Being on the short side of tall, Lucy would, for a little extra height, normally wear three-inch-high heels when in town, but today she had wisely chosen a pair of flats instead. Her plan was to remain unseen, and if seen, then to appear inconspicuous, powerful, and yet demure, a combination that she had spent a full afternoon last week working on by going through her collection of powerful-women-genre DVDs. It took a further four hours to finely tune the smaller details of her outfit, from selecting her earrings all the way down to choosing the right shoes, not to mention the time spent deciding on her hairstyle, perfume, and underwear. As far as her husband was concerned, on the day of the execution she would be spending the afternoon and early evening visiting her brother. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was tasked with picking up the children from school, taking them for ice cream, and then heading home and feeding them. Lucy had prepared, cooked, then placed in the fridge a family-size lasagna with instructions on how to reheat it without ruining the delicious meal. As for their failed marriage, the separation was a mutual decision and a totally amicable arrangement. Sometimes life just dealt you lemons! Her parents’ murder hadn’t helped her failing marriage in any way; in any case, it was simply another reason for Eddie to die.
As one of the popular mums in the street, she had no intention of being recognized at Eddie’s execution. Lucy could quite imagine all the whispered conversations that would go on behind her back, and she certainly did not want her precious little girls finding out that Mummy was really an avenging angel of death that had swooped down to destroy the killer of their grandparents. Even though it was true to a degree. The execution coverage was going to be the program of choice that evening for the entire street. Many of the families knew and liked the Bugner family very much, and besides, they were a nosy bunch and looked forward to sympathizing with and consoling Lucy after the show. She also knew that this execution would be the topic of choice in the upcoming Sunday afternoon picnic, and she didn’t want to be the main course in terms of gossip.
It was through an unbelievable set of circumstances that Lucy was allowed to be able to attend the execution. Not even two weeks previous she had almost been the last victim of the IKSM, a group of terrorists that had left a trail of bodies all over Florida. If that was not enough, her life had been spared through the actions of the serial killer known as the Blender Butcher, who was currently being executed also by lethal injection not thirty feet from where she stood. It had been with no little effort that she had managed to convince the authorities to keep her identity confidential. Even her immediate family were completely unaware of the attack. The experience had shaken Lucy to her core. She took that horror, fear, and feeling of helplessness and pushed it down and buried it away, refusing to allow anything to come between her and Eddie’s demise. She damn well refused to be another victim. She wanted her revenge, and yes, in many ways she did think of herself as that avenging angel.
Chapter - 9
- Sanctioned Murder - IKSM Terrorist Cell -
She was dark skinned, in her fifties, and had what I would say is a typical Eastern look to her and could have had roots in any of the surrounding Mediterranean countries. Although she had no family in the USA to speak of, she nonetheless had many followers, who were closer to her than flies on shit. As leader of the cell, she was also a priestess of sorts, leading and driving the cell from atrocity to atrocity using their fanatical religious teachings as reasoning for the extreme acts. The terrorist cell had planned and carried out a number of vicious strikes on private US citizens. Perhaps I could have understood their motives and reasoning had their targets been military or government ones, but they had not been, and I did not.
To date the organization led by this woman had targeted children, pregnant women, and young families. The communities that the victims belonged to broke apart like rotten fruit due to the fear and distrust that had been seeded through the attacks. It was only recently that the latest attack took place. The terror cell’s inhuman acts had shocked the nation to its core. Their acts had ignited a series of protests and street demonstrations throughout the US, demanding that law enforcement agencies do something about these obvious terror attacks.
The latest involved the kidnapping of a five-year-old infant as he played in the backyard of his kindergarten. His single mother had dropped him off that same morning at eight, as she did every morning on her way to work. During the summer months the kindergarten caregiver would let the children play in the backyard, where the property owners had installed a kid-size tree house, a climbing frame, swings, and a sandpit, where the youngest of the children could be left to play.
The kidnapping surprised and shocked the small community of Macclenny that day, but that shock was nothing in comparison to the shock they would receive the following morning. In fact, the events of that week would burn into the inhabitants’ memories, ensuring that no one would ever forget the gruesome details of the crime.
The boy was discovered missing midmorning, and the police were informed immediately. As the day progressed, the parents, police, and neighbors searched the properties surrounding the kindergarten. It was midafternoon when a Channel 42 News crew turned up and began interviewing the family and friends of the missing boy. The station even began broadcasting regular segments, calling for help from the townspeople, asking them to come forward if they had seen or heard anything suspicious that morning.
No one came forward and no clues were found by investigators that day or evening. The boy’s mother and several of her friends walked their neighborhood streets throughout the night, searching for the little boy and calling out his name every few seconds.
It was the following morning that his dismembered body was discovered. It had been neatly cut up and placed into the kindergarten’s sandpit. Each body part had been buried in the sand and lay just a hair’s breadth beneath the surface, so that when the toddlers were placed in the pit to play, they soon discovered the grisly remains of the missing boy. The infants innocently played with the deceased child’s remains as they would any other toy. What separated these from normal toys was the congealed blood leaking from the severed ends. One baby barely out of diapers ended up smeared from head to toe with a mixture of sand and dark-red glutinous blood, while another infant had discovered a hand and used it to shovel sand from the pit into a sand castle molding bucket. Yet another child sat giggling while with tiny thumbs he poked at the dry, rubbery eyes in the boy’s decapitated head. The child’s curiosity explored further as he checked out the neck to see what was inside. Then, with his curiosity sated, he placed the head back on the sand and parked a matchbox-size red Ferrari in the deceased boy’s open mouth.
The three infants were discovered with their once-angelic hair now matted with blood, and their once-sweet faces the epitome of evil infants incarnate. It was a sandpit from hell, and its image burnt into the hearts and minds of the community, forever changing their lives.
For the kindergarten teacher, the images would haunt her for the rest of her days, which turned out to be far less time than anyone could have guessed. With her sanity broken, this last Christmas Eve she took a drunken flying leap from her roof and was cut in half by the white picket fence that bordered her small garden. The surrounding snow was drenched in blood, creating a strawberry slushie of gigantic proportions, while the steam from her innards drifted above her corpse like an escaping spirit.
The war on terror in the USA is like an iron fist crushing all that it slams into. When it hits the aggressor, nothing is left to chance, and everything within its field of destruction is removed from existence. In many ways the war on terror on home soil is employed in a similar fashion as the shock and awe tactics employed by the US armed forces overseas. With the CIA’s hands effectively tied from being able to remove homeland threats, other means of achieving the necessary ends were adopted. The cell led by this maniac had to be eliminated, but in a way that would not be destructive to our way of life, and in a way that would act to reinforce societ
y while also sending a message to the religious fanatics that this woman associated with. The iron fist against terror was not the shock and awe tool that my new employer wanted to use. Instead, they had approached me and requested that I use methods that would be hard for these religious extremists to forget. I guess they wanted to use me as a precision instrument—a scalpel, if you will . . . I got the point, and so would she.
The IKSM was responsible for the boy’s death and would be brought to justice, but not in a way anyone could predict or even have imagined. The CIA hired me to “take care of them,” with one proviso. My work should result in the most visually impacting results I could imagine. Now, I can imagine an awful lot, so there is a chance that perhaps I went a little too far, and perhaps I took the instructions a little too literally. Nevertheless, I completed the assignment and started by decapitating the organization.
And so it was that a few weeks later I found myself visiting the woman—let’s call her Ms. X for the time being. It was a Friday night, and it was one of the few nights that she didn’t have any guests or visitors. This worked in my favor, and I began planning my night’s entertainment. The kill would be a lengthy endeavor, for my overactive imagination had come up with something a little unique this time, and the earlier I started in the evening, the better.
Not unattractive, she was of average looks and would, based on her looks alone, have made an average wife for an average partner, though in many ways I guess she made the perfect undercover agent type. That is, she was average in every way, from her average height to her average build, her average 34C breasts, so that one could be forgiven for not noticing her at all. She could pass you in the street, and when questioned a little later you would deny her existence completely.
My instructions had been clear. She must be taken out, along with the remaining IKSM cell members. She must be the first to be eliminated, and the hit must appear to be the work of a serial killer, or at the very least a total maniac. That part would be easy, and besides, I ask you, how often does someone offer to employ you to do the things you do best? This would be my dream job, and I considered asking whether dental was included. Hey, I’m allowed a sense of humor too.
Dressed in jeans, a white blouse, and a pair of pink furry slippers, she was a little too cutesy for my liking, and in fact if you asked me, the getup was a little strange for a terrorist. I didn’t know that many terrorists at this point, and so I really had nothing to compare against.
She was completely unaware when I entered her somewhat lavish home the following Friday evening. The house had two stories, with the master and guest bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper floor, and living room and kitchen on the ground floor. I had figured out the basic layout using a little reasoning and window counting. Talk about luck!
That night turned out to be an ideal night for the event, not only because of the lack of visitors but because a storm hit the likes of which had not been seen since the days of the Ark. The weather really set the mood for the night and would thankfully mask the sins committed with thunderous claps and blinding lightning. With no sane person out that night, from outside in the wind and rain I watched her through a narrow gap in the living room curtains without fear of discovery. I wore a long black waterproof hooded jacket; its surface looked as slick as oil as it glistened in the rain.
Thunder and lightning surrounded me in the dark, and from time to time, as lightning struck I could see my shadow projected on the patio doors. Had she seen me? I was concerned for only a moment that she might have seen my shadow. I watched her closely, but she gave no indication that she had seen me. She got up from the couch and, taking a wineglass with her, she headed first to the adjoining hallway, then onward into the kitchen. When she had completely disappeared from view, I knew it was time to make my move. I was about to break the glass panel in the door but stopped and considered testing the door handle first and couldn’t believe my luck: it was unlocked. Oh boy, this was too good to be true!
It was in the kitchen that I found her with her back toward me, refilling her wineglass. I was soaked in rainwater and dripping all over the white-tiled floor, and even though the thunderclaps concealed my approach, I was still surprised that she did not hear me as I came up behind her. She let out a yelp and sent the glass flying across the room when she reacted instinctively, bringing up her arms and hands in an attempt to fend off my attack. Fast though she was, she was still too slow to prevent me from placing my arm around her neck and locking it with my left arm while I squeezed and put pressure on the back of her head with my left hand. Fighting to free herself from my grip like some coked-up cat, she kicked and scratched at me, but luckily my jacket managed to protect me from her assault. With her neck locked under pressure, the blood flow to her brain was reduced to a trickle, and within only a few more seconds she became unconscious. I had prepared a chloroform-soaked cloth and now drew it from the protective plastic ziplock bag. Placing the cloth over her nose and mouth, I pressed for some thirty seconds, ensuring that she would remain asleep just long enough to allow for me to prepare her for her death.
From the kitchen knife rack I removed a large cleaver and three very sharp knives. I also found a plastic trash bag from under the sink and took the items upstairs to the bathroom. I turned on the light and placed them in the washbasin and began to run a hot bath. As it filled, I decided to have a quick look around the upper floor. That turned out to be a complete waste of time. There was nothing of interest and my search proved to accomplish nothing more than confirm she was indeed alone at home.
I went back downstairs to the kitchen and picked up Ms. X. Putting her over my shoulder, I took her upstairs to the bathroom and remember thanking any god that might be listening that she had kept herself somewhat slim. It would have been impossible for me to carry her upstairs had she been, say, fifty pounds heavier!
It was now one o’clock in the morning, and I wanted to be gone from here by six, so there wasn’t a moment to lose. I went to the master bedroom and got undressed. I folded my clothes neatly, placing them on the bed, and hooked my soaked jacket over the edge of the door to dry. I returned to the bathroom naked and then carefully undressed Ms. X. This woman had seen some violence in the past. Her stomach and ribs were covered in thick scar tissue, and a couple of telltale scars, indicating bullet entry and exit points, were visible just below her collarbone.
I slid her into the steaming bathtub and turned the faucet off. Taking a knife from the basin, I then reached down between her thighs to her crotch and pressed the knife blade against her uppermost thigh. The skin resisted for a second before giving way to the incredibly sharp edge of the blade. Entering deep into her flesh, the knife’s tip finally hit bone, at which point I pulled the knife down toward her knee, cutting through skin, fat, muscle, and veins, all the while scraping along the bone’s length. At about halfway down her thigh, I stopped and pulled the blade from her leg. Somewhere along the knife’s path I had managed to cut open her femoral artery, which caused a massive crimson cloud to blossom from her thigh. If my research was right, then Death would take her in under three minutes.
It was time to wake her. The amount of chloroform I had subjected her to earlier would keep her unconscious for only ten minutes. I knew: I had practiced. Splashing cold water on her face and slapping her hard across the cheeks failed to wake her, and I was about to give her another good slapping when her eyes flickered open. She was barely conscious, but that was okay. That was all I wanted, for tonight she would be my audience, if only for three minutes.
“Hello. Good evening, my dear. It’s time for you to die. I’m curious. Do you have any idea what awaits you in hell?” I said.
She remained quiet. Unable to control her head, she responded more like a rag doll than a human being. I guess I must have used a little too much chloroform, or perhaps her drunken lolling was due to the blood loss. I pressed on regardless.
“No idea, huh? Well, me of course. I’m the devil and have come to drag you to th
e fiery pits of hell. But first we have to prepare you. And I’m going to have some fun with you.”
With the knife held between my teeth, I stepped into the bathtub and sat on her thighs, with her hips now between my knees. The hot bathwater, now a deep crimson, covered my legs and crotch in this most intimate of positions, and I wondered briefly whether she was as turned on as I was. I decided not to ask as I thought this would be a little inappropriate. Instead, I took the knife from my teeth and pressed the sharp edge of the blade against her flesh. The skin held together for the briefest of moments, then parted, welcoming the steel edge like a lover opening to a mate.
I opened her up from her solar plexus to her left hip and then again to her right hip. The hot water and blood loss made it impossible for her to react to the cuts I had made as she fought to stay conscious. I folded back the large triangle of flesh and began to carefully cut and remove a part of her intestine as she watched in horror. I had her full attention now but sensed she would not be here for too much longer, and as if on cue her eyes began to flutter and fade once more. Her arms and legs began to twitch and her eyes closed as she started to leave this world and head for the next. But I wouldn’t let her go just yet. I lent in face-to-face and slapped her cheek as hard as I dared. Her eyes and mouth opened with a gasp as she searched and found my eyes.
“See you in hell, bitch,” I said.
Taking the severed piece of intestine in my hands, I bit deeply into it as she watched. The effect was stunning. Her already-alarmed eyes now opened wider still, so far that I imagined for a moment her eyes would actually pop out of their sockets. I had truly freaked her out with that last vision of hell on earth, a vision that would fill her mind and soul as she descended to the depths of hell. I spat out the flesh and wiped my bloody mouth on my arm. I was amazed that her heart still pumped. She continued to demonstrate just how much she wanted to live, and I wondered whether her last victim, the young boy, had his life ripped from him by her or by one of her minions. Ms. X’s eyes began to close for probably the last time. The bathroom lights flickered off, along with the power to the rest of the house, as lightning and thunder struck simultaneously. Its brief light illuminated our embrace, and I reached into her and rammed my hand up toward to where her heart lay feebly beating. Feeling her lungs on either side of my searching hand, I pushed further upward. Ms. X’s eyes flew open with a start, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream for the first and last time that night as I gripped her barely beating heart in my fist and crushed the pulsating muscle between my fingers until I felt it beat no more. Lightning struck once more as I released the dead muscle from my grip, whereupon the house lighting resumed normal operation.
Death Row Apocalypse Page 8