Authors: Kristopher Rufty
Miles
gripped handfuls of grass as if he might fall. Monica paced back and forth
alongside the car. All he could see were her hands and feet through the gap,
going one way, then coming back. He’d been tempted to slide out the other side,
but he was convinced she was quicker than him. No doubt she’d catch him before
he got very far.
The
machete was useless to him under here. He didn’t have the room he needed to
stab with any vigor. He might be able to swing at her, but he doubted the force
would be strong enough to do any damage.
The
bag was up by the front wheel. He could see a piece of it poking out from
behind the tire. He wanted to grab it and pull it under the car with him, but
it was probably too big and would give him a fight. By then, Monica would have
noticed and taken it away. So far, she hadn’t paid the bag any attention. Or
she was waiting for him to make a grab for it so she could get him. Either way,
it might as well have been on the moon. He couldn’t use it.
So,
where did that leave him?
Screwed.
Maybe
not. There had to be something he could do.
As
it was right now, she was waiting on his move. Patiently. She’d probably wait
all night if he allowed it. Before long, someone else would come by. Most likely
an imp, and if enough of them gathered together, they could turn the car over
and pull him out.
He
needed to do something, and fast.
****
Two
nymphs untied Hoffman from the chair, but kept his wrists bound together in
front of him. Karen recognized the one with long bangs as Ginger, the opening
act from last night. The other had been here last night as well, serving drinks
before becoming a molded piece of that nymph totem. She didn’t know her name,
but she couldn’t forget the face.
Karen
had thought about screaming at them to stop, or trying to kick them. She knew
there was no point. She’d only look stupid in front of all these people. Give
them something to laugh it.
The
crowd shuffled closer, getting a better view of the show about to commence.
Even the servants—nymphs—had stopped the ruse of serving drinks, and the
customers, so they could watch. Gathered around Karen, they stood in a huddle,
ready for action. Barely any of them gave her even a fleeting glance, and those
who did, acted as if they didn’t care she was tied up against her will.
“She’s
tied
up,” Karen heard a woman say.
A
man shushed her.
“Don’t
do that to me,” she said. “Look at her arms.”
“So.”
“She’s
tied in the chair.”
“Maybe
she likes it.”
Karen
craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of whoever was talking about her. She
saw a blonde, hair cut short in the back but lengthy in the front. She looked
to be around Karen’s age, pretty, but obviously uncomfortable being here from
the way she stood in a tense pose, eyes flashing around the room timidly. The
man—probably her husband—was sipping from a mixed drink. He was much shorter
and pudgier than his companion, bald on top with a closely-cropped horseshoe of
hair around his dome.
Blondie
glanced at Karen and quickly looked away.
“She’s
looking at me,” Blondie told her husband.
“So
what, Heather? What do you want me to do about it?”
“Dammit
Harold, I don’t think she wants to be tied up like that.”
“Just
ignore her, Heather. I don’t want to get involved.”
Asshole.
Customers
began to cheer. Karen turned away from Heather and her dimwitted husband to see
the front. Alexia was finishing up strapping Hoffman down to the heart-shaped
bed. They’d removed his heavy coat at some point before lying him down. It was
now a black wrinkled heap on the stage floor. Without it, Hoffman looked so
small and thin.
And
old.
I’ve
got to get loose! I’ve got to help him!
She
knew she wouldn’t get far, if she made an attempt for the stage. She had Alexia
and Ginger to deal with. What would likely happen, though, the customers would
stop her before she even got close.
Karen
was still going to try.
Turning
her head, she saw Heather watching her, concern creasing her brow. Karen
motioned with her head for Heather to come over there in two quick thrusts.
Heather’s eyes widened, then she looked at Harold to see if he’d noticed. Eyes
glued on the stage, Harold hadn’t noticed a thing.
Karen
mouthed:
Please help me.
Biting
down on her bottom lip, Heather looked conflicted. And scared. Karen couldn’t
blame her for it. She wondered how she’d react if the roles were reversed.
Karen
caught the chalky scent of the stage fog a moment before seeing it curling over
her, spreading to a thin haze.
The
room went crazy with whistles and applause.
“Oh
no…” Karen faced the stage. A swirling wall of fog blocked almost everything.
She recognized its pink spill from last night. Victoria was coming. “Shit.”
Behind
the vaporous neon curtain, a form sloughed into shape. A woman’s shape. Karen
recognized it right away as Victoria’s lean but shapely body. The fog parted
like drapes and there she was, on her knees next to Hoffman on the bed. Naked
and slightly damp, she looked as if she was air-drying after a shower. Her
large breasts were hanging close enough to Hoffman’s mouth that he could have
kissed them. Her hands rubbed slow circles on his chest. Alexia and Ginger
stood off to the side, watching as their hands roamed their bodies.
The
crowd exploded into ovations at the sight of her. The rumbles of approval
spread through them.
Victoria
spoke. Even without the aid of the microphone, her voice overpowered the
indistinct chatter of the audience. “We have come to this moment, my lovers,
when we persuade our enemy to become our friend.” Her hand slid under his belt,
diving into his pants. Karen saw the stroking movements of her hand behind the
fabric.
Hoffman
screwed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth. Fighting it.
Come
on, Hoffman. Hang in there!
“There
you go!” cried a drunken man from the crowd. “Hand job his ass!”
Others
laughed nervously, as if they were afraid of making too much noise.
“I
ask that you do not blame him for his actions,” Victoria continued. “But, to
forgive him, and when he accepts me, you will accept him.”
With
her free hand, she grabbed the belt, and started to tug the tongue through the
clasp. She wasn’t wasting any time getting started, but Karen was wasting
plenty by watching.
Whipping
her head around as far as she could, she found Heather. No longer staring at
Karen, her eyes were locked on the stage. A hand was pressed to the heavily
exposed cleavage through her wispy shirt, fingers kneading. It looked as if she
was starting to fall into the rhythm of the crowd.
Karen
couldn’t let that happen.
She
threw up a leg, waving her foot. Heather didn’t notice. The second time, Karen
used both feet, waggling her legs eagerly. The chair leaned back, almost
toppling over, but she caught herself.
Heather
noticed Karen’s wild dancing movements. Karen put her legs down, leaning to the
side, and mouthing her pleas of help.
Finally,
Heather came.
Miles
scooted away from Monica’s grabbing hand. Her fingers got his shirt in a tight
grip. Yanking his arm, the shirt ripped, leaving a scrap of fabric in her hand.
Roaring in frustration, Monica started to pull her hand out from under the car.
Miles
lunged, gripping her wrist with both hands before she could get away. It was a
painful position, contorting his body almost into a crescent. But, he made it
work. He knew he couldn’t keep this going for long, but he wouldn’t have to.
His idea was to piss her off enough to screw up.
What
am I doing? This is stupid!
Stupid
as it was, it was all he had.
Monica
yanked her arm, flinging Miles forward in a single lunge. His forehead knocked
against the oil pan. Stars burst in front of him, shattering in a variety of
bright colors. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go.
So,
Monica tried again, this time yanking with all her might.
Right
when Monica’s weight heaved back, Miles released her wrist.
And
watched the creature tumble.
She
landed on her rump, legs flying up as she rolled back.
Laughing,
Miles was momentarily stunned that his plan had worked. Now that she was down,
he could go out the other side and run like hell. The laughter, along with the
short-winded feeling of accomplishment was strangled when Monica sprung to her
feet like a cat.
“Oh,
I’m dead meat!”
Monica
charged with her head down like a rhino about to gore. Screaming, Miles wormed
his way back, realized he wasn’t going to make it out in time, and ducked his
head. He covered himself with his arms.
He
heard the thunderous crash of Monica colliding with the car. Felt it lift
slightly. A wave of defeat rushed through him when he realized he was about to
die.
Monica’s
growls were right in his ear.
Then
the car dropped back down.
The
shocks groaned as the car rocked, things inside clamoring around. When the car
stopped shaking, Miles heard the weakened moans to his right. Slowly, he lifted
his head between his entwined fingers in his hair.
Monica
had been pinned down by the car when it landed on the back of her shoulders,
pressing her down to the ground. Her mouth slowly opened and closed like a fish
slowly dying on a pier. One arm was stuffed between the muffler pipes, and the
other was squeezed against her so she couldn’t move it.
Miles
couldn’t believe his idea had worked, although a variation of the original.
Wanting to celebrate, he knew he couldn’t take the time to enjoy his victory. Miles
grabbed the machete, squirming away from Monica in reverse, working his way out
from under the car, feet first.
On
his knees, Miles enjoyed a moment of freedom without the car’s confinements. He
took several deep breaths.
And
noticed how quiet it was.
The
music had stopped. There were no sounds of chatter or partying. No one talking.
Nothing.
Standing
up, he gazed at The Skin Show. It looked deserted up there. No line, no
lingerers, no one standing guard.
Something
was happening. Or it already had and he was too late.
He
might have stood there pondering for a long time if the deep squeak of the car
shifting hadn’t pulled his attention. Eyes rounding, Miles spun around. The car
was starting to lift up as Monica performed a push-up underneath it.
“Shit!”
Running
over to Monica, he stood at her hip. He raised the machete up like it was an
ax, bringing it down in a vicious swipe. The blade hit the lumpy hardness of
her back, yelped with a sparkly pop, and recoiled off. Miles felt the painful
vibrations traveling up his arms.
The
stuff on her back was some kind of armor. The blade couldn’t puncture it.
Holding the machete up, he checked it for damage. It seemed fine, but he knew
there was no use trying again.
He
ran for the duffel bag, dropping to his knees when he reached it. He jerked it
open and rummaged around inside. He felt Hoffman’s sawed-off shotgun, and
decided against it.
The
car shook with Monica’s wiggling hips. In a moment she’d have her head pried
free.
Panic
threatened to seize Miles. Holding it back, he plowed through the contents
inside the bag. And his fingers formed around a cool ball of metal.
He
smiled.
Standing
up, Miles draped the bag over his shoulder and walked over to where Monica
struggled to free herself. He removed the grenade from the duffel bag. A ring
dangled from the top, softly clinking against the metal surface. Raising it up,
he put his other hand underneath to support its weight.
He’d
never used one before, but understood how they worked from watching movies.
Slipping his finger through the ring, he pulled. The pin resisted, so he pulled
harder, gritting his teeth. When it felt as if the ring might slice through his
finger, the pin suddenly shot out, nearly twirling him around. He quickly
brought his hands together, clutching the clip so strongly it grated against
the grenade’s metal surface.
Then
he tossed the grenade, underhanded. It rolled under the car.
Pressing
the bag close to his side, he ran as fast as he could. Ignored the soreness in
his body, the pain in his head and feet, and
ran
.
When
he reached the other row, the grenade detonated in a shower of fire. Miles
looked back, seeing the Mustang shooting off the ground, fire reaching up from
underneath and around the car like a blazing hand. Fingers of fire curled
around the top, and snatched it back down in a heap of burning metal.
Miles
pumped his fist in the air. “Yeah!” Then he turned back, running for the club.
Victoria
had Hoffman’s pants around his knees as she gingerly played with his penis. It
was limp and shriveled, so far withstanding her defiling efforts. Karen doubted
he could persevere much longer before his body responded to Victoria’s
courting.
“I
told you I don’t feel comfortable…” Crouched beside Karen, Heather’s nose
wrinkled as if she was about to change a diaper for the first time.
“I
have to help him. Do you think this is right? This?” She thrust her shoulders
to specify the audience watching the depraved display on stage. “This place is
evil. Haven’t you realized that? Didn’t you see the glowing giant monsters
trolling around outside?”
“I
just thought they were people in costumes.”
“That’s
what they want you to think, if it’ll get you in here. Once you’re in here, it
no longer matters. They have you at their disposal then. Put on these sex shows
to lure you into their world. Once you fall for it, they can do whatever they
want to you.”
“I
don’t know about that. But, I don’t like it here. I only came with my husband
because he wants to try new things.”
“If
you try The Skin Show, it will be last thing you
ever
try. Please, untie
me.”
“I
shouldn’t…” She swayed, nearly falling back. “I’m dizzy.”
“They
drugged you. They look at you as a threat, so they’re taking you out of the
equation.”
“What…?”
“Please.”
“I
just can’t believe what you’re telling me. Demons? Monsters? And now they’re
giving me drugs?”
Karen
thought about arguing what they really were, but figured it was hard enough for
Heather to comprehend demons, let alone nymphs. “Don’t worry about what you
believe. Just please untie me and then get the hell out of here.”
Heather
thought about it a moment longer. “Okay…I’ll untie you. Harold’s gonna be
pissed at me for interfering with someone else’s foreplay, though.”
“This
is
not
foreplay.”
Heather
reached behind the chair and started fumbling with the rope.
Karen
checked the stage again, inspecting Hoffman’s penis. No longer shriveled, it
was starting to expand as Victoria milked his testicles. Hoffman continued to
strain, as if his mind was a stampede of conflicting thoughts. Then he stopped
trying, letting his head fall back on the pillow. Huffing for air, tears dotted
the corners of his eyes.
“Forgive
me,” he said.
His
penis sprang to life in Victoria’s hand. The crowd cheered, shouting their
approvals and endorsements at Hoffman.
“And
it begins!” screamed Victoria. “He resisted until he could no longer, and now
he has acquiesced. I will take him as my own servant, to satisfy me until I
grow bored of him.”
“How’s
those ropes coming back there?” Karen asked.
“Sorry.
Got my stupid nails done today for Harold. Just broke one of them trying to get
this knot loose.”
“I
really appreciate your helping me, but please hurry.”
“I’m
trying
! My body feels like it’s trying to go to sleep.”
“Fight
it. Keep moving around so your adrenaline burns it out of your system. How many
drinks have you had?”
“I
was on my second.”
“You
should be fine.”
Victoria
threw her leg across Hoffman’s lap, settling on her knees, folding her legs
under her. She reached between her thighs and grabbed his erection.
“Got
it!” cried Heather.
Karen
wriggled her wrists, feeling the rope’s searing hold drop away. She jerked her
arms in front of her. Ruddy bracelets circled her wrists, purpling with bruises
around the edges. Her arms tingled as she moved them.
“Thank
you. Now go!”
Karen
stood up.
Alexia
spotted her from the stage. Her proud smile twisted into a scowl as she stepped
forward.
The
explosion outside rocked the club. The floor trembled. Glasses rattled, some smashing
when they fell.
“What
the hell was that?” somebody called.
“A
damn explosion!” called another.
Victoria,
straddling Hoffman’s lap, held his penis between her legs. It was softening in
her hand. Noticing, Victoria screamed. “No! You will not repent! I will have
you!”
Gunshots
resounded from somewhere outside. The deep pops of gunfire caused the crowd to
scramble in all directions. What had been laughter and applause had turned into
screams and stomps of countless feet heading for the exit.
“Get
out there!” cried Victoria.
The
naked servants began to change. Karen counted four of them, their skin splitting
as horns came through. Wings unfurled from their backs. They tore their faces
away like cheap masks, unveiling hideous features underneath. The rest of their
fake skin hung from their bodies like clothes that didn’t fit right.
Wings
flapping, they shot off the ground.
“Summon
the imps!” Victoria added.
A
softly sweet and pleasant melody came from the flying nymphs humming mouths as
they swirled together like moths around a light. When the melody ended, they
shot off, tearing through the crowd and throwing fleeing bodies out of their
way as they zipped into the hallway.
Heather,
still squatting behind Karen’s chair, ducked to avoid being trampled by the
remaining customers on their way out. Karen helped her up, holding her on her
feet. Heather’s legs felt jellied, weak. “Listen to me!”
Heather
blinked, then looked at Karen as if noticing her for the first time. “What’s
happening?”
“Our
help has arrived! Get out of here!”
Heather
turned, searching the bolting crowd. “Where’s Harold?!”
“He
probably left already! Go! And, thank you!”
She
shoved Heather away from her. When she saw that Heather’s feet had taken over
her departure, Karen turned away, and grabbed her chair. She raised it up and
smashed it on the floor. She picked up two broken, jagged legs, and ran for the
stage.
“It’s
the boy!” she heard Alexia say. “He’s here! What’d he do to my Vern?!”
Victoria,
still holding Hoffman’s deflated member, noticed Karen. “Stop her!”
Her
order was too late. She’d already leapt onto the stage, and shoved the broken
chair leg through Ginger’s back. It burst through her stomach in a spray of
blood.
Shrieking,
Ginger dropped to her knees, gripping the leg jutting from her. Karen raised
the other chair leg and brought it down with both hands. The sharp tip met the
back of Ginger’s head, exiting through her mouth, and silencing her shrieks.
Karen wrenched it out, pushing Ginger’s body out of her way.
By
the time her body touched the stage floor, it was bubbling and turning to
liquid. Seeing Ginger’s body melting on the stage brought an enraged roar from
Alexia. As Alexia screamed, her false flesh pared down her body like the skin
of a banana. Underneath were navy green scales, a pointy nose, elongated chin,
and tattered black wings. A Mohawk of horns ran up her skull in tiny points.
Alexia
launched herself forward. Karen was just starting to swing the improvised club
as she was snatched up. The floor went out from under her feet, and she started
to rise by the arms hugging around her back. Alexia glared at her through
yellow, mucus-filled eyes, rage furrowing the already distorted features and
miniscule sharp teeth.
“You
will die!” growled Alexia.
Of
course she would. It was inevitable. But, knowing something that Alexia had
failed to notice brought out laughter in trilling hysterics. The frown that
appeared on Alexia’s demonic face made the laughter even more intense.
Karen
still had the club.
Which
she thrust into Alexia’s stomach.
Crying,
Alexia released Karen from the embrace.
Karen
felt as if she just hovered in the air for several long moments. Then gravity
seemed to be tired of seeing her up near the high ceiling and yanked her back
down.
In
her descent, Karen glimpsed Hoffman watching her from the bed, his mouth an
opened gasp. Then she felt the floor underneath her, and to her surprise, its
solidity gave way, letting her drop some more.
Head
back, arms extended above her, she could see the hole she’d caused becoming
smaller.
Like
the rabbit hole in
Alice in Wonderland
…
Her
feet hit something hard, then her body followed. She landed on her front and
rolled over. With the rough surface under her back, she continued to plunge,
bouncing along the rugged slide.
Her
speed began to decrease as the slope’s girth became skinnier. Clods of dirt dug
into her back through her shirt, pulling it up her body as if to shove its
minimal protection out of the way of her skin. Serrated tips gouged and scraped
welts until she finally came to a halt near the bottom where the slope leveled
against a flat shallow.
****
Hanging
onto the imp’s shoulders, Miles brought the machete around the front and slit
its throat. Blood vomited from the wound, dousing the blade as he ran it back.
Letting go, Miles dropped, landing in a crouch. He scurried between the
creature’s legs, saw another one clambering up from underground, pulling itself
to the surface, and jumped. In the air, arms bent back, he held the machete in
both hands as if it were a sacrificial tool.
The
blade punched through the top of its skull. Miles yanked the machete through
the front of the creature’s face.
Both
monsters burst into tiny slivers.
Panting,
he checked the sky. Cutting across the washed-out darkness were winged nymphs,
circling like vultures. Watching, the imps were attacking everyone they could.
Imps had been crawling out of the ground, like zombies rising from the grave.
“I
can’t find my husband!”
Miles
whirled around. A blonde woman stood before him, hugging herself. She was
pretty without being trashy like a lot of the women he’d seen fleeing the club.
Though, her eyeliner had smeared from tears, leaving a black trail down one
cheek.
A
car sped away behind the woman, barely swerving to avoid hitting her, and not
bothering to stop.
“Your
husband?”
“He
left me inside…I can’t find him!”
Miles
ran to her. “I can’t help you look for him. I have to save my friends.”
“The
woman and old man?”
“You
know them?”
“They’re
inside.” Her face suddenly stretched into a scream. “Look out!”
Miles
turned as the nymph swooped for him. He ducked under grabbing arms, thrusting
the machete up in a blind move. He felt it strike something solid and push in.
Holding on tightly, the nymph slid across the puncturing blade, slicing herself
from the stomach down. She released a pain-filled shriek.
Yanking
the machete down, he spun around. The nymph dipped to the side missing the
woman, and crashed into the backdoors of a van. Not checking to see if he’d
killed the nymph, Miles grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her away from the
van. She came without any conflict.
Running,
they stepped down on a patch of grass that had started to shiver under them. “Come
on!” Miles called, pulling her away from the grass as an imp’s arm came
through. “Imps are coming out of the ground!”
“What’s
coming out of the ground?!”
“Things
we want to get away from!”
Miles
saw a man on his back, using his elbows to crawl away from an imp. Miles
skidded to a halt, dropping the bag in front of him. Crouching, he reached into
the bag, grabbed a .45, and stood up. He’d already spent the rounds in the 9mm.
“You’ve
got guns?” asked the woman.
“Hush!”
he said.
Miles
jacked the cylinder. Raised the gun. And fired once.
The
bullet pierced the imp’s left eye, throwing its head back. Its body followed.
The imp shattered when it hit the ground.
Rolling
onto his stomach, the man gazed at Miles. “You saved me?”
Ignoring
the question, Miles picked up the bag, and threw it over his shoulder. Then he
snatched up the machete, keeping it in his left hand, the gun in his right.
“Where
are you going?” asked the woman.
“I
have to go inside.”
“No,
don’t! It’s awful in there. Don’t go!”
“I’m
not leaving them!”
“What
about me?” the woman cried. “What am I supposed to do?”
Miles
stared at her, feeling sorry. Such a pretty woman, married to an asshole that
would leave her when things got scary. Shaking his head, Miles held the pistol
out to her. “Take it.”
“Wha…?”
“What
about me?” called the man. “I need a gun, too!”
Miles
acted as if he hadn’t heard the man. “Take this. I have to go.”
The
woman held out a trembling hand, taking the gun. “Thank you.”
Miles
nodded, turning away from her.
“Hey
kid,” she said.
Miles
stopped, looked back. “Yeah.”
“Good
luck.”
“Thanks.”
He
started for The Skin Show. The man was on his knees, arms held out as if he’d
been insulted.
Three
quick shots rang out. Miles dropped to a crouch, looking back. The woman held
the gun out, both hands clutching it tightly. A spiraling trail of smoke
swirled from the barrel.
A
nymph dropped from the sky, landing on its side between them. Miles’s mouth
slacked open.
“Keep
going,” she said. “I’ll cover you.”
Miles
looked at the guy, still in the spot where Miles had saved his life. “I think
she can do it, kid.”
Miles
nodded. “Thanks.”
He
grabbed the bag and ran away as more shots boomed behind him.