Scifi Motherlode

The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe-2

Then, Boraf swung itself forward and dropped onto the dead 'Zoid. More colored fluids squeezed out of the corpse as Boraf's weight descended.

Gleefully, the first Ectozoid murderer in history rolled around on its victim's body. As Boraf rolled back and forth, its tentacles fluttered, its bulbs glowed with bioluminescence, and a sound like an off-key note from an

out-of-tune violin wheezed from its blowhole again and again.

Luther grinned but watched carefully. Once a predictable creature, Boraf had suddenly become capable of unexpected behavior.

Not that Luther was one to look a gift jellyfish in the blowhole, but he couldn't help wondering what had brought about the sudden change. Just like that, as if a switch had been flipped, Boraf had become a killer...and a pretty freaky one at that. The 'Zoid had gone from not being able to bear the very thought of taking a life to totally losing control and getting off on killing in a big way.

"Uh, Boraf?" said Luther, moving just a step closer to the Ectozoid wallowing in the mess of historic remains. "You've gotta tell me what turned you around, buddy. So I know for my next trainee."

Boraf was rubbing his head-bulb with dripping shreds of tissue. "Turned around?"

"You went from 'No kill, no kill' to 'Want more kill,'" said Luther. "What changed? Was it feeling the knife go in that first time with my hand guiding you?"

Boraf stopped rubbing the tissue on his head. "Not feeling knife," said the Ectozoid. "Feeling hand."

"My hand?" said Luther, frowning.

"Before, no want kill," said Boraf. "After touch Luther, want kill. Love kill."

Luther turned his hand over, staring at both sides. If, somehow, his serial killer mindset rubbed off on the aliens with just a touch, all the better. It would make his job on Ectos much easier than trying to talk the creatures out of their natural inhibitions.

"How 'bout that," said Luther as a grin spread over his face. "Talk about your magic fingers."

Making a noise like a cross between a horse's whinny and a parrot's squawk, Boraf wriggled off the corpse and struggled to a standing position. "More kill," said the Ectozoid, looping a tentacle around Luther's arm. "More pickings."

Luther laughed as the creature shuffled down the passageway, dragging him along behind it. "Already? But you just killed someone."

Moving out of the passageway and onto the street, Boraf went faster, leaning forward with eager anticipation. "Look," it said, pointing a tentacle at an Ectozoid weaving down the block ahead of them. "Boraf kill that Ectozoid now please?"

Luther chuckled because the alien had sounded like a child asking permission to ride a teeter-totter. "Why sure," he said, holding up the knife he'd retrieved from the last victim's corpse. "Go get 'im, tiger."

One of Boraf's eye stalks swiveled around and spotted the knife. The murderous Ectozoid reached back with a tentacle and latched onto the weapon's hilt.

"Boraf kill two," said the creature. "Want kill more. Kill three, four, five."

"The night is young," said Luther. "Go for it."

By the next morning, Boraf had murdered twelve Ectozoids...and wasn't ready to stop there. Completely exhausted, joints throbbing with arthritis, Luther had to drag Boraf home to get some rest. Even then, along the way, Luther had to restrain his client from slaughtering passers-by.

When Luther passed out on the sleeping mat Boraf had provided, the Ectozoid was still whistling and pacing around the door, dying to go back out and kill some more. Boraf was still doing the same thing when Luther woke up some hours later; he doubted the Ectozoid had slept a wink the whole night.

Luther rubbed the sleep from his eyes and chuckled. "Man, you need to relax," he said. "An Ectozoid doesn't live on murder alone."

"No relax," puffed Boraf. "Time for save world. Make more Ectozoid kill."

"Later," said Luther, padding over to the locker of food he'd brought from Earth. "Breakfast first. Save world later."

No sooner had he popped open the locker and reached for a packet of corned beef hash than the door of Boraf's house-mound slithered open. Three Ectozoids shuffled in, making whimpering noises as they crowded around Boraf.

"Save world now," said Boraf. "Ectozoids come now for Luther make kill."

Luther sighed and squeezed the tab on the food packet, activating the built-in heating element. In seconds, the packet grew warm to the touch, though the contents inside were heated to a much higher temperature. "Give me five minutes," he said, tearing open the seal and inhaling the smell of the cooked food. "Saving the world's a lot easier on a full stomach."

One of the new arrivals shuffled over and grabbed the packet from his hand. The creature made a sound like a duck as it swung the food out of Luther's reach.

"Make Ectozoids kill like Boraf," said Boraf. "Save world now. Eat later."

Luther tried to snatch the food packet from the 'Zoid's tentacle, but the creature lashed it out of reach. Irritated, Luther tried again, more aggressively this time, but the alien swept the packet up and passed it to another 'Zoid.

Glowering, Luther combed his fingers through his wavy silver hair. He knew when he was licked. "Fine," he snapped, marching past the creatures and out the door. "But if one tentacle comes near me when I'm taking a piss, the world can go to hell."

By the end of the day, 'Zoids were killing 'Zoids all over the place.

From the doorway of Boraf's home, Luther could see and hear plenty of action. Armed with knives and clubs, 'Zoids attacked other 'Zoids down the block, across the street, in neighboring house-mounds. The air was thick with sneezing death-cries and the stink of rotten fish; the pulsing street was strewn with jellyfish corpses and soaked with seeping body fluids.

He'd lost track of how many 'Zoids he'd given the touch, but he guessed it was close to a hundred. They were all out there now, killing like cavemen and loving every minute of it, high on death. Boraf was with them, caught up in the mayhem that only a day ago had seemed so unthinkable.

As Luther stood there, another trio of 'Zoids came shuffling toward him, eye stalks twitching. Before they said a word, he knew they wanted him to transform them like the rest, turn them into murderers so they could join the fun.

But he was out of gas. After the long, exhausting day he'd been through, Luther wanted nothing more than to collapse on his mat and get some deserved sleep. As entertaining and gratifying as the work had been, he couldn't stand the thought of corrupting one more alien jellyfish.

Even as he slipped inside and closed the door, however, he knew that he was screwed. They knew he was there; he knew that they wouldn't leave him alone.

Sure enough, the 'Zoids ended up at the door, coughing and trumpeting and belching his name. They thumped at the door with their tentacles, each blow harder than the last.

Though he knew he would end up opening the door eventually, Luther tried to shut out the commotion for just a moment more. He slipped a cigarette out of the pocket of his coveralls and lit it, inhaling deeply.

And it was then, only then, that he finally noticed how different he felt. As he stood there and smoked, listening to the thumping and sneezing and belching, he realized that exhaustion wasn't the only reason he didn't want to face the creatures.

Up until now, he had been enjoying his adventure. He had loved killing aliens on another planet...loved making a comeback after years of decline...loved being treated like a V.I.P. for doing what he loved to do. He had loved the irony, too, that a serial killer whose nickname was

Bug-Eyed Monster, and whose M.O. included carving crop circles in his victims and arranging their organs like constellations, had become the first Earthling serial killer in space.

But something had changed. The thrill seemed to be gone.

As hard as it was to believe, Luther felt all killed out. He'd never thought he'd see the day when he'd had enough murder, but the day had come.

The next morning, after about three hours of sleep interrupted by Ectozoids whomping on the front door for murder lessons, Luther felt even less enthusiastic about the kill training.

As Boraf shook him awake to face a fresh batch of wannabes, Luther actually felt a wave of dread at the day ahead. Instead of reveling in gleeful anticipation, he wished that the day was over already; the last thing he felt like doing was cranking out another bunch of killer jellyfish.

"Make more kill," said Boraf, coiling its tentacles around Luther's arms and dragging him up to a sitting position. "Save world now."

Angrily, Luther batted off the tentacles and got to his feet. Grabbing his smokes and lighter from atop his food locker, he proceeded to draw out a cigarette and plug it into his mouth.

"Ectozoids need kill now," puffed Boraf, extending a tentacle toward the cigarette. "Now not later save world."

As the tentacle drifted toward him, Luther froze, the lighter halfway to his mouth. He gave Boraf a look that would have killed it if looks could do that...and as dense or inconsiderate as Boraf was, the 'Zoid seemed to get the message. The tentacle wavered for an instant in front of Luther's face, then slowly withdrew.

Luther glared at the 'Zoid for another moment for good measure, then flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the tip of the cigarette. When he released the first lungful of smoke, he was pleased to see the 'Zoids back away; the one thing they seemed to be more allergic to than waiting was cigarette smoke.

If he had thought he could get away with it, and if he had had enough cigarettes, Luther would have stood there and smoked for the rest of the day.

Around his fifteenth conversion of the morning, Luther began to regret his life as a serial killer.

It was a brand new train of thought, one that had never chugged through him on even his worst days. Even when Lech Bomb had gone bad and the Guild had kicked Luther out, he had never doubted his choice of career. It had been a given practically from day one; he had never felt like he could have been anything but a serial killer.

So why, all of a sudden, was he questioning his choice? Why did he feel sadness and shame when he looked back at his achievements instead of the usual pride and nostalgia? And why was he jumping the track now, of all times, just when he was at the apex of his career?

As he guided another 'Zoid in gutting another victim, Luther remembered the first human life he had taken. The old woman's face came back to him, looking just the same as it had when he'd thrown the first shovel-full of dirt on her: weeping and blinking and quaking, buried alive. He had thought of her often through the years, always with secret, dark pleasure...but now, the pleasure had soured. When he conjured her image in his mind (Ida Mae Caldwell, that was her name) he felt a brick in his stomach and a wave of dizzying nausea.

Annoyed at this unexpected response, Luther skimmed through his memories of other victims, seeking more familiar reactions. Not counting the 'Zoids he'd killed, he had 276 to choose from over a 42-year period. Normally, recalling them was like fondling rare coins from a collection--admiring them, wallowing in the selfish joy of ownership; this time, he wanted to put them right down just as soon as he picked them up.

For the first time in his life, his murder memories felt unclean.

He flipped from one to the next, hardly daring to glance at them. Each one intensified his feelings of disgust: Number 12, Julie Kefler, age 33, strangled and minced; Number 37, Steve Parrote, age 41, tortured with pliers for three days and hung on a clothesline; Number 108, Abner Lockjaw, age 74, butchered and fed to his dogs a bite at a time; Numbers 246 and 247, Milo Chapel, age 17, and Peggy Brezini, age 16, cut up and stitched back together into one big mismatched body.