Fanfiction: The Face of Evil

Richard Dees had just one rule when it came to journalism (okay, two—but get the goods before you fork over any cash was just common sense) and he’d broken it. Spectacularly.

Don’t believe what you publish and don’t publish what you believe.

He’d reported on everything from Bigfoot’s bastard baby to Princess Diana’s cannibal chef and he’d never once believed a word of it. No, Richard left that to the chumps who bought the tabloid trash that paid for the swanky apartment he hardly ever saw and the private airplane he’d had longer than any of his wives.

Richard only believed in three things: the money in his wallet, the camera in his hand, and the words rattling around in his brain. They’d never failed him.

Until now.

Until the Night Flier.

***

Richard dragged his ass from one Podunk airfield to the next in search of the budding serial killer who left all the calling cards of a whacko vampire wannabe. It never crossed Richard’s mind that the killer might actually be a vampire—partly because vampires didn’t exist and partly because he hadn’t lost his fucking mind.

Yet.

The farther along Dwight Renfield, aka: The Night Flier’s, trail he followed (Richard was rather proud of the name he’d given the killer,) the greater his doubts grew. Especially when the bastard started taunting him, leaving little love notes in blood on motel room windows and on napkins in cheap bars. But it wasn’t until the airport in Wilmington that Richard really started to believe.

It wasn’t the bodies or the blood or even the severed limbs… Jesus, he’d seen plenty enough of all that in his time chasing headlines. No, it was standing in the john, trying to hide the shivers that wracked his body as he watched a man who wasn’t there piss blood into the urinal behind him. It was staring helplessly at his own ashen face because he was too damned frightened to turn around and see the truth. It was trying to keep from pissing himself as the mirrors shattered, one by one, with each clomping step Renfield took across the room.

Before he could tell himself to “Run, goddammit!” the monster stood so close behind Richard that he could feel the cold breath of death on the back of his neck. Leathery hands that ended in sharp nails gripped his throat. He sobbed, not knowing if that precious breath would be his last.

That was when he knew.

When he broke his one rule.

Richard Dee believed, wholeheartedly and unequivocally, in vampires.

If Richard had held his tongue, would it have been enough? Would the Night Flier have simply left Richard there as he swore he would, not knowing if Richard would tell his story?

Maybe.

But maybe the monster calling himself Dwight Renfield had always intended to reveal himself, his true self… beyond the shadows and sweeping black cape. Maybe he had always intended to show Richard his face, with skin like warped leather, a mouth too wide and horribly misshapen, and tusk-like fangs dominating both top and bottom jaws. Had always intended to slice open his wrist, forcing toxic, chemical tasting blood down Richard’s throat.

Maybe.

He’d never know.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, Richard lost all sense of realty. Dense fog swept rapidly the airport, filled from below with an internal, unearthly light. Corpses rose from the light but they weren’t the corpses of the Night Flier’s most recent victims; they were every victim Richard had ever exploited. Every bloated corpse he’d paired with brutal puns for headlines with kick. Every deceased mother and father with their chests spread open in the autopsy photos he’d bribed from desperate attendants. Parentless children, forever dragging their teddies on covers that twisted guts and plucked heartstrings.

His victims.

And they were coming for him.

Desperate, Richard looked around for a way out. The shuffling corpses stood between him and the door but, on the wall nearby, he spied salvation: behind a glass panel that read “break in case of emergency,” was an axe. Grinning, he smashed the glass with his elbow and grabbed the weapon.

Richard started swinging wildly. His only thought was reaching the door. A quick glance in that direction as he ducked under a fat man’s arm showed Richard something he couldn’t believe. Something even less believable than vampires…

Renfield stopped at the door. He turned. Grabbing the flesh below his chin, he pulled, tearing his flesh away to reveal another face hidden below. Underneath that hideous visage was the face of a pretty, if ultimately forgettable, young woman.

It was the new girl!

“Jimmy Olsen?”

Ehat was her name? Kathrine Something…

Richard gave himself a quick, hard shake, dancing out of the way of a naked woman cradling a lifeless baby to her cheat.

What was he talking about? Of course it wasn’t Jimmy Olsen. It was just the Night Flier, still fucking with him.

 Renfield winked at Richard with the new girl’s face, then pulled his own face back down over hers. He’d lost precious moments gawking; the corpses almost overwhelmed him. He started winging wildly as cold hands grasped at his clothes.

He was still swinging when the police burst in.

***

“Oh, my god!”

Shoving the glass doors aside, Katherine entered an airport full of carnage. There were bodies and blood and… bits of bodies everywhere.

“Richard?” She shouted as a police officer caught her by the arms. “Richard!”

“Miss, you can’t be in here.”

“I’m…” she swallowed hard. “I’m a reporter with Inside View,” she explained, fumbling for her press pass.

The officer shook his head. “Damn, you got here quick.” He didn’t hide his dislike of the press.

“You!” Richard, wide eyed and covered in blood, turned on her. He didn’t seem to care that every one of the half dozen police officers present had their guns trained on him. “You’re him! I’ll get you this time!” He rushed at her, axe raised.

The officer shoved Katherine back as several shots rang out. She covered her head with her arms until it was over.

“Miss? Miss, are you alright?”

Patting herself instinctively, she nodded mutely.

“Good,” the officer said. “Do you have any idea who that guy was?”

She watched the blood pool around Richard’s body a moment before answering. “His name is Richard Dees,” she said without looking up. “We call him the Night Flier.” From the corner of her eye, she watched as the cop repeated that information to his nearest colleague.

Katherine stuck around just long enough to be sure the name, “The Night Flier,” was firmly implanted in the minds of the horrified police officers who’d arrived too late to save any of the travellers – but just in time to see Richard swinging an axe wildly among the piles of bloody corpses.

Funny what a small dose of LSD could make a person do…

No one tried to stop Katherine as she walked back through the airport’s glass double doors. She didn’t expect them to. Nobody paid a woman the slightest bit of attention unless she was sucking, sobbing, or screaming – and Katherine wasn’t likely to do any of those.

Her heavy black boots clomped against the concrete as she made her way to the black Skymaster. Untying the boots and prying them off, she hoisted herself up into the twin-engine and settled into the pilot’s seat. A glance back at the cabin was almost enough to spoil her good mood. It was going to take forever to clear all that out…

Katherine laughed. She chucked her heavy boots in the back. They landed in the dirt among the bugs and old copies of Inside View. Peeling off the tiny, dosed blood bag strapped to her wrist, Katherine let it drop onto the co-pilot’s seat atop a high-collared cape and a grotesque latex mask.

Who cared about the mess? She was about to land the front page!

Correction, her first front page.

She’d pay someone else to clean it…

***

The offices of Inside View were unusually sombre when Katherine returned. The cackling junior reporters let their phones ring as they stared into the stunned nothingness of disbelief. Richard Dees… Their own hard-talking, do-anything-for-a-story, don’t-need-anyone Richard Dees, a depraved serial killer? The type of crazy fucker they spent their days hounding?

The freaking Night Flier?

It was almost too insane to believe.

And they’d brought Elvis back from the dead three times.

That month.

Morrison’s door swung open as Katherine approached her desk. “Blair,” he said without preamble. His shoulders had a slight slump and his flaxen hair was dishevelled. It was the first time Katherine had seen him without his customary boyish grin.

For once, looking at him didn’t make her feel like she needed to have a shower.

Huh, she thought. It’s a good look for him.

“Where are you going?” he asked, running a hand through his already ruffled hair.

Katherine blinked innocently. “I’ve got to get to work on…”

Morrison waved a hand dismissively. “Not there you don’t,” he told her. Nodding to the corner office opposite his, he continued. “Dees isn’t going to need it anymore.”

Julie, (who annoyingly allowed herself to be called) one of the copy girls, burst into loud sobs at the editor’s words. She hid her running mascara behind a wrinkled tissue. Kathrine swallowed a sound of disgust. There wasn’t a woman in the office who hadn’t been at the receiving end of an angry Dees tirade. Katherine didn’t know if the miserable bastard had hated everyone or just women, and she didn’t much care.

Just like she didn’t know if the whole world would be a better place without him in or, or just her part of the world.

“But Mr. Morrison…” she protested feebly. That was the great thing about being a woman. It didn’t matter if you meant it or not as long as you batted your eyelashes prettily enough.

As expected, her denial just made Morrison more determined to put Katherine exactly where she wanted to be. Taking her by the shoulders, he manhandled her into Dees’s spacious office while the rest of the reporters sat by, torn between faux grief and jealousy.

“We can drag this one out for a week,” he told Katherine, practically shoving her into the leather chair behind the desk that dominated the office. “Bleed it slow.” Morrison gave a short, dry laugh at his own bad joke.

Tempted as she was, Katherine didn’t join him.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“That’s my girl.” Morrison patted her on the head – actually patted her on the head – before he left. He closed the door behind him without looking back (which was probably a good thing, since she was shooting daggers at him through narrowed eyes.)

Feeling the scrutiny of her colleagues, Katherine rose and went to the large window that made up the front wall of her new office. She tried her best to mimic their looks of shock as she reached for the handle that controlled the blinds. Through the slats, she watched Morrison return to his own office. On the way, he accepted a cup of coffee from a watery Julie and gave her what he must have thought was a comforting pat on the ass in return.

To her credit, Julie stiffened at his touch. Hmm, Katherine mused. Maybe she’s not so far buried under the patriarchy that she can’t be saved, after all… It never hurts to play nice with the person making the boss’s coffee, does it?

Katherine’s expression of shock slipped. She wrangled it back into place long enough to twist the blinds shut. Then, in the privacy of her new office, she unleased the savage grin begging for release.

Top reporter was good, Katherine mused as she slid behind Dees’s old desk (which was too large and too much wood and just had to go – why did men treat desks like extensions of their… cars, anyway?) And kicked her feet up. Yes, top reporter was good, but editor-in-chief was better…