WARNING: There will be necrophilia, cannibalism, possible guro, homosexuality and the possibility of some serious perversion and squick ahead. If you're not into that, TURN BACK NOW!! Okay, now that I've driven off the babies, this is a necro-fic inspired by "Exquisite Corpse" by Poppy Z. Brite. Named classes ahead, sorry. This is my first (well, second) attempt at a multi-part fic. Crits welcome. Betaed by jeffian and an awesome anon. Thanks, you two. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Johann Vogel lay silently on the narrow cot in his prison cell. He would never be allowed to leave this cell alive, not even to mingle with other prisoners, unless he was heavily secured and escorted by four armed guards. He didn’t blame them, not one bit, for locking him away. He was every bit the monster they claimed he was. He had done unnatural, unspeakable things and enjoyed every minute of it. When he finally died, no family would be coming to claim him and the prison would merely cremate him and scatter his ashes to the four winds so that he could be forgotten that much sooner. Dr. Vogel had been arrested for murder. Well, several murders, to be honest, but that alone was not why the slim man with neat hair and round glasses was so universally hated and feared. It was the unnatural things he did to his victims before, and after, he killed them that led to him being locked in this small room by himself. It’s why, even with a locked door between the monster and themselves, the guards do not feel safe sliding his supper trays through the small opening in the door without two other guards to watch him through the barred window, rifles at the ready in case he tries something rash. Johann Vogel was a necrophiliac. Police were first sent to question Vogel when witnesses recalled him leaving a bar with a young tourist who had gone missing for nearly a week. The tourist, a college boy from Sweden who came to see Germany for Oktoberfest, was completely, irrepressibly drunk and Vogel offered him a ride back to his hostel, claiming that it was no trouble as it was on his way home. The respected doctor, of course, was not a suspect, but if he had any information at all that would help them find the boy, any at all, it would help move the investigation forward. When they arrived at the doctor’s home, the police noticed a strange smell, like the smell of a small animal that had died in the wall and begun to rot, only far worse. Then again, there had been complaints in a number of areas just lately of sewers backing up after a great deal of unseasonable rain, so, though they covered their noses with their handkerchiefs, they ignored it for the moment. The older of the two officers knocked on the door briskly, hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible. When there was no answer, they knocked again louder. The doctor was certainly home; his car was parked outside and the lights were on in the living room. They were about to knock again when the younger officer heard what sounded like a struggle. There were sounds of a man grunting and furniture being shifted. Fearing that the doctor was being attacked, they kicked open the front door and followed the sounds, all the way to the doctor’s bedroom. What they found there would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Dr. Vogel was lying in his bed, naked, having vigorous intercourse with what, at first, appeared to be a man-sized wax doll. A second, closer look revealed that what they were seeing was not a doll, but the corpse of the boy they sought. Noticing the officers watching from the doorway, the doctor, rather than stopping what he was doing and attempting to cover his shame, merely smiled and begged another moment to finish before they arrested him. Despite the two policemen aiming fully-loaded pistols at him and ordering him to put his clothes back on and step away from the body, Vogel took his time finishing up before redressing. He stepped away from his bed, covering his dead “lover†with a blanket almost as an afterthought, before he was handcuffed and led away. When his home was searched, police found the remains of nearly a dozen men, dissected and in various stages of decay, with two of the most handsome men carefully and lovingly embalmed and posed in his study where, according to the Doctor, “they kept him companyâ€. In various specimen jars and cabinets, there were preserved organs and bleached skulls and assorted other bones that didn’t belong to any of the bodies they had yet found. When asked where the rest of the victims were, Vogel merely laughed. “A little bit here, a little bit there,†he said smiling. He refused to even tell them how many men and boys they were looking for. Unfortunately for the outraged families of his victims, capital punishment in Germany had been recently abolished and they felt robbed of the justice they felt their sons deserved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Johann laid back on his bunk, his eyes closed against the glare of the light in his cell that remained on all day and night. He could see the red veins of his eyelids mapped out for him by the bright bulb. As he lay on the narrow cot, his hands folded over his stomach loosely, he thought about his boys. He had always admired the human body; it was so strong, so powerful, and so fragile. The body was a magnificent machine and could withstand so much pain and damage, and yet it took so little to destroy it. He had known he was gay since he was a young man. Johann’s stomach would flutter and strange heat always collected in his abdomen when caught sight of another man as nature made him. The first time he’d held another man, pressed his lips against the willing mouth of someone else who shared his sick desire for other males, he felt his heart drop into his stomach. Johann remembered the feel of the strong hands tugging at his hair, tearing at his clothes as they fumbled together clumsily in the dark. Memories of that frantic night when he made love to a vibrant living man for the first time made him feel pleasantly warm in his cold cell, but it wasn’t enough to ease the pressure building in his loins. Instead, he began to think about his boys. They were all lovely young men, ranging in age from 18 to 25. He’d picked them up in bars and bath houses and all of the other places men like him found to gather and meet each other. Their youth was all that they shared in common; Johann didn’t have a preference for hair color, height, weight or even race. As long as they were young, beautiful and reckless, he would take them home. Sometimes, he would take them only for a night or two, letting them make love to him, to use him to gain whatever pleasures he could give them. He would lay with them afterwards, feeling their warmth, putting his ear to their chests to hear their strong heartbeats, inhaling their alcohol-laden breath. These men were young, powerful, almost immortal. They didn’t believe they would age. Suffering was something that only happened to other people, never to them. They were strong, they were INVINCIBLE. He would let them leave him, let them cling to their illusions and innocence a while longer before life stripped them of their foolish notions of fairness and justice and truth, like it did to him. The partings were always bittersweet for him, but he enjoyed the moments of melancholy that descended upon him as he watched their retreating backs almost as much as he enjoyed writhing under them, completely vulnerable and at the mercy of another human being for a few hours. Then there were the other boys, the boys that were lucky, or unlucky, enough to be chosen to stay. As beautiful as they were in life, they were so much more beautiful in death. Johann loved the feel of their cooling skin against his hot flesh as he pressed into their unresisting asses, sating himself with a lover who could not refuse him, would never reject him. He marvelled at the way their waxy skin would take his fingerprints, like shapes pressed into clay, instead of immediately returning to normal. He loved the bluish cast of their lips and fingers, the pallor that replaced the rosy blush of their cheeks, the glassy cast to their blank eyes. Often, he would lie beside his newest boy, holding him as he stiffened with rigor mortis, then softened again, watching the blood pool after his heart stopped, caressing his clammy skin until he was pliable enough again to be moved. Johann would fellate the dead boy as he stroked himself to orgasm. On the few occasions he had been able to coax a few meager drops of his lover’s seed from his flaccid cock, he came so hard he went as limp and helpless as his boys. They were his dolls, his possessions, to do with as he liked. The first few days, he would dress, undress and redress them again, posing them on the couch to greet him as he came home from work at night or to sit with him as he ate his lonely meals, pretending that they talked back when he told them about his day. He would tenderly bathe them to try to control the smell, then make love to them until the point of utter exhaustion, letting them share his bed with him until the smell became too much for even him to bear. Then out would come the preserving jars of alcohol. He would keep his favorite parts and dispose of the rest. Some he treated with quicklime and buried in the basement, some were sectioned and disposed of in the garbage, more than a few had been buried in the back garden. Whether he kept them or not, he loved all of his boys. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- To Johann, the worst part of prison was the boredom. He couldn’t come or go as he wished, couldn’t stave off loneliness with a young companion, could not practice medicine, could not even have access to a book, not after that unfortunate incident with the prisoner in charge of distributing the meager materials in the library’s collection. He longed for the days when he was free, of his simple life before his capture. As it stood, there was only one hobby left to him in this place: playing dead. He stumbled onto his hobby years ago, during the war. Things were much more difficult for a man of his... tastes back then and he had to be much more careful, much more selective when searching for someone to keep him company for a little while. When he didn’t have the time or luck to find a boy to bring home with him, he liked to pretend he was dead himself. It started out with simply painting himself with a reasonably bluish pallor and lying still on his autopsy table for hours, letting his mind drift freely until he had to return to his life and his duties. When merely dressing himself as a corpse was no longer enough, he would drug himself with a cocktail of anaesthetics and muscle relaxants until he lay there, numb and partially paralyzed, his breathing shallow and his pulse slowed to a crawl. His body felt heavy and light at the same time, like it belonged to someone else. Sometimes, just as the drugs began to wear off, he felt himself, marvelling at the way he seemed to be touching himself and yet not making contact at all, as if there was a cushion of air or fluid separating him from his body. It was an amazing experience, but he wanted so much more. He wanted to blur the boundaries between life and death. Emboldened by the success of his experiments, he began to work on a rig to allow himself to die temporarily. He knew there were drugs that could stop a patient’s pulse and breathing, or at least slow them so much that there was no discernible difference. With the proper application of other drugs, the effects could be reversed. His aim was to create a device that would administer the proper drugs in the right dosage to revive him once he’d been rendered medically dead. Once he’d designed it and tested it on a series of animals and a few “volunteersâ€, he hooked himself into it. It was more than he had ever hoped it would be. The first time, he panicked as his breathing slowed, his lungs crying out for air as he suffocated, his heart hammering in his chest as his vision faded in blots and patches of white. Once his heart stopped too, he could feel himself gradually becoming disconnected from his body; his soul, his essence, whatever you wished to call it, was straining to cut itself loose from its prison and disperse into the aether. Before he had even begun to struggle free of corporeal bonds, his lungs started to draw air again and his heart feebly pumped blood to his numb extremities again. Dr. Vogel continued to play with the mixture and dosage of his drugs, trying to find a way to ease himself more pleasantly from his mortal bonds and extend the time that he could spend in near-death before he was brought back to his much-despised living body. Playing dead became his hobby, almost an obsession. It wasn’t quite the thrill he got from sharing his bed with a fresh corpse, of course, but it was just as liberating in a different way. Now, in prison, separated from his boys and his drugs, he despaired of a way to spend his time. One day, it occurred to him that he’d heard rumors of people who’d been able to achieve his state of near-death not with drugs, but meditation. Not only that, but they’d been able to sty dead even longer, and with no ill effects. He decided that he would try it; it wasn’t like he had anything else to do all day. It had been staggeringly hard at first to turn off his mind. His brain always seemed to be going at a million miles a minute and it rebelled at any sort of idleness, but after months of practice, he found he was able to shut out all thought except his focus on detaching himself, one strand at a time from the web holding him down in his body. After three or four years, he could slow his heart and lungs until he could barely feel them for minutes at a time. Now, he was able to stay “dead†as long as he wanted, or at least until the guards came around to do the nightly bed checks. This time, however, he wanted to let go completely, to die for real if he could. Anything was better than this interminable boredom. Johann took a deep breath and relaxed, letting each muscle grow heavier, feeling himself sinking into his bed like a lead weight. As he slowed his breathing gradually, he began to cast off the threads binding him to this mortal coil. Soon, he was holding only the most tenuous hold on reality, debating with himself if he really wanted to go through with this. If he let go, there was no coming back. He lingered, feeling as though he was floating, staring down at the meat puppet he had been inhabiting until moments ago. In spite of everything, he was still very fond of it. This...this might just take some rethinking. When the guards came around that night doing bed checks, they found Johann Vogel in his cot, pale, blue, stone cold dead. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Several hours later, Johann became dimly aware of voices echoing around him, like distant conversations reverberating through a subway tunnel. There were no words that he could discern, but the voices seemed to be coming closer, even if they still sounded like they were coming to him through a pool of water. The first thing he was aware of was that his eyes were wide open and he was staring at a light bulb much brighter than his own. Everything was blurry. At first he thought it was because of the temporary disorientation he always felt when he came back into himself, but after a moment, he realized it was because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. As his senses began to focus again slowly, he began to make out words in the haze of white noise. “Core temperature, 32 degrees. No signs....injury....good health.†Hmm, Vogel mused, I seem to be undergoing an autopsy... The thought of experiencing dissection from the other side of the scalpel seemed like a novel idea, but his dulled brain seemed to have other ideas. Knowing his eyes were nearly useless in this situation, he strained his ears to figure out where he was. He was in a morgue somewhere, that much was obvious. There seemed to be only two men in the room with him, probably the mortician and his assistant; he could hear no one else. As he waited for his body to catch up to his mind, he could see the doctor’s silhouette against the light above him. “Fritz, for the love of God, pay attention! I’ve asked you three times for a scalpel!†the doctor snapped impatiently, snatching the tool from the younger man supposedly aiding him. “This man doesn’t seem to have any external signs of injury or illness, so the next logical step is to check him for signs of organ failure. In a man his age, my first guess would be heart attack or aneurysm... I hope you are taking notes, you lazy boy!†“Of course, doctor!†the young man said. Johann could hear the scratching of a pen on paper as the assistant scrambled to write down what the mortician was saying. “Watch closely and take notes.†The mortician lifted the scalpel and made the first incision of the “Y-cut†to open up Johann. Whether it was age, excitement, fatigue, or a combination of the three, his hand was alarmingly unsteady. While the sensation of having a beautifully sharp blade slice into him was not entirely unpleasant, the man’s lack of skill was immensely frustrating to Dr. Vogel. The two men were so engrossed in performing the autopsy that neither of them noticed Vogel blink. They did, however, notice when he reached up for the scalpel the mortician was holding. “Oh, for the love of God, let me do it,†he chided pleasantly, finishing the second incision himself. Laughing at the mortician’s surprise, he quickly slashed the old doctor’s throat, severing the jugulars and carotid arteries cleanly before turning his attention toward the young assistant. “Not to be a bother, but you wouldn’t happen to know where my glasses are, would you? You see, I’m practically blind without them.†“P-please, d-d-don’t hurt me,†the young man pleaded, his eyes darting from the walking corpse to his mentor bleeding out on the floor and back again. “Ah, perish the thought. My glasses?†Vogel asked again, covering his crotch with his folded hands, but not relinquishing his hold on the scalpel. The assistant gulped and nodded, handing the doctor the glasses piled with his other belongings. “Thank you, that’s much better,†he sighed in relief as he slipped his glasses onto his face. Now that he could see, he looked the assistant over. He was young, probably fresh out of medical school if not still a student. While he wasn’t exactly handsome, there was an endearing sort of honesty and fresh-faced optimism about him. Or there would be if he wasn’t practically wetting himself in terror at the bloody man standing in front of him when he should by all rights be dead on the table. “You won’t hurt me?†the young man asked, looking at Vogel pleadingly. As he scanned the morgue assistant, Vogel saw that they wore about the same sized clothes. He gave the boy a disarming (he hoped) smile. “No, I won’t hurt you,†he smiled. Johann placed his hands reassuringly on the young doctor’s shoulders and squeezed them gently. Before he could react, Vogel’s strong hands gripped his head and twisted sharply, snapping his neck with a sound that sent shivers of pleasure through Johann. “You won’t feel a thing.†Stripping off the assistant’s (Dr. Oelenschlager according to his nametag) clothing, he carefully set them aside and began to look for gauze, sutures, and antiseptic. He couldn’t very well leave the morgue naked and bleeding, so he cleaned and stitched up the incisions in his chest, then taped gauze over them. He quickly put on Dr. Oelenschlager’s clothes and lab coat, “borrowing†the older doctor’s shoes and keys. Johann decided that he might need a weapon in case he encountered a guard once he left the hospital morgue. He examined the mortician’s equipment, touching a few of the tools longingly. Vogel tested the heft of a bonesaw. “No, that’s a bit too obvious,†he murmured, setting it aside reluctantly. In the end, he pocketed a pair of scalpels and left the morgue, locking the door behind himself to buy some time. Dr. Vogel slipped out of the hospital completely unnoticed and disappeared into the night. As he merged with the people on the sidewalk, each hurrying to their homes for the evening, he enjoyed the feel of the crisp air on his skin, the feel of another person brushing past him, the colors of the buildings and lights around him. Soon, the police would be searching for him, but for now, he was free.
I was looking forward to this fic. I thought it would be nice. But you gave me so much more ! Dear lord ! My guts are twisting.... Oooh..... Dr. Vogel... Probably because he likes birds hm ? I wonder, will you write how he meets the team or is this the way it will stay ? (PLEASE write more, this story is making me queasy in a good way )
Having read Exquisite Corpse, I can't help but notice many identical components of both pieces' introductions and both pieces' main characters. In the words of a random internet-goer, "'Inspired by' does not mean flagrant rip-off." For those who haven't read anything by Poppy Z Brite, there is a Google Preview here for Exquisite Corpse that should give you an idea of what I'm talking about: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15320.Exquisite_Corpse
>>2 I'm working on chapter 2 right now. Should be posted this weekend. >>3 Actually, this is about as close as the two stories are going to get. The second killer is more like the Backpacker murderer than Jeffrey Dahmer. I was gonna go more Hannibal Lecter than Andrew Compton, but I have enough obsession issues with Anthony Hopkins without resorting to stalking him (again....). Hopefully, your minimal faith in me will be resolved in Part two.
I'm one of the "babies" that decided to stick around. Gotta say, this was a very interesting read. I cringe at the thought of how gory this will get later on (it wasn't really that bad in this chapter), but I'm willing to stay and read, I'm enjoying Dr.Vogel's character immensely. I think I should go find a copy of Exquisite Corpse now.
i... i...think I love you
yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes please continue soon this is what my dreams are made of. it is also written really, really well.
You have a good start to your fic, although I must admit that I’m having a hard time seeing Dr. Vogel become Medic (I’m assuming he’s the future Medic, since he’s German and a doctor, but I don’t think you state explicitly if this is your intention – an idea of which pairing(s) to expect would also be nice). To me, Dr. Vogel’s mental pathologies are just too severe to fit my image of Medic as we know him from Meet the Medic. This is a purely personal preference, though. I haven’t read the original piece you’ve based this story on, so I can’t comment on possible similarities, but I can certainly sense the squick in potentia and I’ll be keeping my eyes on this thread. I do have a single concrit-ish comment: Your use of past and present tense is inconsistent in the second paragraph of first part. And also a bit of nitpicking: I’m afraid your autopsy scene was pretty unrealistic. Patients must be declared dead before undergoing autopsy, and no amount of meditation or drugs could fool an experienced pathologist – your Dr. Vogel would not have exhibited any of the definite signs of death such as fixed pupils or post-mortem lividity and therefore wouldn’t have been declared dead, since these are prerequisite criteria for filling out the death certificate. Furthermore, if his core temperature was 32 degrees Celsius (EXTREMELY unlikely if he’s not actually dead or has been exposed to low temperatures for a substantial length of time, but cookie points for remembering that Germans use the centigrade temperature scale!) he should have been – quick calculation – five hours dead. Not only is it extremely uncommon to perform an autopsy on someone less than six hours dead unless a crime is suspected (and it is not in this case, you stated so specifically), but he should also be in a noticeable state of rigor mortis at this point and he is obviously not. Any pathologist would notice this inconsistency and wonder. Also, the core temperature is measured by punching an oversized cooking thermometer through the skin and into the patient’s liver. This would have been severely inconvenient and probably very fatal to him. A few stitches and band-aids wouldn’t have stopped the resulting intra-abdominal haemorrhage. Declaring a person dead also includes listening for a heartbeat for a full minute, and Dr. Vogel couldn’t have fooled this test by slowing his heart, as a heart rate slower than 1 bpm would cause insufficient perfusion of his brain and kill him in minutes. And finally, if you cut someone who isn’t actually dead, they will bleed. Even if Dr. Vogel managed to pull off everything else, it’s physically impossible to stop bleeding when cut. I have heard of ONE case, years ago, where a person was erroneously declared dead and taken to autopsy, and he was discovered on the autopsy table at the first incision. So there's no way a mortician would have made a full first incision on Dr. Vogel and not stopped in shock the minute the scalpel touched his skin. Of course, you’d need an above-average knowledge of autopsy procedures to spot the errors in your fic, so I can suspend disbelief for a little while and enjoy the drama of the scene as you intended. Waking up during your own autopsy is a staple of horror fiction and I very much liked how casual Dr. Vogel was about the whole deal. For that, I’ll be willing to overlook the issue of realism. I just thought I’d mention it, in case others here find inspiration in your story for autopsy fics of their own. Keep up the good work, I'm looking forward to reading more.
Am I going to hell for enjoying this as much as I did? Cause if I am, it'll be totally worth it. More soon please?
>>9 If you are, I'll be right there with ya. I don't even like necrophilia. Grosses me the fuck out. But the plot is just great.
>>8 All that was really interesting to read. Thanks for commenting.
GOING TO HELL FOR ENJOYING THIS! I regret nothing!
This bump just made me notice that the original poster hasn’t made a comment in a while, and I’m concerned that my critique on the autopsy inaccuracies in >>8 might have deterred him/her from posting here again. This was totally not my intention! If that’s the case, I’m really, really sorry—I have this stupid tendency to correct other people’s medical porn at 3 AM on a quiet night shift, and that’s just not okay; if people wanted technically accurate guro, they’d read Gray’s Anatomy (NOT the TV series). I’m headdesking right now and hoping I’m not the cause of your absence. Sorry sorry sorry. If it’s any help, I’d love to give you a hand with the medical aspects of your fic. Any questions you have on medicine, surgery, autopsy, etc., I’d be happy to answer for you (and anyone else working on a fic and getting stuck on the technicalities). Please let me know if you’d like me to drop an e-mail address for you. Sorry again, and I am really looking forward to reading more from you, I wasn’t just saying that to be polite!
I haven't forgotten about this fic. I've actually gotten the opposite of writer's block on this. Chapter Two spun out into about nine different directions with a glut of things I want to include, but I have NO idea where to put them, so I've kind of had to go through shuffling things and going crazy over it. I have got to stop reading true crime stories, or else everyone on both sides is going to end up a serial killer with no one left to kill.... >>13 I would love to know a thing or six about autopsy and such. I also have a few technical questions I want to ask you before I stick myself into another factual bind. E-mail me if you're available to help me.
Vogel's fascination with playing dead... does something weird to me. You may know I'm bent for weird medical stuff, and this promises to deliver in spades. Dunno if this is relevant, but when I was younger and in better shape, I could stop my heart for a few seconds at a time. Enough to worry anyone trying to take my blood pressure, certainly. Also, Anon 13, Sparxx, you both sound like very twisted anatomy nerds. I think I'd enjoy talking with you; do feel free to hit me on AIM or Gchat any time.
I play dead for time to time, been a strange hobby of mine since I was let's see...6 I guess? I've always had this strange fixation with death, I want to know how it feels like. So it's probably not a suprise I loved this fic.
I feel as though I'm enjoying this far more than I should. I have a weak spot a mile wide for completely insane characters, and medical stuff, especially combined. Even so, this is making me start to question my sanity. In a good way. I'm very eager to see the upcoming chapter(s), however you decide to write it. >>15 I was never able to get the hang of temporary heart-stopping, sadly. Plus side; I still can make my body temperature drop enough to freak out doctors. Probably helps that I'm slightly colder than average to begin with.
>>15 >>17 Argh you guys Now I want to run tests on you while you manipulate autonomous bodily functions. I can see the different experiments playing out in my head already...
Whew!! That only took... forever. Thanks for being so patient. Here's chapter two. Hopefully chapter three won't take nearly as long. Thanks to TeratoMarty and jeffian for betaing this chapter. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was a beautiful to be outdoors. It was warm, but not too hot, with a sweet breeze blowing and the smell of summer hung in the air. The last of the light was leaving the day, the sunset on one side casting everything in fiery shades of reds and oranges as dark tendrils of shadow crept along the ground, cloaking the rest in darkness. He sat watching the sun sink below the horizon, lazily feeding wood into a campfire. He shivered slightly as the breeze dried the sweat coursing down his bare chest and dragged his lawn chair closer to the warmth of the flames. Once the fire was hot enough, he began to roast his supper on a spit over the flames, absently turning the meat so it roasted evenly as he watched the stars emerge. He smiled lazily, glad he had chosen today to go hunting. He hadn’t found anything worth hunting out here for weeks, nothing but rangy, half-starved rabbits and a few heat-exhausted dingoes. Today, he came out on a whim and found himself a lean buck, young, quick, and most importantly, clever. He’d been given a run for his money, and a few times it looked like his prey would elude him completely, but finally, his arrow found its mark. It was almost a shame, having to fell such a noble beast. Staring into the flames, the thin Aussie scratched his chest lazily before cutting another chunk of meat from the carcass beside him and spitting it on a skewer to roast on the fire. It was a cool night, but the warmth of the campfire on his naked skin made him feel comfortable and sleepy. He looked down into his prey’s brown eyes, frozen wide in horror as though, even in death, he was terrified of the further indignities his corpse would suffer at the Aussie’s hands. As he cut away more meat, placing it into an eskie beside him to save for later, his foot brushed against cool white fingers nearly buried in the sand. He readjusted the cooling corpse roughly, then brushed his hand delicately over the sternum almost sadly before thrusting his hand into the open rib cage. The bushman ripped out the heart, his almost bestial teeth tearing into the tough muscle with the ease and relish of a man biting into a crisp autumn apple in April. As he chewed, he reflected on the hunt, completely unmindful of the blood running down his chin and dripping onto his bare chest to clot in his chest hair with the rest. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A lonely teenage boy stood by the side of a dusty road, shifting the weight of his backpack to rest more comfortably on his shoulders as he kept a lookout for cars. He hadn’t seen a car in ages and he was starting to get hot out here in the Australian summer heat. He took a swig of water from his canteen and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The boy squinted down the road, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright sun. It looked like there was a cloud of dust coming closer at tremendous speed. As the dust cloud got bigger, the teen could see a vehicle of some kind shrouded in it. His stuck out his thumb, praying that the driver would stop. If this car didn’t stop, he could be waiting for hours for another one. Luckily, the dusty green camper van slowed to a stop. The driver rolled down the window and leaned an elbow out casually. “Oi, you look like ya could use a lift, mate.†“Oh, yeah, thanks. I been out here for ages.†The teen went around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed into the cab, stuffing his backpack down on the floor by his feet. “So, where ya headed?†The driver of the camper glanced at the kid beside him, his eyes barely visible behind the reflective yellow lenses of his sunglasses. The kid sighed and relaxed back against the seat, rolling his sore neck against the headrest as the truck resumed rumbling along the dusty road. “Oh, I’m headed to Adelaide to visit family. I hitched this far, but, well you know how it goes.†“Not from ‘round here, are ya?†“No, sir, I’m not. I’m from Hampstead, England. Name’s Eddie, by the way.†The kid offered his hand. The driver shook it briskly, then touched a hand to the brim of his hat. “Friends call me Steve. Pleasure t’make your acquaintance.†Steve cleared his throat and spit out the window. “Sorry ‘bout that. Doc says I should stop smokin’, irritates m’lungs somethin’ awful. One’a these days I might jus’ have to listen to ‘im. So, what the heck ya doin’ hitchin’? Didn’t anybody ever tell ya it’s dangerous? ‘Specially out here, mate. Some days you’d be waitin’ out ‘ere so long fer a ride, you’d dry up like a puddle in th’ desert.†“Yeah, but I been hitchin’ for years. Worse that ever happened was some barmy old git swiped my wallet and made me hike ten miles back home, most of it in the rain.†Steve snorted laughter at this and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the dash. Pulling out the last one, he lit it and tossed the spent match onto the floor with a bunch of other garbage. “So, uh, Steve, mind if I ask you a question?†“You already did, mate,†he said with a smirk, switching his cigarette to the other side of his mouth. “But go on an’ ask another.†“Are you really an Aussie?†Eddie gave Steve a sidelong glance as he continued apologetically. “It’s just, you don’t look like most of the other Aussies I’ve seen since I got here.†It was true. Even sitting, Eddie could see that Steve was tall and lanky, practically all legs. He had a narrow face and was missing the usual gloriously thick moustache even the women and children had. He did, however, have the slouch hat Australian men seemed to be required by law to wear. “Yeah, o’course I’m an Aussie. Not everyone’s built like Saxton Hale, y’know. Mostly it’s just the folks in the big cities and in the minin’ towns. Most everybody else looks about normal, like me.†“Oh. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just--†Steve cut him off. “Curious. I know. I get hit with that question a lot by tourists. Never gets old,†Steve muttered bitterly, pitching his cigarette butt out the window. For a while, they continued on in awkward silence. After a several minutes though, Eddie noticed Steve’s leg jittering slightly. “Something wrong?†“Nah, I just gotta take a piss is all. I was hopin’ I’d make it to Mrs. Potter’s but I don’t think I will.†Steve’s eyes seemed to scan the road desperately. “Oh wait, here’s the turn-off.†The camper van turned onto a little-used road, bumping over gravel and small potholes as the road grew more rough. After a few minutes of driving, and a few uncertain turns onto roads only Steve seemed to be able to see, Eddie began to worry, and not just because Steve’s leg had begun to twitch alarmingly. “Aw, fuck it.†Steve slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the truck, fumbling with his fly desperately. As Eddie heard the sounds of Steve relieving himself, he realized he had to pee too. He reached for the door handle to let himself out of the truck and only just noticed that the handle had been broken off. When he tried to crank down the window to reach the outer handle, the window only rolled down an inch or two before it jammed. “Hey, Steve. What’s the matter with your door? Handle’s br--†Eddie’s voice trailed off as he turned and saw Steve leaning against the open door of the truck, smiling wolfishly. In one hand, he was loosely holding a long knife, almost like a curved machete. “Where ya goin’, mate? Thought you were lookin’ for a lift t’ Adelaide.†There was something absolutely terrifying about the sunlight glinting off of those sunglasses. “I just...I needed to...†Eddie stammered. “What is that thing?†“Ah, this? It’s nothin’, jus’ my kukri.†Steve looked at it, almost like he had no idea he was holding it. “But, back to you. What were you sayin’? You just needed to what?†“I gotta pee,†Eddie said, shrinking back against the door. Steve’s face seemed to brighten immediately, becoming much friendlier and more relaxed. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? Hold on, I’ll get your door for ya.†The lanky Aussie went around to the other door and opened it, almost spilling Eddie out into the dirt. The kid recovered quickly and jogged to the back of the camper to take a leak in some privacy. When he finished and came back around to the front, he saw Steve holding his backpack in one hand and the kukri in the other. “Hey, what’s this about? That’s my backpack!†Eddie yelled, snatching the bag when Steve held it out to him. “Yeah, I know. Hey, Eddie, I got a little game for ya. It’s a high stakes game of hide and seek. See, you’re gonna run and I’m gonna catch ya. If you can keep away from me for, say, twelve, nah, make it six hours, I’ll give ya a ride all th’ way to Adelaide and drop ya off, no harm done. If I catch ya, well, I’m sure I can think’a somethin’. I’ll even give you a full canteen and a half hour’s head start. Whaddya say?†That strange predatory smile was back on Steve’s face again. “And if I say no?†Eddie asked, swallowing nervously as Steve’s grin widened. The kukri traced a path up Eddie’s shirt until the blade rested gently against the young man’s throat. “Well, then you forfeit and I win.†Steve shrugged one shoulder lazily. “At least if you run, you’ve got a shot. What’s it gonna be, mate? We’re burnin’ daylight here.†Eddie looked from the kukri to Steve’s face. Seeing that the man was absolutely serious, he swallowed again and tried to stall for time. “So... a full canteen of water and head start?†The Aussie nodded. “How do I know you’ll give me the whole half hour?†“Ya don’t, reckon. At least you can count on the canteen.†Without taking his eyes off of Eddie, the bushman reached into the truck and took a canteen off of a hook on the panel over the headrests and tossed it to the kid. “You might wanna get goin’. Your half hour starts....†Steve glanced at his watch, memorizing the time. “Now.†Reluctant to turn his back on the madman he’d just been riding with, the hitcher strapped on his backpack and canteen and backed away from Steve. When he’d put some distance between himself and the bushman, Eddie turned to run as fast as his legs would carry him. As he watched the kid go, Steve smiled to himself and began to clean his fingernails on his kukri. He wouldn’t get very far at all. They were miles from any public roads and Eddie didn’t know the land at all. Everything as far as the eye could see was old Mrs. Potter’s land. Mrs. Potter, dead over four years, had left the land to her sons. They had long since left for the cities along the coast to make their fortunes or wrestle saltwater crocodiles for the tourists, leaving Steve to keep an eye on the place so the property didn’t fall into complete disorder. The land had once been a sheep lease and was covered in overgrown grass and sparsely dotted with clumps of trees. Steve enjoyed coming out here to hunt, usually dingoes, rabbits, or an occasional feral pig. Sometimes, though, he’d get lucky and find... bigger game. He’d first started hunting campers and hitchers as a way to keep his sniping skills sharp, but there was no challenge in shooting a dirty vagrant sleeping by a campfire or a tourist standing still by a deserted road waiting for a ride. There wasn’t even any challenge in hiding the bodies. Heck, people disappeared in Australia all the time, eaten by predators, lost in the bush, shot by overzealous farmers for trespassing, beaten to death by Saxton Hale for even bearing a passing resemblance to a hippie. To add a bit of a challenge for himself, he’d started picking up hitchhikers and offering them a chance to outrun him for a ride someplace safe. Or he would sneak up close to a campsite in the dead of night and take potshots at the campers until they panicked and scattered. Once they were up and running, he’d stalk them silently and take them out with his kukri. His favorite game, though, was to chase tourists into the murky rivers they were stupid enough to camp near and see if he could kill them before the salties did. He always picked tourists to hunt. Locals were out of the question. If a hitcher or a camper from out of state should happen to get away from him (not bloody likely, but always a slim possibility), they’d only have a vague description to give police. After all, a tall, skinny guy in a camper truck, wearing a slouch hat and carrying a rifle could be anybody out in these parts. But a local would have the police knocking at his front door faster than you could say “holy dooleyâ€. The bushman relaxed and lit a cigarette from a pack he fumbled out of the glove compartment. As he smoked it slowly, he looked around his hunting grounds carefully. There was a slight breeze, but no worries about the wind picking up and blowing away any tracks. There were several hours of good daylight left and there had been no signs of illegal campers. He was almost disappointed that there weren’t any trespassers; having more game to hunt would have been almost interesting. After nearly forty minutes had passed, the Aussie reached for his rifle. As he checked the scope, he decided against it. Putting his rifle back on the gun rack, instead he retrieved his long bow and a quiver of arrows. Somehow, hunting a kid on foot with a sniper rifle just didn’t seem... sporting. Chuckling darkly, Steve strung his bow and, shouldering his quiver, began to follow the painfully clear trail Eddie had left. “Ready or not, here I come.†--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He had to admit he was impressed with how long Eddie had lasted. The boy had outrun him for over four hours. Steve finally found him behind the building the Potters had used to shear their sheep. A clean hit through the neck with an arrow and the boy was down. He almost dreaded having to kill him, but a deal was a deal; Steve had won fair and square and claimed the boy’s life as his prize. His only regret, as he met the boy’s dying gaze, was that he wouldn’t be able to drive the kid to Adelaide after all. Having come so much closer to escape than anyone else had managed, he’d almost earned the privilege. The least he could do was bury the kid properly so that he wouldn’t be picked at by carrion birds and wild dogs. He deserved that much. The skull, though, he would keep. It would be his first trophy. Then again, this was the first kill worthy enough to warrant being remembered. He hung his head sadly, reflecting for a moment on the boy’s cleverness and poor luck, then began the tedious work of butchering his prey.
I thought this would just be a Medic centric fic ! When I saw chapter 2 was about Sniper I thought: "Oh, that is interesting indeed" And that quickly turned to " I HOPE HE DOES EVERY SINGLE CLASS" I greatly, greatly enjoyed this chapter. Most people seem to forget that Sniper is a murderer as well, and not just a nice van-man. Awesome writing I tell you.
Actually, while all 18 of the men on RED and BLU are killers, these two characters are going to be central to the fic. It's sort of inspired by a novel I love. I do eventually want to do a few short stories or one-shots where I explore how and why these men ended up working for RED & BLU, but this... this is just me trying my hand at horrifying myself and others.
That... is even better than doing all the classes. Both Medic and Sniper are characters I love to death, and seeing the both of them in a horror-gore fic makes me very, VERY happy. More people should read this.
And suddenly, Christan Brutal Sniper comes to mind. Anyway, another great chapter, it was worth the wait. I feel like I should be horrified with myself by that fact that I loved it so much, but I'm not. I was pleasantly surprised to see Sniper come in as the second killer. I wonder if this will be similar to the book. Will Steve and Vogel meet? Are they going to fixate on someone that they deem their perfect victim? If so who is it going to be? Ugh, so many questions, I can't wait for further chapters!
The part with Sniper hunting down "stranded" people, giving them a head start and a time limit, makes me think of "the most dangerous game"... Guess Sniper is a natural Zaroff.
I'm almost hoping this is going to be a series of short stories, poking into the darkness that (could be) the TF2 cast's lives. That Sniper story was freaking amazing.
>>24 my exact thoughts I love how he's so nonchalant about hunting people, though. Amoral characters like these are my favourites.
Holy sheet this is amazing.
This fic looks like it's been dead for 2 years. I too indulged in enjoying this dead thing.