Four Minutes - Short Story
FOUR MINUTES
The bitch had almost bucked him off twice. Her long, sinfully provocative legs had given her the leverage to arch her back and almost dislodge him. But Norman’s strapping six-foot-two frame, carrying a solid two-hundred-ten pounds, continued pinning her to the cement floor. Her frantic thrashings were weakening, hastened by the iron grip of his large hands around her throat.
But she fought on with a teeth-clenching grimace, eyes slits of determination. She clawed at his face, but her arms were outside his and couldn’t span the distance. Attempts at loosening his throttling grip with her hands failed. Finally, she resorted to a wild pounding at his arms and chest with her fists. And then she knew.
Her eyes were bulging in terror as she struggled for air, the realization her death was imminently reflected in their depths. Her mouth was wide and gaping, struggling for air that was so close yet so far.
More pressure, his fingers tightening. One of her hands gripped a fistful of his shirt. The other beat feebly at his arm and chest, then a gagging sound, more of a vibration in her throat. Several more seconds and her writhing trembled to a halt beneath him. One hand struck a last, ineffectual blow against the body above her before falling limp to the floor. The other loosened its grip on his shirt and fell, joining the other on the ground. Her horror-filled eyes emptied and became fixed, staring without sight at the ceiling.
He maintained his hold for several more seconds, his breathing ragged, the exhilaration of the kill coursing through him like an addictive drug. With an effort, he brought his excitement under control. He only had four minutes, maybe a few more, and never wanted to waste any of the time.
He stood and gripped her under the arms. With a grunt, he half carried, half dragged her dead weight over to the old leather couch parked against his basement wall. She was tall and, although slim, must have weighed a good one-hundred thirty-five pounds. He positioned her limp body in an upright, sitting position and put a throw pillow behind her neck to prop up her head.
With a rasp of wood on cement, Norman pulled a wooden chair over and sat facing the body of the young brunette, their knees almost touching. He had retrieved her purse, rummaged through it and pulled out her driver’s license. Laughing, he shook his head. “Ryan Dana Sanders. Looks like your parents might have wanted a boy and got you instead.”
He leaned forward and rested on his elbows. “Ryan, I know you’re in there, screaming in the darkness. I read somewhere that after the lungs stop manufacturing oxygen and the heart ceases to pump—in short, after you die—there’s still enough residual oxygen in the blood for the brain to survive another four, five, maybe even ten minutes. You’ve read the stories. If someone dies and you can revive them within a few minutes, they’re A-Okay. A little longer, and you have irreversible brain damage. Longer still, and it’s kaput. They call it hypoxia.”
Norman looked at her, frowning. Her expressionless eyes stared over his right shoulder, her mouth hanging open. With one hand resting on her smooth thigh just below her denim shorts, the other reached and lovingly closed her mouth. “Irene, my mother, always said you’d catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.”
His mind slipped gears. Beautiful Irene had been only sixteen when she had given birth to Norman. His father had vanished long before that regretful event had occurred. His mother—who insisted that Norman always use her given name, even as a child—had never needed another man. She had Norman. Irene was insatiable in her sexual needs, many of them bizarre. And now there was little Normie she could train to fill those appetites. Her hunger became even more voracious and strange as Norman grew older, right up until she died in that “unfortunate accident” shortly after Norman turned eighteen…
He shuddered, shook his head, and brought himself back. “So, Ryan, what’s it like in there?” He grinned and shook his head. “Hell, Ryan, everything’s on the fritz now. Your central nervous system has shut down, and those synapses aren’t firing in the ol’ brain anymore, are they? So, are you screaming in the dark, waiting for the last of the oxygen to run out, waiting for the brain cells to die, teetering on the edge of that long journey into the abyss?”
No response from Ryan, sitting silently in her blue shorts, her red blouse torn open from her struggles with Norman, and gazing off into nowhere. She was beautiful, even in death.
Norman licked his lower lip and stared at her. He could have a few more minutes of fun with her body. If her mind were still alive in there somewhere, then it wouldn’t really be necrophilia, would it? But desecration of the “dead” was illegal, and… he threw his head back and let out a barking laugh. He was worried about “illegal” when he had just strangled his nineteenth victim. But necrophilia? Even serial killers had to have standards. Still…
He leaned forward again. “Is there maybe a sixth sense or something? A mixture of the known black and white, now a post-mortem, short-term, unknown grey? Do you still have an awareness of the outside world? Do you remember anything, or even what happened to you? Or is it merely darkness and horror in there? Have you gone insane in the silence? Is it bad, Ryan? I hope so. I know there’s no physical pain as the brain dies—no nerve endings—but the psychological, the spiritual? Regardless, I believe you are aware of everything I have done and, even more importantly, will be aware of everything I do to your body during the next few minutes.”
He sighed, leaned back and looked at his watch. “Well, Irene… ah… Ryan, the oxygen should soon start to run out in those brain cells, and they will begin dying. Does that magnify your terror as you realize the last of you?”
Norman swallowed and brought his increasingly rapid breathing back under control. He had watched her die on the outside, and imagining her final, terror-filled death on the inside, was even more exhilarating.
Norman had dug her grave earlier. He stood, took her by the arm, pulled her forward, threw her over his shoulder and headed for the stairs. Her denim-clad hip against his cheek, the softness of her bare thighs under the restraint of his arm, the gentle stroking of her swinging arms on his back… yup, Norman would have to rethink his standards in the future. If he kept his fun and playtime within that four or five minutes after he killed them… why hell, if they were still “alive” in there, it would increase the horror in their trapped and dying minds, wouldn’t it?
Norman and his latest victim headed out the backdoor of the farmhouse into the twilight of a balmy West Virginia summer evening. His one hundred and ten partially wooded acres were isolated; his nearest neighbor was over five miles away. He hummed a tune. He felt good. This had been a fun one.
#
The new Ford F-150 pickup led a cloud of dust down the rutted dirt drive as Norman navigated from his home to the county road, almost three miles distant. It was the only farmhouse along the poorly maintained road. Norman purchased the property with Irene’s life insurance and a portion of the Mega-Lottery winnings. He should get the road graded.
Besides, he was a man of leisure now and had been for over ten years. His main interests were traveling and, of course, raping, torturing and killing beautiful, man-eating women—not necessarily in that order. And there were, oh, so many of them. So far, he had made nineteen of them pay—in six different states—over the last ten years. And the inept police were no closer to catching up with him than they had been a decade ago.
He turned up the radio; it was an oldies station, and Norman hummed along with, “Baby, baby, can’t you hear my heartbeat….”
He was almost past the last turn-off when he saw an older red Chevy with its hood up near a stand of trees fifty yards off the roadway. It was unusual to see any vehicles along his lengthy driveway, and “No Trespassing” signs were posted out by the main drag. But what really caught Norman’s eye was the tall, leggy blonde in the Daisy Duke shorts, leaning in and looking under the hood.
Norman stopped, backed up, and pulled in behind the Chevy. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his handsome, tanned face and pasted on his most engaging smile. Norman ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and got out. With a swagger, he approached the young woman.
The slim, attractive blonde turned and smiled as he approached. “This piece of junk started sputtering and coughing, and I barely managed to get it off the road before it died completely.”
Nervous, Norman licked his lips. Besides the Daisy Dukes, she wore a pale green blouse tied in a knot below ample breasts, exposing a bare midriff. The blouse matched the color of her eyes. He kept his smile in place. “I’m sorry about the car, Miss, but you’re on private land; didn’t you see the ‘No Trespassing’ signs out by the road?”
Her smile disappeared, replaced by a forlorn look. “I’m sorry, I was in a hurry to get to my friend’s birthday party over in Hillsboro; I was looking for a shortcut and must have missed the signs.” Now she was smiling again. “I can’t get any cell phone reception here. Do you live nearby? Maybe I could use your landline to call a wrecker?”
Norman’s mind was racing. It had been almost a year since the last one, but it had been at the farmhouse. On his agenda for next month was a planned trip to Idaho for another go-round—a state that would have another unsolved murder. He had buried only three near his house over the last ten years, preferring to keep things farther from home. Plus, he’d have to get rid of her car…
She was back to looking under the hood, bent over, leaning in, her body a mocking, taunting, forbidden fruit luring him. He hated her, despised her, loved her. He clenched and unclenched his hands, his mouth dry. Irene… He looked around at the isolated, secluded area. No way could he wait to get back to the house; he’d take her here.
Norman kept his boyish smile etched on his face and his voice even and steady. “Certainly, I only live a mile or so from here; I’ll give you a lift. But first, let me take a look under the hood for you.”
She straightened, faced him and grinned as he neared. “Sure, look all you want.”
His head and balls were throbbing, but his throat was the worst; he could hardly swallow; it felt like a golf ball had lodged there. Norman opened his eyes, and, even in the grey dimness, it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust, then several more seconds for them to register where he was. “What the hell…?” He was in his own basement, bare-assed naked, sitting in a chair, completely immobile.
Then his mind began to clear. He remembered the blonde and the beaming smile. He had been ready to take the woman when she unexpectedly lashed out and caught him in the throat with her fist. As he staggered, choking, she kicked him in the balls. Then she had hit him over the head with something, and now, he was in his basement, tied up to his favorite chair. She had even immobilized his head.
Although he couldn’t move his head left or right, up or down, his eyes could see his forearms duct-taped to the chair arms and his thighs duck-tapped to the chair bottom. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out that his lower legs, torso, and head were duct-taped to the chair legs and back. The extension he had put on the chair back for securing their heads worked well. He allowed himself a self-congratulatory moment. Norman didn’t even try to struggle; he knew the chair wouldn’t move or break. He had built the chair and bolted it to the cement floor himself.
Norman winced as the lights came on, illuminating the basement in painful clarity. The blonde was sitting on the leather couch smoking a cigarette, the remote control for the lights in her hand. “I was getting worried; I thought I might have whacked you too hard with my Louisville Slugger.
He had a splitting headache, and it hurt to talk, but he managed to rasp, “What is this? What are you doing, and why in the hell did you attack me? You can’t get away with this—
“Stow it, Norman; I don’t have time for your bullshit; I’ve got some serious work to do.”
The blonde unwound from the couch, stood and ground her cigarette out on the cement floor with a sneakered foot.
He stared at her. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”
She walked over, bent down, hands on knees and stared Norman in the eyes. “My name’s Dana. I’m the bitch who will introduce you to those ‘four minutes’ you’re always talking about.
Norman’s eyes widened. “What… how… how… why did you say…?” His mind was trying to grapple with everything. Dana, he knew that name from somewhere.
He tried to follow her with his eyes as she went to retrieve something outside his range of vision. Seconds later, she was back, wheeling a portable hospital tray he sometimes used as a table when he ate in the basement. But, instead of food, it now had several other items on it: vise-grips, clamps, screwdriver, several knives, a box cutter and a number of different things just outside his vision.
“Let’s see… Norman Joseph Bartholomew, a serial killer of… nineteen women, right? This may take a while since you’ll slowly be atoning for all of their deaths.” Dana picked up a teaspoon off the tray. “I’ve read of a novel use for this. Just insert it under someone’s eye, maybe an inch into the orbital cavity, then a quick flick up—like shooting peas—and presto; the eyeball just pops right out.” She put the spoon down and picked up a small knife. “But personally, I liked the one where you cut off the eyelids; you’d have to watch everything. Plus, they say the pain is excruciating as the eyeballs dry out.
His eyes moved left, then right, attempting to track her as she walked back and forth in front of him. Panic, like a welling tsunami, was growing in his darting eyes. “Who are you; why the hell do you care? Why don’t you just call the cops?” He screamed, his voice high-pitched.
She stopped her slow pacing. “You know, your theory on that ‘four-minute’ thing was pretty accurate. The brain does have enough oxygen after death to last four or five minutes, or in Ryan’s case, almost ten. Of course, she was a cross-country and marathon runner, and her body was a little more efficient than average in utilizing oxygen. She was still in there when you shoveled dirt over her.”
Confusion had now joined his panic. “That’s impossible; you can’t know that!”
Dana cupped a palm below her eyes and removed her contacts. When she finished, her green blouse no longer matched her brown eyes. “And you were right; our parents wanted a boy. Instead, they got a double whammy, twin girls—Dana Ryan Sanders and my sister, Ryan Dana. Our parents were pretty slick, huh?”
She pulled off her blonde wig, and her brunette tresses fell to her shoulders as she shook her head. “There, that’s better.” Dana picked up and tugged on a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping the thin rubber with an ominous finality when she finished.
Norman was speechless. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His mind was reeling.
“Ryan and I had none of that ‘twin-telepathy’ stuff, no paranormal, psychic connection; we couldn’t ‘feel’ what was happening to each other in adjoining rooms, let alone over great distances...until those few minutes after she died, that is.”
Eyes wide, Norman was still staring, his mouth agape.
She smiled. “You’ll be catching flies if you don’t close your mouth.”
A choking sound escaped Norman.
Dana slipped a white, plastic bib-apron over her head and tied it around her waist. “For most people, that last ‘four minutes’ or so is a peaceful transition, a gentle going-to-sleep as the oxygen fades away. But for others, it can be a horrendous final experience, residual memories of terror, a wraith-like sense perception of the outer world.”
She pulled up a chair and sat facing Norman, their knees almost touching. Dana leaned forward, staring into his eyes, her smile long gone. “I can’t explain it, Norman, some type of sixth sense from her dying, oxygen-starved mind, reaching out to me in terror 2500 miles away, somehow giving me ethereal, hazy images of things in that grey area between black and white: a sense of your house, of you, of your truck, of things seen and heard in those last minutes.”
Dana picked up a roll of duct tape from the tray and ripped off a strip. “I had to meet and date a cop for three months just to get your address from your license plate. Then, it was just a little research, planning, and reconnoitering after that.”
She pulled a small notebook out of her back pocket. “Let’s see now… your first victim… Sharon Lee Anderson, October 2001. We’ll start with a little payback for her.” She pressed the duct tape over Norman’s mouth, grinning at the bulging terror in the eyes. “I know we’re out in the middle of nowhere, Norman, but your screaming will get on my nerves.”
She picked up the box cutters and slid out the blade. “Be patient, Normie, this will take a while, but we’ll eventually get you to your last four minutes. And I promise to make it as painful a trip as I can.
###
Impressum
Texte: John C. Laird
Bildmaterialien: Cover © Alexandra Laird, All Rights Reserved. Original clock image by Paolo Neo (public-domain-photos.com)
Lektorat: Juniper Lee
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.02.2012
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