Torment (10 page)

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 old 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.

The old bitch didn’t even seem to register Lancer’s
presence. She was focused on a reality show. One hand, fingers plump as
sausages, held a string of black rosary beads that ended in an inverted cross.
She toyed with it as the people on TV climbed a wall adorned with Tiki masks.

Disgust, hate, the need to destroy this phony, coursed
together into a raging, boiling stew inside of Lancer. Cheap ass fucking fake.
She took one step forward, driving a kick into the cult leader’s face. The
woman squawked like a pigeon chased away from a scrap of hot dog. Blood seeped
out of her squashed nose.

Channeling up all the knowledge learned from staying
up too late and watching karate movies on the local channel, Lancer wound up a
second kick. Her shin connected with the esteemed honcho’s mouth, resulting in
a shattered jawbone. A muffled cry of pain began to sound from the old bitch. She
tumbled over onto the floor, flopping onto her stomach like a beached whale.

Lancer shrieked laughter. She jumped onto the slag’s
back. There was a loud
woof
as the air was knocked from her victim. It
made her laugh even harder. It also made her curious about what other sounds
the bitch might make if she was used like a trampoline.

Let’s find out!

Stomp one resulted in a pair of sharp cracks
accompanied by a groan. Two gave Lancer further snaps, followed up with a wet gurgle
that occurred at the same time as a liquid
pop
. She shifted her feet a
little, feeling where her efforts had pushed bone into some organ or
another.    

The old woman coughed, bringing up a wad of bloody
mucus. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. Lancer stepped off the
hag’s back, deliberately mashing one spidery hand in the process. She witch
didn’t have long left.

 Working her way up from the hand, Lancer
proceeded to crush bones up from the forearm, to the upper arm, to the back,
down the spine. With both feet she pulverized the filthy old crone’s pelvis. By
this time, the witch was dead, but it was such fun grinding her old bones into
dust! Lancer could feel Wilhelm’s satisfaction, like a warm blanket straight
from the dryer. If he enjoyed this, he was going to absolutely love the coup de
grace!

Lancer grasped the corpse’s ankles. She turned them,
twisted the legs from their joints. Blood sprayed, ligaments tore. Yellow fat
poured from the wounds. Lancer threw them into the dead fireplace. Old,
neglected brick shattered into red dust.

The cerise cloud melded into Wilhelm’s teleporting
mist. She found herself standing before her benefactor, back in the cozy little
nook Lancer would spend eternity in. Her task was done. Now it was time to
relax and live an afterlife in comfort.

“Bravo!” Wilhelm applauded. “What an astounding job!
Fantastic enthusiasm for your first job, my love! What a catch you are! What a
team we’ll make!”

“What are you talking about?” Lancer asked, taking a
step back from the grinning, well-dressed man. “I was only supposed to perform
the one job, right? It’s what was in the contract.”

“Consider this an extension.”

“No. You promised!” Lancer shook her head violently,
raising both hands. “I want you to get out of here and leave me alone!”

“You bitch!” Wilhelm roared. He lifted her bodily by
gripping her shoulders, shaking her like a rag doll. “You tell
me
to
leave!!?? You tell
me
what’s in the contract!!??”

Throwing her aside to crumple against one wall, he
yanked the fine parchment from inside his coat. “Read the fine print, whore.”

Lancer’s horrified eyes picked out the line
“In the
event of excellent performance, the agent reserves the right to assign more
tasks to the signee. The signee cannot refuse those tasks given to her because
SIGNING THE DOTTED LINE MEANS YOUR ASS IS MINE, SLUT!

“That’s right,” Wilhelm’s smile radiated vile good
cheer. “I can do with you as I wish, so if Wilhelm says go kill, you go kill,
got it, bitch?”

Her mouth worked. No sound would come out, save for a
low rapid croaking.

“Refusal equals forfeiture of your lovely little flat.
You go down in the pit with the rest of the sinners, dig?”

Lancer began weeping, unable to think of anything else
to do. Had she really felt that signing that stupid piece of paper and trusting
another slick talking man would keep her from avoiding her final fate?

“Now,” Wilhelm rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“Let’s do something to turn that frown upside down.”

He withdrew an elegant silver knife and sliced into
his palm. Wilhelm placed his hand over Lancer’s mouth. He pinched her nose
shut, forcing her to open her lips. Sour blood dripped down her throat.

Fire ripped through her veins into her heart. Intense
pain corkscrewed into Lancer’s bones, feeling them elongate and grow. Skin
split, replaced with scaly plates covered in thick, brown hair. Her teeth
dropped out. Large twisted horns burst from her skull. Lancer’s lower jaw
widened. Sharp yellowed fangs sprouted from her bloodied gums.

After an eternity, the pain subsided. So did her
terror at being this obvious demon’s personal murderer. Lancer stood on feet
that had morphed into cloven hooves. She towered a full head and shoulders over
Wilhelm, who was holding up a mirror to show her what she’d become.

Reflected in the glass was a powerfully built goat
headed beast. Corse fur covered her entire body. Bright green eyes, their
irises so luminescent they glowed.

“Well, my love,” Wilhelm asked. “What do you think of
the new you?”

“I’m beautiful.” Lancer growled, stroking her new face
with a three fingered, talon-tipped hand. “I’m
so
beautiful.” 

About the Author

Jeremy Seals was born, raised, and still lives in Ohio
with his wife and three furry children. Previously he has self-published a
collection of short stories available through Amazon titled
Trauma
and
has been published in issue 41 of
Sanitarium
magazine.