The Pulptress Read online

  “Who are you to rob me of my feast?” he demanded. Saliva dripped from sharp dagger like teeth. “You can’t stop me. My power is too great.”

  “I’m The Pulptress and I’ve stopped guys like you for years.” The Gladys personality vanished in an instant.

  “I am Oskar Von Rohm, a noble man from the old country.” He turned and glared at the locked door. “You’ve spoiled my dinner for the evening. I’ll have to satisfy my appetite with you.”

  “You can try,” she taunted.

  Claw-tipped fingers reached for her throat. She slapped the reaching hands aside and slammed a hard right to Von Rohm’s face. The German aristocrat staggered. The Pulptress followed with a sweeping kick to his rock hard jaw, which dropped her foe to one knee.

  Von Rohm shook his head. His dirt crusted fingers brushed the hair from his eyes. “You are skilled, but those skills will not avail you.”

  “You’re tough. I’ll give you that. Most thugs would be down for the count now.” She moved in, feinting a blow with her right hand, diverting Von Rohm’s attention from the hard kick that landed flush on his jaw.

  “Enough of this,” he jumped to his feet. Von Rohm rushed toward her throwing wild powerful blows.

  The Pulptress blocked his initial attack. Von Rohm’s face wrinkled into a fearsome snarl. The breeze from his open hands fanned her face. A glancing swat struck her shoulder. Although the blow barely touched her, it was the hardest punch she’d ever felt, she stumbled back, her left arm numb.

  Von Rohm’s scaly hands closed around her throat and squeezed. The Pulptress clawed at the back of his hands opening wide deep furrows in the cold skin. Her probing fingers sought out Von Rohm’s eyes. The forefinger sank into the socket to the first joint.

  A powerful blow cuffed her jaw. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Von Rohm howled in pain as he rolled from her body, clutching his wounded face. His right eye dangled from the raw angry socket, bouncing against his cheek, held only by a thick ropy cord.

  “You’ve hurt me. Few have accomplished that feat,” Spittle flew from his gaping mouth.

  “I guess I’m in good company then.” She massaged her aching throat.

  “Witness my power,” he bellowed. The cord tightened, drawing the orb back into place. The deep scratches sealed over and healed in seconds.

  “Maybe so, Fella.” The old man in the bathrobe appeared on the porch, a double barreled twelve-gauge shotgun pressed against his shoulder. “Let’s see if you can handle this.”

  An ear splitting roar set her ears to ringing. Smoke curled from the twin barrels. The force of the blast lifted Von Rohm from the porch and sent him sprawling in the dirt.

  “That’ll settle your hash, you freak.” Nervous fingers hit the release. The shotgun came apart at the hinged center. Empty casings sailed over his head. He quickly jammed two shells in the barrels. “Are you okay, Lady?” His eyes settled on The Pulptress.

  “I’ll heal.” She nodded. “You saved my bacon, but you need to get inside, this isn’t over with.”

  A low moan came from Von Rohm. “You’ll suffer for this indignity. I’ll grind your bones to paste.” The words slurred and distorted. A claw tipped hand reached out and fisted in the winter grass. He pushed himself up on his knees. “You’ll both die a very painful death.”

  Clear fluid leaked from a gaping facial wound. The right side of Von Rohm’s jaw hung from his face. Shattered teeth fell from his ruined jaw. He gained his feet slowly, swaying on unsteady legs.

  Before her eyes, the mandible reformed. An internal force pushed the pellets from his wounded face. They fell to the ground like tiny raindrops.

  The Pulptress raced toward the disfigured nobleman. Her fists pounded his rapidly healing face, opening the newly healed wounds. Von Rohm’s hands came up to shield his face from the hurricane of blows.

  Perspiration beaded her forehead, despite the cold temperature. Von Rohm backed away from her fury. A desperate backhanded slap caught her flush on the jaw. The Pulptress landed hard on her back ten feet away. The breath exploded from her lungs on impact.

  She rolled to her stomach, struggling to fill her empty lungs with air. Eyes blinked wildly in an effort to clear her blurred vision. A dark figure lurched slowly toward her. Her eyes focused on the kick aimed at her head.

  She couldn’t let the killing blow fall. The Pulptress balanced her weight on her hands and pivoted. The blow puffed her hair, missing her head by the barest margin. She drove her foot into Von Rohm’s exposed ankle. The limb popped like a snapped tree branch.

  The Pulptress leaped to her feet. The flesh tightened around her jaw, she would be sporting a massive bruise within minutes. She climbed wearily to her feet, her spaghetti legs quivered. Her only thought was to end this quickly!

  Von Rohm backed away, his face covered in fresh cuts and bruises. The healing factor slowed by the multitude of gaping wounds. “This isn’t finished. I will have my revenge.” Fog rose from the ground, covering his feet, engulfing his knees. “Your friends are hiding at the mansion. Their deaths will be my vengeance.” The dense vapor rose to his chest and covered his head. In an instant it disappeared, swallowed by the night.

  She squinted into the darkness. The small bank of fog moved away from the dwellings returning to the Old Charles Mansion. “I’ve got to get back there. That thing will kill everyone unless I stop it.”

  She charged ahead, chasing a phantom. A dull ache centered in her swollen jaw, the night air burned her throat. The Pulptress ignored the pain, shuttled it away to some dark corner of her brain and locked it away. Her pumping legs, swiftly covered the ground, her mind focused on a single goal. Save Roscoe and his friends.

  The mist settled on the granite steps. It bulged and contorted, bending itself into Oskar Von Rohm. He cast a hurried glance over his shoulder. The wounds covering his face were scabbed over and crusty. He limped slightly, as he climbed the stairs.

  “Away from me, Woman,” he shouted. “I will be whole in seconds while you are spent and tired.”

  “You’re not as confident as you sound.” She bounded up the outside steps.

  Von Rohm waited for her on the porch, his face creased in a snarl. “I’ll not underestimate you again. I won’t hold back any longer. Now is the hour of your death.”

  The stiff wind whipped the cloak around his shoulders. He caught the lower hem. “Come my pets.”

  Rats jumped from the folds. Hundreds of vermin with sharp chisel teeth scampered around her ankles and jumped on her legs. Claws sliced into her calves, teeth gnawed her ankles. She swatted the animals away, stomping on a handful with her bulky shoes. Warm blood covered her legs and feet.

  A powerful blow cracked her rib with an audible snap. Pain erupted through her side. An open handed slap struck her swollen jaw and sent her sprawling. The rats swarmed over her body, seeking her eyes.

  “You’re mine now. You’ll make a faithful servant after I’ve broken you to my will. You will be my willing crippled servant.” An evil smile split Von Rohm’s face. Hands fisted in her blouse, he lifted The Pulptress into the air. “Away with you now, your task in completed.” The rats scattered, disappearing into the night. He pushed her head to one side, exposing her warm inviting throat.

  Drops of saliva fell from the open mouth, burning like acid on her skin. The Pulptress gritted her teeth against the pain. Off balance, she lashed out in desperation. Her right hand struck Von Rohm’s strong jaw with little effect. Her eyes gazed into the nobleman’s red rimmed orbs, seeing only the lust for death and suffering.

  “Get off her.” Betty ran to her side. A large silver crucifix gripped in her fist. She pressed the sacred object against the monster’s cheek.

  “No!” Von Rohm screamed. Smoke billowing from his face. He dropped The Pulptress, fleeing from the pain. His eyes locked on Betty’s face. “You! Why do you attack me? I spared you many years ago and this is how you repay me.”

  “I lied to myself for years, convinced myself you weren’
t real. That you were only a figment of my imagination, but no more. You’ll never claim another life. I won’t let you.” Betty held the cross at arms length. “Gloria, take Gladys into the house now.”

  “Get back,” The Pulptress croaked her raw throat and swollen jaw barely able to form the words. “Don’t get near him.” Pain raced through every fiber of her body as she climbed to her feet.

  Betty gazed at Gladys’ ravaged face, taking her eyes away from Von Rohm. He moved instantly. His hand closed on the cross in her hand, squeezing Betty’s flesh against the metal. Blood curling screams came from both throats.

  Von Rohm wrenched the crucifix from Betty’s broken bloody hand. He tossed it to the ground, turning his hand to examine the charred flesh. “I’ll bear these scars for all eternity.” He threw back his head gazing at the heavens. His lips spread unnaturally wide. A howl of rage filled the night. “I’ve suffered these flea bites long enough.”

  The Pulptress crawled over the frigid ground. Her hand circled the hot silver crucifix. Her swollen eyes fastened on Von Rohm’s hazy form. The monster squatted over Betty, lapping blood from her crushed hand.

  Gloria ran from the mansion. Her hands fisted in the German’s hair pulling him away from her mother. “Leave her alone,” she shouted.

  “Gloria,” Ross screamed. “Get away from him.”

  “Again my feasting is interrupted by insects.” He pushed her away. “You can’t stop me. You don’t have the knowledge of the old priests.”

  “I know this painting is special,” Ross shouted. “It’s just like a coffin. You have to have it. It’s your refuge during the day.” He held the portrait by the frame. “What happens if I destroy it? What happens to you, if you don’t have a place to hide from the sunlight?”

  Von Rohm spun. A light of recognition flared in his eyes. “The curious boy, I remember you from years ago. I see time hasn’t been kind to you. You should have been mine that day, but you managed to escape.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What happens if I destroy your portrait?” Ross demanded. He watched, as The Pulptress crept behind the creature.

  “Place the painting on the porch and leave and I’ll spare your miserable life. You’re tampering with forces you can’t comprehend.” Von Rohm swatted Gloria away. The young woman crawled to her mother’s side. “You don’t know what I’ve endured, trapped in that blasted metal prison all this time. Starving, only feeding when a simpleton managed to unlock the door. I’ll spare you and the girl if you back away now.”

  “You need to back down, if you want your home to stay in one piece.” Ross pulled a squeeze can of lighter fluid from his chair.

  “Destroy that painting and you’ll beg for death long before it comes.” He took a step forward. His long fingers wrapped around Gloria’s throat, lifting her from the ground. “This girl is special to you. Drop the painting or I’ll snap her neck like a dried twig.”

  “Okay, you win. Don’t hurt her.” The painting dropped from his hands. “You can have it.”

  “No, Ross,” Gloria mumbled. “Don’t give in to him. He’ll kill us all when he gets what he wants. He has to kill us now. We know too much.”

  “You’re a very intelligent girl.” His grip tightened around Gloria’s throat. His slimy tongue licked her cheek. “You’ll watch me feast on the others before I kill you. I’ll save your chair for the bothersome one after I cripple her.”

  The Pulptress leaped forward, driving the cross into the creatures back. The shaft of the cross cut through his clothes and penetrated the hard flesh along his spine. She pushed with all her might, seeking the demons heart.

  Von Rohm’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “No!” he screamed through blood flecked lips. “I’ve endured so much. It can’t end like this.”

  “It’s over. You’re finished,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s over.”

  Von Rohm stiffened his pain filled howl cut through the air as the silver crucifix found his heart. He pitched forward, landing on his face and slowly crumbled to dust.

  “You did it,” Ross shouted. “You destroyed Von Rohm.”

  The Pulptress fell to her knees. “Yeah, we won. Is there an emergency room nearby?”

  ***

  “How are you feeling?” Ross asked, as they drove back to Arkansas three days later.

  “I’m better.” Emily nodded, her face covered in blue and yellow bruises. “Betty and Gloria will have a great home when they get everything finished. You might consider moving nearby” She smiled. “I know Gloria would enjoy your company.”

  “Don’t worry about that. She’ll be in Arkansas next month.” Ross returned her smile. “We’re going to spend a lot of time together.”

  THE END

  BUTCHER’S FESTIVAL

  by Ron Fortier

  The Sixth Street bus arrived with a belch of exhaust fumes and the four people huddled under the corner depot roof did their best to stay out of the rain. Heavy winds coming off the bay were sending the fat raindrops sideways and there was little protection in the flimsy tin shack. The quartet, consisting of an old man, a heavy set woman, a hotel maid and a thin, nervous fellow, lined up along the vehicles dented yellow side as the driver opened the door and disgorged several passengers.

  One of the exiting citizens was a short fellow with thick glasses who looked around nervously upon stepping onto the slick sidewalk.

  The four waiting passengers hurried aboard and shuffled down the aisle of the nearly full bus to find an empty seat. The thin man, named Irving Wilkens, spotted an empty seat at the rear and made for it as the driver shifted into gear and stepped on the gas.

  Dropping into the seat, he looked over and eyed a small package crudely wrapped with brown butcher’s paper. He started to reach for it when it blew up.

  Outside, back at the at the bus stop, the small man with the glasses watched the big bus explode with a powerful boom, its frame leaping off the road before dissolving into millions of tiny pieces, among them steel, rubber, and human tissue and bone.

  The little man took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief and strolled off into the rain, a dark, sadistic smile on his face. He loved blowing things up.

  ***

  Less than an hour later, in a dingy, darkened room a figure stirs in the worn upholstered chair facing a rain washed window. Night is descending quickly and with it the shadows that invade his tiny, square domain. On the bureau to the left of the window a single candle suddenly sputters to life, its solitary flame casting an eerie glow. The dweller rises from his seat and approaches the fire as a face begins to materialize in the flickering orange fingers. It is of a long dead girl, robbed of her life by a sadistic, soulless gunman; one who now does her bidding.

  “Violence and death have come once more,” she utters in a sweet, lilting voice. The thing standing before her merely listens, acknowledging her words only by his grave like silence. “You are needed once more. Justice will be meted out by your hands.”

  The undead avenger nods as he reaches for a milk-white porcelain mask laying next to the dancing candle. Brother Bones affixes the skull-like visage to the horror that is his true face, his dark eyes blinking through the twin holes.

  “Where?”

  ***

  Standing in front of the big warehouse steel door under the single overhead light bulb, Cody Randall reflected for the hundredth time on how much she despised Cape Noire. All around her was nothing but a stygian blackness and a damp, cold breeze leftover from the day’s downpour. At least it wasn’t raining now-- that was a small consolation to be grateful for. Still, here she was, decked out in her cowboy jeans, hat and black felt domino mask standing in front of a massive door about to once again battle the forces of evil.

  Damn, but a smart girl could find a much nicer, safer career. The lovely lass known as the Pulptress mused as she thumped the door for the third time in as many minutes with the stock of her pump-action shotgun.

  There was a click from behind the
door and the small, rectangular peep shutter slipped open to reveal a pair of beady eyes under heavy thick eyebrows.

  “Yeah, yeah, whataya want?” the dimwitted gangster asked, looking down at the strangely garbed female standing on the landing.

  “I want to see your boss, Pete Malone.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, that’s really between me and him now, but then again, you really are in for a world of shit.”

  “Huh?”

  Cody tilted her cowboy hat back, stepped closer to the peep slot and whispered, “Listen, moron, there’s a dozen ninjas coming down on this place even as we speak. Now I think that’s something your boss would like to know. Don’t you?”

  The big guard kept staring at her and she wondered just how stupid he really was? Then there was a chunking noise and he was gone from site just before the big door opened inwards.

  He was standing there with one hand out. “Okay, Calamity Jane, hand over the shotgun and the six-iron and I’ll take you to see the boss.”

  Cody could have blown a hole through him easily enough and the temptation was great. Still, those ninjas we’re not going to sit around waiting to make their move

  , and if they killed Malone before she got to him, then her plan would go down the drain in a quick flush.

  She passed over the shotgun and then the Colt six-shooter from its holster riding low on her right hip. “Alright, you satisfied now?”

  “Come on. Down the corridor there and stay in front of me.”

  Cody complied with his orders and started down the dimly illuminated aisle as the brutish thug slammed the door shut again and slipped the steel bolt in place.