Nightmare in October by doll1

Nightmare in October By Greg

This is a rewrite of an earlier story of mine. It has been rewritten to have a more realistic storyline. It is a brutal tale of unrelenting violence against innocent victims. I was in a weird place in my life when I first wrote it. I was venting frustrations and decided to put it all into a story. I do not condone any of the actions described here. Remember, this is just a fantasy. This story involves the gang-rape of a mother and daughter in the presence of the husband. If you are a sensitive and sympathetic person, then this story is probably not for you.

The clerk at the counter took a second look at Manuel as she handed him his change. He pocketed the money and headed for the exit without noticing how her expression had changed. As he turned away, her face went from friendly and polite to a look of utter shock.

His full-sleeve display of ink wasn’t all that unusual, but the tattoos on his neck were another matter altogether. Manual’s previous gang affiliation had given him a truly unique appearance. The clerk’s jaw-dropping reaction was visible even across the room. Chuck was over at the beer cooler, watching as she motioned to her co-worker. As soon as Manual walked out the exit, the two clerks darted to a wall board near the door. Chuck could see a string of FBI notices. He assumed that one probably involved Manuel. Manual’s past had caused trouble before, and this would require careful thinking to avoid creating a bigger problem.

“Damn,” Chuck could only mutter.

He knew that Manual had some outstanding warrants. The young clerk was jabbing her finger at one of the sheets. Chuck pretended not to notice and calmly carried his beer purchase over to the counter. Not having seen them come in together, the first girl came back over and quickly rang up his beer.

Chuck looked around, noticing the security cameras blanketing the cashier area. He quickly lowered his head, trying to avoid a direct look.

There was little chance to attempt anything right there. Just then, several new customers came through the doors. Chuck slapped a twenty on the counter and impatiently waited for the change. As he grabbed the beer and turned to leave, the clerk followed him back near the door. Her co-worker was still there and already had her phone to her ear. She seemed to be urgently explaining something.

“Let’s roll, now,” Chuck ordered as he got into the front seat, “we’ve been made.”

The car quickly got back on the Interstate and continued heading east. The four had had no trouble until now, and Chuck wanted to keep it that way. Chuck was the guy in charge. The organization had depended on his coolness under pressure. He was in his early forties and had spent most of his life skirting the law. Other than some minor scrapes, mostly for fights and assaults, he had avoided major trouble. Chuck was a big man with massive arms. Most trouble, he squelched by simple physical intimidation.

Manuel, the driver, was unstoppable behind the wheel of a car. His life revolved around cars and motorcycles. Originally from some nameless town in central Mexico, he had been well known by the border police. He was into smuggling as far back as he could remember, mostly for stolen auto parts. He finally stayed on the northern side of the border now, partly because most of his family had turned him away or disowned him.

Tito and Andy were punks. Chuck didn’t like the extra help, but it wasn’t his decision. They had been sent along due to someone’s paranoia. Both in their mid-twenties, they lacked the experience to handle things. Tito was somewhat edgy, but Andy was a “lit fuse.” He thought of himself as a “Rambo-type,” with looks. Chuck figured he had some connection with some boss above him and was sent along to learn the ropes. He was all mouth as far as Chuck was concerned. Chuck railed at being someone’s babysitter.

“Drive!” shouted Chuck, “we’ve got to put some distance between that fuel stop and us.”

“But once they get word out, they’ll be waiting up ahead,” said Andy, starting to panic.

“No shit,” snapped Chuck.

“Your damn tattoos, Manuel,” grumbled Chuck.

Chuck was scanning his phone and told Manuel, “There aren’t any towns at the next exit; get off there.” “We need a secluded place to lay low for a while.”

The car veered into the exit lane and took a hard right at the top of the overpass.

“Head towards them,” said Chuck, pointing towards a couple farm houses off in the distance.

The two-lane road had just started to curve out of direct sight of the interstate when Chuck ordered,

“Turn in here,”

Manuel braked hard and swung onto the gravel driveway, just missing the rural mailbox. Jim Stevens had just finished his morning chores in the barn and was headed towards the house for lunch. The sound of tires sliding on the gravel caused him to turn towards the main road.

“Down in back,” hissed Chuck.

Tito and Andy in the back seat ducked forward and out of view.

“Slowly,” Chuck snapped at Manuel, “let’s check this out.”

The farm had been in the Stevens family for four generations. Jim’s family purchased the eight hundred acres shortly after the Civil War. It had prospered due to a strong work ethic in Jim’s family.

The gravel driveway was a good hundred yards long, and being two miles from the interstate made for few visitors, aside from an occasional delivery truck. That is why Jim cast a wary eye towards the car as it slowly made its way towards him.

“Good barn for ditching the car,” said Manuel, trying not to move his lips too much.

“Right, but watch for signs of any hired help,” warned Chuck.

Jim studied the car, seeing only two occupants in the front seat. He noticed the slant of the vehicle, as if it were loaded too heavily in the trunk. It could be salesmen, he thought.

“Darn city folk,” Jim mused, “shouldn’t overload a vehicle like that.”

Jim slapped his work gloves against his leg to shed the dust. His right hand went up instinctively.

“Hey, you all lost or something?” he asked as the car stopped beside him.

“Naw,” Manuel said, reaching for a gun under his seat.

Just as Jim’s hands came to rest on the doorframe, he caught a movement in the rear seat. Startled, he started to back away. That’s when he saw the barrel of Manuel’s gun pointed at his chest.

“Don’t you move,” snarled Manuel.

The rear door opened, and Andy jumped out and was beside the stunned farmer in a second. A knife now pressed to his side, Jim froze. The front passenger side door opened, and Chuck calmly walked around the front of the vehicle. Chuck was cool as he approached Jim. He even extended his hand in a mock attempt to shake hands, just in case someone was watching.

“Anyone up at the house?” Chuck inquired.

“Ah, er, just me and the wife,” stammered Jim.

“Good, let’s take a slow walk up there,” Chuck ordered.

Chuck opened his jacket slightly to reveal his 9 mm. Chuck always carried it when he was on the road. Transporting heroin from Colorado into Chicago was not one of his favorite runs. KC, St. Louis, and Joliet weren’t good places to drive through. He could not risk the possibility of a carjacking or even a simple strong-arm theft. His bosses might suspect him of staging it and keeping the dope for himself. If this happened, he was as good as dead.

Jim was looking towards the house, hoping for some sign that Becky had also seen the car pull in. His hopes were dashed as he realized that she would have probably been in the kitchen making lunch. With Andy’s knife at his left and Chuck calmly walking to his right, the trio approached the front porch. The steps were wide enough for all three to walk up side-by-side.

Becky must have heard the multiple footsteps or had seen the car as she was approaching the inside door. Jim reached for the screen door quickly, trying to prevent her from coming out. Andy pressed the knife to his side as a firm reminder.

“Jim, Who?” “What are?” was all Becky managed to get out before Chuck upholstered his gun.

“Out!” he ordered, waving the gun in her direction.

Becky nervously complied and stood, holding onto Jim’s arm.

“Who are they?” “What do they want?” she almost demanded of Jim.

“Check it out, Andy,” Chuck ordered.

Andy quickly pushed his way past Becky and disappeared inside the house.

“Nice place you got here folks, real secluded huh,” Chuck smirked.

“Why are they here?” Becky continued to grill Jim.

“Clear,” came the reply moments later.

“IN,” ordered Chuck, again motioning with the barrel of the gun.

Inside the old farmhouse, things looked the way one would suppose. A large front room opened through an archway into a long dining area. The kitchen was off to the side, and the bedrooms were all upstairs. The dining room on special occasions could hold all of Jim and Becky’s relatives. Looking back as the front door closed, Jim noticed the car was gone, and the barn door being drawn closed by the other two men.

“Over there,” barked Chuck.

Jim and Becky stumbled to the large couch in the center of the room and sat down.

“Please, take anything you want,” pleaded Becky.

“We are not rich people.” “Please, why are you doing this?”

Becky was just babbling on now, maybe just trying to calm herself. Shortly, Tito and Manuel burst through the door and began surveying the room. Chuck was still standing in front of the terrified couple, waving his gun.

He yelled at Tito and Manuel, “Find some rope.”

Becky begged, “Please, no, why?” “We won’t do anything.”

“Quiet!” shouted Chuck. “All we need is a place to lay low for a while.” “We’ll leave you then, if you cause us no problems.”

Becky calmed down some. She grabbed for Jim’s hand and clung to it with a trembling grip. Jim had been watching Andy. He didn’t like the way he had been staring at Becky. After a few minutes, the rear kitchen door slammed. Tito and Manuel walked in carrying several lengths of rope cut from the clotheslines out back.