by Adam Bennett
Locking her door, she headed out.
Jonny was holed up in a boarding house in the Bronx which meant she faced a subway ride. As she rode standing, her right hand clutching the strap, her body swaying as the car squealed on its metal wheels, her dark eyes swept over the people around her. No one paid any attention to her, a nondescript woman wearing baggy beige clothes and a windbreaker to hide her guns. She fit right in with them. A Hispanic. This is how she wanted to appear. Next time she’d be mixed race. Or maybe white. Sometimes, with the right makeup, she even passed as black.
When she arrived at the Brook Ave station, Mandy headed west along One Thirty Eighth Street. The sun slanted into her eyes and she squinted as she wove amongst the people hanging out on the sidewalks, yelling in Spanish to each other. The neighbourhood was rough, made up mostly of immigrants and the poor. Few women would dare its streets with nightfall pending, but Mandy wasn’t afraid. Not of the neighbourhood. Not of anything.
Jonny’s building stood at the corner of Brown Street, a red brick three story with a bodega on the first floor and rooming units above. The security system consisted of a basic lock on the stairwell door which Mandy picked in seconds. She slipped inside and headed up the stairs. Graffiti covered the walls in layers, declaring the building had belonged first to one gang then another. Trash piled in little drifts in the corners. Beer cans, bottles, twice used syringes. Just finding a place to step was risking one’s life.
When she reached the third floor, Mandy studied her surroundings, seeking the obvious threats, contemplating the hidden ones. Loud music thumped from behind door number one. Sounded like Maluma’s latest. A man and a woman were arguing in Spanish behind door number two while a baby wailed. Mandy moved past them.
Behind door number three was Jonny’s current place to flop. She stole up to it on silent feet and listened intently. Silence reigned from beyond. Was he home? Maybe he’d stayed with the girl’s mother for the night. Or grabbed a bite to eat. Or grabbed a person to murder.
Mandy regretted that she hadn’t completed a full survey of the building before she’d come this far. She didn’t want to break into an empty apartment. Doing so would not only be a waste of time but would warn Jonny. He’d flee the city and she’d lose him. As she stood in the sweltering hallway that smelled of urine and cigarette smoke, Mandy castigated herself. What was it about Jonny that had made her lose her edge? She’d never acted this impetuously before.
She heard movement inside the apartment, telling her Jonny was indeed home. Just as she started to jimmy the lock, a door opened further down the hallway. Mandy froze and glared at the interloper. An elderly black woman wearing a Gele and colourful African robes blinked at her but didn’t move. Slowly Mandy raised her pistol and touched her lips with the barrel. The old woman turned around and trundled back into her unit.
Mandy’s heart raced. She’d been seen. That had never happened before.
Move, girl. Now!
Mandy didn’t waste time picking the lock. She rammed the butt of her pistol against the mechanism, shattering the thin bit of wood that held the door in place. The door slammed open and she leaped inside, pistol in both hands.
Jonny froze in the middle of the fetid little room, a can of beer halfway to his mouth.
Mandy closed the door with her foot, never taking her eyes or her aim off the man.
His arm slowly lowered the beer can. “Are you out of your mind?” he asked.
Although Mandy had heard recordings of Jonny’s voice, its soft richness startled her. As did his lack of alarm. He stood eyeing her without fear, his breathing slow and steady, his hand holding the beer can lightly without visible tremor.
That’s my boy; never let them see you sweat.
With a look of amusement, he set down the beer can. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. The position made his white t-shirt bulge against the muscles of his chest.
“Jonathan Albert Jensen,” she said.
His lips twitched as if he was fighting down a smile. His dark eyes swept over her. He didn’t look impressed. “That’s my name, but do you know who I am?” He leaned in as he stressed the final three words.
“You’re the Blind Man killer.” If Mandy had any doubts before entering that apartment, his reaction erased them.
Those beautifully cruel lips curved into the smile he’d been holding back. “And you think you’re going to take me down, little girl? Me?” He still made no move to either attack or escape.
Mandy’s eyes shot around the room, seeking anything he could use against her. The black knapsack beside the sagging bed had to be his murder kit. The look in his eyes told her he knew she could shoot him before he reached it. The kitchenette appeared to be empty. Clearly Jonny didn’t cook.
“Where’s your daughter?” she demanded when she realised the girl wasn’t in sight and Jonny had rented only the single room.
Jonny’s brows came together. Even his confusion made him look beautiful. “I don’t have a daughter.”
“The girl from the park!” Mandy shouted. Her hands began to shake. She’d made too many mistakes. Failing to discover the girl. The woman in the hallway seeing her face. Acting too impulsively to take Jonny down before she’d made proper arrangements. Hell, it was all going bad.
Jonny chuckled, a deep, rumbling chuckle that probably sent chills through the hearts of his victims. The beauty of it made Mandy’s heart pound. “She’s my niece.”
Mandy’s breath whooshed. Her entire stance eased. “Really? She’s not your kid?”
Jonny faced her with his hands on his hips. He still made no move to defend himself. He seemed to find the entire conversation funny. “She’s my sister’s kid. Margaret’s been in the hospital for the past two weeks. Car accident. I’m looking out for the little brat until she’s better.”
Mandy’s control broke. With a cry of delight, she threw herself into his chest. He was so stunned he stumbled backwards, his shoulders slamming into the wall. Then Mandy’s mouth was probing his, her tongue hot and hungry, diving between his teeth to taste the depths of him. He laid his hands on her hips lightly, not holding her, not pushing her away.
Mandy finally came up for air. Gasping, she ran her lips across his face as her arms gripped his muscled shoulders. “I have been searching for you for so long!”
“Ok. Who are you?”
Mandy pulled back just enough to view his face. Her own was beaming.
She saw him calculating how he’d grab her gun. She didn’t care.
“The FBI calls me Monster.”
Surprise flashed in Jonny’s dark eyes. His lips parted and she caught the slight intake of breath.
“Monster?” he repeated. “The guy who’s killed ninety-eight people?”
Mandy nodded. “Only I’m not a guy.”
Jonny felt her chest pressing into his. “No, I don’t think you are,” he said. He still sounded winded.
“I’ve been looking for you my entire life!” she gushed, kissing his neck between words. “I’ve modelled my career after you. You’re my hero, Jonny.”
He set her at arms-length. His face revealed his suspicion.
“What do you want from me?” His eyes darted to the door. Wondering, she knew, if an attack was coming. If she was a diversion.
“I want you, Jonny!”
She kissed him hotly. Madly. He didn’t refuse her.
She plundered his mouth a second time, her free hand running over his entire body, loving the feeling of his hardening against her. His arms finally came to life. He pulled her to him.
“You and me are the perfect pair,” she murmured against his throat. “Perfect killers.”
He wasn’t interested in talking. He had his hand working at her belt buckle.
“Ninety-nine to ninety-eight,” she said, letting him do whatever he wanted.
“What?” He freed the buckle.
“Your ninety-nine kills to my ninety-eight. I need only mor
e to be your equal.”
Jonny blinked at her but it was too late. She raised the pistol and fired point blank. Jonny fell like a stone at her feet.
Mandy stood considering the pool of blood spreading towards her feet. She took two steps back and wiped her hand over her forehead. Then she holstered her weapon. Pulling a bit of cotton from a pocket, she wiped down every inch of Jonny’s body to make sure she left no fingerprints behind. Then she swept the apartment, cleaning every surface as she backed her way to the door. She made sure the knobs were clean as she pulled it closed.
Then she solved her last problem, the woman down the hall, with the same cool professionalism of all her kills.
Humming happily, the most prolific serial killer in American history slipped from the building and fled New York.
Mandy Villanova Loves her Work was first published in RELATIONSHIP ADD VICE: A Thrilling Mashup of Romance and Crime along with 20 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.
The Hunters
Sam M. Phillips
Two men walked beneath an illusionary sky. High above their heads the glass refracted light to recreate a sunset; golden and pink on the horizon, rising to purple and a darkening blue. The air in the dome was artificially chilled and filled with the musty pollen of robotic flowers and a whiff of spice from the expensive cologne dispensers built into their wrists. The two men were here to enjoy an evening’s entertainment; a spot of hunting and then dinner in the lodge. This was their second home; a place of relaxation, a way to retreat from their responsibilities in the tower.
The two men wore suits of spun gold thread with cold fusion circuit highlights dancing their patterns. They walked over to the gene splicing unit, an elaborate display panel with holographic imagery. Flicks of the eyes let them scan their choices; most were pre-programmed, specially designed species.
“Let’s go for something new, I’m bored with the same old stock,” said Jolek, the taller and thinner of the two men, his features sharp and wolf-like, the irises of his youthful eyes flashing indigo then violet to show his mood. He ran a hand through oily black hair and licked his sharpened teeth.
“Fine, but you’re going to have to make some choices, I’m sick of picking for you,” said Voro, a slightly older and stouter man, his copper dyed hair framing a round face with little slit eyes and a pointed nose.
“Okay, I want something fast; give it some wings, will you? And a tail, a long one. Something I can track across the sky.”
“Why not just a bunch of legs? More versatile, maybe we could make a jumper?”
“I thought I was picking?”
“Fine,” sighed Voro, stabbing with his eyes, picking a few templates. “Anything else?”
“Make it glow in the dark and we’ll turn the lights down.”
“Fluorescence or phosphorescence?”
“I don’t care, just make the thing light up so I can light it up!” said Jolek, laughing.
“Fine. There we are. To your liking, master?”
“I like when you call me master.”
“Well don’t get used to it, peasant.”
“That, not so much.”
“Fine, but your family did claw its way up the tower from the lower reaches, right?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“New money and all that,” said Voro with a dismissive wave.
“Money is money!” snapped Jolek petulantly.
“Yes, it is, and this what it buys.” Voro waved his hand grandly as the sky went pitch dark and the gene splicer wrote its code through the birthing units. A great shriek pierced the air as slimy creatures emerged from an unseen portal. They shook off the ectoplasm of the birthing units and cracked their wings. They glowed with a vibrant green and blue light as they shot into the air in a great flock.
“Oh my, they’re fast!” said Jolek, his veins filling with excitement as he dialled up the chemicals in his bloodstream using his brain bug.
“Yes! Yes! They sure are!” yelled Voro, urging his own brain bug to give him a shot of courage and a shot of stamina. He flapped his tongue around madly as he ran to the gun rack, Jolek close behind, his senses shooting like stars behind his eyes. He began to whoop as he selected a pulse rifle, smacking his fingers along the side in a well-practiced combo to arm it. Jolek made a mad rattling sound and picked up a pair of fluted plasma splash pistols. He got his brain bug to arm them; he was already starting to lose control.
They stood on the black firing platform suspended above the ground on a gravity field. It moved towards the flock of crazed glowing shapes flapping about in a frenzy. Guns blazed, lighting up the faces of the two men in flashes of silver, the joy of the hunt filling them. The circuits on their suits danced as their brains were lost to the thrill of chemically enhanced satisfaction.
The glowing birds exploded one by one, shot through with superheated packets of plasma and lightning arcs of laser beams. Soon they were all gone and Jolek and Voro let their smoking weapons fall. Tiny servo-bots danced out to catch the precious guns and return them to their racks. The two men jumped up and down and looked at each other madly.
“I got so many! More than you!” screamed Jolek in Voro’s face.
“You cheat,” said Voro, pointing at the pair of plasma splashes in the rack.
“Cheat? You selected your own weapon,” sneared Jolek.
“I thought we were going for pulse rifles—single shots! I’m a marksman. You just sprayed and splashed all over the place—took out three at a time. It’s not good sportsmanship. It’s a waste of good targets!”
“Oh, it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
“No, you cheated!” Voro was wild, spitting his words, his mind crazed by the drugs still zapping his synapses.
“I will not be called a cheat! I’m your equal! We both work in the tower, both on the same level.”
Voro munched his lips in madness. “Equal? My family has risen far higher than yours ever could! Level forty my father is, level sixty three my grandfather. You’re nothing, nobody!”
“Nobody?” Jolek was pacing in circles, slapping his hands together and spitting on the ground. “I demand we settle this!” he shouted, turning to Voro, his eyes flashing red and yellow.
“Fine!”
“In the sump, then!”
“The sump?” Voro bit clear through his lip, his fear momentarily overcoming his brain bug.
“Yes, no way to cheat there, hmm?”
Voro willed another shot of courage into his bloodstream. He gave out a gasp and stomped his foot. Shaking his head his straightened up and got right in Jolek’s face.
“Yes, no way to cheat. Fine, yes! Yes! The sump, down in the bloody pit with the scum. Kill a few rabble and show who’s really high up in the tower then, eh?”
“Yes, kill a few, who would miss them? Kill them all! I don’t care!”
“Kill count? Kill count?” urged Voro, scratching his arm frantically.
“Fifty! No, one hundred!”
“Fine! You’re on—loser pays for the winner to go up a level.”
Jolek shuddered to think of the cost. He didn’t have any level forty father to bail him out. Still he wasn’t going to back down. He was going to win.
“Agreed!” he said, his hand snaking out to shake his opponent’s. They shook and an electrical shock passed from man to man. They both looked at each other with sober eyes for a moment and realised what they had got themselves in for. They both gasped and shuddered as the drugs rattled around their brains.
“Gah!” said Jolek, his teething rattling as stars shot in front of his eyes. “Let’s go get a drink at the lodge, it stinks out here.”
“Fine,” said Voro, his skin stretching and contracting in strange waves of hot and cold.
The platform carried them off to the lodge, leaving behind melting piles of glowing flesh on the range. Servo-bots shimmied out to clean up the mess.
* * *
Voro urged his
brain bug to fill him with calm. He felt his body relax a little too much as his breathing slowed. He added a touch of focus. Everything sharpened up. Perfect.
He was crouched on a broken ledge of concrete in the lower reaches of the sump. The air was hazy and heavy and smelt of acid and mud. Green condensation gathered on the wall and oozed to the floor where it formed pools of toxic sludge. It was hot; a giant fire illuminated the space spread out before him, a tall chamber with galleries overlooking.
He checked the status of his bio-suit using his optics interface. Blue lines and red circles gave his well-trained eye the information; external toxins were being blocked or filtered, body temperature normalised. His brain bug made everything crystal clear. It was like looking into the sparkling brightness of cold night air. He was so aware of everything; the dancing shapes around the fire could be made out in breathtaking detail.
There were five of them; sump scum, ex-human bottom dwellers, anthropomorphic figures with melted faces and twisted limbs, ragged clothes and no shoes. They slugged from broken bottles and spat curses at one another, shooting crude pistols into the fire. Voro felt nothing but contempt for them. A natural urge to kill rose up in him and bucked against the restraint of his brain bug. It told him to relax, to wait, more would come.
He hunkered down and disabled the micro-lasers in his hands. With a thought his suit unfolded at the back and a long purple seed pod dropped free. He picked it up and caressed its smooth form, soothing it with a silent song. It shuddered, its surface going rough and then smooth once more. Lights played along its veins like a muted lightning storm. He tapped it gently and urged it free of its shell; it was being unusually shy.
Finally, with much coaxing and encouragement, it emerged. Cracking free of it casing it slipped into his hands covered in primordial slime. It writhed there, trusting its master, willing to go to work for the purpose for which it was designed. He stroked the fleshy mass, knowing it loved him, needed him. It was hungry and he was going to feed it. He had programmed the gene splicer specially to create this little beauty, an organic weapon that could interact directly with him.