Serial Killers Incorporated

by Andy Remic

  ‘You sure you’ll be OK?’

  ‘Just fucking run!’

  ‘Sophie.’ A soft lullaby. ‘Is that you?’

  Sophie grinned to herself. Snow settled across her dark hair, prematurely ageing her. She peered over the bonnet, and leading with the Makarov, stood.

  Vladimir gave a short wave. ‘It’s OK! It’s me, Vlad!’

  Sophie aimed, and languorously, fired. The bullet whined to smash a hole in the Merc’s wing by Vladimir’s thigh. He yelped, skipping back, and scowled at her.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘What I should have done a long time ago.’

  ‘You’ll regret this!’

  ‘Why?’ Sophie laughed. ‘What are you going to do? Kill me as well? Torture me? Strip my skin? Sacrifice me, like you intend to sacrifice Mia?’

  ‘Mia is Bronagh’s trophy.’

  ‘You sicken me. I’ll ask you again – are you going to kill me?’

  Vladimir pulled free his Techrims. Good humour fell from his face like plague-melted flesh. Voice a low growl, he gave a single nod. ‘If that’s what it takes, Sophie. I'm pleading with you: don’t make me use force. Don’t do this.’

  ‘I’ll do what the fuck I want!’ she snarled, and sent a volley of bullets charging at Vladimir. She ducked down behind the car, panting, snow–damp skin shining.

  She eased herself along the side of the car. Peered around the boot. One of Vlad’s bodyguards was creeping along the edge of the trees, hunched over, a silenced gun in gloved hands. He was silhouetted by the halted Merc’s glaring headlights. Sophie grimaced. She had the advantage. She aimed – a careful, steady aim. And with a crack put a bullet between the man’s eyes. Blood sprayed. He hit the ground, fingers twitching, back arching spasmodically. Then lay still.

  The headlights died. The world was plunged into nigritude.

  Sophie crawled back to the bonnet, mouth dry. There were two men left. Vladimir, and one of his cronies. But for every second she delayed them, it was another second Callaghan had to reach Mia... without guns chasing on his back–trail.

  She reached the door. Peered through the tinted glass, but couldn’t make out the other car. Curse Mercs with their damn tinted windows! She was just deciding whether to return to the back of the car, when something delicate whispered against the top of her hair.

  Carefully, she lifted her face – into the barrel of Vladimir’s gun. He lay, prostrate, on the roof of the Merc. He smiled sadly down at her. ‘Drop the gun,’ he said.

  Sophie threw the Makarov in the snow.

  Vlad slid down from the roof, onto the bonnet, his Techrim tracking Sophie. He shook his head, tutting.

  ‘You move quietly for such a big man,’ said Sophie.

  ‘You have, to in my line of work. Or you end up dead.’ He sighed. ‘Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. What am I going to do with you, my little flower?’

  ‘Give me a slapped bottom and let me go?’ She smiled at him, but there was little humour on her face, in her eyes. She was tense now; tense, and ready to fight. To die.

  ‘Ahh, your English humour in the face of adversity, no?’ He stepped in close. The gun pressed under her chin, lifting her head so that her eyes met his. ‘This is a sad day for me,’ said Vladimir. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes. Deep. Real. Love betrayed. And then, like an ice lake freezing over, they hardened. The look of the killer returned. ‘You betrayed us. Betrayed me. I cannot let that happen. Not ever again.’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ whispered Sophie... and closed her eyes.

  Volos set a torturous pace, and within a minute Callaghan was panting, sweat in his eyes, pain rioting through muscles he didn’t even know he had. They ran; they climbed; boots ploughed snow and hands scraped at rocks and barren, stubby bushes and trees. The ascent was violent. Wild. Within five minutes Callaghan wanted to die. Within ten, he prayed for annihilation. After fifteen, he begged Volos to stop and stood there, heaving, until he fell to his knees and vomited dark yellow bile on the snow. He glanced up. Volos was sneering down at him.

  ‘Just give me a minute. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Every minute you crawl in the snow and the shit, Mia comes closer to execution.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’

  ‘I do not think you understand the severity of the situation.’

  Callaghan surged to his feet, thrusting his face into Volos’s and snarling, ‘You think I don’t fucking understand? Fuck you, Volos!’ His spittle sprayed the killer, but the large man did not flinch.

  Volos smiled. ‘That’s better, Callaghan. Much better. You’re getting stronger. More violent. With every passing moment.’

  ‘Just take me to Mia.’

  ‘Follow, little dog.’

  They moved on up the alarming ascent, which grew even more steep as they reached cliffs of jagged, black rock, capped with an undulating cornice of overhanging snow. They crossed a prick–tease ridgeline, just to see black outlines unfold in the gloom... spreading ever on and up. Callaghan groaned. ‘How far does this go?’ he muttered between heaves from his wrecked body.

  ‘All the way to the top,’ said Volos. The killer was unfazed, and showed no sign of sweating or fatigue. In contrast, Callaghan resembled a ten–day dead corpse, boots crusted with vomit.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘It is purely in the mind, Callaghan. You must let Morana guide you.’

  ‘Guide me?’ He laughed then; laughed uproariously, as if this whole charade was one enormous cosmic joke. ‘Volos, you have a fucking mean sense of humour.’

  ‘Let’s move.’

  Volos climbed on through the snow. With a sigh Callaghan looked at his frozen, bleeding fingers, and followed, glancing up jealously at Volos’s effortless advance. The wind snapped at him. Made his ears want to bleed. Made his face feel alien. The cold tore at his flesh. The snow chilled his bones.

  ‘I hate you,’ he muttered, and followed with a wooden gait.

  Most of the journey was like a dream to Mia. Snow fell, exhaustion crushed her and fear stripped her mind of all clear thought. She pushed herself on ceaselessly, far past what she thought was possible. At one point they breached a steep rise and the wind slammed them like a wall, causing breath to catch in Mia’s throat. For a brief moment the snow cleared, the moon glowed huge and surreal, lighting the final part of the mountain which they had to ascend – a jagged black knife which speared the heavens in arrogance and brutality. Mia stood for a while, staring, feeling small and insignificant. Then the snow came rolling back in, and Mia felt the wings of the storm close around her.

  They dropped from the rise, Bronagh leading the way, and began another, steeper ascent through a field of rocks. The mountain loomed above them, glowing. Snow flowed like liquid in the air. And Mia realised, with the drop in the wind, they had moved behind the mountain and were climbing up its spine; the bulk of the edifice was protecting them from the wind.

  They pushed on.

  Pain riddled Mia. Ate her muscles. And she knew with a chilling certainty that she would die on the mountain.

  It went on forever. Time was a conman with a cheese smile. Pain was an old lover with a rusted blade. Until – finally, eventually – the rocky passage through which they worked seemed to suddenly broaden, spreading out into a snow–field. Bronagh cut right, head bent against the storm, hands clawing at the snow, face red and chilled to infinity. The gun was still in his hand; a dark promise.

  They came to a dip, a small bowl surrounded by towering rocks. And with a blink of astonishment Mia saw others gathered there – people, waiting patiently for them to arrive. There were eight forming a circle around a large stone slab; they were robed and hooded in grey, faces hidden, heads bowed in prayer. Their heads and shoulders were piled with snow. They had obviously been there for some time. They seemed almost like statues. Mia shivered.

  Lanterns set around the carved rocky bowl cast an eerie yellow glow over the proceedings. Mia felt dread settle through her body like ca
ncer. Bronagh pushed her, and she fell in the snow, limbs suddenly refusing to work, and then she stumbled uselessly down the incline. As if by magic the wind died so that only a light drifting of snow fell. The silence was incredible. The only sound to intrude was Mia’s harsh and ragged breathing.

  She stopped at the foot, hands limp by her sides. She stared at the gathered figures. She started to laugh, a maniac laugh of hysteria until Bronagh loomed before her, his hand slamming across her face and leaving indelible finger–marks in cold flesh.

  Mia was quiet. Her eyes met Bronagh’s.

  This is it, her eyes said. Bronagh smiled in understanding.

  Silently, one of the hooded figures had moved behind Mia and iron–hands took her arms in an unbreakable grip. She struggled feebly for a moment, then slumped forward in supplication; she would have fallen, but the powerful grip kept her upright.

  ‘Friends,’ said Bronagh, moving to the centre of the circle. Yellow light shone on his face. His eyes sparkled and Mia could see the flush of excitement rush through him; through his body, his bloodstream, his very soul. ‘It is time.’

  There came a low incantation, in a language Mia had never before heard. The voices were curious; Mia could not place a sex, neither male nor female, on the gathered people. For a fleeting exhausted moment she wondered if they were even human. Her breathing increased to short ragged bursts. Panic settled like a blood–red veil... She had to flee, had to escape now before it was too late...

  Mia’s eyes cast frantically about.

  And as Bronagh spoke, they fixed on a fist–sized rock in the snow.

  If she could just reach that rock...

  Mia glanced up. Bronagh was speaking, but the words came to her like a blur, an imagined thing, fuzzy and unreal. The group started to chant, a low ululation without words but with a rhythmical lullaby that filled Mia with rising, bile–tasting horror –

  Sacrifice? screamed her mind suddenly. Was this to be a fucking sacrifice? She watched, dazed, as Bronagh disappeared behind rocks. Mia slumped in her captor’s arms, and vomited down her front. The figure holding her did not seem to notice.

  Bronagh emerged, into the biting wind, into the swirling snow, naked. His body was well–muscled, running to fat. He wore on his head a black iron helm, beaten, battered, an ancient relic by its appearance. Iron mesh covered his face. Straight iron horns protruded from the helmet’s curve. He strode forward, movements precise, meaningful, and his erection stood before him quite proud. It seemed, to Mia, that his intentions were clear.

  ‘No,’ she mumbled. She tried to struggle... and Bronagh was there, grinning at her from behind the mesh. He seemed alien. A monster. A fiend.

  ‘Hello, my pretty black dove.’

  He took her, fingers gripping her with incredible force and pain. She cried out. He ignored her agony. He dragged her across the snow, kicking and flailing, and she passed the rock in the snow and – unseen – her hand curled around this fist-sized lump.

  Bronagh threw her onto the stone slab, where she rolled, eyes flashing in panic, breathing ragged in terror. Bronagh moved to her, brutally ripped free her blouse and bra in one swift savage movement. Still the chanting enveloped them. Mia’s breasts swung free, nipples hard, slapped by the freezing wind.

  ‘I thought you hated people with coloured skin?’ Mia screeched at him, watching Bronagh’s excitement mounting. The rock was hard, unyielding in her cupped hand. She kept her knuckles facing forward, so nobody would see.

  ‘This is to be an act of purification,’ said Bronagh, his voice steady, level, stoic; but he was betrayed by the flush of his skin. He liked this job. Enjoyed it. Revelled in it. The sick, sick bastard.

  The ululating chant rose in volume, and robes were thrown back to reveal each person carried a long, black, iron sword. Chipped, battered tips rested against the snow. Mia stared at the weapons, then back to Bronagh. He had taken his cock in his hand and was slowly masturbating.

  He moved forward.

  Mia closed her eyes... an exaggerated blink. Then slammed the rock around, against Bronagh’s head. There was a clang from the helmet and Mia was up, ready to flee but amazingly Bronagh didn’t go down, and he staggered but with fast reflex struck out, the blow catching Mia’s chin. It spun her round. A second blow smashed the back of her head, and she slapped heavily against the stone slab. Dazed, she felt herself dragged across the frozen and abrasive stone. Felt herself rolled over. She tried to fight feebly as they removed the rest of her clothing. She heard, distantly, the rattle of chains and realised they had her, spread–eagled on the stone slab. She blinked away tears. This could not be happening could not be happening, just could not be real. And then Bronagh was there, leering over her, eyes bright through the mesh slot in the iron helm.

  ‘We are The Hunters,’ he said.

  The chanting echoed his voice.

  ‘We are The Killers,’ he said.

  The chanting echoed his voice.

  ‘We cleanse the World of Flesh,’ he said.

  The chanting echoed his voice.

  ‘We purify the Dark and the Diseased,’ he said.

  The chanting echoed his voice... then dropped to a low murmur as another figure moved from behind the rocks. The figure was small, squat, clothed in what looked to Mia like animal fur. This person also wore an iron helm and Mia’s heart surged... could this be her rescuer? Her saviour?

  The figure approached, moving slowly, as if in pain, to stand at the head of the stone slab. This person gazed down, cold grey eyes surrounded by wrinkles watching Mia through the helm’s slot.

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ spoke a voice; a woman’s voice, hollow and distant.

  ‘Please don’t kill me,’ said Mia.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ said the woman. Her eyes looked almost... kindly, then.

  Filled with a great sorrow.

  An infinite sadness.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispered Mia, sensing a shift in the balance of power. Bronagh was a lapdog. A servant. He did what had to be done; did the job. But he was not in control. This person – this woman, with aged eyes the colour of storm–clouds – she held all the power. And so she held Mia’s life in the cradle of her hands.

  Slowly, the woman removed her helm.

  Her face was heavily lined by age, and tanned, like old leather. Her hair, drawn back into a tight bun, was grey streaked with yellow. And the eyes... the eyes were cold and hard. If eyes were the portal to the soul, then this woman’s soul was long since condemned to Hell.

  She smiled again. Looked up a Bronagh.

  Gave a single nod.

  And as Bronagh entered Mia like fire, like acid, with a burning violent savage snarl, so the woman leant close and whispered in Mia’s ear,

  ‘I am Mrs Ryan. You won’t ever forget my name.’

  Callaghan watched Volos stop up ahead, body–language tensing into violence. ‘Wait!’ he snapped, and stumbled alongside the large killer... stumbled into a scene from nightmare.

  Callaghan blinked. At the gathered figures, robed, bearing long iron swords. He scowled at the stone table, and –

  ‘Mia!’ he cried, and Bronagh turned his helmed head, snarling an obscenity...

  Callaghan stumbled forward through the snow, fell to his knees, eyes wide, mouth hung open on slack tendons. His eyes swept the group as Bronagh climbed down from the stone table, his erection an obscene thing, glistening, an up–thrust symbol of evil and decay.

  Mia was crying. Her eyes met Callaghan’s.

  And then he saw Ryan...

  He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, as if witnessing the impossible. He knelt there, rubbed at his eyes, stared in... wonder. Stunned incredulity. ‘Shit,’ he breathed.

  Volos strode past him, long leather coat floating, and halted with a crunch of snow under heavy boots. The gathered worshippers lifted swords in unison, points angled towards Volos. The threat was implicit. The swords unwavering.

  Volos smiled, showing needle teeth.

 
Ryan hobbled forward, pushing past Bronagh and moving to stand before Volos, gazing up at the huge man. ‘You do not belong here, sam shaiath. It is illegal for you to befoul our territory. This is our earth. Our soil. Blessed by time. You know the rules.’

  Volos gestured at Callaghan. ‘They do not apply to him, Old One.’

  Ryan’s gaze slid past Volos. Rested on Callaghan. He felt ancient arctic ice fill his heart from bottom to top. Felt frost chill his blood solid in his veins. Felt horror and fear and a primeval dread he did not understand saturate his every living atom.

  ‘He may commit a challenge.’ Ryan smiled knowingly.

  ‘Against your champion?’

  ‘Yes. Bronagh!’

  ‘By my honour, Old One.’

  Callaghan surged to his feet. Rage swelled through him. He stood beside Volos, eyes moving warily around the group. Wind howled through the rocks; solemn and mourning. Cal spat on the ground, then pushed Volos with both hands. ‘What challenge?’

  ‘I can do nothing here. It is not permitted.’ Volos would not meet Callaghan’s gaze; because they both understood. Volos had brought him to this place – without telling him the rules of the game. Volos was powerless. Callaghan would have to fight. ‘It is the Law. But you... you are not of this Game. Not yet. You are uninitiated.’

  ‘Me?’ snarled Callaghan, eyes narrowed.

  Bronagh had moved to one of the hooded followers, and took the long iron sword reverently. He tested it through the air, and the heavy brutal blade whistled. He took another sword, and walked forward, naked feet leaving defined imprints. He proffered the sword to Callaghan, hilt first, his large hand curled around the blade.

  Cal stared at the iron sword.

  ‘Wait... no,’ he breathed, staring around madly. Desperately. As if suddenly seeking help – here – in this most unlikely of locations. Cowardice writhed on his face. Burned in his eyes. Leapt from his tongue. Burrowed into his breast.