Shadoe actually twitched when she heard the name. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to consciously remind herself to breathe. She was within an arm’s reach of the monster Crenshaw. The worst of the stories she had heard flooded back into her mind all at once. Visualizations of the things he had done since the world had gone to hell. She had never thought the man would be so attractive. Shadoe had always thought she would recognize Crenshaw the instant she saw him. She never would have imagined he would be the man who had playfully followed her all this time.
A year ago she had actually been contracted to hunt Crenshaw. He had always been just out of sight when she tracked him, always just a step ahead of her. Shadoe hadn’t had the chance to set up a trap for him or arrange for him to chase her in the past. After finding one of the gang camps left in bloody ruin in his wake she had decided he was not worth whatever the tribe offered her to kill the man. When she returned to the tribe that had contracted her they informed Shadoe they no longer desired Crenshaw dead and saved her from having to back out of the contract. He had apparently discovered the tribe desired him dead so he had taken matters into his own hands. Crenshaw had hunted and killed every member of the Diablos, a gang that had plagued the tribe since the small group of people banded together. As a peace offering Crenshaw had presented the head of the gang’s leader, a man who called himself Morningstar, to the tribe. The tribe had accepted the offering and that had been the end of it.
Shadoe still remembered the gruesome scene left in Crenshaw’s wake when he attacked the Diablos. It looked as though he had used no weapon other than his own hands. Never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that bodies could be contorted or pulverized as the gang had been. She had seen gore and death before, but never in such brutal fashion, especially not caused by just one man. There had been at least fifteen dead at the final scene, of that she was certain. Now she found herself aligning with the devil himself to accomplish something good, something noble. Maybe her friends in college had been right after all, maybe the devil just had a bad reputation because he refused to live by the status quo. Crenshaw definitely did not live by the status quo. The common belief was that there was strength in numbers. The only way to survive was to band together with likeminded people and try to live as a group. It didn’t matter if you were part of the more peaceful tribes or the violent gangs, there was strength in numbers. Crenshaw did not live by that belief. He was a loner. Everyone knew the man had no family, that he had no friends. If one believed the rumor, he had actually killed his own mother and sister so that he could continue living. There were many stories, but they all came to the same conclusion. Crenshaw’s family died at his own hands because he felt they were a threat to his survival.
“War?” Shadoe asked, “How do you expect to start and win a war against the Kings?”
“Darlin’,” Crenshaw smiled, “I thought surely you would know. After all you were the one who stumbled upon the remains of the Diablos.”
“How did you …”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head on that, goddess. We’ve got work to do and I know just the people for the job.” He moved away from the window and paused in the doorway, “You comin’?” Then he was off.
The speed with which he tore across the rooftops of the abandoned buildings led Shadoe to believe the only reason Crenshaw had never overtaken her in recent months was purely because he had not wanted to. She struggled to match his pace, and more than once he had to stop while he waited for her. It was unbelievable to think that someone so large could move so fast. It was no wonder the tribes feared him and the gangs hated him. They covered the city blocks so quickly she didn’t realize where they were until she jumped through the window of a building only seconds behind him and was taken aback at the sight. Crenshaw held a man with a patchy, dirty beard aloft by his throat with one arm. One moment the man was kicking Crenshaw in the chest in a poor effort to be released. The next he was a lifeless corpse. Crenshaw had broken his neck with one powerful twist of his hand.
Crenshaw pulled the man’s tattered, black shirt off him then used the man’s own knife to etch an upside down crown in his flesh that covered most of his chest and stomach; but he didn’t stop at that. Crenshaw then used the blade to peel the skin inside the design off the man’s body. He tossed the bloody piece of skin aside then stood to admire his work. He actually frowned as he looked down at the body. Shadoe could not imagine what would make him unhappy. The man was dead. There was a carving in his flesh depicting the Fallen Kings insignia. It was all she could think of to do. It was actually more than what she could think to do, she would have left the initial cuts without peeling the skin out of the center to make a cut-out. Then Crenshaw smiled. Before she could ask what he was smiling about he grabbed the man’s right hand, then while he held it in the air he drove his foot into the upper arm snapping the bone with a wet crunch. Shadoe gasped and covered her mouth in speechless horror when Crenshaw repeated similar actions on the rest of the man’s extremities. He broke both legs at the knee, the patella actually shot out the side of the man’s right leg which caused Crenshaw to laugh his approval.
“Wha, what the hell was that?“ when Shadoe finally found her voice it was barely more than a whisper, and Crenshaw seemed to be done mutilating the corpse. She had seen brutality in the past, but nothing ever came close to the satisfaction Crenshaw seemed to find in desecrating the corpse. She found herself second-guessing the decision to align herself with him. Perhaps he really was the monster depicted in the rumors. Perhaps he truly was the devil. Perhaps the Bible had been right and the devil was not misunderstood but truly evil.
“I’m starting a war,” was all Crenshaw said in reply as he looked around the building. He glanced around the room then walked out obviously not finding what he was looking for. A few seconds later he stuck his head back in the door and asked, “You don’t happen to be carrying about 40 feet of rope do you?” Again Shadoe was speechless. She had no idea how to respond. “I don’t guess you would. Stupid question.” Crenshaw came back in the room and slung the corpse shoulder before he left the room again.
Shadoe followed him uncertain of what she was supposed to do now. She never would have imagined that his idea of starting a war would be to find victims to slaughter and mutilate. She wanted to run. She wanted to get as far as possible away from this monster. But there was a part of her that was curious; it was a larger part than she would ever admit so she continued to follow him to the ground floor in silence. When they reached ground floor Crenshaw set the body down next to an open doorway before he peeked out to make sure there was no one near. Once satisfied the two of them were alone he tossed the corpse back over his shoulder and went outside. There was a window that had been boarded over around the corner of the building and on it was another gang sign, this one was the crude pitchfork marking of the Folk. Shadoe grinned as understanding finally came to her. There was a method to Crenshaw’s madness. The Folk and the Fallen Kings seemed to always be fighting over territory, though recently it seemed their violence toward each other had ebbed. It would seem that when Crenshaw was done there would be a war sparked between the gangs once again.
“I really hate to waste a good blade, but I guess it will have to do,” Crenshaw said to himself when he pulled the man’s knife out and held the corpse against the boarded up window by the top of the skull. Shadoe actually blushed as she watched the display of strength. He was holding the body against the wall with one hand, his left arm twisted so that his thumb gripped the left side of the man’s skull, and Crenshaw seemed to have no difficulty in holding the body against the wall. She couldn’t believe it. She was admiring the devil himself while he mutilated a corpse and rekindled the dying embers of a gang war. She would have been embarrassed by her fascination, but there was brilliance in his plan. Then with one quick motion he drove the eight inch blade into the man’s mouth and through the back of the skull effectively pinning the body to the wall. He looked at his work for just a moment with his hands on his hips, “I think I may be a bloody, fucking genius. I missed my calling in life as an artist,” he said. Crenshaw then strode back into the building with Shadoe in tow.
The day afternoon gave way to night and Shadoe almost lost herself as she watched Crenshaw start his war. The man was methodical, silent, and efficient. After the fourth kill she stopped trying to track the different ways he killed then mutilated the corpses. It was nearly sickening, but with each death she felt a grim bolstering in her desire to see each of the gang members die. She no longer cared so much as to how the war was started she was being given a tutorial in death dealing. Her first inclination that Crenshaw was a monster was supported with each desecrated corpse, yet there was a reason for each brutal death he inflicted. The killing spree raged across four city blocks of The Folk’s territory and involved five more deaths, each with chunk of flesh carved from the chest in the shape of a crown.
During the hunt of the fifth gang member Crenshaw had told her to wait on the rooftop for him before he disappeared into the darkness to follow the man. Despite her admonishment of herself she couldn’t help but feel excited with the thrill of the hunt. It had been so long since she enjoyed being part of a kill. Death had become her trade since the Reckoning Day, a way of life. It wasn’t something in which she found satisfaction, but at Crenshaw’s side, watching him deal out justice to those preyed on the fears and weakness of others, she was thrilled with each kill she witnessed. Crenshaw never gave her the chance to prove her worth. Each death was dealt with silent precision; the victim never knew there was something wrong until Crenshaw’s powerful hands were upon them, and at that point it was always too late.
Shadoe lost herself in anticipation of the last kill, imagining what gruesome horror Crenshaw had thought up in his last effort to start a war between the gangs. She never realized that someone had climbed onto the rooftop with her until she heard a boot heel scuff the roof just behind her. When she spun around she expected Crenshaw to be standing there looming over her, instead it was a skinny man with a pock marked face leered down at her crouched form. Shadoe reached for her pistol in her shoulder holster, but was not quick enough. The man had been was only two steps away from her when she realized he was there. The man took a running step toward her and drove his left knee into her face. She reeled away with the force of the blow, then everything began to go dark in a swirling headache when the side of her head struck the raised ledge of the building. Shadoe had the sensation of being drug a few feet before she felt the man’s hands pawing at her body. The last thing she remembered was the man’s rank breath on her face and the weight of his body on her as he fumbled clumsily with her top while he tried to remove it.
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