Death Row Apocalypse (16 page)
Her corpse too would be discovered on her mother’s property, but for her, the parts were placed in plastic carrier bags beside her body. Here again, the first to discover the gruesome scene was one of the early-morning reporters. At the very least, her mother now had her daughter back, and would be able to grieve over her loss and visit her grave from time to time.
It was only a week or so later, after number thirteen had been discovered, that I’d been given the location of the final two members of Ms. X’s cell.
I watched and waited for three days from my vantage point across the lake. There had been very little to write home about. In fact, the only sign that someone was at home was smoke rising from the chimney and the lights turning on in the evening. I hadn’t seen a single silhouette from anyone inadvertently passing between the lights and the curtains. So I continued to watch and wait.
I thought I was in for the long haul as I waited into day three. My vantage point was a hide made from a wall of brush, which I sat behind in relative comfort and was almost directly opposite the two-story house about one and a half miles from my position. I had a one-man microtent, a sleeping bag, and enough provisions for about a week. The CIA had been generous this time, even to the point of supplying me with the aforementioned tent and supplies. They had assured me that the final members of the IKSM cell were for the time being alive and well, enjoying a late-spring break here by the lake.
It was early May, almost two weeks after the indescribable murder of victim number thirteen, Lisa. Her remains had been dumped at the entrance of her home early in the morning. Someone from the paparazzi had discovered the Wallmart-style plastic carrier bags containing her remains in the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately, Lisa’s family got to hear about the discovery while they watched the breakfast news as they ate. It took all of five minutes from the time that Lisa’s unceremoniously deposited remains were found to the moment the discovery was beamed live all over the state. The press were like highly trained ninjas, but instead of being deadly assassins, they were skilled in the art of news gathering and broadcasting. The end result was the same, though: shock and awe, death and despair, and always leaving the witnesses and viewers damaged in some way.
It was just a few minutes past six in the morning, and the night sky had somewhat dissipated into a twilight state. Through my binoculars, I checked the house on the far side of the lake and found that the kitchen lights were on. The view was not clear by any means. If any of you know Ocean Pond, then you know how the moisture in the air hangs over its expanse this early in the morning. The house occupants intrigued me somewhat, as they were not usually early risers. In fact, most days they did not appear to rise until midmorning. As I watched, I could just make out the forms of two men leave the house and get into a white paneled van. They then drove toward National Forest Road and disappeared from view. It was time for me to move, and, grinning to myself, I thought of all the fun that was yet to come.
I was once again assured that the properties either side of my targets were closed for renovation and had been that way for the past two years. I wasn’t worried about witnesses, as this too had been taken care of. It was a win-win situation.
Apparently, the owners had run out of the necessary funds halfway through the costly renovations and so decided to put their projects in mothballs, as it were. This was the first blatant lie that the CIA fed me. Little did I know that my pet project today was under more surveillance than the City of London. Two full CIA and FBI tactical teams had set up shop in both of the neighboring properties. It was only later that I discovered this, and the fact that I was to be the leading actor in the movie they were shooting would seal my fate. In any case, this movie would end up NC-17 rated.
I parked my rental car in the neighbor’s driveway, making sure it could not be seen from the road. Not forgetting my bag of tools, I slung it over my shoulder and headed for the rear of the property. As I walked into the clearing at the property’s rear, I noticed ropes of different sizes hanging from two trees about four yards apart and almost slipped over in what at first I thought was mud. I crouched to take a closer look and discovered the remains of thick coagulated blood. The weather had been unusually dry the last couple of weeks, but even so, for blood to have lingered for two weeks in a forest with a diverse range of insects was almost impossible. I wiped the soles of my shoes on some long grass as I approached the rear porch and ascended the wooden steps silently, but still managed to leave bloody footprints behind.
The inside of the house had been lavishly decorated. Whoever had furnished the property certainly had a few dollars spare to invest in sprucing up the old place. The CIA had provided blueprints of the structure, including photos of each room, but no matter how good the photo or photographer, it’s never as good as being there yourself. I decided to take myself on a little tour, starting in the basement, where I knew that the terrorists had spent countless hours destroying innocent children. As I approached the basement door, having already descended a dozen or so steps, I could smell the copper-rich air, which hung like smoke and caressed my senses. “Hello, old friend,” I said to nobody. At the base of the door was a thick bathroom mat, its dark stains giving silent narration to the macabre scene behind it.
Pushing the door open, I saw . . . nothing. The stale odor of human waste hit me first, and I found myself gagging a little as I tried to breathe. The room was in total darkness, but I managed to find the switch and brought light to the room, and I almost wished I hadn’t. The sight before me was, even for me, amazing, with the remains of sliced and diced children covering not only the floor but also the walls, where small pieces of flesh clung. Arterial blood spray covered all four walls, including the ceiling. In the far corner of the room was a trash can with a blue plastic liner. From it, partial and fully intact limbs threatened to fall out. The trash can was full and must have weighed some two hundred pounds. Around its base both new and old blood alike had been spilled or leaked from it.
In the center of the room stood a waist-high table, its surface stained forever with the life fluids that had seeped into its porous grain. Around the legs and under the table were dozens of cords, plastic tie-wraps, and ropes. All were severed after performing their function, then discarded to the floor, along with the sticky remains of countless young lives. In the far right-hand corner of the cellar a waist-high pile of clothes was gradually growing toward the ceiling and had already made almost half the distance. Against the far wall and mounted on a tripod was a Sony digital video camera. This was most likely the camera they used to capture and edit the video before uploading to YouTube. The room was artistry the likes of which I had only ever imagined. Its purity and honesty would have touched my soul if I had one.
I vowed then that not only should these two die, but they should be made to pay in kind, and I would entice and encourage every ounce of pain from their bodies before they croaked. They deserved my respect, and I would show them my trade, and we would as brothers bathe in blood. It’s just a shame that they were . . . well . . . religiously fucked up.
As I left the room, the sense that these two were not artists but were maniacs killing for fanatical reasons started to soil my opinion of their work. And by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, I had developed a new opinion, and I was happy to once again be clear on what needed to be done.
As I made my way upstairs to the upper floor and headed for the bathroom, I realized what the issue was with me: it was the children and the innocent. I discovered, as unlikely as it sounds, that I actually have a sense of right and wrong. Okay, maybe that’s still somewhat of an exaggeration, and perhaps it’s not as evolved as the average human being’s, but still, this was a positive thing for me. Having showered, I toweled off and dressed myself in a clean set of clothing that I’d brought with me before returning downstairs and making breakfast for myself. I may as well have a good breakfast; it was going to be a long day, and I’d need the energy to get me through.
The sun had set and with it the light from the brilliant day faded quickly behind the horizon. Glaring headlights darted this way and that as the white paneled van hugged the edge of the winding road through the forest. As the van approached the house, darkness had fully engulfed the isolated homestead and literally swallowed the white van as it came to a stop, turning its headlamps off.
The cloud cover was absolute. Every celestial body was shrouded in black velvet—that was, until the brilliant white light of the van’s interior light blazed through the pitch-black night, illuminating the immediate area. Having pushed aside the sliding side door, two men carried the limp form of a young woman out of the van and dropped her to the gravel road surface. The larger of the two picked the woman up and flipped her over his shoulder like a jacket. Both then made their way up the steps and into the house without saying a single word to each other. As the door closed behind them, it seemed to the rest of the world that it had just been excluded from a party it had no right knowing even existed. The absolute dark that was the night drew in to literally smother the house, where even the powerful electric lights emanating from the rooms could barely penetrate the night outside.
Turning on the lights, the two burly men carried the limp woman between them into the cellar, even though any one of them could have carried the woman easily enough on their own. They dumped her body unceremoniously on the bloodstained table and began cutting away her clothes immediately, using knives that had been strategically hidden at the center of their backs, held in place by the thick leather belts. They worked away, removing layer after layer of clothing, until the woman was totally naked.
The two men began to sweat, at first only a little but then profusely. Two minutes later, and both men lost the ability to think, to stand, and to act. Like a pair of drunkards, they struggled to stay upright and held on to the table for additional support. Both men dropped together almost simultaneously, the first having collapsed after his knees buckled beneath him. The second went down with a little less finesse and struck his chin on the table, breaking his front teeth and severing a good portion of his tongue. Fresh bright-red blood pooled around his head as he finally passed from consciousness, having barely registered the loss of his tongue.
I had watched the two arrive in their van and had planted the gas canister in the cellar shortly before they entered the house. My friends from the CIA assured me that the odorless gas was powerful enough to take down a herd of elephants, let alone the budding Schwarzeneggers. Having heard the minor commotions coming from the cellar, I assumed that the gas had done its job, so I walked calmly down to the basement.
Donning the provided gas mask, I carefully pushed open the door to the cellar and took in the situation without taking one step further. Both terrorists were down and out for the count. For once the CIA were 100 percent true to their word; the stuff had really worked quite well. One of the terrorists had obviously gone down the hard way. I could tell by what looked like a severed tongue, plenty of blood, and some tooth fragments. Stepping up to the fallen duo, I kicked both men in the face just to see if they were really unconscious, and they were. So I kicked once more, but a lot harder, just for the fun of it.
On the bloodstained table lay their latest victim. Not as young as their normal catch, but still very good looking. The woman’s chest was gently rising and falling, and I couldn’t help check her out. She was young, maybe twenty-five or so, and had a body that most guys wouldn’t mind going to prison for. I swear she could probably turn a nun to lesbianism. She was lucky, she was still alive and would be home by tomorrow, with only a few bruises and a great story to tell her grandkids one day.
Carefully I lifted her and put her down beside the cellar door, and then I undressed the two thugs and secured their hands and feet together using thick plastic tie-wraps. I then secured the first thug’s left wrist and foot to the second thug’s right wrist and foot. Using the plentiful supply of rope that was down here, I secured their remaining limbs, pulling tight on the rope so that both men were now spread-eagled on the cellar floor with no chance of escape. Having finished with the preparations, I located the gas canister, which was hidden beneath a pile of children’s clothing, and shut off the valve. I really didn’t fancy being the victim of my own trap. Taking some extra ties and leaving the basement door wide open, I then carried the woman upstairs to the master bedroom and placed her on the bed. With her hands and feet securely fastened to the bed frame, she would wake later, confused and scared but alive and well. As I threw the bedcovers over her naked body, I couldn’t help but notice that she had a strawberry-shaped birthmark on her upper right thigh. Lifting the covers to expose her thigh, I took a second look at the fruity mark—sue me; I’m a guy. Closing the door behind me, I left her to sleep off her chemical slumber and headed to the kitchen.
The hot oil was just starting to smoke; any hotter and it was liable to ignite and burst into flames. I recalled from my recent investigation into the flashpoint of cooking oil, that it would ignite at around 600 degrees Fahrenheit; it wasn’t far from that right now. I removed the deep pan from the stove and made my way to the basement, careful not to spill a drop of the superheated oil. Entering the basement room, I found the two men starting to stir.
They will be fully conscious in a few minutes, but why wait?
I thought.
