Anatomy of Evil (21 page)
Chapter Thirty-Five
The army moved into Cody, Illinois and immediately constructed a massive, heavily guarded concrete bunker to contain the unusual puncture in the atmosphere. Main Street was diverted to a new location for downtown built many miles from the scene of the firestorm.
Local farmers feared their crops would never flourish again. They became pleasantly surprised when they yielded a strong, healthy output the following spring, showing no signs of contamination.
Citizens who had witnessed the blast continued to suffer from nightmares and visions, but exhibited no lasting physical effects.
The official cause of the explosion became muddled in political positioning, evasive jargon and bureaucratic noise. Homeland Security summed it up as homegrown terrorists brewing an experimental bomb. No one could explain why four exemplary, upholding citizens had gone bad, but soon enough people stopped trying to rationalize it, concluding that human nature never did follow a predictable path.
Chapter Thirty-Six
John and Connie Thielen arrived at the boat rental shack surprised to find an unfamiliar face.
“Hello,” said the tanned, older man with an American accent. “How may I help you today?”
“What happened to Jamarqui?” asked John, carrying his fishing pole and tackle box. He and his wife wore colorful, matching beachwear, glistening with fresh sunscreen.
“Jamarqui,” said the man, looking down at the sand. He shook his head sadly. “Jamarqui passed away. We believe he may have capsized at sea. They never found the body.”
“How horrible,” said Connie. “We've been coming here every year for vacation. He was always so wonderful and helpful. We're going to miss him.”
The stranger held out his hand. “Let me introduce myself. I'm Louis. After Jamarqui's unfortunate passing, I acquired his business. I'm a resident of Kiritimati, originally from Tennessee. I see you brought your fishing poles. You came to experience some of our outstanding fishing?”
“You bet,” said John. “That's why we keep coming back. There's nothing like it on the planet.”
“You got that right,” said Louis. He produced a map of the island and indicated an area outside the shoreline circled in red.
“If you want to experience the best bonefish and trevally fishing of your life, that's the spot,” said Louis.
John studied the map. “That looks like the area Jamarqui told us to avoid.”
Louis nodded with a smile. “Ah, yes. Jamarqui wasâ¦very protective. He wanted to save that area for himself and his friends. It was very profitable for them. I'm letting the secret out so more people can enjoy it. It's the greatest fishing you will ever experience.”
“Wow, great,” said John. He turned toward the harbor to face the selection of boats gently bobbing in the water. “You've still got the same fleet?”
“Got 'em all,” said Louis. “Take your pick. You can't go wrong. It's a beautiful day, the sea is calm, and the sun is shining. You're going to have one hell of a time.”
About the Author
Brian Pinkerton tells stories to frighten, amuse and intrigue. His novels include
Abducted
,
Vengeance
,
Killer's Diary
,
Bender
,
Rough Cut
and
How I Started the Apocalypse
. Select titles have also been released as audio books and in foreign languages. Brian's short stories have appeared in
Chicago Blues
,
PULP!
,
The Horror Zine
and
Zombie Zoology
. Brian lives in the Chicago area with his family. He beckons you to visit him at
www.brianpinkerton.com
, Goodreads and on Facebook.
Look for these titles by Brian Pinkerton
Now Available:
Killer's Diary
The more she reads, the less she wants to know.
Killer's Diary
© 2010 Brian Pinkerton
A murderer is stalking the Windy City, carving out the eyes of his victims as grisly souvenirs. When shy Ellen Gordon finds a diary left behind in a coffee shop, she can't keep from reading it. And when she meets the author in person, he's just as charming as his writing. Only when she reads further does she find clues to the identity of Chicago's terrifying serial killer. Could it be the author himself? Ellen will have to uncover the truth about her new boyfriend quickly if she doesn't want to become the killer's next victim.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Killer's Diary:
The first time he acted on the urge it was spectacular.
He wasn't sure what to expect, because most of the time his fantasies triumphed over reality. He owned a razor-sharp imagination, surround sound in high-definition 3-D, constructed by armies of laborers during his darkest years of solitude and suppression. It was a window, his getaway from a virtual cell. He scrambled eagerly into the arms of a fantasy world because he had nowhere else to go.
Like his earliest childhood aspirations of becoming a famous movie star, best-selling author, or jet fighter pilot, the acts of slaughter had begun as mind plays. In the beginning, there was no storyline, just a fast cut to the climax. He layered a dramatic symphonic score onto the sequence. The victims varied, but the adrenaline rush always pumped new life into his withered soul. Blame biology, genes, God or the devil, it felt good.
Those on the receiving end could be anonymous, blurred faces. Or they might be a particularly irritating individual who had crossed his path that day. Or perhaps someone repugnant from the TV screen. Usually they were women. There was something about their softness that invited the hard assault.
He did not value his own life, so he certainly felt no grief about ending another's. As a child, when he had killed a stray cat with an aluminum baseball bat, neighborhood girls cried. He merely found their reaction curious.
Part of the problem was that no one could identify with his pain. They lived in glistening shrink-wrap. They had not been beaten down into the dirt by those close to them. They did not wake up every morning with ugly scratching on the inside. A tireless heckler didn't occupy their brains, a cruel implant at birth.
He felt an obligation to share the hurt that ached in his bones. Once he wrote a poem called “Sponge,” about a man who dutifully absorbed life's punishments, soaking them up until one day he was filled and could accept no more. Then he began squeezing out the vile residue, allowing it to dribble onto the ignorant people around him like acid rain. Their flesh melted away as they screamed, but the sponge kept squeezing until one day it was pure again.
Like squeezing a sponge, activating the mind plays helped expel some of the filth, but never enough. Then one day his inner voice picked at a sore spot and upped the antagonism. The Heckler grew more vocal with each passing day. He exposed the obvious in three short words.
It'sâ¦notâ¦real.
The truth continued to taunt him, rendering his fantasies impotent. Neutered, the mind plays wobbled and crashed. A lighting rig fell to the stage. Scenery backdrops toppled. The audience exploded with laughter and scorn. The curtain tumbled down with a fast
whoomph
. Performers bailed. The dramatic tension had deteriorated into a limp burlesque comedy.
The auditorium emptied, the play closed, and his urges required a new outlet. Beckoning, the years of fantasy offered themselves as rehearsals for an electrifying performance on the world stage. Was he prepared?
Most of the time, he recognized the insanity of taking this show on the road, packing it up for a journey out of his head and into the light.
But he couldn't stop thinking about it. The notion swelled inside his cranium until the pressure was unbearable.
He shot into the neighborhood. He spent thirteen consecutive nights in various bars and clubs on Chicago's North Side looking for individuals who could fulfill his needs. He drank. He stared. He ran rigorous auditions in his mind, debating possibilities with the Heckler. He indulged in evil thoughts amid swarms of cheerful activity and enjoyed the incongruity like a private joke.
He aroused no suspicion. He was youthful and good looking. He fit in with the singles scene, even as he kept to himself and avoided conversations. When necessary, he smiled with warmth. He nodded. He listened.
He was a good listener because he wasn't much of a talker. He could go days without speaking, and then when he did speakâobligated perhaps by a store clerk or phone call he couldn't avoidâhis voice croaked as if awakened from the dead. The sound of his own words jarred him back to reality.
At those moments he might lose his grounding. He might stumble. But he never fell.
On the thirteenth night of barhopping, he felt fully prepared, like a student who had studied exhaustively for a final exam. Any subsequent delay might dull his edge, weaken the momentum.
He identified his target.
Not beautiful, somewhat plain. Short, curly brown hair. Medium, nondescript build. Good teeth. Occasionally flirting with males, but mostly sticking to her small circle of girl companions. Drinking. One, two, threeâ¦seven drinks, divided between beers and cheap Jell-O shots. She took care of his checklist: unattached, losing some balance, speech sloppy, judgment impaired.
He knew the time was near when a bartender announced last call. She reached for her coat. Put it back down. Picked it up again. Teasing him? Finally she began snaking toward the exit for real, joined by her friends.
The Heckler ordered him to follow in a crackling radio voice, like a helicopter pilot viewing the scene from above. Tense violin strings lifted out of the bar noise.
His big scene had arrived.
Outside, in the sharp winter air, he pursued the group of girls, keeping a measured distance. One by one, individuals peeled from the group. He waited for her turn to break from the pack.
When she stopped to exchange hugs and wave goodbye, a prickling sensation traveled his body. One block later, when she cut through a dark parking lot, concealed from view by SUVs, he felt awed by the gift-wrapped location. He pulled on his wool ski mask, the anonymous face of death. He sped up, silent in white sneakers. Before his head could contemplate any new thoughts, the scene reached its glorious climax.
The four minutes matched his expectations closely, including the fierceness of the struggle and the wetness of the blood. It wasn't until the very end that something happened that his imagination had not prepared him for. It struck him like a slap.
Her eyes didn't shut. Crumpled to the pavement, still clutching at the stab wounds with tense fingers, she died staring back at him.
He had just removed the ski mask from his face. For a moment, he swooned and nearly lost his balance. The lights around him grew brighter and he heard distant noise.
In his mind plays, the victims had always closed their eyes, a final sign-off and departure. But her gaze locked on him. It took his breath away.
When he got home, he burned his clothes in the apartment building's incinerator. He showered and retired to bed.
He slept deeply.
When he awoke, close to noon, he waited for the crash of strong emotions. He didn't know when they would hit or what they would be. He just knew he had entered a new space.
His first sensation was hunger. He ate a bowl of cereal and drank some juice. He turned on the television and channel-surfed until he found his performance highlighted on a newscast. According to a solemn news anchor, the murder had taken place in the back parking lot of the victim's apartment building. A hefty Hispanic woman who worked for the Chicago Park District found the body kicked under her Jeep around seven that morning. With stuttering revulsion, she described finding the corpse and realizing that
the woman's eyes were gone
.
That's when the wall of feelings hit. He moved away from the television set. He paced a semicircle in his living room. He worked to identify the sensation. Not fear. Not grief. Not shame. Not relief. What was it? What was different compared to twenty-four hours ago? What drove the blood racing through his veins?
What was he feeling at this very minute
?
Alive.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Anatomy of Evil
Copyright © 2015 by Brian Pinkerton
ISBN: 978-1-61922-747-7
Edited by Don D'Auria
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: April 2015
