SERIAL UNCUT

SERIAL
UNCUT

BLAKE
CROUCH
,

Compilation copyright 2009 by Blake Crouch
& Joe Konrath

SERIAL UNCUT copyright (c) 2010 by Blake Crouch
& Joe Konrath

Interview copyright (c) 2009 by Blake Crouch
& Joe Konrath

Afraid copyright (c) 2009 by Joe Konrath,
originally published by Grand Central

Snowbound copyright (c) 2010 by Blake Crouch,
originally published by Minotaur Books

Shaken copyright (c) 2010 by Joe Konrath

Illustrations and graphic design copyright (c)
2010 by Jeroen ten Berge
Smashwords Edition

This eBook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are either products of the authors' imaginations or used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
without permission in writing from Joe Konrath & Blake
Crouch.

INTRODUCTION

The original version of SERIAL, still
available as a free ebook, was a 7500-word horror short story
written as an experiment. In less than a year, that experiment was
downloaded over 200,000 times, and has received over a hundred
scathingly negative reviews, with many people claiming it was the
most depraved, awful thing they've ever read.
SERIAL UNCUT is over 36,000 words, much of it brand new. Along with
the insertion of additional material too extreme for the original
version, it also has a vastly expanded beginning and ending,
including an extended section that originally appeared in the
novella TRUCK STOP.
If you can handle horrific thrills, proceed at your own risk.
But if you suffer from anxiety attacks, nervous disorders,
insomnia, nightmares or night terrors, heart palpitations, stomach
problems, or are of an overly sensitive nature, you should read
something else instead.
The authors are in no way responsible for any lost sleep, missed
work, failed relationships, or difficulty in coping with life after
you have read SERIAL UNCUT. They will not pay for any therapy you
may require as a result of reading SERIAL UNCUT. They will not
cradle you in their arms, rock you back and forth, and speak in
soothing tones while you unsuccessfully try to forget SERIAL
UNCUT.
You have been warned...

PART ONE

Tampa, 1978

"
Didn't anyone ever tell you about the
dangers of hitchhiking?" the driver said. "You never know who's
going to pick you up."

Donaldson wiped sweat from his brow and eyed
the driver through the half-open passenger side window of the
Lincoln Continental. The driver was average-looking, roughly
Donaldson's age, dressed in a dark suit that matched the car's
paint job.

"
I'm roasting out here, man,"
Donaldson said. And it wasn't far from the truth. He'd been walking
down this desolate highway for damn near three hours in the
abusive, summer sun. "My car died. If you want to rob or kill me,
that's fine, as long as you have air conditioning."

Donaldson forced a bright smile, hoping he
looked both pathetic and non-threatening. It must have worked,
because the man hit a switch on his armrest, and the door
unlocked.

Must be nice being
rich,
Donaldson mused at the fancy automatic locks.
Then he opened the door and heaved his bulk onto the leather
seat.

"
Thanks," he said.

The car was cooler than outside, but not by
much. Donaldson wondered if the man's air worked. He placed his
hand against the vent, felt a trickle of cold leaking out.

"
Happy to help a fellow traveler. I'm
Mr. K."

"
Donaldson."

Neither made a move to shake hands. Mr. K
checked his mirror, then gunned the 8-cylinder engine, spraying
gravel as the luxury car fishtailed back onto the asphalt.

Donaldson adjusted his bulk, shifting the
.38 he'd crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The pants were
loose enough, and Donaldson portly enough, that he doubted Mr. K
noticed.

"
You're sunburned," Mr. K
said.

"
Sun'll do that to you."

Donaldson touched his bare forearm, lobster
red, and winced. Then he flipped down the visor mirror, saw how bad
his face was. It looked like his old man had slapped the shit out
of him, and hurt almost as much.

"
Your car a Pinto?" Mr. K
asked.

"
My car?"

"
A Pinto. Saw one about five miles
back."

Donaldson contemplated the harm in admitting
it. He supposed it didn't matter. Before he'd abandoned the car,
he'd wiped it clean of fingerprints.

"
Yeah. Blew a rod, I
think."

"
Why didn't you wait for the
police?"

Again, Donaldson deliberated before
answering. "I don't like pigs," he finally said.

Mr. K nodded. Donaldson doubted the man
shared his sentiment. His hair was short, he was well-dressed, and
he owned a fancy car. Cops wouldn't hassle him. They were too busy
hassling people with long hair and beards and ripped jeans.

People like me.

The highway stretched onward, wiggly heat
waves rising off the tarmac. There wasn't much traffic. Only about
twenty cars had passed Donaldson during his long walk, and not one
had so much as slowed down. Bastards. Whatever happened to human
compassion?

"
Did you kill the car's owner before
you stole it?" Mr. K asked.

Alarm bells sounded in Donaldson's head. He
frantically pawed at his .38, but Mr. K slammed on the brakes.

Donaldson bounced off the dashboard,
smacking his sunburned nose hard. During the momentary
disorientation, he was aware of Mr. K throwing the car into park,
unbuckling his seatbelt, and pressing a thin-bladed knife under
Donaldson's double chin with one hand, while digging the .38 from
Donaldson's front pocket with the other.

"
You should buckle up," Mr. K said.
"Seatbelts save lives."

Mr. K stuck the knife into his breast
pocket, belted himself back in, then hit the gas. The tires
screamed and the Continental shot forward.

"
I'm bleeding," Donaldson said, his
hands cupped around his nose. He knew it was a stupid, obvious
thing to say, but he was still dazed and trying to buy some
time.

"
Tissues in the glove
compartment."

Donaldson dug them out, feeling more ashamed
than hurt. This guy had gotten the better of him much too easily.
As he mopped the blood from his face, Mr. K pressed a button to
open the passenger side window.

"
Throw the used ones outside,
please."

Donaldson went through ten tissues, tossing
each one onto the road whizzing by. Then he ripped one more into
pieces, balled them up, and shoved them into each nostril,
staunching the trickle. He kept an eye on Mr. K the entire time,
alternating between watching the man's eyes, and watching the .38
pointed at him.

This is a real bad situation.

"
I don't enjoy repeating myself, but
you hit that dashboard pretty hard, so I'll ask one more time. Did
you kill the driver before you stole the Pinto?"

Donaldson knew he was screwed, but he didn't
want to get himself even more screwed.

"
You a cop?" he asked, not sure if
that would be a good thing or a bad thing.

The barest flash of mirth crossed Mr. K's
face. "No. But your biggest worry right now shouldn't be getting
arrested. Your biggest worry should be the hole I'm going to put in
your head if you don't answer me."

The gears began to turn in Donaldson's
head.
How the hell do I get through this?
Talk my way out?

"
You won't shoot me," Donaldson said,
surprised by how calm he sounded.

"
No?"

"
You'd ruin your car."

Again, a faint hint of a smile. "It's not my
car. And you still haven't answered my question."

Mr. K thumbed back the hammer on the
pistol.

Donaldson contemplated his own death--the
first time in his life he ever had--and decided dying would be a
very bad thing.

"
I killed him," Donaldson said
quickly.

Mr. K seemed to think about this. He nodded
slowly. "Was it someone you knew?"

"
No. Jumped him in a parking lot in
Sarasota. Wouldn't have wasted the bullet if I knew what a piece of
crap his car was."

Donaldson watched Mr. K's eyes. They
betrayed nothing. The two of them might as well have been talking
about the weather.

"
How'd it feel?" Mr. K
asked.

"
How did what feel?"

"
Killing that man."

What kind of freaky talk
is this?
Donaldson thought, but all he said was, "I
dunno."

"
Sure you do. Did it feel good? Bad?
Numb? Did it get you excited? Did you feel guilty
afterward?"

Donaldson thought back to the day before. To
holding the gun to the man's ribs. Seeing the shock in his eyes
when he squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Watching him
flop to the ground in a way that had struck him as funny. The holes
in his chest had made sucking sounds, blowing tiny blood
bubbles.

"
Excited," Donaldson said.

"
Did he die right away?"

"
No."

"
Did you stay and watch him
die?"

"
Yeah."

"
How long did it take?"

It's so strange that we're both so calm
about this.

Donaldson shrugged. "Few minutes, I
guess."

"
Did you do anything else to
him?"

"
Like what?"

"
Did you hurt him first?" Mr. K raised
an eyebrow. "Rape him?"

Donaldson scowled. "Do I look like a queer
to you?"

"
What does being a homosexual have to
do with it? You had a human being at your mercy. That excited you.
I'm asking if you capitalized on that opportunity. If you made the
most of it."

Donaldson thought about it. The
guy
had
been at his mercy.
He'd begged for a while when Donaldson pulled the gun, and that was
kind of a turn-on.

"
I didn't rape him," Donaldson
said.

"
Could you have raped him?"

Donaldson licked some dried blood off of his
top lip, let the salty, copper taste linger on his tongue. "Yeah. I
could've."

This answer seemed to satisfy Mr. K. He was
quiet for over a minute.

The road stretched out ahead of them like a
giant black snake.

Empty swampland and blue skies as far as
Donaldson could see.

I can't believe I'm telling him this stuff.
Is it because he's threatening to kill me?

Or because he understands?

"
How'd you know?" Donaldson
asked.

"
Know what?"

"
That I stole that car?"

Mr. K offered a half-smile. "I saw the gun
in your pocket when you stopped, along with your clumsy attempt to
hide it. You should get an ankle holster, or stuff it in your belt
at the small of your back. You obviously aren't a Florida native,
or you'd have a tan already. That means you flew in or drove in. If
you flew, you probably would've had a rental car, and those are
usually new. That Pinto was an old model. When you first got in, I
noticed the powder burns on your shirt, and under your rather
oppressive body odor, you smell like gunpowder."

Donaldson was impressed, but he refused to
show it. He knew a lot about being victimized. One way to stop
being a victim was to stop acting like a victim.

"
I asked how you knew about the car,
not my gun," Donaldson said, sticking out his lower jaw.

If Mr. K noticed Donaldson's display of
bravado, he didn't react. "Your loose jeans didn't jingle when you
sat down in the car. When people abandon their vehicles, they take
their keys with them. So I assumed it wasn't yours."