Carrion the Cleaner
Chapter 1
Dirty
The staccato rhythm of gunfire played a baseline tune from the slapping of metal against bare skin. Light flashed in strobes from the barrel of the rifle, bullets ripping and tearing away a red silk short-sleeved shirt, festooned with palm trees and pink cockatoo birds that flew away in ribbons. Lead dust rose like acrid campfire smoke. The wide green eyes of the solider who held the rifle twitched with shock, dancing in the muzzle flash. Those eyes stared through the dust at the man who stood in the doorway, fist on his hips, just above tan manicured pants. His face was shadowed except for a leering grin, smiling as his abdominal muscles absorbed half a magazine of 5.56 millimeter caliber rounds.
“Tickles,” was all the shadowed man said.
Spent rounds clanged against the metal door that had been pushed off the hinges by the shadowed man that lay just beyond the soldier's feet, bouncing away further into the domicile, until there was a dead man's click of an empty magazine. The shadowed man's smile grew wider as the soldier pressed the trigger click click click.
“Oops,” he mocked through his grin.
Another flash of white, brighter and more brilliant than the muzzle blast, and the smile on the shadowed man's face faded as he watched the soldier clutch at his throat. Wine red liquid bubbled and spurt between his fingers, pouring down his hand and beneath dark tactical clothing. Those wide green eyes never left the man in the doorway, pleading for aid, until all recognition dimmed, and he crumbled atop the door into a sheen of his own blood. Grumbling, the shadowed man stepped over the corpse, blonde hair waving behind, wiping away blood that had splashed his cheek with the back of his hand.
The facility inside was a nondescript, dilapidated building, with a broken wooden staircase leading up to the second story. A dingy, soiled couch was against the far wall, dyed crimson from another soldier whose throat was cut ear to ear, gurgling as he slipped to the arm. Next to him, another soldier bled from the sternum to the abdomen from dozens of puncture wounds that shredded his tactical vest and flesh, hands fumbling to hold in insides that spilled out.
Seeing the two so close to death, the blonde man groaned again.
Beyond the living room, wooden chairs screeched against linoleum, tumbling over. Four soldiers left their late dinner that had the aroma of smoked turkey, potatoes and barbecue baked beans. Two were faster than the others, one closer, on the broad side of the table, the other on the far end to his right. Their rifles were already perched on their shoulders taking aim.
“The redhead first,” the blonde man said.
Short, controlled flashes of white from the closer soldier's rifle tore away more ribbons from the blonde man's shirt as he padded with purposeful steps over the gray carpet, towards the threat. The barrel of the soldier on the far end followed the blond man who marched towards his comrade, firing stitches into his exposed side with repeated thaps.
“Keagan,” the blonde man read on the soldier's nametape on his vest.
A backhand from the blonde man sent Keagan's rifle reeling, twisted inward at the hand guard, that sailed passed the soldier's head, who would not stop tickling his side. The blonde man's large hand wrapped around Keagan's neck, covering the freckles of the shooter. With an upturned crescent grin, he lifted up the soldier, his dangling legs kicking, his free hands beating against a muscled forearm that just withstood bullets.
“Keep fighting,” the big man said, his mouth salivating. “It makes it so much sweeter.”
The blonde man's other hand moved towards Keagan's neck until, a flash of white made him blink. Warmth splashed across his eyes that made them flutter again. Blinking away the wet, he noticed the soldier in his grasp had grown limp, legs swaying like a dolls. More warmth pooled over his hand that now held pulp, wet flesh. The head above lolled to the side like a wilted lollipop, weighed down by a tactical helmet with red tufts of hair jutting out the bottom. Blood jettisoned from a gaping wound that used to be his neck, cut clean through the spine, head hanging on by a sliver of slick red flesh.
“Stop,” the blonde man growled between gritted teeth, releasing the lifeless body that tumbled to the ground, “doing that.”
Sor--,” a soft voice started near his ear. The aroma of copper breath wafted over the blonde man's nose. A flash of white.“--ry, Bloody.” The voice concluded behind him, lingering like a breeze near the bottom of the staircase that led to the second floor. Another flash of white and it was gone.
Looking down, Bloody kicked the helmet on the dead man with a grunt of frustration. Tearing free from the flesh with a squelch, it tottered along the floor, leaving dots of red as it rolled, coming to a rest near the soldier at the far end. The soldier had recovered, shaking as he slapped in a new magazine as he stared down at the head of his compatriot, dead eye's staring back. The heel of the rifle fit snug into his shoulder as he stood back to full height.
“Son of a bitch!” the soldier spat, taking aim at the man who had desecrated his friend's corpse.
Teeth stained pink from blood flashed as Bloody grinned again, putting his hands up in mockery. The soldier bore down. A finger tensed on the trigger. The soldier jerked, his index finger trembling against the metal. Bloody's smile grew wider.
Air sucked inward, sounding like an asthma patient sucking oxygen through a straw from the soldier's mouth. The soldier looked down and saw a forearm, dark and gossamer, leading up to see-through flexing fingers. It jutted from his chest, ghost-like, but the wound lacked any blood. Cold traveled through his veins, from his quickening heart down to freezing toes. The ghost hand made a fist and violently pulled itself out. The soldier jerked again. The cold gripped his heart that stopped in an instant, quenching the last of his breath, as the soldier joined his mates, another corpse on the floor. Standing in his wake, was the outline of a man, but a dark silhouette, shimmering from the light above the table.
The blonde man turned to the far left of the table. Next to a overturned chair, the soldier there had lost his composure, fumbling with his rifle to get a round chambered. Bloody rushed forward, growling again after being deprived of many kills. Having chambered a round, the soldier barely got his rifle up before Bloody had him by the scruff of his tactical vest. Clenched knuckles dug into the soldier's flesh above his collar bone, choking his breath. Strong legs pushed him back against the wall, sending loose drywall out like shrapnel. A tensed finger sent a burst of rounds into the floor, splintering the tile and wood next to Bloody's sandal-covered toes.
The incense of gunfire swirled between them. Bloody's grin was euphoric, his tongue wet with anticipation as he reached back with his left hand. Fingers curled into a tight fist. The first punch shattered the soldier's helmet, sending the head reverberating off the wall with a thud and carbon-fiber debris. The second blow contacted flesh with a sickening thud and a splash of crimson. A third made an accordion of the nose cartilage, sending teeth spraying out with lumps of red flesh, and pushing eyes from their sockets. Again Bloody struck. Then again, bathing in the fountain of blood caused by his own hand.
“Oooo!” he said, shaking as he ended his assault. The body was nailed into the wall by a pulp of flesh where the head used to be. “Oooh! Shit!” Bloody continued, drawing out the last word. Blood covered his face and body in paint splashes. Hunched over, legs trembling, his blood-stained fingers curled, and his breath came quickly.
“Good?” the ghost-man said behind him.
Bloody turned, licking red from his lips, one hand rubbing the wet into his forearm. “He was plenty strong. Maybe latent Mega? He made a good addition.”
He could see the outline of the gossamer man behind the last soldier at the table. Two ghost arms jutted through his chest and torso, lifting the man inches above the ground. Disappointed, he saw no blood around the wounds. Life was drained from the soldier's face, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, dead brown eyes aimlessly staring up at the ceiling. Muffled thumps echoed off the ceiling above, followed by gunfire and muted screams of terror that were quickly cut off, only to be replaced by others.
“Good,” the ghost-man said, letting the dead man slip from his arms. “Sounds like Furst has the upstairs handled. I have the rest in this area.”
Years of teamwork meant no other words needed to be said.
Bloody ripped what was left of his Hawaiian shirt from his body, revealing chiseled muscles. Then he turned on his heels, and sprinted through the decrepit kitchen, sink laden with rust-stained pots and pans, termite-eaten tables thrown about, and chewed plastic green chairs. The kitchen led into a dimly lit and unusually wide corridor, with twin reinforced steel doors hard as a mountain at the end. Bloody bared down, feet thumping against concrete. One shoulder strike sent screw hinges flying like bullets, just like the front door had before. Standing upright, red droplets sweated from his pours. Corded muscles threaded on his forearms as he made another fist with his left hand.
“So strong,” he whispered before twisting his hips into a punch.
Metal screamed as the door imploded, tumbling inward like thrown javelins, swirling up dust. Strobe light bulbs of gunfire swept through the haze. Metal flattened against taunt muscle as Bloody moved poetically through the mist. Ignoring the tickling bullets, his large left hand covered a face that muffled a scream. Then the fingers squeezed, and kept squeezing. Bone cracked beneath contracting knuckles. The muffled screams octave rose to a shriek that vibrated against his palm, tickling more than the bullets.
Simultaneously, a right-handed fist punctured through armor, then through warm flesh. Entrails splashed red against the floor when Bloody lifted the soldier off his feet, his screams making his blood sing. Hips twisting, his fist felt a tinge of cold from the left over blood after he tossed the soldier at another who fired indiscriminately in his direction. Bullets thumped against kevlar and flesh as the dead body cut through the air, the target trying to stop his compatriot from slamming into him with gunfire. Yet, the body slammed into the soldier, sending the gunfire upwards, pockmarking the ceiling, making plaster and drywall rain. And bloody followed the tossed corpse.
Ripping like a manic tiger, clenched hands tore the dead body away, leaving Bloody looming over the soldier caught beneath. With both hands he lifted him up as he would a child. Grinning, Bloody toyed with his prey. Those same hands pulled a arm from the socket, separating the flesh in a spray of blood and haunting screams. The sweet scent of copper made the hairs on Bloody's arms stand on end. Blue eyes danced as he methodically pulled bones, soft tissue, and mulched muscle until his hands crushed internal organs that he imagined made squishing sounds. What was left of his toy splashed to the ground, resembling a flank of meat chewed by a rabid dog.
Turning three-sixty in blood and dust, there were no more bright lights.
“These were weak,” Bloody said with a sigh.
Wet blood fell like raindrops from his fingers and patted against the ground as Bloody scanned the room. The light in the room was dim, just a single lamp on a corner desk. All the intelligence said he should not be alone yet, all he saw was a used bed, sheets twisted like a cloth mountain, and a table littered with scattered cards. A light switch sat half in darkness, and he walked towards it, still scanning the room as he searched the wall with his hand for the switch. Just as his fingers grasped the plastic square, a sharp sting jolted up his arm, and Bloody screamed.
“Tried to assassinate me, Uh!” Stun said to Bloody, emerging from the shadows, with two fingers touching his forearm.
Stun's powder blue megasuit was dusty and bedraggled, with stains and tears all about. The yellow bolt that crossed over his chest was frazzled at the end, and lay down on the edges like dog ears. Missing was his matching helmet with lightning bolt ears. Greasy black hair framed his face, and he stared at Bloody with wide brown eyes twitching with craze.
“You tellem!' He shouted. “It'll take more than a kid to kill Stun!” His other hand reached back, fingers flitting the opening of an electric socket. Sparks shot outward from the tips, jagged courses of electricity vibrating his arm, completing the current that was frying his would-be killer.
Boiled flesh bubbled in the area around the fingers on Bloody's arm, rising and falling. Red blood from murdered soldiers burned rivers onto his skin, turning black over his chest, and his head jerked back. Strands of yellow hair floated off his scalp, crisping at the end. The reek of his own burning flesh and hair was all Bloody could smell when he was able to breathe between voltages.
“You go back to your boss!” Stun shouted, shooting spittle with each word that sparked an electric white.” You tell them that I'm not going anywhe--,”
Stun's body jerked to the left, his words cut off, followed by a wet crunching thump, and Bloody felt welcomed relief. That relief was magnified when he tasted the sweet spray of the red against his cheek, and dripping on his lips. Inside the wall was a bright red stain, oblong and jagged, like an artist thrusting his paint brush at an empty canvas. Below half a visible nose, half of Stun's mouth was agape. A solitary eye jerked up at the ceiling. Blood trailed down the middle of the bolt on Stun's chest, trickling down his leg and crotch before continuing down the wall. One hand reached out, trembling, the other lost on the other side of a wall that was unnaturally undisturbed.
Bloody rubbed and smoothed down the skin on his arm. “That took you long enough Nunn,” he said.
A ghost-like shadow stepped out from the blood and gore, shimmering black as it slipped through Stun's twitching body.
“My fault,” the shadow said, rubbing its ghost hands together to quell the sting of touching Stun. “There were more guards here than we were told.”
The gossamer black rippled, then solidified. Skin a smooth chocolate, Nunn adjusted his suit at the collar of his black nehru style suit that buttoned up to the neck, bereft of any blood from his night of carnage.
Rubbing a hand forward over his head to smooth down his hair, he looked around, counting with his eyes, then said, “Stun was the last one?”
Bloody nodded.
Watching out for his expensive, wing-tipped shoes, stepping over a solider who Bloody had dispatched, Nunn continued, “We're done here then. Make the call to your boy.”
The Mega blood from Stun scrawled on the wall, called to Bloody, but was already spent of what whatever energy he could pull. Plus, he had not killed Stun with his own hands. He oh so wanted to make the kill himself. Mega blood was very strong.
“Oh yeah, pick up what's left of your shirt before you leave. The less evidence to clean the better,” Nunn shouted back.
“Yes sir,” Bloody replied, tearing his eyes away from the blood portrait and the half body stuck in the wall, arm now limp, hand no longer twitching. A finger went into his ear and he followed Nunn back to the living room.
“Deed is done,” he said once the beep inside his ear subsided. “Yes. It went smooth. What? Yes, he's dead. Very sure.” He glanced back at the body. “We're leaving now. Send in the cleaner.”
Bloody took his finger out of his ear. In the living room, the air smelled as sweet, clean, and pure as a butcher's shop. Passing the table, he picked up his ripped shirt. In the living room, the carpet was stained the outline of a small continent by the soldier who lost his battle to keep his entrails inside, having fallen to his side in the fetal position, hands clutching his stomach. Nunn walked over the stain, feet shimmering ghost black. Bloody stepped through the red that squished from his weight, spreading his blood footprints that would dry into the carpet, wood, and on the metal door that was slick from the throat-slashed soldier who shot him.
The outside air was damp even compared to the slaughter house inside. It would have been pleasant except for the flies that had begun to congregate. Bloody glanced about. The green lawn was strewn with dead soldiers, limbs twisted or separated from the body, the initial wave of resistance they found within the compound. They were dispatched in silence. Deep punctures riddled several bodies, leaking blood onto the blades of grass and into the soil, making the job of the cleaner much more difficult from the saturation. Bloody's smile returned.
A flash of white, and Bloody felt the presence before he saw him.
“Niiiice and tidy,” Furst said. His body was still reconstituting, pink shades of himself sliding together, becoming whole. As his body solidified, Bloody saw the red splashed against his white uniform like a rorschach, getting darker. The red slicked down patches of Furst's brown hair, dripping down his face, drying in the sun, and his eyes glowered a manic hazel and green.
“How many were upstairs?” Bloody asked. Furst held up the five fingers on his hand, and Bloody mourned even further the two kills that were robbed from him.
“C'mon you guys, I'm hungry.” Nunn said a few yards ahead, swatting away flies fat with rotting flesh. The job was done and he could care less about what was left behind. “And I'm buying.”
With a grin that cracked dried blood around his lips, a white flashed like a bulb and Furst was standing next to Nunn, jittering with excitement for the free meal. Grinning, Furst jerked his stained red hands at Nunn, who jumped back with a laugh.
“Don't touch me with those,” Nunn said as his legs went ghost and he floated off the ground. ”But I guess we'll have to clean you two up before we eat.”
“Yeeess,” Furst said, shades of himself disappearing next to Bloody to catch up with the host.
“You better watch yourself taking Bloody's kills. I saw this one Mal one time...,” was the last thing he heard Nunn say before his voice was too far away.
Bloody took one last look at the bodies, breathing in full lungs to take in the stench that made his blood burn, then looked back at the safe house his team. It really was a nice area. Quiet, and out of the way. Deep in the swamp. Perhaps he could come vacation later if the cleaner did his job right.
Chapter 2
The Walk-through
Mosquito-like whirls twisted the air and bent the grass beneath, revealing the dark, rust-colored rivers between each blade.
“Dammit. Too close,” Carrion said in a low tone. His fingers twitched on the black throttle and rudder control rods on the H-shaped transmitter in his hands. On the monitor, above the black boots he had kicked up on the shelf that he had installed on the side of the van, the image zoomed out as the drone he controlled elevated higher in the sky. Slowly it panned from left to right, quad engines buzzing, the images pausing on the numerous black-clad bodies strewn on the lawn.
“Messy,” he whispered, but even then, in a deep tone. Then he said louder. “Bodies in the lawn. At least twelve. Torn and eviscerated. Deep hemoglobin saturation in the top soil.”
Thumbs moved again, and the camera panned to the east. “Estimated twelve square feet of area coverage.”
Next to the monitor, a red line on a small gray box wavered from each word. The wave cascaded higher, mirroring Carrion's elevated tone, until it flattened into a thin line.
“Numerous bodies. Twelve.” it repeated back, in a halting voice, rounding up to the nearest number. “Disemboweled. Cleanse radius twelve square feet.”
“Continuing,” Carrion said.
“Standing by,” the box replied. The drone buzzed towards the entrance of the safe house Carrion had been pulled out of a somber dream to cleanse.
Just twelve hours prior, comfortable in bed beneath cool sheets with a thousand-level thread count, the receiver he kept jabbed in his ear for emergency jobs softly vibrated the ear drum within. Tapping his ear, he listened to a recording which repeated a address thrice before going dead. Carrion sighed, rubbing sleep from his eyes while memorizing the address by repeating the words. A soft snore made him look to his right at the woman sleeping next to him, her dark strands of hair covering part of his face.
It took care to remove the skinny arm that stood contrast to his pale skin and was draped over his chest, pinching the forearm with two fingers and gently moving it to the side. A few puffs blew her dark hair from over his mouth. Slow squirming extracted his muscled arm from beneath her lithe neck. A moan made him freeze, halfway off the bed with one hand on the ground, until he saw her clutch the sheet and covers to replace the warmth he left behind. Freedom was close.
Yet, sliding down over the edge of the bed, he cursed when his weight caused a bump against the floor. Instantly she sprang up, leaning on her taunt arms, red eyes staring daggers through his soul. Sitting alone in his van at the work site, he could still hear her yelling obscenities, sitting naked and hands gyrating, over his abrupt and sudden exit.
He shook the image from his mind. Back to work.
Noticing that the entrance was open wide on the domicile, Carrion stood up straight in his green canvas chair. Shirtless and devoid of hair, the skin on his chest gleamed a porcelain white from the sunshine that bled through the windshield.
“They took down the door,” hairless eyebrows wrinkled. It had taken time to arrive at that precise point in the woods, going on thirteen hours since that call. Too much time for things to go wrong. He turned to the box. “Medi, the door is open. Exposed to the elements. Be aware of wildlife attracted to the rotting flesh.”
“Door ajar. Possible wildlife incursion.” Medi repeated.
“And order a SCT-4 reinforced door, with the enhanced pivot latches.” The Medi repeated the order.
The drone continued, its rotor blades chasing away a black mass of flies that had attacked the neck and face of a slain guard lying over a steel door, in a pool of drying blood.
The drone panned the room.
“Three in the living room. Two with their jugulars slashed. One, perforated and eviscerated,” Carrion said. Medi dutifully repeated the scene.
A song played in his ear, a tune he had assigned to Vicki, the woman he had left in a rush of gathering clothes, screams, curses and a tossed bedroom item that shattered against a door he barely closed in time.
A tap in his ear made the song stop playing.
“Why are you calling me?” He said to the air. “No, no, I told you when I left I was working. Don't start up with me Vick, you know I can't turn down a job.”
The darkened alcove that led up to the second floor called to the drone. A flick of a red switch on the transmitter turned on the light attached like a bar beneath the frame. Slowly it illuminated room by room. He took count of the blood saturation that affected the carpet, covers, sheets, and left streaks along the walls. Even the ceiling. Some cleaners forget to look up. Red leaked down from the tile, dried like thin tears. Pillows swelled like used tampons soaking up the blood.
“ Yes, I know what today is,” he continued, talking to his earpiece while concentrating on the screen. “But you like that fancy car, right? The house and those slippery sheets? What do you want me to do? Look, I have to go.” A double-tap of his ear brought silence, and Carrion blew out while shaking his head.
“That woman is going to be the death of me,” he whispered, then looked back at the screen. “Now let's see how you all died.”
The bodies inside each room were much the same as downstairs, heads askew from deep throat cuts, while others were stabbed a nearly impossible number of times from head to toe, their faces almost frozen from the shock and pain. Carrion counted five in total.
“This is not so bad upstairs,” he said in a low tone as the drone went back downstairs and floated toward the dining room he had seen before. “Bodies in one piece. Very professional.”
Hovering just beyond the dining area, the camera on the front end zoomed out to take in the scene. Three of the corpses were clean, hunched over, curled up, intact, as if they had died suddenly from some internal organ failure. There were no signs of the cause of death, which was a indication of who had taken their lives.
“Nunn’s work,” Carrion mumbled.
On the floor he found the fourth body, a bloated neck with white thrashed skin, and a pink jagged bone in the center.
“Where is the head?” he questioned, slowly moving his thumbs to pan the drone to the left, searching for the lost appendage. It wasn't until he saw the horror on the wall that his grip tightened on the transmitter.
“That asshole,” Carrion growled. The drone moved forward. The mess Bloody had left into the wall appeared like a horrific mosaic, blood running down like dried red rain streaking on a windshield. What remained of the body was pulverized into the wall, hanging like the children's doll of a psychopath.
Carrion's teeth ground in his skull. “Medi,” Carrion spat. The box came to life in a series of beeps from his voice command. “Mutilated corpse. Bone fragments, brain, teeth, flesh in the wall. One fourth double-wall drywall needs to be replaced.”
His thumbs moved again until he paused and said, “and we are missing a head.”
The rest of the domicile was relatively clean. The drone made it through the kitchen and into the back room without finding any more bodies. The buzzing of the quad-engines echoed through a long hallway. Light from the flashlight swept over droplets of red raindrops seen in intervals, patterns left by someone running at a brisk pace. That had to be dealt with.
Then the drone reached the end of the hallway.
Cloudy white eyes squinted. “Medi, I need hinges. Four by four, with an approximately five-eights radius. Stainless, reinforced, with solid steel security tab. And with an arch hole pattern.”
“Confirmed,” Medi replied.
“And double security doors. It looks like TDA-A, number thirty one.” He glanced again. “Make that thirty two.”
As the Medi marked his instructions, beeping to update his instructions, Carrion moved the drone forward. Any hope of a quick clean was dashed by the massacre in the final room. He counted two corpses, mutilated but relatively intact. One with his face crushed and the other perforated through the sternum with what looked like a bazooka round. Body parts were tossed about, leaving a shredded torso that was mired in coagulated ichor. The same gore left lakes staining the floor red. Someone was having fun.
Then the drone panned to what was left of some Mega or Mal by the look of his costume, pulled halfway through a wall, rigor mortis freezing the terror on his face and making his free arm clutch the air.
A warm breath seeped from Carrion's mouth. The job just doubled in effort.
“Medi, we're going to need a lot of RCC lined plastic. A full bolt. Paint supplies. And that drywall order?” he said. “Double it.”
Chapter 3
The Cleaning
Twenty hours later, a nondescript box van pulled up to the safe house, gravel crunching as it came to a squeaking halt. The light of dawn had just begun to shine from behind the back of the domicile, glowering purple and orange. It had taken time for Carrion to gather the necessary supplies, especially the plastic which was not sold to the public. It took several called-in favors to procure, what he hoped, was the proper amount.
A swift breeze felt like a warm kiss against Carrion's skin as he stood behind the van, still shirtless, and wearing only dark black jeans, with matching black boots. His stark white skin seemed to shine against the dawning light. Standing well over six-five, he held the top of the truck, leaning down his torso to stretch out his back. The move did wonders for his arms as well, extending chiseled forearms, and biceps as thick as boulders. Arms bent at the elbow and twisting at the hip, he caught glimpses of petrifying bodies on either side of the lawn as he twisted left and right to further loosen his lower back.
“To begin, the lawn needs to be cleansed,” The medi unit's voice said in his ear, and Carrion nodded.
A quick pull with both arms swung up the twin doors of the van with a squeak of the hinges. Straps from a brown butcher's apron were pulled over his head, cinched at the waist, and the leather fanning out about just above his boots. A special liquid impenetrable coating shined in the rising sun along the garment. The specialized bib had arm attachments that he pulled his hands and arms through, ends removed so his smoothed tipped finger could poke out of the hand guards. The leather was cool against his skin, a slight relief from the damp morning air, as he restrained the arm extensions against his biceps with leather pull straps. Sitting on the edge of the van's open bay floor, he leaned over and pulled waterproof black-colored silicon coverings over his boots, tightening them with velcro straps just above the ankle.
Leaning in the truck, Carrion pulled a long black bolt of shining plastic that he tossed over his shoulder easily as he would a feather pillow. Holding the large bolt with his left arm, and bending at the knee, he pulled out a colossal wheel of dark gray material that he pinned against his hip, then under his armpit so he could walk towards the lawn without losing the heavy spool. The grass crushed under his heavy weight and shoe coverings. Reaching the first body, he tossed both the bolt and wheel next to the head with a thump.
A small nudge of his boot rolled the bolt of plastic out with three pealing and lolling rolls that spread it out on the lawn. Looking down, Carrion scanned the body, thinking how the poor bastard never stood a chance because the wounds struck perfectly at various kill points, his finger frozen just above the trigger, and obviously full magazine from the way it leaned towards the ground.
“Never got a shot off, huh kid?” he mumbled, then crouched down. “Well, at least your death was quick. Furst is a professional and knows what he's doing. Unlike his asshole partner.”
The soldier did not reply, except for the flies his rotting flesh had buzzing around Carrion's head. Leaning in, he clutched the body just under both armpits. Standing, and stabilizing himself with both legs, Carrion pulled. Gently, and with care, the body tore slowly away from the grass, ripping grass and sodden earth from the blood that had congealed from the baking sun. The removal was going well until the rigid legs decided to be difficult and remain stuck even after several tugs.
“Come on kid, give me a break. Don't make me separate your legs to get you out of here,” Leather squealed as Carrion used a portion of his strength to wrench the legs free. He turned and gently laid the full corpse onto a large portion of the plastic that accommodated the soldier's full height. Closing his eyes, Carrion mouthed a silent prayer, then touched the top of his forehead, the center of his chest, then the left and right shoulders. Cleaners told of being haunted and cursed by vengeful spirits, so it was important to give these unknown soldiers their proper rites if he wanted to avoid such a fate.
Satisfied that no ghouls would be sneaking into his home and accusing him of keeping them from experiencing the everlasting, Carrion rolled the stiff body up inside the plastic, tucking it out when it rolled too far in one direction or the other. A normal human being would have struggled to fold the tough material with the reinforced carbon-carbon composite lining inside the threaded material. It was the same hardened substance that was used on space shuttles to protect against heating. The special plastic cost a fortune, but was necessary for a proper cleanse. Only the best offered such material, and that was the main reason he was able to charge such a high fee for his services.
With his package wound tightly, Carrion leaned over the hump of the soldier's shoulder. Extending a index finger, his nail turned gray as it extended, long and thin, shiny minerals within the nail sparkling in the sun. Shuffling down with his knee on the grass, the nail cut through the plastic material like a bread knife. Finishing at the bottom, Carrion held the material in place and grabbed the gray wheel. Using his free hand, he pulled at the edge of the threaded tape, it too was reinforced by the same carbon material, and pulled away several inches. Turning, he wrapped the tape around the plastic that curved in at the ankle. Putting the bound legs over his shoulders, and with both hands free, he used the wheel to send strands of thick tape over the body of the corpse, wrapping it around multiple times to keep it secure. This was repeated about the head and neck, making the entire body look like a bulky reefer joint when he was finished.
“Not going to smoke you. Well, not in the conventional sense,” Carrion laughed. Then he looked around at the sky and forest, saying another prayer to keep the spirits at bay. Sighing, he looked at the other bodies. It was going to be a long morning.
It took much of the morning to pack the rest of the bodies into the protective material, piled high like a stack of timber. The tips of his fingers touched the tips of his toes so Carrion could stretch out his back once again. Muscles fully relaxed, one powerful arm lifted a body off the top of the pile that he curled up to the side of his neck. His white eyes stared up into a milky white cloud that lazily floated by. Lungs breathed in, then breathed out.
Staring at the long stretch of grass he had chosen for a runway, Carrion took a short hop and began to run. One, two, three steps he counted until he reached eight, the number his trainer found was his sweet spot. Next came the cross steps. Left foot first, then the right, crossing over each other for three more steps, the apron keeping his stride perfect. Strong fingers clutched the plastic, creating a hand hold. A stronger arm lifted the body and held it next to his head.
“Eyes forward,” Carrion reminded himself, like his trainer had drilled into his head. “Visualize the target.”
The cross step movement lasted for five additional steps.
“Don't jump,” he thought, another bad habit that had been beaten out of his muscle memory.
The left leg created the impulse step, the reminder that there was only one more crossover. Carrion lifted the package higher. The right leg planted, the left leg extended wide with the foot pointed in. The unburdened left arm went up, curved at the elbow, creating a counter force. A twist of the hips made the left foot twist straight. Carrion pulled the package back behind his head as his back arched into a reverse C-shape. Then the release, breathing out as he pushed his arm forward, fingers curling below the plastic to add a twist. The perfect throw, sixty degrees, that sent the black object sailing, whistling as it cut through the air into the blue sky.
Carrion stumbled forward, apron flapping, still keeping his eyes on the package. The screeching faded with each second. Twisting, the package curled through the clouds leaving clean circles like cigar smoke being curled from a mouth, until it disappeared into the atmosphere. Out of his eyesight, the package would tear through the atmosphere, the special packaging keeping the content protected from the searing heat of escape velocity. Once free from the gravitational pull of earth, it would be yet another corpse curling on a parabola, constantly moving forward until something stopped its momentum.
It was the perfect cleanse. There could be no crime without evidence. No murder without a body. The cleaner guild used to let the bodies burn in the atmosphere, tossing the body straight up at ninety degrees, letting the friction do the job for them. But, as the bodies disintegrated from the heat and fire, sometimes particles would fall back to earth. Always those damn particles, landing in lawns, pools, or bones creating another crime scene. Clean escape was the best thing. Nothing to fall back to earth if the entire body was gone.
Looking back, Carrion mumbled, “Only a dozen more times.”
And he repeated the steps nine more times.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee.
It wasn't until there were three bodies left that he heard that familiar tune in his head. Holding the latest body close to his head, the afternoon sun made sweat itch his eye that he twisted out with a knuckle on his free hand. The tune grew louder the longer he procrastinated on answering the call.
“What am I going to do with this bitch,” he sigh and tapped his finger into his ear. “What. I'm working. No I will not be back today.”
He lifted the body to his ear.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee.
Grunting, he stumbled forward from the momentum. “What?” he breathed out. “No, you're crazy. No, I'm not with another woman. Why would I even answer the phone if I was? Huh? If you have to know, I just threw a dead body into space. Are you happy?” He listened to the reply. “You are? That does something for you?” He laughed. “You freak.”
While the conversation continued, so did Carrion's work. Soon, the entire lawn was clear of bodies, leaving behind a dried lake of red on green. Even without the corpses, it looked like someone had died on the scene. That could not do.
“Hold on Vick,” said Carrion. “Shut up. I said hold on. In fact, move your ear away. Don't argue, you want to have an ear ache again? Didn't think so.”
After the shuffling on the other end of the receiver ceased, Carrion walked to the lawn, stopping a foot away from the outline of the red-stained grass. Shortened breaths blasted back and forth through his nostrils, chest rapidly rising and falling, lungs expanding. As the heat rushed up his neck and cheeks, Carrion leaned over, allowing the breath to rush from his lungs.
Walking forward, cheeks swelling, minuscule black particles flowed like a swarm from his open mouth, igniting in a brilliant flash of orange and white, igniting as they touched the air. Fire licked where his eyebrows would be that had burned away years ago. The orange light curled behind his mouth as he walked, saturating the lawn with the inferno that pumped outward like a spray hose from his open mouth. Burning away like newspaper, coral color crawled down each blade down to the root, turning the plant and its red blood dye a charcoal gray that twisted in the wind. It took two lung fulls to clear the stains Carrion saw on the lawn, taking out clean grass as well to ensure proper cleaning.
Small geysers of fire shot from his mouth as he breathed, surveying the small puddles of fire that smoldered on the lawn. Where the fire had gone out, he saw patches of brown soil streaked with dark ash.
“Excellent,” Carrion said, white smoke curling from his mouth. A classic burn, where the ash would aid in the next phase. “Huh? What Vick? Yes I'm done. Why are you even still on the phone?” he asked, walking away from the controlled burn.
Stopping to pick up the plastic bolt, he walked toward the domicile where the real mess had yet to be touched. Standing atop the reinforced door, he looked about and the bodies on the floor in a pool of their life essence, the ruined carpet and couch that looked as if someone had stood over it and tossed a bucket of blood from a pail. To the right, he saw the dining area with its corpses and the monstrosity dangling from the wall.
“You should see this mess,” he said to the guest in his ear. “Yes, very messy. Your sick ass would love it. Hey! Do not talk bad about my mother!” He shouted, dropping the heavy bolt with a thud. “Of course it is! You called me a son of a— What? No, don't start with me about that, Vicki, I'm not in the mood.”
A roll of plastic over the stained carpet was enough material to create tidy packages of the three slain soldiers in the living room that were taken outside.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee, times three.
Standing next to the couch, Carrion found the most inundated portion of the carpet, which coincided with the couch that looked a deep scarlet that lightened as it circled out. Pulling up his apron, he knelt and placed one hand on the center of the dark couch stain, and the other on the carpet that was similar in color.
Closing his eyes, Carrion said, “I'm going to need you to be quiet.” He waited for silence, but heard Vicki's voice continue to chirp through the device in his ear.
His pale white eyes shot open. ”Vicki shut up! I need to do that thing. Yes, it's going to hurt. And stop that moaning.”
Closing his eyes again, a breath whistled passed his lips. As he breathed in, the tips of his fingers throbbed, feeling like sharp painful pins were being plunged into the flesh. Each breath brought the pain further up his arm, coursing through veins that bulged and snaked up to his shoulder. As the pain spread, the color of his skin darkened on his cheek and neck, moving from pale, to an alabaster color tinted with a glow of scarlet. Where his hands touched the couch and carpet, the red began to liquefy, rushing outward like a wave, until the course was reversed, pulling the red back through his fingertips.
His left arm twitched from a particular sting of pain that elicited a minor groan. “I'm fine,” Carrion said through his teeth. “Vicki, be quiet. Yes it hurts just as much as last time.” He sighed, almost losing concentration. “Yeah. Wish you were here too. Now shut up again.”
Fabric was far different than grass or earth. For a cleaner to replace fabric, he would have to find the exact same pattern down to the strand. Early cleansings were thwarted by eagle-eyed detectives noticing the trivial cream of a pattern flowed back against the tan instead of with it. Now, cleaners absorbed the blood into themselves, leaving not a trace behind, and Carrion's body was thirsty for the substance. Soon, the couch and carpet were free of the red, still soiled from whatever had stained it before the blood was introduced.
Perfect replenish.
“Okay, I'm back,” Carrion huffed. Replenishing blood was painful, but it was an exquisite pain, an exhilaration that made his heart race. The sensation lasted as he cleaned upstairs next, taking more time to absorb the fluid that threatened to soak through to the ceiling below. The medi device interrupted Vicki when needed, much to her anger and chagrin, reminding him of objects he might have overlooked. The five additional soldiers too were put in a nice neat package and taken to the lawn. The plastic glistened from the afternoon sun that now made the leather apron feel like a tanning lamp on his skin.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee, now, by five.
“Why are you eating so late, it has to be nearly two there, right?” he said out loud, but speaking to the earpiece. He wiped the sweat that pooled on his forehead while checking the state of the lawn. The controlled burn had died in the hours he spent in the home, leaving behind a large brown patch of earth marked with gray ash. Metal screeched as he leaned into the van and pulled out a long cultivator, its four-pronged spurs rubbing against the floor of the van as he pulled. The handle was wooden, but thick, the entire apparatus heavy and tremendous, four feet wide and a foot longer. While inside the van, he happened to glance at the clock in the middle of the dashboard.
As he dragged the machine behind him, he said, “What are you hiding, Vicki? Why won't you tell me why you're just now eating? It's almost three there, not two.”
His right arm flexed after he passed over the grass and onto the exposed earth. The cultivator's iron spurs dug, then cut and churned into the earth as he walked, leaving behind dark clumps of dirt and clay. Walking back and forth over the dirt, ignoring the crunching of the churning earth, he noticed that Vicki had done her best to ignore and change the subject.
“No, I am not buying that Vick. No way you would miss your lunch for a three o'clock meal for no reason. Why am I asking? Because your lying to me!” His hand tightened on the wooden rod, curling veins on his forearm. “Don't do that. Don't throw me having to leave for work back in my face. Don't put this back on me.”
He paused, listening to the voice go shrill, hurling colorful string of put-downs and epithets that only his Vicki could perform without prompt. While she was in the middle of a particular rant, questioning his manhood, Carrion clicked the device in his ear, making the line go dead. And he ignored the instant Vicki theme song that played a second later. Her incessant talking had already drawn out the day.
As the tune faded, he finished up the last churning of the burned grass earth. A quick stowing of the cultivator was replaced with a large canvas bag that he ripped open with a sharp nail and poured the contents out onto the churned soil. Small yellow seeds found the grooves and crevices in the dirt as he walked, emptying the bag. The seed was of his own design, a mix of strong St. Agustine, fine fescue, and Kentucky bluegrass. The land would choose which one thrived or died, matching the grass that remained. Finished with his planting, the bag was curled in his hands, it too destined to become a part of a package and sent into orbit.
Without Vicki in his ear, Carrion was able to double his effort, realizing from their conversation that he had missed his own midday meal, although the blood satisfied a different hunger. Listening to the Medi device, he searched and found the missing head that had rolled beneath the dining table. Brown eyes staring past him, the head preserved inside the helmet. The head along with the bodies were quickly packaged and the blood where they rested drawn into his body, enough to make his skin a darker shade of olive. Flecks of blue shined in his irises. Using his strengthened nails, he sliced out the body that he knew Bloody had pinned purposefully into the wall to make his job troublesome. White dust floated away from where he traced a large square in the double pane drywall that took the body with it. All of it would be packaged together and cleansed into orbit.
After the dining room had been cleared, Carrion carried a much smaller bolt of plastic over his shoulder, and made his way to the back room where more violence had taken place. The medi sent another reminder. As he walked down the long hallway, canals on either side of his inside cheeks distributed a tart substance that he spat at intervals into the blood he had noticed during his drone scan. Gray streaked from his open mouth. Reacting to the chemical, the blood bubbled on the wood surface.
Wood was not as difficult as fabric. Instead of pulling up entire boards and finding the exact replica to replace them, or spending time crawling on his knees to replenish every drop, it only took a caustic chemical to cleanse the pores in the structural tissue. The same went for the concrete that line the hallway. The sizzling noise of the blood breaking down bounced off the walls as he passed through the opening at the end of the hall, passed twisted hinges that hanged from bent metal spikes.
In the back room, the twisted metal doors would be saved for scrap, a bonus atop his fee. Replenishment soaked up the blood in the fabrics, bringing even more color to Carrion's skin, while the chemical made other pools hiss, and bubble on the floor. The fizzing sounds of deconstructing blood played a little tune as he went to work on the dead. There were only three bodies that Bloody had done the unintended favor to dismember before hand. Given the limited length of plastic left, he was able to pile two bodies into one package, saving space. He needed as much as he could spare for the Mal he now recognized as Stun in the wall.
Dark blue eyes scanned the walls. A scorched electric socket needed to be changed and the surrounding plaster painted on one, while the other was an entirely different problem. A dead eye was split in two. Stun's mouth was caught in terror, drowned with drywall. An arm jutted from the wall, stiff as a board, fingers turned into a claw from rigor mortis. The one visible leg was also petrified, bent at an odd angle from Stun's dying weight. Staring at the Mal melded into the wall as if he were born from it was a reminder to Carrion to keep his mouth shut about the job. He had heard that Stun had been caught squealing to the Meta-Human Defense Command about the Consortium. It was like a snitch squealing to the cops who had their very own dungeon for Mal's, and look at him now.
As if the fates were tempting him to break that oath of silence, Vicki's musical tune played in his ear. Relentless by nature, she was not going to give up calling until she had the last word, and it was almost worth turning himself in to not have to hear it.
“What?” Carrion said in a glum tone, clicking the device in his ear. “Yes, I have a tone, are you ready to be honest with me yet?'
There was a silence at her end that Carrion used to take the time to clutch the stiff arm. A ripping and tearing sound vacillated back and forth as Carrion used his elongated nail to saw at the appendage just below the elbow. The nail on his index finger was now silver, the bottom cut with serrated teeth that first chewed through the fabric of Stun's costume caked in dried blood.
“What? Yes I'm sawing Vicki, this guy is stiff as a tree trunk. It's his arm,” he said, his sawing growing faster. “That moaning is not going to work this time. Stop changing the subject.” The arm tilted down, the bone making a cracking sound as it split in two. A pocket of cold dark blood burst as the knife went through the bottom meat, and splashed against Carrion's lips and chin, which he licked in broad strokes.
“You're sick Vick,” he replied to her smacking her lips when she heard him licking his. “Now take a minute and decide if you want to lie to me again, while I saw this loser's leg. No, I will not put the earpiece closer.”
It took longer to take the leg, with the rigor in the meat and thicker bone density. Dark blood slowly oozed from the thigh still left in the wall as he hauled the rest back to the line of plastic he had laid out for the body parts.
He slammed the appendage into the pile. “Dammit Vicki, enough with the orgasms,” he said, his voice elevated. “Come clean, no pun intended, or let me get back to work without you bothering me.” He walked back to the wall. “I'm yelling because you've wasted my time all morning. All day actually, making this job drag out. I'm covered in sweat. It smells like a shit-covered butcher's shop in here still. I'm hungry, but still have renovations to do, and my girl is lying to me about something while I'm doing all of this, so yes, consider me a bit perturbed.”
Forgoing the knife nail, and leaning back, Carrion's rock-sized fists moved like jackhammers, pummeling the wall with deep thooming sounds, leaving round holes as he moved from the top, and dropping to one knee to reach the bottom. He repeated the motion on the other side, leaving a line of jagged holes on either side of Stun's body. Gritting his teeth from all the things he wondered Vicki could be hiding, his fingers dug into the holes on either side. With a tug, he heard the nails squeak as the wall gave from the wood studs. Another twitch of his muscles pulled the entire wall away. Laying it down, he was surprised to see that the rest of Stun's body was intact on the other side.
“Son of a bitch,” Carrion mumbled as the wall wobbled from the stiff body. “What? Oh nothing. Just never seen anything like this before. Thought I would see a horror show on the other side, but Nunn's skill is amazing. No, I won't describe it. Not until you tell me.”
Turning back around and peering at the hole left behind, Nunn had chosen an alcove to pull the body through, leaving the majority of the body unharmed and easy to dispose of. A kick broke and shattered the drywall from about the body and cleanly split along the line where Nunn had pulled the targeted Mal. The blood from Stun's body was mostly regulated to just the drywall, soaked into the fibers. An easy cleanse. The scraps of bloody drywall were placed atop Stun's body, and taped up nicely. The package was bulkier than the regular soldiers, but not so much that it would not reach escape velocity.
With the package taped and bound, Carrion said, ”last chance Vick. Once I cleanse these packages, I'm done with this conversation and we're over. Yes, I mean it. I brook no liars around me. That is a luxury I cannot afford in this business and you know this.”
Where Carrion was a Malignant with the power of blood rush, along with a compliment of several others, Vicki was a Sympatha. Sympatha's, being the sister organization to his cleaning guild, derived pleasure from others' pain. Often working in conjunction with a cleaner, a Sympatha could quell the sometimes excruciating painful process of replenishment. Oftentimes they were also found sneaking away, hunched over, torturing kill-sight survivors who clung to life with various devices, only ending the life when the cleaner urged them to. Vicki, above all others, knew trust in their industry meant the difference between life and having a cleaner, Sympatha duo visiting their home.
Cradling all four packages in his strong arms, Carrion walked back through the hallway.
“Spill it Vick.” He grumbled.
Passing the clean cut drywall hole, and moving past the dining table into the living room, he listened to his woman, who finally broke down to tell him what she was keeping at bay. After she told him, Carrion wished she had kept the truth to herself.
“You talked to Lusian?” he asked, swallowing hard to wet his dry throat. Strained orange light made his eyes flutter when he exited the domicile. Afternoon had bled into mid evening, the sun setting in the west, its golden rays twinkling through the tree branches and leaves. “How did you get a meeting with Lusian? I've only met the man once, and that was when he initiated me into the guild. What did you talk about?”
Picking up one soldier, he hefted the package up to his shoulder.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee.
“What?” he said, turning away from the sunlight. “Your mother is the Patroness of the Sympatha's? Why didn't you tell me Vicki? Are you kidding me? Why would I use you? What can the Patroness do for me, our guilds are separated, besides, you know, cutting me from nuts to throat with that knife of hers for fucking her daughter!”
He lifted another soldier up to his shoulder.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add another to your fee.
Then he took care of the remaining soldiers.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee, now, by two.
“Stop laughing Vicki, you know what I mean,” Carrion said. “Wait, what did you talk to Lusian about?” He reached down, clutching the larger package that held the remains of Stun. He lifted the package to his shoulder.
“You talked to him about us!' He shouted, sticking a finger hard into his ear. “Why would you do that, Vicki! You know it is forbidden for our two sects to mix romatically. Huh? I don't care if you are good with him and the Patroness. You could get us killed!”
His breath increased, sweat caused by the conversation and his pumping heart stinging his eyes. Carrion stared down the runway, grass worn thin from his cleaning of the packages.
“Tell me everything you said,” he said coldly to Vicki while balancing the package against his neck.
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing straight.
Non-dominant arm up by hip, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing out.
Forty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Add to your fee.
“He said that? Those exact words?” Carrion turned away from the package that sailed into the evening sky, breaking through the clouds. “How did he sound when he said it? Dammit Vicki, this is serious! I could be kicked out of the guild at the very least, if this got out! Especially since your the Patroness's daughter! Now, how did he sound when said it?”
Looking around, he had stopped on the churned dirt where he had planted the seeds. The moon will be out soon, and there was still so much left to do.
“He said it just like that, huh? That's not good Vick. Not good at all,” Carrion bit his bottom lip, gleaming white canine tooth drawing blood that ran down his pale lip. “I need to go.” And he hung up again over Vicki's protests.
If what she said was true, he had run out of time.
Carrion walked briskly to the edge of the dirt clearing. The canals within his cheeks vibrated and widened. His mouth opened wide. Instead of the black pyrophormic flakes that ignited exposed to oxygen, mud brown liquid spewed out, frothing like fire extinguisher spray. Walking back, and turning his head left to right, Carrion coated the clearing in the liquid, turning the dry dirt into mud. As the secretion flowed, the lively color of Carrion's skin drained away, moving from pink flesh, to olive, then back to his chalky white. The mixture he sprayed was a concentration of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium that he mined from the replenished blood.
After he had finished inundating the clearing, Carrion leaned over and spat out the sour remnants. The foam was a special element supplied by the guild that would use the light from the moon to accelerate the seed growth. Around the same time the next day, if the safehouse wasn't stumbled upon beforehand, no one would be able to tell the grass had been disturbed at all. Carrion gave the clearing one last look over.
Crickets sprang from the grass as Carrion sprinted to the back of the van. He clipped a tool belt about his waist, over his apron. Three slates of drywall stayed beneath his arm, the other carrying a tool box and pale as he jogged to the dining room, dropping off two slates, then moved to the back room where Stun was cleansed. It took just minutes to change the electric socket. Eye measuring the jagged opening his fists had made, a long black nail cut down the new drywall to the proper size that fit snug into the hole, with small spaces on either side. Drywall screws drilled the drywall into the studs. The last of the plastic was made into a large bag using his nails and a touch of fire that was perfect to put the leftover drywall pieces in.
It didn't take long to mix spackle into the pail with water produced by his canals. Forgoing any tool, he used his hand to draw the material, filling the hole on either side of the drywall, up and down, clearing the access with the back of his hand. With the mixture spread thin along the wall, Carrion's cheeks thinned. Whistling, fire streamed out between his lips, tickling the spackle, turning it from dark and wet, to egg-white everywhere the flame touched, smoothing it down until it matched the remaining wall.
Satisfied with the repair, Carrion picked up the pail and hustled to the dining room, replacing the double drywall with the same maneuvers. After burning the spackle dry, Carrion ran back to the van, tools jostling inside his box and against his belt with each step. Feeling a invisible countdown, there was little time to stow the tools properly, instead, tossing them inside the back of the van. The security doors that he usually carried one at a time, he now carried together, balancing the heavy iron on his head. Huffing, and biceps flexing, he jogged through the home, tossing down the doors near the entrance where Stun had died. Holding the heavy material in place with his left hand, a few turns of his electric drill replaced the missing doors. A quick wash of a rusting agent spat from his mouth would give it the proper worn look to blend in with the aesthetics of the home.
“Medi, memorialize. What have I missed?” Carrion said, breathing heavily from his efforts.
“Painting the drywall,” the Medi replied through the earpiece.
Carrion smacked his hands, and took a hop before running back to the van to retrieve the paint can, tray and rolling brush. The sweat atop his forehead doubled as he rolled the paint on the places where he replaced the drywall, dried it with his flame, then painted a second coat, and flamed again to stun the brightness.
Breathing through his mouth, he asked again, “Medi, memorialize. What have I missed?”
“Painting the scorch around the electric socket,” the Medi replied.
Carrion looked at the socket and the darkened wall around it, and his jaw clenched. “Why are you just now reminding me?”
“The Medi unit is going down the list,” it replied.
“Break protocol. Anything else,” Carrion said between his teeth.
“Painting and repairing the entrance door will end the cleanse,” came the robotic voice.
“Thank you,” Carrion breathed and took off toward the van at top speed, getting the separate paint color, a new tray, and replacement roller cover. Paint, fire dry, and repeat until there was no spackle to be seen.
All materials used in the repair were stacked into the plastic bag, and taped close, nice and tight. Just outside the back of the van, Carrion took off his leather apron and arm attachments, all soaked through with sweat, and dark with grime and dirt that he tossed into the back of the van. The night air felt like cool ocean water to a man who had been trapped in the desert against his skin.
The blood stained entrance door was carried to his van so he could replenish later and sell at a premium. The SCT-4 was put in its place and weathered with his chemicals to look sun-beaten and worn.
“One last thing,” Carrion said and picked up the last package. “Before I have to fix the mess Vicki has made.”
He brought the package up to his cheek, and thought, “Hope there is even something to go back to with Lusian, or this could be me riding the parabola.”
Run.
Cross steps.
Right leg planted.
Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.
Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.
Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.
Sixty degree release.
Escape velocity.
Get away without a trace.
Chapter 4
Mathura
Men dressed in tanned uniforms stood around the green of a soccer field. Sweat pooled beneath maroon berets as their brown eyes scanned the crowd, brandishing long black rifles with both hands. Women dressed in colorful sari's and lenga dresses held back curious kids, some of their faces covered in dirt from a recent futbol game that was stopped too early. Their fathers had no such compunction to keep them from bearing witness, perching the boys on their necks and shoulders to see over the regiment police.
“Get those children down!” A inspector of Police growled beneath a thick, bushy mustache. Lifting his stiff cap to wipe sweat through his thinning black hair, Inspector Naidu turned back to the field. The aircraft had arrived hours ago. Its engines were nearly silent, and his village would not have known of the Americans arrival if not for foreign policy which meant they had to give a courtesy call before landing. There were some advantages of being a nuclear nation.
Walking back to the area the Americans had cordoned off, he stood close to the man he thought was the leader of the landing party.
“Thank you for that, Inspector,” the man called Amaral said.
Naidu nodded back, replacing his hat atop his head.
The scene was alive with American workers, wearing their typical black suits and sunglasses , sweating even more than him in that insufferable heat, moving from the aircraft that looked like a broken arrowhead painted black. Most of their attention was drawn to a small depression in the otherwise untouched field. Some held out devices he did not recognize that beeped at intervals, taking readings. It was a toss up whether the noises were a good or bad sign.
“Do you mind telling me what you are doing here again, Mr. Amaral?” Naidu asked in his best English. Amaral was tall, brown, just like him, but not Indian. And had a pleasant, disarming smile that made Naidu worry.
“Please call me, Celio Inspector,” Amaral replied. “And were just here taking evidence of a--” he paused, then said, “--unusual origin. It shouldn't be much longer.”
“You said that hours ago, Celio,” the inspector replied. Celio only replied with that smile Naidu suspected made women swoon. “And you still haven't told me what you are looking at. As a representative of the government of India, I demand--”
Celio cut him off by putting up his hands. “Okay Inspector Naidu, I surrender. No need to get geopolitical.” He waved him forward, “Come. Let me show you something.”
Bristling at being summoned, Naidu hesitated a moment but curiosity moved his legs, and he followed Celio past the other Americans who eyed him as he passed. Getting closer, he noticed the small emblems on their chests, stenciled with the letter M.D.C., and he felt the sweat trickle down his back. Getting closer to where the Americans had setup a strong light that shined down on the depression that had scorched the grass and earth, he began to smell the stench of rubber being burned.
Leaning into the light, Celio crouched next to a smoldering pile. Black plastic had been pulled away, revealing charred building material. There was the aroma of burning meat, but it was tainted, smelling more like a putrid animal killed on the road and set alight. Together, it all looked like a pile of burned garbage put together by children as a prank, not something that required international attention, nor forcing him out in that weather.
“What am I looking at?” Naidu asked, leaning over.
Celio face tightened, “Take a closer look, Inspector.” He said the last word as an insult, as if he were disappointed that all Naidu saw was garbage.
Taking a step, Naidu leaned in closer. Inside the garbage, he saw the burned flesh sticking out beneath what he now guessed was drywall. Beneath those remains were fabric burned on the edges, but he could still see that they were blue and gold.
“Is that a symbol of some sort?” Naidu asked.
Celio grinned and nodded. “Very good inspector,” he said. Retrieving tweezers from his breast pocket, Celio moved the garment pieces around, rearranging the material until a clear pattern emerged.
Naidu swallowed and asked, “What is that? A lightning bolt?”
Celio Amaral nodded again. “Yes it is.” He stood and put the tweezers back in his pocket. “It belonged to a man named Stun. He was one of ours.” He looked down at the pile. “What we have here is evidence of a murder Inspector, and I want to know what happened.”
The End