Page 19

A cool wind swept along the deserted lane, stirring old leaves across the cracked pavement. Under the faint glow of a single lamp post, a lone figure stood—motionless at first, ears straining for any sound in the darkness. Vehicles rumbled in the distance on a main road, but here, the quiet reigned, broken only by the hiss of the wind. The figure—the killer—shifted from foot to foot, glancing up and down the lane, ensuring there were no witnesses.

A rusted metal gate squeaked, and footsteps approached. Another silhouette emerged from the deeper shadows, taller and broader, a suspicious shape that carried itself with uncertainty. In one hand, the newcomer held a battered rucksack. The killer noted the tense lines of the newcomer’s posture and felt an echo of unease. This whole process—buying contraband from criminals—was risky. If anyone from law enforcement pieced it together, the killer’s identity would soon be blown. Still, it had to be done.

The newcomer coughed once, a low rasp. “You’re late,” the voice said.

The killer drew a breath, steadying a racing heart. “Traffic,” the killer answered quietly, voice kept low. The attempt at calm belied the coiling tension within. No matter how carefully these meetings were arranged, there was always a risk.

The newcomer stepped closer, letting the weak light catch part of a face etched with scars. “Whatever. Let’s do this quick.” He held up the rucksack. “Everything’s here.”

A swirl of wind tugged at the rucksack’s edges, threatening to expose whatever was inside. The killer fished a folded envelope from a jacket pocket. “Money first,” the killer said. “No games.”

The newcomer snorted. “You assume I’d cheat you? You’re the one who insisted on meeting me in this godforsaken place.” But greed lit the newcomer’s eyes, and he extended a calloused hand. The killer placed the envelope in it. The newcomer counted the bills, face illuminated in flickers by the lamp’s wan glow. Satisfied, he tucked them away. “All right. Here.” He opened the rucksack partially, letting the killer see the glint of metal components and the corner of a canister labeled with chemical warnings.

The killer reached out, careful not to tear or shift anything too abruptly. “Chemicals… electrical parts…” a whispered confirmation. “All accounted for?”

The newcomer nodded curtly. "As you ordered. Enough to do something real nasty if you know how to handle it."

A shudder of excitement tinged with dread rippled through the killer’s mind. This was it: the final piece needed for the next stage. Yet fear gnawed at the edges, because working with such volatile compounds came with a real risk of self-destruction. The killer forced a nod. “Good.”

Tension thickened in the air. The newcomer shifted restlessly. “We done, then?”

A pause lingered. The killer thought of the chance that this criminal might talk, might brag about supplying these items, might lead the authorities straight to them. The killer had come too far to allow any loose ends. A flick of indecision sparked. Taking another life was a step beyond the plan, but no risk could remain. Slowly, the killer stepped back, adjusting the rucksack. “Yes,” the killer said softly, setting it down momentarily.

The newcomer grunted, prepared to leave. “Then we’re square,” he muttered, already turning.

But the killer’s hand moved with lethal swiftness, sliding a small blade from a hidden sheath. In one fluid motion, the killer lunged, slashing across the newcomer’s throat. A choked gasp escaped him, and his eyes widened with shock. Blood spattered the lane’s asphalt. His hands fluttered to his throat, trying to staunch the gushing wound.

The killer’s heart thundered, every nerve crackling. Swiftly, the killer clamped a hand over the victim’s mouth, muffling the dying gurgles. The man struggled for a moment, life draining from him. Then he collapsed in a silent sprawl, blood pooling around his limp form.

For a long second, the killer stared at the body, mind reeling with a mixture of necessity and disgust. This was another life taken—unplanned but essential. The killer swallowed hard, scanning the gloom. No one had witnessed the strike. Good.

Glancing left and right, the killer spotted a manhole cover partially hidden near the curb. A swirl of water below indicated a sewer line. Perfect. The killer wiped the blade on the victim’s jacket, then slipped it back into the hidden sheath. Breathing ragged, the killer gripped the body under the arms. With a heave, the killer dragged it toward the manhole. It took a couple of tries to lift the heavy iron cover enough to push it aside. The stench rose from the dark tunnel, making the killer’s stomach churn.

“Hhh—” a final strangled sound left the dying man’s throat, but he was too far gone to struggle. With a last surge of effort, the killer shoved the body down into the sewer. It landed with a disgusting splash. The killer winced. The echo of that splash would haunt the killer’s mind for days, but there was no time to dwell on it.

The killer replaced the manhole cover, wiping gloved hands on a rag from the jacket pocket. The lane grew quiet again, save for the killer's racing heartbeat. Slowly, the killer picked up the rucksack, ensuring no trace of blood remained on it. Then, a final glance up and down the lane. Nobody stirred in the dim corners.

Exhaling in short, nervous bursts, the killer strode away, footsteps echoing on the cracked pavement. At the lane’s end, a battered car waited, engine still warm. The killer climbed in, throwing the rucksack in the passenger seat. A quick check of the side mirror confirmed no sign of pursuit. Then the car rumbled off into the night, leaving the alley and its grisly secret behind.

The ride to the abandoned building took a solid hour, weaving through back roads and deserted byways. Early evening now, the sky had darkened further, and a raw wind rattled the car’s loose windows. The killer peered into the rear-view mirror every few minutes, expecting headlights or suspicious movement. But the roads stayed empty. The killer’s paranoia lingered, because this was by far the most dangerous step yet—constructing a bomb.

Eventually, the car crunched along a narrow track lined with overgrown trees. The headlights revealed the crumbling outline of an old brick structure, ivy covering half the walls. The killer parked near a half-collapsed archway. Stepping out, the killer took a moment to scan the surroundings: twisted tree limbs swaying overhead, leaves rustling. No lights in the distance. Satisfied no one followed, the killer grabbed the rucksack and slipped through a warped wooden door into the building’s interior.

Inside, the air smelled musty, thick with rotting leaves that had drifted through broken windows. The killer’s footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. A few steps in, the killer arrived at a small room lit by a single battery-powered lamp. A makeshift desk—really just a plank of wood on cinder blocks—stood at the center, littered with tools, wires, and half-assembled contraptions. This was the killer’s secret workshop, hidden from prying eyes.

The killer set the rucksack down carefully, heart pounding anew at what lay ahead. This is it , the killer thought. No turning back once this is done. The chemicals and electrical parts inside that bag could blow up half the building if used improperly. A trembling breath parted the killer’s lips. One small mistake, and it would be over.

Unzipping the rucksack, the killer pulled out a couple of small canisters. They bore hazard symbols, bright and ominous. Next came a spool of wire, a few circuit boards, a battery pack, and an assortment of small fuses. The killer arranged them on the makeshift desk, mind running through the carefully memorized instructions. The plan was to build something discrete but powerful—enough to cause destruction on command, a new “masterpiece” in the killer’s twisted pattern.

A bead of sweat slipped down the killer’s temple. Each piece was laid out systematically, the killer double-checking labels. No part could be misused. A deep breath, then the killer began.

First, the killer assembled the circuit: a basic trigger mechanism combined with an improvised timer. The wires were spliced with care, each connection twisted in place, then soldered swiftly under a battery-powered iron. The metal smell mingled with the building’s moldy odor. Meanwhile, the chemicals in their canisters waited to be poured into the bomb’s main housing.

A jolt of fear gripped the killer’s stomach. The risk of a premature detonation loomed large. But the memory of the corpses the killer had left behind—and the next plan for an even more “spectacular piece of art”—drove the killer onward.

The killer carefully opened one of the canisters, the acrid chemical stinging the killer’s nose. Teeth gritted, the killer poured a measured quantity into a small sealed compartment lined with foil. Another few steps followed, each requiring intense focus. One slip, and the killer would be the final victim of this twisted operation.

Finally, the killer paused. The device was almost complete: a squat, square contraption, no bigger than a shoe box Wires snaked around the interior, fuses in place. The killer reached for the last piece—a small switch rigged to the battery and the timer. This moment was the most dangerous. Inching the switch into position, the killer flicked it with a trembling finger. The circuit engaged with a faint hum, and a tiny LED glowed a steady green.

Relief surged. It works. The killer’s heart hammered, knees nearly weak. For a second, the killer imagined a flash of self-immolation if anything had shorted or sparked. But no—this bomb was stable, for now. The killer exhaled sharply, a twisted grin forming. If it all went off as planned, the next inspired death in the killer’s series of art-inspired murders would be truly explosive.

With careful, almost reverent motions, the killer slid the bomb into a small cardboard box. Tape sealed it shut, and plain brown paper wrapped around the outside. The killer drew out a marker and wrote a name on the top—just a single word, the identity of the next target. The name remained known only to the killer, a secret weapon in this grand scheme of bloody artistry.

Rising from the makeshift desk, the killer surveyed the workshop. Tools lay scattered amid circuit diagrams and chemical residue. The killer quickly gathered anything incriminating—notes, leftover wire, empty chemical canisters—and shoved them into a plastic bin. Couldn’t leave evidence behind. Then the killer paused at the threshold of the small room, scanning the darkness again. Still no sign of intrusion. Perfect.

The killer gently lifted the wrapped box from the table, cradling it like a precious object. Another wave of caution swept through them. If the device jostled or triggered incorrectly… But the design was sound. The killer had tested smaller versions. This was the final testament.

Stepping outside into the chill dusk, the killer paused once more, glancing around the twisted trees enveloping the old building. Shadows stretched across the weeds. Everything seemed still, quiet. No footprints but the killer’s. Satisfied, the killer walked swiftly to the waiting car. The trunk opened with a creak, and the killer set the bomb inside, wedged between some blankets to keep it secure.

The wind rustled overhead, a few droplets of cold March rain beginning to fall. The killer looked back at the abandoned building—an apt lair for the preparation of a monstrous plan. Then the killer climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and reversed down the narrow track. The headlights carved a path through the encroaching darkness.

As the killer sped away, my mind buzzed with the thrill of what came next. Another painting in a macabre series, this time set to be more spectacular than any staged corpse. The killer pictured the big day, the flash of fire, the echoes of screams. Yes , the killer thought, inhaling a shuddery breath—the next artwork would be the most explosive piece yet.

And no one would see it coming in time.