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Sock Sowachowski was on top of the world. He had stumbled across a man who, in what was certainly a severe lapse of security, failed to maintain a vigilant watch on his surroundings. Presently he had his back turned towards Sock. The man stood in the skeleton of an old building, its concrete pillars rising from the sand like the teeth of a monster ready to swallow him whole. Although the building provided him with some shelter from the outside world, it also let Sock creep closer and closer to his newfound prey. Sock kept close to the ground, moving between fallen chunks of concrete jutting out of the scorched earth. He steadied his movements with his hands, too focused on his quarry to notice the heat from the ground searing his skin. Every step that brought him closer made his head pulse harder with longing, made his vision narrower. Although the man was nearly double his size, Sock had learned by now from many successes (and twice as many failures) how to subdue these people – how to hold them, how they would flail, how they would die.
When he had maneuvered as close as he thought he could without arousing the man’s attention, the blood lust became deafening and Sock dashed forward. Muscle memory took over; his hands took their places in a well-rehearsed play, knife held firmly (but not too tightly) in his hand. Before the man could even react to the sound of Sock’s footsteps, Sock had plunged the knife deep into the man’s throat in a smooth and even motion. The man’s hands shot up to his throat as Sock slid the knife out and tossed it to the ground. Now came the hard part. Sock shifted his hands and embraced his victim in an awkward bear hug that he had found to be efficient in preventing a reversal of roles.
Sock’s arms and fingers shook, somewhat impairing his firm grip, as he watched the man’s blood spurt out of the wound to the rhythm of a panicked heartbeat. Some of the blood trickled down the man’s neck and onto Sock’s hand, leaving dark red streaks across a pale red sunburn. Sock closed his eyes and inhaled sharply; no liquid on earth flowed quite like blood did. By now the man started to gather that he should be getting rid of his assailant and so he tried to take a step forward. Sock pulled back with as much force as his skinny arms would allow, and they both tumbled backwards to the ground. The man kicked and tried to roll over, but Sock countered every motion with robotic precision. He could hear his own breathing, shallow and ragged, starting to match that of his victim’s. With every pump of blood, the struggling became weaker and weaker. The blood pooled beneath Sock, soaking into his clothes and leaving a thin crusty layer on his skin.
At long last, the man ceased moving, and Sock laid there staring up at the sky. The world around him had melted away and he could no longer feel the rough sand beneath him or the hot, dry air strangling his lungs. Though his heart was still racing, his grip had relaxed. His hands dropped weakly to his sides and traced swirling patterns in the blood on the dirt. After seconds, or maybe after minutes, the color began to fade back into Sock’s vision, his heart slowed, and he was suddenly back in hell. After gathering himself for a few seconds, he pushed the corpse off himself and let it roll casually to his side. Once he had clambered back to his feet, he retrieved his knife from where it had landed.
“Another job well done, old friend,” he said to the knife while he pressed it between the folds of his skirt and wiped it clean. He looked over at the corpse, puffed his cheeks, and frowned. No hat, but he did have a few pockets. Sock set about rummaging through them, collecting whatever loot he could get his hands on: a few bullets, a pack of cigarettes (very rare these days), and some old coins (very useless these days). Satisfied that his kill had yielded something of value (beyond the thrill), Sock returned behind the rock where he first spotted the man to collect his backpack and hoodie. He reached inside and grabbed a bottle of water, uncapped it, and very carefully trickled some out onto his hands. He rubbed them as much as he could, scraping with his fingernails until his arms no longer looked like he had butchered an animal. He slipped his bloody skirt off, wrapped his victim’s possessions in it, and stuffed it into the backpack. He pulled the hoodie over his head to cover the blood on his shirt. His pants had a few small stains, but nothing that would attract any attention.
The sun was still rising in the sky – plenty of time to stop for a moment and cut the man’s body open, maybe poke around at his guts. Staying out in the open, even in the shelter of an old structure, carried risks with it. There was always the possibility that another human (or worse yet, group of humans) could come across him, and chances were that they wouldn’t be looking to make new friends. There was also the possibility that the freakish monsters that roamed the wastelands would find him, and then he’d really be dead. Better to be safe than sorry. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, pulled his scarf up around his face, and spun around to reorient himself. Almost as quickly as Sock had been upon the man, he had disappeared into the billowing sands that obscured the horizon.
Ever since the world had gone to hell, Sock had been moving from settlement to settlement. It was hard to stay in one place when you kept killing people because sooner or later someone would catch on. Lucky for Sock, these settlements were so far apart from each other that he was a stranger at each and every one. Travel between the settlements was difficult, partially due to the unforgiving landscape and partially due to the hellspawn that had claimed this world for themselves. Sock couldn’t remember when exactly it had happened or even what life had been like before the end came. One day the sky just turned pitch black, the world started to tear itself apart, and everyone found themselves in the company of millions of bloodthirsty creatures (aliens? demons? monsters?). Years after the fact, people (mostly drunk bar customers) held vigorous debates about whether everyone had died and was in hell or if hell had just taken over earth.
Despite everything, humanity persisted in one form of another, and the next settlement was proof of that. It was a small cluster of buildings enclosed by a chain-link fence with watchtowers dotted along its perimeter. When the guards saw a figure on the horizon, they raised their weapons and waited; and when they could tell it was a human, they took a collective sigh of relief and put their rifles back down. Sock approached the entrance to the settlement, a large cargo crate placed right in the middle of the fence, flanked by two guards. The outer doors to the crate stood open, but the inner doors remained closed. Sock’s muscles tensed as he came up to the guards, keeping his eyes forward. One of the guards gave an “all clear” shout (making Sock jump a bit), and the other set of doors to the cargo container swung open to reveal the settlement on the other side.
Even if humanity had persisted, that didn’t mean it was doing well, and this settlement was a testament to the sorry state of civilization. As he passed the threshold, Sock pulled his scarf down, and the familiar stench of filth and death leapt into his nose. Some people languished in the streets, their faces marred with dirt, choking on the thick air. A hundred pairs of eyes shot surreptitious looks at Sock from the streets, from windows, from anywhere. It was the same routine every time he came into a new town: who was this person, did they have anything of value to steal, would they start any trouble? The ground had clearly been paved at one point, but by now the asphalt had fractured and disintegrated, leaving only a few islands of black abyss floating on the dirt. Further down the main road was a tall white building on which someone had sloppily spray-painted the word “ROOMS” in red. Sleeping under a roof was a rare luxury these days, but if you had something to trade for the stay it was worth it. People sure liked bullets in this world and Sock figured he could use the spoils of his victory to get a night.
The cracked concrete steps led into a narrow lobby, with a tattered green carpet that pathetically tried to hide the chipping tiled floor beneath it. There had, at one point, been an elevator, but its door was blocked by a pile of broken chairs and other junk, leaving only the staircase as the way up. To the left was a small wooden desk, attended by a clerk who was starting to look very irate with his present customer. The customer was a young man with hair that looked like it had been bleached blonde by the sun, save for some dark brown color near the roots. His eyes were pale blue, a color not too unlike the color of someone who had been dead for a few hours. He was handsome and his voice was lovely, and the only thing better than a handsome live person was a handsome dying person (making awful gurgling noises with that lovely voice, of course). Sock had to kill this guy.
“That’s all I’m offering,” the blonde said, his voice echoing in the lobby.
The person behind the desk glanced down at the brown bottle between them. “Look, John,” they said.
“It’s Jonathan.”
“Whatever. This is only good for two nights,” the clerk said, gesturing at the bottle.
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Look, you can’t even find alcohol of this quality anymore. Everything is shit tasting swill that someone fermented in some moldy bathtub. It’s worth three nights.”
The clerk looked down at the bottle again, back up at Jonathan, then back down to the bottle. With a half-shrug, he said, “Alright, fine. Three nights.”
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, snatching his room key off the desk. He whirled around to come face to face with Sock, who hadn’t even noticed himself creeping closer and closer during Jonathan’s exchange with the clerk. Jonathan leaned back while his eyes quickly studied the intruder, and he winced a bit. “You’ve, uhh… got some blood… there.” Jonathan rubbed his thumb against his cheek.
Sock blinked a few times. “I…” Slowly he realized, reached up, and touched his cheek. “Oh, that, haha. Guess I… tripped and fell?” He forced a grin.
“Whatever,” Jonathan said. He pushed past Sock and headed up the stairs to wherever his room was.
Sock traded the man’s bullets for a night in a room; the cigarettes would be better spent elsewhere. The staircase led up to a dilapidated hall with peeling wallpaper and a carpet that had probably been a different color in the past. He gingerly stepped over the squatters that slept in the halls until he reached his room. He went into his room and locked the door behind himself. The room itself was spartan, consisting of a single cot, a small bedside table missing one of its legs, and a mirror on the far wall that looked like it had tried out a career in boxing. A single lightbulb in the center of the ceiling was the only source of light for the room. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t light when Sock pulled on the cord. Sock dropped his bag on the cot and went to the mirror, moving his head to get a clear view of his cheek through the cracks in the glass. The splatter of blood was plain as day; it was a miracle he hadn’t been noticed by someone inside the settlement. He licked his hand and rubbed furiously at the stain until his cheek was clear again. Sock took the opportunity to change into a clean shirt and skirt. Satisfied that he no longer looked like the serial killer he was, he grabbed his bag and left his room to see if he could find somewhere to trade the cigarettes for something worthwhile.
Exploring a settlement was always tricky business for a newcomer. You never knew if you were about to walk onto the territory of some gang or stumble across dealings that you wanted nothing to do with. Sock had made it a rule of thumb to always stick to the main roads, but today curiosity got the best of him when he caught a glimpse of someone familiar entering an alleyway. He trotted up to it and peeked around the corner just in time to see Jonathan make a turn deeper into the alley. Sock followed, each step careful and deliberate to avoid making any noise. He got to the corner and – he was wrenched backwards by someone who had grabbed hold of his arm. Sock moved to grab his knife, but another hand latched onto his free arm.
“Alright, we can do this one of two ways. Either you come with us quietly, or we cut your vocal cords and make you come with us quietly. Choice is yours,” one of his captors said.
This certainly wasn’t the first time Sock had found himself in a situation like this, but it never seemed to induce less anxiety each time it happened. He looked around for a way out of this mess, but his narrow surroundings didn’t offer much chance of escape. Not to mention, the people who were holding him were looking more impatient with every passing millisecond. Better to be alive and captive than dead and… well, just dead. “I’ll… go… quietly?” Sock said.
“Good choice.”
They led him out of the alley and down a meandering path to a large building on the edge of the settlement. Jutting out from the side, a lit-up Franken-sign, cobbled together from various letters of neon signs, dubbed this building to be “The Ninth Circle”. When he was pushed through the doors, Sock found himself instantly overwhelmed by the stench of smoke, alcohol, and a few other choice smells. People were huddled around tables gambling, talking to scantily clad women (and men), and indulging in god knows what. A red carpet outlined the way to a plain wooden door at the back of the large room. Behind the door was a winding staircase that led down, way down, like who-even-builds-a-basement-this-deep down. The further they went down, the colder it got, until at last they stepped off of the stairs and Sock swore he could see his breath. The red carpet appeared once again to show them the way. The downstairs looked like an old office space and the carpet led Sock and his captors to the biggest office of them all. It seemed like the apocalypse had forgotten to touch this room, since the furniture looked brand new, and the carpets and walls were clean. A man with a ferocious red mane was leaning back in a large, leather office chair, his legs propped up on the desk.
“So, this is the guy, huh? I gotta hand it to you, kid, you did a real number back there,” the red-haired man said.
Sock looked at his two kidnappers then back at whoever this guy was. “I – I’m sorry? I think you have me confused with someone else,” Sock said.
“Weird hat? Goggles? Wearing a skirt? Oh you’re definitely the guy I’m looking for. See I’ve got a bit of a problem: you killed someone who worked for me.”
“Oh,” Sock said. Shit.
“Yeeeah. Not really a good thing. Oh, but where are my manners? The name’s Mephistopheles. I’m the proprietor of this den of sin – pretty nice, huh? – and a man with many business interests in this world.” He swung his legs off the desk, leapt up to his feet, and stretched his hand across the desk towards Sock.
Sock slowly reached out and shook Mephistopheles’ hand.
After Sock had let go, Mephistopheles said, “I don’t know if anyone ever told you this, kid, but usually when someone gives you their name, it’s polite to give them yours.”
“Right, sorry. My name’s… Sock. Sock Sowachowski.”
“Sheesh, now that’s a name,” Mephistopheles said, as if he had any claim to a normal name. “Now that that’s taken care of, there’s this whole business of you killing my employee.”
Sock’s eyes darted around the room. The guards were standing right by his side, but maybe he could push one of them over and make a run for it. Like hell he was going to make it up that staircase without running out of breath, though.
Mephistopheles started to pace. “Normally I’d be angry, but you,” he stopped and glanced at Sock, “have something that I’d like to have.”
“W-well, if you want what’s in my bag you can have it,” Sock said.
“No, not what’s in your bag!” Mephistopheles said, coming around the desk and putting his arm around Sock. He placed his other hand over Sock’s chest. “I want what’s in your heart.”
“My… blood?” Sock asked, wincing a bit.
Mephistopheles laughed and stood up. “Would you get a load of this guy?” he asked the other two men in the room. “No, I mean you’ve got the soul of a killer, Sowachowski, and I need a killer. Truth is, that guy you murdered? I was gonna have someone punch his ticket anyway. I had some guys keeping an eye on him and they told me about the job you did. You been in the killing business for long?”
“Well, I…” Sock squinted a bit. “Maaaybe?”
“See? I knew it. After all, regular people don’t bask in the blood of someone they just killed. Now I’m willing to bet that you’ve got people who want you dead too. You know, do-gooder types.”
Sock nodded.
Meph continued. “So, Sock – can I call you Sock? – how about we make a deal that will benefit us both? As I said before, I have a lot of business interests, and I’m looking to expand my operations. But the territory I’m looking to acquire isn’t far from Providence, and when I start pushing those limits it’s gonna make some people really unhappy. That’s where you come in.”
Sock straightened up in his chair. “You want me to kill people.”
Mephistopheles nodded. “Exactly. And in return for your services, I’ll make sure that local law enforcement doesn’t bother you. Hell, I’ll even throw in a few extra victims for your enjoyment.”
Sock was bouncing in his seat now. “How could I even say no to an offer like that?”
Mephistopheles grinned. “You can’t. Now here’s your first assignment.” He slid a piece of paper across his desk. “Consider it a test.”
Sock took the paper and instantly recognized who had been sketched on it. “I’ve seen this guy,” he said.
“His name’s Jonathan Combs and he’s been trying to get in touch with me for a while now. He wants to ask me questions about something or another, it’s not important. I’ve arranged a meeting with him in an abandoned warehouse just outside of this settlement. You’re going to go there instead and do your whole… bathing in blood thing again.” Mephistopheles looked at one of his guards and asked, “What time is that meeting again? Was it in an hour or something?” He looked back at Sock. “Time is such a weird concept, you know? Ah, who cares when it is, just make sure you’re at the warehouse when Mr. Combs is there.”
Sock was really on top of the world now. A second victim delivering itself to him on a silver platter? What could possibly be better? He pranced out of The Ninth Circle and down the sidewalk to the settlement fence. Sock could see the warehouse sitting alone maybe half a mile in the distance. He squeezed through a Sock-sized hole that someone had already cut in the fence and made his way to the derelict building. As he got closer, he could make out more and more of its details. Part of its roof had been torn off somehow and was nowhere to be found. Its sides were rusted and its windows were caked with dirt. A large door gave way to a vacant space lined with catwalks. One of the support beams had fallen and splintered the concrete beneath into a spider web that some grass had pushed its way through. Every step that Sock took inside stirred up a small cloud of dust. Deciding that it would be best to not leave footprints everywhere, Sock positioned himself in the corner near the door. His head began to throb, an incessant pounding that grew stronger with every passing second.
When Jonathan passed the threshold and entered the building, Sock could sense that Jonathan already suspected a trap from the way he moved. Jonathan stepped further into the warehouse, his eyes scanning back and forth for any sign of Mephistopheles or anyone else. He turned around to keep a watch on the door only to find that Sock was already standing in the doorway, arms hanging at his sides like a T-rex. They were both silent for a moment before Jonathan asked, “What do you want?”
“I’m, uh…” Sock swallowed hard and found himself rooted to the spot. He had lost the element of surprise before and never had hesitated in those times, so why was he hesitating now? His head was pounding yet his stomach was doing cartwheels.
Jonathan’s eyes wandered down Sock’s face to the knife in his hand. Jonathan shifted his foot ever so slightly and moved his hand slowly towards his hip. Sock either didn’t notice the motion or didn’t care, and instead continued to dance in place like a little kid who really had to pee.
Inside his mind, Sock was screaming at himself. Move. Charge him. Kill him. He so desperately wanted to see that beautiful red run from Jonathan’s body, see it stain those lovely bleached locks of hair, feel his entrails hanging out from his gutted corpse. He wanted to feel the life leave that body, feel the grasp of his fingers becoming more and more faint. He wanted to kill Jonathan – then do it again, and again, and again. But he could only do it once, and then what? Jonathan would be dead and that sense of permanence, for the first time, struck Sock as something he didn’t want. The thought of Jonathan’s lifeless gaze gave him all the familiar anticipation and joy mingled with an unfamiliar sense of emptiness. Neither of them made a move to attack the other. It was Sock who finally spoke in a voice almost too quiet to be heard. “I’m here to kill you.”
Jonathan nodded slowly, having already gathered that, but still not understanding what exactly Sock was doing. “Did Mephistopheles send you?” he asked. When he received a solemn nod from Sock as a response, he said, “Look, I don’t care about what he does with his stupid business. I just need him to tell me a few things and then I’ll be out of his hair.”
Sock bit his lip and tried to find a way to resolve his current dilemma. Maybe in a few minutes these weird feelings would pass. “What are you here for then?”
“That’s none of your business,” Jonathan said.
Sock started poking at the tip of his knife with one of his fingers. “Maybe I could ask your questions for you? And then I won’t have to kill you.” Yet.
“No,” Jonathan said, “I’m going to speak to Mephistopheles and no one else.”
Before Sock could respond, they were interrupted by another voice. “Oh, come on, Sowachowski, it’s not even your first day on the job and he’s still alive?”
Sock spun around and saw Mephistopheles strolling casually into the warehouse, flanked by the same men who had kidnapped Sock earlier.
“I – I was getting to that!” Sock said.
Jonathan walked past Sock and up to Mephistopheles. “Listen, I couldn’t care less about what it is you’re doing out here. I just need answers,” Jonathan said.
Mephistopheles looked at his body guards, then shrugged. “You’re not going to like what you hear,” he said. He motioned to his guards and Sock. “You three, wait outside.”
Sock obeyed, brushing past Jonathan deliberately just to feel some of the heat from his skin. Mephistopheles grinned and winked at Sock as he walked by. Once he was outside, Sock kicked up dirt with every step, hoping to distance himself from the warehouse as much as possible without making it look like he was going to run away. He spotted the skeleton of a vulture and decided to make its acquaintance. Crouched in front of it, he asked “What the hell is wrong with me?” When the vulture didn’t respond, he continued, “I never have trouble killing someone. And then this guy shows up and it’s like…” He looked at his reflection in his knife. “It’s not like I’d really care if he was dead. It’s more like… maybe I’d miss him? But I don’t even know him.” And that was the crux of the problem, Sock wanted to know him. When Jonathan had seen the blood on Sock’s face in the hotel lobby, he didn’t panic. He didn’t start hollering for the guards. Instead, he let Sock know – probably the first time anyone had ever done something like that for him – and that made Jonathan interesting. As great as the act of killing people was, dead people didn’t make for very good companions. Neither did dead vultures.
“Alright, that’s taken care of,” Mephistopheles called as he left the warehouse. Sock looked back as Mephistopheles walked up to him, his guards trailing closely behind. “What happened back there, kid?”
Sock stood up, completely rigid in front of Mephistopheles. “I… I don’t know. It’s like I got… stuck.”
“Motive make it too messy for you?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” he looked back at the warehouse entrance. Everything Sock could think of saying sounded bad: sorry, he was too cute; sorry, I wanted to be his friend. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Is this gonna be a problem? Because if it is then– “
“No,” Sock said, cutting Mephistopheles off. “It won’t happen again.”
“Alright. Because if it does, then I’m gonna have to fire you. And that generally doesn’t end well. Well, later Sock!”
That had certainly gone better than Sock had expected. He watched Mephistopheles walk back to the settlement, lost in his own thoughts, until he was jolted back to the real world by Jonathan’s voice.
“Hey. Thanks for, you know… not stabbing me,” Jonathan said.
Sock whirled around, a goofy grin curling onto his face. “Oh, haha, don’t mention it.” Jonathan looked a little pale and Sock could see him shaking a bit. Sock thought about asking what had happened in the warehouse, but since Jonathan seemed keen on deflecting questions, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort to ask.
“I’m heading back to the settlement,” Jonathan said.
Jonathan had only taken a few steps back when Sock blurted out, “Can I walk with you?”
Jonathan stopped, twisted around, and looked at Sock as if there was suddenly a third nipple on Sock’s forehead. He opened his mouth to say something (“didn’t you just try to kill me?”), then closed it and shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
Sock perked up and fell into step with Jonathan. As they walked, he studied Jonathan’s face, trying to burn every detail onto his retinas.
“Weird hat,” Jonathan said, trying to ignore the staring.
Sock glanced up at his hat, a patchwork of trophies from previous victims that he had sewn together himself. “Oh, yeah, lots of repairs, you know?” Sock said. Now wasn’t the time to tell Jonathan that he was walking home with a serial killer. One way or the other, he would learn the truth. Sock could, and probably would, kill him one day. He would revel in Jonathan’s death and then things would go back to the way they used to be. But until then, with Jonathan by his side, maybe hell wouldn’t be so bad.