Serial Killers Incorporated

by Andy Remic

  ‘I am a pawn.’

  ‘No. It is a test.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘A test of strength. Of violence. Of character.’

  ‘For me?’ Cal was incredulous. ‘Why would you want to test me?’

  ‘That comes later. You see, there is a place, a place of stunning... equilibrium. It is called Iriys. It is my homeland. My world. My paradise. And yet it is becoming corrupted; slowly, like treacle rolling down over glass, all visibility is being eroded.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I do not expect you to understand. Only to do your best. And to obey.’

  ‘How is your paradise becoming corrupted?’

  ‘By the Deviant Strain which is invading your world, the First Level. How could you understand? Any of you people? You are blind to the things which lie before your very eyes. It is as if, with your recent evolution, you have evolved technologically... but in real terms, in terms of the primitive brain, you have devolved as a species. You are trying to forget the past million years in lieu of a couple of hundred.’

  ‘How so devolved?’

  ‘Your ancestors, Callaghan, they understood of what I speak. They built monuments, markers, to keep the Deviants at bay; to keep The Killers from returning to your State. But, as with so many things, there is a price. And with your clever egotistical self–congratulatory increasing technological advances so your meagre brains deny and block out history, evolution, ancestry, your heritage. You blind yourselves to that which you call the supernatural; you think you have all the answers – when in fact, they slip through your fingers like the fine sands of time.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s because you are way down low on a very steep learning curve.’

  ‘And where does my “learning curve” lead?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Mr Callaghan.’

  ‘Will it lead to... Iriys?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe it will lead to Vela.’

  ‘Vela?’

  ‘The Land of the Dead.’

  ‘Ahh. Now I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a threat. I like threats. I know where I stand with threats. Threats are normal. But all this talk of devolution, and other realms and states and bollocks? Well, I’m just a normal guy – Morana? – I’m just a bloke trying to earn a living, fight his way through life, snort a few drugs, fuck a few women and to hell with the consequences.’

  ‘You lie.’

  ‘Do I? Shit, just look at my history, girl!’

  ‘That was then. This is now. You’ve changed. And you understand more than you admit.’

  They stared at one another.

  Callaghan licked his lips.

  ‘Well,’ he said, slowly, ‘if I understand so damned much, why the hell doesn’t my brain know about it?’

  The girl laughed then; her bloodied sword rasped against the stone parapet. Cal looked up, and looked around. They stood on battlements; the fighting platform of some huge, endless castle. The wind blew, forlorn. Mourned through the turrets.

  ‘Look to Volos as your tutor.’

  ‘That murderer? He’s barely fucking human.’

  ‘Once, many decades ago, he was just like you.’

  Callaghan thought about this.

  ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This is just a bad dream. Soon, I’m going to wake up and face the shit that is reality. And you know what I’m going to do then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Run away.’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Mia will die.’

  ‘How can you know that? This is just a dream.’

  ‘Your dream, Mr Callaghan. Tell me, if you could have anything in the world, anything in existence, what would it be?’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Be truthful now.’

  ‘I’d live through this shit.’

  ‘And Mia?’

  ‘And I’d have Mia live, as well. Of course. That goes without saying.’

  The girl’s dark eyes met Callaghan’s and he saw an infinity of darkness there. And he realised: despite appearances, this was no child, no babe, no human with which he conversed. Her eyes bled backwards into infinity. And he shivered.

  ‘Self preservation.’ Morana smiled. ‘I like that.’

  Callaghan came awake and instantly knew something was wrong. ‘What is it?’ He sat up; realised they were screaming down the fast lane of the motorway.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Company?’

  Volos growled from the front of the Mercedes where he sat, hunched forward over the steering wheel, his bulky leather–clad physique making the steering wheel appear a child’s toy in overlarge hands. ‘Mercs. Three of them. We think they belong to your good pal Vladimir.’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ snapped Cal. He was fully awake now, staring back through the rear window. The black Mercs were lined across all three carriageways, headlights glowing, engines growling, tyres chewing snow–slush as they swerved and paced and lunged ahead...

  ‘Callaghan, can you take the wheel?’

  Cal nodded, and climbed awkwardly forward between the seats, falling into the footwell of the passenger side. He pulled himself up, and they managed to squeeze past one another, the Merc suddenly decelerating until Cal got in place and rammed his foot to the floor – but... it was too late.

  The pursuing cars were upon them.

  With a massive wham they were rammed, and the jolt snatched the steering wheel from Callaghan’s grip and sent them careening across the motorway. They hit the central reservation in a shower of grinding sparks, metal screaming on metal, the car juddering violently as if raped.

  ‘Give me your gun,’ snarled Volos.

  Sophie hesitated, then passed over her 9mm Makarov from the depths of her bag. Volos leaned towards the Merc’s rear window, and with a mighty punch slammed a hole through the glass. Cubes trailed away like diamonds. He broke more pieces free and glared out, eyes lit by the charging headlights of their pursuers...

  He levelled the Makarov – and began to fire.

  Bullets screamed across the space, riddled holes up the windscreen of the lead motor; and as the gun gave its dead man’s click so the final bullet entered the skull of the driver. The Merc slammed right, barged past its comrade with a shower of sparks and crumpling steel panels, hit the central reservation and went up on two wheels where it seemed to teeter for an infinity – then curled slowly over, slamming down on its roof and spinning across the carriageway, a body flung free from one torn door and lost immediately into the gobbling darkness...

  ‘Bullets?’ said Volos calmly, and held out his hand.

  He changed magazines, eyes fixed on the road. Only one Mercedes was in close pursuit. The second, after its battering, howled distantly trying to make up lost ground.

  Volos levelled the Makarov again –

  And Callaghan heard a rattle.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Another rattle...

  ‘An Uzi,’ said Sophie, as bullets suddenly slapped up the car, pinging and zipping. Several entered the cabin with insane whines, embedding in leather. Callaghan ducked, squawking. Even Volos lowered his head, Makarov pressed up against his pale–skinned cheek –

  With a surge the pursuing Mercedes leapt forward on a wave of adrenalin and hatred; a terrible, vicious monster. It rammed them for a second time, sending Callaghan’s hands scampering across the sweat–slippery wheel. Volos started firing, and the pursuing Merc swerved violently. The Uzi rattled, and bullets slapped the boot. Volos fired in return through the punched hole.

  ‘There!’ snapped Volos, as a slip–road slammed towards them; in reflex Callaghan yanked the steering wheel, heard the car scream, wheels losing traction, tyres squirming, and suddenly he was no longer in control as the Merc went into a sweeping pirouette, a vio
lent skid transgressing all spin, and Cal could hear nothing but the whum whum whum as they went round and round and Sophie and Volos were pinned to the back seat and Cal saw flashes of steel crash barriers leaping towards them and he stopped breathing heart stopped beating as a fist crushed his heart and the world descended into

  silence.

  Bronagh eased the Volvo up narrow back–roads, tyres spinning in snow, engine whining and tail–lights reflecting an eerie red glow against the white. Finally, the car stopped and Bronagh got out, shivered in the glow of the headlights, and crunched his way round to the rear door. He opened it, and gestured to Mia.

  She climbed free, and Bronagh grabbed her shoulder, dragging her round to the boot. He untied her hands from behind her back, and Mia rubbed at bruised torn flesh, her eyes questioning, head tilted to one side, but unwilling to speak... as if to speak to Bronagh would be to summon his wrath. And her own impending death.

  ‘Put these one.’

  He threw her a thick Berghaus gore–tex, and some waterproof over–trousers. She caught them, then glanced around at the total, solid ink black.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘For a bit of a walk.’

  ‘I’m injured.’

  ‘If you don’t walk, I’ll put a bullet in your belly and carry you.’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  She struggled into the thick clothing, which immediately cut out the chill of the wind. She pulled up her hood, which made her breathing rasp hollowly in her ears. Shit, she thought. What am I doing here? Where are we going? And, more importantly, how the hell do I escape this madman?

  In her mind’s eye, she could still see the stunned expression on the BMW woman’s face as the bullet slammed her forehead – and removed the back of her skull. And the pleading in the eyes of the petrol station attendant. Neither had deserved to die; and while he killed them, Bronagh’s face had shown... nothing. It was as if he was carrying out a job. A simple matter of extermination.

  Mia gritted her teeth. That fucker.

  He was a scourge on humanity.

  And death was by far too easy a punishment...

  Bronagh killed the Volvo’s headlights and the world plunged into a stunning abyss. He lit a small maglite, which cut a narrow bright beam from the pie. Then, he jabbed Mia roughly in the back with his Browning. ‘That way.’ He gestured with the bobbing light of the torch. ‘Start walking. And don’t even get any smart ideas.’

  They moved down a narrow road, overhung to one side by trees. To their right was a high embankment with a fence at its base. Their boots crunched snow, and looking back, distantly, Mia could make out lights. A farmhouse? A hotel? She breathed deeply. If she could get away from Bronagh... she had a destination to escape from this wilderness. Something to aim for. Some kind of sanctuary!

  First, she had to get away. She licked dry lips. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘Where in Wales?’

  His face loomed out of the darkness. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, bitch? Just keep your fucking mouth shut and walk.’ He prodded her again with the gun. Mia stumbled forward, falling, hands hitting the snow and sinking up to her wrists. She stood up, brushed snow from herself, and rubbed her chilled hands. The wind snapped at her. Bit her like a dog. She shivered.

  Mia walked, and within minutes they turned right, ducking into a low, flooded tunnel. Only as they climbed the hill on the other side did Mia glance back; and realise they’d passed under a railway line.

  Civilisation! But at this godforsaken time of the early hours, deserted.

  They started to climb a steep incline, Mia in front, Bronagh close behind. His maglite illuminated a small circle of snow. All around the darkness formed a formidable wall.

  Within minutes Mia was panting, and sweating heavily. The incline grew viciously steep, forcing Mia to stoop, sometimes using her hands in the cold snow to stop herself from slipping.

  As they climbed, so the biting wind increased in ferocity. It started once again to snow, a gentle peppering which whipped and snapped before the two tiny figures, cutting first one way, then doubling back under sudden gusts to crash against them.

  Bronagh chuckled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Mia sucked at chilled fingers. She saw Bronagh wore gloves.

  ‘The snow. It’ll hide our footprints.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Keep moving. We have a long way to go.’

  ‘I can’t say this is the best date I’ve ever been on.’ But Bronagh wasn’t listening; his brooding face was staring off into the blackness, head tilted, eyes lost in the eternity of velvet ink before them. He jabbed her again, and she moved forward, leg muscles screaming at her, her back and shoulders pounding her with pain. Her face throbbed with cold. Now, her hands were ice.

  Stumbling and cursing, they pushed on.

  The world spun round and round in Callaghan’s vision. He cried out, desperate for his old life back, desperate for the simplicity of fucking people over, snorting cocaine and playing infinite sex games to satiate his bestial lust. But life wasn’t like that. Now, he was being shot at, as he tried his best to crash the damned Mercedes...

  The Merc ended its spin, slid sideways onto a grass embankment and juddered to a raging squealing halt. The pursuing car slammed past, brake lights glowing red as it tried to stop its mad charge through sludge and snow. Volos leapt from the Merc, moved out into the centre of the deserted motorway, hair flowing, and watched the disappearing brake lights. His head snapped right. Eyes narrowed. The second pursuing car was thundering towards him at high speed...

  Coolly, Volos sighted down Sophie’s Makarov and... waited.

  ‘Start the engine,’ said Sophie.

  Cal glanced back. ‘What? Oh... yeah.’ The car had stalled. He turned the key off, then back on again. The starter rattled unhealthily. ‘Shit.’ He tried again, and with a plume of exhaust the large engine fired and warbled at them.

  ‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ said Callaghan.

  ‘Look,’ came Sophie’s quiet retort.

  The charging Mercedes screamed at Volos. He started to fire, long leather coat gleaming with snow–melt, large hands with taloned nails steady as he pumped casual lazy bullets into the screaming, flashing car...

  ‘It’s going to hit him!’ hissed Callaghan.

  Bullets smashed the windscreen. The engine was howling. At the last moment, Volos stepped aside and continued to fire the gun. The Merc wobbled, slewed left and rolled. Calmly, Volos pumped bullets into the undercarriage and suddenly a bloom of fire opened, gas and molten metal petals curling high into the sky with a muted boom. Fire roared. Sections of metal sailed into the air on a cloud of rolling black smoke, and scattered in a large radius across the snow–blanketed motorway. Thunder rolled. The thunder of detonation. Fire howled. Inside, somebody tried to crawl free but slumped back, burning, clawing at their own melting face.

  Volos strode towards Cal and Sophie, long coat flapping, dark eyes hidden. Behind, fire raged orange and Volos was silhouetted against this stark, brutish oil painting of violence.

  He climbed into the car. Ash clung to his pale face. ‘Drive,’ he commanded. His voice was death.

  Callaghan put the Merc in gear, and limping and rasping, the motor pulled up the embankment in a slew of snow and iced soil, and joined the slip–road. Accelerating, it slid and kicked, then moved up the slip–road and away from the scene of carnage.

  ‘There’s one car left,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Yes.’ Volos’s voice was dead.

  ‘It’s Vladimir.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’ll come after us.’

  ‘Good.’ Volos smiled. Piranha teeth gleamed under sodium streetlights. ‘Our next meeting is long overdue.’

  Volos guided Callaghan down dark deserted roads that seemed to go on forever. And, finally, a couple of hours before dawn, they trundled up a narrow track and stopped with a squeal of damaged brakes beside Bronagh’s hug
e Volvo. Snow was falling. Volos climbed out and touched the bonnet.

  ‘Cold.’

  Callaghan climbed free, stretched, yawned, shook his head. ‘This is madness.’

  ‘We have to stop Bronagh.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so concerned about Mia.’ Cal’s eyes took in Volos’s brooding, dangerous form. ‘I’m grateful,’ he added hurriedly as those orbs turned on him, ‘but I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I care nothing for Mia. She is just another victim. I will stop her death if possible... but – well, Bronagh has been a long hunt for me. His Deviant Strain runs hot and powerful; like the blood he takes. He is one of the Three, I think.’

  ‘The Three?’

  ‘The rulers, the leaders. Is that not so, Sophie?’

  Sophie, eyes narrowed, gave a simple nod.

  Callaghan shook his head, his thoughts so lost as to be unfathomable. The world has gone crazy, he kept thinking to himself. Over and over and over again. The fucking world’s an asylum. The human race has gone certifiably insane. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am stuck in the middle with you. Ha!

  Cal rubbed his throbbing head. At the back of his mouth, toothache nagged him like an old, bad friend who just wouldn't let go.

  ‘This way. I can make our footprints.’

  Cal nodded. ‘They can’t be far, then. It’s snowing.’

  ‘We must move fast, Callaghan. Are you sure you can keep up?’

  ‘You just watch me,’ he snarled.

  Distantly, lights dazzled from the black. ‘I think it’s Vladimir,’ said Sophie. The car was screaming, tyres smashing the snowy road. She tossed back her dark hair. Her eyes were bright. ‘Listen – you two go on. I’ll hold this motherfucker.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ said Callaghan, reaching out, touching her shoulder with a tenderness that surprised even himself.

  ‘Yes you are. Go on – go help Mia. I have some unfinished business.’

  ‘He’ll kill you,’ said Callaghan.

  Sophie laughed then. Slotted a new mag into the Makarov. ‘You think he’s the only one who can use a gun? Go on – go now!’ She pushed him. The pursuing Mercedes was getting frighteningly close. Sophie whirled, crouched behind her car’s bonnet, levelled the gun and fired off three shots. The screaming car slewed to a halt, engine burbling. Sophie fired off another three. ‘Go!’ she cried.