Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #11

by Apex Authors

  "That's a damn shame,” his fake dad had said. “But no use sniveling like some pussy girl. They shouldn't have been there.” Ted had worked to stop crying. “Nothing to be done about it now,” his fake father continued. He'd handed the boy a shovel. “Here, best learn yourself."

  Several of the baby rabbits had stopped no more than ten feet away. Even when Ted moved right over them, they crouched perfectly still. As if he couldn't see them. As if they were too afraid, too stupid, to keep running. “They're gonna die now anyway,” the fake father said. “You're doing ‘em a favor. Make it quick. Go on. I said, go on now.” Each time Ted lifted the shovel, they still didn't move.

  He thought of those rabbits now while watching the other kids.

  Seemed like the whole goddamned town had shown up. Every redneck in Orchard City between fourteen and seventeen, anyway. All he had to do was talk to some girls outside the school and flash some of the money they'd stolen. Party at Adria's house. Free beer. The rest took care of itself.

  The lights were down low, and fifty-six bunnies had crowded into this rich bitch's giant finished basement. She'd told Ted her parents were in Antigua for the week. He hoped they were having a good time. They were in for quite a surprise when they returned.

  There was beer, as promised, and pot. Even some GHB.

  And also bleach and ammonia. Big tubs of it for later.

  They'd wanted to use Zyklon B, like the Nazis had when they were wasting Jews, but you couldn't buy that shit anymore. Not even on eBay. Next choice was sarin. One drop could kill a dude, and they even found how to make it on the Internet, but it was way too fucking hard to figure out. Isopropylamine and sodium fluoride and heating it and all ... shit could kill you. Forget it. Googling some more, they found much easier ways to kill lots of people.

  "What about that one?” Albert nodded toward the crowd below. The music in the room was so loud that Ted had to lean closer to hear him. “That one!” The three boys sat on the basement steps above the rest of the party. “Big tits, red sweater!"

  "Her name's Laura, I think,” Ted replied. The room was hazy with smoke cut by a cheap strobe light someone had brought. “Proof of God."

  "So you like to say."

  "Well, they are. What the fuck you want me to say?"

  "Bet she's cunty fresh."

  Ted laughed. “Yeah, okay. I guess."

  "Wanna find out?"

  "Not enough time,” said Ted. “Doors close in ten."

  Ten minutes. John had already moved out into the crowd to take care of the back door. He still wore his clown suit and makeup. Ted had almost forgotten what the kid looked like without it. He supposed it didn't matter anymore.

  John had moved among the middle of the party, bumping into the locals and patting asses as he went. Everyone was laughing. Thought his clown outfit was a riot. Bunnies. If they only knew he was a clone of John Wayne Gacy. Guy who'd butchered and raped thirty-three poor dumb fucks. How funny would that be? If they knew who they'd been dancing with, throwing their arms around. Ted shrugged. They never would.

  "What was that?” Jeffrey asked.

  "What?” Ted leaned closer to hear.

  "I don't know. Thought I ... I don't know. Drunk, I guess."

  "Yeah.” But Ted had felt something also. Like a door opening somewhere in the house. Every door and window at once, in fact, with a blast of cold air. Fuck it. It was almost time to close every door.

  There were all kinds of industrial materials to create toxic gas, they'd discovered. But Ammonia and bleach were the easiest to buy. Twenty gallons each. Mixed in three plastic trashcans they'd bought and set outside. Stir it up a bit and let it sit. Chlorine gas.

  They'd tried a batch earlier. The shit burned green like a witch's cauldron, then burned their eyes and throats. And that had been standing outside. Down here, three batches of it would blind every eye and burn out fifty-six larynxes. Then, collapse and death. Beautiful. Not quite as personal as Ted usually liked, but it was something. Something different. He had to admit the rest was, well, getting kinda boring. Same shit over and over.

  Jacobson had finally called them back. Some of the other guys, John and Al mostly, had been having bad dreams. Baby stuff. Shit, Ted had them all the time too, but he wasn't crying about it. But these ... Ted didn't know. The guys wanted to talk to their old pal Jacobson about some stuff. Like when they used to sit around in a circle back at DSTI and talk about their feelings and shit. Fucking lame. Jacobson was an asshole. But now he'd finally called back and was trying to put together some kind of meeting. Fine. There was history there. Something Ted might enjoy, maybe.

  Albert mumbled something.

  "Three minutes,” Ted shouted back, ignoring Albert and whatever he'd felt. “Why don't you head down now to help John. We'll get the one in the closet."

  "Cool.” Albert stood.

  "Look at this guy,” Jeffrey said, pointing over the crowd to the back door.

  "What the fuck?” Ted leaned forward on the steps to get a better look. “Guy's in a costume or something."

  "John's got competition.” Albert laughed. “This town's got its freaks too."

  "Yeah.” Ted peered though the smoke. “I guess.” His whole back tingled with ice again. He stood.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing.” Ted tried to shake off the feeling but could not. Had the guy really just shut and locked the back door? “Who is that fuck?"

  "Looks like a dude, an old dude. Or—"

  Someone screamed.

  The sound was half lost in the music, but Ted heard it perfectly. He knew all about screams.

  A girl at the back of the crowd fell. People pointed, laughing. Then another collapsed. A boy this time. He was tossed aside by the thin dark man, and Ted had seen something spray. Dark beer, maybe. He didn't think so.

  "What the fuck?” Jeffrey jumped up beside him. “Did he—"

  "Yeah,” Ted said. “I think he..."

  "What the fuck!"

  "Yeah."

  More screams. The dark man moved quickly into the room, making his way deeper into the crowd.

  Toward John.

  "We should—"

  Before Ted could even register the thought, the man clasped John's costume from behind and spun him around.

  "Mother fucker..."

  A dark hand slashed across John's painted face. Blood splashed out from the wide clown collar, sprayed the startled crowd.

  "We should—"

  "What?” Ted asked, frozen, not taking his eyes off the thing. Another thrust pumped into John's thrashing body, another. Another. The blade, Ted figured, was at least a foot long.

  The man tossed John to the ground and looked up at the steps. His eyes found Ted's.

  "What the fuck is that?” Albert shouted. “Ted? What the—"

  "I don't know,” Ted replied calmly. Too calmly. Warm piss spread down the front of his legs. “Come on."

  He, Jeffrey and Albert raced up the stairs. Behind them, the crowd screeched and scattered in every direction. Just like they'd been hit with a lawnmower, Ted thought. Shrieks and confusion drowned out the damn music as their shadowed forms barreled up the steps toward them.

  "What about the chlorine?” Jeffrey asked.

  "Fuck it,” Ted shouted. They'd fallen in with several of the other kids. Each one running for their life.

  Like he was.

  Finally, he thought, covered in piss, bursting with the others out the front door and into the night, Something different.

  He started laughing.

  * * * *

  "Copy cat killer. Absolutely."

  "Makes sense. All that Tumblety stuff this ‘Doctor’ was collecting.” Was this another clone he'd missed? A clone of Jack the Ripper? Becker sighed. But there were no records of a “Jack” clone. For guys who haughtily kept records on everything, there were no files about a boy made from Tumblety's DNA. None that Becker knew of.

  "I'm looking at the crime scene photos you sent,” Kristin s
aid. “Several are almost duplicates of Ripper crime scenes from a hundred years ago. I mean identical. The murders. They're staged."

  Becker listened, half watching Jeff flip through the same twelve cable TV channels. They were in some dump motel for the night in a town called Delta.

  "The FBI. must be all over this by now."

  "Have to be. Want more?"

  "I don't know. Do I?” It was a toss-off line. Becker was stalling, deciding if we wanted to tell her everything. About DSTI, the clones, Jeff ... Everything.

  "Once I made the copycat connection, I refocused on Tumblety a bit,” she went on. “One of a dozen Ripper suspects, right?"

  "Right. So?"

  "So, you told me his grave was robbed almost a year ago."

  "Affirmative. Drove to Syracuse to see it myself. My younger marks weren't loose then, so I've always assumed it was this other guy."

  "The absent doctor? Why is he so fixated on Tumblety?"

  "Because he's fucking crazy?"

  "The Becker I know would never accept that answer."

  The Becker you know is two years dead.

  "You're the psychiatrist,” he said aloud. “You tell me."

  "I want to throw some names at you,” she said. “Family names associated with Tumblety. See if anything makes sense."

  Was this another one of Jacobson's side projects? Like the one that'd adopted out some of these kids into normal, unsuspecting homes?

  "Fine."

  "Blackburn, McNamara, Caine, Jacobson—"

  "Where you getting this, Kris?"

  "Jack the Ripper (A-Z)"

  Jacobson. Caine?

  "How? How Caine? How Jacobson?"

  "Tumblety traveled Europe for two years with a bisexual named Sir Henry Hall Caine. It's assumed they were lovers."

  "And Jacobson?"

  "Tumblety later married twice in New York. Briefly both times. There was a child. A daughter, Ellen, who later married into a prosperous Philadelphia family. Phillip Jacobson, councilman and surgeon. Just like Tumblety often pretended to be. Had several children. She died in childbird in ‘43."

  "A doctor,” Becker finished. “Like ‘my’ doctor.” He reached for his files. Found the one on Jacobson. Sure enough, his father's name was Phillip.

  Goddamn. His grandfather?

  "This Tumblety guy, was he really—"

  "Probably not,” she cut in. “Most evidence now points to some artist named Walter Sickert. They've done DNA analysis and everything. It's pretty much case closed."

  "Then if this guy thinks he's a direct descendent, some kind of rebirth of Jack the Ripper..."

  "It's all in his head."

  "Okay.” Becker breathed deeply. “So, Kris."

  "What?"

  "When did they come to you?"

  She did not respond.

  "Kris? You're good, babe, but not this good. Jacobson, for God's sake. I've never used that name once."

  "It's a name in a book. You could have found it yourself. What if I tell you we got lucky?"

  "We've never been that. When?"

  "The Major General called Sunday. Late. I didn't ... I thought this info could help you."

  "Durbin. Durbin called ... you told him we'd spoken."

  "They've got phone records, Becker. Why lie?"

  Becker laughed.

  "He's worried about you. We're all ... I think—"

  "Becker?” Jeff's small voice intruded from his other ear. Becker waved him off.

  "You could have told me,” Becker said into the phone. Betrayal. “You should have."

  "I just did. Look, I don't know what's going on. And I don't want to know. I ... Let's meet somewhere. We can talk."

  "Like we used to?"

  "Shawn..."

  "You were working for Durbin then, too, of course. I wonder ... was all the rest only part of your professional duties? Standard services? Spreading those long legs for Uncle Sam?"

  "Don't do this."

  "Thanks for the info, Lieutenant."

  "Don't do this to me. I ... you know I still—"

  "Thanks,” he said, and hung up. “Bitch."

  "Becker."

  "What!” Becker rubbed his stubbled face. “Christ, kid. Give me a break."

  "Sorry,” Jeff said. “You need to see this."

  * * * *

  The hotel had been less then twenty minutes away from the house with all the dead kids.

  Becker parked a good two miles from the news vans and flashing emergency vehicles. The gawkers and hillbillies of Orchard City were out in full force. A helicopter swooped overhead again, already broadcasting images of carnage over FOX News. The same images and scrolling blue headlines Jeff had noticed: 9 BELIEVED DEAD. TEENAGERS. MASS MURDER IN ORCHARD CITY.

  Becker flashed his Defense badge twice and that had been enough to get into the house. The FBI was another hour away, the guys in Grand Junction another ten minutes, and these rubes still hadn't locked the scene down yet. He looked like he knew what he was doing, so they simply left him alone.

  Becker moved into the basement slowly, covering his nose and mouth with the top of his shirt. The whole house stank of ammonia. And blood. He could see where both had splashed and soaked the carpet as he stepped carefully into the butchery below. There were five bodies there. He'd passed four more on the stairs leading out to the front porch. They'd been cut. There wouldn't be the time to look any closer. Soon, someone would show up who knew he didn't belong there.

  Downstairs, he found the boy in the clown outfit.

  One more of his targets down. The face under the makeup was definitely the kid he knew from the files.

  'John’ lay sprawled over a dead girl and had been stabbed half a dozen times. His throat was slit and the blood had pooled out below several of the other nearby bodies. The cuts were deep and had clearly been done with a strength Becker could barely imagine.

  He knew immediately who'd killed the boy. He literally shuddered at the memory. Could still picture the dark man's retreating form. But this kid didn't shoot back, did he, asshole?

  Becker pulled on gloves and inspected the body. Found two deep pockets in the side of the pants from which he retrieved a handful of twenties and a cell phone. He replaced the money and tucked the phone into his own pocket.

  He patted the rest of the body. There was nothing else but a half-eaten bag of Combos. Becker looked around again. The head of one of the girls was twisted, angled crookedly to one side. But most of the others looked as if they'd been stabbed too.

  More police had arrived.

  He moved slowly from the house and back toward the car. His eyes moved over the crowd, again looking for a familiar face. Wondering what he'd do, what he could do, if he actually saw one.

  He opened the cell phone he'd taken and checked the history. There were no text messages. A couple of short calls had been made. Ohio area codes. Toss away phones, he assumed. But another dozen calls had been made to the same New York number over the last five days. None of them had gone through.

  Then, in received calls, the same number calling back.

  And a ten minute chat.

  Gotcha.

  Becker unlocked his car door and slipped inside where Jeff clung to the shadows in the back seat.

  "Was it them?” Jeff asked.

  "Yeah. Here...” he handed the boy the cell phone.

  "What's this?"

  Becker started the car and pulled slowly away down the street. “I need you to make a call. Number's already there."

  "Okay, Becker,” Jeff said, inspecting the phone. “Whatever you need. But who am I calling?"

  Becker checked his rearview mirror. They were not being followed, and the flashing lights had already become a wine-colored blur in the distance. It looked like someone had misted Orchard City in blood.

  "Your goddamn father,” he said.

  * * * *

  Past Colton and down Route 96 to Scofield, there is an isolated canyon known as “Winter Quarter,” where
a coal-mine town thrived for two generations until the mine exploded May 1, 1900. Every available casket in Utah was shipped to Winter Quarter that week, and it was not enough. One hundred and ninety-nine men died that day. Burned, buried alive, or poisoned by the coal dust's afterdamp. The entire town was completely empty thirty years later.

  While scouting the location, Becker had learned from the locals that the place was undeniably haunted—strange lights in the mines, the desperate wails of the dying men and their mourning wives—but he didn't care much about the ghosts tonight. Let the dead wail all they wanted.

  Jacobson would be there. Becker assumed the geneticist had arrived first, that he was even now, despite Becker's best maneuvering, watching him.

  Becker had kept Jeff back in the car again, a good mile back, then hiked over the fence and along the forsaken railroad grade past the dark canyon. It was moving in on midnight.

  Below him, caved-in cellars and broken foundations were all that remained of Winter Quarter. There was one two-story building still standing, two of its stone walls completely collapsed, the others close, desperately clinging to the rotted frame beneath. Becker moved slowly along the top of the hill, watching every shadow below, keeping low, as the January winds whistled up the canyon toward him. The old mine was beyond the canyon and ruins at the top of a small hill, beneath him. He'd come in through the back.

  Becker leveled his gun and moved toward the mine. He thought again of calling for backup. Jacobson was insane. And he might not be alone. But Becker had crawled into enough caves before. He could certainly handle this one more, capture Jacobson, and call it a day.

  Mission over. Durbin and the others could take it from there. As for Jeff...

  Becker couldn't afford to think about that now. He listened, then climbed slowly down an overgrown footpath toward the mine opening. Someone was just below, half lost within the opening of the mine.

  "Dr. Jacobson,” Becker said, and cast his flashlight directly onto the shape.

  The man stepped back from the light. He'd looked unarmed. Becker dropped down after him and kept the light on him, his finger ready on the trigger. Still, he reminded himself, I want this guy alive.

  Jacobson shielded his eyes from the light. The tunnel moved only another fifteen feet back, and then the mine behind was completely boarded over. “The boss man,” Jacobson grimaced. “Yes?"