Short story: Doctor Kebab. Shish Kebab.

Story contains swearing

He scoops me up like one would a small sleeping child. I am neither. I scramble for bars of my cage frame but he was stronger. Thrashing wildly as I can the fucker holds on like I’m nothing. Not always a happy person, not particularly strong, but I meant something once. I could again.

“You’re making this worse, sweetheart, more than it has to be,” his breath comes in puffs of fetid peppermint.

Screaming was moot, the basement took care of that. The two men that still breathed roused from their cages, their teeth bared in feral grimaces. One throws himself against his door, the other follows suit.

I know he’s hauling me to the steel table by the incinerator where Carter’s corpse had slept. Chest split open. Organs harvested. I feel the wince crack apart dried up riverbed of tears. Hell wasn’t the destination it was just a passage to something worse than the tales, and ours had its jowls laced with ashes and flames for teeth.

I may be nothing in this moment but I’m not stupid. Faked injuries facilitated recovery time. He’d wanted to have some fun with us before he got down to business eventually. The slime was considerate enough to let me off the hook so he could start all over again.

The plan, need to follow the plan. I go lax in his arms. I sing a lullaby with my body, arms like wilting flowers and breaths leafless trees in the wind. I feel his grip ease, only a little.

Got it. My hand closes around cool metal at his hip. I need to act quickly.

Halfway to the table, I swing my arm in an arc. Yes, the keys land right in front one of the men. They waste no time.

Dr. Slimeball starts at the movement then sprints into action. Or, at least he tried. My fist connects with this trachea. The punch was wobbly but it held true. He drops me to grab his throat. I twist to land on my ass but scramble to my feet and continue the assault with a kick to his knee. He falls like a log. Suprise wars with rage and pain on his genteel face.

“That’s right asshole, I’m not Bo Peep.”

The two freed themselves and launch towards us. Together we hoist him onto the table, shouting and kicking. We strap him down like when he’d taken turns with us.

“How do we kill him?” Timmon grounds out.

“Burn him alive,” I say.

Hailey nods in affirmative since he can’t talk until his vocal chords grow back.

I fire up the machine and punched a button. The top layer of the table begins to retract like an unholy tongue, slowly into the mouth of the pit. Beady eyes plead but the doctor would find no mercy here. The incinerator’s door clang shut with an air of finality. Not long after follows the howling.

We stand shoulder to shoulder holding each other upright.

Raphael, the rat bastard, was right. There is a dark music in the screams of one’s enemies.

© Devina Singh, 2018

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