serial
STALKING
BY s.g. lee
Copyright © 2016 by S.G. Lee
Huddled in a cramped subcompact, the glowing
embers of his dying cigarette illuminated Mitch Keiller’s face on each inhale.
The clock on his cell phone read 1:28 a.m.
“That bitch!”
After one last drag, he flicked his cigarette
butt outside to join the growing heap smoldering along the driver’s side door.
Mitch’s leg cramped as he shifted weight to his other side and reached inside
the greasy fast food bag in hopes of finding some loose fries hidden in the
bottom. Of course not. He wasn’t
really hungry, not after downing two double cheeseburgers, extra large fries, a
chicken sandwich, and ten nuggets, but he needed something to keep himself
occupied. She should’ve been home hours
ago, his heart lamented. Trina’s shift at the hospital ended at eleven;
each passing hour fueled the rage churning in Mitch’s gut. When it came to
Trina, his heart and head were at war with each other.
“So help me … if she brings someone home with
her,” he muttered, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned
white. Biting his lip, he fantasized about what he’d do to the schmuck who
dared to mess with his Trina.
Mitch sucked in a deep breath as he was
momentarily blinded by headlights. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to regain
his sight. When he did, there was a figure on the front porch of Trina’s duplex
fumbling for a key. His heart skipped a beat until the feminine form opened the
door and reached inside for the lights. Before the door closed, Mitch caught a
glimpse of auburn hair.
“Damn it. Just Natalie.” He huffed. “Why
anyone would want that cow for a roommate is beyond me.”
Trina wouldn’t admit it, but Mitch was
positive Natalie encouraged their break-up. One
day she’ll be sorry, he vowed.
***
Across the street and three cars up, he
watched the hipster throwing a tantrum in his car and chuckled. Night vision
binoculars weren’t needed this time. The
doofus parked under a streetlight and right across the street from his
beloved’s home. She was smart to dump him. But not him, he knew better. The
rental he’d acquired, under a fake ID, was parked near the end of a cul-de-sac,
far from the last street light yet still sandwiched between two other cars. He
left no traces, unlike the lanky fool across the street with his mound of
DNA-saturated cigarette butts that the police would inevitably find. The stupid
ones always made it easier for him.
His breathing quickened as another vehicle
approached and parked. This time, a petite girl with long, dark-chocolate
ringlets kissed with cinnamon highlights exited the car. It was too dark
outside for him to actually see the color of her hair or her rich, ebony eyes,
but he’d seen them before. He knew her olive skin would be flushed as she
scurried to her front door, arm-in-arm with a tall stranger. Her staggered gait
told him she’d been drinking. Must’ve
been one helluva night, he thought as he watched the hipster’s reaction.
***
Mitch sprang from the confines of his nesting
place inside his dark blue Suzuki Aerio. His numb legs gave way and he crumpled
in a heap onto the hood of his car. After a few minutes, he regained stability
and, filled with righteous indignation, straightened himself then marched to
the sidewalk. Trina and her escort had entered her home long before Mitch
reached her front door. Overcome with fury, his eyes clouded and he stormed
back to his car. A combination of rage and caffeine sent tremors rippling
through his hands to the tip of his fingers. Rusted hinges of the driver side
door groaned in protest as he flung it open and flopped inside. After slamming
the door shut, Mitch pounded his fists on the dash until his knuckles bled. He
wiped away an errant tear, leaving a streak of blood in its wake. No, he doesn’t get to win, Mitch decided
as he reached for his brand new, prepaid mobile phone. You can block my number all you want. I’ll still find a way to reach
you, baby. I’ll save you from yourself. He keyed in Trina’s number and
waited, watching her windows for a glimpse of his fallen angel. On the second
ring, the dimmed lights in her living room brightened and Mitch could see her
silhouette next to the lamp.
“Hello?” The sound of her voice sent a
shockwave through Mitch’s heart. “Hello … HELLO? Damn it! I can hear you
breathing. If this is you, Mitch, get a life!” Though faint, Mitch also heard a
male voice saying, “Just hang up. I told you not to bother.”
He waited for the lamp to dim again before
hitting redial. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and then the light
returned. This time when she answered, Mitch crinkled the wrappers from his
burgers and fiddled with the sound on the talk radio station. “Hello? I can’t
hear you. We have a bad connection!” Trina shouted into the receiver. “If you
can hear me, hang up and call right back.” Mitch disconnected the call just as
the tall stranger exited Trina’s home and stalked to his car. Pleased that he’d
won, Mitch started the engine and drove home.
***
Seeing the smug smile on Mitch’s face filled
him with disgust. He fought the urge to follow behind the tiny Aerio then bash
in its driver’s teeth. Instead, he wrapped his binoculars and placed them in
his kit.
“A whole generation of self-entitled, passive
aggressive momma’s boys,” he muttered. “If he had any balls whatsoever I’d be
finished already, but no … I’m gonna
enjoy seeing this one suffer.”
Two weeks of painstaking research and
surveillance had cumulated into a big fat zero. Dumbass needs a friendly push, he decided as he wove through
traffic. Spent, both emotionally and physically, he pulled into the nearest
motel and rented a room. After hauling his bags and equipment inside, he
flopped onto one of the beds and closed his eyes.
In a blink, the guttural voice of Glenn
Danzig growled, “Die, Die, Die, my darling.” Outstretched fingers searched for
his phone and the elusive snooze button. Ten minutes later, the gravelly
vocalization sounded again. Groaning, he rolled over and checked the time.
“How is it morning already? I swear I only
closed my eyes for a minute.” As usual, no one responded because there was no
one else there. “Coffee … I need coffee.”
As the crappy in-room coffee pot gurgled and
sputtered forth a caffeinated brew from grounds that looked more like sawdust
than pulverized coffee beans, he gathered up toiletries and clean clothes and
took them to the bathroom. He sucked down the steaming brew from a single
serving, prepackaged Styrofoam cup left in the room. Chewing on the Styrofoam would taste better. Still yearning for a
caffeine jolt from a better-tasting blend, he showered quickly and dressed.
Once his car was loaded and all traces of him had been removed from the room,
he checked out of the motel. It was his rule: Never stay more than one night.
Breakfast consisted of an extra large coffee
and a bagel from a drive-thru. Plan B would require more effort, so there was
no time to indulge in the celebratory breakfast he’d planned. He hid his fake
ID in the glove compartment before making his way across town. Everything
needed to be in place before the lovely lady with fiery eyes started her shift
at the hospital.
He walked across the parking lot with his
stomach in knots. Plan B had always been on the back burner, but never once had
he needed it. Tiny bells on the shelter’s front door jangled as he entered,
setting off a cacophony of yelps, cries, and barks.
“Can I help you?” asked the frumpy,
middle-aged woman in a hand-knitted sweater. She was snuggling with a one-eyed
cat while knitting.
“Um, yeah … I hope. My nephew’s birthday is
coming up and I’d like to get him a dog.”
“Well, a dog is a big responsibility. Are you
sure he’s ready for—”
“Look, he’s plenty old enough. Besides, I’m
not talking about a puppy here. I want an older dog—a quiet one too!” he said,
interrupting Cat Lady’s well-prepared speech.
“Really? An older dog? That’s—well, that’s
wonderful! We have one on death row. He’s probably around six or seven years
old and we just couldn’t find him a home anywhere.” Her eyes brimmed with
unshed tears. “Follow me, Mister … um … I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Well, the paperwork will be in Brandon’s
name since he’ll own the dog. Brandon Fisher.”
“Mister Fisher, say hello to Pippin. He’s
just an absolute sweetheart but he’s getting up there. Um, we don’t much about
him except that one of his previous owners had him ‘debarked,’ as they call it.
Mutilated is what I call it!”
“I couldn’t agree more, ma’am,” he whispered
as Pippin cowered in his pen. “C’mere, boy! I won’t hurt ya.” He let the
hesitant dog sniff his hand before ruffling behind Pippin’s ears. The timid dog
nuzzled him and he made his choice. “This guy, Pippin, he’s perfect! Oh, you
are a lucky dog. Brandon is going to make sure you are the happiest pup on the
planet. I guarantee it. He’ll love you so much you’ll forget about all the
abuse you’ve suffered, little man.”
“Oh my!” Cat Lady gushed. “You really have a big
heart.”
“Truth is, I like animals much more than
people,” he blurted. He was shocked by his truthful admission. With the
exception of his sister, Kelly, and nephew, Brandon, he had no love for the
human race. “Now, you won’t mind if I fill out the paperwork with Brandon’s
name, right? He’s turning twelve and this will really make him feel like a
grownup.” He cupped Cat Lady’s hand in his and turned on the charm. “I’m sure
you can bend the rules a little for me, right? I’d hate to have to leave Pippin
to his death because of some rules.”
“Oh, the shelter is really strict about—”
“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a finger to her
lips. “It’ll be our secret. I promise you, no harm will come to Pippin. He will
live in the lap of luxury. He deserves that, doesn’t he? I mean, after
everything this poor guy has been through … the mutilation, possible beatings,
and then abandonment.”
Fifteen minutes later, he and Pippin exited
the shelter. Their next stop was the nearby pet supply store. Cat Lady had
given him a leash, but he found the ratty piece from their lost and found
better suited for the trashcan than Brandon’s new best friend. Three hundred
dollars later, he exited with gourmet food, grain-free treats, a new collar,
name tag, toys, and a leash.
“So, Pippin, the shelter lady tells me you
are a Heinz fifty-seven, but I think you must have some Lab in you. Just look
at your jet-black coat and floppy ears. Listen, I’m gonna need your help for a
bit, but then you’ll be in Brandon’s care. We need to drive across town and
meet up with a pretty lady. Whaddya say? Can you help me out, huh?”
Pippin’s tail wagged as he nudged his current
master. Laughing, the rescuer fished around in the bag for Pippin’s treats then
rewarded the faithful old boy. Then he drove to their destination, the dog
sitting patiently in the passenger seat. First, he pulled into the wharf
district and parked by an abandoned warehouse. He removed a pair of glasses,
some makeup, and spirit gum from a bag under the back seat. Pippin’s head
cocked to the side when the chemical smell engulfed the vehicle. Even with the
windows down, the noxious fumes made his nostrils burn.
“Sorry, Pip. I know this stuff is brutal, but
I’ll hurry.”
After a quick scratch behind Pippin’s ears,
he went to work changing his appearance. The makeup aged him by ten years. An
added beard and moustache teamed with the glasses completed his new look. Next,
he pulled on a flannel jacket and a pair of worn sneakers fitted with hidden
three-inch lifts. Once he was certain the spirit gum had dried, he spritzed on
a bit of cologne to mask the foul odor. He checked the time before setting off
for their rendezvous. He parked three streets over from Trina’s house and
hooked Pippin to his new leash.
“Let’s go for walk, Pippin,” he said, opening
the passenger side door.
They strolled the sidewalks at a leisurely
pace; he was right on schedule. Pippin saw fit to water every front lawn along
the way. He steered Brandon’s new pal down Trina’s street and Pippin made his
job even easier than he’d hoped. In the grassy oasis directly across from
Trina’s car, Pippin stopped for the call of nature. Just then, Trina passed by.
“Ahem, excuse me, miss.” He used a fake
accent. “Do you live in ten-thirty-one? Yes, I thought I recognized you. Pepper
and I have seen you before.” He hadn’t planned to give the dog a fake name; it
just happened. “I hate to intrude on your personal life, but I am concerned.
There is a man who watches you. He parks just over there. I wasn’t sure it was
you until last night … or I should say this morning. Poor Pepper got into
something he shouldn’t have and we were out every couple hours. Like every
other night for the past few weeks, that man was out here, just sitting in his
car, watching and waiting. But this time he got out of his car. We were up at
the lamppost and I saw him get out after you. He walked to your door but you,
and the person with you, had already gone inside. He went back to his car and
made quite a ruckus, cursing and punching his dashboard. Pepper was quite upset.”
The whole time he talked, Trina’s face paled.
He knew he’d hit the mark when she asked him to show her exactly where the
“watcher” had parked. She looked at the pile of cigarette butts and sucked in a
breath. Apparently she had recognized Mitch’s brand.
“Did you happen to notice what kind of car it
was?” Trina’s voice wavered. He could tell she didn’t want to believe it.
“Well, it’s either dark blue or black. Hard
to tell in the middle of the night, but it’s a small car. I wrote it down. Let
me see here.” He patted his pockets for effect. “Ah, here! A Suzuki Aerio.
Honestly, I thought Suzuki only made motorcycles. Oh my! Are you okay? You look
a bit unsteady.”
Trina’s knees buckled and he reached out to
catch her. He helped the wobbly girl to a nearby bench and Pippin offered Trina
his own brand of consolation.
“I hate to meddle, but perhaps you should
contact the police. Stalkers can be dangerous, after all. You’d be safer with a
restraining order.”
To his surprise, Trina buried her face in
Pippin’s shoulder and sobbed. He breathed a silent sigh of relief for not
having attached Pippin’s new name tag. He’d always believed animals to be a
kinder, more empathic life form than humans, and Pippin had proved him right. He’ll be a good companion for Brandon when
this is over.
“I’m sorry,” sniffled Tina. “I’ve had this
creepy feeling that I just couldn’t shake, like someone was watching me.
Natalie, my roommate, she felt it too. And now I know it’s true.” She dissolved
into tears again then apologized a second time, after she recovered. “I’m so
embarrassed. I can’t believe I’m bawling like a baby to a complete stranger,
but you’re just so easy to talk to.”
He patted her head, like a child, and assured
her she had no reason to apologize as Pippin kissed away her tears.
“Now, please tell me you will contact the
police. I just couldn’t bear it if I read about you in the paper tomorrow,
another victim of domestic abuse. You mentioned a roommate; will she be with
you the next few days?” he asked. His face mirrored the picture of earnest
concern.
“Natalie will be there with me tonight, but
she’s going out of town this weekend.”
“Isn’t there anyone else? What about the gentleman
who escorted you home last night? Surely he wouldn’t want to see you harmed.”
Trina sniffled and blotted her eyes. “Yeah, I
suppose I could call Zack. You’re right. I shouldn’t be alone if Mitch – that’s
my ex – is actually stalking me. I’m so lucky I ran into you. You’re like my
own personal guardian angel.” She sprang up and threw her arms around the kind
stranger. “I hate to hug and run, but I’m going to stop at the police station
before work. I need to report Mitch before this goes any further. Thank you
again, Mister— oh my! I haven’t even asked your name. I’m such a ditz.”
“Smith, Nick Smith,” he lied. “And staying
safe is thanks enough for me, dear. Good luck.”
He offered up a friendly wave as Trina
scurried to her car then drove away. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath.
“This fake beard is itchy as hell. C’mon, Pippin, let’s get out of here.”
***
Mitch counted the hours until he could clock
out and go home. The cubicle walls closed in on him as he wondered what Trina
was doing and who she'd been with the night before. Meanwhile, mindless
coworkers blathered on about their plans for the weekend. He longed for the day
he could tell all of them exactly what he thought of them. At precisely five
o’clock he punched out and sprinted to the door. He had things to do before
Trina’s shift ended; he needed to be ready for her. Tonight, he thought, I’ll win
her back. I just need to show her how
much I love her. With a fervent heart, he raced to the closest florist.
“Seriously? Fifty dollars for twelve freaking
flowers?” Mitch growled.
“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll find that our prices
are comparable to everyone else in the area. Perhaps another flower, instead of
long-stemmed roses, would be more in your price range.” The sales clerk reached
into their cooler and pulled out a premade bouquet. “Now this one is only—”
“No! She loves roses.” Mitch raked a hand
through his hair and sighed. He’d startled the woman behind the counter and
raised eyebrows throughout the store. He lowered his voice when he spoke again.
“I can’t win her back with cheap flowers.”
The cashier’s harsh glare softened. Mitch
resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He assumed her to be one of those hopeless
romantic types and immediately dismissed her validity. Instead, he forked over
the fifty-plus dollars for the roses and added in two smaller bouquets of
wildflowers plus a box of Trina’s favorite chocolates. With his bank account
reeling, Mitch exited the store filled with hope. Trina has to see that I am willing to do whatever it takes to win her
back. Once at home, he checked the time and wished he had a fast-forward
button for life, not just for his DVR. Each second felt like an hour as the
clock on his wall tick-tocked. He was too anxious to sit and too tired to pace.
Food lacked flavor and did nothing to slake his appetite. Every waking moment
Mitch thought only of his beautiful Trina Isabelle Martinez and winning her
back.
***
As he exited the motel room, clothed all in
black, Pippin’s whimper sent a stabbing shot through his chest cavity. No
amount of toys or treats seemed to soothe the pup, but this time he could not
be hindered by a canine sidekick.
“Shh, hush now, boy. I’ll be back soon,” he
whispered. “Be good and I‘ll bring you a steak, okay?”
He locked the door and steeled himself
against the heart-wrenching cries. He drove across town and parked at the end
of the cross street to Trina’s development. Neither skulking nor strolling, he
made his way to the playground at the park directly behind where he’d been
staked out for the past couple of weeks. Though the park posted “No Trespassing
After Dark” signs, no one patrolled or monitored the park’s activities. He
nestled into the wooded patch, cloaked in shrubbery and dried leaves. With an
hour to spare before the end of Trina’s shift, he settled in to watch.
***
Mitch pulled into his favorite parking spot,
rolled down the windows, and killed the engine. A heavy floral fragrance
perfumed his vehicle, making his head throb. In his mind, he mulled over the
best presentation for his gifts. At first he’d planned to leave a trail of
flowers from Trina’s parking spot to her front door, but the more Mitch thought
about it, the more he worried someone would mess it up. It would be just like Natalie to pick up Trina’s flowers and ruin
everything, he fumed. Or what if some
busybody neighbor decides to sweep up the trail and then I’m standing there
arguing with them when Trina pulls up? In the midst of his internal debate,
Mitch observed a female form passing in front of the bay window of Trina’s duplex.
Seconds later, Natalie exited the building, climbed into her car, and left.
Mitch’s heart skipped a beat; Natalie had left the kitchen window open. The
curtain fluttered with the breeze, giving him an idea. He hopped out of his car
and, bouquets in hand, ran to Trina’s side of the duplex. I’ve done this before. I can
do it again, he reminded himself as he dragged the trashcans over to the
open window and balanced on top.
Mitch’s legs wobbled and more than once he
thought he’d end up kissing the pavement, but he managed to slip inside. With
his heart in his throat, he raced to Trina’s bedroom on the second floor. Once
there, he inhaled the alluring scent of Trina’s perfume. He stared longingly at
the rumpled sheets on her bed, remembering her gentle caress and silky skin.
Mitch’s eyelids fluttered and he tensed, caught up in the moment, until a
stabbing pain pulsated from his hand.
“OW! Damn roses,” he muttered while pulling a
thorn from the fleshy part of his palm. Blood bubbled to the surface, but Mitch
ignored the weeping punctures. The bouquet of roses found a home on Trina’s
nightstand. Next, he strategically placed wildflowers throughout the bedroom
and left a trail down the stairs. As he climbed onto the counter, panic seized
his heart. He prayed that he’d make it out before Trina or Natalie returned
home. Thinking he heard keys in the front door, he dove out the window and
crashed to the ground, taking the trashcans down with him. He peeked out to the
street, but neither Trina’s nor Natalie’s cars were there. After he returned
the trashcans to their original state, he crept back to his car.
***
Hidden safely under the cover of night and
shrubs, he watched the love-struck stalker creep toward the open window. He
stifled a chuckle as the gawky-limbed man/child struggled his way into the
house. With baited breath, he watched, wondering if Trina would catch Mitch in
the act. He hoped not. A wave of relief swept over him once the hipster
returned to his car. You’ve made my job
so much easier, son. He waited,
eager for the girl to return home.
***
Twenty minutes later, Natalie returned. Mitch
watched her lumber to the door with a grocery bag in each hand. Miserable cow, he thought to himself,
hating her more with each step. He delighted in the idea of her jealousy when
she saw Trina’s flowers and the lengths he’d gone to show his love. Bet no one has ever loved you like this.
You’ll never have what we have. He
couldn’t wait to see the look on her miserable face when he and Trina got back
together. Lost in the fantasy, he didn’t see Natalie peering through the front
window, looking for the intruder. A few minutes later, Trina’s car blew past
and slammed to a halt in her parking space. She raced inside and seconds later
she stormed out again. Heading straight to his car, she slammed her fist down
on Mitch’s hood furiously.
“What the hell is your problem, you freak?”
Trina’s eyes brimmed with tears of fury. “What part of ‘I don’t want to see you
anymore’ do you not understand? You were in my house!”
Whoa, this is
not turning out how I expected. Mitch sprang
from his car, panicked. His plan was crumbling around him.
“But, baby, I—”
“NO! Do not call me baby!” she shrieked. “I
am not your baby. I am not your anything. Look, this is your last warning. I
reported your stalking ass to the police and I’m meeting with a judge tomorrow.
I’m telling them you broke into my home, Mitch. If you don’t stay away from me
you’re going to go to jail. Got it?”
One by one, like dominoes, porch lights went
on all up and down Pinetree Court. Neighbors peered from their windows and some
stood on their front stoop to gawk at the couple. Illuminated by the glow from
their phones, scowling faces captured Mitch and Trina on video. Great, thought Mitch, bet these losers are posting this fiasco to
Facebook right now. His face burned scarlet from humiliation, but he wanted
to defend himself. He couldn’t understand how or why it had all gone so
terribly wrong.
“Can’t I just explain?” Even to his own ears,
Mitch’s voice sounded thin and whiny. “I only—”
“Only?” Trina interrupted. “You only
committed a crime, make that multiple crimes. Hello, breaking and entering,
stalking, trespassing, and God only knows what else. Natalie called the cops
so, seriously, you need to leave and not come back.”
“C’mon, you’re not serious. I’m not
dangerous, Trina. I love you! I bought all those flowers and your favorite
candy to prove it to you.”
“Um, yeah … I am serious. Look! Here’s
my copy of the report I gave today.”
Trina shoved the papers in his face as proof.
Mitch’s breathing hitched, all air forcibly expelled from his lungs, and his
heart seized. Spasms of gut-wrenching pain radiated to his appendages. A gray
haze pressed in on his line of sight until Trina’s face pulled back to the end
of a long tunnel. In the distance, a lone siren cut through the night and
snapped Mitch back into the present. He scrambled to his car and peeled out as
fast as he could. Trembling, Trina walked back to her house to wait for the
police to arrive.
***
Satisfied that his plan had played out
perfectly, he crept out from his hiding spot. The cold, damp ground seeped
through his clothing to penetrate into his aching bones, making the walk back
to his rental car sheer hell. Yet the thought of returning to Pippin’s eager
company tugged the corner of his mouth into a half-smile. No point getting too attached to the mutt, he reminded himself, he’ll be Brandon’s pet, not mine. Still,
the thought did nothing to prevent him from keeping his promise. He stopped at
a nearby chain restaurant and ordered two takeout meals—both sirloin steaks.
After he fed the dog, he downed his own meal nearly as fast. He eased his
stiffened body onto the bed and stretched out before grabbing the remote. He
flipped through the channels as Pippin worked up the nerve to jump onto the bed
next to his rescuer. He felt no remorse in indulging Pippin; he cuddled the
attention-starved dog while catching the end of a slasher flick on cable.
The next morning, he awoke completely rested,
unlike most mornings. He leashed Pippin for a morning walk as he pondered
breakfast.
“I hate to do this to you, buddy, but after your
walk, you’re getting a bath. Kelly will kill me if I bring you into her house
smelling like this. Bad enough I’m gonna be in the dog house with her for a
while … no pun intended.” He laughed at his own joke as Pippin wagged his tail.
“Besides, you’ll be better off with Brandon than with me.”
When he was done, both dog and master were
drenched, but at least Pippin smelled better. He grabbed the chintzy stock
hairdryer in his motel room and angled it at Pip’s shiny black coat. Bits of
fuzz and tangled undercoat floated on the tepid, mechanically induced breeze
until the motor groaned then stopped. He hadn’t anticipated the power needed to
dry a dog of Pippin’s size, but the fur was mostly dry. He allowed the dog to
play while he showered and dressed for Brandon’s party. After he loaded the
car, he checked out of the motel. He’d left a little something extra for
housekeeping to make up for the hair explosion left in the bathroom and the
broken hairdryer.
They arrived late to Brandon’s party; many of
the children had already gone home. It had been his plan to arrive late anyway,
with or without a dog, but Pippin was the better cover. With a big blue bow
tied around his neck, the dog sat patiently in the car, waiting. It was almost
as if Pippin understood his role as the surprise gift. The rescuer was less
at-ease than his canine counterpart. Kelly hated surprises.
He wove through the remaining guests to reach
his sister and his nephew, Brandon. He offered empty apologies for being late
and they pretended they hadn’t noticed the time. It was the game they always
played, but his hugs were genuine, as was the fierce love and devotion for his
small family.
“Happy Birthday, buddy,” he said, rumpling
the boy’s hair. “Here’s part of your gift. I’ll be right back with the rest.
It’s still in the car.”
He caught the fleeting look of concern from
his sister and laughed. Brandon dove into the gift bag and held up a partially
chewed tennis ball with mixed emotions. When he returned with Pippin, a chorus
of “ooohs and ahs” arose from the fellow guests. Kelly’s eyes widened and her
jaw fell until her mouth gaped in a rounded O. Brandon squealed with excitement
as he rushed to greet his new best friend. Pippin met the boy with equal zeal.
As he settled down to a slice of cake and
some coffee, he smiled at his sister. “Don’t look at me like that. He was on
death row, Kel. I had to save him, and with all the traveling I do for work,
you know I couldn’t keep him. Besides, Pippin will be good for Brandon … and
for you. I worry about you two being alone in the house since the divorce. Not
that you can’t take care of yourself, but …”
“You always were a sucker for animals,” she
replied after a heavy sigh. “And I always
get stuck taking care of them.”
“That’s what big sisters are for.”
After dinner, he said goodbye to his family.
Like always, Kelly offered him their guest room and he politely declined. His
final gift to Brandon was the adoption form for his dog.
“Hey, Uncle Jack, they spelled my last name
wrong. It says Fisher but it should be Fishet.”
“Must’ve been a typo. I’m sorry, Brandon.
We’ll figure out how to fix it later. You take good care of Pippin, now. Okay?
And Pip, you take good care of Brandon.”
Pippin nuzzled his hand but then trotted off
after Brandon. Jack headed to his car, shaking away the sadness. It was nearly
dark and he had work to do. He drove exactly one mile over the posted speed
limit the entire drive without using the cruise control. It was an exercise he
used to maintain focus, part of his routine. Before long, he reached Trina’s
neighborhood. This time he parked behind the local cinema. The current film had
been running for two weeks so they had little traffic, but enough that his car
wouldn’t stand out. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, strolled to the
box office, and purchased a ticket. After stuffing the ticket into his pocket,
he headed to the restroom. Inside the stall, he removed the button-down shirt
he’d worn for Brandon’s party and stuffed it in his bag. The t-shirt underneath
was solid black, as were his jeans. He replaced his leather oxfords with a pair
of black combat boots in size thirteen, two sizes above his own. He’d already
added padding to make the boots feel less like flippers. Man, that scrawny bastard has huge feet, he thought while sliding
his own into the cavernous boots in the same brand as Mitch’s. He pulled his
black, hooded sweatshirt on to complete the ensemble, knowing the rest of what
he needed was safely tucked inside its kangaroo-pouch pocket. Next, he wandered
into the concession area then slipped out the side door without being noticed.
His hood safely concealed his face from the ever watchful eye of Big Brother’s
surveillance cameras. From the parking lot, he was able to cut through yards to
reach Main Street then scoot down to the alley behind Trina’s duplex. From the
back, he could see Trina, and the male she’d referred to as Zack, in the
kitchen. A surge of adrenaline compelled him to check the time.
“Okay, it’s nearly ten. In a few minutes the
neighbors will bring their dog in for the night,” he reminded himself.
The second hand on his watch ticked away. As
he’d anticipated, the neighbors unchained their Tibetan Mastiff and led it into
the house. He crept across their unlit yard and waited inside the dog house
until he saw the patrolling police cruiser drive away. Once it was clear, he
pulled on a ski mask and a pair of powder-free latex gloves then darted through
the yard. He tested the back door knob and, as usual, it was unlocked so he
slipped inside without making a sound.
The unsuspecting couple had retreated
upstairs for the evening. Before braving the stairs, he reached inside his
pocket for reassurance. The cold steel, snub-nosed barrel of his .38 Special
felt sleek and smooth in his hand, but it was mostly for show. It kept his prey
from trying anything stupid. The true star of the evening, a brand new,
seven-inch Ka-Bar, rested on his hip. His fingers traced tiny circles on the
butt of the knife, itching to christen the blade. In the tumultuous chasm
between arousal and release, he crept up the stairs, his stealth unnecessary
against the riotous soundtrack of Indie Band love songs and panting that
radiated from Trina’s bedroom. He hovered in the doorway of the roommate’s
bedroom, waiting for the perfect moment.
“Whoa, babe. You’re amazing,” Zack sighed.
“I’ll be right back.”
Not bothering to turn on the lights, Zack
stumbled from the bed and into the hall. Shrouded in darkness, he waited for
the pretty-boy, wannabe thug to stagger past en route to the bathroom. For such a beautiful girl, she has awful
taste in men, he thought. It occurred to him that he could be the young
lady’s salvation as his arms thrust forward; one went around Zack’s neck and
with the other he forced his hand to cover both nose and mouth of his victim.
Caught off guard, Zack’s naked body sagged like a rag doll, giving precious
seconds for his attacker to grab the knife and plunge it through his cervical
spine. Oxygenated blood flooded into his throat, cutting off his air supply as
it frothed in his mouth. A bitter-salt tang coated Zack’s tongue and dribbled
from his open mouth. Wide-eyed, bloody mouth gaping, Zack’s body returned to
Trina’s room under a force not of its own. His limp body flopped onto the bed,
on top of Trina, and she squealed playfully.
“Ready for round two,” she purred. The
darkness concealed Zack’s wounds and his attacker. “C’mon, you’re crushing me,
Zack … Zack?”
She tapped his shoulder and waited for a
response. Instead, a gloved hand pressed down on her face, covering her mouth.
Panicked, she sucked in air through her nostrils until the latex sealed them
off. Her body bucked against the inevitable as her arms and legs flailed,
helplessly reaching. In her final seconds, Trina caught a glint of light
reflecting off his blade before it plunged into the soft divot between her
collar bones. He watched her body twitch and spasm until death claimed her for
a bride. With the couple no longer fighting, he was free to work at his own
pace—flaying, severing, slicing, shredding. Like molten lava, blood poured from
open wounds to cool in the night breeze and congeal in ruby pools.
“Just a few final touches,” he muttered. He
dabbed the underside of his boot in bloody overflow and pressed it firmly into
the carpet to reveal a partial print. “Yes, now my masterpiece is complete.”
He stepped back to admire his work. The
shutter of his mind’s eye camera snapped stills from every angle until his pièce de résistance remained burned inside his mental gallery. Though he
longed to touch Trina’s flawless skin with his bare hands, just once, he
resisted. Instead, he dabbed his gloved index finger in a rivulet of her blood
and traced the curve of her lips as he bid her farewell. In a parting shot to
loser number two in Trina’s bizarre love triangle, he selected one of Trina’s
stiletto heels from her closet and stuffed it into Zack’s rectum. Let the cops and shrinks have fun analyzing
that one, he chuckled.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he haphazardly
splashed bleach over the Ka-Bar and wiped it, ensuring that most, but not all
of the incriminating DNA had been washed away. Crimes of passion were never as
masterful as a true artist’s and, if nothing else, Mitch the hipster was
passionate. He wrapped the knife in a kitchen towel then placed it inside a
zip-top bag before slipping out into the crisp night air.
He returned to the cinema just in time to
blend in with the exiting patrons. An affectionate couple caught his gaze and
he smiled.
“It wasn’t as good as the first one,” he
grumbled to them and offered up a knowing smile.
“It never is, man,” was the reply.
“You can say that again.”
With a wave to his fellow film goers, he
climbed into his car. Secure in a firm alibi, he drove to Mitch’s hovel, a tiny
apartment within a cluster of dilapidated tenement homes. The “parking lot” was
little more than a bare patch of ground on an empty yard with no streetlights.
He parked beside Mitch’s Aerio and, within seconds, the Slim Jim he’d tucked
into his sleeve had popped the lock. He rubbed the bloodied boot onto the
driver’s side floor mat then opened the trunk.
“What a slob.”
Everything from dirty gym clothes and trash
to old CDs and books littered Mitch’s trunk. It was there, underneath the mess,
that he stashed the half-cleaned knife.
As he drove out of town, his stomach rumbled.
He pulled into a local pizza shop and made a beeline for the restrooms. As he’d
hoped, it wasn’t a multi-stall facility. In the single bathroom that looked
like an Italian grandmother’s powder room, he washed his hands, arms, neck, and
face before removing his sweatshirt and stuffing it in his backpack. Confident
he was clean, he exited the potpourri-scented room and made his way to the counter
to place his order.
***
Sunday night, Mitch was roused from his bed
by the forcible entry of the local police. His mind raced as they read him his
rights and shoved a warrant under his nose.
“Do you understand these rights as I’ve
explained them to you? Sir, do you understand these—”
“No!” Mitch cried. “I don’t understand. I
don’t understand any of this. Why are you here? What’s going on?”
“Sir, you are wanted in the murder of Trina
Isabelle Martinez and one Zackary Isaac Garcia.”
Mitch’s legs buckled as the room spun
violently around him. Trina was dead. His one reason for living was gone. The
officers’ voices were distant and garbled. He closed his eyes and let his body
go limp, deadweight as they dragged Mitch from the apartment.
***
A week later, Jack listened to the
clickity-clack and squealing brakes of the subway as his car rumbled through
the underground tunnels. An abandoned newspaper’s half-hidden headline of
“Brutal Murder Susp—” caught his eye. Mitch’s mug shot did little to convince
the general public of his innocence. His beady eyes and cold stare had the
fixed mark of a crazed lunatic. Jack devoured the article and savored the tiny
details like bloody prints matching the suspect’s boots. The final nail in the
proverbial coffin was Mitch’s blood found at the crime scene. Jack hadn’t known
about the rose thorns until he read Mitch’s plea of innocence, insisting that
his blood was from the night before and that he hadn’t murdered anyone.
According to the report, Mitchell James Keiller was being held without bail as
the sole suspect in the brutal murders of Trina Isabelle Martinez and Zackary
Isaac Garcia. A crooked smile tugged at his lips as he pictured Mitch’s face
when the police tossed crime scene photos at him. His reverie was shattered by
the shrill voices of two twenty-something girls sitting behind him.
“Even after I told him I never wanted to see
him again, Aaron showed up at my office with flowers. As if that would win me
back.”
“I know, right? Trust me; you are so much
better off without him, Amber.”
Jack’s eyes lit up like a child’s on
Christmas morning. He rode past his regular stop, listening to the two young
ladies as they lamented their miserable relationship statuses. When they
finally reached their stop, the girls exited the car, completely unaware of
their fellow travelers. Jack remained behind them at a safe distance. Licking
his lips, he smiled. And the hunt begins
again.
GIVEAWAY
After all
that major stalking, yeah, baby, it’s giveaway time …. and we’ve a lot to win
after all that hunting!!! 11 books are up for grabs!!! First the print: 1
print copy of the Journal
of the Undead: Littleville Uprising and 1 print copy of the Journal of the Undead:
New York Outbreak!!! One
winner will receive BOTH. Since these are PRINT THEY'RE LIMITED TO THE US AND CANADA!!! The ecopies are as follows: 1 mobi of Bite Sized Offerings: Tales & Legends of the Zombie Apocalypse; 1 mobi of At Hell's Gates (Volume of Choice 1-3); 3 ecopies in choice of formats Journal of the Undead Littleville and 3 New York (those will be given away together so 3 winners will receive book 1 and 2); 1 mobi of Darkness Within: Halloween Edition. How this will work is that I'll pick SEVEN WINNERS!!! The 1st winner will receive the PRINT copy. The rest will receive the books n the order listed!!! So the 2nd will receive an ecopy of Bite Sized Offerings, the 3rd, At Hell's Gates, 4,5,6 Journal of the Undead & New York, and the 7 Darkness Within. So click on back to the FB Event page and comment, “I WANT TO WIN" and you just might!!!
Starting on the streets, New York’s homeless are a walking buffet for the reanimated dead. One bite kick-starts a catastrophic outbreak turning the dead into ravenous fiends, bent on devouring flesh from bone. As the infection spreads, people from all walks of life are doomed to a ravenous search for fresh meat. On the same day the governor declares a state of emergency, Cassie learns her grandfather is deathly ill and her family in Ohio begs her to come back home. Ryan vows to help his neighbor find a way to Ohio but to do it, they must escape the watchful eye of every guard employed to patrol the border.
Cassie and Ryan risk life and limb to escape the horrors in The Big Apple but that’s only the beginning of their journey. Can they endure the trek through a zombie-infested wasteland and survive the New York Outbreak?
^ ^
New to Littleville, the Wexley twins, Matt and Emma assume fitting in at Lincoln High and making new friends will be their biggest worries. They couldn’t be more wrong. Fate would introduce Evan Stone into the neighborhood and all three attempt to navigate the murky labyrinth of eleventh grade but Evan has a secret. His godfather is Dr. G.E. Mitchell, author of Journal of the Undead: A Survivor’s Guide and Evan has been learning about zombies from one of the best.
With an excellent school system, safe streets, and a strong sense of community, the Philadelphia suburb of Littleville has proudly attracted a diverse blend of people but up until now they’d always been living. When Lincoln High School is overrun by flesh-eating corpses, Evan rescues Emma and they battle their way through the zombies to Matt but fleeing the school doesn’t solve their problems. Friends, enemies, and loved ones are lost in the battle against the undead and the entire town is completely overrun. The true terror unfolds, as the survivors must escape and make the dangerous trek from suburban Philadelphia to the highest mountains of West Virginia with the hope of finding a safe haven at the Stone family cabin. If they can reach the secluded refuge, they just might survive the Littleville Uprising.
^ ^
^ ^
HELL’ GATE: origin of evil
^ ^
^ ^
AUTHOR BIO
Though it is rumored that the desire to write about zombies was spawned by intense road rage, and a secret longing to club slow drivers with a tire iron, that claim has yet to be substantiated. S.G. is also a contributing author for the Zombie Response Team's blog in addition to a personal blog containing free horror stories and random musings at www.sgleehorror.blogspot.com. You can always connect with S.G. on Twitter (@sg_lee_horror) and Facebook (www.facebook.com/sg.leehorror).
Creepy. Thanks for sharing!
ReplyDeleteLoved it
ReplyDeleteThank you for the Giveaway
Loved it
ReplyDeleteThank you for the Giveaway
Loved it!! Thanks for the Giveaway!
ReplyDeleteGreat story, thanks for the giveaway
ReplyDeleteScary shit. Well done.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed the story!
ReplyDelete