BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up and do it!”

“You did, Lystra. You killed your mother.”

Heavy breathing at the other end of the line. Then, a weird, distorted voice, like a child trying to sound grown-up. A whining, almost singsong voice. “No, I didn’t.”

“Lystra …”

“You did. You killed her. Yeah, you killed my mother and then you gave me away.”

“Baby …” Caligula’s voice broke. He felt a sharp pain in his head. Any other time he would have thought it was just the beginning of a headache.

“How could I? I was just a little girl.”

How long did he have? Minutes or seconds?

“You’re right,” he said at last. “You’re right, ba—Lear. I did it.”

“Hah! I told you so. Now, do this. Do it and all is forgiven.”

He managed a slight laugh, a hoarse sound. “I don’t think even God can forgive me all I’ve done.”

“Then it’s no problem, Daddy. I am god now.”

She hung up the phone. Caligula knew it was true. Not about his poor, mad daughter being god. But yes, he had killed his wife, her mother. A week after they’d reconciled, he’d been drunk and angry at what he thought was a flirtation with the carny who ran the Mad Mouse ride. He’d punched her. He’d punched her hard, right in the jaw. She had fallen, unconscious, to the floor of their shabby trailer.

He’d left her there.

When he woke, raging with thirst from all the drink, filled with remorse, he’d found her still on the floor. But with her throat cut.

The bloody meat cleaver was on the floor beside her.

He had roused a sleeping Lystra from her bed and washed the red stain from her hands. Burned her bloody clothing in the fifty-five-gallon drum where the carnies burned trash and kept their hands warm on cold nights.

It was his fault she had done it. Who had taught her violence? Who had revealed his rage to the impressionable ears of a young girl?

And then, cowardly, unable to face Lystra, unable to cope with the madness that was already a part of her, he had shipped her off.

Caligula did not believe in karma. He believed in damnation. His own, and hers as well. And the damnation of the world.

He set the crowbar in place and heaved with all his might.

The pipe snapped. Whatever sound it made was obliterated by the roar of high-pressure gas gushing into the room.

He choked from the smell, reeled back, staggered to the far end of the chamber, and set the timer on the explosive device for ten minutes.

That should be enough.

TWENTY-FIVE

Sadie McLure. In person. In the flesh. And the rest of her little crew as well. Benjamin Armstrong felt disappointed. It should have been a triumph, but she was walking in under her own power, head held high.

“Someone get me a … a knife! Or a baseball bat! Something,” Benjamin snarled.

“Benjamin,” Charles chided mockingly. “There will be plenty of time for that.”

“I’m going to beat her bloody and rape whatever is left of

her!” Benjamin saw his own spittle flying. He felt the way Charles drew him back, restraining him, knowing Benjamin otherwise would have gone at the girl with his fist until some better weapon appeared.