Yellow Mama E zine

Bait

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Kenneth James Crist

 

       Marilyn Randall ran the trail alone, just as she had any number of times before. But on her past outings, she had been carefree and she had enjoyed the late fall breeze and the songs of birds in the woods. All that had changed now. Her run was no longer mere enjoyment. This was business. And it was a grim business, indeed.

       She had worn exactly what they had told her to, and she was following the exact route she was assigned to follow. Black leggings and a hot pink hoodie, white running shoes. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, so it bobbed as she jogged along. Very provocative, she thought, I hope this makes them happy…

       Ahead of her, to the left of the trail, something moved. She felt her heart jump and kick up a notch, but then she saw it was only a squirrel, and she began to settle back down, and she increased her stride a little. She passed over the covered bridge, a spot where she always felt a bit vulnerable, but nothing.

       Around a curve and into an area of old growth, heavy trees. Leaves were thick on the ground and suddenly, again on her left, the leaves moved. Not just fluttering from the slight breeze, either. The leaves moved all at once, in an area the size…the size of a man. And then he stood. And there he was.

       In the back of her mind, she thought it was remarkable how much he resembled the police artist’s sketch. The deep-sunken eyes, the crooked smile, the ball cap pulled low over his face. The Bowie knife. She stopped and began to back up. She heard two words from the man with the knife. He said, “C’mere, bitch.”

       Marilyn kept backing up and was deciding which way to run, wondering where the fuck the police were. She was supposed to be under surveillance and they weren’t here! The crazy fuck had covered himself in leaves and they probably walked right past him and now she was—

      The man was still grinning at her and advancing on her now. She could hear his excited breathing. She could smell him, a thick, unwashed smell. Old sweat mixed with something else, something familiar, but for a moment, she could not place that particular smell. She spun on her heels and sprinted toward the covered bridge. He was faster than she’d expected. She’d thought at first she could outrun him handily, but in moments his breathing was so close behind her, she dared not even glance back. She heard a hiss of cloth ripping and realized he’d swung that huge knife and he’d caught the hood of her jacket. In the jumble of her panicked thoughts, as she knew she was about to become number seven, a cold thought broke through. She knew what that smell was. It was semen. Oh, my God, he thinks about his crimes, his women and…he beats off…thinking about cutting…Oh, Jesus, no…

       Then, from directly behind her, way too close behind her, there was a peculiar “thump” that reminded her of a ball bat striking a side of beef. She heard the crack of the rifle shot from off to her right. And there were more men, men in combat gear getting up out of the leaves on the ground. The man with the knife was down now, thrashing around in the dry leaves as he died, blood pouring out, staining those leaves red, more brightly than in autumn.

Six men, now eight, then nine. Holy shit, it was like an army. Now, her knees were weak, and the adrenaline hit her and she had to sit. Detective Conover walked up and knelt down beside her.

       “You okay, Ms. Randall?”

       “A little shaky, but yeah, I’ll be fine. Where the hell were you guys? I thought I was gonna hafta try and outrun him…”

       “Well, ma’am, a couple days ago we finally figured out his M. O., and he wasn’t the only one good at concealment. We were under the leaves, too. All but the sniper. He was under the bridge. You jogged right past us.”

       Fifteen minutes later, Marilyn was in a police car, giving her statement and the area was surrounded with crime scene tape. The Kansas City Cutter was done with his nine-month killing spree and Marilyn Randall was quite sure she would never look at dead leaves quite the same way again…

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     Kenneth James Crist is Editor of Black Petals Magazine and is on staff at Yellow Mama ezine. He has been a published writer since 1998, having had more than two hundred short stories and poems in venues ranging from Skin and Bones and The Edge-Tales of Suspense to Kudzu Monthly. He is particularly fond of supernatural biker stories. He reads everything he can get his hands on, not just in horror or sci-fi, but in mystery, hardboiled, biographies, westerns and adventure tales. He retired from the Wichita, Kansas police department in 1992 and from the security department at Wesley Medical Center in Wichita in 2016. Now 81, he is an avid motorcyclist and handgun shooter. He is active in the American Legion Riders and the Patriot Guard, helping to honor and look after our military. He is the owner of Fossil Publications, a desktop publishing venture that seems incapable of making any money at all. His zombie book, Groaning for Burial, has been released by Hekate Publishing in Kindle format and paperback several years ago. On June the ninth, 2018, he did his first (and last) parachute jump and crossed that shit off his bucket list.

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       Sophia Wiseman-Rose (aka Sr. Sophia Rose) is a Paramedic and an Anglican novice Franciscan nun, in the UK.  Both careers have given Sophia a great deal of exposure to the extremes in life and have provided great inspiration for her.  

  She has travelled to many countries, on medical missions and for modelling (many years ago), but has spent most of her life between the USA and the UK. She is currently residing in a rural Franciscan community and will soon be moving to London to be with a community there.  

       In addition, Sophia had a few poems and short stories in editions of Black Petals Horror/Science Fiction Magazine

       The majority of her artwork can be found on her website.

  https://www.artstation.com/sophiaw-r6