The eighth body

Copper saw the eighth victim of a murder spree he had began taking great interest in.

While the media covered each death as just another in a long list of gang related casualties, part of him doubted that was really the case. The reporter was quite familiarized with the violent history of the city and, by extension, the very distinctive signatures and modus operandi of said gangs, long before covering them in the next day tabloids. It was a sad truth about the state of things, but it was because of that familiarity with violence and crime that he swore that the scene before him was not related to any of those in any way.

He could see that even the brutality was a bit much, even for those in the cartels who have to send a message to the city or a rival group. There was no simple order given to set records straight or even someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, Cooper felt that there was something more to the flayed corpse than something so measly, something extremely sinister and inhuman.

Much like the other scenes he has been at, that lingering dread of a predator lurking around always followed him. Cooper could feel their fangs begin to pressure around his throat, and that was when two words came to mind. Serial killer.

Everything seemed to still, the world frozen in its place as the terrible concept of something as cruel as a killer without any reason for what he did other than his mere delight festered in his mind.

The concept was simply too much, too extreme for even the things they saw in their every day life and yet he could not deny the possibility of something so twisted being unleashed in the city. Part of him wondered how the city would drown in fear at what could very much be described as a monster.

Cooper found himself being pulled out of his thoughts at the sound of a police officer loudly vomiting on the ground a few ways from were the body laid. Walking up to the yellow tape, he tried to make sense if the sudden connection his mind had created, understand the reasons behind the murder. 

Trying to get in the mind of this killer despite not really having any proof of there truly being one out there, for the first time since so long he allowed his own mind to be set loose with its twisted and dark visualization. 

Cooper thought of that ability as more of a curse than something to be proud of, the many nightmares that overtook him so long ago still resounding in the furthermost corners of his mind. Despite his own reservations, he had to tune them out just to see what it was his mind would conjure. The picture was just as horrifying as he had dreaded.

As his body moved around the scene, still mindful in his trance like state not to exceed the limits placed by authorities, he followed what he thought could have been the killer’s trail. He could see it perfectly in his mind, too perfectly. The victim thrown harshly against the ground, arms bruising and bleeding yet still used as a means to try and crawl away from the monster in human form.

Suddenly, his vision of a killer showed they weren’t alone. 

For a moment he wanted to kick himself by letting his imagination get the best of him again, for trying to create leads and connections that were not there to begin with. The scene turned into a gruesome torture, and Cooper already felt vile at the back of throat as he gagged for air upon visualizing the cruelty of their murder. 

Howls of pain echoed in his mind as he could almost feel cold steel peel away at his skin, every cut and carving filling with sand and dust. It nearly brought him to his knees just thinking how such grueling final moments must have felt like to the unfortunate victim, yet beyond feeling pity for the man, there was nothing Cooper could have done for him other than to use his tragedy as a means for at least getting a general idea about possible motives. 

As soon as his mind finally moved on from the torture scene, the reporter focused back on the body covered in a white sheet, picturing how he was dragged there still begging and screaming as if he weren’t hanging by a thread. Perhaps it really was another approaching war for power, that there was nothing beyond what he thought was already a senseless killing. Still, that didn’t quite explain that hanging dread in the air, as if there was a predator just hidden in the shadows waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting prey.

That sort of fear had never been present before when standing amongst the dead and dying, and he that well enough. So he focused even more, trying to decipher the reasons to why he seemed so haunted by this shadow in his imagination, why he was so desperate to prove there really was a monster. 

Cooper found it rather bothersome the way the body had been discovered. It was said that it had been haphazardly buried in the ground, almost as if they had been interrupted mid-burial, yet he wasn’t sure that would cut it. Despite that quite frankly been within the realms of possibility, the most rational and logical timeline of events wasn’t adding up. 

The attack was somewhat premeditated from what he could make out, especially when considering that there was a quite sizable hole already made. Cooper knew that if someone truly had ended up seeing something either there would have been two victims that day, or a call would have already been made. 

That’s when he realized why the scene seemed so wrong, well beside the fact of the brutality of it, and it was because he realized it was all faked. 

They wanted for the scene to be seen as nothing more than another murder with no true meaning or higher significance, but Cooper could almost see the line of thought of those monsters when it happened. The reporter did not doubt that many would overlook the case, and that was their intention. 

While the city will solely focus on that war with organized crime, horrors in the flesh of men will thrive in the chaos as they continue pushing all the focus to already usual suspects. It was an ingenious yet disturbing plan, and he wondered for how long it had worked.

Cooper could no longer feel his own legs and before he knew it he had fallen to his knees, desperate to get his breath back. He could barely make out people rushing to his aid, asking if he was alright. Through loud and greedy mouthfuls of air, he responded with an unconvincing ‘I’m alright'. 

Thankfully for him, many of those who had come to his aid appeared to send him pitying looks and left him be, some offering even to escort him from the area but Cooper quickly declined the offer. While the scene was making him sick the more he was looking at it, the real reason for his queasiness was due to the sudden revelation. So as he turned and sought the shade from one of the abandoned structures nearby, trying to ease his breath as he made his way towards it. 

The sensation of the cool of the shade served wonders into calming his nerves, alleviating most of the tension from his mind. It helped him calm down, yet it wasn’t enough to keep him from that pestering voice of paranoia. 

In his search for some peace of mind he wandered inside the rundown house, or the remnants of what once was one, starring at the graffitied walls and broken windows with a feeling of melancholy and solemnity as he walked by. He thought that he was just walking without any reason other than to clear his mind, but something pulled him towards a single wall. 

Before him was this particular symbol, one he loosely had knowledge about after reporting on a case with satanist connections. The cross with two arms above an infinity sigil, still freshly painted, stood out from the dirt and dust. Cooper was oddly entranced by it, knowing it to be something more than just another graffiti. There was clear purpose as to why it was there to begin with. 

Getting closer to it, his hand reached out for it as it were to hand it the answer to all his questions, and to his misfortune it had done exactly that.

Once more he was back to that terrible scene of torture and gore, now not as a outsider to the monstrous act, but as one of those cruel killers. 

The sound of howling laughter filled the night as the shadows of men continued throwing lumps of sand at the body, careless with every motion. Cooper found himself sitting at the back of a trunk, fiddling with a spray can of red paint on his hands, shacking it ever so often as he oversaw the burial. 

There was no laughter from the one he thought was in charge, only silence and disinterest towards what was being done. As soon as he heard that the others were done, no words nor recognition was given back, merely jumped down from the back of the trunk and headed towards the crumbling building Cooper was standing inside. 

As each red line was sprayed onto the wall, the excess steaking down as blood splatters of different scenes, those to come and those who he had already suspect something was amiss in them. A thousand things seemed to connect in his mind, yet no concise picture formed. All there was to see was blood, darkness and death. All the world city will know is the nightmare that is Leviathan.