Fresh Flesh

By Todd Russell

The ocean surrounds the secret.

Last night a wicked storm swept a beautiful sacrifice onto the shore.

Shipwrecked Jessica Stanton is about to be discovered, cherished, and trained to survive on a remote island by a man who is not what he seems.

There is a place on earth where unrestrained evil flourishes.

Welcome home, Jessica.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Russell
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465834195

Todd Russell

Todd Russell loves reading and writing atmospheric, scary, thrilling stories. He lives in the small city of Orting, Washington overlooking beautiful, active and deadly, Mount Rainier. Mental Shrillness, a collection of horror twist ending short stories, is his first book.His debut novel, a psychological thriller / horror story entitled Fresh Flesh was published September 29, 2011. He is working on several other books.

Book preview

About FRESH FLESH

The ocean surrounds the secret.

Last night a wicked storm swept a beautiful sacrifice onto the shore.

Shipwrecked Jessica Stanton is about to be discovered, cherished, and trained to survive on a remote island by a man who is not what he seems.

There is a place on earth where unrestrained evil flourishes.

Welcome home, Jessica.

Other books by Todd Russell

Mental Shrillness

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/49957

Connect with Todd Russell Online

Official Website

http://toddrwrite.com/

Smashwords Author Page

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/toddrussell

Goodreads Author Page

http://goodreads.com/toddrussell

Facebook

http://facebook.com/booksbytoddrussell

Twitter

http://twitter.com/Todd_Russell

FOR

NANA AND PAPA

Faith.

CHAPTER 1

Two burly guards with poker faces strapped him in the chair while a minister quoted psalms from an immaculate white Bible. Richard Templin was nineteen years old and sentenced to die on this day October 17, 1982.

The shackles tightened, tightened, snapped! on his wrists. The metal shackles were cold, perhaps colder than any one thing on earth. And, he nervously reminded himself, a wonderful conductor of electricity.

He had been calm, only one nail chewed, until they brought him into the room and put him in the chair. Then he started sweating all over. Started fighting back tears.

Started realizing. . .

Oh God I'm gonna die I'm gonna die they're gonna kill me oh God shit God they're gonna light me up like a fucking Christmas tree oh God. . .

SNAP! The shackles hugged his bare ankles. They were even colder than the wrist shackles, turning his sweat to ice.

His conscience mocked him: Don't sweat Rich ol' boy! Hold on! You sweat and you'll fry a helluva lot quicker! 'Cuz you learned it in school, boy: water's one of the BEST conductors!

They brought the heavy black leather strap across his chest, tighter, tighter, tight—SNAP! He was buckled in, ready for the roller coaster ride straight down.

Well, almost ready. The men had to tape his eyes, the last task, so they wouldn't pop out and scare the fifty or so witnesses. Ha, glad somebody gets to watch the show, munch the popcorn, and make out when the lights go down.

The sound of the tape being ripped behind his head sent the hairs on the back of his neck erect. It sounded like what he imagined flesh to do when you tore it to pieces.

Oh God, footsteps! They're walking away! Getting ready to turn on the juice and give me the ultimate spark! Oh God its sooo dark! Please, please God turn on the lights make it end, make it end, make it—

Footsteps fading. . .fading. . .

Soooo dark.

. . .Fading. . .STOP. The heels clicked to an abrupt halt. He could almost see the expressionless guard next to the switch, ready, awaiting the cue. Standing next to him, a tired rich doctor with stethoscope like close friend dangling around his neck. Let's get this over with, he's probably thinking, I have squash for two in an hour.

The guard assured the doctor with a wink of an eye. Only take a minute, Doc—and a couple thousand volts! Ah-ha-ha-HA! Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Hours, days, years? It seemed he balanced at the crest of the nightmare a long time before something happened.

His body was wet as someone who had just stepped out of the shower, his teeth chattered and bones quivered.

This was not at all what he'd envisioned. He'd expected it to be quick, merciful and painless. Something like a trip through a fast food drive-thru.

The ripping sound came again. Fast, powerful, driving down on his skull like a jackhammer. His head rocked, his eyes closed to even deeper darkness.

Several seconds passed. He hoped this fathomless black was not life after death. That there was a magical place where angels flocked and devils mocked. That death was not drowning, over and over, in a sea of black.

More seconds passed before he realized. . .

Oh God my God they didn't do it they didn't flip the switch they didn't they didn't

He wondered for a moment about that Ambrose Bierce story, the one where the guy who's about to be hanged manages to escape, races toward his sweetheart's arms, only to find that when he reaches her warm embrace he's actually dreamed it all and is back at the gallows, hanging dead as beef on a meat hook.

When Richard opened his eyes, there was a face. No tape, no black, a face. The ripping sound had been the tape. They were unshackling him.

The face was unfamiliar. An egg-shaped face with a short clipped beard. The face held the only expression he'd seen all morning.

Not friendly.

Wh—what's happening?

The man looked as if he were about to smile, but decided against it. We have something better for you.

Something BETTER, he thought, that has to mean something worse. Because better in prison was a) you're getting put on shit duty or b) you've been selected to get slipped up the back door. However, Richard was beyond those fears now, he only feared the electric chair. Besides, what could be worse than frying until your balls fell off?

They led a shocked, confused Richard Templin out of the execution room, the room that even his worst nightmares couldn't top. And with loving, open arms something unspeakable took his hand. . .

PART 1

FRESH

CHAPTER 2

Something fresh, the strange-looking, salt-and-pepper bearded man in tattered clothes thought, fighting his way through the damp, dripping ravine to meet the morning tide. Last night, while the forces of Mother Nature descended upon the helpless island like blood-thirsty vampires, and ear-piercing screams echoed in the night, he dreamt of something fresh. Something fresh, he was certain, awaited him on the naked beach.

He made it to the clearing, his feet bleeding through rotted tennis shoes, his heart pumping. He turned and fixed on the setting behind him, sweat cascading down his bony cheeks, believing that there was someone or something there. But there was nothing. Nothing but his own trembling shadow in the creeping sun.

At last he turned, prepared to see what he'd only seen last night as a blur, a smoky haze, a shape entirely formless. Something fresh, he thought, not knowing if he was trembling in fear or anticipation.

At first he only saw the tide's usual disappointments: tree limbs blown into the water from the other side of the island, seaweed wrenched from the ocean floor, pebbles and tiny and larger rocks of innumerable configurations. And then he saw something else.

Something new and different.

Lying face-down in the sand, among a score of torn, soggy driftwood, was the body of a woman.

Something fresh.

He tore across the beach with sand irritating the exposed flesh in his rotted tennis shoes trying to slow his progress. Nothing could stop him.

He reached the woman and flung the driftwood aside. He picked her up in his arms, turned her, cleared the sand away from her face and felt for a pulse.

He felt her heart beating.

The strange man looked up at the scorching sun and smiled for the first time in ages. It didn't occur to him that the last time he'd smiled he had a full set of shimmering pearly whites, where now he had a mouth full of black rot and decay. Nevertheless, he smiled, and soon began to weep.

Five minutes later he carried the woman away as carefully as a five-foot, six-inch fragile mirror.

At the same time he vanished into the trees, something else washed ashore.

A severed hairy arm with a smashed, paper-thin hand, complete with five twisted digits.

* * *

The pictures in her mind never completely blacked out. She saw bits and pieces of her past strike out from a cold dark tunnel. Memories with long skeletal-like fingers which grabbed and tried to wash her spinning body down the tunnel. But they let go. Somehow, as the black became an obvious destiny, the skeletal fingers let go.

And she kept floating and spinning.

Through the crest of violent, hungry waves, and bullet-hard raindrops fired from justice above. She floated.

Until, at last, she landed—or dreamed she had.

A place where dawn rose calmly and the lights were brighter than a million connected floodlights. And the heinous skeletal fingers, that had once held her, slithered away like individual serpents, down the frigid tunnel. Her eyes never opened, she never once regained consciousness, yet she knew it was over.

Or just beginning.

Then there was gray. An image to let her know she was still on the boundary between reality, fantasy, life and death. The storm was not over.

A different set of fingers grasped her, warm fingers from a bright place. She imagined hearing the soft melodic strum of a twelve-string guitar playing somewhere deep in the blinding white.

A day passed.

Another.

On the third day the gray metamorphosed into shape, definition and color.

The third day her eyes opened and she took a first glimpse of her unfortunate surroundings.

You. . .made. . .it, a nervous voice said. I thought. . .thought I was going to lose you.

She dreamed the voice she heard was a doctor's, but her eyes—open with toothpicks holding the lids—saw differently. The man hovering over her was no doctor. He was as scraggly as a common bum, a vagabond, a total loser who survived on rat-like behavior. He had the unpleasant odor of dead fish, a salty, dank scent. He had a beard (if that's what it was) which looked as if it had never been shaven. His eyes were as worn and bloodshot as the town drunk's. His skin color wasn't even normal. It was gross, pale and thin. It bordered on translucent. She saw herself waking from a deep sleep to a dying, disgusting, useless bum.

I. . .I can't believe you made it. He held out hands which were as worn as his eyes.

Who? she forced through sun blistered lips, her voice box not allowing anymore. She tried to turn away from the man's anxious gaze, but her neck wouldn't cooperate.

Please, he whispered, bringing something to her mouth. Please drink. You need fluids. You almost. . .didn't make it.

She drank without objection. She doubted that she had the strength to object. A warm, milky substance slid down her parched throat. Coconut? She compared the taste to her memory banks. Yes, coconut milk.

The man pulled the coconut away from her lips. Are you hungry? You must be starved.

I, she began, the jaws, this time, not cooperating. He gave her another drink and she drained the coconut dry.

The man took the coconut away again. He broke off a piece of it and offered it to her. Hungry? He repeated, as if she didn't understand English.

She shook her head.

Okay. He put the coconut on the ground beside her. But I must know how you feel? Please, if you feel feverish or sick or cold—I must know. How do you feel?

Her first sentence came, along with a loud discordant cough. You. . .are a—COUGH! —doctor?

No, the man replied, lowering his head. No, wish I was. You wouldn't have scared me like you did if I was.

How? She coughed again, rubbing her throat raw.

For now, let me ask the questions. I don't think you should talk too much right away. You had a terribly high temperature, it might have been pneumonia. That's why I need to know how you feel?

Alive, she answered, for the moment not so gratified by that fact.

Do you feel nauseated?

No. COUGH!

Hot? Cold?

Shitty, she replied.

He grinned. Humor, that's a good sign.

A moment passed where she could no longer keep her eyelids open. She pressed on, needing to learn more about her surroundings.

Who. . .are. . .you?

I thought I was the one asking the questions? He took a piece of coconut and started munching on it.

If you aren't a doc—COUGH! —tor, who are you?

A friend, he touched her chin, a loving gesture which made her cringe, that found you three days ago.

She looked around, trying to remember what happened to her, what had brought her to this unfamiliar place. Everything was unclear at the moment. She had a sense that it would come back to her in time. Right now she cared more about where she was than how she'd arrived there.

Where am I?

He looked around, gesturing to a blurry, fish-reeking cave. My home, of course.

A. . .cave?

On an island, yes.

Island? What—COUGH!—island?

Strangely, he avoided the question. You aren't going to get well unless you bundle up and get some sleep. We'll talk again when you wake up.

She started to protest, but he put a fish-stinking finger to her lips. And I'll leave this coconut for you when you can stomach it. You do want to get well, don't you?

He removed his finger when she nodded.

Now, sleep. He smiled, showing ebony rotting teeth, and stroked her ash blond hair. And pleasant dreams.

She closed her eyes and shuddered. She told herself it wasn't the man who frightened her. It was his grotesque debilitating body.

She drifted and slept once again.

CHAPTER 3

It is believed that if you dream of paradise; endless celebration, hot days basking in pleasant rays with warm sand tickling your toes, a world without deception and pain, this is a dream reflection of pent-up unhappiness, a longing to break loose from an unsettling environment. She awoke sharply, sitting up wide-eyed, erect as a chair. Her dream of perfect paradise, she realized, was a terrifying mask of the cold dirt bed she'd been sleeping on.

The bearded bum-looking man was sitting on a large rock five feet away. He had a pocket knife and was whittling a tree branch. A bright sun shone through the cave entrance behind him. He was watching her, staring.

I'd like to know who you are and where I am?

Well, well, replied the man. I see we're feeling better this morning.

Stop ignoring me.

The man pointed the knife at his chest. I'm ignoring you? He started whittling again, never once looking at his project.

Yes.

I certainly didn't mean to do so. He whittled off the spear-like edge he was putting on the tree branch and cursed the mistake. As if nothing had happened he looked up at her and continued, I'm just concerned, that's all.

Why? You don't know who I am. You don't even know where I came from.

I saved you from death, he said and she felt her rising anger bottom out. Surely this bum meant her no harm, but why did something about him seem amiss?

Yes, and I'll probably never be able to thank you enough for that. But tell me, please, who are you?

You have been here for four days and haven't eaten a thing. You must be absolutely famished. I'll make us both something to eat and be happy to answer your questions. But beware, I have a few questions of my own.

Like?

Your name? That might be a good start.

Jessica Stanton.

Hi Jessica, my name is Dick. Now, we are no longer strangers.

Bullshit, she thought, forcing her thirteen stubborn facial muscles to smile.

Dick was right about one thing, she was famished. The meal he 'made' was something she would have expected to eat as a castaway on Gilligan's Island: coconuts, juicy red round berries which tasted tart but good, and (yuck) smoked fish. She suffered through primitively roasted fish over a crackling, smelly fire inside the cave. Suffered, because she didn't like eating with her hands. It wasn't that she abhorred getting her hands dirty, no, she'd simply grown accustomed to eating food in a distinguished, elegant manner. There was nothing distinguished or elegant about pieces of fish dangling like peeled skin from her fingers.

Dick wasn't fooled by her dogged, yet unimpressive attempts at concealing her uneasiness. He smiled and chewed his last piece of fish. So do you go by a nickname? Jessie, Jess, something like that?

No. Not since high school. Jessica will be fine.

Okay, Jessica. He stamped out the fire with his chewed-up sneaker. Already told you who I am, so onto your second question: where are you? I can't say for sure. I believe we're somewhere far off the shores of San Francisco, perhaps due north of the Hawaiian Islands, on some freakishly unknown island. I say 'freakishly' because I haven't seen even one boat pass here. Same for planes except I swear some nights I awake hearing the rumbling of engines.

How long have you been here?

Dick stood up, I'm not so sure about that either. he moved over to the corner of the cave, picked up something, brought it back, and handed it to her.

It was an old black-band, wind-up Timex wristwatch, long since replaced by fancy digital monstrosities able to predict all but the future. Seeing the watch, Jessica flashed back on an equally old commercial where a man with a red hardhat dropped a similar Timex into a cement mixer while boasting that Timex takes a licking, but keeps on ticking. Sure enough, when the watch came out of the mixer, it was still ticking. This watch, however, must have taken a much harsher licking because it wasn't ticking. It was frozen on the time: 12:03 P.M.

When she finally looked up Dick had a solemn expression and asked, What year is this, anyway?

Nineteen ninety-three. she answered.

He took the watch from her and held it close to his face. Oh, Jesus, no, nineteen ninety-three. Jesus. . . He touched the cracked face of the watch to his forehead and closed his eyes.

Dick? How long? How long have you been here?

Eleven years, he said, opening his distant eyes. Eleven long years.

As if on cue, the light outside dimmed.

* * *

How did I get here? Dick repeated Jessica's question. Do you want the long, boring tale? Or a quick summary?

It's up to you.

Okay. he paused, eyes wandering, I was on a long fishing trip and a bad storm caught us like the one a couple of nights ago. There was, oh, I'd say thirty of us on the ship that day. I'm the sole survivor. He paused again looking back at Jessica with a melancholy expression, I was beginning to think I'd be here alone forever.

We're alone? Jessica gasped. She was stranded alone with an old, decaying bum?

Yes. Yes, quite alone.

And, Jessica fought back the fear in her voice. There's no way off this island?

No way.

Nobody knows I'm here?

I'm not so sure about that. Why don't you tell me how you got caught up in the storm?

Jessica rubbed her forehead and forced her weak legs to stand. Her bones cracked. She turned away.

Jessica? Are you all right? What did I say?

She knew he was standing behind her, staring with his empty, pitiful pits. She was not ready to accept the fact that she had survived. Perhaps she really had been torn apart in that storm. Perhaps her final destination had been decided?

Heaven was too good for her because she hadn't helped enough senior citizens cross the street, hadn't donated enough money to AIDS research or Jerry Lewis' continuous battle with Muscular Dystrophy, hadn't loved or labored or lived the Good Life. Perhaps this was, instead, the other place. The bad place. And this was where she would suffer forever: an enigmatic island with a rotting man for company.

She turned. "I—I'm sorry. It's going

Reviews for Fresh Flesh

[honoliipali · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Another great free novel from Librarything. I love their member giveaways that help me to discover new authors through reading their debut novels. I am not generally a horror reader but this book has opened my eyes to how good they can be.Fresh Flesh is a good, actually great. debut novel. It is a horror story that kept me anxious for more of the story. I liked almost all of the story. The only part that seemed unnecessary was the parts dealing with the dirt. The dirt was a minor player throughout the story (Sar's part) that I felt the ending tried too hard to incorporate the dirt as an integral part of the story.I enjoyed the characters and the flashbacks that described their past transgressions and why they were on the island. This writing style allowed for more depth and understanding of the characters and made them more interesting. I did find the ending to be a bit sad as I was pulling for the main character.Mr Russell has talent and has done well in his first novel outing. He has gone the extra mile to have beta readers, proof readers, has paid for sleeve art, etc. This book is recommended for all and especially for horror genre fans.

[leleliasky · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I won this book as a free read, and I am kind of torn about how to write this review. I enjoyed the storyline of the island and the workings of dark natures coming out in the wild. But, the government part was kind of silly. Overall, worth the read.

[doskoipanda · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

With a name like Fresh Flesh, I must admit that I was expecting a zombie story. Instead, Fresh Flesh is a modernised pulp novel, possibly best described as a cross between Battle Royale, Lord of the Flies and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And possibly a bit of Lost as well. A wealthy man and his wife are sailing towards Hawaii when their ship capsized, resulting in the death of almost everyone on board. The wife washes up on the shore of an island and is tended to by a man named Richard, who has been trapped on the island for several years. But they aren't alone on the island, and the island has secrets.(But not zombie secrets. Just government project ones.)In a surprising move for an action based novel, I could follow every move, and keep a clear image of what was happening where (usually it's a bit jumbled). The characters are a bit simplified, but that may be why things were so easy to follow. Descriptions are detailed without being ridiculous, and just enough background is offered on the islanders. The woman in the tale, however, is kind of irritating in that she is flat - her reactions just don't ring true most of the time. I also found the government scenes very hokey, but not out of keeping with other pulp fiction I've read.While I can't really say that I enjoyed it - the characters were too thin for me to start caring about what happened to them - it is a pretty good story, if you like this genre.about 3.5 starsReview copy received from the author a part of Librarything's Member Giveaway Program.

[somethingsomething_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fresh Flesh is not the type of book I would normally read, and I'm glad I gave it a chance.This book is about an island 'experiment' where condemned prisoners are sent instead of the gas chamber. The island itself has quite a few secrets of its own to share with the men who have been sent there. The place just reeks of evil.By chance (or maybe not?) Jessica Stanton, a wealthy woman on a cruise with her husband aboard their yacht, has been shipwrecked on the island. It is up to Richard Templin, the one death row inmate who hasn't been completely warped by life on the island, to save her. First from himself, then from the other inhabitants of the island and, finally, from the island itself.We are given plenty of back story when we need it and discover how and why the main characters in this story have become what they are. The book is suspenseful and interesting and the premise is original. I have to say that I enjoyed this book and recommend it to anyone who likes suspense and/or horror.Note: I was given a copy of Fresh Flesh in exchange for an honest review.

[cyndavaz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I won this book on Library Thing and enjoyed it a lot. It's so much fun to discover 'new' talent. The writing was good, the characters interesting. There was one character in particular that I felt probably didn't really need to be there, unless he could have been given some more attention. I'm not sure if there was supposed to be a supernatural element going on as well, as that part wasn't completely 'fleshed' out (no pun intended). Perhaps it will be explored in the follow-up book. Recommended.

[spiceca_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Quite a good story. I was pleased that I was never quite able to figure any parts out. The back stories for each "character" was jarring but in a good and creepy way. A newer take on human nature at its darker heart. Recommended for those who enjoy horror with a strong psychological take.

[sealford_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

After the first few pages, I wasn't that thrilled with the story. However, I had a gut feeling that I would not be able to put it down if I continued to read more. I was right. Once I started to learn the story behind the main characters, I was sucked into the island with the rest of them. The descriptions were awesome, and the story had a good concept to it. The ending was somewhat bittersweet, but being more of a horror story, it makes sense. I'll definitely have this story in the back of my mind for quite some time, disturbing as that may be. Coming from me, a self-proclaimed lover of horror, that is the epitome of a compliment.

[smeagol23_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Although confusing at the start, time and place jumps that can be difficult to follow, the writing kept my interest enough to persevere.As the situation becomes clearer it turns into a really enjoyable read, although there are some parts that I felt could have been improved for continuity.The first meeting with Seth and his eyes is truly outstanding and shows the calibre of writing that Todd can produce.Left questioning the ending with the dirt, was it really needed?Overall a thoroughly enjoyable book that is worth a read.