by Greg Curtis
“Now you tell me he’s alive again. Once more he’s eluded death. I’ve lost count of the number of times that’s happened. And worse, you’ve healed him. Again. He was dying, his body slowly burning out, without hope of survival and there was at least an end in sight for his evil, and now thanks to you he’s well again. Once more he’s been captured. Captured but not killed. Once again someone says they’ve found a way to keep him safe. To control him. There is no such thing.”
“He will survive. He will escape. He will grow stronger. He will kill. He will lay waste to your people like you have never seen before. He will take your technology and feed it to you just like he took that jet against me. He will rape your men and women and children and then he’ll kill them along with their loved ones. He will feast on their corpses and bring darkness and pain to your worlds. And he will negotiate for their release, always in bad faith, always wanting only one thing; more victims.”
“I won’t stop your people doing this. I can’t. But you have to know that basic truth. It’s always the same. He will escape, just when you think he’s doomed. Every single control measure will fail. Despite being weakened, he will come back stronger than before. Faster and meaner. He will kill and torture your people. And he will come for me if he knows I’m alive.” It sounded paranoid, but the real horror was that it was all true.
“He’s going to be exiled on a world light years from anywhere,” came Cyrea’s response. “A plague world. One that has a nasty bacteria on it, capable of destroying most ecosystems, so no one will go near it. He has no technology, no super strength, no hope of rescue. He can’t build a space ship and no one will go near the system with a barge pole, not even by accident. He is trapped.”
“I’ve heard it all before.”
“Do you know how far a light year is?” Actually he did, but he didn’t want to descend into a pointless argument quibbling about facts. Dimock had nothing to do with fact.
“About a couple of days travel for your people.” She tried to object but he held up his hand to shush her, hating himself for doing it, but he would have hated himself far more if he hadn’t.
“It doesn’t matter. There is no far enough. He will come back. He will come for me - and for you. If he even suspects I’m alive he will let nothing stop him from coming after me. And he will destroy everyone who gets in his way. Everyone who he can blame for marooning him on another planet. And anyone else he thinks it will be fun to kill. Which is all of you. Men, women, children. That’s what he is.”
“He will do no such thing. You’re just being paranoid.” The look in her eyes said Cyrea wasn’t just trying to reassure him, she was worried about him. He was being unreasonable. Going against all logic. And her people loved logic.
“Maybe, but I’m paranoid for a reason. I know I sound like a demented lunatic. I really do. But I know this creature as you could never understand him. I know him as something you cannot even imagine. I’ve walked among his victims. Buried far too many of them myself. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. And known the smell.” Which was actually the worst part of it. Some days, often when his mind was wandering, that smell would come back from nowhere to haunt him.
“Even now, years after the fact I dream of an abbey I once saw after Dimock had visited. It’s a nightmare really, which I have tried for nearly a decade to put behind me.” But there was no way he ever would.
“I walk along its beautiful hallways, past the stained glass windows, trying to avoid the lakes of drying blood everywhere. But I can’t. The entire floor is covered, and the lakes of blood became waterfalls down the stairs which pool into an ocean on the ground floor. The flies are terrible, feasting, laying eggs in the bloated corpses. Hundreds of them, all loaded with maggots. The smell is indescribable, a mixture of decay, blood and sewage. Many of the order are still partially dressed in their black cassocks, the nuns in their penguin suits. All show the evidence of torture as he nailed them to the floors and walls. He crucified them, staking them out like a gigantic artwork, whipping them with thorn bushes, setting crowns of barbed wire upon their heads, even spearing them in their sides. You see he considers himself the true god, the only god, and they are by definition, blasphemers.”
“Those that weren’t part of the Order he played with as he normally did, raping them, the children from the little monastery school especially. He began eating them, some while they were still screaming. He even set up a make shift barbecue in the main hall, so his victims could watch him cooking the flesh he stripped from them, and eat it. But the many videos he left show that he didn’t eat it all cooked. And several of the children, he cooked alive. Laughing as they screamed on his makeshift BBQ.”
“The worst of it all is that he had days to play with these people. It was a remote monastery, and anyone who came calling, at first the odd member of the flock, and later the police, he simply added to his little corner of hell. That time gave him what he most wanted, the chance to torture people as he would. He made parents eat some of their children simply to save some more of them. He sprayed the blood of babies across their parent’s faces as he killed them in front of them. He forced the religious to disavow their beliefs to save lives, even made them worship him. He broke them all, bit by bit, destroying their souls as he broke their minds and their bodies, and when he left, nearly two hundred more innocent victims were dead.”
“Above all it’s the smell that haunts me now. The smell of blood, stale blood everywhere, of corpses rotting slowly in the sun, and burnt flesh. So thick and cloying that you can’t get it out of your nostrils, even after you leave. The smell of death. Of rotting, bloated corpses as the flies start their work. Of cooked human flesh. Odours that you can’t ever wash out. That and the soulless stares of his victims as they looked into his cameras. They had nothing left. Not family, not faith, not even hope.”
“So please don’t tell me I’m paranoid. I know I am. And I know why. Because the worst part of that nightmare isn’t that it’s a dream. It’s that it’s a memory. I was there. I’ve seen that abbey. I’ve walked those halls. I’ve studied those tapes. And I’ve lived with the shame of knowing that all of those innocent people, the children and so many others would be alive today if only I’d acted. If only I’d killed him. I had that opportunity twice and I didn’t take it. I regret that to this day.”
“I have done bad things in my time. I always believed I was doing the right thing, though now I know I was often wrong. But by far the worst thing I have ever done in my entire life was in failing to kill Dimock. And now I’m doing it again. By far the worst thing you can do now is to not let me kill him as he deserves. It’s not just for justice though it is most just. It’s to save lives, yours as well as mine.” Cyrea reached out a hand to hold him even more tightly, wanting to give him comfort. But there was no comfort possible. Not with Dimock alive.
“Let me put this simply.”
“Dimock will escape. He always does. Probably someone will rescue him, and of course he will torture and kill them for it. You can warn them but they never learn. He will lie to them, and despite it being the very definition of stupidity people will believe him. Then he will have their technology at his fingertips. Their advanced technology. Spaceships, weaponry and heaven alone knows what else. He will use it. He will come for you. For us all. And he will come back stronger and more deadly than before. There are only two reasons he wouldn’t come for me. The first is if he’s dead. But you won’t allow me to kill him and though it’s probably the very definition of insanity and I hate myself for it, I won’t cross you on it.”
“The other reason is of course if he thinks I’m dead. I can’t spare you the pain of what he will do to your people if you won’t let me kill him, nor the crushing guilt that will come from knowing you could have stopped it if only you’d allowed me to do my job, but perhaps I can save myself and Cyrea. It isn’t much, but at least it’s something. So please, at least let him believe he killed me.”
Cyrea stared
at him for the longest time, concern in her eyes. But she knew better than to offer her advice. It was simply something that she knew he couldn’t accept. He lived in his paranoid world and she in her logical one, and on this matter they would never meet. Not until Dimock was dead. But at least she perhaps understood some of why he was the way he was. Soon, after he’d given them the records or the history for them to check themselves, she would have more understanding.
But none would ever truly know his suffering, his world until they walked among Dimock’s victims and understood his failure. He prayed he wasn’t alive to see that day.
“Thank you for listening.” He didn’t really mean it, but he had to at least try and appear civil, in control of himself, and maybe it was enough as he watched Cyrea click off the device. Cyrea though could see the fear and rage lurking behind his eyes, and he knew she would not be fooled by him.
Before she could say anything, try to reassure him when he knew there could be no such thing, he changed the topic. Anything to stop her staring at him as if he was a mad man.
“So the bad guy’s been caught, I’ve been fixed again, it seems you’ve got everything covered.”
“Not quite, Love.” He raised his eyebrows in a mute question. “You’ve been asleep for nearly a full week now, and there are literally hundreds of investigators running around the place like crazy. They can’t find Dimock or you, and they’re not happy with any of the answers the neighbours can give them. There are plane crash experts keeping a vigil on the jet you blew out of the sky, an army contingent based around your house, forensics people everywhere, and so many trackers in the surrounding woods it's like a convention.”
Which David realized, was only what he should have expected. But having been out of it for a whole week, a week in which the DOD had had no answers, they would have gone into panicked overdrive, and they wouldn’t stop. Not until they knew for sure whether Dimock was alive or dead. Alive, they’d have to recapture him, something they were no doubt unwilling to try; dead, and they’d have to find out how. And since he was the only one that could answer their questions, assuming he was alive, they'd interrogate David until he was pumped dry. But of course he realised, those who knew Dimock, knew what he was, they didn't expect to find him alive. They would have a very simple understanding of what had happened. Dimock had won and left the area, and now it was just a question of finding David’s body and waiting for Dimock to show up somewhere else.
“They think I’m dead don’t they?”
“That seems to be the prevailing view.”
“Ohh shit!” Of course it was. It was so very close to the truth, and in their shoes it was exactly what David would have thought. No one could take on Dimock, no matter how well prepared. All of which left him with a problem, and a decision to make. Did he want to stay dead? He could, he could give up his normal life, throw away his home by the lake and the money in the bank, and perhaps begin a new life with Cyrea and her people.
Was he ready for that? He didn’t really know, though a large part of him was saying yes. But he also realised that regardless of what he did, the town was in trouble. Whether he was alive or dead, the agents would not leave until they had some absolute proof that Dimock was either alive and gone or dead. That meant endless security patrols, curfews, and the Leinians staying hidden for potentially months or years. He had a duty to help the locals and the Leinians, especially when he’d brought this nightmare on them, and that he could only do if he was alive.
“Honey, I need to get dressed, and then have a chat with Lar and the others. We need a plan to get these people out of here and return things to normal.
Chapter Eighteen
It was nearly two months before David was able to get his life back together. A very long two months that had begun with the interrogations.
The interrogations had been done in the hospital naturally enough. There was no time to waste. And they had not gone easily, though he fancied he’d convinced the agents at least of his honesty - even as he lied through his teeth. The polygraph had been less than totally effective as he’d been bandaged like a mummy, meaning that some of the sensors couldn't be placed on him. Equally any deviations in his readings would have been put down to the ordeal he’d suffered. Besides, with so many agencies involved, each with their own competing agenda, the investigators spent more time arguing among themselves than asking him questions. Nothing was more important to the CIA and the DOD than making sure the Feds never found out about Dimock.
It helped of course that the Leinians had given him some new wounds - he’d insisted when he knew the pain would screw up their readings and add credibility to his story - and a substance on the back of his teeth that upon licking would immediately cause him to faint. Each fainting spell broke up the interrogation before it began, and made his performance seem more real, though it also caused the questioning to be dragged out over several days. They’d also cleverly concealed an organic device in his flesh that randomly altered some of his electrical impulses. The result; lie detectors no longer worked well on him, something the agency doctors put down to the ordeal he’d suffered and the drugs he was being given.
The story he’d told while a load of tripe, was based as accurately as he could on what he remembered of the fight, which squared well with the physical evidence. It only differed in the ending.
In the new and improved version he’d trapped Dimock, luring him back into the tunnel and then collapsing it on top of him. And then while he was trapped in dirt, he'd wounded Dimock seriously, a lucky shot catching him in the eye, and napalm burning off large chunks of his flesh. And with those devastating injuries crippling him, he’d actually managed to match him in physical combat. They had the blood spattered ground to support that. A lot of the madman’s blood gave strength to his claim. His own blood as well. Dimock had broken then, and run, something David could barely bring himself to say. It was simply so far from the truth that it defied belief. But they believed him.
In the new version he’d chased Dimock into the hills intending to finish him. He'd hunted him for over a week, all the time dealing with his own injuries. Both of them being in such bad shape, it had been a long slow hunt, and neither had really had much of a shot at the other. Instead they mainly walked and later crawled through the hills, taking random pot shots at each other’s fleeing forms and becoming generally more lost by the day.
Finally, David had become so ill, that he couldn’t continue. Hypothermia was setting in, and the blood loss was making him light headed. He’d realized if he didn’t get to a hospital relatively quickly, he’d die, and by that mark, Dimock would win. So he’d slowly staggered his way out of the woods, heading for what he thought was town, flagged down a passing car, and the rest was history.
David had never seen Dimock’s body, so couldn’t truly say whether he was alive or dead, which explained the lack of a body. But he could at least convince them that he was so badly wounded he was unlikely to survive. The electricity and the gas, the napalm and bullet wounds had all taken a serious toll on him, and the extensive blood loss and infection from his many injuries must have left him close to death. It was just that David had lost him somewhere.
It was a fine line he had to walk. He had to leave Dimock somehow alive so he could explain his missing corpse and make all the action occur miles from anywhere important, so that they wouldn’t find anything to lead them to the Leinians. At the same time he also had to try and convince them he was dead. That more than anything, would convince the agencies that they could leave. Of course it didn’t help that he couldn’t actually tell them with certainty that Dimock was dead, or at least safely out of the picture. If he did then that would bring them back to the missing body, and when they didn’t find it they might uncover some of his other secrets.
Fortunately there were the thousand and one other questions to be answered. Such as how he could be so well armed? The FBI told him from the start that they considered his fortifications a crime. Espe
cially those not on his own property. But they were quickly over-ruled in their desire to press charges by the other agencies present. The last thing anybody wanted was a public trial, especially when it was a clear cut case of self-defence. Besides, the agencies never wanted the Feds or the police to have any idea of just how dangerous Dimock was, and more importantly, why. Neither did they want anyone, most especially the FBI, to know much about David’s previous life. He was just a former intelligence operative for the army.
