by C. J. Sutton
A swoosh sound cut through the tense atmosphere and landed in Brutus’ neck. In less than a second he reached for the dart and ripped it away, snapping it in two as pale liquid dripped onto the car. Magnus wondered if any reached his bloodstream. Walter left nothing to chance, reloading and firing again, but Brutus ducked, the dart missing his ear by a centimetre. Walter reloaded again like a gunslinger from the west, continuing forward to improve his chances of a hit. He displayed no concern for safety. As cops wilted, he took step by step, breath by breath, eager to bring this sick man down without another casualty.
“Shoot him!” screamed Bad Cop, noticing the handgun attached to Walter’s belt. But the guard wrinkled his nose and fired another tranquiliser, hitting his target just below the heart. Brutus staggered and moaned, smashing through the windscreen of the car…but still managed to rip away the dart. Glass cut through torso and carved the fresh meat, keeping him in position, his girth too wide to manoeuvre out of the dash. Walter fired again, piercing Brutus’ Adam’s apple as he gurgled in annoyance. The weightlifter, in a final moment of strength, ripped away a piece of glass and tossed it like a Frisbee at Walter…but the blood on his hands caused the projectile to skim along the concrete and rest at the guard’s feet. Magnus, sensing an end to the stand-off, sprinted to be alongside Walter, readying for a final raised hand like a horror movie from the 80s. But the darts put Brutus to sleep, his eyes fluttering before finding a resting place in unconsciousness. Limbs floundered, a fish brought to land; when they stopped, everyone watched in silence, waiting for a resurrection.
“He’s out,” said Walter, handing the tranquiliser back to Magnus and checking Good Cop. He’d died on the point of impact, no pain, head lolled to the side with only a few strands of skin attaching head to body.
“Bastard,” muttered Bad Cop, lifting his head to reveal a face flushed with red blotches and wetness, eyes transfixed to the inmate. “How could you let these bastards out…sick fuck. Look what he did to my partner! Look!”
Magnus knew to be sensitive to the cop, but another dead body wasn’t on his viewing agenda. He felt blame for this. He felt the blame of Bad Cop, yet again. The other cop was silent, still on all fours and wide eyed at the scene, relieved.
“I’m glad the bastard is dead,” said Bad Cop, holstering his gun and walking away.
“Oh, he’s not dead; Brutus is heavily sedated, can you pass me your cuffs?”
Bad Cop’s head snapped around. His eyes were narrowed, teeth bared, and Magnus wondered if a tranquiliser was needed. The man marched over to Walter, put his face so close to the guard that Magnus thought it would turn into a kiss, and spoke in a tone called hate, a volume labelled sin.
“You’re telling me that this vile thing gets to live, and my partner gets to die?”
“This isn’t about living and dying. Brutus has the sickness, isn’t that right, Magnus?”
But Magnus didn’t respond, for he knew what would happen next. Bad Cop withdrew his handgun, smashed Walter across the face in true pistol-whipping style, stepped onto the bonnet of the car and fired the remains of his magazine into the skull of Brutus Willows, the body jolting with each addition; it had been his fellow officer who failed to reload. Magnus froze, hands raised, unsure what Bad Cop planned for him; if death found a second target, Magnus put money on himself to earn this man’s wrath. Walter stared at the two teeth that were knocked out in the whip, spitting blood to the side. The third cop still had not moved, likely to set up camp on the ground in which he vacated, a road raider for the rest of his days.
“If I see any more of these freaks, I’m going to do the exact same. If you try to stop me, I’ll do the same to you and say you were both accomplices to their escape. Got it? I’m not leaving this post until I’m radioed with the words ‘all nine are dead’. And then I’ll want their body locations.”
Walter nodded, blood matted in his moustache. Magnus followed, before the commotion in the streets alerted all four men. People were approaching the barrier. Not inmates, or police, or ladies of the night, but families with young children rubbing their eyes, woken from slumber. The elderly, who had moved to Dortmund as a place of retirement rather than action. Never were they so eager for answers, eager for a reason as to why their quiet town felt anew.
“What is going on?” said a middle-aged woman, cradling a baby. “People were screaming in the streets. Is something wrong officer?”
Her question was directed at Bad Cop, but he shrugged his shoulders and reloaded his pistol. Walter was in no state to talk. Magnus lacked the authority to calm the crowd. They looked to the third cop, and he delivered.
“Officer Blake?” she asked, and he moved forward, past the squad car that still contained a wedged mini-giant with holes seeping fluid. If anyone saw him in such a state, panic would throttle Dortmund to a form not capable of being saved…but for now, he was sheltered.
“Everybody step back. As you know, there was an unfortunate incident in the local lake just outside town. We’re conducting some investigations into the matter, and have blocked off the routes outside town. I hear no screaming now.”
The middle-aged woman eyed the broken glass, the upturned sedan, the busted squad cars, the sprinkle of blood on Blake’s uniform…but she had no vantage point strong enough to see the dead cop, or the slain inmate. The light away from the big city wasn’t bright; it could hide secrets, it could defer curiosity. Blake moved forward with his hands out, absorbing his surroundings.
“Please, go back to your homes and lock your doors. By morning everything will be sorted. We have this under control, I promise you that.”
Magnus knew the lies, but remembered the remaining figure: four. Reaper, Chaos, Old Man Lonie and the Rockstar – the biker – Jasper. He soon realised that he too had become reliant on their villain aliases. Darkness shrouded across the town like a blanket, tucked in to the sides and kissed goodnight.
“Mister…mister…”
A young boy tugged at Magnus’ shirt sleeve. The doctor looked down.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to capture the monster?”
Magnus pondered how to answer the question. His profession meant dealing with adults, not youthful innocence. Parents of the boy were nowhere to be seen.
“What makes you think there’s a monster out here?”
“I saw him,” whispered the boy, low, pulling Magnus to his level. “The monster was in an alleyway, hitting a pumpkin against a wall.”
“A pumpkin?”
“Well…” said the boy, looking off into the distance, as though seeing through the squad car and resting his gaze on the body of Brutus. “I hope it was a pumpkin…I don’t know anything else shaped like a head…but it can’t be a head, can it?”
“Of course not,” said Magnus. “What did the monster look like? Burned face?”
“No.”
“Older than me?”
“I don’t think so. He talked funny. He was swearing at the pumpkin, asking it where Jasper was. Who is Jasper?”
Magnus knew these people weren’t safe. He knew Matthew Chaos would break them all in half and suck on their bone marrow just to find a clue towards Jasper. But if played right…
The people began to filter away, with Bad Cop finally assisting Blake who realised a nasty gash in his side that caused discomfort. When everyone was out of earshot, they spoke.
“As I said, I’m here until the call comes in. I’m going to find the gun that went into the bushes, and I’m going to shoot any of the remaining bastards. Four left you say? I’ve got enough bullets for that. No risks. There are children in this town. I won’t have them lose their lives because of your fuck up. We’ve already lost one good man tonight.”
Magnus was certain the final sentences were directed at him, and he wanted to rebut, but it wasn’t the time. Smashed pumpkins were more reason for widespread fear. And Good Cop wasn’t the first decent man to die tonight, for Brian’s blood still wet the floors of Dortmund A
sylum.
Stairway to Hell
Psychology is simple, Magnus. It is knowing the difference between originality and mimicry.
Magnus Paul and Walter Perch walked away from the glass-floored barrier, eyed by Bad Cop who sat atop the roof of the squad car like a sniper in a security prison. They were out of tranquiliser darts, but Walter’s handgun still had enough ammo to defend against the creatures of the night and the men who held their leash.
“How’s the mouth?” asked Magnus, noticing Walter’s pain as he cradled his jaw.
“He hits hard,” he replied, focused on the families stepping back into their homes, telling their children everything would be alright, calming barking dogs and locking their doors as told. The innocent returned to bed, despite what lurked in shadow.
“You handled it well. He’s a loose cannon.”
“Yeah…but he had a point, didn’t he?”
Magnus acknowledged the remark, wondering if Brutus being dead was better than Brutus terrorising the streets, or locked in a maximum-security facility perfecting muscle and building further aggression. He represented a ticking time bomb more so than the metaphor, and despite Magnus’ knowledge and confidence in psychology, he doubted such a mind could be cured by industry methods.
“Sure, a man died, but if Brutus was insane it doesn’t give men the right to become executioners. I promised I would not kill…but I’m a psychologist, he’s a cop. We protect and serve in different ways.”
“True,” said Walter and they continued forward. The young boy had told Magnus that Matthew Chaos was down an alleyway, and there were few alleyways in Dortmund. Following a lead based on a child’s eyes didn’t fill Walter with confidence, but Magnus believed in the truth of youthful innocence. For when he was a boy, lying was impossible.
“What happened with Astrid?” asked Walter, in a tone that suggested light conversation, a passer of time while they stalked a racist mass murderer in the depressing suburb. A topic to side-track anxiety.
“Lonie…he tied me up. I thought I was done for, I truly did. Once he revealed who he was, what chance was there of him letting me free? I couldn’t breathe, I could barely respond. But then he introduces Astrid…and away he goes, just like that. The deal must’ve been to kill me at some point. Jasper wants the guards, but Lonie never liked me. He’s spent ten years serving Jasper…but I think he’s slipping, he wants what was promised…”
Magnus realised he was dancing around the question. One glance from Walter meant there was no way to avoid torture.
“She…rape you?” asked Walter, stepping over broken glass from a shop window.
“Well…” How could he answer that? Was it rape, despite his thoughts about the former teacher, sexual thoughts that betrayed him? Magnus didn’t deny the attraction.
“I don’t know. I didn’t want it. Well, you have to admit, Walter, she’s seductive. Away from her Asylum clothes and cell, back in the real world…I don’t know. But she made this deal with me, and if I lost she was to slit my throat.”
“You clearly won,” he smiled, patting Magnus on the shoulder.
The idea of mentioning Lee and her rescue fluttered across the slim opening, but soon backed away. If this night was about removing all who knew, Lee needed to recede like a hairline. The stars watched on from night towers in the sky, attendees in a cinema waiting for the climax of the story. They were just as eager to see who would survive the anarchy as those on ground.
“Do you think Shirley is okay?” asked Walter, with a hint of pain in his tone. Magnus knew the guard blamed himself for Brian.
“She’s tough, Walt. She worked with the nine alongside you, alongside Brian, alongside a man rated ten on a scale of danger.”
“I should’ve chased them. I tried, I shot him with a tranq but he kept going. He scares me Mag, I’m sorry to admit. Of all the people I’ve guarded, I avoided him the most. With Jasper, I needed earplugs. He wins with words. Chaos…those eyes, they can’t be reasoned with. Never has someone spawned with such hate.”
Walter continued to focus on his inner demons despite Chaos being their current target, smashing heads on walls in the effort to find a ghost. The inmate knew no regular citizen of Dortmund would pinpoint the whereabouts of another Dortmund alumni. His method was ‘seek and destroy’ with a side of curse.
“What happens when we find him?” asked Magnus as they turned the corner into the main street.
“Five are dead. Do we just finish the job and end it, forever?”
“No,” fired back the response, with intent. “Surely one can be saved.”
A silhouette dashed from one side of the street to the other, so fast that both men wondered if anything moved at all. Plastic bags and leaves followed the direction of the flight, arrows pointing to the culprit. Walter and Magnus looked at one another, the former withdrawing his handgun and flicking off the safety. Heavy breathing, distinct in the open air, proved presence. Walter aimed at the wheezing, squinted, wishing for more light. Magnus assumed pole position.
“Matthew, come out, we’re done here. I don’t want you to die tonight. You don’t need to.”
“Where’s Shirley you bastard?” spat Walter, removing the calm façade. It was a gunshot to a sprinter. Matthew Chaos sped into view and down the main street towards the Pub tomb. His right leg appeared hampered, slowing his forward momentum, making the duck-and-weave necessary in anticipation of Walter’s fire. And to Magnus’ surprise, fire he did. Walter shot off three bullets within a second, causing Chaos to stumble onto the road and continue with a crawl.
“Where is she?”
Walter fired again, missing Chaos’ foot by half a metre. It was then that the escapee realised an important plot point: these shots were intimidation, not deadly. Chaos rose, turned his head in imitation of a scene from The Exorcist, and locked eyes with Walter. The guard stopped. The raised gun started to shake, softly at first but then quivering like a freshly embedded arrow. Magnus caught up to the guard, witnessing the stare-off between the men. Chaos raised his arms outward, a Roman warrior in the Coliseum calling for more.
“Can’t hit me, know what I’m saying? Too scared, white cracker bitch.”
Blood trickled from Walter’s mouth, but words did not.
“We’ll help you find Jasper,” said Magnus, trying to delay the attack, aware that Chaos would become the wild cat he’d tranquilised not hours before.
“No need.”
A new voice entered the fray, hoarse and aged. Three necks snapped back and forth, searching for the speaker, cowboys on a Western road with the air slapping at their slacks.
“On the roof, dickheads.”
Up they glanced to see Old Man Lonie standing on top of the three-story building which had housed Magnus for the past few weeks, the hotel of dreams and the sanctuary of nightmares. Using a torch, Lonie illuminated his face like a pumpkin on Halloween, a contented grin marking his aged and stubbled jaw. In his other hand he held a gun, and waved it as he spoke. Walter’s body shook in rage at the mere sight of his colleague.
“Jasper is waiting. I think you all need to come up here. Now.”
Matthew Chaos took in the duo before him, irregular blinks of concern.
“It’s okay,” said Magnus, calling him along like a schoolyard bully now forgiven, “everybody needs closure. It may help you.”
Cautious of trickery, Chaos staggered closer and joined Walter and Magnus, an old dog to a new owner. The guard tapped his foot, whispering to his comrade: “We’re walking in to an ambush. Why are we doing that?”
Magnus nudged him back.
“Three of the final four in one place. What choice do we have?”
Magnus led the way up the stairs, no sounds escaping from closed doors, lights dim, no life in the walls of the hotel. They passed Magnus’ room, and he knew a body rotted by his bed, a once beautiful female cut apart by a heroine. And he tried not to stare at the wooden barricade of his quarters, but the mind drifted within, wanting to
see the body to prove it really happened. To prove his sanity in an otherwise insane town.
“What’s the plan, know what I’m saying?” said Chaos, cracking his knuckles and trying not to punch holes in the wall. His neck strained, clicks from his grinding teeth, blood dripping from his tattered clothes.
“The plan is you tell us where Shirley is!” screamed Walter, pinning the target against the wall and bringing the handgun to his chin, pointing upward.
“Hey big shot, put the gun down.”
Lonie stood on the third floor as the three men argued on the second, his weapon directed at the head of his former unofficial boss. He now wore the uniform of a police officer, a bullet hole in the heart of the blue shirt. He had a wide-brimmed hat on his head, tilted forward, shielding his eyes from view and revealing only a dozen strands of grey hair. Carter was no more.
“You have three seconds, Walter. If you don’t, and I blow your head off, how will you find Shirley?”
Walter growled and holstered the handgun. Matthew Chaos reciprocated with a headbutt to the nose, causing Walter to collapse on the floor in agony, a crack echoing in the hallway and adding to his facial woes.
“Ah-uh, don’t do that, Chaos, you fucking little prick. I swear I want to pull down your trousers and shove this piece right in your black crack-hole. Don’t give me an excuse, you speck of shit.”
Chaos nodded, walking up the stairs. Magnus went to assist Walter to his feet, but the guard pushed him away, spitting out further blood and wiping it out of his stained moustache. Footing didn’t come easy.
“I’m sick of these fucks. I’ve had enough. If I get a clear shot, I’m taking them out.”
“Patience,” said Magnus, following him up the stairs and readying for his fall, “we’ll get our chance.”
He could flee, right now, with the two dangerous men climbing through the chute to reach the roof and Walter focused on ending them all. He could sprint downstairs towards the exit, reach the boundary and boost a car to the big city. Rid of this town and his mission and all that resided within, all the risk that remained. But his feet kept taking the carpeted stairs one by one, until the sight of Lee’s door dominated his view. Lee…