Sylvie

Walking across the rusted rooftop, Patricia Hartwell took great pride in sitting down in her tattered plastic lounge chair and observing the carnage that the Cross-Killer had created earlier in the day.  Using a set of binoculars, Patricia smiled at the futility of the emergency crews and crane operators trying to clean up the mess within the river. “Annoying little ants, you know that she’s going to do it again.”  A dreadfully unpleasant half-dead female voice cackled. “Yet, the handy-work should bring the real target out from the shadows.  Come visit me, Special Agent.”

Tossing the binoculars to the side, Patricia happened to catch a glimpse of her black and green gangrenous skin. “This shell is deteriorating quickly.”  Once considered a fairly good-looking and well-built firefighter of thirty-five years, Patricia Heartwell had seen many better days.  Silky brown hair that draped to the bottom of her neck now appeared stingy, vine-like and coated in a sheen of oil that matched the look of a swamp. Patricia’s eyes used to be pools of brown understanding and hope that helped people in a pinch, given her job as an EMS worker.  Opaque and shaped like sharp, deadly diamonds, the pretty orbs changed to solid objects of hate and chaos that matched her newer appearance.

“Yes, Patricia…you cry.  Empower me.”  The voice gurgled and coughed up muddy phlegm then continued, “It’s taken me about ten months to get this meat bag to this state.”  Patricia ran her dirty hands through her hair and laughed. “Face it, Patricia no longer exists.  No more boring life of tiny fires and useless talking, retired at fifty and useless.”  She stood up from the chair and headed for the door that led deeper into the four-story building. “You now have a great title and will be remembered well beyond the fifteen minutes of your little retirement party.”  

Feeding off of the personality within her, Patricia reached for the broken doorknob and watched the rust break and float off into the air. “Don’t worry, meatsack…Your time is almost up.  Enjoy being…”  She walked down the stairs, headed to her latest victim. “...The Cross Killer.  Forever immortalized for death and destruction.”

Taking the time for a deep breath, The Cross-Killer enjoyed the scent of the dead fish smell that permeated the building, The Cross-Killer took the time to think of how she would handle the man known as Noah Osborn.  When the familiar feeling of her stomach turning as though it would wretch, she knew she had the plan. “Very inventive…I like it.  Should bring enough fear to feed from and prepare for Agent Miller.” 

The Cross-Killer’s hideaway was genius for the time and usefulness.  An old and abandoned fish processing plant that had been built in the late sixties and early seventies that serviced most of central Virginia with various saltwater and freshwater fish.

Simplicity had been what the designer of the building intended.  Four walls made with cinder block with little places for venting and a few windows, and a ceiling made from iron and steel much like a normal warehouse.  Beyond where there used to be four roll-up doors, was a decrepit and rotting pier where the processing plant could unload the boats as they came in and delivered their cargo of rockfish, oysters and blue crab only found in the Chesapeake Bay.  Subsequently, it is the fish and oysters that left the smell behind that The Cross-Killer enjoyed the most.  She could easily close her eyes and picture the layout of the floor where workers would quickly separate the catch into their own bins, and quickly stuffing the items in packed dry ice.  Over the years, the scent permeated the entire building, seemingly oozing from the walls itself.  

The Cross-Killer made her way through the big hall to one of the smaller out-of-use freezers and opened a door to reveal her latest captive, Noah Osborn. “How are you…”  She started to speak and noticed that the man was either passed out or asleep. “...We can’t have this.”  Emitting a low gurgling laugh, She walked over to Noah and slapped his face. “Wake up lamb.  You will have plenty of time to sleep while you hang on the crucifix.”  

Feeling  the hard slap-punch, Noah blinked his eyes open and looked upon his kidnapper with disgust. “Proud of yourself?”  He tried to retort. “Carnage is the word of the month thanks to you.”  He spat on the floor near The Cross-Killers feet.

“So defiant while strapped to that metal table, Noah.”  she winked one of her diamond-dead eyes and reached for a drill. “I really enjoy the fact that I get to add your lovely blood to the fish blood all over the floor.  Just think about it like this, I am preparing you much like you’d scale a fish and discard its innards just to consume the flesh after nearly burning it.”  She snarled, “You flesh beings are so strange.  No matter.”  She squeezed the drill trigger a bit and watched the stainless steel pin twist. “Just like your fish, you get to feel every bit of what is about to happen.”  She walked around and knelt in front of Noah, “You have the fortune of me trying something new.  It might be a bit rough without any sort of pain reliever, so I have these.”  She laid out five little pens, “Epinephrine.  I can’t have you dying in the process, that would defeat the purpose.”  She turned Noah’s head to look at his crucifix. “You see that?  You get hooks.  So it's going to be like your flesh is tearing from your bones.”

Fear slowly creeping into Noah’s voice, the man attempted to get himself out of the situation he was in. “You know, you don’t have to do this.  You have already made your mark.”  He paused due to his teeth chattering, “You are already a legend in the eyes of other killers and stalkers.”

Patricia turned Noah’s head to face the fuzzy tubed television and strapped him firmly in place. “Nice try, Noah.”  She pressed the button to make the drill zing again. “There are rules though.  Thirty-one days in October, thirty-one days of death.  Halloween and your demons demand it.”  She snarled. “Interestingly enough, you are the only one not begging for their life, but rather trying to talk me out of it.”  Patricia reached down and squeezed Noah’s triceps and found the thickest part of his humerus.  “No lying, this is going to hurt.  Do your best to watch the strangeness on the tube.”  The Cross-Killer pressed the steep tip of the drill against Noah’s arm and depressed the trigger.  Within a second the drill twisted into the skin and muscle of the man’s arm, sending blood and meat all over the table.

Unbelievable pain erupted from Noah’s arm and made the once proud sleuth-man scream out in unbearable pain.  “PLEASE!!! ST—STOPPP….”  He begged and tried to squirm as the metal dug into his arm and finally into the bone.  When the smell of burning bone reached Noah’s nose, he tensed up and began to wretch to no avail.  Agony rippled through his mind and in a flash, he thought that this must be how it felt to get an amputation. “W—WHY!!!???”  He scream-cried and felt the drill retreat, providing a little relief.