1. [Chapter One: The Highway Butcher]
[1980s, Nevada, western United States. No DNA testing, no cell phones, no fingerprint detection.]
If I had known who that man was, I definitely wouldn't have gotten on that car.
I had just escaped from a mental hospital and found myself wandering aimlessly to the side of a highway. I'd been given an injection, my mind was foggy, and it was the middle of the night with no light... well, those are just excuses. Anyway, when that truck drove past me, I stopped it without a second thought.
I asked the driver if he could give me a ride. He agreed, like a kind-hearted man, so much so that I didn't notice a naked woman in the back of the car. She was tied to the back of the car with a rope and dragged along the ground, leaving a long trail of blood.
I got into the car and got a good look at the man. He was white, blond, around thirty years old, and quite handsome. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other casually resting on the window. He asked me where I was going.
“Go to San Diego,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Ray Meir.”
The light was dim, and I didn't notice the way the man looked at me. He clearly saw me as prey. He didn't shake my hand; I assumed truck drivers weren't particular about such things, but later I learned his palms were covered in blood.
"Lawrence." I didn't know if that was his surname or first name, but I didn't ask, and we didn't speak again after that. The radio was playing in the car, very loudly, and the static was quite noisy, but it's best to listen to the radio when driving at night, otherwise it's easy to fall asleep.
"Hiss... hiss... The 'Highway Butcher' struck again last Friday on Illinois Highway 7. The victim was a highway sex worker. Police confirmed that the deceased... hiss... had her limbs severed with a sharp machete and was dragged for about a kilometer before dying... This is a common method used by the 'Highway Butcher'... There were no signs of sexual assault..."
“Going to San Diego is quite far,” Lawrence said. “Are you a college student?”
"I guess so, but I'm currently on leave from school."
"What do you study?"
"News. I'm a trainee reporter."
“Oh, a journalist,” Lawrence seemed to take a liking to it, “are you going to San Diego to interview someone?”
"No, it's just... an internship." I couldn't tell him that I had to go somewhere where nobody knew me to lay low because of a huge fight I had with my ex-girlfriend, which led her to spread rumors at school that I was mentally ill. It was too embarrassing.
It started pouring rain outside. I had just received an injection and was feeling groggy. The sound of the rain was soothing, and Lawrence was driving very smoothly. I drifted off to sleep without realizing it. When I woke up, the car was parked on the side of the road. To my horror, I found myself unable to move. My body was strapped in with a seatbelt, my right hand was handcuffed to the roof, and my left hand was tied to my left foot. Lawrence wasn't in the driver's seat.
"Mr. Lawrence?" I banged my still-functioning elbow against the window, trying to make a sound. My heart was in my throat, cold sweat was pouring down my back, and I thought someone was hijacking the car. "Where are you, Mr. Lawrence?!"
The rain was pouring down outside, and even if Lawrence had responded, I wouldn't have heard a thing. I tried to reach for the door handles and the steering wheel, but failed. However, I accidentally made some noise, and the car door was pulled open. In the darkness, someone untied my handcuffs and seatbelt. Before I could say anything, I was roughly dragged from the passenger seat.
That was Lawrence. He was soaked to the bone, the blinding lightning making his chin appear deathly pale. Strands of blond hair clung to his cheekbones, and his face was flushed with a sickly redness, clearly in a state of heightened excitement. His mouth was twisted in a grotesque, almost monstrous grin. I was terrified and screamed, struggling desperately, but he was incredibly strong. I was dragged helplessly to the back of the car.
A corpse lay on the ground. She had no limbs; her entire front, including her face and torso, was worn smooth by the hard pavement. It was unclear whether Lawrence had deliberately dragged her face down, or if she had accidentally rolled over while struggling. Her bright red skull and half a brain were exposed, bloodied and raw. Her red dress was tattered like a rag. She had been disemboweled, her organs a tangled mess of blood and flesh, blood and gore everywhere. I couldn't bear to look at it a second time. A mouthful of vomit welled up in my throat, and I vomited loudly against the side of the truck's wheels. My stomach was empty, so I started vomiting bile; the feeling was excruciating, as if my intestines were about to come out.
I collapsed to my knees, utterly exhausted. Lawrence grabbed me and lifted me up. "You're a reporter, right? If you were in my shoes, how would you write the story?"
"W-what?" I didn't understand what he meant. I was too shocked and too scared. Lawrence had no patience to wait for me to sort out the situation. In his eyes, I was no different from livestock. He grabbed my collar and slammed me against the carriage. My back hit the hard metal without any cushioning, and I almost immediately tasted blood in my throat. His eyes were so sharp and burning, as if they wanted to scorch and pierce through me. I could hardly breathe, and the pain was unbearable, but he grinned. "What do I look like now?"
How am I supposed to know what he looks like now! Just seeing a little blood makes me scream, and I usually avoid butcher shops! How could I possibly describe his terrifying and grotesque appearance?
"Ugh, this is so boring. Are you scared stiff?" He teased me, patting my face repeatedly. "Say something?"
"No, no..." The way he looked at me was as if he wanted to kill me too. Seeing that scene, who wouldn't guess that he was the "Highway Butcher"? He would kill me, I knew he would. The "Highway Butcher" was a random killer!
“How boring…” Lawrence sighed deeply, a beastly growl escaping his throat. I almost thought he was going to devour me alive, but he just knocked me unconscious and shoved me into the back of the truck. When I woke up, I saw him on top of the corpse, in a truly beastly posture—even if he were eating her flesh, I wouldn't be so traumatized—he was penetrating her abdomen. Her stomach wasn't just a bloody mess; it was completely open, his penis moving in and out of the hot, slippery intestines. The female corpse had no face; the torrential rain had swollen and rotten her, but he didn't care, completely immersed in this bestial act that didn't even qualify as intercourse. During the thunder and lightning, I even saw a gleeful smile on his face.
It was as if the soul of that tragically deceased woman had possessed me; she had borrowed my throat, allowing me to let out such a piercing scream. Lawrence paused for a moment in his thrusting motion, slowly turning his head towards me to meet my gaze. I was terrified, twisting and struggling frantically, but my hands were cuffed behind my back, and my ankles were tightly bound with rope, leaving me only able to wriggle forward like an insect. But what was the use? In his eyes, I was probably just a dying insect; he ignored me and continued to violate the woman's corpse.
She was reduced to a torso, like a tattered blood bag, swaying violently with each impact. The scene was utterly horrific. I screamed again, finally enraging him. He whirled around to look at me, and I bit my lip hard to stifle my scream, but it was too late. He'd lost interest, hastily ending the ordeal, tossing the unrecognizable corpse into the roadside bushes, and then strode towards me.
He was tall, his muscles not bulging, but clearly very powerful, and covered in blood. He stomped onto the carriage and kicked me hard in the stomach. My mouth gaped open in pain, my voice hoarse from screaming, and I could only gasp for breath, unable to cry out any more. He pulled out a pistol from somewhere, and I hissed like sandpaper being rubbed against it as he shoved the barrel into my mouth, churning it inside. I tasted blood; it had cut my palate and was almost piercing my throat. I moaned, and he intensified his fondling of my mouth, as if I were performing oral sex on him. He grabbed the back of my neck and pressed me against the carriage wall, his hard hips pressing against my buttocks. I was going crazy. He was a sadist, but I wasn't gay!
I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. He pulled down my pants like he was tearing a rabbit's fur with sharp claws. His thick, iron-like penis pressed against my anus; it was clear that it had just been satiated. It wasn't in a hurry to penetrate me, but instead slowly rubbed between my buttocks, as if observing my reaction with interest. I had never been with a man before, much less been violated. If he went in like that, I would definitely die from the pain. But why would a serial killer consider my feelings? He really did thrust in, and even with that woman's blood as lubricant on his penis, I still felt like I was being sawed in two.
I screamed at the top of my lungs. He became even more excited, sometimes thrusting in and out rapidly like a saw, the force almost breaking my back, sometimes churning inside me like a stick, twisting my internal organs together. Aside from excruciating pain worse than death, I felt nothing. I couldn't understand how he could be so excited. He chuckled softly, playing with my mouth with his fingers, violating it as if it were a second orifice. Then, with his fingers, covered in my saliva, he forced his still-moving, thick penis into my anus, repeating this several times. In a panic, I bit his hand with all my might, tearing it to shreds, but he seemed completely oblivious to the pain, thrusting deeper and deeper into my mouth, and the same with his penis. I felt as if a wooden stake had pierced my body, and the pain caused me to faint.
I had a nightmare. It might not be as terrifying as the reality of being raped, but it was still a nightmare. I dreamt of my dead parents. My father's head was gone, and a kitchen knife—the one she used for cooking—was stuck right in the middle of my mother's face. Then I was jolted awake again by the pain. Lawrence gripped my waist and forcefully flipped me over. His penis was still inside me; it felt like sharp fan blades spinning inside my stomach. His penis penetrated to an unprecedented depth, pinning me to the carriage. I desperately tried to reach the ground with my toes, but he spread my legs to the sides, leaving me suspended in mid-air. He slowly ground against me. I struggled to arch my back; in front of me was his strong chest, and behind me was the cold metal. In that confined space, I had no choice but to penetrate him deeper. He gave me only that one choice.
He thrust wildly inside me, and I suddenly felt a jolt of electricity shoot from the bottom of my spine to the top of my head. I trembled, and Lawrence chuckled softly in my ear, "Found it."
"W-what..." I was at a loss. He made me look down at where we were joined. His penis was glistening with moisture, only half of it was pulled out, the rest was buried inside me, and my belly bulged out, the shape of the head of the penis vaguely visible. I struggled in terror, but he continued to fuck me fiercely. No matter how much I begged, it was no use. I couldn't even feel that thing swell up inside me. Each time he thrust in and out, he hit that horrible spot precisely. The terrifying pain was slowly dissipating, replaced by waves of tingling numbness. Every inch that thing withdrew, it immediately pushed back in. My body felt like it was melting. Finally, he held my waist and pounded in deeply dozens of times like a pile driver, ejaculating large amounts of semen inside me.
“You’re as tight inside as if it’s your first time,” Lawrence rubbed his abs, then shoved his fingers back into my mouth, smeared with my sticky, fishy-smelling fluid. “How do you taste? You came even earlier than me. Is it that good?”
I was too weak to answer him. My body was convulsing from my waist down to my toes, and I was still experiencing orgasm inside, but he didn't even have the patience to let me cross the threshold. Before the first orgasm had even subsided, he started having sex with me again. My dull, aching anus was being penetrated to the point of a second and third orgasm, a pleasure that was close to death. He never touched my penis from beginning to end, letting me convulse in agony, unable to ejaculate anything, while he enjoyed my pain. When he ejaculated inside me for the last time, I couldn't even close my legs. Bright red blood mixed with semen flowed down my thighs. I didn't even have the strength to curl my fingers, let alone stop him from killing me. At that moment, I thought to myself, perhaps this is the end for me.
I didn't see the "Highway Butcher's" signature machete, only a toolbox in the corner of the truck. The lid was open, revealing pliers, a hammer, wire, and other tools stained with blood—undoubtedly his instruments of torture. I stared at them, the urge to vomit rising again, but Lawrence didn't intend to use them on me, nor did he tie a rope around my neck and drag me to my death in the back of the truck as he had done to the others. He picked me up, placed me in the passenger seat, even dressed me, before driving the truck back onto the main road.
I don't understand why he didn't kill me, and he didn't seem inclined to explain. It's absurd, but we were just like we were at the beginning—no one spoke, the car was blaring a loud radio, and we drove off towards the direction of dawn, as if nothing had happened.
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