Sex and Murder Magazine

By Christopher Tepedino

He sits on a macabre throne made of human bones, suspended high in the cavern carved under the quiet town, and his eyes bleed through me.

I never meant to go this far. But they gave me this assignment, dressed me in a tailored suit, handed me a gun and a map and an assistant, Casey Burns, who disappeared two days ago. Six towns abandoned. Farms left untended, delivery trucks idling outside stores, old issues of newspapers resting on knee high grass, untouched and forgotten.

It's the dream, really-a high profile case, a guaranteed promotion if solved, and a certain appeal that the Bureau psychologists can't understand. Blood drunk, pure and sweet like a neat glass of whiskey. I never meant to go this far. But we found the hole in an alley. It was an invitation, and how was I supposed to spurn an invitation from him?

He is naked, lean. The torches placed on the edge of the caverns cast a warm orange glow. The shadows, deep and dark and solid, provide a delicate contrast; he seems vibrant on the throne of bones, framed in the fire light against the shadows. Vitality screams from his skin. And his eyes, they bleed through me.

I came prepared-a rifle slung over my shoulder, a Walther strapped to my hip, a magnum pressed against the small of my back. A sleepy wave pours through my muscles. I am more relaxed than after a cigarette, than after sex. Cotton fogs my thoughts.

He stands and smiles like a canine, visceral and hungry. The points of his bright white teeth shine. He gestures to the side; a struggling figure is brought to me. A ball has been shoved in her mouth and it stretches her lips causing them to crack and bleed. Her high-pitched protests echo dully, trapped by the ball, and they reverberate like a small touch of turbulence in the haze of my mind. Her hair is ragged and dirty, and she pleads with me. She cries. She seems familiar, like a girl I once knew.

An initiation? I understand what is required.

She resists at first, then submits. Strong, stronger than I have ever been, my skin alive, writhing and absorbing the details of her touch, her half-lidded eyes streaming tears, her heat. I climax and press the Walther against her forehead. The bullet splits her face open. Her blood sprays into the air, across my face and neck and chest, warm honey.

I stand. Blood runs down my skin. I cradle the Walther loosely in my hand against my hip. Then the haze flees my mind, and I stare at Casey Burns, her face a bloody mess, and my muscles tense and tense and suddenly I'm stumbling backward.

He watches from the throne. His servants are ready to descend upon me but they convulse, agitated, at the edges of the cavern, as if a thin but impenetrable string holds them in place.

I raise the Walther and unload on him. It's the fear; my anger has fled me. He smiles.

I can't touch him.

His eyes bleed through me. I understand-I'll never speak of this place; I'll live with the knowledge.

I turn my back, drop the Walther, and run out of the cavern into the sunlight.