by Apex Authors
"I know you?” the man asked.
"Sorta."
"Sorta? You look real familiar. What's your name, kid?"
"David."
"No kidding.” The man smiled. “Two peas in a pod, how about that?"
"Yup."
"So who are you, and to what do I owe this visit? They told me you had some kinda letter to get in or something."
"Um, Dr. Jacobson thought..."
"Ah, I see. Good old Richard Jacobson. Haven't heard from him in years. You his kid or something?"
"Sorta."
"Again with the sortas. And he ‘sorta’ set this up?"
"I just wanted to talk with you."
"Well, you got about fifteen minutes here, kid. What ya want to talk about?"
"Do you feel bad about killing all those people?"
"You're one of those beat around the bush kinda guys, huh?"
"Do you?"
The man crossed his hands. He smiled, but it wasn't a good smile this time. “Every damn day,” he said. “You writing a school report or something?"
"I just ... trying to figure things out. I have..."
"You have what?"
"Strange thoughts. Bad thoughts."
"Yeah? Is that what this is about? I used to talk to the dog, you know. Thought he was possessed by a demon and he told me to kill people. ‘Bad’ like that?"
"Sometimes."
"Really? Shit. Sorry, kid.” The man freed a pair of glasses from his shirt and fixed them to his nose. “You talk to your parents about this?"
"Mom's dead. Dad's ... well..."
"Friends?"
"Not really. They...” He thought of Dennis and Andrei sitting out in the car in the prison parking lot, waiting for him. Andrei, whom he'd picked up just weeks before, per Dr. Jacobson's orders. The one he'd freed. The one who'd strangled that hitchhiker the other night. “They're kinda bad."
"I hear you, man. I had the same, growing up. Adopted, shitty dad, immoral friends, the whole nine yards..."
"I know."
The man studied him for a moment before speaking again. “Yeah. You seem to know a lot. You know Jesus Christ?"
"Not really."
"No?” The older David leaned forward. “'For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.’ You read the Bible?"
"No."
"Start now. You're not alone. God's servants are always facing the trials of this corrupt world. Jeremiah, John the Baptist, Paul.... They all endure tremendous suffering and temptation at the hands of the great enemy."
"The devil."
"Has lots of names."
"Cain."
The man smiled again. “'And God said, What hast thou done, Cain? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.’ Sure ... but it's not just murder, kid. All have sinned and come short of the glory of God. And the price of sin is death."
"Death."
"But, David, the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Always wish I'd learned this sooner."
"Do you really believe all that?"
"Pal, I was once a sinful man addicted to pornography, a devil worshipper who studied Satanism, a murderer who wandered the streets at night hunting pretty girls to shoot at. The Son of Sam."
"And now?"
"A Son of Hope, I like to say. All things for a reason, right?"
"If you could go back—"
"Can't.” The man shook his head. “No second chances. But I'd ... no, I'd surely find another way."
"You sure about that?"
The man studied him again. Tilted his head as if recognizing something for the first time, but unwilling to accept it. “David..."
"Yeah?"
"Nothing,” the older man said quietly. “It was nice, ah, meeting you. Good luck.” Then, he stood and left the room without saying another word.
* * * *
Becker waited, and was ready when the next call came.
A payphone just outside Columbia, Missouri that one of the targets had used twice before that same week. To call his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker. “Everything's okay, Mom. I'll be home in a couple weeks.” Something to that effect, maybe.
Henry Whitaker. Aged fifteen.
Birth name: Henry/11.
Parent Gene: Henry Lee Lucas.
How the Major General had pulled this off, Becker didn't really care, but they'd been tapping the Whitaker's home and a dozen other families for weeks. Most of the clones’ adoptive parents were employees of DSTI, so they'd probably agreed to the tapping. He'd been desperate for another lead. Now he had one.
So Becker and the clone of Jeffrey Dahmer sat in a car together for two days watching a payphone in the outskirts of nowhere. Then, one afternoon, a kid pulled up in an old Dodge and made a call. Positive ID made. Stolen car. Same make and model as the Christie's, recently found killed in Mount Sterling.
Kid stopped to buy some Burger King. Then headed outside of town. Becker followed, not even bothering to hang back. Kid didn't notice, didn't even seem to check his rearview mirror.
Not more than a half hour later, Becker pulled into the Paddy Creek Park. He'd never been there, but he knew it well enough. It was any small community park, a crime scene waiting to happen. He watched for a few minutes.
The boy had just vanished a minute before behind one of the brick buildings attached to a small amphitheater in the center of the park. Obviously closed for the winter, the rest of the place was empty. Becker had pulled over just beyond the top lot. Following the kid was a lot easier than he'd imagined. He looked just like his photo, for one. Hadn't thought to change his appearance in the slightest.
Becker got out of the car. “Stay here,” he said. The sun had finally dipped behind the endless lines of leaf-stripped trees that surrounded the park. “If I'm not back in an hour, you call this number. Tell ‘em you're with Becker and where you are."
His passenger saluted, sliding down into the seat.
Becker watched the boy for a moment. The blond bangs and glasses. The uneven smile. He wondered what truly awaited the kid if he actually called that number.
"Back in an hour,” he said.
It would be more than enough time to secure the perimeter of the park. No other cars. Still, he wondered how many of the boys he'd just found. Couldn't call for backup. No time. But it'd be difficult to take down a half a dozen teenagers.
Becker moved closer within the growing darkness.
His 9mm drawn. Silencer.
Closer still, he found his target again.
Thought of waiting until the kid headed back to the car. Too tough to get up to that stage. The boy had moved out toward the center of the platform, half lost in the fall shadows. Kneeling over something.
The kid wasn't alone.
A form, a woman, lay before him like some kind of Mayan sacrifice. She was not moving.
Becker aimed his gun, considered taking the shot immediately.
A last look. Area secured.
"Henry,” he called out, keeping to the shadows.
The boy jumped to his feet. Fumbled awkwardly with his pants. A wide blade shimmered in his hands.
"Drop the knife,” Becker ordered, and moved quickly up the steps to the side of the stage. One side of the knife was serrated. “Drop it now, Henry.” A step closer.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The woman at his feet was nude. Laid over a blue tarp. Her body covered in dirt, filth, and old scratches. Even from twenty paces away, she smelled dead.
"Guy who can help get you home. Your mom's looking for you, Henry."
"My mom? What the—” The boy laughed. “You don't have any idea, do you, you stupid fuck."
"Why don't you tell me?"
Another step closer. Clearer shot. Leg, maybe. Shoulder.
"You know, I just called that bitch. Told her ‘gain that I'm coming back some day soon. That I'm gonna cut her head off. You from DSTI?"
"No."
"She beats me, ya k
now. Makes me dress up as a girl sometimes for her friends. Forces me to watch her giving sex. Then the men ... just like him."
"Like who?"
"Lucas. Henry Lee. Just like him, just like me."
"I don't know about any of that, Henry. I just—"
"Stop calling me that. You got no right."
"Fine. Put down the knife."
"Fuck you, dick. Don't you get it? She was doing it on purpose. She wanted me to be like him. She did. Or they did. Someone did."
Becker could not argue. He'd seen the video tapes and read the reports. Traumatization in the formative years was textbook development for a serial killer, and it had been freely prescribed.
"Road trip's over, man,” Becker said. “The other guys are already back home."
"Bullshit. Those guys are halfway to Cali by now."
"I swear to God, kid. They're not. This is over. Just put down the knife. You can end this thing now before it gets any worse."
"Any worse? I'll cut this bitch's head totally off and then—"
"No, you won't."
"I'll cut you.” Henry took a menacing step toward him, his eyes wild. God only knew what was running through his veins. What hellish venom brewed intentionally in some lab.
"No,” Becker said again. “You won't."
"Do you know who I am, asshole?"
"Whitaker. Your name's Whitaker."
"Like hell, you fucking liar. Don't you know I'm Henry Lee Lucas?"
"No."
"I kill people. I like to rape dead girls."
"That ain't you, man. That was some other guy. Put down the knife."
"Bet they name this highway for me. Route 50, right?"
"Sure, I'll bet you fifty bucks. Now—"
The boy lunged, knife drawn to strike. Another swipe, and Becker again eyed his target's shoulder, leg. Fuck. Too close.
Two shots.
The body flipped back, legs kicking out, and landed awkwardly on the concrete stage.
"God damn it.” Becker moved to the girl.
A woman. The face battered and swollen but recognizable. She'd been dead for a day or two, he figured.
"It's Becker,” he said into the cell.
"Got him?"
"Yeah. Henry secured, sir. Need someone to Paddy Creek Park. He's down. The nurse too. Stacey Kelso."
"Understood, Captain. Anything else?"
Becker watched as Jeffrey approached slowly from the distance. He waved him away but the boy still moved closer.
"Kid said something about California and the others. Could be nothing."
"That's good, Captain. Pursue accordingly."
"Any news on the East Coast group or Dr. Jacobson?"
"Just focus on the others for now,” Durbin said.
"Oh,” Becker managed. The Major General was hiding something. What?
"Anything else, Captain?"
"No, sir."
"Good work, kiddo."
"Yes, sir. Out.” He put the phone away, didn't look behind him. “I thought I told you to stay in the car."
"I saw what happened.” The boy stopped moving towards the stage.
"Yeah, well ... you shouldn't be seeing this. You really..."
"Is that..."
"Yeah,” Becker said. “One of the nurses."
"Is she..."
"They both are. Why don't you get your ass back to the car."
"Why'd you shoot him?"
"He had a knife. I had to."
The boy stared at the two bodies again. Perfectly level with his vision on the raised stage.
"Look, kid, he didn't give me much choice,” Becker said. “I did what I was trained to do."
Jeffrey looked up from the two bodies to Becker.
"So did he,” the boy said.
* * * *
David stared toward the ocean from the balcony, any view blocked by the several enormous houses between. He couldn't even hear it, the waves. Instead, a couple of gulls cawed beside an opened dumpster behind the pizza place.
He could also hear the others in the next room. Dennis and Andrei. And the girl they'd picked up on the boardwalk a couple hours before. The empty apartment they'd found was half a dozen blocks from the beach. It had been easy enough to break in. Whole building was empty, most of the shops closed, a ghost town for the season.
The girl was crying again.
"Yo!” one of them called above her weeping. “Get in here."
Soon this will be over, David told himself.
Somehow, some way. He wanted out.
Didn't care anymore if he was really the genetic clone of Son of Sam, some balding jerk named Berkowitz. Didn't matter that his dad roughed him up a bit, called him stupid too much, that he'd been prescribed access to porn and violent movies by a bunch of evil doctors working for the military. None of that mattered.
He didn't want to hurt anyone. Not really. Or be around others who did. He just wanted to go home. Play some X-Box. Maybe make some microwave popcorn and watch a funny Will Ferrell movie with his dad.
David moved slowly back into the room.
The girl was hog-tied on her stomach over the wicker and glass table in the living room. Her clothing, which they'd cut, hung in strips dangling from the cords. Andrei was naked too. The TV was on. Some countdown on VH1 about the fifty most “Outrageous Moments” in Rock & Roll history.
"I'm gonna get some pizza,” David said.
"Later,” Dennis looked up from the girl. He smiled. “Later."
"I'll be right back.” Down the steps, down the street, forget the car, just keep walking. Up the whole Atlantic if he had to. Call his dad to pick him up. Would he? “Hungry."
"What about you?” Dennis laughed and smacked the girl on her bared ass. “You hungry, bitch?"
Andrei smiled, his hand working between his own legs.
The apartment door opened.
Andrei jumped. “Hey!"
"Who the fuck is that?” Dennis jerked up from the couch, lurching towards the hallway. David also turned with the noise.
The door shut again.
Something moved in the shadows, then. Stepped into the apartment. A blur of darkness. It moved so quickly.
Dennis gagged suddenly, blood spurting from his mouth. No, his neck. His hands grabbed up for his throat as the blood pumped out between his fingers and sprayed the white walls and the huge painting of a lighthouse.
Dennis's head tilted back, only half-attached to the neck beneath. Then he collapsed to the floor. Something sleek and black moved quickly away from him into the room.
A man, obviously, surely, David told himself, but it scurried across the ground like a huge spider.
Andrei suddenly lifted several inches off the floor.
His naked body jerked, the choked scream gurgling in the blood, which suddenly sputtered from his mouth as the wide tip of a blade exited though his stomach, then slowly lifted up to his chin. Andrei's eyes, wide and glazed, tracked its progress as his breath rasped and wheezed, then stopped.
The body was tossed to the ground.
David stood frozen as the dark thing then killed the girl. Drove one of its blades into her back so hard that the glass table shattered and she broke through to the carpet beneath. The shape struggled to pull the blade free from the floor.
Then it moved for David.
"What are you,” David asked.
The blades whistled.
The boy spilled to the ground, choking slowly, the blood and air releasing in steady surges from his severed throat.
It sounded almost like the ocean.
* * * *
By the time the last of them had died, the killer had already moved back for the front door. Stopped over the girl for only an instant, considered, but moved ahead.
His brothers were still out there somewhere.
His fathers were waiting.
And there was still much work to be done.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Route 666: Road Trip to World H
orror 2007 by Alethea Kontis
Alethea Kontis's first publication was her essay in Apex Digest issue #3. She is now the author of AlphaOops: The Day Z Went First and the official Sherrilyn Kenyon Dark-Hunter Companion, as well as co-editor (with Steven Savile) of the SF all-star anthology Elemental. Find out more about Alethea's plans for world domination on her website: www.aletheakontis.com.
The free online dictionary defines “adventure” as an undertaking of a hazardous or questionable nature. Think about that the next time you wish someone else an adventure ... or wish one on yourself.
You may as well live in interesting times.
If an “adventure” is the best thing someone can say, be prepared for the worst. But the rest of the Rules of Life still apply: Keep an Open Mind, Be Flexible, and—above all—Be Brave.
At the very least, you'll have one hell of a story to tell when it's over.
When Jason Sizemore, esteemed founder and publisher of this very Apex Digest, asked me to accompany him to the Stokers in support of Aegri Somnia's nomination, I thought it over.
When he told me we'd be driving to Toronto, I immediately said yes.
It would be an adventure.
A writer is always up for an adventure (and if you're not, shame on you! What kind of writer are you? Not a very good one, I'll warrant), and she will certainly summon up the energy for an adventure with the greatest potential to go spectacularly wrong.
Otherwise, what stories are there to tell?
I've got to hand it to Jason—our trip to Toronto was not the makings of an 80's movie starring Tom Hanks, Richard Pryor, or Chevy Chase. (Thank the gods.) But it did have its moments.
* * * *
There
I was already running on fumes by the time we got to Kentucky, the aftermath of MidSouth Con the weekend before. Do yourself a favor and try not to schedule two conventions two weekends in a row. (If you're like Steve, do yourself a favor and try not to schedule a dodgy 36-hour trans-Atlantic flight and two conventions in a nine-day window.)
But The Best Boss in the World had asked me, and since I love Jason dearly, I figured out a way to go. I worked out how to get the days off of work. I got my ticket to WHC (ouch!). I set aside some moolah for the hotel and gas. I even got the Boss a bonus Aegri Somnia author, since by way of timing Steve was along for the ride. Being at the Stokers was important to Jason, so it was important to me. Everything else was secondary.
