The Kill

In the cramped confines of the storage closet, Helena struggled to calm her breathing. She clasped trembling hands over her mouth, muffling the desperate gulping of air. She’d been running through the maze-like corridors for hours and her lungs ached at the exertion.

A scream erupted from somewhere. A primal, rage-filled sound echoing into her hiding spot. “Come out here you bitch!” The man’s voice howled. A series of sharp, metallic bangs followed soon after; undoubtedly the sound of his machete pounding furiously against the cold, barren walls.

The gash along her forearm — hastily bandaged from the tattered remnants of a sweater — ached at the memory of the blade. She couldn’t remember when it’d happened. It could have been days ago or just this morning. Time had lost all meaning in this place. Some part of her knew it didn’t matter. It was just the two of them now, and she was running out of hiding spots.

Helena suppressed a gasp, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, as the man lurched into view through the narrow crack between the door’s frame. With his blood soaked clothes and shuffling gait — the result of her jamming a screwdriver deep into his kneecap — the man was a vision of rage made manifest.

“I know you’re here somewhere!” He screamed, swinging his gaze manically about the room. The man limped forward, but as he moved beyond her sliver of vision, however, Helena realized her mistake: the room was empty.

Her hiding spot was literally the only place he could look. Inwardly she cursed the stupidity. Whether due to exhaustion, stress, or outright panic, the reason didn’t matter: she had to get out of the closet and away before it was too late.

But even limping along, the room was small enough for the man to catch her if Helena simply opened the door and tried to bolt out. She needed to wait for the right moment and —

The blade slammed through the thin plywood of the door, piercing into Helena’s shoulder. She shrieked as the weapon retracted and felt warm blood flow down the inside of her shirt. Dropping as low as she could within the narrow closet, she barely avoided the follow-up strike as it plowed another hole in the door.

Clutching her injured shoulder, Helena smashed her full weight into the door, flinging it open. There was a sickening crunch as the door smashed into his face; sending him staggering back. The machete clattered to the floor as his hands attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. For a brief moment she considered trying to retrieve the fallen weapon, but it had come to rest just underneath his feet.

Helena bolted, abandoning the blade, and cut through corridors with only the vaguest notion where she was headed. She remembered seeing another weapon in one of these passages. If she could get to it before he caught up to her, she might have a chance.

A howl pierced the air and she risked glancing over her shoulder to see if he was following. Another mistake.

Her toe caught something on the floor, sending her sprawling. But rather than meeting the cold, hard floor, her hands fell into the squishy mess of bodies lining the floor. She scrambled to her feet, only to fall flat once more on the blood-slicked floor.

As the scream faded, Helena heard the telltale slap-slide shuffling sound of his awkward steps growing louder. Her time was up. She’d have to make her final stand here.

Choking down the bile rising in her throat, Helena burrowed under the pile of bodies as best she could; frantically pushing puddles of blood and intestines to the side. She’d need some traction for what came next. Tendrils of sinewy muscle, dangling from mangled appendages, swished across her face as she angled herself into a position where she could see him coming.

It was far from the perfect hiding spot and much of her lower body remained exposed, but it wouldn’t have to last long. Just long enough.

Helena willed her body to stillness as she peered through the viscera, watching him round the corner. The man stumbled forward, stopping at the edge of the pile of remains. So close, Helena feared he could feel her breath on his ankles.

“No,” he grunted. “No! No! No!” He punctuated each word by pounding the machete against the wall. The sharp crack of the handle breaking, exposing the metal tang, brought his tirade to a halt. With a sigh that was almost a sob, he let the weapon slip from his grasp and onto the floor.

Ignoring the throb of her shoulder, Helena heaved herself upward. The man recoiled as she erupted — screaming — from the pile of the dead; covered in blood and flinging bits of gore in all directions.

Everything happened at once. Helena dove for the machete on the floor, but the man lunged forward, snatched her by the neck, and wrenched Helena to her feet.

He squeezed.

She strained, jerking and bucking within his grasp, to no avail. She fought for air but black spots already danced at the edges of her vision.

Suddenly, his grip went slack. She gulped down air and spared a glance at her handiwork, seeing the machete lodged in his torso, just below the sternum.

Shaking off his hands, Helena gripped the weapon in both hands and pushed. The broken handle sliced into her palms, but she ignored the pain and drove the wicked blade to whatever remained of its hilt. Warm blood gushed over her hands and for a brief, exquisite moment, she felt the pounding of their hearts falling into sync.

Helena yanked the blade out. A pained groan emanated from his throat; blood spewing from his mouth as it opened and closed in a vain attempt to scream. She gripped the sides of his head before he could collapse, digging her nails into the flesh beneath tangles of matted hair and forcing his gaze upwards. She stared deep into his eyes, only inches apart, and watched as the light began to fade from them.

Something stirred in her stomach as anxiety, adrenaline, and relief clashed together. Helena didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or vomit, but as the man gargled out his final breaths, that butterfly feeling welled up and she felt…

She felt…

She felt…

Nothing.

The moment she’d been hoping for never came. Instead, she was left empty.

“Lights!” Elena roared in frustration; letting his limp body slump to the floor. In response to her command, the massive ufo-shaped lights on the warehouse ceiling clicked on. Harsh light illuminated the bloody floor, banishing the shadows that had made the space feel so claustrophobic mere moments ago. With a whirring grinding of gears, the walls of her latest construct receded into the floor, awaiting their next configuration.

Helena huffed, futilely blowing at a wayward wisp of hair crossing her vision, even as blood kept it caked to her cheek. The first time she’d killed had been an epiphany. A clarity of mind that had opened the cosmos and given her purpose. Yet, subsequent victims failed to bring about the same revelations. She’d discovered a balance of danger and fear between both herself and her victims was necessary to achieve enlightenment. Even so, they remained few and far between.

Over the years, she’d concocted more and more intricate scenarios to bring her closer to true revelation. Only a scant few had provided what she sought. They had been beautiful moments indeed; affirming her of the rightness of the path she walked. It’d been years since her last; making today’s failure all the more infuriating.

Helena gazed across the now open floor and the piles of bloody flesh strewn about. Pulpy masses, once living and breathing beings, continued to seep various fluids. Some of the more recent corpses still twitched; offering the grotesque shapes some semblance of life.

“Send in the cleaners,” Helena called out, knowing the command would be obeyed. “And wake the doctor!” Wrinkling her nose in disdain, and clutching her injured shoulder she turned on her heel and left.

The work must continue.