The Hunt (Tony Downs)

by Paul E. Cooley

  The bathroom wall was a signed confession in her own blood. A confession stating she had taken part in Jennifer Downs' murder and that Beatrice Riley and Mikey were also involved. In death, she fingered Mikey as the rapist and the killer. Between that and the anonymous tips I kept calling in from an Austin pay-phone, the Houston Police Department finally had to investigate.

  One thing I pulled from Rachel’s mind before convincing her she would only find peace by a confession and suicide, was that Mikey had been responsible for several unexplained "random acts of sexual violence." In all, he had killed four women in the same way he did Jennifer. I told the cops where to find the proof. They did. But as The Houston Post explained, Mikey was out on $50,000 bond thanks to his mother, the local politician.

  That was okay with me. Just fine. I’d rather handle it my way. Besides, the all too human Houston judicial system would let the son of a bitch off for sure— his mother had connections.

  Another left turn. Ahead in the distance, Mikey's car was parked in front of an abandoned building. The interior lights were on and the engine was still running, but Mikey wasn't in it.

  He knows I'm here now, I thought.

  I pulled up beside his car, removed a hunting knife from my glove compartment, and stepped out. His doors were locked. I shrugged and plunged the knife into each of his tires. In the din of the rain, their whoosh of air sounded like a raspy breath.

  He won't be going anywhere now, I thought.

  A bullet slammed into the asphalt next to me. I dove down between the two cars and scrambled for cover. With the glare of his interior lights, my night vision was ruined. I couldn't see where he was, but he could sure see me if I stood up. Another bullet hit beside my foot and I rolled beneath the car.

  As slowly as I could, I poked my head out from under the body of his car enough to get a peek at the top of the warehouse. Sure enough, someone was up there. The rifle fired again and another bullet struck the ground next to my head. Blood trickled down my face from the shrapnel. It stung like mad. I pulled myself back under and smiled as a drop of warm oil touched my face. Closing my eyes, I let my mind seek the top of the building and peered through someone else’s eyes.

  The rifle was pointed down at me. I pushed with all the force I had and watched as the man's arms dropped the weapon. His hands pressed against the sides of his head to hold his skull together. Then he and the rifle fell over the edge of the building. I pulled back just before he hit the ground.

  Done. A bit of a let down, I thought to myself as I scrambled out from beneath the car. I looked up into the sky and let the rain wipe the blood from my face. The body was still twitching in front of the warehouse. I smiled as I walked toward it.

  The rain was washing blood and brains into the grated gutter. More food for the fish, I thought. I slipped my boot beneath the man and lifted. The body rolled over and I stood there looking at it with stupid amazement. It wasn't Mikey at all.

  "Son of a bitch," I mumbled. Got his body guard.

  There was a moan from somewhere behind me. I turned around and stared at three figures walking toward me. One of them carried what looked like a piece of pipe in its hands. Their steps were slow, measured. One of them limped. As they walked closer, I could see their ratty, used sweaters, ripped jeans, bedraggled tennis shoes, and tattered coats.

  "Oh, fuck," I whispered. The one with the pipe slapped it against an open palm without breaking his stride. "Get out of here," I rasped.

  All three stopped. Clouds of vapor puffed from their open mouths in the cold rain. "Nggggh," the one with the pipe responded. For a moment, I believed they were going to go away. "NGGGGHHH!" the lead one cried again and suddenly they rushed forward.

  I stumbled backwards and my right foot clipped the dead man's leg. I fell on my ass next to the water choked sidewalk. "NGGGGH!" the trio said in unison as they continued their shamble toward me.

  "Stop!" I screamed. They were a dozen feet away, close enough for me to see the garish sodium lamp light glinting from mad eyes. I willed myself to focus and jumped toward the pipe man's mind. There was great resistance and for a moment I wasn't sure I could get in, but I slipped through and saw myself, hands planted on either side of my body, ass in the gutter, eyes closed, head tilted to the sky as if in exaltation.

  I watched as the pipe man's hand obeyed my command and swung. The pipe slammed into the bum on the right. The man fell at once as a cloud of blood puffed up from his hair. The bum on the left leaped for me.

  I made the pipe man leap after him. I forced his arm to swing in a hard arc. The two of them landed atop my body as the sound of a skull cracking cut through the rain's din. I couldn't feel what had happened, only saw the back of the leaper's head and the rivulets of blood streaming from beneath his grizzled, gray hair. For a moment, the three of us lay there.

  The pipe man's body was feverish, achey. With a cold, arthritic hand, I rolled the bum aside. His unconscious form crumpled down beside me. My body was now prone in the gutter, mouth turned to the water. If I waited much longer, I'd start to drown. I looked down at hands that were not my own. My mind dizzied as I stared at the matted blood and hair on the pipe. I leaped from his mind as I forced him to smash it into his own head.

  I turned in time to watch pipe man fall backwards into the street. I panted in the cold rain. I stifled the urge to check the three men to see if they were still alive. Something was very fucking wrong, and part of me realized that even moving might be dangerous.

  Sound. Something moving on the roof of the warehouse. The shh-shook of an automatic pistol being armed rang clear. Without looking up, I raised myself clumsily from the concrete and ran toward the side of the building hoping whatever was on the roof wouldn't be fast enough to shoot at me. A bullet struck the ground behind me as I ran.

  Neon graffiti faces covered the wall, seeming to laugh at me as I searched the side of the building, trying to find a doorway, something, anything, anywhere to hide.

  At first, I thought for sure the sound of all that shooting would bring the cops. But then again, there was a pretty bad thunderstorm probably masking most of the shots, and we were in a district not well patrolled. Besides, I bet the cops wouldn't come near Mikey's hideaway.

  Whoever was on the roof wasn't following me very well. The shots became less frequent and their locations were completely off. I stopped and flattened against the wall as I tried to keep my breath from coming out in loud gasps. Movement again on the roof. A few yards away, there seemed to be an opening in the wall. Probably a loading area. I let my mind reach up to the top of the building, trying to get into the head of whoever was on the roof. For a second, I caught a glimpse of someone staring down the end of a pistol. Then there was great resistance and I could see nothing.

  I slowly wormed my way toward the entrance, the knife held just like Dad taught me. If someone waited for me in the alcove, they were going to get slit.

  Something tugged at my head and I looked up. No one there. Just nerves, I thought. Then the tugging increased a little. What the hell?

  Something hit my brain full force. A wave of hate and revulsion so strong it knocked me flat on the ground. Blood flowed from my nose and ears as something ripped in my mind. A cackle of laughter echoed in my skull.

  I rolled over and looked straight up into the night. Two floors above, a wavering demonic face grinned down at me. It didn’t hold a pistol; instead, it pointed taloned fingers at me, the index and middle together, the horned thumb cocking back in a shooting gesture.

  You shouldn't have come, a low voice growled in my mind. Don't you know it's not safe around here at night?

  Bastard. Fucking bastard. I wiped at my nose. "GET OUT OF MY MIND!" I screamed up at him, holding my head with both hands to try and block the pain. While he laughed and gloated, I imagined a high wall between our minds.

  YOU'RE GOING TO DIE! the thing screamed.

  The thought slammed into my skull, but most of the force hit that imaginary wall between us
. I screamed in mock pain and the face disappeared from above. I closed my eyes and let my mental fingers slowly reach for him. Another wall, his wall, kept me from reaching him. He was on his way down with a real pistol, not just illusory talons, and if I didn't stop him, I was going to die.

  He was coming down the metal ladder to the left. Steel-toed boots, the same ones which helped kill my sister, clanged on each rung.

  "Mikey?" I whispered.

  He peered down at me as he quickly closed the distance between us.

  What? his mental voice asked.

  "I know something you don't know," I said with a laugh.

  Mikey dropped to the ground.

  "What is that?" he asked and clicked the safety off the pistol.

  I smiled at him. My mental self leaped over my wall and sprinted full force at his. A look of surprise crossed his face and he tried to aim the pistol at my head. His wall began to shake from fear as his concentration broke. I crashed through the gray bricks of his imagination.

  Fragmented images splayed out before me. Pictures of knives cutting faces, dogs drowned in bathtubs, the image of a large man brandishing a belt toward a frightened child. I slipped past these without a thought and leaped into his mind.

  The Brocha's area went first, cutting his verbal scream into nonsensical gibberish. Then as I stood from the ground, wiping at my bloody nose, I liquefied his motor area. The pistol dropped from his hands. His body collapsed at the knees and twitched in a seizure.

  Blood frothed from his ears. My imaginary self punched his gray matter and I watched brain-colored fluid stream from his nose. His mind screamed in pain and confusion.

  How? his remaining consciousness asked.

  See me, I told him and his eyes focused clearly. Now see my sister, I growled.

  Jennifer's broken, battered, and bleeding face grinning with malice filled his vision. Her naked body flared with crimson. Talons grew from her stony hands. The grin split up to her ears exposing gnarled fangs.

  Mikey's mental scream raised an octave as the vision grew a large, thorny penis and stalked toward him. I felt the last of Mikey's strength buckle as the vision’s talons ripped through his mental clothes. It flipped him over, and raped him, each thrust draining more of his life-force. The mental scream wavered, lost its volume, and then died.

  I lay my head back and rested it against the wet, gritty concrete. My breath came in waves, a migraine starting to edge forward into my consciousness. There was a rip in my mind. God, it fucking hurt. Bastard had hit me hard. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the tear. It rippled and Jennifer's demon visage sprang up across my consciousness.

  "Stop, Jennifer," I breathed. "I love you.”

  The evil trappings dissolved leaving her lithe, pale body floating in front of me. The tear in my mind was mending. She smiled at me, mouthed something I could not hear, and then she was gone.

  The headache was still there, but slowly waning. I knew I'd feel like shit tomorrow, brain completely spent. I sat up and felt the mental furniture shift.

  Mikey lay on the ground, his face frozen in a scream. I pushed my knuckles against his neck. Nothing. I sat down beside him, not minding the cold rain as it seeped through my clothes and bathed my skin.

  I don't sleep very often now, and when I do, my memories are haunted by the man falling off the roof, seeing the pavement through his eyes just before he hits the concrete. Sometimes I'm haunted by Mikey's screams. Sometimes I remember the garish sodium lamp light reflecting from the eyes of homeless men. Sometimes I see the pipe smashing a skull. Sometimes I see Rachel's confused and pained face struggling to make sense of what had happened that night. And other times, I remember the demon I'd made from my sister's memory.

  The rain washed away most of the evidence. The cops never solved Mikey's murder, nor did they discover how he died. I'm sure the coroner marveled at the fact that Mikey and Beatrice had both died with no physical injuries save for their shattered brains. But the papers never reported anything about that, just as they never reported a thing about the three homeless men I killed.

  I've met others like me, others who can see into minds, even push them. I used to push. Enjoyed it, in fact. But I eventually learned it was wrong. Wrong to take someone's free will. Mikey, on the other hand...

  I think he enjoyed Rachel because she was so easy to control. Every thing he made her do was revolting to her. Every act she witnessed, every act he forced her to perform, was another mental rape. And he enjoyed it. And I killed her for it. For her weakness, for not being able to fight him, I killed her for that just as I killed those three men for the same weakness.

  Some nights I wonder if I did the right thing. In the small hours, I sometimes feel as though someone's in the room with me. I see shadowy figures at the edge of my vision and wonder if the tear in my mind actually mended, or if there's some break there that will never repair itself.

  Mikey's dead. Rachel, Beatrice. All dead. When I feel so afraid that I cannot sleep, that I think someone is in the room with me, someone I cannot see, I try hard to imagine it's Jennifer, watching over me. And sometimes, I manage to find sleep.

  The Hunt

  By

  Paul Elard Cooley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Paul Elard Cooley

  www.shadowpublications.com

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Blue Moose Press

  ISBN: 978-1-936960-11-8

  Edited by Sue Baiman

  Cover Art by Starla Huchton

  www.designedbystarla.com

  About The Author

  A writer, podcaster, and software architect from Houston, Texas, Paul Elard Cooley has been writing since the age of 12. In 2009, he began producing free psychological thriller and horror podcasts, essays, and reviews available from Shadowpublications.com and iTunes.

  His stories have been listened to by thousands and he has been a guest on such notable podcasts as Podioracket, John Mierau's "Podcast Teardown," Geek Out with Mainframe, Shadowcast Audio, and Vertigo Radio Live. In addition, he is also a co-host for The Dead Robots’ Society Writing Podcast. In 2010, his short story Canvas and novella Tattoo were nominated for Parsec Awards. Tattoo became a Parsec Award finalist. He has collaborated with New York Times Bestselling author Scott Sigler on the series "The Crypt" as well as contributed his voice talents to a number of podiofiction productions.

  For more information about this series, as well as current and upcoming projects, please visit Shadowpublications.com.

  Contact the author:

  Email: stories@shadowpublications.com

  Twitter: twitter.com/paul_e_cooley

  Facebook: facebook.com/paul.e.cooley

  g+: http://gplus.to/PaulECooley

  Good Reads: http://www.goodreads.com/paul_elard_cooley

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