A Time For Monsters

by Gareth Worthington

  Rey climbed to her feet and purposefully placed herself in the matching armchair opposite Joe. Hate welled within her, the images of her mother essentially being raped flickering in her mind over and over. Was that how Rey had been conceived? Was that how Damien and Riley had come into the world? He’d nagged or pushed or forced himself until her mother could either take no more or simply had no energy to fight him off. The bile was back. The fact Rey shared genes with this pig disgusted her. Even worse was how she had inherited his scientific intellect. The one thing she actually liked about herself had come from this bastard. She fixed her stare on the newspaper covering his face, imagining lasers from her eyes—some kind of superpower—burning through and melting his head.

  Joe must have felt this so-called superpower, because he folded the newspaper and peered over it with those cold blue eyes, his thick bushy eyebrows heavy over them in a menacing frown.

  “You got a fucking problem?” he asked. “What are you staring at?”

  “A piece of shit.” For the life of her, Rey could not understand why the words slipped from her mouth, but they did. She’d committed, so sat defiantly.

  Joseph launched across the room, the newspaper flying. His thick fingers encircled Rey’s throat and pressed down. The speed at which he came was almost impressive given the short little man had never exercised a day in his life, but this notion was quickly squeezed away as was the life-giving air.

  Rey’s throat closed in his hands, her lungs on fire as they begged for oxygen. If she wanted to plead, nothing would have come out. She felt the blood vessels in her face and head fill up, the flow blocked. Her eyes bulged and fresh wet tears ran. Then, at fifteen-years-old, Rey pissed herself. The shame of the act now seemed far more important than her impending death, giving her something else on which to focus. That was until the crunch accompanied by an indescribable pain in her throat. That sound was her trachea breaking. Joe must have felt it, too, because he immediately loosened his grip, then backed off.

  Rey choked and hacked, sucking at the air, her lungs failing to inflate. She rubbed at her throat and then made the mistake of swallowing. Knives stabbed at the flesh inside her neck. The cartilage had been broken. Rey swallowed again, and once again winced.

  Joe stared at her.

  Rey stared back, venom and disobedience in her eyes despite the fact she was sitting in her own urine.

  Without a word, he left the room.

  Oslo, Norway, 2016

  Rey rubbed at her throat. An injury inflicted so many years ago, yet the memory of the pain meant she could almost manifest it again—feel the crack of her trachea—with a mere thought. Here and now, it was the agony in her back that demanded attention. Rey peeled herself from the concrete, clothes damp and limbs rigid. She groaned loudly as she pushed herself up to sit. Her stomach growled. She needed to eat and drink. No way would she let the final stages of her plan fail because of starvation or dehydration. No fucking way.

  A quick check of her app and Rey surmised she was in an area called Tøyen. In comparison with where the hospital was, it seemed she’d run a good few kilometers to get there. Importantly, according to the map, there was a subway station with an accompanying mall. She’d get something to eat there and then catch the metro to Grønland—and Arne Huakaas.

  Rey pushed from the frozen ground, legs complaining at the effort. She fished out her capecitabine and popped a couple of pills into her mouth. Anxious not to taste the vile chemicals, she swallowed without water. Her mouth dry, the medicine became lodged in her throat. Rey swallowed over and over, her esophagus burning until, eventually, she felt the chalky bullets plop into her empty stomach. She definitely needed to eat something before those pills came back up with a vengeance. With a renewed will, Rey readjusted her waterlogged coat on her shoulders and trudged forward. The subway station was about a mile away, so definitely walkable. Still, not taking any chances, Rey stuck to the neighborhood streets, and stalked the edge of the botanical gardens instead of marching a much straighter line along the motorway.

  In many ways, the streets there were similar to those in her childhood neighborhood. The apartment buildings had been erected in the sixties, and were twenty-stories high, with small single-glazed windows—providing the only light to filter into the tiny one-bedroom apartments. These cramped boxes housed entire families. The only difference that Rey could see between Tøyen and Honicknowle was her neighbors had been extraordinarily white—ethnic minorities had really been a minority. Here in Tøyen, every face in every window was a person of color, crammed in like chickens in a coop. The blinds and net curtains twitched as they peered out, curious of the skinny white woman walking in the rain through a bad district.

  In the hazy morning light, a young man with tight-fitting blue jeans, extraordinarily white sneakers, and shrouded in a massively oversized hooded sweater, lumbered directly toward Rey. Someone wandering the streets dressed like that, at this time, could not be good. Either coming home from a night out or up early for a meet—and not the corporate kind. She could likely take him, but an infraction now was not in her best interest. Besides, she was weary, cold, injured, and hungry.

  Rey stuffed her earbuds in, pretending to listen to something, and then crossed the street all the while keeping one eye on the teen. He passed by, the soles of his trainers scuffing the pavement. Rey kept her gaze over her shoulder until satisfied he was far enough away not to be able to circle back without her hearing him, then turned back to her path and kept moving.

  Only, it had been a trap. Forcing her to the other side of the street was what he’d wanted, right into the clutches of his teammate waiting in a blind alley that splintered off the main drag.

  An arm snaked around her throat and a hand pressed against the back of her head. A rear-naked chokehold squeezed on her carotid arteries. Despite knowing this attack, one taught over and over in her Krav Maga class, Rey’s mind blanked. How had the instructor told her to escape this? All she could remember was she had about ten seconds before she’d pass out. She’d counted at least three as she was dragged back into the gloomy side street.

  The other youth ran down the path, his silhouette crisp against the harsh white sky. It was enough to jolt Rey from sinking into oblivion. She reached back and felt for her attacker’s fingers, then grabbed at his pinky and yanked as hard as she could. The boy’s yelp almost drowned out the sickening crack as his finger dislocated. He released her, clutching his hand. Rey spun into him and thrust the heel of her palm into his nose over and over, blood spraying both her and him. He garbled something in Norwegian, but Rey ignored him and jammed her shin against his scrotum as hard as she could. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she felt it pop. Either way, he went down squealing.

  Her sudden reversal of fortune had made the first teen slow his advance. Now, he stared wide-eyed at his partner who lay on the cold ground, whining like a kicked dog. He barked something at Rey, and although she didn’t understand the words, the six-inch blade he’d produced from his pocket spoke volumes. He came fast and thrust the knife toward her gut. Rey bent at the waist, drawing her stomach away from the strike. Simultaneously, she chopped her left forearm hard at his knife-wielding arm, while launching out her right fist and pummeled him in the teeth. She seized the moment of shock and clamped his knife-wielding hand to her chest, disabling the weapon. With her free hand, Rey struck out at his face, throat, neck—anything fleshy and exposed. She yanked on his trapped arm, pressed against his elbow and attempted to force him to the ground, but her frail form lacked the strength.

  The attacker punched Rey hard in the liver. All the air left her lungs, and a bolt of anguish rocketed through her abdomen. Rey released her grip and crumpled to the ground next to the other assailant, who still lay in the fetal position, whimpering. Her earbuds popped out and must have tapped the ground in just the right way because immediately she heard a song, tinny and weak, emanating from them. “Purpose For Pain” by Scott Stapp. The hard guitar, heavy drums, a
nd choir-based rock anthem drove renewed strength into Rey’s tired limbs. She rolled to her back, turtle style, her legs raised and ready to kick should the attacker come again.

  He did, swinging his knife at her feet.

  Rey dodged the slices and kicked at his knees.

  The teen lunged forward, slipped between Rey’s legs and fell on top of her. He raised the knife high, poised to bring it down with brutal force. Searching desperately for a weapon, Rey’s finger grazed a nearby red house brick. She grabbed it up and swung it in a practiced arc, striking him in the temple—the sweet spot—just like she did with her victims. Her attacker folded like wet paper, dropped the knife, and sank face-first into her chest. His dead weight pressed down on Rey, squeezing what little air she had left from her lungs.

  In the dark of the alley, Rey lay there listening to the whining of the man with a burst scrotum against the background of Scott’s song. Her own labored breathing washed back and forth in her ears, reminding her of a time when she would listen for the ocean in a seashell.

  The song came to an end.

  Rey jerked to life and pushed the man off to the wet pavement. She collected the earbuds and stuffed them into her pocket while surveying the scene. Blood had seeped from the dead guy’s head and pooled around his nose, while Mr. Busted Scrotum didn’t seem to be able to move at all.

  “Shit,” she said.

  None of this was good. Her plan—five years of flawless execution—was unraveling, one mistake after another screwing with everything for which she’d worked so hard. A beat-up thug wasn’t the issue. The dead one was. That would mean more investigations. More cops, and more roadblocks. The more important question was, could she leave the other guy alive now? A witness? Not if she wanted to get away in time.

  Rey stepped over to the moaning teen and with her foot, pushed him onto his back. His knees remained tucked to his chest, but he opened his eyes just enough to look up at her.

  Rey studied him, weighing his character. He’d strangled her. Maybe it was to rob her, rape or even kill her. If it had been another woman, the outcome would have been different. He’d have committed his crime and probably gone on to do worse. He was the type of teen who would grow up to become a wife or child beater. Just like Joe. Killing him would do the world a favor. This wasn’t about Rey any longer. This little punk was now part of her overall plan. Another deserving prick. She picked up the brick again and held it high. The scared teen turned away, offering Rey exactly the spot she needed—the side of his head.

  “Picked the wrong one to mess with today, asshole,” Rey said, then swung the brick with all her might.

  His skull caved, blood spurting from a gap between the bone and brick. The young man gurgled for a brief moment before becoming still.

  Rey’s shoulders heaved, the bloodied brick heavy in her hand. She needed to lose the weapon and make it to Metro Mall. Google said it opened at 09:00 a.m. Her phone said it was 08:37 now. By the time she’d walked all the way there, the station would be open. Rey stuffed the brick inside her coat—knowing she couldn’t leave it at the scene—and poked her head around the corner of the alley. All clear. She stepped out and then quickly marched in the direction of the station.

  Rey arrived three minutes after nine, and the station was already busting at the seams with locals and a healthy dose of tourists. She remembered that there was some fascination with a thirty-six-foot LED screen installed as part of a renovation project for poorer areas in Oslo. The monstrosity attracted the foreigners as they passed through one of the busiest metro hubs in the city. Perhaps the screen boosted sales in the nearby mall, but overall, its sphere of influence was limited—as evidenced by Rey’s recent encounter. She kept her head low and scanned the windows looking for what she wanted—clothes.

  She ducked into the nearest shop. The price tags were cheap, and right now with limited cash, that’s all that mattered. Shuffling past a few patrons, one hand still concealing the brick under her coat, Rey scooped up a new pair of jeans, pleather boots, a T-shirt, sweater, short jacket, and wool hat. Awkwardly, she carried the bundle in one arm to the cashier and dumped them on the counter, careful to never lift her chin from her chest, hat pulled down as far as she could without blinding herself. She hadn’t checked for cameras, but it was a good bet they were somewhere in the store.

  The rotund, female cashier considered Rey with eyes that held both suspicion and sympathy. Rey had to admit she appeared thoroughly disheveled, bloodied—homeless even. She just gave a weak smile.

  As the woman rang up the items, Rey noted this funny little store also sold cigarettes. She pointed to the wall behind the cashier. After a back and forth of frustrated sign language, jabbing of fingers and shaking heads to say, “not that one, that one,” Rey managed to convey she needed a pack of ten Marlboros, matches, and lighter fluid. Once she’d paid, and without waiting for the change, she grabbed her purchases and sped out the door.

  At a public bathroom and then inside a cubicle, Rey locked the door and quickly stripped down. For the first time, she could really see the extent of the bruising from the car accident. Her hip was a mottled blue-brown mess. She cursed the detective again. After struggling to remove the sodden garments, now garnished with blood, Rey slipped on the fresh new clothes. She wasn’t going to win any fashion prizes and right now that wasn’t the point. But somehow, she longed for one of her cashmere sweaters or pairs of designer jeans. Perhaps a pair of Louboutin’s.

  Rey shook her head. What, so she could stab Huakaas in the eye with the stiletto?

  Time to move.

  She stuffed the old clothes and the brick into a carrier bag, unlocked the cubicle, and stepped out. Satisfied to find that she was in the clear, Rey pulled on the new wool hat and took a deep breath. She exited the bathroom and circumnavigated the outside of the mall until she reached the back of the complex where deliveries were made and garbage was taken away. Men in overalls marched to and fro, yelling things that sounded aggravated but were likely just men barking instructions and growling warnings of heavy items now being thrown out of the trucks and onto the platforms. Rey would likely not be seen.

  As confidently as possible, she strolled up to one of the large garbage containers, pushed back the lid, and dumped the bag with the soiled clothes and bloodied brick inside. Then, she squeezed the entire bottle of lighter fluid into the container, lit a match and dropped it in. The fuel ignited immediately. Rey slid the lid shut and walked away, hands stuffed in her pockets and keeping her head low. That makeshift furnace, the fire trapped inside and adding heat upon heat should be enough to destroy any DNA or fingerprints. Hell, it’s how she’d disposed of the Kubb and overalls after killing her last victim.

  Rey had made it to the end of one of the truck trailers when the explosion happened. She instinctively ducked and covered her head at the resounding bang, which was followed by a series of loud clangs. A brief glance over her shoulder revealed the lid had blown off completely and clattered about on the concrete. Fire cracked and thick clouds of smoke billowed from the open garbage container.

  There must have been something inside. Aerosol cans maybe?

  “Stupid, Rey,” she said under her breath. “You’re getting sloppy. Get your head together.”

  Delivery men ran from all sides to inspect the commotion. One was already fighting the fire with a small handheld extinguisher. Rey quickened her steps and rounded the corner, back to the front of the mall and the entrance to the metro station. Now, she just needed to home in on Arne Huakaas. If she timed it right, he’d be dead and she’d be long gone before anyone knew what had happened.

  Oslo, Norway, 2016

  Sitting on a wholly uncomfortable couch, waiting patiently for the wife of victim number four—Boris Jakobson—to finish making tea in the kitchen, Huakaas studied the stark living room. Egg-shell white walls, two simple metallic-silver reindeer on a lonely dresser. Dried panicles of white pyramidal saxifrage flowers in a vase on the windowsill. Former Mrs. Ja
kobson—now using her maiden name, Peterson—was his third visit of the day. He’d spent the morning in the company of the wives of victims one and three. Wife two wasn’t available.

  Arne was working a hunch.

  Georgina had actually put him on to it. Her words scrawled onto the bedsheet. Men reap what they sow. Not people. Men. In today’s social justice, can’t-be-sure-if-you’re-using-the-correct-pronoun world, which thoroughly confused the hell out of Huakaas, it seemed so unlikely her words were a misnomer. She scrawled it in Latin to show off how intelligent she was. No, she meant exactly what she wrote. She took issue with men.

  And maybe that had been the link all along, the thing staring him in the face. Had he been blinded by rage for Aslaug that he’d wasted so many years looking for another common denominator—mutual friends, associations, clubs, jobs, neighborhoods? In the end, it was obvious these victims were murdered simply because they were white, fifty-something-year-old men. Men like him. Men who were brought up a certain way, who viewed the world through a particular lens. Men whose values were no longer valid in today’s society. Maybe who they were was enough to earn them a death sentence from a pissed off person. Perhaps, even a woman.

  The rattling of China flatware drew Huakaas from his thoughts.

  Mrs. Peterson emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with cups, saucers, a teapot, and an entire Kvæfjordkake. The scene reminded him of both his mother and Aslaug. The smell of meringue, vanilla cream, and almond-stuffed sponge cake had so often wafted from his own kitchen, once upon a time. This woman didn’t have the grace of his mother or Aslaug, though. Peterson was a wiry woman, fragile-looking and a little shaky—yet there was something spritely in her eyes. A fire, a joy at some unspoken secret held only in her heart.

  He’d seen it twice this morning already.