William Rose - Shut the Fuck Up and Die!

Dust motes churned in the wide shafts that fell across the boxes and junk, but the light also revealed something else: Mona.

She was so close that Daryl could see his own reflection in her dark eyes. He could see the contortions of rage on his face, the way the veins in temples throbbed and pulsed, and how his mustache almost looked as bristly as the scruff of a riled curr.

She, however, looked as calm as if she’d walked into a tea party. She smiled graciously and toyed with the hem of her shirt as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

The two simply stood there for a moment as if time had come to a grinding halt. But then she parted her lips and an old, leathery voice croaked out from a head two-thirds its age.

“Looks like the naughty boy finally grew a pair.”

With a roar, Daryl launched himself at the dark-haired woman, his hands forming into claws before him as his focus narrowed upon her slender throat. Mona’s hand balled into a fist and she jabbed quickly, rolling her shoulder forward as her knuckles connected with Daryl’s nose with a wet smack. Blood stained the pores of her fist as it gushed from Daryl’s nostrils, but it wasn’t enough to stop the force of his attack.

His body slammed into hers and the two toppled backward. She seemed to fall almost in slow motion and, if it hadn’t been for the old woman’s corpse, her head would have bounced off the edge of the old freezer.

Daryl scrambled over Mona as his hands snatched an ice pick that had rolled across the floor almost as if it had wanted him to find it. She thrashed and kicked, but he was beyond pain now, beyond feeling the tread of her boots as they planted rows of red ridges on the side of his face.

Instead, he clung to her pants with one hand as if he were trying to claw his way along her body. With the other, he slammed the pick into the meat of her thigh, burying the slim shaft of metal into her flesh almost entirely up to the red handle.

When he jerked it out, blood spurted through the perfectly circular hole in her jeans like the waters of a fountain. The sight of the crimson arc made his breath catch in his throat and his pulse quicken and he stabbed again as she twisted in pain.

Now, it was her turn to scream. Her turn to feel the agony and fear.

He stabbed again and again, bringing down the ice pick and creating constellations of wounds within a crimson nebula that crept up her leg.

Stabbing at the hip now: his elbow jarred as if he’d knocked his funny bone when the pick slammed into her pelvis. She was screaming so loudly that it seemed to fill his head with its rattling timbre and her hands punched and scratched and pulled uselessly at his hair.

Daryl was focused and hard and wanted nothing more than to sink the ice pick into the soft mounds of flesh on her chest. To drive it into her wicked heart like the needle on Mama’s sewing machine and shove his tongue down her throat as the last breath of life wheezed from her butchered body. He would inhale her soul and take her like she had never been taken before.

For he was in full control now. He was no longer a bad boy. He was a man. And it was time for this bitch to die.

The snow fell so heavily that the world almost looked as though it had been overtaken by static. The trees were nothing more than indistinct, dark blurs behind an ever-shifting veil of white and visibility was so getting so bad that a cliff could have loomed just ahead and Matt never would have known until he was practically upon it. To make matters worse, the wind whipped through the pines like an escaped beast. Its prolonged howl devoured the sound of Mona screaming in the distance and it shoved at the man who, stooped before its might, tried to push his way forward. His feet felt as if they’d been encased in fifty pound blocks of ice and his face was as dry and chafed as a worn-out saddle despite that fur-lined hood that encircled it.

He knew he had to keep going, that this battle against nature was one he couldn’t afford to lose; somewhere on the other side of the forest, his new wife screamed as if her flesh were being rendered from bone. Even if he couldn’t hear it over the fury of the wind, he knew it was there. And it haunted him with every step, every panicked twinge of his heart….

“I’m coming, baby, hang on, I’m coming.”

The elements, however, had other plans. When the snow had first begun falling again, his tracks were as distinct as the green boughs overhead. As the blizzard gathered its muster, the prints filled in so rapidly that it almost seemed like the packed snow within them were being forced up and Matt tumbled through the drifts as he tried to run. Now, they were nothing more than vague indentations that barely resembled the shape of a human foot. As if this wasn’t bad enough, the wind drove stinging flakes of snow into his eyes, forcing him to bow his head and concentrate only upon the tracks just in front of him. If he didn’t make it out of this forest soon, he could be left wandering aimlessly for hours. If not days. By the time he found his way back to the farmhouse, it could very well be too late.

Matt tried to push the thought out of his mind, but this proved as difficult as walking against the wind. Again and again, an image of Mona formed in his mind. Never of what was actually happening to her. That was simply too much to even begin to imagine. But he did see her eyes, wide and glazed with pain, as that precious mouth of hers yawned in a scream loud enough to shatter windows. She was pale, bloody, and….

No. Anything was better than thinking about that. He tried counting his steps, whispering her name through blue tinged lips, and even singing. Sleepwalking by The Ravonettes. He and Mona had always considered it to be their song and she would squeeze his hand affectionately every time it got to the part about something evil in the heart.

But the lyrics offered no comfort this time. In fact, it almost felt more like a dirge. Like a final goodbye to the only thing this maggot infested carcass of a world had produced that was every really worth a damn.

“Hang in there, sweetie.”

Raising his head, Matt hoped to see the farmhouse like a mirage in the distance. But the storm was so fierce that it was if he’d walked into a swirling wall of white. Even the trees five feet away were hidden in the maelstrom now and the trail he followed had disappeared as thoroughly as if it never existed.

“Mona!”

Though Matt shouted so loudly that his voice choked on her name, his desperate tone sounded flat and muffled, even to his own ears.

“I shouldn’t have left her alone. What the fuck was I thinking?”

It’d seemed like a simple enough plan at first: him leading one of the brothers into the forest while Mona finished off the other one. But he’d forgotten how quickly squalls could form in these parts. Sometimes, the change was so abrupt that it was like someone had thrown a switch on the control panels of reality. He and his father had once spent an afternoon of extracurricular activities with one of their living toys only to find, mere hours later, that snow had fallen so quickly that the cabin door wouldn’t so much as budge.

He could still remember the girl, curled up on blood spattered sheets, naked and trembling, as she pleaded between sobs for them to just let her go. To let her live. When they had done nothing more than ignore her, her pleas turned into a single repeated word: why?

She’d reminded Matt at the time of a wounded pixie: short hair, pointy ears, smears of blood on her back that very well could have come from having the wings plucked out of her spine. But now, in his memory, the face began to morph. The cheekbones seemed to raise as the face became less angular and the ears rounded as her hair lengthened like time-lapse footage. The thin lips become fuller, the eyes a little less round, and the skin tone lightened subtly. No longer was she the hitchhiker with disproportionately long legs and willowy arms. Now it was Mona that he saw, cowering against the log walls as his father approached with Bowie knife in hand. But her eyes looked past his old man, past the flannel shirt and gleaming blade; she stared directly into Matt’s soul as she parted her lips and formed that single question: why?