What Goes Around

by Rollins, Jack

  “You’re welcome, son. Have you spoken with your mother since the accident?”

  Before Malachi can answer, Charles speaks.

  “What a miracle that your wallet and the ring were found in all this snow. And with the vehicle flipping twice, and you two safe and sound. Definitely an act of God, Malachi. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Malachi nods, always refraining from ‘God talk’ whenever possible, especially in this situation when it can only be counterproductive. Although he doesn’t believe in God, he is feeling like the luckiest bastard in the world to have his wallet and the ring. And to now be engaged to Mari.

  The feelings of family course through his body like never before. He accepts this. It should be satisfying.

  Still, he needs something more.

  ***

  Sex with Mari is not their usual love-making. It is dark, rough, as he takes her and selfishly satisfies himself with her like never before. She doesn’t complain, doesn’t question. He hopes this will get him through the last days in Colorado. Then he can leave Mari with her folks. He knows he will have to hunt upon his return to California, if he can last that long. His appetite has been kept at bay too long. It is growing and will soon be beyond his control.

  ***

  The next morning brings little additional snow and bright sunshine. Malachi is relieved that nothing will delay his return to base.

  He picks up his cell, dials, and waits for her voice. “Mother, I need you to purchase a plane ticket for me. From DIA into Monterey Regional.”

  “Of course, Malachi. Merry Christmas. How are you? Is everything going well for you? It’s been a long time.”

  He rolls his eyes. He has told his mother nothing of Mari or his enlistment, not while she’s in that place. “Everything is fine, Mother. I waited a long time for you to answer the phone.”

  “I would love to see you, you know.”

  “Yes. Have the ticket confirmation sent to my e-mail. I have to leave Denver no later than Tuesday.”

  “Sure, son. How are – “

  Click.

  ***

  Illegally on a plane out of uniform, he scans it for a potential target. Almost anyone will do, but he wants to home in on someone he can keep his eye on. He hopes people traveling during the holidays are traveling to see family, not with them. His hopes are dashed as couples and families join their parties and sit together. His window seat offers no comfort as he stares through it.

  Soon, a young man, perhaps 17, sits in the aisle seat next to him. The seat between them is empty, and they begin a conversation about skateboarding and heavy metal bands. The young man is making a connection in Monterey and has a four-hour layover. Malachi believes he can create an opportunity with this young man. His name is unimportant.

  Malachi is no better with names than with faces, especially those of his prey.

  ***

  The young man from the plane had a sweet taste, and Malachi had abused him and ravished him in every way, leaving little more than mush in the corner bathroom stall. He licks his lips when he thinks about the brutality of it. The empowerment he’d felt. The strength. Release.

  Hailing a cab toward base, Malachi checks himself for blood and bone fragments. He directs the cab to Denny’s, where he changes into his uniform, then walks the last three-quarters of a mile to the base.

  ***

  At-home terrorism keeps Malachi in the continental states. He turns down an invitation to Ft. Benning, Georgia, and opts to stay in central California. He is a valuable asset, considering his knowledge of Russian, German, and Arabic. For Malachi, this is comfort. Peace. Excitement.

  Mari is eager to move closer to Malachi again and stay off base near him. He will stay on base during the week but is able to be with her most weekends. When he was initially given the assignment to stay on base yet was allowed to bring Mari for off-site housing even though they were not yet married, he’d yelped with excitement.

  Immediately, the old arousal was upon him, overpowering his every thought and sense.

  His head and body stir and stiffen. He feels like King Kong, with an erection to match. This is his nature.

  His first kill had been at age 12. Then, it was long overdue. He wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner. The release, the overwhelming calmness and happiness that it brought, to watch life drain from another. To take it. To use the strength of his body to weaken, corrupt, overpower another. To be God!

  He does not remember the faces of his victims. None of them. (Except perhaps his third. That one was more difficult to forget.) He did not care about them. Not any of them. They were insignificant. Meaningless. Useless. Nothing. They were there for his pleasure, for his release.

  Murder is like sex. The more creative, the better. The more practice, the better. Take a natural skill, add experience, create a God! That’s how Malachi had felt since his first kill, which had not been his brother. Michael had been his third.

  Did Michael ever suspect? Fear? Irrelevant. The last in the practice series, that’s all Michael was – another act building Malachi’s confidence. By 15, he had gotten creative. He’d known how to cause enough trouble at school to get expelled and force his mother to move. New cities and towns smelled fresh and made him want to hunt that much more.

  Malachi not killing Mari was an exercise in extreme patience. Not being able to hunt or feed was self-torture, and not something to which he was accustomed. She should at least be a good mother, do a good job with some pups.

  He knows he’s made his way into the perfect career. Soon he’ll be able to feed his soul on the lives of others regularly again. Legitimately. Who wouldn’t smile about that?

  His smile broadens as he thinks about starting his assignment as an official intelligence interrogator.

  ***

  Third time is the charm for making things right. Malachi’s thoughts wander to his brother. He can see the boy’s face sometimes, if he tries really hard. Of course, Michael would probably look like him now. But then, what did he look like?

  The third girl. That was exciting, yet Malachi cannot recall the specific girl or feeling. Hunting and feeding arouse him and satisfy him, and that is all that matters.

  This is his third legal murder. Torture. Hmmm. Exhilarating, to pull out the fingernails of another human while others watch. Blood, beating, eventual death. Not as sexually gratifying as if inflicted alone, but thrilling nonetheless.

  ***

  Ruth exits the hospital with one small suitcase and four floating corpses that no one else can see. Making her way to a small room previously obtained for her with the help of the Shepherd staff, she settles in for a long evening with her daytime companions, until the night will take them away.

  ***

  Three months later, Malachi feels his practice of legal murder is well behind him. He is an expert in his own eyes. He is God again. Let the experimentation begin. And that is all he can process, all he can think about: experimentation. Concentrating on anything else is a chore.

  In his military life of legitimate secrecy and permission to kill, he can legally harm, terrorize, and murder others. It is the perfect outlet that strings together the surreal with the real, the insane with the sane.

  Malachi is flourishing.

  He is content. But something slightly unsettling keeps tickling him in an unused portion of his brain, a faint itch he doesn’t know how to reach. He’s unsure what it means, and scoffs it away.

  Malachi encourages Mari to start making wedding plans. He thinks she is becoming more independent, self-assured. She is leaning on him less, allowing him more freedom. This makes him even more content with the totality of his glorious circumstances.

  Mari has definitely softened him up, opened his heart to some degree. He is seriously thinking of the possibility of having children with her. She seems eager for a large family. A litter.

  He can speak little about his job, and although she feels he is pulling further away from her, she consoles herself with win
e and the understanding that this is his career. She knows there are things about which he cannot speak, things she can never know.

  Malachi is beginning to feel a greedy excitement. Terrorist torture is not completely fulfilling, especially since it is often under the watch of another. He is cautious and makes the experiences as gratifying as possible, but he wants more.

  ***

  As Ruth marks the days on her calendar – March 2012 – she wonders why she has had no more word from either Malachi or the 4Cs. She would like to believe she’s made a mistake, that her worries could somehow be disproven. Even the dead women could, somehow, be wrong.

  She knows better, but mothers always hold hope regarding their children.

  When the apparitions come, she sometimes feels a connection with them and tries to communicate. They do not want to hear her words. They only want her to suffer and pay and make things right. She does not know what else she can do to appease their lost souls.

  They visit her daily now. She weeps for them.

  And for herself.

  ***

  For the first time in his life, Malachi is jolted out of a dead sleep.

  Bolting upright, covered in sweat, Mari awakens at his side. “Baby, what’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

  “I must have.”

  “Can you recall what it was about?”

  Staring at her with a confused expression, he shakes his head and leans back against the headboard. She is looking at him, smiling as always. She is perfect. Like a best friend or a favorite wind-up doll that he created. She is always kind and supportive, and lovely.

  He remembers the nightmarish vision perfectly. A redhead. She was filthy, covered in grime, with sunken eyes and pale blue skin covered in black and yellow splotches, hovering above him. Slugs squirmed in her hair, and she was missing something. More than one something: her jaw and her left arm. And there were bite marks on her stomach, visible through the thin, tattered cloth strips running over her small frame. She had looked down on him in bed, her face moving closer and closer to his, a slimy, blackened tongue outstretched in his direction. He could smell her. She smelled of earth and death.

  Malachi jumps up and hurries to the bathroom. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s never had a nightmare and never gets sick, not even while scuba diving or eating human flesh. He turns on the cold water and stands under the shower. He is startled when he steps out to find Mari standing there with a towel in her hand, waiting for him. He shakes his head and laughs off his jitteriness.

  “Malachi, perhaps you are coming down with something. Can you see a doctor in the morning?”

  “I have so much to do tomorrow, honey. We’ll see how I feel then.” Finishing with the towel, he drops it on the floor. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  The dead woman remains in Malachi’s head all night, even after he drifts back to sleep.

  In the morning, he feels bruised with the memory but refreshed enough to tell Mari he’s fine and heading to the base. “You probably won’t see me until Friday,” he says as he kisses her cheek.

  She rolls over in bed and smiles at him, then snuggles back under the covers. Mari is content, proud even, that she has warmed Malachi’s heart. She can see the changes in him, and she is satisfied that all is going according to plan.

  ***

  Things are slow at the base office. Paperwork is complete, and there are no assignments, no terrorists, nothing to do but work out or drink. Malachi knows he should go home, but he doesn’t need to see Mari again so soon, and he doesn’t want to sleep in the bed in which his nightmare had originated. That bed had come with the off-base apartment. Perhaps a new one is in order.

  A workout is his decision. Hopping on the bus that runs from his barracks to the gym, Malachi hears an old song in his head:

  …Don’t fear the reaper…

  …La la la la la…

  He steps off the bus and it drives away, but the gym is nowhere in sight. In front of him is a warehouse-style interrogation room. There is a single chair in the middle of it. A light hangs above the chair. He sees no one. Besides the light and the surreal room, there is only darkness, all around.

  A chilling breeze blows around him, strong enough to push him toward the room. He squints toward the light and the chair, and takes a small step in their direction. The wind swirls and moans. His senses are open. He raises his chin to the sky and sniffs the air. It smells like a winter night some place colder than central California. He peers into the darkness, searching for movement, light, anything. He shakes his head and briefly entertains the idea that he is dreaming. There is a cold steel pipe of fear deep inside him, deep in his stomach, and he knows this is not a dream.

  Suddenly he is surrounded and pushed into the room. The roller door is pulled down fast and hard. Several hands remain on him, seating him firmly in the chair. He cannot see his captors. They are blurs. Nothing more.

  Handcuffs bind his hands and ankles to the legs of the chair. Bungee cords are wrapped around his waist, shoulders, and thighs. Gorilla tape confines his upper arms and calves. Then the hands are gone, and he is alone. He can wiggle the tips of his fingers, his feet, and his head. His mouth is not restricted in any way.

  He turns his head in all directions, trying to better see his captors that he knows must still be nearby. They do not speak to him, and he has not uttered a word. From the shadows all around him, they appear again. He cannot tell for sure how many there are. A hundred perhaps. Is the room really that large? In the darkness, depth is difficult to judge.

  What is wrong with these people? Don’t they know who he is? Are they not Americans? He squints to try to see them. At first glance, they appear to be American, although somewhat disheveled and unkempt. But it is difficult to tell.

  They draw closer to him. They seem to be suspended above the ground, floating, not walking, reaching out for him, hissing and grabbing. Fingernails claw into him and putrid breath assails his senses. Then, nothing. Quiet. It seems they have all disappeared.

  He looks around. Not disappeared, just receded. But why?

  Then he sees what must have scared them away from him.

  “Charles.” Malachi gasps. Not only Charles, but Nina, Kylie, and Mari as well, standing inside the door of his torture chamber. They all smile at him, big toothy smiles.

  Malachi’s eyes are wide and confused. “Mari!”

  She cocks her head to the right and looks at him quizzically. “Yes, mongrel?”

  “Mongrel?”

  “Not even a real werewolf. Some mixed breed throwback,” Nina speaks through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah, but he’s still kinda cute.” Kylie winks at Mari. Mari slaps her sister’s arm.

  “Help me, Mari. Please!” pleads Malachi.

  “We are not here to help you,” Charles’ voice booms. “This room is the equivalent of a hologram, built with a special energy similar to electricity. It will contain you for the rest of eternity.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I can see you are terrified, my love.” Mari approaches her lover and traces his neck with a single index finger. “You should be.”

  He snarls at her.

  “Your mother contacted us some years back, Malachi, but we were unable to hunt you legally until after your twenty-first birthday,” Nina says to the young man bound in the chair.

  “Yes, hunters of all kinds have rules, and these rules dictate the outcome of the game. You see, you could not be legitimately captured until adulthood, and it seemed unfair to so many victims to simply kill you without offering them revenge.” Charles says. “Their hold on you could only be obtained through tormenting your mother. She may or may not deserve this; regardless, it is time for you to pay the piper. These souls will release Ruth once they have access to you, which is what we offer them here and now.”

  “But I’m done. I quit! I love Mari. Mari… tell him…”

  “No. Lies. Just how big a fool do you believe me to be? Yo
u have not stopped. You have no idea of love. Selfishness and dark desires are all you know.”

  “Mari, no!”

  “Your mother really did all she could. She tried to love you and accept you and cover for you, but the loss of Michael was too much for her.” Nina may have had a tear in her eye, but it was difficult for Malachi to know for sure.

  “Don’t cry for the loss of my inferior, weak brother. He was nothing!”

  The 4Cs turn away from Malachi, walking straight through the closed roll-down door in front of them and into the darkness beyond.

  As they do, Malachi’s victims once again appear to him, in various states of decomposition. They move into the light, and he can see and smell how grotesque they are. He can hear them, in his head. They accuse and blame him for their murders, all sparring for space inside his brain. The vibrations are agonizing. His mind is unable to block them out, unable to evict their voices from his head

  They are close to him now, fighting for his body as well. Reaching, grabbing, clawing, biting, feeding upon him, tearing him open and apart. He feels every pain they deliver. He sees blood spurting from his body, feels the flesh being ripped from his bones, but there are no wounds. They will be able to feast upon him for all eternity. He will suffer pain everlasting.

  His screams do not stop the voices in his mind or ward off the constant physical attack. It seems they too enjoy the power and life of blood.

  He continues to scream.

  ***

  Constance catches her breath and smiles. She senses the savage Malachi is finally paying his dues. She feels justified and continues to shuffle the dragon cards.

  Under Cursed Moonlight by Jonathan Moon

  Jethro Sapp wakes up, rolls away from the pale dead girl in his bed, and staggers to the bathroom. He makes little effort to aim and winces at the burning sensation accompanying his urination. He doesn’t curse the discomfort, however, because it’s well worth it for the fun he has had with his bedmate over the past few days. Jethro shakes the last few drops of liquid fire from his pecker and the smell hits him. A ripe mix of dried blood, semen and decay stabs up his nostrils with enough force to make him gag.