Torment (9 page)

He held her up by one ankle, waving a good-bye to the
Sheriff. Moorland gave a curt salute, reversing so fast the cruiser almost went
into the tall vegetation bracketing the rough driveway. The vampire howled
laughter.

“Now my little one,” Basil whispered, lifting Kate so
that her femoral artery was at his lips. “One last snack before bedtime.”

“A sleep study is just what you need,” Dr. Bell told
the exhausted looking young man sitting on his exam table. “I think it will be
the best way to tell us why you’re not sleeping well.

“Are you sure?” Eric asked. His eyelids felt so heavy
that it was a struggle to keep them open. “That’s what you said about the blood
work, urine screening, and the oxygen measurement device, which cost me an arm
and a leg!”

“It’s the next logical step. Nothing has showed up on
the other tests. The O2 meter showed a slight decrease in oxygen, but nothing
too terrible. The sleeping pills I prescribed obviously aren’t working. It’s
the only thing we haven’t tried.”

“I know, I know. I’m just really tired and really fed
up with being poked.”

Dr. Bell patted Eric on the shoulder. “This should
show us what’s going on when you’re actually getting to sleep. I wanted to get
a study done in the first place, but the insurance company made us jump through
other hoops before they’d approve it.”

Eric nodded, resigned to the procedure. Judging from
the pictures he’d found on Google of what exactly the process was, it wasn’t
going to be fun. However, if it could reveal why he’d quit recharging while
sleeping, then the whole mess would be worth it.

He made the proper arrangements with the front desk,
scheduling the sleep study for the following night. That done, he slowly walked
to the bus stop. The five minute stroll felt like miles. His muscles wobbled
with fatigue.

The illness had nearly pushed Eric to his breaking
point. Nearly a month had gone by since he’d began waking up each morning
feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. It wasn’t really an issue of going to bed
and staying asleep. That all happened just fine. Actually feeling restored was the
problem. Every aspect of his life was slowly going to ruin. If the study didn’t
reveal the source, Eric was probably going to end up being admitted to the
hospital.

While waiting for the bus, despite being alone at the
stop, he felt anxiety overtake him. Eric felt like he was going to be mugged
any second. His eyes darted about, trying to find the source of his paranoia.
He shook uncontrollably as adrenaline dumped into his system.

The bus squeaked to a stop. Eric quickly rushed
onboard and found an empty seat. His uneasiness lingered, though the intensity
was significantly dialed down. He stared out the window at the passing city,
blinking sleepily as the rumbling warmth of the large vehicle made him nod off.

A deep pothole jolted him awake. He opened his eyes to
a smooth faced, slit mouthed man in a black Australian campaign hat. Tiny
nostrils sat under a skinny, triangular nose. The fellow had irises so light a
shade of blue that they nearly blended into the sclera.

Eric screamed out loud, recoiling from his window and
nearly tumbling into the isle. A quick supporting hand from the passenger
sitting opposite prevented it.

“Whoa! You okay?” Called the driver.

“Yeah!” Eric said too loudly. He looked at the fellow
rider who’d prevented a potential injury; a sturdy Latino man in a leather Cubs
jacket and matching hat. “Thanks for your help. Saved me from a nasty bump.”

“No problem. You sure you’re all right?” The Cubs fan
asked. His friendly face showed clear concern. “You need a doctor?”

“I’m okay,” Eric tried to smile. “I fell asleep and
had a nightmare or something. I feel like a dummy, but that’s all it was,
honest.”

The Hispanic man looked doubtful. “I really don’t
think that’s all it was, but I won’t bug you about it. There’s a good clinic at
the next stop. I’m an accountant there. I know, I know, you don’t need a doc,
but….”

He withdrew a business card with
Hector Cortez, CPA
printed neatly on it. “If you change your mind, call me. I’ll get you in
quick.”

Touched almost to the point of tears, Eric took the
card. “Thank you, Mr. Cortez. I’ll come in if I need to. I just want to get
home and try to sleep at the moment.”

Still looking concerned, Hector shook his head. “Fine.
At least you know where we are.”

The bus came to a stop. Eric shook Hector’s hand.
“Thank you again.”

Fondly, he watched the kindhearted fellow exit the
bus, joining the throng on the sidewalk. A small line was waiting to board. At
the end of the queue, a tall figure stood, hunched into a billowing black
overcoat. Curly white hair billowed from under his matching hat. The man’s face
was pointed down, additionally obscured by the upturned collar of his coat.

An internal steel wire clenched around Eric’s guts.
The man raised his face slightly, exposing it just enough to show those
unsettling eyes. One hand raised in a wave.

“Oh no,” Eric whispered. “Please don’t let him on.
Please, please,
please!
”

In a blink, the strange man vanished. Eric gawped in
surprise. He couldn’t believe that the being was gone. In a way, it was more
unsettling than actually seeing him. Hallucinating provided further evidence
that his condition was driving him steadily towards insanity.

The remainder of his ride was thankfully uneventful.
Eric trudged home from the stop, now too tired to think even muddled thoughts.
He didn’t even bother getting his mail from the box in the lobby. All he wanted
to do was crash. Eric’s limbs felt heavy. His vision was blurry. Just punching
the elevator button to go up became a chore. It took an eternity for the car to
arrive.

Finally, the doors slid open. He stumbled into it like
a zombie, studying the toes of his sneakers once inside. There was vague
awareness of another passenger, but he dismissed it. Lots of people lived in
the building. Eric punched his floor and leaned against the wall.

“Tired?” A dragging, rusty voice rasped. “Poor Eric.”

He spun, coming face to face with the strange man. The
being was grinning, or at least Eric thought he was grinning. Small, flat teeth
were exposed and its lipless mouth was stretched wide. An odd smell of wet
cardboard wafted off the humanoid.

“I’m here for you,” the pale man whispered. “I’ve come
just for my Eric.”

His hands came up slowly. Eric screamed, flinging
himself away from the stranger. He slammed painfully into the opposite side of
the car. Rapidly, he pushed the “open door” button. The control panel blatted
disapprovingly, not obeying the command.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” the being said disapprovingly.
He placed a large, long fingered hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I picked you over
everyone else. Feel proud, not afraid.”

“Picked me for what!!?” Eric nearly shrieked. “Who are
you?”

“Some call me the Tall Man or the Hat Man, though
names don’t really matter to me much.” He gave a low chuckle. “As for why I
need you, let’s just say that you’re becoming aware of things you shouldn’t.”

That said, the grip on Eric’s shoulder tightened. The
elevator car disappeared, replaced by a humid black room full of tall white
haired men and women. Their distorted features were in various states of
definition. Small, dark haired people in lab coats moved about the rows of
taller beings, large palettes balanced on their forearms. They scraped goop off
the boards with a small flat knife, then carefully applied the strange material
to the faces of the taller humanoids.

“Come,” Eric’s personal escort gestured for him to
follow. “Try not to look at them. It can be really unpleasant to see them
before they’re complete.”

He tried to obey the suggestion. His eyes kept getting
wider and wider each time they passed a column. The features of the beings near
the back were much less defined. Noses were missing. Some had no hair or even
eyes. The final row resembled artist’s models rather than anything humanoid.
Despite their lack of senses, each turned towards Eric as he passed.

“What are you?” Eric asked in spite of his fear.

“Neighbors of humankind,” the tall man answered. “We live
in the world a few doors down. You could call us observers, trying to figure
out what makes humans tick.”

“Aliens?”

“To you. To us, you’re the aliens. You make us
curious, so we make the occasional foray, either via sleep or physically, as I
am able to do. Sometimes you see us, which requires more direct contact.”

The being stopped before a door. He waved a hand over
a panel set in the wall beside it. With a
whoosh
of displaced air, it
slid open. “Inside, please.”

Eric complied, intensely curious. Another dark room,
only there was no one in it, just a large grey box. It was soundless, but he
could feel the floor vibrating slightly. A man sized portal popped open,
causing him to start.

“Go ahead, Eric,” the Tall Man encouraged kindly.
“Join us. You’ll see things no other human being ever will and you’ll no longer
have to worry about sleep.”

“Okay,” Eric walked forward, only hesitating slightly.
“Will this hurt?”

“Not at all.”

Confidently, lulled by a lovely sound and soft white
light emanating from the open door, Eric stepped in. The panel slammed shut
behind him. Both the glow and musical noise stopped. Total darkness enveloped
him.

Outside, the Tall Man stood with two of the small
beings. One held a large bucket, ready under a thick metal pipe jutting from
the cube’s side. The box issued a dull thump. Eric yelled out once in pain.
There was a thud, followed by a loud grinding sound.

Pulpy skin toned paste flowed slowly out the spigot.
The short being caught it in the container, hurrying it over to the other dwarf
once the grating noise stopped. This second creature scooped a ladleful of
Eric’s remains out and plopped it onto a white platter.

The Tall Man removed his cloak and hat, sitting down
in a nearby chair. He was shirtless underneath. Pale skin, spotted with large
pores, began just below the neckline. Wispy white hair grew in patches in
between the fist sized indentations.

Working with a rounded blade, the small creature began
applying the steaming matter onto the Tall Man’s face delicately. It was
absorbed almost instantly.

“Build up my nose a bit,” the Tall Man requested. “If
you please.”

It was a scene out of a low budget horror movie. A
ring of six men and women dressed in voluminous black robes stood around a
young woman bound to a crude stone altar. The platform was made of three slabs
of native rock that stood in a clearing carved out of a towering stand of
pines. Six tall, white candles were positioned around the intended sacrifice’s
spread eagle body. They dripped hot wax onto one of her manacled ankles from
time to time, but the dopey expression on her face showed no pain or
discomfort. Six torches provided illumination.

This particular group liked to do things in sixes. A
shared belief was that anything which could be presented in increments of six
pleased their perceived master. Each wore six silver rings and had identical
walnut handled knives, the stainless steel blades six inches.

When planning this murder in the name of Satan, the
group originally wanted to kidnap a six year old girl for the deed. The plan
was aborted before it’d even really begun, due to the attention the police
would turn to the abduction of a child. It could eventually expose the entire
coven to the law, leading to public crucifixion.

In place of the child was the twenty-six year old
escort before them now. Going by the unlikely screen name of “Lancer Dancer
2234,” she’d showed up at the impressively posh home of the leader, a defense
attorney named Burton. It was clear from the get go that Lancer was an addict.
She was scrawny, with deep black hollows under her cloudy blue eyes. Needle
tracks scarred the crooks of both elbows. Her hair was badly dyed, thick with
clumps of grease. The stink of defecation and poverty wafted through the heavy
odor of discount store perfume.

Lancer downed the sedative laced drink offered in one
quick gulp. Though her heavy drug abuse kept her from slipping into
unconsciousness, it had reduced her to a twilight state of slurry moans. Easy
for the group to bind and transport her to the place of sacrifice without
struggle or protest.

Now the coven stood chanting. Accompanying them via a
portable docking station was the thump of tribal drums. The music rose in
intensity, reaching a crescendo at the same time as their ritual mantra. Each
member slowly drew their honed knives, lofting them to cast dramatic shadows in
the torchlight. Lancer’s eyes widened a little at the sight of them, but her
lids were too heavy to do more than that. She recognized them as the likely
agents of her demise, yet felt unconcerned. A quick death was preferred than
the one she’d chosen though a dirty hypodermic.

Both the chanting and percussion stopped. Six blades
plunged down into Lancer’s body. Blood spurted from the wounds. Ornate silver
goblets hastily attempted to collect as much as possible before her heart quit
pumping it so vigorously. The last sound she heard was the coven slurping up
their prize. Willingly, she went into the darkness.

Lancer found herself walking out of the sheer black of
death into a bright hallway. It smelled of antiseptic, like a hospital. Neat
white square tiles went from floor to ceiling. A small diamond of red dotted
the center of each. Doors were on both sides, each with a neat black name
label. She walked slowly by them, wondering when she would find one with her
name on it.

After what seemed to be an eternity of checking the
doors, she stood in front of a solid white door with the label “Lauren
Harrison, aka Lancer.” It opened before her. Cautiously Lancer entered.
Pleasant lamplight glowed as she crossed the threshold, revealing a small,
comfortably furnished apartment. It looked like a high class version of the
last place she’d been happy; her first year of college, staying by herself in
an off campus one bedroom.

An overstuffed recliner sat in front of a large
television. Lancer flopped down it, rocking gently and smiling. If this was the
afterlife, it wasn’t so bad, especially when all she’d expected was Hell.

She reached for the TV remote to see what was on. An
envelope with her name on it sat on the small table beside the chair. Curious,
she opened it. On elegant cream colored stationary, written in an equally
elegant hand, was a simple message: “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re going to
have company shortly.”

No sooner had she sat the letter down when a firm
knock came at the door. Lancer opened it, wondering if it would be a friend or
family member who’d passed on coming to visit. It wasn’t. A tall, thin man,
dressed in a natty black suit with bright red ascot stood before her. He
smelled of sandalwood and good aftershave. His head was entirely bald, gleaming
under the soft light of the foyer.

“Should I call you Lauren or Lancer?” he said,
flashing a brilliantly white smile of perfect teeth. He extended a strong,
well-manicured hand to her in greeting. Lancer shook it, opening her mouth to
answer his question.

“Doesn’t matter, “the man flapped his free hand in
friendly dismissal. “I’m Wilhelm. I represent your…landlord. We have a job for
you.”

Again, she attempted to speak. Wilhelm stepped past
her into the apartment, effectively cutting her off again. “Nice place, huh?
Much better than the rat hold you were living in on Earth, right?”

“Totally,” Lancer spoke earnestly. “I’m so grateful
to, well, my landlord, I guess.”

“It’s not completely yours yet, my dear.” Wilhelm
opened the large dual doors of the refrigerator wide. He pulled two bottles of
orange soda, an all-time favorite of hers, opened them with a twist and handed
one over to her. “Here you are. Dry as the desert around here.”

“What kind of job?” she asked suspiciously.

“You see, my employer hates to be misrepresented. The
people who murdered you deem themselves worthy to call him Master, yet…they
kill without thought, with no elegance. Slaughter should be with the purpose of
bringing terror with it, am I correct?”

“I don’t know. I never thought about it, honestly.”

“No offense, my love, “Wilhelm drained his bottle of
soda. It immediately refilled itself. “But you are what we call the lesser
dead. One less junkie hooker on the street. The police don’t work too hard,
your body rots in a pauper’s grave, the file grows dust in the cold case room.”

“My supervisor wants you to return to Earth, in a
semi-solid form able to affect reality and destroy physical matter. You are to
eliminate all six of your murders, as creatively as you can. Spread fear, make
people afraid to leave their homes. Make them scuttle around the streets as
they head to work. Cause reason to look over their shoulders as they load
groceries into their cars.”

“I’ve never killed before,” Lancer considered what
Wilhelm was saying. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Think on this,” he replied. “Those people took your
life away. Yes, you were killing yourself slowly, but they took any choice out
of your hands. They will do it again to someone else.”

Raw anger kindled a bonfire in Lancer’s heart. A
moment of shame crept into her as she realized that she didn’t really give a
shit if the bastards did it to someone else. All she wanted was to settle up
with them. True, what she’d called her life had been crap. It’d been her life
though. Who were they to decide for her when it ended?

“Okay,” she said quietly, looking up into Wilhelm’s
grinning, handsome face. “I’m in. When do I do this?”

“Oh, there are forms to sign. We’ll discuss terms, of
course. Once your name is on the dotted line, I snap my fingers and off you
go.” Wilhelm produced a single sheet of thick linen parchment paper from an
inside suit pocket. “The Boss pays rent, keeps the fridge stocked, and you
don’t burn in the eternal fires of Hell. Instead you get his efficiency condo
in the borderlands. Not exactly heaven, but a lot better than the alternative,
am I right?”

“I’ve seen the movies, though,” Lancer said suspiciously.
“There’s always a catch, right? So what is it?”

“No catch this time,” Wilhelm actually seemed to feel
no surprise at this question. “No offense, but we have bigger fish to fry. Besides,
the Boss likes to do the charity thing once in a while. Still trying to look
good to Papa, even after all these years. Just in case attitudes upstairs
change, you know?”

Lancer took her time looking over the document,
turning it over and over in her hands. Trying to find some loophole that
Wilhelm could exploit. It was straightforward though. Seemingly no catches. She
signed the dotted line. He put the contract back into his pocket. They shook
hands.

“Out the door and off you go!” Wilhelm exclaimed, too
many teeth showing in a predatory grin. “Happy hunting.”

The apartment disappeared around them, taking Lancer’s
visitor with it. She now stood in a large bedroom dominated by a massive four poster
canopy bed. Three sleeping figures huddled under a thick duvet, one snoring
softly.  A small dog lay on a blanket covered hope chest situated at the
foot of the bed.

It was possibly the most elegant room she’d ever been
it, but the antiques and plush carpet didn’t cover up the musky odor of
fornication, a reek all too familiar to her. Lancer wrinkled her nose in
disgust. It was a smell she’d never liked, something she’d hoped to never
experience again.

The dog sat up suddenly, starting awake with a soft
bark. It stared at the spot where Lancer stood, upper lip pulling back in a
snarl. She did not hesitate, grabbing it by the nape of its neck and twisting
it sharply in both hands. The snap of the vertebrae was louder than any noise
the animal made in dying.

Her strength was a surprise. Even more surprising was
the slight joy felt at killing the dog. It was a little shit owned by big
shits. She wondered how it would feel to slay the people in the bed. First, she
needed to make sure these were the right ones, though.

Evidence was abundant. The trio’s robes hung neatly on
a corner rack, along with three matching pentagram medallions. Their daggers
sat on a dressing table. The handles gleamed in the moonlight. Next to them
stood a fat round container of disinfectant wipes.

Fresh anger exploded inside her. Lancer’s fingers sunk
deep into the dog’s warm corpse, drawing blood as they plowed through the
animal’s thin skin to the knuckle. She quickly walked to one side of the bed.
Contempt filled her eyes at the fat, bald old man sleeping, mouth hanging open,
drool dripping onto a thick pillow. It was disgusting. The snore was the cherry
on this sickening sundae. She wanted to make it stop.

One hand grabbed the fat man’s jaw while her other
began jamming the dog’s corpse, ass first, into his open mouth. He woke,
attempting to pull away from the death grip on his face. It did no good.
Lancer’s newfound power forced the dead animal down, dislocating the old man’s
jaw in the process to accommodate the small body. He tried to scream, tried to
flail about to release the hold, but the fuzzy toy poodle was blocking his
airway. The old man died with the taste of blood and dog shampoo on his tongue.

The young man in the middle sat up slowly. “Grey?
Grey, what’s wrong?”

Lancer snatched a handful of the boy’s shoulder length
blonde hair. She twisted her fist in it, yanking him out from under the covers
and slamming his slender body ribs first into one of the hard oak bedposts. It
cracked loudly with the impact, breaking off the top portion to leave a jagged
stump.

Still grasping his hair, Lancer pulled the little
maggot to his feet. Blood was running from his mouth. He swung wildly at her.
His blows glanced off, resulting in a series of barely felt soft thuds. She
reached down with her free hand to grasp his genitals. Cords stood out in her
forearm as she squeezed. The boy screamed, a high pitched undulating wail of
sheer agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

With one powerful movement, Lancer lifted him over her
head. She laughed aloud. This was fucking awesome! With a flourish, she slammed
him onto the points of the broken bedpost. The final bedmate shrieked, finally
sitting up from her obviously drugged sleep to see the young man briefly
impaled before his weight sent both post and fresh corpse crashing to the
floor.

The woman, middle aged and surgically altered, cowered
with the thick bedspread pulled up to her mouth. Muffled sounds, half scream,
half moan, came from her. What appeared to be implanted basketballs heaved rapidly
under the blanket. Her eyes flicked over to the trio of daggers sitting on the
dressing table. She lunged for the end of the bed, coming up short and doing a
scrambling wiggle to the chest.

Giggling at the terrified woman’s awkward moves,
Lancer waited until the bitch stood, then rushed her. A powerful shove sent the
woman into a large window. Glass cracked, yet did not break.  Backing up
to get a running start, Lancer tried again. This time the bimbo simply exploded
out the window. Multitudes of small cuts covered the woman’s body. She seemed
to hang in midair for a moment, waving her bleeding arms and legs frantically,
then dropped to the stone patio beneath the window with a sick thud.

In the afterglow of her outburst of ultraviolence,
Lancer realized she should have kept one of them alive long enough to learn the
location of the last three cultists. Crap. Too late now. Maybe there was an
address book in the dressing table or something. If that would even help. She
seriously doubted that the other member’s names were earmarked with a special
symbol.