Down the Drain (4 page)
The creature dropped to its knees and brought its claws up to its face. It let go long enough to swipe at Bruce, but the attack was feeble and pathetic. He dodged it easily.
Before it could regain its composure, Bruce hit the thing again. He swung so hard this time his entire body ached with the movement. His penis—still sore from the earlier violation—slapped his thigh and throbbed. The sledge hit the top of the thing’s head, driving it to the ground and creating a dent large enough to put your fist in.
Which Bruce did. Too sore to swing the sledge again, he kneeled over the creature and punched at the hole in its head until he found the wet gunk inside that felt like used toilet paper but must have been brains. He grabbed a chunk of the wet matter and tossed it back over his shoulder. He heard it land somewhere in the vicinity of the sink—
plop
—but didn’t bother looking. Instead, he ripped out another handful of psuedo-brain. And another. He gutted the skull until it was jack-o-lantern hollow.
The creature made a final attempt to bite his hand and actually got its teeth around Bruce’s thumb, but when it bit down, it didn’t have enough life left in it to do anything except make a pair of barely visible punctures near the knuckle. Before it died, it looked at Bruce with its remaining eye and hissed its last hiss. Bruce watched the life drain from its pupil, watched it dull and become murky and unreflective.
He dropped back on his bare ass and sat there with his face in his hands for a very long time. He ran the emotional gamut: sad, angry, doubtful about his own sanity, relieved, victorious. He cried a little, laughed a little, shook and wondered if he'd gone into shock. Finally he opened his eyes and faced what he’d done.
The creature lay on the floor surrounded by the battle’s spilled fluids. If you’d glanced at it, you might have thought it was a demolished toilet or a pile of construction debris. Unless you’d seen the eye, of course, that single bit of near-humanity buried in a mound of lifeless junk.
Bruce reached his hand behind his butt to push himself up but put his fingers down in the regurgitated mess that had been his cat instead.
Selina
. He groaned, jerked his hand away from the mushy mound, and fought the urge to vomit into his lap. Blood and strings of guts dripped down his fingers and over his wrist. He looked for something to wipe his hand on, but there was nothing within reach. He shook his hand and flung the gore at the dead creature.
He spent the next half-hour demolishing the tub and piling the pieces on the monster’s corpse. The bathtub hadn’t shown any further signs of life, but Bruce didn’t want to chance it. And it wasn’t as if he’d be able to use the thing again even if he’d wanted to. Not with a giant, gaping birthing canal in the center.
He tore it all out: the tub, the surround, the fixtures. When he'd finished, he went into the bedroom and put on a pair of old work clothes. They were too torn apart to wear in public, but they made a perfect outfit for this particular chore. He’d throw them away afterward. Or maybe burn them.
He went back to the shed, got out the wheelbarrow, the shovels, and a small tarp, and took it all back into the house. It took five trips to get everything out of the bathroom and into the backyard. By the time he was done, sweat had drenched every inch of his clothes.
He dug a hole just big enough for the debris (
the remains
?) and spent another hour shoveling in the broken bits and burying them. That single eye—so disturbingly similar to his own—stared at him for most of the job. When he finally covered it in dirt, his own eyes blinked sympathetically.
Don’t sympathize with that piece of shit.
He rubbed his eyelids with the backs of his hands and finished the job.
He was more ceremonious with Selina. He wrapped what was left of her in the tarp and placed the bundle into an old DVD player box. This he buried beneath a rose bush on the opposite side of the yard from the monster’s grave. When he’d finished that final chore, he sat beside the smaller mound of dirt for a long time, not wanting to return to the emptier-than-ever house.
In the morning, he’d try to lose himself in his work. And on his way home, he’d stop by the hardware store and see about a new tub.
SIX
Beneath the house, the creature listened to the father-thing destroy its brother, desecrate its mother’s corpse, and then cart off the bodies. It hunkered in the dark, waiting for the father-thing’s return. Its mother may have died bringing them into the world, and its brother trying to earn alpha dominance, but it would not join them in death.
When the father-thing came back, it would ascend from the darkness, claim its place in the world, and light out for the hunt.
PRAISE FOR DANIEL PYLE
DISMEMBER
Dismember’s
a fast-paced grindhouse-movie of a book with plenty of unexpected twists and turns and a fresh new crazy for a villain. The late Richard Laymon would have been grinning ear to ear.
—Jack Ketchum
With
Dismember
, Daniel Pyle joins the select group of authors who can provide real chills and genuine surprises. Taut, weird, and intriguing.
—Jonathan Maberry, multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
The Dragon Factory
and
The Wolfman
The tourniquet-tight plot and constant suspense keeps the pages flying. A solid, suspenseful thriller that enables readers to envision the movie it could become.
—
Publishers Weekly
DOWN THE DRAIN
Pyle's tight little monster tale packs a nasty wallop.
—Michael Louis Calvillo, author of
I Will Rise
and
As Fate Would Have It
Horror should be fun. Scary, of course…but above all, it should be fun. Too many people seem to have forgotten that. Well, Daniel Pyle has not forgotten. With his novella,
Down the Drain
, Pyle has crafted a tale that evokes all the eye-popping strangeness and excitement that got me into horror in the first place. I loved it, and I can guarantee you’ll never look at your bathtub the same again.
—Joe McKinney, author of
Dead City
and
Apocalypse of the Dead
Daniel Pyle lives in Springfield, Missouri, with his wife and two daughters. Visit him online at
www.danielpyle.com
.
ALSO BY DANIEL PYLE
Down the Drain
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Daniel Pyle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechinical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Blood Brothers Publishing
www.bloodbrotherspublishing.com
ISBN: 978-0-9828691-0-9
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Artwork Copyright © 2010 by Enoch Pyle
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