Cain's Blood (22 page)

[from the journals of Dr. Gregory Jacobson]

June 11 — What a dance I am leading. The papers now carry the
story. Perhaps this attention is what she has been missing? She
is never satisfied. No details have been released yet, only that
the authorities suspect a “serial killer.” Ha ha ha. La police, ne
t’a pas encore trouve
'
? [50W Parma drive, rebeca] I gave birth
to the twentieth century. I’ve given birth to the twenty-first
also the others called again today. Something troubling. Wanted
to talk. It is because they are alone. So very alone. I know. Do
I now destroy what I have created? Or will they destroy the
creator? Either may still satisfy. What lies behind and before
each of us is a tiny matter compared to what lies within.
Iacta alea est. When I initiated the XP11 project, I feared
this. Today, after all the tests and reports, splicings, mechanosynthesis and STR markers, I wholly embrace it. Reason,
Observation, Experience—the Holy Trinity of Science.

This one was prettier than the others. When he cut her, he thought
of the Buddhist monks who practice
Asubha Bhavana,
meditating in
isolated graveyards, mounting fresh corpses bloated with putrescence.
Contemplating the body’s true foulness, seeing ourselves as we truly
are. The spit and snot. Tears. Piss trickling down her legs. Putrid, soft,
yellow-brown-colored shit. The bile of her vomit as she puked in fear.
The sweat on her skin. Lymph slick. Inside, the synovial fluids greasing her joints, the mucus and phlegm lining the insides of her throat
and stomach. And the blood.
Always the blood . . .
for a hundred dollars,
she danced for him. “I’m Misty,” said she. “Tumblety” was the name he
gave.
What do I do? They say I’m a doctor now. Ha. Ha.
She touched herself for him in a dark motel room while he watched TV. five hundred
dollars more. her real name was Gail, Abigail, and where once there
was an alluring girl, a pretty smile, the teeth were now broken, jagged
and bloody, gaping fetid sockets. he found two rotting wisdom teeth
still lurking in the back of her mouth. her hair, highlighted and long
like an Olympian goddess, had, an hour before, lain across his waist.
Now it was sticky with bloody stumps at the ends from where he’d torn
it out. The tight, tanned flesh across her young stomach, once stripped,
became dripping meat. her mesentery, like a baby’s blanket over her
intestines, slips between his fingers. It reeks. She reeks. Long legs are
nothing but bones. They are painted in blood and graying flesh is stuck
to them. Breasts are no more than fatty tissue and two bags of saline.
Where once there was an alluring girl  .  .  .
Another illusion that baits
such unspeakable things.
In one sutra he knows, the female bodhisattva
becomes a rotted corpse to release her lover from his lust. In another,
a woman gouges out her own eyes for the same purpose.
Sweet sweet
Abigail.
he held her liver, uterus, and heart, fingers pushing through
the membranes that held each in place, like reaching into a pumpkin to
make a jack-o’-lantern. her intestines spilled more vomit and fecal matter over his lap, then squirming in his hands before he lay them across
the floor.
Samvega,
the monks call it.
Samvega
. The dreadful awakening
that surely comes from such sudden awareness. he understands that it
is all an illusion. he understands that science is one thing, wisdom another.

he writes again in his journal:

Is this why I have been summoned again? Fata viam invenient.
Funny little games. I wonder each day how the others are
doing. Jeffrey, most especially. To what have they been
summoned, I wonder? Now that I’ve set them free in every
possible way?

rABBITS

W
hen Ted was nine years old, he’d hit a nest of rabbits
with the lawn mower.
It had been an accident. Or, at least, he’d thought
so at the time.

Later, he would learn the incident had been staged, prescribed for
him as part of some test group to see if his MAOA levels would exceed
those of another “Ted” somewhere else who
hadn’t
killed rabbits.
Fucked
up.
he still remembered the weird fhump-fhump-fhump sound, and
then little black shadows running in every direction, scattering. he remembered screaming, and the blood misted over the grass. And his dad,
who’d been watching, moving toward him. Not his real dad, he knew
now. Some guy they’d hired with monthly cash payments. “A damn
shame,” the pretend dad had said. “But no use sniveling like some pussy
girl. They shouldn’t have been there.” Ted had worked to stop crying.
“Nothing to be done about it now,” the pretend dad had continued.
he’d handed the boy a shovel. “here.” Several of the baby rabbits had
stopped no more than ten feet away. even when Ted stepped right over
them, they’d crouched perfectly still. As if he hadn’t been able to see
them, or, maybe, just that they’d been too afraid, too stupid, to keep
running. “They’re gonna die anyway,” the pretend dad said. “you doing
’em a favor. Make it quick. Go on. I said, go on now, you little fag.” each
time Ted lifted the shovel, they still hadn’t moved.

he thought of those rabbits now while watching the other kids.

Seemed like the whole goddamn state had shown up. About every
redneck in Orchard City between fourteen and seventeen, anyway.
All he’d had to do was talk to some girls online and flash some of the
money they’d stolen.
Party at Adria’s! Free beer and drugs!
The rest had
taken care of itself.

The lights were down low, and sixty-plus “bunnies” had already
crowded into this rich ho’s basement. She’d told Ted her parents were in
Italy for two weeks, and he hoped they were having a good time. They
were in for quite a surprise when they returned.

There was beer, as promised, and pot. A little coke. even some
GhB.
And also bleach and ammonia. Two big tubs of it for later.
What they really wanted, of course, was to open the canister
Jacobson’d given them. See what that shit would
really
do. Guy claimed
it’d be all sorts of badass awfulness. Why wait for July? They could have
some real fireworks right here and now.
But Williford argued that Jacobson deserved their waiting—at least
that much. They owed him still. And since Jeff Williford almost never
talked, and fucking scared the shit out of all of them, they’d just agreed.
And so then their thoughts all danced on to other poisons: Zyklon B,
like the Nazis used when they were wasting all those Jews, but you
couldn’t buy that shit anymore. Not even on eBay or craigslist. So next
choice was sarin. One drop could basically kill a dude, and on the Internet they even found how to make it, but it was way too hard to figure
out. Isopropylamine and sodium fluoride and heating it and all . . . shit
could kill you.
Forget it.
Googling some more, they found much easier
ways to kill lots of people. Too easy.
“What about that one?” Albert nodded toward the crowd below.
The music in the room was so deafening that Ted had to lean closer to
hear him. “That one!” The three boys sat on the basement steps overlooking the rest of the party. “Tig ol’ bitties, red tank top!”
“That one’s Laura, I think,” Ted replied. The room was hazy with
smoke cut by a cheap strobe light. “Proof of God.”
“So you like to say.”
“Well, they are. What you want me to say?”
“Bet she’s a virgin.”
Ted laughed. he absolutely hated these guys. Albert and John
mostly. Jeff Williford was terrifying but kinda cool. Ted said, “yeah, Ok.
I guess.”
“Wanna find out?”
“Not enough time,” Ted shook his head. “Doors close in ten.”
Ten minutes.
John had already returned into the crowd to take care of the back
door. he was still in his clown makeup and costume. Ted had almost
forgotten what the kid looked like without, and he supposed it didn’t
really matter anymore. John kept bumping into the locals and patting
asses as he went, and everyone was laughing. Thought the outfit was a
riot.
Bunnies
. If they knew the things he’d done this week. To his own
family, to total strangers. Or knew he was a clone of some guy who’d
butchered and raped thirty-plus dumb slobs. how funny would that be?
If they understood who they’d been dancing with, throwing their arms
around for Snapchat pics. Ted shrugged. They never would.
“What was that?” Jeffrey asked.
“What?” Ted leaned closer to hear.
“I don’t know. Thought I . . . I don’t know. Crunk, I guess.”
“yeah.” But Ted had felt something also. Like the house’s AC had
kicked into balls-freeze cold for two seconds. he ignored the strange
feeling. It was almost time to lock the doors.
There were all kinds of industrial materials to create toxic gas,
they’d discovered. But ammonia and bleach had been the easiest to
buy. Twenty gallons each, which they’d mixed in three plastic trashcans
they’d bought and set outside. All that was left was to stir it up a bit and
let it sit.
Chlorine gas.
They’d tried a batch earlier. The shit had burned green like a
witch’s cauldron, then burned their eyes and throats. And that had been
standing outside. Down here, three batches of it would blind every eye
and burn out fifty-six larynxes. Then, collapse and death. Beautiful. Not
quite as personal as Ted usually liked, but it was something.
Something
different
.
he had to admit the rest was, well, getting kinda boring. Same
shit over and over. Jacobson had finally called them back. Some of the
other guys, John and Al, had been having bad dreams. Baby stuff. Shit,
Ted had them too, but he wasn’t crying like a pussy about it. But these
dreams . . . Ted didn’t know. even he had to admit that the dreams were
getting a little more fucked up than usual.
Someone, something, looking for
him
 . . .
The guys wanted to talk to their old pal Jacobson about this and
some other stuff. Like when they used to all sit around in a big circlejerk back at Massey and talk about their feelings and shit. So fucking
gay. Jacobson was such an asshole. But he’d finally called back and was
trying to put together some kind of meeting. fine. There was history
there. Something Ted might enjoy, maybe.
Albert had mumbled something beside him.
“Three minutes,” Ted shouted back, ignoring Albert and whatever
he’d felt a minute before. “Why don’t you head down now to help John.
We’ll get the one up top.”
“Cool.” Albert stood.
“Who’s this guy?” Jeffrey asked, pointing over the crowd to the
back door.
“What the fuck?” Ted leaned forward on the steps to get a better
look. “Dude’s in a costume or something.”
“John’s got competition,” Albert laughed. “Guess this town’s got its
freaks, too.”
“yeah,” Ted said as he peered through the smoke. “I guess.” his
whole back tingled with ice again. he stood.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Ted tried to shake off the feeling, but could not.
The new guy had shut and locked the back door.
“Who is that?”
“Looks like a black guy, an old black guy. Or—”
Someone screamed. The sound was half lost in the music, but Ted
heard it perfectly. he knew all about screams now.
A girl fell in the back of the crowd. People pointed, laughing. Then
another collapsed. A boy this time. he was tossed aside by the dark man,
and Ted had seen something spray, and he didn’t think it was beer.
Jeffrey stood up beside him. “Did he—”
“yeah,” Ted said. “I think he . . .”
“Dude!?”
“yeah.”
More screams. The dark man rushed into the room, making his way
deeper into the crowd. Toward John.
“We should—”
Before Ted could articulate the thought, the man clasped John’s costume from behind and spun him around.
“What’s he . . . ?”
The hand slashed across John’s painted face. Blood splashed out
from the wide clown collar, sprayed the startled crowd still standing
around the attack.
“We should—”
“What?” Ted asked, frozen, not taking his eyes off the thing. “We
should
what
?” Another plunge drove a foot-long blade into John’s juddering body, another. Another. The man tossed John to the ground and
looked up at the steps.
The eyes found Ted’s.
“What the fuck
is
that?” Albert shouted. “Ted? What the—”
“I don’t know,” Ted replied calmly. Too calmly. Warm piss had
spread down the front of his legs. “Come on.”
he, Jeffrey, and Albert raced up the stairs. Behind them, the crowd
squawked and gibbered as they scattered
.
(
Just like they’d been hit with a
lawn mower,
Ted thought.) Their lame shrieks of terror and confusion
totally drowned out the music as their shadowed forms barreled up the
steps toward them.
“What about the chlorine?” Jeffrey Williford asked.
“fuck it,” Ted shouted. They’d fallen in with several of the other
kids. each one running for their life. exactly like he was.
Finally,
he thought, covered in piss, bursting with the others out the
front door and into the night:
Something different.
he started laughing.

JuST AfTer DArk