maybe now you’ll listen to me when I tell you something,” Brent said as he raised his arm and then brought it down with the force of a man driving a railroad spike into the tracks.

            Kevin cried out from the massive waves of pain that washed over his body, gripping into the very fiber of his skin and then ripping the very flesh off his bones. Tears ran freely over his cheeks. The warm sticky blood dripped down his back, onto his legs and then onto the floor where began to pool. Anguish and pain, pain and anguish; both were weaving their seeds of deceit in Kevin’s mind. He wished his father were not so harsh, yet he still loved his father.

            It seemed like hours had passed since his father left him there in the shed. The door to the shed burst open, and he thought his father was back to punish him more. Even the thought of it made Kevin try to hide his head and cower in shame. Cool water washed over his wounds, and when a cloth that held an antiseptic on it touched his skin he flinched, but then relaxed his tightened muscles. The loving hand of his sister washed his wounds and bandaged them. If not for Beth, Kevin would have given up.

Jan. 23, 2009 - Chapter 3

This is unorthodox because of what I've done for the past three entries, but because this scene is in Chapter three, and it was complet I decided to put it up under its real title. Now most of you can guess who Red Sam is. He's the villain of this book. He's kind of been egging me to write the first torcher scene he does. So, here goes.

*WARNING*

The content which is to be displayed is extremely graphic. If there are young children reading this right now please take them away before continuing. Reader Discretion is advised.

Chapter 3

21^st Century

            Ethan Hanes was a small-town farmer; like most of the other people that lived in Currie. He was a fifth generation farmer, and had lived up to that name ever since he was six. Chickens and wheat; they went well together. One-hundred acres of prime real estate right smack dab along the highway. Many of them city folk had wanted to buy his nice plot of land, but he had always turned them down. He wanted to keep this land in the family, though he never married and might never get the chance.

            Ethan drove that old pickup truck, which also belonged in the family since about 1950, down from the north fields back to the house. He gave a sigh as he drove and kept his eyes on that old dirt road. He noticed that boiling clouds were coming in when he looked up, and as he didn’t want to throw chains on this old beast he would have to press it just the same to get back. A few droplets began to fall on it, and he pushed the gas pedal a little further to the floor. The barn that held the chickens was looming up in the distance.

            “What a difference a few billion years makes.” Ethan muttered to himself. Now in this he was different from all the other farmers. They were all “good little Christians”; not Ethan. He had been educated at College about the ways of the world and how things really worked. The barn was just ahead, and Ethan decided that he would park in front of the barn and walk the rest of the way to the house.

             More droplets smacked the windshield as he parked the ancient truck under the enclave by the barn. The rain smacked the ground in behind the truck with force, and Ethan knew it wouldn’t be a pretty thing to get back to the house. He opened the door and set one foot on the ground when all of the sudden an arm put him in a headlock and before he could react a cloth was put over his mouth. He tried to get it off, but all was in vein as he quickly blacked out.

            A cold hand slapped him back into the world. A sharp pain stung his wrists, arms and legs. He had no idea what was happening. This same pain was sticking in the back of his head. His mouth was somewhat open, but there was a piece of old, rotted wood in his mouth. His feet were getting wet, and if he could look down he was sure he would find rainwater in a puddle that his feet were sitting in.

            His eyes frantically flashed around the room to see if there was anyone there. He was in the barn. That was the extent of his knowledge. A slow laugh came out of one of the corners that chilled him to the bone. A chord stretched to one of the new plugs in the wall. It seemed to lead beneath him, but because of the binds that held him to the chair he couldn’t see if it were true or not.

“Hello Ethan,” the shadow said, “I know what you’re thinking. You are thinking, ‘Why am I here?’ ‘What does this lunatic want?’ Well, you’re just going to have to wait and find out, won’t you?”

            He then stepped out of the shadows; dressed in black, with a black cowboy hat and a blood red mask. It matched the voice that Ethan heard, and made him want to cower in a ball. He forgot his bonds and tried to move, but was quickly stopped by the restraints on his arms, which made the pain shoot into his limbs again. From where he was in the chair he couldn’t see the “Red Man’s” face, but he could tell he was smiling.

“Now then,” the figure said, “let’s get to business, shall we?”

            All Ethan could do is scowl at the man. His eyes followed as he walked to the opposite corner to bring out a chair for himself, and then he walked back to the corner he had been hiding in and produced a single black box that had a switch in the middle of it. He set the chair quite close to Ethan, and he was sure this wasn’t going to be good. The mask that this man had on was quite like a ski mask, but far worse in appearance. Seeing it up so close made the skin on Ethan’s neck crawl in pure fear. Sweat began to bead his forehead, and he wished it all to be just one bad dream. 

“What we have here,” his brittle voice said, “is a little thing called a current box. It controls the electricity in the cables clamped on your chair. Now, this is only simple yes or no questioning. I am going to un attach your fancy gag, and you will answer me. If you get it right, we move to the next question. You get it wrong and…” the man paused as he let out a long drawn out cackle, “you’ll get a nice kick out of it, shall we say.”

            Ethan’s eyes opened wide. This was the strangest form of interrogation, or whatever this was, that Ethan had ever heard of. From elementary physics he knew that with him sitting in what felt like a bucket of water, attached to a chair by what felt like barbed wire would most certainly send the amplified charge of electricity shooting into his body burning, if not killing him first. The sweat came now, faster and much more than when it started. He could hear the sound of it hitting the water as it dropped off his face, every other second.

“Oh yes,” the man said, “it will be painful if you are wrong.”

The stranger brought his finger to the switch and rested it there. He leaned forward and took the wire that attached to the eyelet on the stick and rested the wood and wire on Ethan’s shoulder.

“Now, I am going to ask you a simple question.” He said, “Do you believe in God?”

Hatred of that name boiled into Ethan’s throat.

He spat to the side, which somewhat hurt his neck, and then said, “No.”

            This stranger in black leapt forward threw the gag back into his mouth and flipped the switch. Currents of electricity flooded through the cables and hit the chair. Ethan recoiled at the pain and shock, his bonds cutting into all the places he was restrained, burning his flesh and tearing at the fibers that were left behind. The voltage lasted but a few seconds, but the pain was excruciating.

The stranger again took the gag out of his mouth.

“Wrong answer farmer Brown!” the stranger said in a cutting voice.

Ethan’s breath quickened extensively as he tried to compose himself.

“My…my name isn’t Brown!” Ethan said weakly in his defense, “Who are you?!”

A soft cackle came through the mask, “I, am Red Sam. And by the time I am through with you, you will wish there was a God.”

Ethan watched as Sam put his finger back on the switch. Oh how he wished to lunge at the man and kill him. All he could do is glare at the pure evil that sat before him.

“Now, we will try this again. Do you believe in God?” Red Sam returned his glare with ice cold eyes.

“No.” Ethan said again with dignity.

            Like a flash Sam was on him, re-gagging him. He flipped the switch with a vengeance and sent waves of pain coursing through Ethan’s body. He recoiled very badly and cut his body worse, chaffing at the wire and the electricity increasingly burned the newfound flesh. Sweat was a river running down his face. It got into his eyes and fell into the water like the rain that was pouring outside that very moment. As he had done before he flipped the switch off only after a few seconds. He removed the gag and sat back down.

“You aren’t very bright, are you boy?” Sam sneered, “Just like all farmers out here; dumb as posts when it comes to anything but farming. And even then you screw up half the time.”

“We are not dumb! It’s a lucrative profession!” Ethan gasped.

Tears mixed in with the sweat that was drenching his face and clothes. He didn’t care. Blood was coming from all over his body, surely staining the clothes he had on.

“If you would only tell me the truth it wouldn’t hurt so much,” Sam said, “but until then we go on. Now, do you believe in Hell?”

“No.” came the hoarse reply from Ethan’s parched lips.

            The gag went back and the switch went on, searing pain shooting all over Ethan’s body. Pain, oh the pain was worse than anything he ever experienced. He could tell when it stopped that Red Sam was enjoying it. He had to be some sort of convict or murderer to enjoy this kind of torture. The switch flipped five seconds later, and the gag came off.

“You don’t seem to have any brains at all. The pain doesn’t seem to affect your choices. Do you believe in hell?” again Sam questioned.

“No!” came back the strained, but firm reply.

            The groove that his teeth had made settled perfectly and Ethan bit down hard before the switch went on. Volt upon volt entered his body, making him wish he were truly dead. He was sure that the bonds had cut him to the bone, and were digging in. The electrical current finally shut off ten seconds later. It seemed this nutcase was prolonging it on purpose.

“I like to see pain,” Red Sam said, “and since you keep answering no, you keep making my day. I am going to ask you one last time, do you believe in God?”

With every fiber in his being, Ethan said, “NO!”

“Very well then; you leave me no choice”

With the speed of the lightning that was about to strike his body the gag was in and the volts charged on. His body jerked and pulled with every electron that passed through the connector into the chair, and he could only feel the pain and heat coursing up through it. It never seemed to end, and it was twenty five seconds later that it stopped. He was gasping for breath when the gag came off.

“You are lucky how you caught me in a generous mood,” Red Sam started as he got up and began walking, “or else you would be still jerking wildly in that chair this very minute.”

            He crossed behind Ethan to where he could not see him, but Ethan only assumed it was behind his chair. He let out soft sobs as he tried to gain breath, every moment precious.

“Please,” he begged, “please!”

Sam only smiled and bent close to his ear, “Do you want to die, hmm, Ethan?”

“Yes!” Ethan sobbed, “Yes! Kill me now! I want to d…”

            But Sam was faster than that. He straightened and whipped out the Berretta he stole from the Sheriff’s car and put one bullet into Ethan’s brain. The shell clattered softly as it hit the hay in the barn.

“One more wretched soul for Satan,” Sam said as he put the pistol back into his belt.

            Quickly he toppled Ethan’s chair backwards out of the iron pan it was set in. He dumped the water from the pan and then he tied a rope to all four of the legs and tied those to one central rope above the chair. He then hoisted it up into the air and tied the main rope down to a beam. Tracing his steps back to where he had jumped to when Ethan had woken up he found the sickle he hid. Grasping it firmly he took one swipe, like a child with a bat at a piñata and took Ethan’s head clean off.

            Blood flowed freely from the headless neck into the pan below. Soon all the blood was drained from the body and Red Sam knelt to the pan and picked it up.

“To the one I serve to get my revenge. Salud!” and with that Sam tilted the pan back and drank the whole pan of blood in mere seconds. A drop of blood rested on his cheek when he tossed the pan aside aside. He brought his white hand to the blood and wiped it. He stared at the blood for a moment and then licked it off. Kevin would be sure to find this little present, and so he walked to the head, which used to be Ethan and walked with it to the outhouse. He kicked open the door and dropped the head into the sewage that rested below.

“Say hello to the boss for me.” Red Sam said as he lit a cloth that rested in a bottle of oil and tossed it down the hole. He got ten feet before the entire out house caught fire. He was silhouetted beautifully in the night sky as he walked down the highway to town in the pouring rain.

Jan. 23, 2009 - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

21^st Century

A Few Months Earlier…

            Kevin stepped into the big building just before noon. He fingered his cap nervously between his fingers as he waited for the secretary to come and usher him through to the big guy’s office. He wasn’t sure if this was worse than training or duty. Or even both. All he knew was that it wasn’t normal and that anything could happen. The tall slim secretary, Barbra if Kevin wasn’t mistaken, with the long gold hair, dark eyes and cute smile, came towards him, brown envelope in her hand.

“The chief will see you now,” she said as she stood in front of Kevin.

            He bade her thanks and walked down to the office. It wasn’t much farther from where he was sitting, not by much anyways. Just one or two doors down. It was enough for him to rack his brain over the thousands of possibilities for his being called here now. He looked through the glass to see the chief sitting behind that oak desk of his, feet propped on it with him leaning back, same old phone plastered to his ear. Kevin took a deep breath and entered.

“I know he said that Vinetti was a big timer, played hardball like there was no tomorrow. So? What’s that got to do with it? I want you to nail that scum ball to the wall with a toothpick if you have to, understand? Oh, got to go O’Neil. Meeting I told you about. Just get the job done and get it done right!” The chief slammed the phone back down and moved his feet down under the desk.

            The chief ushered Kevin to sit down, and he strode forward to the leather chair that sat directly opposite the Police Chief. The look on his face said everything. It was a stern, yet giving look, one he only gave in two occasions. One, if you were getting a promotion and a higher salary or two, if you were getting a change in location. Kevin studied his expression while he waited for the chief to begin speaking. Oh so many times had he seen the chief’s silver streaked brown hair, his green eyes and that familiar drab green suit he always wore.

“I suppose,” the chief began, “you are wondering why I called you here.” Kevin nodded his head, and the chief continued. “I have called you here to discuss your record with us.”

            Kevin was taken somewhat aback. “M…my record sir?” Kevin stuttered. The chief only kept his usual scowl about him and repeated himself, “Yes, your record. Now you must be thinking that we are displeased with you. On the contrary, we find you one of the best in the field. However, we think that you need a change in location. You haven’t been performing at your peak, and we think that a change will be just what you need. However Kevin, we are going to transfer you. We are taking you off the role as a Detective. From now on, wherever you go you will serve as a sheriff, or a deputy.”

            Kevin sank back in the leather seat in shock. Transfer? How could they transfer him? He was the best detective in the business and they were just going to transfer him? Just like that? For quite some time neither Kevin or the chief spoke. Every time Kevin thought of something to say it came out all wrong in his mind. After several minutes Kevin finally sat forward. He placed his hands on the desk in front of himself and gave a long sigh.

“What are my options? I mean for serving.” Kevin asked in a heavy voice.

The Chief smiled and said, “There are two posts open, one in Carson City, if you go there you’ll be a deputy. The other is in the small town of Currie. It’s a real small town Kevin; nice and quiet. You’d be sheriff if you went there. They’ve been out of one for two months now.”

            Kevin sat back again and digested this new bit of information. Either way he was going. He couldn’t fight it. But he couldn’t blame them for wanting him put into a different field. After almost seven years as a detective he was beginning to become and old timer. And that wasn’t a bad thing except for the fact that he was only twenty six.

            One question now buzzed in Kevin’s mind.

“What happened to the other Sherriff?” he asked.

The Chief leaned back and looked grim at Kevin and said, “He went mad. No one knows why. Before you reject the offer on those grounds alone Kevin I want to say something to you. I chose you to be redirected because I felt a change of pace would be good for you. I also picked the little town of Currie for you because you have a strong mind, you’re in good physical shape and you’d be perfect for the position. Plus you’ve acquired a taste for gambling. You don’t have much money left Kevin, you can’t keep it up. The pay’s good in Currie, and thankfully no gambling. What do you say?”

            Kevin thought about it again. It was true; he got into gambling his second year as a detective, when he was twenty one. It helped him relax, especially knowing how intimidating he could be in a poker game. The competition withered before him, but not always. Lately he had run into a string of bad luck that he had hoped to change time and again. He looked at the trash can to his left and gave a sigh.

“I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?” Kevin asked.

“No, no you don’t. I can’t have one of the finest detectives in the business just gamble away his integrity, and mortgage payments.”

Kevin looked at the Chief in morbid shock.

“Yes,” he said, “I know you put a mortgage on your house to get money to gamble. Playing in Vegas doesn’t always mean Lady Luck is by your side. You really should know this. Now, which job do you want?”

            Kevin drummed his fingers on the chair a moment, hand under his chin as he thought. He’d been through Currie once or twice on cases. It was as quiet as the graveyard shift at some of those businesses back east that used to make him nervous. But he did enjoy the mountains, the only thing that might have been keeping him sane, that and gambling. He leaned forward as he spoke.

“Sir,” he began, “I don’t like the fact that I have no choice in the matter. I’ve always had control of where I go and what I do. But since this is the profession I’ve chosen, and I don’t intend to quit, I’ll take the Sherriff’s job in Currie.”

“Good choice son. Make me proud!” the Chief said as he reached forward and offered Kevin his hand.

            Kevin shook it and thanked the Chief. He excused Kevin and so, Kevin left Headquarters destined for his small home on the opposite end of town. The unmarked patrol car lay outside where he parked it and he took out the keys. He unlocked the driver’s side door and got in. The heat was worse, as the patrol car was all black, and the sun was making it much more than the outside air temperature.

“I will crank up the A/C when I get back home and not leave that recline for a day or two!” Kevin said to himself as he backed out of the parking lot.

            The July heat was unbearable in Las Vegas. Sometimes Kevin even wondered why he accepted the job in Vegas instead of the Job up in Billings. The weather report that had flashed just as Kevin turned on the car said it was a cool 73. Now he was REALLY regretting this decision. But of course he knew that the winters down in Las Vegas were much milder than up in Billings. But at the moment he didn’t care.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this!” Kevin muttered to himself as he cruised along the strip, “Heat, transfer, forceful rehab. I thought it was supposed to be better in Vegas!”

            Kevin reached his little house and parked on the side right in front instead of in his driveway. He’d always wondered why he did this, but as always he figured out that if he got the call he’d just rush out, jump in the car and speed to the scene. As Kevin walked up to the door, he saw a note taped to the doorknob. Slowly he picked it up and then smiled as he read the words. His Girlfriend Beth had stopped by and dropped off some groceries while he was away. If it wasn’t for the bad news and the heat, it would be the perfect day.

Dec. 15, 2008 - Chapter One

Chapter 1

1985…

          The quiet of the night is broken by a shrill scream of pain. The stillness of the woods around the backwoods home five miles from Smethport, PA shattered in one moment. The snow that covered the ground was receiving a fresh coating as another scream pierced into the darkness. Another voice, not the one uttering the cries resounds through the door of the cabin.

“Come on, push!” it is a man’s voice. The woman grits her teeth and pushes, uttering another cry of pain.

            Brent Henderson aided his wife in the birth of their first children. I say children, for they were going to have twins. Brent didn’t trust hospitals. Neither did his wife, Anna. He had read up a little on the subject of childbirth and was ready to do anything to bring these little ones into the world. They knew it was twins for two reasons. One, they could both feel two little babies inside Anna’s stomach. Another was that her stomach was twice the size it would be if it were only one baby.

            He had done a little reading on what the process of childbirth was like, and how to tell certain things about the birth. He did this to train himself to be the midwife. He didn’t trust any of his neighbors either.

“Push!” he said again. “I’m trying! Would you be patient Brent!” she said in an exasperated voice. She let out another cry and pushed even harder.

“I see one! I see one! It’s coming out now!” Brent exclaimed in happiness. It was a long time before it came out.

“It’s a boy! It’s a boy!” Brent said as he was jumping in place. “Here comes another!” Brent yelled in jubilation.

Anna gave another hard push and it came out.

“A girl Anna! We have a little girl!”

Anna slumped back on the pillow and said in a low and raspy, yet joyful voice, “I’m so happy, Brent. But I just don’t have the strength to…” She cut herself short.

She closed her eyes and let out a short gasp. She had died. Brent hadn’t taken his eyes off his new son and daughter until Anna gave that short gasp. He gave his son a slap to get him to breathe and then he sat him down on the cloth next to him. He almost forgot about the little girl as he rushed to his wife’s aid, but he slapped her as well and set her beside the boy. “Anna?” he asked in a trembling voice.

He repeated himself, “Anna?” “Anna!” he exclaimed, crying as he rushed to her side.

He felt for a pulse and could not find one. He grabbed her head and cried, leaning on her rocking back and forth. Brent realized she was dead, and in a flood of tears he screamed. In unison the babies chimed in. Brent was angry, very angry and hurt by this.

“WHY???!!!” he screamed through his tears, “WHY MY WIFE???!!!!”

He stayed like that all night, and slowly rocked himself to sleep. He woke the next morning not caring what would happen. The sadness that had plagued him in the night followed him like a dark cloud, never leaving, only increasing…

Dec. 15, 2008 - Prologue

Prologue

            In the beginning, God created light because there was darkness everywhere. He created heaven and earth and everything in them. He created man, and he was happy with all his creations, and to make man happy, he took a rib of man and made a woman for him. For all, light was symbolic and physical at the same time. There was harmony, shedding light to everyone even when the sun had gone down. But man sinned against God, allowing darkness and evil to enter the world. This removed the light and snuffed it out. Of course every now and then someone would show their light, but it would be dim and sooner or later also be snuffed out. The true light was gone. Man did what he desired without thought or care towards what God really wanted or deemed appropriate.

            God would choose his followers later on, but even they made the errors of those before them. It carried on until he deemed a people for himself. They of course did what he wanted in certain generations, but of course there were generations that did the exact opposite of what he deemed good and just in his eyes. He sent them prophets, and yet they still did not listen. Naturally, sometimes all or a few would listen, but these appalling generations rarely actually paid attention. So he allowed them to be overrun and taken captive to foreign lands.

            Since they did not listen, he spoke for the last time through the prophet Malachi. He ceased any guidance to them and allowed the civil war between the nations to be exploited by the Romans. The light had never been any dimmer than this point. He knew it was time and sent his one and only son, Jesus, to be that light that would shine for all time to all the peoples in the world. Though he died, many realized that he was the one spoken about by the prophets. Then that glorious morn three days after he was crucified showed he was truly the light in the darkness. He rose and showed that he had truly risen from the dead and that he had conquered death, once and for all.

            With this light, however, came judgment. Those steeped in sin must be judged unless acknowledged as redeemable by and through Jesus Christ.

21^st Century

          The small town of Currie, Nevada lay silent along Highway 93 as dusk began to fall. There was nothing too special about this small western town. It had maybe one thing, but not much more. It was a living ghost town. Kevin Millers was the town Sheriff. He knew that taking this job instead of the one in Carson City was foolish, but all that action was getting to be too much hassle. The domestic disturbance outside the city had been called to his attention several hours ago and he decided to check it out.

            A storm was brewing towards the mountains, and he figured that this call would only take fifteen minutes, so he braved the elements once again. With only fifteen or so people living in town, there wasn’t much trouble. The call that he got was from Marsha Taylor, she and her husband, Craig, were living at the old McDuffie place. He’d answered several of these calls and figured it was just another fight that was a tad out of control. The last time he had answered the call, though, it had been that they were now resorting to throwing some items around.

            To prevent any injuries, he pressed his cruiser to go ten over the speed limit on the back roads. He saw the car in the drive as he approached, and parked just behind it. He gave a “hello” and saw that the doors were open. It was dark inside, partly because there were shades on all the windows and partly because of the oncoming storm. He stepped over one of the overturned pieces of furniture, but didn’t see or here anyone. A soft cackle resounded down the hall and Kevin reached for his gun, at the ready for anything.

            The lights flickered on, and what he saw chilled him to the bone. His attention was to the left and he saw a chair that was backwards on the ground. Lying in it was Craig. He was actually more sprawled that laying, with a fire prod sticking out of his chest, with glazed over eyes of terror. He looked for Marsha and then saw her. There she was, strung from the ceiling, hung dead. A stool lay knocked over beneath her. He was just about to cross over to Marsha’s body, when he heard the laugh again.

            A man in black stood in the entrance to the hallway. He had a mask of blood red on, with air holes at the mouth. He spoke in a voice that chilled Kevin to the bone, “Hello Kevin. You don’t remember me, but I remember you perfectly. Time to pay for your sins. Your little secret won’t stay safe for long.” He let out another long evil laugh. As he did, the lights went off again. He fumbled for the flashlight on his belt and went down the hall.

            The strange thing about the McDuffie house is that the living room is separated from the rest of the house. The stairs to go to the second level are at the entrance of the hallway, while at the back is a wall, which has the kitchen to the right of it, and the den to the left. Kevin was about to proceed up the stairs, when something on the wall at the back of the hallway caught his attention. He put light on it and walked closer. He stopped short and stood, stunned at what he read. As he read, cold chills ran up and down his spine. Written in red, most likely Craig’s blood was, “Time to pay up Kevin. No one’s safe with your sin in hiding. Take these two as a warning.” He moved away and decided to go up the stairs. He put his foot on the first step and a loud, “BOOM!” resounded from the outside.

            He ran out and saw that the car that had been in the drive had just exploded. A note lie on the hood of his cruiser, “Consider this your second warning.” It stopped him cold and numbed his mind. For a few seconds he couldn’t even think of what to do next. His world spun and he almost considered fainting. He steadied himself on the hood of the cruiser, and then decided to drive back to town. He jumped in and started the car. It roared to life and he kicked in reverse down the gravel drive. He tried to call headquarters, but his radio was dead. “How odd,” he thought in a panic as he drove over the limit back to town.

Dec. 15, 2008 - The Making of Six Feet Under

So as you all have probably guessed, I, Theynore, have embarked upon another quest in the world of writing. I am starting my third Thriller novel. Some of you may have seen part of it on my main blog, the Creative Desk. It is still in the fledgling stages, as is Eyes, but I can promise you that I am working on getting more done so you can all scrutinize it and tear it apart as necessary. Okay, I made a joke! :D, but seriously, I require feedback if I am to fix the problems with my work, whether it be a thin subplot or a change in grammar. Any help is appreciated guys. And now, onto the main event! Read and enjoy!

~Theynore