“There’s no water around here,” Pat replied.
Again, the snake laughed, that hideous reptilian sound. It looked at him with those beautiful unblinking eyes.
“You are standing in quicksand.”
1991
La Canada, California
Harem of the Dead
It was another Friday night and therefore time to make another kill. This was just the place to do it. All the teen-agers in town came to Look Out Point. They came to sit and Look Out at the moon and neck in their cars. He could remember this place from back when he was in high school. All the kids would talk about it. Everything that happened at Look Out Point over the weekend circled the school like bad gossip.
He could remember stories of pregnancies and breakups. He made detailed lists in his head of the girls who went all the way and the boys who had small cocks. Who swallowed and who only liked to hug. There were girls who used their tongues. He knew all of them. He knew all about them.
But he had never been invited here, and he had not been to school in a long time. Still the memories were there. On nights like tonight he could still see the girls dressed in their tight and sexy outfits for summer. They were always with their stupid obnoxious boyfriends. And tonight, they would be his.
They would all belong to him.
This was his life. He was waiting for death. Because when he died they would really be his. The Zodiac Killer had said that once in a letter to the police and it had always stuck with him. In the afterlife all the people he had killed would become his slaves. Was this true? He did not know but he wanted to find out.
The Zodiac Killer had not been heard from in years. And now, San Francisco had a new mass murderer. Twelve women already belonged to him. Tonight, he would score at least one more. This was going to be a mission with surgical precision and he knew his territory well. Intimately. He was on a first name basis with every stone and shrub. He knew exactly where the kids would park and knew all the best shadows to hide in.
Look Out Point was on a silent little ridge that overhung one of the best surfing spots in the California. Only the big wave surfers ever paddled out there, unlike the smaller waves closer to Los Angeles. It was insanity to head out there. It was insanity to stay here.
The fog had rolled in, like a cold gray veil drawn over the face of the city. But the cars were still here. Some were bouncing up and down very hard.
“No!” Marcy cried aloud and jumped out of Chester’s Buick. “Leave me alone!”
“What the Hell, babe?” Chester shouted at her. “Get back in the fucking car!”
“Not a chance,” she said and huddled up in her sweater. It was a cold night. It was a dark night. She had agreed to come out here because Chester was cute, and he had a letterman’s jacket. Marcy dreamed of wearing a letterman’s jacket.
She had always wanted to belong to someone.
But not like this. She was not ready to become someone’s sexual slave.
“Come on, I just want to talk.”
“You only want to talk with your pants down,” she told him smartly. It was something her mother would have said had she been in this situation.
With that she turned and started walking down the road. It was a cold night and her sweater was thin. Her body shivered.
He watched her walk down the road. She was pretty, like the girls from high school. Very pretty with her short chocolate colored hair and large bosom. In a pair of tight denim jeans her hips looked good. She would be a perfect addition to his growing harem. He would keep her on a leash in Heaven and she would do everything he wanted whenever he wanted.
She never saw him, only felt a shadow fall on her body. She turned only to see the tall fat man behind her. He was wearing a potato sack over his head and he was holding a gun.
“Boo,” the killer whispered. She screamed as he took out the gun and fired once. He got her. Right between the eyes. Pride flowed through him. Another perfect shot. All those ROTC classes had paid off. Now he had another slave to add to his harem.
“Hold it,” someone else shouted. Somewhere another gun was cocked and loaded. He could feel the barrel pointed at him.
And there was light. Instantly the area was flooded with light. It was bright enough to destroy the eyes and invite confusion. The killer looked around, blinded.
The police had him surrounded.
“Drop the gun, now!” a cop said through a bull horn. His voice was loud, the way God’s voice is in old movies. But no. God or not he was not going to die without his gun.
So, he lifted it up and opened fire. Only the police were faster. The bullets sliced him to ribbons and his bloody carcass collapsed to the ground. The potato sack was now filled with his brains.
***
The world was white. The world was innocent. Yes, he knew this place because he had been here before. In his dreams he visited often. And he always knew that he would come again. This was the place where everyone ended up eventually.
It was the afterlife. Finally, after all this time, he had made it. And his slaves were here. A little army of beautiful angels who were waiting to do his bidding. The first one stepped forward. She was a tall girl. He could remember her from the other world. She still had her braces on, but she was so beautiful. He could remember killing her. That had been a good night. He had sliced her jugular open with a sharp knife and almost took the head right off. Part of him wanted to keep it for a souvenir.
“I am here,” she said with a tentative, delicate smile. “I’ve been waiting.”
With a smile of his own he lifted her chin up to get a better look at her face. He had not really seen her in the other world. The night had been too dark. He saw the scar running across her throat.
“No,” he said, stepping away from her. “No.” It made him sick.
Then he turned and saw the others in his harem. They were all ruined in death and mutilated beyond hope. There was Marcy with that bullet in her forehead. It was still bleeding.
“No!” he shouted again. “No!” But it was too late. His dead seraglio wanted him. They were waiting to please him in every way possible.
1992
La Canada, California
Majesty
From the top of the highest building in the city he looked down at the sharp concrete below. It was a long drop, but he felt no fear. Anyone who noticed him might mistake him for a suicide victim. Maybe he was suffering from future shock. He was standing very close to the edge. A good gust of wind could tear him right off. But he was not about to jump. Nothing could make him jump. He was only watching.
Looking down they were like ants. Long streams of people flowed into the city. Entire rivers of bodies moved into that city that was starting to resemble an anthill itself. Ants. He thought about it and realized that he had done this. He had created these hills of dirt made of concrete. He had changed them. He had based them upon the ants he used to torture as a child.
It was the best idea he ever had. They moved in perfect unison. Everything ran the way it was supposed to. This was how a society should look. Somewhere below one of them tripped. He watched the man fall and saw his briefcase hit the cement. It broke open and the leather ripped. Pieces of paper went everywhere like a group of birds unleashed from a magician’s sleeve. No one helped him and so the man floundered there, grabbing at his papers and trying to get up at the same time. The flow did not stop.
But the line did fluctuate. People who had previously been so sure and so calm were now confused. They had been shoved away from the graces of reality now moved about haphazardly, trying to find their way back into line.
“Come on,” he whispered. “You can do it. You can overcome.” But his words sounded hollow. Was the line too broken? No. They could do this. He had created them to do this.
Technology was in place to deal with this sort of thing. The moment the line had gone off kilter music started to play. It was soft, like the sort of music they used to play in elevators. But it was demanding.
It needed order. Follow the notes, he thought. Follow the notes.
He watched as the people got back into rhythm. Even the guy who had fallen was lifted by unseen strings. They began to dance.
Strangers took one another in loving arms and twirled for a few steps. They breathed together. They moved together. Their hearts beat together until the song came to an end and they broke off. The line had been re-forged. They moved on to the offices where they would spend their day working. Perfect. It was too perfect.
Majestic 13 turned his back on utopia. He should be happy. How could he not take some small amount of pride in this, his greatest achievement? His accomplishments could be seen from space. He had left his mark on this planet. He had created the perfect world and the perfect society to go with that world. The people were pieces, fitting into their places like a puzzle. In his world no one wanted for anything and everyone did what was expected of them. And the human animal lumbered on like the unstoppable beast that it was. It could not be killed.
Then she walked in.
His wife was the only one with access to the penthouse. She was the only one who could just walk in like that. She wore what all women wore, a soft uniform that merely hinted at sexual desire. And if she had not been close to him it would not have even hinted. The ants below did not get women like her. They did not deserve it.
Her gray skirt and coat hid the stifling white blouse underneath. In her perfect little hands, she held a small computer monitor that was linked to all parts of the world. It was an incredibly powerful device, despite its size.
Carson was not his only love interest, but she was his eyes and ears in this world. She made the decisions if he needed to get involved or not. “How are you today, Mr. Williams?”
“Quaid Williams is dead,” he told her for the hundredth time and turned his back on her. Why did she persist in calling him by that old name? Possibly the same reason he persisted in claiming that he was dead.
“You will always be Quaid Williams to me,” she purred. Majestic 13 was reminded of the time he told her his real name. It had happened, once, while they were in bed. He had regret it ever since.
She leaned in to kiss his cheek gently. A smear of lipstick remained as she drew back. A look of shock crossed her face. His cheek had been ice cold. Maybe he was dead.
“Is something wrong?” Majestic 13 asked, wiping the lipstick off his face. He felt it there like a blemish and he was supposed to be perfect. That was one of the things he hated about Carson. She was always trying to make him feel human.
“No,” she stammered and smiled quickly. “No. Everything is perfect. I just wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.”
“Your emotions frighten me.”
“Why should they? You used to feel emotion. Once.”
“They are better off gone,” he shook his head. “People do not need emotions. Emotions can sometimes kill. They only interfere.”
“I cannot argue,” she nodded. “You’ve turned the world into a giant clock. Everything in its place. Everything turning. And you put it all together. A simple act, for someone with your intelligence.”
“Yes. Very simple.”
Silence fell between them. It was a silence that he liked. The silence was just that. Nothing.
“I’m sorry!” Carson suddenly screamed across the apartment. “How many times do I have to say it? I Am Sorry!”
“Watch yourself,” Majestic 13 said, warning her in frozen tones. “Any more emotional outbursts like that and I will start to administer the pills.”
“The pills,” she mused. She knew what he was talking about. The pills that he had created to keep everyone in line. The people loved the pills. The pills kept them docile and comfortable. The pills stole all their emotions leaving nothing behind. The pills were all they were.
The idea of them frightened her to no end.
“Of course,” she finally relented.
“I had a job to do,” he argued. “You don’t know what it was like before. There were wars and poverty. People starved in the streets and fought with their neighbors. There was no control, only anarchy! It was terrifying!”
Now he wondered if he should administer some pills for himself. Whenever he thought about the world before ...
Cold terror washed over him.
“We all have jobs to do,” she said softly. “And I forgive you. I do. You’ve made the world a better place. Without you we would all be doomed.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Of course.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
He went back to the window and looked out. Night was coming quickly. “I want you to leave,” he told her.
“Why?”
“Because I have things to do,” he spoke in a frustrated tone. Why did he have to explain himself to her? Did he love her? No. He was incapable of such things.
Carson nodded. She left the penthouse with her little computer. After a few steps she was out of sight and out of mind.
Majestic 13 looked at the stars, like he always did. One of the first things he had done was stop the space race. The humans were not meant for the stars. There was nothing there for them. Besides, man would only corrupt them.
It had been easy to do. Mankind no longer dreamed of the stars. They were content with what they had, and their own planet was all that they needed. Especially if that planet moved in perfect unison with the rest of the cosmos. And the only way to move in unison was by remaining self-contained.
Suddenly one of the stars shifted out of line. Majestic 13 watched it without surprise. He saw it swirl and descend. It floated between the buildings and his eyes grew narrow.
No. It could not be. But it was. He recognized it. He had dreamed of it all his life. It was even cigar shaped, like the classic UFO’s from his childhood comic books.
It hovered just outside his window. Or course they had come for him. Who else would they come for? A door slid open and tiny creatures stepped out. They walked on air.
“I have been waiting for you,” Majestic 13 told them, trying to keep all excitement out of his voice. It would not be right to show emotion now. He needed to prove that he belonged out there in the cold heartless depths of space.
“You do not belong here,” they said with their minds. “We can show you the universe. We can show you everything that you were meant to see. All you have to do is come with us.”
“Yes,” Majestic said, and he stepped out.
Then fell three hundred stories to his death.
***
Carson slumped against the wall in the hallway and started to cry. In the room beyond the man who had brought peace to the world was now dead, a victim of his own desires. He had told her those desires in confidence, one night during a bout of lovemaking. He had trusted her with his deepest desire.
He had made a mistake.
She did not want to do it. She told them that she did not want to do it. But she had to. She had to.
Quickly she punched an access code into her little computer. The monitor switched on. There was the insignia of the resistance. A bird with a limp weed in one claw and sharp spears in the other.
“He is gone,” she typed. “It is time.”
2007
Tujunga, California
The Broken
All the drugs of his youth had returned to haunt him. He could feel those drugs still coursing through his veins. They were in his body. They were everywhere and everything. All those immature experiments from his teen-age years were represented here, in this pain.
All those parties represented by the lines of his face. All those substances he had partaken were etched into his eyes. His nose was cracked. His cheeks were sinking. He looked like an old man and he was sober.
The drugs were still here. They sat like trolls underneath his spine and focused in his mind, twisting it for their toll. They waited. They lurked. They had been patient but now the time had finally come. They had spent so long waiting for
him to get soft. And Garrit Simpson was soft.
Especially in the morning. In the morning glow, long before his body was beaten and tenderized by the day, he could see it. It was soft like moist clay. It was waiting to be shaped and tormented, pushed and pulled by the job until he resembled some sort of weird art project made by a fourth grader to give to his mother. An ash tray or a coffee cup, mutated by tiny fingers.
How soft can a man get? he asked himself. Then he stared into the mirror and knew the answer. He examined himself, as clear and concise as any doctor. He looked at his bald head. It was like a melon at the end of his neck, complete with moles and scabs. He stared at the stubble poking out from his cheeks and chin like trees after a brush fire, matching the thick black hairs coming out of his nose. He saw the fat pudgy growth around his waist and his thin legs that were also covered with hair. Hair. He had hair everywhere but on his head.
Gore Suspenstories Page 10