Ruthles: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Part 12

"I told you-"

"We've seized Natasha, Mack." One-Eye smiled. "You have a nice boy, too."

Mach reached through the window for One-Eye, but the driver turned around with one fluid motion and pointed a revolver at Mack's head. The hammer clicked back.

"You were the best drug enforcer I ever had, Mack. One-Eye sighed. Practically grew up in a dojo. Your folks didn't want you anyway, did they? And those skills you learned? Well, I need you to come back and fight. I'm in debt-can you believe it? And now...now I need the best. It'll be just like the old days. Especially with those new nanonites the prison system injected into your system."

"I told you-"

One-Eye pushed a b.u.t.ton on his cell phone and held it up. "Let her speak."

Crank heard Natasha's whimpering voice. "D-don't hurt my son."

"Natasha!" Mack yelled. "Are you okay?"

"Mack," came his wife's electronic voice. "Mack, help! Call the police! Call-"

One-Eye shut his flip phone and said, "Don't call the police, Mack-not if you know what's agreeable for your family."

Mack tensed his fist and swore if One-Eye ever hurt them... but One-Eye interrupted. "There's only one thing that can hurt them now, Mack."

"What's that?"

"Being uncooperative."

Mack hung his head. "What do I have to do?"

One-Eye grinned and handed Mack the vial of crack.

"What's this for? I don't do this s.h.i.+t anymore."

"I need to know that I can trust you, Mack. I need Crank back."

Two days later, Mack knew full well what was expected of him: kill or be killed. They called him Crank, like in the old days when he worked for One-Eye, when he busted legs and murdered. The drug thought for him back in those days, making him reach further and further into the darkness, until the only thing that mattered had been the high.

"Doesn't "crank" have to do with meth?" Natasha had asked him from the drug rehabilitation clinic when they first met. "Why do they call you Crank?"

"I'm like a cranked up meth-head when I smoke, only worse, see? I become mean, and I'm capable of despicable acts. The martial arts skills I learned while growing up... well, I could still do them while high. Maybe not as clean, but I was hypersonic."

She asked, "While on crack?"

"Yeah."

"What about now? What about when you're not on crack?"

He smiled and shrugged at his counselor. Natasha had told him her story: came from USSR, working for the Russian mob. A wh.o.r.e loaned out to the highest bidder-not for her money, but for drugs. "More of a white slave," she'd said. "They kept us girls high twenty-four hours a day, seven days per week."

Crank remembered her sitting behind the desk at White Oaks Inpatient, his file opened on her desk. Judge Simpson had signed the order of his admittance, the bills paid for by the State. She was his counselor.

"When you're not on crack," she pressed, "what are you like?"

"I don't know. It's been so many years since I've been high... I just don't want to remember."

That was five years ago. Five years of sobriety, of honest labor and a good family, separated him from the man he used to be. Except for the past two days. Crank bobbed on his feet, ready to kill his opponent.

As the steel door closed behind his opponent, he remembered his opponent yesterday, a quick little Oriental man Crank had destroyed. He refused to think of himself as Mack now, because for the sake of his family, he had become Crank, an expeditious killing machine high and capable of- The bell rang multiple times. Tobacco and pot wafted through the underground auditorium. The crowd cheered as the announcer-outside the ring, of course-roared, "Ladies and gentlemen... welcome to Duel to the Death!"

Couldn't they have been more original? Even in his crack-high, Crank figured he could come up with something better. Leave it to One-Eye to promote this c.r.a.p.

"In this corner, we have the challenger, brought out of retirement by his promoter, One-Eye-" Crank shook his head, for he'd never fought in the Octagon. "-we have the challenger, Crank!"

The crowd booed. A beer bottle struck Crank's shoulder, but he didn't feel it-he was too high. Crank considered walking up to his opponent to attack. His opponent attacked instead.

"And his opponent, none other than the current reigning champion-"

Crank ducked a vicious right hook that swished air, and, from his vantage point, saw his opponent's feet were bound in razor wire to his knees. b.l.o.o.d.y footprints followed his opponent from where he'd entered the ring.

How'd I not notice that?

He knew why he hadn't noticed: the crack haze.

"-undefeated for two years... one-hundred and ninety-eight fights-"

The behemoth brought his knee up, Thai style, but Crank blocked with his hands. The razor wire bit into his opponent's knee, shredding it, but it also knocked Crank's hands into his own face. One barbed edge stuck into Crank's eye, but it didn't matter because the white of the eye had been damaged, not the iris. Crank's head flew back and be became disorientated.

"-the rending machine, the one and only, Shredder!" The announcer's voice hung onto the last word, and Crank instinctively brought his right hand up to wipe blood from his eye, until he remembered the razor wire.

Shredder threw a roundhouse kick before Crank could recover, and it thundered into Crank's ribs. A sudden onslaught of insanity pumped through Crank's system; every pore opened on his dry skin, emitting a bead of sweat that hurt like needles thrusting through flesh; his mind became alert with sudden clarity until laughter bubbled up from his cracked ribs. The pain forced him into a strange, slow motion lucidity. Before Shredder could pull his foot covered in razor wire from Crank's mangled side, Crank caught it with his left gauntlet. A razor along Shredder's foot caught a wire winding about Crank's fist, and suddenly Shredder was suspended, off-balance.

The crowd Ohed and Awed.

"They're so fast I can't hardly see *em move," the announcer yelled. "Isn't this exciting? Those nanonites in their bodies are really something!"

Shredder's remaining foot shot up toward Crank's chest to perform a stomp-kick. Crank ducked and threw a sc.r.a.ping punch along Shredder's right leg, still caught on his left gauntlet, following through and letting his razor wire rake flesh down to the bigger man's groin, where Crank's right gauntlet connected with a soft thud against flesh. Shredder collapsed onto his back. A whoosh of wind escaped his lungs and dust plumed around his gargantuan body, arms sprawled out.

"He's down," the announcer roared. "The first time in two years, and the champion is down. But the question is: can he get back up?"

If it hurt, Shredder certainly didn't show it. Shredder drove the knee of his free leg into Crank's shoulder, then drug his razor-wire binding his foot across Crank's face.

Crank didn't even feel it, but he realized enough cuts meant blood loss and weakness. He couldn't afford any more injuries, even with the nanonites in his bloodstream healing constantly. He pulled on his right fist, but it stuck within Shredder's crotch. The crowd went crazy, standing to its feet.

"Looks like it's come down to a stalemate," the announcer said. "The challenger's tied the champion up, but Shredder's grinding the challenger's flesh. There's only so much of that any man can take."

Shredder pulled his foot across Crank's shoulder toward his face again. Razor-wire edged closer to Crank's throat. Crank knew he didn't have a chance with his carotid artery slit open, so he shrugged to protect his throat with his shoulder while screaming as he pulled. After a grunt, hefting the giant off the ground, Crank pulled free the fist that had been buried in the big man's groin. Shredder's trunks were flayed like his crotch, and a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e lolled out of his boxing trunks, the cord elongated and hanging out of what was left of his s.c.r.o.t.u.m. The big man howled like a wolf, but Crank didn't let up. He struck Shredder's inside thigh again, afraid to let his fist stick to the big man's boys again, or catch his gauntlet's razor wire against Shredder's.

Over and over, he struck Shredder's right leg, the foot still caught on Crank's left gauntlet. Crank held Shredder's free leg down with his knees. Crazed with crack and bloodl.u.s.t, Crank pummeled until flesh dangled from Shredder's leg in chunks. Blood didn't splatter, it sprayed. Crank burrowed through the main artery in Shredder's leg, striking the same spot repeatedly.

"Die, you p.r.i.c.k, die!"

Crank thought of Natasha, of William. Somewhere in the distance of his distorted thoughts, through the crack haze, their images wafted before his bloodshot eyes; images like hallucinations, but not so strong that he couldn't see the gristle hanging in stringy clumps from Shredder's leg. So he continued striking, grunting with each thrust of his fist bound tight in death, to fulfill the fantasies for blood belonging to those sickos in attendance.

When a stretch of white leg bone gleamed in the fluorescent lights, and when blood stopped flowing from Shredder's exposed wound, Crank knew the behemoth had bled out. Crank looked down and saw blood everywhere, an inch thick. Crimson covered the octagon, Crank's shorts and legs, his arms and stomach. His sweat pushed against the coat of Shredder's blood that had cast a wet veneer over his entire body.

"And we have a new champion," came the announcer's voice. "I don't freaking believe it."

Crank stood as the crowd roared. The gate he'd entered through opened, and Mickey rushed through. The lights in the auditorium brightened as Mickey helped steady Crank on wobbly legs after using bolt cutters to unfasten him from Shredder's cooling body.

"I'll bet you want to see your wife now, eh, boy?"

"Not yet." Crank leaned on the small, elderly man and hobbled out of the octagon, as guards trained weapons on him. "First, I want six rocks in the locker room... to set my mind at ease."

"Oh, Crank." Mickey's growl turned into a whine. "That s.h.i.+t is hard to stop once you start, eh?"

"Just do it... and order twelve instead."

Crank and Mickey hobbled down the aisle to the locker room. Hands reached out to slap the few portions of Crank's back where there was little blood, but Crank pushed those sc.u.m back, tried to memorize their faces so he could kill them later. A few times razor wire cut them and they yelled or screamed, but Crank just laughed. What could they do? Crank was a living weapon now, and he doubted if One-Eye allowed thugs into the spectacle with firearms. If not for the guards with M-16s pointing at his back, he'd be carving his way out of the auditorium to wife and son.

In the locker room, Crank let Mickey use bolt cutters to cut the razor wire encircling his hands and forearms. Mickey cut them, top and bottom, then sat down on the same bench Crank used.

"Finish it."

Crank held his arms out.

"I ordered sedatives from One-Eye. The champion receives precedence-the first cla.s.s stuff."

"f.u.c.k the prime stuff, Mickey. Remove the wire now."

"You sure?"

"Do it! I can't stand it on me."

Mickey pulled on rubber gloves and used pliers to pull metal from Crank's flesh. Razors from the wire had gouged into parts of his flesh, as if flesh and metal had welded as one, and Mickey had to press his foot against the bench, pulling hard. Once, he fell on his a.s.s, three globs of coagulated blood flying through the air.

Crank laughed.

"Ain't as young as you used to be, old man."

"f.u.c.k you, boy. When I was your age-"

"Fighters didn't have nanonites in their bodies back in your day, Mickey." Crank helped Mickey up with a bloodied hand, as blood still streamed from his fresh wounds. "Not like us."

"You got that right, boy." Mickey stood hunched over Crank and sighed. "In my day, the government experimented on their own, left us civilians-and inmates-alone."

Crank thought about prison, before he was released on good behavior and being compliant; those experiments back at Leavenworth, the old prison reopened for experimental surgeries courtesy of the U.S. Government.

The Senate Technology Commission has discovered that there have been experiments on soldiers of the United States Marines, a gentlemen in a suit had said on the television mounted in the prison lounge. Miniature machines, or nanonites, have been introduced into the bloodstream of problem soldiers. While this behavior is intolerable and unacceptable, reports have surfaced that... well, to put it bluntly, we're close to a medical breakthrough for super soldiers.

Crank didn't know who the big shot was; a senator from the Hill. And he really didn't care too much about what they did to soldiers, problem Marines or not. What he did care about was what the big shot said next: With overcrowding such a problem in prisons, the Senate Technology Commission has decided to introduce the experimental technology on prisoners. Murderers, repeat s.e.x offenders... those on death row. They will have to volunteer. Perhaps those who have inflicted so much harm on society can, in some small way, repay what they have taken.

A month later, Crank volunteered to be injected with experimental serums of nanonites. Why not? He didn't have much self love. Besides, he'd just secretly killed a gang member in prison, and things weren't too welcoming for him. He wouldn't leave prison except in a body bag, not with the dead gang member's posse clamoring to kill him at every opportunity. So Crank signed up. If he died, he'd consider it a slow suicide, robbing his prison enemies of their chance of revenge.

The day after he signed his name to the list, he was sent to Leavenworth. Moved him in with others in the program. His turn came up, right after they finished with a pedophile that had raped and murdered little children, which made Crank feel detestable, following a piece of s.h.i.+t like that.

"Sign on the dotted line," they told him.

"What's this for?"

"For your rights, sc.u.m. If you survive, you might just make parole someday. Based on how many injections you accept and good behavior, of course. You'll still have to finish half your sentence for your double homicide."

"I won't leave prison until I'm sixty-two... well, forty-two if the sentence is halved."

"Doesn't matter; word is, the little machines-the nanotechnology-erodes the effects of aging. If it works right, that is. You might be forty-two when you leave, but you'll look as young as the day you began the injections. Besides, the scientists want to see how those who survive cope in society. See if there are any long term effects, schizophrenia, so they plan to let survivors out early."

"How early?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know every individual case? I just work here, sc.u.m."

They strapped him down on the giant machine with built-in syringes. He hated those injections. Burned like fire, whatever flowed from those hoses and into his veins.

"Used this as a lethal injection device once," a guard told him. "Now we're trying to create super soldiers out of inmates."

"And you'll let me out if I survive? For sure?"

"That and for good behavior, yeah. If you don't die, you'll be free again."

The majority expired, leaving in body bags. Crank made friends with those hardened prisoners in the beginning, watched his friends go into the injection room, only to come out with sheets covering their faces. That made him think, made everyone think.

So they talked about their chances. Discussed death and the great beyond, what awaited them. Somewhere along the way, a new inmate was introduced into the experimental program, an old codger who-on his first day-said, "I'm ready to die anyway-might as well stare death in the face and laugh." The old man's name was Mickey, in for fixing fights, extortion, and murdering a witness forty years ago.

"Besides waiting to see who's gonna' die, why don't I train you lazy b.u.ms. Start up a boxing club?"

So the former martial artist turned drug enforcer trained under the watchful eye of Mickey, learning boxing-it came effortless. Mickey had Crank do calisthenics, pushups and sit ups, and running in place. Shadow boxing and sparring with the other inmates, he bettered his compet.i.tion, a few of whom had been promising amateur boxers before thrown in the slammer. It helped Crank work the experimental s.h.i.+t out of his system.

"Think you're gonna' live, old man?"

"Crank," the old man often said, "I'm too ornery to die."

At the age of seventy-two, a decade earlier than his sentence, they let Mickey out. Same day as Crank. The judge sent Crank to a drug rehab clinic, to White Oaks Inpatient, just to be sure-ten years after he entered the prison system.

There he met Natasha.

The conversations about death in prison now transformed into topics of life... and love. With Natasha, that is. She'd been an addict like Crank, and she knew the temptations, but h.e.l.l! She was doing something with her life and helping others in the process. Her inner strength impressed him and, before he knew it, he had a job as the janitor at the local YMCA, and there he helped Mickey train young boxers.

He began using his real name again.

Life moved around him like a positive current. Mack married Natasha and adopted her son, William, who loved Mack as if he were his real Dad. And, for the first time in his life, Mack was happy.