Primal Scream

by Michael Slade

  "We may need a law that makes filling out a ViCLAS report mandatory," said DeClercq. "Till then I'll make it easy for you with this one."

  The chief superintendent completed page 35:

  Lewis entered the information into the databank to search for a link. A link was a signal that two murders were probably committed by the same person. ViCLAS gave him this:

  "A computer will never replace the gut feelings of a detective?" echoed DeClercq. "I don't know, Sergeant. ViCLAS has definitely picked up mine."

  Carnival

  Round and round went the tape in the tape recorder playing on George Ruryk's desk. Listening intently, the psychiatrist jotted notes . . .

  ". . . the black girl's name was Crystal. She was in her teens. Through the keyhole of my cell I could hear them talking in the boudoir off the Mask Room. They had sex, and were snorting cocaine ..."

  "Crystal," Suzannah said gently. "I must ask you a question. Listen before you answer. Okay?"

  The girl nodded.

  "The moment I spied you this afternoon, I knew we were the same. That's why I followed you from the laundry after work and sat beside you in that greasy little restaurant. You looked so alone. Have you enjoyed what we've done this evening?"

  The girl nodded.

  "Well, there's no reason in the world why you must go. No one knows you're here. No one knows you're with me. And no one needs to know. Would you like that?"

  Again the nod.

  "Good, because tomorrow night I'd like to take you to Europe. To London, Paris, and Rome. I'd like to buy you fine clothes. I'd like to give you all the coke you want. I'd like to spend hours playing with your pussy, till you're so hot you fear you're going to melt. Sound like fun?"

  The girl swallowed hard.

  "Here," said Suzannah. "Let's run away for good." Pulling open the washstand drawer, she withdrew a thick pack of hundred-dollar bills and tossed it to the girl. Crystal's mouth dropped. The cash slipped through her fingers and tumbled to the floor.

  "Go on. Pick it up. That's yours," the woman said. "There's ten thousand dollars at your feet. And that's just spending money."

  "Where'd you get it?" the girl exclaimed.

  "From my guest before our guest who comes tonight. This one will bring us another twenty grand. After he's finished, we're off and free. I'll have earned a hundred grand from Mardi Gras this year. Not bad for two weeks' work, eh?"

  The dumbfounded girl was speechless, as stoned eyes gazed at the money.

  "Crystal," Suzannah said softly. "It's time to answer that question. Do you want to stay with me—or go back to slaving at the laundry in fear one day your pig of a father will hunt you down?"

  In a flash the girl crossed the space between them and cuddled in her arms. Tears touched Suzannah's flesh where glove joined corset. As the woman soothed, "That's my girl" comfortingly, she studied the maudlin image in the washstand mirror. Snaring her was easy, she thought with pride. Once you know the market of life—and what fools need to buy.

  She held the girl a moment longer, then extricated herself. "No turning back, love. Is that agreed?"

  "Yes," Crystal said.

  Suzannah led the "Carnival" back to the Mask Room. There she opened a door sandwiched between her boudoir and the eye at the keyhole to Sparky's prison. The dark maw dropped down a spiral staircase. "Come," the dominatrix lured. "And Mardi Gras with me . . ."

  "... Mother's guest that night was the Axman of New Orleans. Not the real Axman of the First World War, but a businessman who made his fortune in nuclear arms, and who lost the love of his mother after a black girl sent to fetch a doctor forsook the errand. Guilt twisted him up inside, which Mother relieved.

  "By candlelight I saw the silhouettes in the Mask Room. ..."

  Suzannah sat imperiously in the whipping chair and told the Axman to strip. Having come from the Rex Ball, now in full swing at the Municipal Auditorium up on St. Peter Street, he wore a tuxedo and black Carnival mask. Chained to his wrist was a briefcase, which he unlocked and opened at her boots before shucking off his jacket to reveal the ax. The hatchet hung in a sling under the armpit of his ruffled shirt.

  "The bitch who killed your mother is here," Suzannah said.

  The words hardened his penis as the Axman shed his pants. When he was naked, except for the mask, he slung the sling again, then crossed to the wall by the French doors to pull on the Ku Klux Klan hood which hung there for him.

  Kneeling, he stacked the money in the briefcase at

  her feet.

  Then one gloved hand, tips sliced off to bare her scarlet claws, gripped him by the hard-on to tug him to the dark maw.

  The eye at the keyhole watched as both silhouettes disappeared below. . .

  ". . . I knew she'd return to the Mask Room for me. I often overheard her discussing me with the masks. 'When you don't have the one you hate, you work with what you have.' I'd be crying through the keyhole, 'Mommy! Mommy, I'm sorry! Forgive me, Mommy! Please!' Mother would cackle and tell the masks, 'What you hear bawling is my special project.' She loathed my father. And she didn't want me. So she killed him and buried him under the ice and went to work on his child.

  "I heard footsteps on the stairs.

  "Then saw rings at the keyhole ..."

  Round and round they descended down the iron steps that sank from the Mask Room to the cellar with a trapdoor in its floor. The hand which gripped Sparky's hair never let go as Suzannah set down the hurricane lamp to yank on the rusty ring. A belch of foul, damp air burped from the pit below.

  Held out in front like a headhunter displaying her trophy, Suzannah pushed Sparky down into the hole. Here a slimy ladder clung to oozing brick walls, the shadows cast by the lamp above dragging down the child. Whining wind and running water filled the cavern with noise, as down the pair went to a flight of stone steps, and down again.

  The vaulted cavern materialized once Sparky's eyes adjusted. Its floor of chipped flagstone, its arches of masonry, the corridor stretched away to black infinity, where a barred grille blocked the mouth of the channeled stream to the right fed by the Mississippi. As this was a smuggling depot for French pirates hi the seventeenth century, shadows cast by the dancing lamplight could be their ghosts.

  From a door off the corridor to their left, a godless gibber wailed.

  Sparky pulled away.

  Suzannah tightened her grip.

  The dominatrix pushed open the door and shoved her child in.

  She, too, entered.

  The lock behind snicked.

  The key on a chain noosed around her neck slithered between her breasts.

  The stone crypt was a torture chamber, twenty feet by thirty. The chimney from the fireplace snaked up one wall like a sucking vein, while cobwebs hung like veils from its bricks. Branding irons dangled from the rim of a brazier glowing by the hearth. Its wheels with clamps a metaphor for pain, dark stains discolored the surface and ran in drip lines down the side of the rack against the opposite wall. Door gaping open on a hundred spiked teeth, an iron maiden crouched in the corner. As horror closed in on the child, Sparky's terrified eyes skipped about, from ivory grins leering on the skull rack overhead, to gleaming surgical instruments laid out in tidy rows, to whips and cat-o'-ninetails hooked on the wall to which Crystal was fettered by a collar locked around her throat.

  The ax leaned near the rack.

  The mummy hung suspended from a meat hook fastened to a chain. At least it looked like a mummy, this trussed-up thing, except both arms were stretched out as if in crucifixion. The form encased inside was bandaged in plaster of Paris, holes cut in the hood beneath for the mouth, nose, and eyes, holes gaped in the body swathing for genitals and anus. The enamel tray positioned under the dangling feet was spattered with red, white, brown, and yellow. Thrashing within caused the mummy to swing, side to side, then back and forth, on the hooked chain. The swaying became more frantic as Suzannah approached, her fingers plucking steel torment from the instruments displayed.
>
  "No, woman! Pleeease! I'm so afraid of neeeedles!"

  "There, there," Suzannah cooed. "Endure two more." And she jabbed the slivers of steel into the pincushion head of his penis.

  Crablike, Sparky hid under the rack for safety.

  Shrieks bounced wildly off the stone walls, ending with chokes and blubbers. Lips twisted within the mouth hole of the plaster mask, yammering and beseeching, but only whines came out. The man ground his tongue between his teeth.

  "If only he were your father," Suzannah snarled at the rack, while she rammed a needle through his scrotum between his testicles.

  "Noooo!" screamed the mummy, his lips a rictus of dread. .The naked kids cowered away as the howl tore his throat. Growling insanely, the mummy thrashed and spun, a squirt of white arcing from the prong por-cupined with steel, then . . . craccck . . . craccck . . . craccck ... the plaster of Paris crumbled, chunks raining down on the flagstone floor as white dust billowed up, choking Sparky beneath the rack while flecking Crystal's black skin, the mummy wrap shedding like a cocoon to release the Axman locked inside.

  Unhooked, he crumpled to the floor amid a cloud of powder.

  Crystal freaked when he grabbed the ax.

  "You killed my mother, bitch," he croaked hoarsely as she struggled to break free from the collar chaining her.

  Sparky wormed back beneath the rack to the dungeon wall, eyes fixed on the shadows that mirrored what went down above.

  The shadow ax rose.

  The shadow ax fell.

  Crystal broke free as a splash of blood and an arm hit the floor. The arm quivered spasmodically while the fingers closed in a fist.

  The armless shadow wailed and staggered around the crypt.

  The Axman shadow stalked.

  Up, down . . . up, down . . . the ax rose and fell, as the splat of blood became a pool that washed about the girl when she fell in.

  The Axman dropped to his knees to chop, chop, chop in a frenzy.

  Sparks burst from the stone floor with each clang! of the ax.

  "Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! . . ." the Axman spat in counter point to the blows. Bones cracked and chunks of flesh plopped about.

  A red wave surged in to inundate Sparky.

  The red sea parted around spike-heeled black boots with red laces, the tongue of a whip dangling down like a snake to swim in the blood.

  "Will you come out, Sparky? Or do I come in to get you?"

  The child knew only too well the price of flouting Mother's will. On hands and knees Sparky wriggled out. Suzannah towered overhead like some Colossus of Rhodes. Boots led to stockings that rose to white thighs, lined like blood drips with red garters. Where thighs joined, her black bush nestled rings, laced up by a black thong that hung like the whip.

  "Carnival. 'Flesh farewell.' Our guest gives Mardi Gras such literal meaning."

  Looming high, the bald head laughed.

  Behind Suzannah, the "Carnival" called Crystal had ceased to exist. All that remained were chopped-up bits on the floor, which the Axman fed with relish to the Ku Klux Klan hood.

  Glint . . . glint . . . glint . . . Golden rings.

  "Are you your father's spawn? Or do you belong to me?" Suzannah's voice was a throaty rasp. "Prove you're mine, and no one will hurt you. Unlace me, Sparky. Then kiss your Mother's lips." The child began to screech. And weep out of control.

  "Daddy! Where are you, Daddy! Help me, Daddy! Please!"

  ("I'm here, Sparky, i am you.")

  War Zone

  Totem Lake

  "Oscar Charlie! Yankee Blue! We're under attack!"

  The sound of Keith Moon pounding drums backed the distress call.

  "Yankee Blue. Oscar Charlie," responded Zulu base. "Ten-twenty?" Location?

  "Downed tree on the lake road just south of the fork!"

  Barking dog.

  Blasting guns.

  "Get this hound offa me!"

  "Yankee Red. Oscar Charlie. Ten-thirty-three. Code five."

  Who's called: Red Bison. Who's calling: Op Command. Ten code: Members in trouble. Response level: Use caution.

  "Ten-four," replied the leader of the ERT team in the belly of the Red Bison, where he turned to the army grunt driving the armored personnel carrier and added, "Let's rock 'n' roll."

  The ERT team prepared their guns for action as the APC rumbled off.

  The action actually had begun yesterday, when a random check on the Yellowhead Highway in the new "no-go zone" exposed a cache of arms headed for Totem Lake. Seized were several AK-47 assault rifles, semiautomatic Glock pistols loaded with Black Talon hollow-tip bullets, and a Remington 222 hunting rifle with a variable scope. Also hidden in the truck were twelve steel tomahawks, twenty throwing knives, bear spray, and garottes of piano wire strung between handles.

  The rumor picked up by CIS—Criminal Intelligence Section—was more than one shipment was to be smuggled into camp.

  Smuggled through the bush.

  Overnight, the rebels had felled huge trees across all roads leading to Totem Lake and the woods above and beyond. Until the barriers were cleared, no APCs could patrol near the camp, and without patrols the arms were sure to get through.

  So cut the trees.

  Not being in the timber business, the Force lacked proper equipment for the job, so Forest Service workers with chainsaws were brought in to help. A while ago, as it began to snow, four trucks of woodsmen had left Zulu base for the roadblocks, each protected by a Bison with a four-man ERT team. While two parties trundled east to the far end of the lake, the Red and Blue cutting teams ventured north to separate at the fork where the route divided. The left road angled up toward the falls under which Jed Vander-kop's headless body was frozen, and the right road hugged the lakeshore in the direction of the rebel camp.

  Soon chainsaws roared.

  Thick snowflakes drifted lazily down from a somber sky, sifting steadily through the flat gray gloom, now and then parting to let a gust of wind through. The dog handler was the first to spot trouble in the woods when a yellow hound from the rebel camp appeared. No sooner did he shout, "Duck!" through a lull in the chainsawing than a burst of gunfire flared from the trees, spraying splinters from the half-cut log still blocking off the road.

  The Mad Dog was with the foresters when the ambush erupted. He unslung the AR-15 from his shoulder and let loose a covering barrage of assault rifle fire. Without being told, the woodsmen ran for the Bison behind their truck, using the pickup for protection as they darted, while blasts from the woods blew the windows to showers of glass and punctured the tires to hiss like snakes at their feet.

  The Mad Dog followed, rear guard.

  Bison, truck, and log were strung like beads along the line of the road, hemmed in on both sides by trees, woods to the north and a copse to the south between the lake and them. The Bison was last so it could back down the road if need be to Zulu base, this icy road sloping from the log.

  Miraculously, no one died escaping to the Bison. A vehicle weighing thirteen tons, the APC was shielded by half-inch-thick steel plates angled to deflect incoming fire. On loan from the army, a soldier at the wheel, it was there as "a highly protective taxi to support police action" and nothing more. To prove the military was in no way involved, the Bison bore livery decals that read POLICE. These police had been assured they were in good hands. A land mine, said the army, could blow off some of the eight bulletproof tires or dent the steel underbody without harming the occupants or slowing them down from fifty mph over hills.

  The Mad Dog was barely in and the tailgate up when sustained volleys from the rebels deflated six "bulletproof" tires and killed the hydraulic system.

  Sitting ducks.

  In a sardine can.

  To mix metaphors.

  "Oscar Charlie! Yankee Blue! We're under attack!"

  The racket inside the vehicle was so loud they had to yell to be heard. It was like being trapped inside a kettle drum with someone hammering on it as fast and as hard as possible. The t
urret overhead was open and snow tumbled in.

  "Sarge!" someone shouted. "I smell gas!"

  "Downed tree on the lake road just south of the fork!" advised the radio man.

  The gunfire outside was rattling from both flanks. If a slug got into the Bison, it would carom around like a billiard ball, sinking how many Members in the pocket of death? If a burst got in, this would be a sub sunk so deep the rivets popped.

  Pingg! pingg! pingg . . .

  An orgy of ricochets.

  The Mad Dog stood up like a jack-in-the-box in the Bison turret, blazing a clip at the rebels and ducking down fast. Then up to blast the other way and drop from sight again. It was like newsreels from 1970s Vietnam. They'd shoot, he'd shoot, they'd shoot, he'd shoot ... in a furious fusillade.

  Trained to respond to gunfire, the police dog with them in the Bison barked and tried to take a chomp out of him.

  "Get this hound offa me!" It wasn't panic. It was near panic.

  For what was sinking into those trapped inside was the source of the smell of gas. Not only had the rebels blown out windows and flattened tires when riddling the truck, but the gas tank had punctured to leak down the icy slope under the Bison. Ignite that and the Mounties could be picked off as they scrambled out of the steel oven.

  Snow overhead and snow underneath and snow falling around. A whirlpool of swirling snow, now you see them, now you don't. The Mounties wore white winter cam below army helmets. The rebels wore combat fatigues and scarf masks. Ouster's last stand for the nineties, this was a small war. Visibility poor, all they could see of the rebels were muzzle flares in the bush. As cops answered the AK-47s with the deeper rat-a-tat-tat of the AR-15s, the radio man hollered rescue details to the Red Bison through the cacophony. Two hundred, four hundred, eight hundred shots, then into the thousands, ejected casings flew like a rage of wasps, so hot they burned any flesh they hit.