Mike splashed cold water on his face from the sink, looking oddly pleased with himself as he washed away the blood from his chest and arms. The dripping of blood from the electric chainsaw on the table behind him, in the quiet, formed an almost… countdown of sorts in his head. He passed the seconds as he lit a cigarette and played some smooth blues on the MP3 player, curious to see how long she would stay dead this time. Like clockwork, at almost the 11-minute mark, he heard footsteps and then felt hands around him chest.
“Six hundred and sixty-six seconds… fitting.” Mike chuckled, more upbeat than usual after killing Nadja, fixing a quick sandwich.
“What’s this? No moping, no guilt, no regret, just Mike having a snack? You seem to be having fun tonight. Are we starting to enjoy our work, Mister Black?”
“I can’t deny it this time. That was satisfying as hell.” He sighed.
“I told you, I can be anyone you want, whatever you want. I know you Michael, you don’t just want to kill, you want to take your time and be vicious with it, and it’s as much fun for me as it is for you, but I have never seen you want to kill someone so badly. That predictable little hint of regret after our playtime where you feel bad about it. Why is it that when you worry that you’ve killed your favorite plaything, even for a moment of doubt, it breaks your heart, but this time you showed no mercy or regret? Have you accepted that you can’t get rid of me, or do you no longer care if you kill me…permanently?”
“Catherine.” He said.
“The woman on the screen you showed me? Was she the one that got away? Michael finally got his revenge from an old heartbreak?” she asked coyly.
“Not exactly. You said you could be anyone I wanted, I wanted her tonight. Always found her fairly attractive, always wanted to give that a try, but never found the chance. She was too high of a risk. Another killer, too well-connected, too careful. But the day she took Tanner from me, I never wanted to kill anyone so badly in my life, slowly and Viciously.” He smirked.
“Da, I know. I experienced it. It was some of your finest work. You truly hated her.” She chuckled. “You hate me, and you still cried over killing me the first time, not knowing I'd return to you. All I have to do is look like Catherine, and you suddenly feel nothing but sadistic satisfaction in slaughtering. Even now, you practically beam with joy remembering her face as you made each cut. You don’t even truly hate me, but you truly hate her.”
“Tanner means that much to me, and fucking Carl got the kill shot. Damnit. That lucky son of a bitch. I regret not taking that myself.”
“Well, you can now, in a certain manner. Slowly, creatively. Letting your darkness grow and become stronger. Feed Misster Black.” She hissed.
“It’s not quite the same. It’s not real. It’s an illusion. You’re a copy playing along, pretending to suffer and making it fun, but she’s already dead and Carl sent her to hell. Maybe when I get there I can drop by and see her. Do they let you torture each other in hell? For all the work I’m doing for you, I’d sure like some string pulled. Torture the real Catherine. Hell might not be so bad.” He nodded.
“I love the way your mind works when it is at its darkest. You must tell me all about the people you hate the most. The ones that pull your heart to murder.”
“Sadly, aside from you and her, the people I hated the most and wanted to kill the most, just weren’t all that attractive. If one day you look like Carl on my St Andrew’s cross, I’ll still gladly kill you and enjoy it, but it will be quick and clothed, and void of the sexual energy of tonight’s romp. You’ll find it very disappointing. Truthfully, part of me just wants to see Nadja up there. Just you. Tell me something. Was Nadja ever just a person? Some pretty Russian girl with a soul, or is this just the way evil looks and I have a strange preference for it?”
“Must you know all the answers and spoil the mystery? Does it matter? Are we having less fun never knowing?” she toyed.
“Maybe it’s better I don’t know. Just tell me there’s not some sacred human soul in there way down, a poor Russian girl left to experience this nightmare from the back seat. Like there’s a little preacher down in here left to feel guilt. That’s what makes me feel guilt torturing you, wondering if I’m torturing the original Nadja too, a little sliver of consciousness buried under that thing you are.”
“That is called paranoia. That will fade with time, Michael. The soul doesn’t die quickly, but it does soon enough. Look into my eyes. I can see that little light way down there flickering. That little echo of soul hanging on so stubbornly. Look into mine. I assure you, there is no light, no soul looking back with fear when it sees you. That guilt is the illusion.”
“You’re probably right. I hope so, but I can never quite trust your assurances.”
“Where are you going?” she asked as he got up and got dressed.
“Going for a ride on the bike, I need to look up an old friend. Clear my head.” He bluffed.
“If I didn’t know any better, Michael, I’d swear you’re procrastinating the mission. Stalling.” She whispered.
“I’m supposed to trust you with my soul, but you don’t trust me when I say this is vital for the mission? You want me to kill a former president, during a debate on live TV, from a distance, and you think I’m planning to use a plastic revolver? I need a gun you can’t buy, and ammo they don’t sell. I’m doing a lot of favors for this, don’t tell me I’m slacking off and avoiding it. If you have a problem with how I kill, maybe you should have found another killer, or do the job yourself.” He said, storming out. He passed Yuri on the way from the garage to the driveway, exchanging curious looks.
“Summoned?” he asked Yuri with an attitude.
“You know how that is with her. Staying on her good graces. It seems like we keep meeting in passing after your bad side is done getting on her good side. Making messes for me to clean” He said coldly as Mike drove away without a response. He strolled up to the cabin door as Nadja stood waiting.
“You get here very quickly.” She smirked. “Is freshness really so important?”
“Rowan will take what I give, WHEN I give. My promptness is my obedience to you alone. I have considered just killing him, but then…” he stammered.
“Disposing of a body would be more difficult, and we would have nobody storing evidence in freezers. Rowan has no idea he’s collecting his own conviction case or execution, if the group finds out. Very clever. You scratch my back, clean for me, earn your place when this is done, and make up for disappointing me. And in return, the cannibal sets himself up for the fall if the bodies are found. Will you tip him off to the police or to the little killer’s club?” Nadja asked.
“When you are done giving me bodies to dispose of, I will have no reason for him to keep my secret and no reason not to just…tell the group, show them the stash, kill Rowan myself. Eliminate the threat, prove my loyalty to them.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Why do you care? This is temporary. When former president Bloomberg is dead, you will get your passports and your immunity, and go back to your boyfriend, enough money to retire on little farm land. Why do you care if they accept you?” she asked.
“They are not all enemies. Tanner is nice girl. I like her. Alexander is stupid, but we get along. Am I not allowed to be accepted and enjoy my work?” he asked.
“As long as you remember who you work for. You have a body to move. You will need multiple buckets.” She nodded.
Mike’s Kawasaki leaned beside the rear entrance of a brick building, out of sight and in the darkness.
The old Catholic Church, where the priest was killed, still covered in police tape and stained red in various places, glowed with the light of 143 candles. One burned for every life Mike took represented as a sin to be forgiven, whether they deserved it or not. One very special red candle from the office with dust cleaned off of it sat in the middle of the altar, as Mike kneeled down on one knee as if praying.
He meticulously carved the ceremonial wax candle, under the magnifying lens with a dental scraper. The shape of a strange bullet began to take form, carved from rim to projectile with 2 intricate crosses on either side, the primer face carved with the Russian tree of life and 3 notches of the trinity. He whispered incoherent prayers as he checked the symbols for perfection, a 3mm wide rod extending from the tip for the mold pouring spout.
Flattening it with the heat of another burning candle, he pressed it into the offering box’s red felt bottom and began to mix the casting plaster. He carefully stacked 29 pieces of silver in the form of coins around the bottom, before pouring the plaster in and filling it to the brim, praying and prepping as it dried.
The drone of Black light Burns' “Coward” played in the basement, as Alexander nodded his head, the rattle of spray paint cans shaking to the beat. The smell of the paint filling his nostrils as the buzz settled in, and he waved another chaotic coat of Dijon Olive on the AR foregrip, the barrel shroud, and the bracer parts, to match the factory coat on tanner’s Sig. He meticulously stenciled her name and his signature on the inside of the shroud, as if to give it a blessing of good luck in finding its mark. He muttered the lyrics like an incoherent prayer, saying his promises to his love and feeling the protection spells of his work seep in as it dried.
Mike heated up a small crucible in the old church's stone fireplace, carefully placing down 2 very old gold coins, letting it warm next to the one containing the last of the 30 pieces of silver. The gold melted quickly, and he poured it in the mold, casting the first bullet, and repeating it when the silver was ready. He stood in the dark, holding the tongs in hand like a medieval warrior ready for battle.
Alexander held the threading bar in his hand like a medieval mace, admiring his sawed down and threaded barrel. He poured the red threadlock into the suppressor and turned on the boresight to align it with every turn until it centered on the paper. He carefully stepped away as it cured, returning to the table where the gun’s upper and handle rested in the padded vise. Wires extended from the red-dot sight to a little hand switch. He secured it with a dot of glue to the foregrip, securing it further with a piece of bike tire inner-tube. He grabbed the grip, his thumb flipping the switch and checking the distance. A little short for him, probably just Tanner’s arm-length. He stood back to admire the gun taking form in symmetrical piles of parts, like an altar to the god of Sig ARs, two 556 bullets sat at angles purely for the aesthetic of it. He began mixing the black mica powder and lacquer to trace in the circular Sig Emblem, to contrast and stand out when polished.
“By my blood sweat and tears, you shall be protected.” He muttered.
Mike sat before the church altar, a silver bullet and a gold bullet laid out, with matching silver and gold primers to their sides. He took from his pocket 2 slightly different magnesium propellant casings, one with a slightly turned-down band around it. He placed that one aside and began carefully placing a sticker stencil around the smoother casing. He began peeling away the backing plastic to reveal a protective plastic sticker in the shape of the carved cross emblem matching the bullets. He placed the casing in the etching liquid, letting the electrified container slowly erode the symbol deep in either side. He then removed from a container a thin strip of paper from the old bible containing the verse Mark 9:29, soaked in the priest’s blood and turned a deep brownish red. He placed it down and applied some glue, wrapping it inside out around the thinned rim of the second casing and applying the same stencil, giving it a protective black finish. He applied the molten wax around to seal it. He then began painting the deep engraved marks on each bullet with a combination of powdered metal and lacquer, silver for the gold bullet and gold for the silver one, so it would contrast and compliment when polished.
“By the blood of the pure, and the sins of the fallen, you will be slain.” Mike said in the air.
Alexander slowly hand-turned the screws, assembling the stock/bracer to not scratch the new paint. He checked the adjustment to make sure it moved snugly, leaving just enough room to move, looking up at the welded metal ceiling braces in his garage, admiring the moon in the tiny garage door window.
“God if you’re listening, bless this gun and its user. Let her find her mark and kill what tries to kill her, man or demon. Forgive my deception and my general shitty ways just this once for her sake.” He said, half believing it, touching up his chipped and scuffed black nail polish from the work he had put into it.
Mike slowly hand-turned the drill chuck in his little hand-made fixture, hollowing out the silver bullet to match the gold one and setting it beside. He then checked the iron nail removed from the crucifix to make sure it fit the silver armor-piercing round snugly, just like the rolled up bible verses encased in wax that he had fitted inside the hollow-point bullet of gold, leaving just enough room in each to add a drop of holy water before closing off. He then sat the bullets pointing up and looked at the ceiling, the wooden rafters and stained-glass with the full moon shining brightly through it.
“Bless these bullets of rarity and antiquity, so they may find their mark and vanquish only evil back to hell. Let them drive like a nail into the flesh and pierce the damned soul, and rebuke the devil from this earth.” He said, as he took out some of Nadja’s nail polish, dipping the tip of the gold hollow-point in her emerald green, and the Armor piercing silver tip in black, just like her beloved double tap combination. A mockery of sorts. They dried as he recited verses and asked for forgiveness for the lives he took, quenching a candle with his fingertips for each one until he was sitting in slightly moonlit darkness.
He carefully placed both bullets side by side in plastic wrap and dipped the bundle in the molten wax, stamping it lightly with the dead priest’s ring and snipping off the excess end. Now holding up a wax pill, the color of bone and marked with a crucifix, he gently placed it in a wooden box and the box in his coat pocket.
“Forgive me for the remaining lives I must take and the evil I must do, except for one life I take gladly, for you, in your honor. May she reduce to ash and cinder where she falls, and perish knowing what power ended her reign. Let it be the last life I take and the one I refuse to regret taking. Amen.” He said, getting up and preparing to return to the purgatory of pleasure, where Nadja awaited.
Alexander stood proudly, finishing aligning the red-dot and oiling the gun, preparing to return to the den where tanner awaited.
“Still working?” She asked, staggering in, rubbing her eyes.
“I was hoping to finish while you slumbered, as a grand reveal when it was finished.”
“God you really are just like some demented circus ringmaster. But I love it. I love the production, the rituals, and the whole vibe of it. I love the gun.” she sighed.
“I refuse to let your safety rely on how long the ammo lasts on the gun Mike made you, when I fear Mike himself may be the one they sail towards to protect you. This shall be your new killing device. Perfectly zeroed red dot, magnifier, foregrip switch so you never take your eye off your target, and you can see in the dark and who glows like he can with this scope. Small, compact, far more powerful and armor piercing than that pathetic little plastic toy with silver bullets, 30 pieces of it per magazine fitting his betrayal. You can now reply with brass, 30 pieces at a time. Extra magazines for the lady, of course.” Alexander bowed.
“You know…it’s almost nice to have someone build a gun to fit ME perfect, rather than a gun built to fit the caliber they think is perfect. It’s not made to be the perfect killer; it’s just made to be as perfect as possible for this little killer. You know, Mike never asked what gun I wanted. He just made the best guns to fit his idea of supremacy and assumed I would want it. Of course I did, free guns, flattering to be thought of at all. But you really did think of ME, not just the mechanics of it. You’re really not like him, Alex. You’re better.” she swooned.
“A better partner or a better inventor of death?” he asked.
“Now you know damn well he’s 10 times the inventor you are when it comes to death, welcome to the club. Which would you rather be? A better partner or a better bringer of death?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Until this is over, the reaper medal would be preferred, as it means your safety and vanquishing those that threaten you. Once that is done, the other would be my choice of bragging right.”
“He would never hurt me, Alex.” She assured him.
“She would. Let me have my paranoia tonight, it prepares me better.” He sighed.