Anatomy of Evil

by Brian Pinkerton

  His gun clicked without firing. Out of bullets.

  He exploded in anger and threw the gun away. He remained stuck in the wreckage. One of his arms was crushed and pinned in the entanglement of engine, dashboard and front seat.

  Rodney let out an anguished cry of fury. This was not how it was supposed to end.

  Then he glimpsed something that immediately seized his attention: a small, black box that had been thrown from the vehicle by the impact of the crash. It sat among the wreckage like another piece of debris.

  The bomb detonator.

  Rodney devoted every ounce of his remaining strength to a single mission: reaching the detonator.

  He pushed with his damaged legs, twisted his bleeding torso and strained every muscle in his body…gradually tearing himself free from his trapped limb.

  The bone separated, the tendons snapped and a stream of blood flowed under his shirt.

  Rodney picked up a large piece of broken glass and used it to cut through the stubborn, remaining parts of his arm that refused to break free.

  He screamed, then laughed, through the pain.

  He finally tore off the arm, completely separating it from his shoulder.

  Rodney tumbled out of the wreckage of the van, landing hard on the cement. He crawled toward the detonator, dragging his broken legs, pulling himself with his remaining arm. He reached the detonator. His hand dropped on the device, grabbing it.

  “Stop right there,” said a thin, scared voice.

  Rodney looked up. A nervous young sheriff’s deputy stood above him, pointing a gun. The young man’s hand shook. Surely he had never encountered anything like this before in his life. His uniform appeared freshly pressed.

  Rodney looked at him and grinned. “Would you like to handcuff me?” He shifted his weight and offered his bloody stump to the man.

  “I said don’t move,” said the deputy, louder, unable to hold back an expression of total revulsion.

  “Okay, you got me,” said Rodney. “I won’t move…after this one…last…thing.”

  Rodney pressed the button on the detonator.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Kelly heard an enormous blast and witnessed the red flash in her rearview mirror.

  The entire car lifted off the ground for a moment, bouncing on its wheels as it continued shooting forward.

  A howling wind filled Kelly’s ears. A thick layer of darkness expanded across the sky, shutting off the daylight like a sudden switch. The darkness took on a red tint, obscuring faraway details, engulfing the car in a cloud of fog.

  Kelly realized she was losing speed. The needle on the speedometer was dropping steadily…from 60 to 50…to 40, then 30…

  She pressed the accelerator flat to the floorboard, but it didn’t help. She felt a powerful pull on the car. The sky turned a deeper, blood-like red, unlike anything she had ever seen before.

  She knew from her research that the uniqueness of the inversion bomb came from its release of energy. Instead of pushing outward, the blast created a massive suction, collapsing inward.

  Kelly felt the powerful magnetic pull. She screamed in anger at its force. The speedometer dropped to zero.

  The car began rolling in reverse.

  She tried slamming the brakes. She tried to change gears. She tried to apply the emergency brake. Nothing stopped the car from returning toward town. She could smell the burning rubber of the tires.

  Then the car lifted, losing traction with the road, moving more quickly in reverse toward the center of the fiery blast.

  Kelly let go of the steering wheel and turned around in her seat. She faced their destination through the broken back window.

  Main Street of her small rural hometown had erupted into a raging storm of flames and swirling, demonic faces. She could see other cars being sucked into the chasm, along with the tiny, flailing shadows of innocent people.

  The souls of the damned whipped through the sky, celebrating their freedom. Kelly caught a glimpse of Carol, then Sam, ghastly and hideous, more monster than human. Carol’s mouth opened wide and she screeched, “Kelllllllleeee.” Sam commanded in a thick, ugly voice, “Come join us.”

  “NO!” screamed Kelly. She reached deep into the back seat for Christina and hugged her tight. She buried Christina’s face into her sweater, hiding her eyes from witnessing the horrific visions ahead. As the Mazda advanced closer to the mouth of hell, Kelly shut her own eyes and accepted her fate.

  The car began to slow down as it reached the center of town. The speed dropped rapidly, as if the pull had loosened its grip. The tires reconnected with the road. Kelly heard the howling winds subside. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense a sudden brightness returning around them.

  Kelly felt the car roll to a stop.

  A strange calm replaced the violent, thrashing roar of the storm.

  Kelly opened her eyes.

  The Mazda rested only a few yards from the bomb’s epicenter, a small but powerful black crater where the van once stood.

  The rage of the red storm had vanished, leaving little physical destruction in its wake.

  Stunned, Kelly looked down at Christina.

  Christina illuminated with a soft white glow.

  “Don’t be afraid, mommy,” she said.

  Kelly tumbled back into the front seat, falling against the dashboard. She couldn’t comprehend the dramatic shift from the wrath of the bomb blast to this sudden serenity. The shimmering glow around Christina lit up the inside of the car, strong and clear.

  “Christina, honey, how…what…” she said, unable to find the words. Then she remembered the words of Calvin Beck from her visit to his bedside, where he defined hell as an energy fueled by the sinful desires of every man and woman. Beck had stated, “The only ones who are immune are the very young, pure at heart, not yet tainted by the temptations of evil. The strongest power of good rests with them.”

  She also recalled Beck’s story about the fishing boat off the coast of Kiritimati. The fishing boat contained a family with two small children. In the children’s presence, the red storm at sea subsided, as if overpowered.

  Kelly realized that Christina was not a weak and vulnerable child in the grip of demons but a powerful force against the essence of evil.

  Small red sparks began to dance in the sky around the stopped car. The tiny flashes appeared few and far between, and then increased like a growing swarm of insects. Kelly heard a sputtering hum. The storm was fighting to regain strength. She felt a renewed pull on the car. The hum grew, accompanied by a fresh, swirling wind.

  Kelly grabbed the wheel of the car. She slammed her foot on the accelerator. As she raced down the road, away from the scene of the bomb blast, the sky began to darken again, shutting out the light and replacing it with a heavy, ugly coat of red.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw the red storm continue to flash and crackle and then reignite. She sped away from its restored power, creating enough distance to avoid its reach.

  She heard the growing howl of destruction behind her, followed by the collective scream of billions of condemned souls. She had escaped with Christina, but there was no stopping the deliverance of hell on earth.

  Christina, good and pure, was not enough to hold back the full wrath of evil.

  Up ahead, on the side of the road, Kelly saw a line of little people filing into a bus. She slowed down to get a look, realizing it was a school evacuation underway.

  Kelly pulled over to the curb with an abrupt screech. She wanted to help. The powerful red storm would soon expand to reach the school. The teachers worked quickly to usher the children into the bus. The side of the bus read: Little Ones Pre-K Daycare, embellished with colorful illustrations of animals, balloons and a rainbow.

  As Kelly watched the children board the bus, she witnessed a shimmering white glow. It appear
ed as an outline around each child and gradually took over the entire bus. It was the same white glow she had seen on Christina, a shield-like coating exposed in the red tint of the storm clouds.

  “Oh my God,” said Kelly, staring at the children. She recalled Beck’s words about the very young. The strongest power of good rests with them. Kelly thought about Christina’s impact on the force of the storm and imagined amplifying it.

  At that moment, Kelly realized her mission. It became crystal clear, a revelation. There was only one way to confront the depths of evil and that was through the purest of good.

  “C’mon, honey!” Kelly parked and stepped out of the car. She opened the back seat and reached for Christina. Christina jumped into her arms.

  Carrying Christina, Kelly ran to the bus.

  The teachers stood at the front of the bus entrance, watching Kelly’s approach. The final two children climbed aboard.

  “Please take my child!” said Kelly.

  “Hurry,” said one of the teachers, a middle-aged woman with her hair in a bun. Panic stricken, she eyed the expanding storm. “They have to leave immediately!”

  Kelly boarded the bus with Christina. She found Christina a seat and returned to the front of the bus. She told the driver, “They want you outside.”

  “What?” said the driver, a wrinkled and confused old man in a baseball cap.

  “They need to talk with you—the teachers—you need to get off the bus. Now!”

  Kelly’s hysterical, urgent tone convinced him and he left the driver’s seat to scramble down the bus steps.

  As the driver stepped off the bus, Kelly heard him ask, “What is it? What is it?”

  “Why are you off the bus?” screamed one of the teachers. “Get back on there and take those children away from here!”

  Kelly jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the bus doors shut.

  The driver began pounding on the door, immediately joined by the teachers.

  Kelly looked up into the broad mirror that displayed the rows of young children behind her.

  The bus was full.

  “Okay, kids, hold on tight,” she said.

  Kelly fumbled with the gears for a moment until she figured out how to put it into drive. It was not unlike some of the farm vehicles she had operated as a youth.

  The adults outside increased their pounding against the side of the bus, faces stricken with alarm.

  “What are you doing, you crazy woman!” screamed one of the teachers.

  Kelly pulled the bus away from the curb. Several teachers gave chase but quickly fell behind. Kelly drove away from the school, advancing farther from the red cloud that hovered over the devastated downtown.

  Then she slowed down.

  Kelly pulled a U-turn.

  She heard the shrill chatter of confusion in the seats behind her. Several kids started crying.

  Kelly aimed the daycare bus for the red storm. She said a small prayer. She floored the gas pedal.

  Kelly caught a glimpse of the mortified teachers and stunned bus driver in front of the school as she sped past them.

  She knew they didn’t understand. They couldn’t possibly understand. To them, Kelly was a psychotic woman hijacking a bus load of innocent children to send them to their doom.

  Kelly looked again into the large mirror reflecting the seats behind her. The children had started to settle down, transfixed by the roaring speed of the bus. Kelly witnessed a bright, shimmering glow.

  The glow amplified like a crackling, intense energy. She felt a feeling of faith wash across her, justifying her actions. These untainted souls represented the purity of the human spirit, a collective strength more powerful than any force of evil. She saw Christina sitting among the others, smiling, not afraid.

  The bus hurtled forward. Kelly drove directly into the center of the firestorm.

  A powerful splash of red surrounded the bus, spinning them into disorientation, roaring with the collective anguish of a billion tortured souls.

  An explosion shook the bus and then a searing white light ripped across the sea of red. The storm clouds peeled away, vanishing into a flurry of sparks until only the bright white light remained.

  The blinding light consumed everything. Then it softened, bringing clarity to the surroundings.

  Kelly caught her breath. The school bus sat in the center of downtown, undamaged.

  The firestorm unleashed by the bomb had disappeared, retreating to an inner dimension, closing the gateway to hell.

  The children murmured, stunned and excited. A few had fallen to the floor, others whimpered in fear, but as Kelly surveyed the scene, no one looked seriously hurt.

  “Stay here,” she told the children. “I’m going to check outside.”

  Kelly opened the bus door. She staggered down the steps until her feet landed on the pavement.

  The small downtown area showed signs of damage, but nothing as destructive as the hallucinatory images created by the blast. As Kelly walked down the street, she saw people who had been knocked around by the storm slowly begin to rise, dirty and tattered, but alive. Soon, most of the bodies that littered the area became survivors, wounded but standing, coughing, shaken up and shellshocked by the red storm that had attacked their small town.

  One body remained lying in the road, not rising, a bloody mess. Kelly walked over to get a closer look and confirm her suspicions.

  It was Rodney.

  He had been flung fifty feet by the power of the blast. His face was badly burned, his clothing shredded and limbs broken. One of his arms was missing, cut off at the shoulder, replaced by a bloody, charred stump.

  She stood over him and looked down.

  “You were wrong,” she told him.

  He stirred, looking up at her.

  She said, with full conviction, “We are born good.”

  Tears formed in Rodney’s eyes, leaking into his open cuts and burned flesh.

  Watching him, she realized he had returned. This was the old Rodney, the real Rodney, stripped of all evil, returned to his core being of good.

  He tried to form words. His lips parted. He struggled to tell her something. A short utterance escaped his throat. She thought it sounded like, “I’m sorry.”

  Then he was dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The army moved into Cody, Illinois and immediately constructed a massive, heavily guarded concrete bunker to contain the unusual puncture in the atmosphere. Main Street was diverted to a new location for downtown built many miles from the scene of the firestorm.

  Local farmers feared their crops would never flourish again. They became pleasantly surprised when they yielded a strong, healthy output the following spring, showing no signs of contamination.

  Citizens who had witnessed the blast continued to suffer from nightmares and visions, but exhibited no lasting physical effects.

  The official cause of the explosion became muddled in political positioning, evasive jargon and bureaucratic noise. Homeland Security summed it up as homegrown terrorists brewing an experimental bomb. No one could explain why four exemplary, upholding citizens had gone bad, but soon enough people stopped trying to rationalize it, concluding that human nature never did follow a predictable path.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  John and Connie Thielen arrived at the boat rental shack surprised to find an unfamiliar face.

  “Hello,” said the tanned, older man with an American accent. “How may I help you today?”

  “What happened to Jamarqui?” asked John, carrying his fishing pole and tackle box. He and his wife wore colorful, matching beachwear, glistening with fresh sunscreen.

  “Jamarqui,” said the man, looking down at the sand. He shook his head sadly. “Jamarqui passed away. We believe he may have capsized at sea. They never found the body.”

&nbs
p; “How horrible,” said Connie. “We’ve been coming here every year for vacation. He was always so wonderful and helpful. We’re going to miss him.”

  The stranger held out his hand. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Louis. After Jamarqui’s unfortunate passing, I acquired his business. I’m a resident of Kiritimati, originally from Tennessee. I see you brought your fishing poles. You came to experience some of our outstanding fishing?”

  “You bet,” said John. “That’s why we keep coming back. There’s nothing like it on the planet.”

  “You got that right,” said Louis. He produced a map of the island and indicated an area outside the shoreline circled in red.

  “If you want to experience the best bonefish and trevally fishing of your life, that’s the spot,” said Louis.

  John studied the map. “That looks like the area Jamarqui told us to avoid.”

  Louis nodded with a smile. “Ah, yes. Jamarqui was…very protective. He wanted to save that area for himself and his friends. It was very profitable for them. I’m letting the secret out so more people can enjoy it. It’s the greatest fishing you will ever experience.”

  “Wow, great,” said John. He turned toward the harbor to face the selection of boats gently bobbing in the water. “You’ve still got the same fleet?”

  “Got ’em all,” said Louis. “Take your pick. You can’t go wrong. It’s a beautiful day, the sea is calm, and the sun is shining. You’re going to have one hell of a time.”

  About the Author

  Brian Pinkerton tells stories to frighten, amuse and intrigue. His novels include Abducted, Vengeance, Killer’s Diary, Bender, Rough Cut and How I Started the Apocalypse. Select titles have also been released as audio books and in foreign languages. Brian’s short stories have appeared in Chicago Blues, PULP!, The Horror Zine and Zombie Zoology. Brian lives in the Chicago area with his family. He beckons you to visit him at www.brianpinkerton.com, Goodreads and on Facebook.

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