SILHOUETTES - Twenty-ninth instalment - Chapter forty-nine. For more information on this novel, click Here.
His eyes lit up when he saw the boxes, they were empty cardboard boxes atop a recycling bin, parcel boxes, probably from the offices next to the block he was seeking entry to. He reached up and retrieved one of them, it was empty though still had a shipping note attached to it and an address label. He removed the meat cleaver from his hold-all and placed it inside the box, he then folded back the top of the box and flipped it over so he could easily open it from under and grab at the handle of the blade. He had a look at his reflection on one of the windows along the lane. He decided he looked nothing like a delivery courier, but if he held the box out, that may take the attention from himself to the object of delivery, at least long enough for the door to be unlocked.
He pulled down his hood and reversed his baseball cap before he approached the door. He rapped hard at the glass, there being no bell or intercom. No answer from within. He rattled the door harder, louder, this time with a coin in his hand. The glass was toughened or it would have shattered at the force used.
From within, he spied a door across the foyer open and a head look out. He held up the box and beckoned with his hand, the head retreated and came back out the office holding a key and came towards the door.
A tingle of excitement ran through Simon. He was finally going to get his alien. He tried to think of anything but the blade within the box; who knew if they had mind probes or some other method of reading the thoughts of innocent humans?
As the key was inserted and turned, the door began to be opened inwards, Simon lunged at the gap forcing it fully open and throwing the alien over, on to the marble floor. Once in he kicked at the head of the alien, once, twice, stunned it. He swivelled around and quickly scanned the street outside, no witnesses, so turned his attention back on the alien. He had grabbed the blade from the box and thrown the cardboard aside.
The alien looked up in fear, at him holding the cleaver over it, the alien looked familiar, but it was not his alien, it was another, and as he leant over, and struck down swiftly, too late for the defensive arm to block the thrust, the blade hacked into the skull, and red blood squirted from the widening gash in a spray, and the eyes stared up at him in surprise. He did wonder if perhaps he was doing the right thing this time, but then he hacked down again, and again, the alien's ear and nose came off in one wild frenzied thrust, and he knew the alien was no more but he still couldn't bring himself to stop. He finally did so when he so tired that he could no longer draw the energy to swing the cleaver any more. He sat astride the mess of blood. A pool of flowing red around him, and over him, and he could taste it in his mouth, and it was red, so red, and for some reason this was strange, he expected it to be blue, or green, for red was for humans.
He stood up, wiped the blade on the leg of the body and put the cleaver back in his hold-all. He grabbed an arm of his victim and dragged the body towards the office, heaved it inside, and sat down in the office chair to catch his breath for a minute. An opened can of lager sat on the edge of the desk. He took a drink, then another.
A bag at the side of the desk contained a shirt and a pair of jeans, the civvy clothes of the victim. Something was gnawing at Simon's brain though he couldn't fathom what it was. He took the clothes, found the washroom and stripped off; everything he had worn was sodden with blood, he left the dripping clothes where they fell, washed himself down from head to toe at the sink in the men's room. There were no paper towels in the receptacle, so he dried himself off with his underpants, which was the only piece of clothing of his own that was unstained with blood. He put them back on damp, then dressed in the clothes from the bag. They were a good fit.
On his way out he noticed the mop and pail. He stopped and filled the pail with water, then grabbed the mop and went back to the foyer and began mopping up the blood. It was red blood, and he thought that was strange, but he also knew he had no need to panic, for the alien was dead. He placed a piece of hewn nose and an ear in the mop pail.
There was a ding, then a stuttering whirring noise from the office. He dropped the mop and went to the door, opened it slowly, and entered. A fax was coming out of the machine on the desk. He left it and went back to cleaning up, finished that, then left the mop and pail just out of sight from the door.
He went back to the office. The alien, from what was left of his face, a gory mess, looked placid now, and at peace. There were two pages on the fax machine, one was a photocopy of a driver's licence, a few lines about ID confirmed, the other page was a receipt copy of a job application, stating a name, address, and some details about past employment history and education. Simon began to moan, quietly at first, then he began to shake, and he looked at the face of the dead man with the red blood and he began to panic.
Next instalment coming soon...
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