Anonymous789: I love it when my readers mistaken me for being smarter than I really am. I chose that song for a more basic reason. I like resonant dissonance, and wanted to juxtapose the literal slaughterhouse scene with something light and poppy. I was going to use Church of the Poisoned Mind by The Culture Club but settled on Raspberry Beret because I did notice that it seemed to sardonically comment on Laika, especially the line you mentioned.

Beep-beep-beep.

Lyra's hands rested limp in her lap, shaking and white, blue veins standing prominently from dirty flesh a patchwork of scars and bruises. Her mind was numb and sluggish, her body cold. The tang of smoke caressed her nose and the endless, ear-stabbing beep lanced deep into her inert brain. Beneath it, Logan cried softly to himself, and someone else moaned. Something happened, but she couldn't remember what, didn't care. The torture was neverending, stopping for nothing and no one. Nights bled into days and weeks into months, and still the Louds batted her between their paws like cats with a wounded mouse. She didn't know how long she had been here...six months, six years, six decades, more, less? She bunched her brow in thought but the wheels ground slowly, rustily. It was September when she and her family broke down on the highway - her father, her mother, and her younger sister. They were dead now, and while Lyra, who was once called something else, knew that she should feel something, she did not - only the same icy numbness she'd known since the first rape. Those faces, the ones she loved and cherished, were faded now, replaced by the Louds: Logan, Bobby Jr., Lyah, and Lincoln...especially Lincoln.

If she were capable of logical thought, she would trace her breakdown not to the day Logan raped her, but to the night they made her ride the Log. These people, these monsters, took her, redesigned her, and sat her on the lap of a dead man, forced her to take his cold, unyielding penis into her warm, living womb. The countenance staring back at her was gray, dried, and gaping, and it haunted her every night in sleep.

She once entertained hopes of leaving this place, but she never could, for she was dead...and this was hell.

Her eyes went to the back door, standing open, mocking, inviting her to try and run. If she did, they would stop her and the nightmare would continued on and on forever and ever.

Someone tugged the cuff of her jacket, and she looked dazedly up at Bed. The little girl's wet eyes seethed with urgency. She said something, but her voice was so low, so downtrodden, that Lyra couldn't make out words. A faint orange glow danced across Bed's face, and Lyra turned to the stove. Fire raced across the countertop and licked the overhead cabinets. That was strange. Why was it firing in here? She listened, and the crackle of burning wood, like demonic cackling, found her ears. Smoke stung her eyes, and tears seeped down her cheeks, but she did not blink.

At the head of the table, Lincoln slumped heavily to the right, chunks of his head missing and his nose gone.

Shooting. Someone was shooting.

The police?

A fragile flicker of hope blossomed in her chest, and she looked toward the door. The night sky was creeping toward daybreak and the breeze blowing through was cool, blessed, and good. Dawning of a new day, she thought, and for the first time in months, the numbness in her heart thawed.

"Come on!" Bed whined and tugged her cuff again.

She was afraid to hope, afraid to believe she had a chance, only to be yanked cruelly back like a sparrow on a string. She couldn't count the times she ran only to be dragged back, and when she tried to go, things always got worse: They tied her up, handcuffed her, and beat her. Rather, Lori beat her. You need to be punished, she'd said as she stood over Lyra with a belt or a switch. Lyra, tied shirtless and prone to her bed, could only bear down on her teeth and take it - ten lashes the first time, twenty the second, forty the third. Her skin was covered in raised pink scar tissue that still hurt when Logan and Bobby Jr. clawed at it during sex. If she made a break for it and Lori caught her, there was no telling what she would do to her.

Seeking Lori out, she found her lying in front of the stove on her stomach, her back riddled with bullet holes. Lyra studied her for a long moment, trying to comprehend what she was looking at. W-Was she dead?

No, she couldn't be.

She was faking. When Lyra tried to leave, she would pop up, eyes blazing, and grab her by her hair then drag her to her room and beat her again.

But what if she wasn't? What if she was really dead? What if she could really go this time?

Lyra frowned thoughtfully.

The fire was bigger, brighter, the heat caressing her face. Its hungry voice was louder than the beeping, louder than the moaning, so louder it drowned out even her thoughts. That, above everything else, pushed her to her feet. Her movements were stiff, cautious, and shuddering. Her knees knocked and gave out, but she caught herself on the edge of the table. Bed stood aside, shivering, and Lyra took her hand. They haltingly made their way to the back door, glass crunching underfoot; Lyra's apprehension mounted as freedom drew nearer until she was a mass of nerves. A cold, predawn breeze washed over her face and she paused to savor it, her hand laying on an unburned section of counter. Her fingers brushed something, and she turned to look at it just as someone grabbed her from behind and spun her around. Her heart blasted and her body went rigid with terror; she knew it...she could never leave.

Lyah bunched the front of her shirt in her hand and dragged her forward until their noses mashed. The blonde's eyes blazed with madness and her teeth strained from her mouth like fangs - all the better to eat you with, my dear.

"Where do you think you're goin', girl?" she said.

Every rape, every blow, every Log ride, and every time Bobby Jr. made her piss herself for fun came back to her in a rush. Images flashed through her mind: Her parents, hung from meathooks and carved liked slabs of beef; her little sister chained in a corner, naked, bruised, and gushing blood from her crotch, Logan standing over her and shaking his head disappointedly (Damn, broke another toy); digging her sister's grave while Lyah stood there and laughed (we're your family now, sugar tits); every tear; every scream; every death; spinning around her in a hellish vortex, her rage, grief, horror, and panic rising until it pounded against her like a torrent against a dam.

And the dam was beginning to crack.

"You're stayin' right here."

Here. This house of horrors crouched in its grove like a monster waiting to snatch unwary travelers from the road, its walls decorated with bones and rotting body parts and its floors soaked with decades of blood, sin, madness, and pain embedded in its very foundation. This prison where Death ever dwelt, the stench of it lingering, the sounds of it echoing through its chambers and passageways.

Lyra was shaking and her flesh was hot, more cracks spider veining the cement, water leaking, then gushing.

With an earth shattering sound, it gave way, and Lyra shoved Lyah back as hard as she could; the blonde wasn't expecting resistance, and stumbled back. A scream so loud it tinged her vision gray exploded from Lyra's throat.

"LET US GO, BITCH!"

Suddenly, a kitchen knife spackled with cornbread was in her hand. It fell through the air in slow motion, then plunged into Lyah's chest. Lyah wailed, tripped over Lori's legs, and fell onto her butt, the blade ripping from her breast. Bed grabbed Lyra's free hand and tugged insistently, and letting the knife drop, Lyra followed her out into the morning light, thick black smoke billowing behind them.

Lyah lay panting on the floor, one hand pressed to her wound. Blood spurted through her fingers and dizziness came over her like the shadow of death. The smoke was getting denser all the time, stinging her eyes and throat; breathing hard, seeing difficult. Lucy crawled out from beneath the other side of the table and got to her knees. Blood gushed from her broken nose like water from a faucet and her finger stumps bled on, leaving little puddles on the linoleum. Lacy sat Indian style next to Logan, gnawing on one of Lucy's fingers, and Logan gasped for oxygen. He rolled onto his stomach, dragged himself out, and slipped in Lucy's blood, his chin connecting with the floor.

Lucy caught her breath and looked around. The fire was spreading, encircling her, and her heart twinged with fear. She had to get up and run, but she couldn't.

Not without The Log.

The Log was her Holy Grail, the cup from which she drank the rivers of life and wisdom, she couldn't leave it.

She brushed her hair from her eyes and spotted Loli curled up on the floor next to Lincoln's chair, her body twitching spasmodically. The Log jutted from her center, having snapped off when she fell. Natural lubrication and defloration blood coated it and Loli's flexing butt, and Lucy's heartbeat sped up. Wincing at the pain in her nose and hand, Lucy crawled toward her dead niece, coughing as smoke poured into her lungs. She reached the corpse, hacking, and parted its legs with her good hand. Snot ran freely down her upper lip and tears rolled down her cheeks, mingling with sweat and blood. It was hot, so hot, and she had to close her eyes against the smoke.

Closing her fingers around The Log's cold, jagged base, she pulled, but it was lodged too deep, like the mythical sword in the stone. She peeled her lips back from her teeth in a grimace of determination and pulled; she was panting, sucking smoke into her mouth, coughing, but The Log was wiggling, coming loose, sliding out of Loli's still expanding and contracting girlhood. Shadows crept over Lucy's brain, and she gagged and wretched; she was growing weak and weary, and when The Log was out, she toppled to her side, exhausted.

She'd go in a minute, she thought drowsily. She brought The Log to her lips, smiled, and kissed it.

With that, she lost consciousness.

The surface of the table was engulfed now, flames reaching high and dancing in the breeze flowing through the kitchen door like pagan revelers. Lyah kicked and shrieked as flames consumed her, charring and melting the skin from her bones. Lacy sat dispassionately where she was, making no attempt to flee and showing no signs of pain as her face boiled and ran down the front of her shirt. Logan, on his hands and knees, coughed deeply and cringed at the heat bathing his back. Agony radiated out from between his legs, each wounded throb of his heart making his skull swell. The bullet struck him in the ass and blew out one of his testicles, and when he tried to get to his feet, burning torment enveloped his lower half, starting in his butt and wrapping around him like a lasso of anguish. His balls throbbed and hot lead ballooned in his stomach, making him nauseous and faint.

Lyah's wails reached a crescendo, then cut out like throwing a switch. He tossed a frightened glance over his shoulder and sucked a sharp gasp; a wall of fire swept through the kitchen, flames shooting under the table and licking at his feet. Lacy sat serenely in the conflagration, a dark silhouette, and shoved handfuls of her own liquefied flesh into her mouth. A fearful shudder went through him and, ignoring the pain, he got to his feet and swaggered drunkenly to the fridge; his right knee seized, and he fell forward, hitting he icebox with his shoulder. It upset, swayed, then crashed forward, hitting him in the head and knocking him to the floor. Smoke filled his lungs, and clawing at his throat, face turning blue then a deep shade of purple, he followed the others to that great big Log ride in the sky.

Abby lumbered down the dirt driveway, her side flaring and one leg locked at the knee. Ragged pants burst from her lips and terror nipping at her heels. Thin blue light painted the world, and straight ahead, the first rays of the crimson Texas sun filtered through the treetops beyond the highway. A gray and splintered split rail fence appeared on her right like jagged fins of a prehistoric sea monster poking through the waves, and a tin can tied to the trunk of a tree clinked forlornly against the bark.

She had been running for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than minutes. It was dark when she started but night was quickly giving over to day, the dividing line between the two blurry and indistinct just like everything else in the southwestern badlands.

Her leg gave out and she pitched forward, heart in throat. She threw out her hands at the last second and broke the fall, dirt puffing up around her and pebbles embedding in the heels of her palms. She sucked a deep, shivering breath and fought to rein herself in; the hounds of hysteria bayed at her from every side, and if she gave into them, she would die, just like Flagg and all the others.

Flopping into the dust and giving up sounded appealing...nice, even...but she couldn't; she had to live. For her baby.

Pushing stiffly to her feet, she hobbled over to the fence and leaned against it, slivers of wood prodding her arms. She hanged her head, regulated her breathing. Sweat lightly coated her dirty face and the back of her neck and blood still trickled from the gash across her back. Pangs of discomfort gripped her feet and her leg smoldered like a bed of embers; she swallowed, throat tacky, and struggled to keep from sinking to her knees. She had to go, get away, run, run, she could stop when her baby was safe.

She didn't think she could go on, though. Her body was wracked with pain and weariness, and vertigo made her head spin. Her rubbery legs quivered and she started to fall again, but held herself up on the railing, splinters stabbing her hands. If she stayed here, she'd collapse and never get back up; she'd lay there until he found her and -

Abby burst into tears at the thought of what he did to Flagg. She didn't know what happened and never would, and that gutted her. She imagined him afraid and hurt, his life slowly draining away, not knowing how much he meant to her. When was the last time she told him she loved him? She frantically searched for the answer, pawing and sifting as though her life depended on it. Her chest heaved when she realized she couldn't remember; it was likely in passing, a fleeting taken-for-granted farewell. I'll see you in a couple hours. Not a meaningful and heartfelt I'll never see you again. If she'd known that that was the last time she would ever tell him that, she would have put her hand on her face, gazed into his eyes, and told him how thankful she was for the three wonderful years they had together...and for giving her a child.

Emotion clutched in her center and she nearly doubled out at the gnashing, threshing pain.

The hitching sputter of the chainsaw swelled behind her, and she jerked with a squeal. Lemtard, tiny in the distance, ran down the center of the lane, the blade jutting out before him like a white haired child molester's dick. Behind him, the house stood dark and foreboding against the warming sky, firelight flickering in its front windows and sooty smoke rushing from a broken side window.

A cry she wasn't conscious of issuing fell from Abby's lips, and she shoved away from the fence, heart thumping, foot dragging, arms at her waist and rotating wildly as though she were rowing. Strangled sobs trembled over her lips and tears leaked from her bulging eyes. Fresh adrenaline pumped through her and she ran faster still, the pain drowned out by the blaring terror in her brain. She reached the asphalt and came to a crashing stop, her head twitching left and right. The road stood empty and still, bordered by pastureland in the east and dry brown trees in the south. The chainsaw gunned, and the back of Abby's neck tingled. There was nothing for miles in either direction. If she followed the road, Lemtard would catch up with her. Straight ahead, pines and dogwoods trimmed the gravel shoulder, boughs waving as if beckoning her to safety.

The wheeze of the motor was closer, and she looked over her shoulder. Lemtard was coming fast, too fast for a monster of his size, his feet pounding the dirt and his scraggly hair fluttering from beneath his bicycle helmet like a swarm of man eating locust.

Whipping back around, she bounded across the blacktop and down a gentle slope on the other side; she flailed her arms as if by doing so she could gol faster. Low branches slapped her in the face and tore at her bare arms but she didn't slow. The terrain canted down to a dry creek bed, a carpet of dead leaves plastering the ground; she slipped and fell to her knees, then pushed back up and kept going. The saw was deafening, growing until it filled the world. She didn't dare look back as she picked her way up the other side. She hit the top, staggered, kept her footing, and crashed through a screen of bushes; thorns raked her arms, sliced her face, ripped her shirt, but she barely felt their sting.

Behind her, Lemtard reached the incline and ran down without slowing, his steps quick and sure. Abby bent forward to reduce wind resistance and dodged a fallen birch lying lengthwise across the forest floor. Scarlet sunlight fell through the trees now like shafts of blood. She wrenched half around, and screamed in alarm. Lemtard was closing in, fifty feet if not closer. She turned and pressed herself faster, harder, whimpering, crying, and screaming in terror and frustration. A spider web broke across her face and gossamer stuck to her parched lips; a pointed branch jabbed her hard in shoulder, puncturing her skin; she kept going, headlong and mindless with terror.

A flock of birds, scared by the commotion, flew from a cluster of trees, and a small animal darted from one bush to another, its long, reddish tail swishing in the leaves. Blood and sweat oozed down Abby's face, into her eyes and mouth, salty and like pennies. She didn't try to wipe it away; that would only slow her down.

The forest started to thin, trees spaced widely apart and the grass reaching her knees and making it hard to run. In the humid hazed yonder, the land graded up to a long, flat peak, a wire fence held aloft by crooked posts separating it from the meadow. A whistle blasted, and a train appeared in the east, moving leisurely along the track. Abby didn't hesitate to run toward it, there was nowhere else to go, no safety, no shelter, just the buzzing blade and sharp metal teeth. Lemtard exploded from a stand of brush behind and slightly to her right, the saw revving hungrily. She cringed and screamed, willing herself to run just a little harder, a little quicker. Her feet flew over the rain starved earth, the sight of salvation giving her a spurt of energy she didn't think possible. Lemtard ran in a zigzag pattern, first to her left, then her right, then her left again. She caught flashes of him in her periphery and that spurred her on even further.

When she reached the fence, she flopped herself over the top, rusted barbed wire gashing her stomach and tearing jagged claw marks in her tanktop. She hit the ground face first, crawled, and got to her feet. The train's cars flashed by above, the clack of their metal wheels on the rails almost louder than the saw. She staggered up the hill and stopped inches from the passing cars, the wind displaced by their passage blowing rudely in her face. She looked back just as Lemtard barreled through the fence, his massive body ripping wires from posts with whip crack reports and knocking beams to the grass. Pitch black smoke rose above the treetops fringing the sky.

Abby started to hobble again; she couldn't go any faster than a zombie-like lurch, and even that set every never ending in her body on fire. She searched frantically for something to grab onto, but nothing presented itself, and she let out a cry of rage. Lemtard charged up the hill, as tireless and indisuadable as Death itself. He panted obscenely like a wild dog moving in on its prey. Fifteen feet away, now ten, so close she imagined she could feel the excited heat of the blade kissing the back of her neck.

At the last possible moment, a car passed with a metal ladder on its exterior wall. Abby shot out her hand and grabbed it with a cry; she was jerked roughly forward and her feet dragged along the ground, one ankle twisting with a sickening snap and the other shoe ripping off. The blade skimmed the back of her shirt and she let out a head cracking wail, more of panic than pain. She held fast to the rung, her arms burning with strain, and drew her feet up. Sickening agony crept up her leg and her spine tingled. She clung to the cold metal rung and hazarded a look back.

Lemtard loped after, swinging the saw desperately back and forth, trying to keep pace and falling behind. His face twisted in a too-intelligent mask of hatred, and giving up the chase, he flung the saw left and right in an impotent display of fury, his titanic bulk dancing and twirling with a macabre grace that was bewitching in its elegance.

It hit her then that she was safe...that her baby would survive...and she began to laugh, a high, warbling sound of madness and victory.

Lemtard continued to waltz with his saw in the amber light, and Abby screamed hitching laughter until long, long after he was gone.