“Fuck,” he whined again, voice sounding an octave higher this time.
He was trapped. He would be discovered for sure. And then what would happen? Would he be shot, like the sign promised? Taken inside Edmund’s trailer and tortured? Would he be driven to the city and be delivered to one of Edmund’s clients as a present? Maybe he would be spared. Maybe George could claim to have been drinking and had wandered to the tip, fallen into the pit and drifted into a drunken sleep.
Sure, he’d believe that. Face it, if I get caught, I’m screwed.
And if that were to happen, George just hoped that Bobby would be okay. But with no one to look after him, to try and keep him on the right path in life, George doubted he would be.
Holy Christ, you’re not dead yet! Just get your head together and think of a way out of this!
But with an extremely limited choice of places to hide, and with his time running out, George didn’t fancy his chances of surviving to see the morning.
Think, think, think…
The idea struck him like a hammer to the back of the head.
It was a sickening thought. George couldn’t believe he was going to go through with it, but it was the only idea he could come up with.
He lay on top of the dead animal parts and rubbish bags. With gritted teeth, he began scooping the various odds and ends over his body like a skin and bone blanket.
After covering his head with a sizeable bit of animal carcass, he laid still, hoping he blended in with all the junk around him.
Lying among the human and cattle remains, keeping his eyes and lips firmly closed, George listened to the guttural noise of the van, its engine popping and spluttering and getting louder.
When the van sounded like it was right on top of him, the engine dropped to a low, steady hum and then George heard a door open.
He waited. There was a period of long silence.
Something brushed against his hand and he very nearly cried out, but he managed to swallow the scream.
The silence seemed to stretch on forever and George started to wonder if Edmund had left. Maybe everything would be okay after all, he thought.
Then he heard talking: faint, muffled.
George’s first thought was that Edmund was chatting to one of his client’s victims that he had brought back with him. Perhaps a friend for the one already in his house.
But the more they talked, the more it sounded to George like a friendly conversation.
Not a victim, then.
Had to be a friend.
But Edmund didn’t have any friends; at least, none that George knew of. Then he thought, with a cold, sinking feeling — maybe it was a killer from the city, one of Edmund’s clients.
Oh Jesus…
“This one?”
It was Edmund’s slightly muffled voice — worn, grizzled, like a much-loved leather jacket.
“Yep, that one.” This voice was softer, higher.
Bobby?
That second voice had sounded remarkably like the kid’s. But it couldn’t have been.
Suddenly a great weight was dumped on George.
He fought hard to stop himself from crying out in pain.
Another object was heaped onto George; this one thankfully wasn’t as heavy.
Christ I’m being fuckin’ buried alive here!
“Are you sure you want to watch?” Edmund said, his voice now even more muffled. “It can get very smelly. All that dead flesh cooking…”
“I like to watch fires,” answered the young voice.
Bobby. That’s definitely Bobby!
“If you say so.”
“And then I wanna see the rest of the dead bodies in the van.”
A dry, growling laugh. “Sure thing, kid. Now, stand back. You’re about to get your first lesson in dirty laundry disposal — destroying the evidence.”
Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, George struggled in the pit, no longer caring about being shot, just wanting to escape. But with all the sudden extra weight on top of him, he couldn’t move.
Suddenly there was a pattering above, like the sound of rain against a tent, and then the suffocating smell of petrol filled his head.
Oh hell no! Oh Jesus for the love of God no!
A bright kid. A normal kid. An inordinately quiet kid.
I like to watch fires…
And then one engulfed George Fisher.
The angle in serial killer stories that I find the most fascinating isn’t the forensics, nor the hunt for the killer; it’s the killers themselves and why they do what they do. Why did they become heinous murderers? Is it innate or is it more to do with their upbringing? Most of my stories — novels included — have to do with serial killing in some capacity, usually containing major or minor characters who are serial murderers. In this story, I pose the question — what would you do if you noticed the hallmark signs of the beginnings of a serial murderer in your child?
WHO WANTS TO BE A SURVIVOR!
Part 1: The Setup
The physically unimpressive man strolled up to the security guard with an impudent smile. He carried a large and torn gym bag that was soiled, and its original brand name and logo had faded from time and wear.
As the guard looked the man up and down, his immediate thought was that he was some sixties reject. But this guy couldn’t have been much older than thirty, so he was most likely a sixties wannabe. The guard smiled to himself but nodded diligently as the little man approached.
Wonder what sort of drugs this guy has, the guard thought, eyeing the worn bag.
“How do you do?” the man said. He gazed at the guard’s nametag. “Mike.” The man grinned.
“What can I do for you?” the guard said.
The man scratched his bald scalp and sniffed.
Cocaine, the guard surmised. Would’ve thought dope.
“Hot night,” the man said. “Real stinker.”
“Certainly is. I’d much rather be in there than out here.”
The small hippie laughed at the guard’s comment. A real belly laugh that seemed inappropriate for such a slight remark. He soon calmed, wiping his eyes.
“I hear that,” the man said. “Show started already?”
The guard nodded. “Afraid so, sir. Do you have a ticket?”
The man sighed and muttered under his breath. “Yeah. Been waiting a long time to see Marty’s show. Came all the way over from San Francisco. By bus, man.”
The guard took in a deep breath and checked his watch. He looked back down at the bearded man. “I suppose I could let you in. But I’d have to take you in myself and wait until they go for an ad break.”
“It’s live, isn’t it?” the man asked with an almost manic smile.
“Sure is. One of the only few left. May I have your ticket, sir?”
The man nodded. He placed the bulging bag down onto the pavement and zipped it open. He shoved his arm inside and rummaged around. “It’s in here somewhere. Probably fallen…Ah! Here it is.”
The man stood back up.
The guard held out his hand. “The show has only just started, so…”
His breath was stolen from his mouth the moment the knife entered his stomach.
“Take that you fucking pig,” the man spat, as he rammed the blade into the guard’s stomach and chest repeatedly with furious jabs. Blood gurgled from the guard’s mouth and he could only grunt with each thrust of the knife.