Something whistled out of the darkness. She heard metal connect with flesh. A grunt as someone fell to the floor. She got an elbow under her, her breath ragged fire in her lungs.
Then something whistled through the air again. Her head exploded with pain. Then everything went dark.
Thirty-Nine
Someone was poking her in the back. Harley groaned and tried to slap whoever the fuck’s hand it was. Except her own hands were stuck together. She opened her eye. Her head throbbed. Her gut wasn’t feeling much better.
There seemed to be some dark blue carpet in front of her face. And a stink of rubber and car exhaust.
“Harley, wake up,” Graves said.
“Ima wake,” she said.
She blinked at the blue carpet. It stretched up a wall. The wall ended at a rubber gasket and a metal lip. Beyond that was a single fluorescent light and a cinderblock wall with a tattered Conoco poster on it.
Garage.
Car.
Trunk.
She was in the trunk of the Reaper’s car.
She thrashed about in a frenzy to get out of the trunk. Except her hands were duct taped together. And her arms were duct taped to her sides. As were her legs.
“Harley! Calm down,” Graves said.
She rolled over. There was Walt, blood on his head, his body as duct taped in place as hers.
“Crap,” she said, “Now we’re dead.”
“You’re right, of course.” A male voice behind her. Outside the trunk. Grave’s eyes went to the speaker. If he’d had lasers in them, the guy would have been fried. Harley slowly rolled back over.
A figure dressed all in black loomed over the trunk. Her heart stopped for a moment, then went into overdrive. It pounded so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest and attack the guy. She wished it would.
The figure was like a shape cut out from pure darkness. She could see nothing of his face. The black cloth covered every speck of skin. He was the same featureless silhouette she’d fought in a different garage all those years ago. Except this time Graves wouldn’t come rushing in to save her. This time the idiot would get to die with her.
Well, at least she could feel a little grateful for the warmth of him pressed up against her back.
Then she realized what was wrong with the situation.
“Wait, did you just talk?” she asked.
“Yes, does that surprise you?” the black figure asked.
“The Reaper doesn’t talk,” she said, “Who are you?”
The figure laughed. An honest to goodness, chilling, evil villain laugh. “I’m the new and improved Reaper,” he said, “The Reaper 2.0, if you will.”
She caught a faint scent of cocoa butter and wrinkled her nose.
“Shit, you’re one of the clones, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” the figure said, “Does it matter? You’ll still be dead very soon.”
Harley pulled at the tape binding her. Her arms were tingling from lack of circulation. Not that the jerk cared.
“You’re just a cheap copy then,” she said, “Where’s the original? Where’s the real thing?”
The figure leaned down. “I am the real thing, bitch,” he said, “Senior has been afraid of you all this time, but I don’t see why. You were easy.”
Harley shifted, locking her leg under the edge of the trunk opening.
“What? Did you say something? All I heard was just a piece of shit copy,” she said.
The figure leaned farther in, reaching his black gloved hands at her. “You’re going to suffer bi–”
Harley lunged up, folding in the middle with all the force she could. Her head connected with the figure’s. Stars shot through her vision. Pain lanced through her head and neck. Darkness crowded the edge of her vision. She shook her head, refusing to go under.
She focused on the figure stumbling backward, clutching his head. “God dammit!” he cried. He staggered out of sight. Suddenly there was the sound of tearing cloth and a gasp.
Harley levered herself up again. Her vision swam for a moment, then cleared. For a second she thought she was seeing double. There were two figures in black, one standing behind the other. The one in front was trying to claw at the one in back. Weakly, though.
The first figure’s arms dropped. He slumped, then fell forward. He landed with a wet thud on the concrete.
The other figure knelt and wiped the bloody knife in his hand on the other one’s clothing. He stepped forward, knife glittering in his hand. He stopped a couple paces away. There was something different about him. He had a gravity to him. A presence.
“We meet again, Detective Harley,” the man said, “At last.” The man’s voice was deeper, more cultured than the other figure’s. He sounded older.
“Who are you?” Harley asked.
She got the sense of the man smiling behind his blank mask. Though she couldn’t see any more features than the other one.
“You know who I am,” the man said, “And I can assure you, I am the real thing.”
Forty
The black-clothed figure stood a few steps back from the open trunk she and Graves were currently stuck in. The man was the same height as the other black figure–who as near as she could tell was lying dead on the concrete floor of Bennie's Garage. Stabbed in the back with the wicked blade the man in black held in his right hand. The coppery stink of fresh blood mixed with the taint of rubber and motor oil that filled the garage.
There was another scent too. A slight citrusy scent. A scent that could only be coming from the black figure standing under the single fluorescent light that cast a dim green glow over them.
The Reaper. In the flesh.
“You talk now?” she asked.
“When I am working, no, I do not speak,” he said, “But these are extraordinary circumstances.”
He took a step forward. Her eye went to the knife in his hand. He rolled the handle over and over. It rotated like a nightmarish screw.
“Looks like an ordinary day at work for you, you piece of shit,” she said.
She felt Graves nudge her. Probably trying to get her to shut up. Not a chance. Her mouth was the only weapon she had available at the moment. It didn't look like this Reaper was dumb enough to get within head-butting range.
“Not quite,” the reaper said, “You see, I find myself in a dilemma. A problem if you will.”
Harley blinked, not quite believing what she had just heard. “Say what?”
The Reaper shifted from foot to foot and slapped the flat of the blade against his thigh.
“I believe that we can unite in a common goal,” he said, “Something that will serve both of us–distasteful as it may be for each.”
Harley shook her head. Immediately she regretted the movement. Her head pounded and her vision wavered. She squeezed her eye shut until it passed.
“Wait, let me get this straight, you’re asking for help? From me?” Harley asked.
“From more than just you,” the reaper said, “From your partner, too. And whatever other authorities you feel are necessary to complete the task.”
“What task?”
The Reaper sighed. He lowered his head and paused for a long moment. Long enough for Harley to wonder if the guy had fallen into a trance. Finally he lifted his chin.
“My clones are trying to kill me,” he said.
Forty-One
Carlson wished he had a camera to record the expressions on Detective Harley's face. Priceless. If the situation were any less dire, he might have enjoyed her discomfort. However, fun and games would have to wait.
Harley struggled with her bonds. With all the duct tape around her, she looked much like a fish, flopping about in the Buick’s trunk, gasping for air.
“Why the fuck should we care, asshole?” she said.
To his recollection, there were no recorded instances of fish saying fuck or calling people assholes. That seemed to be the purview of people like Detective Harley. It would certainly
make dealing with her all the more distasteful.
Carlson slapped the flat of the blade against his thigh. The stench of the garage was making the delicate tissues of his sinuses ache. Oil and grease and rubber. The foundational stench of modern society. It saddened him to think that such things would never be eliminated from the world. Not entirely. The Great Goal was lying behind him, a cooling corpse on a soiled and cracked concrete floor.
But it was time to move on. Brooding over failures only led to more failure. Every motivational speaker he ever listened to had stressed the importance of realistic goals. And, of course, learning to recognize when one’s goals needed to change.
"Why should you care?" Carlson said. He wagged the knife at her. Her single eye followed the blade. How he wished he could simply end this. Her scarred face and pirate eyepatch only served to remind him of past failure. "You should care. Because without my help, my clones will continue their plan for world domination."
“World domination?” she said. She spit at him. He dodged. The disgusting wad fell behind him. “You’re crazy. You think people won’t catch on? It’s only a matter of time before your clones start getting caught. And once we have one, then we can turn the planet upside down finding the rest.”
Carlson smiled beneath his mask. Not that she could see his amusement. Perhaps she felt it though. A frown creased her brow and her scowling lips turned further down.
“Yes, that is the general idea,” he said, “But without my help, you will never reach that first step. My clones are just as smart and knowledgeable as me. And you have never come close to catching me. Never. And you never will catch them. Not unless I give them to you.”
“Fuck you,” Harley said.
“Wait, Harley,” her partner, Graves said. He was trying to sit up, too. Though with much less success. Carlson’s clone had wrapped the male much tighter that Detective Harley. A foolishness that made Carlson wince. The clone should have known very well that the female was much deadlier. And duct tape? An expedient way to restrain people, but hardly a secure one.
The truth was, the clones weren’t as careful as he was. They were flawed. Whether it was interference from the youthful hormones coursing through their bloodstreams–or a defect in Dr. DeVol’s process–they just weren’t him.
As evidenced by their open revolt against his principles.
“Listen, Reaper, or whoever you are,” Graves said, “What do you want? What do you want in exchange for information on how to catch the clones?”
“Walt, Jesus!” Harley cried. Her face was livid, twisted with shock and rage. “You can’t negotiate with this piece of shit! You know what he’s done.”
“I know, Harley, but this is an opportunity,” Graves said, “We can stop this before it gets out of control.”
“Yes, do listen, Detective Harley,” Carlson said, “I’m offering you a way to save your species from decimation and eventual slavery.”
Harley’s eyes narrowed and she went still. The Buick creaked as she maneuvered a more comfortable position in the trunk.
“What do you mean, slavery?” she asked.
Carlson sighed. This was all so distasteful. Airing one’s dirty laundry was never a pleasant thing. But it was better to get it done with quickly. In a few short sentences, he outlined the basics of the clone’s plan to take over the world–part of which were his original plan! He told them how the clones proposed to set up fiefdoms with hunting preserves.
The faces of Harley and Graves both went pale as he described what would happen if the clones went unchecked. Detective Harley was actually trembling when she spoke again.
“You monster,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “How do you think you could get away with it?”
Carlson gave a slight shrug and slapped the flat of the blade against his thigh again and again. This whole thing was becoming tedious.
“They can get away with it because they are Legion,” he said, “They are smarter than you. They have more resources than you. Even though they are flawed compared to me, they are still superior to you in every way. They are the predators in the night, red of tooth and claw. They are the will of the earth, trying to reclaim herself from the destructive parasite that is humanity. The clones’ flaw is that they wish to create a dynasty simply for the pleasure of it. They do not see the beauty of a planet empty of the stench and din of people. They are selfish, you see. And I am not.”
Detective Harley’s lips trembled Her voice shook–from rage or shock or fear, Carlson really didn’t care.
“You’re fucking crazy,” she said, “You’re even crazier and more evil than I thought you were.”
“Evil is in the eye of the beholder,” Carlson said, “To my eye, you and your like are evil. You’re a deadly smear upon the Earth. You deserve death. I have been helping the Earth as much as I could. I realized the task was too great for myself alone. It was my hubris, and my error, to think that the science of man could solve this problem. Humanity will make itself extinct on its own eventually. But if my clones have their way, there will never be an extinction. Just an eternity of amusement for them.”
Carlson raised the knife and pointed it at Detective Harley. “Now you have a choice. Help me. Or help them. You must choose one.”
“We’ll help you,” Graves said.
Detective Harley craned her neck around and gave him a glare. But her lips stayed pressed together in a thin, pale line. No words escaped her mouth.
“Get us out of here and let’s talk,” Graves said.
Carlson gave a low laugh. The eyes of Agent Graves narrowed. The crusted blood on his head practically crackled as he frowned.
“That would not be wise for me,” Carlson said, “Here is what will happen. I will leave you the body of this clone. That will give you a good start, though far from what you will need to contain them.”
“It’ll give us your face, you son of a bitch,” Harley spat.
“Indeed it will,” Carlson said, “It will give you fingerprints and DNA and all sorts of bodily fluids that you have never, ever found at any crime scene of mine. Those things will not be very useful in tracking the clones. They are masters of disguise and vigilant partitioners of the art of leaving no evidence behind. As I am, they are wise to your methods and have my memories of how to evade them. No, you will need much more than a lifeless corpse to guide you.”
Agent Graves struggled once again to sit up. This time he managed to get his shoulder propped on the edge of the trunk opening. The stale sweat stench of him was almost overpowering. Carlson’s fingers closed tight around the knife handle. He so wanted to drive the knife through the man’s heart. Rip the man’s life away from him, so the gentle act of decay could begin. That was when humans became useful. Their rotting husks would feed the soil and make it healthy again. The smell of decay was simply the precursor to the sweet scent of the roses that would grow later.
“What are you going to give us then?” Graves asked, “You want us to stop them, but you know it’s going to lead us to you also.”
“Yes, that is a distressing side effect of this,” Carlson said, “But one that I shall simply have to deal with when the time comes.”
“You’re going to sacrifice yourself for humanity?” Harley said, “That’s rich.”
“Hardly. I am making sacrifices so that humanity will have the opportunity to die out naturally,” Carlson said, “I know myself, and therefore my clones. They are more than capable of creating a personal utopia–to their mind–that will continue until the very sun itself goes nova and roasts the life from the surface of the world. And perhaps not even that will end it. By that time they might have spread to the stars. Imagine that, if you will. A galaxy, a universe, filled with Reapers. Each one with a world full of human slaves. Each one with a personal hunting preserve where he could kill humans for his pleasure. That is what you face, Detective Harley. You have the opportunity to stop them. And perhaps me. Surely that will motivate you.”
&nbs
p; Detective Harley gave him a surly look, but the set of her jaw told him he was getting through. Dangling the prospect of his own capture piqued her interest. Not that it mattered. She would continue to hound him until one of them was dust on the ground.
“So how is this going to work?” she asked, “What are you going to do for us?”
“To start with, I won’t kill you,” Carlson said.
He turned away, his eyes scanning the garage. The only clues he was leaving them was the clone’s corpse. There was a wealth of forensic information on it, but nothing that would lead the authorities to his base. Though it was only a matter of time before that was compromised.
“Wait!” Graves shouted. “Don’t leave us tied up here!”
Carlson stopped, half turning back. “You’re both resourceful, I’m sure you will figure out how to extricate yourself,” he said, “But I will give you a little help before I go.”
He whipped his arm around and the threw the heavy knife. Harley and Graves both ducked as it spun through the air toward them. Which a chunk and a screech of metal, the blade buried itself in the trunk lid. The lid creaked as it swung back and forth from the impact. The edge of the blade pointed down, toward the detectives. Just as he meant it to.
He moved toward the back of the garage where there was another door. Two blocks away his vehicle was hidden from prying eyes and thieving fingers. That was something the clones had never quite grasped. Layers and layers of backups. And discretion beyond discretion.
Of course he had broken one of his most cardinal rules this evening. He had actually spoken. For years death had been silent. Even as his subjects had begged for mercy as their life's blood drained from them, he had never spoken. There were ears everywhere. If he spoke, even when he felt he was in a secure place, then someday those ears might catch his voice. And compare it to other recordings. It would be one step closer to finding him.
It wasn't paranoia if they actually were out to get him.
The Devil's Army Page 12