Author's Note:
This story is partially inspired by the 1972 Wes Craven movie "The Last House on the Left" and by the real life crimes of Roy Norris and Lawrence Bittaker. So far this is all I've written, though I have plans to write and upload chapters in episodic installments. I could use some encouragement, so if you like the first chapter here, be sure to let me know.
In his first forty-eight hours of freedom, John Krog killed three people.
In his defense, none of them were premeditated. They just kind of...happened, the way things do sometimes. The first was a travelling salesman he hitched a ride out of Indiana with, a big, fat, sweaty man in a rumpled brown suit that reminded Krog of old southern lawyers he'd seen in movies. I say, I say, objection, your honor! The salesman (whose name Krog didn't remember) was headed for Des Moines. Krog was on his way to (, and fatso made it clear that he wouldn't take him all the way. "That's a hundred miles out of my way. Best I can do is Chicago."
"That's fine, man, I appreciate it," Krog had said, but instantly began scheming. He couldn't carjack the guy. He just did twelve years for kidnapping. If he took the guy's car and let him live, he'd be back in jail before the sun rose. So...he decided to kill him.
He did the deed in a truck stop just over the Illinois state line. Fatty was draining it in a urinal, completely defenseless. Krog came up behind him, wrapped his musclear forearm around the bloated shit's neck, and squeezed. When he was sure the salesman was dead, he stooped over, took the keys from his pocket, and three twenty dollar bills from his wallet.
To Krog's delight, he found a snub nosed revolver in the glovebox. Way to go, fatty, he thought with a smirk.
The second was the clerk at an all-night liquor store north of Chicago. Krog did that one for the hell of it. The third was a woman he picked up hitchhiking fifteen miles past the Michigan border. He marched her out into the woods at gunpoint, ordered her to strip, and raped her. He wasn't proud, but he lost control: Bit her lower lip off and dug his thumbs into her neck so hard he drew blood. Hours passed in what seemed like minutes, and by the time he left, dawn was coloring the eastern sky.
An hour later, he stopped for breakfast at a diner two towns over from his destination. When he was done, he found a payphone near the bathrooms, and called Ferret.
He answered on the third ring with a sleepy "Hello?"
"Ferret," Krog said with a smile, "it's Krog."
The sleep drained from Ferret's voice. "Hey, are you here?"
"I'm about half an hour out." As he spoke, Krog watched a pretty young girl walk through the front door and cross to the counter. He rubbed his dry mouth with his hand and fought the dark urges rising within him.
"You have everything ready?"
Krog and Ferret had been cellmates at North Pine State Prison. Ferret, real name James Murphey, was in for fraud, or at least that's what he told everyone else. He was really in for molesting an eleven-year-old girl. Krog wasn't the type of person who got along well with others, but he found in Ferret a kindred spirit. They shared many of the same urges, the same fantasies. It was Ferret who suggested hooking up when they got out and "taking a girl for every "teen" year." Ferret's plan was to rape (and murder) one thireen-year-old girl, one fourteen-year-old girl, and so on. Krog liked the idea a lot. Since Ferret got out first, it was up to him to prepare the way.
"I got the van, I got the pad, everything's all set. I'm just waiting for you."
"Alright," Krog said. He was already getting excited. "I'll be there quicker than you can say 'homicide.'"
Ferret laughed deeply.
Krog hung up and went outside. The sun was high and hot, the dry August wind blowing over him like a furnace blast. In the car, he turned on the radio, found a station playing oldies, and set a course for the town of Royal Pines.