Whispers - Volume 3: A Third Collection, page 6
When I realised the demons would shape my destiny.
For that was the night I killed my pet cat – Max.
However, it wasn’t a time to sit back and relax.
Many years later, the darkness owns my soul.
And my heart is nothing but a big black hole.
People suffer, people pass, they die at my hands…"
Cyndi laughed. "Time is limitless, passing like the times of sands," she finished.
Gerald looked up, his hand sliding from his now-shriveling penis. He tried scooting away, but Cyndi had him pinned to the chair, her legs cramping his wobbly legs. His face paled, the blood washing away.
Then, it dawned on him.
"Hello, Gerald," she said.
Her will power passed the test, a physical ordeal that assessed her in such a grotesque way. Her endurance for the sick sadist across the room was testament to her dedication to the cause.
Dedication to the mission.
Dedication to her deceased sister, Suzanne.
Gerald Hanley was … is a sick man, a person accused of twenty-one gruesome murders.
That was her motto, the one line that ran through her head for every hour of every day of the past six months, the one fact that inspired her to set out on her one-woman crusade.
Seeking help, she got nowhere at first, and she didn’t fancy typing the words 'assassin for hire' into Google, so she did it herself, browsing chat rooms and blogs. Eventually she stumbled on Take One With You, a networking website dedicated to wiping out the worst of crime, criminals who escaped the law for whatever reason. The site was a place where suicidal people could converge, and plan to kill a criminal before shuffling off the mortal coil; such was the name of the website.
Take One With You.
Cyndi had nothing to live for.
Cyndi had nothing, full stop.
Therefore, the plan was set.
With Gerald, none of the charges ever stuck, such is the crooked way of the judicial system. No evidence equals no crime. The man was ruthless and cunning in equal measure and, as a result, twenty-one women lost their lives way too young and years too soon. Families were devastated, loved ones traumatised and distraught – and in Cyndi's case, both. It gave her a reason to seek answers for the travesty of her sister's murder.
The police didn’t give a flying fuck in the aftermath. Cyndi drunk herself into a deep pit of depression, one that claimed her credible office manager career, her house, her car and her husband. She lost everything and moved in with her mother, a sixty-year-old woman with cataracts and Alzheimer's. Half the time, they didn’t even speak. Half the time, her mother didn’t know what was going on. When she called Cyndi by her sister's name, it chipped away a little every time, the memories eventually pushing her to the brink of suicide.
Which is where the website came in.
Before that, losing Suzanne was a defining moment, one that not only claimed her sister's life, but her own too. After spending months in a black hole of despair, and having spent all of her savings, circumstances forced Cyndi to find work; in an attempt to face her torment, to escape the urge to down a bottle of pills.
But first, in the comfort of a rent-free home, she researched.
Where did Gerald Hanley hang out?
Where did he live?
What did he do?
It wasn’t easy, the man was elusive and cunning and he covered his tracks well. She'd read somewhere that the best serial killers are the ones we don’t read about in the papers, the ones who are never caught in a moment of relapse, error or poor judgment.
Thus far, Gerald Hanley was one of them.
Then, she caught a lucky break.
And it couldn’t have been more cliché.
Gerald loved strip clubs, as documented in a news report after his acquittal of all murder charges linked to Suzanne King. On this occasion, one strip club provided him an alibi, unware that Gerald had actually murdered Suzanne in that very bar. He'd picked the location for poor security, terrible hygiene and the deafening music, all of which enabled him to strangle Suzanne without interruption, carry her through the back, and drop her dead corpse in a stinking dumpster.
Cyndi had her way in.
Within days, Cyndi splurged the last of her credit card on a make-over, applied for a job as a stripper at The Puzo, which was accepted, and lie in wait. She thanked her lucky stars that she'd kept herself fit during her office career; the gym hours were about to pay off.
It took three weeks until Gerald walked in.
Another two for Cyndi to watch him, observe.
He had a thing for blondes, but in Puzo's – probably because of the reputation of the place – he never took any home. No women disappeared from the bar.
Not one.
Cyndi saw the plan forming, saw the perfect opportunity.
Fast forward to tonight – the plan in motion.
Cyndi laughed. "Time is limitless, passing like the times of sands," she finished.
Gerald managed to shove Cyndi off his lap, his penis slapping his sweaty leg as he backed away, trying to stand up. The back of his knees buckled as they found the rim of the seat behind him. He found himself toppling lop-sided onto the leather as Cyndi hobbled out of reach, her eyes piercing through him.
"Who are you?" Gerald spat, pulling his trousers up. He heard the rattle of spilled change on the floor as his pockets upended. His eyes didn’t leave Cyndi. "Where did you hear that … my poem?"
"Does the name Suzanne King mean anything to you?"
"No. Should it?" Gerald lied. He knew the names of each of his conquests. He had their pictures pinned to his study wall, the secret study in his secret cottage in Yorkshire, one that had eluded the police during his trial. He kissed each of their passports whilst wearing blue lipstick. His little mementos. No one would ever discover them.
Cyndi shook her head. "You know, you definitely know. You're cunning, ruthless, hell, you were in a major court case on TV because of allegations that pinned her murder on you, so don’t give me that shit."
"Ah, yes, little Suzanne," Gerald mocked. He buckled his belt around his waist and stood up, mere feet away from Cyndi. He noticed the curtain in his peripheral vision. Escape wouldn’t be easy. "The whore of a waitress, who took the meaning of 'tips' a little too literally." Gerald thrust, hammering home the point.
Cyndi felt her jaw clench. Her fists balled and the blood in her veins began to burn. "You read that poem as you choked the life from her, didn’t you?"
Gerald paused and nodded. "My, my, someone has been doing their homework. For a stripper you’re quite the brainiac. How did you know?"
"Hannah Rogers." Cyndi watched her foe for any recognition.
He smiled. "Ah, the one that got away. Isn't she in a mental institution?"
"She was. She hung herself six weeks ago. I was one of her last visitors. It's a travesty when the medical profession deem the victim of a serial killer insane because they think she made the whole thing up. I assume you gave her a fake name too?"
"Yes. I was Bruce that day. I do superheroes, you see. Lots of creativity there. I also had a facelift afterwards. For all intents and purposes, I practically vanished. Poor woman. I must make an appointment to stop by and piss her on her grave someday."
Cyndi continued. "What she said didn’t make sense at first. I mean, 'time is limitless, passing like the times of sands' doesn’t mean shit to anyone. Once I researched you, and realised you recite poetry to your victims … it all made sense. "
"Suzanne loved my poetry. She was right on the verge or orgasm when I broke her neck and killed her. Shame. You could have lived the same fate."
"Fuck you," she spat.
"Mind you, she was a peach, but nothing compared to her … sister? Cousin? Lover?"
Cyndi said nothing.
"I have to admire your courage though," Gerald quipped. "You were this close to me the entire time. Your mouth – and other preferably body parts – were inches from my face the whole time. Why didn’t you just kill me?"
Cyndi gulped. "I had to make sure. I needed to hear the poem. I just had to."
Gerald laughed. "So you get your rocks off with me before confronting me. That's sick."
"No, that's the crusade." She gulped, a tear rolling down her cheek. "The mission. I'd do anything to avenge my sister. Anything."
Gerald took a step forward. "I've met some fucked up chicks in my time, lady, but you take the fucking…"
Gerald lashed out, his fist aiming at Cyndi's head.
Something she expected.
She ducked back and the limb lashed at nothing, arcing through the air. Cyndi brought her arm down on the elbow with such vehemence, she heard bone splinter. The limp flopped in the middle, shattered in two. Gerald howled and collapsed to the chair again, his arm shattered at the elbow. The limb wobbled at a sickening angle.
"You bitch, you fucking bitch!"
"This is the end of the line for you."
Gerald smiled, sputum frothing from his mouth. He tried to hold the broken limb in place and scraped the exposed, bloody bone. He hissed, the immense pain pulsing the veins in his forehead. "You think so? Ha, what makes you so fucking confident?"
Cyndi smiled. "This."
From a nook in the wall, she retrieved a handgun. Gerald didn’t know the make or brand, but it was a stocky black item with a long barrel. He felt his insides coil and prolapse a little.
His shattered limb was suddenly not his concern.
Not anymore.
"Take one with you. It’s a great motto. And I intend to do just that."
"You don’t have the guts," he said. "I bet you don’t know how to –"
BLAM.
Gerald's head exploded in a cloud of shattered bone, pulverised muscle and sinew, and dark, rich blood. The mirror behind him cracked, the bullet shattering it, and the glass collapsed onto the faceless corpse, speckles of light and brightness raining down on his blood-soaked shoulders with a cacophony of elegant tinkles.
She stepped forward and fired six times, four in the chest and two in the brain. Just to make sure. She'd seen the movies. And it left seven shots for her. When she was done, her sister's murderer was a bloody, pulpy mess. Blood dripped and oozed and sluiced everywhere. She felt it touch the tip of her toes. It felt warm. The copper stench became overwhelming.
Her mission complete, Cyndi looked up. "This is for you, Suzanne."
She placed the pistol under her chin, smiled, and fired.
Rose Above
You remove the eight-inch blade from the corpse with minimal effort. You're meticulous, careful. You've done this on several occasions following precise protocol, a process of rules and regulations that protects you from the law. They'll never find you because they can't. No DNA, no evidence, and no clues.
The perfect crime.
Seven perfect crimes, in fact.
You place the dripping knife on the floor at the side of the body, gloved fingers positioning it parallel to the still-twitching arm. You push the legs of the body apart with the tip of your plastic-coated boot, and the tightly bound baggy that tickles your ankle rustles as you position your latest victim in the required pose. You look around and check the essential points: A, B, C, D, E. All done. You nod with satisfaction. Following the MO.
No one will catch you. It's impossible.
However, times have changed. Impossible is more than possible now. The laws of the new world, a world ushered in by the unthinkable, permit it.
But you still have the burning urge to quench that thirst.
The thirst for bloodshed.
New world or not, you still need to feed.
And feed you shall.
*****
Rosemary Ost set a square of dark chocolate onto her tongue gently. Folding the wrapper back, creased red paper bound around crinkled golden foil, she stored the half-eaten chocolate bar in her pack. Three seconds later, she withdrew the confectionary into her mouth. Her diamond tongue stud twinkled in the daylight and clinked as it tapped against her teeth. The molten delicacy slid to the bottom of her mouth, and she smiled, curling a stray strand of ebony-coloured hair behind her ear.
Suck, not chew. Lasts longer that way.
Wise words from a wise man.
A very wise man.
Rose closed her eyes, pushed the thought from her mind, and focused on the chocolate. The rich flavour, the bitter but sweet taste of ground cocoa beans and sugar, a unique taste that always reminded her of coffee. She felt the chocolate melt and ooze beneath her tongue, felt it soften. Within a minute, it was nothing but a brown paste, a sour tasting liquid. She rolled her tongue, enjoyed the flavour for a few seconds, and swallowed.
Sliding her sleeve back, Rose clicked two buttons on her watch. It made a soft bleep as the timer started. The numbers began counting backwards. In three hours, she could afford to consume another square of chocolate.
Rationing was a new process to her, but vital and essential to staying alive.
With her mid-morning snack out of the way, she stood and walked through the damaged train carriage, her feet muffled by the plush carpet. Rose was yet to find a safer haven in the devastation she now called normality. Flicking her gaze around the shadowed interior, she realised she'd made a wise move. Small, compact, basic amenities, barricaded windows, far enough away from the main cities and protected by live rails – it was the perfect encampment for a woman on her own, left to fend for herself.
She stopped at the bottom of a bowed ladder, breathed deeply, and began to climb. Rose emerged on the roof of the beaten carriage, the sudden humid wind whipping her in the face. She held an arm out to shield her eyes against the morning sun, felt her hair caress the nape of her sodden neck, and finished the climb. The breeze eased off. The woman took a step, sighed, and stared across the landscape before her.
Nothing had changed in three weeks.
A city wracked with devastation, torn to shreds, annihilated and dangerous. In the distance, several apartment blocks stood on a steep knoll smothered in overgrown grass, battered and broken, every shard of glass blasted from their windows and doors and skylights. The faded red bricks were scorched black in places, streaked and oiled with severe heat, the results of a brutal firefight four days earlier. Two groups of people had collided and faced off, a duel to the death. Guns had blazed. Hand grenades had exploded. Limbs and heads had collapsed to nothing but visceral mulch under the immense firepower. Screaming women and children had fallen and rag-dolled in a blaze of crimson mist and bullets. No one had survived and no one had stood a chance.
She remembered thinking: No one got up.
She'd watched it happen in the space of seventy adrenaline-fueled seconds from the confines and safety of her carriage, undetected. Rose remembered catching her breath. Sixteen people, dead in a matter of moments.
Several questions had tapped on her mind's eye, insistent, nagging. Why was this happening? What caused it? Why was society collapsing?
She didn’t know the root cause of the chaos, or what had brought on the sudden change in humanity, a terrifying alteration that tore the very fabric and bodice of society apart. Civilisation was self-destructive at the best of times, but this was something completely different, ungodly, and otherworldly.
Terrified, she hadn’t emerged from the carriage for twelve long hours, not until she was certain no one had survived.
No one got up.
She’d conjured a plan to go out at dark, silent and fast, to collect the guns and bring them back. But firearms caused a lot of racket. They could give away her location and attract people to it. There was also the risk of the guns backfiring if she was so inclined – or forced – to use them for self-defence. She'd never used a gun, let alone maintained one.
After much deliberation, she’d forgotten about them and changed her mind. Maybe she could sell them, maybe not. Maybe currency no longer mattered in this topsy-turvy world, and maybe guns made you a prime target. They got you dead, that was for sure.
It was less hassle to leave them.
Anyway, that was three days ago.
She hadn't seen any movement near the bodies since, no animals or even a rat. Nothing preyed on the corpses. No one came. The thought of the weapons was still present, tickling the back of her brain, tempting her. Rose shook her head with finality, putting the thought to bed.
No. Leave them.
She stared at the buildings, noting the multiple windows, cracks and fissures. No one was out there, not a living soul, not anymore. Three weeks was enough time for the human race to start relocating, to start finding an alternative home.
Was it long enough to usher in extinction?
Rose shuddered at the grisly thought.
She turned and glanced down at the rails holding the carriage: two slick, shiny strips of metal shooting off into the distance, vanishing into a small dark tunnel on the horizon. The tunnel was preceded by two platforms built with concrete, both of which were cracked and worn, their yellow safety lines faded and unmaintained - human negligence before the events, not after. The track was in excellent condition. Wooden sleepers, peppered with multi-coloured stones and debris, idled in the afternoon sun. Rose traced them with her eyes, up and down, several times. It relaxed her, soothed her. She was at home here.
For now.
So far, the live rail had been her ultimate savior, buried in overgrown grass and foliage. The carriage, shrouded by Nature's greatest wonders, stood alone on high wheels slicked with dark oil and grime. The wheels sat comfortably on the rails, adding another few inches of height to the carriage, which stood about twelve feet in all. No steps led up to the carriage doors, and the four doors – two left, two right – were solid, all tightly barricaded.
Her only means of access was the emergency roof hatch. To get to the roof, she needed to use another ladder that rappelled down the side of the train to the ground, except if she did that in the carriage’s current position, it would land directly on the live rail. Instant electrocution. So Rose had modified the ladder with a hook of sorts, bending the bottom few feet upwards like a metallic letter J. When the ladder rolled down, it rested above the live rail, allowing her to climb down and scoot around the side of the carriage to safety.
