EXERT

Savage storms rocked a winter’s night over the London area. A sheet of broiling nebulous clouds streaked overhead, carried by fists of ferocious wind. The clouds were dark, ominous, bloated with rain that they greedily kept to themselves.

With shattering crashes the thunderclaps roared across the land, walls of sound that sent animals scampering into cover, and people huddling indoors. Jagged forks of power spitefully lashed the land as the skies seemed to boil with the intensity of this most unprecedented of storms.

At Rush Green hospital, a nurse walked dull eyed to the front doors. Reaching into her loose black cardigan she gave full display to a yawn and fished out cigarettes and lighter. Preparing to leave, she wrapped the knitted folds tighter about her uniform to protect herself from the elements.

The automatic doors glided apart at her approach, letting the buffeting gale reach in and pull at her body and hair. Janice staggered slightly from the swat of the winds, but her resolve to seek nicotine forced her on.

Chuck was tonight’s doctor on duty, and he had slipped into his office for a ‘break’. The syringe full of amphetamines he was shooting into his veins would ensure his absence for at least half an hour, his addiction giving her time for a sly smoke.

Ordinarily Janice would have joined him, but she was off duty in a few hours and if she succumbed to temptation, then a jolt of barbiturates would be needed to come down and permit her some sleep before her next shift. Anyway, it’d make her more tetchy than usual for the subsequent day, and Pete was working her next shift. Pete was a bastard of a doctor with his own polished little god complex, one that he carried around as though he wouldn’t be allowed to practice medicine if he didn’t behave like a prick.

It would require all her patience to endure him, and she couldn’t afford to let herself be worn down by drug abuse.

Opting for a nicotine fix rather than something of greater potency, she took cover beside a parked ambulance and screwed a white stem into her lips. Cupping a hand around it as shelter, she tried to keep the wind off of her attempts. Each strike lit the darkness with a brief scintillating bloom, but the flame was instantly blown out.

Trying once more, Janice looked up and gave the disposable lighter a few vigorous shakes, trying to liven up the sloshing liquid within.

‘Come on, work you chunk of shite,’ she grumbled irritably, taking her annoyance out on the source with vivid shakes of a more stern nature.

The spacious fields before the hospital led back to the main road, where the odd car or night bus trailed by, an anxious period of anticipation before rush hour commenced at day break.

The dark greenery was streaked with several internal roads, not a single thing visible upon them at this hour, the few sporadic streetlights revealing nothing save barren night. The various paths fed to the front of the building where a roundabout served as their nexus, ferrying the traffic to any of the linked locations and thus to the other departments of the hospital.

Without warning, the winds vanished, not even dying down, just ending suddenly. Looking around herself in bemusement, Janice’s cigarette drooped at the tip with the diverting of her attention to this decidedly unnatural phenomena.

A flurry of concealed movement caught her eye in the bleakness atop the roundabout. Peering through the smothering depths of the night, she lifted her lighter to half-heartidly take advantage of the lull. With her stare still on the traffic fixture, Janice lit the end and drew in a deep lungful, removing the cigarette from her lips and expelling a plume of grey.

There was a hint of something on it, yet despite frowning squints, she could not give it clarity.

The garden of grass that had been cultivated across the stone bowl rippled in recovery of the gale. Like lithe fingers pawing at the air in beckoning, the stalks pleaded for rain, and the heavens were dispositioned to grant their silent petition.

The deluge fell in heavy sheets, instantly soaking everything that was not in deep shelter. Janice gave a squeak of shock and flinched with the surprise downpour, caught completely unawares by the midnight monsoon.

With a spry scamper she jumped back into the doorway and out of the rain. Dragging up her cardigan, she tried to bolster her woollen sanctuary and attempted another drag. Nothing happened, and she saw that several droplets had caught the tip and extinguished the flame.

Airing a muttered curse, she tried again, unwilling to throw it away and attempt with a dry one. Cigarettes were not cheap, and the ever increasing taxation of her one legal vice made each of them ever more precious.

A flash of lightning lit the land with an anaemic, colour-bleaching intensity, making her jump, the cigarette falling from her lips and bouncing into a puddle. In a snapshot flash, she saw a small boy atop the roundabout.

He was about five years old, with straggly black hair hanging in a sodden cascade. Clad in rough clothes of ill fit, he stood as though mesmerised, ignorant of this callous weather, or at least indifferent to the elemental assault.

Giving up on the smoke, Janice put the lighter back in her pocket and studied him, his position revealed to her by the pulse. He was not moving, he was simply standing there, cloaked in darkness, a vague shape in the bleak swells.

Concerned, she started to head over, running across the slick surface of the circling road, holding her collar closed as she was swiftly and thoroughly soaked.

The boy was looking forward, eyes fixed, vacant, his expression barren. It looked like shock, or maybe something as serious as catatonia.

‘Hey, are you all right?’ Janice began, unable to think of anything better for the situation.

There was no response. The boy was locked to this state and was not responsive to outside stimuli.

Stepping up onto the soaking grass, she moved slowly forward, as though approaching a wild animal, the soft squelch of her tread reaching through the thundering patter of fat raindrops. Expecting him to lash out or at least flee, Janice was caught somewhat by surprise when she managed to take his hand without any resistance.

On a testing whim she waved a palm before his eyes. There was no sign of activity, not even a blink of acknowledgement.

‘Come on, we’ll get you inside,’ she uttered softly, placing her cardigan around his shoulders and seeing if she could move him forward.

Janice thought that she would have to carry him because of his disassociation, but the boy walked forward with indolent steps.

‘That’s good. That’s brilliant. Come on, it’s just a little way,’ she said soothingly, leading him by a tiny hand that held lightly to hers. She wondered what sort of cruel git would desert a child in such conditions. But she knew full well from personal experience at this hospital that people were able to commit far worse on their young, and on each other. Sometimes she wondered whether it was worth bringing children into this world, as hate and anger seemed to be the only things waiting for them.

‘Be careful of the step,’ she warned, and supported him as he dropped down to follow her back into the reception area.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine,’ she added, trying to dismiss the child’s wicked smile of glee. The grin ripped across his lips for the merest instant, letting her successfully blame it on a trick of the light.

At the same moment, across the unforgiving depths of the Atlantic and the arid expanses of America, in distant Oakland, an ambulance driver was covertly removing the dollars from the wallet of a DOA.

The body had already been ferried into the hospital, but the smell of charred flesh and ozone was still strong in his nostrils, an olfactory cocktail that held within and refused to leave, lodged in place and stubborn.

The bills were a little singed at the edges, but otherwise they were fine. Nobody asked that many questions about where money had been, and besides, the truth would quickly shut them up if they suspected them as booty from a robbery.

The poor fucker had been hit by lightning, and despite their fervid resuscitation attempts, he’d flatlined long before reaching the hospital. His suit indicated a business executive working late, toiling for extra pay that was now entering the pockets of his would-be saviour. Spread the wealth, after all, the suit wouldn’t need it anymore, and it was a shame to let it go to waste. Anyway, if he didn’t take it, the coroner, or a light fingered orderly would.

The rampaging storm was still pounding upon the land, whipping up the trash on the sidewalks, sending grit and dirt through the air to blind and sting.

Rolling up the stash of bills, he looked around to see if anyone were watching, ensuring he wasn’t being monitored.

Standing in the middle of the street he saw a young girl, staring dull eyed along the road. She was only about five, dressed too roughly to be separated from a parent or out playing, and even the most negligent parent surely wouldn’t desert a child on a night like this.

‘Hey!’ he declared, trying to get her attention.

She wasn’t moving, she was just standing static in the road. He hadn’t seen her being dropped off, and the area was deserted, everyone was inside, avoiding the wrath of the storm.

Cupping his hands in imitation of a bullhorn, he yelled louder, trying to make himself heard over the howling winds.

‘Hey, kid!’

The gale cut out suddenly during the bellow, and his words echoed brutally upon a sudden and unexplained silence, making him flinch the moment he had finished.

Dropping the decibels, he frowned, the girl having not even shifted her gaze.

‘Get the fuck out of the street, kid! Before you get flattened!’ he ordered, and was answered with a pounding downfall of rain, seemingly slapped in chastisement for speaking thus to the infant.

‘Fuck, man!’ he bemoaned, zipping up his billowing jacket as he was drenched by an effective flood from above.

Using his hand in the manner of the bridge of a baseball cap, he defended his eyes and looked back to her. Instantly he broke into a sprint, for the girl was now standing in the soft hesitant glow of approaching headlights.

The big rig was hurtling along without care, and because of the heavy sheets of rain, the driver was assured not to notice her.

As his feet splashed through the pools, he realised that even if the driver did spot her, the sodden road wouldn’t give him a chance of stopping in time.

‘Kid! Move your fucking ass!’ he roared, sprinting with a reckless dash, instinct overriding his natural preference for indifference and self preservation.

A crooked arm caught her about the upper body, yanking her into the air as he threw himself forward. The blaring tone of the truck filled his world and his heart skipped beats, waiting for the feel of speeding metal slamming into his flying body, pulverising it.

An artificial wind was restored when a silver wall streaked past, the turbulence enveloping him. He tumbled, and with a jarring crack struck the edge of the sidewalk before landing in the gutter, his own body cushioning that of the child’s.

Dazed senses trickled back and he stirred from his momentary torpor. The girl was still in his arms, slack and passive. Meanwhile, he was soaking up the stream of water flowing by the kerb like a mountain stream. It reached his skin and he sighed with contempt.

‘Nice one, kid,’ he grumbled, and when there was no answer he looked back to her bland eyes.

‘Come on, let’s you get you in, find out what the fuck’s up with you. Betcha haven’t got insurance either,’ he muttered, and found his hand empty of the pilfered funds. Looking down, he saw them floating with the current and then vanish down a storm drain.

‘Just my fucking luck.’

Lifting her up, he checked the absence of traffic before crossing back to the entrance, failing to notice a malevolent smirk spreading across the thin lips of the child.

There was an edge to this day, a ferocious presence in the heat that gnawed through Krieff’s suit and prickled his skin. It made him irritable, as it always did. Heat was most certainly not his ally.

They had been sitting in silence for most of the journey, thinking, planning, wondering what might be waiting for them and if any answers were lodged amongst the mystery.

Closing the mobile phone, Krieff dropped it into the glove box and slammed it shut.

‘They are staying at the Moonrise Motor Lodge, Miss Jaeger. A few miles just outside Half Moon Bay.’

‘I shall be needing to stop for gas first, Mister Krieff,’ she stated, her voice soft, toneless, the seething fury of her soul cloaked by a satin veil. The fangs of such rancour were evident to him in every syllable, dripping with rage, waiting, brooding, ready to exploit any opportunity to make a rash escape.

Jaeger was a statuesque amazon form, sculpted by a hand with a penchant for feminine excess. She was a powerful sight, a six foot woman of athletic limb and build, shapely, but intimidating. Her features had often been commented on as attractive, but her personality more then dissuaded prospective suitors. A bob of blonde locks, thin and delicate, chose to wreathe her slender face, this being the only hint of fragility to her, for even her eyes were an icy blue, a much more clear view into her genuine temperament.

As usual, she had dressed in a loose black suit that matched his own, the sombre styles a by-product of all the villains they had idolised throughout childhood.

Veering across the myriad lanes of the highway, they pulled into a ramshackle establishment. It was a lonely locale, a few sporadic homesteads dotting the hillsides before leading back into the coastal mountains. The storms of recent times had painted the often brown and drained landscape a luscious green, everything now filled with emerald vitality.

The last time he had been in the Bay Area, it had been almost desolate in appearance, so starkly different to his distant English countryside.

The land here was arid, leeching the fluids from any who even looked upon it. It was as though the Californian coastline loathed moisture, and refused to tolerate it upon what should be desert, seeking only to return to this featureless, uninhabited state.

Opening the doors, the two occupants emerged in unison. The relative cool ambience of the air conditioning quickly escaped, letting the heat of the day pour onto them. Krieff shuddered, a slick sweat rising across his back, stoking his vexed attitude.

The voices had been riding them all the way, the lack of distraction making their constant berating all the more annoying. It had set both of them in a mood to add more to their chorus of seething imprecations.

A stocky man wandered over, clad in a grease and oil smeared set of overalls, a forty niners cap reversed across his balding pate. Offering to tend their needs, he took the pump and slipped it into the tank with a token smile, a civility enforced upon him by the owners.

Even though this level of service was a distinct rarity, the helpfulness of the locals here never ceased to catch Krieff off guard. Despite all his years in the States, he was still expecting the customary miserable indifference of the English, who seemed to believe that any service to the customer, whether given with a smile or a scowl, was a favour of the highest magnitude.

Stretching his legs, he strolled over to the restroom, taking the opportunity to splash some water across his face. The room was grimy, each tile surrounded by perimeters of mould, and streaked with stains from reckless use of the sink.

A diminutive figure, Krieff had to lift himself to tip toe in order to gain a good view into the mirror, the bottom half being fractured, with much of it missing. The voices were increasing their attack, trying to pry their words into the cracks in his psyche, sensing a wearing down of his resolve.

Wetting his palms, Krieff used them to smooth back his hair rather than reform the short black pony tail. Cupped hands gathered water and soaked his features, removing the sweat and cooling his skin.

Running a palm down his face, he wiped off the excess moisture from wiry goatee and acute eyebrows, the lines following his frowning brow with raised sweeps. Snatching a paper towel, the coarse segments ran over his feral countenance, the gaunt emaciated quality to his features a rough terrain for its passage.

Pausing in his rudimentary grooming, Krieff swayed a little, the heat making him feel more nauseous now that he was standing up and fully exposed to it. Clutching to the edge of the sink for support, he absently relaxed his mental grip, his choler sweeping out like a warm tide.

A twirling eddy of wind whipped through the room, flapping the towels and toilet roll. With a loud clang the toilet seat fell back into place, nearly cracking the porcelain. A series of brittle crunches played a harsh symphony, the tiles starting to break, shattered by application of pressure from some unseen source.

Realising that he was letting it escape, he fortified his resolve. The furious scowl currently rippling his features wavered with indecision and settled back into a usual impassionate mask.

The wind vanished and the rattle of loose fittings settled back into a hesitant quiet.

Reaching into his jacket, Krieff closed a hand to the grip of his pistol and hauled it into view. More through paranoia than caution, he lifted up the Berreta M93, the familiar weight of it comfortable in his grasp, like a security blanket. With a thumb he commanded the ejection of the clip, and examined the store of bullets. Assured once more that he was well protected, he slapped it home.

His hunger was not pressing, but the quelling of its nibbling petitions often helped soothe his temper a little. Drawing a ziploc bag, he opened its sealed edge and removed a chunk of raw meat, the soft flesh possessed of a seductive give in his pinch. It glistened invitingly, the warmth his body and inside pocket had imparted upon it making the morsel feel as though it were fresh from the carcass. A line of blood wove down his finger, tantalising his senses and having him lick it off as an appetiser to the snack.

Without warning the door opened, exposing the pump attendant. The man briefly held a concerned expression, clearly wondering what the racket was, the disturbance emanating from his restroom. The face dropped instantly into one of shock, fright and concern.

Staring from the weapon to Krieff, to the morsel of raw meat and back again, he stammered the beginnings of a few sentences only to have them brusquely cut off by Krieff.

‘This one is occupied,’ he growled, pulling back the hammer with soft clicks of warning, his eyes locked to those of the attendant.

The man scampered away, letting the door creak back and slam shut. Krieff uncocked the weapon and slipped it back into the holster. Craning his head back, he opened his jaws wide and dropped the chunk within, letting the glorious flavour spread wings upon his palate. The persistent jogger he had strangled to gain this prize had been a worthwhile catch, the meat was superb. Chewing on it, he mulled it over, letting it wander, extracting his fill of flavour before swallowing it and letting the soft lump trail lazily down his throat.

Licking his fingers clean he straightened his lapels and regarded himself in the mirror one more time before strolling casually back to the car.

Jaeger was loitering by the driver’s side, having already paid. The attendant was sheltering at his desk, afraid to touch the phone, only wishing for his unwanted customers to depart.

‘How far do you estimate our quarry to be, Miss Jaeger?’ he asked, slotting himself back into his seat.

The towering woman joined him, and together they simultaneously fixed seatbelts.

‘Fifteen minutes at most, Mister Krieff,’ she replied, slammed her door shut and flicked a glance to the cowering attendant before starting the engine.

‘The employee here seems a little rattled, Mister Krieff.’

‘Just a lesson in respecting the privacy of his patrons, Miss Jaeger,’ he replied soberly, putting his eyes to the wide blue splendour of the Pacific while they slipped unobtrusively back into the hectic flow of traffic.

With a mournful pout painted across her sultry features, she backed up, her delicate hands trailing upon the adjacent garbage cans.

‘Please, I haven’t done anything to you, just leave me be,’ she implored.

The two youths continued their brash advance, swaggering, their boldness accented by the stink of generic beer.

Their general cleanliness and the pristine quality of their garb was a massive contrast to her bedraggled rags, the tattered ribbons shivering with her trembles. Her red and black striped tights were spattered with holes and snags, her heavy boots open and smeared with grime and dust. A shirt that may have once been white in ages past clung loosely to her torso, hiding amidst a long coat several sizes too big, smothering her amidst its fetid folds. A floppy hat drooped upon her head, her flowing white hair tangled and knotted, the chaotic reeds trying to disguise her tapered features. She was a small and delicate creature, the powerful allure that was the curse of her kind spilling over her filthy visage to tantalise and entice attention.

‘Come on babe, no need to be scared, we ain’t going to hurt you, lessen you want us to,’ one of them chuckled, causing his comrade to mimic the grim titter.

The acrid scent of their lust was powerful in her nostrils, stinging her senses because it was so strong. She knew she shouldn’t have left the safety of her backstreet labyrinth, for to open herself to mass scrutiny always seemed to bring dire consequences. Did the world hate her so much that she should be hounded and persecuted for even stepping from the rank shadows of her meagre existence? The depths kept her safe, away from harm. No one even looked at her twice as she went through their garbage, seeking the feeble scraps that would prolong her miserable banishment for another day. She should have been more careful.

If only she had done something, tried to do anything instead of just giving futile hope in a benign future. If she had stood up, maybe she would not be in this position.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ she muttered, despair prevalent in her voice, sparkling tears slipping down over the soot upon her cheeks. Such misery only seemed to incite them further.

The taller of the two, the one who had pointed her out to his more eager and compacted associate, nudged him with an elbow.

‘Hey, Skinny my man, she just called you a fucking virgin, man,’ he derided, stoking his partner’s resentment, goading him on, a puppeteer playing the youth with his words.

Strings ran from his lips to the teenager named ‘Skinny’, but similarly, darker tendrils of influence were flowing to the boy, streaming in, guiding him. Why could they not leave her alone? She was no threat anymore, they had broken her, yet still they relished her continuing distress, heaping calamity and woe upon her hunched shoulders.

‘Fucking bitch,’ he snarled, dragging something from the pocket of his baggy jeans. A sharp click sounded, echoing in the alley as a blade leapt up and snapped into position.

‘No mother fucking bitch is gonna dis’ me like that,’ he snarled, closing in, waving the silver edge back and forth like a conductor’s baton.

‘Yeah! You the man, Skinny. You the fucking man. Give it to her! No one’ll know, no one’ll even fucking care, dude,’ hissed his partner, his eyes glistening with eagerness, the ethereal reigns upon him tight, steering with expert precision.

‘Fucking hey I will,’ he purred, quickening his approach, causing her to speed her retreat, her mind a whirlwind of possibilities, frantic to concoct an escape route. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this.

A splintered box caught her ankles as she back tracked, stripping them from under her. With a jarring thud she dropped onto her spine, banging the back of her skull sharply to the concrete.

Scrambling to get to her feet, a fist caught her collar and yanked her aside. With a harsh impact she was cast against the wall, her front erupting with sensation from the cruel connection. Pinned to the wall, the hands kept her pressed to the bricks, a collage of graffiti coating them, a rainbow of colour and secretive script.

‘No, don’t!’ she whimpered, the hands tugging at her clothes, trying to remove them.

The soft murmuring cackles of her attackers polluted her ears, their hot breath was upon her, reeking of adrenaline, of sadistic prurience, drunk with excess, bloated on power over her.

‘Shut it, bitch,’ Skinny ordered, putting the cold steel edge to the side of her throat.

‘Or I’ll cut you up!’

Using it as a means of guidance, he turned her about, pressing her cheek to the wall. With the other hand he reached around to capture a breast, squeezing the sculpted mound as her face withered into a mask of dismay. The hand started to lower, his smile widening with its motions, her rear being nudged by his hips, a hard bulge prevalent within his pants.

Her tolerance was exceeded by this molestation and she lashed out as a blur of motion. It was more nervous spasm than intended assaulted, but the effect was still devastating.

The full slap caught him across the face, connecting cheek, jaw and temple, spinning his head savagely aside, cracking the bones that lay immediately beneath her fingers and palm. Reaching the limits for rotation, and with impetus in abundance, the discs of his vertebra parted with a moist crunch. The flesh muffled tone preceded the rustle of wet tissues being ripped, the meat and ligaments tearing as the twirl continued.

With his head spun almost in a full circle, the skin of his neck creased and folded, Skinny drooled a line of blood over his lips and fell back as an inert heap. A few hesitant twitches ran through his limbs, his head flopping from side to side as a final rattling gurgle dribbled from his throat.

The stalks of power over the other boy tightened, stopping him from running, breathing hot incitement onto his anger, kindling a need for revenge.

‘Fucking bitch!’ he roared, ducking swiftly down and grabbing the knife as it lay in the spasming palm of his slain friend.

‘Don’t do it, I-’ she began, and riding upon a rough stab the point sank into her belly. The skin parted and the weapon slid deep, the boy’s face lighting up with victory.

Wincing with the pain, she dropped a hand and grabbed the wrist responsible for the attack. The lines of exogenous influence dwindled and let go, forsaking their puppet. The youth looked aghast at the wound he had caused, his terror welling when no blood emerged to drench the knife. Panning his befuddled gaze up along her arm, he met her face, her eyes glowing with an incandescent red, her hair flowing on its own invisible waters.

‘I...I’m sorry,’ she whispered with bitter regret, each word pregnant with misery.

With a twist of her hand, the captured wrist was dislocated. The resounding crack gave way to a gasp of air, the pain flooding up his arm, kindling a penetrating scream in his lungs. Before he could expel it, her fist lanced forth as a pernicious jab.

Such was the power of the ramming thrust that his countenance seemed to cave inward, his face rolling in with a splintering smack. Her hand exploded from the back of his skull, sending a plume of rent gore forth in a wide arc. Spattering drizzle coated the bricks while dark chunks of miscellaneous meat drooled down his body upon steady arterial streams.

Withdrawing her arm, the limb was coated with a sheath of clinging crimson fluid, thick strands drooling lazily from it.

The gurgling fonts of spray dwindled as the cadaver dropped to its knees before her and fell back, all hint of identity removed by her assault. A deep pool of fluid started to swell around his mangled head, a halo that stretched out, fed by the burbling fonts of ruined skull.

The stink of death rolled through her senses, turning her stomach. She hated this. She hated being made to kill, it depressed her for days afterwards.

Exploiting Skinny’s shirt, she cleaned off the clues to her homicidal self defence. With most of the stains gone, and the others blending with her other grime, she ambulated from the crime scene, sobbing softly to herself while picking chunks of mortals from under her nails.