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.
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