WARNING:

Stegosaur is the start of an explicitly violent dystopian horror story. Adult themes, (including what might be interpreted as sexual violence), will feature throughout the following chapter. By nature, Stegosaur is designed to shock. As such, if you are easily offended, under 18-years of age, or are an easily disturbed reader, you should click away from the following content before having your mind irreparably broken.

About Stegosaur & The Author

Inspired by ultra-real crime and dystopian sci-fi authors such as Mo Hayder and George Orwell, Stegosaur is the start of what might be regarded as a Steemit literary experiment. If Stegosaur receives upvotes and acquires followers, new installments will be published weekly.

A freelance writer by profession, Stegosaur is the first of several creative writing projects which I plan to experiment with on Steemit. Also, due to my real life public profile as a business copywriter, I would prefer to remain anonymous on Steemit for the time being. (Please note, however, that I retain all publishing copyrights associated with any and all content which I personally published on Steemit.)

STEGOSAUR CHAPTER 1 - ASSASSINATION

"Do you want to die? Do you want to die in agony?" - The words were repeating numbly over in Neil's mind, superimposed nightmare-like over the reverberation of the car engine.

"You bloody little bastard," a memory of Neil's grandmothers voice cut in.

A flashbulb memory of baking tray dropped from a grimy oven took Neil to somewhere else for a moment. Greasy sausages spattered and spilled onto a dirty blue linoleum floor. As hard as Neil tried, though, he couldn't stay in that place.

A numb bump and grit like sound brought him back to the present, as a new stretch of asphalt started crunching under out of sight car tires.

"Cut his cock off," the memory of a balaclava muffled voice said over Neil. - That memory, though, was a much more recent one and Neil twisted in numb nausea, as his tied hands became re-aware of the sticky wetness of his crotch.

"Ha Ha. Gan on then," a laugh thug grunt came from somewhere in the unseen car cabin. The clink of a zippo lighter announced a waft of marijuana-scented tobacco smoke. "Here, son." The un-muffled voice of the balaclava wearer said from somewhere. "Take a toke on that."

The car swerved and Neil's numb swollen head started pressing into the butt of something metal in a cloth bag wedged into the trunk beside him. Then the car swerved again and the engine hum changed, as axles started taking on what Neil guessed was a steep incline.

"Dad," Neil's son's voice rang inquisitively from memory. "Why did all the Scottish people leave England and move to Scotland?"

Freezing air started blasting into the car trunk through drafts in degraded, late 2000's rubber seals. A pelt drum of hail then started, followed by a dip and sudden splash, as the car took a new corner.

Time was conspiring against Neil. Every moment since him being snatched from his office parking lot, was dragging out into a horrendous perpetuity. - "Time does that." The memory of his grandma affirmed. "It drags when yer early, speeds up when you're late, and goes on for bloody ever when you just want something over with."

But then...

Neil's head ricocheted off the trunk hood, reinforcing the pain in his already swollen brow.

The car swerved and skidded impatiently. The sound of far away air-conditioning then took over the hum of the engine, and the creak of a handbrake announced their arrival somewhere.

Neil's heart started to pound, the pressure making every fresh injury across his body hurt even more intensely. Panic and a cold prick of impending reality started to wash over him.

Light.

What came first, Neil couldn't tell. The sound of car doors flying open, boots on gravel, the trunk hood popping open and welcoming in a retina scalding flood of freezing brightness. Everything seemed to happen at once.

"Nick, yer bloody balaclava man!" Someone shouted.

"Nick yer balaclava man!" A blurred figure silhouetted against the freezing white world repeated back. "Who's gonna identify who in an identity parade like, yer dafty?"

The blurred figure rested his arms either side of the popped open trunk and peered down at Neil predator like. "Coz we ain't exactly Victim Support, are we Neil?"

Neil started to whine pitifully.

"Fucking hell man! Fucking bloody hell! Look what the fat bastards done to the inside of my fucking car!"

A tall, synthetic marijuana out of his mind skinhead ripped off a homemade balaclava and started marching forward. "Why'd yer have to go and get blood everywhere you dirty pedo!"

A cold hand gripped Neil's shoulder and started heaving him out onto the frozen gravel of a surreally picturesque, but regretfully deserted mountainside.

"Please," Neil tried to whine pitifully. "I'm not a pedophile. This is all a mistake... I mean... Look, I'm a..." - But Neil's Member of Parliament government ID wasn't anywhere near here.

"Not a fucking pedophile! Not a fucking pedophile?"

Furious, the out of his mind skinhead started to stomp hysterically past him. Out of sight, something metal and sharp sounding then knocked the side of the car as it was extracted from the same trunk which Neil had just been dragged out of.

"Not a fucking pedophile?"

"Uh." Neil exhaled suddenly as something swung into him from behind. "Uh." He wheezed out again as the impact came a second time.

Something crunched between Neil's shoulder blades, as whatever had happened to him kept on happening. Then in the space of just a few seconds, it started to feel like the force of every impact was the only thing keeping him upright.

None of this could be real, Neil thought numbly. Mute, nightmare-like shock, then became an involuntary slump against the car behind him.

The skinhead reappeared, starring like a demon, and threw down a bloodied antique hatchet.

"Not a fucking pedophile eh?"

"Made a proper mess of yer there," the goon who had first opened the car trunk said nonchalantly. "Don't worry, though, Neil me lad."

The more composed figure extracted a syringe out of somewhere and held it up glinting. - "Keeps you going for hours this stuff."

"Ere, kid."

The out of his mind skinhead disappeared and reappeared dragging a boy of Neil's son's age into view. Growing whiter the closer the skinhead brought him, the boy's face said everything.

"Phone!" The skinhead commanded.

Moving transfixed, the boys right hand moved for his pocket and in an instant, the skinhead was crouched nose to nose with Neil, holding the boys phone screen up and breathing years of bad dental hygiene all over him.

"STEGAZOR." read the name of an app the skinhead tapped open. - And there it was. There was Neil, somehow staring back at himself with his son Ashya on his kee at Chessington World of Adventures. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," read a message beneath the picture.

"I don't understand." Neil tried like his innocence still mattered. All that came out though, was a shallow whine.

"Come on then, kid," the skinhead said snapping back upright. "Is that him or not? Is that the fella who touched you?"

Neil tried to turn his eyes up at the boy but couldn't.

"For fuck sake, kid. Is it him or not?"

The boy, Michael, eleven almost, tried to figure out what was happening and what was the right to say. Thankfully, though, in the end, he didn't have to.

In the far distance, the metallic glint of a government drone flashed momentarily in the sky over the frost frozen valley.

"SAY YES." Said a static heavy woman's voice which the boy knew only he could hear.

"SAY YES AND YOU CAN GO HOME."