Read I Don't Want To Kill You Online
Authors: Dan Wells
I Don't Want To Kill You (30 page)
There was a pause in the pounding, then a loud metallic ping. I ducked behind the car, my heart pounding, and heard another one:
ping!
It was coming from my car. I peeked up and saw two bright metal craters in the trunk: bullet-holes. I looked back at the door to the house and saw two bullet-holes there as well, punching out through the doorknob as if he’d been trying to shoot it off.
I didn’t hear the shot, just the impact – he must have a silencer as well.
The doorknob rattled, the door shook, but the car didn’t budge. The thing inside swore, and a moment later I heard a loud thunk as something heavy slammed into the door. His hatchet. We were right about everything. We had predicted him perfectly, down to the last detail.
ping!
It was coming from my car. I peeked up and saw two bright metal craters in the trunk: bullet-holes. I looked back at the door to the house and saw two bullet-holes there as well, punching out through the doorknob as if he’d been trying to shoot it off.
I didn’t hear the shot, just the impact – he must have a silencer as well.
The doorknob rattled, the door shook, but the car didn’t budge. The thing inside swore, and a moment later I heard a loud thunk as something heavy slammed into the door. His hatchet. We were right about everything. We had predicted him perfectly, down to the last detail.
He’s completely in my power.
I stayed down, straining my ears to hear any other sound, any other clue that might tell me where the second demon was. The neighbourhood was silent; even my car, the engine rumbling hungrily, was louder than the muffled hatchet strikes. The rhythm of the hatchet faltered, and I heard a loud, hacking cough. Something thudded against the inside of the door, large and heavy, then the hatchet began again. It was weaker now. I leaned in cautiously, sniffing at the bullet-holes near the doorknob; the smell was strong and acrid, like smoke.
It must be nearly impossible to breathe in there.
It must be nearly impossible to breathe in there.
I looked around at the neighbourhood again, confused, and muttered under my breath, ‘Where are you?’
The pounding stopped. ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ a voice said.
‘Where’s the other one?’ I demanded.
‘Let me out of here!’
‘Where is she?’ I asked again, turning to face the door. ‘Where’s Nobody?’
‘That . . .’ Cough. ‘That doesn’t even make sense.’
‘Did anyone come with you?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I . . . I come with the Lord.’ He pounded once more, feebly, then I heard the metal hatchet clatter to the floor, followed by the sound of loud retching and coughing. ‘You’re killing me,’ he said. ‘Satan’s . . . servant. Let me out.’
‘It’s carbon-monoxide poisoning,’ I said. It was deadly to humans, but I had no idea what it would do to a demon. ‘Can that kill you?’
‘Nothing can kill me.’ He retched again. ‘I am the Chosen of the Lord.’
‘You’re dying,’ I said. ‘If you want to get out, tell me where the other demon is.’
‘I thought he was here,’ he said, so weakly I could barely hear him. ‘Father Erikson, destroying the people. I thought he was here.’
‘I’m not talking about your victims,’ I said, ‘I’m talking about the person you’re working with. I know she’s here, because I’m the one who called her. Now stop pretending and tell me.’
‘No one . . . else.’
‘Listen,’ I said, leaning closer. ‘I killed Forman, and I killed the one before him. I will kill you too, in a heartbeat, if I think you’re not going to tell me what I want to know.’
‘Clark Forman? The Torture House Killer?’
I hadn’t heard that label before, but it was accurate enough. ‘Yes. And the Clayton Killer.’
‘But that’s why I came,’ he said, and his voice sounded closer to the door now. ‘I came to save you from them. If you’re the one who killed them, then you’re on my side.’
His side.
‘No,’ I hissed, ‘not your side at all. You kill any random idiot that you decide is evil. I kill real demons; real evil. They’ve been killing for thousands of years, maybe more, feeding on humans like predators. Like parasites. I am not just killing people, I am saving us.’
‘No,’ I hissed, ‘not your side at all. You kill any random idiot that you decide is evil. I kill real demons; real evil. They’ve been killing for thousands of years, maybe more, feeding on humans like predators. Like parasites. I am not just killing people, I am saving us.’
He retched again. ‘Yes,’ he croaked, ‘you’ve seen them.’ He started crying. ‘No one else would believe me – they thought I was a common murderer. But you know. You know what they really are, and you know what
we
really are.’ He collapsed in a fit of coughing so severe that I thought he might die. Then the coughing slowed, stopped, and his voice sounded closer than ever, as if he was pressing his face against the door.
we
really are.’ He collapsed in a fit of coughing so severe that I thought he might die. Then the coughing slowed, stopped, and his voice sounded closer than ever, as if he was pressing his face against the door.
‘We’re saviours.’
He’s insane,
I told myself.
He’s crazy. He’s a psychopathic serial killer saying anything he can to justify his actions . . .
I told myself.
He’s crazy. He’s a psychopathic serial killer saying anything he can to justify his actions . . .
. . . just like I’m doing now.
I pulled back, lowering the gun. I’d speculated that there might be other demon hunters in the world, and that the Handyman might have killed one.
I never thought he might
be
one.
I scanned the darkness again, half-hoping I’d see a demon flying out at me from behind a shadow. At least then I’d know what to do with it. This one in the trap: was he a demon who hunted other demons? Was he even a demon at all? Maybe he was a normal human, like me, who’d seen too much and sworn to stop it by any means necessary.
I never thought he might
be
one.
I scanned the darkness again, half-hoping I’d see a demon flying out at me from behind a shadow. At least then I’d know what to do with it. This one in the trap: was he a demon who hunted other demons? Was he even a demon at all? Maybe he was a normal human, like me, who’d seen too much and sworn to stop it by any means necessary.
And now he’d killed ten people, maybe more. Had any of them really been demons?
‘You’ve seen the demons,’ I said. ‘Describe them to me.’
Silence.
‘Describe them!’ I said, leaning in towards the door. There was no answer but the stench of exhaust.
Damn.
I stared at the door, trying to remember what I’d heard. Had he fallen? Was he still standing? Had the exhaust knocked him out, or was this a trick? I glanced down at the gun in my hand, trying to decide if I dared to move the car.
He can’t die yet,
I thought.
I still have too many questions.
I stared at the door, trying to remember what I’d heard. Had he fallen? Was he still standing? Had the exhaust knocked him out, or was this a trick? I glanced down at the gun in my hand, trying to decide if I dared to move the car.
He can’t die yet,
I thought.
I still have too many questions.
For one brief moment I saw him in my mind’s eye, a hulking demon in a cloud of black smoke, waiting silently to eviscerate me when I opened the door. I hesitated, suddenly wary, but then I saw something else: me, trapped in Forman’s closet, beating uselessly at the fortified walls while he stood outside with a gun. I looked down at the gun in my hand, glaring as if it had betrayed me somehow.
I threw my weight against the back of the car, but it was heavy – far heavier than any car had a right to be. All the weight that had pinned the door closed was now working against me, and even with the wheels to help I only budged it an inch.
It’s still in park,
I thought, and stepped back.
I have to get into the car to move it, but that will take me away from the door. If he makes a run for it, I’ll lose him.
I stared at the door, at the hose running out from the exhaust, and swore.
I have to do it.
I pulled on the hose, ripping it away from the pipe, and aimed my gun at the door. Nothing moved, and there was still no sound from inside. Slowly I walked to the driver’s open door, leaned in, and shoved the gear shift into neutral. I jumped back out immediately, aiming the gun at the door.
It’s still in park,
I thought, and stepped back.
I have to get into the car to move it, but that will take me away from the door. If he makes a run for it, I’ll lose him.
I stared at the door, at the hose running out from the exhaust, and swore.
I have to do it.
I pulled on the hose, ripping it away from the pipe, and aimed my gun at the door. Nothing moved, and there was still no sound from inside. Slowly I walked to the driver’s open door, leaned in, and shoved the gear shift into neutral. I jumped back out immediately, aiming the gun at the door.
Nothing.
Setting the gun carefully on the roof of the car, I braced my hands and shoulder against the inside of the door and pushed forward. Even out of park, the car was fiendishly heavy, but I strained hard against it and started to overcome its inertia, creeping it forward inch by inch, foot by foot, until the side door of the house was exposed. Grabbing the gun again, I walked back, keeping the barrel trained on the door. Nothing moved, and I reached forward cautiously; the doorknob was shattered and twisted freely without pulling open the latch. I tugged on it, yanked it, and finally kicked it with my foot, hearing the wood crunch in around the broken latch. I held the gun in front of me like it was a holy symbol, as if its mere presence would ward away danger, and pulled the door open.
On the floor inside lay a man in a worn brown suit and black leather gloves, draped across the stairs like a sack of cement. At his feet was a black pistol and an open duffel bag full of clear plastic sheets; in the corner was a small hatchet. Thin, poisonous smoke poured out of the stairwell and I stepped back, coughing.
‘Are you dead?’
He didn’t answer, and I crept forward far enough to reach out and nudge him with my toe. His eyes stayed closed, but he groaned and coughed, rolling onto his side.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘can you hear me?’ He moved again, and I remembered his gun; I jumped over and stepped on it, dragging it out into the driveway with my foot. ‘Hey,’ I said louder. ‘Just answer my questions.’
The Handyman coughed and tried to sit up, only to fall back down and tumble to the bottom of the stairs. He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut, then reached out his hand and crawled a few inches into the driveway.
I stepped back. ‘Stay there. Can you talk?’
‘Yeh,’ he said, his voice ragged. He coughed again, more purposefully. ‘Yes.’
‘You said you’ve seen the demons,’ I said. ‘Describe them.’
‘Evil.’ He spoke without moving, his face down in the asphalt, sucking in clean air with each breath. ‘They abuse their power; they lead innocents into sin. They have to be destroyed.’
‘Describe them physically,’ I said. ‘Did you see claws? Fangs? You stab your victims with poles to give them wings – did you see wings? What
did
you see?’
did
you see?’
‘No wings,’ he gasped, ‘only in the world beyond.’
‘What world?’
‘Heaven and hell. There we will take our forms and live forever in peace, or forever in torment.’
I stared at him, feeling my rage grow. My finger tightened on the trigger. ‘Is that it? Is that really all this is? You haven’t seen anything – you’re not a demon, you’re not a demon hunter, you’re just another lunatic serial killer.’
‘I’m a—’
‘Shut up!’ I shouted, irrationally desperate. ‘You’re nothing; you’re delusional. The things I’ve seen are real-they’re real!’ I waved the gun. ‘If you’re not hunting demons, why are you even here?’
‘Too many deaths here,’ he said, reaching out weakly. ‘You were being punished for your sins. I came to save you; I came to cut out the corruption.’
His arm was stretched towards me and I saw his glove, black leather barely visible in the darkness. My pulse quickened, and I felt a surge of hope. ‘Your hands,’ I said quickly. ‘You wear gloves because you hate your hands. Show me why.’
‘No.’
‘Take them off!’
What would it be – claws? Scales? It has to be something; he
has
to be a demon.
He rolled on his back, staring up at me with a scowl of pure hatred. I pushed the gun closer and he raised his hands up, growling deep in his throat.
What would it be – claws? Scales? It has to be something; he
has
to be a demon.
He rolled on his back, staring up at me with a scowl of pure hatred. I pushed the gun closer and he raised his hands up, growling deep in his throat.
Slowly he took off one glove, revealing a pale white hand covered in tattoos – symbols, words, horned skulls, even a swastika. I stared, trying to fit the hand into my profile, and he whimpered softly. He pulled off his second glove, and as he did so, he broke down – another soft whimper, a slackening of the shoulders, a droop in his face and a long, prolonged sob. His second hand was just as tattooed as the first.
‘Forgive me, for I have sinned,’ he said, rolling onto his side and covering his face with his hands. ‘Forgive me, for I have sinned.’
It’s the source of guilt,
I thought, stepping back.
Those tattooed hands are why he kills – the sign of a sin he can never remove. Each kill pays for the last one, ridding the world of another sinner, but in killing he sins again. It’s a chain he can never escape, leading back to . . .
I thought, stepping back.
Those tattooed hands are why he kills – the sign of a sin he can never remove. Each kill pays for the last one, ridding the world of another sinner, but in killing he sins again. It’s a chain he can never escape, leading back to . . .
‘Who was the first?’ I asked, my voice hushed.
‘No,’ he moaned, rolling slowly back and forth.
‘The first one you killed,’ I asked. ‘Who was it? It was a priest, wasn’t it? A religious leader, probably one who punished you too harshly; maybe one who abused you.’
‘No,’ he said again, sobbing. ‘No, no, no – I didn’t mean to.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, standing up straighter. The gun was firm and powerful in my hand – a magic wand that would make this killer go away. ‘You’ve killed too many people, and for too long. This is my town, and I set out to save it from parasites like you – demon or not.’ I aimed the gun at his head and he cowered under his arms, crying pathetically. He was a perfect picture of weakness and evil - a misguided killer living from lie to lie, reduced to a quivering wreck because he couldn’t find another victim bad enough to justify the others. All his crimes, all his horror, all his sins, were crushing him to nothing. This wasn’t even my choice; I was simply the mechanism by which the world as a whole chose to rid itself of his cancer.
I held the gun, but I didn’t fire.
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