The Day of Legion (15 page)

When the music stopped, she stood and walked to the glass wall to look out. Lying on the floor near her feet was Max–the previous tenant, as she now called him. His white business shirt was covered in a large patch of drying blood, where his life had drained away through the multiple stab wounds she had inflicted. His face was twisted in pain and regret, frozen in death as he realized this was how it was going to end for him. Stabbed by a woman he had picked up for a good time.

She turned away from the window and crouched by his corpse. She slapped his face gently twice and looked at her handiwork, smeared on the floor and coagulated on his shirt. Shaking her head she muttered, “Max, Max, Max, I should have fucked you before I killed you.”

She thought back to how easy he had been to pick up. Patrick had done a good job spotting him. He found out he had a fabulous penthouse apartment and was a young man who had made millions in the IT world. He was over-confident and loved sex and women. He had picked up so many women, and used them for as long as he wanted before discarding them, she knew he would see her as just another conquest. She walked into the bar, looked around and saw him talking to another woman, but when he saw her he practically ignored the other woman and walked straight to her.

Of course, she knew she would have no problem. She got every man and woman she set her sights on since she had begun this journey, and she loved it. For this occasion, she chose a very short miniskirt to show off her long golden legs and a blouse that showed off her pert breasts. To finish the ensemble, she chose a pair of black high heels. The whole getup made her look slutty, just how he liked, but all she wanted was a nice place to stay for a while, and he had it.

They talked for about half an hour before he invited her up to his penthouse, just across the road. He knew what he wanted and he took it, just like everything else in his life.

When they got into the apartment she loved it so much, she stabbed him in the chest before he could even offer her a drink. She stabbed him thirty two times and each thrust of her knife filled her with joy and sexual desire. Even when he fell to the floor, she continued to stab him with one hand and rub herself between her legs with the other. The last thing he saw in life was his killer masturbating through her panties.

She could sense the darkness in the room—and the power it gave her—when she killed him. It always watched her, whatever she did, but she didn’t mind because it gave her the magnificent appearance and everlasting life. She owed it everything.

Patrick let himself in the door, snapping her out of her thoughts. He looked down at the body and smiled. “Another one to get rid of?” he asked.

“Yes, take it, it’s stinking up my place.”

“You going to stay here?” he asked.

“I think I will stay here until we get this mess with the boy sorted out. You did well, Patrick,” she replied. “You fucked up last time and my master wasn’t happy. You won’t be treated so lightly next time.”

“Just tell me what I need to do,” he said, as he rolled the body up in a rug from the dining area. He had to bounce up and down a couple of times to make the corpse a bit more pliable.

”Did you get what I asked for?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a small plastic bag filled with blue pills. “These are supposed to give you a high like nothing before.”

She took the bag and sat down on the sofa. Once Patrick had left with the body, she held one of the pills in her palm and looked at it. She had started using drugs about sixty years ago. She needed constant adrenalin rushes; she knew she could only kill, her favorite rush, so many times in one spot before the authorities got wind of her. Not that she was worried about being caught. They could execute her if they wanted, she just didn’t want to upset her masters’ plans. It gave her freedom to do as she pleased, but was demanding when it came to important matters.

She poked her tongue out and placed the pill on the tip. She pulled it into her mouth and sucked, savoring the slightly bitter and salty taste. The pill dissolved quickly, so she lay back, closed her eyes and waited for the ride.

After about five minutes she felt her hands and feet begin to tingle, slowly at first then picking up speed. Gradually the tingling became throbbing and covered her body. The sensation of warm water flowing up and down inside her muscles took over and she writhed on the chair in ecstasy.

A rhythmic beat started inside her torso, slowly at first, then pounding harder and faster with each thump. Each beat sent wave upon wave of pleasure soaring through her muscles and bones, until it reached its crescendo. She felt like she was going to explode with pleasure.

She moaned loudly and thrust her hips back and forth as though having sex, the pleasure concentrating between her legs. The beats became harder, the pulsing faster and the sensation of water flowing through her turned to the feeling of being water herself. She was no longer solid, but a liquid form flowing back and forth.

At some point in the night she fell asleep, still in the chair. She had two clear thoughts before nodding off. First, she made a note to complement Patrick on his pharmaceutical choice. Second, she thought about the boy and his growing strength and power. She could feel him getting stronger. He would die soon and it would be painful; but she also had the others to deal with. That part of the plan was already in motion.

* * * *

Patrick whistled while he dug the grave in the sand with a shovel. The beach was remote; he had buried many others here and no one had yet discovered them. It was two hours’ drive from the city on paved roads and then about an hour over gravel; finally, through bush on foot for twenty minutes.

Dragging the body through the bush was hard work, but the soft sand among the dunes made it easier to dispose of the corpses. As he dug by the light of his camp lantern, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing sand in his face. He threw the shovel down and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He thought he heard something and opened his eyes to look, but it was pitch black outside the circle of lantern light. Slowly, he reached down for his shovel and held it across his body defensively, ready to strike if necessary.

He didn’t hear anything else. He decided it was his mind playing tricks, or the wind, so he continued to dig. He liked to dig deep holes to lay the bodies in. He remembered the idiots he’d seen or heard of in the news, where they had buried their victims in shallow graves, in rubbish heaps or left them right where they died.

Patrick considered himself a professional and always thought his plans all the way through before he even started. No making it up as he went along. He knew exactly how and where he would dispose of a body before he killed someone. It wouldn’t be slapdash like other killers.

He read about thousands of killers over the years, and despised most of them. Those who cut their mothers’ heads off and rode around with them for days in the car, the defilers of corpses, the ones who stored body parts in the refrigerator for later or put them in vats of acid. The worst of all were the husbands who killed their wives in fits of rage and then tried to cover it up. They were all crude savages with no finesse. This was an art form which took skill and delicacy, and Patrick wanted to be remembered by history as being the best. He considered himself unsurpassed in the field of homicide.

The only time he wasn’t involved in in-depth planning was when Clara killed someone like this poor schmuck. She wanted his penthouse, so he had to go. The others, the chosen ones, involved planning and execution over months, sometimes even years.

He thought about John Hansen. He had to live in that tiny apartment down the hall for months before their plan finally came to fruition. Talking to him, socializing and joking with him like a friend–as if Patrick would ever befriend a fool like him. He just wanted to kill him, but Clara wanted to use him to expose the boy; traumatize him, make him weak and then strike.

The car crash was perfect though. Use a black soul like Alex, who Clara said was a reincarnation of some years-ago psychopath who had made a deal to be reborn and wreak havoc. Then the light intervened and changed it back. That took them all by surprise. Even the dark angels who caused the crash couldn’t stop it. They tried.

He looked in to the night and knew he wasn’t far from Alex’s grave. Patrick had never seen Clara as angry as the day the second attempt to kill the boy failed. She insisted it had to look like a natural accident like the car idea, but as simple as the drowning was, it failed.

When she found Alex he was defiant. He argued that of course he would fail when he was made to come back as a child, born from the womb of a common slut who made him pray as soon as he could talk.

Clara countered that with the whole plan. He was to be born and raised and used by the darkness. In return, he would be given the best life had to offer—women, houses, fame, money and power—but he failed. She struck him down with such fury there wasn’t a lot left to bury. Patrick had to burn the house down they were in; there was no way he could clean up all that blood and tissue. He had never seen someone stabbed so many times, covering his entire face and body. The police were searching for Alex after his father put in a missing-persons report, and Clara didn’t want any further complications.

Then he failed in killing the boy in hospital. That bitch mother jumped on him and they both fell through the window. Clara pulled him back, though. She said the death of the mother was an unexpected but welcome outcome.

He didn’t remember anything after he died. Clara told him that’s because the pleasure of the black afterlife is reserved for those who deserve to stay, and he still had work to do. His death, though, he remembered vividly. He could easily recall the fight, the falling and the solid crunch as he hit the ground, breaking his neck. Thinking about it gave him a massive rush. He wished he could do it again, but he knew if he messed up again, he wouldn’t be coming back.

He knew Clara needed him for the next step. That’s why she resurrected him. He was trusted and reliable, not that she particularly liked him. She didn’t like anybody; he knew he was no exception. That was one of the things he admired about her. In over a hundred years, she had never been so weak as to love another.

All he remembered about his own resurrection was waking up in a room with Clara standing over him. She was naked and covered in blood. Her eyes were wild and she was panting like a dog. Behind her, a man sat on the floor with his back against the wall with his heart cut out, and his entrails spread over Patrick’s chest. Blood was everywhere. She had candles burning. A foul smell was in the air, so foul it made him dry retch. She told him later that was the smell of the darkness in the room, that he’d get used to it and eventually yearn for it.

For the first hour or so, he was stiff and sore and threw up constantly. Clara showed him no pity. She made him bathe her to wash all the blood off. Afterwards she made him massage oils into her skin while she stood, Patrick kneeling before her. He knew then he belonged to her.

He recalled the first time they met. He was working in a bar, because he had decided it was the best way to meet and observe women without looking suspicious. There were always one or two women who would give him their phone number or wait around while he cleaned up, desperate for company.

One night he had a redhead waiting while he closed up. She was a bit drunk and lonely. She sat at the bar, complaining all night about how her man treated her. Patrick made some lame comment about treating her like a princess and she fell for it. She said she wanted him to take her home. He drove her to a deserted lookout and raped her with the intent of killing her, but he was new to the game back then and she got away in the night, gouging at his eyes and kicking his testicles.

He started the car and was about to drive away when Clara appeared in his headlights. She was dragging the body of the redhead; Clara had slit her throat. She walked casually up to the driver’s window, dropped the corpse and told him she could teach him how to become what he yearned. From that point on, he was hers. He carried out all of her tasks, was paid handsomely in money and further opportunities to perfect his craft.

When he decided the hole was deep enough, he climbed out one end, which he’d left open at an angle. It was about 4 feet deep and just as wide so the sides wouldn’t cave in while he was digging. It took him about an hour, and he was hot and tired, ready for a beer.

He thought about all the other graves he’d dug there and the sheer genius of it. No one would find a body buried deep in the sand. As soon as he filled them in, the wind made it look undisturbed. The wind was a perfect co-conspirator.

He gripped the body by the hands and dragged it to the edge of the hole. He checked the jeans pockets and found eight one-hundred-dollar bills folded in a gold money clip.

“Sweet,” he muttered to himself before rolling the body over the edge. He picked up his lantern and held it toward the hole. The corpse landed face down with its arms underneath it, but its legs were outstretched nice and flat, just how he wanted them. He always took pride in his work.

Suddenly lights shone from behind him, illuminating the whole area. He spun around, but was blinded by the strong flashlight beam directly in his face.

A male voice boomed out, “Police! Step towards me slowly with your hands where I can see them.”

Patrick heard voices behind him as well. He spun around and saw more flashlights shining at him. He couldn’t see the people, but he could hear the unmistakable crackle of police radios all around him.