Bobby Akart - Armageddon

He continued through college, excelling at business administration, and graduated with high honors. From time to time, he’d sneak out of Gainesville and drive to Atlanta or Tampa or especially Orlando, where he could remain anonymous.

He’d meet men. Sometimes, he was Patrick. Other times, he was Patricia. He would change personas like most people changed socks. He mastered his craft and eventually settled on Patricia during the evening and Patrick during the day.

To say Patrick Hollister had descended into madness would be incorrect. He was simply mad. Not mad in the sense that he’d lost his mind, although many would argue anyone capable of the heinous murders he’d perpetrated must be at the highest level of bat-shit crazy.

No, Patrick was mad because he felt compelled to hide himself from the world. He felt cheap. Like he was forced to lurk in the shadows in order to find his soul mate. This ate away at him until he acted out in a drunken rage.

His first kill was a brutal affair. He’d had too much to drink, and the man he picked up in the bar was furious when he found out Patricia was actually Patrick. A fight ensued, and Patrick bludgeoned the man to death with a bottle of vodka before slicing open his throat. This happened in Ybor City near Tampa, a crime that was written off as a lovers’ quarrel gone horribly wrong.

After that night, he’d never felt more alive. He killed twice more. Once in Orlando and a second time in Hialeah near Miami. Then he stopped. He tried to get a hold of himself.

With his degree and exceptional grades, he landed a job as an assistant manager at the Island State Bank branch in Islamorada. Then, by a stroke of luck, for him, anyway, the branch manager had a heart attack and died. He was named the temporary branch manager, a title that became permanent after six months. He was a young man and a hustler. Patrick had an empathetic side that endeared himself to all of his customers, young and old, male and female.

However, the hunger within him continued to fester. One thing he’d learned about himself was that his desire to kill, the act of stealing the life of another human being, gave him more pleasure than the sexual encounters he engaged in.

The silent rage festered within him, and he took his lust for murder to Coconut Grove. He scoped out the lively crowd. One lonely man emerged as an easy mark. The kill was enjoyable. Exhilarating. Worthy of taking the risk of doing it again.

With his appreciation of fashion and makeup, Patrick, as Patricia, became indistinguishable from any other attractive woman. So he tried his luck closer to home, adding to the excitement.

He killed again and again. Unable to stop. More frequent. Increasingly elaborate. Unlike the bludgeoning, brutal death of his first victim. Patrick was studying anatomy and surgical techniques and watching Dexter on Showtime. He’d learned how to do it right, and now, despite the apocalypse, Patricia was ready to strike again.

With the bank branches closed until further notice, he had a lot of free time on his hands. The first thing he did was gain access to the Island State Bank branch in Key West on Whitehead Street. The island-style property was in fact a historic home that had been renovated into a bank building. It still maintained its Key West character, so to the casual observer, it looked very much like a home with its Victorian appointments together with upper and lower wraparound decks.

Inside, the lower level was devoted to retail banking. Upstairs, bank officers dealing with money transfers and loan administration occupied several offices. There was also a fully furnished apartment for visiting members of the bank’s board of directors, who were scattered throughout the country.

Patrick decided to move into the apartment so he could be closer to the action. Gasoline was nowhere to be found, and his killing opportunities were greatly reduced at his home in Islamorada. He moved his clothes, and Patricia’s, to the bank located a block off famed Duval Street and set up a base of operations.

Once he was ready to hit the late-night party scene, Patricia ventured out to the Green Parrot, which was just down the street. She marveled at the number of people who’d remained in Key West to party like it was the end of the world. Well , she thought to herself as she strutted down the sidewalk, maybe it is. If so, she planned on going out with a smile on her face.

That night, there were innumerable opportunities to score, she realized as she nursed a mai tai through a tall straw. As had been her MO, tried and proven, she waited until closing time to scoop up just the right guy. Small in stature. Inebriated. Horny.

They left the bar together, and the young man tried to immediately get handsy with her. She playfully patted away his advances. To the other drunks roaming the streets of Key West at that hour, they looked like any other couple headed for a hotel room to hook up.

Patricia led him to the front of the bank. In the dark, the young man squinted his eyes to take in the magnificent house turned community bank that had graced the cover of many issues of Key West tourist publications.

“You live here?” He slurred his words.

“Yes, I do,” Patricia replied in a deep, raspy voice. “You wanna come in for, you know?”

He wobbled on his feet and grabbed the handrail next to him. “Only if you’ll marry me tomorrow.”

He began to laugh uproariously at his joking proposal. Patricia played along.

“Of course, but after we spend the night together, you may not like me anymore.”

“I doubt that, baby. Let’s do this.”

The drunk man pulled his way up the railing and stumbled into the front door. Patricia hustled up behind him and unlocked it. The man’s momentum caused him to stumble forward and land face first on the area rug adorned with palm trees and monkeys.

“Let me help you up,” she said as she lifted him by the right arm.

As the man stood, he noticed the bank vault door directly in front of him. “Hey, baby. Is that the vault? You know, full of money?”

“Of course it is. Wanna see it?”

He nodded and stumbled toward the large polished steel door. Patricia moved ahead of him and grasped the handle to pull it open. It was heavy and took considerable effort, but it soon opened.

“Hey, it’s dark in there.” The man was again slurring his words. “Somebody turn on the lights.”

Patricia nudged him forward, and then she waved her arm just inside the vault. A battery-operated puck light sensed the motion of her arm. The man became confused.

“Wait. What’s all this stuff?”

More puck lights lit up, causing him to become disoriented.

Patricia crouched down, very ladylike, and picked up a pipe wrench. Then she dealt him a crushing blow to the back of his head, but not enough to kill him. Just enough to render him unconscious. The man’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor.

Twenty minutes later, Patrick hovered over the man’s body, sipping a glass of Beaujolais. His nude body was strapped to a stainless-steel table, with his wrists and ankles bound by leather straps to the four table legs. A gag was wrapped around his head and into his mouth.

As he awoke, he quickly sobered up. His eyes were wild out of fear as he writhed back and forth on the table. His body was twisting and squirming in an attempt to free himself from bondage.

Patrick moved slowly to a silver serving tray set atop a stool. He picked up a knife and carefully sliced off the gag.

“Help! Somebody! Help!” The man was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice reverberating off the steel walls and metal safe-deposit boxes.