Amaranthine and Other Stories (4 page)

 Don't ask me why, but out of nowhere—I realized the perversion of the situation. The state of the corpse repulsed me.

 “I ain't touching her, James.”

 He seemed surprised.

 “What do you mean you ain't touching her? She's still wet!” he laughed and pointed.

 I spat, crossing my arms—defying our leader.

 “
If you're not with us, you may no longer exist
– just like the Slayer song says,” James threatened.

 “Fine. Turn her around for me, I want to do the bitch from behind.” I said—giving in.

 “Attaboy!”

 James grunted, struggling with the dead weight.

“Hey Randy! Gimme a hand, will ya? She gained a few pounds or something.”

 Randy obeyed without hesitation.

The truth is, after killing Eden—I itched to repeat the experience. Slaying her awoke a dark addiction. I
needed
to kill again. Someone, anyone.

 My grip tightened on the shovel and I whacked James over the head before he could react. Randy twitched, but I swung at him too. He dropped like a leaf, cradling his broken face.

 Both lay unconscious beneath my feet, at my mercy. I had none.

 I chopped at their necks with the shovel like a savage—severing flesh from bone. Then, I pissed all over their corpses, tossing them into the rotting hole. I dug up a fresh grave for Eden—far away from the two little cunts.

I paused my tale.

“You see, detective, they killed her for the music but I killed them for
me
. Because I felt
alive
. Forget ganja, forget meth—killing is the ultimate drug. I suggest you remove your gun and shoot me now … or there will be others. I can't stop. Hell, humans are the bane of this planet. The death of three more won't make much difference.”

His odious eyes flicked to mine.

“You'd like that, right? An easy way out? Think again. You'll suffer—that's a fucking promise! You're looking at a life sentence, kid. Did that sink in yet?” His mouth formed a gloating smile.

“I don't give a shit. I'm dangerous to other humans. Death follows in my footsteps and people will
die
—so kill me now if you want to save lives,” I said.

“No. I want you to stand trial and face your crimes like a man. Look all those people in the eye—the sons you killed, the girl you slaughtered like a lamb—you'll face them all and experience their hate. After that, you'll rot in a tiny cell—getting bum-raped, you sick fuck.”

I fell silent for a second, contemplating his empty threats. He gloated, as if his words had some profound effect on me. When I failed to respond to his provocations, he leaned over to me—sliding a bunch of documents under my nose.

“Date and sign here,” the detective prompted, offering me his ballpoint.

I admired the pen for a moment—its metallic edge. Sharp. Lethal in the right hands.

“Just sign the papers, will ya?”

When his eyes wandered, the killing urge invaded my limbs and I exploded like an alligator—jabbing the pen into his thick neck. I hit the jackpot and blood sprayed on my face, table and walls. Bathed in blood like
Carrie
in that legendary scene, where the bucket of pig's blood pours over her head—I watched the fat piece of shit die.

Ecstasy rushed through me as he choked on his own vomit, very much like Eden. Our eyes met. “I warned you there'd be others! You should've listened, pig!” I screamed. Slipping the gun out of his holster, I circled him like a starving coyote.

“Since you lacked courage to shoot me yourself when I asked you to, I guess I will have to do it myself! We must cleanse the Earth …” I proclaimed, pulling the trigger.

“What have you done with my baby?” she yelled. Her spittle flew and crash-landed on my cheek. Reflex made me blink while little balls of tears formed in Amber's eyes.

“I don't know. She was there one minute and gone the next,” I replied with my palms raised as if she held me at gunpoint. My neck burned from the intense Peruvian sun as Amber continued to verbally assault me.

“How could you leave her? She's just a toddler!”

“I was right there behind that tree,” I pointed at one of many Palmettos in the area. “And I needed a wee so badly!” A pathetic attempt at defending myself, I know.

We had met at Greenwich University and dated for three months. Amber had a baby daughter, Akona, from a previous relationship. I hated kids and knew nothing about them. I didn't want to learn either.

She invited me to Peru as a part of her Conservation & Biodiversity study. We decided to turn it into a mini holiday, taking Akona with us. It was Amber's idea, by the way, not mine.

“You irresponsible bastard, I should've never trusted you with her!”

Amber had been out on a lecture that morning so we scheduled a picnic for that same afternoon. I got the basket ready and she agreed to meet us by the Ucayali River. I had unrolled a little blanket on a small patch of clean grass and left Akona to play on it – only for a few minutes - as I relieved myself nearby. It never occurred to me that something dangerous might happen to her.

Was she snatched by someone?

We were surrounded by a tribe of simpletons…why would they take her? Shit, maybe they were a cannibalistic tribe.

“She probably just crawled off,” I weakly offered. Amber stared at me with her mouth hanging open.

“Don't worry. I'll find her. I'm sure she's around here somewhere,” I said.

“Akona! Akona!” I called out, half-expecting her to emerge from the bushes wagging her butt with a stick in her mouth.

I dived into the nearest bush, frantically searching for the baby girl. Nothing. I plunged into the next one but again, found nothing.

I heard soft rustling behind me.

“Amber! She's here behind these plants,” I celebrated prematurely.

I spread the leaves apart and tripped over something, landing face first into the bush. Then I gasped. The head of an enormous
Eunectes Murinus
or the green Anaconda as it's more commonly known, was staring right at me. I must've tripped over its body.

It was huge! But that's not what shocked me. The reptile was in the middle of devouring Akona; only her tiny feet could be seen dangling from its unhinged jaw. We both screamed.

The tide was low when we arrived at the beach. A stretch of sand like no other we'd visited before—this one was special. The things that lived here were special. That's why I brought her here, my French girlfriend, Cerise. For years, she pestered me about visiting France and meeting her parents. We dated for seven years and I never met her parents. I suppose I felt intimidated by her privileged background and the constant fear of not being good enough.

Her folks were into private schooling, career building, and all that jazz. I assumed them to be the kind of pretentious people that judged a person by their education rather than natural intelligence or strength of character. Still, despite our differences in upbringing, I loved her. Our sense of humour was identical and she made me laugh like no one else could. Also, she was loyal to me—or so I thought.

One summer, I decided to make more of an effort by arranging a weekend getaway to Brittany. Her folks lived somewhere in that region and I promised her we would finally pay them a visit. But first, we would stop at the beach…where the green things lived.

We chose a secluded spot for our sunbathing, far away from the plebs and their screaming offspring. I spread the towels on the sand and watched her strip down to her bikini. She had an amazing body. Cerise lay on her belly while I sensuously rubbed lotion into her creamy skin. She moaned softly, “Dat feelrz so nice,” her French accent still strong. I kept my eyes on her back but my attention soon shifted towards the sea. The killers were here.

“Fancy a dip?” I asked innocently after several minutes.

Cerise whipped around, smiling playfully.

“Sure! Let'z go,” she replied, and reached for my hand.

“You go in first,” I offered. “I'll join you in a minute. I want to soak up some more rays.”

She smiled once more and I anxiously watched her feet sink into the mud.

“Eww! The sea smellz of rotten eggz!” Cerise complained.

Chuckling, I closed my eyes, reminisced back to the day when I first learned she was sleeping with her boss. I ignored it for years, trying to reason with myself it might not be true, but I was unable to keep my demons at bay. One evening, I gave in and checked her cell phone. I found dirty messages and plenty of them. It must've gone on for months. She hadn't even made the effort of deleting them.

Anyway, the time of reckoning had come. I only had one hobby since childhood. Botany. The only thing I ever excelled at. I was an expert when it came to plants and weeds.

In my early years at the university, I was intrigued to discover that seaweed could generate toxic fumes of hydrogen sulphide when it rots, a colourless and highly poisonous gas—which incidentally smelled of 
rotten eggs
.

Armed with this knowledge, I carefully plotted Cerise's demise. This area of Brittany was renowned for killer seaweed incidents. Several animals had died here a couple of months ago and if my presumptions were correct, small pockets of hydrogen sulphide were still trapped in the beach mud. Hopefully, they'd escape when disturbed.

Cerise called from down below, “Arrre you coming den?”

“In a little while, you keep walking and enjoy the swim!” I replied.

The moon reposed in the night sky, illuminating the factory's cluttered car park. A polished, liquorice-coloured Mercedes circled it like a serpent. After an interval, the motorist triumphed and wedged between a Mazda and a rusty old Peugeot. Key turned and the ignition died. The shadowy driver bowed his head—sighing. A change of profession blessed him with a fresh start, yet he felt jittery.

Glancing at the object swinging from the rear view mirror, he brushed his rumpled fingers against it, muttering words in a foreign tongue. More cars whisked round the curve, blazing radiant lights and stealing his vision, temporarily. He released the token and gathered his rucksack. The man stepped towards the factory's ominous doors.

“Hey! Send Andy down here, will ya? One of the machines stopped again!” John hollered, his ears ringing from the manic industrial noise. The mushy ear defenders irritated him. The mechanic nodded and John veered around, eagerly heading to the canteen. Glancing at the time, his stomach rumbled and he wondered what Sharon had packed for dinner.

John snatched a bag from his locker and strolled through the canteen door. He spotted Andy, a colleague and a dear friend relaxing in the corner— munching on fries and reading a naval book.

“What you doing here? You had your break, didn't you?” John said, collapsing into a vacant seat. He opened his plastic food container, then stared at Andy's ketchup-drowned fries.

Andy groaned and slammed the novel down. Interrupted reading bugged him. Mike barged in, holding a pot of hot tomato soup in his remarkably hairy hands. He grinned and headed over to the table. Andy shifted over to the other chair.

“Hey Mike, how's it going?” Andy asked, gesturing towards the empty seat.

Mike put down the sizzling pot and leaned closer. A sly smirk spread across his chubby cheeks. “Got news for you, gentlemen. Have you been introduced to our new supervisor yet?”

Both men exchanged surprised grimaces. Andy spoke first. “We have a new supervisor? Since when?”

Mike sipped his soup, blowing at the steam. “Since today. Oh, and John? You definitely won't approve of him.”

John swallowed a mouthful of peanut butter sandwich, sneaky crumbs still hiding in his beard.

“Why not?”

The door slammed open and a robust figure appeared. The man's oval face seemed even darker under the canteen's bright lights. He sported a mocha raincoat and clutched a tattered rucksack, decorated with outlandish symbols. Swollen blood vessels altered the natural colour of his eyes.

The black man strolled towards the trio, his stride slow and lazy.

“You must be da mechanics; I are now in charge of you. Ma name is Imamu,” he said in a Haitian accent.

Andy sliced the awkward silence in half with his extended hand.

“Hello! I'm Andy and this is Mike and John.”

“Evenin',” said Mike, also shaking hands with the new authority.

John's hostile expression communicated without words. Imamu sensed the bearded man's animosity and jabbed him with a red glare. John refused to break eye contact at first, but shifted his gaze eventually. He failed to endure Imamu's trance-like stare. He grabbed his empty container and brushed past the intimidating stranger, cursing.

The changing room stank of oil and sweat. They found John in a furious state of mind.

“I'm not going to bow down to THAT!” he raged, slamming the rusty door of his locker. “I refuse to take orders from his kind. I'd rather quit. Did you hear him talking like he owned us? Who the hell does he think he is? He's just a stupid jigaboo!”

Andy and Mike swapped disapproving glances. John was a racist with a short temper—common knowledge in the factory. Due to his many years of service, the management turned a blind eye. John often rambled but his senile mind wasn't capable of inflicting harm. Or so they thought.

Andy observed the buzzing mechanism. He reached down to his cluttered toolbox—then twitched. A pink palm handed him a wrench. Andy took it, startled by the frowning face.

“Ya friend does not like me,” Imamu said.

Andy wiped oil off his hands with a stained cloth.

“I do apologize for my friend, he means no harm. It just takes him a while to get to know people, that's all.”

The supervisor remained frigid. “Lies! This note was taped to ma locker,” he said, dangling a piece of paper in front of Andy, “and let me tell ya now, boy, I do not take lightly to threats—especially from a racist bigot!”

Imamu's red pupils flashed with menace and Andy swallowed, not doubting the conviction behind the man's threat.

The apparatus roared to life and Andy yelled, victorious. It had taken him over an hour to diagnose and fix the problem.

He chucked the wrench in the box and removed his safety goggles. Mike zigzagged between the machines, arms waving and rushing towards him. His pale face betrayed him.

“What is it?”

“It's John…he had an accident,” Mike panted.

“What accident? What are you talking about?”

Andy killed the machine, allowing Mike to regain his breath.

“John was operating the cutting mill,” Mike said, choking back vomit. “It caught his sleeve and dragged him in. The blade sliced his left arm off like a chunk of ham! Blood sprayed my face! There was blood everywhere—it was horrible! I heard his screams over the noise and killed the power! A second later and he would be dead!”

“Where is he? Which hospital? I gotta see him!” Andy said. Mike grabbed him by the collar, his hands trembling with adrenaline.

“Wait! You know who's to blame, don't you? That damn spear-chucker! I've seen him creeping behind us, watching everything we do! He's plotting against us! I'm telling you, we're next!”

Andy stared, wild eyed. Mike's accusation seemed farfetched. Yes, the supervisor disliked the trio due to John's hostile letter, but to suggest he was responsible for the accident was absurd.

“Don't be ridiculous!” he said, shoving Mike's hands aside. “Did you witness Imamu forcing John under the machine? We can't just go around and throw accusations at innocent people! This whole accident thing will be investigated by the company, you know? Do you really want to be the one pointing fingers and spreading silly theories?” Andy asked.

Mike blinked and lowered his voice. “There's something I haven't told you. When I arrived this evening, I was parking my Nissan and saw him leaving his Merc, heading towards the factory. I went over to check out his ride. A couple of weird and random objects lay inside. The one that disturbed me the most, though, was a voodoo doll—suspended from the rear view mirror. I'm telling you, this guy is some sort of a witchdoctor and I know he caused the accident…somehow.”

The incoming week, the company scheduled a meeting and launched an investigation into John's mysterious accident. As the only witness, Mike carefully stated his version of events. He detailed rushing over when he heard John's screams—seeing his severed arm jammed in the contraption and then running for help. He considered reporting his suspicions about Imamu, but Andy persuaded him not to—still championing the man's innocence.

Andy and Mike slipped into their boiler suits, depressed. The aftermath of the accident still weighed heavily on both men. It clouded the factory's melancholy atmosphere even further. The doors swung open and the colossal frame of Imamu strode in. He paused, observing his employees with burning hate. Mike and Andy exchanged worried glances. The coloured man resumed his stride.

“You think we should apologize to him? Clear the air a bit?” Mike said.

“Damn right we should! I'm glad you finally accepted the truth. Look, we work a graveyard shift. We're all naturally tired and John was simply a victim of his own clumsiness. Imamu is innocent. By the way, did you know that John taped a racist letter to his locker?”

Mike's jaw dropped.

“Exactly. We should be
grateful
to him. He could've taken the letter directly to human resources and they would sack him. He done John a favour, you know?”

They entered the factory floor, searching for Imamu. The machinery was on standby and a mild humming ruled over the premises. The men found their quarry sitting on a steel bench, filling out documents. He lifted his crimson eyes but did not offer a smile.

“Sir?” Andy began.

Mike risked a brief visual inspection of the man while Andy spoke, noticing the peculiar amulet hanging around Imamu's gargantuan neck. The amulet had a wooden mask in the centre, its edges decorated with what appeared to be human teeth. Mike averted his eyes, shuddering.

“…we just wanted to apologize for John's hostile behaviour and we ourselves haven't exactly been very welcoming, so if we could perhaps start over?” Andy said, offering his hand again and grinning sincerely. The supervisor's hesitation filled the air with boorishness. He shook Andy's hand after an awkward pause.

“No problem, ya guys! Give ma best to ya friend, eh?” he replied, clicking his pen.