All or Nothing (9 page)

“That's a mighty long word for you, coming from a Spic.”

“Aren’t you listening to me? She – my wife – could die....She needs medical help!”

“I know.”

“So let them go....it’s nothing to you, they haven’t fucking seen you!!”

“Are we really going to have this fight again? I don’t think your wife could stand another hole in her back."

“No, you’re right.... I’m sorry. You have....have to understand the position I'm in here.”

“Oh I do, don’t you worry.”

“Huh?”

“I understand what you’re going through here.”

Francisco was confused for a second. “How’s that?”

The figure stepped across to Francisco and knelt down to his level. He laughed a little, the laugh of a demon with a gravelly voice. Amy moaned in the background.

“My wife lasted seven hours. She was hardcore, and I always knew she would be, the entire eight years we were married, she always was a strong bitch. I expected her to last longer, to be honest, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

Francisco stared at the man.

“I started with nailing her hands to the chair she was strapped to, then I removed the straps and she still couldn’t move from the chair. Apparently it hurts like a bitch with nails through your hands and feet, saps your energy, makes your body shut down. But she didn’t protest, she didn’t even shed a tear, not even out of pain. I admired that so much I sat and watched her for an hour, doing fuck all, just watching. It got me kind of hot. Then I shattered a baseball bat across her head. I mean an hour was too long, she had worked the nails free from her hands - well, three quarters of the way free. I couldn’t have her escaping. That was the best bit, seeing her nailed down with blood gushing down her naked body from her head wound. But, guess what?”

Francisco didn’t say a word. He looked at his family, and closed his eyes to block out the horror before him.

“She still didn’t cry, just stared at me, and watched me too. Gave up on the nail release and just stared me out. I admired her then, and I could have beat myself off to it, but I decided not to. I wasn’t ever going to get sexual gratification from that whore ever again.”

The intruder stood up and walked away to the counter behind the De Goya family and picked something up. Then he turned back. He held up his hand.

Dangling from it was a human arm, just bone, clear of flesh and sinew. It was snapped at the forearm, nearer the elbow then the wrist, still barely attached. He swung it like a medal or a bribe to a kid. A sick grin lit up his face.

“She screamed when I did this, I finally got her to admit defeat. Man, I was proud of that, when she finally admitted she was the loser, that I was right. Ever seen a woman, nailed to a chair, covered in blood, with one arm snapped, and still struggling about? There are no words to describe it. I reckon it’s better than sex.”

Francisco was worn down now. He felt nauseous and sick and vile and dirty and was close to tears once again. None came, but his senses remained an afterthought. It was as if he was a puppet to all of them equally, none giving him any leeway to perform to any of them to the full.

“Please, just let.....let them go.....do whatever you want to me.....not them.”

“Oh no, I'm sorry, lad.”

“Just let us go!”

“Let me tell you this, Francisco De Goya, you’re not going anywhere, my son, and neither are Amy or Sadie, okay?”

“How the fuck?”

“Do you really think that if I can kill my wife with no qualms at all, that I'm going to reconsider you and your pathetic family?”

“Please....it’s not too late....”

“Just so you know, the pigs won’t be saving you, your wife and kid won’t be getting a funeral, and you certainly won’t be found once I'm done with you.”

“Let them go, please....I’m begging you!”

“Francisco, the only way any of you are getting out of here is in a fucking body bag.”

“You fuck, you sick fuck,
fuck you!
"

“Choose one.”

“Fuck you...”

“Choose one, your wife or your kid. Which one will live?”

“Huh? What?”

“You fucking heard!” The monster’s tone became deeper.

“I can’t choose that.”

“But you will.”

“I won’t choose, fuck you! Why should I believe you?”

The intruder pulled a gun from his belt and placed it against Sadie’s forehead. Her eyes looked up, the first motion she had made for several minutes. He clicked the gun’s hammer back.

Francisco was silent.

“What? Don’t, please, I'm begging you!”

“Choose, you Spic sonofabitch.”

“
Why are you doing this?
”

“Choose!”

***

The final man was smiling.

He thought he should make a note of it, because he never smiled, at least this was the first time in years that he could remember doing so.

On his screen, he was watching a masterpiece develop before him. He was hooked on every minute of it. It had developed better than he could have ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

He swallowed a couple of Vicodin tablets and continued watching.

He was in first place, and he didn’t see that anyone was likely to beat him.

FOURTEEN

Rupert knew something was wrong the second he stepped out of the shower.

The minute his wet foot landed on the bath-side rug and started to dry he sensed something was wrong, there was an eerie atmosphere. He’d showered, he estimated, for a good twenty minutes, he wanted to make sure the dirt and grime from the day’s escapades was fully gone. He had scrubbed his fingernails with a wire brush, washed his hair three times and soaped himself all over four times in total. He’d even brushed his teeth twice and flossed and gargled mouthwash while soaping his genitals. He wanted to expunge the feeling of being defiled by filth, a result of the way he had been treated that day.

At last he felt clean.

But he didn’t feel alone.

He had lived alone in his home for years, and comfort was always the name of the game for the Reverend Rupert Shaw. He liked his own space, being alone, away from his daily life of constant meetings with throngs of parishioners, fellow church folk and others. He always felt wary around people, he had been born a bit of a loner, had never trusted other people totally. He could usually tell if something was wrong in his world, call it gut instinct.

He had that feeling, right now, in his own home.

And it wasn’t a good feeling.

Wrapping a white towel around his waist, Rupert moved through the archway to his bedroom from the en suite bathroom and headed towards his bed. Ducking down, he knelt and scrabbled around under it. His hand fell on the handle of his baseball bat. Gripping it firmly, he picked it up and stood.

Placing the bat on his bed, he tightened the towel around his waist, all too aware of how naked he felt. He wanted to put on some clothes, but he wasn’t dry yet. He wanted to be sure he was alone before he started drying himself. That was the only way he’d be able to settle his nerves.

He stepped out onto the landing and peered down the stairs. The front door was closed, and locked as he had remembered leaving it. The furniture was not disturbed. The air smelt normal, no aftershave or sweat that was alien or unusual.

Had he locked the back door
? He wondered.

Terror gripped him for a second.

“You locked the front door,” he said to himself, “but did you check the back door, you idiot?”

Then, to his relief, he remembered that he always kept it locked.

Yes
, he reflected,
but you felt comfortable about the security just before you were kidnapped.

Rupert took firm hold of his baseball bat and held it out in front of him. He felt his penis dangling in thin air, and this unsettled him.

Let’s get this over with,
he thought.

Then he was at the foot of the stairs. He looked into his kitchen. Nothing was disturbed from what he could see. He looked at the cupboards and the furniture. Nothing wrong.

Backing up beyond the stairs he headed for the utility rooms and the office at the rear of the house. The doors were just as he had left them. Nothing wrong here. His spaghetti-ruined tee shirt was still sitting on top of the dryer. Peering into his office, he noted that it was unoccupied, and in darkness.

He walked back to the lounge, holding the bat at his side. He ran a towel through his wet hair and breathed out with relief.

Then Rupert saw the chair in the centre of the floor. He looked back at the dining room, and saw from this different angle that a chair had been moved. Not by him. And now it had been placed sitting in the centre of his lounge with a variety of knives on the floor beside it. There was rope bundled on top of it too.

He walked towards the chair.

Then everything went black.

***

OUCH!

Home run!

To the observer sitting at his desk, that last episode was like watching a wrestling move, something that was over-choreographed and rehearsed. The second the bat had hit his Choice in the face, the impact made the guy somersault onto his lounge carpet in a heap. His genitals flapped in the air. His towel had whipped off to the left and he had landed spread-eagled on his front. He could have sworn he heard the crunch of his nose splattering across his face.

The figure that had attacked him had picked him up effortlessly and sat him down in the chair, tied him down and made sure he couldn’t move. Then he had kicked the towel away and sat opposite the Choice on the man’s sofa. He waited for the guy to regain consciousness.

The man at the desk found that his manhood was now fully erect.

It was only a matter of time.

FIFTEEN

Heather Mason was awake.

Awake and afraid.

She sat on the panelled flooring rubbing her head, not sure if she'd hit herself on the way down, but knowing for sure she had landed in the vomit below her. It was all over her front and face and hands.

Gross
.

So she'd leaned across and wiped herself on one of the fallen clone’s garments. Then she realised that they'd all fallen down. They lay randomly on the floor, three on their backs, one on his front. Another was strangely bent, with his arse still perched on the bench, but with his face on the floor. One sat leaning against the wall and three more were just lying on their sides as if they were happily sleeping.

Nothing moved.

Why had they fallen
? She wondered, curious.

Heather didn’t want to wait around and find out. She stood up, reeking of puke and feeling terrible, and started walking. She made sure to step between the fallen bodies and navigated well, treading on one outstretched hand. Heather half expected to hear a yelp and for the hand to grab her ankle. But it didn’t. She pushed open the door and went through the opening, slamming it behind her and leaning against it, feeling a huge wave of relief at leaving the inert bodies behind.

The room was just like all the other hallways, except for one difference. Sure, it was panelled and mirrored in the same way; the steadfast light bars adorned the ceiling and illuminated the room for her. The difference was a gaping hole in the wall. Also there were no doorways. She tried to estimate how much force would be needed to break through one of these walls, and didn’t even want to consider the consequences if she tried to do so.

She tip-toed across to the hole and peered through it.

Heather felt as if she might vomit again.

However, she didn’t, even though the fear returned in droves.

The room had the same decor once again.

How fucking predictable and boring!

The panelling, mirroring and lighting were the same.

The four dead clones on the ground were her main concern.

One clone had a hole in his head and lay face down, pools of blood congealing around him. His legs appeared to be broken and his arms were splayed out at awkward angles. His gown was stained dark brown with dried blood.

Next to him sat another clone, leaning against the wall with his entire left arm and part of the shoulder missing. Heather assumed that was the cause of the blood spatter on the wall behind him, and his limb had simply been obliterated in combat. His throat was also slit and, again, his gown was coloured dark brown with dried blood. Sputum hung from his mouth, mixed with blood.

As for the third clone, only his legs were visible, the upper half of his body had been slammed through a mirror on the wall, and presumably blood had smeared the wall below it as he’d struggled, now he was impaled on the glass. The fourth man had been beheaded, his headless corpse still standing in the middle of the floor; his arms hung lifeless at his side while his feet remained perfectly stable, supporting the weight of his torso. A shove would clearly knock him over. Behind him, a huge blood smear streaked around the room’s corner, as if one of these corpses had been dragged along.

Heather desperately wanted to go back.

But how could she? That route led nowhere.

She had to go forward, past the headless corpse and follow the blood trail.

Heather had no choice.

Stepping carefully so as not to tread in the blood or gore that was festooned around the room, Heather navigated her way to the corner and past the headless corpse. She fully expected the body to come alive and seize her, but it didn’t. Paranoia was starting to creep up on her. She pushed the corpse over for good measure: it wasn’t so disquieting when it was lying down with its buddies. It hit the floor with a soggy squelch. Heather found the corner of the room and peered round it.

There was another door.

The blood trail disappeared, presumably continuing beyond it.

Heather assessed the situation and opened the door.

The desperate woman found herself on a balcony, high up. She stepped carefully, and looked down.

She gasped.

Below her there was a vast room, probably the size of a football pitch, maybe bigger. The space was packed with cylinders, each of which held a clone. From her vantage point the scene reminded her of a test-tube rack in science class at school. Tubes led out of all the cylinders into a cross-section of metal that held them all together and fed them through the wall to an unseen destination.

Heather heard the hum of liquid feeding into the cylinders, pumping an unknown, blue substance around the bodies. She leaned on the railing, getting her bearings and trying to stop herself from fainting.

She realised that she hadn’t eaten for hours and felt light-headed. Her mouth was desert dry and could do with some water. She rubbed her head, trying to ignore these discomforts, and groaned.

“Beautiful isn’t it?”

Heather opened her eyes

Had she imagined that? Was her starving body playing tricks on her
?

She put her hands down and listened. All she could hear was the hum of the giant pickling jars.

“Ever wondered how such peace and tranquillity can be so beastly?” came the voice again.

Heather whipped around and faced the door behind her. The balcony didn’t lead anywhere except back to the door. To the left of it, there was a small alcove, like a cubbyhole, where a ladder had once been stored, the ladder now detached, part of it projecting out from the ledge.

A man was standing in the alcove. He was looking at Heather, watching her.

Smiling.

Shrouded in shadow, the man spoke again.

“Nice to see I’m not the only one who gets to appreciate it.”

Heather remained silent, trying to take in this new development.
Who is this
? She wondered. Another human? Or a clone?

“What are you, a mute?” he asked.

“No...No, I’m just a little scared.”

The man stepped forward. "Why?"

“Don't!” she yelled. “
Don't!
Just stay there!”

“Okay, honey…”

“I'm not your honey.....I’m not, okay?”

“Sure...no problem.”

“Got any ID?” Heather demanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“ID, identification, credentials?”

“I’m gonna step forward, okay? Look, my hands are up.”

The man did so, coming out of the shadows. In the light, he was about five foot ten, with a toned build, not skinny but not big-built, and he had spiky brown hair and a moderate covering of body hair, primarily on his arms. She assessed him as a typical gym bunny, going every day, maybe twice on Sundays. He had stunning blue eyes and long eyelashes. He appeared to be effeminate. His smile exposed glorious white teeth and his skin was tanned. There wasn’t a blemish on his entire body.

The only anomaly was the blood dribbling down his chin.

His smile made the horrible outpouring all the more menacing.

Heather realised that this guy could be stunningly attractive were he not in this totally bizarre environment.

“What's with the blood, Tarzan?” she asked him.

For a second the man remained silent, looking puzzled, then he smiled again, his teeth pink from the blood.

“Long story…”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay, well, can I come closer?” he asked.

“No, you’ll stay there. Blood pissing out of your mouth isn’t exactly filling me with confidence right now.”

“Look down.”

“Not on your life.”

The man pointed down to the football-pitch sized room. Heather followed his directing finger and looked too, keeping her body facing him, ready in case he should attack.

He didn’t attack.

The blood smear that had led out here ended at the edge of the balcony. Heather now noticed a few splashes of blood on the railing itself and, upon looking further down, she could see one of the clones, obliterated on the grate below. The hapless creature had fallen about a hundred feet and struck the ground with full force. Blood was everywhere. Coating the cylinders and the floor, it had drenched several manila folders nearby. The body looked shredded, pieces were scattered everywhere.

The thing had been pushed, she surmised.

Heather turned back to the man.

“Well?” she said.

“What?”

“You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on or what?”

“Okay, okay.”

The man sat down on the floor massaging his feet. He wore only a pair of football shorts, and crossing his legs exposed his private parts. Heather glanced away in embarrassment, at an angle, so she couldn’t see him. She waited.

“How long have you been in here?” he asked, not looking up.

“I don’t know. In and around my fainting and being out cold from the drugs...I would say at a rough estimate, about two hours.”

“Do you know why you're here?”

“Stop with the questions, I asked you first!”

“Okay....Well, I’ve been in here about three days I would say. I woke up in a small dingy cell, was let out and I was left to roam the corridors aimlessly. I've been here ever since. I haven’t seen anyone else until I saw you minutes ago. Well, I did see someone.”

“How do you mean?”

“I saw that...thing. The bald creature who tried to kill me.” The man pointed towards the edge of the balcony.

“Huh?”

“I came down the ladder there, and he was standing here looking over the edge, silent and motionless. I was ecstatic. I’d found another person! But he didn’t move for minutes, he just stood there doing nothing. When I approached him, he turned and lunged for me. As you can see, I'm not armed, so all I could do was to bite him to fend him off. Took a chunk out of his neck before I could shove him back. When I did, he fell over the ledge and Bob’s your uncle.”

“How is that so?” Heather was finding it hard to believe what this stranger was saying.

“Well, he attacked me, why would I make it up? I don’t even know you; I have no reason to lie.”

“No, I mean, how is that so? I just came through a room of the things and they were completely docile. No emotions, no reactions. They were lifeless shells of....well, whatever.”

“Weird.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Silence. The hum of the cylinders below sat patiently in the background.

The stranger spoke first. “So, anyway, here we are now. Three days, and no people and now you're here, and if you don’t mind me saying, you are....”

“Save it, Lothario, I'm not interested, so save your breath.”

“Easy, tiger... I was going to say a godsend. I was starting to go mad being alone in here.”

“Easy,
Easy!
What the fuck do you know about easy?”

The man stepped back. “Forget I said anything.”

“Do you have any idea what I've been through to get here?” Heather went on. “I've been stripped of my dignity, I've had my clothes and underwear removed and no doubt been felt up during the process. I have been drugged, attacked, kidnapped and betrayed. All I did was go for a drink and the next thing I knew I was in here, half naked, smelling of vomit and being stalked by cloned bald fuckwits.”

“Do you want to know my story?” the man asked her.

“No, I just want to get out of here....Wait a minute, you said you’ve been here three days?”

“Yeah, what of it?"

“Three days? Explain.”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“How are you still alive? What’s more, if you don’t mind me saying, you look pretty nourished.”

“Ah, okay, trade secret I'm afraid…” The man smirked.

Heather said nothing. Her evil smile spoke volumes.

“OH,
now
you’re interested in me.” The man smiled.

“I’m not interested in you, I just need some food.”

Heather staggered and leant against the wall. She collapsed to her knees and held her face in her hands. Stress and emotional bankruptcy sank into her consciousness and she felt like she was going to collapse. Her body was racked with pain and anguish, loss and loneliness.

The stranger just sat there, watching her.

Heather was playing with her knuckles. She plucked the skin on the back of her hand and let go. She repeated the process several times. The man continued to watch. He stood and leaned on the balcony, and looked over the edge. He sighed loudly.

Heather looked at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just...it’s been a long day. Do you even know why we are here?” Heather continued plucking her skin.

The man looked at her. “I don’t, unfortunately. Just like you, I’ve been wandering around without a clue.”