Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Eighteen

Author's Note: Violence ahead!

Alex was so excited he was practically giddy. The idea of doing something so spontaneous, let alone the idea of doing something so...proactive, was intense and satisfying. Surely not as satisfying as the deed itself would be, but it was a new sensation for him to be taking such initiative.

He had stopped at a thrift store and bought a uniform shirt. It hadn't mattered which one, just one that fit, and he had found a cable installer's shirt with a name patch on it that read “Dick”. He thought it was perfect. Just the shirt and his trusty clipboard would be all that he would need.

He found the cul-de-sac easily and wasn't the internet an amazing tool for such things? He parked his car on the opposite side of the street for fifteen minutes and watched. There was a car in the driveway, but the house seemed quiet. The car in the drive looked like a housewife's car, not a cop's car, but what difference would it really make? Now, or later, it would be the same in the end.

Alex pulled out and drove a few blocks away, leaving his car anonymously at the curb. He carried a backpack and quickly covered the few blocks back to the house of his prey.

At the base of their driveway he pulled his clipboard out of his bag and straightened his shirt. Sometimes it was so easy, he thought, as he rang the bell.

There was the clunk and rattle of a chain on the other side of the door. He wondered briefly if she was putting it on or taking it off, but when the door opened, there it was, and what a good, cautious cop's wife she must be. It didn't matter to him either way.

He could see a sliver of her face through the gap. “Yes?”

He reared back on his right foot and drove his left foot forcefully into the door, just below the doorknob. The chain tore out of place and the door cracked the woman in the face and drove a small grunt from her as she staggered back.

One step brought Alex into the house, and two steps had him on top of the woman, his heel kicking the door closed behind her. He drove the woman to the floor, his left hand on her mouth, his right hand producing a hunting knife, one of his favorite toys, an old one, a reliable one. He didn't want to rush this, he'd envisioned spending time with the family, but there was almost certainly bound to be someone else in the house. In fact, he heard rumbling upstairs, as if of a child running. That made him happy.

He could have killed the woman with one instant stroke, severing her arteries and letting her die almost immediately. Instead, with his weight and his left hand holding the shocked woman in place, blood bubbling through her shattered teeth and over her split lips, he placed the knife just beneath her left breast and felt the panic and stress electrify her body as the point pierced her flesh. It was delicious. She began to writhe, as much as she could with her smaller body beneath his and her damaged, painful head. Shock was fighting to keep her body her own, but it was his now. All his.

The knife slowly entered her, almost of its own volition, millimeter by millimeter, as if he were a teasing lover in a playful mood. He knew that at times like this the knife truly was a piece of himself and he swore he could feel its very tip pierce her heart, the tissue parting before the razor sharp blade, her eyes growing wider and wider, and then slowly, ever so slowly closing. He stayed there with her a moment longer, drinking in the visual, the woman who had wanted so much to fight, and who had, in the end, been so incapable of doing so.
Of course she had wanted to fight, he reminded himself. There were children in the house. It had been years since he had taken a child. People just paid too much attention to them, they were too careful with them. Like they were so goddamn special.

Alex quickly checked the rooms on the ground floor before going upstairs. He locked the doors as he went, throwing the deadbolt on the garage and the back door, and getting himself a nice big butcher knife in the kitchen on the way.

The he slowly walked up the stairs to what was clearly the level with all the bedrooms. Where the child or children were. His heart lifted with joy and he made his steps heavier, more intimidating, thinking of a terrified child hearing his steps and being certain there was now a monster in their house. And oh, but there was. A terrifying monster, much more frightening than those in books and movies. A real monster. A monster with a kind, simple face, and with a knife in his hand, and with a mother's blood all over him.

He heard a sound at the end of the corridor at the top of the stairs, and he knew that was where they would be. To be careful, he checked each other room first. It appeared there were too children, one young, one less so. One had cartoon posters on the walls, the other had sports and movies. There was a children's bathroom between the two rooms. That made the last room the master suite, he was sure, and he could picture it in his mind before he reached the door. A queen size bed, a cluttered bathroom, a TV in one corner. Just like so many he'd seen.

He'd never been in this position before, been so blatant and it made him feel powerful. The strength of what he was doing coursed through his veins, making him even more hyper and excited than he had been. It was so thrilling to be doing something different!

The door wouldn't open of course, and it would have been the matter of just a moment to figure out how to bypass the simple lock, but instead he kicked in his second door of the evening. This one was lighter and gave easily, rebounding so that he had to hold up his left hand to keep it from hitting him.

And there they were. The bedroom lights were on, but it was dim light, coming from two floor lamps, not from overhead. The children were huddled at the far corner of the room, on the other side of the bed, queen size, as he had imagined, and there were two of them, a little girl and a bigger boy, thirteen at the most. And what was it they were holding?

A trickle of urine spasmed from the end of Alex's penis when the identification fell into place. The little bastard was holding a gun. Of course, a cop's family, how could he have thought this would be so simple and now he was about to shot by a fucking little boy—

And then Alex began to laugh. At first it was a panicky, horsey laught, but it quickly deteriorated into gasps and gulps, and almost sobs of hilarity. He reached out a hand and steadied himself against the wall.

The boy was holding a gun, certainly. And Alex had no doubt that the boy would be deadly with it if asked to be so. But there was a trigger lock on the gun. There was no key in it. The boy had a gun, but it was not a gun he could use. Alex howled with laughter again, wiping tears from his eyes with his left hand, still holding the butcher knife in his right.

Alex began to walk around the bed to where the children were. The boy stood in front of his sister, defiantly, fire in his eyes, even as they sparkled with fear and tears. The girl behind him was in a tiny, whimpering ball, so precious. They were already in their pajamas. Alex found himself hoping that the cop wouldn't be home for quite some time. There could be quite the evening ahead of him.

“I will fucking kill you,” the boy said, his voice quavering, but not breaking. “Get out of here or I will kill you.”
Alex grinned his wolf's grin. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

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