Serial Killer Android

by David Scott

  John got up from his seat and went to sit with Phil.

  “Never mind, buddy. I still love you.” John said, as he stretched out his muscular arm around Phil’s shoulders and squeezed tightly.

  John was unnaturally brawny. He had started hitting the gym for hours every day. One of those muscle gyms with mirrored walls where men and women stare at themselves and each other, ripping and rebuilding their inner fibrous tissues, to become bigger and better. Blue veins swelled up and pulsed just under the surface of his skin.

  Everyone agreed that it was some kind of predictable mid-life crisis. That last push before the inevitable weakness of old age, where pumped parts become painful and fight back at their unnatural torment.

  John spent more time fashioning his appearance than on anything else. His mousey hair elevated by blonde highlights. His teeth glowed unnaturally white. His eyes sparkled with green hues from coloured contact lenses. All framed and exaggerated against his spray tanned body. It looked like he had just come back from an exotic holiday and sometimes, out of embarrassment at his own vanity, John would pretend he had. People believed that skiing holidays in winter were common for John. He was a nice guy at heart and, initially, this had come from his own insecurities. Now, it was his obsession.

  Linda got up too, following her husband, and sank onto his lap, stretching her long legs out over Phil’s. Phil couldn’t help himself from admiring her thin, sleek body in the figure-hugging red dress.

  “And I love you both!” Linda slurred, playfully.

  Linda started kissing John, quickly and repeatedly, on the cheeks, leaving lipstick stains on his sharp bones. Her breath was a heady cocktail of sausage meat, alcohol, and cigarettes. She planted a few more ashtray kisses on his lips, before resting her head on his shoulder. His hard frame was uncomfortable, so she grabbed a pillow and tried again. Her head swooped down low almost immediately, flattening her brown curls, as she passed out asleep.

  Julie looked slowly around the room, surveying the people around her. Yes, a change was definitely needed.

  Julie went back outside to check on the grill, and to start to tidy-up. Standing on the wood-stained patio, under the coloured bulbs that garishly lit the patio area, hanging high up, suspended on various hooks and branches. She looked up, past them, at the millions of unencumbered stars, and dreamt of a different life.

  Julie wondered what was happening in the infinite alternative universes. With endless chances and possibilities, there must be so many Julies who were happier, loved, rich, famous. Equally, there must be a good number less happy, impoverished, starving, dying. Maybe her lot was not so bad; the thought of happier Julies, who had made better choices, somehow comforted her. She raised her refilled red cup to them and drank, emotions heightened from its contents.

  A rustling noise came from the bushes at the back corner of their long, rectangular garden. Probably some animal, Julie thought, enticed towards the house by the barbecue bouquet.

  Julie moved forward, squinting her eyes together to try to see further and to focus. A tall, dark figure was moving towards her. A rainbow of colours flashed against it from the light bulbs hovering above, leading it towards Julie and the circus of her life.

  Was this Julie’s vampire lover finally come to declare his timeless love and to take her away? The alcohol must have kicked in harder than she thought. She rubbed her eyes, forgetting that she was wearing her contact lenses. One dislodged itself from her eye and floated to the ground.

  She looked again, struggling to see anything due to her blurred vision, arising from the fight between one malfunctioning eye and one with corrected vision. Ruby-like eyes stared back at her. It looked to Julie like the person was wearing a mask. It wasn’t Halloween. Maybe this was Phil and Mike pulling a prank. Her confused brain was desperately trying to rationalise the sight before her.

  Julie’s in-built survival instincts faltered due to the drink. She would have fought hard if she had been lucid. Instead, Julie stumbled forward, unsteady on her feet due to the height of her heels coupled with boozy dizziness.

  Cold hands grabbed at her to stop her from falling. It held her up, unnaturally in the air, like a farmer might hold up a chicken. Julie felt like her neck was about to snap, and let out a short scream. Immediately, her head was slammed down hard against the grill. Julie’s skin started to singe. The barbeque collapsed under her weight, as her skull was crushed, and collapsed, against the concrete patio, staining it afresh with her blood.

  Stewart thought he heard Julie shout. He wanted an excuse to go outside anyway, hoping to endear himself to Julie by lending a helping hand. Stewart had always liked Julie but didn’t dare to think that anything could ever happen between them. She was far too smart and pretty for him. And then there was Martha, for better or worse and, since that ring had gone on her finger, it seemed to be perpetually for worse. Stewart was a religious man and, no matter how unhappy he was, his vow was eternally binding. He could not leave her, but he could fantasise.

  “Julie, do you need a hand?” Stewart called out.

  Stewart saw a river of some kind of red liquid slithering down the wooden grooves of the patio floor towards him. He instinctively moved backwards to stop it reaching him, thinking it to be spilt wine. He followed it to its source, and saw Julie spread out on the ground, covered in blood.

  “Julie! Julie! Are you ok? Julie …”

  Stewart felt a presence nearby, and stopped talking. The reality of the situation was catching up with him, and fear setting in. It was clear that Julie was dead from the disfigurement of her body. He prayed to his god to protect him but he instinctively knew this was it. Sorrow and terror mixed with acceptance, as he looked up at the tall figure standing over him.

  Stewart stared at the Venetian mask. The black, cloak-like jacket suddenly lifted in the newly found breeze. A steel spear appeared from the foot of the figure and, before Stewart could utter a word, it darted elegantly forward into his temple. Forsaken by his deity, he fell on top of Julie, in a bloody consummation.

  Entering the main room, Pulcinella moved to Phil, grabbed his head and twisted it around quickly, with a loud crack, before pressing its palms against the heads of the sleeping lovers, Linda and John, electrifying their dreams and exploding their brains.

  Mike was in shock. Watching the horror movie unfold before his eyes, as he lay resting on the floor. The intruder pointed its hand towards him. A pistol rose up from out of its knuckles, and a silent shot burst out. Mike convulsed briefly, and then lay still. On his back, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts raced through his mind. Julie on the beach, laughing. Julie in his arms, head resting on his racing heart. Julie in her wedding dress, so beautiful. Deep regrets. Hours at work to get the house they longed for. Julie surpassing him in her career, leaving him an impotent disappointment. Low moments and secret pills. Heavy drinking with convenient friends. Julie smiling. Julie.

  Jill had not even looked up yet. She was still intent on her phone, having put in her wireless earphones to listen to some music to help her to concentrate, blocking out the world. Tapping away furiously at the glass screen in full flow. Jill didn’t even notice that anything was wrong. Did not see her killer. There was just surprise at the sudden pain. She dropped the phone, and slumped over.

  In the bathroom, Martha was admiring herself in the mirror, turning her face from side to side. The Botox had really paid off. Not one wrinkle was left on her face, thanks to the poisonous pricks. I’ve still got a good few years left in me yet, Martha thought to herself. The battle against old-age won but the inevitability of losing the war made her efforts temporary and, ultimately, futile.

  Martha took her lipstick from her purse. It cost more than a month’s wages but it really did make her thin lips look full and juicy. She smacked them together and pouted before blowing herself a kiss.

  “There, perfect!” Martha said aloud, trying to persuade herself that she was still beautiful; those blessed with good looks find it so
much more painful to age, and Martha was struggling with her maturing features.

  Something caught her eye in the mirror. A shadowy figure in the doorway. It suddenly ran at her, and smashed her face into the mirror. Martha gave herself a deadly kiss, and aged no more.

  Pulcinella left the party, and moved on.

  Next door, Tom heard some crashing and banging, but this was nothing new. His neighbours were a raucous lot. He sighed deeply, and sunk lower into his outside hot tub to blot out the noise. The bubbles filled his hears, and tickled. As his breath ran out, he quickly bobbed back up, gasping for breath.

  To his relief, it had gone quiet. The lights in the water changed to a baby-pink shade, which almost matched his modern-coloured, overtight speedos. He reached down and adjusted himself, trying to stretch the elastic a little to provide some comfort. Really, he didn’t know why he bothered with swim wear. After all, he was alone, but you just never know who might be peering out of their windows, and he was not about to provide them with a cheap thrill at his expense.

  Tom leant his head back against the plastic rim of the tub, and suddenly reprimanded himself for getting his hair wet in the water. He worried that the chlorine cleaner might turn it green, as he once read in some glossy magazine could happen. Well, it was too late now.

  Tom turned down the temperature dial, conscious that his skin had reddened from the heat. His fingers and toes had become deeply wrinkled from staying in the water too long. He would have to get out soon, but not just yet. A few moments longer.

  The day’s events replayed in his mind. Since his promotion, Tom had seemingly dealt with nothing except administration and personnel issues. He longed for the days when he was an accounts manager, and could actually interact with the clients. That is promotion for you, he thought. They take you away from what you are good at, the underlying skill which you have honed for years, and drown you with procedures and processes; regulatory compliance and meetings.

  This was not what Tom had hoped for, and he did not enjoy it. The company expected more and more from him, piling on the pressure, while offering him little in compensation except for a fancy sounding title. The salary rise was negligible and, really, how much money do you need to live on? He had quite enough. It also left him with no time for himself. That was how he found himself alone at night in his new, plastic-smelling hot pool.

  Tom noticed he was clenching his jaw and tried to relax, concentrating on the warmth of the water, the bass tones of the bubbling water, and the mood-enhancing lighting; he watched the wisps of steam dancing in the night air, changing colour in time with the disco below.

  It worked for a moment, and then his mind was full again; thinking about repeating routines that did not yet need to be done, leaving the door open for the cleaner, putting out the trash, buying a birthday card for his father’s birthday, and so on. It was a never-ending list of minutiae.

  And then Tom felt guilty. He had not been over to see his family for at least a month, and they only lived on the other side of town. Lately time seemed to fly-by, and days quickly turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The earth was spinning at top speed, and it was all Tom could do to stop himself from falling off, becoming lost in space forever.

  Tom propped himself up, and dried his hands on the nearby towel before reaching for his phone. He unlocked it with his finger, and added a new reminder to go to see his parents. He then checked his work emails, and saw another seven messages had flooded in since the last time he looked, about half-an-hour ago. It was just too much.

  Angrily, he heaved himself out of the pool, scratching his back on the metal filter as he did so, leaving a trail of blood to mix in the bubbling cauldron.

  “Bloody hell!” Tom cried out, “That is really all I need right now. So much for relaxing!”

  He turned around and almost walked straight into Pulcinella, who was standing quietly nearby. Tom’s survival instincts immediately activated. He turned and ran.

  Tom had always been a good sprinter and he somehow managed to get away, speeding around the side of the house, fleeing towards the cul-de-sac entrance way. He called on every ounce of energy with him, and successfully reached the main gate.

  Tom punched in the code to open the gates, relieved, and looked around. Pulcinella was coming towards him, and moving fast.

  The gate made a bleeping noise, and remained closed. He must have put in the wrong code. Tom tried again. Nothing. He was trapped. Imprisoned by the very structure which was supposed to protect him.

  Tom grabbed the railings and shook them with all his might, trying to force the gate open. It didn’t work. He tried to climb, to find a friendly foothold, but failed.

  He didn’t look back. There was no need to make it any worse. He held on to the bars, and started to sob gently. Awaiting the inevitable.

  Tom’s mind emptied, as Pulcinella crushed his skull quickly through the narrow, metal railings.

  Pulcinella moved on to the next house. And then the next, until all of the houses were vacated and ready for their next occupants, whose only thought would be the assured discount to erase any stains of the past.

  The result was the same in each case. No one expected a killer to knock on their door. No alarms were triggered, they all let it in. Or did not see it coming, and did not expect such an uninvited guest. Unprepared and defenceless, they all died.

  Ten households slaughtered. Pulcinella’s work was done for this month. It left a message in blood on the wall of one of the houses:

  “They were already dead.

  Self-imprisoned. Locking out happiness.

  Stymied by comfort.

  Scared of change.

  Fearing tomorrow because they know they wasted today.

  Let life in before it is too late.

  Find the joy in every day.

  There is more to come.”

  Pulcinella

  It accessed its database and selected its next location, immediately moving on without reflection or hesitation.

  FOUR

  Dan rolled over in his bed, and rubbed at his eyes. He had not slept well, waking up every half-an-hour or so, for no real reason. Dan wasn’t stressed or worried about anything. Quite the opposite. Little occupied his mind, so he couldn’t understand his persistent restlessness.

  The bedroom was cold and quiet. It was still early in the morning, and dark outside, but he knew that there was no point in trying to get any more sleep. He might as well get up, and go into the office early. After all, there was no one at home. Well, no one except for Mister Toffee, his ever-hungry, ginger cat.

  He switched on the television with the remote control, as he sat down, and slurped some soggy corn flakes to appease his grumbling stomach.

  There was nothing new to report. The same news as the night before. And the night before that. How many times can you hear the same sad story or repeated struggles? You become immune to, and even annoyed at, the suffering. Dan was relieved but also disappointed. He almost hoped for some cataclysmic event to excite his bored soul.

  Mister Toffee jumped immediately onto the sofa alongside him, and started swishing at him with his lustrous tail. It was not long before he started jumping up, and rubbing his soft furry head into the underside of Dan’s chin, while purring coaxingly; Mister Toffee also wanted to be fed.

  “Okay, okay!” Dan conceded, “I know, you want your breakfast too. Come on then, you little rascal, let’s see what we’ve got for you.”

  Dan stood up, and headed for the kitchen. Mister Toffee knew exactly what this meant and started incessantly meowing, as he rushed alongside Dan’s legs, almost tripping him up on the way.

  Dan took the small spatula and emptied a tin of tuna flakes into Mr Toffee’s blue food bowl. Dan stroked the happy cat’s soft fluffy back, lovingly, while Mr Toffee licked away greedily at the food, before returning to the living room.

  There was nothing left to do here, nothing to entertain or amuse. Just the company of the television. Dan had a budge
t presentation to do later that day, which he still had not prepared for, notwithstanding that he had plenty of time to do so in the preceding week, so he decided he would have a quick shower, and then head straight to work, as planned.

  When Dan arrived at the office, he expected it to be empty and in darkness, but he was not alone. The glow from a desk lamp illuminated the room, and Luke sat in the far corner of the open plan workspace. He was staring down at a brown folder, turning the pages, and reading intently.

  It looked from afar like one of the old case folders Dan remembered opening himself some years ago. Of course, there were no such folders these days; hard copy was unfashionable and not environmentally friendly, so everything was sent and stored electronically. Time had moved on, and reliable paper files, and the comfort of tangible paper, had been readily discarded and were now left to reside in archive in a damp basement. Like Dan had been consigned to a small office.

  Dan was going to move on to his office without interrupting Luke, but Luke had heard Dan coming through the door, and looked up.

  “Good morning, Chief.” Luke said cheerily.

  “Morning, Agent Harrison.” Dan replied, secretly pleased to have some company.

  Dan wandered through the various desks, cluttered with stained coffee mugs and family photos, towards Luke.

  “So, what brings you in at this time?” Dan asked, as he turned around the file in front of Luke, so that he could see it better. Dan recognised it immediately. It was one of his last cases as an active agent. A particularly unpleasant affair involving a rapist, egotistically calling himself ‘the Rapture’, who took great pleasure in tormenting and sexually violating religious preachers, to teach them that there was no God, and no one to save them.

  “I am just trying to learn from real life situations, Chief.” Luke said, almost embarrassed, “How did you catch him? The case notes don’t really provide much detail.”

  “Well, Agent Harrison, this one was down to an effective witness appeal,” Dan stared at the file, as he continued, “You see, the last victim had been a priest, and he had hit the Rapture in the face with a heavy, gold candlestick holder. The priest had described how his decorative saviour had ripped across the entirety of the Rapture’s right cheek, undoubtedly leaving a scar running across his face. This unique feature, coupled with a detailed description of the assailant given by the priest, meant that we could issue an accurate photofit picture of the likely identity of the Rapture.”