In Cold Blood Movie Novels & Stories

But I just could not help it any longer, being face to face with a wolf had everything flooding into my brain, and I wanted to scream my lungs out. Blood. It was blood that I saw. My parents' blood, spilled on the wooden floor around their heads. I saw their lifeless eyes and still bodies, and wounded faces. I saw my eleven year old self crying and screaming for them to wake up and look at me again, to call me their baby again. But that did not happen, it never happened. And I saw the people that had done that to them, their smug faces and crooked smirks, their hands stained with the blood of my parents, and the set of tattoos on one of their forearms.

His body melted like plastic, flesh dissolving into a pulsing mass of meat and flies. Then, silence. I sat there, lungs burning, ears ringing with the phantom echo of my scream. My body shook violently. The power had left me drained, trembling, raw. BANG. The sound tore through the stillness. My head snapped toward the car. The trunk had been blown clean off. Inside, a man stood, shackled in chains. He flexed his wrists, the iron clinking softly. His eyes flicked from me to the pile of flesh and buzzing flies, then back again.

I remember dying. Not in the vague, dreamlike way people claim when they “almost” do—no hazy lights, no muffled voices calling me back. I remember it with a clarity so sharp it still slices through my thoughts like a blade. I remember the warmth leaving my fingertips first, like the tide receding from a shore. I remember the metallic scent of my own blood flooding the air, clinging to my tongue with every shallow breath. And I remember—most of all—the eyes of the person who killed me.

He shivered as Karl's fingers dug into the flesh of his chest in a bid to get him off. "Don't move too much, or your neck might snap." He threatened, tightening his hands around the man's neck even more. Karl closed his eyes giving in to the pleasure that shook him to his core. He leaned up, giving his assailant more room to wrap his hand around his neck. "Hell, yeah!" Alan groaned as his body began to convulse. He jerked into Karl once, before his body began to shake with undeniable pleasure.

I felt the detonator fly from his hand, skidding across the floor toward the vault. He was stronger than I was, his hands finding my throat, his thumbs digging into my windpipe. I saw stars, the room fading into a grey haze. “You fool,” he hissed. “You’ve killed them all.” I reached out, my fingers searching the floor, searching for anything. They found the heavy, tarnished key to the vault. I swung it with everything I had left, the metal biting into the side of Silas’s head. He grunted, his grip loosening for a split second. I rolled, gasping for air, and lunged for the detonator.

This scene was like a movie wherein the police officers chased a criminal, tried to save two teenagers, and maybe get big cash rewards from their wealthy families. Out of nervousness, the kidnapper speed up the gasoline so he could escape from them. The kidnapper didn't notice the truck speeding up on their way and the last thing they remembered was the car crashing and rolling on the busy midnight street.

Just feet, crunching loudly on the dead, hard foliage still present from last season. After about a dozen steps, something new enters the screen. It is a splash of something across the forest floor in a deep red-brown color. Blood. Even I know what splattered blood looks like. As the phone slowly pans around, I see more and more of it. My breathing picks up speed and my heart begins to race. Fear just about chokes me now, because I know what he’s showing me. The massacre of the short people’s camp. I don’t want to watch it, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the screen. Just like in the dungeon. I have to know, but I don’t want to know.

They were lambs. And I? I’ve never stopped being a butcher. Felix signaled the position. Scales and I took point. The first man never even saw the knife. The second begged. A mistake. We slit his throat wide enough to let his scream drown in his own blood. By the time the seventh went down, three of them tried to run. We didn’t stop them. We tracked them. We used the bullets last. Their corpses, full of panic, would be found by Antonioni’s retrieval teams. Let them see what fear looks like, what it smells like, and let them carry it home like a virus.

In my periphery, I see my uncle take a drag off his cigarette while Fernando watches the scene with cold indifference. The woman drops to the ground and the others behind her are made to step over her body. She's still alive, curled around herself, clutching her stomach. Blood expands in a circle around her, as the man who pulled the trigger, nudges her with his foot and then laughs. She'll bleed to death. And it will be excruciatingly painful. Fear clogs around my throat as every will to fight them slowly dies away. Where are you, Callahan?

Veronica! Rage consumed me as I turned towards Veronica. My eyes, still showing signs of bloodlust, grew brighter with my rage. I could feel a trail of blood dripping down from the corner of my mouth to my chin. Veronica's eyes grew frightened as my gaze locked onto hers. "Veronica, where did you get that needle from?" I asked in a deathly calm voice. She understood that the calm in my voice was used as a mask to hide my own rage. "The organization-"