Serial Killer Z: Volume One

by Philip Harris

  Ling shifted position by the door. He was starting to get excited.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus, but I said you’d have to choose sides. You chose poorly.”

  I struggled against the bonds around my wrists. “Wait, just one question.”

  Harwood picked up the knife from his lap and stood but didn’t walk away.

  “What happened to Nancy Bailey?”

  The captain stared at me for a moment, his face expressionless. Then a smile cracked his features. “You really don’t know whether you killed her, do you? You don’t think you did, but you’re not sure.”

  Harwood turned the smile to Ling. “Should we put him out of his misery?”

  Ling nodded, but I knew from the look on his face what he was going to say before he spoke. “Yes, you killed her.”

  The air rushed from my lungs even as I tried to convince myself he was lying. I replayed the events of the evening I’d attacked Ling. There were no gaps, no indication that I’d somehow lost time.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ling. “She wasn’t my wife, and she was becoming annoying. I’m grateful, really.”

  I felt the weight of the shadow’s presence inside me. Had there been other kills I didn’t remember?

  Harwood snapped his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. “There’s no need for you to feel guilty, really. In fact, your actions have served a greater purpose.”

  “Undermining Parker’s grip on the town.”

  “Well done.”

  “But why go to all this trouble instead of just taking Sanctuary by force? You have the guns.”

  Harwood nodded slowly as though he was considering my question.

  “You know, Marcus, I’m not actually a captain. I’ve never been in the military, never had any inclination to lay down my life for the greater good. Not in that way, at least. I’m a politician, and all good politicians know that their power is an illusion. The fact that the dead are up and about and killing people makes that illusion all the more insubstantial.”

  “So, you needed to tear down Parker’s illusionary power before you could build your own.”

  Harwood nodded. “Since I arrived in Hope, I’ve gone from being a stranger to a protector and now a leader.”

  “They’ve willingly turned to you for help without realizing they were being manipulated.”

  “Exactly.”

  I thought of the determination on Parker’s face when she’d confronted me about killing Bailey. I wasn’t sure Harwood’s plan was quite as foolproof as he thought.

  He made a show of checking his watch. “I’m afraid Santos and I have somewhere important to be. So, I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Ling here.”

  The chill returned, my dread almost as cold as the water Santos had used to wake me up.

  Harwood offered me his hand. I twisted in my chair as though he needed reminding I was tied up.

  “Ah yes. Well, thank you for your help.”

  I inclined my head toward him with mock respect. “Goodbye.”

  He offered the knife to Ling, but he shook his head. Harwood shrugged and tossed it onto the sofa. Ling stepped aside to let Harwood and Santos leave, closing the living room door behind them. Then he moved forward and backhanded me across the jaw.

  In the movies, the bad guys always take the time to gloat and pontificate. They end up giving their victims the chance to escape. Ling didn’t do that. But then I guess in the movies I’d be the bad guy.

  Ling hit me again. I turned away to lessen the blow, but my head still snapped sideways. My teeth clacked down on my tongue, and I tasted blood. Without giving me time to recover, he punched me again.

  Chapter 50

  Ling

  Ling stepped back, his breathing heavy.

  Here comes the monologue, I thought.

  Then he punched me in the stomach.

  I saw it coming enough to clench my muscles a little, but still, the pain plunged through my gut. It felt like he was going to grab my spine and rip it out.

  I hunched forward, straining against the bindings around my wrists. I could feel them cutting into my skin. They seemed to give, just a little, but still nowhere near enough to get free.

  Ling grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. He leaned in close. His eyes widened and took on a manic glare as he stared into mine. The bloodlust I’d seen in the forest was back but a thousand times stronger. He leaned closer, his shredded nose less than an inch from my face.

  I lunged toward him.

  My teeth snapped on empty space as he dodged back, his lips twisting into a parody of a smile. He danced sideways. “Not going to fall for that one again.”

  Then he leaned in again, grabbed the front of my jacket, and head-butted me.

  The world turned gray. The edges of my vision blurred as my head fell back. I felt him push my shoulders, and I was falling. There was a loud crack as I landed and the chair broke, and then my head hit the floor. The room was carpeted, but the impact sent fresh pain rolling through my skull.

  I couldn’t see Ling. I sensed movement off to my right and rolled left. A lightning bolt of agony swept up my arms, but one, the right, was loose. I pulled it, and the chair splintered and came apart.

  Ling rose up before me. I swung my legs. The remains of the chair were still tied to them, and the fragments of wood caught on the carpet, but I managed to hit him in the shins, and he stumbled forward. I grabbed a piece of broken chair. Ling landed on top of me, knocking the air from my lungs. Pain shot down my arms as his weight pressed me into the floor.

  Something silver flashed in the corner of my vision. I raised my arm as Ling drove my knife toward my face. The blade sliced across my jacket, and heat rose in my forearm.

  As he pulled the knife back for another attack, I swung the splintered shard of wood at his throat. The tip tore through the soft flesh. Blood spurted, spattering my face. Ling let out a garbled scream, the sound wet and slick. I twisted my makeshift stake and rammed it deeper into his throat. He tried to stab me again. The blow was weak, and I blocked it with my forearm. I grabbed his wrist and twisted. The knife fell to the floor. I pushed him off me, and with his weight gone, I was able to drag in a deep breath and clear my head.

  Ling grabbed his throat, locking his hands around it as though he could stem the tide of blood pouring from the wound. His hands found the wooden shard. He pulled it free, unleashing a fresh torrent of blood that pulsed from between his fingers.

  The pain in my head was still threatening to overwhelm me as I struggled to untie my other hand and my feet. Ling was dead before I was free.

  I threw the broken chair at him with a frustrated grunt. A wave of dizziness cascaded over me, and I had to close my eyes until it passed.

  I heard voices—men talking outside. My heart quickened, and I half staggered to my feet, but the sounds faded away as whoever it was passed by. I pressed my fingers against my jaw, feeling out the damage Ling had done. It was tender and ached as I prodded and moved it, but he hadn’t broken anything. A lump was forming on my forehead—the epicenter of what was rapidly becoming the mother of all headaches.

  But I was alive. And I was angry.

  Harwood had wanted me to choose a side, and now I had. Or he’d chosen it for me. Either way, the shadow and I had a renewed sense of purpose. I was going to kill Harwood.

  Chapter 51

  Killer in the Crowd

  My knife was lying on the floor near Ling’s body. Seeing the thin streak of red on its blade reminded me I’d been cut. My jacket sleeve was stained red, but my clothes had borne the brunt of the attack. The wound ached, but it wasn’t deep, and the bleeding had already stopped.

  I was still examining the cut on my arm when I heard a noise—footsteps on the path outside. I waited for them to pass, as they had before, but instead I heard the front door open. I had just enough time to move behind the door before Lawson walked into the living room.

  He saw Ling and immediately started moving towa
rd him. I hesitated too long. Instead of striking as soon as he stepped into the room, I let him take a couple more paces. It was enough for him to sense that I was there.

  I drove the knife at his stomach, trying to force it up beneath his ribs, but he twisted his body. The knife caught in his jacket. Instead of trying to pull it free, I stabbed, but the blade hit something hard.

  He grinned. “Oops.” Then he punched me.

  The blow forced my head back. Blood filled my mouth. Lawson’s fingers grasped my wrist. His nails dug into the soft flesh. I cried out and dropped the knife.

  He punched me again, in the stomach this time. I doubled over. Through the haze of the pain, I saw the knife lying on the floor. I tried to drop to my knees, feigning collapse, but he grabbed me by the back of my jacket and hauled me upright. He shoved me against the wall and then stepped back. My head was ringing, and my legs felt unsteady. Blood ran from a split in my lip.

  A wild grin broke out across Lawson’s face. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the day I met you, Marcus.”

  He spat my name, loading it down with all the venomous hatred he could manage. He reached toward his belt, and I saw the machete hanging there. I slumped against the wall and let a resigned look wash over my face. He huffed derisively and unhooked the machete.

  He held it up and was gazing at the blade like it was some long-lost lover when I lunged at him. He responded instantly and swung the machete down toward my back. But I wasn’t there. Instead of tackling him head on, I’d dived right. The blade swept through empty space.

  As I hit the floor, I kicked at him. The tip of my boot hit his knee. It wasn’t an ideal blow—I was moving in the opposite direction—but the snapping of bone and his screams told me I’d gotten the result I was looking for. The machete thudded to the floor as he collapsed.

  I got to my feet. Blood rushed to my head. The world swam briefly.

  Lawson had stopped screaming, and although he was still clutching his knee, he was reaching for the machete again. If he got to it, he’d be able to hack at my leg and take me down.

  I threw myself on top of him. It was a clumsy effort and would have done little more than annoy him had I not landed on his knee. He buckled under my weight and screamed again.

  He was making no attempt to get to the machete or my knife, but I shifted my weight again and pressed down on his broken knee anyway. His scream rose in pitch. He tried to punch me, his arms flailing wildly toward my face. I pulled back then stood and slammed my boot onto his knee. He rolled onto his side, tears of agony screaming down his face. He paid no attention to me as I picked up my knife.

  The shadow and I stood over him, the weapon gripped tightly in our hand. His face was twisted in pain, and he kept punching his uninjured leg as though trying to distract himself from the agony in the other. His eyes flickered open. He saw me and unleashed a torrent of abuse.

  Slowly, I knelt down beside Lawson. He reached for me again, but I grabbed his wrist, pinned it to the ground, and then knelt on his other hand. He tried to pull free, but the movement just made him cry out and left him clutching his knee again.

  I leaned in and pressed the knife against his throat. He sneered at me then spat. The spittle sailed past my face. I increased the pressure on his hand. He winced and cursed at me again. I pressed the blade a little harder, and he fell silent.

  The shadow and I knelt there, watching Lawson like a child might study a butterfly pinned to a mounting board. Or a cockroach. Lawson stared back. I waited until he stopped struggling and I saw his body relax. Then I drove the blade up and into his jaw.

  I left Ling’s house by the front door. The clouds had grown darker, and it was raining heavily. Narrow rivers of water streamed down the sides of the road. There were a couple of people at the end of the street, walking toward the town square, but they were too far away for me to see if it was Harwood and Santos. I followed them anyway, moving down the middle of the road, no longer caring whether I was seen.

  A small crowd had formed outside the town hall. Four of what looked like Harwood’s crew stood nearby, two on either side of the building, rifles held conspicuously. Parker and Melissa stood on the hall’s steps, addressing the crowd. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Parker was scowling and kept emphasizing her points by chopping her palm with her other hand. There was no sign of Harwood or Santos.

  One of the group, an older man, took a couple of steps toward the town hall. Melissa blocked his way and held her hands out as though trying to placate him.

  I ducked my head to conceal my face, pulled my jacket tighter so that it covered the machete hanging from my belt, and approached the crowd.

  “We’ve found somewhere we can be safe,” Parker was saying. “We can’t let one setback destroy everything we’ve built.”

  “But we aren’t safe, are we?” said a man. He seemed genuinely angry, but I recognized him as one of Harwood’s supporters who’d criticized her at the town hall meeting. “You let a killer in, Parker.” Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd.

  “We’re still trying to establish exactly what happened,” Parker said.

  I was surprised at that. Her attitude inside the town hall had been that of someone who’d already made up her mind. Maybe I’d misread her. Or maybe Melissa had been campaigning on my behalf.

  “You’re just delaying the inevitable,” the old man said. “You know what needs to be done. Now, let us inside.”

  The man was brandishing a baseball bat, and I realized I was looking at a lynch mob come to execute the killer in their midst. Me.

  Ice-cold tendrils of fear crawled through my veins, but I felt a flutter of excitement, too. The shadow pulsed eagerly. I’d never come so close to being discovered. I was standing in a crowd of would-be executioners with my blood on their mind.

  What would they think if they knew? What would they do if I killed the man standing just in front of me? If I ran my knife across his throat or drove the machete into the back of his skull? Something touched my fingers, and I found my hand resting on the hilt of my knife.

  Someone in the crowd called out, but her words were swallowed up by a gust of wind that sent a wall of rain across the square. Water was pouring off the town hall, and dozens of broad puddles had formed all across the square.

  “I will not allow mob justice in this town,” Parker said, punctuating the words with another chop of her hand.

  The murmur of discontent began to rise again, but before it could spill over, the door to the town hall opened.

  Harwood stepped out of the shadows. “There won’t be any justice today.”

  I saw Melissa glance at Parker, concern on her face, but Parker was staring at Harwood. “There will be justice, but we will abide by due process.”

  Harwood frowned in mock confusion. “But how can there be, when Marcus Black is gone?”

  Parker took a half step toward the door. “No, he’s inside.”

  “Not anymore. Melissa visited him last night, presumably to give him a weapon. He waited until Tom brought him his breakfast then killed him and escaped.”

  “No,” Melissa said, “that’s not true. He didn’t…”

  Thunder rumbled, an ominous soundtrack to the events unfolding below.

  Harwood stepped past Parker. “As of right now, this town is under martial law. Black may have left the town, but until we’re sure, I want everyone inside the town hall, and I mean everyone.”

  Melissa started to protest, but Harwood turned, drawing a pistol on her. “Miss Jennings, we know where your allegiances lie, so I suggest you stay exactly where you are.”

  “Harwood, you can’t—” said Parker, but Santos appeared, her own gun pointing at Parker.

  “This is not negotiable,” Harwood said. “Now, everyone inside.”

  The men standing beside the town hall had moved. They’d circled around behind the group, and they began herding us toward the town hall, rifles raised. Unsure what else to do, the crowd shuffled forward w
ith no real resistance.

  There was a flash of lightning, and thunder reverberated across the square again.

  The thunder concealed the sound of the bus until it was too late.

  It burst into the square, black smoke billowing from its exhaust. Gears grinding, the bus accelerated. Its engine screamed in protest. It hit a dip and bounced. Metal scraped against the pavement.

  The guards behind the crowd ran in opposite directions as the bus hurtled toward them. Startled shouts and a single, strangled scream filled the air as the people around me gradually realized what was happening.

  The bus swerved sideways as it hit a lump in the road. Rain pelted the windshield, obscuring the cab, but I could see a shadow wrestling with the wheel as they fought to get the vehicle back under control. It straightened up again, heading directly at the town hall.

  People scattered as the shock of seeing eight tons of metal barreling toward them finally wore off. Someone ran into me as they tried to get away.

  I ran, too. The ground beneath my feet was slick and uneven, and as I turned, my foot caught in a deep crack in the asphalt. It twisted sideways. Sharp pain ran up my ankle. I hobbled on for a few steps, but the pain eased quickly. Behind me, the roar of the bus’s diesel engine was more than a match for the thunder.

  The bus was still forty feet or so away from the building when Santos opened fire with an automatic rifle. Bullets peppered the front of the vehicle, ricocheting away in a shower of sparks. The windshield cracked then shattered and fell away. Harwood calmly raised his pistol and let off three shots at the bus’s tires, but they hit the bodywork. Santos fired again, into the cab. The shadow inside ducked down. Bullets tore through the roof.

  The crowd had managed to get out of the way, but the bus continued toward the building. Harwood and Santos dodged aside.

  The bus raced past and slammed into the steps leading up to the town hall. They collapsed, and shards of wood exploded into the air. The front of the vehicle dipped then fell forward as the structure beneath it collapsed.