ERIC BLAKE (59y), POLICE HEADQUARTERS, UK FEBRUARY 2023, 18.09

'The fuckers are outside, my boy. Let's gut these two sinners and finish this business. You were always best at the job. It's why I like you.'

Eric's heart warmed at the praise the voice in his mind lavished. For as long as he could remember, the voice had been there to guide him, strengthen him, make him into what he was today. Chief of Police, above the law, powerful, and it was all thanks to the voice. Yet the voice gushed kindness on him. Truly, the voice was the epitome of wisdom, of grace, of justice.

'Why thanks Eric, but without you I'd get nothing done. You're my hand stretched out to smite the wicked. To punish the wrongs of the world.'

Eric's tongue flicked over his teeth, a few felt looser than last week. One of the problems that came with age. The man cuffed to interrogation room four's only table looked just about ripe to gut, his head rested against the edge of the table, blood dripping to the floor from his mouth.

'Justice,' he said--to the man, to himself, to the voice-- 'This is just punishment for the wicked, Dan.'

The man leaning against the table didn't respond, and Eric's temper flared. He lashed out, hit the man's head with the cutting implement. 'It's rude to ignore your betters, Dan!'

The Man's head whiplashed with the energy of Eric's slash but came to rest in the same place.

'Is he dead?' Eric asked the voice.

'No, Blake. He's still alive in there, but not for long. Besides, he was just the bait.'

A vivid image of a man licking his lips floated in Eric's mind. The voice was eager. It put his own blood to boil with excitement. He paced the room, kicking the detective he'd knocked out a few minutes ago with each pass.

'The one I want is outside. With him gone, you and I will conquer this world. Bring justice to all and fire with it.'

Pictures of flames raining down from the heavens like a grand-scale meteor shower, stars spangling behind them, the wicked running and falling, filled his mind. He glanced at the box of implements resting on the table and felt reassured. He could win this. If not for all his experience, then because the voice was with him.

'It will be glorious, and you will rule over all the just citizens of earth that pass the test of fire.'

Another image floated into his mind, this of him--grey haired, muscled, smiling but not showing his teeth. A great golden crown was placed atop his head as he stood towering over a multitude of kneeling people, a sceptre in his hand. The image made him giddy with anticipation.

'Of course, we can keep a few dolls for you to discipline as you choose.'

A pause.

'You like to cut them don't you?'

Eric licked his lips again, glanced at the collapsed detective then at the suspect.

'You like to be in them, to feel their fear, to see the inevitability of death in their eyes, to share that intimate moment when their life bleeds away.'

Desire and a flood of memories kept Eric from answering. The girls, their perfect young faces, their succulent bodies, their innocent screams, their wide eyes. He fought arousal and shook with yearning to have another now. So many girls, but they never satiated his hunger for more.

'They were all bad girls. Each one. I led you to them so you could redeem them at the end. Now their souls sing, and you got to have your fun. You are more than the ankle biter, you are their redeemer. I promise you, Eric, there will be more.'

The uniform Eric wore seemed choking suddenly. He popped open the topmost button and shook his arms. Straight after this, he'd head for one of his pick-up spots for a girl or he'd go fucking nuts with want.

The noise from outside quietened, and Eric prepared himself, grabbing two daggers.

'Aim them just a bit higher,' the voice said and Eric obliged.

'Like that?'

'Yes, but remember not to answer me out loud. Nobody must know I am here or we could lose it all!'

Right, Eric thought, sorry.

The door swung open and the knives in Eric's hands cut the air in the same instant. The first dagger shivered, stuck in the door. The blonde woman had dodged it, but the man hadn't been so lucky.

'The target.'

The man wore a shocked expression as the knife embedded in his shoulder, then his eyes rolled back into his skull and Eric Blake, the Collector, the Ankle Biter, the Chief of Police licked his lips and stepped closer.

JOHN FINNIE (35y) 2023

'Where are they!' Semila screamed, her voice pitchy and sharp.

Pain swept over John in waves, the epicentre at his shoulder. He felt the knife, fiddled to grab the hilt. Gritting his teeth, he tugged it out. Didn't belong in him. And blacked out.

#

John came to with a gasp and tried to push himself up. With a sharp breath he stopped trying. Ow! His back felt sticky with the blood, his hands too, his cheek, the carpet's blue fuzz. So much blood. So much warm pain. A wave of nausea washed over him as his fingers rubbed the blood-soaked carpet, but he blinked away the dizziness. And saw Dad. Pale, bruised face, rubbing his wrists, but okay. Dad sat against the wall of the interrogation room, and Marty knelt next to him, blood on his uniform, but he was standing up to join Semila. And there, in the chair where his Dad had sat when they burst through the door, sat the Collector. The murderer. The monster. Cuffed to the table just like Dad had been.

John's blood boiled. Charlie. This man had killed her, and Samantha's cousin. All those innocent lives. All because of this man. A growl escaped him and he willed himself to sitting but the pain was too much and he gasped as he tried to sit.

'Marty?' Semila was saying, 'You know the Chief. Get him to tell us where the photos are or I swear I'll strangle him where he fucking sits.' At the last words Semila lost her control and spat in the Collector's face, fists balled.

The man smiled at her. 'I'm the Chief of Police sweetheart. Nobody tells me what to do.'

'Oh yeah?' Semila shot close to the man, grabbed his face. 'Show me how you resist these fuckers.' She brought her eyes close to his, lashes dancing. John felt their pull from where he lay, the light in the room grew brighter for a second, then dimmed. Semila staggered back, rubbing at her eyes.

The man smiled an altogether sinister smile, and when he spoke his voice was grating and deep, a stark contrast to the whiny voice he'd used before. 'You cannot stop me, fallen angel. You are nothing. Soon the world will be mine, and all these pathetic souls with it.'

The Collector's eyes rolled, and his expression softened. 'Thought we were supposed to keep you hidden,' he mumbled to himself. 'Thought you said we'd lose it all?'

The Collector's face contorted and the deep voice returned. 'Eric, my time has come. It is time I take the world with fire and hell flame. It is time for my rise. The target is neutralised, and this angel will never stop me. And you, my ever ignorant vessel, are nothing to me now that I have eaten enough souls. The powers at my beck and call have amassed, and the fires even now tumble to the earth's surface with my glorified form. This body--you--are done. I don't need you anymore.'

The Collector's face muscles relaxed, and he looked down. A tear rolled down his one cheek and his lip trembled. 'You lied?' he whispered. 'All this time...'

The man didn't get time to wallow in pity though. Marty grabbed his face, squashed his cheeks together. 'Tell us where the photos are before it's too late.'

'John?' Semila spotted him and ran over. 'Why'd you take the knife out!' She knelt at his side, his hero, and placed her hand on his shoulder. 'You never take the knife out.' She tsked. 'Here, close your eyes.'

He did. Warmth seeped into him from where her hand rested, electric, each cell stirring at her touch, turning, healing. Filling him to the core with hope and light. When his eyes opened they did so sharply, determined. Bright. Ready.

The Collector was shaking in his chair, teeth clattering. The chair itself shook like some outer force was wrenching it.

'Tell us now!' Marty roared. 'Tell us and redeem yourself, Eric!'

The Collector's eyes were full of fear. He whispered, 'Box seventy-two. Station' --He spat a huge glob of pink foam from his mouth-- 'York...' Another glob of foam. 'The key ish'-- his mouth filled again with foam pink with his own blood, poured out his gaping mouth, his eyes wide, horrified. Choking, he trembled. Then froze, dead, though blood still trickled from his wide, greying lips.

The handcuffs melted away as Blake's body hovered a foot from the floor. Both Marty and Sem took a step back, wary of Blake's next move. The room seemed to shake as his dead limbs stiffened into the shape of a cross, his head still lank, lolling at his chest. In a flash of furious anger Blake's body smashed off the ceiling, then violently hit the floor. It sped up to the ceiling once more and hung there for a second. Red unholy light radiated from his body, then nothing. Blake's body hit the floor with a sickening thwack, his neck twisted so he faced his own back.

The moment felt flat. John had thought when the Collector died maybe time would change, rewind or something. He'd thought vengeance would fill the cavernous pit sucking at his stomach whenever he thought of Charlie. He'd thought maybe he would feel justified, relieved. Or anything. Satisfied even. But no, fate was throwing him one more fat "fuck you!" The twisted corpse on the floor seemed empty of meaning. The stretched eyelids pushing against the man's bulging eyeballs grossed him out, sure, but there was no sense of justice accompanying his death. With that thought John realised the real Collector was still at large. The thing that had used Eric was the real enemy, and it sounded like he had plans for the world. Future John's letter suddenly seemed to make a bit more sense.

John rolled his shoulders as he stood, amazed. They felt stronger than before. The sword lay on the ground and he picked it up, admired its sheen, then walked to Dad and stretched a hand out to help him up. 'Dad.' He smiled, pulled him into a hug. 'Dad, I'm so glad you're okay. Don't worry alright?' John pulled back, looking into his Dad's eyes. Confusion lay within them. 'We're going to fix all this, Dad. Just... Just trust me. Can you do that?'

'Sure, Johnny.' He paused, looking at Sem and Marty. 'Sure.'

A tremor shook the ground. Shit. 'Sem, what was that?' When John looked back she had the same concern in her eyes.

'You heard what the boss said?' Marty asked. 'There was something in him. The thing that killed him. It's coming. It was the monster all along. I wonder how long it used Eric, whether Eric had a life at all?'

'He killed a lot of people Marty,' Semila said. 'You can't blame whatever was in him for all of it. Some part of the Collector was willing enough to welcome the evil inside, to embrace it. We all have to make a choice. He chose the darkness.'

John recalled Semila's words to him in the black box of his soul years back, 'we all have a choice'.

He turned to his friends. 'What we choose defines us, and I choose life. Fuck all the evil. Let them come. We'll Blink back till they're all destroyed. He grabbed his camera off the table and snapped a photo of the room. Another tremor shook it, this one longer than the first, the table's feet jumping, particles tumbling from the roof, sconces.

'Something tells me time's running out,' Semila said, knees bent, sword sheathed on her back.

'No shit.' John had nowhere to sheath his sword so he flicked it from hand to hand and pretended Dad wasn't looking at him strangely.

'Let's go,' Marty said. 'York station's ten minutes' drive I think.'

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2018