Inside, the classroom is sectioned by long work stations that are anchored into the ground, built in with ovens, dish washers, and sinks. I look at the cutting boards, the knife holders, and dozens of cupboards that cover the walls of the long classroom. I feel a sinking sensation deep within me, like my intestines are slithering, squirming together like a mess of worms tangling into one mass. I look at the students hunkered down, hiding behind their stations as my eyes are drawn to the far end of the classroom where the teacher is standing as if she’s teaching a lecture.
Written on the white board in red ink, the teacher, Miss Beasly, wrote out her final words. Much like all the other victims, the demon wants to make certain that we’re all very well aware that this is its work. I look at the writing, there like an epitaph to her rather long life, cut short by the ambitions of something monstrous, something horrid. I read the words and feel the anger shooting through my veins. Maybe it does know that I’m on to it. Maybe it does know that I’m hunting it now. ‘Detective, let’s up the ante. –Miss Beasly’. I look at the words and feel the wrath inside of me roaring to life. It’s playing a fucking game with me.
As for Miss Beasly, she is a mess. She appears to be a woman in her late seventies, the kind of matronly woman that you’d picture in your mind as someone uttered the words ‘culinary teaching’ or ‘home economics’. She has a full head of white curly hair, glasses that are kept secure around her neck by a beaded chain. She has crow’s feet, bags under her eyes, and enough wrinkles to need an iron. I look now her neck that has a wattle and spy the turkey thermometer jammed into her throat, upwards toward her skull, probably piercing the base of her skull, cracking in two it like a walnut. But the demon didn’t stop there. I look down her wallpapered, floral patterned dress, past the light pink cardigan that she wore today even though it’s a million degrees outside and a cardigan is about as useful as a third ear.
The sleeves of her cardigan and her dress are spattered, completely matted in gore, blood, and chunks of bone. I stare as her hands are still being mangled inside the two blenders that whir in front of her. The glass pitchers are fully painted in the gory spatter and I stare in disgust at the chunks of deep red and pale white whirling, floating in the stew that has become her hands. I can hear the bones grinding against the metal teeth at the bottom of the blender, rattling and clanking. It grates against my nerves, listening to the horrific sounds, making me fight back the vomit bubbling up in the back of my throat. Her body is twitching, going pale as she continues to grind off the last of her hands and into her wrists. She’s leaning forward, her eyelids getting heavier as her jaw hangs low in an open, silent scream, waiting for it to come, but the pain and horror of all of this is just too much for her.
Eventually, she tips over, slamming her face into the high counter of her teaching table. I can hear her nose crack immediately before the blenders are knocked over and the smoothie of Miss Beasly is spilled across the counter and floor, quickly followed by the shattering of the glass pitchers, sending crimson teeth of crystal across the floor. Students are throwing up all around me and I feel nauseous looking at her. Her hands are completely gone, all the way up past the wrist. Even still, the gluttonous teeth of the blenders are whirling, chewing up the floor, bouncing, still plugged in as they go. I want to rip the things out of the wall, but Miss Beasly’s death can only mean that the demon is now elsewhere, hunting its newest victim down and feeding on their sorrows and their despairs.
I look at the faces in the classroom.
“Is she dead?” someone mutters as a pool of blood spreads out from under her head, staining her snow white hair. Her legs are still twitching, flopping as her whole body quivers. Her stumps are still sending out rivulets of blood that are splashing onto the floor, filling the front of the classroom with even more gore and disgust. I’m not sure what to do. I stare at the woman, waiting for another kid to stand up and jam a pen through their eye or something along those lines, waiting for the demon to make its path known. I wish that the principal would give me access to the cameras. I would be able to stop all of this carnage from continuing.
I’m about to tell them all to stand up and file out of the classroom slowly before there’s another scream from another room, deeper into the school. Shit. I’m too late. The demon must have hopped into Miss Beasly and then hopped into someone else who went to another classroom while the teachers and security ushered them back to class. The demon could be three people ahead of me, maybe more by now. I grind my fingers into fists, wondering what other horrors are awaiting me deeper into the school. How desperate is this demon right now to get away from me? It must not have expected me to be this far along, this close on its trail. It’s trying to throw me off, trying to draw me away from its host, scrambling to secure its plan. I turn and race out of the classroom, watching as people are filing out of their classrooms patiently and orderly, but all of that is short-lived. They’re catching on. The students aren’t sheep. They’re getting the hint. People are dying.
A mad rush breaks through the main hallway and kids begin shoving each other out of the way, storming down the hallways, screaming for freedom as they break the bonds of their instructions and try to flee before whatever’s killing the other kids comes for them. I don’t like any of this. I don’t have any more of the control than I thought I was going to have coming here for Alice. I shove a kid out of my way and rush into the vacant classroom, greeted by yet another horrid sight.
The demon has struck again, taking the life of another teenager. This time, it’s a little guy, probably a freshman. I look at him as he’s lying on top of an art room table, the boy is on top of a pile of construction paper and shredded chunks of paper from a dozen different projects. I stare at the kid, wondering what had possessed him to think that this was the way he needed to die. What would make anyone think that this was how they should end their lives? I look at him, his blood pooling on the floor, on the confetti of a thousand different projects. I stare at his wide eyes, his head slowly tearing itself from its body. I stare at the enormous paper cutter, the kind that the school should have retired ten years ago, but there it is, an enormous sword-like blade slicing through nearly his entire, gangly little neck. I watch as the last of the boy’s muscle and skin tear from the weight of his nearly severed head, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
I shudder as it falls and smacks on the floor with a wet splat among the pool of crimson confetti. I can hear footsteps coming up behind me. I can hear his ragged breath as I look at the decapitated kid, all of his blood rushing out of his enormous, fatal wound. His head rolls to the side and I stare at it, wondering what the hell I’ve done. What have I brought here by my attempt at cornering the demon? It could be anywhere now, running amok among the students of this school, hopping from host to host, looking for an avenue to get to my daughter.
“Oh my God,” the principal gasps.
“Get them all out,” I growl at him. “Get everyone out of here.”
VIII
No one’s allowed in. It’s been that way since the van showed up, since the guys dressed in yellow space suits stepped out of the back of their enormous delivery truck and started making their way toward the entrance of the school. By the time they arrived, everything had exploded into anarchy and chaos. The doors burst open and there was nothing to keep the students in. The shouting teachers, the carefully practiced and monitored drills, everything shot to hell, sending kids and adults alike out in a whirlwind of panic and fear. Honestly, I don’t blame them. I can’t possibly imagine a world where people could witness this and still be absolutely okay with following the rules, following their little marching orders. But since then, no one’s been allowed in.
They tried shutting the gates. They tried making it so students couldn’t get out, but without the permission of their parents, that was hardly a thing that anyone could do. Soon, kids were ramming the gates in the parking lot and the teachers’ threats fell on idle ears. Backup was too preoccupi
ed with seeing if anyone else was in the school, if there was a gunman or a killer on the loose, lurking. No one listened to me. No one cared to listen to the man who had been there, who had seen it all. After seeing dead children, it’s hard to keep people in line. It’s hard to stop tempers and emotions from skyrocketing out of control. I look over at the doctor next to me and I know that everything has gone up in smoke.
“We’re going in to have a look at the bodies.” I can hear the team discussing what’s happening with the FBI agents that arrived after the perimeter had been set up and the students were all escorted off the property. That was after they stopped trying to corral the kids. It was time to let them go. The principal had let slip that I thought it might be a neurotoxin and because of that, it was upgraded to a possible terrorist attack and the FBI were called. “Everyone is out of there?” the man in the enormous puffy yellow suit asks the lead agent. It has to be a thousand degrees outside and he’s wrapped up in five layers of hell underneath that suit. God, that would be a terrible job.
When the FBI pulled up, they came to me almost immediately, demanding that I be willing to hand the scene over to them. They had no idea what they were asking, but I relinquished the scene before anyone could advise me otherwise. Honestly, there was no strategy to it all, no trickery or subtle manipulating of the system. There was no hanging onto the case. It was officially a jurisdictional nightmare and everything was coming out of my hands. When they arrived in their dark black suits, their dark sunglasses, and their identical haircuts, I knew that they were going to take everything I had thus far. The serial killer angle was officially going to be bumped up to the FBI and the manhunt was going to grow larger. You don’t just kill three people at a high school and get away with it.
Sitting on the hood of the Shelby, I look over at all the cops who are making sure that no one is getting near to the school. While they’re running around, chasing their own tails, expecting to find something that I know isn’t there, I’m left here wondering what my next move is. I know that once the CDC is officially inside of the school, running their tests, looking for signs of toxins and infection, the FBI will come have their chat with me. They’ll make their way over and they’ll lean on me, asking me all the questions that I would. I have no doubt that Mendez is already on the phone talking with the director of the local FBI offices. He’s going to flip out that I didn’t follow protocol. He’s going to scream at me for not going through the proper channels and at the very least, not calling for backup or letting him know what I was planning on doing.
I know that the shit storm is coming for me, rippling with all the fire and hellish anger that I would expect on the horizon, but right now, I can’t focus on that. I’m thinking about how colossally screwed I am right now with the investigation. How am I going to find the demon now? Without the teachers and the students here to be questioned or the ability to even see the security feed, I have thousands of suspects that the demon could be lurking in. Honestly, it’s leaving me with so few options that it’s making my stomach twist into knots.
The problem is Kelly. I know that at any moment, the demon is going to try to get to her and not only is it going to try to get to her, but it’s going to do so in an indirect, unsuspected approach. The two cops outside of her house aren’t going to have a clue what to look for. All they will see is a child or an old woman approaching to tell my daughter how sorry they are for her. That’s when it’ll strike. That’s when the demon will get to her, kill the last person that I truly care about on this planet, and I will be alone… with it. I lower my gaze and look at my hands. There’s already too much blood on them. I can’t imagine what it will do to me to have her blood on my hands.
I feel helpless. I feel like there’s nothing I can do to stop this killer entity. It’s like the thing is impossible to stop now. It’s on a rampage and it has a vendetta against me. It wants to make me suffer since I found out what it truly is, what it’s doing. It hates that we’ve caught on. It hates that we’re trying to catch the thing. So why does it keep mocking me? Why not run away? Why not flee off into the wilderness? It would leave a trail of bodies in its wake, but surely it can flee and hide from the chance of exposure? I wouldn’t follow it. I wouldn’t chase after it. I would let it run away into the darkness, vanishing into the night, so long as it left the city alone. So long as the victims started dropping elsewhere. That is all I need. I just need it gone. But not really. I have a moral obligation to see this through.
Honestly, I would like to think that I could reason with whatever it is. Maybe there’s a chance that I could speak with it, tell it that it’s nothing personal, that I don’t want it destroyed or whatever. If it’s an entity, then it must have some sort of ability to reason, to have a dialogue like something vaguely similar to humanity. Maybe it will be willing to speak with me, come to some sort of terms with what I want. I look up from my hands, feeling the burning sensation of despair. I have no idea what to do next.
Looking over at the agents, I keep waiting for them to come over and start interrogating me about the case. They’re not going to be happy with what I have to tell them. Honestly, I’ve got nothing. I’ve never had a single thing. I had hoped that I would find something to put me in front of this killing spirit, but I’m just here, holding my hands out, empty, waiting for some divine intervention. But there’s too much unseen in the world right now. Something is making its way through the city, killing people with divine guidance. I think I’m done with gods and spirits and all the other nonsense that’s surrounding this case. If God is real, then he doesn’t give a fuck about this city or humanity. Maybe he ran out of patience with all of us and our horrors a long time ago.
“Detective King.” A man with a practiced, stern voice approaches the car. I look up at him and see that he’s taken off his dark black blazer now, clearly adapting to the elements of field work. I had several chances to join the FBI when I was a local hero but I didn’t like the hours. I look at this suit and I can’t help but feel like I’ve dodged a bullet. It would have been a terrible fit. I’m not into the rules enough to live a life under their thumbs. “My name is Agent Halbert.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, taking his extended hand and shaking it. He’s got a strong grip, probably practiced over and over by introducing himself to people. “How’s everything going over there?” I ask him, nodding to the mobile command center.
“Not well,” he grumbles. “I was hoping that you’d run through the events that transpired here. I’d like to hear things from your perspective.”
I look over his shoulder to where the principal is standing with his arms crossed, his head shaking while he talks to the other agent. Clearly he has decided to let slip that I came in, tried to tackle Alice and she ended up killing herself, sparking this entire abattoir that now sits before us. I look at the man and wonder how quickly I could kill him with my hands wrapped around his throat. That asshole is going to cause me nothing but endless grief. I was the one who told him what to do. I was the one who told him to evacuate the school. I was the one who told him that others would die. That piece of shit owes me everything and he is going to rat me out?
“You’re aware of the killer who is posing his victims as brutal suicides?” I ask the agent.
“Isn’t everyone now?” He nods.
“Yeah, well,” I shrug. “That’s how it goes. Anyway, we had another victim drop this morning. Thankfully, I had a lead on who the next victim might be. Knowing that time is of the essence when it comes to this particular killer, I wanted to try and take the next suspected target into custody. By the time I arrived, the victim ran, I gave chase, she ended up killing herself in her haste to flee. I made my presence and my intentions known to her, you’ll have witnesses for that.”
“This isn’t a grand inquiry,” Agent Halbert smiles and shakes his head. “I just wanted to hear what it is that happened from your perspective.”
“Well, when the girl killed herself,” I continue, “the pr
incipal of the school refused to acknowledge my credentials and had his taser-toting pets detain me, until we heard another scream. Upon investigation, I discovered that one of the teachers, Miss Beasly, I think that was her name, had attempted to end her life. She was successful in the attempt and I ordered the immediate evacuation. We were losing control of the students, who were becoming more and more terrified in the wake of the events. While we were attempting to detain the students of the classroom, we heard another scream, and all hell broke loose. Students were running as quickly as they could for the exits. We couldn’t quarantine or hold a perimeter, and backup had yet to arrive. We discovered the third victim had decapitated himself with one of those old paper cutters.”
“Do you have any idea how the kids escaped the campus grounds?” Agent Halbert asks me with a furrowed brow. I see my reflection in his sunglasses and I don’t like it. It’s like talking to an alien.
“No idea,” I shrug. “It’s probably just a terrible evacuation strategy that didn’t hold up during the pressures of a real threat.”
“Why didn’t you contact the school prior to entering the grounds?” He asks the obvious.
“Because it would have been a bureaucratic nightmare to get to the girl.” I had been rehearsing that line in my head for the whole of the conversation. I have been anticipating all of these questions for a while now. Ever since I knew that this wasn’t going to work out, I knew that I needed to get my story straight. “It would have been better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
The Darkness Inside Us (A Detective King Suspense Thriller) (A Detective King Novel Book 3) Page 7
