Torment Read online

  In place of the child was the twenty-six year old escort before them now. Going by the unlikely screen name of “Lancer Dancer 2234,” she’d showed up at the impressively posh home of the leader, a defense attorney named Burton. It was clear from the get go that Lancer was an addict. She was scrawny, with deep black hollows under her cloudy blue eyes. Needle tracks scarred the crooks of both elbows. Her hair was badly dyed, thick with clumps of grease. The stink of defecation and poverty wafted through the heavy odor of discount store perfume.

  Lancer downed the sedative laced drink offered in one quick gulp. Though her heavy drug abuse kept her from slipping into unconsciousness, it had reduced her to a twilight state of slurry moans. Easy for the group to bind and transport her to the place of sacrifice without struggle or protest.

  Now the coven stood chanting. Accompanying them via a portable docking station was the thump of tribal drums. The music rose in intensity, reaching a crescendo at the same time as their ritual mantra. Each member slowly drew their honed knives, lofting them to cast dramatic shadows in the torchlight. Lancer’s eyes widened a little at the sight of them, but her lids were too heavy to do more than that. She recognized them as the likely agents of her demise, yet felt unconcerned. A quick death was preferred than the one she’d chosen though a dirty hypodermic.

  Both the chanting and percussion stopped. Six blades plunged down into Lancer’s body. Blood spurted from the wounds. Ornate silver goblets hastily attempted to collect as much as possible before her heart quit pumping it so vigorously. The last sound she heard was the coven slurping up their prize. Willingly, she went into the darkness.

  Lancer found herself walking out of the sheer black of death into a bright hallway. It smelled of antiseptic, like a hospital. Neat white square tiles went from floor to ceiling. A small diamond of red dotted the center of each. Doors were on both sides, each with a neat black name label. She walked slowly by them, wondering when she would find one with her name on it.

  After what seemed to be an eternity of checking the doors, she stood in front of a solid white door with the label “Lauren Harrison, aka Lancer.” It opened before her. Cautiously Lancer entered. Pleasant lamplight glowed as she crossed the threshold, revealing a small, comfortably furnished apartment. It looked like a high class version of the last place she’d been happy; her first year of college, staying by herself in an off campus one bedroom.

  An overstuffed recliner sat in front of a large television. Lancer flopped down it, rocking gently and smiling. If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t so bad, especially when all she’d expected was Hell.

  She reached for the TV remote to see what was on. An envelope with her name on it sat on the small table beside the chair. Curious, she opened it. On elegant cream colored stationary, written in an equally elegant hand, was a simple message: “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re going to have company shortly.”

  No sooner had she sat the letter down when a firm knock came at the door. Lancer opened it, wondering if it would be a friend or family member who’d passed on coming to visit. It wasn’t. A tall, thin man, dressed in a natty black suit with bright red ascot stood before her. He smelled of sandalwood and good aftershave. His head was entirely bald, gleaming under the soft light of the foyer.

  “Should I call you Lauren or Lancer?” he said, flashing a brilliantly white smile of perfect teeth. He extended a strong, well-manicured hand to her in greeting. Lancer shook it, opening her mouth to answer his question.

  “Doesn’t matter, “the man flapped his free hand in friendly dismissal. “I’m Wilhelm. I represent your…landlord. We have a job for you.”

  Again, she attempted to speak. Wilhelm stepped past her into the apartment, effectively cutting her off again. “Nice place, huh? Much better than the rat hold you were living in on Earth, right?”

  “Totally,” Lancer spoke earnestly. “I’m so grateful to, well, my landlord, I guess.”

  “It’s not completely yours yet, my dear.” Wilhelm opened the large dual doors of the refrigerator wide. He pulled two bottles of orange soda, an all-time favorite of hers, opened them with a twist and handed one over to her. “Here you are. Dry as the desert around here.”

  “What kind of job?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You see, my employer hates to be misrepresented. The people who murdered you deem themselves worthy to call him Master, yet…they kill without thought, with no elegance. Slaughter should be with the purpose of bringing terror with it, am I correct?”

  “I don’t know. I never thought about it, honestly.”

  “No offense, my love, “Wilhelm drained his bottle of soda. It immediately refilled itself. “But you are what we call the lesser dead. One less junkie hooker on the street. The police don’t work too hard, your body rots in a pauper’s grave, the file grows dust in the cold case room.”

  “My supervisor wants you to return to Earth, in a semi-solid form able to affect reality and destroy physical matter. You are to eliminate all six of your murders, as creatively as you can. Spread fear, make people afraid to leave their homes. Make them scuttle around the streets as they head to work. Cause reason to look over their shoulders as they load groceries into their cars.”

  “I’ve never killed before,” Lancer considered what Wilhelm was saying. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Think on this,” he replied. “Those people took your life away. Yes, you were killing yourself slowly, but they took any choice out of your hands. They will do it again to someone else.”

  Raw anger kindled a bonfire in Lancer’s heart. A moment of shame crept into her as she realized that she didn’t really give a shit if the bastards did it to someone else. All she wanted was to settle up with them. True, what she’d called her life had been crap. It’d been her life though. Who were they to decide for her when it ended?

  “Okay,” she said quietly, looking up into Wilhelm’s grinning, handsome face. “I’m in. When do I do this?”

  “Oh, there are forms to sign. We’ll discuss terms, of course. Once your name is on the dotted line, I snap my fingers and off you go.” Wilhelm produced a single sheet of thick linen parchment paper from an inside suit pocket. “The Boss pays rent, keeps the fridge stocked, and you don’t burn in the eternal fires of Hell. Instead you get his efficiency condo in the borderlands. Not exactly heaven, but a lot better than the alternative, am I right?”

  “I’ve seen the movies, though,” Lancer said suspiciously. “There’s always a catch, right? So what is it?”

  “No catch this time,” Wilhelm actually seemed to feel no surprise at this question. “No offense, but we have bigger fish to fry. Besides, the Boss likes to do the charity thing once in a while. Still trying to look good to Papa, even after all these years. Just in case attitudes upstairs change, you know?”

  Lancer took her time looking over the document, turning it over and over in her hands. Trying to find some loophole that Wilhelm could exploit. It was straightforward though. Seemingly no catches. She signed the dotted line. He put the contract back into his pocket. They shook hands.

  “Out the door and off you go!” Wilhelm exclaimed, too many teeth showing in a predatory grin. “Happy hunting.”

  The apartment disappeared around them, taking Lancer’s visitor with it. She now stood in a large bedroom dominated by a massive four poster canopy bed. Three sleeping figures huddled under a thick duvet, one snoring softly. A small dog lay on a blanket covered hope chest situated at the foot of the bed.

  It was possibly the most elegant room she’d ever been it, but the antiques and plush carpet didn’t cover up the musky odor of fornication, a reek all too familiar to her. Lancer wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was a smell she’d never liked, something she’d hoped to never experience again.

  The dog sat up suddenly, starting awake with a soft bark. It stared at the spot where Lancer stood, upper lip pulling back in a snarl. She did not hesitate, grabbing it by the nape of its neck and twisting it sharply in both
hands. The snap of the vertebrae was louder than any noise the animal made in dying.

  Her strength was a surprise. Even more surprising was the slight joy felt at killing the dog. It was a little shit owned by big shits. She wondered how it would feel to slay the people in the bed. First, she needed to make sure these were the right ones, though.

  Evidence was abundant. The trio’s robes hung neatly on a corner rack, along with three matching pentagram medallions. Their daggers sat on a dressing table. The handles gleamed in the moonlight. Next to them stood a fat round container of disinfectant wipes.

  Fresh anger exploded inside her. Lancer’s fingers sunk deep into the dog’s warm corpse, drawing blood as they plowed through the animal’s thin skin to the knuckle. She quickly walked to one side of the bed. Contempt filled her eyes at the fat, bald old man sleeping, mouth hanging open, drool dripping onto a thick pillow. It was disgusting. The snore was the cherry on this sickening sundae. She wanted to make it stop.

  One hand grabbed the fat man’s jaw while her other began jamming the dog’s corpse, ass first, into his open mouth. He woke, attempting to pull away from the death grip on his face. It did no good. Lancer’s newfound power forced the dead animal down, dislocating the old man’s jaw in the process to accommodate the small body. He tried to scream, tried to flail about to release the hold, but the fuzzy toy poodle was blocking his airway. The old man died with the taste of blood and dog shampoo on his tongue.

  The young man in the middle sat up slowly. “Grey? Grey, what’s wrong?”

  Lancer snatched a handful of the boy’s shoulder length blonde hair. She twisted her fist in it, yanking him out from under the covers and slamming his slender body ribs first into one of the hard oak bedposts. It cracked loudly with the impact, breaking off the top portion to leave a jagged stump.

  Still grasping his hair, Lancer pulled the little maggot to his feet. Blood was running from his mouth. He swung wildly at her. His blows glanced off, resulting in a series of barely felt soft thuds. She reached down with her free hand to grasp his genitals. Cords stood out in her forearm as she squeezed. The boy screamed, a high pitched undulating wail of sheer agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  With one powerful movement, Lancer lifted him over her head. She laughed aloud. This was fucking awesome! With a flourish, she slammed him onto the points of the broken bedpost. The final bedmate shrieked, finally sitting up from her obviously drugged sleep to see the young man briefly impaled before his weight sent both post and fresh corpse crashing to the floor.

  The woman, middle aged and surgically altered, cowered with the thick bedspread pulled up to her mouth. Muffled sounds, half scream, half moan, came from her. What appeared to be implanted basketballs heaved rapidly under the blanket. Her eyes flicked over to the trio of daggers sitting on the dressing table. She lunged for the end of the bed, coming up short and doing a scrambling wiggle to the chest.

  Giggling at the terrified woman’s awkward moves, Lancer waited until the bitch stood, then rushed her. A powerful shove sent the woman into a large window. Glass cracked, yet did not break. Backing up to get a running start, Lancer tried again. This time the bimbo simply exploded out the window. Multitudes of small cuts covered the woman’s body. She seemed to hang in midair for a moment, waving her bleeding arms and legs frantically, then dropped to the stone patio beneath the window with a sick thud.

  In the afterglow of her outburst of ultraviolence, Lancer realized she should have kept one of them alive long enough to learn the location of the last three cultists. Crap. Too late now. Maybe there was an address book in the dressing table or something. If that would even help. She seriously doubted that the other member’s names were earmarked with a special symbol.

  The world around her began to fade in a red twinkle. Lancer was briefly alarmed, then relaxed as a whiff of Wilhelm’s strong aftershave followed the light. It seemed her benefactor’s agent was acting as a personal bloodhound.

  Winking out as suddenly as it appeared, the red glow faded to reveal a dirty living room. A large trash can sat near a couch obviously scavenged from a dumpster. The can was full of beer cans and fast food bags. A half-eaten pizza, cold and greasy, sat surrounded on a coffee table by discount rate liquor bottles, most empty. It reminded Lancer of being hired out to do frat parties. She shook her head in angry disgust. Filthy little children. Kicking them off the planet would be a favor to society.

  A high pitched whistle caught Lancer’s attention. A lump lay in front of the couch, wrapped in a dirty woolen blanket. Each exhale wafted out sour booze fumes. She took a careful step over to investigate. Near the tangled mass of curly, long brown hair lay the boy’s belt and dagger. Beside the unsheathed knife was a plastic cutting board laden with a half-eaten block of cheese. A large orange cat was nibbling on the corner, looking to where the ethereal girl stood with disinterest.

  Lancer examined the scene, then reached down and picked up one of the weapons that had ended her life. It wasn’t nicely cared for. A thin patina of rust spotted the blade. Crusty yellow imitation dairy product stuck to the edges. Oh well, she shrugged, reversing the dagger point down. It would serve her purpose well enough.

  She grabbed a corner of the blanket and flicked it away like a magician. Simultaneously, Lancer drove the knife down into the exposed side of the cultist’s throat. It rammed through to the hilt, tip sinking down into the hardwood floor. The boy’s eyes shot open. A low gurgling sound came forth, bringing with it a bubble of blood. He groped for the handle, pulling the weapon halfway out in the process.

  A full minute later, the kid’s hand fell away. His head rebounded dully off the floor before it became still. Lancer nodded to herself. Dodging the piles of dirty laundry and overflowing black trash bags, she walked down the short hallway. Two closed doors to either side, a bathroom, lit by a dim bulb over the water spotted mirror, lay at the end. She sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t have to go in there. The nasty den was bad enough. Even though her form wasn’t exactly solid, walking on what was sure to be a pee covered floor still grossed her out.

  The door on the right held nothing. Probably belonged the kid she’d already aced. Inside the other room was more dirty clothing and a queen sized bed holding three sleeping bodies.

  For crying out loud! Lancer thought, exasperated. Does everyone in this cult dig threesomes or what?

  Two heads of dyed hair, both the odd shade of blonde associated with discount store coloring products and inexperience, poked out on opposite sides of a young man with long black hair. The room smelled bad. A combo of old pizza, sex, and malt liquor. Eau de class, to be sure. At least the kid’s robe was clearly visible, hanging on a plastic hook glued to the wall. It appeared to be the only thing in the room that was tidy.

  Annoyed and uncertain, Lancer stood, trying to work out how to remove the guy without waking the two girls. She wanted to avoid waking them up. Screaming might bring others, keeping her from finishing the job. The conundrum was solved as Wilhelm’s voice spoke up in her head.

  “Fuck it!” he exclaimed. “Let them see! Let the two sluts spread it around the campus and the internet! The end result will be marvelous!”

  She grabbed the cultist by the ankles and ripped the little shithead from his bed. One quick change of direction slammed him ass first into the wall. He struck a stud dead center. His ass made nearly perfect craters in the drywall to either side of it. The two girls sat up, still half drunk. They were totally unaware of what was happening. One let out a shrill giggle.

  Lancer allowed the boy to get to his feet. He stood half hunched over, clutching his injured gooch. She jabbed a thumb deep into his eye, feeling the wet hollow touch the top of her hand as it jammed all the way in. He slapped a hand to it, bellowing out in pain. The bitch who’d found this situation humorous a moment ago let out a soft shriek.

  Next came the right ear. Lancer ripped it free of the skull, slightly surprised that it came completely off like plastic ones that had come with her ol
d Mr. Potato Head doll. She looked at it for a moment, noting with disgust a large glop of wax in the inner lobe. With a spastic motion borne of sheer ick, Lancer flung it into the face of one of the girls. Both screamed in unison.

  Meanwhile, the kid was stumbling around, hands clasped to the bleeding holes in his head. Lancer forked two fingers into each of the bastard’s nostrils and yanked upward. A red, gaping hole now replaced where the nose should’ve been. He wailed in pain, trying to cover all of the wounds at once.

  Gripping his wrists to prevent him from hiding the damage, Lancer whipped him about so that the bitches could see what she’d done. They went a shade of white. One fainted. The other slid down under the duvet to shield her from the gruesome scene.

  One final touch. Lancer thought. She released her grip and took a new one on his neck. With a deep grunt of effort, bones broke and muscle twisted apart. The tough, fibrous tissue shredded as the cultist’s head was turned completely around backwards.

  The world faded out around her in a crimson fog as the body dropped to the floor.

  “Bravo!” Wilhelm cried out in her head. “Now, cut the head off this snake and come home!”

  Lancer found herself staring at a middle aged woman sleeping in a battered recliner. Her robe was draped over a body made obese with indulgence. A yellow set of dentures sat in a filmy glass on an end table covered with dust and old paperbacks, most bloated with water damage.

  It was a bit of a shock. She’d expected the leader of a cult to live in a grand home, much like or even better than the first three. This home was crammed full of boxes filled up with junk. Old magazines, newspapers, even stacks of catalogs from decades past dominated every inch. The stink was incredible, even worse than the college kid’s apartment. Several cat boxes in desperate need of cleaning were lined up against one wall. Half-eaten food on dirty plates were everywhere.