The Killing Kind Read Online Free Page B

typical path of the young serial-killer-to-beand experiment on animals. It taught him some valuable things, like how hard living things will fight against you to avoid pain or death. By the time he was ready to move on to his first human victim—shortly after his sixteenth birthday—he knew to always be sure to have the upper hand in any situation. Mostly that meant selecting weaker victims. Like that first one, the fourteen-year-old neighbor girl he’d lured into the woods.
    Priscilla.
    So pretty.
    My, what a mess he’d made of her.
    Later, as he grew taller and stronger, the field of potential victims widened to include just about anyone. He could go toe-to-toe against any man out there, even the kind of musclebound behemoths you’d see in a wrestling ring or shoring up an NFL team’s offensive line. And he would come out the victor every time. But he preferred female victims. He enjoyed them on an aesthetic level, that simple appreciation of beauty, but he loved to defile beauty even more. For Zeb, there were few joys in life equal to carving up a bit of lovely flesh with a sharp knife. He loved how the flesh parted so easily, the fresh wound spilling forth that sweet torrent of precious life blood.
    Mmm…He liked to drink their blood.
    It was wrong that he’d gone so long without knowing that pleasure. The memory of those long years of confinement still made him throb with anger. But now he was free again. And crazier than ever.
    With a head full of new ideas he was eager to road test.
    Clyde ceased his impression of a doomed whirlybird and staggered toward Zeb. He came to a woozy stop several feet short of his seated friend and flashed a fiendish grin. Though there were some gaps, his teeth were still mostly there. This Zeb attributed to good genes. Hell, even crazy hobos could spring from otherwise-sturdy stock. And Zeb’s friend wasproof that even the sturdiest of family trees can sometimes sprout a diseased limb.
    All of Clyde’s worldly possessions were contained in a canvas knapsack he carried everywhere. Zeb had poked through its contents a time or two. There were three dog-eared paperback westerns, decades old. There was a lot of assorted junk. Lighters with no fluid in them. A jar filled with dirt. Sets of keys he’d saved as souvenirs from various murders. But most revealing was a stack of old photographs bound together with several thick rubber bands. The pictures showed various members of an obviously healthy and prosperous family over a period of maybe ten years. Some were vacation photos, shots of men in khakis and sunglasses relaxing with drinks, and attractive women in string bikinis stretched out on beach blankets. Others images were from birthday and graduation ceremonies. Clyde was in many of the photos, but the Clyde from that vanished time bore little resemblance to the man Zeb knew today. Somewhere along the way, obviously, something had gone very wrong for him. Clyde Weatherbottom wasn’t even his real name. Various clues from the photos made this clear.
    Not that Zeb cared, really.
    Clyde wasn’t that person anymore. Hadn’t been for many years.
    Clyde held the severed head close to his face and pressed his chapped lips to the dead girl’s blood-caked mouth. Zeb watched him push his tongue between the dead lips and felt another little twitch at his groin. He glanced at the headless corpse and thought about spreading her legs for another go. But the exaggerated slurping, smacking sounds Clyde was making distracted him.
    “Come on, baby. Gimme some lovin’.” Clyde kissed the dead lips again, made the same absurdly exaggerated smacking sounds. He glanced at Zeb and grinned, turning the head’s slack features toward him. “Ain’t she the sexiest bitchyou ever seen, Zebbo? I think I’m gonna marry her. What do you think?”
    “You have my blessings.”
    “Superb! You’ll be my best man.”
    Clyde did a wobbly half spin away from Zeb and cupped his free hand around his mouth.