by Tim Miller
Suicide
Hotline
Tim Miller
Copyright © 2016 Tim Miller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The following is a work of fiction. Any representation of any actual persons living or dead is coincidental.
Author’s Note
I began work on this book back in April, 2016. The idea stemmed from several mass shootings that had happened over the past few years. In many cases the early reports stated there was multiple gunmen dressed in military style fatigues. Later it was determined there was only one shooter. There have been a few exceptions, but usually these early accounts lead to numerous conspiracy theories.
Many of the theories are that they were “false flag” attacks; as in the government sent in actual soldiers or military operatives to conduct the shooting and then set up a patsy to blame it on. Mind you, I don’t believe any of these conspiracies, but as a writer part of what I do is find the things that scare people and ask “what if?” That is exactly what this story is.
During the course of writing this story, there was yet another mass shooting at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida in which forty-nine people were killed. This was a gay nightclub and the shooting was a clear attack on the gay community. Let me be clear, my telling this story is in no way condoning violence of any kind. I write horror and this is another form of horror. My job is to push limits, buttons, and boundaries, and I do exactly that in this book.
As far as the story itself, I wrote it in a different format than my usual works. This is a group of short stories that all tie in with the common thread of the Suicide Hotline. I announced recently a sequel to my book The Country Club called The Country Club: Ladies’ Night. A sneak peek of the sequel is at the end of this book. Suicide Hotline has a loose tie-in to the Country Club universe and in a way sets up the story for Ladies’ Night. So I do hope you enjoy this book in the spirit in which it was written. As usual, my goal is to entertain, repulse, and horrify. I hope I’ve accomplished that here.
--Tim
Introduction
On the internet there is a place known as the darknet. On the dark web, nothing can be tracked or traced. The dark web has become a haven for the criminal underworld as well as a bane to law enforcement. Black markets and forums for some of the most vile and disgusting of human behaviors can be found there.
Another group residing within the dark web is the Suicide Hotline. These are not men you call to talk you out of killing yourself. These are men who will help the most desperate and pathetic of individuals literally go out with a bang. If your life has failed to have meaning, but you don’t have the courage to pull the trigger yourself, this team of special operators will help take you out in the most shocking of ways.
The next time you are watching the news and see a story of the next school or workplace shooting. Listen closely to the early reports. They always report multiple shooters, usually wearing military gear. Only later to officially announce there was one shooter. Usually a patsy, or religious zealot. Some of these people likely couldn’t plan a shopping trip, let alone a mass shooting. When you see these reports, do not ignore them, and do not disregard them. These “lone gunman” were clients of the Suicide Hotline. These are their stories.
1.
Lenny Rogers
Goshen, Indiana
The ride in the SUV was taking forever. Lenny looked out the window asking himself: Am I really doing this? Is this really happening? Since flunking out of college, his life had turned to shit. At twenty years old, his parents kicked him out of the house. He’d never had a girlfriend, so at least he hadn’t gotten dumped. But, again, he’d never had a girlfriend.
Since he was a teenager he’d been fascinated by Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, the two Columbine shooters. He read every book about them and had seen every documentary. Problem was, he didn’t know the first thing about guns, and when it came down to it was a bit chicken-shit. Sad thing was, he knew it. Everyone knew it.
A friend of his had let him shoot a gun once. It was a Sig-Sauer .40 caliber handgun. The thing had kicked so hard, he’d dropped it. He’d nearly injured his wrist by the time he was finished shooting a few rounds. Lenny’s skinny arms weren’t strong enough to handle the recoil. His buddy had taken it away from him and hadn’t let him touch it since.
He looked around the other seats of the SUV. There were three men in masks and fatigues staring off at nothing. Each of them were carrying AR-15’s. He didn’t know any of their names. There was no need. He’d contacted the hotline just weeks before. They already had this target in mind. His old middle school.
“Why not the high school?” he’d asked.
They’d told him the high school had on-duty police working during the day. The middle school had a sign on the door that said:
ALL VISTORS MUST SIGN IN THE OFFICE
That was the extent of their security.
“You ok, sport?” the man across from him asked. “You’re not going to get sick are you? Don’t want you throwing up in our car.”
“I’m fine. I think.”
“You scared?”
“A little,” he lied. He was terrified. It was too late to turn back now. This would be his last ride anywhere. In less than an hour, his name would be national headlines. He’d go down in history as the Windbigler Middle School shooter. He imagined all the news trucks from CNN and Fox News outside his house, talking to his parents. He cracked a smile thinking of all the people on TV arguing about gun control and the NRA. All because of him.
“Don’t worry, boss. We’ll make ya famous!” Just as the guy spoke, the SUV pulled to a halt just in front of the school.
“This is it! Here we go! Let it rip!” the man yelled as the doors swung open and they piled out. Lenny had a gun too, but it wasn’t loaded. He ran in behind them just like he’d been instructed. As he followed the men inside, he watched as a secretary stepped out of the office and one of the mercenaries opened fire. The bullet struck her in the face and her head exploded, splattering the walls with blood and brain matter.
One operator went into the office as the other two split up down the hallways. Lenny heard gunshots come from the office as children screamed from down the hallway. He ran down the hall to see kids running away as the men shot some in the back. One male teacher grabbed a gunman around the neck but he flipped the teacher effortlessly and fired a single shot into his forehead.
There were blood and screams everywhere. A tear ran down Lenny’s face as he realized just what he’d done. It was one thing to see it on TV or to shoot up people in a video game. It was something else entirely to watch twelve and thirteen-year-old kids get their heads blown off right in front of you.
He walked by one classroom that appeared empty and stuck his head inside. The operator walked up and down the row of large wooden lockers and tapped on one of them. He looked over at Lenny and gave a thumbs up before opening fire into the wood. Screams sounded as the doors splintered open while small bodies toppled free. One young woman fell dead at his feet as a police siren sounded in the distance. Lenny looked at his phone to see only two minutes had passed since they’d arrived at the school. These mercenaries worked fast, but the cops were quick too.
“You hear that, sport? That’s your cue,” he said.
“Cue for what?” Lenny asked as the man walked up to him and p
laced the hot muzzle of the AR-15 under Lenny’s chin.
“Time’s up,” he said right before he pulled the trigger.
* * * *
Three weeks earlier
Lenny couldn’t lie. He was somewhat relieved to be kicked out of school. Ball State University was known as a party college. He just wasn’t the partying sort. Alcohol made him sick to his stomach and pot made him shaky and paranoid. He wasn’t even sure why he was going to college other than his mom had told him he had to. Even though he was the one who took out student loans to go, he figured it would make her happy.
Whatever… he was miserable there and it showed. His study habits sucked, and after two semesters he was sent packing. He had mostly D’s and F’s, and his one C was in music class. What amazed him the most was how quickly things had deteriorated once he’d returned home.
Twenty-year-old boys living in their mom’s basement are cliché for a reason, and this wasn’t lost on Lenny. While at college, his mom had turned his bedroom into a craft room. She used to crochet stuffed animals for fun. Over the years she had gotten away from it, but with Lenny off to college, she’d used his room as her place to make Marvel characters, and other superheroes, and sold them on Etsy. She made a nice little side income just from selling her toys.
Once Lenny returned, he moved his mattress and computer into the finished basement. He’d be up late at night playing Call of Duty on his PlayStation or just surfing for porn on the internet. His mom mostly didn’t mind. Her new boyfriend, on the other hand, did mind.
“So are you going to get a job or anything, or just mooch off your mom for the rest of your life?” Larry asked. Larry had also moved in while Lenny had been away.
“I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do. Maybe I’ll go to Ivy Tech and just get a degree in computers or something.”
“Ivy Tech,” Larry laughed. “I knew you were a loser. I knew that from the moment I saw you. Your mom is such an amazing woman. How could she have birthed such a fucking waste of space?”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough about you. And the rest of you millennials. You just want everything handed to you. You expect a trophy for just showing up. Then geeky shit balls like you get mad that you can’t even get a handjob from a girl without having to pay for it. No wonder you little shits are all either medicated or going and shooting up schools. You can’t fucking cope.”
The verbal abuse had been a daily thing. His mom worked, but Larry worked from home. He sold medical supplies to hospitals and clinics. It occasionally required him to travel, but most of his time was spent at home on the phone. Giving him plenty of time to tell Lenny just how worthless he was. He’d tried talking to his mom about it. She was no help.
“Larry has a stressful job. I’m sure some of it is just frustration coming out on you. He does have a point. At least if you had a job, you wouldn’t be home with him all day. I saw that Wal-Mart was hiring,” she’d said.
“I don’t want to work at fucking Wal-Mart! I don’t even like shopping there, let alone working there.”
“You’re going to have to do something. I can’t just take care of you the rest of your life. You’re an adult now.”
“So you’re taking his side?”
“Lenny. There are no sides here. You’re going to be twenty-one in a few months. You don’t even own a car. You sleep in till noon every day and stay up until 3 a.m. playing video games and watching porn.”
“I don’t watch porn!”
“Lenny. I can hear you grunting from up here. Trust me. Not the best thing to hear in the middle of the night.”
Lenny cringed at his mother’s revelation. He was so angry and frustrated, he hopped onto the dark web where he occasionally surfed for his porn. The dark web was a secret network of websites. One could only find it using TOR which was the browser of choice for people who wished to surf the net anonymously. TOR doesn’t allow IP tracking or other security features that help you search without a trace. While this is great for privacy, it is also a haven for other unsavory elements.
Lenny wasn’t aroused by anything overtly wild or illegal. He was more fascinated. He’d found, on the dark net, entire forums dedicated to child porn. There were other websites where men who abducted and abused women would share their private photos and collections. It was all quite disturbing, but at the same time fascinating. It was during one of these surfing sessions he found the hotline.
He was on a message board where folks discussed a wide variety of random topics. One member was going on about being so frustrated with life and how hard it was to get anywhere in the world. That was when he mentioned the suicide hotline.
Buckwild999484: Yeah. I might just contact the Suicide Hotline. Those guys don’t fuck around.
Papabear2020: The Suicide Hotline?
Buckwild999484: Yeah. It’s not what it sounds like. They’re kind of like hitmen for if you want to kill yourself. But they help you kill others too.
Papabear2020: Say what?
Buckwild999484: Yeah. You go to their page. I’ll PM you the link. And they help you take care of shit. Remember that shooting on the news a few months ago? That guy went in and shot up that women’s clothing store and then killed himself?
Papabear2020: Yeah. He killed like fifteen people
Buckwild999484: Yeah. Early reports, witnesses said they saw men in black fatigues and masks, like 3 or 4 of them. Then later police said no, it was just the one shooter. Happens all the time, man. It’s the fucking hotline.
It all seemed far-fetched, but he clicked on the link. It was a plain looking site. All it had was an online form to fill out. So much for staying anonymous. All it asked for was an email address. He filled it in, mostly out of curiosity. Once he hit submit it took him to another plain screen.
Thank you. We’ll be in touch.
Well that was a waste of time. There were plenty of dark sites that were likely fake. One site claimed to be selling unicorn horns. Others had babies for sale. He hoped both were fake. After submitting the form to the hotline he pretty much forgot about it. Until a few days later. There was a message in his inbox. There was no email address attached, which was odd. He opened the email.
Mr. Rogers,
We are in receipt of your inquiry. We have taken the liberty to place you under digital surveillance for the past few days to see if you were a candidate for our services. We have determined you more than meet our requirements. Don’t bother wondering how we watched you. We have our ways. Just one thing, your mom can hear you masturbating all the way in her room. You may want to put something over your vent. Our caseworker, Mr. Black would like to meet with you. Please be at Dykstra Park tomorrow at 3pm sharp on the bench facing the pond. Miss this appointment and you will no longer be eligible for our services. See you then.
He sat back and at first wondered if it was a joke. Maybe that whole site was a gag. The dark web was full of weirdos trying to fuck with other weirdos. He clicked off the email and the instant he was back in his inbox the message was gone. He scrolled up and down and checked his trash folder but couldn’t find it at all. Lenny wasn’t sure how they’d done that, but the message had literally self-destructed.
The following day, he arrived at Dykstra Park just like he’d been instructed. He walked to the bench near the pond and sat down. It was just before 3 p.m. So he continued to wait. And wait. By 3:30 he was ready to get up and head home. Just as he stood, there was a voice behind him.
“Mister Rogers!” the man said. He turned to spot a young man in an expensive suit and tie. His hair was neatly groomed and his teeth were so perfect, Lenny wondered if they were real. He shook the man’s hand as they both sat on the bench.
“Hi. I’m Mr. Black. I’m your caseworker. Sorry I’m late. We had to make sure you were alone. Always taking precautions. So you wish to end your life using our services, is that correct?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess so. I mean I’ve kind of thought ab
out killing myself. I’m just not sure how. I’m kind of nervous when it really comes down to it.”
“Exactly! That is where our team comes in. You’ll be assigned to a team of experienced operators. They will select a target for you. You’ll be given a weapon to carry, mainly for cosmetic purposes. And they do the rest. When the time comes, one of them will painlessly end your life. You will die peacefully, and your name will live on in the history books. Who could ask for a better ending?” Mr. Black said, holding his hands out as if he were gesturing to the heavens.
“I guess so. How much does all this cost?”
“No cost to you, my friend. We receive outside funding. The Suicide Hotline isn’t a business. It is a movement, part of the new revolution.”
“Revolution of what?”
“Nothing. We don’t have time for that now. Shake my hand if you agree to the terms. We’ll be in contact with you when it’s time. Keep your phone on.”
Lenny reached out and shook the man’s hand.
“There you go. Our deal is sealed. We’re being recorded by the way, strictly for our own record,” Mr. Black explained.
Lenny looked around but saw nothing.
“Don’t bother looking. You won’t see anyone. Trust me. Now head back home and wait for our text.”
Mr. Black stood and walked away. He headed to a black SUV in the parking lot and climbed into the backseat. The vehicle drove away as Lenny sat there thinking of what had just happened. Part of him still wondered if this wasn’t all some weird joke, or maybe even a reality show. Like Mario Lopez was going to jump out at any minute with a camera crew.
He got up and headed to the bus stop. Even the whole way home, there was no Mario Lopez and no cameras. Just him going back to his mom’s basement. He got home and made himself some Ramen and headed back downstairs. He spent the rest of the evening watching screaming goat videos on YouTube.