The Family Man

by Amy Cross

"No," I reply, pulling the trigger several more times. "This isn't -" As the words leave my mouth, Claire manages to shift her weight a little, and seconds later she slams her knee up into my crotch, creating a crunching sensation that knocks me down to the floor. I try to get up, but the pain is too strong and I almost black out as I struggle to haul myself up onto a nearby armchair. By the time I'm able to turn around, I see that Claire is already limping toward the front door.

  "Claire!" I call out, with more blood pouring from my mouth. "Sweetheart! Come back!" Getting to my feet, I hurry after her, and somehow I manage to catch her before she can get the front door open. Pulling her back toward me, I spin her around and then slam her head against the wall once, then twice, and finally a third time until I feel her body fall limp in my arms. Letting go, I watch as she slumps down to the floor, and I take a step back as I realize that despite the slight complication, I've managed to keep her from getting away.

  I stand in silence for a moment, staring down at her motionless body.

  "Why did you have to fight?" I ask breathlessly, with blood still pouring from my mouth. "Why the fuck couldn't you just make this easier for all of us?"

  Part Six

  Hunted

  Katherine Shaw

  "Hold up!" Jason shouts, sounding a little panicked. "Katherine! You're actually kinda hurting me!"

  "Deal with it," I reply breathlessly, riding him as fast as I can. All I want right now is an orgasm, and I'm damn well not gonna stop until I get one. "I don't care if your fucking dick falls off," I continue, leaning over him as sweat drips from my forehead and I continue to grind against him. "This is what I pay you for, right?"

  "Yeah, sure," he replies hesitantly, "but -"

  "Aren't you supposed to at least fake something?" I continue, feeling the first tingling sensation in my clitoris. "I mean, can't you pretend to be enjoying yourself?"

  "I guess -"

  "Never mind," I add, shifting position a little as the orgasm begins to build. "It doesn't matter. Just stay hard and I'll do the rest."

  "Would you -"

  "Shut up!" I shout, closing my eyes and focusing on the orgasm that finally, after almost half an hour, seems to be reluctantly offering itself to me. As I continue to ride Jason, I feel a kind of harsh, blunt pleasure starting to grow, and I hold my breath as I desperately try to bring myself to a climax. For a moment, I feel as if it might be fading away again, so I push harder and harder, still holding my breath, until I damn well force the orgasm kicking and screaming into the light, and I finally let out a gasp as it hits me.

  For several minutes after it's over, I stay where I am, with Jason still inside me. I'm still breathless, and to be honest, that wasn't exactly the greatest fuck I've ever had, but it was necessary. I was about to go mad.

  "So how was that for you, honey?" he asks eventually.

  "Honey?" I reply with a raised eyebrow.

  "Calm down," he says with a smile. "It was a joke." He pauses, and after a moment his gaze moves to my scarred chest.

  "It wasn't funny," I say, climbing off and sitting on the side of the bed. I'm still a little out of breath, but at least some of the tension has left my body. Jason might not be much good for conversation, but at least I always know I can get an orgasm when I call him up.

  "You mind if I finish myself?" he asks after a moment.

  I turn and see that he's begun to peel the rubber off his penis.

  "No," I say, trying to hide the sense of disgust in my voice. "If you want to do that, you can wait until I've left."

  "You don't wanna give me a hand?" he replies with a smile. "Or a mouth?"

  "Jesus," I mutter, getting to my feet and heading over to the chair in the corner of the motel room, where I tossed my clothes earlier. "What you do on your own time is your own business," I continue, starting to get dressed, "but I'm the one who's paying you for this session, remember? You can jerk off all you want once I'm gone."

  "Would it bother you?" he asks.

  "What?" I reply, barely even paying attention.

  "If I did that," he continues. "After you're gone, I mean."

  "Makes no difference to me," I reply as I slip my shirt back on, before suddenly a horrifying thought strikes me and I turn to him. "You don't mean... You wouldn't be thinking about me while you're doing it, would you?"

  He stares at me.

  "Whatever," I tell him, feeling a shiver pass through my body. "Do what you want, but just... not when I'm around." As I continue to get dressed, however, I become increasingly aware that Jason is staring at me; he usually starts cleaning himself up while I'm getting ready to leave, but this time something seems to be fascinating him. "What?" I snap eventually, turning to him. "Are you storing up images for later?"

  "No," he replies, "it's just..." He pauses. "I've never seen you quite so angry. I mean, I've seen you when you're angry, but this is the first time you've looked like you're set to really lose your temper."

  "I had a bad day at work," I tell him, feeling a little uncomfortable with even this small amount of intimacy. Still, Jason's the only person I can actually talk to right now, and so I find myself contemplating the unthinkable. "What would you say," I continue after a moment, "if I called you... a few mean names and again? I mean, you wouldn't completely overreact, would you?"

  He stares at me.

  "Would you?"

  He doesn't reply.

  "I mean," I add with a sigh, "it's not my fault if other people don't have a sense of humor, is it?"

  "Did someone get pissed off at you?"

  I take a deep breath.

  "You might have overstepped a line," he continues. "Just apologize."

  "Never."

  "Why not?"

  "Because then he's won," I point out. "I'm not a bully. I mean, you know me. Fairly well, anyway. I say things, jokes and stuff like that, but it's only to provoke a reaction. He knows it was all just banter, but he's twisting it around so he can make me look bad."

  "But you did say mean things to him, right?"

  "I gave him the ammunition," I continue, before sighing again. "He set the trap, but it's my fault I blundered into it."

  "You can be a little sharp sometimes," he replies. "Maybe people don't always know it's a joke. Just apologize to this guy and hope that he accepts it, and then be a little more careful next time. I know you're not an asshole, Katherine, but some people are a little more sensitive and not everyone has your kind of view of the world. It's not easy to offend you -"

  "It's impossible to offend me," I tell him.

  "Right. Sure. But other people aren't like that. They have these things called beliefs, and values, and if you cross those, sometimes it turns out to be a bad thing." He pauses. "Seriously, Katherine. There are people who actually care about that kind of thing. They're like fucking aliens, I know, but... Everyone cares about something. Even you."

  I shake my head.

  "Well then you're a one off," he continues, "but if you're gonna walk among us mere mortals, you need to occasionally tone things down a bit. For your own sake. Otherwise, you'll make it easier for other people to cause trouble for you."

  "Fine," I mutter, pulling some cash from my pocket and placing it on the nightstand, before heading to the door. "Sometimes I forget that the world's full of assholes who can't wait to be offended so they can get on their moral high-horse. I guess I'll just have to watch what I say sometimes." Opening the door, I step out into the corridor before turning back to him and once again feeling as if I've been a little too open with. "You were mildly useful today," I add, "but this really was the last time I'm gonna call you. From now on, I'll be playing the field a little and trying out some new guys. It's nothing personal. Thanks for the memories."

  "Uh-huh," he says with a smile.

  "I mean it this time," I tell him.

  "I'm sure you do," he replies, still sitting on the bed, with his erection still looking hard and proud. "See you when I see you."

  I pause for a
moment. "Do you think I have an ego problem?" I ask finally.

  "Um..." He pauses. "Yeah? Kinda. I mean, I don't know if it's a problem, but it's definitely... pretty big."

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but finally I pull the door shut and head along the corridor. That little respite with Jason was just what I needed, and now I've finally got my head straight. Jordan Carver thinks he's backed me into a corner, and he's right about one thing: I guess I shouldn't have been quite so blunt with some of the jokes I made. That doesn't mean, however, that I'm going to just roll over and let him walk all over me. As I hit the button for the elevator, I check my watch and see that it's getting late. I have to get to the hospital, and then I figure I'll spend the rest of the day doing some work of my own. I've got all the maps I need for my little side-project, so now the hard slog needs to begin.

  I'll apologize to Jordan Carver tomorrow, and I'll make it seem convincing and heartfelt, but it's only a means to an end. By the time this case is over, he's going to realize that he crossed the wrong person.

  John

  Why does this keep happening to me?

  As I pour more gasoline onto the kitchen floor, I can't help but reflect upon the fact that my life seems to be falling apart. Or rather, my lives. Until this week, I was able to keep everything running smoothly: I had my three wives, my three families, and my business operation, and I had relatively little difficulty when it came to juggling all these different elements. Since the disaster at the Staten facility and the escape of all those women, however, everything has begun to collapse. First, I had to kill Sharon and the two children I fathered with her, and now I'm pouring petrol over the bodies of Barbara and Claire. Once I've burned this house down, I'll have only Susan left.

  Poor, dull, sexless Susan. The least favorite of my wives.

  I guess there's a certain irony to the situation.

  Realizing that the gasoline can is getting lighter, I decide to use the last few liters to make doubly sure that the bodies burn. I head over to the middle of the room, where I've piled Barbara and Claire together, and I slowly pour the remaining gasoline over their corpses. The whole house stinks now, and although I've become familiar with the stench in recent days, it's still hard to keep from vomiting. Somehow, though, I've learned over the years to put my emotions to the back of my mind and focus on the task at hand.

  After a moment, the last of the gasoline dribbles from the can, splattering noisily onto Claire's shoulder, and finally it's done.

  I stand in silence for a few minutes, until I realize that there's nothing left to do.

  Placing the canister on the kitchen table, I reach into my pocket and take out a box of matches. For a fraction of a second, it occurs to me that I could just light a match right now, drop it to the floor, and end everything. I'm sure there'd be pain, but it wouldn't last too long and at least the longer agony would be over. I certainly deserve to die, and there's definitely a certain attraction to the idea that I could just stop running and relax. The fall of the burning match would only last a second or two, but it would be a moment of absolute peace and calm; I'd be able to forget all my worries and just breathe.

  But no. Suicide would be a failure. After everything I've done, I'm not going to -

  Suddenly something strikes my leg, not hard enough to knock me over but certainly enough to make me step back. Looking down, I see that Claire has somehow managed to cling to life, and she's dazedly reaching out toward me. I stand in stunned silence for a moment as I realize that this nightmare isn't over. Glancing at the table, I spot one of the carving knives and try to decide whether I should finish her off or just head outside and light the fire. The thought of burning her to death fills me with dread, but at the same time I know that I'd get over the sorrow fairly quickly.

  "Stop..." she whispers as she starts pulling herself from under her mother's corpse.

  Turning and walking quickly out of the kitchen, I grab my briefcase from the hallway and set out into the driveway. My heart is racing: I'd been planning to wait a few hours until darkness settled and then light the fire, but now I realize that I don't have that luxury. Still, I should be able to get away from the scene of the crime without too many problems, so I head around to the rear of the house and stop once I reach the spot where the line of gasoline ends. Glancing over my shoulder, I double-check that no-one can see me, and then I set the briefcase down before taking out the matchbox, selecting a match, and striking it against the side. The flame flickers into life and I pause for a heartbeat before leaning down and letting the match fall down onto the line of gasoline.

  Within seconds, the match has ignited a line of fire running straight up to the house and through the back door. It takes only a few more seconds for the whole lower level of the building to light up, as flames quickly take hold and rip through the kitchen. I step back, and a moment later the kitchen window shatters. By now, the bodies are undoubtedly burning, and this time there can be no doubt that Claire is gone. Her pain hopefully didn't last too long, and as I wait a couple more seconds I realize that it must finally be over, and that means it's time for me to get the hell out of here.

  I turn to run.

  And that's when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a dark shape climbing over the fence and dropping down into the next-door garden. It's only a brief glimpse, but I know for certain that I saw someone, and although I'm poised to get moving, I can't help but wonder if somehow, through some colossal stroke of bad luck, I might have been spotted as I burned the house. For a few seconds, I'm frozen to the spot, completely unable to even contemplate the possibility that I need to kill again, but finally I hurry across the garden, grab hold of the top of the fence and pull myself up so that I can look over.

  Claire.

  I can barely believe it, but she's hobbling across the garden, soaked in gasoline but somehow still alive. My first thought is to call out to her, but finally I realize that a better bet would be to sneak up on her and finish her once and for all. The house is burning fast and I can already hear shouts in the distance, but Claire seems to be heading away from the commotion, which I guess means only one thing: she's terrified that I might still be around, and she'd rather hide for a while until she's certain that I'm gone.

  Letting go of the fence, I hurry to the back of the garden and use the old potting table as a means to climb up and clamber over into the next garden; missing my footing, I tumble down hard against the lawn with such force that I'm momentarily dazed. Getting to my feet, with my briefcase still in my hand, I run across the lawn, determined to cut Claire off in the next garden. I just have to hope that no-one spots me in the meantime, and as I climb over another fence, I can't help but think that this entire situation has crossed into the realm of the absurd.

  Landing hard on the next lawn, I scramble to my feet and race over to the low fence at the far end. I climb over with ease and make my around the side of one of the houses, before making climbing over another fence. I'm starting to wonder which way Claire went, and as I hurry from garden to garden, it occurs to me that perhaps I should have just chased after her and killed her when I had the opportunity. Then again, she probably would have screamed. Better still, I should have made sure she was dead the first time, instead of allowing my sentimental side to dictate the course of action. I should be well on my way from the scene of the crime by now, but instead I'm being forced to hurry from garden to garden, desperately looking for my injured daughter while our family home burns in the background.

  "Fuck!" I mutter as I climb over another fence and find, yet again, that there's no sign of Claire. For a moment, it occurs to me that perhaps I should call out to her, but then I realize that I should be careful not to give her any kind of warning. Still, I have no idea where she's got to, and right now my biggest fear is that she might come out of hiding and run for help. As long as she's terrified of me, there's a chance that she'll stay hidden, in which case I can still find her.

  I stand completely still for a momen
t, listening out for any sign of her, but the only sound comes from the burning building in the distance.

  Sighing, I realize that I need to act fast. Simply turning and running isn't an option; that girl knows too much about me, and I can't let her get away. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cellphone and realize, with a faint smile, that I might as well give it a try. I bring up Claire's number and hit the button to call her, and to my surprise I realize, just a few moments later, that I can hear a ring-tone coming from the other side of the garden. The ring-tone falls silent, but I'm pretty sure it was coming from one of the bushes nearby. I guess the dumb little bitch thought she could hide from me.

  Seconds later, Claire's gasoline-soaked form rushes out from behind a tree, making a dash for freedom; before she can get more than a couple of steps, I'm able to grab her by the neck and pull her down to the ground, and I clamp a hand over her mouth just in time to stop her screams for help.

  Katherine Shaw

  "Is this really necessary?" I ask, as the scanner slowly hums and whirrs its way past my body for the third time today. "I mean, it's not like the cancer has gone anywhere."

  The radiologist smiles politely.

  "I know it's your job and all," I continue, trying and failing to hide my irritation, "but seriously, is there any need to keep on looking inside me? We all know what's happening, so why not just let it take its course?"

  Checking one of the dials, the radiologist merely continues to smile. It's almost as if she finds me amusing; either that, or pathetic.

  "I guess you need to keep yourself busy," I add, "so you can bill the insurance companies. I mean, that's what this is about, right? You run a scan, send a bill for a few thousand dollars, and everyone's happy. Meanwhile, I carry on dying, and the bills keep racking up."

  "Dr. Gibbs wants to check how your pill regimen is going," the radiologist says after a moment, still smiling even though she's focusing on the screen. "If we can determine the effect of your pills, it might be possible to tailor the regimen a little more closely to your needs."