J. Gonzalez - Survivor

°Fne," Mabel said, walking briskly for a woman her age.

As they made their way to the parking garage and threaded their way past tourists, Tim couldn't help but glance at the old woman, whom he kept in front of him. Where the hell did Rick Shectman find these freaks? It was bad enough there were weirdos out there who got their jollies by watching films of people getting raped and sliced up, but to think that there were old people who were just as sick as Animal was something Tim couldn't comprehend. What was wrong with these people? Why did they enjoy doing this shit? Tim didn't understand it; the only reason he was involved in this shitty business was that the money was pretty good and he always got free blowjobs from the whores they used in films. His mind went back to the night he'd gotten rid of Al's body at the scrap yard, and how Animal had had one more go at him, raping the lifeless body, using the neck stump as a sexual orifice. He'd seen Animal use all kinds of things as a sexual orifice-gaping knife wounds he'd made in abdomens, empty eye sockets gushing blood and optic fluid, you name it. Until the last snuff job with the baby, though, he'd never known Animal to eat anybody. That was just too fucking gross.

Tim Murray kept his eyes peeled for anything resembling cops or security people as they approached the SUV The coast appeared clear-it was obvious they weren't looking for a guy escorting his grandmother! He motioned to Mabel Schneider. "White SW's mine." Mabel acknowledged him with a nod as they approached the vehicle, and Tim disarmed it with the remote, getting the side door open quickly. Mabel waited calmly, clutching her purse demurely in her hands while Tim hauled the box into the van. When it was secure, he closed the door and pushed the cart aside. Mabel opened the driver's-side door and climbed in while Tim slid into the driver's seat and started the van.

They drove away from the Luxor, heading to the outskirts of Las Vegas.

There was a loud humming in his ears.

That was the first thing Brad Miller was aware of when he became conscious of his surroundings.

He opened his eyes. His vision was blurred and he blinked, trying to focus. He became aware that he was tied up, that the skin of his arms was itching, and when he opened his eyes again his vision focused. And what he saw was red.

The cream-colored carpet of their room was deep red.

The smell hit him next, along with the electrifying sense of numbness that was still echoing through his limbs, making his skin ultrasensitive. His mouth was dry and he felt a metallic taste in the back of his throat. He struggled, and that was when he realized he was tied up with duct tape.

He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn't; his mouth was taped shut too.

Brad rolled around on the floor frantically, his adrenaline pumping. The sight of the lifeless body of John Panozzo, his pale flesh looking like the underbelly of a dead fish, sent him into a frenzy. He struggled against his bonds, and when his thrashing caused him to lose his balance and fall on the floor, his cheek landing in the wet carpet, he went ballistic. He jerked up, rising to his knees, and managed to hobble to the side of the bed. There were blood spatters on the bed and the wall over the headboard, and his heart leaped in his chest. The rumpled bedsheets told him what he feared.

They've got Lisa, oh my God, they've fucking got Lisa!

One quick look around the room brought it all back, told him everything he needed to know. They had been outsmarted. Billy had instructed his security team to look for Tim Murray and that Animal guy, probably Al Pressman as well. They hadn't expected a crazed old woman.

How the fuck did they find us? How the hell did they know we were here?

While he tried to backtrack how their security could have been compromised, Brad hauled himself up on the bed and rolled across it to the other side where the phone was resting on the nightstand. He tried to wriggle his arms out of his bonds but could only manage to move them a quarter of an inch from his body. He wasn't going anywhere. In a desperate lunge, he fell toward the phone and managed to get his face next to it. Then he knocked the receiver off the cradle and felt elated when he heard an open dial tone. Thank God thank God. Thank God.

Now if he could only dial the operator.

Brad stared at the keypad for a moment, the dial tone echoing in the room. Then he reached out and moved his face over the buttons. He moved his nose over the 0 and felt his stomach roll as he pushed it, hoping he was pushing the right button. Hoping and praying that this would work.

And then the hotel operator came on and Brad felt such a rush of relief at the sound of her voice that he almost sobbed. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he knew that every second counted.

He did the only thing he could do. He grunted through his duct-taped gag.

The operator's voice was clear and questioning. "Can I help you?"

Brad screamed through the gag; his voice, though muffled, sounded panicked to his ears. He hoped he was loud enough to convey this over the phone.

"Is there anybody there?"

"MMMMmmmmmmm!"

A short pause. Muffled conversation in the back- ground.'ihen: "Do you need help?"

MMMMmmmmmmm!"

"I'm sending hotel security up," the operator said, all business now. 'Ibey're on their way."

And with that, Brad Miller collapsed on the bed and sobbed in relief and fear, hoping against all odds that time was on his side.

They had been on the road for only ten minutes before Mabel Schneider started getting on rim's nerves. Her presence was irritating; she smelled of dusty mothballs, sour sweat, and bad breath. Did this old bat ever take a bath?

"Have you ever eaten pussy?" Mabel asked him innocently. She had put on a pair of glasses and was looking out the passenger-side window, looking very much like a grandmother.

"Lots of times," Tim answered, reaching into his breast pocket for his cellular, not even thinking about what she meant. Then it hit him, and he shook his head. "No" he said, trying not to sound too grossed-out.

'Raw pussy can be quite good," the old lady said. "All of a lady's parts are good. So are all of a man's parts. You know, the testes… the nuts."

"Um-hm' Tim said, dialing Rick Shectman's number by memory. Listening to this old bat was driving him crazy.

"Testes are nice. They have a nice crunch to them. Especially if they're deep-fried. I like to batter them in flour and seasonings and and fry them in a vegetable oil-"

"You know, I don't want to listen to your culinary tastes right now," Tim said as the line on the other end began to ring. Come on, pick up, you fuck.

The old woman looked at him, realization dawning on her face. "Oh, don't wont', young man. I have no interest in you. I like my men young. The best age for nice crunchy man-balls is boys that are teenagers. You know, boys in their sexual prime, when their balls are full of spunk. Eighteen-year-olds are the best!"

"So are eighteen-year-old girls,"Tim said automatically, trying to be funny.

"I agree. Eighteen-year-old pussy is tender and sweet.'

Rick Shectman answered the phone, and Tim Murray got his reprieve. "Yeah?"

"Are you shittin' me that you told this old bitch that she could watch?" Now Tim was letting his anger out and he couldn't help it. He had been looking forward to dumping the old crone off at her hotel when she insisted on coming along to the shoot, informing him that Rick had told her she could watch.

"I get the eyes!" Mabel chimed in.

"Shut up!" Tim barked.

Rick laughed. "I see that you've made Mabel Schneider's acquaintance," Rick said, chuckling. "Very good. She's good at what she does, yes?"