They kill, p.18
They Kill, page 18
“What others?” he demanded, but she didn’t answer. He asked again, shouting the question, but she remained silent. Frustrated beyond all measure, he raised a fist, intending to bring it down hard on the dashboard. But when he tried, he discovered his arm was locked in place, and he was unable to move it, not even a fraction.
“Behave,” Krista said.
Stuart realized then that the relationship he thought he had with Krista – that of tool and user – was accurate, but he’d been mistaken about his role in the equation.
Arm still raised, he sat back in his seat, gaze fixed on ArtWorks’ entrance, and waited for Krista’s next command.
* * *
Just like Stuart, Randall had parked his car down the block from ArtWorks, only on the other side of the street. He had yanked the rearview mirror off the windshield because he’d returned to his normal form after leaving the Sowells’ house, and he couldn’t wait until he could be his true self again.
His sweatshirt, slacks, and shoes were all covered with blood, and although he’d tried to be careful, he’d gotten some on his car’s upholstery. He wished he’d thought to put on some fresh clothes when he’d been home, but he’d been too eager to go across the street and have his little ‘talk’ with Sierra’s parents, and after that, he’d been too excited to find Sierra and teach her the importance of respecting the Chuck. His clothes were so sodden with blood that they were wet and tacky against his skin, and he found the sensation most unpleasant. But there was nothing he could do about it at the moment, so he would have to endure.
He held his special Chuck, the one that sometimes was a copper blade, clenched tight in his right hand. He knew when the time came, it would return to its true form, just as he would, and until then he’d keep it closed in his fist, where it would be safe. Despite how many Chucks he’d used today, his right pants pocket bulged with more. He hadn’t resupplied when he’d been home. They were just there, one more bit of Chucky magic.
While he waited for Sierra to arrive – as he knew she would; he’d gotten her work schedule from her parents before they died – he found his thoughts returning to Erika. In his mind, he once again saw her lying on their kitchen floor, surrounded by blood, eyes wide and staring, mouth and throat crammed to overflowing with Chucks. At the time, he’d felt immense satisfaction for giving Erika what she had so richly deserved. But now he began to question what he’d done. Maybe, just maybe, he’d gone a little too far. Sure, Erika had never liked or understood his Chucks, but she’d been supportive in every other way, and she’d been a good mother to their children.
The kids. He’d almost forgotten about them. What were they going to think when they found out not only that their mother had been murdered, but their own father was responsible? What would his grandchildren think when they were old enough to learn the truth about how their grandmother had died?
He felt as if he were starting to wake up from a horrible nightmare only to discover that the awful events which had occurred in his dream had actually happened. He’d killed his dear wife, and four others as well. The Sowells, the tattooed mother, and her child. God, the child! He could see the boy’s face, features contorted in agony, hear the shrill scream as Randall ravaged his tiny body with his copper blade.
He thought he was going to be sick.
The Chuck felt heavy in his hand now, far heavier than a mere penny. It was weighted with the guilt he now felt for the lives he’d taken, crimes that before today he would’ve never imagined, let alone committed. The Town Car’s windows were down, and he brought his right hand up and pulled it back, intending to hurl the Chuck out the window.
You don’t want to do this.
He heard the voice in his mind, but it wasn’t his. It was as if his brain were a receiver picking up a transmission from somewhere else. He didn’t recognize the voice – which possessed a tinny quality, as if someone was speaking into a can – but it felt familiar somehow, like a voice you knew you’d heard before but couldn’t immediately place.
“Yes, I do,” Randall said. But there wasn’t as much conviction in his tone as he would’ve liked.
You want to go back to being mocked and ridiculed? Do you want people to go on laughing behind your back, to keep pointing and saying, “There goes that weird old creep who passes out those stupid-ass pennies with the smiley faces on them. What the fuck is wrong with him? He should be locked up in the nuthouse where he can’t bother anyone anymore.” Is that what you want?
As the voice spoke, Randall felt his guilt melt away to be replaced with burning anger.
“No. No, I do not. All I’ve ever done was try to make the world a better place in my own small way. What’s wrong with that?”
Nothing, the voice said.
Randall felt the Chuck in his hand twitch as if in response to his anger, felt his skin tighten, become smoother, and take on a yellowish hue. His head swelled like a lemon-colored balloon, and his grin became an upward-curving lipless line. The Chuck had changed as well, and it was once again a copper dagger. Randall now understood where the voice in his head had originated.
“Thanks,” he said.
No problem. Us Chucks have to stick together.
Randall saw Sierra drive by in her red VW Beetle then. He watched as she parked, got out of her vehicle, and was met by a man he didn’t recognize. When they began holding hands, he wondered if the man was a new boyfriend. Just about anyone would be better than that Stuart character.
Randall reached for the driver’s side door handle, intending to get out of his car and confront Sierra.
Hold off, the blade said.
Randall’s finger rested on the button to unlock the car door, but he didn’t press it.
“Why?”
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Randall had never heard that phrase before, but it made perfect sense. He’d wait until his anger cooled a bit, and then, when he was once more able to think clearly and logically, he’d go into ArtWorks and slice the bitch into ribbons.
Now you’re talking! the knife said.
Randall ran his thumb along the blade’s edge, the sharp metal peeling open the skin, causing it to bleed, but he didn’t care. What was a little more blood to him? Besides, there would be more than enough blood for him soon, an ocean of the damn stuff, and he would dive in, explore its depths, and never again come up for air.
That’s my Chuck! the dagger said.
* * *
“See anything yet?” Grace asked.
“Nothing yet, ma’am,” Officer Al said. He sat behind the wheel of her Lexus, gaze fastened on the entrance to ArtWorks. At least, she assumed that’s what he was doing. She couldn’t tell from the back seat, but he hadn’t failed to obey one of her commands yet, and she felt confident he wouldn’t do so now. She would’ve kept watch herself, but she was too busy celebrating what had been an altogether satisfying reunion with her former coworkers at Gold Medal Bank. And for Grace, celebrating meant drinking. She’d polished off two-thirds of the bourbon supply she’d gotten from Happy Hours, and she was currently working on another bottle. She’d lost count of how much she’d polished off since leaving the liquor store, and really, why bother counting? Who cared how much she’d had, just so long as there was more?
When they’d arrived at the bank, Grace had commanded Officer Al to accompany her. There was a security officer inside, and she wanted Al – and his gun – there in case the guard grew suspicious. Her caution turned out to be unnecessary. Grace shot a stream of vomit into the man’s face, and she then had two armed servants. She ordered both of them to draw their guns and keep the staff and customers quiet and still. They did so, and she went from person to person, vomiting on each one until they all belonged to her. She wasn’t certain she’d managed to get everyone before one of them pushed an alarm button to summon the police. She thought she had, but she decided not to waste time in case she was wrong.
She ordered everyone – with the exception of Officer Al – to engage in hand-to-hand combat until every last one of them was dead. Customers and staff fell upon one another like wild animals, biting and clawing, punching and kicking. The security officer used his gun to take out three people, but a loan officer jammed a pair of scissors into the base of his skull, killing him instantly.
Grace watched the fun for another minute before turning to leave, Officer Al following obediently behind, like a faithful dog. There was a security camera mounted over the door, and she blew it a kiss on her way out.
That’ll teach you to fire me, assholes.
Now Grace poured the last few ounces of bourbon down her throat, killing another bottle.
Revenge had turned out to be even more delicious than she’d anticipated, and confronting Sierra about her stolen purse was going to be the cherry on top.
Grace dropped the empty onto the Lexus’s floor, which was already covered by a collection of bottles. It clinked when it struck the others, but it didn’t break. Too bad. She’d become quite fond of the sound of shattering glass.
She grabbed a fresh bottle from her dwindling supply – a return visit to Happy Hours might soon be in order – and opened it. Before she could bring it to her dry, cracked lips, Officer Al said, “Based on the description you gave me, I think that’s her.”
Grace leaned over the back of the seat and peered through the windshield. It was Sierra, all right, and she was holding hands with some man Grace didn’t recognize. She wondered if he was a new boyfriend and Sierra was taking him to ArtWorks to show him Grace’s stolen purse, and then they’d laugh and laugh.
“Do you want me to apprehend her?” Officer Al asked.
Grace giggled. Al sometimes spoke as if he were a TV cop, and it amused her.
“In a minute. Let me finish this bottle first.” She eyed the few full bottles sitting on the seat beside her. “And maybe these others too. I want to make sure I’m well-fortified when I confront that thieving bitch.”
“Fortify away,” Officer Al said.
And that’s exactly what she did.
* * *
Mandy drove her Ford Mustang convertible with the top down so she could more easily follow Sierra’s scent. She didn’t need to visualize the golden thread that represented the woman’s trail. By now, following it was a matter of instinct, as natural and unthinking as the beating of her heart. Normally she listened to a classical music station while driving, but now she had her radio turned to hard rock. She wasn’t familiar with any of the tunes, but she loved the pounding beat and the snarled lyrics, and she blasted the music as loud as the car’s speakers could handle. She enjoyed the feeling of wind in her face, her hair trailing behind her. The world was filled with incredible sensations like this – existence itself was orgasmic – and she couldn’t believe she’d never allowed herself to experience them for so long. In many ways, she could barely remember being that woman, closed off from her body, so deeply fucked up about sex that she’d become obsessed with preventing others from enjoying themselves. She felt as if she’d had a conversion experience, that she’d been led out of darkness into light. Warm, wet, throbbing light.
Her thoughts turned back to the meeting – the final one, she supposed – of the Traditional Values Club. Her memories weren’t so much focused on sight and sound as they were the physical pleasures she’d experienced. Those memories were so richly detailed that recalling them was like experiencing them all over again. And the most vivid and intense of them all was the moment Conrad had become hers. This was a memory she would revisit often, she thought. She would feed on others, of course. Many, many others. But Conrad had been her first, and you never forgot your first time.
A thought came to her then. It was comprised partly of the memory of the awful day when Ronnie had brought his friends into his parents’ bedroom to do as they would with her, and partly of images from the orgy in the library. There was a connection between them, and it took her a second to realize what it was. She had taken control of Conrad and the others at the meeting with her new powers and forced them to behave in ways they never would have on their own. She’d used them, Conrad most of all. She’d killed him for her own pleasure and to increase her strength. And so, a question: how was the creature she had become any different from Ronnie and his friends?
For a moment, she considered the terrible implications of this question. But then she figured, fuck it. She liked what she was now, and she wouldn’t return to her old self regardless of how many people she had to suck into her snatch to stay like this. She was free, she was strong, and she could do whatever the hell she wanted. And right now, she wanted Sierra.
She soon entered the Historic District, and she recalled Sierra once telling her that she also taught at a combination art gallery/school here. She spotted it at once – it was rather hard to miss with the murals painted on the outside walls – and she peeked through the windows as she drove by. Her eyesight was much sharper now, and she was able to make out tables and chairs, along with artwork displayed in various places. She saw two women, both working with students, but neither of the teachers was Sierra. Then she was past the building. Sierra’s scent was all over the gallery, but it wasn’t fresh. She’d tracked her here, so….
She saw Sierra standing on the sidewalk, waiting as a cute guy approached her, and Mandy shut off the radio as she drew closer. She knew the man was gay the instant she saw him. She could now read a person’s sexuality with preternatural skill, and this man didn’t have a heterosexual bone in his body. If anyone had asked Mandy this morning what her sexual preference was, she would’ve said none. Now she would answer more. She wondered if her newfound power would be able to convince Sierra’s friend to make an exception for her. She’d seen what it could do in the library meeting room, but she was unsure what its limitations were. She would enjoy finding out, though. Field research could be so much fun.
She glanced at Sierra and her friend as she drove past them. She was tempted to throw them a wink and a knowing smile, but she didn’t want to give Sierra any advance warning that she was coming for her. She wanted it to be a surprise. But Sierra didn’t so much as look in her direction. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, an almost shell-shocked look on her face. And she had bits of gray schmutz clinging to her clothes and hair. Most unattractive. Mandy didn’t know what she’d gotten up to since leaving campus, but whatever it was, it looked like it had taken a toll on her. She hoped Sierra wasn’t completely wrung out. She was going to need every ounce of energy she possessed for what Mandy had planned for her.
Conrad might’ve been her first, but Sierra would be her second.
She continued down the block, looking for a place to park.
* * *
Jeffrey stepped out of the rift and onto the sidewalk directly across the street from ArtWorks. The man in the black suit followed, and when he was through, he pinched the rift shut with his hands. Jeffrey thought he could still see a faint shimmer in the air where it had been, like the distortion caused by heat waves rising from hot asphalt. A sense of wrongness emanated from the shimmer, which made him uncomfortable, so he looked away.
He saw Sierra and Marc walking on the opposite sidewalk.
Sister, he told himself. Lover. He was determined not to forget them again. Sister. Lover. Sister. Lover.
He watched as they began to hold hands, and continued like that until they entered the building with the paintings on the walls outside.
Work. Sierra’s work. Work, work, work.
The sight of them holding hands both warmed and saddened him. He was glad to see them close like that. They hadn’t gotten along when he was alive, might’ve even hated each other. He wasn’t sure. But it saddened him because he knew the reason they needed one another’s emotional support was because of what had happened at Reliant Financial. He had killed everyone else in the building, dozens of people, reduced to dust in a matter of moments, unmade as if they’d never existed at all. What would Sierra (Sister) and Marc (Lover) think of him now? How could they ever trust him again?
“Perhaps if you tried to explain it to them?” the man in the black suit said. “They love you. They’ll listen.”
Jeffrey didn’t reply as he continued watching the building (Sierra’s work). Up and down the block, car doors opened and four very strange people got out of their vehicles and began converging on ArtWorks.
He turned to look at the man in the black suit.
“Do you really think so?” he asked.
The man smiled, displaying teeth that were too sharp to be human.
“Only one way to find out.”
Jeffrey thought about this a moment, decided it was true, and started walking across the street.
* * *
Karolyn was at a table working with Sierra’s afternoon students, a group of AP high-schoolers who got out of their last class of the day to attend ArtWorks. In the back, Gloria Morales, a local ceramicist who taught art classes to make extra money, was helping a group of adults – mostly moms and senior citizens – make clay sculptures. She was a big woman with a shaved head who always wore sandals, jeans, and tentlike T-shirts with cartoon characters on them. Today’s shirt featured Daffy Duck. Gloria looked over at Sierra and waved as she entered, but Sierra didn’t possess the presence of mind to wave back. The high-schoolers were working with pastels, and when Karolyn saw Sierra and Marc enter, she told the students to keep working and walked over to the two of them.
Sierra was worried Karolyn would be angry with her for arriving late to class a second time in the same day, but there was only concern on the woman’s face as she approached.
She smiled at Marc. “I haven’t seen you for a long time. How are you?” She made a face then, as if regretting her words. “Sorry! I forgot this must be a hard day for you too.”
“You have no idea,” Marc said.
