Tales of the Doomed

TALES OF THE DOOMED

FIFTEEN STORIES OF SUFFERING AND DEATH

LEN M. RUTH

TRIGGER WARNINGS

Bondage, dub-con, amateur surgery, cannibalism, mental illness, suicide, terrorism, bombing, hell, references to sexual assault (not depicted), child death, gaslighting, forced feeding, animal death, poisoning, gore, giant cockroaches…

Tales of the Doomed

Copyright © 2023, 2024 Len M. Ruth

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from the author.

Tales of the Doomed is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, and events is pure coincidence. Opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with those of the author.

The story Sinister Hand was first published in the anthology Satan Rides Your Daughter by HellBound Books Publishing LLC.

The story Inferno was performed at San Jose’s Flash Fiction Forum on March 10, 2021. Check out this wonderful storytelling venue here: https://www.flashfictionforum.com/

INTRODUCTION

I did not expect to find a theme while looking through my collection of misfit tales, but find one I did. Each of these stories features a character, or characters who are totally screwed. And just like that, the title for this collection materialized.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them and presenting them to you. Thanks for your continued support.

Len M. Ruth

11/25/2021

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Em

This book is not a solo effort, though I wrote all of its contents. I wish to thank my partner Em, whose love and support keep me going day in and day out.

CONTENTS

Ravenous

Follow The String

Curse In Disguise

Fifteen

Sinister Hand

Headwaters

Inferno

Squannacook

The Last Hitchhiker

Five Year Coin

The Bet

The Exterminator

The Weird West

Bloodweed

Bad Blood Worse Water

Mountain Coffee

Other titles by Len M. Ruth

The Unrecovered

RAVENOUS

Barbra ran a manicured finger around the rim of her highball glass and sighed. The Portiere Arriere Hollywood featured hot and cold running cocaine in the bathroom, lighting designed to flatter aging debutants and trophy wives, and a selection of some of the most expensive alcohol products available. She sighed as she looked around—mannequins with enough plastic and silicone to build a Tesla with their recycled parts. The Hollywood elite drank here with no fear of molestation from fans or paparazzi. They were thus free to molest each other in peace.

Barbra graduated Magna Cum (very) Loudly at USC a few years earlier with a degree in Sports Medicine, and a taste for men. Her day job, mothering movie stars with pulled muscles, financed her nightlife nicely and allowed her to hunt for the right men in the right places. Her needs were so prolific and immediate that she’d purchased a van and appointed it nicely. No fucking around in hotel rooms, just get in the van, do the deed, and get on your way.

Tonight, Barbra had her eye on a fine specimen, tall and chiseled in a black tailored suit, dark skin (booth tanned, not spray on), and teeth so bright it hurt to look at them. She didn’t like his eyes—small blue dots set too close together. They were so tiny that until he’d looked directly at her and raised a subtle finger, acknowledging her interest, she wasn’t sure if he had eyes at all. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his eyes Barbra was interested in.

No doubt he’d come over in about two minutes to sit in the empty seat beside her; they all did. She continued to study him, making sure he was this evening’s correct selection. No ring, and no tan line on the finger. If he had a lover, she wasn’t here with him.

The smell of expensive cologne introduced itself first, musky, overbearing, and vaguely astringent. He sat, and without preamble, flashed a snow-blind cock-sure smile. Hi, I’m Kenneth.

The direct approach. So rare these days. His lack of a stupid pickup line threw her off for a moment. Barbra. She took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

Can I call you Barbie?

Only if you want me to cut off your dick and eat it in front of you. Can I call you Ken? She gauged his reaction.

Nothing for a moment. Then that smile again. A real man-eater, eh?

It would have been funnier if you hadn’t taken so long to think it up. Half-points. She smiled, flipped her hair, and took a drink.

I’ll try harder.

I’m counting on it. She let the corner of her mouth turn up. Then darted her eyes to him, just long enough to be sure he saw her do it, then back to her glass.

So, are you with anyone tonight? He leaned an elbow on the bar with practiced nonchalance.

Not yet. This time she looked into those beady little blue marbles and gave him the full smile.

Do you want to get out of here? He set his drink on the bar.

God damn. Fast mover. Normally Barbra liked the banter, the anticipation, the tension, but tonight she was ravenous for what Kenneth had under his suit. Let’s go.

He opened the door for her. My place is just a couple miles down the road.

My place is closer, she said, taking his hand and leading him to the parked van around the corner.

A van? he looked at her like she was crazy.

Wait till you see, she winked. She unlocked the back with her fob, then held the door open for him. After you.

When he’d crawled into the darkness, his feet crinkling on the plastic, she climbed in after him and pulled the door shut.

What the fuck is this? Why is there plastic over everything?

I like it messy, Ken. And I like to be on top. She pushed him onto his back and kissed him. Her hands found his wrists and guided them into the restraints bolted to the floor. Snap, snap.

Hey, what the fuck? Ken’s struggles were half-hearted.

You’ve never been tied up? Barbra stood, flipped on some mood lighting, and slipped out of her dress. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She put a hand to her sex, lingered there, then ran it up her body, pausing to circle a nipple with her index finger. It had the calming effect she’d hoped for, and Ken lay still as she slipped her dress into a plastic bag.

Why are you taking those off? Ken asked, as her earrings and necklace followed her dress into the bag.

I told you I like it messy.

What? Golden showers or something?

Not golden. She smiled, then bent over, facing away from him so that he could see from Christmas to New Years. She had his legs in the restraints before he could tear himself away from the view to protest.

Hey! Seriously? Barbra, I don’t like this.

She turned, straddling him. His erection pressed against her.

You talk too much. In fact, I have the feeling you’re a screamer. In one deft motion, she stuffed a rag in his mouth.

Kenneth choked and gagged.

Too deep? I bet you don’t hear that a lot. A layer of duct tape then sealed the rag in place. There. Now let’s see what we’re working with, mister. She unbuttoned his shirt with growing anticipation, licking her lips. It was as she’d hoped: chiseled, sculpted, magnificent abs. The skin was smooth on her tongue, untainted by his cologne. Perfect. She opened his shirt and coat as wide as they would go, then fished a scalpel from behind the plastic curtain—three quick slices in the shape of a capital I.

Kenneth screamed into the rag. His body flexed under her. Working quickly with the speed and precision of a butcher, she opened his chest cavity like a basement bulkhead. She took the bolt cutters from behind the plastic beside her—squeeze, crack, so. She held the bone to her lips and sucked at the oozing jagged end.

Oh, my god, Ken, I was so fucking hungry for ribs.

FOLLOW THE STRING

Will made his way down the hall, one hand sliding along the peeling wallpaper, the other along a length of twine. The voice called out in a sing-song tone: follow the string to get to the kitchen—follow the string.

The abyss reached out from the other side of the hall, clawing and scratching for Will. The wall under his hand was normal enough; he could feel that. The old wooden floorboards creaked under his feet, as they should, but the other wall, the left wall, didn’t exist. Where the wall and door should be, an endless dark chasm yawned away into outer space. Will kept tight to the wall that did exist. His shoes bumped it with each step. Follow the string. Follow the string.

The threshold separating wooden hall from kitchen linoleum met his sole. And two steps later, cold metal met his fingers—the drawer pull at the end of the string. He scrabbled around the counter with shaking hands. It should be here. Should be right here. Where are my pills? he pleaded to the silence. His voice sounded strange in his ears. Did he always sound like that? Follow the string.

Find the pills. The silence drew so close about him he could feel its breath. Where’s the string? Not holding the string. Not holding the string! He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Siri, Call Jen. His hands shook.

Siri didn’t respond, but he heard Jen’s voice. Will, oh thank G —

I’m blind! I… I can’t find my… I’m⁠—

Calm down, Will. Deep breaths, in and out.

Will took several deep breaths.

Better?

Yes, I… Yes, I’m better.

Good. Did you follow the string?

Yes, but the pills are gone!

You told me you took the last one, Will. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the counter. I want you to take two big shots.

Why do you want me to drink? I can’t drink near the edge!

You need a sedative, and the whiskey’s all you’ve got.

But I let go of the string.

Reach your hand out. What do you feel?

Will reached out. His fingers met the cold, chipped