Pure Hate

by White, Wrath James

  LXI.

  Natasha noticed right away that Malcolm was hurt. He wore no clothing except the trench coat. Blood from at least two major wounds streamed down his naked chest and one leg. He limped as he dragged her out of the trunk and through the teacher’s entrance. She knew he was taking her to the fourth floor. That’s where they used to all hang out. There she would die. She was certain of it. Despite his blood loss, it was obvious that Malcolm’s virility was unaffected.

  As they started up the stairs, she began thinking fast. She had only three more flights of stairs left to figure a way out of this, after that it would be too late. Malcolm was hurt, but he was still dangerous and too much of a physical match for her. If she could hurt him again, just enough to get free, she was sure she could outrun him. He no longer had the shotgun, although he still had Rick’s nine millimeter. If she could hurt his arm, perhaps he wouldn’t be able to aim, but she had no weapon. She wondered if Malcolm had another knife. When she’d dated him in high school, he’d had dozens of them, but she knew he’d left many of them at the scenes of his slaughters. Still, he might have more. Who knew how big his knife collection was by now, and how much of it he carried with him?

  There was only one place for Malcolm to conceal a knife—the trench coat. He’d left all his other clothes at the hospital. Natasha rubbed up against him as he dragged her up the steps, and felt something heavy in his pocket. It had to be a knife. They had reached the fourth floor and Natasha made up her mind that it was now or never. She plunged her hand deep into the trench coat’s blood-soaked pocket and cut her hand on the knife as she wrapped her hand around the blade and drew it out. She barely had time to switch her grip to the handle before he understood what she’d done.

  She raised the blade, eager to thrust it through Malcolm’s black heart, shrieking as she tried to stab him. Malcolm struck first, punching her in the chest with such force that she collapsed to her knees gasping in pain, the air in her lungs burning. The knife clattered to the floor and Malcolm casually picked it up. Natasha was determined not to die passively. She knew she was going to die, but if she was going to be his victim, she was determined she would be Malcolm’s last.

  “You can’t kill me, Malcolm. You love me.”

  “That’s exactly why you have to die.”

  Malcolm was standing directly above her now. He was still naked. His penis dangled semi-erect, just inches from her face, close enough to bite.

  “We were supposed to die together, remember? Give me the knife and I’ll help you leave all this madness behind. We can be together in death like we couldn’t be in life. I’ll be all yours again. Just the two of us. I know you can’t kill yourself and I know you can kill me even without the knife. This is how it was supposed to end. This is how it was always supposed to end for us. Give me the knife and let’s end this together.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, bitch. I ain’t dyin’ with you. I’m just going to rape you and kill you. You’re dying alone tonight, you fucking whore.”

  He spit in her face. That’s when Natasha launched her final attack.

  LXII.

  The sounds of a struggle echoed through the halls as Reed searched classroom after classroom on the fourth floor. He could hear screams, grunts, curses, and savage growls. He recognized both voices, Malcolm’s and Natasha’s. He was killing her, but she was fighting back. If she could only hold out until he got there. He still had the gun. He could . . .

  Reed turned a corner and there, in the middle of the hall, he saw the dark familiar shape of Malcolm Davis crouched over a prone figure that could only be Natasha. Malcolm was tearing into her with his knife and his fangs as she kicked, scratched, and bit him. She had done some damage. Malcolm was bleeding and in obvious pain, but her struggles were subsiding, her strength waning. Reed watched Malcolm raise the knife and slam it down again and again. He could hear the sound of the knife slamming through her chest and puncturing the vinyl tiles beneath her. The blade dug into the subfloor, and Malcolm had to wrench it out each time in order to bring it down again. Finally, her struggles ceased, but the horror wasn’t over. Malcolm bent down over her lifeless body to feed.

  Reed could tell by his motions that he was also fucking her. He’d been fucking her while she struggled for her life, as he’d stabbed her repeatedly. He was fucking her as her life bled out on the dirty school floor. He was fucking her and eating her alive. Reed aimed the gun at them and fired. He wasn’t worried about hitting Natasha. By now, he was sure that she wished she were dead if she wasn’t. If Natasha was dead, perhaps she’d thank him when she joined the infernal choir in his head.

  The bullet punctured a locker above Malcolm and he looked up, pausing in his feeding frenzy. Reed ran toward him, firing the Glock. Malcolm rolled off Natasha and fled down the hall. Reed continued to pursue him. He was determined not to lose him this time. He glanced at Natasha as he passed. She was torn apart, but still breathing shallowly, gurgling out her last breath. Their eyes had locked, and her voice joined the chorus.

  Kill him, Reed! Get that bastard, Reed!

  Reed continued running.

  LXIII.

  Uncannily, the shadows swallowed Malcolm whole. Reed darted from room to room with the Glock leading the way. Malcolm was still there, still somewhere. He was stalking Reed as Reed was hunting him.

  Reed roamed the school, carefully checking every room that held specific memories for him and Malcolm. The Creative Writing Room where he and Malcolm worked side-by-side for four years. The English Room, Expository Writing, Journalism, the cafeteria. He found no sign of Malcolm. The sun was starting to rise and Reed found a blood trail. Malcolm was hemmorhaging heavily. Reed followed the blood as best as he could in the growing light.

  The trail led to an art room with large crimson splatters on the door and shadows dancing across the walls as if a candle was burning within. Reed slid the door open and spotted the source of the flame. A Bunsen burner sat atop the teacher’s desk, casting just enough illumination to reveal a decomposing skull with long blonde hair. Even in its advanced state of decomposition, even though it had been fifteen years since he’d last seen her, Reed had no trouble recognizing her.

  Who else would it be?

  Renee’ Volare’. He backed out of the room, pointing the gun at the shrinking shadows. Any one of them could have been Malcolm, but none of them were. Still, he felt Malcolm’s ominous suffocating presence emanating from every dark corner of the room.

  The sounds of the early morning janitorial staff making their way up the stairs came to him through the riot of voices in his rapidly fragmenting mind. They were all in danger. Reed fired the gun, aiming it down the stairwell. He waited a moment and listened. When he heard the sound of running feet, he knew that they had left the building. Fewer victims for Malcolm.

  Reed continued to search for Malcolm. He passed Natasha’s lifeless form several times as he hunted through the dark. The last time he passed her, Natasha’s chest was cracked open and her heart was gone. So was her head.

  Haunting echoes surrounded Reed. His family, Natasha, Renee’, Detective Baltimore, those other cops, the faceless victims that stretched back over a decade. He tried to isolate each voice, hoping they could help him, give him some clue of where to find Malcolm.

  He proposed in the gymnasium.

  The gymnasium was where Malcolm proposed to Renee’. He’d interrupted the entire gym class and produced the modest diamond ring. The gym teacher tried to interrupt his proposal, and there was a tense moment where Reed was sure that Malcolm would kill him. That was followed right away by another long tense moment as Renee’ looked across the gym at Reed, begging for help. Malcolm appeared to be growing impatient and angry as Renee’ stalled and continued to stare at Reed. Reed had been afraid that Malcolm would notice the way Renee’ was looking at him and know that he’d been fucking her, but just as Malcolm seemed ready to snap, Renee’ said, “Yes.”

  Look in the gymnasium. Kill him, Reed. Kill him!r />
  Taking the steps two at a time, Reed hurtled down to the school’s basement, to the gymnasium, where Malcolm was waiting for him. He opened the door to the gymnasium and was struck in the chest by something heavy that knocked him backward, bounced off, and rolled across the floor. He looked down and watched Natasha’s severed head roll across the floor and disappear into the darkness. Malcolm stepped out of the shadows and kicked the head back across the room at Reed.

  “You still want her, Reed?”

  Malcolm’s voice reverberated in the empty gym. His face was covered in blood. He smiled carnivorously. His platinum fangs were streaked with gore. His mouth was a horror. Reed didn’t need to ask what had happened to Natasha’s heart.

  “You’re a fucking animal!” Reed brought the Glock up in what seemed like slow motion. Malcolm charged.

  Before Reed could get off a shot, Malcolm was on him, stabbing. Reed felt the blade sink into his chest and rip downward. Then it was in his gut tearing its way upward. Finally, Reed managed to get off a shot. The bullet ripped through Malcolm’s abdomen and exploded out of his back. Malcolm howled and spun away into the darkness. No way he could survive a wound like that without immediate medical attention.

  When Malcolm charged from the shadows, Reed spotted his other wounds. He was bleeding profusely from his chest and hip. His penis looked like it was missing a chunk. He had a wound in his stomach. Malcolm was starting to look like one of his own victims.

  Reed looked no better. His guts were on fire and blood spurted from the wound in his chest. He slid down to the gym floor, still clutching the Glock, but losing sight of Malcolm. He looked around in a panic. Maybe Malcolm was dead? But the voices said no. They were just as loud as before. If anything, their agitation had increased.

  Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Killhimkillimkillim!

  Tthe chant began to swirl around his head, the words blurring together into a steady roar. The shadows shrank as the morning sun beat the night into submission. Reed took it as a good omen.

  Then Malcolm attacked again. This time Reed popped off two rounds before the blade sank into him. He felt the knife ripping a new wound open as Malcolm stabbed him again and again. He could feel Malcolm’s fangs in his skin. Then Malcolm rolled off onto the floor, wheezing and coughing blood. Reed was hacked up bad, dying, but Malcolm was dying, also. Reed had no more fear. He had nothing.

  The voices were gone as well. They were finally alone. Just Reed and Malcolm. Reed struggled to catch his breath. Waves of gray obscured his vision as he struggled to hold on to consciousness, to hold on to life. Malcolm lay beside him, dying. Listening to Malcolm’s ragged breathing, Reed finally allowed himself to remember what had happened in that bathroom fifteen years ago.

  LXIV.

  Malcolm walked in, wielding that black switchblade with the leopard on the side he’d had that night at Natasha’s house. He knew about Renee’. He knew about Natasha. He had just spent weeks in a hospital recovering from a self-inflicted throat wound. He was murderously angry. His rage rippled from him in shimmering waves of pure hostility. He started toward Reed, and there had been nothing but hatred in his eyes.

  Reed had watched Malcolm raise the knife. He felt the weight of his own guilt bend him, crush him. He lowered his head, bowed by the sudden force of his remorse. Malcolm had been the best friend he’d ever had. Malcolm had taught him more about life than his own parents, taught him more about himself than he would have ever learned alone, taught him his own potential, to believe in himself. Malcolm had loved him and he’d repaid that love with betrayal. He had acted out against Malcolm like a spoiled child trying to get its parent’s attention through some shocking act of disobedience. Now, he was about to be punished. Reed had known he was going to die, but still he’d wanted Malcolm’s forgiveness. Before Malcolm could bring the knife down, Reed stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. He kissed Malcolm on the neck and whispered: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”

  Malcolm had paused then, unsure of himself. The knife hovered in the air, ready to strike, but it didn’t descend. Malcolm looked down at Reed with questions in his eyes, uncertainty distorting his hatred. He stared into Reed’s eyes and saw his remorse and his love. Then Reed rose up on his toes with tears streaming down his face and kissed Malcolm on the lips. Malcolm dropped the knife. He wrapped both hands around Reed’s throat and began to squeeze the life from him.

  Reed never struggled. Tears continued to roll down his face. He mouthed the words, “I’m sorry” again and Malcolm let him go. Reed staggered, choking and dizzy. Malcolm again lifted the knife and Reed closed his eyes, again waiting calmly for death.

  “I love you, Malcolm.”

  Reed had heard the words leave his mouth before he decided to speak. They came from a place in his heart to which his conscious mind was not privy. They had an immediate effect on Malcolm. The knife clattered to the ground. Reed opened his eyes and saw Malcolm’s face warp, contorting as if he were in pain. He turned and walked out of the bathroom.

  “Why didn’t you kill me then, Malcolm? Why didn’t you kill me fifteen years ago, back in that bathroom? Why all this? All this death, all those families, my family, those cops, why?”

  “Because I loved you, too.”

  It took a moment before Reed was certain the voice had not come from his head.

  “I loved Renee’ with all my heart. I never loved anyone like that besides my own mother. I loved Natasha, too. But deep down I expected them to betray me. But not you, Reed. I never thought you would. I thought you would always be with me. When you hugged me . . . I . . . I realized that losing you was what really hurt.”

  Malcolm began to cough and blood bubbled up out of his mouth.

  “Why did you kill all those families? All those people? Why didn’t you just kill me?”

  “Because I loved you! But I wanted to kill you so bad, so bad it was all I could think of. I hated you so much, knowing you were happy and that you had forgotten all about me that . . . that . . . I wanted to hurt you over and over again. So, I did. Every time I murdered one of those faggots, I was killing you . . . and . . . and killing that part of me that still wanted you, the part that still wanted to forgive you, that still wanted to be your friend.”

  “Did it work?”

  Malcolm laughed and more blood bubbled up out of his mouth. He coughed again wincing in pain.

  “Well, here we are.”

  “Yeah, but we’re still alive. You could still forgive me. I could still forgive you.”

  “You still want to be my friend? After all this?”

  Malcolm’s face was a rictus of agony but it was unclear whether physical or emotional. He pulled Rick’s nine millimeter out of his coat pocket and slid it under Reed’s chin.

  “Sorry, Reed but I can’t forgive. I can’t forget.”

  He pulled the trigger. Reed’s head exploded like a rotten jack-o’-lantern. The spaghetti-pulp of brains sprayed across the gymnasium floor.

  Detective Bryant emptied his entire clip into Malcolm.

  Malcolm growled and gnashed his teeth savagely as each bullet tore through him. He’d finally killed Reed even after being mortally wounded himself. But now this detective had come and Malcolm wasn’t sure he had enough life left to avenge his own death. He held Rick’s nine millimeter in his hand, trying to raise it by the sheer force of his murderous will, but a bullet shattered his arm. He felt as if every major organ had been pulverized. The short, fat, middle-aged detective loomed above him. Malcolm snarled with rage even as his life fled.

  LXV.

  James came as soon as he heard news of the break-in hit the air. The janitorial staff reported that someone was shooting inside the High School for the Creative and Performing Arts. James had been halfway home when he heard the call. It didn’t take much to figure out that it was Malcolm and Reed, and he kicked himself in the ass for not thinking of it before. It was the school they’d attended together with Renee’ and Natasha. It was where all this bega
n.

  James had to go stop Malcolm despite his fear, guilt, shame, and fatigue. If he didn’t face Malcolm, he’d have to quit the force, because this fear would never go away. Unless he turned toward this fear, James would forever be a victim.

  A Latino woman in her forties came running out of the building just as James pulled up. She told him there was a headless woman lying in the hall on the fourth floor. James drew his weapon and crossed the parking lot in a flat-out run. He was starting up the stairs when he heard the shots coming from the basement.

  He turned and crept cautiously back down the stairs, toward the basement. The morning sun was blazing but there were still shadows, still places for Malcolm to hide. James heard voices, a harsh pained laugh, coughing, more voices. He pushed open the gym door in time to see Malcolm blow Reed’s head off.

  James opened fire, pumping bullets into Malcolm until all the darkness was gone.

  LXVI.

  The stark, white, early morning sunlight crept across the room and illuminated the brutalized bodies. Reed was a mess. His guts were trailing out of an abdomen ripped open by the foot-long slashes crisscrossing his torso. His head looked like a science fair volcano with a steaming crater instead of the top of his skull. Malcolm was bleeding from bullet holes, bites, and slashes that had turned his surrounding tissue to tenderized meat. His chest no longer rose or fell—his last breath had long exited his ruptured lungs. The terrible dark flame in his eyes, his searing hatred, had winked out, and all animation had ceased. There was no need for an ambulance. Both were beyond any resuscitation.

  As the sun crept higher, James squinted against the glare, unable to tear his eyes from these two fallen foes/friends. He still clutched his pistol and his finger still depressed the trigger. The morning light continued to tear large rifts in the few lingering remains of doomed night.