by Sam J Fires
“So…” asked Vincent, struggling to keep up. “You’re not a serial killer, but an assassin?”
“You’re so textbook,” the Sculptor replied. “It’s easy for you to label me a serial killer. So lazy. You look down on me from your moral high ground and label me a monster. I’m not a monster, I am a man with a purpose. Ten years since the first storm and you’re telling me that in all that time, you never once had to take a life?”
Both Lea and Vincent looked at each other uncomfortably, their silence saying everything.
“Yes, I thought so,” said the Sculptor, grinning from ear to ear. “Nobody stays alive this long by staying good. At least I try to do something meaningful with my work. It can be very rewarding. Above all, I love the looks I get from my subjects.”
“Looks?” Lea dared to ask. “What looks?”
“That moment when they wake up. When they realize what I’m doing to them, and they see my tools.” He gestured to a table in the corner of the room. Vincent walked over to it. On it was a flamethrower, a thick sheeting, and a series of medical appliances. “It’s a fantastic moment when they have grasped that their lives are over, but their deaths…are going to be something so beautiful.” The Sculptor shuffled in his seat, getting comfortable. “You’d be surprised how impactful that can be. People who’d never dream of such indulgences are equally captivated.”
Lea drew her machete. “Well, I can promise you, no one is going to hear another word of this apart from us.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” said the Sculptor, oozing confidence.
“Why not?”
“I’ve loved having this little talk. There were so many things I wanted to get across to you. This is such a rare opportunity to discuss my work. They say that confession is good for the soul, the burdens you can remove from yourself. It’s a shame I couldn’t be speaking before a more enlightened audience, but I suppose you can’t choose your audience. It’s been so great getting this off my chest…it’s such a pity you’ll be taking it to your grave.”
A chill went down Lea’s spine.
“You’re not in a position to be doing anything,” remarked Vincent.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. You see, I’m not just an artist. I’m a trailblazer, and like anyone who inspires a following, I like to make sure I have my students nearby.”
That’s when Lea saw something on the monitor. A group of people running through the corridors. She couldn’t see where they were headed, but she had a pretty good idea.
“Have to say, they took their time getting into position,” said the Sculptor. “But I knew they wouldn’t let me down, and I knew they’d help me deliver two new masterpieces. This ample chat has given me enough time to consider which of your arteries I’ll be piercing first.”
CHAPTER 18 - LEA
Lea glanced at the door and noticed it was still slightly ajar. “CLOSE IT!” she ordered.
Vincent didn’t need to be told twice. He leaped forward and threw himself against the door. His timing couldn’t have been better as someone started banging on the other side, desperate to break in. “Why aren’t there any damn locks on this thing?” he shouted to no one in particular.
“They’re a passionate bunch,” said the Sculptor, enjoying their desperation. “They don’t like to be kept from their teacher.”
“Will you shut him up?” screamed Vincent, desperate. “Cut out his tongue or something, I don’t care!”
“I don’t know why you’re bothering. They’ve got you right where they want you. There’s only one way out of this room, and they’re blocking it off. I don’t know how you’re faring weapons-wise. I don’t doubt you could take a few of them out, but in the end, you’ll get worn down and that’s when they’ll strike. They’ll do anything for me.
That gave Lea an idea. “Hey,” she shouted. “Listen up.” The banging ceased. “You back off, or I’m going to start going to work on your nutjob teacher. Maybe you can make a set-piece out of him.”
From the other side of the door, a voice sounded. “What do you want?”
“Simple. A way out of the building. We’re taking this bastard with us. You try anything,” she held the machete against her foe’s throat, “and you’re going to get a first-hand lesson on the arterial spray.”
Vincent, who was still holding his back firmly against the door, couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or disturbed. “Has anybody ever told you you’re a little demented?” he asked, almost admiringly.
Lea shrugged. “It’s been known to crop up from time to time.” She started going to work, cutting at the tape binding the Sculptor to the chair while leaving his hands tied behind his back. “All right,” she announced. “We’re coming out. Remember, one wrong move, one sliced throat. Got it?”
After a moment’s silence, the reply came through. “Got it.”
The three moved to the edge of the door and slowly opened it.
Standing on the other side were a group of five young men, all of them were holding glass shards in gloved hands. “Drop the glass,” commanded Lea. The five did as they were told, and their makeshift weapons shattered upon impact.
Lea moved the Sculptor out of the room, followed closely by Vincent, who kept his blade directed at the students. “Get back,” he shouted, his nerves starting to fail him. The five backed up until they were on the other side of the corridor. The unlikely trio continued their journey.
“You know,” spoke the Sculptor through a strangled breath. “You still haven’t told me what your plan is. Even if you manage to get out of here, what are you going to do then? Kill me? It’s too late for that. I’ve inspired a following. I’ve already got five copycats. Imagine how many more there’ll be when I’m gone. The work I’ve done will be researched and studied forever—”
“SHUT YOUR FACE,” screamed Vincent, unable to take any more.
They made it back the way they came and were amazed to have made it this far without anyone trying to ambush them.
They were almost at the main entrance, then they would be home and free. Lea felt a surge of pride at having been able to take down a serial killer, thus boosting Travis’s faith in her.
When they arrived at the main entrance, the door, which had been open upon arrival, was now shut.
“What the heck?” whispered Lea.
“Bet you it’s one of those little gits back there,” suggested Vincent, who moved towards the door, tugging at it.
It was only when it was slightly ajar that he saw the tripwire.
Before he had time to get any words out, an explosion went off, blowing Vincent to the other side of the wall and knocking Lea and their captive off their feet.
There was a ringing in Lea’s ears like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She looked around for Vincent, he was nowhere to be seen, but she could see her machete, which was lying a few feet away.
Despite the sudden pain that reverberated through her body, Lea pulled herself forward, determined to reunite with her weapon.
Just when her hand was mere inches from the blade, a foot stamped down on Lea’s wrist.
“Sorry, my dear,” said the Sculptor, standing over her with a wolfish smile. “If you were a cat, I’d say you’d be out of your nine lives by now. Looks like Travis isn’t the only one who can get his hands on counterfeit Chapman-tech.”
Lea struggled where she lay, determined not to go out without a fight.
“You have a lot of fight left in you,” said the Sculptor admiringly. “Perhaps more so than any other specimen before you. I like that. I wonder how long until you expire. I believe the record ….'' He turned to one of the young men now standing behind him. “What’s the record?”
“Fifty-two minutes.”
“Well, let’s see if you can make it to the full hour.”
Nimble hands lifted Lea. She was too weak to resist despite the fading fight left in her. As she was moved, she could see Vincent being similarly carried. He had been r
endered unconscious from the blow, blood was trickling down his forehead.
The lights in the sanctuary had now been turned on, but Lea prayed they would go out again, to spare her from the torture she and Vincent were about to endure.
They took the pair to a laboratory of some kind. Chemical tubes and beakers were lined up on tables…operating tables to be exact.
Lea and Vincent were carefully placed on the tables and strapped into place, unable to move.
The Sculptor stood over them, triumphant. “Did you think it was going to be that easy to take me down?”
“Honestly? Yeah, I kinda did,” Lea retorted defiantly.
“You should’ve just left me alone,” said the Sculptor disapprovingly, watching as one of the young men brought in his equipment. “Normally, I’m not a fan of ‘collective pieces’. Maybe that has something to do with me not wanting to share the glory. But I often find that you can cover a lot more depth in these cases, bringing so much more nuance.
“I’ve also found that when collaborating, you learn about the trademarks of those around you, the signatures they leave.” He motioned to a young man about Lea’s age. “Take Owen here, for example. Owen likes to go to work on the thighs. He likes to get in there real deep, but he prefers to leave the glass in the body to stop the flow of blood. Letting the subject know that they’re doomed either way.” He gestured to another boy. “Kyle over there likes to go for the tendons. He thinks that people will fight to the bitter end, even with a load of glass inside them. To be honest, I can see where he’s coming from. Renders them completely immobile. As for me, I prefer to focus on the throat, see if I can throw asphyxiation into the mix. But rest assured, everyone is going to get their turn.”
CHAPTER 19 – THE LONE RIDER
The Rider was seated in the living room, watching the story unfold. They watched footage of the early days of Los Angeles, back in the days when it was still recognizable. They watched as the cameraman was accosted by men in cloaks. The couple was finishing off the chicken wings while the Rider watched, hypnotized by the sight before her.
“Can you imagine being there at the start of it all?” asked the woman, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the screen. “We live by this footage. We learned so much about our way of life thanks to this recording. To survive something like that…and go up against a cult…That takes sheer willpower I certainly don’t possess.”
“To be honest…” offered the man thoughtfully, “my praise doesn’t go to what was in front of the camera, but rather what was behind it.”
Both the Rider and the woman looked at him, equally puzzled.
“You imagine the man behind the camera, struggling to survive, not knowing whether his own family was alive or dead. Yet he still had the ingenuity to document this for generations to come.”
“Do either of you know what happened to him?” asked the Rider hopefully.
The man shrugged. “Well, I would assume he died, considering we haven’t seen anything new for nearly a decade. We don’t know what happened to him specifically.” He looked at the woman. “She thinks he’s living out here in the desert somewhere, trying to be one with nature, but from what I heard, he was there at the Desert Rat siege that day. I never actually saw the number of deaths or the names, but a lot of the survivors died that day. While it’s not normally wise to assume, in this case, I think he perished alongside them. Such a waste.”
“I wish I had the chance to speak to him now,” said the Rider. “There were so many things I’d like to ask him. Like why he seemed content to head out for what was essentially a prolonged suicide mission. What he could see himself doing if he’d made it this far. I look at the world now and I see people trying to survive, taking every single day as it comes. Knowing that they might not be there the next day. Eric probably had the same mindset.”
“For how long is survival just enough?” asked the woman. “That’s why we settled here. We wanted more than only to survive. We wanted to live. I know we’ll probably never get back to where we were beforehand, but there’s got to be more to life than what we’re doing now.”
The Rider nodded her head in agreement. “Hear, hear.” She looked around the living room which was sparsely decorated but still functioned as a decent home for the couple. A part of the Rider wanted to stop, take up residence here, not have to worry about carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and try to find a life of her own.
She knew that wasn’t an option. She’d tried it once before and it had cost her almost everything she’d held dear. And there was too much at stake. Too much for her to just hang up. She had people depending on her… Even if they didn’t appreciate or comprehend what she was doing.
“So, what’s next for you?” asked the woman amiably. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I promise we’re not cannibals or anything like that. You don’t have to worry about going to sleep and waking up on a spit roast.”
The Rider laughed, the first time she’d done so in a long while. “That’s very kind of you, but I have a commitment, and I need to see to it directly. Quite honestly, I shouldn’t have even stopped.”
The man looked at the woman and then back at the Rider. “Well, it’s just as well you came by us, otherwise you might have been running in circles.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Rider, trying not to read into the comment.
“You need someone to let you know you’re headed on the right track.” As the man spoke, the Rider noticed that his voice had taken on a faint British accent.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” asked the Rider.
As she asked this, the woman reached over to take a drink, her sleeve was shifting slightly.
“Don’t worry, we mean no harm,” said the man, rising to his feet. As he rose, the Rider could see he was shaking, and she briefly wondered whether he was having an epileptic fit.
“What the hell is this?” The Rider was regretting leaving her weapons at the door.
“We haven’t got much time,” said the man, his British accent slipping out completely now. “I’m sorry for the deception, but there wasn’t any other way. I needed to be sure you were who you said you were.”
The man’s hand started shaking. “Stay back!” commanded the woman.
“I knew it,” said the Rider, startled. “I damn well knew you were cannibals.”
“No,” said the woman, sounding desperate. The Rider noticed she too was speaking with a British accent, and her voice had gotten much deeper.
That’s when she realized. They were speaking with the same voice.
The Rider stepped back terror-struck as the two spoke in unison. “I don’t know how much time I have left so we’d better hurry.”
The Rider had seen this before. A long time ago. Seeing it again now, she’d lost almost all bravado and she was reliving the horror all over again. “Are you…infected?”
The man spoke, and the Rider could see the woman’s jaw making the same movements despite the lack of words emerging from it. “I found these two at the point of death. They must have known there was no hope for survival and so…” the man drew a finger alongside his forearm, “…they slashed themselves. When I found them, they were at the point of death. I can assure you, I did not kill them myself. I just tried to…repurpose them.”
“So…” said the Rider slowly, trying to get her head around the bizarreness of the situation, “…who am I talking to?”
“Ah,” said the man. “That would be telling. Let’s just say I have the information you need, but we’d better hurry as I’m running out of time.”
“I take it you’re infected.”
“For my sins. The same thing that killed Eric Landers during the desert rat siege. I needed to speak to someone who’d been there when it happened. I’m assuming that’s what you’re interested in.”
“You…assumed correctly. How long have you been infected?”
“Some weeks now.”
“Weeks? And you�
��ve managed to keep yourself from slipping away so far?” remarked the Rider, generally impressed. “How did you know you could…” She hesitated to use the term ‘mind control’ because of how trite it sounded.
“I heard about the disease after the siege. I saw the footage provided by the director. I was curious about it, the mechanics behind it, and the science, if you can call it that. What I could do, what I couldn’t do. How long I could survive after the infection, and what I could do with it.”
“So…if you’re able to control these two… I’m guessing you’re fairly close by?”
“No, I’m about seven miles from your current location.”
“Seven miles?”
“I know. I’m amazed at it myself.”
“It shouldn’t be possible.”
“Neither is zombified sand. Yet here we are. I had to practice before I could get a decent range. I’m… I’m not too proud of the things I had to do to get here, but here in the real world, we’re not exactly faced with easy choices.”
“Why the whole brainwashing act with these two?” The Rider gestured to the couple standing to attention.
“I’ve only got so much time left. I’ve got a lot of knowledge to part with, but I need to make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”
“And now?”
“Now, I think it’s vital we speak as soon as poss—” The man stopped, and he let out a slurred sound. “I’m sorry… I can’t hold these two much longer.”
The Rider watched in muted horror as the couple picked up a knife each and jammed it into each other’s throats.
The two fell to the floor in some twisted embrace.
The Rider stared at the couple, saddened, realizing she’d never even known their names. She wondered how much she had learned about the pair had been true, and how much of it was fabricated.
The Rider went through the house, checking for food. Most of it had gone stale. She decided to take some books from the bookshelf, which included a few Daphne du Maurier books, feeling a pull for old pleasures.
