Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror

An Experiment in Human Nature MONICA J. O’ROURKE

This story was inspired by Clive Barker’s “Dread,” though you would be hard-pressed to actually find any similarities. It also began my foray into writing hardcore (or splatterpunk) fiction and led to my collaboration with Wrath James White, Poisoning Eros parts I and II.

Ernest brushed the hair from his forehead with his fingertips and leaned against the wall, clumsily setting his glass upon the mantle.

Young men playing dress-up, sporting Ralph Lauren, knockoff rich man wannabees enjoying Ernest’s parents’ good food and good smokes and good single malt, crashing in the Tudor-esque McMansion that felt somehow misplaced among the Hampton elite. Animal heads suspended from the walls gazed at them with dead eyes. A billiards table sat unused in the corner.

“Okay,” Ernest said. “I promised you something interesting, right? Now we see if you two have the jewels to go through with it.” Caleb uncrossed his spider legs and leaned forward. He set his cigar (the smoke was choking him anyway) in the oversized freestanding ashtray and rose to his full height. Stretching his arms overhead, his fingertips fell inches short of the eight-foot ceiling.

“This should be good,” he said, cracking a smile.

Ernest smirked. “It wasn’t easy, but I think it’s worth it. Or will be, in the end. It’s brilliant.”

Ian, almost invisible in the corner of the room, said, “What’d you do?” His blue eyes were intense as he squinted at the two other boys. Curly auburn hair and a baby face, he was the youngest of the trio at nineteen, but only by two years.

Ernest closed the double doors. “Keep it down. Some of the staff may still be wandering around. They might hear us.”

“Staff?” Caleb scoffed, knowing the huge staff was composed of a cook and a housekeeper. “So what’s your big secret?”

Ernest cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. “We swore that no matter what, we’d stick by each other, right?” He strummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“Yeah, so? What’s got you so freaked?” Caleb said, though he nodded. “What’s your point?”

Ernest blinked, his long lashes almost dusting the tops of his high cheeks. “I’m not freaked,” he snapped, and then composed himself. “A study in human nature. An experiment in perseverance.”

“Blah, blah, blah …” Caleb snapped. “Get to the point.”

Ernest ignored him. “You think you have the stomach for such an experiment? One that will be messy? One that, I guarantee, will end … badly?”

Caleb said, “Badly? What’s that mean?”

“We’ll be running some experiments. Okay? Just some tests. I got us a guinea pig.”

“What kind of experiments?” Ian said, almost whispered.

Caleb cocked his head. “Guinea pig, huh? Why do I get the feeling it’s not warm and furry.”

Ernest smirked. “Oh, it’s warm and furry all right …” He sat on the arm of the sofa. “Remember in Professor Klein’s class when we studied about the strength of the human mind, and the ability of the body to persevere at any cost? What I remember most were the slides of the concentration camp survivors from the Holocaust, and the Japanese POWs. Remember?”

He paused briefly, looking from Caleb to Ian. “I’ve thought about that. A lot. Wondering … you know, what someone might do …”

“Might do if what?” Ian murmured. The air in the room felt heavy, as if coated in cotton. He pursed his lips, the color of his cheeks now matching his hair.

Ernest ignored him. “Thing is, there’s no turning back now.”

Caleb shook his head and said, “Get to the point. What did you do?”

Ernest stared at Caleb as if deciding how to proceed, whether or not to let Caleb in on the secret. “It’s already begun. I need to know what to expect from you guys. Because let me tell you, if I go down, we all go down. One for all, and all that stupid Musketeers bullshit, okay?”

He sat back in the chair and rubbed his palm across his mouth. “Here’s the thing. I think I can safely say I understand your character. I trust you guys. I think the three of us are of like minds.”

There was no argument so far; the three were of like minds when it came to politics and religion. But Ian wasn’t entirely sure he shared the same belief system as Ernest, or shared his ethics. He was willing to listen, however.

“I found a … a test subject. I’d like to see how much it will take to … to, um. For him to break.”

“Break?” Ian asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Caleb snickered. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Ernest shrugged and began to laugh.

“Oh, god,” Ian said through fingers splayed across his mouth. He leaned forward in his chair, and his face brightened as he finally realized what Ernest was talking about. “You’re talking about what? Breaking some guy’s will? Right? Am I right? Holy shit, Ernest! Who’d you pick?”

“Nolan Pierson.”

“Who?” Caleb asked, but Ian knew the guy. Nolan was in their psych class, and was in Latin and chemistry with Ian and Ernest. Nolan was rather forgettable, with butchered black hair and oversized Buddy Holly glasses. The scholarship kid. His father was a janitor in the Harper Building on the west side of the campus. Every school has at least one Nolan — the kid whose Sears suit was never quite up to par, whose Pay-less shoes always fell apart a few months into the semester. The kid who wanted to fit in but just couldn’t afford to, his clothes and his efforts always being second rate.

Nolan was a throwaway human being.

And suddenly, the three seemed to realize almost simultaneously that they were of like minds. And like ethics.

“Him?” Caleb said. “I know who you mean. He won’t last — the guy’s a loser. He’s on scholarship, for god’s sake.” He whispered the last part, as if naming a dreaded disease, as though naming his social status might inflict it on him.

“I think you’re wrong,” Ernest said. “And there begins our experiment. Who better than some poor schmuck who’s had to struggle all his life to get what he wants? A guy who tries to fit in but never manages to. If he didn’t have some strength of character, I think he’d’ve blown his brains out by now, n’est-ce pas? This guy has what we’re looking for.”

“You’re awfully empathetic,” Caleb remarked, his eyes at half mast. He snorted. “Like you really give a shit what this janitor’s kid’s been through.”

Ernest opened his mouth but Ian cut him off. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Me? Not me — we. What are we going to do to him.”

“Sure. Right. Then what?”

“Some tests.” Ernest turned toward Caleb. “And to answer your question, dickhead—”

“I didn’t ask any fucking question. All I said was you’re full of shit. You talk about him being poor and struggling and all that but you don’t care.”

“Like you do?”

Caleb shrugged. “Never said I did. In fact, I don’t. But you. You’re full of shit.”

Ernest smiled. “Oh yeah? I already have him in the house. Doesn’t matter whether I feel sorry for him. All I wanna do is some experiments. Like I said, this has already begun. I invited him over and slipped some shit into his drink.”

“Well, I guess it’s started then,” Caleb said. “I’m with you. I’m in.”

“Just like that?” Ernest said.

“I trust you, man,” Caleb said. “We’re like brothers. And I think this sounds fucking exciting.”

They stared at Ian. He chewed his bottom lip. “I’m in. You know I’m in.”

Ernest slapped his hands together. “We have the house to ourselves. My folks gave everyone the night off since they’re going into the city for the weekend. So there’s no one left to, um, hear anything. Besides, Nolan’s tucked away in a safe place. Soundproof.”

“They gave everyone the night off, did they?” Caleb scoffed.

“Fuck you, assbag,” Ernest said. “Not everyone has staff who wipes their dick for them.” He led them across the room and reached behind the bookcase. “You see those old movies with the creepy old goth mansions that have these hidden passageways and shit?” He pushed a panel concealed behind a copy of The 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade. A door disguised to look like part of the paneling creaked open. A light, musky air assaulted their nostrils.

“Oh gimme a fuckin’ break,” Caleb said.

“Shut up.” Ernest ushered them inside and closed the door. They each held a flashlight, and Ernest led them down a hallway where the only sounds were their footfalls and the steady plinking of a leaky pipe.

They passed through several doors. At the last door, Ernest reached up and punched in a series of numbers on a keypad, locking it behind them. “Can never be too careful. We don’t need company.”

“Did you install that? It looks modern.” Ian brushed cobweb remnants out of his eyes as they approached a small room. He smelled something burning.

Ernest told them, “I didn’t install it, but I doubt my parents know about that secret panel upstairs, or even about this place. I just discovered it myself a few months ago. I wonder what kind of sick shit the previous owner got himself into down here.”

Light overtook the blackness. In the center of the room was a large, thick butcher-block table. Tied naked and spread-eagle to the table was a young man with black hair. He was blindfolded, and his glasses had been placed on a tray beside his head. He was gagged, but that seemed unnecessary since he appeared to be unconscious. The slow rise and fall of his thin chest indicated he was still alive.

That burning smell …

Ian looked at the corner of the room. A large pot had been set up, and something inside was simmering on a platform above Sterno canisters. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Metal,” Ernest said. “A combination of metals, actually. Some old figurines, melted down. Lead and tin mostly. Silica. A bunch of stuff. Carefully mixed and tested.”

“Tested? On what?” Caleb asked.

Ernest looked up. “Strays. Mostly.”

“What, uh, what’s the metal for?” Ian asked.

Ernest snapped opened a container of smelling salts and ran it beneath Nolan’s nose. “You’ll see.”

Nolan’s head jerked from side to side. He strained against his bindings.

On a tray table beside the butcher block was an assortment of instruments. Ernest stood beside it and picked up a notebook and pen.

He tried to hand them to Ian, who refused and backed up a step.

“You have to keep notes, Ian.”

“Why me?”

“Because Caleb is stronger. I may need his help with … you know. Other stuff.”

“No way. I don’t want my handwriting in any journal.”

“You idiot,” Ernest said. “We’re all in this. Someone has to keep notes, and I can’t fucking do it. I’m going to be too goddamned busy to write, asshole. Besides”—he pointed at the camera mounted on a tripod in the corner—“I’m recording all of this. So fuck you and your handwriting. There’s a permanent record.”

Nolan screamed a series of desperate and incoherent sounds into his gag.

Ian snatched the notebook and pen out of Ernest’s hand.

Caleb moved across the room and studied the tray of instruments. “Ernest, you are one seriously disturbed fuck.”

Ernest handed him clamps. “Start with the nipples. Just don’t cut them off.”

“Me?” Caleb’s face contorted. “Hey, isn’t that kind of queer? I don’t want to …”

Ernest sighed, rubbing his eyes with his index fingers. “Look — this is an experiment. It’s medical, not sexual. If you get a hard-on while messing with his nipples, that’s your hang-up. Otherwise, just goddamn do it. It’s part of the experiment.”

Caleb moved to the other side of the table. Frowning, he ran his palms over Nolan’s breasts until the nipples stood erect. Using the clamps, he grabbed hold, Nolan writhing beneath him. “I still don’t see what nipple clamps have to do with anything,” Caleb muttered.

Ernest ignored him and turned to Ian. He said, “You ready? Before you write anything, I need you to help prep the subject. I want you to get a feel for this stuff.”

Ian stepped forward, and Ernest handed him the next instrument.

“What the hell do I do with—”

“We’re all pre-med,” Ernest said. “Figure it out.”

Ian knew what he was supposed to do with the tool, but—

“Can you handle it?” Caleb asked. “Need help?”

“You couldn’t deal with a nipple clamp, but this you’re okay with?” Ernest said.

“Fuck off.”

Ian swallowed back a mouthful of spit. “I … yeah, but, I don’t know how … I mean, I’m not sure.”

“Just stick it up his ass,” Ernest said.

“You got issues, man,” Caleb said.

“I know where it goes,” Ian said. “I just don’t see what this has to do with your experiment.”

“We start small, Ian. Clamps, a few tubes. Understand?” Ernest said. “Part of the experiment is a study in resilience, big and small. I have lots more planned.”

“How will we know what he’s feeling? Isn’t that part of the experiment? Isn’t that what you want me to write down?” Ian wasn’t sure he wanted to know, or if he was stalling. He stared at the instrument in his hands, and it seemed to have become very heavy.

“How the hell do you think he’s feeling?” Ernest smiled. “Never mind. We’ll ask him in a minute.”

“Oh.” Ian lubricated the end of the tube and tried to push it into Nolan’s anus. “I can’t do this,” he said. “It’s, you know. He won’t cooperate.”

Ernest said to Caleb, “Make him cooperate.”

Caleb nodded and took the length of metal tubing, which resembled a thin toilet paper roll, from Ian. He pressed it against Nolan, pushing and twisting until it found its way inside his writhing body, tearing the soft, delicate tissue at the opening of his anus. Blood tricked onto the table. Ernest tossed Caleb a roll of duct tape and instructed him to secure the tube as best as he could.

Nolan screamed into his gag and bucked his legs, but Caleb pushed the tubing in further. “It’s secure,” Caleb said. To Ian he said, “Just think of him as a cadaver. Easier that way.”

“Good job,” Ernest said. He leaned over Nolan’s face. “I’m going to remove your gag now. I want to ask you a few questions.”

Nolan’s head bobbed like a float on a lake. Ernest removed the gag and Nolan screamed and begged for help. “Please!” he cried, lifting his head off the table. “It hurts! Take it out!”

Ernest stared at Nolan, a wry smile plastered on his face.

“You fucking psycho!” Nolan screamed.

Ernest stuffed the gag back in his mouth and clicked his tongue. “No use. He’s just gonna be an asshole. How predictable. Anyway, the interesting part’s coming up. I’ll do it myself but may need some help.”

He took a long thin metal tube — so thin it resembled a wire, but it was hollow, like the world’s most narrow beaker — from the utensil tray.

Moving to the end of the table, he took hold of Nolan’s penis, which failed to respond. “Grab it,” he said to Caleb.

“No way! Nipples were bad enough. I’m not touching his dick.”

“Look, dipshit, you’re pre-med. You think you’re never going to have to touch a dick? I didn’t ask you to suck it, just hold it. I told you, there’s nothing sexual about any of this.”

“You like bringing pre-med up a lot,” Caleb said. “Seems more like an excuse for you to play with this guy’s dick.” Looking away, he grabbed Nolan’s penis. It lay unresponsive in his hand.

“I need you both to hold him as still as you can. Ian, pin down his chest.”

Ernest grabbed Nolan’s penis and tried to push the metal rod into the urethra. Nolan screamed into his gag, his head thrown back, the veins in his neck straining beneath the skin. His body was coated in a fine layer of sweat, and the smell in the room was a mingling of metal, blood, and musk.

“Shit,” Ernest said, “hold him!” The rod kept slipping. Fitting it into the narrow urethra was more difficult than he had anticipated. “Get him hard,” he snapped at Caleb.

“You fuckin’ kidding me?” he yelled.

Finally, it slid inside his urethra. Ernest dropped Nolan’s penis and stood back, panting. Turning to the camera, he said, “Goddamn. Okay. All tubes are in place.”

Ian moved to the edge of the table. There was a small amount of blood on Nolan’s crotch. It terrified Ian … yet somehow it was exhilarating.

“Ready to begin,” Ernest said, grinning. He looked at Caleb and said, “Pick an orifice, any orifice.”

Caleb ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. “You’re seriously disturbed, man.”

He tossed Caleb a pair of heavy-duty work gloves. “We’ll start with the ass. That tube gets hot, so make sure you wear those. Hold the rod tight. Make sure it stays up his ass.”

Caleb nodded.

“It cools pretty fast,” Ernest said. “I considered putting him in water, but that would have been a real pain in the ass. Can you imagine if we’d had to start dragging bottles of water down here? That sink is useless.” Ernest dipped the metal spoon into the simmering molten metal and stirred.

“We should be able to get enough into the tube if we work fast, before he starts flopping around too much. Otherwise it’s just going to spill all over his legs.” He filled the ladle and held it up, steam rising, the smell of the metal stronger now. “We don’t want to get this on us. It’s more than two hundred degrees, so be careful. And work fast. Got it?”

Caleb nodded, getting a better grip on the thick tube protruding from Nolan’s ass. He affixed a large funnel to the end of the tubing. Ian stood off to the side, watching them with a transfixed expression of revulsion and horror.

“When I’m done, pull the tube out fast. Then cover up his asshole with the duct tape. Got it?” Ernest poured the contents of the ladle into the tube. Seconds later the liquid reached its intended destination and Nolan went berserk, flailing against the ropes, his agonized screams muffled against his gag. Moments later, he was still.

“He dead already?” Caleb blurted, pulling the metal rod out of Nolan’s ass, covering it with bandages and tape to keep the liquid from leaking out.

Using the stethoscope from the instrument tray, Ernest listened for a heartbeat. He shook his head. “No, not dead. Strong heartbeat.”

Ian dropped against the wall and buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god,” he croaked. “Oh my god.”

“Get a grip,” Ernest said. “We’re not through.” He removed the gag from Nolan’s mouth, and a trace of spit and vomit trailed away with the cloth.

“Now what?” Ian asked, choking back tears, trying not to cry.

Ernest picked up the smelling salts. “We continue with the experiment. Should we remove the blindfold now?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

“But …” Ian scratched his head and stepped forward. “But then he could identify us.”

The other two exchanged glances before turning back to Ian.

“What did you think was going to happen here?” Ernest asked. “He’s got a metal block up his ass. Did you think he was going to just walk away?”

Ian swallowed and shrugged.

“I told you earlier that this wasn’t going to end well.”

“Yeah, Ernest, but—”

“And you promised! You said you wanted to be part of this, that you would always be one of us. You swore along with Caleb and me, fucking told us we were your brothers!”

“I didn’t know you meant murder!”

Ernest looked at the floor before speaking, using a patronizing voice not unlike his father’s. “I told you this would be difficult. I told you this would end badly. I told you we would be sharing secrets for life. What about all of that didn’t you understand, you fucking idiot? What the fuck did you think I was referring to?”

“Come on, Ian,” Caleb said. “You’ve got to see Nolan for what he is. A non-person, just an asshole getting a free ride. He’s a leech, a guinea pig. He’s a goddamned lab rat.”

Ian looked from Ernest to Caleb and knew they planned to finish. Could he see Nolan as just a giant lab rat? He tried to justify what they were doing to the slab of meat on the butcher block table, hidden away somewhere in a room that reeked of damp, dead wine, a room lit by a naked bulb dangling by a single thin wire. The expressions on the faces of his fellow scientists were feral, somehow evil. They were enjoying this too much and would never need to justify their actions. Ian tried to reason that this was all for posterity, tried to forget that this was how Nolan would spend the last minutes of his pathetic life.

“Okay,” Ian whispered. “I’m with you.” He didn’t know whether or not he really meant it. For now, he did mean it. For now, he would stand with them.

Ernest handed him the notebook and pen. “Good. Let’s get going then. First entry was, say, 6:00 pm. Let’s see …” He played with the webbing between his thumb and index finger. “Level One. Subject gagged and blindfolded. Nipple clamps and insertion of rods and tubes. Slight bleeding. Subject … uncomfortable.

“Level Two. Jot down, like 6:45. Level Two, melted metal enema injected. Subject in extreme pain and passes out. I guess this is where we begin Level Three.”

Glancing at his watch, he said, “Blindfold and gag removed. Subject will be revived and questioned for response. Start Level Three at 7:00 pm.”

Ian wondered what sort of doctor Ernest would become and then remembered his particular fondness for forensic medicine.

Ernest continued his dictation. “About to revive subject.” Then he grinned. “Level Three. Wake the fucker up.”

Caleb waved the salts beneath Nolan’s nose. There was no reaction. He waved them for another few seconds, and then lifted the vial to his own face and sniffed. He jerked back his head and snorted. “Nothing wrong with these!”

“Oh, god,” Ian moaned, peering into Nolan’s face. “What’s wrong with him?”

Ernest rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?” To Caleb he said, “Keep working those salts. See if you can revive him.”

Caleb waved the salts and slapped Nolan’s cheeks.

He continued the dictation. “Level Three. Subject unresponsive. Efforts to revive subject have been unsuccessful. Unsure at this point what—”

Nolan rocked his head away from the salts. His eyes rolled around in their sockets, trying to focus, unable. The whites of his eyes were tinged with pink, distorted Easter eggs.

Ernest leaned over, his mouth by Nolan’s ear. “Can you hear me?”

Nolan moaned.

“Nolan? Come on, man, wake up. We need to know how you feel. For posterity.” Ernest looked up at Ian. “Jot this down: subject unwilling or unable to respond. In great deal of pain.”

Nolan’s eyes focused. He blinked and tried to press himself into the table. Opening his mouth, all that escaped was a belching groan.

“Next level before he passes out again,” Ernest said, moving to the simmering pot.

“Burns …” Nolan groaned. “Help me …”

Ernest said, “This is going to be tricky. Ian, your turn. Grab his dick. Put on the gloves first.”

Ian got into place and did what Ernest instructed.

“Hold it up, as straight as you can. Hold it steady.” He turned back to the pot.

“Wha …” Breathing came as gasping hitches, making speech impossible for Nolan. Tears streamed, dampening the hair along his temples. His eyes were glistening gems, brilliant and dying at the same time, a beautiful comet blazing to oblivion.

Ernest held up an oversized syringe. “Hold him steady. I’m going to inject this.” The rod in the urethra was narrow, much thinner than the needle on the syringe. “Okay, hang on. He’ll thrash around, so hold him. Steady now.”

He stuck the syringe into the tip of the rod. Moments later, the liquid metal traveled the length and filled the inside of Nolan’s penis.

His shrieks reverberated off the cellar walls. He strained against the ropes, as if in the throes of a seizure. A sudden snap followed Nolan’s trailing screams before he passed out.

Ernest tossed the stethoscope to Caleb and traced his fingertips over the damaged flesh and bone of Nolan’s broken leg. “Jesus Christ, that was a hell of a reaction. He broke his own goddamned shinbone.”

Ernest examined the rest of the body. The flesh on the other ankle was torn and bloody, but the rope had held. He secured the broken leg to the table with another length of rope before checking on Nolan’s wrists.

Ian pulled the rod from Nolan’s body. The liquid metal inside his penis had already begun to harden.

“Hold it up,” Ernest said. “If you put it down the liquid will drip out.”

Caleb held up the stethoscope. “He’s still alive.”

Ernest smiled and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Level Three was a success, I would say.”

“Look at this,” Ian said, pointing to the underside of the penis. “The skin’s burning away over here. But nothing’s leaking out. I think it’s already solid.”

“I can’t believe he’s still alive,” Caleb said, shaking his head. “If it was me, I’d sure want to be dead.”

Ernest glanced at his watch. “Write this: Level Three achieved at 7:20 pm. Subject in agony, yet continues to live. Asked for help. Barely able to speak, yet screamed his head off a minute later. Level Three consisted of pouring liquid metal into his urethra, creating a permanent solid block in his urinary passage.”

He cleared his throat. “Now at … 7:35 pm, we will attempt Level Four. Will see if administering liquid to victim while asleep revives him at all.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. His hands trembled as he wrote the notes, jotting every word, wishing this ordeal was over. He leaned against a wall, exhausted.

Caleb handed him a small bottle of water. “You okay?”

Ian nodded, chugging the water down his parched throat.

“Hey, look at this,” Ernest said. Nolan’s penis — ramrod straight and granite solid — jutted up and rested against his stomach. “Come on, break’s over. Let’s do Level Four.”

He held up two small cylindrical tubes. “Ian, write down whatever I say. Try to capture whatever he says or does. If he wakes up.”

“You have to hold his head back tight, Caleb. If he went nuts before … I don’t have a clue what he might be capable of. These are going up his nose now. If he shakes his head, that shit’s going everywhere. Hold him as tight as you can.”

“Up his nose?” Ian said. “Won’t that kill him? That’ll, like, fry his brains.”

Caleb shook his head. “Why didn’t you get something to hold him still, like Flunitrazepam or something, man?”

“Date-rape drug?”

“Yeah. Like you don’t have access to that shit.”

“Why would I want to use anything that would paralyze him? I want to see his reactions, asshole. I want to see the little fucker squirm.”

“You’re sure taking this little ‘experiment’ personally, don’t you think?” Ian said.

Ernest thought for a moment and chose to ignore this line of questioning. “I’m not sure whether this’ll fry his brains, but in other tests I’ve run, it didn’t kill the subjects right away. They kind of went nuts, but they didn’t die right away.”

“You still talking about small animals, man?” Caleb asked.

Ernest ignored him and instead tilted Nolan’s head back and inserted small metal tubes into each nostril. Nolan’s breathing became whistling gasps, and his mouth popped open to breathe.

“He’s waking up,” Caleb yelled, bending low and holding on tight to Nolan’s head.

Dipping two metal turkey basters into the pot, Ernest filled them with the liquid and rushed back.

Before Ernest even touched him, Nolan responded, crying out and bucking on the table.

Ernest yelled at the camera to be heard above Nolan’s steady stream of guttural and hysterical cries. “Level Four! Pour liquid into nasal passages!”

Nolan fought, spit and sweat and blood flying everywhere, horrible grunts and animal growls erupting from his destroyed body. Placing the tips of the basters into the tubes, Ernest injected the boiling liquid into Nolan’s nasal passages.

Inhuman screams poured out of him, seeming to come from some other level of existence. He strained against the ropes securing his body, fighting and stretching so spastically and furiously that sinewy cords snapped up and down the length of his body.

Blood gushed from deep ruts in his skin. Then he passed out.

Ernest collapsed. “Oh my god,” he panted. “Level Four complete. Did you get all that, Ian?”

Ian’s heart pounded and his head thudded. “I feel sick.”

“We’re almost done. Hang in there.”

“Can’t,” Ian said. “Gonna be sick.”

Ernest said, “We can’t stop now and leave him hanging. We have to put him out of his misery. Take a deep breath. Get a fucking grip, man.”

The three stood around Nolan. His once not-quite-handsome face was now a gnarled and hideous ruin, a distorted parody of his former self. Metal patches stuck to his skin and hair. His cheeks were open sores, oozing pustules of flesh and exposed bone where metal had leaked through. The lining of his nostrils were two solid metal caves. Blood trickled out of the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Ian gently squeezed the nose and felt the soft metal shift beneath his fingers, felt the spongy mass of tissue give beneath his touch. His stomach flipped, and he wished he’d ignored that strange compulsion to touch Nolan.

“Level Five,” Ernest said. “We end this. See what sort of resolve or strength this freak has left.”

Caleb listened to Nolan’s chest with the stethoscope. “His heart’s strong, I guess,” he said, licking his lips, stepping away from the body. “It’s still beating, anyway.”

“I thought he’d be dead by now,” Ernest said, staring off at nothing. “Let’s do this. Final level.”

He grabbed a length of tubing from the tray. “This is flexible, like a garden hose, but it’s metal. Coiling of some sort. I snagged it from the garage, when the mechanic wasn’t looking. Open his mouth.”

“His mouth?” Caleb asked.

“His fucking mouth!” Ernest shrieked.

Caleb tipped Nolan’s head back and pried open his mouth. Ernest fed the tube down his throat.

“Write this down: eight pm. About to attempt Level Five. Tubing has been fed into subject. The tube acts as a sort of trachea. Get ready, guys. This is it.”

Ian nodded and licked his lips. His heart pounded so fiercely his temples ached.

“Hold him tight, Caleb!” Ernest placed a funnel at the end of the tubing in Nolan’s throat. He turned back to the pot and filled a quart-sized metal measuring cup, and he then dumped the molten metal down the tube and into Nolan’s throat. He pulled the tube out as the throat and mouth filled with the liquid, the neck and throat bulging.

“Level Five!” Ernest cried, a look of triumph filling his eyes and spreading into an enormous grin. “Subject appears to be suffocating. His eyes are—”

Nolan’s movements were lightning-fast and unexpected; in the throes of his mindless, adrenaline-powered paroxysm, he broke through the last of the thick cords and bolted upright, his head whipping. Blood poured from deep gashes across his body where moments before he’d been restrained. His arms and legs pinwheeled and struck out in every direction at once, searching for help, his brain now mush, his actions primal, mouth gasping for air.

Metal, blood, and vomit flew everywhere, coating the walls and the young men. Nolan’s pupils disappeared, and he searched and pawed blindly, trying to scream through the terrible obstruction in his throat, trying to pull it out, gasping and retching, stuffing his fingers into his mouth and reaching down his throat, his body trying to vomit out the foreign objects.

Nolan was free from his restraints but his actions were primal and desperate. His bulging eyes had focused enough so that they trained on a terrified Ernest, who was now trying in a blind panic to remember where he had left the exit.

Nolan grabbed Ernest from behind, searching for help, a desperate young man tortured beyond recognition, searching for someone to save him from his living hell. So it was his fortunate luck, and Ernest’s pisspoor luck, that he was able to exact his revenge without even knowing it.

For in his final moments, Nolan — weighed down by the metal filling every major cavity in his body — gurgled and sputtered his final gasping breaths, falling forward, impaling Ernest’s tailbone, piercing major organs with what was possibly the world’s hardest and sharpest dildo.

This contorted mess of twisted body parts fell forward into the table, crashing to the floor. The metal-filled pot overturned, spilling its boiling contents on Ernest’s head. He howled, arms flailing, the liquid hardening into a layer on his head and shoulders, the skin beneath bubbling and dissolving off his bones.

He died melting like a crayon in the sun, his colon impaled by his very own test subject, who was dead as well.

Some time later, Ian pulled himself up off the floor. In a daze he extinguished the light and pulled the door closed, shutting the carnage in behind him. His mind was numb, his body trembling.

He remembered earlier walking through a series of doors and now just walked down the passageways shell-shocked, trying to recall the way they had come just a couple of hours before. It felt like he had been down there for days. He realized it would be years before the bodies would be found, if ever.

When he reached the third door, Caleb was sitting on the floor. Ian shined the flashlight beam in his glazed eyes.

“I forgot about you, man,” Ian said, sitting on the floor beside him. “When did you sneak out here?”

“Right after Nolan fell on Ernest. I got the fuck out of there. I thought you fainted or something.”

“They’re both dead. What are we going to do?”

Caleb exhaled and ran his hands through his hair. “Do? We’re royally fucked, Ian. Unless you know the combination. Look.” He shined the flashlight in the air and the beam fell on the lock, a keypad with the series of numbers 0–9.

Ian stared at it, remembering only that the combination was seven digits long.

“Oh, shit,” he squeaked, quickly getting up and entering random patterns of numbers into the keypad. “We can figure this out. I mean, how many combinations can there be?”

Caleb raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious?”

Ian pounded away at the keypad. He wailed on the solid oak door as well but only succeeded in smashing his knuckles and cutting the fleshy pads on his hands.

“What are we gonna do?” he cried, kicking Caleb, who stared into the darkness.

Ian searched the basement for an exit, a window, a crawlspace. All he found was hallway after hallway of solid rock.

Two weeks later the food supply was rotten beyond even their desperation. Every last drop of dead blood — their only source of liquid besides the small reserve of bottled water and their own urine — had been consumed.

Starving now, Ian, whose fingernails were bloody pulps from his efforts to tunnel through solid rock, his throat raw from screaming for help hour after hour, wondered how long he would be able to survive on Caleb’s dead body.

Caleb was wondering the same thing … only he wondered if Ian would last longer if consumed while still alive. Wondered if the body parts would heal, providing Caleb with an endless food supply. Wondered what warm blood tasted like.

Staring at one another from opposite ends of the torture chamber, Ian and Caleb began another experiment in human nature.