Serial Killer Z: Volume One

by Philip Harris

  I washed down the dreary eggs with some coffee then hacked off a piece of bacon and ate that while I worked out my next step.

  I had to take advantage of the current confusion. By now, the police must have figured out Spencer’s identity. It wasn’t as though his injury and transfer to HNR were a secret. If I was lucky, I might have a day before the police started digging into staff, maybe two. With Owen and Coughlin dead, there was only a tenuous link between Spencer and me. Assuming I hadn’t left any evidence at Spencer’s house.

  There was a chance I could ride this out. Spencer was just a journalist investigating Hunter Neurologics. I’d turned him down, and he’d moved on to harassing someone else, that was all. If there was no evidence to link me to Spencer, I might be able to pass as just another HNR employee that got caught up in some misguided experiments. It’s not like I was an important part of the team. Hart and Kozlov would come under far more scrutiny.

  I didn’t need the shadow to tell me I was clutching at straws. There were too many ifs and maybes. My story could fall apart in any number of ways. It was inevitable that everyone who worked at HNR would end up under the social media microscope. It would only take one journalist looking for their big break to expose me. Better for me to disappear. If I was lucky, the police would consider me another victim.

  The logical part of my mind insisted I should leave right away, hike out of the city into the mountains with just the clothes on my back, but I couldn’t. The idea of leaving my tool kit behind was unthinkable. Yes, I didn’t want the police to find the scalpels, but there was more to it than that. They were the link between me, the shadow and my past. Without that leather case, I’d be lost and adrift. Just thinking about leaving them behind almost made me vomit.

  I finished up my breakfast and tipped the plates into the recycling bins before heading back out onto the street to find somewhere to kill time until nightfall. Then I could find a way back to my car.

  Chapter 14

  Night

  I spent the day wandering around the city and the park, watching the clock and trying to convince myself that no one was paying me any real attention.

  As the evening closed in, I found another mall with a television. The breathless morning anchors had been replaced by their more subdued evening counterparts, but the attack was the lead news story.

  There was still no real information. The attacker’s identity was being withheld, and the police were planning a full statement early the next morning. The violence at the hospital had apparently been contained, but the building was closed to new admissions while the police investigated a possible link between the two events. There was no mention of me, or any of the other staff.

  For the time being, I was in the clear.

  It was well past midnight when I finally gave in and headed back to the lab. I was a block away when I saw the police car parked across the entrance to the underground parking garage. Yellow tape stretched across the opening to reinforce its status as a crime scene. My heart sank. I hadn’t planned on driving my car away, but I’d been hoping for minimal police presence.

  I took the next turn left, out of sight of the officer sitting in the car. The road took me around to the front of the building. There was more yellow tape stretched across the entrance and around a roughly rectangular area marked out with cones. Another police car was parked near the doors with two officers sitting in it. A couple of other cars and a news van were parked a discreet distance away. Two men stood behind the van, talking to each other.

  There was no way I’d get into the underground garage through the main entrance. That would involve walking right past the police car and the press. My only option was the staircase I’d tried to get to earlier in the day. It was a good hundred feet from the building. There was still a chance someone would see me, but it was my only option.

  I continued watching the police car until four minutes after one, in case there was some sort of regular shift change, then crept around the edge of the outdoor parking lot. It was a cloudy night, and I stayed close to the fence, but I felt exposed—the police car was clearly visible, and I could see the officers inside. Surely, they must be able to see me just as well.

  The press crew had gotten back into their vehicles, and I could all too easily picture them spotting me and using their cameras to record the activities of “a suspicious individual” ready for the morning news.

  I was almost at the staircase when the police car’s driver-side door opened. I threw myself to the ground. A gray-haired policeman stepped out and stretched. He swept his gaze around the lot then hitched his pants and ambled toward the lab entrance. There was no urgency to his movements, and if he was supposed to be patrolling, he was doing a poor job of actually looking for trespassers.

  I waited until he’d gone inside, counted to four and then got up into a crouch and ran. By the time I reached the top of the staircase, my muscles were aching, and I was breathing heavily. I almost tripped down the stairs in my eagerness to get out of sight.

  The steps descended into a concrete-lined slot in the ground. Halfway down I stopped and peeked back over the wall. There was no sign of the policeman who’d gone inside. He was probably just using the washroom. His partner was still sitting inside the car, her face lit by the glow of some sort of device—a laptop or tablet.

  I continued down the stairs to the garage door. It was locked. I removed my pass then spent several seconds trying to decide whether it was a good idea to use it. I didn’t want to leave any evidence I’d been there. The company claimed pass card usage was tracked, but I’d never seen any proof. Even so, it was a risk.

  With no other options, I pressed the pass against the plastic box mounted beside the door. There was a pause, then the indicator on the box turned green and the lock clicked open.

  Cautiously, I slipped into the garage. A row of stark LED lights burst to life, bathing the surrounding area in light. I ducked behind a concrete pillar and waited for signs that I’d been spotted. None came. The rest of the garage was still shrouded in darkness. I was alone.

  Apparently, the police had refused to allow anyone to take their cars home, because the garage was almost full. Thankfully, my car was parked on the first level, in the southwest corner. Staying low, I moved quickly along the outer edge of the garage.

  Thoughts of discovery filled my head, not of me but of the tool kit in my car’s trunk. I pictured the gray-haired policeman drilling out the lock and removing the case. I suppressed a shudder.

  As I got closer, I became convinced I’d find a circular hole where the trunk’s lock should be, but when I got there, everything was still intact.

  My hands shook, and I fumbled with the keys as I unlocked the trunk. The case was where I’d left it, hidden beneath a blanket. I flicked open the latch and lifted the lid. All six scalpels were still there. I ran my fingers across them then closed the lid again. Almost reverently, I picked up the case and quietly shut the trunk. The shadow’s relief was palpable.

  The bank of lights above me flicked off, only to come on again as I made my way back across the garage. I was almost at the emergency staircase when the bank of lights opposite me came to life. I ducked behind a nearby car.

  A figure moved through the garage. It was the policeman I’d seen get out of the car. He had a flashlight, and he shined it between the vehicles as he made his way through the garage. I crept between two cars and squeezed behind a large truck whose fender was almost touching the wall.

  I couldn’t see the policeman, but every now and again his feet scuffed across the concrete or his light flashed across the ceiling. He was getting closer. I became aware of the eager presence of the shadow. The garage suddenly felt like the perfect place to let it loose. Evidence of police corruption was rife, and the policeman would make a perfect subject for my work. I could take him back to my car and—

  Light illuminated the wall behind me, interrupting my train of thought. I flinched and pressed myself hard against the floor. T
he light disappeared. I closed my eyes and listened to the policeman’s footsteps as he continued his sweep of the area.

  “This is Reed. No sign of him yet.”

  The words cut through me like a scalpel. They knew I was here. I pressed myself harder against the ground as though I might be able to sink out of sight.

  There was a burst of radio static and then a distorted voice. “He probably just went back to the station.”

  “I’ll check the next floor and let you know if I see anything.”

  Another burst of static. “Roger that.”

  I heard the scrape of wood on concrete as a door was opened. Then it closed. So he wasn’t looking for me after all.

  For once, it was the shadow that urged caution. I was ready to risk running into a trap and just make a break for my car.

  The shadow’s instincts were correct. A few seconds later I heard footsteps.

  “Campbell? That you?”

  The flashlight swept over the wall a few rows away from me. The footsteps grew louder.

  Carefully, I placed the leather case on the floor and unfastened the catch. The shadow rushed through me as I lifted the lid. My breath was coming in quick gasps. I closed my eyes and let the shadow guide me toward the right scalpel. A feeling of calm swept over me the moment I pulled it from the case. The shadow murmured its approval at the back of my mind.

  “Campbell?”

  I closed the case and placed it beneath the truck. The flashlight was getting closer. The officer was moving slowly, sweeping the light down between each car as he searched. My hand tightened around the scalpel. I wished I had some midazolam.

  The light passed the end of the truck, and the officer came into view. Black strips of guilt hung from his chest and trailed along the ground behind him. I waited until he’d passed by and had his back to me, then I rose into a crouch and prepared to run at him.

  He shined his flashlight down the garage, away from me. “Campbell? What are you doing down here? We’ve been looking for—”

  There was a deep-throated moan, and then a second police officer leaped into view. He collided with Reed, and they both tumbled to the ground.

  I recognized the new arrival immediately. The man, presumably Campbell, was the officer who’d brought down Spencer. His hand was wrapped in a bandage. It was spattered with gore, as was the rest of his uniform.

  Reed tried to fend off Campbell with one hand and get to his gun with the other. He’d almost managed to unholster the weapon when Campbell sank his teeth into Reed’s arm. Screams echoed through the garage. Campbell pulled his head back, tearing away cloth and bringing a lump of flesh with it.

  Even in his agony, Reed managed to find his gun. His fingers clasped the grip, and he swung it up. He jammed the barrel into Campbell’s belly and fired. Blood spattered the concrete. Campbell leaned back and bellowed. A string of pink muscle fell from his mouth. Reed fired again.

  Blood poured from the wounds in Campbell’s stomach. He fell forward and fastened his teeth on Reed’s neck. Reed’s screams turned wet. Still he fired. Bullet after bullet tore through Campbell’s gut until the weapon clicked empty. Reed’s arm went limp. The gun clattered to the floor.

  While Campbell was distracted by the feast that was once Reed, I retrieved my tool kit from beneath the truck. Wet, slobbering sounds interspersed with guttural moans of what sounded a lot like pleasure filled the air.

  With the scalpel in one hand and the case tucked under my arm, I crept back to the end of the truck. Campbell was crouched beside Reed. Eager fingers worked at the man’s chest, tearing at it to remove ragged strips of flesh. His jaw moved incessantly, chewing on the meat. Bloody chunks fell from his mouth and landed on Reed’s chest only to be picked up again and consumed.

  I was transfixed.

  A scuffling noise came from behind me. I spun and had a moment to take in the bloodied face and cold black eyes of another of the dead things before his hands latched on to my shoulders. Pain shot down my arms, and the case slipped from under my arm and fell to the floor.

  I brought the scalpel up. It sank in the thing’s underarm, and warm fluid ran over my hand. I dragged the blade toward me, opening up a long slash in the man’s arm. His grip loosened, and I twisted free. I retreated, and the thing let out a moan of frustration.

  Campbell answered the moan with one of his own. I risked a look behind me. He was getting to his feet. His black eyes were locked on me. Reed’s body lay on the floor behind him, barely recognizable.

  I moved so that I could see both of them. My back hit the hood of a car. The new arrival was one of the researchers from Hunter Neurologics. The only way I could tell was his white lab coat because his face was an unrecognizable mass of torn flesh. One eye was missing, along with part of his right cheek and nose. There was so much blood in his hair I couldn’t tell what color it was.

  Campbell reached out with blood-soaked hands. His stomach was a ragged mess. Organs glistened through the torn flesh where Reed’s bullets had ripped into his body.

  The leather case lay on the floor, just beyond the man that had grabbed me. There was no way I could get past them to reach it and no way I was leaving it behind.

  I went for Campbell first, driving the scalpel up and into his neck until it hit bone. I forced his head back then twisted the blade. He let out a strangled groan and clutched at my face. I shoved him back, and his feet caught on Reed’s body. He started to fall. His fingers caught in my jacket, and the weight of him pulled me forward. We both went down.

  I rolled left, yanking the scalpel free. It tore through Campbell’s neck. Blood arced through the air. I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away from my jacket then jammed the scalpel up through his jaw again. He let out a gurgling moan and fell still. I pulled the scalpel loose, but it slipped from my hand and clattered away across the concrete.

  The other creature had closed on me while I was dealing with Campbell. I kicked my heel out and connected with his knee. There was a solid crack, and his leg gave way. He staggered then fell.

  He reached for me as he went down, but I was already moving. My fingers touched the scalpel’s handle, but I only succeeded in pushing it farther away. Fingers wrapped around my calf. Pain shot down my leg.

  I lunged at the scalpel again and managed to get hold of it properly. I rolled and brought the blade down on the back of the man’s neck. He arched his spine and let out a piercing scream. I swept the scalpel around and sliced it across the man’s throat. The scream died. He didn’t.

  He twisted and made another grab at me. Black blood poured from the wound in his throat. I rammed the scalpel into his neck. The blade hit bone, and I felt it snap. He caught hold of my throat. His thumb dug into my windpipe.

  I grabbed his wrist and pulled. His grip tightened, and he leaned forward, mouth gaping, the stench of bloody meat on his breath. I pushed against his forehead, forcing his head back. His teeth snapped together as he tried to bite my wrist.

  Stars burst across my vision. I writhed in his grip, trying and failing to break free. With one arm wedged across his forehead, I grabbed the man’s hand and peeled his thumb away from my throat, snapping it. I grabbed his fingers and yanked them back. There was a splintering crack, and he released me.

  Gasping for air, I scrambled away. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, and then he began dragging himself across the floor toward me.

  I searched around for a weapon. The closest thing I could find was Reed’s useless gun. My case was behind the man and out of reach.

  He latched on to my leg. The fingers of his one remaining good hand dug into my thigh, sending fresh pain up my leg. He dragged himself toward me.

  The scalpel’s handle still protruded from his neck. I jammed the heel of my boot against it, and it sank into the man’s throat. He reached for me one last time then collapsed.

  I fell back against the hard concrete floor. My hands were shaking, and I could still feel the man’s fingers wrapped around my throat. I rub
bed my neck, partly to convince myself I’d actually gotten free. It was tender to the touch. I coughed. Jagged shards of glass cut into my throat, and I tasted blood, but I was alive. I let out a short laugh. It was a brittle sound, out of place in the otherwise silent garage.

  The shadow swept through me, drawn by the adrenaline and death. It wasn’t satisfied, not by a long shot. The kills had been quick, desperate, not savored. This was survival of the fittest, not justice for the guilty. For now, it would have to be enough.

  I let the shadow’s energy suffuse me. The bodies around me grew clearer. The dark blood became blacker. Their pale, grayish flesh took on an almost preternatural glow. Blood dripped from Reed’s body, and I heard the splash as it hit the concrete.

  The feelings didn’t last. The excitement of the kill was already fading, taking my heightened awareness with it. I clung to the last few shreds of energy for as long as I could. Eventually, even they slipped from my grasp.

  I took four deep breaths and got to my feet. My clothes were encrusted with gore. I could feel the tightness across my face where more blood was forming a second skin. I needed to find somewhere to wash. I thought of the park I’d spent some of the day in. There were washrooms there, but they might be locked.

  Despair welled up inside me until the shadow stepped in. I’d find a way around this. I always did.

  At some point, my tool kit had been knocked beneath the front wheel of a Tesla that belonged to one of HNR’s salesmen. My heart was pounding as I retrieved the case and opened the lid. The scalpels were still there. They were undamaged, but the single empty slot made the kit seem incomplete.

  I pulled the scalpel from the researcher’s jaw. The tip had sheared off, and the handle was bent slightly where I’d kicked it. I considered keeping it anyway, then let it fall to the floor.