Crimson Awakening

Chapter 11

He flicked the top of the needle, and fine drips of liquid sprayed into the air. The foggy substance in the thin plastic syringe seemed lethal.

The man sat in the leather chair, lifted his foot, and thrust the needle between his toes. With one smooth move, he pressed the plunger, and the entire foggy dose invaded his bloodstream.

He pulled the needle out then set the syringe on the glass table next to him. Within seconds, a warm wave bathed his entire body, and he slouched in the chair, waiting for the second sensation. That was what he was after.

He knew from past experiences that it would be exhilarating. It was like dying, going to heaven, and then coming back to life as God. The man had chased that feeling ever since he had trained the death squads in Syria, years ago.

The substance injected was the purest form of heroine, laced with a new extract from coca leaves—something more potent than cocaine. Cocaine is for p***y-a*s bankers and Hollywood rejects.

He smiled wide without really knowing why. He felt strong and powerful, above all mankind. Nothing could harm him. Invincible, he was God now. Bigger than God.

For the next hour, he dreamed violently colored dreams in which he slashed, sliced, slaughtered, and smashed bodies of his fellow humans. He was king of the world.

Minutes went by. Slowly, the d**g evaporated, and his sick mind already craved it.

He looked around at the penthouse apartment, elegantly decorated by a professional designer, and smiled crookedly. The girl had been fun, but once she was done, he returned the service and had decorated the inside of her Manhattan studio with her body parts. And for the fun of it, he had even painted her hallway with her blood. With a total lack of evidence and leads, the police had closed the file, adding it to the ever-increasing unsolved crimes pile. The man was fine with that.

He turned on the TV and watched the news for a while. Like everywhere else in the country, the scenes of destruction and rapid descent of society into chaos made their way on his plasma screen.

Watching the very few news feeds still transmitting made his heart race with excitement. He licked his lips and waited for more gore and savagery. Unsatisfied, he switched to his laptop.

With trembling hands and spit drooling out of the corners of his lips, he executed search after search, looking for videos and images. Every time he found a horrifying footage, he chuckled and watched it again.

Feeling the sudden surge of blood engorging certain areas of his body, he reached inside his pants.

A new thought entered his mind. Let’s see this s**t live.

He jolted off the chair, walked to the penthouse balcony, and then opened the door. Out in the distance, the horizon was fractured by skyscrapers and swirls of smoke climbing upward, dirtying the blue sky. The air was filled with sirens wailing, muffled screams, and the smell of smoke reached all the way up to the twenty-first floor of his penthouse. The man breathed in the air of destruction and chaos, touching the front of his pants again. Death keeps me alive.

He walked to the reinforced glass rail surrounding the balcony and peered down into Central Park. The chaotic view brought tears to his eyes. He grinned.

Swarms of ashen mobs chased people everywhere. There were overturned cars, buses on fire, smashed windows, and a humming that rose from the streets. Destruction, blood, suffering—he loved every one of them, especially jumbled together.

A new idea flashed in his brain. Excited, he walked back into the penthouse and into his bedroom. Under the bed, he had stashed one of his favorite weapons—the deadly accurate AS-50 sniper rifle. With over eighteen hundred meters range, he had a lot of kills under his belt, and the weapon gave him a hard-on every time he pulled the trigger. He assembled it in less than three minutes then loaded the cartridge.

Walking back to the balcony, he propped the legs of the rifle on the ledge then looked through the scope. Carefully, he searched for a target. On the other side of the park, two hipsters were desperately trying to get away from a pack of four zombies.

He searched in his pockets, fishing out a cigarette and a lighter. He lit up and inhaled a lungful of smoke then lowered his eye back to the scope, cigarette hanging from dry lips. Down on the green of the park, the young couple looked like lambs chased by wolves.

Perched on the lip of the balcony, the man locked the cross of the scope on the head of the zombie closest to the couple. He fired one shot. From less than five hundred yards away, he watched the zombie’s head explode like a melon. The body continued to run a few more steps then crumbled to the ground and twitched.

The shooter lifted his head to the sky and roared with laughter. This is fun! Who said zombies are not cool?

He loaded another round.

In rapid succession, he took out two more zombies continuing to give chase, unfazed by their brethren exploding next to them out of the blue.

Through the scope, the man saw the couple look back, amazed that only one zombie was now following them.

The shooter licked his lips with anticipation of the next kill when he suddenly changed his mind. What if I take out the chick? He thought for a second, something more diabolical entering his brain. Yeah … that’s much better.

He lowered his eye to the scope, aimed, exhaled, and then pulled the trigger. Down in the park, the young man’s foot evaporated. He tumbled to the ground, in excruciating pain, screaming like a wounded animal.

The shooter watched, disappointed that he couldn’t hear the sounds.

“I can’t hear you, stumpy. Did you make a boo-boo? Aw …” He cackled like a hyena.

He zoomed in on the victim’s face, but the view was covered by the zombie’s body already slashing at the man’s throat.

“Move away, damn you,” the shooter mumbled then pulled on his cigarette. He set it down in the ashtray then looked again, this time searching for the young woman. She had stopped a few yards away and watched, mouth hidden behind her palm.

The zombie dove into the victim’s face, biting hard with rotten teeth. From the jugular, blood squirted. Horrified, the girl jolted backward.

Up on the balcony, another thought wiggled inside the shooter’s perverted mind, and the man smiled widely, baring short, white, ferret-like teeth. I’m a f*****g genius.

He nudged the crosshairs and took aim again. “You don’t get to eat today, fucker,” he said out loud then pulled the trigger. Just like before, the zombie’s head exploded, and what remained collapsed.

Denying the zombie’s animalistic satisfaction of devouring human flesh excited the shooter. He was in control. He was God again.

On the grass, the young man stared at the sky with lifeless eyes.

The shooter switched back to the girl, who was still standing in the middle of a grassy knoll, refusing to understand what had just happened. Her high school sweetheart had been murdered in front of her, and slowly she was concluding there was no reason to live anymore.

She looked around, finally understanding that someone with a rifle had done this. She extended her arms and started turning around, looking at the buildings around Central Park. She screamed something, but the shooter couldn’t hear it.

He lowered his eye to the scope and zoomed on the girl’s lips, trying to guess what she was saying. After a few seconds, he finally figured it out. There were only two words, and he didn’t like them. He didn’t like the fact that she had abandoned herself like that. He was the one who dictated when the game was over, not the victim.

Blood boiled in his veins, and his finger twitched on the trigger. He squeezed, expecting the soft jolt of the recoil as the round left his rifle, but nothing happened. You stupid f**k! He had run out of ammo.

The man set the rifle down then sprinted toward the bedroom, where he collected a five-round magazine then went back to the balcony, hoping she was still there. He loaded the rifle with fast, precise movements then looked again. She was gone.

He went into a rage. He had never lost a target like that. f*****g drugs, clouding my brain.

Agitated, he scanned the surrounding area. Within seconds, he found her, walking in a trance, indifferent to the world collapsing around her. The thought of letting her live did not even enter his brain.

Hope is all you have left. He liked giving victims hope … and then taking it away just when they thought they had made it.

This is what you get for telling me what to do. He aimed then pulled the trigger. With eyes glued to the scope, he waited for the shot to reach her. He hoped the pain he was about to witness would quench his thirst for human suffering. And then it happened—the girl’s right arm exploded and almost vanished into thin air. The .50 BMG had enormously powerful rounds and could take out a whole car, let alone a human.

He didn’t like what he saw next. The pain was so great that the girl was numb. She simply stared at the b****y stump protruding out of her shoulder.

“Let’s try the left wing, then, little birdie,” the shooter muttered.

He aimed, pulled the trigger, and watched closely again. This time, he aimed higher and took half the girl’s shoulder. The shot flung her yards away.

The shooter looked for her face, and when he found it in his scope, he watched, salivating. He could only guess the pain he had just inflicted. He felt aroused again and looked down.

“Oh, hello, little fellow. Want to play with the birdie?”

He returned to the girl. He wasn’t done yet.

Two zombies attracted by the girl’s screams sprinted toward her.

The man on the roof smirked. I don’t think so. She’s is all mine, fuckers. He took them both out, rapid and efficient.

He set his scope back on the girl, who seemed to have lost consciousness with all the blood draining out of her. Let’s try the plump upper thigh, shall we? I love upper thighs.

Right before he pulled the trigger, he realized that was his last shot. A grimace contorted his face. “f**k it. Now I’m bored,” he spat then pulled the trigger.

Out on the green grass, the sun rays filtering through the blue sky and tree branches, the girl’s head exploded. Her body jerked up toward the sky in a last attempt to grasp onto life, and then she expired.

“ ‘And that’s the way … aha, aha, I like it’,” the shooter sang.

In his pocket, the phone buzzed. Unlisted. He pushed the Accept button on the screen then listened.

“Victor?”

“Yeah?” the shooter asked.

“Commander Rogers advises you be on standby for further orders,” said someone with a military voice on the other end. “Understood?”

Victor hung up and spat. f*****g jerkoff. His face contorted in a mocking rictus. He stuck out his tongue and mimicked the guy he had just hung up on. “Understood …?”

He lit up another cigarette then went back to his rifle. For minutes, he delighted himself by looking through the powerful scope. He scanned every inch of the body collapsed on a grassy patch in Central Park. Satisfied, Victor murdered the cigarette in the ashtray, propped his rifle on his shoulder, and walked back into the living room.

“ ‘And that’s the way … aha, aha, I like it’.”