15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  I rush back into the kitchen and grab one of the idle knives stuck into the knife block. It’s the biggest one in the kitchen; it glistens in the strobe lighting as I exit the kitchen and rush to the stairs. I take one step forward on the creaky stair and then hear a scream. It sounds like Elle. My immediate response is to rush up and follow the screams. I do. I clear the thirty-odd steps in what I imagine to be record time. I reach the landing and see Seth’s door. I fling myself into it and crash through the other side. I see Seth on top of Elle, who’s crying into a pillow. He quickly turns his head and sees me. He reaches for the revolver on the bedside table. He gets off her and faces me, his back to the wall. He stands twenty feet away from me, but it feels as if he’s right in my ear; the pure sight of him and what he’s doing to her makes me angry. I grip my knife’s handle tightly as he stares a hole into me.

  “Looks like you brought a knife to a gunfight…amigo,” he says.

  I grip my knife even harder and walk forward. My strides hit the floor in his room like loud thumps of a war drum; each step I take is a step closer to battle. He gives me a sadistic smile as he unclips the revolver and spins the chamber. He quickly snaps it back in and raises the gun toward me as I come within arm’s length. The steel cold hits my skull and sends a nervous tingle down my spine. He laughs.

  “There’s only one in the chamber, Toby. Six to one odds of you dying. Even those odds make me happy. Ever since you came into my life, you’ve been nothing but a burden. I lost three good years of my life in high school because I was hanging around with you, and now this? Now you take my girl! Elle is mine, Toby, you know that. You know I get what I want, and you know I want Elle. So tell this dumb bitch that if she doesn’t do as I say, it’s nighty-night for her.”

  “Fuck you, Seth — she’s my girl. I love her!” I shout as I grip my knife tighter. He pulls the trigger; nothing comes out.

  “Lucky boy!” He laughs.

  He pulls the trigger again. Still no bullet.

  “Ooh, four to one now.”

  Elle starts screaming as he pulls it again. This time I close my eyes, expecting the worst, but still no bullet. With my eyes shut, I grip the handle of the knife even harder.

  “Three to one.”

  He pulls again; no bullet. I swing the knife and hit his side. The knife goes in like butter, and he lets out a scream. He drops the gun as I open my eyes. I quickly bend down and pick up the revolver. He looks at me from the floor with scared eyes.

  “You fucking stabbed me!” he screams.

  “What about Mike, Rocco, and Dwaine? You stabbed them, you sick bastard!”

  “They got in the way,” he says calmly.

  “Well, so have you…. Two to one odds, Seth — how do you like those odds?”

  “I’m feeling flustered. I don’t want to play this game anymore,” Seth says as he tries to regain his escaping breath.

  “Two to one,” I say as I squeeze the trigger. The revolver bounces and fires. A loud thumping sound bellows through the room as Seth’s head snaps back and explodes. Elle screams as she is splattered with blood.

  The next thing I know, I’m down here. Like I said before, I didn’t mean to kill him. He threatened me with the gun and pulled the trigger four times. What was I supposed to do?

  Officer Mullins looks at Frank McKenzie, who then looks at Toby, who’s handcuffed to the table. The interview room lights echo off Toby’s sleek brow as sweat streams down his face.

  “Self-defense?” asks Frank

  “From what I saw when I stopped you guys before this shit went down, it seems like you already knew about the weapon. That alone is a felony crime. But from how you described it, Toby, the prosecution could lean towards self-defense for the knife wounds Seth received, but as for the gunshot wound to the head, that was cold-blooded murder. I’m sorry, kid — you made a bad decision. That one bullet has cost you the rest of your life, no matter how many people Seth took with him before you fired that gun. It won’t bring your friends back, nor will it give you and Elle the life that you want. I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you with murder.”

  Frank gets up and grabs the paperwork on the desk. He sees the tears in Toby’s eyes as he realizes the consequences of his actions. Mullins and McKenzie make their way out of the interrogation room and shut the door behind them.

  “Poor kid,” says Frank sympathetically.

  “Be that as it may, sir, he still killed someone. He stuck the dude with a knife. If he’d just let him be, the paramedics said he would have bled out. Either way, though, he shot Seth in the head. End of story.”

  “Still, the guy was trying to get it on with his girlfriend.”

  “She isn’t the dead one, though.”

  “It’s just sad, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I would’ve done the exact same thing,” says Frank.

  “Yeah…I know. But you’re a whole different kettle of fish, my friend.”

  “How?” asks Frank.

  “You don’t get caught.”

  Luis Samways

  Das Death

  Part 1

  Author’s note:

  Das Death is a fictional series based in an alternate universe where the Germans won the Second World War. It contains subject matter that some readers may find objectionable. In no way is this book an endorsement of any of its content — it is merely a fictional story like any other form of entertainment, i.e., movies and TV shows. It has been written in a way that may seem direct, and doesn’t shy away from political correctness, because if the Germans did win World War II, political correctness wouldn’t exist. This book contains references to Nazis and Jews. Again, in no way does this book condone any of the acts described herein. It is just a story. If you as a reader do not feel comfortable with such a storyline, then please feel free to not buy this book. As a writer, I don’t want to offend anyone. Thank you for reading, and if you do purchase this book (you may be reading the sample, or you may have already bought it), then thank you. I wanted to try something different. I hope you enjoy it.

  Luis

  The year is 2013. The month is September. The date is the second. It’s been sixty-eight years since the end of World War II, or, how it is known now, as the day the Germans came.

  The Germans won on that fateful September day. Sixty-eight years later, they still hold the world to rights. All the Jews have been exterminated…. Well, nearly all of them….

  Prologue

  My name is Abel Brewer. I am the last Jew, the last living Jew in the world. Over the past sixty-eight years, the Germans have confiscated our freedom and our lives, taking both our blood and our souls. My mom and dad died a long time ago — about thirty years, if my memory still serves me. I myself am forty-six. I turned forty-six yesterday. Before, I used to celebrate my birthday with my wife, Diana. Now that she is dead, and has been for ten years, all that remains is me. There used to be more of us. Many more, to be precise. We used to live in the turned-out trenches of Maryland. Maryland itself used to be a state that was in the United States of America. Now, however, like the entire world, it’s collectively known as New-Germania. I find myself writing this memoir to correct some wrongs that have taken place. Being the last Jew on earth makes me certain that the world needs to know what happened. Even if the world we live in now is a world that is one-dimensional, I believe that one day the world will be full and free — 3D, if you will.

  You may ask yourself, how do I know I am the last Jew in the world? The sheer fact that my whole family is dead and the community I used to live in is extinct isn’t really enough to justify such a moniker. I am not big-headed enough to assume that there aren’t more of my people out there. I certainly am not big-headed enough to assume that I am the only one to survive, the only one who managed to escape the German claw of death. I know that I am the last Jew on earth because the Germans broadcast the last execution of said Jew. They thought that the person they were feeding to the dogs was the last Jew.
So much so that they actually called it “the last execution.” I, of sound mind, know that the person they killed on live TV wasn’t the last Jew, for I knew that he was the second. It was my brother Jacob, and I certainly know that I am the last, for it is only right that I should be the last to die. The last Jew to live and the last to fight….

  Signed

  Abel Brewer

  I miss you, brother…I will see you soon.

  Jacob’s Last Rites

  Jacob had no last rites. He was dragged into his cell for his last beating. He was stripped naked and violated with all sorts of sharp instruments. He was torn up and lacerated. He was urinated on. Defecated on, and then he was sodomized. These were his last rites. Those moments were his call to grace. His last intake of air. His last boot to the ribs. He earned his beating. In the eyes of the Germans, being the last Jew alive was an honor, an honor that he would pay for with humiliation and blood. They wanted him to feel the wrath of all the Germans who had lost their lives in the war. They wanted him to feel the searing heat of defeat that they were going to lay down on him.

  The Germans didn’t get their hands dirty. They had people for that, people who would gladly do their dirty work for them. These were the people who violated Jacob’s last moments on earth. They were the non-Jewish inferiors. Not quite dirty enough for the Germans to kill, useful enough to have them live and serve under them. You would call them Hispanic, but the Germans called them “Lappermen.” These so-called Lappermen were of mixed white and black race, but had the working skills to build great wonders of the world. It was this that saved them, that and the fact that the Germans didn’t feel comfortable going into another war. They had already wiped out the Middle East by the nineties, and all that remained was the west. Japan and China grew into a super-power that was a subdivision of New-Germania. They didn’t fight Germany, nor did they support them, but they stayed out of the way. Russia supported and still supports the Germans. That was probably why the rest of the world knelt down to Germania. That was why the whole world tuned in to watch the execution of Jacob. That was why no one opposed it, and that was why my brother died a death only the most barbaric could conjure up.

  “You filthy pig, you are sentenced to die the death only a Jew can die. You shall be put into the dog pen and on the command of the mighty state of New-Germania, you shall be ripped into shreds and the dirty substance that runs through your veins will spill onto the great plains of this new world we live in. Bring the prisoner out!” the voice on the television had bellowed as I sat down in my trench and watched in horror as the crowds had cheered for the execution of Jacob.

  I managed to get my hands on some spare parts and constructed a mini TV set a few years back. My brother and I used to watch the propaganda flowing through it in our safe haven. We’d stay up for hours and wonder when our time would come. When would we be next? We had watched many of these executions before. It was merely through curiosity that we sat through the blood-fests. But it was more of a way to accept our fate. It was a way we could see what lay in our future. As I mentioned, most of our people were dead. We knew there were some who remained, many of whom we’d never met. It was evident through the weekly executions on TV. But we gathered that the Jewish population was thinning out, because the rate of televised executions was getting lower.

  It was a year and a half ago that the Germans stated they had reason to believe that they were close to ridding the world of “the plight,” as they called it. They had announced, later to their embarrassment, that there were no more Jews. I remember that both of us were shocked at such news. We knew that they would only announce such a thing if they had solid proof. It made us nervous, because it meant that we could possibly be the last Jews.

  For years, ever since the Germans won, they had gone out on patrols everywhere in the world, and captured Jews. For years, some escaped, some were killed, and some went missing. Our mother and father had been two of those Jews who went missing. Later we found out they were shot by panicked settlers who didn’t want to be associated with the Jews in any way. For if you were found in the vicinity of any Jews, you, too, would be shot, even if you were of a “superior race.” That rule had helped the extinction of my people. It put the fear of death in every living person. It meant that civilians could do the Germans’ work for them. It was a clever tactic. It worked. For now they had my brother.

  I remember the day my brother went out and scavenged for some food. We took it in turns. He went one day, and I went the next. It was how we survived. It was how we made it to be thirty and forty-six years old. He went over our abandoned trench, which was hidden under two tons of refuse. The old war site had been turned into a dump. It was where the state of New-Germania sent its rubbish. It was unmanned and unworked. It was also a place we managed to scavenge food and remain unfound. We had built an underground tunnel leading above ground. We would go out of our trench and look for whatever unspoiled trash was available. It was as routine as sleeping at night. It would usually only take a few hours, but when my brother didn’t come back, I knew he’d been captured.

  I feared for my life, yet I stayed in the pit, and remain there now, for I won’t move until I know it’s safe. And I know it will be safe soon, for the TV reassures me.

  As I watched my brother being escorted out and into the dog pen, I tried to hold my emotions in the pit of my stomach. I felt the cold run through my torso as a draft of wind made its way down the tunnel to the outside. It was a cold night, but I felt warm inside. Hot sweats had begun running from my brow. My heart had begun to race. I knew that I was about to see my brother die on TV, and sure enough, the moment had come.

  “Release the dogs,” the husky voice had shouted. My brother was too weak to even put up a fight. Covered in dirt and blood, and as naked as the day he was born, he dropped to his knees as four dogs surrounded him. The crowd of spectators started to rumble with anticipation as Jacob looked up to the sky and closed his eyes. Immediately, all four chains keeping the dogs at bay were unclasped, and the dogs all pounced on my brother. The first dog went for his neck. He bit hard and broke Jacob’s windpipe. The dog shook his mane and parted my brother’s head from his shoulders in a matter of seconds. The other three tore into him in as little time. After a few more minutes, my brother was gone, and all that remained was an untouched organ in the middle of a bloody pool. I shut my eyes long before seeing that.

  Chapter One

  My eyes rarely deceive me. If only I had seen it coming, then maybe I wouldn’t be writing this. You would be surprised at just how hard it was to arrange clean writing paper. It is even harder to arrange such writing implements as well. No longer is it possible for me to stroll down the street and go into a shop. To be honest, it has never been that way. But being underground for thirty years and living in the shadows of society has made me realize that life isn’t anything more than extended heartbeats and inconsiderate bowl movements. You’d also be surprised at how literal the saying “scared shitless” is. I had managed to shit myself plenty of times in the face of danger. No matter how recognizable the face of danger is, I still manage to buckle at the knees and cry out for my lord.

  They have taken that away from me. They have taken everything away from me. And now I sit here in my trench, knees covered in mud, hair matted in dirt, sweat sticking to my forehead, crying, alone and cold. I remember calling out for Jacob. It wasn’t loud enough to blow my position, but hopefully it was loud enough for him to hear me. I do miss him. It’s hard to get him off my mind. Near impossible, in fact. Never have I longed for the touch of my brother before. After caring for him after my mother and father died when he was a baby, I always felt a special bond with him. He was a little tearaway as a baby. He would scream and shout day and night. But somehow we never got discovered. We moved countless times, setting up shelter in rundown buildings, disused places, and abandoned trenches. We never stayed in the same place for more than a week. Before he died, we had only been in this trench for two weeks.
Granted, it was longer than the usual safe period of time between such moves, but I just felt it was safe here. I must have been wrong, seeing it was only me now.

  It had been three hours since my brother was executed when I heard him. My neck stiffened up at the sound of the approaching automobile. It was one of those Land Rover vehicles. It looked like a World War II relic, but was just designed that way. I saw it coming through the crack in the trench. The headlight beam found its way into my little hole, into my little world. I immediately heard my heart beating its beat of fear.

  BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM.

  I could feel it pound in every artery in my body. My limbs were numb. My body heat had elevated. It was no longer cold in the trench. It was as hot as the motherland. It was searing. I was wobbly. Then I was quiet. I had come close to situations like this before. A hairbreadth away from being found. Many times, too many times. I saw the big car stop dead in front of my trench. I had never seen something like this before. Something told me by the way the car had pulled in, the person driving knew I was here, that somebody was here.