The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  The Devil's Army

  Jeremy Michelson

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Ready for another adventure?

  Thanks for reading

  One

  Carlson Savoy was way behind on his goal of exterminating every human being on the planet.

  Maybe he needed to start working out again.

  He slammed the lid down the elderly Buick's trunk. The sound echoed off the night darkened cinderblock canyon. The Nitey Nite Motel's boarded up windows were like lidded eyes, blind to his presence. He leaned on the dented rear fender and took a deep breath of the cool night air. And coughed. The air was thick with car exhaust and the ever-present miasma of human waste and garbage.

  He was winded after lifting the corpse-to-be. He didn't have the strength he used to back in the far off days of his youth. Inside the trunk, the bound and gagged man struggled and kicked. It made the Buick's back end jiggle and creak. The car really needed new shocks. He made a mental note to take the car into his mechanic next week.

  Carlson yawned and stretched on his way to the driver’s side door. For a moment he contemplated the orange haze in the city’s night sky. Out in the country, he’d be able to see the stars. There was so much pollution here. Light pollution, air pollution, sound pollution. Too many people. Even this far away from the highway, he could hear the ceaseless buzz of tires on pavement.

  He slid behind the wheel of the death transport and turned the big V-8 over. The engine rumbled, spewing toxins into the air. The same toxins that blotted out the stars in the city sky and added to the air’s rancid taste. He felt a twinge of guilt at his contribution to the problem. Just a small twinge, though. He was trying to take care of the larger problem, one human at a time.

  He rolled the Buick out of the cracked and weed-choked parking lot and headed out to the highway. Southbound traffic was light this late at night. He would make good time down to the farm. He set the cruise control at the speed limit and leaned back in the seat. He took a sniff and frowned at the cardboard pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Most of the pleasant pine scent was gone. The odors of oil and exhaust and sweaty fear intruded within the cabin. Yet another thing to put up with.

  He turned his thoughts to the storm cellar under the barn. Just a quick hour away, and he could exorcise some frustrations. He smiled. One hand lightly held the wheel as the big car cruised down the highway. Miles of gray asphalt rolled under the headlights. The thumps from the trunk grew fewer, quieter.

  It was hard to admit, but he was getting bored with the serial killer thing. Oh sure, there was still the excitement of the hunt and the thrill of ending yet another resource-hogging life. He still got that buzz of satisfaction when he checked another name off the list. But deep down he knew he wasn't making any progress on his larger goal. Every motivational speaker he'd every heard had told him to Dream Big. Set those Big Goals and see how far you could get. You wouldn't get anywhere staying in your Comfort Zone. Blah, blah, blah.

  Twenty-four years before he had set himself the goal of killing every single human being on the planet. But maybe it was time to admit he'd bitten off more than he could chew. The math didn't lie. Over 350,000 new humans de-wombed every day and only about 150,000 shuffled off to their dirt naps.

  And he only accounted for one, maybe two of those deaths a night. It just wasn’t fair. He needed a way to mass produce death.

  Oh sure, he could poison a water supply, or figure out how to make bombs. The internet was overflowing with friendly suggestions on how to kill humans. But those options were crude and impersonal. And he very much wanted to make each death personal. It was important he be able to look his prey in the eye and tell him–or her–how much he really, truly, absolutely without a doubt, hated him. Or her. He believed each sex deserved an equal amount of hate. After all, it took one of each to make another human.

  But there were so many humans, and so little of him. His heart was heavy. In the end, he knew he wouldn't even make a dent.

  And eventually the authorities would catch up with him. Detective Harley was particularly persistent. She seemed to be pursuing a vendetta ever since that bit of difficulty at her father's garage.

  The FBI wanted him almost as bad. Who was the current agent in charge of his case? Percy? Perchman? No, Perkins. It was hard to keep up, there had been so many over the years.

  But neither the police nor the FBI were anywhere close to catching him. He was far too clever for those plodding knuckle draggers. He wasn’t a flashy attention seeker like some of those other serial killers. He didn’t leave clues, he didn’t taunt his pursuers.

  Well, okay, maybe once in a while, just to keep things interesting.

  Mostly, he kept his head down and did his work, pointless as it was starting to look. By his count, he'd racked up over five thousand kills in the last two decades. Enough to fill a small town. But the hordes of humanity never seemed to thin.

  It was enough to make a death worker seriously depressed.

  Two

  Evil light intruded into Kam Harley’s crypt. The drums of doom sounded outside. Pounding, pounding, pounding. Her coffin shook and shuddered, rattling her desiccated and violated corpse within its wrappings. Harsh voices called her name. The voices sounded an awful like Walt Graves.

  “God damnit Harley, wake up!”

  Kam Harley opened her eye. There was a valiant attempt to focus on the pale blur in front of her. She gave up the effort and let the lid close.

  "Harley, come on," Graves said, "You're gonna get fired."

  “Dead. Go ‘way.”

  Something smelled like vomit and rum. Or maybe it was rum and vomit. No, mostly vomit, but with a very strong rum overtone. Where had she gone last night? Her regular places knew she only drank Jack Daniels. Most of the bartenders just set the bottle on the bar when they saw her walk in.

  “I don’t know why I bother,” Walt said, “You’re hopeless.”

  “Pirate.”

  “What?”

  Harley made the eyelid crank open once again. It was like dragging her eyelid across sandpaper. This ti
me her eyeball did the focus thing. Walt Graves’ skinny face came into few. His cheeks had bright spots of red on them. His thinning, brown, widow’s peak was perfectly in place, as usual. Today he was wearing the dark gray suit. Which made today either a Tuesday or a Thursday. The dark blue suit belonged to Monday and Wednesday. Friday was casual, meaning the light gray suit.

  Where would she have gone drinking rum on a Monday or Wednesday night?

  “Pirate,” Harley said, “You see any?”

  Graves got that pinched look like he did when he was disgusted. Or more disgusted. He seemed to be mostly disgusted around her.

  “What in the hell are you talking about Harley?” he said, “You finally go around the bend? You want I should call the guys with the straightjackets?”

  Harley attempted movement. She turned her head. A mistake. It felt like an egg of molten lead had just cracked and made an omelet in her skull. She squeezed her eye shut. Her stomach roiled and gurgled, ready to projectile vomit the rest of the rum in it.

  “Muffer fugger,” she said. She clenched her head with both hands. That didn’t stop the pounding. Not even a little bit.

  “Jesus Harley, you could at least wear a shirt to bed,” Graves said.

  She realized he’d turned his back to her. She glanced down and saw her breasts staring back up at her. They weren’t great breasts, but not bad for a forty-something gal with some mileage on her. She pulled the sheet up over them so poor Walty wouldn’t feel like he was being sexually harassed or something.

  “Pirate,” Harley said again.

  Graves turned back around. He brushed invisible lint off his sleeves. “What the hell is this pirate thing?” He asked.

  “Went somewhere drinkin’ rum last night,” she said, “Wonder if there’s a pirate in my bed.”

  He rolled his eyes. “The only pirate here is you. Not get the hell out of bed so we can get your sorry ass downtown. Captain said if you’re not there by–”

  “Cap’n can suck my dick,” Harley said.

  She sat up and swung her leg out over the patchy brown carpet. The movement made the molten omelet in her head slosh around. She moaned and clutched her head.

  “As anyone can plainly see, “ Graves said, “You don’t have a dick. Now for god’s sakes, get some clothes on.”

  Harley tipped her head down. No pants. She must have one hell of a night. What happened anyway?

  “Hand me my leg,” she said.

  Graves shuddered. “I’d rather not.”

  “Don’t be a pussy, it’s not contagious,” she said.

  “Anything that touched your body might be contagious,” he said, “Depending on where you were and what you did last night.”

  She put out her lower lip. “You’re not going to help a poor crippled lady?” she asked.

  Graves got a look liked he’d sucked a grove of lemon trees. It was amazing his face didn’t disappear inside itself, it was so pinched. He kicked the leg over to her. It spun like a top, coming to rest in front of her.

  “Still ain’t touching it,” he said.

  “Pussy,” she said.

  “I’ll wait for you in that disgusting garbage pit of a living room,” he said, “And hurry up.”

  He turned his narrow shoulders and marched out of the room. Harley sighed and stared down at the prosthetic leg. It still had her regular street shoe on it. The right side of the sole was worn down. Damn thing still didn't fit right. The rest of it was gray metal and fiberglass. It had a rudimentary calf shape that ended abruptly before the knee. The doctor had told her she was lucky she hadn't lost the knee, too.

  I didn’t lose it, asshole, she’d told the kid–he was so young he still had zits on his face.

  Losing it sounded suspiciously like she misplaced her leg. Where did your leg go, Harley? Oh, I don’t know, I set it down somewhere, silly me.

  Fucking morons.

  She fumbled on the nightstand for her eyepatch. It wasn’t there. For a moment she felt a stab of panic. Then she put her fingers to her face. Yup, still there, covering the pit where her left eye used to be. Must have been one helluva night if she didn’t take it off.

  For a moment she let her finger trace the scar running from the eye down her cheek to her jaw.

  Pirates indeed.

  “Hurry up, would you?” Graves called, “There’s no damn place for me to sit in here.”

  She snorted. There were plenty of places, if a person was willing to move some dead Thai takeout boxes, among other things. He just didn’t want to get his prissy ass dirty.

  She reached down and snagged the leg. “Time to saddle up, Kicky.”

  Three

  Fundraising dinners were so boring. That Fitzroy had been able to talk him into going to this one had to be a sign of Carlson’s ongoing depression. Lately it had covered him like a heavy cloak. It bowed his head and pulled his shoulders down. His once lively steps were now muffled, his feet leaden. He had even skipped his nightly death work a couple times this past week. Called in sick, as he told himself.

  The conference room at the Hillscrest Hotel was gaudy and stank of overcooked chicken. It was all deep red paneled wood and gold trim. It was almost like being in a plaque-clogged artery.

  Fitzroy, so portly that his belly strained the buttons of his charcoal gray suit coat, brushed at his mutton chop whiskers. He’d been cultivating them since he and Carlson had shared an ivy league dorm room. He led them to a table at the rear of the room, set apart from the other tables in a shadowed corner. Carlson had to smile. Fitzroy must really want him to invest if the man remembered Carlson’s preference to privacy. He’d been at too many of these things where Fitzroy had dragged him up front to prominently display his billionaire friend.

  “This gentleman is a high risk investment,” Fitzroy said, “But I’m thinking there might be a military angle here. Maybe a fat, top secret government contract. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I know you’ve always had a fondness for the weapons of war, as they say.”

  Carlson shrugged. He tugged at the sleeves of his business suit. Even though it was perfectly tailored, he hated to wear it. Animals didn’t wear clothes. If they were cold, they just grew some god damned fur.

  And if he was cold he just put on a sweater. Not some ridiculous suit.

  “I suppose,” Carlson said, “It depends on what it is. This is some scientist? You know I’m not interested in funding mass destruction weapons.”

  Fitzroy chuckled. “Right, right, you prefer guns and knives and such things. How did you put it once?”

  “Close range,” Carlson said.

  He pressed his lips together. He really shouldn’t say such things. Not even in front of an old comrade like Fitzroy. Maybe especially not Fitzroy. Fitzroy like to drink and he liked to talk. Someday he might say something too interesting to the wrong person.

  Perhaps he needed to move Fitzroy closer to the top of the list. It would be an interesting challenge. How to end the old blowhard without calling attention to himself?

  Fitzroy let out a loud belly laugh. Well-dressed men at the nearest table glanced back at them. Carlson kept his expression bland. He didn’t let the seething rage under his calm mask slip out. Control. Reaching one’s goals was all about control.

  “That’s right, close range,” Fiztroy said, “Well, I think this fellow will be right up your alley. He’s making his research public tonight, but I have an inside connection who’s given me some juicy hints.”

  Carlson yawned, extravagantly. “We’ll see,” he said. It was hard to tell in the low light, but he thought Fitzroy’s chubby cheeks reddened.

  An overly plump waitress wearing too much makeup tried to serve him some of the desiccated chicken. He turned the rancid smelling dish away.

  “Ah, here we,” Fitzroy said. On the stage at the other end of the room, a small man in a dark suit and a shock of gray hair moved toward the podium. “Now, I’m given to understand this gentleman’s research is going to be controversial.” He actuall
y rubbed his hands together and his eyes twinkled. “I don’t think this will disappoint you Car.”

  “I don’t like high profile things, you know that, Fitzy,” Carson said.

  Fitzroy chuckled. “Oh, he’ll be high profile at first, but trust me, you’ll be able to leverage a small investment into something very big over time.”

  Carson refrained from rolling his eyes. Barely. Fitzroy was given to extravagant claims. Carson was used to sniffing out the meat under the fluff of Fitzroy’s salesmanship. And this time, there was the hint of…something.

  He studied the small man up on the stage. Thin with a gray goatee and a pile of flyaway gray hair on his head, he looked like Einstein’s evil twin. The man fumbled with some papers and stepped from foot to foot. He took a pair of dark rimmed glasses from his jacket pocket. Fumbled and almost dropped them.

  “What’s this guy’s name?” Carson asked.

  "Erskine DeVol, Ph.D.," Fitzroy said, "Dr. DeVol, as he's usually known."

  “Dr. Devil?”

  “No, DeeVawl,” Fiztroy said, “His assistant says he gets quite upset when someone mispronounces his name as Devil.”

  So that was Fitzroy’s source of information. Carson guessed the assistant was young and female. Fitzy always did have a knack for charming the ladies.