“The heads have still yet to be located,” chimed the anchor in the background.
“This is not an ordinary job for an Order,” Ayres added, staring deeply at the screen. “I don’t trust the Enders intent.”
“Can’t be any more dangerous than the Scarabs, right?” he replied unworried. Jackson’s eyes squinted to focus on the news.
“We’re here at the scene with Detective Grace Perez who is heading this investigation.” The screen changed to a young journalist holding a thin microphone beside the deliberate deadpan gaze of the detective. She looked as though she held a fire within her just as Jackson did, only she had the eyes of someone who held it their entire life.
“Any comments?” He asked boisterously.
“Yeah,” she said and pulled the microphone to her face. “I’ll fucking find you, you piece of shit. I know you aren’t human, this wreaks of Demons. Copy-cat my ass, I know you’re back!”
The screen transitioned back to the anchor and his sleepy stare before she could finish.
“You may be wrong about that,” called Aldrich from above the whistle of the tea kettle. He walked into the living room and headed towards the other two, “Guns, brute force, it is all but a challenge of the physical, dear boy. But this one, well, it is a challenge of the mind. His has gone long ago and his slaughter is mindless, not purposeful. Furthermore, we know nothing but a simmer of information given before Azazel poofed away.”
“These killings,” began the anchor again, “follow the pattern set forth by the single-named serial killer Sandy, who was captured and put to death. Now, the people want to know is this truly a copycat, or has Sandy returned as an Un-Ascended to continue her work?”
Just as Jackson began to leave, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and give him a pull. When he turned back, it was Ayres, and she still held his the slack of his jacket tightly in her grip.
“You need to listen to me, Order,” she said. Her teeth were clenched, and eyes were stiff with fury. “Not every case is worth investigating. Not every case will bring you closer to your petty revenge. That smiling-scum-in-a-suit hands you nothing but death, Jackson. Remove your blinders.”
He may not have been as physically gifted as Ayres, but he was not the weak man he once was. He pressed his palm to her forearm to push her off, and she begrudgingly unclenched her grasp on his coat. “Call my life petty again, do it.” His molars grinded against one another and he snapped at her with a guttural growl, “Talk a lot of shit for someone who spends their days watching the world from a fuckin’ window.”
“Sir,” Aldrich cut into the chaos, as he rested on the couch once again. “I would listen to her, Jackson. “This, I am afraid, is not your average Un-Ascended. He kills people, my friend. As if their lives have little to no meaning at all. And, he shall not hesitate to kill you as well.” Aldrich flipped open his book, “What is it you people do here in the States during these situations? Pizza, I believe? Shall we order a pizza?”
“This is my life, and it is mine to lose. I’ll keep hunting them, and working these cases, until I find the one in the tan suit.”
“Jackson, listen to the boy,” Ayres said sternly.
“Not a boy,” Aldrich interrupted, but went unnoticed.
“I’ve watched Orders make this mistake before, you are chasing a dream and nothing more.”
Jackson headed towards the door. He gave them one last look as he opened it and began to step into the main hallway, heading out on his next case. “Listen, I will be okay,” he said, with a low rumble. “I’ll be back before you even know I am gone. This is just another job. I told you.”
“If you do survive,” Aldrich called as he pushed open an old hardcover with aging yellow hued pages on his lap. “Bring us that pizza.”
“Fine,” Jackson said and pushed the door out to his side, stepping into the hallway. “Just don’t plan my funeral just yet.”
Aldrich pulled another crinkling page over in the book as if all was normal; but, not Ayres. She stood strong, her eyes fixated on the door as it shut and clicked into place before Jackson’s footsteps faded down the hall.
It smelled musty like an old laundry mat at the end of a long day. A single bar of fluorescent light swayed gently, filling the room in its dim gleam. Cracked concrete floors matched its walls that were cold and wet to the touch. A basement worthy of the title, with a single, old wooden staircase leading to a shoddy door that bled light through its cracks. A typical workbench rested in the corner full of various tools along with a long wooden slab of a table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Long shelves were cuffed to a concrete wall just out of the light’s range, and something sat along their surfaces tangled, dark, and in a variety of sizes.
“I’ll head down now and get started on the prep, babe,” a voice called from the steps’ top as light oozed down the stairs from the open door.
A clobbering of footsteps came quickly down the flight, planting on the hard floor below. There in the swaying light stood a handsome blonde man wearing a smirk, and in his hand a plastic bag holding something heavy and round. He walked in a slow, methodical pace to the center wooden slab and dumped out the contents of the bag; a blood-soaked severed head, expressionless as a Halloween mask. It dropped with a thud onto the wood, trailed by drops of thickened blood. The man put out his finger and ran it along the bloodied face of the head, gazing lovingly into its cold and lifeless eyes.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, girl. You know this is just business,” he said with sad eyes and a slight smirk to the head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He walked toward the tool bench. His hand ran along the edge of a long blade, the handle of a mallet, and the trigger of a drill. Eyes became wide with ideas and possibility. His tongue protruded from his lips and ran across the top one before sliding back into his mouth. Those bloody fingertips dragged over the cold, steel of a pair of sheers when he felt something colder and harder pressed to the back of his head.
“Turn around…” a deep voice growled. “And put your damn hands up.”
The man turned, brushing his blonde hair back, leaving red streaks across its bright strands. A smile rested on his face as the amethyst barrel glided from the back of his head around his scalp and found a new home against his forehead. This smile was not the typical Un-Ascended smile that Jackson had come across so many times before; this one felt even less human. Even with a gun at his head he seemed at ease, almost too calm. This was someone who was used to death, and the subtle laugh that began pushing from his mouth showed it.
“Well, officer, what a nice surprise. And, what a pretty gun,” he said lightheartedly.
“Not a cop, Sandy.” Jackson pulled the trigger which released with a large echo through the room.
Something doesn’t feel right, Jackson thought to himself.
He had grown to know his work, and know it well, in the short time he had been the Order. Yet, he did nothing to show it. The old Jackson within fluttered, and his heart raced slightly faster as his mind became wrapped like a feast trapped in a web created by his rookie mistake. He did not stake out the residence or work the case at all outside of the toxic words spewed from Azazel, and a brief glimpse of the news. All at once he felt like the man who had paced the apartment in a nervous panic before his first case in that brief moment he felt the trigger click under his finger.
The light from the weapon passed through the man no problem, leaving him completely unharmed. Jackson took a single step back with his gun still raised. The man had a very perplexed look on his face, tilting his head like a confused golden retriever.
“But… I’m not Sandy.”
“What?” Jackson questioned, his nerves popping and sparking under his skin like a severed power line. In an old, familiar panic he went for his handgun.
A large, dark arm reached out from behind him and wrapped around his throat. “I am…” came a deep yet feminine voice from behind him. He struggled but even his increased strength was nothing aga
inst the size of this large figure. Jackson fumbled with his gun and fought to reach the other yet to no avail. He felt his body go limp and numb, the dark room blurred, and breathing was difficult. Soon, he began to weaken and the fight had become entirely one sided. As everything faded to shadows, he could see the blonde man approach him slowly.
“You’ve become quite emotional, haven’t you dear angel?” Aldrich said, as he brewed another cup of tea. “Something, perhaps something I can’t even put a little finger on, has changed since we were last paired together by fate.” He smiled at his own sarcasm. “I am on the verge of believing that you may have been placed with another Order after that, well, unfortunate incident all of those years ago.”
Ayres stood at the window, on guard as she always had been. This time, though, she did not remain still. Her feet stepped and re-adjusted every few moments, and her arms danced from at her sides to cross before her. She tapped a foot, impatiently, and the glass’ reflection showed her face to be twisted in anger.
“Uneasy this time around, that is all,” she snapped back at him.
Aldrich stood on a large overturned pot placed before the stove, removed the whistling tea from the burner to a cooler one, and soon silence found the kitchen again. Beside him, leaning against the counter, was a long, closed umbrella he had found when he rummaged through Jackson’s belongings like a lost squirrel. He grabbed the top to use the hooked wooden handle to open a tall cabinet as he stood on his tip-toes. He wrapped the hook around the handle of a mug, this time it was one that read Medicine with an arrow pointing up to the mugs lip, and yanked it down. Of course, he had been clumsy and the mug had descended rapidly toward the counter. But just as he prepared for the loud crash, Ayres was at his side with the mug in the palm of her dark hand, only moments from the countertop.
He had barely blinked before she made it to him, as if she did not even move at all.
“This time feels different,” she said as she handed him the mug.
Aldrich poured the tea, and gave a nod, “It is not our place to have such feelings.”
“He could die tonight, Aldrich. Have you ever thought that maybe we should do more than watch the Orders die over and over again?”
“He has already died, Ayres. As is the life of an Order. They all die, ’tis quite a shame.” Aldrich sipped the hot tea from his mug with an unsettling slurp, and grinned at the discolored water inside. “I find our dear Jackson to be… interesting. But, you are of Usra, and you are not permitted to interfere.”
Ayres said nothing, and the two stood before one another locked together in their never-ending fate of watching an Order fall again and again. Aldrich stood on his pot, still not eye level with her, and sipped his tea. Ayres folded her arms, and this time she did not tap, or move, or shake. She was rigid and determined, poised for battle even if one was not present. Aldrich stepped down, ending the war that raged in her eyes as they stared at one another, and with another sip he began to walk into the living room.
“But,” Ayres began, making Aldrich pause and look back over his shoulder. “I have interfered, Aldrich.”
Now, Aldrich was intrigued and his grin grew wider. “Well,” he gestured before sipping again. “I suppose rules are made to be broken, as they say.”
Ayres rounded the corner and stood before him, a dark hand resting on the hilt of her large cleaver at her hip. “Agreed.”
Jackson awoke to the same room he had passed out in. The glowing light above, darkness covering every corner, only this time he was laying on a wooden slab, bound by thick leather straps. He tugged a little, his strength remained a dormant bear that still hadn’t fully woke up from its hibernation. From his position he could see a tool bench with his weapons right on the top. A nervousness came over him that he had not felt since that night all those years ago.
“Good morning!” called the blonde man who had walked down the steps and now stood at Jackson’s side.
“Making… a big mistake,” Jackson groaned, still groggy.
“Nonsense, Officer! Or... whoever the hell you are,” he said. “Question though. How did you know about Sandy?”
“Because... He’s a convicted murderer… sentenced to death. Now possesses a body,” Jackson said still struggling with his straps.
“She was a convicted murder,” said the deep voice coming from the shadowy corner near the shelving. “She was put to death, and yes, she now possesses a body.”
Jackson turned toward the other figure. A very broad, muscular man with dark skin and a shaved head stepped out of the shade. He was built like a mountain range and could have been a defensive player in the NFL, but something was a little off. The personality and voice did not match the body and each movement seemed a little uncomfortable. The juxtaposition of this man with such gentle movements seemed to be two people; exactly what Jackson had come for. They stood beside Jackson as well, hands on their hips which were kicked out to one side as if in a swaying motion. His lips were pursed as he made a click noise with his tongue at Jackson while shaking his head.
“Tsk tsk big fella,” said they said. “Did you really think you could come into our home?”
Sandy.
The blonde man laughed and it echoed through the hollow space of the cold basement. “Oh, if only you could see your own face, Officer! Priceless. Well, at least you’ve met Sandy, my wife.”
He walked around the table, dragging his finger across the table, over Jackson’s chest, then making his way beside Sandy. He wrapped his pale arm around Sandy’s large torso and held him tight. Sandy bent down and placed a loving, gentle kiss on the top of the man’s head and laid their cheek on the soft blonde hair. The two lit up as if they were living fireworks. Their eyes glistened, they smiled, and for a moment it was as if they weren’t both serial killers.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Sandy said with a smirk and a pointed gaze. “He can see his own face all he wants when it joins our collection.”
Sandy’s large arm reached up towards the hanging light and moved it so that the beam shined over the wall behind them, illuminating the dark shelves.
Jackson gasped. The blonde man laughed. Sandy kept her eyes fixated on Jackson’s expression. It was anger, confusion, horror, sadness, and a pinch of fear all at once; a literal stew full of emotions. Jackson could feel the color drain from him like an old cartoon, and he struggled to snap his leather straps with no success.
The shelves were line with severed human heads. Grotesque mutilations covered each one’s lifeless expression; Jackson lost count after a dozen of the real human mannequins. Some were men, some women, different races and different features. There were a few with their eyes sewn shut, many with their mouths. Slash marks over cheeks, snipped eyelids, removed lips. The horrors were unlike anything Jackson had seen when he watched the dark murder documentaries with her. His face turned towards Sandy in disgust and rage.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” they said raising a thick, brown finger to Jackson's face. “Yes, officer, I was a woman. Until you… animals, ended my life on that bed. They say the injections would be painless but...” Sandy’s eyes closed briefly. “I latched on to a guard in the room the second it was over, then I found my love. My sweet Clyde. He was so torn apart he hadn’t taken a life in months. And well... That night we made up for it, made up for a lot of things.”
“I wonder what the owner of that body thinks of our work,” Clyde said, resting a hand on the muscular shoulder of Sandy. “He must feel… conflicted,” he added with a smirk.
“Oh, dear,” Sandy answered and ran their thick hand through his golden mane. “I only can hope he feels every slip of wet skin and the warmth of human blood when we create our art. And, if so, I wonder what else he must feel…” Their eyes burned in passion toward one another.
Jackson face bent and he turned away from Sandy and to the shadows behind them. Clyde took notice of this and grew red faced. He removed his hold on Sandy and pushed his face close to Jackson’s in anger. He rai
sed a hand over him and pushed it close to his throat, barely grabbing it but just enough to let Jackson know he was serious. But Jackson's eyes remained on the shadows.
“Listen to me, you FUCK!” Clyde shouted angrily, “I don’t care what she looks like! I don’t care what body she is in! Love doesn’t just go away.”
Jackson smiled, continuing to stare behind Sandy. “Don’t care about any of that... I was looking away to say hi to a friend of mine.”
Sandy turned around quickly but their speed was not enough to match that of the flashing silver. A thud rang out as Sandy fell to the ground unconscious. Standing just over him was a broad woman with long, black braided hair and a shining armor. She had an uncompromising aura as she stood strong with an intense stare. Clyde stood and backed up to the table, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. He was so preoccupied that he did not even notice the young boy who had snuck out from beneath the staircase, unhooked the leather straps from across Jackson, and handed him two metallic objects.
“You… you killed...” Clyde began, but the words would not come.
“No,” said Ayres sternly. “I incapacitated Officer Kurt, and unfortunately Sandy is still very much inside. For now.”
Clyde attempted to lunge at the woman before him but something wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, tightening and immobilizing him. He turned only to find Jackson with an arm tightly around his neck and a silver gun pressed to his temple. His eyes grew wide, and he began to tremble as he had seen so many times before on so many different faces. Those faces stared back at him now, empty, from the view of the shelves. Clyde feared what he loved most; death. As he shook in an adrenaline-fueled panic, he looked down towards his pants to see they had become wet with his own urine.
“You know... Clyde.” Jackson began to say, the trigger tight under his finger. “I lost someone too. In a sick way, I even understand you. She could come back to me as anyone, or anything, and I would still feel the same as I always did.” The barrel nestled against his forehead. “At least you’ll see her soon.”
Order of Dust Page 9
