Guilty Party

Two and a half hours after touching down in Innsbruck and boarding the SUV that waited to greet her, Amelia Carver’s overnight expedition came to an end at a squat, crumbling structure in the rugged terrain of Saminatal Valley. 

From Dublin to Austria to Liechtenstein, from 12am to 6, from civilisation to desolation, and she still didn’t know if it was worth it. Looking at the building, little more than an abandoned mound of concrete, it was difficult to see how it could be. She hadn’t accomplished anything of note since last year. She wasn’t expecting to receive any awards. There were no contemporaries she still wanted to meet. And even if by some chance she was to be acknowledged for her endeavours, she had no desire to receive a tacky statue. 

Not that it mattered.

She was contracted to be here so she was. 

At least this year promised to be different, since Bertram was introducing something new.

And she’d made her own assumptions about what that meant. 

A special guest. An unexpected attendee.

One that would be worth turning up for. 

If it was him.

“So, you’re not gonna throw me a bone?” she asked the driver, as he stopped by the secret military installation, which has been constructed by Nazi forces during World War II. “Not so much as a nod or shake of the head?”

The driver, mannequin-like in black suit and mirrored sunglasses, said precisely as many words as he’d said since collecting her at the airport. A sum total of zero. 

“Cool,” said his ‘fare’, adjusting the Venetian half-mask that covered the left of her face before popping the passenger door, the fabric of her crimson gown rustling as she got out. “Good talk, thanks for the riveting repartee.” 

Out of the vehicle, in the pale morning light, Amelia shut the door and straightened her skirt. Gravel spat like an angry rattlesnake as the driver stomped the gas and crunched away. 

“Rude,” said Amelia, tottering on heels towards the entrance, a rusted steel door partially concealed by tangled vines. Exactly the kind of place she wanted to spend the first evening of the last month of the year, when she could be curled up watching TV. 

But here she was.

Pushing through a squealing slab of history to meet another expressionless brute, who was as conversational as the one who’d dropped her off. 

“Hey,” she said, as the passage she’d entered closed around her. “Am I last again? I’m always late. Shucks.”

The grunt showed no emotion while placing a barcode-scanner type device against the scar on her neck, allowing a beep to confirm her identity. While he did this, she removed her phone from her clutch and tapped on it to display the invite she’d received, which was also scanned and accepted. Once done, the guard stepped aside, allowing her access to a drape-covered door.

“Thanks,” Amelia said, maintaining eye contact with the goon while adjusting her breasts. “So…is it true? Is it Abyss?”

No response, the bouncer flicked his eyes back to the wall. Amelia sighed and pulled the drape aside, stepping into a better lit chamber that she lost sight of immediately when a pair of calloused hands fell over her eyes.

“Guess who?” came a gravelly voice, laced with playful menace.

Amelia peeled the hands away and turned to face their owner, a beast of a man wearing jeans, a white cotton waistcoat and a wolf’s head mask. Blue eyes stared from its sockets, his lips curled up within its maw.

“Wolfclawe. Always a pleasure.”

Of all the associates she’d met since joining the Network, Wolfclawe was the one she liked most. He had a sense of humour to go with his violent nature and was capable of faking social niceties.

“Carver,” he greeted. “Thought it was you I heard coming in behind me. Looking pasty as ever. Still not getting any sun?”

“Still got the same machete?” Amelia asked, peering over his shoulder at the curved weapon strapped to his back. “Thought it might have broke from overuse. Heard it's taken thirty heads this year. Not jealous.”

“Old Betsy’s stronger than she looks,” the masked man grinned. “What about you? I remember you saying last year how your kill-count was too low. Any success ramping things up?”

“In Ireland? Not as much as I’d like,” she said, rolling her visible eye, the taped up hole of her masquerade mask concealing the empty socket of the other. “Came in with a solid thirteen. Three more than last year. But shy of the twenty I wanted.”

“An improvement is an improvement. And you are a more discerning kind of killer. Targeting assholes who mock the less fortunate and lack empathy is a task in and of itself. Unless you're starting to feel less philanthropic?"

“Nope,” Amelia shook her head, turning away from the wolf-headed killer. "If I'm compelled to get my hands dirty, may as well clean some shit up. Anyway, never mind that. We better grab seats if there’s any left. Bertram starts on time and we’re late.”

The interior of the chamber had been prepared for Bertram’s event—rows of chairs arranged before a makeshift stage holding a podium, spotlights casting shadows on red curtained walls. The seats were occupied by figures in various states, some in their work clothes (boiler suits, leather aprons, lab coats, military fatigues), others in more casual attire, some sporting face-coverings (canvas bags, chrome constructions, cliched hockey masks or things that had been assembled from strips of flesh) some displaying faces not even mothers could love, but all unmistakably killers.

“Indeed,” said Wolfclawe, following Amelia towards the front, where she’d spotted a pair of vacant seats. “Wouldn’t do to be kicked out, when I’m in with a chance of Best Massacre.”

“You deserve an award for that,” Amelia nodded. “Speaking of awards, I guess you heard about the new one?”

“Mmm,” Wolfeclawe said, turning into the front row behind her. “Lifetime Achievement Award. Arguably long overdue for a ceremony that honours psycho killers. Half us fuckers are near immortal. The question is…”

“Who’s the inaugural recipient?” Amelia finished, nodding at the motley crew of weird and wonderful murderers she passed as she made her way to a seat. “You know what they’ve been saying on Instagrim.”

“Well, it’s got to be Abyss,” Wolfclawe said, taking a seat alongside her. “How many times did he win ‘Killer of the Year’? Twelve? Does anyone have a better record?”

“Not only that. Best Dismemberment. Most Depraved Violation. Goriest Cut. You name it, he got it. Every year for a decade. Until he vanished. He’s the GOAT, would be an insult to give it to anyone else. The question is…is he alive? All the rumours that circulate, about him being locked away by the Government, retiring to live as a lumberjack…being turned into mince by a ‘final girl’!”

“Fuck,” Wolfclawe gasped, as she organised her dress on her chair.

“I know! The ultimate humiliation for serial slashers…”

“Not that,” Wolfclawe interrupted, touching her arm. “That.”

Amelia followed his gaze to the left of the stage, where three men stood partially obscured behind curtains, two of Bertram’s goons and…

Him.

Clad in an oil-stained pair of overalls, feet stuffed into boots that were coming apart, head concealed by a latex S&M hood replete with zips, straps and buckles, the seven foot tall hulking form was unmistakably Abyss. The shifting, awkward posture. The way his arms flexed. The movement of his head, glitching like stop-motion animation. She’d only seen videos but she knew it was him. 

Wolfclawe was squinting behind his mask as he studied the granddaddy of killers. “He’s bulkier than I expected. Taller. But look how they’re restraining him. Is that a neck manacle? Connected to prods?”

Amelia had noticed this too, but before she could consider it the lights dimmed and the piped music came to a halt. A hush fell over the crowd and all eyes went to the stage as the curtain on the right was thrown back, allowing a bearded man in a suit to stride out, beckoning applause. 

Which he got. 

In buckets.

From all.

Because this was their benefactor, Bertram Belasco, long-serving head of the Serial Killer Network. Amelia took part in the adulation as he soaked it up. In the five years since he found her and signed her up to his ‘club’, she’d come to respect him like everyone else. Being selected was nothing short of an honour. It meant her killer credentials were on point. It meant, despite the exorbitant subscription fee Bertram charged for membership, that she had access to all SK Network resources; anonymity, medical aid, protection and sanctuary when required. Luckily, she hadn’t needed to avail of much yet, being a small fish in the pond. A little treatment for wounds, some hacking to remove her image from cctv footage. All in a day’s work for the Network. 

“Welcome, friends,” Bertram said, when the applause died down. “Delighted to see you all again. Our venue is a little less luxurious than usual but there’s a reason for that, one that will become clear soon. Before we start, I want to take a moment to say that this year’s nominees for our various awards were highly impressive—Kill of the Year, Sickest Mutilation, Most Creative Execution... You’ve outdone yourselves and I want to congratulate everyone for their efforts. You’ve made me proud and… Well, just… Well done.”

“Weird start,” Wolfclawe whispered, and Amelia nodded. Bertram seemed more sombre than usual.

“However,” he blurted then, perking up as his eyes went to Abyss. “Before we get to that…a surprise!”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Amelia felt goosebumps on her arms.

“As you know from my invite,” their host went on, “we have a special award tonight. And along with it comes a special guest. There’s been a lot of speculation online as to who it might be, with one particular name being mooted more than others. Well. I don’t want to keep you–or him–waiting any longer, so let’s kick things off with our first ever Lifetime Achievement Award. Won’t you join me please in welcoming…Abyss!”

Applause filled the room as Abyss was guided out by the goons. His footsteps as he stomped to the podium were louder than the chants and cheers around her. But why was he secured like that? Was he here against his will? Was he a danger to his own kind? 

“I know this looks weird,” said Bertram, as Abyss was brought to a halt alongside him, quivering as though volts flowed into his neck. “But sadly dear Abyss is not the force of nature he used to be. He’s had to keep a low profile these last ten years. Two decades as the world’s most prolific serial killer is something that can take a toll. He absorbed more pure guilt than anyone before him and handled it like a trooper. But there’s a limit to all things. And ten years ago today, he reached his. He had to be put away, for everyone’s safety. Just one more kill would have broken him, released the guilt, and we weren’t ready.”

“What’s he talking about?” Wolfclawe hissed. Amelia shook her head. She had no idea. But whatever it was, it had the potential to be epic.

As he spoke, Bertram retrieved an award from behind the podium, a grotesque creation made of twisted steel.

“For you,” he continued, presenting the award to the monster. “With gratitude. But this isn’t your true reward. A polished lump of metal in your hands is nothing but a weapon. I know what you’d really like is…closure.”

Abyss closed his fist around the award, gripping it like a bludgeon while Bertram raised an arm and clicked his fingers. Amelia sat up in her chair, watching the curtains at the back of the stage part and another suited mook wheel out a crate.

“This is different,” said Wolfclawe. “What’s the old boy up to?”

“Does everyone remember Diamond Lagoon, 1995? Abyss’ most infamous rampage. He took out an entire settlement in one night. An incredible feat of savagery. Sixty seven residents, sixty six victims, because one slipped through the net. A plucky young girl. Don’t you hate them? We’ve all been frustrated by one of those. For Abyss though, in a twenty year reign of terror, she was the only one who ever got away. The only blemish in an otherwise spotless career. And guess what?”

Bertram moved to the edge of the stage as his man undid latches on the crate.

“We have her here tonight!”

Gasps in the crowd as the guard opened the box and a dishevelled woman fell out, barely getting her hands in front of her before hitting the floor. Her face was lined with age, her hair was grey. She whimpered where she’d landed by Abyss, whose head was turned down as he watched.

“No way,” Amelia said, as Bertram and his goons walked off the stage. “Are we going to see a live kill?”

“You’re free, Abyss!” Bertram called as he slipped through the curtains. “Let it go!”

The crowd had gotten to their feet and Amelia joined them, all eyes on the scene, keen to see what would happen next. And what happened next was…like watching a movie sped up.

2x.

Abyss threw his head back and howled. The woman screamed up at his hood. Abyss drove the trophy into her skull. The onlookers in the crowd cheered and jumped. 

Amelia’s mouth fell open. Wolfclawe whistled. Abyss turned to the crowd and started to shudder. Not from being electrocuted, from something else.

What was it Bertram had said? Amelia wondered. One more kill would have broken him, released the guilt.

The shuddering turned to convulsions and Abyss roared, not now in fury but in pain. He staggered, his body shaking violently. His head jerked back, and with a sickening crack it split open, ripping through latex and spilling blood and bone to the floor. 

3x.

Black mist poured from his mask. Smoky tendrils shot forth, snaking through the air and filling the room. Writhing, maleficent tentacles, that multiplied and wriggled like worms before plunging into the heads of those below, squeezing screams from their lungs. Their bodies convulsed and their faces contorted as the Guilt from Abyss took control.

Amelia watched chaos unfold beginning with Wolfclawe, who stared wide-eyed in horror from his mask as he took his machete, lifted it to his neck and sliced through.

Hot, scarlet liquid splattered her face as she looked away, her eye falling on the killers behind her, who were turning their weapons on themselves, tearing at flesh, gouging out eyes, ripping their own jaws off in a frenzy. 

4x.

Tendrils of mist withdrew from falling bodies. Returned to the hovering mass over Abyss’ corpse. Amelia tottered, unsteady on heels slipping in blood. The screams were abating, the crowd was diminishing, not many remained on their feet. Not many continued to be overwhelmed by the guilt of their actions, encouraged by the fingers of mist that had entered their brains. All of their brains. Even hers.

And that’s when she realised…she, too, had been invaded. But she, alone, was still standing. With a tendril of smoke connecting her to the pulsating mass, which was slowly drifting towards her from the stage.

Drifting/oozing/throbbing, shrinking as it flowed into her head.

Filling her mind with images of her victims. Bullies. Narcissists. Sociopaths. Bigots. Gaslighters. Abusers. Jerks.

Am I supposed to feel bad for killing them? her inner voice queried. Am I supposed to break under the weight of massive guilt?

And that’s when someone hit… 

Pause.

“I knew it would be you,” a voice behind her, Bertram’s, said and she turned, the last of the Guilt devouring her soul. "Thought we’d have more time to nurture your talent but Abyss’ willpower was waning. He was going to release it soon, one last murder or not. And it needed to happen in a controlled environment. It needed to feast after being locked away for so long. And it needed to choose a new host."

"What…is it?" Amelia asked, aware of fresh darkness inside her.

"A force as old as time," Bertram said, taking her hand. "An insatiable force that needs to be fed. But keeping it fed is not easy. And keeping it restrained? Even harder. You see what it does when it’s not. But it takes a certain kind of person. Abyss was that person before. Thirty years he held it—a record. But it fucked him up. He was a discerning killer too, once upon a time. An idealist. He focused his darkness, like you. Til he was chosen."

“What…have you done to me?” 

"I’m sorry,” Bertram said, leading her away from the carnage. “As its Guardian, I have to oversee the transference. It’s never easy. But it’s necessary. I do it to keep the world safe, believe it or not. Safe from unstoppable evil. It picked you today because you could hold it. But it’s going to change you, over time. It will naturally make you more feral. Less controlled. A rampaging beast, if I’m honest. But it will also make you a legend. The best of the best. With the Guilty Conscience fueling you, you'll be Killer of the Year for as long as you want. And the next Lifetime Achievement Award will be yours."

Amelia’s mind was racing. His words sounded insane but she could feel it, a growing hunger that demanded to be sated. A hunger that would make her a Queen.

"Then I suppose I have work to do," she said, her voice sharp, like the switchblade in her clutch.

Bertram nodded. "And I’ve a new Network to build. Welcome to your new life, Amelia Carver.”

“Glad to be here,” she replied, accepting a kiss to her hand. “I look forward to carving a fresh abyss."