The Killing Room
1 The Bus from Hell careened around a corner, tires screaming, narrowly missing two horrified pedestrians. The driver must've been doing at least sixty, for the trees on either side of the road were nothing but a light-green blur. Her unruly hair, which had gone completely gray, sprouted randomly from a St. Albert Transit cap. Her face was a fishermen's net of wrinkles, the deep canyons and valleys of age etched on her skin like a trophy engraving. She wore the standard garb of the bus trade--navy blue suit-pants and shirt, which both exhaled the pungent odor of cigarette smoke. An Export A dangled from between her fingers. It contributed to the dense thicket that floated above her head. James Collier, whose seat near the back squeaked in response to every bump and pothole, shook his head in disgust. He glanced at the prominent NO SMOKING sign above the front window, silently cursing the driver for her hypocrisy. Jimmy continued to listen to his new Metallica tape, "Garage Days Re-Revisited", every moment on the hideous vehicle seeming like an eternity. The bus flew over another pothole, and his eyes met the floor. He could see mud-caked ridges, Juicy Fruit (The taste is gonna move ya!) wrappers, and other assorted garbage. The sight of the gum wrapper reminded him of a commercial which he, ironically, missed sadly. The advertisement ran through his mind. It involved a number of young, oh-so-fuckable women and their mates. They were preparing to water-ski on a crystal-clear lake, skis all shined up and ready to go. To the tune of some generic Californic jingle, one of the nubile ladies removed a tight sweatshirt. Underneath was a one-piece suit that clung to her well-endowed torso like a second skin. The camera teasingly zoomed in on her breasts for a split second. For a few moments, her pert, erect nipples threatened to pop right out of the swimsuit. The camera then panned disappointingly over to the lake, where an orgy of water-sports was in progress. The music faded, and the glimpse of the good life was no more. James obviously wasn't the only one who had enjoyed this seductive slice of Americana. The programming director at CFRN had played it at least three or four times a day. Jimmy could imagine the guy slobbering over a monitor, in the control room where he spent his day selecting which shows to air. The director's fingers tapping the slow-mo' button-- prolonging the moment of mammary appreciation. James chuckled loudly at the thought, startling a few elderly passengers out of not-so-blissful slumber. The disgruntled riders stared at Jimmy, the flesh-pockets under their eyes performing a shadow-play in the late afternoon sun. They mumbled something under their breaths, and, closing their eyes, returned to Dreamland. Jimmy stared out the dust-covered bus window, seeing Mr. Parkinson's immense home loom just ahead of him. His stop. He sighed, and pulled the string that halts this Caravan of Cobwebs. The bell rang, the driver grunted inappreciably, and the bus screeched to a halt. James stood and walked casually to the rear door. It was then he realized that everyone on the bus was old. No, not old, but ancient. Not one banger, prep, punk, or just normal, everyday kid. Everyone looked about ready for the retirement home, spending the rest of their days playing bingo in smoke- filled, dimly-lit hellholes. He decided now he wanted to die young. He wouldn't be able to handle his body and mind withering away... like a machine that's past its prime and is beginning to fall apart. No, he wanted to end his life in his prime--just like James Dean had. 2 "Death. For some it's the end. For us, it's just the beginning... --The Fellowship" Barney O'Connor shook his head and downed a strong shot of Jack Daniels. Straight up. The liquor burned its way down his gullet, then settled down in the pit of his good ol' Irish stomach. He hadn't eaten anything lately, and the booze left his head swimming. What was that song his son kept playing, his Bose amp cranked up to ten? "Suicide Solution". Yes, that was it. Really an apt title. Barney had just fallen off the wagon for the umpteenth time-- after staying dry for over two years, one sip at a New Year's party spelled the end of sobriety. He was trapped in glass jail from which there was no escape. Barney couldn't care less. The alcohol made him feel like something had died in his mouth. His job, however, was worse. Much worse. It felt like somebody was slowly but surely hacking away at his mind with a pick-axe. He had never seen his employer, not once since he had been drafted into the Fellowship ten years ago. Barney was paid handsomely for his work, and always in cash. There was something about the monthly payment that scared the hell out of him, though. The note. Each month, a small, nondescript piece of green paper was tucked in between the crisp new bills. It always said the same thing: "Unto Death the brave shall lead us, Where Beast and Man are one Pray not for those who leave us, For spirit and body are one No heaven from which to keep us, For light and dark are one Faceless millions live among us, For you and I become one -- The Fellowship" He had no idea why, but the very thought of the true meaning of these words left him teetering on the edge of insanity. Barney flicked the terminal on, took another sip of the JD, and psyched himself up for another day's work. It wasn't really that difficult. All he had to do was think of what happened to his disobedient predecessor--and anyone else who refused orders from the Fellowship. A few deep breaths would clear his conscience, and the JD would erase some of the memories. There was nothing he could do about it now. He was helpless, as vulnerable as a newborn. The green-on-charcoal letters spelled out names, addresses, and other vital information. Barney prayed it wasn't anyone he knew. BONNER, CHRISTOPHER 06 FALCON CR (403) 458-2654 COLLIER, JAMES 04 WINDSOR CR (403) 458-5478 LOGAN, ROBERT 03 PEMBINA PL (403) 459-7454 MITCHELL, PAUL 44 SWALLOW CR (403) 458-6547 MOORE, KIMBERLY 12 AKINS DR (403) 459-4562 He couldn't believe what he saw then. A name, staring up at him implacably. It was there in green and black: O'CONNOR, APRIL 32 BISHOP DR (403) 458-8456 Barney began to laugh. It was all one big joke. The punchline came when he murdered his own wife. He chortled like a lunatic, then shakily opened a drawer. The gun, a fully-loaded .44 Magnum, was ready and waiting. Barney picked up Dirty Harry's favorite pistol and stared down the barrel. Death was waiting for him inside. He placed the gun under his chin, and let out one last chuckle. He pulled the trigger and was instantly scalped. The top of his head flew off, landing on the floor near his feet. His brains were splattered on the monitor's screen. The computer beeped, as if in anger, then spelled out a message: "Death. For some it's the end. For Barney O'Connor, it's just the beginning. -- The Fellowship" 3 The bus roared away, entombing James in a cloud of exhaust fumes. He began the somber trek home, deeply immersed in thought. Jimmy was thinking about the worst possible way to die. Was it by fire, drowning, strangulation, or that all time favorite -- being eaten alive? No, it was something worse. He decided the worst way to go would be starvation. The slow, steady process of seeing oneself simply waste away. James was no stranger to hunger. His father had been laid off in early 1983, after more than 20 years with Delta Pharmaceuticals. The only explanation offered was a pink form letter which simply stated: "Dear Mr. Collier, Due to increasing production costs and decreasing profits in your department, we have no choice but to streamline the company. In other words, we sincerely regret to inform you that your employment here is terminated. Our company will of course provide the best possible recommendations to future employers. Please note that a severance pay cheque has been included in this envelope. With our sincerest apologies, Thomas Braun, President Delta Pharmaceuticals, Inc." For the longest six months of Jimmy's life, the Colliers were hanging on by their bootstraps. They had to scrounge for every meal, stretching every dollar to its breaking point. Breakfast usually consisted of last night's scraps, some soggy toast baked in the gas range, and a glass of rapidly-souring milk. Lunch was peanut butter and rotting strawberry jam slapped on two pieces of dried-out bread. Then came supper. If they were lucky, the meat was just a few weeks beyond fresh. Most of the time, they weren't that fortunate. Those days, lowest- grade pork, swimming in its own grease became a meal. Maybe some more of that rock-hard bread, if you were lucky. Jimmy was trapped in a spiral of poverty. He knew there was no escape. Each day melted into the next, his life becoming nothing but a sneak preview of hell. Yes, James knew hunger, and he prayed to God he would never have to stare into its gaping maw again. It seemed like he wouldn't have to, for the situation had improved dramatically -- at least in terms of cash flow. His father was suddenly swimming in money, yet James felt like one of the living dead. Maybe it was the way his dad's eyes glazed over as someone tried asking where he worked. Maybe the way his father's face looked after he returned home from a long day at the office... so pale, as if it had been completely drained of blood. It was all of these things, and something else as well. The money. The crisp new bills felt indescribably dirty, one quick touch left Jimmy's head reeling and his stomach turning. James would much rather be poor than live in the house the mysterious money had purchased, for it felt oddly evil. He couldn't help thinking it was haunted, a Bad Place which ghosts and demons loved to call home. It looked innocent enough, with its sprawling living room, polished hardwood floors and the latest in home gadgetry. Yet, something was amiss. For some intangible reason, it just didn't feel like home. His parents kept assuring him he'd eventually get used to it, it would just take some time. How long? Months? Years? A lifetime? It reminded him of an experience with his dog, Dr. Shivago. The Doctor, as everybody called him, was in need of a new house. His old accommodations had become home to a nest of birds, and as it turns out, our fine feathered friends didn't make very good house guests. As if that weren't enough, the weather had gradually eroded away a good part of the roof and the rear wall. A new home was built for the Doctor, after many an hour spent sawing, hammering and generally making a hell of a mess. Finally, it was complete. James, grinning from ear to ear, set the house down on the old foundation, eager to see Shivago's reaction. He whistled, and the Doctor came galloping expectantly through his doggie-door, eyes all shiny with enthusiasm. Shivago peered anxiously at his new abode, and began to sniff the fresh-cut lumber, his tail wagging happily. And then, he just stopped. His tail drooped between his legs, as if he were about to be punished, the gleam that sparkled through his eyes dissappeared, and the investigation into his new home came to an abrupt halt. He began to whine, a piteous sound that was like a dog mother crying over a still-born puppy. The dog looked up at Jimmy, tears of remorse brimming in his eyes... "Why did you do this to me? Why?" James felt him speak. He had asked the same question of his parents, more times than he cared to remember. This was always drowned in a sea of trite repose... "You'll get used to it, Jimmy. This is our home now, it's where we belong." James knew he would never get any answers from those talking heads... the shroud obscuring his dad's life would have to be unwrapped by him and him alone. For weeks, the cloth wouldn't even budge. And then, several months later, it finally began to unravel. It began in January. A normal day by all accounts, the deep freeze that is a Canadian winter gnawing through layer upon layer of clothing, in search of the tender flesh beneath. It was an ongoing battle with Jack Frost, one which all Canucks quickly grow used to. James was in the process of bundling up for another day at school, his thick down-filled parka in hand, when he noticed something. Something green and square. It had fallen out of his pocket, but he had no idea how it got there. Probably his mother's idea of a joke. He smiled, ready to absorb another of his mom's zingers. His facial expression rapidly changed as he read the note, his jacket falling to the floor as his jaw gaped: "I finally met my DEADline! Say hi to mom for me! -- Dad" The note began to bleed. Thick, rapidly-congealing gouts that ran off the paper in rivers of crimson. It definitely wasn't human. For one thing, it stung Jimmy's palm as it dribbled down his hand, like a highly- concentrated acid. For another, millions of tiny worms writhed in it. Jimmy began to scream. 4 "Ahhh... I'd like to spin please... Is there a T?" "Yes, two T's..." Matt Parkinson continued watching the half-witted contestants vie for cheap prizes with inflated price tags. The wheel spun on, money clicked by, and the perfectly trained audience cheered at the appropriate moments. Matt just loved to watch the show. He couldn't care less about the trips to second-rate resorts with exotic-sounding names, Pat Sajak's hopelessly lame wise-cracks, or the cheap "prizes". He watched "Wheel of Fortune" for one reason, and one reason only. Vanna's ass. The so-called hostess of the festivities, the ever-popular Miss White, had her posterior facing the camera again. She turned over the two letters, then turned towards the audience. In a pathetic display of mock interest, she applauded heartily as some factory-worker from New Jersey put the wheel through its paces. The marker clicked home... Matt became bored with Vanna's anatomy and switched off the set. He let out a long, lingering sigh, then seated himself behind the antique NCR register. He peered dejectedly at the mall's inhabitants, seeing many of those long-haired hippie-freaks he hated so much. Dirty leather ("skins" as his grandson called them) draped over their shoulders like body armour, and the hair! By God, it's enough to make you want to get out of barbering completely! Sometimes, those freaks actually had the gawl, the nerve, to come in and ask for a cut. "Just a trim, gramps. Don't need no muh-fuckin' shampoo, no moose, no nuthin'... Just a trim." Every time one of those fairies said that, he had to bite his tongue to stop screaming: "WITH WHAT? A MUH-FUCKIN' LAWNMOWER?!?" Business wasn't exactly booming at his shop, wryly named "Cut Above the Rest", but Matt refused to throw in the towel. Cutting hair was his his life, always had been and probably always will be. There was no better feeling than transforming some scruffy kid into a proper human being, merely by shaving a couple of inches off the bangs. He casually reminisced about the fine times he had as his father's apprentice. Most kids dreaded getting their hair cut. But not Matthew Parkinson, oh no. Once every two weeks, he plopped down happily into his father's chair. He felt like a high and mighty god as he sat on the board that rested against the chair's handles. He was much more than a little boy now, for his father was elevating the chair even higher. He was a king; ruler of the prairie, the world, maybe even the Universe! Now came the fun part. The tingling sensation of his hair being sprayed by frigidly cold water, the delightful sound of the razor-sharp scissors snipping through his damp hair... A slight pause... then, the electric razor was clicked on. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled out, standing on end in almost unbearable anticipation. The sound of bees flitting between flowers, buzzing merrily... all the pleasures of a fine summer's day. He could feel the razor moving closer, the air abuzz with the low-pitched vibration. Finally, he was touched. The blades kissed his neck gingerly, his hair fell to the floor and Matthew was in ecstasy... His father taught him everything he knew, from what angle to hold the scissors at, to starting up casual conversation with customers. For the last fifty years, he took a kind of perverse, almost sexual pleasure in cutting hair. What other job gives you permission to run your hands through anybody's locks, while they just sit there calmly chatting about the weather? He had chopped thousands of mops in his lifetime--jet-black ravens, platinum bomb-shells, and, his favorite, carrot-topped vixens. Blondes may have more fun, but he'd rather go to bed with a red. Matt clicked the TV back on, hoping to find something to ease his growing boredom... 5 Welcome to another night of hell Dave Nicholls thought bitterly as he reluctantly glanced over this evening's cases. A combination rape- murder, where the body was left in enough pieces for a good-sized jigsaw puzzle. What looked like a ritual killing, with the usual animal blood splattered over the scene of the crime. And somebody with their head blown clean off, probably with a large-caliber handgun. He winced at the graphic photographs, brought to you in living color by the friendly folks at the coroner's office. Dave reached for his coffee-stained mug, filled to the brim with what seemed to be colored ice-water. He took a sip, swallowed, and then immersed himself into the world of homocide. He was very interested in the rape case. How exactly did they know it was a rape, with the condition the body was in? He had to find out. Dave quickly dialed the morgue's number, hoping Harry was still there. It rang several times before finally being picked up: "What is it this time, Dave?" "How'd you know it was me?" "Simple. Who the hell else would call this Godforsaken place at 2 am?" Dave chuckled nervously. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Harry, I've got a problem with that rape. You know, the one where she was turned into minced meat." "I'll never forget that one. It's about the worst thing I've ever seen. What about it?" Harry asked. "Well...how did you know it was a rape? The body was all over the place, and you still thought it was a rape, then a murder. Why?" "You better prepare your stomach for this, buddy. They found a drop of semen on every piece of her skin, and her hair... it was just drenched in it. But the worst part... the thing that really got me. Oh, God, I dream about it every fucking night..." Harry's voice was trembling. "What, Harry? For God's sake, what?" "They found her... her vagina ripped out, then forced into her mouth. Just sitting there, sticking out like some kind of tube... It was filled to the brim with semen. He did it after he killed her, David. A fucking necro. A goddamned necro... Oh, God!..." Dave heard some retching sounds, a splash... then the incessant beep of the dial tone. He slammed the phone back down into the cradle, images of the girl's dismembered body swimming in his mind. He knew with a kind of hellish certainty that many a nightmare would be spent trying to erase them. It had to be the worst possible thing one human being could do to another... Dave felt his eyes begin to sting, his tear ducts about to overflow. A single tear ran slowly down his nose, stopping to tickle the hairs inside his nostril before landing in his coffee cup. How could he? How the fuck could he just slaughter her like that? Just as Dave was about to drown in a sea of questions, somebody threw him a life preserver. "You shouldn't get so emotionally involved, David. You'll go nuts." A laugh somehow found its way out of his throat. Well, not really a laugh--more like a snort. It was a start, though. He looked up from his coffee-stained desk, and lost himself in her sparkling emerald greens. He could see the concern flashing across her eyes, the large dose of compassion he found incredibly attractive. She tried to smile, but her lips resisted. Finally, the knots of tension gave way to a partial smile, but a smile nonetheless. "How do you do it, Cheryl? It's like you see all the murder and mayhem through a different set of eyes than everyone else." "Maybe I suffer from tunnel vision. Like a race horse with a set of blinders on, I have no choice but to concentrate on what's ahead." She responded. "You mean you totally ignore the past, and instead stare at the future?" "No, I'm afraid you've misinterpreted me. I feel compassion for only those within my circle of friends, while my cases and I have about the same relationship as a scientist has with some bacteria growing in a petri dish. Like the horse, I can see only what concerns me. I am blind to everything else." "Brains and a great bod. Who could ask for anything more?" They both chuckled this time. A hearty belly-laugh that sliced through some of the tension. The phone jangled noisily, jarring them out of their semi-complacency. Dave picked it up, his face awash in dread: He expected to be greeted by Harry's tired voice, informing him that someone else had bitten the dust, but Dave was in for quite a shock. Breathing that sounded like sandpaper being rubbed against skin. A long, laboring cough... a pause... and then: "Help meeee, pllleease help meeee..." A click, a few seconds of a dial tone... and then silence. Home