Twisted World Series Box Set | Books 1-3 & Novella

by Mary, Kate L.

  It took less than two minutes for the need to creep to the surface though, and before long he found his hands twisting in the girl’s greasy hair. She whimpered when he tightened his grip on her head, holding her firm so she was unable to pull away. His eyes were closed still, but he could picture the panicked expression on her face. Her hands grabbed his legs as he moved faster, slamming into her mouth violently. The choking noises that echoed through the night only made the whole thing more thrilling, and before long, sobs joined the sounds. His release was quick after that.

  When he freed her, the girl dropped to the ground and curled into a ball. Her sobs were so violent that they shook her entire body. All around him the shadows moved as people watched from their hiding places, but no one would come to her rescue. He was still nothing more than a blob in the black night, but he knew that he exuded an evilness that terrified even the toughest person.

  Jackson grinned down at the girl as he zipped his pants. “You could have done better,” he said just before he dropped five credits onto the ground at her side.

  Eyes watched him from the shadows as he headed back the way he came, whistling. He could feel the venom from those gazes, and it was even more invigorating than the girl’s sobs had been. Being despised was part of the job, and lucky for him, Jackson enjoyed it. He was the perfect definition of a bully and he didn’t just know it, he owned the title. Wore it like a badge of honor.

  Jackson couldn’t remember a time when he’d been anything different, and most of his earliest memories were of making the other kids at school cry. Being in control had always been a rush for him, but as he’d gotten older he’d had to push the boundaries more and more for that thrill to take hold.

  It had started simple enough with him taking things from others. Either a ratty old comic someone’s father had brought back from a run, or a pair of tennis shoes that looked like they’d been manufactured only the day before. To Jackson, the item had been inconsequential. It was more about obtaining those items than actually wanting them, about doing it simply because he could.

  As he’d gotten older he had switched to lording his father’s position over the heads of the other children and picking on the weak. They all knew that Jackson Star would face no consequences for the things he did, so turning him in was something none of them dared consider, but even worse was the constant threat of knowing that if they did turn the Regulator’s son in, the fury of the government would rain down on their family’s heads.

  In all those years there had been only one kid who had dared to try standing up for himself. Stevie Jones had been a skinny child with tiny eyes that seemed to see straight through a person. He’d been quiet and harmless, but something about the unassuming way Stevie had tried to move through life had rubbed Jackson the wrong way, and for as long as he could remember, he had tortured little Stevie Jones.

  It had been little things at first—taking toys away from the kid and breaking them right in front of his face—then had slowly graduated to punching him in the lower back, right where the kidney rested, and imagining the blood that would show up in his urine later that night.

  Stevie had put up with the torment for years before finally reaching his breaking point around the age of eleven. Over the weeks leading up to that day, Jackson had felt himself growing tired of the small beatings. The sudden need to draw blood had almost been too much to contain, the way it festered and ate at his insides made him feel physically sick. He had to let it out or he was certain that it would destroy him.

  That day after school, surrounded by other boys from their class, Jackson had pinned little Stevie Jones up against the wall and punched him until his nose bled. Seeing the bright red liquid and knowing that he’d been the one to cause the damage had been more thrilling than anything Jackson had experienced, and he’d wanted more. Wanted to inflict so much pain on Stevie that the kid would never be able to leave the alley. The need had been fed but not satisfied, and Jackson knew there was no going back.

  He’d managed to control himself, though, and he’d let Stevie go with only a bloody nose, instead feeding the need by taking a stray cat home. Up until that point Jackson had worked hard to keep the need caged in. There had always been a part of him that was afraid of what would happen if he really let himself go, but now that it had happened, he had to wonder why had ever tried to deny himself in the first place. The euphoria that surged through him when the need was fed had been intensely thrilling. Better than anything he could have imagined.

  The crimson line that dripped from Stevie’s nostrils that day hadn’t just awoken Jackson, though. Stevie, too, seemed to snap out of it with the bloodshed. That night he’d gone home and told his mother about the bullying, and the stupid woman had called the enforcers, causing the Judicial Officer to pay the Regulator a visit.

  Jackson’s father had been stern with the JO, maintaining that the incident had been nothing more than a schoolyard disagreement between two boys. The small, serious woman who had recently been promoted to JO had looked at Jackson with a suspicion that had chilled him to the core. It was as if she knew what he was, which was terrifying because even he didn’t know what he was at the time. He just knew that violence was in his blood, and that if he didn’t let it out, it would most likely destroy them all.

  She’d let him off with a warning since he was still young and had no prior record, but had cautioned his father that his son was not above the law. The Regulator, who could turn on the charm faster than anyone Jackson had ever seen, had assured her that it would not happen again. He would deal with his son.

  Jackson had a hard time meeting his father’s gaze after the JO left. The Regulator had always spoken to his son about being a strong leader, and Jackson felt that he had somehow disappointed Garret Star by giving in to his urges. His father had always been a strict disciplinarian, taking the saying spare the rod spoil the child literally.

  But instead of going for the rod, his father had knelt in front of him. “Jackson,” he had said, grabbing his son’s chin and forcing him to raise his head. “Look at me.”

  Jackson had complied, slowly and hesitantly lifting his eyes to meet his father’s gaze. No one intimidated him, not even adults, but Garret Star was impossible to ignore. He was a genius who seemed like a giant, even in the presence of men much larger than he was. Everything out of his father’s mouth was said with authority, and no one questioned him. Ever. It was like he had some kind of magic power that allowed him to bend the world to his will, and even before Jackson knew the whole truth, there had been a part of him that had wondered if his father had created the whole zombie virus simply so he could be in the position he now found himself in: the leader of the new world

  “Jackson,” his father had said, putting his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Being in a position of authority is a great honor, but not one that should be taken lightly. You need to understand that there are ways of making enemies, and ways of making servants of your enemies. If you decide to show someone that you are the boss, you need to do it in a way that will obliterate every ounce of will they have inside them. Make sure that when you are done, there is nothing left they can destroy you with.”

  The boy had nodded even though he hadn’t quite understood his father’s words, but later that night, as he was lying in bed, Jackson had found it impossible to sleep. All he could do was stare into the darkness and try to unravel the meaning behind his father’s words. It wasn’t until halfway through the night before it came to him, though, and the epiphany that followed changed his life forever.

  It wasn’t enough to torture people. If Jackson wanted to bend a person to his will he had to first remove theirs.

  The next day Stevie’s mother was fired from her job. Jackson never learned what excuse was given, but he knew that no one would dare call the enforcers on him ever again. Not even Stevie Jones, who Jackson beat to within an inch of his life only four hours after his mother was fired.

  Jackson was still thinking about litt
le Stevie Jones when he turned down his street. His hands were in his pockets, clenched into fists as he remembered how it had felt to slam his knuckles into the other kid’s face. It had been a long time since he’d gotten his hands dirty like that, but the rush that came with it never went away. He wondered what had ever happened to Stevie Jones. These days, Jackson didn’t have to resort to physical violence—he had much more effective ways of dealing with the rage inside him—but if Stevie Jones was still alive it would be nice to finish the job. There was nothing Jackson liked more than breaking a person until they had no hope left.

  Like he would one day do with Meg. One day, after she had finally given herself to him, Jackson would do what he wanted with her. Just like his father had taught him, he would take her will away one humiliating moment at a time until there was nothing left but a ball of clay that he could then mold to his will. She’d be unhappy, but she would fall in line. Just like his own mother had.

  Seeing Meg on the floor of the bathroom tonight, nearly naked from the waist up and trying to hold herself together, had revived dozens of fantasies for Jackson. So many times over the years he had almost decided to just take her, but had stopped himself short of the act. The time would come, he knew, but he had to be patient. If he had learned anything from watching his father take over the world, it was that patience was always rewarded.

  Jackson’s house came into view, big and magnificent even in the dark night, and he began to whistle. There was a skip in his step as he walked, savoring the image of Meg. It faltered when he saw the guards ahead of him, though, escorting Donaghy into his house.

  Giving the convict a room had been a good way to regain some of the footing he’d lost with Meg, but Jackson wasn’t thrilled about the idea. Just the thought of that asshole sleeping under his roof had his brain spinning.

  He could end it now. He didn’t think Meg had any intention of doing anything with the guy—he was a dirty convict, after all—but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure. It would be simple, too. The pathetic excuses for human beings that were guarding Donaghy would be easy to overpower. First Jackson would slit their throats, then move on to the fighter. With him Jackson would take his time, making the cut shallow so he could enjoy the sight of the man bleeding out, could watch his life gathering into a puddle on the floor beneath him and the fear that swam in his eyes as he waited for the end to come.

  The need began to uncoil inside him, but Jackson forced it to stay quiet.

  No, he couldn’t do that. His father would hate to have the blood in the house, and it would be a stupid mistake to make. The JO had never looked at him the same after the day he beat Stevie Jones. Even being the shoulder for her niece to cry on hadn’t helped. It wouldn’t be easy to sweep the murders under the rug if it were done in his own home, no matter how much he made it look like self-defense, she would know the truth.

  He let the fantasy go as he opened his front door, instead picturing how Meg had looked on that bathroom floor. He’d gotten a good glimpse of her, and the image of her breasts would be enough to keep him company for a while now. Soon, though, he would need to take the next step with her. He couldn’t be expected to wait forever.

  Chapter Four

  Meg was up to something.

  Jackson was in the middle of documenting changes in their test subject when they told him. She’d had a normal day at work, but afterward had stopped in to see her Uncle Al. The two had discussed a note that someone—a crazy old man, apparently—had slipped Meg.

  Jackson scanned the transcript he’d been given, frowning. Neither Meg nor her uncle had said exactly what was in the note, but it clearly had something to do with her missing father. She should have accepted that he was dead by now. Everyone else had, and that’s how it should have been. These days, if a person was missing for more than ten hours they were considered zombie chow. But now Meg was questioning that fact, and this note had something to do with it.

  Al had told Meg to let it go and she’d agreed, but the uneasy feeling in Jackson’s stomach told him there was more to it. He wished he’d been there to actually listen in so he could have read her tone. He knew Meg so well at this point that he was positive he would have been able to tell what was on her mind just by hearing her voice. Too bad they didn’t record the conversations. No, they only had someone listening in. Just in case. Jackson had assumed that role for hours upon hours back when Meg was with Colton. It had become an obsession with him, listening in while the two talked or had dinner or went back to Meg’s room. Every time he heard the door click shut he’d been sure they were going to take the next step, but Meg had kept her boyfriend dangling for nearly four months before giving in. Before that it had been nothing but kissing and fondling, but Colton had never begged. Never tried to guilt her into it. That was probably why she’d finally given in.

  Jackson shuddered, remembering the sounds. They had echoed in his ears, staying with him long after Meg had cried out her ecstasy and Jackson had gone home. The only thing that could have drowned the sounds out were the screams of agony he had forced out of Colton the very next day.

  Jackson shook the thoughts away as he read the transcript once again, but the words printed on the page told him nothing. He’d have to pay Meg a visit so he could get a read on how she was feeling.

  He pushed away from the desk and stood with a groan. His shoulders were stiff and aching from being bent over the microscope all day looking at slides. The work had been interesting enough that Jackson hadn’t realized how sore he was until now, and he rolled his shoulders back over and over again as he walked. The hall was quiet and empty, but that was nothing unusual. Very few people had access to this part of the CDC, only those who could be trusted implicitly. A handful of doctors—most of which dated back to before the virus was released—spent nearly every waking hour back here, then there were half a dozen nurses and a small group of select guards, different enforcers than the ones who patrolled the walls and the streets of the settlement. Garret Star had handpicked these men himself, and their positions were top secret. The few men who had dared run their mouths off regretted it when their tongues were removed and their positions were switched from secret guard to secret test subject.

  Jackson turned right at the end of the hall, stopping outside the sealed door that led to the observation wing. He typed in his code and a second later the door popped open with a hiss. The sterile smell of antiseptic in no way covered the scent of death that filled the air, but it was something Jackson had grown up with and at this point, he was immune to the stench.

  He stopped outside the first cell and peered through the window. The man inside was still unconscious. Tubes and wires ran from his body to the machines scattered around the room, their lights blinking in rhythmic patterns that matched his vitals. Jackson knew Axl would be awake soon, though. Just this morning his father had made the decision to take their newest test subject out of his chemically induced coma, and they were easing him off the drugs at this very moment. It wouldn’t take long, twelve hours, maybe. He’d resurface slowly, groggy at first and then—knowing Axl James—angry as the reality of the situation came slamming into him.

  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Axl wouldn’t be easy to control, but they’d had him for three weeks already and they couldn’t risk killing him. The longer he was in the coma, the higher the risk of permanent damage. Now that his asshole brother was gone they were dependent on Axl’s blood to finish what they’d started. If something happened to him, they would have to start over in their search for the right immunities. And who knew if anyone carrying them was even still alive.

  Jackson turned his back on the cell and headed down the hall, passing window after window, each of the small rooms holding a different set of horrors. Zombies in various forms of decay, men who were clinging to life as different strains of the same virus took hold of their bodies. Most people would have shied away from the sights, but Jackson loved it. Loved seeing the pain and torture and knowing that he’d
had a hand in it. It helped keep the need at bay.

  He only paused again when he’d reached the girl’s cell. Eyes that swam with pain stared back at him, shimmering with tears and hazy with confusion. He held her gaze even though he knew she was too pumped full of drugs to even register who was standing in front of her. The immunities found in her blood weren’t as strong as Axl’s, but they had her now and there was no going back, so they continued to use her. Injecting her with each new strain they created, then studying her body’s reaction, hoping to find a pattern. Secretly, Jackson had been waiting for the moment when her immune system gave up and she died. After the dozens upon dozens of injections she’d been given, it only made sense that she’d eventually succumb. So far, though, there had been no sign that her body was ready to throw up a white flag and surrender.

  They were a strong family.

  He turned away from her and left the observation wing, heading out into the streets of Atlanta. The air was sweltering and thick with humidity, making Jackson curse under his breath. He loathed the heat. His father could have set up his labs anywhere in the world, and it had never made sense to Jackson that Garret Star had chosen to stay in Atlanta. Sure the CDC was here, but they easily could have moved their operation in the early days of the virus. No one had been around to stop them, and thanks to the initial efforts to control the spread of the disease, many of the bodies from the earliest days of the infection had been burned. To Jackson, it would have made sense to pick up and move somewhere a little less stifling. Then again, his father rarely left the CDC or their home, so there was a good chance he didn’t even realize just how miserable Georgia was in the summer.

  It was getting dark when Jackson reached the section of the wall that Meg loved to climb so much. He paused at the bottom, preparing himself to slip back into the role of best friend and confidant. The barricade of cars towered above him, blocking out what little bit of sunlight was left and casting a giant shadow over the street. He stared up, craning his neck in hopes of catching a glimpse of Meg, but saw nothing.