Undead L.A. 1 (6 page)

“
Let go of me, you fuck!”

He used the butt end of the revolver to fight him off, feeling the bone give like he was cracking through a walnut shell. He rolled over and crawled onto the plane through the boarding ramp, shutting and locking the door behind him. He knew he should check the plane for more of them, but he didn't want to waste any more time. Quickly he scurried into the pilot's cabin and bolted himself in. He collapsed in his seat and tried to catch his breath. He'd done the impossible. He'd made it out in one piece.

*** *** ***

Edgar came to with a start as the instrumentation gave off a loud ding.

He'd been drifting off, lost in the ugly memories of the morning. The sound of gunfire strafing the side of the plane brought him hurriedly back to reality.

“
What the fuck was that?”

But he knew exactly what it was, and more importantly why it was happening. It seemed impossible to imagine that there was anyone else alive, much less that they would want him dead, but it made sense in a sick kind of way the more he thought about it. Whoever was in control of the world now didn't want to take any chances of this infection getting out.

“Of all people I should have known,” he said, shaking his head. “I was in the military. I flew missions. I know exactly how this is gonna end, too. If only I could get one of them on the horn and let them know. Shit!”

A loud warning went off and he saw that he had lost one of his engines. A fighter jet sped past him at the same time the opposite side of the plane was peppered with bullets. It sounded like it hit right next to him. He ducked down and covered his head with his shaking hands, but he hadn’t been hit. The cabin pressure remained steady, but now he could see that his fuel was dropping. They'd hit his fuselage and his gas tank. They'd also taken out another engine. There was no way he was going to make it to Hawaii now. The best he could hope for was to either touch back down at LAX or attempt a soft landing in the Marina.

“No way I'm going back to the airport after what I had to do to get out,” Edgar said. “No way.”

It took some effort to get the plane turned back around and pointed toward land again. In that amount of time he saw he'd lost most of his fuel. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to make it back to the shore now. He gave the aircraft all he could, accelerating as hard as he could while the plane trembled and shuddered.

“I don't understand why you are doing this!”

But he knew even as he said it that it was a lie. He'd been in the service. He knew how they operated. It was perfectly clear what the plan was – wipe out all survivors and contain the threat. They couldn't afford to play it any other way. Even if he could get to them, even if he got a General on the phone and pleaded with him, there was no way of them knowing whether he was lying or not. Plus he could still be a carrier. It was as simple and terrible as that. They were going to obliterate everyone who had come in contact with the sickness, including him.

“So this is how it ends,” he said, a calmness coming over him at last. He noticed his hands weren't shaking anymore. The realization of his impending death had taken all the fear away. It was all over except for the final impact. It was a relief in some way, knowing that he wouldn't survive it. It meant he didn't have to kill any more of those demon creatures that used to be people. The plane would be torn to pieces by the force of it hitting the ground, and in all likelihood, he'd be shredded with it into something unrecognizable. The upside was that it would be over as quickly as it began. Plus there was no chance in hell that he was coming back as one of those mindless things.

“
Thank God for small miracles,” he laughed, as his mind began to pour over the happier moments of his life.

The plane started to descend as it reached the shore. He no longer had the fuel or the desire to keep it up in the air. He saw what looked like people fighting in the streets of Venice, in between the buildings and out on the streets. It made him sad. He didn't want his last thoughts in life to be about all of this. He closed his eyes and turned his thoughts back to his wife, Theresa. He'd been so in love with her at first. In the beginning, he thought he'd never get her attention – that he'd never win her over – but somehow he had. He shut out the thoughts of all that had happened since then – everything that had gone wrong – and just pictured her as she was on their wedding day. She looked so bright and happy in her white dress standing next to her father, Clint. There was so much love, so much promise in their lives back then. It was the last thing he wanted to remember. He pictured himself lifting her veil one more time and kissing her.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest had said.

Edgar felt a stream of joyful tears leaking down his face at the tender memory, and he laughed ecstatically. He tucked his thumb into the palm of his left hand and felt for his wedding band. The smooth metal felt good as he turned it around i
n a circle.

“
I love you baby,” he said, just as the plane smashed into the ground, tearing it in half. There was a loud rush of air…and then an even louder explosion…and then nothing at all.

*** *** ***

At its peak Los Angeles was a city of extraordinary wealth and privilege

and also one of harrowing poverty, crime, and corruption.

From its inception the city was plagued by racial tension and divided by

deep cultural ties. Los Angeles was perpetually engaged in an unyielding

class struggle that often boiled over into spontaneous rioting,

looting, and other random acts of violence in an effort to restore social equilibrium.

It was a city where the authority figures were feared as much as

the criminals they were sworn to protect citizens from,

while renegades and outlaws were openly celebrated.

***

No One Is Watching

Images from the series of gruesome murders of innocent young girls played over and over in Gary Wendell's mind as he paced back and forth outside the Wilcox Police Station's interview room. The last had been the most brutal by far, with the killer reviving the victim again and again, feeding off of her fear. Gary had felt haunted by the case, with each new killing leaving a guilty pain that seemed to reach down into his chest and crush his heart just a little more. He was sure he had the perp in custody and he’d left the suspect sitting inside now for over twenty minutes, after purposely turning the air conditioning off and letting the room heat up.

It was a stupid trick in his opinion; just one of many held over from the days when “good cop/bad cop” was still a real thing – but every now and then it worked. Life was strange like that. Sometimes the simplest things would get an unexpected result and turn into a win. When that happened, it was like a magic act you couldn't explain to anyone else, and you couldn't willingly duplicate. When you were working on the edge, fighting for justice for the dead and for their inconsolable families, you had to use every play in the book. He knew that so he went along with the gag, even though he was sure it wasn't going to work…not on this guy, not this time.

This guy doesn't fall for tricks,
he thought.
He's been up close and personal with the cops on more than one occasion, and he’s been burned. He knows the angles by now, knows where the hook is hidden in the bait.

Gary had left a message on Randy's answering machine saying he needed him to drop by the station when he got a chance so they could finalize the details of his interview, and he could help them by answering just a few more questions. He tried to sound casual as he left the voice mail, not wanting to tip his hand. At the time, he'd been sure that if he could just get the guy in a room alone he could make him slip up. Now he wasn't as sure of himself. It's not unheard of for a killer to taunt the police, filling a need to show them that he is smarter than the cops – but waltzing into a police station to give further testimony after being questioned about a murder was pretty rare, even for the most brazen of killers.

He's not like the rest
, Gary thought.
He's got something hidden up his sleeve right now. He's waiting for us to screw up so he can rub his crimes in our faces
.

The arrogance of it made Gary want to march back and punch Randy right between the eyes, but that would ruin any chance he had of still trying to pull off a big weeping confession. They were just getting started here and he wasn't ready to show all his cards. Not yet anyway. The Big Reveal was part of his plan all along.

By the time I start laying all the cards down he'll be begging to make a deal
, Gary told himself, trying to build up his own confidence.
All I have to do is get him talking about the crimes. His own arrogance will do the rest.

He'd seen it many times since he'd started with the unit. The situations varied slightly but the end result was always the same. Often a suspect would be called in under the guise of answering some routine questions, as if they were still just a witness who needed to give an official statement. They'd quickly figure out that they were being looked at as more than a Good Samaritan after being put in one of these rooms, even for a short period of time. There was never a point where a detective would let his suspect get comfortable during an interrogation. Everything from the hard metal chair to the lack of windows to the intimidating two-way mirrors was designed with one thought in mind – to make your suspect feel trapped and anxious. The dimensions of the room itself left you feeling claustrophobic, especially if you weren't used to being in small spaces with no ventilation. Cranking up the heat made things exponentially worse.

At that point the suspect would be hit with a series of hard allegations, depending on how strong the evidence was against them, and told they would only get one shot at leniency for their crimes. That single 'Hail Mary' was always contingent on how willing they were to cooperate. Detectives would talk about how they'd rot in jail for the maximum number of years the crime allowed if they didn't want to play ball – and then told them it was their choice. They'd give them a moment to think about it, excusing themselves and promising to bring back something for them, like coffee or water or a sandwich. The cameras would be turned on the whole time, but the AC would be shut off. The hope was that the suspect would feel uncomfortable and make a mistake. After no less than thirty minutes, the detective would return and start over again with the hard line. If the suspect began to cooperate they would be rewarded with food and beverages, along with air conditioning – after they'd signed away their rights, of course. If they didn't cooperate, they'd be held in the hot box for countless hours before being booked and allowed to call a lawyer. They'd be subjected to threats, both verbal and physical. They'd be bullied and pushed to the absolute legal limit. It was the oldest trick in the book and the one that still worked the best – the old Carrot and Stick Routine.

Over the years, Gary had seen guys come apart at the seams in these rooms. He'd seen guys that were tough broken down to teary-eyed confessions in as little as thirty minutes – and had seen guys that looked like pushovers refuse to speak a word for over twelve hours. The guy waiting in the room now was going to be the latter type. He could just tell. It was instinct twisting in his guts. This guy's masterpiece wasn't nearly done. He hadn't found his Opus, not yet.

He doesn't take big risks and he doesn't make dumb mistakes,
Gary thought.
At least not anymore.

Randy Alan Whitmore had been in trouble enough times to know his way around an interview room. He sat passively, his shoulders slumped, head leaned forward and down, the hint of a smirk on his otherwise expressionless face. Gary had done his homework. He'd worked up a full profile of his suspect. He'd been watching Randy now for weeks, waiting patiently for anything that would give him away. Deep down, he'd known he had the right guy from the very start. It was in his eyes, but that kind of hunch didn't hold up in court.

He has the eyes of an animal
, Gary thought.
One that stalks its victims for weeks on end before devouring it.

But this was like no animal the world had seen before. This man was acting out gruesome sex crimes on young girls. Innocent victims who couldn't defend themselves – girls with mental disabilities, girls with slight retardation or Down Syndrome. He'd already succeeded in killing six times, each more gruesome and cruel than the last. Gary was sure there were others they didn't know about as well. He knew from years of experience, years of investigating crimes just as evil and twisted and sick as this string of murders, that killers started smaller, closer to home, then worked their way up to bigger and more advanced displays. This allowed successful killers to learn from their own mistakes and perfect their craft – an eerie realization that often sent shivers down Gary's spine even after all these years.

Gary had been living in a world of unlovable sociopaths for over a decade. Every killing seemed as senseless when it began, birthed in murky confusion like muddy water mixed with blood and feces, as when it ended. Even if the case was tied up with a big red bow after a remorseful killer's tear-stained confession, it still kicked a wide hole into Gary’s soul – and the darkness inside began taking on a life of its own. He could not forget the victim’s faces, their names, the horrible ways that they died, or the abysmal ways they suffered. Stabbed. Shot. Mutilated. Choked. Bludgeoned. Strangled. Throats slit. Sex organs violated. The images appeared over and over when he closed his eyes, a terrifying nightmare of dissatisfied victims and overweening, unctuous killers all inseparably bound together. Wave after wave visited him like a parade, monsters and demons right there with their restless victims, endlessly being killed again and again until he would wake in fear and panic, his heart beating wildly in his chest at the memory of it all.