Sean Slater - The survivor

‘I have done nothing! Nothing!’ he whispered.

Red Mask neared the old man. ‘Untrue. You have done much, Doctor Kieu. In Vu Nuar, and Anlong Veng. Yes, you have done much horrible things. What is name of medicine?’

‘Naxopren! Naxopren!’

‘Inject yourself.’

The doctor’s eyes became rounder. ‘I… am not sick.’

‘Inject yourself!’

When the doctor did not move, Red Mask snatched up the syringe and drove the needle into his shoulder.

The old man screamed. ‘Please, please, Mok Gar Tieun!’

But Red Mask did not listen. He depressed the plunger.

The old man gasped. Trembled. Started to cry.

Red Mask’s face hardened. ‘Tears from you, Doctor? An irony — and an insult to your victims.’

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but only spittle came out. He clutched at his chest, then fell forward and slumped in the corner like a child’s doll. His breaths came deep and heavy; soon he began to shake more violently. Foam bubbled all around his lips. And then he became still.

The threat was over.

Red Mask struggled to get up and let out a cry when he put pressure on his injured shoulder. He focused on the TV screen. The news was on, showing a photograph of the cop who had ruined everything. The one who had manifested from nothing. Beneath his face was a name: Detective Jacob Striker.

Red Mask stared at him with dead eyes, this man who had killed Tran.

Let him come, he thought. It will change nothing. I will find the girl. And I will finish the job.

He headed for the exit with this one thought on his mind. The girl was still out there somewhere — the only one who had escaped him. Now that Tran was gone, her death was all that mattered. He would find her. And then he would kill her.

Striker approached the cafeteria with Felicia beside him. The doors were open. Standing out front of them was a young cop — male, East Indian, easily six feet tall and square-jawed. A solid guy, no doubt, but still a rookie. Had to be. Only rookies got stuck with the shittiest of all posts — guard duty. When Striker got close enough to see the badge number on his shirt, he nodded with understanding. The kid barely had six months under his belt.

Six months, and already this would be his worst day on the job.

Striker badged him, then grabbed a pair of protective booties and slipped them over his shoes. Felicia did the same. They gloved up and stepped under the police tape.

The first thing Striker noticed was the smell — not of blood or of urine or of anything bad. It was a sweet smell — almost caramel-like. He looked ahead to the kitchen and saw the blown-apart racks of Coke bottles. Black liquid was stuck to the floor. Memories of dropping to the ground with shotgun blasts impacting over his head hit Striker, as explosive in his mind now as they had been in reality six hours ago.

He jerked in response to the memory and slowed his steps. Then he felt Felicia’s heavy stare upon him. No doubt analysing him. If he stalled at all, the questions would begin:

Is it too soon, Jacob?

Do you need some time, Jacob?

Are you coping, Jacob?

Without meeting her eyes, he said, ‘It’s sticky here,’ and made a point of walking around the tacky goo. He marched into the eating area where the gunfight had erupted, and immediately spotted four covered bodies. Students.

He turned away and saw another body. From where it lay, he knew it was one of the gunmen.

‘White Mask.’

Dark fascination overtook Striker, and he moved forward.

The body of the gunman lay face up between the first and second row of cafeteria tables. The bloodied-red vinyl around the body had been blocked off by red cones and bright strands of yellow tape.

Another crime scene within the crime scene.

Emotions hit Striker. So many of them. They mixed into some strange concoction he could not define. Suppressing them, he walked right up to the police tape, crouched low, and looked at the body.

The gunman’s head was completely gone, as were both his hands — obliterated in response to the shotgun blasts Red Mask had pumped through them. Even now as Striker stared at the carnage, he could hear the violent explosions reverberating through the room: ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-BOOM. Up this close to the body, he could now clearly detect the unique stink of death — the urine and blood and shit. And the faint trace of burned gunpowder, which lingered as a dark reminder.

‘There’s not much of the prick left,’ Striker said.

Felicia came up behind him. ‘Yeah, he kinda lost his head over the whole ordeal.’

Striker leaned back under the tape and stood up. He analysed where White Mask had fallen, then considered where Red Mask had been standing. He pointed to the area beyond the body. ‘Look for teeth over there. We gotta find something, some way of identifying this bastard.’

‘Ident’s already done that.’

‘They find any?’

‘No, but they combed this place down.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Keep looking.’

Felicia started to say more, stopped. She just shook her head, turned around, and walked between the second and third row of tables. After a few steps, she leaned down and, with a gloved hand, picked up one of the rounds that had been expelled during the firefight. She inspected it. A brass casing with an inset head on the bullet. Frangible. She held it up for him to see.

‘Hydra-Shok,’ she said.

Striker recalled the meaty exit wounds he had seen in some of the students.

‘Bag and tag,’ he said, and Felicia continued her search.

With her out of the way, Striker could better focus. He examined the top of White Mask’s neck. It was an uneven fleshy ridge. The edges glistened, and here and there spots of whitish bone and yellow cartilage could be seen — some of them blown deeper within the body.

The musculature around the neck struck him as odd. There was too much muscle bulk for a teenager. Striker grabbed hold of each clavicle and tried to move them. The joints shifted, but very stiffly, and he wondered if it was ossified near the sternum. That would mean the John Doe was older than they thought. Maybe even over thirty. He wasn’t sure, but it was something to bring up with the Medical Examiner.

Fanning down the left side of White Mask’s neck was a strange, golden design. It added colour to the copper skin. Striker leaned close and studied it. Calligraphic lettering, he thought, or perhaps an artistic design. Something tribal.

It was hard to tell because most of the design was blown away. The part which remained was clear around the edges, and the colours were vibrant. It had been done by a professional, no doubt. Unfortunately, eighty percent of it was gone, along with the rest of the gunman’s neck and head. Striker took out his notebook, noted the location and design, and drew a copy of what he could make out. Then he called Felicia over. She looked unimpressed.

‘That look gold or yellow to you?’ he asked.

‘Amber sunshine.’

The small stab at humour felt good, and Striker managed a weak grin. ‘I’m serious, Feleesh.’

‘Gold. Definitely gold.’ She knelt down and leaned under the police tape for a better look. ‘But there’s red in there too, at the uppermost edges.’

‘Red?’

Striker took a better look and realised she was right. He’d thought it was dried blood, but the colour was too bright compared to the rest of the crusted goo. It was ink.

‘Good call.’

After writing this information in his notebook, his eyes fell upon the area where the neck met the chest. Just below the collar bone, left side near the heart, was a crudely tattooed number 13. Striker noted this too. Wrote it down.

He scanned the rest of the chest.