The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  “Yeah, and maybe we–you’d catch the guy and we could all sleep better,” Harley said.

  “It’s not my call, Harley,” he said, “And not why we’re here.”

  "So, do tell, why am I here? I'm not a cop anymore. I'm just a skip tracer, scraping to make a living," she said, "I was told in no uncertain terms to leave this alone, you know."

  He gave her a baleful look. “Right, like you haven’t been keeping tabs on it.”

  Her face went hot. Sure, she’d asked the uniforms every now and then. Occasionally she’d drop by the bar where the detectives when after work. Buy them a drink and ask them about things. Not very often, though. The bars were tough to be in these days. She’d order a cola like Graves did, feeling like an idiot. The booze would smell so good. That bottle of Jack Daniels on the wall behind the bartender would call to her. Just one. Just one drink wouldn’t be so bad. And it would feel so good.

  “Harley? You still here?” Graves asked.

  She shuddered. Damned bars scared her more than the Reaper did. And that was saying something.

  “Yeah, I’ll ask about it, sometimes,” she said, “Wouldn’t you? Now come, give.”

  He pointed to the nearest card. “Pick one up, take a look at it.”

  “This room’s been cleared by forensics, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, cleared so hard its ass is still stinging.”

  She kneeled and took one of the cards. She wished she had some gloves. Not to preserve the evidence. He had touched it. Just the thought of it made her skin twitch.

  She stood and examined the card. It was different that what he used to do. She flipped the card over. The marks were on both sides. She tilted it to the light, examining the print.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said.

  She picked up another card and compared them. Identical.

  “He printed them,” she said, “He’s never done that before.”

  “Always written them by hand,” Graves said.

  “This looks like a laser printer, the print has a bit of a sheen to it,” she said.

  “Yeah, forensics agrees,” Graves said, “They think it was done on an old HP laser printer.”

  Harley flicked the card away. It flapped to the floor like a wounded bird. “Let me guess, untraceable because they made zillions of them.”

  “Yup.”

  Harley let her gaze wander over the room. The little cards were everywhere. Was the pattern random? Had he just stood in the doorway and thrown them? She tried to picture it. The Reaper standing there, the scientist guy over his shoulder or on the floor in the hallway unconscious. And he takes a fat stack of cards out of his pocket and just throws them?

  “He didn’t just throw them in here,” Harley said, “He would have had to have his victim either in the hall or was holding him.”

  “Unless he took the doctor to his car then came back,” Graves said.

  Harley shook her head. She wandered further into the room. Her skin prickled. Following his footsteps.

  “Too much risk. He doesn’t like excessive risk. He only kills in places when there’s no risk of getting surprised,” she said.

  “Like the train,” Graves said.

  She stopped. The train. She still had nightmares about the train.

  “Yeah, like the train,” she said, “Everyone else disappears. He takes them somewhere.”

  “Yeah, somewhere.”

  Somewhere. The Reaper took his victims someplace. Where had been the source of all kinds of headaches. Harley had argued unsuccessfully for warrants to search every farm and estate within a two hundred mile radius of the city. The captain had just given her a look and told her to get back to work.

  She surveyed the cards on the floor. They weren’t random. She took a few more steps toward the window. Had the Reaper surprised the doctor while he was sleeping? She imagined herself as the Reaper, standing in the room looking at the sleeping form of his victim. The doctor curled up in his sagging bed, the pathetic, ratty blanket pulled over him. The urge to kill must have been strong, but he was here for a different purpose. He needed the doctor for a higher purpose.

  Higher purpose? What was that?

  She let the thought slide away. She was the Reaper, dark and silent, death personified. He subdued the doctor somehow. Not a blow to the head. He needed that precious head for…the higher purpose. He wouldn’t risk damaging the doctor. Not too much anyway. Perhaps an injection of something. No, too much risk. Something slipped into his food. But where?

  “This doctor guy, he was basically destitute, right?” Harley asked.

  “Yeah, he lost most everything,” Graves said, “He wasn’t a wealthy man to begin with. After he lost his job, he used up most of his savings. He was behind on his rent here, according to the manager. Another week and he would have been out on the street.”

  Another week and the Reaper wouldn’t have been able to leave this delicious taunt.

  “Where was the doctor eating?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She turned to Graves. A frown was plastered on his brow. “Food. Guy had to eat once in a while. I don’t see any kind of kitchen here. No hotplate. Not even a coffee pot. Unless he was eating cockroaches, the guy was leaving this crap hole to get something to eat. Where?”

  Graves shifted from foot to foot, his jaw was set. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve read all the reports?”

  “It wasn’t in there,” he said.

  “Thought you fibbies were smart,” she said.

  “Harley…”

  “The Reaper was stalking this guy,” she said, “He was here, in the neighborhood, keeping an eye on him. He knew every detail of this guy’s routine. He knew just when to strike in order to leave these cards for your boys to find. But you didn’t figure out how he got him out of this room without waking the building, did you?”

  “Shit, Harley, people around here don’t see things,” he said, “They don’t talk to cops.”

  “Not now they don’t,” she said, “Where did all the people go, Walt?”

  His face reddened. “Most of them, we don’t know. We tracked a couple.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “They said the place was haunted.”

  Haunted by death. She turned away and stepped over to the window. She looked back into the room, studying the pattern of the cards. It was blurry–deliberately so, but if a person looked for a pattern…

  “Your doctor guy probably went to a local soup kitchen. Probably church run. The Reaper volunteered there for a while. While the doctor was in line, he slipped something into his food. When the doc got woozy and left, the Reaper took him. Probably took him to his secret lair. Then he came back and did this. It took him a lot of time, so he couldn’t risk having the doc wake up.”

  Graves shook his head. “Harley, that doesn’t make sense. We think he just knocked the guy out with something, then threw the cards out as he was leaving. Either threatened or just killed anyone who saw him carrying the doctor away.”

  Harley rolled her lone eye and leaned back against the wall. “You and your people are idiots,” she said, “Come over here.”

  He frowned, but complied, stepping carefully into the empty spaces where the cards weren’t.

  “Turn around and look,” she said.

  He sighed and turned. “Harley, the forensics team has been over this a hundred times, there’s nothing here.”

  “Then why did you bring me here?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she went on. “Because you’re stuck. You don’t have any frigging idea what to do. So you did something desperate. You grabbed me. Well, look, Walt. Look at the cards. Your forensics people have been missing the forest for the trees. This is the Reaper giving us the finger. This him sticking out his tongue, going nyah, nyah, nyah. This is him laughing at us.”

  She watched Walt’s face as he gazed at the pattern of cards. He frowned, not seeing it. Then, all of a sudden, he did.

  �
�Son of a bitch!” he cried.

  The door opened and the beefy guard poked his M-16 at them. Walt told him to stand down, then he yanked his phone out of his pocket and made a call. Harley shook her head. Idiots. She stared at the Reaper’s elaborate taunt. The guy was nothing if not ambitious. And deadly clever. A chill ran through her. If he really wanted everyone on the planet dead, would anyone be able to stop him?

  Despite the fuzzy outline of the cards, it was easy to see the crude drawing of the earth and the giant hand that was crushing it.

  Fourteen

  From a fifth floor apartment across the street, Carlson Savoy watched through binoculars as Detective Harley got into her ugly gray SUV. The tires squealed and left black lines on the gray pavement. The other person, her former partner–Graves if he remembered correctly–was talking to the men from the other black SUV that just arrived. Graves was red faced, gesturing up at the apartment building he and Detective Harley had just exited. Had they finally figured out the puzzle he left? Or Father Savoy had left.

  Carlson tightened his grip on the binoculars. Father had connotations he would rather not think about. He stepped further back into the darkened room. The apartment stank of mildew and rat feces and piss. If he turned on a light he knew he would see stained walls, filthy carpet, trash and debris strewn everywhere.

  Humans were worse than animals. Animals didn’t leave plastic bags full of trash in the corners of their dens. They didn’t shoot up drugs or smoke mind altering substances.

  But he would take care of that. No, they would take care of his. His father and his brothers.

  The taste of those words were metallic in his mouth. Carlson Senior–a much better term than father–had a plan, and now Carlson was just a cog in the plan. A replaceable cog. If Carlson Senior could manufacture copies of himself, then the copies were just that, copies. Nothing special. If Carlson made a mistake and ceased to exist, no matter. Just pull another Carlson off the stack and send him in to finish the job.

  There was no pride in being a copy.

  He wanted nothing more than to return to the lair and strangle Carlson Senior with his bare hands. Perhaps that would put him at the top of all the other Carlsons. After all, he was supposedly a perfect copy, right down to the original’s memories.

  Except he wasn't. He knew suggestions had been planted in his mind. That was part of the Senior's memories, after all. Obedience and loyalty. Programmed in like one would program a video recorder to record a TV show.

  Constraints upon his personality. His very freedom. He could go and do as he pleased. As long as it was along the path Senior wanted him to take.

  He left the stinking room and made his way down the odorous stairs. He stepped carefully around deposits of human waste, illuminated by the flashlight in his hand.

  He was contributing to the goal he–Senior–had always dreamed of. He should have felt joy knowing that in time his kind would eradicate this infection from the earth.

  So why did he feel resentment? Anger?

  Because I am no longer special.

  He moved in silence down the stairs, fuming. So involved in his inner thoughts, that he almost tripped over the man sleeping in the stairwell.

  The filthy man he first mistook for a pile rags, stirred and let out a thunderous fart that echoed up the stairs.

  “Hey man, this my squat, get t’ fuck out,” the man said.

  Carlson shone the light in the man’s face. Dirty, with a matted black and gray beard, the man held up a hand to block the beam.

  “Hey, get that outta my face,” the man said.

  Carlson wasn’t wearing his death work uniform, but it didn’t matter. He had worn a disguise to hide his features. To the other man, he would look like another dirt encrusted homeless person.

  Not that the disguise mattered either. There was no one else around.

  He had some frustration to work off.

  Fifteen

  It was a logistics problem.

  Carlson Savoy leaned back in his fine leather chair and surveyed the clone standing in front of his desk. The clone, a Carlson Junior, as he liked to think of them, was scrubbed, smelling of Carlson's citrus soap and dressed in the loose-fitting t-shirt and jeans style Carlson had preferred in his youth. The clone was freshly returned from his reconnaissance in the city and had showered and changed clothes before reporting. As well he should have.

  Carlson tapped his fingers on the desk. Was he getting soft, letting the clones do all the work for him?

  No. They had the youth, the energy, and strength that he once had. It was only proper that they should take on the grunt work. He was the five-star general–no, the High Commander–who directed the operations. The brains behind everything.

  Though, technically, all the Carlsons had the same brain and experience. It was a vaguely discomforting thought. If Dr. DeVol’s implanted commands were to somehow fail…

  He disliked having all these people around him, though. Even if they were him. The problem would grow ever worse as the good doctor decanted more clones. They would be sent out into the world quickly, but then Carlson’s privacy would be invaded by the next batch. The constant interaction was wearying. He would have to think on it. It was a matter of logistics. Make everything flow smoothly enough and he could remove himself from the center. Let the generals run it.

  Of course, that would make him replaceable, wouldn’t it?

  He slapped his hand down on the desk.

  “What have you learned?” he asked.

  Carlson Junior made a pointed effort of looking around the room. Carlson suppressed a grimace of annoyance. He had ordered all other furniture removed from his office. Just the big wooden desk that had been his grandfather’s and the comfortable leather chair remained. The other Carlsons would stand in his presence. They needed to be reminded who was the servant.

  “I’ve been camped out across from DeVol’s apartment,” Carlson Junior said, “We finally got some fresh activity.”

  Carlson leaned forward. Had the fools finally solved the so obvious clue he left behind?

  “Yes, tell me.”

  Carlson Junior described the arrival of the former detective Harley and her, also former, sidekick Graves. He had glimpsed them in the window.

  "Too bad I didn't have a high-powered rifle," he said, I could have taken them both out."

  “Guns are not our preferred weapons,” Carlson said, “They do not allow us to properly give our prey the hate we hold for them.”

  The clone got a slightly pinched look on his face. Almost a look of annoyance. Carlson made a mental note to check with the doctor to verify the veracity of the memory and personality imprints.

  “Of course,” the clone said, “Though it does slow down the great work.”

  “The Great Work will be done properly,” Carlson said, “Extinction shall not come as a surprise to the human race. They will look upon us and know the face of death.”

  Carlson Junior let out a small sigh. Heat flushed Carlson’s neck and his fingers tingled. The clone’s attitude was just short of insolent. There must be something wrong with it. Carlson himself had never been insolent with his elders. Not that he recalled, anyway. He certainly never respected those older than he. But he didn’t show it. To show disrespect was to give warning to the enemy. Perhaps the clone felt relaxed enough around him to show such emotions.

  He made yet another mental note to discuss with DeVol ways of editing that trait from further batches of clones. He didn’t need the clones thinking they could do things better than him.

  “Do you want me to take Harley out?” the clone asked.

  “Not yet,” Carlson said, “She is the bellwether for how close the authorities are to us. Keep her under surveillance.”

  A smirk crossed the clone’s lips. “You want her for yourself, don’t you?”

  “I want them all,” Carlson said, “But I cannot attend to it personally, thus the reason for your existence.”

  “Carlson–fa
ther–I have your memories, your thoughts. I know why you don’t want to go near her,” the clone said.

  “Careful,” Carlson said.

  The clone didn’t heed. “You’re afraid, father,” he said, “You’re afraid she’ll catch you like she nearly did that one time. That you will be dragged through their filthy criminal justice system. Like a commoner. That they will put you in one of their fetid prisons. Where you’ll be surrounded by the worst of the worst. Common criminals who do not see the art in your murder. You’ll be just another criminal. They won’t see your greatness. They’ll just see another convict to keep under their thumb.”

  Carlson sighed as the clone’s tirade ran down. He pulled open the desk drawer to his right. The clone’s smirk widened.

  “Feeling stressed, father?” he asked, “Diving for the stash of chocolate you keep in there?”

  Carlson reached into the drawer. “You have my memories and personality, but I have to wonder if Dr. Devol’s process is more than a little imperfect. Or perhaps it is the hormones of youth making you speak so rashly to your elder and High Commander,” he said. The clone’s eyebrow quirked up at the words High Commander. Did he think the words amusing, or egomaniacal? It wouldn’t matter. “Either way, you have forgotten an important aspect of having a long, quiet career as a death worker.”

  The clone got a puzzled look on his face. Did Carlson really look that empty headed?

  “What do you–”

  Carlson pulled the pistol out of the drawer and shot the clone square in his left breast. The clone clutched his chest, eyes wide, blood spilling between his fingers. The sound of the gunshot reverberated in the wood-paneled room. Carlson's ears rang. The sharp smell of cordite stung his sensitive nostrils.

  The clone toppled to the floor, his last breath gurgling out of him. Carlson put the gun back in the drawer. Such an inelegant instrument of death. But, it got the job done. He stood up, and leaned over the desk. The clone’s eyes were open and glassy.

  “You forgot that is important to change one’s habits frequently,” Carlson said, “And that I have made more memories since you received yours.”