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Zack stepped out of the evening shadows which painted the empty house in hues of indigo and crimson. He glanced at the trappings of normalcy surrounding him, taking in the hypocrisy spread out on display to the world.
A typical suburban home, wood floors protected by carpet runners, a gleaming bannister to his right, fresh flowers organized to perfection on the small table in the entry to his left. Along the walls photos demonstrated the normalcy of the occupants. Mother, father, and twin daughters at various family functions, posed for holiday photos, and the girls smiling with trophies from some sort of acrobatics competition. It all looked like the ideal family Rachel had wanted so badly for herself. And just like Rachel's when he met her, the girls had eyes as empty and dead as a porcelain doll.
Zack repressed the urge to smash every photo and rip the house apart. "Fuckin monsters," he growled. His fist clenched tight enough he could feel his nails bite into his palm through the bandages.
He had to focus though. Not tonight, not yet, soon, he reminded himself. Once he regained a slight hold on himself, he walked up the stairs to the second floor. His boots landed on each step with heavy, resonating thuds. His fists remained stuffed in his pockets, forcing him to stay on task by removing the opportunity to smash them through the pristine facade.
He rounded the top of the stairwell and moved to the first door on the left. The doorknob turned smoothly and the door swung inward on silent hinges. The room inside was an homage to all things traditionally assigned to small girls. Stuffed animals rested with blank gazes on a shelf, interspersed with perfectly posed dolls who smiled emptily in the darkening twilight. In brighter light, Zack might have been moved to nausea by the flood of pastel colors alone. As it was, he choked back his bile, but the colors had nothing to do with that.
He slipped his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew two business cards. These were Rachel's signature on her part in the events about to unfold in the house. For these two, she had made a picture that formed when they were held together. An open meadow with a long double rainbow spread behind the words "Hope comes. Don't give up." She and a few new friends had taught Zach to read. He found it intriguing, how the words Rachel put on her cards were always customized for the recipients. He couldn't resist a thin, if dark, smile. Rachel often called him her hope. It seemed warped to the young man, the idea that he would be the manifestation of hope when he fought so hard to have any for himself.
He placed one card under the pillows on each of the matching princess canopy beds. Turning back, he positioned a small camera among the thin children's books, ensuring it would capture the evidence needed. Thin as a wire, it would remain unnoticed. He would never watch it, himself. The one time he had, he'd slaughtered an entire family right before the child he intended to help before moving to his preferred, traditional targets and ending another dozen or so lives.
Rachel had been enraged with him when he staggered in the next morning, exhausted and hung over from the drunkenness of unleashing his carnage to its fullest. She refused to speak. He tried to apologize and she had snapped at him that he wasn't a monster and to stop saying he was.
He remembered thinking she had to be a bit deranged. He stood in their hotel room, slick with blood and viscera, and she still said he wasn't a monster? Sometimes it was hard to know whether she was more fucked up than he was. For two days, her responses were clipped and monosyllabic. She made him watch every second of news footage of the boy who had been left behind, though. She made damn sure he knew what he'd done when he lost control, how much pain he’d added to the life of an already wounded child, but still insisted he wasn't a monster.
"Tch. Little wierdo," he muttered fondly.
He flipped the lock on the window open, ensuring his re-entry and stepped onto the ledge. He wished he had his scythe with him. He itched to finish this. It wasn't going to be the athletic high he got from chasing prey down an alley, but it was profoundly satisfying and Zack wanted this kill so badly it made his heart pound painfully in his chest.
The first shadows of night covered his movements as he scouted the neighborhood again. He'd learned how to plan multiple routes away from the impending release of his bloodlust. He knew which houses had dogs, motion-activated lights, alarms, and which were empty - in case he had to take cover. He would return two more times and then he'd be gone. Zack didn't care for the planning, that was Rachel's job. He just wanted that glorious moment when he read despair in the face of the death he delivered with practiced ease. Still, four years and counting and they hadn't had to run from police or worry about being shot or captured. It had its benefits.
Two nights later, Zack vaulted from a tree and pushed the window open. The twins were already asleep, cradling one another for comfort. Only an hour ago, Rachel had opened the laptop she'd been gifted when they started this little venture. She'd advised him that the parents were away and the babysitter was inattentive. She also confirmed that she had what she needed from the camera.
How strange that both of them falling ill at the same time had changed their course to a parallel path. They’d been taken in by people who recognized them for what they were, but who accepted them. Each took the time to reveal their own stories, letting Zack and Rachel know they weren’t alone in having endured horror as children, only different in how they’d survived. They were the most unnerving, but honest group Zack had ever seen. Their unguarded honesty and lack of judgement toward himself and Rachel was what brought him to open up and accept their friendship - the first he’d known in his life. Once Rachel was well enough to discuss leaving, they brought a suggestion to the young fugitives that wierded Zack out at first, but made a perverted sort of sense.
Now these same friends bankrolled their expenses, calling the string of murders, "services provided." One taught Rachel about setting up mics and recording devices and hacking through various networks to control surveillance. Another taught Zack all manner of ways to enter homes undetected, and more importantly, how to escape without leaving a trail. The entire group worked behind the scenes to provide therapy, schooling, and even adoption services where necessary. Zack and Rachel set things up to save the kids who lived in hell without hope of escape. Afterward, a couple of the guys with a background in some sort of secret service type work maintained monitoring until it was certain that the rescued children had moved beyond the need for protection. It was the most warped set up, but more effective than courts and cops at saving children.
He stepped down from the window sill and onto the thick carpet in the bedroom. Darkness was his best friend on these nights. Zack always feared he'd see terror in the eyes of the children he approached. His mind spun up screams and cries for help, setting his nerves on edge.
Shakily, he retrieved the camera and slammed it into the hardshell case he'd carried in his pocket. Turning, Zack surveyed the sleeping forms across the room.
Dark hair tumbled free of pony tail bands and lay in thin, messy lines over the identical faces and blended where their foreheads rested against one another. The fluffy, pink border of the comforter rested over their shoulders. The sight both pained and enraged him and he knelt next to the bed.
Gently, as gentle as he had been when carrying Ray away from the hell hole where they'd met, he shook a shoulder with his bandage-encased fingertips. "Oi. Wake up," he said. His voice had always sounded gruff, thanks to the flames that gifted him the scars he hid behind the mummy-like wrappings. In these moments though, even Zack could hear the tones of tenderness and comfort.
The first girl, Jenna, stirred. Her eyes cracked open and then flew wide. She didn't try to run, only pulled her sister close, her first thought to protect.
"Shh," Zack whispered. "I'm not here to hurt you." He kept his head bowed. "Didya get my message?" He asked, knowing they had, Rachel had watched and listened to the twins try to puzzle out the meaning of her cards. Zack never mentioned Rachel though. Precautions were necessary, just in case he ever did fail to elude the police.
The second girl, Carrie, turned and Zack found himself fighting again to follow the plan. She had Rachel's eyes. There was no fear, only confusion at a strange man being in her bedroom. Had he brought his scythe this time, he knew it wouldn't have had any effect on her, but he’d have wrecked the situation again. Once, laughter had made him snap. Now, it was seeing that emptiness in the eyes of those who had no power to save themselves without becoming like him.
"What do you want?" Jenna whispered. Her small frame tensed, ready to fly into battle to save her sister.
Zack gave her a lopsided smile. He liked kids who had a bit of fight in them. They made him remember himself, before his world had become soaked in blood and rage. This was why he did things this way, now. One day, no child would ever be forced to kill to save themselves again. Until then, Zack was here to do it for them.
"I'm going to help you. I don't want you to be afraid though. When you see me again, I'm going to look scary." Zack pulled his hood back, allowing the light of the butterfly nightlight to illuminate his mismatched eyes. "I probably look a little scary now, right?"
This part was painful, admitting that his appearance could frighten small children. Zack hated that bit of knowledge, but he had to have their trust and needed them to recognize him when he came back.
Carrie studied his face before asking with perfect, innocent curiosity, "Why do you look like a mummy?"
"Because someone hurt me when I was a little boy."
The direct, honest answer drew the hated flashbacks forward and Zack could taste the desire to kill as tangibly as he'd heard people discussing an exotic wine. Not to kill these two, but to kill all the same.
"What will you do?" Jenna asked, the skepticism of someone with four times her years coating her words.
"I'm gonna make sure you never have to be afraid of your father again." He took a breath and recited the script Rachel had drilled into his head. "I'm going to kill him for you, not because you did anything wrong, but because what he has done to you means he deserves to die. You shouldn't have to do it yourself though, that's why I'm here. When it's over, you'll have a good home, a safe home, and keep those cards because if you ever need me you can just stick them in your window and I'll come back."
"Are you an angel?" Carrie asked.
"Tch." The child's innocent nature emphasized the irony of such words being used to describe anyone as bloody and broken as Isaac Foster saw himself. Still, why not? Hadn't he been one of Gray's so-called angels?
"How about we just agree that I'll be your angel?"
A faint vibration in his pocket reminded him that he was on a timer. One more thing to ask the twins and he'd vanish into the shadows again.
"Tell me, what do you think you'll want to do once you're safe?"
The pair who rescued he and Rachel had beaten him half to death with talk of dreams and goals, but he couldn't deny the effectiveness of making sure he sparked hope before finishing his jobs.
Carrie answered first, without hesitation. "I wanna be a cheerleader," she gasped. "Can I? Do you think I can?" Her voiced picked up volume and she started wriggling clear of the blankets in her excitement.
"Shhhhh," Zack urged. "Don't get up, and keep your voice down. We don't want anyone to know I'm here tonight."
"Cheerleaders are mean," Jenna snapped in a hushed but biting voice.
"I won't be!" Carrie hissed back. "I'll be a nice one!"
Zack resisted the urge to gag on the notion of a nice kid like this growing up to be a rude, arrogant thing like he'd seen before. But, why not? Not all the bouncy girls with their impossibly bright faces were cruel. In fact most of them were just trying to figure out who they were and what to do with their lives.
He tugged the blanket back over the slight form. "If that's your first dream, why not?"
He lifted his face to Jenna, "What about you?"
Jenna frowned. Her expression became as vacant as her eyes and Zack wanted to hug her and kill her parents with equal ferocity.
"I'm not really good at anything," she murmured.
"That is a lie. I hate lies," Zack countered. "Everyone is good at something, or even just likes something a lot."
"Art!" Carrie supplied.
"My art is ugly," Jenna countered.
Zach tilted his head. "Why's that?"
"Mommy and my teachers say all I draw are ugly things."
Ah, that made sense. In one of the child psychology books he'd read, Zack recalled seeing a bit about abused kids and the creepy stuff they sometimes drew. He just bet their mother didn't like having her perfect family revealed for the scam it was.
"Tell ya what, that can be your dream for now. When you get your new family, you draw anything you want." He bit back a sardonic laugh. "Life has a lot of ugly things in it. Maybe you're supposed to make sure people see it so it can change," he suggested.
Jenna nodded briefly, her brows knitted in consideration of Zack's words.
Zach was back in control of himself now, and he wrapped his long fingers around the tiny hands of his new, self-assigned charges. "I promise, you will never need to be afraid of me. I will never do anything to hurt you, and I will protect you from anyone who would." He rose and tucked them in. "Sleep now. Oh, and don't tell anyone I was here. This secret is just ours, but it's the only one I'll ask you to keep. After I come back, you can tell anyone you want to. Just keep the cards hidden or they'll take them away."
The twins murmured their assent and Zack crossed to the window. "Hey, when ya go to bed, make sure this stays unlocked? I hate breaking glass. It makes a mess, 'kay?"
Jenna nodded, her serious eyes piercing the darkness.
"See ya soon," Zack said. He stepped off the windowsill and into the night. A few feet away, he watched with boyish delight when two small faces peered out into the yard. The impression that he could disappear into thin air always excited the kids and he felt a strange sense he'd almost have called joy when he pulled the trick and they got so wound up.
Back at the hotel, he briefed Rachel on the goals the girls had set. She looked surprised at the idea of Carrie wanting to be a cheerleader but shrugged and called their backers. Carrie would have pompoms and megaphone, and a therapist who used gymnastics to restore confidence in abused children. Jenna would have a stunning artist kit for children and an instructor who also specialized in art therapy.
The next three nights ground themselves through Zack's existence like a strip of coarse sandpaper. From his vantage point in the tree by the back windows, he watched the house. Every muscle remained tense. He caught himself salivating every time he saw the sloppy, boxer-wearing man with his beer gut staggering up the stairs. He waited, his grip hungry against the heavy metal shaft of his scythe.
He hated waiting, but he'd tried to handle things differently in the past and this was what he needed to keep himself in check. He needed to see that exact moment when his prey knew their life was over. He needed to watch them go from perverted delight to a split second of knowing they had brought his wrath down upon them. That was what made the kill worthwhile and what sated the predator in him.
He watched the man pass the girls' door. It wouldn't be tonight either, then. He bit back a wild string of curses and slammed his knuckles into the branch where he crouched.
"Fuck!" his mind raged. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" A reddish haze filtered over his field of vision. He needed this kill. He needed to be cut loose from all these damned rules and restrictions. There was no way this sick piece of shit had changed his ways. Why? Why wasn't he…"
Zack's thoughts stopped on a dime. Gleeful anticipation suffused his body, relaxing the tension and turning his rage into a sinewy predator with hyperfocused clarity. The man had turned back.
Zack vaulted through the tree, landing lightly on the fence before bounding to the edge of the window. The ninja style shoes he wore, gifted by his friends, gave him a grip on the smooth aluminum siding while permitting him to land in silence.
He slid the window open, its movement silenced by a thin layer of nearly indetectible lubricant he'd left on his first visit. The girls had done as he asked, leaving it unlocked. His breathing was steady and his heart thrummed with excitement as he stepped into the shadows near the closet. Jenna saw him and he smiled in approval as her face hardened.
"How are my pretty babies?" the drunken man slurred. "Miss me?"
"No. Get out," Jenna said.
"Hey, that's not how we talk to each other," he reprimand. "I'm just here to love my babies."
"Go away, or else," Jenna emphasized.
Oh ho! Zack definitely liked this girl.
"Or else what, you mouthy shit?"
Carrie licked her lips nervously and stammered, "Or our angel will make you go away!"
Zack's lips curled into a smile. If Carrie needed him to be her angel, he would be. Her very own angel of death.
"Angel, huh?"
"Yeah, angel," Zack affirmed, maintaining his place in the darkness. He waited until his target turned, eyes searching the blackness for the source of the gravelly voice. He shifted his scythe to rest over his shoulder and stepped forward. "Come for your soul, yah sick fuck."
"Who the hell… What are you doing in my kids' room you creep? You some sicko, watching babies in bed?"
"That's rich," Zack laughed. He swung his scythe down, readying it. "I know what you've done," he growled. "But I'll give you a chance. You can have three seconds to try and save yourself."
Carrie clapped and squealed behind her father. Zack cringed inwardly. He wasn't supposed to be cheered on, but at the same time, it fueled his desire to swing the wide blade.
Instead, he spun the shaft in his hands. Not in front of the kids, never again in front of the kids, he reminded himself.
"One," he laughed, his need for release giving his voice a maniacal edge.
His target glanced at the excited twins who perched at the head of one bed like gruesome gargoyles… and ran, flinging the door open.
Zack strolled lightly, the balls of his feet almost dancing across the carpet, and took the door handle. He stepped through, pausing only long enough to give one final bit of instruction to his wards.
"Lock the door. Don't open it until the police come. Don't forget to hide the cards. I'll keep our promise if you ever need me to."
He stepped into the hallway and laughed again, allowing the unthinking impulses to sweep over him. The lock on the door clicked and he called out, "Two!"
The target was downstairs, screeching at his wife, trying to get her to call the cops. Zack hopped over the railing to land with a deliberate thud at the foot of the stairs. One of the photos rattled loose and crashed to the floor, shattering beside him. The sharp sound lifted Zack to a high he lived for.
"Three," he growled, blocking the exit to the living room. His targets waited, panic in their eyes and terror filling the air with a heady, acrid scent almost as sweet as blood.
The wife screeched into her cell phone, "Oh God! This freak is going to kill us! Hurry!"
"Get away, you, you, fucking monster!" The man shouted. He swung a chair up as if he thought he were a lion tamer in a circus.
Zack was beyond words for the moment. He only knew sensation and lust.
The weight of his scythe came forward, pivoting with lazy elegance on Zack's wrist. The chine reduced the cheap bit of furniture to kindling. With no barriers, Zack spun, flipping the blade into position and driving it down. He felt the tip pierce his target's shoulder, dragging through muscle and bone, into the chest where it split the breastbone like a holiday turkey, and out through the soft, yielding flesh of the belly. Blood erupted from the violent opening and sprayed into the air as the corpse fell.
Zack laughed, a coarse, but ultimately pleased sound. "Aww fuck yeah!" he breathed. Pleasurable sensations danced through every nerve. He couldn’t resist one delighted shout. "That was fucking beautiful!"
The woman screamed, scrambling in terror until she worked herself into the far corner of the room. "NO! STAY AWAY!" She still had her phone held to her ear, but had stopped responding to the agent at the other end.
Somewhat relieved of the craze, Zack was able to view this target as nothing more than taking out the trash. She knew. She hadn't been threatened or coerced by anything but her selfish desire to keep up appearances. She knew what her daughters suffered and did nothing. If she'd been a victim, there would have been a way forward for her. They’d done that before. Instead, Zack towered over her, anger suffusing his presence as he glared into her dark brown eyes.
"Yeah, you knew, didn't you?" he asked. He always gave them a chance to admit what they'd done.
"No! How could I know? They never told me!" She begged. "Please, my babies, don't hurt my babies!" She screeched piteously.
"I fuckin hate liars," Zack spat. He didn't wait for further objections, only allowed the point of the blade to drop straight into her skull. It sounded like a pumpkin being split and Zack grinned his sadistic delight as the woman's face went slack and she slid from his weapon to the floor. Her phone clattered to the ground beside her, a panicked sounding agent shouting for someone to respond.
Sated, pleased with himself beyond measure, and relieved of the terrible urge to destroy, Zack spun the scythe to the side, freeing it of the gore from his work. Engraved lettering reflected the light of the TV as it played the news.
"Community Service," the words read; a name gifted with the weapon by his benefactors. He wasn't ever certain whether the words were a name for the instrument, or a reminder to himself, only that he liked this concept of ending lives for a cause.
Humming, as he did after these jobs, he mounted the stairs. He knocked at the bedroom door, a gentle rap to let the girls know he was there. "Don't open the door yet," he said, his voice as gentle as when he spoke to Rachel. "It's over. Just wait there. The police are on their way. You two go get yer dreams and make them happen."
He threw open the window at the back of the hallway and leaped into the night. All he left behind was a simple red gift bag with a cheap USB drive inside. The police would understand why this had happened when they examined the contents. He nodded to a man with long, dark blond hair in a pest control van at the end of the block. The rest of the group would take over now and Zack would only be called back to the girls if there was a need.
He vaulted to the top of the van, slapped the scythe into a locking box and rapped twice. With a dismount of Olympian quality, Zack landed on the sidewalk and rushed away. He wasn't needed here anymore and Rachel would be waiting for him.
One day, no child would ever be forced to kill to save themselves again. Until then, Zack was here to do it for them… just providing a community service.