A Question of Will

by Alex Albrinck

  Still feeling the overwhelming sensation of evil, Mark took one step toward the mass of debris, and then stopped, reeling in horror.

  The mass that had crashed through the ceiling was Deron. The man looked to be dead. His throat had been slashed away with vicious power, the wound so gaping that the man had already bled out. Deron’s eyes were wide and lifeless, his mouth open as if to protest this cruelty. He lay on top of a pile of wood and shingles from the roof and ceiling that he’d crashed through, pieces of timber impaling him, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles.

  Mark was numb with shock. He turned back to his control panel, prepared to phone the police and ambulance, when the sensation of evil and foreboding ratcheted up to such a degree that his limbs seemed incapable of moving. When he heard a third thumping noise behind him, it took every bit of effort remaining in him to merely turn around.

  A man stood in the room, straddling Deron’s body. He was dressed in black, with a logo similar to that worn by the three men outside. He was of an average height and build. The man’s head was clean-shaven, with dozens of scars of various sizes marring his otherwise handsome face. His eyes, though, turned Mark’s legs to jelly, and the guard fell to the ground, suddenly unable to stand. They were completely blood-red, both cornea and iris, and he found himself morbidly fascinated by them. The eyes were devoid of any type of human emotion, full only of malice. He held in his right hand a short sword, the blade dripping blood. This man exuded the aura of a cold-blooded killer, borne out by his execution of Deron.

  He needed to get away, he needed to tell somebody, anybody, to help him avoid death at this man’s hands. The killer walked toward Mark, a predator who had cornered its weakened prey, and the tip of the sword was suddenly at Mark’s throat, the blood — Deron’s blood — dripping into Mark’s lap.

  “Cooperation means Gena Adams lives.” The voice was almost a whisper, the tone having the effect of fingernails scratching a chalkboard. Mark’s insides chilled at the sound. This man knew about Gena. They were due to be married in a month, but Mark knew this man meant to kill him too, just as he’d killed Deron, and therefore that wedding would never happen. He was a security guard in name only, his job that of processing access requests, but as per current law in the country he did not carry a gun. He doubted that it would matter against this man; his hands would fail to steady enough to pull the trigger.

  Mark vowed to spend his remaining moments of life ensuring that Gena would live. Over the past few weeks, he’d been starting to think he wasn’t good enough for her, because she was simply that sweet and generous a soul. She would hear nothing of such concerns, laughing them off as simple cold feet for a young man of twenty-three. It was a moot concern now.

  Mark forced himself to look directly into the eyes of Death and nod once.

  The killer backed away, giving Mark room to climb back to his feet. Mark never took his eyes from the man. If he was going to die, he wouldn’t be a coward and look away.

  The killer pointed at the three men standing at the outer door of the man-trap. “Let them in.”

  Full realization hit Mark. The four men had worked together; three had distracted the guards while the fourth eliminated the first and then subdued the second. How had he missed seeing this man? Had he been hiding in the Tower all this time? Guilt tore at him, and then morphed into steely resolve. He was going to save as many people as possible this day.

  He forced himself to look directly into those blood-red eyes and took a deep breath. “No.”

  The tip of the sword lashed across his face, and he felt the warm blood trickle down both cheeks out of the two lacerations now marking his skin. He had enough time to register this before he found himself on his back, the edge of the sword against his throat. The man had speed Mark could not hope to match.

  “Wrong answer,” the killer hissed. He rose to his feet, the sword never breaking contact with Mark. At his full height, he used the sword to gesture toward control panel, where the man-trap authorization buttons were located. The killer had done his homework. The buttons were fingerprint-activated and sensed blood pressure and pulse rate, and only the on-duty guards could activate them. Each guard had his pulse rate and blood pressure measured upon starting his shift. If the measurements at the time they tried to open the man-trap were significantly higher or lower than the baseline, the interior door wouldn’t open. Mark had asked why it wouldn’t open if the numbers were lower than the baseline, since that would likely represent someone calm and relaxed. “They could also be dead or dying,” the security expert had noted. With that memory, Mark was glad his fingers would be of no use to the killer unless they were still attached to Mark.

  He climbed to his feet again, trying to calm himself from the violent attack. “The buttons won’t work if I’m highly stressed,” Mark told the killer. “Leave me alone so I can calm down.”

  The killer walked to the opposite side of the room and turned his back to Mark. He was clearly unconcerned that Mark would try to flee. Both men knew Mark couldn’t outrun him.

  Mark took several deep breaths and exhaled slowly. I am not confined in a room with a superman ninja with a bloody sword. Deron is not lying dead ten feet away. I am going to see Gena again soon.

  He somehow calmed himself, and then pressed the man-trap button. The man with the scar on his right cheek entered the community after the inner door opened in front of him. Mark winced. He could relate to the scar.

  The second man, the one wearing a top hat, entered the man-trap, the outer door locking behind him. Mark paused for a moment before he opened the inner door. “What are they going to do?” He glanced behind him at the killer, who had not moved from his spot.

  “One of the residents has something he should not possess. We will remedy the situation.”

  A simple robbery? That’s what this was about? Surely there were better ways to make money. Will Stark and his wife, for example, tended to be rather generous souls; they’d provided Mark and Gena gifts sufficient to cover the cost of their honeymoon. You could get money without resorting to robbery. Or murder.

  Still, he needed to be sure. “So...you aren’t going to hurt anyone else?”

  There was a pause. “No.”

  Mark wondered if he’d asked the correct question. He elected not to press the matter against the skilled killer, convincing himself that he had the assurances he needed. He pushed the man-trap button again, allowing the second man inside. The third man, the man wearing the cloak, gave a bow with a bit of a flourish, and then entered the man-trap before being admitted into the neighborhood by Mark.

  He glanced at the section of the control panel nearest the man-trap section. It contained a panic button, which would alert the police to a problem at De Gray Estates for which telephone communication was impossible. He could click on that button, and perhaps the police would arrive quickly enough to apprehend these men. That meant Gena would no longer be at any risk. He shifted slightly to the left.

  The killer seized him and threw him to the floor, the malevolent blood-red eyes alternately searing a hole through him and freezing every cell of his being. The man’s sword pointed at him, unerring, the finger on his left hand waving as he tsked at Mark. He then waved at Mark with the sword, motioning him away from the man-trap and panic buttons, and to the opposite side of the Station, facing the community rather than the street.

  He watched the three men he’d just allowed into the community. Three men who were going to rob one of the residents of something these men believed they shouldn’t possess. Men willing to kill to accomplish their goals. He glanced at Deron again, a graphic reminder of that fact. Deron would never again return home to his wife and young son. As he looked outside, he saw smoke. The half-dozen covered golf carts residents and guests could use to cover the distance from the front gate to their homes were all in flames. Anyone entering the community on foot would have a longer journey home than they’d expected.

  The men reached a central cul-d
e-sac just inside the gate area, where the residents ceased to be neighbors and traveled upon long, isolated driveways to their secluded homes, as much as a mile away. The men veered sharply left, indicating that they were off to rob the Starks.

  Mark cringed inwardly. The Starks were the family in this neighborhood he would least want to see harmed. The other four families residing here represented every negative stereotype of wealth imaginable: old, arrogant, condescending, cheap, and stingy. The Starks were the polar opposites. They were young, in their thirties at most, which made them young enough to be the children or grandchildren of the other residents. Both were active in the community, with far more trips outside the fortress due to community and charitable activities than commutes to Will’s office building or personal outings. Most importantly, they were exceptionally generous with their wealth, always looking for excuses to give money away, funding new business ventures to such a degree that the domed city of Pleasanton had become an entrepreneurial haven. The children in the community played sports and engaged in various activities on fields, courts, and diamonds funded by the Starks, an endeavor likely driven by baseball-enthusiast Will. Rumor was that the Starks furnished uniforms, handled fees for umpires and officials, and generally made sure that a lack of funds was never a reason to deny a child the chance to participate in athletics.

  Mark was cringing for another reason. Hope Stark was at home, and the three men were likely to encounter her as they searched for whatever item that wanted to take. Given what happened to Deron already, it was difficult to see Hope surviving their raid on her home.

  He needed to do something to help Hope, without appearing to help her. “What do the Starks have that you don’t want them to possess?”

  The killer didn’t respond.

  “I’ve been to their house. I don’t think they keep much money there, and they really don’t keep many possessions in the house either, at least nothing of any value. Surely, men of your skills can find better places to rob? What do they have that you don’t think they should have?”

  The soulless red eyes turned to him. “Freedom. Life.”

  “What?” Mark spluttered. “I... I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt anyone?”

  “Those men will deprive Mr. Stark of freedom.” He smiled, a look which chilled the air in the room. “And I will deprive Mrs. Stark of life. She will not suffer.”

  “You... you can’t do that!” Mark shouted, surprising himself. “I’ll stop you!”

  The killer snorted.

  Mark charged him. He once again found himself on the ground, face-down, with his arms pinned behind his back. “Listen closely,” the killer hissed. “I am tolerating your presence solely because you will yet be of service to me. Your cooperation for the remainder of your useless life determines whether Gena Adams lives... or how slowly she dies.” He paused, the scars seeming to sear more deeply into his face. “I am not pleased at the moment.”

  The killer walked to the control panel and placed his left hand on the panic button, his right hand still holding the sword. He never took his eyes off Mark, but Mark watched the control panel, puzzled. A small burst of fire erupted from the man’s hand — no, that was impossible, wasn’t it? — and suddenly the circuitry for the panic button was in flames.

  “Not pleased at all.” The threat was clear. This man could do more than hurt Gena with a sword; he could burn her until she was in excruciating pain.

  Mark would do what he could to save Hope Stark’s life, but he was terrified of a man who could kill with such efficiency, attack with such swiftness...and who could somehow shoot flames from his hands at will. With his own death now imminent, though, his courage would be focused on preventing any harm to Gena...even if that meant sacrificing Hope Stark. Courage was in short supply at present. “What do I do now, then?” he asked, his voice timid.

  “Wait.”

  “Wait? For what?”

  “A phone call.”

  And he waited.

  II

  Appeasement

  The man wore a black shirt with a golden circle emblem, black pants, and matching black boots. On his belt was a sheath that held a short, sharp sword, a weapon the man had used to kill on many occasions. Killing was something which provided him great satisfaction, especially those kills affecting the group he referred to as humans. It was rumored that each of the scars marring his head signified a single authorized kill, and his bald head was littered with dozens of such markings. He had earned his title: Assassin. His blood-red eyes were a testament to his skill.

  The Assassin crept along the inside of the massive concrete wall surrounding the community called De Gray Estates, moving slowly so as to avoid detection by the many cameras watching for intruders. As he neared each camera, he would hold out his hand, and a small flash of light would render the camera inoperable. He reached the base of the giant Guard Tower flanking one side of the wide driveway serving as the vehicular entry to the community. The driveway was blocked by a massive concrete gate that lowered into the ground only when a resident passed a retinal scan test, at which point the on-duty guard acknowledged their identity and opened the gate. Guards were able to allow entry via a double-door “man-trap” as well. Guests could enter using the same procedures, provided that a resident had previously authorized the visit.

  Three other men walked toward the ground-level Guard Station on the other side of the driveway, traveling on the well-lit sidewalk. The man in the Station and the man in the Tower both watched these men, and neither of them noticed the greater threat as he reached the base of the Tower. The Assassin scaled the outside of the Tower, gripping the mortar gaps with his fingertips as he moved upward. Upon reaching the top of the Tower, the Assassin paused momentarily, and then an instant later he was inside. Below, the Station guard ordered the three men to comply with procedures for entering the community. His partner in the Tower turned away from the window to contact the police about the situation.

  The guard saw the scar-faced Assassin, and he sensed the aura of pure evil about the killer, and saw the blood-red eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, to yell out a warning to the man on the ground. The sword was faster, though. The Assassin removed it from the sheath and slashed out, his movements a blur, and the guard could not cry out a warning as the blade severed his windpipe and jugular vein at once. The guard clutched his throat, but it was a futile gesture. The blood gushed from the fatal wound, and the guard’s eyes widened as he was unable to get air to his screaming lungs. He collapsed face-first to the ground, his body in shock and twitching as it desperately fought to live. It was a fight he would lose.

  The Assassin seemed distressed. He moved to the dying man, and using his boot rolled the guard over, in order to see the man’s face, and watch his eyes as the light signaling life slowly faded. It took only a few moments, and a hideous smile crossed the Assassin’s face. He was overjoyed, drunk on the thrill of the kill, and was eager for more. But he knew he must follow the plan, and must get his companions inside the walls so that they could set the trap for the man known as Will Stark. He must get down to the ground-level Guard Station, prevent the guard there from notifying the human authorities, and coerce him into letting his men inside. He could eliminate all human police that came at him, but the group’s rules were clear: do not be seen, and kill as few humans as possible. The first rule was inviolate; all other portions of the plan must be adapted to ensure there was no trace of their presence.

  It would take too long to climb the stairs to the ground, and doing so would give the guard the opportunity to hit his panic button and notify his police. The Assassin needed to get inside the building before the second guard recognized trouble. The man would eventually realize his partner wasn’t responding over the microphone link established a few moments earlier between the two buildings. The Assassin’s blood-red eyes fell upon the dead body, and the large glass-sided wall nearest the Guard Station. A cruel smile invaded his scarred face, his evil eyes lighting up in
anticipation.

  He’d never launched a missile before.

  He picked up the dead body at his feet, got a running start, and hurled the body through the glass, shattering the window into thousands of pieces. His watched as the body arced through the air, sailed over the driveway, and crashed into the Guard Station roof, falling into the single room below.

  The Assassin’s emotions were a rising thrill of anticipation as he contemplated the two remaining deaths he would initiate this day. He raced to the opening in the glass with a burst of adrenaline and leaped through, covering the distance across the driveway as he fell. He landed, catlike, on the roof, where he could already sense the terror in the guard below. The man had seen his friend’s corpse. The Assassin dropped through the opening...

  Hope Stark woke, her breaths short, and she sat straight up in her bed. She’d only meant to take a short nap after a long day working with her son, enough to re-energize her for the evening, but a glance at the clock told her she’d overslept. Tonight, she and her son would join her husband, Will, for dinner at Will’s favorite steakhouse. It was Will’s thirty-fifth birthday.

  Right now, though, she was having trouble getting the nightmare out of her mind. In that nightmare, four men dressed in black had worked together to kill one guard at the entrance to her gated community, and those men planned to use the second guard to gain entry and kill at least one other person. Was it her? Her son? Her husband, once he arrived home? She wouldn’t have the dream if a member of her family wasn’t the intended victim, would she? She tried to convince herself it was nothing more than a bad dream, but the images and sounds were incredibly vivid. Worse, she was still sensing the emotion of the killer, feeling his thrill in killing one man and the joyous anticipation he had at the prospect of causing more deaths. She shuddered.

  Hope stretched, rose from the bed, and marched into her bathroom. She glanced at her reflection, deciding that she presently met the definition of frumpy: jeans, an over-sized sweatshirt, and her golden hair pulled back in a ponytail. She splashed cold water on her face, both in an effort to fully wake up from her nap, and to shake the dream and the ongoing sense of dread from her mind. Though a success in terms of waking her up, the cold water had no impact on her tense mood. Why would someone want to kill her, her husband, or her son?