by Sam J Fires
Finally, Travis took to the stand, checking to make sure he was heard over the intercom. “Thank you, everyone, for your patience. I didn’t mean to keep you all waiting, I’m aware that travel isn’t exactly easy for many of us.” He allowed himself a chuckle at his joke, prompting some to weakly join in. “I digress…
“Over the last few years, many of us have reflected on all the things that we no longer have: Wi-fi, television, carryout... I was always partial to the occasional pizza. We remember so much of what we lost…and that same nostalgia has held us back.”
He paused, waiting to see if his words had had any effect. The suits they wore made it hard to gauge their reactions, a necessary trade-off for keeping safe.
“Long before the days of Facebook posts and cat videos, we were pioneers. We went from pounding about in the dirt to creating an entire society.” Travis gestured to the building behind him, the old city hall which had withstood the storms, although not unscathed. “We built that. We did all of this. These buildings, these streets, shouldn’t be seen as relics of a time gone by, they should be a reminder of what we can achieve at the height of our powers.
“For six years, we’ve lived with the storms. I’d say we lost the most people to the storms during the very first day. No one knew what to do, not even me. I just survived out of sheer luck. I guess I happened to be in the right place at the right time.
“The fact that I see so many faces out here, six years later, tells me that we’ve not lost that all-too-important characteristic that’s been pushing us forward for centuries — the will to survive.”
Travis could see that they were hooked, hanging on his every word. Just as well, as the next part was going to be a difficult one. Travis felt like a salesman on the verge of closing a deal, trying to nudge a prospective buyer in the right direction.
“Now, I believe in this city, and over the last few months, I’ve been doing everything possible to ensure that the city is once again habitable. We’ll have homes, we’ll have businesses. We’ll have a way of life.”
Everyone was nodding in agreement at this.
The man in the suit edged himself closer to Travis. “Sir,” he whispered, before realizing that everyone in the city center could probably hear him. “I should probably mention that the storm is imminent.”
Travis held up a hand, silencing his aide.
“We must never forget how vulnerable we’ve become and how easy it is to lose all that we have built. I recognize that I may be asking you to do things that’ll have your conscience screaming in your ear, but I don’t think I need to remind anybody who was here during the sanctuary’s first…” he paused, trying to find the right words, before finally settling on, “…break-in.
“Those people took their eyes off the ball and the plague almost wiped out the last remnants of humanity. It was only by sheer dumb luck that we made it through in one piece.” He was aware of a few of the key players involved in preventing the carnage, but he didn’t think it would do anybody any favors to mention them. The last thing he needed was his audience thinking that anyone could be a hero. “You can be reassured that we’re taking all the necessary steps to keep you safe, to ensure NOTHING of the sort ever happens again.”
He raised his hand, signaling for someone to come forward.
Two men, standing at the end of the gathering, moved forward. No one had noticed them before now. Between them, they were holding a black leather sack. The two carried the sack through the crowd towards the podium, dropping it at Travis’s feet. Travis leaned down and undid the sack, pulling it down to reveal the contents.
There was a man inside. Naked, hands tied behind his back, his entire body riddled with cuts and bruises.
“This man was just like all of you. I believe he was a…checkout clerk. Then he tried to steal supplies from a single mother and became a murderer. Now, he’s going to be an example.”
The prisoner looked up to Travis and could instantly see from his cold-set expression that there was no point in begging for mercy, not that it did anything to quell the pleading look in his eyes.
“As long as I have breath in my body, every single person living in this city will be under my protection. But if you don’t respect the laws, then see for yourself what will happen.”
The storm was now picking up in its ferocity. The citizens in the area were edging to find shelter. One of them even tried to move away from the crowd, before being blocked by one of Travis’s men.
“Please, don’t be alarmed,” pleaded Travis. “The suits you’re all wearing will provide adequate protection from the storm. The only person who needs to be worried about dying is the one kneeling next to me.”
The storm arrived, descending on the crowd like an angry wave. For those wearing the suits, the grains merely bounced off them harmlessly, before gathering at their feet.
The prisoner on the podium was not so lucky. The grains didn’t just hit him. They buried themselves into his bare skin, like a thousand miniature drills making their way below the surface. The transmitters in the crowd’s suits made it impossible to hear anything from the prisoner, but they could see that he was screaming at the top of his lungs, begging for someone – anyone – to help him.
He fell to the ground, twisting and writhing like a fish on a hook, volts of pain coursing through his naked body.
It was hard to tell at which point his body stopped moving of its own volition and started being pulled by the storm.
“So…” announced Travis. “…that was the first, and hopefully the only time I’ll have to submit you to such a display. The best leaders lead by example, and I hope this will be a reminder for you all to look out for one another and keep each other strong. We’re building up a sustainable peace, but it only takes one selfish bastard to destroy that peace.
“As to our city…” he paused, ready to drop the bombshell, “it’s been my home my entire life. Looking at it now,” he gestured to the ruined landscape, “it seems to be going the way of Rome, crumbling before its time. LA has become a fixture of the past, and I’m hard-pressed to find any place for it in the future.
“As such, the city of Los Angeles will from this day forward be known as Travistown.”
CHAPTER 14 – THE SANCTUARY
Lea and Vincent approached the sanctuary tentatively. “Go on,” said Vincent. “It won’t bite.”
Nobody had set foot in the sanctuary for a long time. It held an important place in the hearts of survivors. When the first storm fell on what had once been Los Angeles, the sanctuary had been a stronghold for many, the first indication that maybe people would live through the dark times.
At least that was the narrative that would empower 1% of the population. Everyone else was buried in the mass grave that metropolis had become. Lea and Vincent had both heard about the siege that had gone down between the survivors and a maniac cult that had ended with many dead. It was seen as a historic event; a sign that people could lose more than just their lives along the way, including their humanity and sense of right and wrong. But there would always be those to fight the good fight.
Lea had always used the cult leader Sarah Lee as an example of the kind of person she didn’t want to become. Whenever she did something she wasn’t sure of, she would measure it against the cult leader to make sure she wasn’t starting down that same path.
Lea had never found out why the sanctuary had been abandoned. Rumors had been flying around. Some people had said that the place had been overrun with sand zombies, others that it was because the population had been steadily growing and it became insufficient to house so many people. Some of the more extreme explanations were that the populace had locked themselves inside to indulge in mass cannibalism…
…which wouldn’t necessarily have been such a crazy idea if the front door hadn’t been left wide open. Lea moved closer and could see that the locks that would have otherwise kept it shut had been blown off.
“After you,” offered Vincent. Lea assumed t
his was just him being pompous, but she could see he was shaking a little.
Holding out the antique flashlight which had been loaded with batteries, the two walked into what they would later describe as hell itself.
The place was pitch black and appeared deserted. The doors had been left wide open, papers and numerous objects had been left lying on the ground. It was as if people had cleared out in a hurry. One of the first things that Lea noticed was how cramped it felt. It was hard to believe hundreds of people had once occupied these corridors.
Lea and Vincent went through the rooms in turn, shining a light into each one of them. Even though they were there on an assignment, Lea couldn’t help being taken in by the things left behind by occupants; family photos, mementos, and mobiles that had long since lost their charge. The peek into other people’s lives fascinated Lea. She wondered how different her life would have been if she’d made it to the sanctuary. She often pushed such thoughts far from her head, not knowing how Travis would react.
“I see they redecorated since my last visit,” said Vincent sarcastically, but Lea caught a longing look in his eyes.
“You were here before?” asked Lea, shining her flashlight in his face. She’d done it a few times as part of an interrogation tactic, but here, it was down to more inquisitiveness rather than any malice behind it.
Seeing no point in denying it, Vincent said, “Once, I came here with my girlfriend. She was pregnant with our first child. We should have thought twice about whether bringing a kid into this chaos was a good idea, but we so wanted this baby.” Vincent stopped speaking, rubbing his chin. “After the Desert Rats had been dealt with, it all settled down quite a bit at the sanctuary and I guess we were lulled into a false sense of security. I had no idea that things could get even worse…” Vincent’s voice began to crack as the memories came flooding back. “Then…it all happened so quickly…you know, it’s not easy to speak about it. Maybe one day I’ll tell you, but not here, not now...” his voice trailed off in painful thought.
Lea was so enthralled with the personal revelation that she almost didn’t hear the distant clanging, the sound bouncing off the walls.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know Lea. Sounds like someone’s moving machinery or something,” suggested Vincent, shining his flashlight in the direction of the noise.
“Should we split up?” asked Lea.
“No,” said Vincent sharply, “I’ve seen enough horror films to know how that scenario would play out. I go off on my own and the next time you see me, I’m lying dead on the floor.”
The two stayed together, knowing that there was safety in numbers. Both Lea and Vincent had been in their fair share of fights, and had, for the most part, managed to come out unscathed, but the power to the entire sanctuary was gone and the place was in total darkness which would give the Sculptor the element of surprise. It wasn’t the first time Lea had found herself at a disadvantage, yet somehow, she’d always been able to come out on top. So far. This could of course change. She didn’t like the idea of letting the Sculptor get the first strike or do anything that could turn her into another of his victims.
They continued down the corridor, scanning their environment, no longer stopping to look in each of the rooms and imagine the lives left behind, but to find out if their target was setting up camp somewhere.
There was silence. That was what unnerved Lea about it most of all. Throughout her life, she was constantly hearing the gusting wind. Even inside insulated buildings, she could still hear the distant screams of the storm in the background. But here, there were absolutely no sounds from the storm whatsoever. Lea had longed for the day when she would relish the silence. Now that she finally had it, it reminded her how cutoff she and Vincent were from the rest of the world. This place could become their tomb, and no one would be any wiser. They were like rats in a barrel.
Then, from the silence, came a voice over the loudspeaker. “Good evening, dear friends.”
Lea and Vincent stopped dead in their tracks, trying to work out the source of the noise.
“I see you found your way to my little home. Have to say, I'm surprised it took you so long to track me down. Thought you guys were supposed to be master trackers.”
“So, what? You wanted us to find you, you freak of nature?” yelled Vincent.
“Don’t bother, he can’t hear you,” said Lea.
“Oh, but I can. I can hear you loud and clear,” the man responded. Lea could detect the tone of amusement in his voice.
“I’m sure I’ve been called far worse, that’s your ignorance, but I’ll try to make allowances. You see, the truth is that I’m a hopelessly inquisitive artist who wants the same as any creator…for their work to be appreciated, and I feel that the best way to get that appreciation is to bring a captive audience before me.”
Suddenly, the lights flashed on. Lea and Vincent stopped dead in their tracks.
Lying on the ground was a woman who had shards of glass riveted down the center of her body, from her neck down to her pelvis. Vincent looked away, unable to take the sight. “Oh, Jeez.”
Although what horrified Lea wasn’t the initial sight of the ‘art display’.
It was when it started coughing and spluttering.
CHAPTER 15 – THE SCULPTOR
From his earliest youth, the Sculptor had had an innate urge to kill. A sadistic delight in seeing and causing death. He remembered experiments with spiders as a child, catching them under an empty jar and later tearing off the legs one by one. Such a small action, yet he delighted in imagining the pain the spider must have endured as legs were wrenched from their sockets.
As he got older, he started looking for inspiration for more imaginative real-life indulgences. He spent hours on the internet searching for illegal videos of live executions carried out by terrorists. As time went on and he developed to maturity, he found himself trying to find a way to scratch that itch and carve out a name for himself.
In many cases of prolific murderers, it was custom for the press and the media to dub the unknown killer with a nickname. The Sculptor never understood why so many killers had allowed the media to manipulate their narratives. The irony was not lost on him when he too was given a label.
The Sculptor had wanted from the outset to be in full control as to what his alias would be... Although admittedly, his early monikers left much to be desired, in hindsight sounding childish. In the end, he would choose mundane sounding aliases just so that his real identity would be hidden from his victims.
Back when he was young, and by his admission, naïve, the Sculptor had assumed he could nab anyone who took his fancy. This was a big mistake on his part. His prey often fought back. Indeed, one of his attempted victims was the son of a local governor. The young guy had managed to escape the Sculptor’s grasp in minutes, and he screamed for help. The Sculptor, realizing that he’d met his physical match, immediately fled the scene. Despite a thorough search, the police couldn’t find him. The Sculptor had been lucky, that time.
In the wake of that unfortunate incident, the Sculptor needed to stay low for a while. He finished his education, came out with high marks, and landed himself a well-paying job. He had everything he needed. He could have gone through life like everyone else, no one being any the wiser as to his true self.
He’d tried to curb the impulses, and live like the rest of the sheep, but it had felt like the whole world surrounding him was a mocking face he wanted to plunge a knife into.
He had taken the time to research his idols and learn how to avoid the mistakes that had led to their downfalls. The most common trait they all shared seemed to be leaving their victims’ bodies on display in public places, like grotesque trophies. That wasn’t a smart way to live. That would earn him a one-way ticket to prison where he’d be languishing on death row for God knows how many years before being pumped full of poison. He wanted to have a long and illustrious career that would bring with it a range of copycats and blo
ckbuster films.
So, he took the time to learn a thousand details that came with killing: the planning, the set-up, the resulting fun, and finally the clean-up.
He tried to be discreet with his killings, targeting those who wouldn’t be missed. Prostitutes, for the most part. He’d seen the ad campaigns about the spoiled rich girls who had the entire world in an uproar if they went for any longer than a day without updating their Instagram feeds and how the nation would scramble to find them. No one would go to that much effort over an immigrant prostitute.
He remembered when he had picked her up. She was a young pretty Latina in her late teens, although she could have been younger. Shabby clothes, although her beauty detracted from the poor state of her clothing. She was desperate for money and content to throw herself at any man that looked good for a few dollars. For this young woman, sex was her currency.
He’d taken her to his home, making sure that neither of them was seen. At first, it seemed like a casual get-together. They sat down, relaxed, and had a drink. He was patient with her and made her feel comfortable. She was puzzled why he wouldn’t take her sexual advances. Once it became clear to her that his interest in her wasn’t sexual, she became anxious and had tried to leave.
That was when he’d injected her with a modified form of mivacurium chloride, a tranquilizer used on violent psychiatric patients. It would only take a few seconds to act.
He had sat her down on his sofa, explained to her who he was and what kind of legacy he was hoping to leave. It was the most cathartic moment of his life. He used to wonder why so many killers ended up confessing their sins, even if it meant their damnation. In those moments, he realized the thrill of finally being true to himself and letting the world see him properly for the first time.
After a few minutes of his letting off steam, the drugs started to wear off.
That meant they could start on their next game.