THE DEATH FACTORY

Chapter 1. The Factory.

Bob smiled, stretched out his long sinewy arms, and yawned. He gave his wife Emma, a coy look across the breakfast table. "I thought we might spend some time in the factory today."

Emma's twenty-eight year old green eyes widened. "Working or playing?"

"Play time"

"A new catch? Anyone we know?" she quipped playfully.

"Haha, no. Dave brought a fresh delivery last night after you were in bed. Didn't need to wake you."

"Ah! I did wonder if I heard a van." Emma shifted in her chair, and studied Bob's rugged face. He was thirty-seven years old and his dark beard was just starting to be flecked with grey. She loved the way he was maturing, a strong silent type, six foot three, with a characterful face. Emma always thought he could play the bad guy in some old spaghetti western. Not quite pretty enough to be the hero.

Bob could tell she was restless and eager to find out more. He cleared his throat, knowing that his next statement would raise the excitement level in the room three or four notches. "There's three of them."

Emma gave sharp intake of breath and dropped her toast with a flustered look of wonderment. "Three!" she cried as she retrieved her toast from her milky coffee. "Three?" she exclaimed again. Her incredulity was palpable.

Bob didn't answer right away, just nodded with a knowing smile, allowing a pregnant silence to settle across the table before resolving the questioning turmoil in Emma's mind. "Dave hit the jackpot this time. It's a mum and two daughters."

Dave was the delivery guy who they had an arrangement with. Cash changed hands and no questions were asked. This was only the second delivery, the first had been a fake-fur clad, smack-addled street whore whom he had no doubt picked up from some distant city. That girl, Tara, had provided the couple with a lascivious day of debauched entertainment that would stay with them forever.

Emma had shared her husbands unspoken proclivity since they were brought together ten years ago. A chance encounter and a unguarded conversation fueled by a little too much alcohol had made them partners in crime, eternally bound by a dark pact of sexual depravity.

It had been nearly a year since Tara's demise. Dave couldn't risk being caught, so well-timed opportunism meant an erratic supply of victims. In the meantime Bob had continued working on the factory, confident that sooner or later Dave would come good on his promises. Still, they had video footage of Tara's ruination, and often availed themselves of it during long evenings of passion. Emma found the sight and sounds of her husband beating that skinny bitch half to death with a spiked club highly arousing.

Now fired with excitement and adrenaline, Emma leapt from her seat and started pacing the stone flags of their typically beautiful Welsh farmhouse kitchen. Bob appreciatively watched her long legs and cute butt clad in white yoga pants do their thing as she strode away past the Aga. He always thought Emma carried the perfect amount of body fat, and it was a feast for the eyes to see it jiggling nicely as it was propelled by musculature borne of much horse riding and the occasional toting of hay bales.

If anything, Bob thought that Emma was even more into their devilish kink than he was, even though he had been the first to broach his sick confession all those years ago. In any case, he was clearly pretty cool about the whole thing, his level-headedness perhaps a necessary counterpoint to her fiery enthusiasm.

"She's in her early thirties, I would say," Bob explained. "According to Dave the kids are ten and fifteen."

Emma, having reached the food store at the far end of the kitchen, suddenly wheeled around, presenting her pretty round face and full, D cup figure. Braless, her breasts were roaming freely under her matching white tank top.

She was quite the farmers daughter, quality breeding stock with strong arms, child bearing hips and just the hint of belly, which Bob thought was her best attribute, as it softened the athleticism of her narrow waist just enough to feminise her abs.

Emma drew herself up to her full five foot eleven and declared, "I'm done with breakfast." She returned to the table as if stepping down a catwalk and swigged down the last of her coffee, "Let's go see them."

Bob wasn't surprised by her impatience, and who could blame her eagerness? She left him with a big hug and a little kiss and with that, she fled barefoot from the kitchen, and Bob heard her sprinting up the old farmhouse stairs.

Bob finished his bacon and eggs, and a few minutes later Emma had returned, wearing a pair of grubby white trainers, an old pair of jeans, slightly ripped and very faded, and a red checkered shirt, knotted about her waist to show off her pale midriff.

Bed hair now dispensed with, she topped her outfit off with a red baseball cap, and had pulled a blonde pony tail through the hole at the back where the strap goes. Despite having just thrown a few things on for practicality rather than glamour, she still looked absolutely stunning. The look was completed by a large, bulging sports bag slung over one shoulder.

Bob stomped over to the door, grabbed a frayed old Caterpillar cap from the peg, and pulled a well worn pair of hiking boots onto his size twelves. The atypical clemency of the April weather meant an old Nirvana t-shirt would do, and he too wore jeans, dark with darker patches where engine oil and other stains had defeated the washing cycle.

Bob straightened his cap. "Lets go."

It wasn't really a factory of course, that's just what they called it. Originally 'The Death Factory', it was a subterranean complex partly dug into the remote Welsh hillside, and partly under the new barn where much of the agricultural plant and equipment was kept.

There, secreted deep under the earth was a amusement park of diabolical machinery. Assorted mechanisms for the singular function of destroying beautiful lives in the most tortuous and messy ways possible. Apart from the factory floor proper, were additional facilities; several cells for holding guests, toilets and showers, a laundry room, a small workshop, and a comfortable viewing lounge with a bed, entertainment system and a galley kitchen. Thus it was possible to spend a fair amount of time in this subterranean paradise without needing to come up for air.

Beyond the machine area, was a disposal pit, a deep shaft, topped with a heavy steel cover, and leading down to a holding tank. This is were remains were to be dumped, and quicklime shovelled in after to break down and neutralize any kind of organic matter. After all, having your dungeon stink of rotting flesh is so passé.

Bob had built the whole place himself, being something of a workaholic, and being always busy it had only taken 2 years. It was done under the guise of building a nuclear bunker, but no-one had asked questions about it anyway.

Bob had also built all the devices himself, with some help from his wife, cobbling together various parts of industrial plant, or using his considerable mechanical skills to weld and fabricate items where a more exotic product was needed. This was an ongoing process, and from time to time a new contraption was lowered into the factory's depths.

As he trudged up the stony lane he pondered which of these machines might be used today. There were already gadgets for sawing, slicing, chopping, mangling, crushing and generally splattering unlucky visitors, and most had never been used. Thinking up and building such appliances was something of a hobby for Bob, and he took great pride in his work.

Emma, on the other hand was racing ahead towards the barn, keen to meet their new guests. Less interested in the hardware she was a typical 'people person' Bob thought wryly.

Running alongside the front side of the barn was a low windowless cinder block annex, the tool store. This is where the smaller and more valuable farm tools were kept, such as generators and power tools. When Bob arrived, Emma had fished the keys from her pocket as was already unlocking the steel side door. As they entered, Bob flicked the switch and harsh flourescent lights blinked into life, revealing a kind of Aladdin's man-cave. There were ploughs and other tractor accessories, and shelves of power tools and farming implements. An old engine on a pallet here, a roll of fencing wire there. The concrete floor ensured everything inside was coated with a layer of dust, and the rich scent of motor oil hung in the air.

Neither of them spoke much, as they had the routine down pat, and each knew exactly what to do. Although the aim was despicable fun, it was important to take proper steps to ensure they were never discovered. Any complacency would be their downfall. This was one racket that they definitely didn't want to be rumbled.

As Emma locked the door behind them. Bob walked to the corner of the room, hefted a portable water pump out of the way. and climbed onto a ride on mower. After a few tries the engine caught and he rode it away from it's resting place into the centre of the shed.

Emma tossed him the bunch of keys, which contained a fob, of the sort you might use to remotely open a garage door. Bob pressed the button, and with a slight scrape, a whirr and hiss of hydraulics, a section of the concrete floor slowly gaped open, revealing a narrow wooden stairway leading downwards. This was one of three entrances to the factory, another was under the barn itself, for delivery of machinery and other large items, and finally a long underground tunnel led to the farmhouse basement, intended only for emergencies.

Emma skipped excitedly down the stairway, and Bob followed.