The Sick Stuff Read online

  Abdul didn't seem to care, however. "You get used to it, Billy," he said, smoking a Turkish cigarette. "Sometimes I forget the peace my people once had. Of course, it was under the bloody regime of an arrogant dictator. We're all happy to be rid of the old bastard, but that's beside the point."

  "Where are we going, Abdul?" asked Billy.

  "To perform a holy mission," smiled the terrorist. "In other words, to kick some ass for Allah."

  Billy saw their destination a moment later. It was a large building surrounded by reinforced concrete walls. An American flag flapped from a pole in the inner compound and two soldiers holding rifles stood on guard at the gateway.

  Abdul laughed heartily. "Peace-keeping fools! They're not even real soldiers... just weekend warriors caught up in a foolish war. This is going to be fun." He eyed the boy with a grin. "How about it, little man? Let us both meet Allah together."

  "Sorry, Abdul," said Billy. He got out of the truck and slammed the door. "Sure, the explosions are pretty cool... but I draw the line at suicide."

  "Suit yourself," shrugged Abdul. A fanatical smile split his dark face as he floored the accelerator and sent the truck roaring toward the front gate.

  Billy watched as Abdul crashed the gates, then slammed headfirst into the front of the makeshift headquarters. Instantly, the world turned into flame. Billy shielded his eyes as the air filled with a hail of stone, shrapnel, and body parts.

  After the dust had settled, Billy picked up a bloody combat helmet and wandered through the devastation. It was kind of like an Easter egg hunt, trying to see how many dog tags he could find glittering amid the rubble.

  "Let's play doctor," suggested Billy with a mischievous grin.

  Mary Sue Thompson from next door sat in the clubhouse with him, still looking a little sad over her disemboweled poodle, Pierre. "I don't want to."

  "Come on. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

  Mary Sue eyed him shyly. She wondered if what her girlfriends at school said was true, that boys had something down there that girls didn't. "Well, okay. But you're next."

  "Sure," said Billy, flashing a charming smile of boyish innocence. He closed the shutters of the clubhouse windows, until the interior was cloaked in warm shadows.

  He watched as Mary Sue turned her back to him and bashfully began to undress. Billy felt a strange giddiness overcome him; the same feeling he had experienced with the dogs, only stronger. His heart pounded in his chest as he reached into his back pocket and withdrew the linoleum knife he had liberated from Dad's toolbox in the garage.

  "You know," he said, "some people thought Jack the Ripper was a doctor."

  Mary Sue was too engrossed in undoing the buttons of her blouse to pay him much attention. "Jack who?"

  Billy smiled. He would have liked for the statement to have sparked some sort of horrified response from the girl just before he put the blade in. But real life was not like a horror movie and he took her ignorance with a grain of salt.

  John Wayne Gacy hid twenty-nine bodies beneath his Chicago home.

  Billy Brooks wondered how many he could bury beneath the clubhouse before anyone noticed the smell.

  PINS AND NEEDLES

  "There you go, kids," said Stephen Zachary. He tossed the last pieces of candy into the bags of the trick-or-treaters and smiled down at them. They were a cute pair, brother and sister. The girl was dressed up like a Tennessee Titans cheerleader, while the boy was decked out in an Incredible Hulk costume.

  "Thanks, mister," they said in unison. Then they headed back down the sidewalk to where their parents' car waited on the Nashville street.

  Zachary stared down at the empty bowl in his hands and his smile broadened even more. He closed the door, turned off the porch light, and checked his watch. It was only ten minutes after eight, but still he considered himself to be running behind schedule. He had quite a few things to do and a limited amount of time to do it in.

  First he went to the kitchen to clean up. The Formica top of the kitchen counter was littered with paper and plastic; rat poison boxes, Draino bottles, and blister packs that had once held double-edged razor blades, thumb tacks, and sewing needles. He got a trash bag out of a kitchen cabinet and swept the litter into it, along with half a dozen empty Halloween candy packages and apple bags. As he tidied up, he remembered the long hours of preparation he had spent since awakening that morning. It had been fun -- but meticulously maddening -- especially trying to insert the razors into the apples without leaving a sign of tampering, as well as filling the little candy bars and peanut butter kisses with poison and pins.

  Zachary went outside and, in the darkness of the back yard, dumped the contents of the garbage bag into the fifty-five gallon barrel that he used for burning trash. He took a can of lighter fluid from his coat pocket, squirted it liberally over the refuse, and then struck a match. He stood in the cool October night for a moment and watched it flare brightly. Zachary nodded in approval, then went back inside and prepared to leave.

  It wasn't the first time he had done this. He had done it three times before, during the past twenty years. The last place had been Seattle in 2004. Seven kids had ended up dying and twenty-seven others had suffered painful -- some disfiguring -- injuries due to hidden razor blades, needles, and nails. He thought of the multitude of children who had rang his doorbell this Halloween night and wondered how many he would bag this time. He had counted closely and there had been ninety-two children in all, ranging from those barely out of infancy, to twelve and thirteen-year-olds. Zachary's largest yield had been in 1991; a grand total of sixteen dead and thirty-nine injured in Houston, Texas.

  The thought brought back the smile full force. Ah, those had been the glory days.

  Stephen Zachary didn't do it because he had suffered a lousy childhood. He hadn't been the fat or ugly kid that the other children had taunted and teased. He had no history of mental instability or past emotional problems that motivated that ugly hostility in him. He just hated kids, that was all... just like some people hated cats or dogs. He saw them in the same way as he saw insects; bothersome little organisms that provided only irritation and needed to be exterminated.

  He had attempted to analyze his dislike for children many times, but had given up trying to rationalize it years ago. He simply derived pleasure from hurting children. Not with torture or molestation like some sick bastards did. No, he did it subtly with fruit and candy, passing out heaping handfuls of death and misery to tiny ballerinas, pirates, and a legion of superheroes.

  Zachary walked into the bathroom and ran hot water into the sink. As he lathered his bearded face, he stared at his reflection and thought of the many changes he had gone through during a lifetime. Stephen Zachary wasn't even his real name, just like Tom Haley and John Blanton had been well-planned aliases before that. He already had his next identity all planned out. In a few hours, Stephen Zachary would die and Roger Kirkwood would be born. The underground boys already had him set up. When he got to Baltimore, he would meet them in the backroom of a sleazy pool hall and receive his new credentials; drivers license, social security card, credit cards, the whole package. He had a new job lined up, a rented house in the suburbs, and a car with legitimate tags and registration parked in the driveway.

  It had cost him a bundle -- about twice as much as last time. But still it was worth it. He didn't get the urge to indulge in his secret passion very often, but when he did, the urge was uncontrollable. The extent he went through in order to escape punishment for his actions played havoc on his personal and professional life, but when he saw the dismay and horror on the network newscasts, along with footage of crying and bleeding trick-or-treaters, he always felt that it was well worth the trouble.

  A few minutes later, the shaggy blond beard and mustache had been shed and he studied his new appearance in the bathroom mirror. His hair would have to be dyed darker, maybe black, but preferably brown. He could do that when he got out of the
state. Just stop by a drugstore, buy a bottle of Nice & Easy, and make the change in a motel room by the interstate. The eyeglasses would have to go, too. He would start wearing contacts, even though they irritated his eyes. Maybe some of those new tinted ones. Yeah, blue eyes instead of muddy brown ones.

  Zachary glanced out the bathroom window. The Lincoln with the U-Haul trailer hitched to the back was parked in the driveway, ready to go. The streetlights seemed a little hazy, as though a thin fog was rolling in. He checked his watch. It was nine-forty. The children were likely discovering their little surprises by now, sending their poor parents into a panic. It would be a while before a city-wide investigation was launched. He planned on leaving around ten o'clock. That gave him twenty minutes to wolf down a quick snack before he hopped into his car and headed north out of Tennessee. He found himself famished. He had been so involved in getting things ready for the kiddies, that he had neglected to eat lunch or supper that day.

  He went to the refrigerator and got a quart of milk and a chocolate cake he had bought at a supermarket bakery the day before. He sliced himself a big piece of cake and poured himself a glass of milk, then sat down and considered the sensations that the little spooks were experiencing at that moment; the boiling pain of candy laced with drain cleaner in their tiny stomachs, the expulsion of blood from their mouths and nostrils as razor blades flayed the tender flesh from their tongues and inner cheeks, and the jagged jolts of agony that attacked them internally as needles, nails, and bits of broken glass churned through their digestive systems.

  Zachary laughed, eyes gleaming behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He found his appetite even more ravenous than before. He took a bite of cake, then washed it down with a big swallow of milk.

  Abruptly, he felt a raw pain in his throat. He coughed and wondered if he was coming down with the flu or something. His throat felt incredibly sore and inflamed all of a sudden. He took another swallow of milk. The discomfort in his throat grew even worse than before.

  He dug into the slice of chocolate cake and brought the fork to his mouth. Zachary bit down and was surprised when hot liquid filled his mouth. A spray of blood shot from between the gap of his front teeth, splattering the tabletop with crimson droplets. A second later, agony gripped his lower face and there was more blood. A hell of alot more. In panic, he jumped up from his chair, knocking over the glass. Milk washed across the tabletop, along with dozens of tiny map pins, sewing needles, and sparkling fragments of broken glass.

  His mind raced, wondering how the objects had gotten into the milk, but he found himself unable to think straight. The pain in his mouth was nearly unbearable. He poked a finger past his teeth and withdrew it quickly. The fingertip was cleaved cleanly in half, dribbling blood. Oh God, what's going on? What the hell's in my mouth? He glanced down at the chocolate cake with the single slice cut out of it. Double-edged razors winked with metallic malice from the layers of yellow cake within.

  He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. A single blade was wedged tightly between his upper and lower teeth, anchored securely into gum and bone. The blade was tilted at a downward angle and the rear edge was buried deeply into the throbbing meat of his tongue, which felt as if it were swollen to twice its normal size. He gagged, letting blood and pieces of chocolate cake fall into the sink. Zachary carefully tried to force his jaw wider, to relieve the stinging pressure and withdraw the razor blade, but to no avail. His jaw was already stretched to capacity. There was simply no way that he could extract the blade by himself.

  Zachary knew that he had to get to the hospital. He was bleeding much too profusely and sharp pains had began to shoot through his abdomen. He could imagine a swirling concoction of needles and glass slashing his stomach into bloody ribbons. But I can't chance going to the hospital, he tried to convince himself. If I do, I'll get caught for sure. His mind skipped from one option to another, but the pain that wracked his body was too strong and it was difficult to think things out correctly. He suddenly found himself not caring what happened to him in the long run. All he wanted at the moment was to put an end to the agony and the constant flow of blood.

  He dug his car keys out of his pocket and stumbled toward the door. Soon he was outside in the crisp autumn night. The fog had intensified, growing heavier and more opaque. He groped across the small front yard, trying to find his car. Zachary located the front fender of the Lincoln and felt his way to the car door. He climbed in and started the engine. Then he snapped on the headlights and headed west toward the boulevard. He knew there was a hospital less than a mile from where he lived.

  The fog was so thick that he had trouble seeing a dozen feet ahead. The headlights reflected off the heavy mist and blinded him. Despite his urgency, he found himself driving slowly. If he traveled any faster, there was a good chance that he might unknowingly swerve into the opposite lane or end up wrapped around a telephone pole, and that certainly wouldn't help his present condition any.

  Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a lighted sign through the fog. Muted red letters proclaimed EMERGENCY. But something was wrong. It was located on the opposite side of the street from the hospital he had been thinking of. What do I care? he wondered wearily. Just so they fix me up.

  He pulled up to the emergency entrance and parked his car. He stumbled toward the frosted glass doors. They opened with a pneumatic swish, providing him access to the waiting area of the emergency room.

  Zachary could only stand there and stare for a moment. The place was packed. Dozens of children and their parents sat along the sterile white walls, waiting for their turn. The gathering looked huge. The corridor was long and narrow, seeming to stretch a mile to the reception desk where a couple of white-clad nurses sat.

  He began the long walk to the nurses' station. He tried to avoid looking at the children as he passed, but still their bloody, pain-wracked faces invaded his vision. Some he recognized from that night, while others brought no recognition whatsoever. Many of the children had worn masks. Perhaps they had come to his door earlier that night and he didn't know it.

  He reached the desk and tried to appeal to the nurses, but the blade wedged in his mouth made communication impossible. He could only grunt and groan. A squat nurse with black hair and cold gray eyes as hard as stones regarded him stoically. "Do you wish to see a doctor?" she asked.

  Of course I do, you stupid bitch! thought Zachary, but he simply nodded to get his point across.

  The motion sent fine beads of blood flying. They speckled the nurse's starched white cap, but she didn't seem to notice. "Please, fill these forms out in triplicate. Take a seat at the end of the line and we'll be with you as soon as possible."

  Zachary stood there and stared at the complicated forms that the nurse handed him, unable to believe what was going on. He glared at the woman in angry protest, but she simply ignored him, going back to her own work. Zachary took a pencil from a cup on the desk and headed back to the far end of the waiting area.

  On his way, he was again assaulted by the horrible faces of injured and dying children. Some were curled into fetal balls, while others writhed and spasmed in the concerned arms of mothers and fathers. He saw faces that he hadn't noticed during his first walk. They were vaguely familiar; the faces of children that he might have encountered on Halloween nights before, perhaps in Houston, Seattle, or Denver.

  He turned his eyes away from those ashen faces with their shredded, bleeding lips and pain-glazed eyes, and stared down at the hospital floor. It was an inch deep with blood and vomit. Floating in the filth were needles, ground glass, and razors. They twinkled at him like sharp-edged stars in a violent and turbulent sky.

  He reached the end of the narrow hall and found an empty seat. He sat down heavily and gasped out loud. His entire intestinal track felt as though it were being butchered from within, as well as his lungs. It was becoming difficult to breathe, but still the air wheezed in and out, whistling almost musically around the razor blade wedged in his teeth. He looked
down at the insurance forms in his hand and shook his head in bewilderment. It seemed to be in some language he couldn't comprehend. His trembling hand jittered above the paper and, slowly, the pencil did a jerky dance across the forms, filling them out despite the muddled consciousness of his agonized mind.

  He stared up, eyes pleading for someone to help him, but he found no one sympathetic to his misery. A small girl who was dressed up like Ragged Ann smiled brightly at him. She reached into a Halloween sack and took out a bite-sized Snickers. Zachary's heart leapt as he recognized the candy bar as one of those he had sabotaged. He tried to say something, but was physically unable to. He watched as the child bit the candy in half and swallowed it. Moments later, convulsions wracked her six-year-old body and a bubbling, white foam shot from her nose and mouth.

  Zachary looked back down at the forms and found that they were all neatly filled out and completed. The dark-haired nurse walked up and took the paperwork from his shaking hands, which were jittery and black-veined from the poisons that coursed through his bloodstream. "Good," she said with a flat smile. "I see that you're finished. It may be quiet a wait, though. Due to the chaotic situation, we're calling all patients alphabetically, rather than order of arrival."

  Alphabetically! his mind screamed. He gagged and gurgled, trying to talk some sense to her, but the effort only brought on an agonizing sneeze. A thick spray of bloody mucus erupted from his nostrils, staining the nurse's clean white dress with gore. Zachary stared at the fragments of broken glass and shredded nasal tissue that decorated the material. Again the nurse seemed not to notice. She turned and headed back to the front desk.

  Waves of sickness and pain washed through him, and he watched in horror as the twinkling tips of a thousand tiny needles and nails forced their way from the pores of his skin. They skewered the flesh of his arms and legs, making it torturously uncomfortable to sit in the hard plastic chair. I can't wait, he told himself. I'll die if I have to wait here much longer!