Death Row Apocalypse (5 page)

Like our dead guard, this closest zombie who was only about eighteen inches from the door, had pale white eyes and dilated pupils, and his skin was pale to the point of being white in color and in sharp contrast to his blood-smeared mouth and chin. A huge chunk of flesh had been ripped from the side of his neck. Several strips of flesh hung from the wound, with several large veins clearly visible. This short zombie was right in front of me. He did not move or twitch, but as more of my head became visible from behind the door, his eyes found mine. Then, moving his head only slightly, he took a sniff at the air, testing it perhaps to determine what I was. It was then that I opted to close the door, and as carefully as I had opened it, I closed it, ensuring that it was well and truly locked, before turning back to face the room. Curious, I thought. Where was the instantaneous attack that I had expected and witnessed only a few hours ago?

Chapter - 4

- CIA Sanctioned Murder #1 -

I was in my mid-twenties, and it was in the summer of nineteen ninety-something. She had been selected for one reason and one reason only, and that was because at her core existed the same spirit that had corrupted me. She, however, expressed her “unsociable side” by blackmailing her way up the political ladder. Nothing unusual there, you might say, but she had pissed off the wrong man with all the right connections.

I began by watching her every move, until I could without any effort on my part predict her next one, whether it was to cross a road, buy a newspaper from the newspaper stand on the sidewalk, or even purchase a bagel. At first I’d kept notes, but I soon found that she was a creature of habit. Eventually, this made the taking of notes somewhat redundant, and so I simply watched and followed.

During the week, she dressed mainly in business suits. Fully made up, she had a classy look that was just on the edge of being a little slutty, but very nice if you liked that kind of thing. The problem was she knew she was attractive, and she used this to her advantage, manipulating men and women alike with deadly effectiveness to get whatever she wanted. She used this power efficiently and as effectively as if she wielded a gun instead. Often her victims didn’t even know what had happened. One moment they would be leading the meeting with, as one would say, all the right cards, but then in the next moment they would find themselves on the losing side and having signed away some deal or sizable fortune, or having left themselves wide open for the kill. Literally.

She left a trail of tortured and damaged souls in her wake, not to mention a growing number of corpses. Though she may have been innocent of murder, her hands would forever be stained with the blood of her victims.

I looked forward to killing her and began my work in earnest. The CIA wanted her removed soon because she was getting just a little too close to a particular resident of the White House, though I suspect my handlers were more interested in seeing what they had created.

Without going into more detail than is absolutely necessary, this story is not about her or her type, or even about what she had actually done. It’s about what I did and what I became and, more importantly, what happens to you and I later in this story.

As a predator, an ability to predict, sense, evade, and escape is a highly sought-after talent, but, mix this with an innate ability to calculate, track, and hunt a target, it soon becomes a skill set that only a small number of our race can claim to own. Finally the slaughter becomes its own reward.

The hit: I looked down at her. She was asleep, stretched out on a dark wooden sun lounger beside a large swimming pool at the rear of her stylish home. She wore a two-piece pink bikini with barely enough material to cover her modesty. I enjoyed feeding my eyes a little candy before moving them on to absorb her surroundings. She had the kind of breasts that defied gravity, they were artificial of course and were perhaps a little too perfect but they still warranted my appreciation. Her sunglasses were large, with a tortoise-shell frame, reminding me of the seventies
Dallas
show, with gorgeous women and impossible hair. The bikini briefs were brief, and left very little for my imagination to conjure, in fact her every contour was visible through the skin tight fabric to the point where the briefs were in fact a complete waste of money. A small table was to her right side, and an empty bottle of wine stood under the table. She was drunk and had clearly passed out. This would make my task somewhat easier, I thought, though a little wrestle at the start would have been fun.

I stood there for a while watching her, taking in the moment and, of course, enjoying simply watching her breathe. In that moment we both shared a bond. It wasn’t sexual; it was of hunter and hunted. For her, the game was already over, a game that she had no idea she was even playing. For me, the game had only just begun. As the hunter, I had to make the kill and evade detection and capture—that was the real challenge of this particular kill. Taking her life was the easy part, but one which I wanted to have fun with.

She lay there slowly burning. The faint red tinge of her skin was a telltale sign that not only had she been in the sun too long, but she had also not planned on being out so long. Otherwise, she would have used a little sun cream. My eyes moved to the table one more time, and sure enough, there was no cream in sight. She would certainly suffer the next day were she to live long enough. But that option was no longer on the table. At the very least she would never have to worry about skin cancer or even worry whether she would burn in the midday sun ever again! In a strange way, I guess I was actually doing her a favor.

Like I said earlier, I had decided to be a little unique and have some fun with her—that is, I wanted to try something a little more interesting than the average hit that one would perform. A double tap to the heart and one to the head was exactly what the CIA wanted to avoid. It was the previous evening that I had stumbled on the idea of mixing it up a little, so I planned to literally do exactly that. The thought occurred to me while whisking up some eggs for my supper. I was making a rather thick omelet, which I have to admit I really love. In the mix were of course eggs, but also onions, mushrooms, chives, ham, and plenty of cheese . . .

Anyway, back to the whisking. While I was whisking away, my mind drifted a little, and I wondered if it was possible to whisk up a brain—her brain. I figured that I would not have the time to open her skull, remove the brain, then plop it into a mixer. On further consideration, I calculated I would have less than five minutes to park, walk the twenty meters to the house, make my way to the garden, and then subdue her, and finally have about twenty-five minutes to carry out the actual murder. She rarely had visitors, and the neighbors had no view to the patio, where she lounged in the sun. I had originally wanted to simply slice open her throat—simple, efficient, and quick. I soon came to realize that I had a warped imagination and craved the obscure, something perhaps you may have picked up on in my earlier exploits when I was growing up. Unable to avoid flexing my imagination, I let it flex.

To make the job of mixing up her brain easier, I considered using a stiletto-type knife instead of the traditional flat blade. It would need to be rounded—more like an ice pick than a knife, I guess. This would prevent the blade from getting stuck when plunged into the top dead center of the skull, and there would be no limitation in angular motion when being rotated. I would then be quite free to gyrate the knife and mix up her brain.

Well, that was the theory anyway. There was also the possibility that directly after the initial plunge, she might still be aware. Fascinating . . . As I poured the beaten eggs into the pan, I smiled, and the more I thought about it, the more eager I was to find out just how long she would live. After my meal I looked for a knife that would fit the task but could not find anything that fit my mental image of the tool. It was then that I realized that I did have some similarly shaped metal files, which would fit the bill as long as they weren’t too rough. Over the years I had collected a number of DIY tools, having dabbled in a few home and car repairs. In the toolbox I had a growing collection of handheld drills, screwdrivers, and files. As I tended not to throw anything away, even after years of abandon, I subsequently found the tool in question. It had two parts to it. The handle—made of smooth, varnished wood, practically new in appearance—and the metal file itself, coarse but still fine enough to do the job without getting stuck. The metal file was about half an inch in diameter or so and tapered down to a point. Perfect, I thought, and set about testing it.

I stood behind her; the file was in my right hand. I drew the file up and then with both hands I gripped the file shaft and handle tightly. My point of focus was the sweet spot of her crown, and with one blow to the top of her skull I plunged the file through the bone right up to my fist. It must have penetrated her skull by a good six inches. Her body stiffened, instantly reacting to the intrusion. She tried the now-impossible task of coming to an upright position and started to gently tremble. While holding the file’s wooden handle and thus her head in place, I carefully walked around to her front so that she could see me. Her eyes searched mine out, and once she found them she turned hers into a question, a plea, probably trying to figure out the reason why her body refused to move. I smiled. I wanted to get in close and personal.

Carefully I straddled the sunbed and sat on her lap in what would normally be classed as a lover’s position. Our heads were barely inches apart, and the wonderfully terrible temptation pushed me onward. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of her face over her jaw, down her neck, and finally between her ample gravity defying breasts. Tears began to well in her eyes, and so I moved in and kissed her lips long and hard as a lover would while holding her head hard against mine. I withdrew from the kiss, and as I did her tongue ever so slightly protruded from her open mouth, while tears flowed freely over her cheeks. Her body seemed to be completely paralyzed, but curiously her eyes remained somewhat alive, retaining the lucidity of a conscious intellect. With my left hand I gripped her jaw from below and pushed her gently backwards against the sunbed’s frame to keep her head from turning during my next maneuver.

I kissed her once more, pushing her tongue back inside with mine, and closed her mouth. It was then that I noticed her nipples had become hard. This was curious but not enough so to divert me from my immediate task. Not giving her nipples a second thought, I pressed on with the task at hand. I rotated the file in small circular motions, slowly at first. Her eyes had shown a little life, but soon after those first rotations, the life in her body quickly evaporated. Her arms merely twitched and flopped by her sides. Her whole body relaxed, including the muscles retaining her waste. I then rotated the file gradually faster and in ever-widening circles, and continued until I felt the knife-file scrape on the inside of her skull. It was rough, and I could feel every bump and contour as I scraped through another 360 degrees. This reminded me of someone running nails down a school blackboard. The feeling was unnatural but unique. It really had been like mixing cake ingredients, except, of course, I was scraping the metal file on the inside of her skull. I’ve never seen that on even one of Jamie Oliver’s shows.

From start to finish, only a minute or so elapsed. The process of mixing her brain turned out to be much easier than I anticipated. It was . . . satisfying. The questions in her once-beautiful eyes were
With
d with a vacant stare. Curiously, though, both eyes were drawn to the center, giving a comical boss-eyed look. This turned out to be a common effect when repeating this method of execution, resulting in a string of boss-eyed corpses littered throughout the USA over the coming years.

Having made sure that no traces remained of my presence, except for the obviously dead, boss-eyed woman lying baking on the sun lounger in her own waste, I left the premises.

It’s amusing to look back on my first hired job. The press referred to it as a Blender Butcher attack. Imaginative bunch, eh! They can be real dicks at times, but you have to hand it to them: they can also be very inventive with names and one-liners. Okay, I do admit: I did use the same methods in subsequent hits just to see the press’s reaction and of course to read in black on white my appointed appellation. It’s not every day that one becomes famous or infamous.

As you have probably guessed, I have no feelings or sense of remorse whatsoever. No matter how deep I look within myself, I find a grand total of nothing, zilch, nada. Most would be hard pressed to even classify me as human. But I’m happy, and that is more important to me than my lack of remorse.

Chapter - 5

- Every Good Man -

“Necktie” Eddie was in for murder. Necktie was the nickname he had given himself, and he was very proud that he had managed to evade suspicion with regards to his latest crimes. He wasn’t the smartest of criminals, but he was smart enough not to admit to crimes that would nail the proverbial coffin shut. He denied the murder with which he was charged, but according to the jury, which we know is always correct, the murder was a brutal one. His case was compounded further by his lack of remorse and his numerous outbursts in court proclaiming his innocence.

In addition to this crime, he was also found guilty of a string of similar murders, some occurring simultaneously on both the East and West Coasts of North America, though because the time of death was questionable and allowed sufficient time for flights from East Coast to West, this fact was deemed irrelevant and therefore not pertinent to the defense case. The fact was that Necktie Eddie would now go down for murder and would be sentenced to death and legally murdered for a crime he hadn’t actually committed. The prosecution’s lawyers would notch their belts with yet another win, thereby allowing certain US institutions to remain employed with carrying out these executions in the name of justice, all the while fueling those in need of blood revenge.