Corpus Machina

Welcome to the seventh of twelve.  Once again, for those who don’t know, my New Year’s resolution this year was to write a short story each month and post it to my blog on the last Wednesday of the month.  So without further ado, I present to you “Corpus Machina”.

 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“One-twenty east, first avenue north in the industrial district. Inside the abandoned warehouse, you’ll find the body of a man. His jaw has been fractured…repeated blows to the midsection have resulted in ten out of twenty-four ribs being broken. He suffered three twelve-gauge shotgun blasts to the chest, collapsing his lungs and destroying his stomach, liver, heart, and spleen.”

“Sir…why…how do you know all this?”

“Because I killed him.”

 

A peal of light…electric veins crawling across the sky. A deep, grumbling boom shaking the world.

Doctor Cyrus Fortner observed the storm through his rain-spattered windshield. The wipers were trying their best, but the torrential downpour was so thick it remained difficult to see. The storm hadn’t let up all afternoon. He shook his head. It was a terrible night to be out and about.

He let out a yawn. It had been a long day at the hospital. Due to a scheduling error, Fortner had three surgeries in the same day, two of them organ transplants. But he wasn’t one to complain.

Fortner was in his late thirties. He had medium-length, reddish hair and deep brown eyes. Off work, he traded in his lab coat for a brown t-shirt and blue jeans. It was spring now, and the rain never seemed to stop.

He was driving a moderately affordable, yet luxurious gray four-door sedan. Glancing down at the touch-screen computer in the dashboard, he saw that it was nearly ten-thirty at night. His hands were folded in his lap. There was no need to steer. The car did that well enough on its own.

Voices filled the car. The radio was on…tuned to an all-news channel.

“-missing since Tuesday night,” a male voice was saying. “If you’re just joining us, it appears the infamous Oedipus Killer has struck again. This serial murderer exclusively targets women, particularly those in positions of authority. His latest victim is TV news anchorwoman Evelyn Blaylock. Blaylock is the host of the morning show on channel five and is well-liked throughout the community. She is best known for her feature pieces on local animal shelters, and is credited for a recent increase in pet adoptions. She was reported missing Tuesday afternoon when she failed to show up for work that morning. Blaylock has long blonde hair, green eyes, and was last seen wearing a red-“

Fortner turned off the radio as the car made a left turn. He had heard enough for now.

After a minute of driving down a long gravel road, the car pulled up to a large, darkened house. It had three separate floors. Although impossible to see in the dark and stormy night, the house was made of fine yellow bricks imported from overseas in the late 1800’s. Under the cover of darkness, it had a looming atmosphere to it.

Fortner turned the car off and gazed up at the shingled roof. The manor had been in the family for generations. A few years ago, a historical society made an offer on the house, but Fortner declined.

Grabbing the black umbrella on the passenger seat next to him, Fortner opened the door and stepped out into the rain. The sound was deafening, like he was standing under a waterfall. As quickly as he could, Fortner made his way up the stone steps and to the front door, punching his code into the gray alarm keypad.

In his hurry to get inside, Fortner didn’t notice the absence of a chime confirming the code…

As he stepped inside the door slammed shut behind him, muffling the roar of the rain. The foyer was dark and gloomy, misshapen shadows cast around the room. Fortner flicked a switch on the wall and immediately the darkness was dispelled by dazzling yellow light. A vibrant, glass chandelier hung over the grand, carpeted staircase in the middle of the room. The stairs split into two separate paths in the middle, veering off in opposite directions. Situated above it all and dominating the room was a large stained glass window with shades of purple, yellow, and green. Varnished wood lined the walls and floor, emitting a glossy shine under the light.

The house was an amalgam of old and new. A high-tech video screen was embedded in the wall near the stairs, standing in stark contrast to the Victorian-era aesthetic. Fortner walked up to the screen and pressed a button. It flickered and displayed text in soft blue lettering: “no new messages”.

Closing the umbrella and setting it down by the brown coat stand near the door, Fortner strolled into the darkened den. He caught the gaze of the moose head mounted on the wall, its eye a milky white under the light that filtered in from the foyer. Reaching along the wall, he pressed a button on another video screen which turned on the radio, tuned once again to the news station. Faint but familiar voices filled the darkened room.

Fortner was about to flick the light switch when he paused.

There was a silhouette seated in the brown leather chair at the far end of the room. At first Fortner thought it was just his mind creating an illusion…manifesting the vision out of the tangled webs of darkness.

Then he saw it shift…ever so slightly…

In a flash, Fortner flicked the lights on.

A man was sitting in Fortner’s favorite chair. He was watching him with deep blue eyes. From what Fortner could tell, the man was young, still in his mid-to-late twenties. Carefully cropped, short brown hair sat on top of his head. He was wearing a brown coat with a gray shirt underneath and faded blue jeans.

But more than anything, it was the strange detachment in the man’s gaze that unnerved him.

Fortner took a step forward. “Who-” he began, but paused. Something stuck out to him that hadn’t at first: the man was completely dry. But he had to come in out of the rain at some point, Fortner thought to himself.

“…How long have you been sitting there,” he finally asked.

“Two hours, eleven minutes, forty-seven seconds,” the man replied. His voice was flat and emotionless.

What in the hell…? Fortner was dumbfounded.

Slowly, he took a few steps around the room, placing himself in between the man and the large, ornate wooden desk situated to the right of the entryway. He hoped the man didn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t show it or care. He continued regarding Fortner with the same impassive expression.

A moment passed. Seeing that the man wasn’t going to speak first, Fortner gathered his courage.

“Who are you,” he asked.

“Who I am is not important,” the man responded. “But you, Doctor Cyrus Fortner…who you are is very important.”

The stranger’s manner was deeply troubling to Fortner. His choice of words and the way he talked was…strange. It matched his expression in a way, devoid of feeling…as if he wasn’t altogether human.

Fortner knew he needed to get control of the situation. He hated not having control…

Stepping over to a nearby table, Fortner grabbed a glass decanter full of whiskey and poured himself a glass. “Want some,” he asked the man, pointing to the glass on a table next to his chair. The man remained silent. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” Fortner said, replacing the decanter and picking up his glass. He stepped around to the other side of the desk, trying his best to put on a mask of calm authority.

After taking a sip, he turned around to face the man again. “So I guess the question is, why am I important?”

“You were asked to consult on Project Machina,” the man responded.

Any semblance of calm and control Fortner had vanished the second he heard that name. But regardless, he tried to collect himself once again.

“I have never heard of any such ‘Project Machina’. I’m afraid you have wasted your time.”

“You cannot lie to me Doctor Fortner. I know you were asked to consult on the project, and I know you were forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement. It would be in your best interest to be forthcoming with me.”

Fortner scowled. “Very well…yes I remember Project Machina. Something to do with machines and the human body, correct? But since you seem to know so much about me, then you must know I was dismissed from the project early on. I don’t know what information you expect me to provide.”

The man said nothing. Then, in the silence that followed, Fortner remembered something. The gray alarm panel flashed back in his mind…the keypad looming before him.

“How did you disable my alarm system,” he asked, unable to hide the faint tremor in his voice.

The man averted his gaze. His eyes began to flick back and forth in a steady, yet ominous rhythm.

“There were traces of epithelial cells on the front door code panel, with concentrated amounts on the numbers ‘2’, ‘0’, and ‘3’. The birth date of Doctor Cyrus M. Fortner is March 21st, 2033 at 10:53 AM…five pounds, six ounces.” The flicking stopped and the man returned his gaze to Fortner. “You see Doctor Fortner, with that knowledge deciphering your alarm code was simple.

Fortner was profoundly disturbed by what he had just witnessed. Where in the hell did he get that information, he thought to himself. And the way he rattled it off…like a damn machine.

It was then that he understood.

“You were a candidate, weren’t you? For the project?”

“Yes,” the man replied.

“Then it was a success, wasn’t it?”

The man looked away. His eyes began flicking back and forth again.

“They took me to a darkened room…gray cement walls, one light, metal table in the center. On the table was a nine-millimeter pistol…black leather grip, seventeen round magazine. Seated in a chair, bound by handcuffs, was a young man. He had darkened skin, brown eyes, black hair dampened by perspiration. His heat was beating fast…one hundred and twenty beats per minute. He was scared. I was handed the gun and told to shoot him. I asked why”. The flicking stopped. “They did not like that.”

“Because you wouldn’t follow orders without question,” Fortner observed.

“That is the most likely assessment,” the man replied.

“You were a soldier before the project, weren’t you?”

“And how would you know that, Doctor Fortner,” the man asked.

“Your hair is a dead giveaway…it’s meticulously taken care of. But there’s also the way you carry yourself. You took a seat in an area of the room with no windows and no door at your back. It shows tactical planning, ensuring that you have unimpeded sight lines in case of incoming danger.”

“Very astute doctor,” the man replied. “Yes, I was a soldier.”

“I thought as much.”

Fortner pulled the black office chair out from behind the desk and sat in it.

“Look…I’m sorry,” he began. “But-“

“She tells me not to worry…”

Fortner paused, turning his head toward the man. “What…who are you talking about?”

The man ignored him and continued his strange rambling. But this time, Fortner observed, his eyes weren’t flicking back and forth. They were just staring off into space.

“Her hair is golden, long…it blows in the autumn breeze. Her face is bright and sunny. Leaves of green and brown cover the grass. She smiles, her teeth shining white, and tells me not to worry…”

“What are you going on about,” Fortner demanded to know.

But just as soon as it had begun, it ended. The man laid his eyes back on Fortner and said nothing.

A glitch in the system? Fortner couldn’t be certain. Great…he’s damaged goods. Probably got tossed out of the project like I was.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I am. But I can’t help you. As I said before, my involvement in Project Machina was very limited. I had barely finished signing the NDA when they let me go. You’ll have to find someone else involved in the project to give you whatever answers you want.”

The man didn’t respond…still fixing him with that passive gaze. In the absence of conversation, the voices from the radio filled the room.

“We’re here with Police Chief Gordon Phillips, who has spearheaded the local investigation into the killings since they started two years ago,” the male voice from before said. “Chief, thank you for joining us.”

“You’re welcome,” another male voice said.

“Now, what can you tell us about the Oedipus Killer?”

“Based on our investigations, we’ve concluded that the killer is a male, likely in their late thirties. We believe that, because of his choice of victims, he has an issue with female authority, probably stemming from an abusive childhood.”

“Now, before we came on, you said something about the wounds on the victims. Care to elaborate,” the first voice asked.

“Certainly. During the examinations, the coroner discovered that the cuts on the bodies were incredibly precise. They also showed extensive signs of bleeding, meaning that they were inflicted before the victim died. It seems that the killer specifically chose those areas to cause the most pain with the lowest risk of fatality. In short, he wanted these women to suffer.”

“Truly disturbing,” said the first man.

“Incredibly. This tells us something important however. Due to the precision of the wounds, we can surmise that the killer has had extensive medical training. He is likely a surgeon or a doctor of some kind and-“

With shaky hands, Fortner reached across the desk and silenced the radio.

And then…for the first time since the conversation began…the man’s face changed. His mouth curled into a faint smirk.

“I see it now,” he said, his tone still calm. “I did not make the connection before, but now I understand.”

Fortner averted his gaze, looking down at the almost empty glass of whiskey before him. He lost himself in the smooth brown liquid.

“I knew that you were not involved in the project any longer. I knew that they had let you go, but I never uncovered why…until now. They let you go, Doctor Fortner, because they figured out what you were.”

Fortner managed to look up and lock eyes with the man.

“I suppose they were afraid of knowledge about the project getting out, which is why they never turned you in. But they could not allow you to stay on board…knowing what you were. Knowing what you had done.”

A moment of silence passed, then the man cocked his head to the side.

“Tell me, do you enjoy killing them?”

It took an immense amount of will, but Fortner managed to channel his fear and anxiety into anger. It was something he excelled at.

“You think you know me,” he growled. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You are Doctor Cyrus Fortner, age thirty-eight. After high school, you went straight into a four-year medical program. Once you had acquired your degree, which included a year studying abroad at a prestigious medical school in the United Kingdom, you went into a general surgery fellowship. Five years later, at the age of thirty, you became a fully licensed surgeon. You then moved back into your family home and started work at the local hospital. Everyone around you has always remarked on your unique talent for surgical operations.”

Fortner glared at the man. “So you know my college history. Big deal. That doesn’t mean you know me.”

“On the contrary, Doctor Fortner, I know all about you. I know that you grew up surrounded by wealth, but not many friends. I know you keep that moose head mounted on the wall because it makes you look like a hunter. But I know that, in reality, your dad was the hunter. I know that your dad left when you were only seven years old, so you do not have many memories of him.”

“That’s enough,” Fortner said, his voice trembling with anger.

“I know that you have a vintage 12-gauge hunting shotgun that you keep loaded in case of intruders. I know that you keep the shotgun tucked away in a hidden panel underneath your desk.”

In a flash, Fortner had removed the shotgun from its hiding place and stood up, bringing it to bear on the man. The office chair slid backwards, crashing into the wall with a loud bang. The man remained unfazed by the shotgun. His eyes seemed to register its appearance, but he stayed sitting back in the chair.

“Who the hell do you think you are, breaking into my home in the middle of the night?!”

“I also know what you keep buried in the backyard…doctor.”

Fortner’s jaw dropped. He loosened his grip on the shotgun.

“Did you start with cats and dogs, doctor? No…I imagine you started with flies or ants, something small that would not be missed. Once you grew bored with that, you moved on to mice or raccoons. And then, when that could no longer excite you…it was time to upgrade. There are a surprising amount of old missing pet cases that could be traced back to that mass grave in your backyard, Doctor Fortner.”

“Shut…up,” Fortner demanded, although it sounded more like a plea.

“Did your mother ever find out?”

That was the last straw. Fortner cocked the shotgun and took a step forward.

Enough! I’m sick of these games. Get the fuck out of my house!

“That is fine doctor…you do not have to answer. You already told me what I needed to know.”

Fortner squinted at him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You twitched…or rather your face twitched. You would be surprised how easily the human body betrays someone’s secrets.”

The gun started to shake in Fortner’s hands.

“So your mother found out…and she beat you. She beat you because she was an abusive mother. And with your father absent, no one was there to protect you.” The man’s eyes seemed to glow with frightening malice. “You are an intelligent man Doctor Fortner. Do you know why they call you the Oedipus Killer?”

Fortner said nothing, so the man continued.

“You always wanted a deeper relationship with your mother…but when you confessed your love to her she reacted with anger and violence. She was a firm believer in that anachronistic idea of ‘family values’. So she tried to beat it out of you. But that only made you turn inward. You became bitter and hateful. It was only a matter of time before you started killing. It is surprising that you held out for so long. I would imagine you satisfied yourself with the study of human anatomy and illicit videos on the internet.”

“Stop talking,” Fortner shouted, raising the shotgun and taking a step forward. “Just shut the fuck up!

“You were smart Doctor Fortner. You took people no one would miss…homeless women and criminal offenders. But it was not enough for you, was it? So you escalated. The first victim that got any real attention was the manager of the local food co-op…Margaret Gilman. That triggered the police investigation. For so long they went to scene after scene…but you remained elusive. You kept yourself well-hidden, ensuring that no trace of you would be found on the body. But this time, you went too far. Evelyn Blaylock…a broadcast news anchor…a very public and well-liked person. They are coming for you doctor. It is only a matter of time before-“

The sound of the shotgun blast ripped through the den like an explosion. Unprepared for the kickback, Fortner felt a burn ripple through his shoulder and winced with pain. But a moment later he saw that his aim was true. The blast had hit the man dead center in the chest, leaving bloody holes in his shirt.

For a long time, Fortner thought the man was dead.

But then…he let out a long exhale. His blue eyes opened and turned toward Fortner.

No way…that’s impossible, Fortner thought.

The man slowly stood up from his seat. He didn’t stumble. He didn’t groan. It was as if he considered the wound a mere annoyance.

Fortner took a couple steps back, pumping the shotgun.

“Stay back! I’m warning you!”

He almost didn’t see it in time. In one fluid movement, the man scooped up the glass near the chair and hurled it. Fortner saw the glittering object flying at him and let out a yell, pulling back on the shotgun trigger. The glass exploded in mid-air, showering him like dozen of shimmering knives. They cut into his face, causing him to yell and stumble backward. Fortner bumped into the desk and nearly collapsed to the ground, but managed to steady himself with one hand. It took a few moments, but he finally opened his eyes.

The man was lying on the floor near the chair, motionless. Fortner stood still for a long time, not certain what to do. He inched close and nudged him with his foot. No response.

“Fuck…fuck,” Fortner breathed heavily.

He was dead. The den would have to undergo a thorough cleaning.

But first, he had to get the body in the trunk. And once he was done cleaning…he knew exactly where to go…

 

Fortner closed the door behind him, the heavy metal clanging as it slid into place. A single, faint overhead light cast on ominous spotlight on the chair in the center of the room. Seated in the chair, bound with rope and gagged with a handkerchief, was a woman with blonde hair and a bright red blazer. Fortner set the shotgun down, leaning it against the door. Then he stood there for a moment, eyeing his captive and fiddling with the scalpel in his hands. He was enjoying himself.

Then, he stepped close to the still form and leaned in.

“Hello, Miss Blaylock,” he whispered in a sinister and playful tone.

The bright green eyes shot open immediately and found him. But, much to his frustration, instead of fear they radiated nothing but anger. Still, Fortner wasn’t about to let himself get caught off guard…not twice in one night.

“Now…I’m going to remove the gag…you better not start screaming,” he said.

He slipped around the back of the chair and untied the knot that held the handkerchief in her mouth.

Help! A man with inadequacy issues is holding me hostage,” she shouted at the top of her lungs.

“Fucking bitch,” he screamed, coming around to the front of the chair and viciously slashing her across the cheek with the scalpel. Crimson blood drizzled down the side of her face. “What did I just say?!”

Evelyn Blaylock raised her head and glared at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “I couldn’t hear over the sound of your obnoxious ego.”

“You really think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Fortner moved in close, pulling her head back and resting the scalpel against her throat.

“Now you listen here,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood for playing games. You mess with me, and you’re done.”

Her eyes locked with his in a hard stare.

“You won’t kill me,” she whispered. “Not yet. Because you want to enjoy this don’t you? You want to take your time and convince yourself that you’re the top dog, that you’re the man in charge. Hell…I bet you even get off to this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you?”

Fortner let her head go and just laughed.

“What happened to your face anyways,” she asked.

Fortner fell silent. He didn’t want to think about the man who had shown up in his den, the man who had taken a shotgun blast to the chest without so much as a gasp of pain. He didn’t want to think about the shattered glass that had dug into his face.

He didn’t want to think about the body that lay at the other end of the hallway, sealed away in a darkened room. Dumping two bodies at once would be difficult, but it had to be done.

“Tell me Miss Blaylock,” he said, steering the conversation in a new direction, “how long have you suspected me? I gathered from your line of questioning during our last encounter that I was high on your list.”

Blaylock’s eyes softened a little.

“To be honest, Doctor Fortner…you were my number one suspect.”

Fortner smiled.

“My reputation precedes me,” he said, performing a demented bow with the scalpel still in hand. “But I must know,” he began, walking around the chair and letting the scalpel hover precariously close to her face, “how did you come to this conclusion?”

Blaylock craned her head up to look at him, defiance returning to her eyes.

“Bite me,” she said. With a growl, Fortner yanked her hair back. She yelped in pain.

Don’t fuck with me,” he snarled.

“Fine, fine, fine,” she said, her voice hasty. Good, he thought. She’s understanding her place…

“I started investigating shortly after Margaret’s disappearance…the co-op manager?” Fortner nodded. “After interviewing the detective assigned to the case, it became clear that the person behind these killings was someone with a medical background. It was only a matter of time before I stumbled upon all those domestic incident calls the police made to your house when you were a kid. I mean, really, you ‘fell down the stairs’? It was like a bad joke. Combine that with the disappearance of local pets in the area, and you started to fit the profile more and more.”

“What profile,” Fortner asked with a scowl.

“The police had you marked down as a victim of parental abuse. They figured you had lacked an intimate relationship with your parents. Your dad had probably been absent since before you were born or left when you were very young. Your choice of target, women in positions of authority, was an obvious homage. You killed those women because you hated what they represented.”

“Stop talking…stop talking right now,” Fortner snarled.

“They were your mother, weren’t they,” Blaylock asked, a faint smirk on her face. “Because, in the end, you’re just another momma’s boy.”

“Shut up,” he shouted. “SHUT UP!”

“Little ol’ momma’s boy,” she said in a singsong voice. “Never got his momma’s love…”

Fortner rushed forward, snapping her head back and holding the scalpel up to her left eye.

“If you don’t shut your goddamn whore mouth, I’ll cut your fucking eyes out,” he threatened. He was letting her get to him. And he knew that was a bad thing. But Evelyn Blaylock was so good at pushing the right buttons.

A journalist, he thought to himself. Why did I have to pick a fight with a goddamn journalist?

“Do it,” Blaylock dared him. “That’s what you did to the cats and the dogs, didn’t you? You cut out their eyes and watched them stumble around because you liked the feeling of power it gave you. You’re a sick man Fortner. You’re a tumor. And you should have been excised from society long ago.”

“Shut up!” Fortner let her go and threw the scalpel across the room in rage. “Shut up shut up shut the fuck up!

“What’s up doc? Can’t handle the pressure,” she taunted.

Fortner screamed and slammed his fist into the metal wall. His knuckles burned from the impact. His breathing was shaky and heavy.

He was losing control…he hated losing control……

 

In a darkened room down the hallway from where Fortner and Blaylock were having their confrontation, a lone figure sat splayed out on the floor, motionless. But deep inside the shell of flesh, it was anything but still. Tiny, artificial constructs of metal meticulously made their way through the veins of their host. There were hundreds, if not thousands of these tiny, microscopic machines making their way through the body, repairing the damage.

After a long period of stillness, the body began to twitch. Then, a man who was supposed to be dead rose up like a modern-day Lazarus. There was no hesitation in his step, no hint of pain. He got to his feet with stoic purpose and dignity.

A sunny face…golden hair and a white smile…

The man shook his head. There was no need for that. Not anymore.

A moment later, the metal door sealing the room began to slide open…

 

“You’re in over your head Fortner! It’s only a matter of time before they figure out it was you. For such a smart man, you made a lot of dumb decisions.”

“My god, do you ever…stop…talking,” Fortner shrieked.

He knew it wouldn’t do any good to give in to the rage. Unlike the controlled anger he had before with the man, rage was pure fire. It had a mind of its own. But he couldn’t help himself. Every word out of that woman’s mouth was like a prickly needle. It added up with time, and steadily drove him mad.

“Just turn yourself in. Don’t embarrass yourself any further,” Blaylock said.

Fortner moved away from the wall with a noise somewhere between a cry of frustration and a shriek of rage. He snatched up the shotgun he had laid against the door, cocked it, and pointed the business end directly at Blaylock’s face.

“I swear to god…I will blow your fucking brains out right here!”

He was hoping to see fear in her eyes, to see some hint of submission. But there was nothing but green fire.

“Do it,” Blaylock dared. “Do it doc. Shoot me. Paint the walls with my blood.”

Don’t tell me what to do,” he screamed.

Blaylock hobbled forward in her chair, bringing her forehead directly against the gun barrel.

“You think I’m scared of you? My dad raped me when I was a kid, and my mother pretended that it was God’s will. You think you’re the only one in this world with a fucked up childhood? Join the club jackass!

Blaylock paused, staring hard at Fortner.

“You know what the difference between you and me is? I’m stronger than you. So go ahead, pull the trigger. Pull the trigger…and prove you’re a real man.”

He almost did. His finger twitched. He was about to send pieces of her skull flying all over the room.

But the knocking stopped him.

It was so simple…so ordinary…and yet it was so out of place at the same time. Three simple knocks…like those of a neighbor looking to borrow a cup of sugar or a set of jumper cables for their car.

Blaylock’s eyes flicked toward the door in profound confusion. Fortner lowered the gun from her head and slowly turned around.

“What…the hell…” he muttered.

After a moment of silence, the knocks came again. Three short raps…no sense of urgency. It felt like forever before Fortner managed to move his legs. He took slow steps toward the door, laying his hand on the handle. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it aside.

Blue eyes.

Brown hair.

One hand clenched into a fist.

Gray t-shirt riddled with bullet holes like Swiss cheese.

“Who the hell,” Blaylock mumbled.

“No…” Fortner was aghast. He stumbled backward. “It can’t be…that’s impossible!

The man’s inscrutable blue eyes twinkled at him as a faint smile spread across his lips. He opened his closed hand.

Like glittering raindrops, the bloody shotgun pellets fell out of his hand and hit the floor, creating an oddly beautiful tinkling noise.

And then, Fortner had a thought.

That son of a bitch…did he plan this? Was all that pretense about Project Machina just a ruse? Was this his aim all along, to get me to bring him here?

Regardless, Fortner wasn’t going to be taken down so easily. He let out a loud roar, cocking the shotgun and bringing it to bear on the man.

But the man was too fast. He grabbed the barrel and shoved it upward. In his surprise, Fortner accidentally pulled back on the trigger. The blast echoed throughout the room and sparks fell from ceiling. The man ripped the shotgun out of Fortner’s hands and threw it aside. Then, before he could react, the man swung back and drove his fist into the side of Fortner’s face.

Something cracked. His face burned. Fortner was stunned at the force of the punch. He felt like he wasn’t being hit by a man, but rather a speeding freight train. He spun around and fell to the floor, his mouth filling with the stale taste of copper.

He spat, blood staining the cold metal ground. He got back to his feet and roared, charging at the man. He swung at him, fists flailing through the air like a demented boxing match. A few of them actually hit their mark, striking the man across the face. But the man didn’t even seem to flinch. Instead, he drove his fist into Fortner’s chest repeatedly, knocking the wind out of him. There was a vicious cracking that Fortner guessed belonged to his ribs. He howled in pain.

The man stopped for a moment, then kicked Fortner as hard as he could. Fortner went flying into the wall with a loud crash and fell to the ground. The world spun around his head, colors swimming in and out of focus.

His vision cleared up just long enough to see the man approaching him, shotgun in hand.

Fortner’s eyes went wide. He screamed.

A deafening blast sent his world cascading into infinite, dark silence…

 

A shotgun shot rang out through the halls of the warehouse.

Then another.

And another.

Silence fell over everything. A moment later, the faint sound of ripping fabric could be heard.

And then, a man appeared in the open doorway, his face covered in blood and bruises. His shirt was riddled with blood-stained holes. His expression showed no hint of pain. He held a shotgun in one hand, letting it hang close to his side. His blue eyes twitched, like he was remembering something.

Sunny face…bright white smile…

He shook his head.

Then he began walking down the hallway. About halfway down the corridor, he tossed the shotgun into a nearby pile of rubble without even looking. Behind him, a woman in a red blazer rushed to the doorway.

“Wait,” she shouted after him.

The man turned around. He gazed at her with an impassive and robotic expression.

“Who-” She squinted. “Who are you?”

There was a long pause.

“No one important,” he answered, his tone flat and devoid of feeling. Then he turned and walked down another hallway. At the end, he pushed aside the massive double doors that sealed the warehouse. Outside, warm sunlight caressed the man’s young face. But he didn’t pay it any attention. Instead, he pulled out the small, black phone he had taken from the doctor’s pants pocket…

 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“One-twenty east, first avenue north in the industrial district. Inside the abandoned warehouse, you’ll find the body of a man. His jaw has been fractured…repeated blows to the midsection have resulted in ten out of twenty-four ribs being broken. He suffered three twelve-gauge shotgun blasts to the chest, collapsing his lungs and destroying his stomach, liver, heart, and spleen.”

“Sir…why…how do you know all this?”

“Because I killed him.”

A long pause.

“Why are you-“

“In his front pants pocket you’ll find a wallet which will identify the man as Doctor Cyrus Fortner, a local surgeon. The subsequent investigation will determine that he was the notorious Oedipus Killer, responsible for the disappearance of nearly a dozen women over the past two years.”

“But…why are you telling me this? …Are you there? Sir? Sir?!”

 

Deep in the bowels of a classified government facility, a man rushed through the halls. He moved so fast that he nearly collided with people carrying important papers and equipment. A flurry of “excuse me”s and “pardon”s erupted with his passage. Finally, he made his way to a door and threw it open.

“Sir?!” A man with bright hazel eyes and a white lab coat looked up from his desk. “We found him. What should we do?”

The man at the desk pondered for a moment.

“Should we bring him in?”

“No…no,” the man at the desk said. “Let him go for now. We’ll see how this plays out.”

“Yes sir!” The man at the door left.

The man at the desk looked back down at a manila folder in his hands. The tab at the top right says “D. MEYERS.” He opened it. Clipped onto the front was a picture of a man with short brown hair and deep blue eyes, wearing a desert camouflage uniform.

“Corporal Meyers…still trying to save people huh,” the man mumbled to himself.

He lifted the photo, revealing another underneath. This picture displayed the man and a slightly older woman with golden hair, sunny face, and a pleasant white smile standing in front of a large, white farmhouse.

“Still trying to save people…because you couldn’t save your sister, could you?”

 

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