by Hadena James
The purple dragons never appeared. By the time the family of the asshole who had murdered his father arrived, he was feeling saner. His head no longer spun and his thoughts were his own again. He looked at them through the scope. He studied the differences from the photographs; the wrinkles, the frown lines, the sadness, and now joy. They all looked so fucking happy. It made him want to take them all out. However, that was not the mission. That would just make him a mass murderer, not a mass murderer with a purpose and he needed that purpose for the years that were ahead of him. No innocents could die today, not if this was going to further the cause. Their happiness would be short-lived anyway. That thought brought him comfort. He didn’t mind a little psychological anguish for them, let them feel how his mother had felt at losing a daughter and a husband. It brought a small smile to his lips. The darkness inside of him swelled, swallowing all those pesky feelings that made him human. The demons he had fought for so long were no longer things to be loathed and hated, but a beautiful representation of righteousness.
Through that scope, he felt god-like.
Chapter Three
The gate sounded muffled as it squealed to life, opening for the prisoner to walk out. The man that had killed Donnelly and Isabelle Clachan would not walk away a free man. Eric watched his feet through the scope. He was waiting for him to get close to the exit, Eric wanted him to believe he was walking away with his whole life ahead of him. Three, maybe four, steps from the entrance, Eric gently squeezed the trigger, and those hopes of a brighter tomorrow, in spite of what he had done, were dashed in an instant. It took just eleven pounds of pressure to remove the life from the man. Just eleven pounds, no more than it took to lift a gallon of milk or a case of soda. The man’s head jerked as the bullet entered his face, a half inch above the bridge of the nose.
Blood sprayed out the back of his head, as he began to fall. People were screaming, but the sound was lost with the distance between Eric and the prison. Euphoria washed over him. He had become the thing he always feared, and in that becoming, he found his addiction. It was better than any drug he could snort, shoot, or smoke.
He was righteous. He was infallible. He was omnipotent. He was an executioner. He was their executioner. They would stand before him and tremble. They would find no mercy with him. He was not capable of such feelings for those pathetic wretches that found themselves before him. Mercy would be left up to their gods. He was just meant to send them there.
He quickly took aim into the prison yard and fired. The rifle was a well-oiled thing of beauty and worked seamlessly. Fire and eject, fire and eject. The prison targets were going down as fast as the cartridge could eject and reload. Each one condemned to death for the crimes they had committed against the innocent.
Eric didn’t mind the running and ducking. That just made it more interesting for him. He took aim at a prisoner trying to hide behind a weight bench, fired once, catching the guy’s leg. His second shot was fired as the man reached down, grabbing at the wound, exposing the top of his head. He smiled to himself as the bullet found its mark. It penetrated the skull, freezing the man in time for several moments. Blood barely trickled from the wound as he slowly rocked forward and fell to the ground.
The barrel moved to a new target. A single breath and the target was down. Eric mentally counted, confirming seventeen killed in the space of less than two minutes. He was missing two targets. After a moment, he found one, crouched near a bench. Eric fired. It went in through his eye and exited the back of his skull. It then entered the leg of a prisoner not on Eric’s list. Hopefully, the guy didn’t die of complications. He was a monster, but not a complete asshole. Those that hadn’t slaughtered the innocent didn’t need to die. It would be better for him and his cause if they didn’t. That was why he wasn’t shooting at the prison guards or anyone else. That would be unhelpful.
Another quick look through the scope as it swung around and Eric found his second prize; a man named Virgil Light who had raped seventeen women and accidentally killed one. He was here because it had been ruled manslaughter, not murder. Eric didn’t know the man personally, but he knew the type and staring down the scope at him, Eric wanted nothing more than to watch him writhe before killing him.
He fired once, caught Virgil in the shoulder and fired a second time, hitting a leg. Four more shots went into Virgil Light. Four shots that would ensure he would bleed to death in the yard of the prison. Eric smiled and lit a cigar. He didn’t normally smoke, but he deserved this one. It was a job well done. To quote a phrase, the fat lady had sung. Everything would move faster now. The world would realize just what was needed to ensure the survival of the human race who had begun to prey on each other and would eventually lead to extinction. Forget global warming and threatening volcanoes, the biggest threat to mankind was mankind.
He pulled out his phone.
“My name is Eric. I have just killed twenty prisoners at the Kansas City Detention Center. I’m located on the roof of a building about 700 yards southeast of the prison. The address is 2014 Constitution Boulevard. I am climbing down now and will sit on the curb in front of the building, unarmed.”
“Sir, what’s your full name?” The 911 Operator asked.
“Eric Clachan. I avenged the murder of my father and sister.” Eric hung up. He calmly walked down the steps. Sirens were blaring in the distance. Some from the prison, some from approaching law enforcement.
Once at the curb, he put the rifle about ten yards away from him and sat down, legs crossed at the ankles, and reclining on one arm. He continued to puff on the cigar.
Chapter Four
After eighteen hours of interrogation and questioning, Eric made his first request. He wanted to go to the bathroom. They surprisingly let him. Possibly because it was the first thing he’d said in eighteen hours. They had tried everything to get him to talk, even tried startling him. They failed to realize that he didn’t have a startle reflex. That required someone to suddenly become frightened and Eric didn’t feel fear. Mostly, he was bored. He kept thinking about his wife and kids. They were about the only sane things left in his world. He wasn’t sure his mother would be able to forgive him for killing someone. Aislinn would understand, but she saw the world in black and white, no room for grey areas. If she let too much grey area in her life, she lost focus on right and wrong.
The drugs were completely out of his system as far as side effects went. That was okay though because they had already taken his blood.
Once he finished emptying his bladder, he was led back into the interrogation room. It was small, not much larger than a broom closet. There were two detectives inside, one was named Daniels, the other Brandy. Daniels was the aggressive one. Brandy tried to be sympathetic and understanding. Neither were fooling Eric. Of course, they didn’t matter. They knew he had some kind of help because he had only shot killers and wounded one by accident that wasn’t. That was the information they really wanted.
However, at any moment, it wouldn’t be their case any longer. The Kansas City Detention Center was where they held the worst federal criminals after their trials until they either moved to a real prison or were released for whatever reason. That made it a federal crime.
Eric tried not to yawn as Detective Daniels brow beat him over and over again about his partner and how much smoother things would go for him if he cooperated. Eric didn’t want to cooperate. He wasn’t interested in telling them where he had gotten his information. He didn’t care if they wanted to throw the book at him or not. The worst they could do was put him in prison for life, and honestly, there were much worse things. Eric was a predator. He’d be fine in a prison.
Prison was a place for predators, real predators. The gangs that had once touted so much influence were losing out. The serial killers were taking over and almost every federal prison had a few now. They occupied the top of the prison hierarchy because they were crazy enough to survive being jumped and stabbed. Their attackers were rarely as lucky. Every serial killer h
ad watched their body counts climb in prison settings. Eric’s would too.
The prison system design was flawed. It was built as punishment, but ended up fostering friendships and bonds. That was all well and good for those that required social interaction. However, psychopaths and sociopaths didn’t. They were better off without it. This meant the rise of the serial killer and mass murderer was altering the internal landscape. Serial killer groupies existed within the prisons. If a serial killer did get into trouble and needed help, they had groupies to come to their aid.
Since they really only associated with their own kind, meaning people of similar intelligence and abilities, it also meant that serial killers, which should be a lonely demographic, were socializing with other serial killers. A few years ago, this had come to the attention of the entire US when a riot broke out in a federal prison in Texas. Three very deadly serial killers had been in the same block. Everyone else on that block had died. They had survived just fine. They had even helped retake the prison from the inmates, because it meant they got to satisfy their blood lust. There’s a lot a serial killer will do to quench that thirst, including helping take control of a prison by killing inmates. No one was sure whether to reward them for their service or stick them in solitary confinement. In the end, they had done both because they had also saved the lives of a few guards.
Most people had considered the serial killers a lost cause. Everyone figured that during the five days of rioting, they would turn on each other. They failed to realize that the truly intelligent serial killers who were psychopaths and sociopaths were quite capable of establishing boundaries and hierarchies amongst themselves. This was why a prison full of serial killers would work.
Those at the top would make sure to keep those near the bottom in line. Because those at the top would be like Eric. They would want to be there. They would be the worst of the worst. They would be the psychopaths with strong survival instincts and no compunction about using brutality to maintain control. They would be the serial killers that other serial killers feared and revered.
Missouri had built the perfect prison, designed as a SuperMax, it had been their answer to housing serial killers. For some reason, Missouri had a lot of them. The highest per capita rate of any state and it was only growing. One problem existed, housing serial killers was not something that could be done on a balanced budget. Most prisons offset operating costs with convict labor, but a prison full of murderers really couldn’t. They weren’t the type of people that couldn’t churn out office furniture and license plates. Even a pencil could be deadly if used properly. There was no way this group could have tools. The Phillip I. Trumbull Penitentiary was the best SuperMax ever built.
The answer was for the Feds to buy it. Specialized time schedules and balancing out how many alphas were in each cell block would be the key. Once those things were in place, the prison would be idyllic. Solar and wind power could keep it off the main grid, ensuring there was no way to cut the power. Maybe put it under the jurisdiction of the Secret Service or another agency that specialized in lethal enforcement of the law. Make them the wardens and prison guards.
“Detectives, do yourself a favor; go home, kiss your wives, pat your children, and tell them how much you love them, then go to bed and just never think about this case again, because you do not get paid enough to deal with me,” Eric dropped the mask of civility that he was wearing, letting the emptiness show. Brandy twitched and frowned, unused to seeing suspects that were capable of being as emotionless as Eric Clachan. Daniels did not. He slammed his fist down on the table in front of Eric.
Eric moved quickly, he’d gotten out of his handcuffs shortly after returning from the bathroom. They clattered onto the floor as Eric let go of them. He grabbed the fist, jerked it hard, pulling Daniels into the table. For just an instant, there was resistance. It passed and Daniels came up over the table, flipping onto the floor on his back. A sharp snapping sound echoed in the room, just before Daniels started to scream.
“Don’t,” Eric’s voice held malice as he spoke to Brandy. “You, Detective Daniels, are probably the type of guy I don’t like. Arrogant and macho. You reek of alcohol and soap, meaning you’re sweating out the booze. Your instinct is to show me how much of a man you are, which makes me wonder if your children cower in fear of you.” Eric leaned in very close to Daniels and whispered softly in his ear. “Do you believe they will mourn you when you’re gone or will they throw a party to celebrate being rid of your ass?” Eric twisted the already broken arm and was greeted with another snapping sound. Daniels was now blubbering on the floor. His pants soaked where he’d pissed himself. Eric tossed the broken arm to the floor, getting another satisfying yelp of pain out of the detective.
“You, on the other hand, seem like a decent man, and a good detective. I haven’t a clue why you are stuck with him as your partner. Do you know how I have spent the last two years of my life? Watching the man that murdered my sister and my father get away with theirs and five other murders. Can you imagine sitting through day after day of testimony from abusers, users, and losers, proclaiming that someone’s prolonged drug use has altered their personality and they really aren’t a bad guy, once you get to know him? Or listening to some schmuck lawyer talk about how the system had wronged his client and it had resulted in the death of seven people? Or a prosecutor ignoring the fact that there was over one hundred thousand dollars in brand new hundred dollar bills lying around his cheap ass apartment and not trying to figure out where it came from? Two weeks ago, a jury told every family member of his victims that he was not guilty due to diminished capacity. He was released with time served and a year of probation. Where is the justice in that? He killed cops. He killed innocent women. Yet, he isn’t responsible for it because he came from a broken home and used drugs. I got up at 2 am to catch the first shuttle from Columbia to Kansas City, they dropped me off at the airport, where I grabbed a cab, the receipt is in your possession. You pulled it out of my pocket when you arrested me. Any who, I climbed to the top of that building because I knew I wouldn’t be spotted by any of the guard towers. You guys should really do something about that. By the way, if anyone comes in before I finish my story, I shut my mouth for good on the matter and I break Detective Daniels’ arm in another spot. My goal was just to shoot one of the relatives. I wanted him to suffer like my family did. However, once they showed up, I knew I couldn’t do that. Taking one innocent life for another doesn’t solve the problem. Instead, I shot him in the head. Let his family consider all the ways they could have done things differently to keep this guy alive. Or maybe I was doing them a favor. Maybe they secretly hated him and what he had become. I don’t know, and I don’t care. That’s the biggest problem with me. I don’t fucking care about these people. I’m not even sure I consider them people. More like cockroaches scurrying around trying to eek out a living at their dead end jobs, stealing when necessary to get it done. Did you know that I checked into him before I climbed that building? He had seventeen previous arrests for violent crimes including domestic violence with a gun, and yet, he was still free to wander around like a person. His family isn’t much better. Full of thieves, abusers, drug users, hard drinkers, and more than one murderer; they should have been sterilized to stop the spread of their genes. At least I’m a functional psychopath, this is my first time in trouble with the law. Where was I?” Eric looked at Brandy.
“You decided to avenge the death of your family not get revenge.” Brandy answered.
“Very good, Detective Brandy! You get high marks for that. Most people do not see the difference. You’re right, I decided to avenge their murders by murdering the man that murdered them. If I had gone ahead with revenge, he’d be mourning the loss of his mother and maybe a sibling or two. I thought killing him would bring me satisfaction or peace or some such nonsense. It didn’t. It just made me want more blood. More chaos. More control over who lived and died. I turned my scope into the yard itself. Now for the good part, most peopl
e don’t know that when a psychopath stares into the eyes of another psychopath, they just know. They can feel the emptiness that lays beyond. I don’t know if it’s a lack of soul or a lack of shock, maybe both. But they just know. That was how I picked my targets. I looked for the emptiness and when I found it, I fired. Maybe that makes me a bastard, maybe that makes insane, maybe that makes me an angel of mercy, because not only did I end their pathetic lives, I avenged all those they had wronged. Let’s be honest, they didn’t get behind those fences because they were decent, upstanding, human beings. If they had walked out, they would have gone back to their miserable lives filled with violence wrecked upon others, like fucking wendigos.” Eric sat back down in his chair, a smile on his lips. “And like them, the moment I walk out from between those pitiful gates, I will once again prey upon the lives of all those that have wronged so many. Consider me a mass murderer of serial killers, it has a nice touch of irony.”
Chapter Five
When he finished, Eric fell silent again. He ignored the moaning detective at his feet. He ignored the stunned detective staring at him with his mouth slightly ajar. So many breadcrumbs had been dropped in that one statement. He wondered if anyone would pick up on them. He doubted it. Those involved meant nothing to them, yet. One day, they might, but not today.
A man in a tailored suit and a woman in a knee-length skirt suit walked into the room. Eric thought they looked like they belonged as extras on the X-Files. Obviously, they were FBI. Obviously, they were stuck in jobs they hated. Obviously, they were here to talk to him. Except he was done talking to anyone. They just didn’t know it yet. His statement had been recorded. His performance had been played. To illustrate just how done he was, he folded his arms on the table and laid his head down upon them. His eyes closed.
