In The Trunk

Written by Matthew Shute

They were only fifteen minutes into the journey when they heard a thump from the car trunk. They broke off their conversation and listened. Sure enough, the thump was followed by another. Then came a third, louder than the previous two.

Jimmy, the driver, shook his head in disgust. "Frank, I thought you said he was dead."

Frank, seven years younger than his partner, scratched his hairless chin, and looked vaguely dismayed. "He WAS dead, Jimmy. I'm sure he was."

"Yeah? Then who's that trying to kick the shit out of the back of my car, the Virgin Mary?"

Frank's dull expression turned to one of disbelief. "Look, Jimmy, I shot the bastard twenty times. There's no way he could be alive after that many bullets."

Jimmy sighed and shook his head again. "Are you some kind of cretin? Listen..." Another thump sounded from the back of the car, followed quickly by another. "Hear that? How can he be dead if he's still moving around back there?"

"But I checked his fuckin' pulse!" Frank shouted.

"Calm down and quit whining. Look, no matter what you say it doesn't change the basic and fundamental fact that the man is still alive and kicking. You can argue about it from now until Christmas, but you didn't kill him. I don't know about dead - he sounds like he could go twelve rounds with a mountain bear."

"Ah, man. This is fucked-up. I'm telling you, Jimmy..."

"Save your breath. I don't wanna hear any more of your lame excuses. The guy's alive and healthy: you can hear for yourself. What more is there to say?"

Frank pulled a petulant expression. Frank, it seemed, had a face for every thought in his head. "Shit," he said. "The bastard must be Rasputin or something, that's all I know. How could a guy survive twenty bullets?"

Jimmy did not respond immediately. He was watching the dark way ahead. The car was now well away from the residential and industrial districts. The landscape had become an expanse of rough earth with sparse trees scattered here and there. The outlines of withered branches passed in front of the waxing moon, creating the impression of spidery limbs in the pale light. These sinister appendages were animated by a cold wind that blew in from the ocean, bringing with it some of the sting of the salty waves.

"Where did you shoot the guy?" Jimmy demanded at last.

Frank's face contorted itself into an Are-You-Crazy? expression. "Huh? What the hell does that matter?"

"Just tell me. Where did you shoot him?"

"I shot him in the chest. Twenty times."

"The chest?"

"Yeah, what did I just say? I shot him in the chest."

"Well there you are then." Jimmy said. "Unless you shoot a guy in the head, there's always a chance he'll survive."

"A chance to survive after twenty rounds to the chest? That's ridiculous, not to mention biologically impossible!"

"Frank, you goddamn idiot. You can't even follow standard procedure. Instead of wasting twenty rounds of ammo, you could've spent half the time and effort by just putting the barrel to his temple and pulling the trigger... once."

Frank's face took on a new shape, this one a defensive expression with a touch of smugness. "That's where you're wrong," he said. "If I just blasted him in the head point-blank, the blood would spray everywhere, and probably mess up the new silencer I brought along."

In the trunk, the survivor's struggles were becoming more frantic by the second.

"Don't they teach you kids anything?" Jimmy asked. "What are you, a rank amateur? When you shoot somebody, even at close range, the blood sprays AWAY from the direction of the gun, not towards it. The only way you'll get the blood spray back at you is if the head basically explodes, or if you're in such a confined space that the blood has nowhere else to go. Since you were outside, a head-shot would have been clean and simple. The silencer would've been fine, and you'd still have those nineteen bullets you wasted... Besides, the silencer is probably wasted by now anyway, since you decided to play Rambo with the ammo." Frank was sullenly silent, so Jimmy continued: "I don't know why they send boys like you to do a man's job. You kids think it's all a game, going bullet-crazy like you're in some Clint Eastwood movie, but you've got no style or professionalism. It's kids and amateurs like you that get good men killed."

Frank's baby-face was reddening with anger and embarrassment. "I resent you saying that, Jimmy," he said. "I tried my best to do a good job, and that's all anyone can do. How was I supposed to know you guys had given me superman to kill? And anyway, how exactly do you figure that I'm a kid? I'm twenty years old."

"Yeah, you're twenty. That's still a kid in my book. You're still wet behind the ears."

"Oh right, and what are you; an old veteran at twenty seven? Give me a fuckin' break."

There was a pause. The atmosphere had turned sour, and neither man liked it.

Trying to dissolve some of the hostility, Jimmy said, "Look, forget about it, okay? None of this shit matters right now. We've just gotta deal with this situation. Talking won't get us anywhere."

Frank looked somewhat relieved to hear that, and he had an appropriate expression in his facial repertoire. "Look, Jimmy, if you want me to pop the son-of-a-bitch again, I will. Just pull over. I'll do him once in the head, exactly like you said."

"No, I don't want the bullet going astray and messing up the car anymore than it already is."

"I won't miss," Frank said. He sounded offended at the suggestion that his aiming ability was less than excellent. "I didn't miss any of my shots before, and I'm not gonna start now."

"Yeah, but even if it IS a clean shot, the bullet will pass right through and into the car anyway. Sorry but no thanks."

"You can always get a new car, Jimmy. And anyway, I would've thought the best thing to do would be to get rid of the car - it's evidence, after all."

"I could get a new car, yeah, but I like this one. And you don't need to worry your purdy lil' head about the evidence. It doesn't matter about blood or DNA traces. After my boys work on this baby, it'll be cleaner than the Board of Health."

Frank cocked an eyebrow. "So... you don't want me to shoot the guy? Fine by me. What did you have in mind?"

Instead of giving an immediate answer, Jimmy pulled the car over to the side of the road. When the vehicle came to a smooth halt, he pulled the hand brake and leaned back in his seat. Then he sighed.

Frank said, "What? What is it?"

Jimmy turned his head so that he was looking at Frank. When he spoke, his manner was serious and businesslike. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but you're going to have to finish our friend off by hand."

"By hand? What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Do you have a knife?"

Frank shrugged. "No. Just my piece."

"Well... the only other stuff we've got is what's on the back seat. You'll have to choose a suitable weapon from amongst that stuff. I know this is a tough thing to ask a rookie to do, but I've got to ask it. Think of it like this: The idea is to put him out of his misery as quickly as possible. Bring an end to his struggles."

As for those struggles, they had by now become even wilder and more ferocious than before. It sounded as though there was a gorilla back there instead of a man. The guy was obviously kicking and punching the interior of the trunk with all the strength he could muster. The captive was also making guttural grunting noises like a wild beast.

Frank craned his head to look at the back of the car. On the back seat was a large black sack, bulging with equipment. "What've you got in there?" he asked.

"A pickaxe, some shovels, two saws and a hammer. Take your pick."

Frank faced towards the windshield again, and leaned back in his own seat.

"Is this really necessary? We're nearly at the drop-off point already. Can't we just wait a few more minutes until we get where we're going?"

"No. Just listen to that bastard. He's kicking the trunk all out of shape, and that's gonna to cost me extra in repairs if he bends the interior. By the time we get to the drop off point, he'll at least have shredded the upholstery inside. We can't just leave him to go ape-shit back there. No, I want this finished. Now."

"Ah, man..." Frank said.

"Don't 'ah man' me. Just take care of business. This is your mistake, so fix it. I'll wait behind the wheel in case somebody comes along and we need to make a quick escape."

"Nobody's gonna come. We're out in the middle of nowhere here."

"Frank, don't make me get out there and take care of this myself," Jimmy warned.

Frank didn't need any more motivation than the subtle menace implied by those words.

"Okay, okay, okay. Jesus, I'll do it. Just watch me."

Frank reached around to the back seat of the car, grabbed a pickaxe from the black sack, and popped open the door at his side. Without a word, he climbed out of the BMW.

Jimmy watched in the mirror as Frank walked around to the rear of the vehicle. The trunk was already unlocked. Frank popped it, and swung it open. He mumbled something inaudible, and started swinging downwards with the pickaxe.

Jimmy looked away from the scene. He did not take pleasure in such things. Never had done. Some people he knew actually did relish the violence that came with his kind of life, but he viewed those people as sick animals. Violence held no thrill for him. Business was business, and sometimes death was a necessary tool. There was no fun in it unless you happened to be a psychopath. It was all just part of the job. To Jimmy, it was the downside of the job, not one of the perks.

He could hear Frank swinging the pickaxe and shouting. He could hear thuds, screams and horrible wet sounds. With a shudder of distaste, he turned on the radio. An old Elvis song was playing. He turned up the volume of the car stereo until the music was all he could hear. After a while, it was easy to pretend everything was normal. He focused his mind onto the lyrics and the melody of the song with such an intensity that thoughts of violence were pushed firmly from his mind. Before long, he was tapping his foot to the rhythm, and singing along. A new song had started and finished by the time Frank had closed the trunk, climbed into the car and pulled the door shut behind him.

Jimmy turned off the radio. "You look bloody," he commented flatly.

Frank didn't look happy at all. His shirt and jacket were splattered with random drops of blood. His face was damp with sweat and streaks of red. His hands were dripping. Not even his hair was blood-free.

"My new suit is ruined," he said. "Man, are you sure that you haven't got Clark Kent back there? That guy is one tough motherfucker. I musta hit him fifty times before he stopped moving."

He threw the wet pickaxe onto the back seat, on top of the black sack, and sighed.

Jimmy released the hand-brake and started the vehicle rolling again. "Are you sure he's dead this time?"

Frank returned his gaze to the front windshield. "Yeah. He's full of gaping holes. There can't be a drop of blood left in him."

"I don't need the gory details; I just need to know you've killed him."

"Oh, I nailed him all right. I got him right in the heart."

In the darkness, Jimmy was barely able to conceal a shudder. "Good. That's good work, Frank. I mean it. I think you've definitely made amends for your mistakes earlier."

"Thanks, Jimmy. I appreciate you saying so."

"Seriously, you can consider that a test you've passed with flying colours. I thought maybe you wouldn't have the stomach for this kind of work, once it got to the really messy parts. Shooting people is one thing, but killing them by hand is something else entirely. Maybe I was a little harsh on you earlier. Now I know you can handle a situation like this, I'd like to work with you again. I'll put in a good word with Leo,"

"Leo Douglas?" Frank said with a look of surprise.

Jimmy nodded. "The same."

"You know the big boss personally?"

"Yeah, I know him. We're not close or anything. I just follow his orders, and call him Mr. Douglas. But he does trust me, and I know he would respect my opinion if I recommended someone like you for... eh... promotion."

"Would you really do that for me?"

"I don't see why not. Mr. Douglas is always looking for good people. With more experience of jobs like these, you'll learn to iron out any stupid mistakes like forgetting the head-shot. I wouldn't mind taking you under my wing and showing you the ropes myself."

"Thanks, Jimmy. It would be a real honour work with you. To learn from you."

Jimmy nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

They rode along in silence for a minute or so. Then Frank said, "Just out of curiosity... who is the guy back there?"

Jimmy looked blank. "Somebody that Leo wanted dead. That's all I know."

"Really? He didn't tell you? I find that hard to believe."

"I don't know who the guy is, and I don't want to know."

"It feels weird having to kill someone who I know nothing about. I've just murdered a complete stranger. You really have no idea who he is at all?"

"If you want me to make a guess, I'd say he's another victim of this fucking gang war."

"Those Russians I keep hearing about?"

"Yeah, the Russians. I don't know how much you know, but they're a new outfit trying to muscle in on the drugs scene in L.A. Our people tried to scare them off, and they blew up two of our Vegas casinos in retaliation."

Frank nodded. "Yeah, I saw it on TV. Everybody's been talking about it. Those casinos were full of people at the time. Tourists. Those Russians are some ruthless bastards, eh?"

"Yeah, they're certainly cold-blooded." Jimmy agreed. "And they're nothing like the Russian Mafia, either. These guys started out pretty small-time, but there's nothing they won't do to get an edge. Can't be more than thirty members in total, and the number of active ones has halved since the arrests started. They're more like a cult than a gang, if you ask me. They're into some seriously creepy shit. You must've heard about the rituals they perform on the bodies of enemies they capture? That was on the news, too. Nearly a month ago, they found a truck full of bodies, hung up like sides of beef. Mutilated and stuffed. It's supposed to be some sort of witchcraft."

"What... like Satanism or something?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Satanism, paganism, voodoo, wicca, sorcery... who the hell knows? They're basically just sicko's. They do all that crazy shit just to scare us, that's what I think. They won't last long, whatever the case is. It's not just our people they've got to contend with. The CIA, NSA and FBI are all working to eradicate 'em - because of the attacks in Vegas. Those sick puppies are seen as a real threat to national security. The government classed the casino bombings as acts of terrorism, and now they can detain anyone even suspected of being part of the cult. You can expect a lot of Federal trials and death sentences."

"I heard that Leo lost a lot of people in that attack."

"We did. Over forty casino employees, and sixteen of Leo's boys who were down there in preparation for a meeting. We lost some good people to those Russian piss-ants, and we've had to recruit a lot of people we never woulda touched before. When the hierarchy changes, those are the most nervous times. Luckily, Leo was nowhere near the place." Jimmy was thoughtfully silent for a moment. Then he said, "We lost sixteen of the best that day. Some of them were close friends of mine."

"Damn," Frank said. "That was some attack."

"A fucking big mess is what it was. The civilian casualties were outrageous. The bombs were so powerful, they set neighbouring buildings alight. And it killed anyone who happened to be walking close by outside at the time. The sheer scale of the attack caught everyone off guard. I've been working insane times since it happened, all kinds of crazy hours. They've had me driving around taking care of business all over the place."

"You're the man, Jimmy."

"Yeah, well, I do think things will start to calm down after a few more months. Maybe even just weeks. The cards are on the table; the Russians are on their way out. Flamboyant it was, but their attack won't get them very far, especially now they've got the intelligence agencies to deal with full time. Just imagine that kind of pressure."

Frank nodded with an enthusiastic expression from his tool kit of faces. "I heard Leo has got some really high-up people under his thumb. Like politicians in the Senate and the Whitehouse. It's like a conspiracy theory."

"You hear a lot, don't you?"

Frank said, "Yeah, people are full of gossip and rumours, but it's good to get a chance to talk to somebody like you who's high up in the business and knows what he's talking about."

"Thanks for the compliment, kid," Jimmy said. "But I'm not that high up. Basically, I'm a good driver and I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"No, you're more than just a good driver," Frank insisted. "I know from what people tell me that you're not afraid to get your hands dirty either. I've been warned by a number of... associates... not to mess with you or antagonise you. My friend Henry said that with me riding alongside you, it would be hard to avoid getting a bullet if I messed anything up."

Jimmy was about to respond when a loud thud came from the trunk.



 

Michael Silver was always on the lookout for prey. He was an opportunist by nature, always had been, always would be. He knew from experience that fate could sometimes provide opportunities at the most unlikely of times.

His first kill, for instance.

He had been twenty one at the time. He'd been returning home after a job interview at the bank. On the road he'd spotted a sweet young girl walking home on her own, the parents of the child nowhere in sight. Molesting and killing had been the furthest things from his mind, not least because he thought he'd done well at the interview and his mind was busily thinking of what he might buy with his first wage packet.

But, ever the opportunist, he had thought, "Why not?"

He took the girl home, raped her in front of his video camera over a period of two weeks, then killed her in the most thrillingly sadistic way.

It turned out that he didn't get the job as a bank clerk anyway.

At least, then, some good had come from his trip to the bank that day. The experience had taught him that whenever chances presented themselves, the only thing to do was grab them with both hands.

He'd murdered numerous people since then. Mostly, he killed children. Only girls and boys below the age of twelve sexually excited him. He didn't like adults at all.

Sometimes, though, he killed for the sheer thrill of it.

Once, for example, on a crowded street, he'd nudged an old woman out into the road, into the path of oncoming traffic. The old bitch had died wonderfully, and Michael had pretended it had all been a tragic accident.

The game of life was all about taking your chances and making the most of them. This was his most basic philosophy.

So, when he saw the man on the road, his mind started ticking over with dark plans.

He knew this area well. It was always pretty much deserted. There was probably nobody else around for miles.

What, then, would stop Michael ramming this poor stranger? What would stop Michael killing the poor fellow right here and now?

The answer was: nothing.

Life was a game of chance, and Michael was a player.

Right now, he was in the mood for play.

Targeting the stranger with his eyes, he shifted into the highest gear and stood hard on the accelerator.

He laughed as the car zoomed towards its prey. What had been a small speck on the road was now a full-grown man directly in front of him.

Michael had hoped to see a look of shock or terror on the face of his victim. The stranger's face showed surprise, certainly, but that was all.

It didn't really matter one way or the other, though, because a second later the car ploughed into him at full-speed. Michael was sure he heard the breaking of bones as the car smashed the poor fool like a sledgehammer. The victim, splayed out over the hood, held on for dear life. For fun, Michael slowed down slightly and carried the hapless stranger for a quarter of a mile or so down the road. Finally, however, the victim lost his grip and dropped under the car. The wheels on the right side went over the stranger's head and body, causing the car to jump slightly.

As Michael pulled over, he reached for the Magnum handgun he always kept in the glove-compartment. In the rear-view mirror, he saw that his victim was lying on his back, stunned or unconscious.

Michael hopped out of the car, and walked over to where the stranger was lying. Grinning, he took careful aim and shot the man right through the heart. The gun went off like a cannon in his hands. As an afterthought, he decided it might be fun to discharge the rest of his ammunition into the defeated prey. He let out a whoop of delight with each shot as he filled the man with large gaping holes.

When he'd finished, the road underneath the victim was soaked with blood.

Exhilarated by this bold murder, Michael dragged the dead body over to his car, popped open the trunk, and deposited the corpse within. He closed the trunk, returned to the driver's seat and drove off. With any luck he would be home in time to catch the documentary on the Discovery channel he'd been meaning to see. If not, he could always dip into his home-brand child-porn archive.

He looked skyward for a moment. The cloud was breaking, and the sun seemed to wink at him from the gap. He winked back.

Ah. Life was good.

He hummed a tune and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he cruised along the road.

He hadn't travelled far, however, before he was startled by a thudding noise coming from the back of the car.