The End The Beginning (Humanity's New Dawn Book 1)

by Ryan Horvath

  Art had found his first car and successfully hotwired it and raced like a bat out of Hell west out of Goochland County. He hoped to at least make it to Charleston, West Virginia which he figured was large enough he could get lost easily. Cincinnati would be great but he doubted the car he had would hold up that far.

  The car held up much better that Art had expected and by the time he had begun to run low on his stolen stash of money, he had nearly made to Los Angeles.

  Art knew it wasn’t a good idea to start up a pattern of crime in the big city right away so he took a few months to meander from town to town throughout Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, and California.

  He knocked over dozens of liquor and convenience stores and gas stations for a take of close to fifty-five thousand dollars and he’d realized he had a real knack for stealing. At first it was scary and he was using a toy gun that looked real enough but after the initial few jobs, he grew more confident and then found he had the guts to take on a gun shop at close when only one employee was working. With his back turned to the door when Art arrived, Art was able to strike quickly and render the clerk unconscious before he even saw who had come in at the last minute. Art stole several thousand dollars from the register plus several pistols he’d been reading about in hunting magazines that looked enticing to him.

  Then, just after his seventeenth birthday, Art had decided it was time to move on to the big city. He packed up his guns, which included a Glock, a Sig Sauer with mother of pearl inlays on the grip, and a beautiful twelve gauge shot gun, and his few possessions in his now rightfully owned car that he had paid cash for with his theft proceeds and proceeded across Interstate Highway 10 towards the City of Angels where he intended to start his new life.

  In LA, he’d quickly found his way into the underworld and was able to obtain papers indicating a new identity. Art still thought of himself as Art but the world at large now knew him as Christopher Miste.

  Christopher Miste’s state of California driver’s license had indicated an age of twenty-two at the time and a residence located on Melrose Avenue in Hollywood. The address on the ID was, of course, false, as Art intended to continue a life of crime. Art, in fact, used a portion of his theft earnings and paid cash for a year’s “lease” on a small studio apartment located on the east edge of downtown Los Angeles. The landlord was pretty shady so there was actually no lease ever signed and Art had resided there with no one’s knowledge but his and the shady landlord’s.

  After purchasing his new identity, vehicle, and first year of residence, Art realized his cash would go fast.

  “What should I get into?” he’d said to himself one evening after finishing his take out dinner of a quart of Moo Goo Gai Pan, two pork egg rolls, six fried dumplings and a generous serving of hot and sour soup.

  His first thought of course, had been theft again. Start knocking over liquor and convenience stores. He’d gotten quite good at it, having taken dozens of stores already and developing a nice reputation as “The Mist” among the press in many southwest towns.

  Art liked the name “The Mist”. He’d felt it was the truest description of his whole life. With some exception of the short time he knew Headmaster Jenkins and knew of her bone creeping gazes, everyone in his life had treated him as if he were hardly there. Noticeable but transparent. Visible yet unclear.

  Art also liked how the press commented on his exceptional swiftness of swooping into the store of choice and back out of it with Great Lake fog-like abruptness.

  As he sat at his small table and pondered this question, he’d heard a woman’s voice from behind him. The voice was soft and low and almost sounded as if it were pleading in vain frustration.

  “Murderer.”

  Art spun around in his seat so fast, he’d nearly slid off entirely but he was able to catch a quick glimpse of something as it quickly faded from view. An arm, definitely female, and long brown hair. Then he’d realized he was seeing the image of a woman as it faded from right to left. She wore what looked like dirty jeans and a white shirt that had what looked like blood splattered on it. The side of her face he did see was haggard, worn down and looked slightly malnourished but otherwise she would be a very attractive woman though her face appeared to be twisted with rage or fear or both. There was something in her hand that Art couldn’t make our fast enough before the image faded but he had been almost sure it was a long knife or a saw.

  And as quickly as the word faded, the woman was gone as well.

  Art had stood from his chair and cautiously walked toward the opposite corner of the room where the woman had been standing. Sweat stood out on his brow. He was certain he had heard the word “murderer” in his ears and not his mind. If fact, he was certain he could still hear the echoed word ringing in his ear drums.

  “A sign,” Art thought to himself and quickly his mind began to race.

  Had this apparition that appeared before him been an Angel of Death setting him on his new path in life? Or had it been a warning of trouble to come? Art could not think of anyone on the planet who would want to come after him; or even know how to find him if someone did want to. His deserting parents would never be likely to come find him and Art believed and hoped them to be dead and worm food anyway. The headmasters and officials back in Goochland County would never be able to locate him in the urban maze of Los Angeles. He had no ex-wife or angry and bitter girlfriend who might try to seek him out.

  Art had decided that the apparition had in fact been sent as a form of calling. Art thought back to Headmaster Tallman and how good it had felt to tower over the headmaster and deliver a continuous stream of blows with a wrench until the headmaster was a bloody and sinewy mess beneath him. He remembered how disappointed he had felt when he’d found out the headmaster had not been killed. And remembered the splatters of blood as they struck his face and arms with each crunching drive into the headmaster.

  “Murderer,” Art had said to the empty room. He remained silent for a moment, as if waiting for a response from someone.

  “I… am going… to murder,” he said.

  The words felt and tasted good on his lips and tongue and he said it again with added confidence and conviction.

  “I am going to murder,” he repeated with confidence.

  He’d felt his pulse quicken. His penis suddenly grew stiff. The sweat on his brow continued.

  And so, Art Spektor the thief became Art Spektor the killer. And not just any killer. Within four years, Art had wiped out twenty-seven men and women. He initially served no country or organization but instead, only himself and his murder fantasies. Soon after that, he became a freelance assassin taking work from whomever could provide the cash to complete the job. He took work from such governments as the United States, Russia, South Africa, and China and though he had never killed for them, a few members of the British Parliament had used him to commit some dirty deeds.

  Now, at twenty-nine years of age and in the prime of his murderous life, Art quickly slipped away like “The Mist” of his youth from the site of his fifty-seventh assassination. He immensely enjoyed taking the politician’s life.

  His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to kill the dumb politician’s idiot bitch wife. His contract had only been for the politician and only the bitch if she got in the way. Art knew about their “special Sunday mornings” and had hoped to catch them in the act and kill them both but the dumb and impotent politician must not have been able to stick it to his wife very long this morning because the bitch was out of bed already when Art had arrived.

  Art really liked to kill women. And he hoped someday he may get the time to come back and waste that one.

  4

  JACK VOIGHT, IAN TURNER, AND BRIAN STEVENS

  Jack Voight was tired, achy, and quite a bit hung over when he woke from his alcohol laden sleep on Monday morning. He swung his feet off the bed and sat up too fast. Dizziness overtook him and he had to lower his jaw to his chest and close his eyes for a moment to ready himself
to stand up from the bed.

  Jack didn’t drink often but when he did drink, he drank a lot. Last night had been no exception. Two of Jack’s best friends from college had come to visit him for the week. The three men hadn’t seen each other since graduation, just over a year ago. Last night they had lived it up like they were sophomores at one of the frat parties. The evening was supposed to be cards and beer and pretzels and when Ian and Brian arrived at Jack’s townhome in Minneapolis, that’s how it began.

  But soon Brian had raided the liquor cabinet and started making mojitos, which they drank with beers. Even though the best of summer was well over in Minneapolis the weekend had been unusually hot and dry. Brian had been living in Central Florida since college so it was always summer for him it seemed. Anyway, after a few stiffly prepared rum drinks, the three were buzzing quite nicely. They turned the music up and laughed about the crazy antics of college.

  It didn’t take long for Ian to order a stripper and, even though Jack had sheepishly protested the whole time, the stripper came and did her dance. After about an hour and a half of her performance, which had amazed Jack in many ways, he became too intoxicated to stay focused and his head began to loll. He had chased down his four Mojitos with four additional shots of rum. In his last few moments of consciousness, he noticed Ian and the stripper, Carmen, was her name, we’re getting quite friendly with one another. As he did not want to witness whatever may result of that, he staggeringly pushed himself off the sofa and headed to the bathroom.

  In the bathroom, he’d drunkenly rummaged through one of the drawers until he found what he was looking for. He returned to the living and tossed the condom toward Ian and Carmen and said “If you guys are gonna’ fuck, put ‘a towel down. Don’ messup my stuff.”

  Jack turned around down the hall and went to his bedroom. He’d opened the door and saw Brian lying on the bed on his stomach. Jack wasn’t surprised although he couldn’t remember seeing Brian leave the living room. Of the three of them, Brian was always the first to pass out. Jack didn’t mind sleeping with Brian. They had done it before in college. For a while, they had done more than just sleep together and Jack hadn’t minded that one bit. If fact, he missed having Brian as a regular part of his life. Besides, Brian didn’t move a lot, snore, try to cuddle with Jack, or stink up the room with bed farts. Jack could think of female bedfellows he had had years ago that were stranger to sleep with than Brian.

  Remembering now, as he woke up, that Brian had been in the bed with him, Jack turned to see if he was still there.

  He wasn’t.

  That was not surprising either. Being the first to pass out also meant that Brian was almost always the first to wake up and even though he could make a sound like a ravenous cackle of rampaging hyenas when he was drunk at a party, Brian also knew how to keep as quiet as a mouse sneaking through a room of sleeping cats if he wanted to, so it was also not surprising that Jack had not heard Brian get up and leave the room.

  Jack stood up and winced a little as a few of the hangover spikes shot across his brain like little icicles. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and sighed.

  Jack left the bedroom and headed down the hall toward the kitchen in his bare feet and underwear. He scratched the back of his neck and smacked his lips and lamented at the flavor of stale rum shots and beer that was left over on his palate. His stomach had now achieved an acidity level he was pretty sure was causing ulcers all over the place inside his digestive system.

  Nothing a little Pepto won’t fix Jack thought. He opened the refrigerator and pulled the bottle of pink liquid from the top shelf of the door. He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull.

  “Dude,” a voice said behind him, startling Jack to lower the bottle sharply from his upturned mouth and dribble the stuff down his chin and thus his chest and then the floor.

  Jack quickly turned around to face Ian.

  “That’s gross. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to drink from the carton? Gross, man,” Ian said to Jack with a playful grimace.

  Jack looked down at Ian and stifled a chuckle. “No more gross that you sneaking up behind me sporting your morning wood, dude.”

  Ian looked down at himself, saw his boner straining in his skivvies, and quickly tried to cover it with his hands. “Oh shit, oh shit!” he shouted and tried to cross his legs. “Piss boner. Sorry buddy!” And with that he darted around the corner and down the hall toward the bathroom and seconds later Jack heard the bathroom door slam.

  Smiling to himself, Jack took another pull from the Pepto bottle, screwed the top back on and put it back on the shelf. He removed a package of bacon and the egg carton which contained half a dozen eggs. He also took out the jug of milk and the can of Maxwell House coffee. As he was measuring the coffee grounds into the brewing machine, Ian returned.

  “Sorry, Jack-o-Lantern.” Ian said and noticed the package of bacon on the counter. “Oh, yeah, so hungry. Need some help?”

  “As long as you washed your hands, yeah, go ahead and start getting that bacon ready. I got some of that quick and easy pre-made pancake batter. I think we can have some of that too. I’m pretty fucking hungry myself.”

  “Right on, Jack Sprat,” Ian replied and slapped Jack on the shoulder. Ian frequently made plays on Jack’s name which had first annoyed Jack but he’d since come to like. “Man, that Carmen was so fun. She kept me up ‘til after three o’clock and I don’t just mean awake.” Ian had that smug and satisfied look he used to get on his face in college when he would get laid and Jack and Brian wouldn’t.

  Guess some things never change Jack thought to himself.

  As the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee quickly began to fill the kitchen, Jack whisked up the eggs with some cheese and onion for scrambling. He lamented that he didn’t have any steaks in the house. Steak and eggs was one of his favorite hangover foods. Especially a nice cut like a T-bone or a New York or Kansas City Strip. As he drank his gut settling glass of milk and listened to Ian drone on and on about the wonder- that-was-Carmen, Jack realized something was missing.

  “Oh, hey, where’s Bri, man?” Jack asked Ian. “He passed out in my bed last night but he wasn’t there when I got up.”

  “Don’t know,” Ian said turning around to scan the living room from the kitchen. “I just woke up when I heard you open the fridge. Maybe he went out for a run or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Hey you didn’t let Miss Carmen stay all night did you? I better not be missing anything,” Jack said jokingly pointing his knife at his friend.

  “Relax, man. You know I can outlast the best of them. I was totally awake when she left. Nothing broken, missing or a mess,” Ian pled.

  Jack continued to point the knife and give the evil eye but a wry smile appeared on the corner of his mouth and he stepped off with a chuckle.

  “Cool,” Jack said. “It’s all good. How’s that bacon coming?”

  “Gonna be a while… I don’t like it to burn so I just do a few strips at a time. Hold off on those eggs or they’ll be all rubbery and gross as snot.”

  “Yes sir, Chef, sir,” Jack said with a salute of the knife he was holding across his brow.

  Just then, the front door opened and Brian came in carrying a paper bag. He looked warm and flushed. He saw Ian and Jack and gave the boys a humorous grimace.

  “Nice, you guys. Why are you cooking in your underwear?” Brian said.

  “Shut up, dude,” Ian said. “It’s hot as shit and Jack-Be-Frugal won’t put on the A/C. Where were you and what’s in the bag?”

  “I went for a walk but as I was walking I kinda got this thought that Jack-be-frugal here would want some steak and eggs this morning so I went to that market over on 2nd Street and picked up some steaks for breakfast. I see you guys have already got the ball rolling on the eggs without me,” Brian replied.

  “Awesome!” Jack said and grabbed the bag from Brian. He looked deeply into Brian’s eyes and felt his old well of affection for this
man begin to fill up again. After a moment, Jack thought he saw Brian looking back at him with the same affection the two had shared not so long ago. “Wow! You’re so fucking awesome. Almost like you read my mind.”

  “Geez, Jack-in-the-box,” Ian used that one pretty regularly. “You don’t have to be a mind reader to know how you like your hangover food,” he said to Jack.

  “Even still,” Brian began, “it was like Jack called that out to me. It was like ten minutes ago. And I remembered the market was close so I knew I could swing by and grab some.”

  Jack paused and looked at Brian quizzically.

  Brian stared back and then started to get a little uncomfortable. “What?” he said to Jack.

  “It just…” Jack stammered. “…just, I was just thinking and wishing I’d had some steaks in the house no more than ten minutes ago. What cuts did you get?” Jack said beginning to open the bag.

  “New York strips! The T-bones looked like shit. Let’s fry ‘em up and chow down boys. Pour me some of that coffee, will you?” Brian answered.

  Uncanny, Jack thought.

  5

  AMANDA BRECK

  Amanda Breck received the call from her sister late Monday morning that Jack

  Thomas had been brutally assassinated by an unknown shooter. Amanda was Karen’s younger sister by eight years but the two were still very close despite the fact that Karen lived in Great Falls, Virginia and Amanda lived in Colorado Springs, Colorado. They conversed at least weekly via phone and almost daily via e-mail.

  Amanda listened with horror as Karen vividly described the graphic events of yesterday morning’s assault on their home. It turned out that in addition to murdering Karen’s husband Jack, the killer had also murdered the neighbors who Karen named as George and Ann Lewis. When Karen had finished and was only making choked sobbing noises into the phone Amanda said, “Oh Karen, I am so sorry. What can I do? What do you need? I can be on the first flight to Dulles out of Denver.”