95 Million Killers

by Gary Weston

  This wasn't roll play. Not some slap and tickle leading to a heavy night of passion. This was all about control and dominance. Doris stared at the egg, broken and beaten, just like she was. She was that egg.

  She had two options. One, she could obediently carry the tray with an exaggerated smile and hope her husband wouldn't notice the broken egg, or two, not take the meal to her husband in the first place. It was lose lose either way.

  Doris picked up the pan. It was good quality. T V celebrity chefs endorsed it. It was heavy. Over her shoulder, her husband cheered on his team, his bald head like a warning beacon above the high chair back, begging for attention.

  One thing Doris Merchant hated more than anything else, was wasted food. So she made a sandwich of the bacon and eggs, leaned back on the kitchen bench and ate the sandwich, staring at her husbands bald head.

  'Hey, woman. Any danger of a meal around here?'

  Doris wiped the sauce off her chin. Picking up the heavy pan she went over to her husband.

  'Coming right up.'

  Imagine an old Spanish bell in some forgotten church, clanging out like a lost soul needing pointing in the right direction. When Doris hit his head for the first time, it was like a warm up for some percussion section of an orchestra. The second blow was more rewarding with a satisfying amount of blood spewing forth.

  'Doris....'

  To be fair, he wasn't too sure what was going on at this stage. His head rolled to one side, his eyes rolling crazily, a confused expression on his face. Doris stepped back as he tried to get to his feet, the pan held out before her, ready to strike again. The blood was running into his eyes and he fell back heavily into his chair.

  To Doris, it was now a question of how many times it was going to take to finish the bastard off. She turned the pan at an angle to utilise the least flexible part of the heavy base and with all that she had, hammered it into his skull. His head flopped to one side, blood dripping off his ear onto the chair. Doris almost let the pan go, thinking, possibly quite reasonably, that he must be dead after that beating and it would be the end of the matter. Her husband had other ideas.

  'Doris...'he gurgled.

  His voice was weak and he sounded helpless, which was what he was. For once, he was at her mercy. Doris was almost grateful that her first blow hadn't killed him. That meant she could enjoy many more painful attempts to kill him.

  'I should have done this a long time ago, you pathetic bastard.'

  The next blow smashed into his right eye, blood pouring from it. Three more times she hammered his head with the pan. His head looked like a huge battered beetroot, there was so much blood. His mouth had caved in as his teeth had been broken and his nose was bent at a peculiar angle. Doris panted from the exhaustion and smiled, satisfied with her handiwork.

  Doris dropped the pan on the floor and stared at her husband, wondering what to do next. She would make a cup of tea she decided, and think about it. As she moved, so did her husband, blindly reaching out, grabbing her wrist. He was strong, even though he was injured. He spat out several teeth that hit her in the face. With her free hand she reached between his legs and squeezed his genitals as hard as she could. His head rolled back and he gurgled a groan that foamed the blood in his mouth, and he let go of her.

  Doris ran to the kitchen, grabbing her biggest, sharpest knife. Behind her she could hear him as he dropped onto his knees. With the knife in her hand she turned and unbelievably, he was pulling himself to his feet with the arm of his chair. He couldn't see, and reached out like some deranged zombie, taking a faltering step towards her.

  'What does it take to kill you, you bastard?' Doris said.

  His legs struck the coffee table and he almost went down but somehow he kept going, staggering towards her, strong hands floundering the air, trying to find her. Doris had the knife, but could she use it? The pan was one thing, but plunging the blade into him was something else. Her back was against the kitchen bench and he was almost on her. She had to make her mind up. Could she really use the knife?

  The decision was made for her as he fell towards her, the knife piercing his guts, the blade going in deep, right up to the handle. His one eye opened and he seemed to be staring at her. She could feel his breath on her face, then he fell backwards, his head smashing onto the linoleum floor with a satisfying thud, the knife sticking out of him.

  Doris's heart hammered in her chest with the shock of what she had done as reality hit her. After twenty three years of suffering abuse and beatings, she had ended it.

  She took a moment to catch her breath, then bent down to feel his pulse. She had to be sure. She took hold of his wrist. Nothing. He was finally dead. All she could feel inside was an empty coldness. No regrets, no remorse.

  Suddenly his arm snaked out and he grabbed her hair, pulling her to him. Doris felt his fingernails digging into her scalp. She ignored the pain and grabbed the handle of the knife, pulling it free. He pulled her on top of him, wrapping both arms around her so she could hardly move. It took all her strength to wriggle free enough to get the point of the blade against his neck, and every ounce of will power to plunge it in to him. He still held onto her as she forced the knife hard into his neck until it poked through the other side. He let out a final rasping gasp and died.

  Chapter 71

  Doris Merchant sipped her tea. Her hands were shaking slightly as she stared at her late husband. Being a woman, she was also logical and practical. The first problem was to get rid of the body. Somewhere to bury the thing was required. Her own small backyard was out of the question. She needed to get the body well away from her home in the middle of town and out into the middle of nowhere. There was only one problem. She had to do the job by herself and he weighed a tonne.

  'How do I move you, you fat bastard?'

  Doris tiptoed around the body, hoping to find inspiration in the lounge. She sighed at the sight of the blood on the furniture and the carpet.

  'That'll take some shifting,' she told herself.

  For some unknown reason, Doris started thinking of chicken. It was to be their dinner for the following day. She had already taken the two portions out of the freezer for them to defrost. She didn't know why she was thinking chicken, but the idea hit her about what she had to do. She had no chance of moving the body in one piece, so she needed to cut it into portions, just like the chicken.

  Back in the kitchen, she stared at the body. Take off the arms and legs and she could move the bloody thing. She amazed herself at her own coldness and lack of emotion. To her, he was now just a carcass to be disposed of.

  Pulling the knife from his neck, she could see that the blood had stopped gushing out. That would help. She would start with an arm. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt, so that made it easier. She cut the sleeve with the knife to get to the shoulder joint. Examining the shoulder, Doris twisted the arm this way and that, working out the best way to tackle the job. Slicing the top of the shoulder with the knife, she found it hard work getting down to the bone.

  'It'll take a bloody week to do it this way.'

  From her cutlery draw, she selected the bread knife. The serrated blade was only marginally more efficient than the other knife.

  'I need something with a bit of grunt.'

  There was an adjoining door from the kitchen to the garage in which there was a respectable choice of implements. She started with the handsaws. Better than the knives, but still slow work. On the wall on a shelf were the electrical tools like drills, battery charger and power saws. There was a circular saw and a reciprocating saw.

  Plugging the circular saw into the wall power socket, she squeezed the trigger and the blade whirled. Too noisy. It was nearly ten in the evening and she'd have neighbours banging on the door if she used it.

  Picking up the reciprocating saw, she plugged that in and squeezed the trigger. The blade went in and out of the end. It was still noisy, but nowhere near as loud as the circular saw. It would do the job.

  Back in t
he kitchen, Doris started on the arm. The saw was still too noisy. She could hear the television in the lounge and went to it and turned up the volume. Satisfied, she started to carve the arm at the shoulder, the reciprocating blade bobbing back and forth, the sharp edge ripping efficiently through skin and sinew.

  It was severing the arm nicely, but she could see a problem. With the arm stretched out on the floor, she would be cutting into the linoleum as she sawed through the other end. She had enough cleaning up to do without damaging the floor.

  Doris got a kitchen chair and raised the arm onto the dowel that strengthened the legs. Now she could saw through without damaging the floor. But as she tried to do that, the arm was waving grotesquely back and forth, making the job difficult. She needed to tie the arm down.

  Back in the garage she found a couple of elastic cords with metal hooks on each end. She took one and fastened the forearm to the support dowel of the chair. This time, the arm stayed in a fixed position as she sawed through it. Only three more limbs to go. It took just eleven minutes to remove them.

  'Typical. Bloody legless again.'

  Time for another cup of tea and a think.

  Doris sat and sipped the tea and stared at her accomplishment. Considering this was a one time only experience, she was doing okay. The limbs had been neatly lined up next to the rest of the body. Moving it all seemed so much more doable. Because the garage was connected to the house, there was no chance of anyone seeing her load the car with the remains.

  In the garage, she popped the trunk of the car and found a tarpaulin. She laid that out next to the body parts and rolled the torso onto it. Then she grabbed the end of the tarpaulin and dragged it through the doorway. There was a sickening thud as the head hit the concrete floor.

  'Oh. So sorry.'

  Doris hauled the body to the back of the car and rolled it off so she could get the tarpaulin which she lined the trunk of the car with. Now all she had to do was to heave one hundred pounds of dead weight off the floor and get it in the trunk.

  'Right. I can do this.'

  Taking hold of his belt, she tried to lift the body up. She could hardly get it off the floor. She sat him up against the rear fender.

  'Come on, Doris. You're a woman. You can do anything.'

  She wrapped her arms around the chest and heaved. She had to drop him when the blood covered face bounced into hers.

  'Yuck. I don't think so.'

  Looking around the garage, she saw a black plastic rubbish sack. With that, she covered up most of the body.

  'Suits you. Black always was your colour.'

  Her muscles screamed as she heaved the body up against the fender and then she rolled it into the trunk.

  'Don't you go anywhere. I'll be right back.'

  It took two trips to get the arms and legs which she threw in the trunk. She slammed it shut then realised she needed something else. Picking up a battery operated lamp and a spade, she placed those on top of the body and shut the trunk again. She was totally drained, but she was far from finished for the night.

  Chapter 72

  Light rain was falling as she drove through the town; that annoying kind of rain that made the windscreen wipers screech and stick and smear the glass. Her heart nearly stopped when at traffic lights, a police patrol car pulled up behind her. She was relieved when it turned left as she carried straight on.

  Half an hour later, she was pulling up into a rest stop miles from anywhere. She was far from any town and there was nothing but trees around her. Turning the lights off, the car was out of sight from the road, unless anyone decided to pull up into the rest stop.

  Doris got out of the car and looked around her. It was completely dark on a moonless night. Opening the trunk, she picked up the lamp and closed the trunk again. Without turning the lamp on, she checked the trees and bushes alongside the rest stop.

  Roughly halfway along, she found a gap and a path where countless travellers had gone behind the bushes to relieve themselves. She went through the gap, taking several steps before turning the lamp on. The light revealed a small clearing with a barrier of trees surrounding it. Next to an old shaggy pine she saw another gap. Aiming the lamp through it, she saw nothing but bush. There were still enough open spaces to bury the body. It would have to do. She was exhausted and close to collapsing.

  Returning to the car, she got the spade and went back in the bush. The soil was soft and thankfully easy to dig. Doris dug until her muscles gave up. She was about to climb out of the grave when she heard a rustling sound in the trees nearest to her. Daring to look up, she saw dozens of pairs of brightly shining eyes looking back at her.

  Picking up the lamp, Doris pointed the beam into the trees. The possums were everywhere; more than she could count. They were just possums, right? All the man eaters had been dealt with years ago. She decided to ignore them. She still had a dead husband to bury.

  As she was heaving herself out of the grave, the possums climbed down from the trees and surrounded her.

  'Piss off.'

  Doris held the spade ready to defend herself with it. Everywhere she looked, they were there, patiently watching her. With the sharp edge of the spade she gently jabbed at one of the animals.

  'Bugger off. Shoo.'

  The possum backed away out of reach, but then sat and watched her without fear. From behind her, a possum lashed out with its claws, raking her back.

  'Bastard,' Doris snapped, taking a swing at it with the spade. She caught it a solid blow and it fled up the nearest tree. 'Yeah. I've already sliced and diced one animal tonight. Now I got shit to do. Sod off.'

  As she started to climb out of the hole, every possum dived at her and she fell into the grave. It was a seething mass of fur and teeth. Underneath them, Dorris struggled briefly then it became a free for all in a feeding frenzy.

  Chapter 73

  'Prime Minister. Carol Lawson, three news. What assurances can you give the public that the government has the situation under control?'

  Vincent Carlisle, unelected prime minister of the coalition government, tried to smile confidently. It didn't convince anyone.

  'Carol. For the last three years, ever since the Patch Creek Stand, we have had no incidents of possums attacking people. Nonetheless, we haven't taken things for granted. Every able bodied person on welfare benefit has been trained up by the army and under their supervision have been licensed to go into the bush and hunt and trap possums. At three dollars a kill, without loss of any entitlements, some have earned good money. Over the entire North Island, this has resulted in over two million possums killed.'

  'Prime Minister. David Vickers, Nine news. Assuming a population of somewhere between forty five and fifty five million possums in the North Island alone, two million is hardly a dent in the population.'

  Carlisle said, 'We have also resumed dropping 1080 poison, but we know that's only going to work on possums not being genetically modified. We have tried lacing meat with 1080 but the captured mutated possums won't touch it. We have a real battle on our hands, but every avenue is being explored.'

  'Prime Minister. Mike Hammond, Three News. Is it true that Max Harrison of Harrison's Genetics Ltd has been approached again?'

  'Yes, Mike. Lets face it. It was from the Harrison's misguided experiments that the mutated possums originated in the first place. Until now I have opposed their input, but with this new incident of the death of Mrs Doris Merchant, I reluctantly agreed to take up the offer of Mr Harrison to at least meet with him and see if there is any merit to working with him and his company.'

  Mike Hammond asked, 'But you yourself are against the idea?'

  'For the record, yes. I am. However, as we have a coalition government, my opinion is in the minority. Having said that, if, and I still think it's a big if, if we did have any input from the Harrison company, it will be completely in the open and thoroughly scrutinised. Any funding would be from central government funds and the public would be kept in the loop at every step of the w
ay.'

  Carol Lawson said, 'Prime Minister. What advice can you give to the public?'

  'Good question, Carol. We are going to concentrate our efforts with a military campaign in the bush around this latest killing. Anyone not authorised to be in that area will be arrested with no exceptions. We will also be running a full media alert to keep everyone out of the bush at nighttime, and strictly limited to licensed and supervised hunters and trappers during daylight hours.'

  Dave Vickers said, 'Prime Minister. How confident are you in eradicating all New Zealand's possums?'

  Carlisle's hesitant half smile told everyone more than his words did. 'Trust me. This is our top priority and we shall not rest until this country is safe again. Now, I'm sure you'll understand, there's a lot to be getting on with.'

  Chapter 74

  In Patch Creek's Nagging Bladder pub, Charlie Matai sipped his beer and frowned. 'The minute he said “trust me”, I knew are in deep shit.'

  Sergeant Bill Prickle sipped his own beer and shrugged. 'Carlisle's hands are tied, mate. I almost feel sorry for the bloke. I doubt if he even wanted to be prime minister, let alone have inherited a problem impossible to solve.'

  Pam Prickle said, 'I don't see how there can be many man eating possums left. So many have been killed already. If they throw everything in that place where that poor woman was found...'

  'What was left of her,' added Charlie.

  'We should see an end to the problem,' finished Pam.

  'That's what we said last time,' said Bill. 'As for how many might be still around, it's all about the maths. You saw that professor on the telly last night. If only a hundred survived from the “Stand”, the way the possums breed, that could be up to ten thousand mutated critters born in a couple of years, multiplying by a factor of seven every year after that.'