Chapter 71
ZAYNE
The delicious scent of death. A smell that is warm and inviting. It’s a part of everyone’s lives and should be welcomed and embraced as such.
Cut open his stomach, watch the organs fall out. Zayne’s illogical voice is frothing at the mouth over the latest victim. And he has to agree, the sight of freshly spilt organs is delightful.
This latest victim is an added notch to his collection. And who can blame him? He’s on vacation, in a new country, connecting with the locals. It’s what normals do after all, they connect to locals and share stories of their travels.
He should do that. Take up the age-old tradition, and he’s heard Australians are very friendly people who love to chat. So . . .
“I’m on vacation, you see. I am exploring the wealth that the locals have to offer.” Zayne crouches over the man who is whimpering on the dirt.
In a dug-up patch of soil that did not take kindly to the struggle between Zayne and his latest victim. It’s in some park that has no lights, and is so far from any houses even if the guy screams it will do no harm.
It’s something he has discovered while exploring the towns of Australia, they have random patches of forest everywhere.
Or as the locals have informed him, bushland.
Which, looking around, is probably what he is standing in.
There are all sizes of brittle trees, spindly branches that look half dead.
Which on his web browsing of Australian bushland informed him they’re called gum trees. And the chlamydia Koalas live in them.
Fucking Australia. Why did his brother move here?
There are signs next to his hotel warning him there are crocodiles in the golf course ponds. And one at the beach down the road listing all the things that want to kill him in the water. Small jelly fish being right at the start.
Going back home will be a gift. At least you can see the bears coming for you, they don’t hide in your shoes. Like the spider he found when he was leaving this morning, the spider that was the size of his damn palm.
A whimper draws his eyes from the gum trees back to his victim.
He trails his gaze over the blood leaking from his victim’s split lip, to the cut on his cheekbone from the brass knuckle Zayne has on his left hand.
Not bad a hit considering left isn’t his dominant hand.
He left that side for his knife and the fancy twirling he will do to cut open skin and sink into muscle.
His victim mumbles something incoherent, trying to drag himself backwards on his one good arm, his other hanging limp, pouring blood from the shoulder where Zayne inserted his knife at one point in their scuffle.
Flipping said knife in his gloved right hand, he aims at catching the light, letting the suns sharp ‘fuck you’ glint off the steel and into his victim’s eyes.
He has a whole plan, an entire elaborate, drawn-out death to inflict on his victim.
A phone’s ringtone cuts off his next move.
Ignore it, stab him. His illogical voice rages. And he would usually give in to it, he would have if the ringtone didn’t come from the burner which only his brother knows.
Plucking it from the pocket stitched into the lining of his boot, he answers on the fourth ring.
“Yeah?” His hand automatically slaps over his victim’s mouth, giving the soon to be dead-sack-of-meat a pointed look.
“I was told to call to inform you of Jasper Marcelo’s release, he’s out in an hour.”
Zayne blinks, pulling the phone from his ear, no caller ID just a pattern of numbers. He does not recognise the voice.
“Who?”
“Jasper Marcelo. Sinn'ous told me to call you.”
His true self is out so the noise of annoyance he makes cannot be held back. He knows who Jasper is.
“Who are you?” His victim whines, so he squeezes his hand scrunching the lips and other facial features together.
“Collin Rogers. Correctional Officer.”
Ah, yes, the one Dante had organised wiring money too.
“An hour you said?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.” He hangs up on any reply, and cracks the burner in half. Removing the sim card, he subjects it to the same fate, splitting the tiny thing in two. He’ll get a new one and send the number to his brother.
At best it will take him forty-five minutes to travel to Sandstone Correctional, if he skirts the laws on speed limits.
Killing his victim would be the smart choice.
And yet, he discovers himself cutting off strips of his victim’s shirt to stuff into the blood-dusted mouth.
Taking his victim with him would be more beneficial, it will allow him the time needed to savour the kill and draw it out slowly.
~~~
Ten minutes later he has a homemade, chloroformed victim in the trunk of his rental car.
Settled on top of a stack of interlocking plastic trash bags or ‘garbage bags’ as they were labelled.
And he is driving his ass and his victim’s chemically unconscious ass, to Sandstone Correctional to pick up his brother’s boy toy.
If he’s lucky this Jasper guy will put up a fuss and he can lock him in the basement room, come back periodically to throw food in, and not have to worry about keeping an eye on him because he’ll already know exactly where he is.
~~~
They make it twenty minutes down the road, Jasper sitting thankfully silent in the passenger seat, until his victim gives a kick of life. The thud coming from the trunk is loud and unmistakable.
Jasper glances behind him at the back seats. “What was that?”
“It’s an old car, makes noises sometimes.” The next thud hits to punctuate the obvious lie. “Something must have come loose back there.”
“Is . . .” Jaspers unnaturally green eyes flip to Zayne. “Is there someone in the boot?”
“Of course not.” Zayne presses the button to the car’s radio, kicking himself for not already doing so. Switching his persona from a normal driving a car, to a normal who is clueless to any wrong doings and an honest, nice person.
Jasper gives him a pointed look of scepticism, which he promptly ignores.
In order to make it back to civilisation and its population of victims to be, without stuffing Jasper in the trunk, something he’s sure his brother will disapprove of, he has to sink deep into his fake persona of care.
When a Katy Perry song blasts at them through the speakers he recognises it from Jenny’s I-will-play-this-on-repeat-for-a-month-straight and it’s a cinch to switch personalities into this new happy vibe.
“Oh, yeah.” Zayne cheers, pushing out the fake persona.
“I love this song.” And much to his absolute hate of all things road trip singing related, he starts singing, hitting every lyric like it is in fact his favourite song.
Turning the dial to blast the music louder and drown out his now conscious victim in the trunk.
Jasper laughs, the noise telling Zayne the victim has been forgotten, and starts to sing along too. And to the outside, they look all the world like they’re both completely into this. The way Zayne’s fake persona insists he do, he taps the steering wheel to the beat, plastering on a wide grin.
Kill me now. Zayne’s illogical voice complains, playing the role of throwing a rope around a figurative neck and pulling taunt. And Zayne has to agree, he would much rather be listening to the gurgled sounds of a victim drowning in blood, not this high beat music.
Once I drop Jasper at the house, you’ll be let out to play. Zayne promises his true self, sinking into the euphoria that promise gives him.