her eyes, Jason, crushing one of the remaining rats under his boot, plucking the other from his arm and squeezing the life out of it, whispered to her softly.
“Better go, Rach.”
He dropped his eyes to the wound on his arm, little more than a scratch, insignificant and all-consuming.
Rachel didn’t have time to think as John wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor, sprinting down the stairs to the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and dragging one of the kitchen cupboards across it.
She screamed Jason’s name the whole way down.
*
Alex – Jake – regarded Deborah with a sly grin.
“What a shame , doctor, for us to finally meet under these circumstances. I confess, I had hoped that we would get a chance to… chat somewhere a little more private. Without so much… competition for your corpse.
“World’s gone to shit, huh D oc?” He spread his arms wide.
Deborah stammered.
“On the plus side, the idiot at the wheel didn’t get me killed before I could sample it. Small mercies. And I suppose I have to thank him. For leaving me a present. ”
The smile faded, and the stare intensified, and Deborah suddenly needed very much to urinate. How could she have forgotten just who she was running with?
Jake McIntosh had been incarcerated three years earlier, finally caught after escaping police custody once to kick-start an eight-month manhunt during which he managed to kill three people. His final tally, including his last kill, one of the police who had finally tracked him down, stood at seventeen. For a small country, unused to the creative atrocities people are capable of unleashing on each other, the McIntosh case was, for the UK, like being shaken awake in a strange place.
McIntosh’s crimes had oscillated between sickeningly violent and outright insane. The courts, persuaded by the chilling testimony of the only person he had let live – a woman he had forced to eat several of her own fingers and her entire left foot – decided on the latter. He would spend the rest of his life locked in Moorcroft, in a drug-induced stupor.
As Deborah had attempted to understand and treat his psychosis, she had thought about that one the most, the survivor. Wondered about what kind of fear a person must be able to instil to get a human being to devour themselves. All of McIntosh’s crimes, in all their varying executions – bore a consistent trademark: sadism.
The country’s most popular tabloid had dubbed him the ‘Painkiller’. A pun. He regretted that the world falling to the apocalypse had robbed him of the opportunity to find that particular editor and eviscerate them.
Deborah thought about that name now, about the way it seemed to fit: a monster like him deserved a scary name. She had only one chance.
“Alex, you know how often we’ve talked about this. I want you to focus on your breathing, go through the steps, okay?” Her voice shook like a barn door in a hurricane.
Jake snorted a laugh tinged with genuine mirth.
“You’ ve been labouring under a misapprehension all this time, Doc. Alex tried to tell you, but would you listen?”
Deborah shook her head in confusion, felt the tears spill onto her cheek.
“I am not a product of Alex’s imagination, doctor. He is a product of mine. ”
“Why keep me alive, then? Why not just kill me right now?” Her terror, left with nowhere to go, transmuted, becoming a bleak, impotent rage.
“Maybe some part of me yearns for redemption,” he said sombrely, and then burst into a fit of giggles.
“You’re a distraction, Jackson. Bait. When I need something to draw them away from me, I’ll be using you. Tough deal.” He gave a sympathetic shake of his head.
Deborah choked out a sob. Jake sighed.
“No, you’re right. When you’re right, you’re right.”
He lifted the jagged shard of pipe and impaled Deborah’s throat in a smooth, arcing motion. She felt the blood gushing down over her chest, felt the weight of
“Better go, Rach.”
He dropped his eyes to the wound on his arm, little more than a scratch, insignificant and all-consuming.
Rachel didn’t have time to think as John wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor, sprinting down the stairs to the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and dragging one of the kitchen cupboards across it.
She screamed Jason’s name the whole way down.
*
Alex – Jake – regarded Deborah with a sly grin.
“What a shame , doctor, for us to finally meet under these circumstances. I confess, I had hoped that we would get a chance to… chat somewhere a little more private. Without so much… competition for your corpse.
“World’s gone to shit, huh D oc?” He spread his arms wide.
Deborah stammered.
“On the plus side, the idiot at the wheel didn’t get me killed before I could sample it. Small mercies. And I suppose I have to thank him. For leaving me a present. ”
The smile faded, and the stare intensified, and Deborah suddenly needed very much to urinate. How could she have forgotten just who she was running with?
Jake McIntosh had been incarcerated three years earlier, finally caught after escaping police custody once to kick-start an eight-month manhunt during which he managed to kill three people. His final tally, including his last kill, one of the police who had finally tracked him down, stood at seventeen. For a small country, unused to the creative atrocities people are capable of unleashing on each other, the McIntosh case was, for the UK, like being shaken awake in a strange place.
McIntosh’s crimes had oscillated between sickeningly violent and outright insane. The courts, persuaded by the chilling testimony of the only person he had let live – a woman he had forced to eat several of her own fingers and her entire left foot – decided on the latter. He would spend the rest of his life locked in Moorcroft, in a drug-induced stupor.
As Deborah had attempted to understand and treat his psychosis, she had thought about that one the most, the survivor. Wondered about what kind of fear a person must be able to instil to get a human being to devour themselves. All of McIntosh’s crimes, in all their varying executions – bore a consistent trademark: sadism.
The country’s most popular tabloid had dubbed him the ‘Painkiller’. A pun. He regretted that the world falling to the apocalypse had robbed him of the opportunity to find that particular editor and eviscerate them.
Deborah thought about that name now, about the way it seemed to fit: a monster like him deserved a scary name. She had only one chance.
“Alex, you know how often we’ve talked about this. I want you to focus on your breathing, go through the steps, okay?” Her voice shook like a barn door in a hurricane.
Jake snorted a laugh tinged with genuine mirth.
“You’ ve been labouring under a misapprehension all this time, Doc. Alex tried to tell you, but would you listen?”
Deborah shook her head in confusion, felt the tears spill onto her cheek.
“I am not a product of Alex’s imagination, doctor. He is a product of mine. ”
“Why keep me alive, then? Why not just kill me right now?” Her terror, left with nowhere to go, transmuted, becoming a bleak, impotent rage.
“Maybe some part of me yearns for redemption,” he said sombrely, and then burst into a fit of giggles.
“You’re a distraction, Jackson. Bait. When I need something to draw them away from me, I’ll be using you. Tough deal.” He gave a sympathetic shake of his head.
Deborah choked out a sob. Jake sighed.
“No, you’re right. When you’re right, you’re right.”
He lifted the jagged shard of pipe and impaled Deborah’s throat in a smooth, arcing motion. She felt the blood gushing down over her chest, felt the weight of
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