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Message-ID: <39031asstr$1036059002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} One Dead Cheerleader {GameraDark} (M+/Ff+, f/M+, M/Ff, rape, snuff, horror)
Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2002 05:10:02 -0500
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                         Disclaimer

This is a work of erotica by Kenny N Gamera.  No persons,
either living or deceased, or real events are described in
this work.  Access to this work may be regulated by local
law.  It is not to be read or distributed in those areas
where access to erotica is denied nor to those individuals
to whom it is prohibited.  The author doesn't assume
responsibility where such laws have been circumvented and
supports the prosecution of such laws where they exist.  In
many cases, the actions of characters violate any and all
reasonable and proper moral codes.  If you have the desire
to perform such actions, please seek help for the sake of
everyone.  The distribution of this work by any means is
the sole right of the author and his agents.  It is not to
be copied or published by others except where allowed by
fair use under standing international copyright law.
Archiving by Deja.Com and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and
encouraged.

This is a very strong story and very bad things happen.  If
you are used to most of my other stories, you may not like
it.  Many of you won't.  The type of people involved in the
story lead to things that have... well... bothered me.

Please note the story codes below and hit the back button
if something is going to upset you.


STORY CODES:
       (M+/Ff+, f/M+, M/Ff, rape, snuff, horror)


Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera

turtlemeat69@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera

                     One Dead Cheerleader
                              by
                        Kenny N Gamera

  Mr. Young, the van driver, stuck the shovel into the sand
with finality and looked at the men standing around the lip
of the shallow pit.  Two stood to his left.  One of the
others stood to his right and front.  He looked at each
with a question in his eyes.  It was the fourth man, the
one behind him, who answered with a single gun shot.  Mr.
Young knocked over the shovel as he fell.

The men walked over to the bound girls and woman.  The men
listened to the sobs muffled by the tape that covered each
of their mouths.  They cracked jokes at the expense of the
struggling girls and the intelligible pleas they made.
Laughing, the men made their first selection.  A big one,
with of dark body hair that covered his body everywhere his
clothing left unexposed, grabbed Miss Russell by her long,
blonde hair.  He lifted her up to her feet.  With her taped
legs dragging uselessly behind her, he pulled her by the
hair back to the pit.

Her screams were unheard until the tape had been pulled
from her mouth.  After that, they echoed uselessly through
the meadow and into the woods of short, scrubby oaks and
scraggly pine trees.  For what seemed forever to the
waiting girls, pleas and screams alternated and mixed with
the loud laughter of the men.  A loud gunshot marked the
end of her screams and her pleas but not the laughing.

They came for Amber.

After Amber, the men lit a fire near the remaining girls.
They sat around the flames and passed a bottle.  As the
whiskey went from hand to hand the laughter continued.
They joked about the surviving girls and the two which they
had just had.  They finished the bottle. With a hard group,
it flew into the fire.

They came for Joann.

Between the whiskey and the men's previous exertions,
Joann lasted longer than had either Miss Russell or Amber.
She lasted longer than her screaming.  The two waiting
girls
could only listen to the laughing men and the sounds of
their voices.  It ended with just a sound of Joann's body
hitting the bottom of the pit.

Finally, Maria lay alone as the men raped January.  She
didn't scream.  She didn't plead.  Maria just heard her
crying in the silent moments between the men's jocularity
and the slapping of flesh against flesh.  January's only
words were a "please" just before the gunshot.

Maria couldn't even cry as she was lead to the pit and
thrown to her back.  A tall skinny man with long greasy
hair pulled out a knife and cut the tape holding her ankles
together.  He pushed her legs apart and felt into her dry
sex.  She shuttered as he announced to his friends, "Cherry
pie for dessert."

She thought of Bobby and homecoming the next week.  He
asked her to marry him after college, and she was going
to...

She cried as the man pushed his little penis into her and
broke the barrier inside.  He pumped over her body with
short, quick rabbit strokes and came quickly into her.  The
next man finished even more quickly.  He pulled out just
before the end and sent a little dribble over her pushed up
skirt.  The others teased him.

The third man went slower, as if he were making love to
the girl rather than raping her.  One hand went beneath her
sweater, and he kneaded her breast through her bra.  He
kissed her cheek after he spent himself inside of her.

The big man was last.

He turned Maria over and, after cutting loose her wrists,
forced her to her hands and knees.  He roughly pushed her
head against the sandy soil, which forced her to arch her
butt into the air.  When she felt his penis against her
back hole, she clenched her eyes shut.  The pain grew as
the man pressed into her rectum.

His body hung over the helpless, motionless body of the
girl like a bull over a breeding cow.  She cried no more
tears; she made no sound; she only endured the act as the
big man pumped away at her.

He pulled her up by the hair and she felt a thick leather
belt being looped over her neck.  As he fucked Maria's
body, he tighten the it around her.  Without a will other
than its own sense of survival, her body fought for air and
squirmed against the man.  At last, the man came with a
loud moan even as the final shaking of her body stopped and
it collapsed.

Her dying mind felt the hands grab her and tossed her into
the pit.  Through her bulging eyes, she looked into the
lifeless face of Joann, blood slowly dripping from the slit
in the throat.  She felt the first shovel of dirt hit the
lifeless meat of her body.  The last she heard as the world
turned black and her mind joined her body in death was the
big man's deep laugh.

"Now, there is one dead cheerleader."

                   ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Artie left the bar across from the old grain elevator in a
weaving pattern.  The guys had been around the table
talking about things that should not be talked about, like
the cheerleader gangbang of a month ago or that couple from
Oregon and their daughter.  He finally felt the need to
leave the group before he exploded.

Not that such talk sickened him or caused him shame, he
just had a heightened sense of self preservation.  One does
not talk about certain things in public, nor sometimes in
private.  One never really knows if someone may hear
something that could jeopardize his skin.  Artie did not
like his skin being jeopardized.

Instinct made him feel for his keys in the pocket of his
faded blue jeans.  He cursed at not finding them.  He
cursed at the judge who had taken them away.  He cursed the
officer who had arrested him in the first place.  He did
throw in a general curse about the world in general and the
low level of fairness it displayed to him.

His hand found the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.
Something reminded him of where he had felt his lighter.
He reached into that pocket and pulled out the cheap
plastic device.  Despite the
wind he got the cigarette lit and pulled in a lungful of
tar and nicotine.

A lonely car drove past.

He crossed the street and turned left.  The street lights
shone meekly above him as he walked along the long half of
the elevator.  His granddad had stored his harvest there.
His father had worked there. Now, it just stood there as a
monument to Artie's failure in escaping the crash of the
not quite town of his birth.

He picked up a stone and looked for a window to throw it
through.  There were none.  Only a few scraps of plywood
here and there, some open space, and spider webs.  With a
loud grunt, he threw the stone against a concrete silo,
twice as tall as the two store shops that sat across from
it.  It made a small noise as it struck the side.  Artie
strained to hear even that result of his violence.

Artie leaned against a telephone pole and gentle knocked
the back of his head against it.  Lips pulled back, his
upper teeth ground against his lower.  He closed his eyes
tight and sucked his breath through his clenched jaws.  It
escaped as a sigh like a snake's hiss.  His hands made and
unmade fists with his nails biting into his palms.

His eyes opened at a sound and he looked up.  The faint
sound of footsteps echoed in the night breeze.  He peered
around till he saw a shadow move slightly against the
elevator.  He slyly turned to where he judged the source to
be.  In the darkness of a hidden corner, he made out a
little flash of white.

He stumbled forward quietly, his body mostly making up for
the beer and whiskey in his system.  The figure in the
shadow did not react to him.  He moved closer, maneuvering
himself to the cover of a wild bush growing through the
cracked asphalt.

Though the figure still stood mostly in the dark, Artie
made out the hint of long dark hair and a leg: a girl's
leg.  He looked both ways down the street.  It was late,
and only an occasional fudgie on his way down the state
route to the vacation lands to the north would pass for
now.  He stepped from his bush and walked now with purpose
to his target.  His left hand felt for his switch blade in
his back pocket.

It was late at night, and no one was about in the little
crossroads.  No one heard the scream.

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Artie is dead."

Steve rubbed his temple as the blood moved noisily to his
brain.  His eyeballs pulsed with the beat of his heart.  He
tried to make sense of the sound coming from the telephone
in his ear.

"Wha?" he mumbled into the bottom portion, the one you
talk through.

"Dammit, Steve, this is Hugh," responded the frantic voice
from the part you hear through.  "Artie is dead."

"So the fuck what," answered Steve.  He tossed the phone
back on the part that hangs the phone up.  He stared at his
feet and the dirty carpet below them.  The phone rang; he
picked it up, and put it back down.  He dropped it to the
floor before it rang again.

His fingers rubbed against the pressure in his eyeballs.
He then spun back on his back and threw the covers over his
head.

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

The sheriff looked up at the State Police van that pulled
along the sidewalk.  It's polished surface gleamed against
the late morning sun, as men began to emerge from the van.
He looked over at his old cruiser and sighed, before
walking to the men.  One of them looked up at the sheriff
and approached him with long strides.

When they met the man reached out with his right hand
palms open.  "Sheriff Kelly, Detective Fred O'Donnell,
State Police."

The sheriff took the detective's hand, and they shook
formally.  The sheriff passively allowed the stranger to
guide the motion.  Neither tested the other.  They released
with the minimum of pumps.

"The body is this way."  The sheriff motioned with his
head to the corner where the offices of the old grain
elevator met the silos.  A sheet covered form lay inside a
fence made of yellow tape and a broom
handle shoved in the dry ground.  With that, they walked to
the body.

"Who was it,' asked Detective O'Donnell.

"Arthur Kelly, local piece of crap."

"Relative?"

"Unfortunately."  The sheriff lifted up the tape for the
detective to pass under.  "Cousin."

"What can you tell me about him, Sheriff?"

"Besides that he was a piece of crap?"

"If you could, please."

"Loser.  In and out of jail.  Mostly, for minor things.  I
arrested him myself for driving with a suspended license.
County got to sell his car for that one.  He probably was
walking home when he got it."

"Job? Family?"  said O'Donnell as he hunkered down before
the sheet.

The sheriff watched as O'Donnell lifted the cover from the
body.  "Unemployed.  Hasn't worked more than a few days in
his life.  We think he grows, well grew, pot up around the
Mill's place with his buddies.  Not enough to get the
attention of you guys with the state, but enough to get by
on."

The detective drew in his breath as he lifted the sheet.

"Pretty ain't it."  The sheriff grinned to himself as he
continued.  "Wife and two kids.  She left him and town with
two black eyes as souvenirs about two, two and a half years
ago.  Don't think she ever divorced him, though.  I'm sure
she'll be happy."

O'Donnell swore to himself when he saw the head region of
the body.

"Yep," answered the sheriff, "pretty work.  Got his own
switch blade in the crotch and his throat ripped out."

"Jesus Christ," said O'Donnell as he bent to examine the
wound at the throat.  "How the hell could they have done
that?"

"Looks like some of the sheep that I have seen killed by
the wild dogs around these parts.  I figure it was a dog
that done it."

"And the knife?"

"The dog's owner."  The sheriff shrugged his shoulders.
"Him and his buddies have been rumoured to have raped more
than a few of the local girls.  I figure that someone's
daddy may have took offense."

O'Donnell stood up.  "Jesus Christ."

"You said that already, Detective."

"Who are these 'buddies' you keep talking about, Sheriff?"

"I'll give you a list."

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Shame about Artie, thought Dick Peters as he carefully made
his way through the dark woods.  When Hugh had called him
about the State Cop and Sheriff Kelly, he spent a few
moments working on lies before he realized he didn't need
to.  Hell, the sheriff even saw him in the bar until close.
Followed him home too.  That was the nice thing about have
cops as neighbors.

He really wondered about all the questions about the dog,
though.  What the hell would they want to know about a
fucking dog.  It was no worry for him; he didn't have a
dog.  The old woman was allergic to them.

He stopped in his thoughts when he heard another set of
feet in the dried leaves that laid scattered over the
ground.  He listened with his body motionless.  The rustle
of feet continued without any apparent attempt towards
concealment.  Dick lowered his body and watched in the
direction of the sound. His hand moved to the hunting knife
on his belt.

It was a girl with long dark hair tied into a tail.
Young, she may have been just old enough for high school.
Her head was turned down and her feet drug through the
leaves.  She wore a short, pleated skirt.

Musta been thrown out of the car by a frustrated date,
thought Dick from his hiding spot.  He entertained the
notion of taking care of Miss Attitude, himself, but
thought better of it.  Not so close to the pot, he reminded
himself.  He could wait till he got home to the wife.

The girl passed by.  When she was clear, Dick again began
to move to the plants he and the guys had planted together.
He thought about what he would buy with his share of
Artie's share.  When, he felt something on his back.  It
was a hand.  He spun around with his hand going to his
knife.  It was Miss Attitude.  Her clothing was soiled and
her legs filthy with rubbed in dirt.  Dick looked up at her
face from his crotched position.

He screamed.

                   ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Steve and Hugh sat together at a table in the bar.  Hugh
looked at his watch and Steve swore.

"Call 'im."

Hugh looked up from his watch.  "I tried that already.
His ol' lady ain't seen 'im since he left for the patch
last night."

"Sonava bitch ran on us."  Steve swore again.  "Probably
took all the pot too."

"Keep it down.  That state cop is still around about
Artie."

"Fuck Artie."

"Yeah, but do you want that trooper thinking about nailing
us on a drug charge."  Hugh looked around.  "Besides, I
don't think that Dick ran on us.  I think that who ever got
Artie got him."

Steve drank his beer.  "Fuck Artie. And fuck Dick, too."

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hugh left early; the cops were at the bar.  They were just
drinking , but Steve was acting crazy.  And he was talking
shit, too.  Cops and Steve talking shit were a bad
combination.  Hugh needed to be somewhere else.

Not that he wanted to leave the relative safety of the
bar.  Steve may not have thought much of it, but Artie's
death and Dick's disappearing had Hugh scared shitless.
Someone was after them, meaning Hugh did not want to be
alone.  But Steve was making the bar unsafe, too.

Nowhere the fuck to go to, now, thought Hugh as he entered
his truck.  Nowhere to hide.

Course, it was just a half hour to the next town where
things were just a little livelier than around this
shithole.  There would be more people, more cover.  Maybe,
he could even score a little action.  Action would be good.

He reached under his seat for the snub nose.  With a
clumsy flick of the wrist , he popped the cylinder out.
Six rounds were nestled in their chambers.  Each round was
a dum-dum, just like Artie and Dick and Steve with their
goddamn knives.

He slipped the pistol into the pocket of his old denim
jacket and started the truck.  Steely Dan blared loud as
hell from the speakers just as the engine caught.  He
turned the music up and backed the truck out of its spot
and onto the two lane highway.  Once moving, he stretched
to pull a flask from the glove compartment letting papers
fall where they would.

With six dum-dums and a pint of Kessler's, Hugh stood ten-
foot tall and was loaded for bear.   After five minutes of
blaring music and half harvested cornfields, Hugh passed
the girl.  He drove too fast to see a lot in the dusk, but
what he saw was enough to make him excited.

She looked like a cute little Mexican senorita.  Young
meat, maybe cherry pie, and away from the herd.  Alone.

He smiled and thought that he may have time for a detour.
He pulled into a field access and performed a three point
turn back on the road.  He drove slowly; he didn't want to
miss her.  She'd be very disappointed if he did.

He didn't miss her, though.  She was not far from where he
had seen her.  She moved slowly, her feet barely lifted
from the gravel of the shoulder.  She stared at the ground.
She appeared to be a very sad girl, but Hugh knew how to
cheer up very sad girls.

He drove into the oncoming lane without worry.  By now,
everyone would be home, or in a motel room, or at the bar.
There would be no chance of anyone driving by before he got
the girl into the truck.

She didn't look up even at the headlights played over her
nice young body.  Hugh slowed down and pulled along side
the girl.  She stopped.  He began to turn the crank on the
window.

When it was down, he said to the girl, "Would you like a
ride somewhere?"

She looked up at him.

Six shots rang into the night air, then a man's scream.

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Hello, Sheriff," said O'Donnell as he walked into the
sheriff's office.  "I got some things on the Arthur Kelly
murder."

"How?"

O'Donnell dropped a pile of papers on to the sheriff's
desk.  "Faxed to me over my lap top."

"Nice," answered the sheriff as he picked up the pile.
"I'll have to ask Santa for one this Christmas."

The detective excuse himself to get a cup of coffee and
the sheriff began to look over the printouts and the
photos.  He
could make out a shot of Artie's arm with four small
bruises the size of fingerprints in a line.  Another had
Artie's shredded throat as a subject.  A third was of some
foot prints in the sand around the body.

The last looked like something he had seen from a Discover
Channel special on the OJ Simpson case.  It had something
to do with DNA.  The sheriff looked up as the detective
returned with a steaming Styrofoam cup.  The detective
dropped into a chair with a plop.

"Well?"

"Let's assume that I'm only a hick sheriff from the sticks
and just explain things in simple, one syllable words."

O'Donnell sighed.  "Arthur Kelly was killed by a sixteen-
year-old girl who disappeared three months ago and was
presumed dead."

A deputy stuck his head into the office.  "Sheriff,
Detective.  We got another one.  Up on State Route Sixty-
three towards Oaksville."

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

One needed to take Hugh Smith's drivers license at face
value because if his throat was intact, very little above
in was.  Most of his face had been smeared over the
steering wheel.

"Thank God for fingerprints, else we'd never be sure,"
said the sheriff.  He handed the wallet to the detective.
"Hugh Smith.  A friend of Artie's"

The detective studied the license.  "I remember talking to
him.  Nervous fellow."

"Yep, Dick Smith, his brother, is missing, too.  Hasn't
been seen around since the night after the murder."  He
spit on to the ground.  "Miss Sanchez has been busy for a
dead girl."

"Sheriff, Miss Sanchez is obviously not dead."

"If these boys had anything to do with her disappearance,
she is dead and buried in a shallow grave somewhere,
Detective O'Donnell."  He spit again.  "They work that way.
Especially, Steve Nelson.  He's a killer.  Probably killed
his old man, but it looked too much like a hunting accident
to charge him."

"The evidence.  The foot prints.  The DNA."

"If she killed them, then she is back from the dead.
Maybe she is.  After all, that doctor of yours said that
those were human teeth marks around his throat."

"Sheriff!"  The detective looked at the smashed face in
the truck cab as photos were taken.  "What you are saying
is absurd."

"So is framing a dead girl, detective.  And sixteen-year-
old girls don't do things like that."  He pointed at the
body.  "At least, I can guess what to do next."

"What's that?"

"Well, Detective.  Steve Nelson is the last of them.  He's
the next target for whoever is doing this.

                  ++++++++++++++++++++++++

Steve drove by the site.  He knew that it was Hugh's truck.
He'd been with Hugh often enough over the years that he
could tell the story of every dent and scratch.  Inside was
a form covered by a sheet.  And there was all those cops,
the ones here about Artie.

Now, Hugh.

Hugh'd been going on about Dick, too, before he left the
bar.  Maybe someone was after them, and he was the last.
Hugh and Artie were chicken shit.  It ain't surprising to
see someone get the jump on them, but Dick had a head on
his shoulders instead of a pimple.  If someone offed him,
it was not a good thing at all.

Someone who got Dick could get him and he needed to be
somewhere else.  He'd need money, which was short, but he
still had the pot they had planted.  He couldn't get it all
of course, but he could get enough to tide him by for
awhile.  He could start over like in Florida.

There was lots of pussy in Florida.  He could get a boat
and bring in a little coke for spending money.  It sounded
like a good plan, but he needed to wait awhile.  'Til
night. He could get a few plants tonight and then be off to
the south.

He spent the in the bar across from the towers.  Artie
hated that place, but then, they all had.  Nobody hated it
more than Artie did.  It was funny that he had died there.
Like someone was waiting for him.  It could've been Dick,
but Dick had been with them when Artie ran off.  And Dick
was gone without his woman
which he would never do.

He had a fifth beer and thought about Dick's woman.  She
was fair game now.  Maybe, Steve would stop and say good
bye to her before he left town.  He wanted a piece of that
ever since high school when it was clear that she would
have herself a rack.  Dick's daughter was a nice piece,
too.  Young enough to bleed young enough to breed was
Steve's motto.

He took the last of the beer in his mouth and swallowed.
They'd both be home, right now.  He'd nothing to do anyway.
He dropped a few bucks on the table for the bar skag and
went out to his truck thinking about Dick's two whores.

He spent the short drive to Dick's place feeling his dick
harden in his pants as he used his hand to give it a good
squeeze to get ready.  He'd do the mother first, he
thought, but I'll shoot off into the girl.  He thought
about firing a load into the tight virgin ass of that
little slut.  She'd clean it, too.

The trailer stood next to Dick's daddies old place.  Too
old to stand up on its own, let alone live in, Dick was
always promising his bitch to fix it up.  He wouldn't get
the chance now, but that was her worry.

Steve's was getting in.  He knocked on the door.  The
mother answered.  She wore a robe which would make things
easier.  Steve smiled.

"Steve."  The woman waved him in.  "Have you seen Dick.
He hasn't been back and the cops have been asking about
him.  They want to know..."

She turned to look at him as she entered the kitchen and
screamed at the sight of Steve's big hunting knife.  Her
robe opened to show a flash of a nice if well used body.

"On your knees, whore."

"Steve, you're Dick's friend."

"Dick's dead, whore."  Steve pointed the knife at the
woman.  "And you're just so much pussy, now."

He grabbed her shoulder and threw her to the floor.  She
looked up at him with a look of terror at caused his dick
to twitch.

"You know what to do, bitch.  Do it."

The woman crawled to him on her hands and knees.  Once to
his feet, she reached to the fly of his pants and undid it
and reached into his boxers.  His dick was hard and waiting
for her mouth as she began to swallow it.

He closed his eyes as her trained mouth did its work to
his meat.  She had skill that a young girl lacked, and Dick
had kept her well raped and the fear in her came through in
the desperateness of her sucking.  Steve grabbed her head
and began to fuck her face.

"Mom?"

The daughter still had on a short night dress on, even
though it had been afternoon.  The girl had been lounging
in bed like the spoiled brat that Dick had made her.  If
she had been his, Steve would have had her cunt trained by
now.  He wouldn't have bragged about her virginity like her
asshole father.

She looked so nice in her night dress.  Her long teen legs
were thin and smooth.  Her thin ass was just exposed from
under it.  He cuff the mother across the head.

"Enough, bitch.  It's her turn now."

Both protested.  The mother begged and the daughter
screamed as he pushed the girl over the table.  With one
thick finger, tore a hole into the girl's white undies and
ripped the polyester away from the elastic.  This exposed
her asshole to his sight, and he laughed as the girl tried
to work herself free.

She fought more as he started to work a finger into her
asshole, but a burly hand kept her pinned to the table.  By
the time he felt that he could start fucking her with his
dick, she had ceased to struggle and just laid her cheek
against the table and cried softly.  She did nothing else
to increase the pleasure to Steve's dick.

Steve couldn't have that, so he started to undo his belt
and pulled it from the loops of his pants.  Using the
weight of his adult body to hold her down, he pulled the
belt though the simple loop buckle.  He put the resulting
noose around the girl's neck.  That brought a response to
the girl.

"Hold it, you fuckin' bastard."  It was the bitch. She had
a shotgun.  "Get out of here, you sonnvabitch."

You can argue all you want with a
woman, but not with a shotgun.  He pulled from the girl and
dropped the belt.  He left it around her neck and just
walked back to the truck.  He'd get his pot and come back
later with his own gun.  It was late enough, that he could
get to the pot patch and still have a little sun.  Then,
he'd finish with the bitches.

He drove around the two tracks, just to keep clear of any
tails.  No one followed as the twilight lit his way to the
clearing.  Dick's wagon was there, empty and alone.  Parked
just above where they had buried those girls a month ago.
Steve parked next to it and took his flashlight.

He found Dick by accident.  The porcupines must have
gotten to his because his skull was open and the insides
gone.  He now matched Artie and Hugh in not having any
brains.  That made him smile as he walked the rest of the
way down the path.

He heard a sound like feet moving through the dead leaves.
He turned the flashlight around and flipped it back on.  It
shone into the blank, expressionless face of a girl.  It
was dirty and covered with blood as was the cheerleader's
uniform she wore.  Hugh wounds covered her body and the
prefect circles of bullet holes were in her sweater.

Steve thrust his knife into her.  She continued to move
forward towards him.  Steve screamed and backed away, but
tripped on a small, fallen tree.  She reached down; he saw
no blood where his knife still stuck from her body; she
picked him up and threw him against a tree.  A two inch
diameter branch impaled his body and held him to the tree.

                   ++++++++++++++++++++++++

The cruiser pulled up the two track.  Two cars parked in
the clearing came into sight in the headlights.  The
sheriff identified them both.

"Dick's and Steve's."  He pulled across them both blocking
them in to the clearing.  "I doubt that we'll find Dick,
but hopefully we can get Steve with the pot."

"Are you sure that is what he is after," asked the
detective, as the stepped from the cruiser.

"Well, this is where Dick's wife said they had planted it
and his truck is here."  The sheriff spat.  "If he was
going to rape those two, he must be planning to leave
town."

"Maybe he killed the others."

"I doubt it, Detective."  The sheriff waved another
cruiser into the clearing.  Two deputies stepped from it.
Each had a shotgun.  "Steve doesn't have enough imagination
to get while the gettings good; he sure as hell isn't going
to have enough to frame a dead girl."

"Maybe it is the girl," offered one of the deputies.

"What do you mean, Deputy Adams?"

"Well, Detective.  If the choice is between the impossible
and the improbable, I'd go with the impossible.  The
improbable goes against everything I know."  The deputy
shrugged his shoulders.  "The impossible just means there
is something I don't know."

The sheriff shook his head.  "Doug, shut up and get going.
We need to find..."

The scream of terror came from the woods to the group's
right.  It was quickly followed by another that sounded as
if it were pain induced.  The four men ran in the direction
of the screams.  The source was close and they did not go
far until they found Steve Nelson with three inched of
branch sticking from his belly and girl giving him face.

With the angle they stood at they could see that the shaft
did not slide in her mouth, but was held in it.  Each time
she pulled from the man's body, the penis was pulled with
her.  She pulled at hard and shook her head.  The sheriff
thought of the dinosaur specials he had seen; the showed
dinosaurs eating that way.

She yanked hard, and the dying man's genitals came away,
scrotum and all, from his body.  He screamed as his life's
blood poured from the wound and landed in a red facial on
the girl.  She stood before the body until last reflexive
movements has passed.  When it had truly died, she turned
to the police officers and looked at them.

The fresh blood dripped from her face onto the sweated
already stained with dried blood and dirt.  Her brown eyes
bulged from their sockets.  A dark bruise surrounded her
throat.

For long minutes nothing happened, until the dead girl
moved towards the men.  She lifted her left arm and
extended her open palm.  From around the penis still in her
mouth, she let out a low groan.

The deputies and the detective stood slack jawed as the
girl shuffled closer.  The sheriff pulled his service
revolver and took careful aim as the others stood stunned.
He pulled the trigger.  His single shot went into her skull
and she dropped.

"You always shoot zombies in the brain, Detective," he
answered the unasked question.  "That is how you give them
peace."

O'Donnell looked at the rotted corpse of the girl and
crossed himself.  "Rest in Peace, Maria Sanchez.  Rest in
Peace."

                           The End?



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