End of the Road Read online

“One more thing, Jake. That shot that took down the…”

  The pain was horrible. How I was able to finish talking to my children is beyond me. It must have been all the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. I could feel the sickness had made it up to my stomach.

  “That shot that took down the zombie that bit me was the best shot I’ve ever seen in my life. Right between the eyes on a moving target. Amazing.”

  “That last one wasn’t me.”

  Tears started rolling down Melody’s cheeks again. I looked at her and realized that she also had one of my rifles in her hands.

  “I did it, Dad. I wasn’t going to let them take you like I let them take our mom.”

  “Come here, Melody.”

  I mustered the strength to reach up and hug her as she sobbed.

  “Baby that was amazing. Your mom would be so proud of you. I’m so proud of you. You gave me the greatest gift any parent can receive from their child, a chance to say goodbye at the end of the road.”

  She pulled away from the hug and looked at me very seriously.

  “Dad, I need you to know something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Melody. I love you both… more than I can say.”

  “Can you do something for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you get to heaven, please tell mom that I love her too.”

  Jake put his hands on Melody’s shoulder and she backed away. He took careful aim and put a bullet right between my eyes. The last thing I saw in this life was my two kids… and I couldn’t have wished for a better way to leave.

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  Chapter 9

  The Last Hours of Brandon Kratz

  By James Rozoff

  The trail of corpses will lead them here. They’ll find their killer, they always do. But the reign of terror made it worthwhile, a few days of carnage that had the entire country glued to their television sets wondering how long it would last. And though it will all end at the cabin up ahead, the world will not soon forget the name of Brandon Kratz.

  The cabin cannot be too far now, I know these woods too well to be mistaken.

  They will find their man, but they’ll never find the answers they’re looking for. They’ll never understand how a seemingly loving family man could have killed his wife and children and fed them to the neighbor’s dogs. They’ll never understand how a person who looked so normal could be capable of such evil. Sure, there’s the rambling manifesto they found on Facebook, but that will serve more to disturb than enlighten. They’ll talk to the neighbors and relatives, who will tell them what a friendly and helpful person Brandon Kratz had always been. But these answers are not the ones that will help them sleep soundly at night. These are answers that only serve the festering doubt and fear that will linger in their minds and hearts.

  What they want is to think that there is something that separates unfeeling, uncaring killers from the rest of society, some distinction that they can make and so separate the horror from their own lives. But they will find no answers because there are none, at least not the kind that bring comfort. Many murderers have given their explanations for what they have done, but the average person is unwilling to accept the truth of such explanations. They want rational reasons and are unwilling to cross into the territory of insanity, which is where all the real answers lie. They like to believe in a rational world, but they are too cowardly to embrace the truth that the world is the better part irrational.

  I continue on my way towards my final destination, keeping to the woods and shadows in case the helicopters come. There is a determination in my stride, and I will myself to confidence regarding the direction I take. There really is no point in doubting myself now.

  Would you like my truth? I have done what I did because I am God to myself. Perhaps you feel the same way too: frankly, I don’t care. I only know that there is no reason not to take what I want, do what I want. I see no reason to care about a world that is outside of myself. What good is it if it is not there for my pleasure? I don’t care about you, nor would I ask you to care about me.

  Ah, but you do care, don’t you? You and everybody in Southern California are very concerned about me, concerned that I am out there, somewhere, unchained by the laws of society. You will not rest soundly until Brandon Kratz is captured or dead. Have no fear, you will get your wish soon enough.

  I estimate I have about a fifteen minute walk yet. The going is slower than I anticipated. But I cannot come up short now, not when I am so close to the end.

  The life of a serial killer is brief but thrilling. I am like a force of nature that tears through a neighborhood, a city, the countryside. Like an approaching tornado, a community forgets about their normal lives and activities. I am the one concern. I am the center of the universe, mine and theirs. And for a brief time, I am the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. Ayn Rand grasped merely a portion of the truth. If self-interest is the highest good, why stop at pursuing my own ends, why not bend all others to my own desires? Why not have the universe exist for me?

  And so it began. If one starts out quietly, there is a lot of time to commit the initial murders before talk of a serial killer begins. I disposed of the wife and children first. I then quietly dispensed with the elderly woman across the street. With her blood I left a note on her wall in order to alert the authorities as to whom they were dealing with—the name Brandon Kratz was written in letters five feet tall, with every drop the old woman had in her. It took her lazy son two days to get around to paying her a visit, even after he must have heard about the murders in her neighborhood.

  I guess I’m fortunate that I don’t look like a killer. People seem to trust me, maybe because I’m good at appearing caring. Even more important than not appearing threatening, I believe my features are generic enough to allow me to blend in with a crowd. If you saw me walking down the street, chances are you wouldn’t even notice me. Try it the next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall. Take a look around you and see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz that’s about to go off the deep end. See if you can spot the one carrying a weapon, see if you can catch a glimpse of murder in a stranger’s eye.

  The temperature is warm and I am dressed for protection rather than comfort. The sweat makes my clothing cling to my body, making every movement an exertion. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept since this all started, more than three days now. I have been living on adrenaline, but that can only take you so far. I am tired. I’m glad that I am almost at the end of my journey. I think back on what a journey it has been.

  There’ve been a lot of mass murders in the L.A. area recently. There’s been such a rash of murders that people are wondering if there is something in the air or in the water. There is a lot of talk and—typically—nothing will ever come of it. But even in this place and time, the name of Brandon Kratz will stand out. More than Billy Moreau’s four murders, more than Eric Cooper’s five. Even Ryan Kennedy’s seven murders don’t add up to Brandon Kratz’s total. I’ve been on quite a roll. Let’s see, now, Stefani Kratz, and Codi Kratz, and little Amber. Old lady Weathers. That hitchhiker, Chad, I think his name was. And then there was the mall shooting. I only killed two there, but I escaped, which was the important thing. I don’t think anybody even saw me there, although I’m sure I must be on some security camera somewhere wearing my trench coat and black military helmet. Kind of stupid of me, doing that at a crowded mall. Too easy to get caught. They could have got me alive, which would have been horrible. They would have stuck me under a microscope and viewed me like I was a bug. Much better this way, where they are searching for me with satellites.

  Sorry, where was I? Six—no, seven, I’m forgetting Chad again. And then there were the two sheriff’s deputies that pulled me over. That was well done, they were arm
ed and dangerous. But it cost me; I had to leave my car in the process and I’m pretty sure the cops will know where I am and that I’m on foot. I’m in the woods so they’ll be able to limit their search to a relatively small area. The road’s coming to an end for Brandon Kratz, but it will be the ending that I design. All I have to do is make it to the cabin.

  It won’t be far now. I’d love to get rid of this riot facemask, but it’s part of the plan. There’s really no path anymore, just trees and undergrowth. Still, I know it can’t be far. I feel it in my bones.

  I approach the cabin. It does not belong to me, but I know about it, planned to make it the end of my road. I open up the door and the terrified pleas begin.

  “Where’s my family? Did you do something to them? Are they okay? Why are you doing this? Please, please don’t hurt them.”

  “Now, Mr. Kratz,” I say “I’ve explained this to you before. There’s been a lot of killing and someone is going to have to take the blame for all the damage done.”

  What society really wants is to get a hold of the psychopath and make him pay for what he’s done. But they rarely get the chance. Too often, the murderer kills himself rather than being taken alive. Such will be the case today.

  “The people will need some kind of closure, no matter how unfulfilling,” I continue. “A corpse is better than nothing. At least that way they’ll be able to sleep tonight.

  “Now if you’ll agree to open your mouth for me, I can promise to make your end short and painless. But it won’t look like suicide through clenched teeth. Are you going to cooperate?”

  He looks at me with a clenched jaw and a look of defiance, as though anything he did mattered to me.

  “No? Well, your loss. This might take a while longer, but the result will be the same.”

  I place the gun to the side of Brandon Kratz’s head, wait for him to stop his futile head movements. I’m tempted to make the shot a poor one, make him suffer for his insolence. But I know I can only use one shot if it’s going to look like it is self-inflicted. I have to make it a good one. When I know I have a good shot, I pull the trigger. It’s a full cascade of blood, brain and bone that comes out the other side of his head, and Kratz quickly slumps in his chair. I untie my victim and allow him to drop to the floor. He’s lying in his ever-increasing pool of blood, his tongue hanging from his mouth as though he were a gibbering idiot. “It’s a pity they never count my final victim,” I think to myself. I always feel cheated by that.

  ~~~~~

  According to news coverage, Brandon Kratz’s body was found in a cabin in the mountains last evening. He had shot himself in the head, it was reported, his suicide bringing to an end the latest and deadliest in a recent spate of killings. As for me, I’m busy clipping newspaper articles at the moment. After a little time off to rest up, I’ll be searching once again for another Brandon Kratz, the normal kind of person that no one would ever suspect could commit the horrible crimes he’ll be accused of.

  The next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall, take a look around, see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz. Is it the tired-looking waitress that’s pouring your coffee, the man sitting next to you with his wife and kids, or the older gentleman at the bookstore who looks incapable of harming a fly? It could be anybody. It might even be you.

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  For more information on James Rozoff and his writing:

  Within The Mind of James Rozoff

  Chapter 10

  The Savior

  By Alison Blake

  Today was her 87th birthday. She celebrated by watching him die, then arranging for his cremation at a cost of one hundred dollars.

  Afterwards, she drove herself home and managed to park under the carport without knocking anything down. A truly amazing feat when you consider that during the entire drive, she saw nothing and was aware of nothing, but the deep sigh he gave before he closed his eyes for the last time. Over and over she heard the sigh, saw his eyes close, and saw him die.

  Well, we all die, and his was an easy death. It was surprising how calm she felt, how accepting, not really numb but—and then, as she got out of the car, the pain surged up. It was horrific, a knife stabbing into her chest, blocking her breathing, burning deep into her gut. Salty tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks, her breath came in gasps between the rhythmic beats of her heart, and she silently screamed to the heavens.

  Grief. How can something so insubstantial cause so much pain?

  At the front door she fumbled with her keys and dropped them twice. Someone had stuffed a pamphlet through the door handle. She plucked it out and carried it inside with her. She dropped her keys and the crumpled pamphlet on the kitchen counter. Every light in the house was still on, just the way she had left it when they rushed to the hospital.

  “I can’t stand it,” she said out loud between gasps and sobs. The pain was beyond bearing, and anyway, what was the point?

  She was breathing rapidly, but no air was getting in. The kitchen, bright with hundred watt bulbs and butter yellow walls, equipped with all the latest gadgets, was missing one essential ingredient. Air.

  Leaning heavily on the counter, slowly her panic subsided. Oxygen courteously consented to fill her hungry lungs. For a moment her body’s relief overwhelmed her grief, but grief is a graspingly ravenous monster, and it stormed back, invading her mind with throbbing, twisting pain.

  Riley was really dead.

  In the bathroom she splashed water on her face. As she turned to dry her hands she caught a glimpse of movement. She dropped the towel, grabbing on to the sink edge to keep from falling. An ugly old woman with flaming red hair and wrinkled skin, glared at her from the mirror.

  Had she really thought there was someone else here? She laughed a dry, harsh cackle. In all the four years she had lived in this apartment, there had never been a single visitor, let alone an intruder.

  She studied the old woman in the mirror. The bones of her face were still elegant. Even the wrinkles weren't that bad when looked at straight on. It was the sagging profile that disgusted her. Her eyebrows, which used to be well formed and explicit, were now multicolored, scraggly thin and thick. Ugly. Around the edges of her hairline, white roots showed, blanching her face, extinguishing her usual vividness. No time left to dye it.

  Years ago she’d been walking down Fifth Avenue, when out of the corner of her eye she saw this beautiful, radiant young woman coming towards her. Drawn by the woman’s beauty she had turned, only to discover it was a reflection of herself. She had been embarrassed and looked around to see if anyone was staring at her, as if bystanders could read her vain, self-absorbed mind. Even now, remembering her unexpected beauty, she smiled.

  “Ah, the hell with it.”

  Still she intended to look as good as it was possible for someone her age to look. She washed her face, brushed her teeth. Still had all her teeth. Not too yellow for an old woman. She hesitated, then with a sigh, she did the thing that offended her the most. Carefully wetting her face with a warm washcloth she applied shaving cream under her nose, down her chin, and onto her throat, picked up her razor, a pink ladies razor of course, and carefully shaved her growing beard. God, how she hated that. When she was married, well when she was first married, she loved to sit on the closed toilet seat and watch her husband shave. It seemed so masculine.

  Yeah, so masculine. If only she had known. Well, what could she have done? The doctor had taken her off hormones after that study came out. So here she was, an eighty-seven year old lady with a shaving habit.

  She changed her clothes because, by God, she intended to look decent. Even though they have been washed recently, there was still a lot of dog hair clinging to her dark blue pull-on slacks.

  Little clouds of dog hair scuttled across the floor as she walked. Had a life of their own, they did. They were everywhere. No matter, she loved dogs. How many dogs had she had in her lifetime?

  The few she’d had as a kid didn't count. Her parents had alwa
ys become horrified when the reality of living with a dog sunk in, and had gotten rid of them. Since she was an adult on her own she had, she had had three, no four, no …but she wasn’t going to count him. The first was some mutt she had picked up from the pound, a tiny, scared mix-of-everything, non-descript, little thing she had called Sparrow. Then there was the Bernese Mountain dog (what was his name?) It scared her that she couldn’t remember. Then there was Freckles, a Springer Spaniel (also from the pound) that had traveled with her and her son as they drove across country in an old VW Van.

  “Remember the time we parked near another VW Van and Freckles, who was as neurotic as hell, dashed into the other van. And didn't want to come out?”

  Ah hell, she was talking to herself again.

  That was after her divorce, her first divorce.

  Before getting married she had lived in Manhattan without a dog. She told people she was an actress with a capital “A”. She had gone to auditions, and lots and lots of parties. She took a few acting lessons. God, life is good when you’re in your 20s. Anyhow she hadn’t done too badly for herself.

  The present day woman stared into the mirror.

  "I didn't do too badly for myself,” she informed her doppelgänger.

  For someone who couldn't sing or dance, she’d gotten quite a few roles. Most of them off-Broadway. “I was a serious actress." She had even done a few TV slots. But she loved a real audience. For somebody who just sort of stumbled into it she had done surprisingly well. If only --

  If only what? As if it mattered now. There were plenty who had had big successful careers. But everyone, if they were lucky, or unlucky depending on how things were going, got to be old after a while. She walked into the living room and pulled all the blinds up, letting the sun stream in. More dog hair danced in the sunlight. Ordinarily she would have gotten out her hand vacuum and chased them down.

  She opened the balcony door and stepped out, still cool but that was okay. Slight breeze, that was okay, too. She stood looking down at the common. All around it were ugly two-story houses. In each building lived old, decrepit people, like her.