Carlson Senior didn't enjoy the kill this much. Not that Carlson Junior could remember anyway. Carlson Senior was much too fussy and single-minded. Blah, blah, blah, kill all humans. Whatever.
Except…what would Carlson do if there weren’t any more humans to kill? Had Senior really thought this through? Who was going to make the fine chocolate that he liked? Who was going to create the electricity to power the lights in his house? Was he expecting to live in a cave and eat bugs?
No, certainly not. Senior wouldn’t do that. Junior certainly wouldn’t. Killing most of humanity sounded fine. But not all of them. He needed to keep enough around to maintain a certain standard of living. Keep some workers alive to keep the lights on and food on the table so to speak. Keep a herd of others around for hunting purposes. Maybe a nice fenced game preserve. Could he put a giant fence around New York? No. An island would be better. Hawaii?
It was a possibility. He’d have to discuss it with the other Juniors. Senior wouldn’t hear of it, of course. But then, Senior was just one. The Juniors would be legion before long.
Like he’d written on the wall.
In a smear of blood, he'd made the R and the scythe. Senior's symbol. Below that Junior had made his own symbol. He'd thought about it for a long time. Had discussed it with the other Juniors. They thought it was a good idea. They had admitted that they were thinking along similar lines. Unsurprisingly.
The symbol he’d drawn–using the old man’s own hand, dipped in his own blood–was an L in a circle. Eight short arrows pointed outward from the circle. The message was quite clear. We are Legion. We are everywhere.
Detective Harley would figure it out when she saw it. She was a lot brighter than the other knuckle draggers.
Not that she was really a danger. Soon there would be so many Carlsons nothing short of bathing the surface of the Earth in nuclear fire would stop them.
Junior had to admit Senior’s original idea was quite clever. It just needed a few refinements to create a sustainable situation. There were a lot of things to be worked out. The earth couldn’t support billions of Carlsons. They would have to limit their numbers to what their captive population could support. Junior could envision the planet divided up into dozens of Carlson fiefdoms. Each with its own slaves and hunting preserves.
The number of Carlsons would have to be thinned once they had conquered the globe. A thrill went through him as he envisioned hunting down other Carlsons. It would be the most exciting prey of all. He almost trembled in anticipation.
But first, the mundane details of Senior's plan had to be taken care of. His eyes moved over the sad little room with its broken down couch and threadbare recliner. The elderly TV droned on in the corner. Some stupid soap opera. Humans really were so ridiculous. They needed someone to put them in their proper place.
All in good time.
Junior took careful steps around the pools of blood and dismembered body parts. He took a look at the old man’s wrist watch–still attached to the man’s bloody hand that Junior had used as a paintbrush. 2am. Time to leave. Detective Harley and the FBI men would be here in the morning.
They wouldn’t be getting much information from this guy.
Carlson tossed the hand on the floor. It landed with a wet thump. He left the stuffy apartment and closed the door softly behind him. The humid Florida air hit him like a wall.
Such a barbaric climate. Some other Carlson would have to get this place for his fiefdom. Junior preferred someplace more temperate.
Like where Senior lived.
Twenty
Harley stood in the doorway of the little apartment. The hot air coming out of it reeked of blood and spoiled meat. Splotches and streaks of blood stained the dirty tan carpet. The blood had already dried to a deep brown. Pieces of the apartment’s resident were scattered across the room. A foot by the broken down couch. A chunk of torso in the worn recliner. On the tiny kitchen table, the head sat like a horror movie centerpiece.
Her eyes went to the hand lying near the door. It still had part of the forearm, complete with a cheap, plastic, digital wristwatch. The fingers were stained brown. Like they had been dipped in their owner's blood.
Judging by the artwork on the wall, that’s exactly what happened.
The local boys had their forensics people going over the apartment. One of them glared at her as he tip-toed around in his white Tyvek suit. Idiot. Her breath wasn't going to contaminate the crime scene. The guy was doing that already, putting his foot right in the middle of a bloodstain on the carpet.
Not that it mattered. They weren’t going to learn anything.
Parker and Graves were arguing with someone down in the parking lot. Probably another local PD. Territorial disputes, by the sound of it. The morning sun was on her back. That and the ungodly humid air made her shirt sticky with sweat. Florida sucked. Why did so many old people move down here?
She ran a hand through her hair. Her scalp was damp, the hair clinging to her fingers. Fucking Florida. Fucking waste of time. Her eye ached. Weariness seemed to go all the way down to her bones.
She contemplated the reddish brown whorls on the formerly white (ish) wall. Someone clomped up the stairs and came her way. The walkway bounced a little. Fucking cheap apartment building. Get too many people in here and they'd go down like a demonic elevator ride. Going down–first floor; broken bones, abrasions, and contusions.
Graves peered over her shoulder. The sun was melting him too. His clean soap smell was already going sour, turning to musk.
“This is new,” he said.
“Yup.”
“What does it mean?”
Her eye traced the giant, bloody R, the scythe, then drifted down to the new symbol.
“It means he’s franchised himself,” she said.
Graves shifted from foot to foot, making the deck of the walkway creak. “You mean he’s trying to make us think he already has clones?”
She gave him a look that she hoped was withering. For a smart cop, he wasn't all that intuitive. Which, maybe, that was why they made a good team. He was the one dotting the i's and crossing the t's while she was running hellbent for leather after the perp.
“He already has them, Walt,” she said. She pointed to the lower symbol. The encircled L and the arrows. “He’s telling us the clones are Legion. They’re everywhere. Or will be. And it’s not the Reaper himself telling us this, it’s the clone. They’re not quite the perfect copy that maybe he intended them to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is flashy,” she said, “This is bold. It’s the work of a young man who’s thinking of rebelling against authority. This isn’t the Reaper we know.”
Graves rubbed his face. She hated the sandpaper rasp sound as he did it. Graves was always neat as a pin. She’d never seen him with more than the barest five o’clock shadow. This case was getting to him. And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he’d start seeing past the rules.
"Then maybe this isn't the Reaper," he said, "Maybe it's a copycat."
She rolled her eye. “Right, a copycat killer is going to figure out that we’re coming down here to interview someone who used to live in the building DeVol was snatched from. Then he ran down here and slaughtered the guy and left us a message with a super secret symbol that is supposedly a closely guarded secret among law enforcement types, right?”
Grave’s face flushed. “It makes more sense than clones,” he said.
"You're the one who brought me in on this," she said, "I can leave anytime. So far I'm not getting anything out of it except some lost income and case of sweaty drawers standing here in this heat."
Graves was quiet for a long moment. Flies buzzed in and out of the door. The forensic techs measured bloodstains and took samples in-between waving the flies away.
“What do you really think’s going on?” he asked.
“I think we’re going to be up to our asses in blood before too long,” she said, “I also think we might have a sho
t at actually catching him. Or one of him.”
Twenty-One
The clones were really starting to piss him off. Carlson hung up the phone. Was he really that annoying? That…arrogant?
The Junior he’d sent to Florida had actually phoned him. It was an egregious breach of protocol. They both knew phone lines were monitored by the federal government. There was a huge underground complex in Virginia filled with computers and bleary-eyed agents staring at flickering screens. A complex devoted to listening for terrorist activity. Carlson knew it was only a matter of time before the Reaper made that list.
The damned clone had spoken in code, but the little bastard sounded so…cocky. If he could, Carlson would have reached through the phone line and strangled him. He had ordered the clone to return as soon as possible. Again in code. But, damnit, the code–and the phones–were supposed to be used only for utter emergencies. Not to brag.
Certainly not to brag.
Carlson pulled open the right-hand drawer on his desk. The pistol sat there, a metallic piece of contained menace. It was only a tool. And every tool had a purpose. However inelegant that purpose might be.
He slammed the door shut and stood, brushing tiny specks of lint from his sweater. It was time to change into uniform and go visit the doctor. One way or another DeVol was going to fix this. Carlson’s plan was not going to be derailed by some snot nosed kids. Even if they were his kids, so to speak.
Twenty-Two
Dr. DeVol wasn't in the lab. Carlson stalked past the metal tables where his clones worked. Industriously. At least they looked busy. He caught several of them shooting narrow-eyed looks his way. What was their problem? They were working toward the Big Goal. They should be happy. Maybe not joyously so, since joy wasn't really part of Carlson's personality, but still…
The vinegar stench of the lab was even worse today. The more clones they put in the big, clear tubes, the worse the stench got. It clung to Carlson's clothes. It was so bad that he was keeping a special set of clothing down here just for such visits. And afterwards, he'd sprint to the shower and scrub himself with the hottest water he could stand. With lots of his special citrus scented soap.
It was a burden and a pain, but in the end, it would be a small price to pay for achieving his dreams.
At the end of the row of tables stood a Junior in a white lab coat with a clipboard in his hands. Carlson went up to him, drawing himself up to his full height. Which was equal to the Junior. It was hard to be imposing to oneself.
“Where is DeVol?” he asked.
The Junior rolled his eyes. “Drunk,” he said.
“What! How did he get drunk?” Carlson asked. He would have liked to his voice to have some thunder or some menace in it, but the Junior seemed unimpressed. “Who gave him alcohol?”
The Junior sighed and scribbled something on his clipboard. “The man’s a frigging genius,” the clone said, “He made himself a still and brewed his own. Smells awful, let me tell you.”
Carlson clenched his gloved hands into fists. “Why did you let him do that? His brain is a precious resource. We need it intact.”
“Oh, bullcrap,” the Junior said, “This is just a production line now. We don’t need him. As far as I’m concerned he’s just meat.”
Carlson opened his mouth to argue, then shut it just as quickly. He would not argue with himself. It was beneath…himself. Something like that.
“Where is he?” Carlson asked.
The clone waved a hand in the general direction of the storage area. Carlson whirled away and started off.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look in that outfit?” the Junior called after him, “All you need is a long, flowing cape.”
Carlson bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He should have brought the pistol. He walked on, pretending he hadn’t heard the impudent little bastard.
Twenty-Three
DeVol lay on his mattress in the dank storeroom. He must have dragged it from his room. The thing would be filthy, lying on the stone like that. How could DeVol stand being so close to the dirt?
A strong odor of alcohol hung in the air around him like an invisible cloud of inebriation.
The doctor rolled over on his back and started snoring. Loudly. It was a disgusting sound. A wet, nasal ratcheting that grew in volume until Carlson thought his eardrums would burst. The sound peaked then drew down to a mere jet turbine noise level before starting to climb again.
Carlson drew his foot back and kicked DeVol in the ribs. The doctor snorted and blinked, waving his arms and legs. Then he rolled on his side and went back to snoring.
Carlson reached out to strangle the man, then caught himself. Despite what the clone may think, the doctor was still needed. If for nothing else than to fix whatever annoying problem was plaguing the clones.
He kicked DeVol in the hindquarters. With force this time.
The doctor yelped and sat up, head swiveling back and forth. Bleary eyes focused on Carlson. The doctor squinted and wiped drool from his mouth.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, “What evil deeds do you wish my commitment of this day?”
Before Carlson could speak, the doctor let out a thunderous belch. So massive was the expulsion of gas that it seemed to rob the doctor of support. He flopped back on the mattress, arms and legs spread.
Carlson stepped up to the mattress and loomed over him. His nose wrinkled under his mask. The doctor was in dire need of bathing. Maybe he should have the clones hose him down at least once a week.
DeVol squinted stupidly at him. “Weren’t you just here?” he asked.
Carlson kneeled on the filthy concrete and grabbed the doctor’s stained lab coat. He yanked him to a sitting position. DeVol’s head whipped back and forth.
“Hey!” DeVol cried.
Carlson put a hand around the doctor’s throat. DeVol’s eyes went wide. Suddenly they seemed to focus.
“Doctor, I am not a happy man right now,” Carlson said.
DeVol swallowed, his throat working under Carlson’s hand. “Perhaps a traumatic childhood is to blame?”
Carlson squeezed the man’s throat. Just enough to get his attention. “I had a wonderful childhood. As far as you know,” he said, “But that is not why I am speaking to you right now. The clones you have been creating for me are flawed, and I need to you to fix them.”
DeVol's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Flawed? In what way? Are they coming out with two left feet or their heads growing out of their tushies?"
With great effort, Carlson stopped himself from crushing the man’s windpipe. Patience. He must have patience. This was but a speed bump on a very long road.
“Attitude, doctor, attitude,” Carlson said, “My clones are displaying a discouraging amount of attitude towards me. As well as disregarding the protocols I have put into place to keep myself–and them–away from the prying interests of the authorities. This is a flaw, and I wish it to be fixed. Immediately.”
DeVol eyes moved away, toward the doorway. Carlson turned his head to see one of the clones leaning against the doorjamb. The clone was grinning, his arms folded across his youthful chest. The clone wore a pair of blue jeans and a black t-shirt. Carlson had to admit, the Junior looked quite handsome.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Carlson asked.
The clone shrugged. “Sure, but this is more entertaining.”
Carlson squeezed the doctor’s throat. “Do you see? This is what I am speaking of. Insubordination, disrespect for superiors, general disobedience. It must stop.”
DeVol rubbed his face. The once trim goatee was getting lost in the fuzz of stubble growing on the doctor’s cheeks. His lips parted, tongue darting out over them. The doctor’s breath stank of alcohol, his teeth stained yellow.
“Yes, well, the clones’ memories and personalities have been copied directly from your mind,” he said, “The only differences there could be between you and them are strictly chemical.”
“Chemical?” Carlson a
sked.
"Yes, hormones, body chemistry, diet…such things affect mood and temperament," DeVol said, "In laboratory conditions, these can be controlled, but once the clones are released, then they are living their own lives. Separate from yours."
Carlson squeezed DeVol’s throat again. The doctor’s face went red. “But they are me, are they not?”
“Yes, of course,” DeVol said, “Completely, but…they are you with the chemistry of much younger men. Males in the age of early twenties–such as we have been growing the clones to–have much different brain chemistry than individuals who have reached more mature decades of life.”
“What are you trying to tell me, doctor?” Carlson said.
DeVol squeezed his eyes shut. "Your clones are a bunch of hot-blooded young jerks who think only of themselves. Their main concern is being entertained. In normal–er, typical human males that would be sex and sports. But you seem to have an abnormally low sex drive, so your testosterone driven activities have been directed into murder."
It sounded very close to an insult. Carlson had a moment of doubt. Was the doctor trying to anger enough to make Carlson kill him? Was suicide by alcohol going too slow and now he wanted to try suicide by serial killer?
Or was the man just been obtusely honest?
This was one of the many reasons why Carlson hated humanity so much. Hated them with a hatred that burned like pouring gasoline on the surface of the sun. People were so…random. And it really pissed him off.
Really.
“So, what is the answer, doctor?” Carlson asked, his voice low and hopefully menacing.
Sweat beaded on DeVol’s brow. The man’s neck trembled under Carlson’s hand. Carlson would have to burn this pair of gloves. The smell of DeVol’s sweat would never come off.
"There may not be an answer," DeVol said, "I can try strengthening the post-awakening commands, but I do not how effective they will be. If they are not obeying you now, the commands may not be seated in their conscious mind."
The Devil's Army Page 7