No Darker Fate

by John Corwin

  She shined her flashlight into the back of the store. The back door lay on the ground in the back alley next to brick fragments. The center of the thick steel door was bent in the outline of a foot. Who could have done that? If the stolen produce had been spinach, she might have believed Popeye. None of this made sense, but neck tingled like mad.

  She took out her phone and called Detective Jackson. No sleep tonight.

  Chapter 3

  Tollee phased out of the Blight in front of Arbiter Martin's estate and brushed the dust off her clothes. After a quick inspection of her shoes, she rapped on the hard oak door and waited. The butler, a rail-thin man in his forties, opened the door a moment later. His eyes wandered over her spandex shorts and tight-fitting tank top.

  "He's expecting you."

  Tollee was already halfway through the door, careful to step around the chum. Just the thought of touching him made her queasy. Martin, as usual, was in his study staring out the window into the dark night.

  "Our tool worked rather well, didn't he?" Martin said.

  "Yeah. Makes me sick." She pulled out a flask of vodka and took a swallow. "Hasn't the poor guy suffered enough?"

  Martin turned away from the window. His short gray hair had thinned a lot over the past few months and he'd gone from being pudgy to gaunt. But his blue eyes still sparked with the fire of life. And maybe a little bit of craziness too. "I know you don't enjoy how we go about this, my dear factotum, but it's the only way."

  "It wouldn't bother me at all if we did it to chum, starting with that butler of yours," Tollee said, pointing back into the hall. "He's standing around the corner trying to listen in again."

  "I know. He couldn't repeat anything he heard even if he wanted to. I've taken precautions."

  Tollee cringed. Arbiters could do things to the mind she didn't want to think about. Then again, how would she know if he'd done something to her? Maybe he already had.

  "Tollee, dear, don't worry. I trust you," he said.

  She tried to act casual. "Good. Did you get what you wanted?"

  "You'll need to recover the body from the morgue."

  "Gross! You didn't say anything about lugging around dead bodies." His eyes hardened. Tollee's skin went cold. "Fine. But why couldn't I get the body right away?"

  "The stones, child." Arbiter Martin dropped into a plush leather chair. "Active stones will kill you."

  "How?"

  Martin stared into space for nearly a minute. Tollee got the impression he wasn't all there. He might even be communicating with someone else. Another Scion maybe? Despite his promises to introduce her to others of their kind, she had yet to actually meet another Scion. Except for David Young. Poor guy. She choked up.

  "You liked him didn't you, dear?"

  Tollee jumped.

  "Don't grow attached to our guinea pigs."

  She opened her mouth to speak. Changed her mind.

  Martin pointed to the door. "The stones should be inactive by now. Get the body."

  Tollee shifted into the Blight, took the hallway, and walked past the butler who was hiding around the corner, listening. He couldn't see her in this alternate reality. She grimaced at his slimy skin, ragged scalp, and eye pits. She wondered what would happen if she brought a chum into the Blight. It might kill him. She phased back to Normal a few feet behind the butler and cleared her throat.

  He yelped and collapsed against the wall, a hand to his heart.

  "If I catch you spying on us one more time, I'll give you a real heart attack," she said.

  "Oh dear. I'm sorry, Miss, I am."

  She left the blubbering chum behind and motored through the door, trying to contain her rage. She had to be careful not to break the cardinal rule of Scions: don't show off in front of chum. Well, it was something like that. Arbiter Martin hadn't explained all the rules and regulations the factions abided by. They probably didn't even apply to her as an independent agent, or whatever she was.

  Tollee took a long swig of vodka. It burned down her throat, through her stomach, and into her blood, charging her energy levels like a battery. She took out her smart phone, plotted the quickest route to the morgue, and started running. Within seconds, she blurred to top speed. She ripped open a scar into the Blight, and vanished inside.

  Chapter 4

  Lucas rolled over, trying to get comfortable. His mattress seemed unbearably hard. He cracked an eyelid. Saw a hardwood floor and a puddle of reddish drool. He closed his eye and waited a second. Opened it again. Definitely not his mattress. Pushing himself up, he forced open both eyes and took in his surroundings. He was on the floor in the den, fully clothed. The front door hung ajar. Humid air circulated with the air conditioning. A mosquito whined in his ear and two flies chased each other around the overhead light.

  A dish clattered in the kitchen. Lucas jumped to his feet, looked for his bat. The paralysis that usually gripped him when he felt danger hadn't yet taken hold. At most, he felt confused. How odd it was not to feel that breath-stealing fear that had claimed him since the night his family was murdered. He walked into the kitchen. A stray cat perched on the counter, licking the remains from a can of tuna fish.

  The cat saw Lucas. It bolted past him and out the front door. Lucas grabbed his flyswatter and closed the front door before sending the invading flies into the next life. His gums felt sore. Lucas ran his tongue over his teeth and felt food lodged in between them. He ran into the bathroom and opened his mouth. His teeth glistened red. Strings of raw meat hung between them. Then he noticed his hands. Blackened blood encrusted his palms.

  Bile caught in his throat. Raw meat? He gagged, put a hand over his mouth. He dry heaved at the smell of old blood on his hands then jerked them away from his face and washed them. He grabbed dental floss, pulled a long strand and set to work cleaning his teeth. After dislodging the first bits, he realized they weren't meat at all. They looked like red beets and other unidentifiable vegetable bits. He never kept raw vegetables on hand, only canned. He washed his hands again in hot soapy water but couldn't quite get the red stains off.

  What had happened to him last night? Why was his door open?

  The hint of a dream flitted through his mind, but he couldn't get a handle on it or remember what it was about. A handle. A silver handle. Why did he remember that? He patted down his jeans pockets. Empty. Standing at the front door, he looked around the room and spotted something that had rolled across the hardwoods and under his computer table. He reached for it and pulled out the stainless cylinder. Rotated it. Found the strange symbol.

  A man's surprised face flashed through his thoughts. Lucas's thumb on the cylinder. Stones on the man's eyes. Running through the streets in a blur. Smashing through a window. Raiding a store. The images repeated, each cycle filling in more horrifying pieces until his dream became a waking nightmare.

  Lucas held up the cylinder in a trembling hand. He held his thumb over the symbol. Pressed it. A needle-like blade flicked out. Around the tip, a bloodstain. A clear drop of fluid emerged from the needle and perched atop it like a tiny crystal dome. The cylinder fell from Lucas's nerveless grip and clattered on the floor. It was a stiletto of some sort. Or a massive hypodermic needle without a plunger. Whatever it was, he'd used it to kill someone last night. The man from the picture.

  The floor seemed to fall out from under him. He collapsed to his knees as the full implications of his supposed dream burned into his mind. The stones. What were they for? Why had he put them on the man's face? He'd gone insane. The murder of his family, almost a year of isolation, and countless of cans of mercury-poisoned tuna had taken their toll on his mind. His fear of death had morphed into a need to kill. A need to give death another target besides himself.

  The cylinder, the picture, and the text messages had probably come from him—from his alternate personality. Lucas tried to recall any blank spaces of time, any blackouts he might have suffered recently. None came to mind of course. How could he remember what his own mind hid from him
? He grabbed the stiletto and took it to the front door. Paused. If he threw it into the woods, the police might find it. He remembered the loose hardwoods he'd found yesterday during his search for an intruder. One was in his closet. He pried the board up with a flathead screwdriver and stowed the stiletto underneath, used some wood glue to secure the board. It wasn't as effective as a nail, but the hardwoods were tongue and groove and weren't nailed in from the top.

  That done, he took off his clothes and inspected them. There were specks of blackened blood on his t-shirt and pants. The butcher shop. He remembered flinging meat. He hadn't eaten any of it, though. Only the vegetables. What sort of murderer gorged himself on rabbit food after a kill? He was even more insane than he could have imagined. He should turn himself in.

  No, that would be the worst solution. He had to get help. Psychological help.

  Lucas tossed his clothes in the washer and turned the cycle on hot. That should get out the blood. He could burn the clothes later. After brushing his teeth, he hopped in the shower and scrubbed himself. Regret swelled in him with each returning bit of memory from the night before. He braced his arm against the side of the shower and leaned under the water. Tears joined the cascade of water running down his face. Sobs wracked his body.

  Mom and Dad would despise the creature into which their son had degenerated. He turned off the water and grabbed a towel. Despite the clinging sorrow, he felt different today. His irrational fear of everything that lay outside his door was merely a pain in his gut rather than an overwhelming bottomless pit of doom. Now he was a danger to everything outside. He was the killer.

  Another pain joined his remorse. Intense hunger. He called the grocery store that usually delivered to him and called them.

  "You're already out of food, Mr. Fowler?" the clerk asked him.

  "No. I want something different this time."

  The clerk seemed surprised at the large order of produce, but promised a prompt delivery. Something important had changed in Lucas last night. Something had unlocked a hidden part of his mind. The insane need for veggies was a part of it—a really odd part.

  Lucas read the local news online while he waited. The death of David Young was front page.

  Ritual Killing Suspected in Death of a Salesman, read the headline. They'd included a mini-biography of his victim.

  David Young. Lucas would remember the name. Honor the memory. Defeat whatever insane evil had corrupted his mind and redeem himself. David Young had no family to leave behind. His parents were deceased, and he'd never married. In some ways, Young's life had paralleled Lucas's. Had Lucas's tortured mind told him to kill a reflection of himself?

  All that mattered now was redemption.

  But how? He couldn't bring the man back to life. He was too cowardly to turn himself in. Perhaps the key was to change his own life and repair the damage to his psyche. Give more of himself. Charity work, maybe.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Lucas answered. The young delivery boy jumped back.

  "You scared me, Mister. You ain't never answered the door before. Looks like you're gonna be making one heck of a salad with all these veggies."

  "You ever done any charity work?" Lucas asked.

  "Charity? Nah, that's boring. Why you askin' me?"

  "I want to do something meaningful."

  "I ain't but sixteen, mister. You're askin' the wrong person about meaningful stuff."

  Lucas handed the boy a tip. "You're right. Thanks."

  The boy scampered back to a scooter with baskets strapped on the sides and rattled away.

  Lucas dumped the vegetables into the sink and cleaned them. His hunger swelled until he was ravenous. Without cooking or peeling, he chomped into the turnips. He stripped the corn from the cob with his teeth. Stuffed entire tomatoes into his mouth. He had to resolve this problem.

  Even more so, he needed extra dental floss.

  Chapter 5

  Alexia stared at the profile of the coroner's van. It had never made it to the morgue last night. The sides and roof bulged in spots. One bulge looked remarkably like the outline of a human face. She shuddered. Detective Jackson emerged from the other side of the van, grimacing. His grimace softened when he saw her. He motioned her over with a curt wave. She wasn't sure she wanted to see the inside of the van. A thick puddle of crusted blood had gathered on the ground near the back of the van. Flies swarmed the gruesome muck.

  "I want this guy bad," Jackson said as she closed to within a few feet.

  "You think the murderer did this?"

  "Who else? He was probably at the scene with the other clubbers and followed the van when it left."

  "No police escort?"

  "For a dead body? Usually that's the least of our concerns." He ran a hand down his face and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know how strong a stomach you have, but the inside of this van isn't pretty."

  "I guessed that already." Alexia stepped around and looked inside anyway. Her knees buckled. A wave of nausea rose in her throat. She managed to choke it back.

  The inside of the white van was coated with chunks of flesh, spattered blood, and God only knew what other bodily fluids. The heaped remains of the driver resembled spaghetti with a healthy serving of red sauce. An arm had been wrenched off and laid atop the gurney used to transport the original victim. Alexia pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it over her nose to cover the stench. Flies buzzed in and out of the van.

  Something about the body bag caught her eye. It had been split open along the zipper, but the slider which closed the zipper was still at the bottom in the closed position. The vinyl material had been stretched in places. The outline of a hand was easily visible.

  "Did you notice the deformations on the body bag?" she asked Jackson.

  He nodded. "What do you think?"

  "It looks like it was opened from the inside."

  "Yeah."

  She arched an eyebrow.

  "That means I'm not crazy. I was thinking the same thing."

  "Maybe the murderer did that on purpose to throw us off."

  Jackson shook his head. "How'd he get the zipper closed from the inside?"

  "It could be done."

  "Since it's the only explanation that makes any sense, I'll agree for now. This guy is one sick son of a bitch. Why would he want the body now? Why not take it right after killing the guy?"

  "He likes a challenge. Maybe it's his way of confusing the police."

  "It is ritual," said a voice from behind.

  Alexia suppressed her flight reflex, but couldn't hide the annoyance in her voice. "Hello, Victor."

  Victor snapped a few shots with his camera. "How interesting."

  "You got a theory?" Jackson asked, his eyes narrowed.

  "Use your eyes, detective," Victor said. "Did you notice the stones are still inside the van?"

  Alexia looked closer. Part of a stone peeked out from under the fold of the body bag. Using a pencil, she lifted the flap and saw the other stones underneath.

  "I'll be damned," Jackson said. "Maybe he didn't want to collect the body until the stones came loose."

  "That's why he didn't take the body immediately," Victor said.

  "Why does he need the body at all?" Alexia pointed to the dents in the van. "And how strong is the person that could do that? The driver looks like a rag doll with the stuffing beat out of it."

  "The perpetrator is obviously raging insane. A berserker, perhaps."

  The odor from the van overwhelmed the handkerchief. Alexia walked upwind back to her car and pulled out the laptop. She jotted down a couple of possible scenarios but neither made much sense.

  "I'm disappointed, Alexia," Victor said, jerking her from thought.

  "Why?"

  "I think this scene warranted a phone call. I found out about it myself."

  "I only got here a little before you did."

  "You should have called the moment you found out about this."

  "Sorry."

&n
bsp; "That won't do. I suggest you remember my simple rules before you end up reassigned to Anchorage."

  Alexia clenched her teeth and set the laptop aside. "Please, Victor, I'm truly sorry. Next time I'll call you immediately."

  He pursed his lips. "Good. It's best you let me decide what's important sooner rather than later. Consider this your second chance. A probationary period."

  "Yes sir."

  "Let me see what you've got on your laptop."

  She handed it over. Victor read her musings, grunted a few times.

  "Interesting. Shows imagination."

  "What do you think happened?"

  "I'll keep my theories private for the time being. If you come up with any other ideas, email me the details." He turned back toward the van. Paused. "Oh, and I'd prefer if you send me your reports directly. I'll relay them to headquarters."

  "But Dickinson told me—"

  "You let me worry about him. He knows I'm on the case. He knows what to expect."

  "Yes sir."

  Victor strode back to the van and took more photos. Alexia waited until his back was to her before she slapped the hood of her rental car. She wanted to scream. Several minutes later, Jackson walked over, his face clouded.

  "That little blond-headed shit is about to meet an early grave."

  Alexia nodded. "Be my guest."

  "This whole scene feels like a setup." Jackson braced his hands on his hips. "The killer is playing us for fools and Victor is eating it up. He really thinks the body rose from the dead and escaped."

  "Do they have fingerprints yet?"

  "They found plenty inside the body bag and in the blood. Most of them are smeared, so they're trying to find a clean one."

  "How strong are those body bags?" Alexia asked.