Godless Murder Machine (The Postmodern Adventures of Kill Team One Book 2)

by Mike Leon

Normal. Normal. Got to be normal. This is normal. The customer is always right! The customer is always right! The patterns in the bark at his knuckles seem to swirl into something else as he hits the tree trunk. It’s her face. It’s her stupid face—that awful bitch he should have killed when she took a swing at him.

  “AAAAAGGHHHH” Sid bashes the tree so hard it rattles like a doorstop. He screams and hits it again. He winds up and releases a roundhouse kick that splinters the trunk and sends the top of the tree tumbling down to the dirt below.

  He is still angry.

  INT. GLENN’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

  “Nark.”

  Stephen slowly opens his eyes to the vision of Gash hovering only inches from his nose in the darkness. He jolts backward and lets out a yelp. “AAAaaah! What the hell?”

  “I need the car,” Gash says. “I took a bunch more of that acid but it in’t doin’ nothin’ without som’in’ to kickstar’ it.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. The clock is being a wanker. It’s gone all spinny and wavy and the dog head between the numbers keeps on barking like it’s angry.” Gash motions toward the corner, but there isn’t a clock there, or anywhere.

  Stephen looks around the room for anything with the time on it, but has no such luck. There isn’t anything in this room except for the couch and the guitar equipment. No posters. No tables. No television. Stephen never even noticed before he fell asleep. He digs into his pants pocket for his father’s iPhone. He lights up the screen and looks at the time. It is 4 AM.

  “You can’t borrow my car,” he groans groggily.

  “I wan’t askin,” Gash says. “I already nicked your keys.”

  “What?!” Stephen jolts upright.

  Gash walks hurriedly from the little room and rips open the apartment door to head out into the stairwell. Stephen scans the floor for his shoes in the dark, which he scoops up in one hand before giving chase down the stairs barefoot, calling out to the delirious guitarist as he pounds his heavy boots down the stairs ahead of Stephen.

  “You can’t take my car! It’s not even my car!”

  “Too late,” Gash says, jangling Nick’s car keys and smiling mischievously. “I has to have a tweak. Got metal to write. It don’t happen on its own.” He pulls open the door at the bottom of the stairwell and dashes out into the night. Stephen follows.

  The small gravel lot behind Glenn’s apartment complex is a horrendous pain to walk on without shoes, but the distance to the Volt is short. Gash mashes down on the little remote and the car’s locks click to the open position as the headlights flash once. Stephen tiptoes after him.

  “Come on, man. This isn’t funny! Give them back!”

  “I’m just runnin’ a little errand is all.” Gash opens the driver door and plops down into the seat. “Gotta get me some poppers.”

  Stephen pulls open the passenger door and throws his shoes to the floor inside as he jumps into the car. Gash has already started the engine, not that anyone could tell. The engine makes about as much noise as a pocket fan.

  “What the hell, Gash? What the hell?”

  “You comin’ with me? That’s good. That dog in the clock looked angry, mate.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “My dealer’s flat.”

  EXT. SID’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

  Fatimah stands on the ridged step outside the open passenger door on the side of the monster truck. She grips the door frame as she leans inside the vehicle watching the iPad in Sayyid’s hands.

  “What do you think he went in there for?” The darkened woodland area around the apartment building looks like a blanket of black from space. It is difficult enough to see anything at night using the satellite, but the dense tree cover crushes any chance of following Sid now. They should have done this during the day, but she will not dare express that to Sayyid.

  “Some foul treachery, no doubt,” Sayyid says. “He must have been alerted. Perhaps by Yusef.”

  “I don’t think so,” Fatimah says. “The men found weapons in his apartment. Guns, grenades, an arsenal. But he took nothing with him. You saw on the video.”

  “You are correct. He was unarmed.”

  “If he knew we were coming, wouldn’t he take guns with him?”

  “Yes. Surely. Then what is he doing?”

  Fatimah shakes her head. “We have no way to know that, but we know where he will go eventually.”

  Sayyid nods in recognition. “Yes. Yes we do.” He holds his radio to his face and pushes the talk button. “Samir, I want you to watch this apartment building and the GameStop store. When the Beast arrives at either location, alert me immediately.”

  “Yes, Sayyid.”

  “And Samir, do not fail me this time. The penalty will be harsh.”

  EXT. FOOD STOP - NIGHT

  The Volt rolls up to the parking lot surrounding a glass-fronted building coated in signs advertising soft drinks, potato chips and hot dogs. It’s a Food Stop, part of a small chain of twenty-four hour convenience stores unique to Morston and a few nearby towns. Gash backs the car into a space at the edge of the lot, as far from the building as possible, and cuts the engine.

  “This is it,” he says. “The bloke what lives here makes the best crystal in South London.”

  “We’re not in London,” Stephen says. “Nope. Not London at all.”

  Gash pulls the keys from the ignition and exits the car. Stephen follows as he walks briskly toward the automatic doors at the front of the Food Stop.

  “Just give the keys back,” Stephen says.

  “Nigel don’t like strangers. Just stick w’ me and don’t say nothin’ and it’ll be awright, mate.”

  The automatic doors slide open to reveal an enclosure of soft jazz music, grimy floors and dingy yellow lighting. Four aisles of dry food face them on the right, and at the end of the rows is a wall lined with dairy refrigerators. The opposite wall displays a coffee machine and an immense soda fountain with both Pepsi and Coke products, as well as a slushie mixer. A tawny skinned young woman with tired green eyes and a huge volume of densely curled brown hair looks up from the service counter she’s leaning on as though someone just slapped her awake in the privacy of her own bed.

  “Welcome to Food Stop,” she groans.

  “‘Ello, love,” Gash says as he swaggers up to the counter and slaps a hand down on it. He grabs the belt of his leather pants with the other and leans toward her. “I’m lookin’ for the man o’ the house. Is ‘e in?”

  “What? Who?” the clerk says. Walking closer to the counter, Stephen can see a pile of notepads and a bulky calculus textbook sitting next to the cash register.

  “Hi,” Stephen waves for her attention. “My friend here is, um, he’s kinda out of it.”

  “Lookin’ for Nigel, sweetums. He here?” Gash says.

  “I don’t know anybody named Nigel. Look, I don’t want any problems.”

  “You’re a fit little swot, in’t ya? What’s your name?”

  “Melissa,” her answer is hesitant, as if telling him her real name is against her better judgment.

  “I nicked a skull from King Diamond in eighty five. Er name was Melissa too. Got it back at me flat. You wanna see?”

  “No,” Melissa shakes her head slowly. “Not particularly.”

  “Nigel in his room, is he?” He leans across the counter to eyeball the small hallway beyond, with two doors each marked with signs denoting that they are for employees only. “He back there with some sweet young tart ‘e don’t want ol’ Gash to know about it?”

  “Dude!” Stephen says. “Seriously. Give me the keys.”

  “Let’s go have a butcher’s then,” Gash grins as he walks around the counter, despite Melissa’s protestations.

  “Hey! Hey!” she says. “You can’t come back here! I’m calling the police!”

  “Don’t do that!” Stephen barks, as Melissa reaches for the landline phone on the counter. He slaps his hand down on the receiver. “I can g
et him out of here. Just… please, help me talk some sense into him.”

  “Who are you?!” she says. “What are you doing?!”

  Stephen circles the end of the counter and chases after Gash. The old rocker opens the first door and looks inside. “Not in there then,” he exclaims before shutting it and moving on to the next one, a heavy steel door that obviously leads into a walk-in refrigeration unit, and not a bedroom.

  “Gash, there’s nobody in there,” Stephen says. “That’s a freezer.”

  “You need to get out of my store now!” Melissa barks from behind Stephen.

  “If Nigel’s with her, she in’t a freezer, mate,” Gash cackles. Hardy har har. He opens the door and pokes his head into the freezer. “Bloody hell, the Americans don’t put the air on this high!”

  Stephen grabs gash by the arm and grumbles angrily. If asking nicely didn’t work, maybe this will. “Give. Back. The keys. Now.”

  “You want ‘em?” Gash says. “‘Ere. Have ‘em!”

  He digs deep into his pants pocket and whips the keys into the walk-in. They sail to the rear of the freezer and clatter against the shelving there, then tumble to the frosted tile floor. Stephen charges after them without hesitation, fearful that Gash might suddenly change his mind and go racing after them. He feels safe only when the keyring is back in his hands. Melissa slaps him on the shoulder.

  “Get the fuck out!” she yells.

  “Fine!” Stephen says. “I got the keys. We’re leaving.”

  THWACK! The freezer door slams shut behind them. Stephen rolls his eyes and reaches for the handle in preparation to have a push war with Gash.

  “Oh no,” Melissa says.

  “What?” Stephen says. He pulls on the icy steel handle and nothing happens.

  “The handle is broken,” Melissa says. “They’re supposed to fix it Friday.”

  “How do we get out?”

  “It only opens from the other side.”

  Stephen knocks on the heavy steel door and shouts through the tiny port window in its center. “Hey! This isn’t funny! Let us out!”

  “S’awright.” Gash presses his face up against the port window. “You’re safe in ‘ere. Safe from the aka manto.”

  “The what?” Stephen says. “Let us out!” But Gash whips around and leaves the port window, with Stephen still yelling after him. “Let us out!” He can already feel the biting cold eating through his thin hooded sweatshirt.

  INT. POLICE STATION - NIGHT

  Officer Burnett’s disinterest seems inversely proportional to Nick’s anger. The angrier Nick gets, the less Burnett cares.

  The husky police detective sits behind a big wooden desk, wearing a cornflower blue tie and sporadically eyeing a half-eaten Subway sandwich with far greater interest than he shows to Nick or Maria. Burnett’s office is essentially a glass cubicle in the corner of the police station. Outside, scores of officers go about their business filling out paperwork in smaller cubicles and talking to civilians waiting in cheap plastic chairs. Two broad men with big scary looking black guns strapped around their bodies walk past Burnett’s office on their way to parts unknown.

  “So how long has he been missing?” Burnett says, looking at Nick. The priest is seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair across the desk. Nick starts to answer, but Maria cuts in over his shoulder from a little bench behind him.

  “Since last night,” Maria says. “He took Nick’s car.”

  “He stole your car? I can put out an APB on it.”

  “For sure. He—” Nick starts as he is interrupted by a plainclothes cop with a gold badge dangling over the words CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE IS STILL DISOBEDIENCE ironed onto his t shirt.

  “Hey, Burnett.” the cop says, leaning in through the doorway in the glass partition that surrounds Burnett’s office. “You gotta see this guy we just picked up for DWB in a Maserati. We beat the crap out of him!” He laughs as he walks away.

  “He, um…” Nick stammers as he reconsiders his accusation. “It’s more like he borrowed my car. We’re pretty liberal about that kind of thing. You know. Sharing.”

  “Nick?” Maria says. “What are you talking about? You don’t even let any of us touch your Keurig machine.”

  “That’s different,” Nick backtracks. He misdirects them from the subject. “You guys look like you’re ready to go to war here.”

  Burnett releases a barely audible gasp as if he might have been nodding off before Nick’s question reacquired his attention. “Oh? Oh yeah. The department got a ton of funding since the mall massacre,” Burnett says. “We hired a lot of cops. Got new Chargers. Big guns. All the stuff they have in big cities.”

  “Are you expecting something to happen? Like another terrorist attack?” Maria asks.

  “Nah.” Burnett shakes his head dismissively. “It’s just boys with their toys and bureaucrats looking like they’re doing something.”

  “Can’t we file a missing person’s report?” Nick asks.

  “Well,” Burnett says. “You can, but since he’s a minor we can issue an AMBER alert. Those are more effective.”

  “Oh for God’s sakes,” Maria says, rolling her eyes. “That seems like a bit much.”

  “Those alerts work,” Burnett shrugs. “Everybody with an iPhone gets them. It’s wild stuff.”

  “He wasn’t kidnapped by a pedophile. He ran away because Tipper Gore here told him he can’t listen to rock music anymore.”

  “That music is disgusting!” Nick blurts out.

  “Nick, would you listen to us? We’re talking about APBs and AMBER alerts. He’s a teenager. Teenagers do these things. He has, what, a hundred dollars to his name and nowhere to stay? He’s not gonna live on the streets. He still cuts the crust off his peanut butter sandwiches for Christ’s sake. He’ll be back in a day or two.”

  “I want him found!” Nick says.

  “And then what? Are you going to shackle him to a pipe in the basement? Give him some space. It’s better for everyone.” Maria stands up from the bench and takes Nick by the shoulder. “Officer, I’m sorry we wasted your time.”

  Burnett shrugs as Nick stands up and follows her from the office. There is little use arguing with her. Once she makes up her mind, she doesn’t change it. He looks back through the glass partition as the detective returns to his submarine sandwich.

  “Really?” Nick grumbles, following Maria down the hallway. “You think this’ll just blow over?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Well, I’m going looking for him myself then.”

  “Fine. It can’t be that hard. He has like three friends. He’s either with them or at that pizza place with the video games. Or ask the phone company where he is.”

  “What? The phone company?”

  “He has that iPhone. Remember? Those things have GPS and location trackers and signal triangulators and all that jazz. Go to the phone store when they open and ask them where the phone is.”

  INT. WALK-IN FREEZER – DAWN

  “Let us out!” Stephen pounds the little window in the freezer door with his balled up fists, angrily repeating his shouts against the glass. “Let us out!”

  Behind him, Melissa crosses her arms tightly across her chest. “I think he left us.” Her voice shivers with the rest of her body. She’s only wearing a flimsy grey halter top that leaves her shoulders and most of her chest exposed.

  The freezer is only fifteen feet deep, and two thirds as wide. The walls are frosted silvery aluminum and the floor is red vinyl tiling in a grid of blackened grout. Cold steel shelves stacked with frozen food items take up most of the floor space.

  “Somebody has to hear.” Stephen backs away from the door, releasing the strips of translucent plastic curtain that dangle in the doorway. “Somebody will walk in looking for coffee or—I don’t know. When does the next person come in for work?”

  “Debbie got sick.” A cloud of steamy breath puffs from her lips. “I’m covering the store for a double.”

  “What does tha
t mean?”

  “I think Noah comes in at five.”

  “Okay. So like an hour. We can wait an hour.”

  “Five PM.”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “Call somebody.”

  “Oh yeah!” It’s a solution so simple Stephen feels like a doofus for not having already attempted it. He reaches into his pants pocket and draws the iPhone he liberated from his father’s possession. He illuminates the screen to make a call. NO SERVICE, all in caps occupies the upper left corner of the display. He tries anyway, dialing 911 as he knows emergency calls will often go through even outside regular service areas. He gets nothing.

  “I don’t have a signal in here,” Stephen says, listening to the silence and occasional soft clicks from the phone speaker as it futilely attempts to reach a tower. “Try yours.”

  “I left it on the counter outside.”

  “Fuck! What the fuck are we gonna do?” Stephen turns back to the door and pounds the glass again, this time scrunching the ends of his sweatshirt up in his numb fingers to try and keep them warm. “Hey! Let us out! Let us out!”

  “We n-n-need to c-cover up,” Melissa chatters.

  “With what? You got blankets?”

  “N-no.” Melissa reaches for a cardboard box stacked on a nearby shelf. She upturns it and dumps several gallon jugs of ice cream onto the floor. “Anything not metal. Just make a pile.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “W-we have to stay as warm as we can.” She punches the bottom out of the box and collapses it. She drops the flattened piece of cardboard in the corner of the freezer. “We can lay on flat boxes. It’s not as cold as the floor.” She looks past Stephen, to the freezer door and points at the strips of plastic hanging over it. “Help me take down that curtain.”

  INT. TARGET - DAY

  Sid wanders onto the shiny white tile floor of a place called Target. The giant retailer occupies the opposite end of the boomerang shaped shopping plaza from GameStop, and although it is visible across the parking lot every day through GameStop’s front window, Sid has only previously been inside for one brief reconnaissance visit. As far as he can tell, it differs from Wal-Mart in two ways 1) the paint scheme and 2) the abundance of young attractive women.