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Authors: Michaelbrent Collings
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something Malachi treasured. That moment when they all realized, yes, they were going to die. It came to everyone, though they all experienced it differently. Some refused to accept it until the last, others knew instantly.
Lucas had known from the moment Malachi shot the bartender. The urine that sprayed out of him testified to that, and he wished he could have taken a small trace of the urine back with him. He supposed he could have, had he thought of it earlier. He could have emptied out a whisky bottle and stored some of Lucas’ fluid in the glass vessel. Would the glass hold it? Or would it burst under the pressure of Lucas’ holy urine?
Malachi would never know. But next time, perhaps he would try. Perhaps he would make his next victim urinate into a cup. If it was a man, perhaps he would arrange his attack at a time when the man was aroused, to gather the man’s seed, the fluid of life.
He had no idea how he might do this, but he had no doubt that such could be accomplished, should the desire arise within him.
He would never take blood, though. Blood was holy. Sacred. It was the redeeming power that had brought him here, to this place, to this very room. It was blood that drove him to kill, to destroy, and thereby to create.
It was blood that Malachi had spilt, and would spill again. But he would not take it with him. The blood must soak into the earth, to become a testament to his greatness; to the Work he had done.
An intercom, small and all but hidden in the bare stone wall of his room, beeped.
Malachi ignored it for a moment. It beeped again, and he swung his legs over the side of his bed. A lighting-stemmed crucifix swung near his chest, its metal warm from laying against his neck. Malachi touched the intercom. At the other end of the line, he knew, another man would be reading a piece of paper. The paper would hold a name, a place, and a time.
"Yes?" asked Malachi.
"We’ve found another one."
"Good."
"A woman."
Malachi’s heart raced. The last one. The end was near.
"Even better," he said.
Malachi stood and began dressing. He pulled on the clothing quickly, because when he received new prey, he liked to move fast. But he still took the time to make sure the clothing was clean, and comely.
He put on good clothing, because killing a woman was something that demanded respect.
FAILURE LOG
DOM#22A
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
AD 1999
10:00 AM FRIDAY
Fran heard the voice, just like everyone else. The difference was, she was actually listening , too. Because the words that the voice was saying meant something to her.
They meant her life could start again.
"This is your captain speaking. We’ll be leaving in about two minutes, so you all just buckle up and sit tight while the flight attendants explain our safety procedures."
The voice was tinny: the same voice that Fran had heard countless times on countless TV shows and movies. Only this time it was real. This time she sat not on her couch with a lonely bowl of popcorn her only company, but in the seat of the airliner. First class, no less, with reclining leather seats that were far more comfortable than her sofa had ever been.
In the front of the section, the flight attendant began talking about emergency exits. Fran listened even more carefully now, as the pretty airline stewardess - no, hostess , they were called on this line - explained how the seat could be used as a flotation device in case of a water crash.
Fran’s lips curled into a tight smile. Tight, because if she smiled fully, she’d start giggling. And if she started to laugh, she probably wouldn’t stop.
We’re flying over the Rockies. Where would we land in water?
And then, fast on the heels of that thought, came another: I’m really doing it.
She looked around, wanting to suck it all in and savor the moment. She was leaving home for the first time. If she had had a
Lucas had known from the moment Malachi shot the bartender. The urine that sprayed out of him testified to that, and he wished he could have taken a small trace of the urine back with him. He supposed he could have, had he thought of it earlier. He could have emptied out a whisky bottle and stored some of Lucas’ fluid in the glass vessel. Would the glass hold it? Or would it burst under the pressure of Lucas’ holy urine?
Malachi would never know. But next time, perhaps he would try. Perhaps he would make his next victim urinate into a cup. If it was a man, perhaps he would arrange his attack at a time when the man was aroused, to gather the man’s seed, the fluid of life.
He had no idea how he might do this, but he had no doubt that such could be accomplished, should the desire arise within him.
He would never take blood, though. Blood was holy. Sacred. It was the redeeming power that had brought him here, to this place, to this very room. It was blood that drove him to kill, to destroy, and thereby to create.
It was blood that Malachi had spilt, and would spill again. But he would not take it with him. The blood must soak into the earth, to become a testament to his greatness; to the Work he had done.
An intercom, small and all but hidden in the bare stone wall of his room, beeped.
Malachi ignored it for a moment. It beeped again, and he swung his legs over the side of his bed. A lighting-stemmed crucifix swung near his chest, its metal warm from laying against his neck. Malachi touched the intercom. At the other end of the line, he knew, another man would be reading a piece of paper. The paper would hold a name, a place, and a time.
"Yes?" asked Malachi.
"We’ve found another one."
"Good."
"A woman."
Malachi’s heart raced. The last one. The end was near.
"Even better," he said.
Malachi stood and began dressing. He pulled on the clothing quickly, because when he received new prey, he liked to move fast. But he still took the time to make sure the clothing was clean, and comely.
He put on good clothing, because killing a woman was something that demanded respect.
FAILURE LOG
DOM#22A
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
AD 1999
10:00 AM FRIDAY
Fran heard the voice, just like everyone else. The difference was, she was actually listening , too. Because the words that the voice was saying meant something to her.
They meant her life could start again.
"This is your captain speaking. We’ll be leaving in about two minutes, so you all just buckle up and sit tight while the flight attendants explain our safety procedures."
The voice was tinny: the same voice that Fran had heard countless times on countless TV shows and movies. Only this time it was real. This time she sat not on her couch with a lonely bowl of popcorn her only company, but in the seat of the airliner. First class, no less, with reclining leather seats that were far more comfortable than her sofa had ever been.
In the front of the section, the flight attendant began talking about emergency exits. Fran listened even more carefully now, as the pretty airline stewardess - no, hostess , they were called on this line - explained how the seat could be used as a flotation device in case of a water crash.
Fran’s lips curled into a tight smile. Tight, because if she smiled fully, she’d start giggling. And if she started to laugh, she probably wouldn’t stop.
We’re flying over the Rockies. Where would we land in water?
And then, fast on the heels of that thought, came another: I’m really doing it.
She looked around, wanting to suck it all in and savor the moment. She was leaving home for the first time. If she had had a
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