Dead Winter: A gripping crime thriller full of suspense (9 page)

Chapter Ten

Day Six (26th December – 11:32AM)

Several minutes later, we were running through a series of narrow and dimly lit side-streets that ran through a section of office buildings. Noticing a door that was open slightly, we ducked into the shelter of an office complex.

The sound of shoes and boots pattering against the tiled floor rang through my ears as we carefully trod our way up a flight of stairs.

My mind wandered back to a few days before this had all even begun. Sitting at my desk, I had been reading an article on a certain serial killer and his apparent move north. I remember feeling odd about the whole scenario and about how something just didn't seem to sound right about the latest killings.

No hiding place would be good enough.

"Quiet now, don't want to make too much noise." John whispered to the rest of us, still taking the lead and still fine, apparently. John had been the first to take action when he heard the shouts in the park. We all agreed that it would be best to flee, and so we did.

But now we were silent and slow, crouching down to the ground as we slowly walked past the cubicles and desks that littered the floors of the building. One-by-one, we climbed a flight of stairs as quietly as we could.

The sun hung high in the sky above us as I peered out of a window, examining the rooftops of the buildings nearby. Seeing nothing, I continued to follow John and the others onto the next floor.

Our eyes were met with the sight of two infected, rambling to themselves, thrashing their arms through the air as they shouted. They had yet to see us, and we crouched down low again. There was one on each end of the room and John pointed at me to take out one of them while he got the other.

"No guns, be quiet and we'll be fine." he said in a hushed tone of voice, gripping the handle of his kukri as he began to make his way over to one of the infected, weaving through the cubicles and desks that lay between them.

I pulled out my cleaver and slowly paced forwards a few steps, ducking down into a cubicle as the infected I was after turned around. Waiting for a minute, I heard the shuffling of feet and a quiet groan as the infected turned to stare out of the window.

What was I? A ninja?

Ducking out from behind the cubicle, I continued my little game of stealth, moving past a copy machine as I heard a quiet sound of something hitting flesh. John must had dispatched his target already.

After another minute of sneaking around, I managed to get myself behind the infected woman, who was still staring out of the open window at the street below. I raised my cleaver into the air and grabbed the woman, planting it into her head. The woman twitched for a moment before going limp.

I let her fall to the ground before I gently pulled my weapon out of her skull, wiping it on her clothing before sliding it under my belt. Standing up, I closed the blinds over the open window, but as I did I thought I saw a shadow move past it, heading upwards.

"I think he's here!" I hissed at John, who smirked as he walked over towards me along with the rest of the group.

A sound like boots on metal could be heard for a second or two, and then there was silence. Somebody was definitely up on the fire escape, but I found myself unwilling to peer out of the window.

What could this guy possibly want from me? What had I ever done to invoke the wrath of a serial killer, I thought to myself as we huddled together once more, making our way towards the next staircase.

Dave accidentally bumped into me as we slowly, but surely made our way up the flight of stairs.

Dave was an interesting sort of person. My thoughts went back to only the other day when we had been sat around the fire, sharing stories of the world before all of this.

Dave had been a doctor for fifteen years, before that he had been an army medic, but he'd never told us where he had been stationed. When everything went to shit, he'd locked himself up in his house with his wife and kid. But unfortunately, his wife opened the door to a man calling for help, and got herself infected.

His wife turned within seconds and attacked her son before Dave put her down. Every now and then, when Dave thought nobody was looking, I could see an immense sadness play across his face and I wondered why he was trying to hide his feelings; it was a brutal piece of imagery.

Perhaps he was trying to be strong for us.

John on the other hand, I knew barely anything about. He had supposedly been some sort of private eye, a detective of sorts. But I was hard pressed to believe him as everything about him seemed kind of off. I hoped that he would tell his story soon.

Several seconds passed by as we calmly made our way up the staircase onto the next floor, which looked identical to the one before it; work cubicles scattered across it, but not an infected in sight. Perhaps there had only been the two we encountered before.

One could only hope.

Every so often, I would wonder if the infection had reached my home town, and with it my father. Father led a solitary life in the quiet little town, keeping himself to himself. He only had a few friends, which he saw rarely.

Despite all that had happened between us, I felt a pang of sorrow when I realised that he may not have survived. I didn't harbour hatred nor grudge against my father, but we didn't exactly see eye to eye most of the time.

"So what do we do now? Why did we even come in here?" Paul hissed at John, who shrugged before speaking.

"Think about it, we're more exposed out there then we are in here!" whispered John, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of us.

He was right in a way, though we may have made more headway continuing through the alleyways. It didn't really matter that much anyway, since I was pretty certain that the person outside had gotten into the building.

We continued our little journey up the building, reaching the second to last floor; light filtered through the blinds and all was quiet. In the middle of the room lay a corpse, whose head had been sliced open, his brains exposed for all to see. I felt a little sick just looking at it.

"You're sure he's in here?" Dave asked me in a hushed tone of voice, trying to mask his anxiety. As much as I didn't want to say it, I had to nod in acknowledgement. I was certain that he was here.

"Why is he after you?" Claire enquired curiously, though she was as clueless as I was. I had no idea what a serial killer of all people could want from me. Perhaps I was merely his next target.

I sincerely hope not.

"Of all the things to run into, a serial killer? That's just great. Really, great." Paul sneered sarcastically, glancing up the staircase to the next floor.

"I think it's perfect." John said calmly, blinking a few times as everyone looked at him in bewilderment.

"Why do you keep saying this is a good thing!?" I asked, unable to contain it any longer.

"I have my reasons, you'll find out soon enough." John retorted, still as vague and mysterious as ever. That was one trait I just couldn't stand.

Then, as we all crouched down on the floor, huddled together like a flock of sheep, I heard it. The calling once more, calling my name.

"Now, now. Would Mr. Fletcher come to the manager's office. Alone." a voice called from beyond the staircase to the last floor, there was deliberate emphasis on the word 'alone'.

I climbed to my feet, my fingertips crawling up my jeans until they reached my pocket and wrapped themselves around the handle of my handgun, gripping it relatively tightly.

"You're not seriously going to listen to this maniac, right?" Dave uttered, looking up at me in apparent shock.

"Why not? I'll be fine." I replied, making my way over to the staircase. John grabbed the back of my jacket as I walked past him, pulling me back into a crouching position as he whispered a request into my ear. I raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he pushed me forwards.

"You're crazy, man." said Dave, staring down at the floor.

"I know." I chuckled, spinning the handgun around on my finger for a second or two before gripping it tightly once more, flicking the safety off.

First step.

Placing my foot on the first step, I began to climb my way up the flight. One hand on the railing and one clutching my weapon, I made my way up the last few stairs.

Last step.

I felt a sudden feeling of dread as my foot touched the last tiled and grubby step. What the hell was I doing? Did I have a death-wish or something? I was just going to walk into a room with a serial killer and expect to come out fine?

I hesitated for a minute, looking over my shoulder at the rest of the group, who exchanged worried looks that they shot at me. Gulping loudly, I swung open the double doors at the top of the staircase, which creaked and whined loudly as I closed them behind me and span around.

There he was, sat on a fancy desk chair with his feet propped up on the desk.

"Why, hello there Mr Fletcher. Please take a seat." the man said, motioning to an empty chair in the corner of the office.

What the hell am I doing?

Chapter Eleven

Day Six (26th December – 12:03PM)

There's no time to think.

Swinging my arm upwards, I steadied the aim of my handgun to point at the head of the strange man sat at the desk before taking a second to get my bearings.

I can only act.

There he was, slouched back in his fancy office chair, legs across the desk like he owned the place. He was clean-shaven and didn't look like he would stand out in a crowd at all; it was the perfect disguise for what he did.

"Hey now, can't we just talk? What's all this pointing and anger?" he chimed merrily in a sing-song tone; he reminding me of John, it would be a sickeningly accurate impersonation.

"Talk? Why should I talk to you?" I retorted, tilting the handgun slightly in the air, placing my finger on the trigger.

The instant I slid my finger around the trigger, the atmosphere in the room changed drastically. There was a brief blur of colour as the man stood up, grabbed his weapon and placed it to my neck; it happened in less than a second or so. He was insanely quick on his feet.

The weapon was a long, curved sword with an elaborate hand-guard. It appeared to be a katana of sorts, but I was no expert on the identification of bladed weapons; I knew only one thing.

I had to have it.

"Are we done playing games? Let's just sit down and have ourselves a little chat now, Mr. Fletcher." he said, lowering his sword and striding back over to the desk, where he resumed his original position. I could have shot him there and then, but morbid curiosity was holding me back.

I lowered the gun and hesitantly sat opposite him in a more humble looking office chair, the sort you'd have at your desk at home; I had one just like it, before it all got blown up. I missed my apartment quite a lot these days. It may have been crummy and cramped, but it was home to me.

The Executioner really did look ordinary; he had short black hair, trace amounts of chin stubble. But there was something about his eyes, something was off with them. They were electric-blue, and seemed as though they were looking right through you at something in the distance, like x-ray vision.

"And what are we going to talk about?" I queried, curiosity taking over my mind once more. He merely shrugged, opening his mouth to speak.

"Not sure, I just wanted to meet you!" he exclaimed vaguely, he seemed to have some sort of ulterior motive.

"Why me?" I asked, still holding my finger to the trigger of the gun, which was now hanging idly at my side.

"There are a few reasons, but that would be telling! Let's just say I'm interested in you. And please, call me Lucas." said the serial killer, raising an eyebrow at my blank expression.

I had my poker face on, trying not to show my anxiety and the distinct fear for my life.

The way he dressed seemed oddly familiar. He wore a pair of baggy, dark green cargo pants, a black t-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt; he looked a bit like me, to be honest.

"First of all, who are you to judge who lives and who dies? So your victims are criminals, what gives you the right to kill them? Do you think yourself as a god?" I spat, narrowing my eyes at the man.

"God knows I don't want to be an angel, Ethan. Or a god for that matter! I'm simply the hand that justice uses to strike down those who go against it." Lucas casually responded, shrugging slightly once more.

"But your last few victims, they weren't criminals were they?" I asked, still clutching at my handgun, watching his every movement.

"Oh but they were! Found not guilty in court, but I know they were." Lucas sang, leaning forwards in his chair a little, making it creak quietly. He had placed the sword back on the desk as we continued our little talk.

I seriously had to have that sword, it was wonderful.

"And that gives you the right to kill them? You're playing judge, jury and executioner!" I shouted, nearly standing up from my seat.

"That is where the name comes from, after all." the serial killer said, a smirk creeping along his face, it was eerie.

I leaned back in my chair, resting my free hand against the side of my head for a moment before sitting up perfectly straight again.

"So I have a question for you, from one of my friends." I sighed, remembering the words that John had whispered in my ear only minutes ago.

"Oh, let me guess. Is it from the man in the funny hat!?" Lucas exclaimed, clapping his hands together for some reason.

"Yes, it is. Did you or did you not kill his brother, Alexander Walther?" I shot at him, staying brief and to the point.

The serial killer before me raised his hand to his chin, running it against his barely noticeable stubble, clearly jogging his memory. I glanced past him for a moment, looking out of the window; you could see the whole street out there, a couple of infected stragglers were visible, wandering across the tarmac.

"No. That was the work of my predecessor!" he said finally, clapping his hands together once more.

"Your... predecessor?" I asked, questioning him to elaborate further. This man was annoyingly vague and mysterious, he reminded me too much of John, who stood waiting downstairs.

"Yes! You think I was the first 'Executioner' and that I moved down here just for you? That's funny." he said, leaning forwards in his chair, running a finger across the hilt of his sword. "I came after, inspired by his work."

"How does one be inspired by murder?" I pressed, searching for answers, something to make sense of it all.

"Because they're art! The methods, the execution, the style!" he sang, standing up suddenly, my arm jerked forwards to point the gun at him, waiting for him to even think about touching that sword.

"So, why am I here? Are you going to kill me?" I found myself asking.

"Kill you? Well, my dear boy. I'm here to propose something, an ultimatum if you will." exclaimed Lucas, his hand hovering dangerously close to the hilt of his sword, the sheath laid beside it.

"An ultimatum? Go on.." I sighed, wondering what I had gotten myself into this time; first the zombie apocalypse, now I was talking with a serial killer?

"Yes! You can try to kill me and walk out of here alive, or you can be the lesser man and just save me the trouble. But that would be no fun now, would it?" he chimed, his hand making strange motions as he spoke, a bird flew past the window as I glanced at it again.

It was a relatively small manager's office to be honest, a rather pathetic looking desk, a few chairs and a potted plant in the corner were all that caught my eye in the room; it must have been a small business.

"Why are you giving me a choice? Couldn't you have just killed me and be done with it, why the games?" I found myself asking, even though I should have been grateful that he hadn't killed me on the spot.

Could I even kill a person?

I pondered that question for a few seconds. I mean, sure, I'd killed people; but they were infected and barely human, it was more of a mercy killing. But this was different, it was a living human being, despite how fucked up they seemed.

"Because you're special! And I'm not going to tell you why, just that we have more in common than you might think." the Executioner said, snickering quietly at the end of his sentence. I wonder what that could possibly mean. "So what will it be? Fight or flight?"

How could I possibly decide? I didn't want to die, but I also didn't want to kill a perfectly sentient human being. But he'd kill me if I didn't, so it would be self-defence, right?

He stood there, hands apart as though he were mimicking a scale with life on one end and death on the other. I made up my mind pretty quickly; I wanted to fight for my life, I wasn't going to lose it to some copycat serial killer.

So I raised the gun once more, pointing it directly at Lucas' head and went to pull the trigger; but he moved so quickly to grab his sword that by the time the bullet left the chamber, he was already swinging for me and the bullet had soared straight through the window, shattering it instantaneously; bits of glass hurtled out over the ledge and could be heard hitting a car on the road below.

Ducking down, I barely avoided being decapitated as I reached for my cleaver, swinging back at him. I thought I hit flesh for a moment, but Lucas merely stepped back a step to dodge my slash.

"So that's how it is, eh?" he called, seemingly thoroughly enjoying himself; it must not be often that his prey fights back. He must be loving the thrill of the hunt.

I jumped back to avoid another slash, slamming my back into the corner of the desk. Falling to my knees in pain, I had dodged another slash by sheer luck. There had to be some way to disarm him, and that's when a neat little idea crept into my mind.

I quickly kicked out with my right leg, catching his ankles. Lucas opened his eyes wide in shock as he fell backwards, the sword leaving his hand and landed near the desk. With one swift and fluid motion I stood up and aimed my waiting handgun to his head.

"Checkmate." he sang, furrowing his eyebrows in pain, that fall must have hurt on such a hard surface.

"Any last words?" I asked coldly, my hands barely shook at all.

"Yeah, can you really do it? Can you finish me off, or is it all just too much?" he sneered, mocking me.

And then I hesitated, doubting myself yet again. Could I do it? I wondered if my resolve to survive was strong enough and realised: it was kill or be killed in this world.

"Watch me." were my last words to Lucas as I squeezed the trigger, firing one last round that shot straight through his head as he leaned upwards to grab me; he made one last little jerk with his arm before his whole body went limp and blood pooled out beneath him.

I stepped back, dropping the gun and slumping against the wall for awhile, staring down at his corpse as if I were in a trance. I'd done it, ended a life that wasn't full of rage and infections. I found myself sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

So I sat there for a few minutes, just thinking about what I had done; I snatched the gun up off of the floor and found my vision drawn to it, it wasn't just a bit of metal any more, it was a tool designed to end lives, to save lives.

After another few minutes, I picked myself up from the floor and glanced at the sword before gently picking it up, grabbing the sheath from the desk. Putting the two together, I tucked it under my belt, tying the ribbon around it to stop it from slipping out as I made my way to the staircase once more.

My hands are stained.