Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

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?

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.

He felt the warm trickle of life’s fluid as he grabbed at his mid-section and stared dumbfounded at the unremarkable man below.

“Fucking pig! Worthless purveyor of the establishment’s fascist ideals!”

The guard dropped to the warm concrete, thinking thoughts of yachts sailing out in the ocean and movies that were set in New York. He was only vaguely aware of the man calling out. As he lay on the sticky pavement, with scenes of Taxi Driver running through his blurry mind, he heard the cries.

“Let’s go! Hurry up!”

He also heard the sound of many footsteps as they stamped past his body. He faintly heard and felt a few of them spit on him. He also felt the quick blows of a couple of feet kicking him.

His mind was blurry with images of Serpico when he died.

There was a knock at the door of the control room. Craig stood up. “I’ll get it guys.”

He wandered across the dim room. He flipped the lock then swung the door open. He smiled and nodded.

Craig stepped aside while the two men ventured into the smoky control room.

“Hey, who are you guys?” one of the control men said.

The one in front pulled a gun from inside his jacket. “Don’t any of you move or we’ll blow a hole in your fucking head.”

Craig shut the door and locked it.

“We’re running this show, now,” the one with the gun said. “Get your asses over in that corner.”

All four men looked over at Craig, their eyes brimming with confusion and fear.

“Do what he says,” Craig told them.

They all hopped out of their chairs and shuffled over to the designated corner. The second man pulled a rifle from his bag and held it at the small group. “Surprise!” he shouted. He cackled as they all flinched.

“Which one speaks to the cameramen downstairs?” the first man asked Craig.

“I’ll show you.” Craig joined his accomplices at the large desk and sat down. He slipped on a set of headphones. “What do I tell them, Flag?”

The man sat down and slipped on a second set. “Can you make it so I can talk to the cameramen?”

“Sam said I was in charge up here.”

Flag sighed. “Okay. Sam said just to use one camera.”

“Hey, you gonna let Shorty boss you around like that, Flag?”

“Shut the fuck up, Bobby.”

“Yeah, keep quiet,” Craig said.

Bobby sniggered and turned his attention back to the group in the corner. “Which one’s the director?”

“I am,” a small, skinny man answered. “Are you terrorists?”

“Hell no,” Bobby chuckled.

“Well, then what do you want?”

“To teach everyone the evils of tele…”

Flag whirled around. “I thought I told you guys to be quiet.” He gazed a warning at Bobby. “Can’t you keep quiet?”

Bobby nodded. “Sorry, Flag.” A raving grin spread across his chubby face. “Can we shoot ‘em? Huh, can we?” He jabbed the rifle towards the cowering men.

“Jesus no,” Flag sighed. “Sam said not to kill them. We will need their help.”

Turning back to the controls, Flag gazed at the array of small screens that relayed what each camera downstairs saw. On most of the screens, Marty Laffin was standing in the centre of the stage. One screen showed the band. There was also a regular TV, showing them exactly what was being broadcast into millions of homes across the country. Flag would have to keep particular watch on that screen.

Craig nudged Flag. “I’m ready. You call the FBI. The phone’s over there.”