His face had strange lines that looked like scars, but were too uniform. As I was about to pull the trigger, his face split open and peeled back, revealing tentacles under the skin. The appendages had tiny yellow teeth that bit into my hand and forearm. He sucked my hand into him, inching further up my arm.
I fell back to the floor. I tried to fire the Glock and blow the back of his head out, but something prevented my finger from moving. A tentacle. A tongue. A tooth. Something.
It wasn’t a man. It was a thing. Its face was mangled, contorted. On the back of the tentacle, a rogue eye blinked at me. It was a twisted mess of black oily flesh. I pounded the side of its head, but it didn’t let go.
I reached for my knife. It was gone. Forgot it was still in Arnold’s head.
And the machete was even further away.
With this thing on top of me, I pushed it off. Its hands flailed at my face, trying to press its fingers into my eyes. I blocked to protect them.
With this thing latched on my arm, with its arms going wild, I crawled across the floor to the corpse with the knife in its head.
To Arnold.
The tentacles’ teeth pressed deep into my flesh, climbing up my arm like a python sucking in its prey. I pulled the entire body with me as I reached for the knife with my left hand.
I climbed on Arnold and yanked out the blade. I stabbed the creature’s head but it didn’t let go. I pressed the knife against it’s forehead and sawed back and forth. Its bite grew more fierce and desperate as I sawed through the skull into the brain. Powering through, I shaved off the top of its head, scalping it. The tentacles loosened, releasing their grip.
With the top of its head gone, it fell sideways, its exposed brain leaking to the floor.
It was dead.
I took a breath. Still alive, Ivy.
I turned to the monstrosity. The brain matter was black. Slimy. It wasn’t human. Or Forever.
I crouched down and carved a piece of the obsidian brain. Held it up. I took a whiff. Didn’t smell like sulfur. Or brimstone. Or charcoal.
I raised it to my mouth and licked it.
It didn’t taste like demon.
I bet you’re wondering how I know what demon brain tastes like. There may have been a time or two in my past when I needed to sink my teeth into a demon brain in order to survive.
Just take my word for it. I know what demon brain tastes like.
And no, it doesn’t taste like chicken. It tastes like human. Only bitter. And leaves your mouth tasting like ash, with an aftertaste of rot.
This was something different.
It was something new.
I didn’t like ‘new.’
I examined the dozens of puncture wounds on my forearm made by the monster’s pearly whites. My arm was mince meat. If this assclown was poisonous, I was screwed.
I didn’t have time to dawdle. I sunk the knife back into Arnold’s head. It would keep him from regenerating. I was surprised he hadn’t already.
I looked back at the thing on the floor. I’d solve the mystery later. Time to get back on track.
I walked outside around the cabin and collected the seven explosives I had stashed around the house.
Always have a backup plan.
It’s more important to destroy evil than it is to survive. I was glad it didn’t resort to that. Setting the cabin ablaze could have started a forest fire.
I stuffed the bombs in the duffel bag pocket and brought it inside the house. I set the bag on the table and pulled out a handful of incriminating photos. Photos of drug cartels and murders caught on camera. Most shots I got from snitches. Others I took from drug dealers who got in my way. The photos come in handy every now and then.
I lifted a few guns from the duffel as well. All registered to known criminals on the FBI’s most wanted list. It was an easy paper trail back to those scumbags.
Criminals tend not to have registered weapons, of course, but unless a misguided rookie cop goes all detective and discovers these weren’t actually registered by those specific bad guys, most cops will accept the evidence as cut and dry and follow the paper trail.
And I’d bet the police didn’t already have the intel I provided in the photos, so it should lead to some great progress for the good guys and end with some long-deserved arrests.
I reached in the duffel and pulled out a couple bags of cocaine and placed them on the table. I cut one open and spread the powder in a row. No, not for me. For the police.
Humans like to live in plausible deniability.
The drugs, the photos, and the registered guns would give the police a plausible scenario. To local authorities, the cabin would become a hideaway of drug dealers who got taken out by a rival gang.
The drugs were a way to humanize the situation. Turn heads from any weirdness out of the ordinary. To disguise the supernatural nature of the scene.
People say they want to believe in miracles. But if you believe in miracles, you have to believe in monsters.
And people don’t want to believe in monsters.
There’s enough evil in humanity to keep people up at night. If they knew there were people who could teleport into their home and drain their newborn’s life force at the drop of a hat, no one would ever sleep again.
I should know. I’ve had my share of sleepless nights.
Once you see these things, you can’t unsee them. Once you know these things, you can’t unknow them.
People need their ignorance. It gives them peace. It’s my job to give the human race the peace they need.
I reached in the bag and pulled out the ax. You see, Forevers don’t just heal fast, they regenerate. Even when their heads have been severed, they still come back.
It’s the most unnatural, wicked thing you’ll ever see. And will probably be your last.
I walked toward Arnold as his dead eyes stared up at me, the knife still through his skull. I gripped the ax and lifted it above my head.
You’re not gonna want to see this next part. Trust me, you ain’t tough enough yet.
In case you hadn’t noticed, these writings are more than just a few pages from my journal. It’s more than a memoir.
It’s a goddamn training manual.
My name is Solomon Ivy. And I kill monsters.
Chapter 3
Burn Notice
The cabin was about an hour away from civilization. Close enough to Chicago for easy access but far enough to be left unbothered by people. It was all dirt roads and two tracks that led me here. The house was silent. Nothing but the crickets and frogs chirping in the night.
But after I prepped the scene with bogus evidence for the police, I heard a voice. Almost inaudible. Like someone mumbling.
Or crying.
I turned my ear to it. Quieted my breath and listened. It wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from within the house.
From below.
I took a knee and peeked through the floorboards. There was movement under my feet. I peered through a knot in the floorboards. Someone stared back at me.
“Help us,” a woman said. “Please help us.”
I could see someone through a crack in the wood. “How many people are down there?”
“There’s six of us, I think. Well, six of us still alive.”
“Let me see.”
She backed away from the hole. I pulled out a small military grade flashlight and shined it into the dark. It was a cellar full of people. And there were children.
Damn it to Hell.
The teenage ginger wasn’t the only human the monsters had. They had a whole cellar of them.
I couldn’t free them and risk them identifying me or giving my description to the cops. And it was too far from the city to free them and hope they would find their way through the dark.
“Hold on,” I told them. “I’ll call for help.”
I scanned the floor. The hatch was on the other side of the cement block pile. Underneath the blocks was a mound of dirt. The do
or had a large padlock. I kicked it. It was locked. Why wouldn’t it be?
The cement blocks and rubble made sense now. They dug the cellar and reinforced the walls with the cement. The Forevers kidnapped people, teleported them here, and used them as an energy resource when they got low. These humans weren’t just prisoners.
They were food.
The Forevers could drain their life force whenever they needed. Didn’t even have to open the cellar door. There were probably several dead husk bodies down there right now. Empty vessels. I could smell them. The monsters could save themselves a trip into town and drain the victims dry when they were hungry.
No fuss no muss.
Smart, from a monster’s point of view.
If you’ve never seen a body after its life force was drained, it’s an awful sight. Like the woman drained by Billy Bob. Her life force was ripped away. The body emptied. Dried, shriveled skin cracked with black bulbous veins under the skin. The eyes always turn milky white, but they stare at you, as though asking—
Do you know where my soul is?
And these poor bastards in the cellar were trapped with them. It’s enough to make a person go insane.
I reached into Billy Bob’s pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed 911.
A woman answered. “911, what’s your emergency?”
I put on a panicky, frightened voice. “I’m going to kill everyone. My wife and kids are as good as dead if someone doesn’t come immediately. I’m at a cabin by North Creek River, where 394 meets East Glenwood Lansing Road. Take the two track a half mile from the crossing. When you get here, look in the cellar. They may already be dead when you get here. I don’t know how long I can keep from killing them.”
“But, sir—”
CLICK.
I surveyed the house to make sure nothing was missed. Seven dead monster bodies. Check. Smokescreen set up with the drugs, photos, and guns. Check. Nothing left behind that leads back to me. Check.
The only caveat was my blood. Lurch shot me in the shoulder. And gnawed on my arm like a fruit rollup.
A pile of my blood was on the floor. I pulled a spray bottle from my bag and sprayed my pool of blood. It was a corrosive acid that melts human tissue. It would dissolve the blood in a few minutes. Eat away at the cells until it was either gone or unrecognizable as blood.
I left plenty of more blood in the house for forensics to test, that was for sure. Inevitably, if some of mine made it to their lab, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like the FBI didn’t have my DNA on file by now anyway.
It was never my biggest concern. Just an annoyance.
Any normal person would have waited to make that 911 call, to give themselves more time to do what I was about to do. But I liked the pressure. It would take them forty minutes to organize and get here.
Plenty of time.
I focused on the dead bodies. After emptying their pockets, I introduced them to Mr. Machete. It’s taken plenty of monster heads over the years.
I put the last head in a garbage bag full of ice. Cold temperatures slow them down. Prevents them from healing. I didn’t need them to regenerate and catch me by surprise.
It was never fun when that happened.
I took the heads and left the bodies for the cops. Let them do their autopsies and detective work. Give them a little mystery to snack on.
Arnold was the last one. I needed information. It would be easier to interrogate Napoleon. The look on his face when I broke into the cabin was priceless. He was the most terrified of any of them. He would give me what I needed if I just asked nicely.
But he was low status, low man on the totem pole. He most likely didn’t have the intel I was looking for.
Arnold, however, was a son of a bitch to put down. He wasn’t afraid of me. All bravado and angst. I respected it, even if I didn’t like it.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it would bring me joy to break him. To crush his spirit. If he had one. To watch him whimper and beg for his life. But that would be a bonus.
It’s a crap shoot, but he seemed to be more experienced than the others. Which meant he was my best chance to find Jason. If he was defiant, I had six other talking heads on my list.
I fetched a syringe from the side pocket of the bag and injected it into his heart. I tied the garbage bag of heads to his wrist and dragged the big son of a bitch to the spot I set up earlier in the night. A three minute walk. Seven, carrying Arnold and the dead woman.
After I got there, I finished prepping the scene.
When Arnold opened his eyes, I was sitting on a mound of dirt with a shovel in my hand. The knife from his skull was stabbed into the dirt.
His words were slurred. “What… what happened?”
“You fell,” I said.
“I fell?”
“Yup. Right on my knife.”
His eyes were cloudy. His vision most likely hazy. He was disoriented. Not surprising, considering three minutes ago he had a twelve-inch blade pierced through his brain.
He turned his head to the side. He saw the grave full of severed heads.
“Oh, shit!” he said. “What did you do?”
“I don’t make friends easily,” I said. “I don’t know why.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s not important,” I said, pulling the blade from the fresh soil. Soil stuck to the wet blood. I flicked dirt on his face. “Right now, you should be wondering what I’m going to do with you. Sorry. Let me correct myself. What I’m going to do to you.”
“Fuck you.” He bobbed his head, trying to get up. “I can’t move.”
“I pumped you full of tranquilizer. Made just for you. You’ll be paralyzed until we’re done with our little chat.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you shit, hunter. Go fuck yourself.”
“You’re not in a position to give orders.”
“I’m Forever, bitch. I will drain your soul dry. You can’t hurt me.”
I turned the knife around and bopped the handle against his forehead. He grunted.
“Just because you can’t move,” I said, “doesn’t mean you can’t feel. I could have fun with you all night. You may heal fast, but you still feel pain,” I said, scraping the knife along the dirt.
He laughed. “Do your worst.”
I could have tortured him for hours into the night, but I was getting impatient. I was tired and cranky and wanted to go home. I’d leave torture as a last resort. At least for tonight.
Time to change tactics.
I pulled out the wallet I found in his back pocket before dragging him here. I always search the bodies before I interrogate. Makes things go smoother. I flipped through it.
“What is that?” he asked, his eyes shifting sideways to get a better view.
I stared at the photo in the wallet. For a big dumb brute, he was painfully sentimental. It was a picture of a pretty blonde gal. Late twenties. The photo was ripped in half with a man’s arm around her shoulder, but he was on the half that was torn away. I’d make bets the arm wasn’t Arnold’s. The man in the photo wasn’t him.
The woman belonged to someone else.
I wasn’t sure if she was Forever, human, or something else entirely. Whatever she was to him, to me she was leverage.
“Who’s the girl?” I asked.
“Don’t touch her.”
“That depends on you, Arny.”
“She’s not like me. She’s human.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“If you hurt her—”
“Tell me who she is. Or I’ll track her down. She looks like she needs a friend.”
“I will kill you!”
“What’s wrong? You don’t think I’ll be friendly?”
“What do you want?”
“Right now, I want to know who she is to you,” I said.
“She’s my wife.”
“You’re not in the photo with her. In fact, there are no photos with the two of you together.” I pressed the knife tip u
nder my nails and dug out the dirt. “She doesn’t know who you are, does she?”
He huffed for a few seconds, ignoring what I said. “No.”
“She’s not your wife.”
“Yes, she is. She was. She will be.”
There’s something you need to understand about these freaks of nature. You may have asked yourself Where do they come from?
Let me enlighten you.
They spawn from the bowels of the universe. Souls that are trapped between life and death. Souls that were never meant to exist. If you can even call them souls. That’s still open for debate.
They pop into the world like a terminal disease. Damaged cells of the universe. No one knows why. But they have memories of a life that never existed. They’re delusional parasitic psychopaths.
The cancer of God.
“Your memories of her aren’t real,” I told him. “You must know that by now.”
“They’re real to me.” His voice was shaking. I think he was crying.
Forevers can’t distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. They fall for the stories in their head. They believe everything they think.
“These memories of your life,” I said, “they never happened.”
“Maybe not to her. But to me, they did. I remember when we first met. I was so nervous I could barely talk. I remember when she spilled ice cream on my shirt on our first date. I remember on our wedding night, when I carried her to bed because she stubbed her toe on the table. I remember when she gave birth to our daughter. I remember! And one day, she’ll remember too.”
Before you fall for his pity party, you might want to know where he was this morning. Before I tracked him here, he drained the life force of a married couple in their RV before the sun came up.
When I found them, the grandparents’ bodies laid beside them.
All dead.
He left the two grand children sitting in the camp chairs. Their life force was drained, leaving behind only empty skins. Their small, dead hands still held the sticks of marshmallows roasting over the open fire.
In one morning, he murdered all three generations of a family. That’s a typical day for his kind. Tell me again how bad you feel for him when he’s crying about his fantasy wife. If he was a song, he’d be ‘Don’t cry for me, Argentina.’
Memoirs of a Monster Killer: Killing Forever Book 1 Page 2
