VENGEANCE
			WRITTEN BY RYAN POWERS (DISCORD999@AOL.COM)

	The night was clear and cool outside the car windows, but the stars were the last 
thing on the minds of the two young people sitting in the back of the ’94 Rolls Royce.  
The empty parking lot overlooked a baseball stadium, but Victoria Akre took no notice as 
she shook the sweat out of her long mane of bleached-blonde hair.  The football player 
who she was currently sleeping with sat beside her, flushed and panting breathlessly.  
Vicki didn’t even look at him as she took a drag from her cigarette, sucking in the smoke 
and then exhaling it in a stream.  Though her eyes were staring at the fogged outlines of 
the parking lot’s lights, her mind was far away.  When the football player reached over and 
tried to grope her exposed flesh, she casually batted his hand away and kept on staring 
into space.
	She was only sleeping with him so she could stay in the “in” crowd, but she had 
long since ceased to care about things like that.  He wasn’t even that good-looking, but 
she knew that being a football player’s girl in Tennessee, where football was a pagan God 
worshipped by the teenage masses, was the easiest way to be in the spotlight.  She’d 
already gone out (if you could call it that) with three of his teammates, and slept with each 
in turn.  The idea that she was essentially selling her body to be popular had long ceased to 
bother her.  It had began to seem after awhile that sex was nothing but a tool to get what 
she wanted.
	Again the football hero tried to feel her up, and again she pushed him away.  He 
grumbled and scratched himself openly, to Vicki’s disgust.  When he mumbled for a 
cigarette, Vicki reached into her jeans, which were on the floor, fished them out, and 
handed him one.  He grunted as he lit it and sucked in the poisonous gasses of the 
cigarette, his eyes closing as they entered his lungs and swirled around, giving him the 
nicotine he craved.  
	“So …” Vicki began, when suddenly went out.
	There was a sudden crash of glass breaking, and then the halo of light outside their 
window was extinguished as the lightbulb exploded.  Vicki gasped reflexively and jumped, 
causing hot ash to fall on her bare leg.  She hissed and immediately brushed it off.
	“Wha …” the football player said sleepily, as more crashes suddenly came from 
around them.  One after another, the lights in the parking lot exploded, until finally the 
waxing moon was the only thing giving light in the blackness of the night.  Though, 
through the tinted, foggy windows of the car, it might as well not have been there at all.
	Deep inside her stomach, Vicki felt a flutter of panic.  Something was happening, 
something very, very bad, and she had a feeling it was just getting started.  Her lover tried 
to say something, but she shushed him urgently.  After the final light had exploded, the 
night had become completely still.  Even the crickets had fallen silent.  She rubbed her arm 
absently, and found that the tiny hairs there were standing on end, as though charged with 
static.  She inhaled, and nearly gagged at the stench.  Covering up the usual after-sex 
smells, was a horrible odor, like something that had died long ago and was now rotting at 
the bottom of a deep, soggy pit.  
	After nearly a minute of that terrible silence, there was a strange wailing sound that 
was metal first bending, then breaking, directly outside their car.  Through the foggy front 
window, there was the dim outline of something falling.  Instinctively, Vicki drew against 
the door just in time to keep from being sliced in half by the metal pipe of the solid-steel 
lamp that crashed through the roof of the Royce.  The car was made for appearance, not 
for sustaining damage, and the pole crushed the roof down onto the two teenagers, 
shattering the windshields, crushing the engine and pinning the football player’s knee 
between the upholstery and the jagged metal of the pole.  He screamed in pain, and Vicki 
winced at the sound.  She, miraculously, was not damaged, other than a few cuts from the 
flying glass, but she was more terrified than ever.  Worse, the odor had grown even 
stronger until it was choking her.
	Desperately, Vicki clawed at the door handle and slammed her small, 135-pound 
fame against it.  The metal shrieked but refused to budge.  She slammed into it again, and 
again, but still to no effect.  She screamed in fear and frustration … and then, something 
screamed back.
	Vicki stopped in mid-shriek, and so did the thing that had answered her.  Someone 
or something was outside the car.  She knew she should cry out for help, but there had 
been something in that voice that terrified her.  She couldn’t bring herself to call for help, 
and the fact that it was probably just some random stranger who’d happened to wander by 
didn’t help her.
	“Vicki!” the football player yelled, from five feet and one very crushed roof away.  
“Are you OK?”
	Before she could answer, she heard the scream of sheet metal being torn apart like 
tissue paper.  She felt the cold air on her bare skin, and smelled that rotting stench, a 
thousands times stronger than it had been before.  She looked up into the pale, moon-light 
night, and saw the dim outline of a man, looming over her and holding the shredded roof 
of the car in one thin, twisted-looking hand.  From within the slumped head glittered two 
black eyes, filled with unholy rage and totally insane.  He opened his mouth, and 
something fell out, onto Vicki’s lap.  It squirmed on her bare skin, and though she 
couldn’t tear her eyes away from the horror on the roof, she knew it was a worm.  She 
knew because there were more in his mouth, writhing with malefic life. 
	“Vicki!” the football player yelled again.  “What was-“
	And then, only Vicki’s shrieks of horror.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	FBI Special Agents Anderson and Payton stepped into the office of the Chief of 
Police of Coal Spire, Tennessee.  The chief, a chubby, red-faced man named McCloud, 
stood and extended his hand to each.  Anderson folded her slim, cool fingers around his, 
shaking politely, while Payton returned it more firmly.  Pulling up two chairs, the agents 
sat down in front of the chief’s cluttered mahogany desk, folding their hands in their laps.  
McCloud politely waited a moment before sitting himself, rolling his chair up to the desk 
to grasp a large, heavy manila envelope.  
	“Glad y’all could make it,” McCloud said in a thick Southern drawl.  “Y’probably 
know, I’m Chief Thomas McCloud, an’ I run the police station in this town … most times, 
anyways.  We kinda came up on somethin’ a bit too big for us.”
	“So we heard,” Payton replied.  “Six teenage girls murdered in the past week.”
	McCloud nodded sadly, his large eyes expressing sadness.  “This’ the folder we’ve 
assembled on the case.  Other than the violent nature of the killins, we ain’t been able to 
find any connection between the girls.”
	Payton took the envelope, and slipped out a number of hospital forms and autopsy 
photos.  The experienced veteran didn’t even blink at the gruesome pictures, but 
Anderson’s already fair skin turned quite a few shades paler.  
	The victims were all ages 16-19, apparently murdered without regard to race.  One 
girl was Latin, two of them black, and the rest white.  Each person was killed by a 
different method, the suspected weapons ranging from blunt objects to steak knives.  One 
unlucky girl had been impaled upon a steel pipe.  The blunt object had been rammed 
through her stomach and out the other side.  
	“Victoria Akre, Emily Chilton, Nicole Black, Gina Valentin, Emma Rhodes, 
Amanda Jones,” McCloud stated, speaking the names in a kind of chant.  “All town girls 
… even that Mexican’d had family here for years.  God’s sake, I only came here four years 
ago, and even I knew ‘em all.”
	Anderson was studying the picture of Gina.  Apparently, the killer had been 
inspired by her last name, as a heart had been hacked into the skin of her chest.  When she 
spoke, her voice was far from steady.  “Did any of them have boyfriends?  Someone they 
might have made angry, perhaps?”
	McCloud shook his head.  “Most of ‘em had been aroun’ the block a few times, if 
you take my meanin’, but no one who was crazy enough to’ve done a thing like that.  
Why, Miss Akre was dating the quarterback of the football team … we won the state 
championship, y’know.”
	“Who would that be?” Anderson asked, turning her blue eyes away from the 
mutilated corpses with disgust.
	“Name’s Troy Sendelman,” McCloud replied.  “His address is in there if’n ya 
wanna question him, but I don’t think you’ll get much out of him.”
	“We can try,” Payton said, returning the pictures and information into the 
envelope.  “Thank you for your help, Chief McCloud.  I take it you have already instituted 
a curfew?”
	The corpulent man nodded.  “Nobody under the age of 21 allowed out past dark.  
‘Course, it’s kinda hard to enforce in a small town like this.”
	“That’s to be expected,” Payton said, his handsome, dark features creasing into a 
frown.  “However, you must make it known to the residents of Coal Spire that it is not 
safe to be out after dark.  Males aren’t to be considered any safer—just because this man 
has only killed young women, doesn’t mean he might not change his mind.”
	McCloud nodded again.  When the FBI agents stood, he did as well, again offering 
his meaty hand to shake.  “Hope that helped y’all out some.  I want this bastard behind 
bars, and soon … we done lost too many good girls already.”
	Anderson turned towards the door after shaking.  “We’ll get him, don’t worry.  
We’ll call you if there’s any way your department can help.”
	 “Y’all can count on us.”
	As the agents climbed into their black Oldsmobile, Anderson finally let out a 
groan, allowing her composure to go.  Payton, her partner since she’d joined the Bureau, 
patted her gently on the shoulder as he turned the key to ignite the engine.
	“I’m sorry … it’s just that I’ve never seen such horribly mutilated bodies,” 
Anderson said, her voice still a little shaky.  “I mean, other than the case studies I did 
when I was in training … but this …”
	“This was real.”
	“Yeah.  Way too real.”
	“Well, you’ll have to get used to it,” Payton, her senior by ten years, instructed her 
firmly.  “Now then, let’s pay the local football hero a visit.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	Sabrina Sendleman was a tall, thin woman who, despite being in her early 40’s, 
retained the sharply beautiful features that made her into a model for a number of years.  
After several years she had married, and came back to live in the town where she’d been 
raised.   Her eyes, however, were haunted with worry and sorrow for her son, and no 
amount of makeup could have eased the frightened expression that she wore when she 
cracked open her door.
	“Yes?” she asked, studying the blonde-haired woman and dark-featured man who 
stood on her stoop in suits.
	“Special Agents Payton and Anderson, FBI,” Payton said, taking out his badge and 
flashing it at Mrs. Sendleman.  “We’re sorry to interrupt you, but we were wondering if 
we could ask your son a few questions.”
	“Is this about that slut Troy was going out with?” Sabrina inquired sharply.
	“If you’re referring to Victoria Akre, yes,” Anderson replied, somewhat surprised 
at the woman’s tone.
	“You can if you want to,” Sabrina said, after staring at the two for a time.  “But 
don’t get him upset.  He’s been through enough … he’s terribly torn up about the whole 
thing.”
	“Thank you, Mrs. Sendleman,” Payton said smoothly, stepping inside.  
The house was quite well-furnished, with polished oak furniture and a beautiful 
glass chandelier with hundreds of raindrop-like beads of glass hanging down.  The former 
model led the two agents into the living room, where a tall, well-build young man in 
orange shorts and a University of Tennessee T-shirt sat, disinterestedly watching TV.  His 
right leg was propped up on the couch, and heavily bandaged at the knee.  He stood 
somewhat shakily when the three entered, holding onto the armrest of the couch to keep 
his balance.  
	“Troy, dear, there are some FBI agents here to see you,” Sabrina said softly.  
“They want to ask you a few questions about that g …Vicki.”
	“Sure,” Troy said, not seeming to be very interested in either his mother or the two 
agents.
	“Hello, Troy,” Payton said, extending his hand as Sabrina left the room.  “I’m 
Special Agent Payton, and this is Special Agent Anderson.”  
	“Nice to meet you.” Troy shook first Payton’s, and then Anderson’s hand, his eyes 
briefly roving up and down her frame.  She frowned, but said nothing.  Troy then returned 
to his seat on the couch, and gestured for the two agents to also have a seat.
	Payton sat on a blue plush chair, across a glass coffee table from Troy.  “As I’m 
sure you know, your girlfriend was the first victim of a killing spree in this town.  Six 
girls have been murdered so far, and we hope you can tell us something to prevent there 
from being any more.”
	“I’ll try,” Troy said, again glancing at Anderson, who’d sat at the opposite end of 
the couch.  “But she wasn’t really my girlfriend.  I mean, we did some stuff together, but 
we weren’t really that close.”
	“I see,” Payton replied.  “But that aside, I’d like you to tell me everything you 
remember about the night Vicki was murdered.  I understand you were there with her, 
after all.”
	“Yeah, I was,” Troy said, and for the first time emotion entered his voice.  He 
sounded vaguely troubled.  “It was right after the McCaslin County game, which we won 
a'course.  To celebrate, Vicki and I went to Washington Park to … well, y’know.”
	“I can guess,” Payton replied.
	Troy grinned a little, halfheartedly, then returned to his solemn expression.  "After 
we got done … y'know, messin' around, we were just sittin' in the car when all of a 
sudden, the lights in the stadium just went out."
	"Went out?  How?" Anderson asked.
	"I dunno … I think someone must've blown 'em up somehow.  And they all blew 
up, too, one right after the other, 'till it was too dark to see.  An' then …"
Troy paused for several seconds.  "And then?" Payton prompted.
"I heard somethin' outside the car … sounded kinda like metal breakin'.  An' then, 
all of a sudden, the roof caves in, and I feel somethin' sharp pinnin' my leg against the seat.  
That's why I'm all bandaged up, and that's why I couldn't help her."
	"What happened after that?"
	"I heard Vicki scream, I guess because she was scared, and then I heard somethin' 
screamin' in the woods. I tried callin' out to Vicki, but then I heard this real weird sound, 
and I startin' smellin' this real sick smell.  It was kinda like the time somethin' crawled into 
our vents and died, like whatever it was'd been dead a long time.  Then Vicki screamed … 
and she started kinda … gurglin' …"
	At this point, Troy started mumbling.  "Could you repeat that?" Payton asked, 
patiently.  Anderson was far less patient; she was almost literally on the edge of her seat.
	"I said, then I heard that scream again, only it was right next to me.  Like whatever 
it was'd decided to come on over and say howdy, y'know?  But it must've been a person, 
because I heard it say something … 'cept it sounded like he had a real bad cold or 
somethin', cause his voice was real thick and … y'know …"
	"Gravelly?" Anderson suggested.
	"Yeah, that."
	"What did this man say?" Payton asked.
	"I couldn't hear him real well," Troy said, uncertainly.  "What with Vicki screamin' 
and gurglin' and all.  But it sounded kinda like 'Vengeance" or somethin' like that."
	"Vengeance," Payton repeated.  "Would Vicki have any enemies that she made 
angry?  Enough to do something like that?"
	"Aw, nah," Troy shook his head.  "Everybody liked Vicki.  She teased the ugly 
girls a little, but there was others did a lot worse'n that."  
	Payton nodded sagely.  "I see.  Is there anything else that you can remember?  Any 
details at all?"
	Troy sat silent for a time, not looking at either of the agents, but instead staring 
out the window.  "Well … there was one thing.  I guess the cops didn't think nothin' of it, 
but when they finally pulled the roof off my leg, there was somethin' crawlin’ all over it."
	"What was it?"
	"Worms.  One hell of a lot of worms."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	Natalie Thompson, formerly Natalie Freeman, stepped out into the rain of the cool 
March evening, clutching her coat around her and quickly going to her car.  She knew 
about the curfew, but she was long past being a teenager (though Raul made her feel like 
one sometimes), and figured she was in no danger.  Besides, she just couldn't stay another 
night in the house with her boring husband the insurance salesman and their two brats.  
So, she'd told Carl that she was going out to see her sister and went to Raul's.  The dusky, 
well-muscled Caribbean always helped her forget her problems, even if she had to go back 
to them after they'd finished.  Now, she was too busy trying to make sure there was 
nothing in her hair to notice the dark shape approaching rapidly and soundlessly behind 
her, until it slammer her head into the window of her station wagon, shattering it into 
spider-line cracks. 
	"Guh?" Natalie asked, her mind reeling from the pain of a broken nose and a split 
forehead.  She looked up at her attacker just as every lamp along the street exploded, and 
so saw only an extremely lopsided head, and fingers reaching out towards her.
	There was no flesh on the fingers at all.
	Finally, Natalie managed to scream, her face a bloody mask as the skeletal hand 
reached towards her neck.  She pulled away, and it hit her shoulder instead, the fingers 
punching through the fabric and tearing ragged chunks out of her shoulder.  She yanked 
away from her attacker, stumbling in the high heels she was wearing, and struggled to get 
to the other side of the car.  If she could just get to Raul's …
	Then, suddenly, she stopped running.  She could still feel her legs, but they were 
no longer obeying her.  Instead of running, she turned around, facing the dark figure that 
was pursuing her.  It moved slowly; shambling, stumbling, staring at her with eyes that 
were only visible as reflections of light.  It stopped, then, looking at her, and when the 
lightning flashed overhead, she caught a glimpse of its rotted face, the massive wound that 
gaped obscenely on its head … and the black, spiraling insanity of its eyes.  
	The rotted thing facing her lifted the hand that had clawed her, the bones wet with 
her blood, which strangely did not wash off under the pounding rain.  The fingers pointed 
upwards, then clenched with a chilling rattle.
	“Vengeance,” the thing said, in a voice that rumbled like the thunder overhead.  
The thing raised its clenched fist to the sky, and as another bolt of lightning split the sky 
overhead, it smashed its fist brutally into the engine of the station wagon, punching 
through the metal as though it were merely cleverly painted paper-mache. 
	The resultant fireball from the engine exploding ended Natalie’s life mercifully 
quickly, but not quickly enough to miss the insane, gravelly laughter of the thing, which 
echoed in her soul even after it had been torn from her body, into whatever lies beyond.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	The phone next to Anderson’s bed rang shrilly, startling her out of a nightmare 
from which she awoke in a cold sweat.  In it, a dark, nameless shape from beyond any 
sane universe pursued her, reaching for her with hands that were only bones with strips of 
green flesh attached, and repeating the same word over and over again in its guttural 
voice; “Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance …”
	Anderson groped for the light switch, and then the phone.  “Hello?” she said, still 
shaken from the dream.  It was only a dream, of course, but it had still left her mark on 
her.
	“There’s been another one,” McCloud said.  His voice was distant, incredibly sad.  
“Natalie Thompson, 35.  Married ta Carl Thompson, with two young’uns, Stephanie and 
Greg.”
	“What happened?” Anderson was awake now, leaping easily from the horrors of 
her own mind to the one that presented itself in the real world.  From the connecting door, 
Payton entered, his curly brown hair mussed with sleep.  He sat beside her, watching 
intently.
	“We ain’t exactly sure.  ‘Round 11 o’ clock we got a call from the fire department, 
tellin’ us there was another dead woman.  We didn’t need no forensics stuff to tell us how 
she died, either … her skin was damn near melted right off her bones.”
	Anderson turned a shade paler, but didn’t let it reflect in her voice.  “Are you sure 
she was murdered?  The killer’s never used fire before.”
	“’Course I’m sure, woman!” McCloud barked, then reigned in his temper.  “Sorry, 
m’am.  But yeah, we’re sure.  The station wagon she was drivin’ was pretty messed up, 
but we could tell that something punched clear through the hood and smashed the engine.  
A spark must’ve made the whole thing explode.”
	“But … no man could punch through that much metal!” Anderson said tentatively.  
Indeed, she was having enough trouble believing that someone was strong enough to tear 
off the hood of a car with their bare hands, much less shatter an engine.  
	“I know,” McCloud agreed.  “But that ain’t the weirdest thing.  All the witnesses I 
talked to say they didn’t see nobody runnin’ from the explosion.  Even if the guy’d used 
on o’ them rail guns like in that one movie, he wouldn’t have had any time to get away.  
It’s almost like we’re chasin’ some kinda … ghost or somethin’.”
	Anderson shuddered, and ignored Payton’s look of askance.  “Thank you for 
calling, Chief McCloud,” she said.  “We’ll be down there as soon as we can.”
	“We better catch this guy, and soon,” McCloud muttered, as though to himself.  
“This is number seven … God knows how many more he has planned.”
	“We will, sir,” Anderson replied, and hung up.  At first, she didn’t look back at her 
partner, instead getting to her feet and starting to put on her suit.  
	“What was that about?” Payton finally asked.
	“There’s been another murder,” Anderson said.  “This time a 35-year-old woman 
with two kids.  McCloud said it looked like something must have punched all the way 
through the hood and the engine of her station wagon and made it explode.”
	“Strong guy.  What did you say her name was?”
	“Natalie something, I think.  Why?”
	Payton shrugged.  “Just a hunch.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	The two agents arrived at the site of the explosion at 12:15 AM, ten minutes after 
they’d gotten the call.  Natalie had been loaded into an ambulance and carted off.  The 
still-steaming hulk of the station wagon was being loaded onto a tow truck, to be 
examined at the State Police department some twenty miles away.  McCloud was still 
there, chomping on an unlit cigar and cursing at the downpour from the sky.  He nodded 
to the agents as they climbed out of their car, looking around themselves with high-
powered flashlights.  Payton walked over to the massive black mark on the sidewalk, and 
touched it with his free hand.
	“It’s still warm,” he said.  “Must’ve been a hell of an explosion.”
	McCloud nodded.  “We got calls on the switchboard from all over town.  Poor girl 
didn’t stand a chance.”
	Payton stood again, shining his light on the pavement around the blast radius, 
looking for anything.  He didn’t expect to find anything, but then he saw something.  He 
walked up to it, and gingerly picked it up between his thumb and forefinger.  He glanced 
at it in the flashlight, then said, “Looks like it’s the guy, after all.”
	“What is it?” Anderson asked, shining her flashlight on it.
	“A worm—burned to a crisp.”
	Anderson turned a shade paler.  “Looks like Troy wasn’t hallucinating, after all.  
But what does this mean?”
	“It’s him!” a shrill voice screamed from behind them.  They turned to see an old 
woman hobbling towards them on a walker, shaking her fist at them.  “It’s Robert, come 
back from the grave!  He’s been unable to rest after that slut made him do … that, and 
now he’s come back!”
	“Oh, Christ,” McCloud muttered.
	“How’s this?” Payton asked.
	“Just the local crazy woman,” McCloud replied.  “She had a grandson named 
Robert.  Boy meant the world to her, after his parents died in a car accident when he was 
5.  He killed himself about ten years back, after he found out his girl slept with another 
guy.  She’s been nuts ever since.”
	“Oh, you say that,” the old woman cackled.  “But it don’t matter none, ‘cuz my 
boy’s come back, like an’ avengin’ angel!  That woman was a slut just like the one that 
made him shoot himself, she’d been sleeping on her husband for months with that damned 
dark-skinned Raul, and now she’s got what was coming to her!  They were all sluts, all of 
‘em, and they got what for, too!”
	Suddenly, the crone saw her, and paused in her rantings.  “You,” she hissed.  “You 
look familiar … where’ve I seen you before?”
	Anderson could only stare back at the old woman in horror.  Payton frowned … 
there was no reason for her to be reacting so strongly to this woman’s words.  It was of 
no consequence, at any rate, as two deputies went towards the old woman, and gently but 
firmly diverted her away, ranting and raving the whole way.  Anderson went to Payton’s 
side, after watching the crone be led away.
	“That was interesting,” Payton said.  “What did you make of it?”
	“She’s insane,” Anderson replied evenly.
	Payton frowned.  “You said that the woman’s name was Natalie, right?”
	“Yeah, why?”
	Payton closed his eyes, thinking, then opened them.  “Chief McCloud, you 
wouldn’t have a notepad, would you?”
	“Sure,” he replied, pulling one from his pocket.  “I dunno how much good it’ll be 
in this rain, but you can try.”
	 “Thanks.” Payton went to a short overhang, and produced a pen.  He then wrote 
the first names of each of the five victims killed before that night—Vicki, Emily, Nicole, 
Gina, Emma, Amanda.  Under Amanda, he wrote Nicole.  He then handed it to Anderson.  
“What do you see here?”
	Anderson looked at the list, frowning.  “I’m sorry, but I still can’t see the 
connection.  What is it supposed to be?”
	“Look at the first letters of each name, and read it downwards.”
	Anderson did so, and her eyes widened.  “Vengeance!”
	McCloud was looked at the two curiously.  “What in Sam Hill you talkin’ about?  
You found a lead?”
	“The first letters of the victim’s names … they spell out V-E-N-G-E-A-N.”
	“Vengean?” McCloud frowned.  “The hell’s that mean?”
	“Vengeance,” Payton replied.  “That’s what Troy said he heard from the killer 
after he murdered Victoria.”
	McCloud’s eyes widened.  “Ya mean the killer’s been spellin’ out a word with 
these things?”
	Payton nodded.  “We’ll have to assume that he plans to kill twice more, and then 
either stop or go to another word.  If he stops, we won’t be able to catch him.  You say 
that most of the girls that were murdered were rather … loose, morally?”
	McCloud nodded.  “And that old woman was right about one thing … miss Natalie 
here was bangin’ this Raul’s socks off.  Her husband’s probably the only guy in town that 
don’t know … and I feel sorry for the guy that tries’n tell him now.”
	“Well, that narrows it down.  Is there any way you can contact every female in the 
surrounding area with a name that begins with a C or an E, and warn them they’re in 
danger?”
	McCloud frowned.  “Well, there’s plenty o’ E names in these parts.  Elizabeths, 
Emilys, all those.  But I can only think of one girl whose name starts with a C, at least 
that’s old enough to be dating, and that’s Clarice Mason.  Come to think of it, she broke 
up with her boyfriend last week, from what I heard.”
	Payton nodded.  “She’s in danger, then.  Would her parents object to someone 
staying there to see if there’s an attempt made on her life?”
	“Why, hell no!” McCloud smirked.  “The family’s got no relatives closer than 
Florida, and her dad couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.  I’m sure they’d let you 
two stay the night.”
	Payton nodded, looking at Anderson.  “Thank you, Chief McCloud.  We’ll go 
back to the hotel and get ready for a stake-out.”  With that, he went to the car, Anderson 
soon behind.
	As soon as they were in the car, Payton turned back towards her.  “OK, what was 
that all about?”
	“What?”
	“That old woman.  She recognized you somehow.  How?”
	Anderson shook her head.  “I … I don’t know.  Like McCloud told you, she’s 
crazy.”
	“That’s probably true,” Payton admitted.  “But you’re lying to me.  Why?”
	Anderson looked back at him, her cold blue eyes glinting with anger.  “I’m not 
lying to you, David.”
	“Don’t insult my intelligence.  We’ve been partners for the past two years, and I 
know you well enough to know when you’re trying to lie to me.”
	“You don’t know me at all,” Anderson replied, turning away.  “You don’t even 
know where I lived before I came to the FBI.”
	“Maybe not,” Payton said slowly.  “But I think I might be able to hazard a guess.”
	“Look, can you just go to the hotel?  This has nothing to do with the case.  We 
know how to catch our killer, now can we concentrate on that?”
	“Of course,” Payton replied, turning the ignition and falling silent.  They both 
remained silent all the way to their hotel, Payton glancing at his partner every few minutes.  
Every time, she was staring out the window.  Once, he almost thought he could see tears 
in her eyes.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	Night fell on Coal Spire slowly, the sun seeming to force the encroaching darkness 
to fight for every inch of sky it claimed.  After over an hour, the sun at last relented, and 
the sky turned from a blue into navy, and then into black.  From the east arose the pale 
white moon, shining its cold light upon the house of the Masons, where Anderson looked 
out into the darkness with her ice-blue eyes.  
	“I don’t see why I can’t go out,” Clarice whined.  The most likely potential victim 
of the next killer may not have been a slut, but she certainly dressed like one.  She was 
clad in a black spaghetti-strap shirt and shorts that barely covered any thigh at all, and her 
long brown hair was teased in a mock-up of an 80’s pop star’s hairdo.  “I need to go see 
Joey so we can work things out!  He’ll protect me, you don’t have to treat me like a 
baby!”
	“We’re not, Miss Mason,” Payton said, trying for a soothing voice.  He didn’t 
quite make it … Clarice had been whining like this for the past hour, and it was beginning 
to grate on both agents’ patience.  “But this man has already killed seven other women, 
and from the profiles, we are dealing with someone who is amazingly strong.  It’s just a 
precaution, until we can find him.”
	Clarice pouted.  Anderson imagined that the same pout had driven the boys in her 
senior class wild with lust; it just made her want to smack her.  “I don’t see why you think 
he’s gonna come after me.  What’d I ever do to this guy?”
	“Nothing, most likely,” Payton replied.  “But still, it’s best to be safe.  Psychopaths 
don’t necessarily need a reason to kill their victims.”
	Clarice started over with her whiny pleas again, and Anderson turned around, 
ready to tell the girl to shut her idiot mouth.  She got her mouth halfway open before there 
was a loud crash outside, the sizzle of electricity … and then, total darkness.
	Clarice screamed briefly, but Payton hurriedly shushed her.  Other than the girl’s 
quick, terrified breathing, there was no sound at all.  Even the crickets, which were usually 
impossible to silence, stood soundless.  The wood heater started up with a dull roar, and 
Clarice’s mother wailed in surprise and started sobbing.  The agents grimaced, drawing 
their guns, instinctively taking positions near the entrance of the room and the window, 
the two most likely points of entry.  
	“Anderson, take Clarice and get her upstairs,” Payton hissed through gritted teeth.  
“Mr. and Mrs. Mason, you go with her.  Try to get to a phone and call for back-up.  I’ll 
join you in a few minutes if nothing happens.”
	“Payton-“
	“Do it.”
	Anderson sighed.  “C’mon, Clarice,” she said gently, taking the young girl by her 
arm and leading her out, pistol still in hand.  Her parents followed soon behind, with 
Anderson taking the rear, glancing behind her every few seconds as they mounted the 
stairs.  Payton glanced at them as they turned the corner of the stairs and went out of 
sight, leaving him alone.
	Well … not entirely alone.
	Quickly, Payton checked the magazine of his .9mm pistol.  It was full.  Nodding, 
Payton stood silently in the living room, waiting for the slightest sound, the smallest 
indication of where the killer was, what he was doing.  Where he would strike. 
	Without warning, the picture window was vaporized.  Instead of the sound of a 
single pane of glass shattering, it sounded like millions of windows of all sizes and shapes 
being broken at once.  He threw his arms over his face instinctively, and powdered glass 
slammed into him, buffeting his sports coat and cutting his hands with larger shards.  One 
particularly large piece impaled him through his left shoulder with enough force to drive 
him back against the wall, causing him to cry out in agony.  He almost dropped the pistol, 
but was somehow able to keep the lacerated fingers of his right hand laced tightly around 
the grip of his handgun.  
	Slowly, almost casually, a figure emerged through the window, silhouetted by the 
dim moonlight.  He was only slightly visible, but Payton could clearly see the deformed 
slump of his head, as though the skull on one side had been smashed in.  Tatters of cloth 
fluttered around him, though there was no wind outside.  But most of all, Payton noticed 
the eyes—black chips of diamond that glittered with an utterly insane intelligence.
	Payton raised the .9mm, and though bolts of pain ripped into his shoulder, the gun 
was steady.  He pointed it straight at the figure’s malformed head.  “Freeze!” Payton 
yelled, his voice choking on glass dust and pain.
	The figure paused, head cocked, as though the man that was pointing a deadly 
weapon at him was merely a curiosity instead of a threat.  Payton met the eyes of the 
murderer, and for the first time, his aim trembled.  Then, the figure took another step, 
away from Payton and towards the hallway, turning its mad gaze from him.
	“Take another step and it’ll be your last,” Payton said, and again the figure turned 
towards him.  Its eyes were amused now … as though Payton were no more than a child 
pointing a cap gun at him.  Slowly, deliberately, he raised his foot, and stretched it out to 
take another step.
	Payton fired, and in the brief flash of light caused by the gunpowder, the man who 
had kept his cool under gunfire, terrorist attacks and even madmen wielding stolen rocket 
launchers, was nearly driven insane by what he saw.  The figure’s head was slumped not 
because the skull had been smashed in, but because it had been blown out.  The massive 
head wound was turned towards him, and through the strands of matted hair that clung to 
the wet flesh underneath, he could see the gleaming white of bone, shattered to reveal a 
wet, slimy substance that must have been a decayed brain.  Inside that skull, things 
squirmed and writhed, the same things which crawled both inside and out of the folds of 
skin that hung on its arms.  Worms.  Hundreds of worms.
	Then, the flash was gone, and the bullet slammed into the creature directly into the 
chest.  It jerked, a cloud of rotted flesh spraying from the wound as it staggered.  
Screaming wildly, Payton pumped three more rounds into the thing, hitting it in the chest 
twice and missing completely with the third.  The figure stood for a moment longer, 
seeming to mark him forever with the black gems of its eyes, and then fell backwards with 
a wet, meaty thud.
	“Payton!  Payton, are you alright?” Anderson called from upstairs.  At the sound 
of her voice, the figure, incredibly, arose, leaving behind worms to squirm and wriggle 
around on the ground where it had fallen.  Payton could only stare in disbelief as the thing 
shambled to its feet, looking towards the sound of her voice.
	“My God …” Payton whispered.  The .9mm dropped from his fingers, clattering 
uselessly to the ground.  He barely noticed.  “My God in heaven … who are you?  WHAT 
are you?”
	“God had little to do with what I do tonight,” the thing rasped, moving towards 
the stairs again.  “Who I am is of no consequence.  As for what I am … I believe you were 
the one that figured that part out.”
	Payton slowly fell to the ground, his suit warm and completely soaked with his 
blood.  There was no pain, only a numbness that filled his shoulder and arm.  It was 
spreading, turning his entire body numb.  
	“At last,” the thing muttered to itself, walking slowly and with deadly purpose.  
As it walked, the flesh on it slowly began to regenerate, the slime in its head beginning to 
re-form, the skull beginning to come back together.  Even the worms disappeared, 
crawling into its skin as it tightened around him.  By the time it was almost out of his 
sight, the creature had transformed from a George Romero nightmare into a tall, darkly 
handsome boy of roughly 17.  The only thing that hadn’t changed was its eyes, which still 
glittered with madness.  
	“Vengeance …” it whispered, as Payton slipped into unconsciousness.  Slowly, 
patiently, it began to climb the stairs. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	Anderson listened to the explosion, gunshots, and Payton’s screaming with 
increasing terror.  She and the Masons were gathered in the master bedroom.  Clarice sat 
sobbing on the bed, while her mother hugged her to her breast and attempted to console 
her.  Her father walked restlessly around the room, picking things up, examining them for 
a moment, then putting them back down again.  Anderson simply stood, about five feet 
away from the locked oak door, her pistol held at the ready.  She tried to breathe in slow, 
shallow breaths, trying to reach a sense of stillness inside her like they had taught her in 
the Academy, but nothing could stop the rabid pounding of her heart in her chest.  Payton 
was most likely severely hurt by now, if not dead, and there was nothing she could do to 
help except wait for whoever was behind all of this.  When the butcher came through the 
door, she would throw protocol out with the window; she would blow that bastard 
straight to Hell.
	Suddenly, over Clarice’s sobbing, Anderson could hear the sound of stealthy 
footsteps coming down the hall outside.  The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on 
end, and she leveled the pistol on the door, motioning for Clarice’s mother to keep her as 
quiet as possible.  
	Slowly, the door creaked open, revealing a slice of purest black in the hall.  
Slowly, pale white fingers curled around the edge of the door, and it was pushed open 
some more.  Anderson aimed her pistol at the opening portal, preparing to shoot as soon 
as she saw the man’s murderous face.  
	The door suddenly banged open the rest of the way, and Anderson leveled the 
pistol directly at the man’s forehead.  In the half-second before she could pull the trigger, 
however, the reflected moonlight from a passing car slid briefly over his face, and she 
looked into a face that had haunted her dreams for eleven years.  In the black diamonds of 
his eyes, she saw recognition … and utter and complete hatred.
	“I’ll get to you in a second,” the man said, in a voice that was inhuman in its rage.  
With that, he walked towards her, totally unmindful of the Ruger pointed at his head.  
	Panicking, Anderson started shooting.  The first shot missed completely, shattering 
a mirror next to the door into a hundred reflective shards.  The second whizzed by a half-
inch from his ear, and flew into the hallway.  He had nearly closed with her when she fired 
again, this time striking him dead-center in the chest.
	The man stumbled backwards, grimacing and clutching at the large circular hole 
that had suddenly been opened in his chest.  He staggered back several steps, and looked 
up at Anderson with the black sparks of his eyes.  She looked back, agape, and the Ruger 
clattered to the ground as the man took his hand away from the bullet wound … and 
revealed a chest completely unmarked by the bullet that had ripped through it mere 
seconds before.
	Angrily, the man slapped Anderson aside, his single blow sending her flying across 
the room.  She slammed into the vanity with the small of her back, and cried out in pain as 
she fell to her knees.  Without even glancing at her, the man continued towards Clarice, 
who had curled into a fetal position in her mother’s arms, whimpering like a hurt puppy.  
Her father went to stop him, wielding a glass vase like a club and smashing it with all his 
might upon the head of the intruder.  
	The man simply paused in his stride, as though irritated by an annoying bug.  He 
turned the black gaze of his eyes upon Clarice’s father, who had time for a single, terrified 
shriek before the man’s fist smashed into his rib cage, sending shards of bone into his 
heart.  He uttered a sickening gurgle as blood welled out of his lips, and then fell dead.
	Anderson looked upon this with a sense of bemused horror.  All of her FBI 
training fled her, and all she could do was watch in numb terror as the man stretched out 
his hands to the two women on the bed, the now-widowed Mrs. Mason trying to shield 
her daughter with her own body.  
	“Please …” the older woman whispered, looking up at the man with huge, tearful 
eyes.  “Please … don’t do this.  Don’t take my baby.”
	For a moment, the man paused.  For a moment the rage in his eyes wavered, and 
doubt seemed to creep in.  Then, suddenly, he began to transform back into the thing that 
had nearly driven Payton mad with fear; his skin began to droop and turn green, the scalp 
over his head parted, revealing white bone, which in turn cracked and fell apart into the 
jelly of its brain.  Worms emerged from their hiding places, squirming almost hungrily 
upon his rotted flesh.  At the sight of this abomination, Mrs. Mason--who had suffered 
from a mild heart condition for years--suffered a massive heart attack, her eyes bulging 
from their sockets as she fell backwards.  Convulsing, she fell off the bed onto the 
hardwood floor, leaving Clarice alone with her killer.
	The young girl looked up at him, whimpering, tears pouring from her eyes.  “W-
why …” she whispered, her voice cracking.  “Why are you doing this?”
	The creature made a fist of his rotted, fleshless hand, and drew it back.  “You 
never thought of the consequences, did you?  Never thought when you broke Tim’s heart, 
never thought of the pain you were putting him through.  I’m here for him, little slut, and 
all the others whose hearts you’ve broken.  I am here … for VENGEANCE!”
	With that, he rammed his fist forward, smashing it into Clarice’s face with inhuman 
strength.  She fell back, wailing, her once-perfect nose a bloody, squashed mess.  He 
raised his hand again, and instead of making a fist, this time he brought his hand down 
around her throat, the bones of his fingers digging deeply into her flesh.  She uttered a 
brief, breathless shriek as the muscles of her killer’s arm flexed … and then ripped her 
head off with the sound of a wet towel being torn in half.  
	The killer tossed the grisly trophy over his shoulder, where it rolled over once and 
stared up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, her mouth open in a look of stupid surprise.  
Anderson stared at it in terror, unable to look as the creature walked slowly over towards 
her, fingers clenching and unclenching.  Finally, the creature stood over her, and though 
she fought it, she felt an invisible hand forcing her to look up into the black depths of its 
eyes.  
	“Hello, Elizabeth,” Robert said, looming over her.  “You don’t seem pleased to 
see me.  Perhaps if I looked like this again?”
	The rotted flesh of his face shimmered, and again he was Robert as he had looked 
before that fateful night, when he had found her in the back seat of a car with his best 
friend.  
	“You can’t be him,” Elizabeth Lee Anderson said.  It was all she could think of.  
“You can’t be Robert.  He … died eleven years ago.”
	“You murdered me, you mean.”
	“I did NOT!” she screamed.  “I was an idiot, yes!  I should never have cheated on 
Robert … and there’s not a night that goes by that I don’t regret doing it.”
	“You didn’t seem overly regretful when I opened the door on Eddie’s Buick.  He 
had your panties on his head, as I recall.”
	“That was then,” she whispered.  “I would have given my life to have taken it back 
… but I didn’t kill Robert.  He was the one that put the trigger to his head.”
	“And it was YOU that made me do it!” Robert screamed, lashing out with the 
same hand that still glistened from Clarice’s blood.  It struck her open-handed across the 
face and she sprawled on her side.  “You must have known I’d find out.  Tell me, Liz, how 
many others did you screw behind my back?  One?  One dozen?  One hundred?  
Everyone in this toilet of a town with a dick?”
	“It was only him,” Anderson whispered.  Tears were in her eyes now, but there 
was also an undercurrent of rage.  She’d had nightmares about Robert for years 
afterwards … she and her mother had been forced to leave town after a mail bomb had 
nearly torn off Mrs. Anderson’s ear … and now she had lost her partner, one of the few 
people she’d made friends with in the past eleven years.  She’d paid enough.
	As soon as the thought was in her mind, Robert lashed out with a bare foot that 
connected squarely in her ribs.  “Don’t you dare say you’ve paid enough,” Robert 
growled.  “God frowns on suicides, did you know that?  That’s why I found myself in 
Hell.  It’s not a lake of fire, like the preachers say, or a wasteland of ice …the reality is 
far, far worse.”
	Clutching her ribs in pain, Anderson still managed to gasp out, “So … how are … 
you here?”
	Robert smiled.  There was not a bit of sanity in it.  “I figured that if Hell was real, 
then Satan must be real, too.  So I did some searching, and found that while there weren’t 
any Lords of the Flies inhibiting my new home, there were … other things.”
	“Other … things?”
	“Yes.  Creatures that make the Christian Devil look like a Boy Scout in 
comparison.  Creatures that were old when the universe hadn’t been born yet.  And they 
were willing to make a deal.”
	Anderson had been crawling towards a mahogany chair as Robert--or what once 
had been Robert--spoke.  Now, she pulled herself to a sitting position with it.  “And let me 
guess … they let you come back if you’d kill eight other women, and then the one you 
blamed for killing you, right?”
	“More or less.  Your partner was right about the ‘Vengeance’ pattern, of course 
… I’m amazed that no one else was able to discover it in all this time.  I destroyed each 
of the sluts in the deepest part of their depravity, and in return, the Others received their 
souls.  All of this was just window dressing, of course.  Now I have only one letter left … 
the final E.”
	“And I can guess who you’ve decided upon to kill for that one,” Anderson said, 
grunting as she made her way to sit down on the chair.  Her fingers curled around 
something small and metallic she had seen earlier, sitting on the chair.  It was a gold cross.
“I guess it’s no use denying it anymore … you are Robert.  Is this what you came 
back for?  Eight dead girls who did nothing to you, in return for the one girl that broke 
your heart eleven years ago?”
	“How dare you deny my pain?” Robert roared.  “You sent me to Hell, you bitch!  
You damned me forever … but I’ll not burn alone!”
	“Come and take me, then,” Anderson growled.  Her blue eyes met Robert’s black 
ones, and this time, they were devoid of fear.  “Come and take me to Hell, if you have the 
balls.  God knows you never did when you were alive.”
	Robert bellowed in rage, and leapt towards her with inhuman speed.  As soon as 
he was in the air, Anderson pulled her hand from behind her, holding the gold cross out.  
She had time to close her eyes when something impossibly brilliant and somehow HUGE 
burst out of the cross.  Robert screamed in agony, and a massive bolt of pain lanced up 
Anderson’s arm … it was like grabbing hold of a live power cable.  Barely audible over 
Robert’s scream, she could hear the sounds of first her sports jacket, and then her the 
sleeve of her shirt being torn to shreds.  She peeked through her slitted eyelids, and barely 
saw Robert writhing in the light blasting out from the cross.  Robert’s waving arms were 
slowly turning translucent in places.  
	“No!” Robert screamed, the worms in his skin falling dead to the ground, where 
they shriveled and blackened in seconds.  “No!  I waited too long … I cannot fail!  I 
cannot--“
	And then there was only screaming.  Robert turned and tried to run, when the pain 
in her arm increased a hundredfold.  From the cross, a bolt of pure white fire blazed out, 
striking Robert directly in the back.  He screamed one final time, his flesh consumed by the 
flames, and then simply disappeared.  There was a brief pop, as the air rushed into the 
space left by his form, and then the light--and the force sending lightning bolts up her arm-
-disappeared.  
	She threw the cross down, though it was now simply a piece of golden jewelry 
again.  Her arm was utterly without feeling, save for a dull vibration that still rattled in her 
bones.   Gasping, feeling utterly drained, she slid out of the chair and fell to the ground.  
There she lay, too weak to even bother to move.  After all, what was the point?  The killer 
had been sent back to where he’d come from, and the Masons weren’t in need of 
protecting any longer.  She would lay there for awhile, and then call for an ambulance.  
	She laid there for awhile, letting her arm slowly regain its feeling, and stared off 
into space.  She tiredly wondered exactly what she would do, now that Payton was gone.  
Not to mention how to fit the appearance of her long-dead ex-boyfriend as the killer.  It 
didn’t matter, really; she would think of something.  She closed her eyes, and slowly 
allowed herself to drift off to sleep.
	When she awoke, her arm was tingling again.  In fact, it was worse than before; 
the tingling was stronger, more alive.  It hurt worse, too.  And why did it feel all slimy?
	Slowly, Anderson turned her head, blowing away a wisp of hair that blocked her 
vision.  Her eyes widened tremendously, as she saw that her arm wasn’t tingling because 
of the after-affects of the cross at all.  
	Her entire arm was covered in thousands upon thousands of worms, biting, 
wiggling, jostling for space to dive into her soft flesh in.  As she watched, a half-dozen fell 
to the floor, wriggling angrily, and then made their way back to her arm, like playing a 
flesh-eating version of king of the hill.
	Anderson screamed, finding it within her the strength to sit up. The worms, 
seemingly emboldened by the sound, began to crawl through the hole and into her shirt, 
biting into her armpit, her shoulder, her breast.  She frantically tried to knock them away 
with her other hand, and the worms clung to it, digging into her flesh greedily.  She 
screamed again, and for an instant, she thought she saw Robert’s face in the writhing mass 
of worms, smiling at her with unholy satisfaction.  This final insanity broke her mind, and 
she began to giggle as she screamed.  She kept giggling even as the worms covered her 
body; even as they crawled into her ears and began tunneling towards her brain; even as 
she saw that underneath the worms on her arm, there was little left except bones that had 
been scraped clean of flesh.  Then, right before the worms on her face broke through her 
eyes, she saw a hand reaching up for her from the floor, a hand that wore a Coal Spire 
High School class ring, and she giggled and screamed at it, as well.  Then, the worms on 
her chest bit into her heart, bursting it, and there was no more.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	Police Chief McCloud broke down the door of the Mason’s bedroom exactly four 
hours after Agent Anderson’s final scream.  After hearing nothing from the agents, and 
after several failed attempts to reach them by phone, he had driven down there himself.  
He had seen the vaporized picture window and the dead Payton within, and had 
immediately called for backup.  Now he charged into the bedroom with a double-barreled 
shotgun in his hands, three deputies armed with pistols behind him.  He thought himself 
prepared for anything.
	He wasn’t.
	“Aw, hell,” McCloud breathed, lowering the shotgun.  He took in the bodies of 
Mr. and Mrs. Mason, Clarice’s decapitated body, and finally, the skeleton on the floor.  It 
was still wearing shreds of Anderson’s suit, and its mouth was thrown open in a final 
scream of horror.
	There were no worms anywhere. 
	Instead, written on the wall in blood so dark it was almost black;

				VENGEANCE IS MINE

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

	That morning, Annabelle White placed fresh flowers on her grandson’s grave, as 
she always did.  Usually, however, the old woman brought daisies or other wildflowers to 
honor her grandson.  This morning, she laid on the tombstone of Robert White a dozen 
roses as red as heart’s blood.
	“You got ‘em, my boy,” she said, and her voice was full of pride.  “Just like I 
always told ‘em you would.  You got those sluts, so you did.  And THAT slut … you got 
her best of all.  I love you, Robert.  I hope that in Heaven, the Good Lord’ll let you know 
that.  That … and your grandma’s proud of you.”

THE END