Twelve Mad Men

by Ryan Bracha et al.

  Then I heard him scream and a shape blundered ahead of me. I fired from the hip and the figure fell back down the bank just as I cleared it. I saw Huldra at first, and then I saw the huntsman. She lay across his shoulder. Her arms flailed towards me and she screamed for help. I had the impression of a hundred things moving behind them in the trees, grey shapes with red ears and eyes like frozen lightning, then I lifted my gaze to the huntsman himself, high above the ancient Howe. His outline shifted like smoke and the green fire flickered around his feet. He wore grey furs and long grizzled hair hung around his shoulders. At his side, a vast, bloodstained horn hung from a wet leather strap and two ravens clacked and screeched as they circled just above him. Huldra screamed and screamed and then the huntsman, as though noticing me at last, glared down and I saw, with a rising horror that sucked at my heart and drew every dreg of warmth from my bones, that it was my own face staring back at me.

  I jammed my eyes shut and felt a hot wind filled with dust rip through the winter and I heard Huldra cry a final time. It was a shattering scream; as if the whole world had distilled its collective despair into a single note.

  Then there was silence.

  I crawled across to Pete. He lay on his back on the bank side and the snow beneath him was turning a crimson that was almost black. Both barrels directly in the face had taken most of his skull away. The air stank of blood and flame and the wind died suddenly. I looked over to the place I had seen the huntsman and saw nothing.

  I was alone in the woods with the man I'd killed, and that's how they found me the next day.

  Eleven

  Another dry heave attempts to get vomit from my stomach that simply will not come. I make an effort to pull myself upright but it’s useless. The scene in front of me has knocked me for six. Spark chuckles again, looks down to the head in his lap, hushes it quietly as he strokes the woman’s hair.

  “There are a few more like her around here. You know? Dead like? Don’t blame me though, it was the alien,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Alien?” I gasp, trying to look him directly in the eyes but the carnage in my peripheral vision drags my line of sight directly back to the headless corpse, “Oh God,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, he’s a nutcase like,” he says, “a proper nutcase. Everything was great until he showed up.”

  Rather than try to stand I shuffle around and pull myself onto my arse, with my back to the doorframe. My head drops slowly until it hits my knees. Alien?

  “Is the alien why you’re here?” I ask. Spark shakes his head.

  “Were you not just listening to ma story? I telled you why I was here already,” he sniffs, “am not a lunatic like, not like the alien.”

  “Who’s the alien?”

  “You couldn’t pronounce his real name.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Probably back in his room. He went off on one when, uh, Benny unlocked the doors, probably tired himself out.”

  “Benny let you out?”

  “Uh, aye,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Dunno,” he says, his eyes searching for the words, “he just comes up, says we’ve to scare the new fella, which I’m guessing is you. Unfortunately he let the alien go too, and he got a bit of stuff off his chest like. You know? Killed Amanda and the other nurses. Shame about- I mean, uh, where is Benny?”

  “Dead.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yeah,” I say. So Benny let them out to frighten me. To scare me off of the job. Send me packing. I suppose that makes sense. Kind of.

  “Did you kill him?” he asks. I shake my head, no.

  “Allen Miles did,” I say, drawing a knowing nod from Spark.

  “Not surprised, Vincent’s a mean fucker. Him and Benny never really got on.”

  The conversation has calmed my nerves just slightly, and I’m moved to attempt to stand. I continue to keep my eyes on Gareth Spark’s, and with one hand I steady myself against the door frame.

  “Do you know about Gary?” I ask, in between sucking in deep breaths. Spark nods.

  “Aye, number two of the Twin Towers,” he says, “I’ve mentioned him to Dr Bracha before but you always get that same look, that one that says he thinks you’re talking shite.”

  “Where is Bracha now?” I ask.

  “I told you, he’ll be around upstairs,” he shrugs, “he’s only ever upstairs. He might come down if you ask nice like.”

  I move away from door, and my hand reaches for it. Spark shuffles slightly in response to this, and makes to move from the bed. At this point my gag reflex is tested once again as he pulls his erect cock from the mouth of Amanda’s skull. The head drops to the floor with a dull thud and Spark grapples with his cock, desperately trying to trouser the thing. Before he can stand properly I’ve slammed the door closed. I try to hold the thing closed as I finger the keys frantically looking for his. He’s at the other side screaming blue murder at me, trying to pull the door open. The key presents itself at the perfect time as he steps away to regain his energy, and me locking the door is given a soundtrack of swearing and threats. I’m hoping to God that he quietens soon, because I need to find, and lock whoever the alien is away, before something else happens.

  I round a corner, and see exactly what Spark was talking about. There are the bodies of the nurses strewn everywhere. Some naked, others with clothes torn at unfortunate places. I get a shortness of breath and try to focus. This can’t be happening. I want to check them for vital signs, or cover their poor modesty in death, but I’ve seen enough police-based shows, and read enough books to know that you don’t mess with a crime scene. One hair of mine in the mix is enough to incriminate me forever, and then what? I’ll be in here, as a resident. That’s what. The floor is caked in sticky, rapidly drying blood. Small dry islands of bare footprints help me to navigate to where the actor of such violence is housed. As I step as carefully through the blood as possible there’s a soft breathing sound coming from the open room. It doesn’t come from an alien, far from it, but the person that sleeps there is undoubtedly a monster. He’s covered from top to toe in the blood of his victims. I pull my keys out carefully and quietly, as I look for evidence of who this person is. The door says Stanley, Martin, so I search out the key with MS written across it in the same familiar fine point permanent marker pen. The monster stirs. His tongue slaps hard against his teeth and his bloody hand scratches at some sleep-itch on his chest. I need to secure this one. I really need to secure him. Then I need to call the police and get this whole situation finished with. I can’t handle it. My first day and I’ve met some of the most fucked up beings that ever walked the Earth, I’ve been screwed over by my new colleague and his secret twin, and to top it all off I’ve got a murder scene on my hands. This was not in the application. I can’t even remember filling out the application, but I can pretty much guarantee that none of the above was part of the job description.

  With the key already primed in one hand, I step over the threshold to try to quietly pull the door closed. Martin Stanley stirs, so I throw caution to the wind and get a little bit hastier about proceedings. The latch drops into the barrel and I lock the door as calmly as I can.

  “What are you doing?” says a voice from behind the door. Stanley? That would be impossible. The man was fast asleep, “you can’t just go around locking people away. I have rights.”

  I don’t say anything. The voice speaks again.

  “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not here to hurt anybody. I’m here to help you. All of you.”

  I say nothing.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” says the voice.

  I say nothing. Then the man behind the door emits a strangled wails, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Not even from Keith.

  “I really shouldn’t be here!”

  Once again, I say nothing.

  The Matryoshka Doll

  By Martin Stanley

  I shouldn’t be here.

  Now, I know what you�
��re thinking: Don’t they all say that?

  Maybe, but that’s not the point.

  I’m not crazy, like the others. I hear their moans in the night, echoing down the corridors, bouncing inarticulately off the surfaces. Occasionally, I feel the thump of my neighbour in my bones as he throws himself against the wall. Every time he does it, I tell myself that I don’t belong here.

  Hell, listen to them all, screaming about the lights. Idiots. Now listen to me, quiet, rational and calm – do I sound like a loon?

  I’m clearer in mind and spirit than you are, friend. I know who I am and who I’m not.

  Can you say the same?

  They’ve made a mistake. I don’t belong here. I’m not even human.

  Now, I don’t mean that in the metaphorical sense, but in its full literal meaning. I’m not human. I’m an alien life form.

  Don’t give me that quiet, patronising sigh – thank you very much. I know what I am and where I’m from.

  Of course, I could give you the name of my planet, but then I’d have to kill you – I’m on a top-secret mission, after all. We’ve been watching you for a long time, you human beings, ensuring that you don’t have the means to leave this little ball of water and rock that you call home.

  Did you know that you’re the only species in the universe that’s incapable of co-existing peacefully with others? On every other planet we’ve visited, the life forms occupy their habitats in harmony with each other – if the balance starts to tip some natural correction occurs and order is restored. Humans are the exception: far too selfish and short-sighted to even understand what balance means. Humanity’s nothing more than a virus with a brain and opposable thumbs.

  If you had the technology to occupy other worlds you’d be the most dangerous creatures in the universe. Your savagery is boundless, and it’s only your inability to think ahead that’s your saving grace – you’ll probably destroy yourselves before we have to.

  We’ve been sent here to monitor the news, the people, the scientific and technological communities for evidence of progression, for signs that mankind might be a species worth saving, for any sudden technological advances that might affect us.

  Oh, you’re wondering how we get here, right? Well, it’s to do with wormholes, see? Or at least, that’s how you perceive them. The universe is made up of these things, only you can’t see them. They come and go so quickly that the human eye can’t register them, although the brain does process them as déjà vu. We can skip worlds in seconds and traverse entire galaxies in the time it takes you to commute to work in the mornings. The only thing is, we can’t make the leap in vehicles, or in our own flesh; the sheer force of a wormhole would fold a metal object a mile in length to the size of a bullet and flesh would be destroyed completely. So we have to send our consciences, our essence, if you will, our souls, to your planet via these wormholes. And once we’re here we need to quickly take possession of a host – we have a five-minute window – before our chance is gone and we’re catapulted back into our bodies.

  When I took possession of Martin Stanley, he was running. I didn’t know why – not at that point, anyway. Sweat rolled down his red face, which was frozen in a rictus of fear, and his head twitched from left to right, as though looking for something. His gut bounced beneath the blood and sweat drenched T-shirt he was wearing. His baggy jeans were caked with mud and gore. He weaved without coordination through the trees, stumbling over loose branches and wiry knots of wild grass. Every time he took a bad step he let out an almost girlish squeal of fear.

  I made the leap into him, taking possession of his mind.

  It was then I realised why he was running. It was then I realised my mistake. This man was a monster, the kind of creature that populates nightmares.

  I slowed down to take in my surroundings. I felt the arrhythmic beat of his unhealthy heart, the harsh rattle of his lungs, the burning of muscles overloaded with lactic acid. Most of all, I was overwhelmed by the darkness that consumed him, the horrors that lurked in his head. I wanted to leave his body, but once contact has been made it can’t be unmade. Only death can break the bond.

  A cacophony of voices came from me.

  “There’s nowhere for you to run.”

  “Stop.”

  “We can help you.”

  “Think of the families.”

  “Come here, you piece of shit.”

  I didn’t yet realise what he’d done, only that there was something awful within him. I tried to move faster, but his muscles had nothing left, and he collapsed on the floor. Before I had a chance to look at his pursuers they were upon me, inflicting punches and kicks, striking me with objects, their blows vicious and without mercy. I remember screaming in pain. And as I slid into unconsciousness, I hoped that one of these blows would kill me, so I could return to my home world.

  I woke several hours later, both hands cuffed to a hospital bed. A young nurse looked at my chart and shook her head. She was unhappy, mostly because I was going to live and make a full recovery. I remember the images that ran through my head, which still had traces of the host locked away in its darkest recesses. I felt a desperate urge to hold her down and slap away that look of contempt. This was followed by the desire to slice her clothes off with a surgical scalpel and take her until she screamed in pain, until…

  Bile rose up into my throat and stayed there until I swallowed. The bitter, metallic taste lingered, reminding me of the thoughts I’d had. I needed to wash the taste and the thoughts away.

  When I asked her for a drink, she spat in my face and stormed out. Though I wasn’t alone for very long.

  A tall police officer entered the room and stared at me with a sneer of contempt. He moved beside the bed and prodded one of my bruises. The pain made me want to cry out, but instead I just whimpered.

  He leaned forward until his mouth was inches from my ear.

  “You better start talking, son,” he whispered. “Tell the families what they wanna know.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” I said. And I didn’t, not at that point, anyway. The process of absorbing my host’s mind wasn’t fully complete; so there were huge gaps in memory and logic, with entire branches of his life still a mystery to me.

  The officer didn’t believe that. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped his hand around a bruise on my forearm and squeezed with all his might, until I passed out. Then he slapped me awake, though not hard enough to leave a mark, and said: “There’ll be a lot more of that if you don’t start telling us where they’re buried, you fat sack of shit.”

  When they moved me to a cell a few days later, I knew pretty much everything there was to know about Martin Stanley. And the more I discovered, the more trouble I realised I was in.

  A fat detective with mottled skin and three-day stubble sat beside his thinner, paler partner and stared at me. A young, scruffy legal aid solicitor sat to my right and occasionally whispered orders in my ear: answer the question, don’t answer it, let me talk, the usual.

  The fat detective leaned across the table slightly whenever he opened his mouth. “We’ve found the three you buried out in Whitewebbs Wood,” he said. His jaw muscles danced and popped as his mouth pursed up and he tried to swallow. “Where are the others?”

  “The three that my client’s alleged to have buried,” the solicitor replied. “Last time I checked, he hadn’t been found guilty of any crime.”

  The fat detective turned his lizard gaze on the lawyer. “We found him at the scene, burying one of them. The DNA of three other people has also been found in the boot of his car.”

  It didn’t take a space traveller with an off-the-scale IQ to notice that these men so badly wanted to turn off the cameras and tape recorders and dispense with traditional justice. It took all their willpower just to keep the conversation civil.

  “Where are the other bodies, Mr Stanley?” the second detective asked.

  I stared past them for a few seconds, getting an eyeful of beige wall, until I realised that t
hey were talking to me. I fixed my accusers with a stare that made them shuffle uncomfortably.

  “The others are about forty feet back from the main footpath, about sixty feet away from a big house – I can’t remember the door number.”

  My solicitor tried to interrupt but I silenced him with a wave of the hand. I wasn’t Martin Stanley, so I had nothing to gain by hiding his victims and denying their families some peace of mind.

  The fat detective smiled. “How many?”

  Something within the host surfaced, a little bubble of anger from a portion of his mind that I hadn’t yet occupied, and the desire to wipe the grin off the detective’s face overwhelmed me. I dropped the full truth on my interviewer.

  “Eight.”

  That did it. One cheesy smile gone in the time it took him to process the number.

  “Eleven in total?”

  I nodded.

  The detectives held their breath and looked at each other, barely able to understand what they were hearing.

  “Well, eleven in Whitewebbs Wood.”

  Both men paused and gazed at me through narrowed eyes. The fat detective picked up a glass of water and glugged the contents. He lowered the empty beaker to the desk and stared at it for a few seconds, before he raised his eyes to mine.

  “Are you saying there’s more?”

  Martin Stanley started killing women when he was twenty-six years old. It began with a Russian girl, Natalya, who made the innocent mistake of visiting the printers where he worked.