The Night Killers

by Senese, Rebecca M.

  “How is she today?” he said.

  “Restless.” Lucy moved forward, bracing her back with one arm. “We both want to know when this is over.”

  “The Sister will be here soon,” Peter said. “They’re on the way now.”

  He pointed to the growing dust cloud in the distance. Even as they watched the dust cloud parted and the van became discernible. Marc let out a whoop and started running. Several of the other children followed.

  “Don’t go too far,” Lucy called.

  “Let them go,” Peter said. “It’s a special occasion.”

  Lucy grunted and shielded her eyes. Trina started moving toward the ladder.

  “Don’t you dare,” Lucy said. The girl stopped, turning back to look at Peter. He shrugged.

  ‘You know how she doesn’t like you reading everything in her mind,’ he thought to Trina.

  ‘But it’s so much easier.’

  ‘Easier but impolite. If she wants a chair, let her ask for it.’

  The girl sighed and returned to stand at Lucy’s side.

  Within fifteen minutes, the van pulled up ten yards from them. The dust cloud hovered in the air then settled as the doors opened. Sami and Rick slipped out from the front seat. The Sister jumped out of the back. Peter’s breath caught as he found himself still waiting for his brother to jump out as well. But he wouldn’t. He never would. He hadn’t survived that fateful day.

  Sami hurried forward, her arms open wide.

  Peter hugged her, felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. Even without thinking, he could smell the scent of her blood and feel the bitter sweetness of her sorrow. It hovered in the forefront of her mind, making her quieter than before. He tightened his grip around her. How he missed her determined spark.

  “Hey, leave some for me will ya?” Rick said.

  Peter released Sami and clasped Rick’s hand. The man smiled. Deeper lines etched around his mouth and forehead, reminding Peter how much older they all were, even after only seven months. Except for the Sister. She had always looked old.

  As he turned to greet her, she punched him in the shoulder and her eyes sparkled in the sun. He started. Had she somehow heard his thought? He couldn’t discern anything from her wide grin. She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

  “Let me take a look at this lady of yours.”

  She brushed past him, heading for Lucy. Marc and Katey crowded around Sami. As he watched, Sami touched Marc’s head and Peter knew she was commenting about his new height. The boy’s laughter floated over to him.

  “How are the patrols?” he asked Rick.

  “Mostly quiet. We find the occasional vampire but no major attacks since, well, for seven months. The cities have expanded the patrols out to fifty mile perimeters. Still hardly any sign of vampires. Nothing spotted on any of the convoy routes.” Rick turned his back on the others and started to meander over to the van. Peter followed.

  “Anything about Elliott?” Peter said when they reached the van.

  Rick shook his head. “Nothing. You?”

  Peter squinted against the sunlight, letting his gaze sweep the horizon again. “No. We listen, all of us, but nothing. Not so far.”

  “Maybe never,” Rick said.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Seven months isn’t a long time. In a few years, he might decide to forgot it.”

  “So he decides,” Rick said. “We keep patrolling and if he comes back, we take him down for good.”

  Peter turned away from the horizon and looked at Rick.

  “It isn’t just you and them,” Rick said. “It’s us. And we’ll finish the job if we have to. That’s what the Night Killers do. And just because you live out here, looking after these kids doesn’t mean you can shirk off.” Rick jabbed at him to emphasis his point.

  Peter nodded, and thought of Josh, a Night Killer to the end, fighting to the last. The Night Killers remembered and took care of their own.

  “Shirking off never occurred to me,” Peter said. “What kind of Night Killer would I be?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hey, you guys going to jaw all day or come inside?” The Sister’s voice called over to them. Peter and Rick turned back. She stood alone at the entrance to the lab. She waved at them.

  “Come on, guys. Trina’s got lunch ready. Then I’m going to take a look at Lucy. You might have a new little lady by the end of the day, Peter.”

  “Lunch sounds good,” Rick said. “I’m hungry.”

  They started walking to the entrance.

  “So a girl,” Rick said as they reached the ladder. “Bet she’d make a good spotter like her dad.”

  Peter smiled. “I’m hoping she won’t have to.”

  Rick nodded and clapped Peter on the shoulder. “Me too, brother. Me too.”

  They climbed down the ladder out of the blazing desert sun.

  END

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Based in Toronto, Canada, I write horror, science fiction and mystery/crime, often all at once in the same story. Garnering an Honorable Mention in “The Year’s Best Science Fiction” and nominated for numerous Aurora Awards, my work has appeared in TransVersions, Deadbolt Magazine, On Spec, The Vampire’s Crypt, Storyteller, Reflection’s Edge, Future Syndicate and Into the Darkness, amongst others.

  Preview of Mind Hunt: A Science Fiction/Mystery Novel

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, June 4, 2250

  When the call came, he was dreaming of blood. The screech in his ear jolted him awake. His heart pounded so loud it almost drowned out the noise. Adrenaline hit a moment later, wrenching him to full alert. The emergency override of his phone bug buzzed insistently.

  “Time,” he called into the darkness.

  “Three thirty a.m.,” the clock responded in its bland, mechanical voice.

  He sat up, briefly regretting that he wore the phone bug constantly now. But there wasn't any real choice. Not after four.

  Maybe five now.

  He triggered the receiver in his teeth. “Max Grainger.”

  Dubas' voice, harsh and still sleep-filled, mumbled the dreaded words.

  “Max, we've got another one.”

  She hung up before Grainger could reply. As the lights responded to his call, he was already fumbling for his clothes. In five minutes he was running for the roof to meet the waiting aerohopper.

  Outside, he paused to put on his jacket and rub the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. The Toronto air still held a touch of chill, even in early June and especially at this hour.

  The driver acknowledged him with a nod and hit the accelerator. Flaps extending, the car lifted smoothly off the roof, banked around the building and headed northwest, toward the airport.

  “Where we headed?” Grainger asked.

  “Republic of Salvador,” the driver said. “We got the call half an hour ago.”

  Grainger nodded, already taping through the aerohopper's antenna to the Central AI at the office. He flashed through the identification process, waiting impatiently for the Crime Investigation Unit logo to fade. Finally through, the Artificial Intelligence listed all current information.

  Another new country, he thought sourly. Inevitable when almost every city, state or province declared itself a nation. After the bio-plagues, the economic collapse and panic of the zero birth rate, total chaos had reined until the new countries gained a small measure of control. But still there were the unclean places, where the black market and criminal gangs held sway. Gene splicing and DNA mixing became the new way to reproduce, and the new way to produce monsters. Grainger knew in those filthy, decaying cities a powerchip became more valuable than a life, a sample of undiseased tissue became almost priceless. It was safer in the Alliance, supposed to be safer with the Genetic Standards Code and the testing.

  But already the fourth family in six months, if the M.O. matched. It would. Dubas wouldn't have called him if it didn't. Safer. Right.

  The aerohopper's deceleration pressed
him back in the seat. Below, the airport glistened like a tear drop, growing in size and brightness as the car descended. Morning sunlight reflected brightly off the steel-glass walls, making Grainger blink. With a bump, the car landed on the tarmac. The driver hit the door release. Air hissed out as the lock disengaged and the door slid back to reveal the sleek form of a waiting speed-shuttle.

  Irene Dubas beside the shuttle, clutching a stack of hard copy reports under her arm, her CIU jacket slung over her shoulders, a rare nod to formality for her. Jeans, too short for her long legs, ended just above her ankles and the grey shaper boots. Her elfin face was framed by a shock of black hair. Normally coiffed into submission, it stuck out in all directions, betraying her own hectic arrival.

  As Grainger jumped out of the aerohopper and walked up to her, she wagged her reports at him. “I had them put your equipment aboard the shuttle.”

  “That's good,” he said. He appreciated her telling him. Like most Virtual Reality Officers, he was very protective of his equipment. His previous partners had never understood the merging of consciousness and technology when he hooked into the VR Unit and the damage that could result if the unit was even slightly off calibration. Dubas had always been very good about it.

  “The Alliance liaison has ordered another press blackout,” she said. “The AI is already producing smart worms to delete anything on the ComNet. Might even be able to extend it into the Non Aligned Zones if the cyphers are up to speed.”

  They boarded the shuttle.

  Two and a half hours later they stood outside the house. It was a newer model, piecemeal made in old China and then ordered direct from the factory through distributors. The latest in inexpensive housing. Practical down here, Grainger thought. Wholly impractical up north. They still hadn't figured out how to beat the Canadian winters.

  They hadn't painted it, Grainger noticed. Either they hadn't wanted to or couldn't afford to, the cost of the house probably taking up their savings for years to come.

  Behind them, the Salvadoran police mumbled and mulled around. They were a haphazard bunch, Grainger noticed, probably part-time help with a few soldiers sprinkled here and there. Wide brown eyes stared suspiciously at Dubas' tousled hair and Grainger's bristly face. Probably wondering who the hell these scruffy people are, Grainger thought. But the Alliance treaty gave the CIU jurisdiction in this case, despite the police's misgivings. At least they weren't overtly hostile like in the Atlanta Collective.

  Dubas stepped forward, pulling her ident badge from her pocket and triggering the holo. A tiny miniature of her from shoulders up sprang to life and slowly revolved above the badge.

  “My name is Inspector Irene Dubas, this is my partner, VR Officer Max Grainger,” she said crisply. “First we would like to thank you for extending your invitation to us to visit your crime scene.”

  Like they had a choice, Grainger thought wryly. But he appreciated her diplomacy. The way she identified this scene as the Salvadorans' was designed to set them at ease. From the relaxing shoulders and smoothing brows, he could tell that Dubas' words were having the desired effect. It wasn't necessary to do have their cooperation but it sure made it easier.

  Despite Dubas' soothing words, the police stayed well away from him, Grainger noticed. Noticing was his job in a nutshell. The police had noticed him as well, he could see it in the way they tilted their heads, how their eyes looked quickly away, how their hands twitched. His speciality was obvious to any who recognized the tiny implant sockets in his temples.

  Dubas returned. Grainger watched her smooth, strong stride, her grey boots crunching on the gravel.

  “The cops got as far as the kitchen before they realized what they had,” she said.

  Grainger nodded. “Did they mark it?”

  “I think so, but they may have missed things.”

  “Okay.”

  Grainger bent to run a quick check through his equipment. His hands slid over VR Recording Unit open. Intact it weighed about three pounds and looked like a tiny briefcase. Leads from the back slid out for connection to his temple implants. The bottom sensors measured carpet and floor density, calibrating the weight of the last people walking in any given room, through comparison of the fibre contraction to the list of fibres on link to the Central AI. Tiny filament sensors along the side took air samples for similar comparison with known air borne chemicals. The pinhole cameras mounted around the case photographed in normal, infrared and ultra violet. His own effect on the environment was masked out by the tiny leads attached to his right wrist. A reading of his movements, weight, skin, clothing and hair fibre were recorded and then deleted from the main track, but maintained on a secondary tract in case the evidence was ever challenged in a court room. Grainger had never heard of a VR recording being challenged in the last fifty years.

  Satisfied, he plugged the leads into the sockets at his temples and hit the power.

  “I'm ready,” he told Dubas. She nodded and stepped away. He turned quickly toward the house, before the unit started recording impressions of her. He had to save up his watching for the house.

  Patterned brick led toward the house. Evenly spaced, he noted, a very professional job. The colours were dulled by the intense sun and humid air. He looked at the house.

  Grey, flat and unassuming. The kind of colour that faded into the background. The original colour of the panels. Welding marks streaked like rain at the panel edges. The family had laboured hard to put it together. He wiped the thought from his mind. He was only watching, only seeing. Anything else was thinking. He was not paid to think.

  He keyed open the door with one gloved hand. Hallway empty, a colourful throw rug on the floor, skewed to the left. He swept the area, paying close attention to the joins at the walls and floor where telltale particles would settle.

  The first body lay in the living room. One of the three husbands in the group marriage of six adults. Face up, sitting on the worn, green couch. Hands folded inside his abdomen. A ragged slice splitting him open from sternum to throat like a ripe fruit.

  Grainger recorded all around the body, sensors on maximum. He noted the blood splatter patterns on the carpet, the smear beneath the couch. It wasn't necessary to measure. After his sweep, the police would commence bagging the evidence.

  He finished the lower floor which, besides the first body, was empty. The rest were upstairs, laid out in the bedrooms. He noted the familiarity in the pattern of mutilations, similar to the first two sets of murders. With the daughter he took extra time, just as the murderer had. The slice here was straighter, cutting through her body, almost splitting her right in two. The internal organs had been removed and laid out around her in a ritualistic pattern.

  And again the slogans, in a bloody splash across the wall of the master bedroom. “Free the human genotype.” More generic than last time, he noticed. Nothing specifically about the Alliance conception policies. This time.

  He was careful to record every letter precisely, to give the handwriting analysts something to work with, but odds were it would turn out like the others. Sprayed by a trigger-writer, set to random styling.

  As expected, the second child, another daughter, was not in the house. If the killer was true to form, they'd find her in a week or so. Grainger refused to think about that.

  The full recording took three hours. When he finally emerged, the police, barely contained by Dubas, rushed forward. He saw them coming, saw Dubas's alarmed face as she reached out to stop them. He closed his eyes tightly and hit the disconnect switch.

  Pain lanced through his temples and down his back. His jaw clenched with the force of it. A headache erupted from the base of his neck and spread like clutching fingers across the top of his scalp. His stomach twisted with nausea at the sudden disconnection. He fought it down, swallowing the acrid taste of bile in his mouth. Slowly the pain receded to become a throbbing in his temples, an after-effect of the hurried disconnection. He would pay for this later, he knew, when he tried to reconnect.
<
br />   Finally as his senses cleared, he felt Dubas's hand on his arm. He opened his eyes, squinting against the pain in his head.

  “You okay?” Dubas asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She nodded once then whirled away from him, toward the police.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she snarled. “Are you all first year cadets? You never rush a VR Officer after he's come out of a recording. Not only could you do tremendous damage to him, you could overload the equipment and screw up the recording.”

  They all looked properly horrified but Dubas wasn't finished with them yet.

  “You.” She pointed at a short, stocky officer with dark, curly hair. “Get a list of everyone here and register them for an introductory seminar on VR. I want a copy of that list and a report from each one of you attending about what you learn.”

  The officer hesitated and Grainger saw rebellion in his eyes. But Dubas' expression was murderous. With a curt nod, the officer changed his mind and began to make a list.

  Turning, Dubas took Grainger's arm and steered him toward the car. He slid in after her, sinking back into the seat, closing his eyes against the headache.

  Only when they reached the airport did he open them. The light poured in like molten steel, making his temples throb. He rubbed his forehead as they slipped through customs and onto the shuttle. Settling into their seats, Grainger carefully checked the VR Unit as Dubas tapped his shoulder.

  “Are you sure you're all right?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Your eyes are red, I've got some painkillers.”

  He shook his head. “No thanks. It's fine.”

  Dubas didn't say anything, but the set of her mouth told him she was displeased. Satisfied with the VR Unit packed away, he leaned back in the chair. He was sorry she was unhappy but he didn't like what painkillers did to him, how they dulled the nerves, distorted the connections to the VR Unit. Grainger was the best in the business and the only way to be the best was to be totally connected, totally seeing. Anything blocking that was not tolerated. He would live with the pain.