by Stuart Keane
And then, it smiled.
Goodright swallowed. What the fuck?
She could do nothing as the figure leant down and tore Trent's arm from his body with a sickening crunch. The ripped limp sprayed dark blood and flopped into the air, the wrist gripped by the attacker, freed of its natural mooring. Trent howled in agony as the creature tossed the mutilated appendage aside.
Goodright took a step forward, hesitant. "Hey!"
But the creature continued on its rampage.
It tore Trent's other arm from the socket, the sound reverberating off the walls with stark finality. More blood sprayed in a swift arc, the sound unnaturally loud in the echoing environment. Another howl of terror and agony pierced Goodright's eardrums. The figure turned and threw the arm in her direction. The limb sailed over her head and slapped the wall.
Goodright lifted the Glock and fired.
Three tight rounds slammed into the creature, it's back exploding with a fine black mist and chunks of ragged flesh. It staggered forward, almost stumbling over Trent.
The gunshots rang in Goodright's ears, knocking her off balance. She held a hand to her ear, groaning, and surveyed the damage through throbbing eyes. She realised that Trent was now bleeding profusely. Bright blood coated the slick concrete as it quickly seeping outwards from his prone body.
Why did you shoot?
That noise would have been heard for miles.
I had no choice.
It would have killed him.
The creature wobbled and turned, its full attention now on Goodright. The lopsided smile was still present, hindered and twisted by its broken face and molten skin. It reminded her of a stunted grimace, a sneer of pure hatred. The jaundiced white orbs, the edges flecked with bloody veins, gazed at the woman, still watching her. It stepped over Trent, ignoring him. Goodright felt a small pang of victory.
It was premature.
The creature opened its mouth and howled.
Goodright dropped her Glock and slapped her hands to her ears. The cacophonic sound pierced her brain like a thousand knives driving home, and trembled through every inch of her body. She could feel the horrific sound deep within; sense it, and the sound prickled rigid gooseflesh onto her arms and legs. She felt her hair standing on end, felt it screaming for help. For seven long seconds, it crippled her, rendered her useless.
And then it was gone.
Silence returned, gushing into her ears with welcome relief.
Goodright sighed and relaxed a fraction. Bending down, she retrieved her weapon with a trembling hand. A warmth trickled down the side of her neck, and she realised her left ear was bleeding. She winced as she wiped the blood away and glanced at the figure.
Three figures now stood over Trent, who was blathering away, oblivious to his plight.
Where the hell did they come from?
As her senses returned to normal, she became aware of a subtle noise, one that seemed to grow and increase with every second. At first, it was nothing but a melodic hum, but slowly developed into a slow grinding and a booming thunder.
She realised what it was.
Footsteps.
Hundreds of footsteps.
She noticed flickering silhouettes on the up ramp, and dancing shadows on the stretching wall behind the figures that stood before her. The blank surface projected the presence of hundreds of elongated heads and wide shoulders, and long splayed legs, skewed images and shadows distorted by bright light and the unnatural angles of the concrete structure that surrounded her.
She eyed the figures and realised they were watching and waiting.
Waiting for back-up.
The smile on their faces said it all.
You can't take them all.
Get out of there.
Now.
Goodright took one final look at Trent, swallowed her pride, and ran.
TEN
"Here's your coffee," the man said, placing a large china mug on the table. He stepped away, weary eyes forward, and awaited further instructions. He placed his quivering hands behind his back and stood up straight lest he seem intimidating or unappreciative or anything that wasn’t entirely grateful. He'd made that amateur mistake in the past, and wasn't keen to revisit it. He waited, breathing slowly, the tension in the office palpable.
The young man drank his coffee, blowing the steam from the surface. A white mist billowed across the room. Slurping, he licked his wet lips. "That's great coffee. Excellent job. You’re excused."
"Thank you, sir."
The man waved him off. He didn’t require the niceties on this occasion.
His associate stepped forward. "How do we proceed with the man in the container, sir?"
"I wouldn’t worry. He'll talk when he's ready. They always do."
"About what, sir?"
"To reveal that would ruin the fun, don’t you think?"
The man nodded. "Yes." He stepped back into the shadows.
"Yes, they always talk. Human nature is a fragile little thing. He’ll miss his loved ones, his cherished possessions, and his free time. It'll break him. They always cave in the end. We can wait; we have all the time in the world."
*****
David clicked the pen with his thumb, over and over, monotonous and regular. His detached eyes gazed at Melanie, an obsessive yearning hidden deep behind the bitter anger and aching hurt that resided there.
Melanie watched him like a hawk, every iota of her chilled skin alight with terror and fear. She folded her arms across her chest; her legs curled away from David, preventing him from any potential sneak peeks or glimpses, anything slightly intimate that may incite the sexual compulsion that existed within him, a compulsion she'd discovered early in their sessions.
Right now, she feared for her life. She didn’t know the details of the unknown chaos outside of the office, but she knew what was happening before her, inside the office, and none of it was positive. She had to keep him onside until she knew more.
She steadied her gaze and uttered, "What do you want from me?"
David chuckled. "Well, isn't that the key question. I feel I only have one shot at that. However, you don’t get to ask the questions. I'm in the chair, not you. I don’t have one shot, I have as many as I desire."
"Okay," she said.
"Let's start with an easy one."
"If you wish."
"Oh, I do wish. So very much. I'm going to enjoy this immensely. And just so you know, if you lie to me, and I will know if you lie to me, I have no qualms about re-breaking your beautiful little nose. Understand?"
Melanie nodded. Said nothing.
"I feel I should create a base line, you know, ease into things."
"This isn't a lie detector test," Melanie chided.
"Yes, but the conversation, where simple and delicious for me, could offend or potentially destroy any remaining good feeling you have towards me. I have some tact; I'm not a complete animal."
"Don’t worry. I stopped liking you long ago. The glances, the comments, the excuses for intimate contact? I knew what you were doing. And after what you did to Karen? There's nothing mutual between us. You're a murderer, pure and simple."
"You have me all wrong, doctor. I'm not a murderer per se—and yes, I suppose my recent actions could cast me in that particular mould, but my profession, and my specialty, is something a lot worse." He ran the tip of his thumb across his bottom lip.
"You're pretty proud to be a rapist, aren't you?"
David leaned forward, a sly smile on his face. He interlaced his fingers and placed his elbows on his knees. "Well done, doctor. I'm impressed."
"You shouldn’t be. I'm good at my job," she said, bluntly. "Bloody good."
"Oh, I never had any doubts about that. That was pretty clear early on. Nonetheless, I gave you no hint of such activity during our sessions. You're right, of course. Smart cookie. My, my. This is a turn up for the books."
"What I can’t figure out is this. Why did she let you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Thea. She let you rape her, didn’t she? On numerous occasions. It's the reason you're here for sexual harassment and not in prison. She didn’t want to end your … whatever it was, let's call it a dalliance for the purpose of this chat, she just wanted to give you a kick in the arse, to warn you that things were escalating to a level of discomfort."
"Two for two, doctor. Again, colour me impressed."
"You think you’re so impressive. You think you hide it well. I could smell it on you when you entered the office," she lied. She swallowed; hoping her deception would go unnoticed. Playing to his ego seemed to be working.
Careful. Don’t push him too far.
Don’t push him over the edge.
We'll see.
"I assume Thea was somewhat of a lost soul," Melanie continued.
"Is that a question?"
"No, more an assessment of my conclusions. Rape is a touchy subject at the best of times, but for a woman to partake willingly, which in theory, means it doesn’t classify as rape, is rare. She gave you consent to sexually assault her, and where the line is for that is very grey at the best of times, it's still consent. You call yourself a rapist, yet you didn’t actually rape anyone, did you?"
"Easy there, doctor. You're judging again."
"Am I wrong?"
"The answer isn't that simple, doctor."
"I believe it is. You're not in prison because all you were doing was partaking in an elaborate fantasy that came disguised as the forbidden R word. They couldn’t nail you for the more excessive crime because it didn’t actually happen. Thea wanted it, and you wanted it. That's a sexual relationship and possibly an actual relationship. You're not a rapist, you're a fraud."
"Three for three. However, you missed out the one important fact."
Melanie swallowed. She adjusted her rump, poised for movement. She knew what was coming. "Which is?"
"Thea is a unique case, and it put me in here with your beautiful self. A stroke of immense luck, in my books anyway. We had something special, something that will probably never recover from these legal issues."
"Yes, that’s pretty clear."
"She was unique; she had a passion for the boundary-breaking, for the unknown, it gave me a way out, a way to escape my sordid past. However, that didn’t work. I tried to go straight, to live like a normal person, and it blew up in my face. The courts and my cunt of a boss stuck their fucking oar in. So what makes you think I want to go through that again?"
"I don’t know," she said, honestly.
"My past is what made me the person I am today. It’s what put me on the path to meeting you, the path to stabbing your receptionist multiple times and feeding her to those monsters outside in order to provide us some one-on-one time. And it taught me that, despite my attempts to try, I can’t be a normal man. I tried to go … how do mobsters put it, legit? That's the word. And it failed."
"You're hardly Al Capone, are you?"
"You're missing the point, doctor. You're asking the wrong question."
Melanie tensed. "I am?"
"You shouldn’t be asking about Thea, you already know enough about her to assess that part of my life."
"Okay…"
David rolled up his sleeve and revealed a tattoo on his forearm. Several tally marks, neatly composed in two organised lines, three sets of five in each. He held the tattoo up for Melanie, and gave her ample time to count. He watched her gaze move to the right, fraction by fraction, saw the calculation occurring behind those beautiful green eyes.
She gulped. "Thirty? Is that significant?" she said, already grasping the idea behind the ink.
"You shouldn’t be asking about Thea. You should be asking about the other thirty women who didn’t live to tell their story. Thirty beautiful women who fell foul of my roguish charms and paid for it with their lives. I don’t believe in leaving witnesses, and if Thea has taught me anything, I'm not about to start."
Melanie said nothing.
He smiled. "It seems right that you should get to know the women who paved the way for you. You're special, unique, one of a kind. I haven't craved someone in such a long time; I almost forgot how that felt. Well, until I met you."
Melanie nodded, fighting the fear within. "You don’t want to do this. Nothing good can come from it."
David chuckled, tapping his arm with a finger. "You called me a murderer. You're right, but I exist to do more than take lives. There's a special spot for you on this arm, and I intend to enjoy the sordid memory of it. Melanie at number thirty-one. It has a ring to it, don't you think?"
*****
Morgan climbed into the van and sagged onto one of the rear benches. Harrison slid the door shut and climbed into the front of the vehicle. Bruce looked at the strange woman, confused by the bloodstains on her clothes, and poked his head between the front seats. Harrison was drumming the steering wheel with his wide palms, an anxious look on his face. His steely gaze scrutinised the front of the mall. His lips moved silently, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.
"Where's Naomi?" Bruce uttered, a strained urgency to his question. He glanced at the new arrival once more. "And who's this?"
"Morgan, this is Bruce. Bruce, Morgan."
"We came all the way out here for one person?"
Harrison stared into the rear-view mirror and shook his head, saying nothing. The young boy caught the subtle glance and swallowed, the implications hitting home. He slumped backwards and parked his rump on the bench opposite Morgan. Her eyes were aimed downwards, studying the floor.
Harrison looked at his watch. "C'mon, Goodright. Get that arse of yours in gear."
Then, a gunshot rang out. Loud, echoing.
Followed by another, and another. A triple tap, three shots fired.
"What the fuck was that?" Bruce queried.
Harrison cocked his shotgun, ready for a fight. "Goodright isn't alone."
*****
Goodright cursed her luck beneath her ragged breath, the words nothing but nonsense as her brain worked overtime to navigate her back to the entrance of the mall. Her equilibrium shot by the terrifying screams of the creatures and a busted eardrum, her escaping sprint into the stairwell had taken her upwards instead of straight on, her original path. As she emerged on the second floor and noticed the silver barriers that lined the upper tier, and her brain eased back to a normal rhythm, she realised her fatal error. An attempt to retrace her steps was for nothing as she heard the echo of footsteps in the stairwell behind her, multiple thumps on expensive concrete that raised the hackles on her neck.
Fuck.
Think, Goodright, think!
She retrieved a baton from her belt, slammed the double stairwell doors shut, and slid the weapon into the handles. It nestled across both doors, providing her a brief respite. It wouldn’t hold for long, but she didn’t need an hour to prepare. She needed a few seconds to survey her surroundings, and an escape route.
Right, she thought, her eyes scanning the second tier of Barrington Mall.
A leap to the lower floors would be fast and effective, but an ill landing could leave her at the mercy of the creatures. A broken leg would also hinder everyone around her, should she manage to get to the van. She walked to the barrier and peered over. Broken glass, smeared blood, various debris. All made the ground floor beneath slippery and unsafe. The lip of the balcony concealed the first floor, and rendered it inaccessible.
Both of the lower floors were empty.
For now.
Wait…
Blood?
That wasn't there before.
She leaned over the barrier, searching for the source of the smeared crimson trail, but saw nothing. A worried glance towards the mall entrance, her destination that was so close yet so far, only increased her fear. She hoped Harrison would make good on his promise if she couldn’t get back in time. She didn’t want the horde of creatures to swarm the van and kill everyone.
The doors behind her slammed, the
baton squealing as its strength was tested. The noise was loud, alarmingly so. It would attract others; there was no doubt about it. Shadows slithered and growled behind the misted glass, pushing against the temporary barrier, eager to get to their prey. Crimson and black ooze smeared the pane as they slammed against it again. The baton slid right, loosening. It would fall from its mooring in due course.
Goodright ran.
Towards the escalators, two mechanical staircases constructed from expensive steel and silver, like two glistening beacons of hope. For some unknown reason—although she'd heard multiple accounts of fear drudging up meaningless facts and stories from the human brain, in an attempt to soothe your panic during stressful times—she remembered a news article that had multiple residents of Barrington complaining about the proposal for Barrington Mall.
A waste of money some exclaimed. A ludicrous eyesore said others. Some advocated it, welcoming its supply of needed jobs and the attraction to people beyond the perimeter of the town. Basic economics. The mall would become a success, but it wouldn’t be for naught. Several petitions and protests had almost stunted the entire project.
Another slam from the doors shattered her reverie. Goodright shook her head, and focused on her escape. As she made it to the escalators, the expense obvious, she thanked whomever had signed off on the proposal. The intricate layout and multiple walkways of the mall itself would confuse the creatures, or at least hinder them to a degree that gave her a half chance of staying alive. She stepped onto the moving escalator and sighed. The ground floor was mere metres away.
And then, it wasn't.
Her breath caught as a ragged curtain formed below her, obstructing the foot of the escalators, and as her brain processed the startling image, she realised that several of the creatures were now blocking her path. They worked in unison, as a team, stepping into formation and establishing a fleshy blockade between Goodright and freedom. They stood and watched, their eyes on her.
Again, she saw the smiles.
Impossible.
They're showing logic, just as Bruce said.
What sort of creatures are these?
