Metaphor's game- part 1

Metaphor's game, my (not so :P) short story inspired by the Jigsaw Killer in the Saw film series. I've tried to keep up the whole death-is-connected to his life's deeds kind of theme. Plus a little maniacal element as well. Lemme know what u think...

Metaphor’s game

15^th May 2006, Norfolk county

‘For long you have tried hard to catch me. Your efforts are indeed laudable, but they will forever fall short of what you require to get to me. All I have done, all those clues that I left behind, were in the hope that you, the best officer in the country, would give me a worthy chase. But that has not been the case. So I’m making you a deal now. Come to 28, Yardley Street at 3 am, on the 17^th. We shall play a little game, our Battle Royale. May the best man win Captain.’

I banged the note down on my table in frustration. Even the note was composed of letters cut out of papers. We didn’t have his handwriting. It was true that he had given me chances, outside ones, but chances nonetheless. And I had failed to catch him. It was no open secret that all of his murders were an open challenge for me to get to him. The scene of the first murder, where he had named me, was clear as crystal in my mind.

It was a black man, a drug dealer, one I’d myself accosted many a time. But there was never enough proof to nail him. When I’d received the call at seven in the evening, I thought he’d finally done something to get him in. Upon reaching the scene, a dark, narrow lane in one of the run-down neighborhoods, I found myself unprepared for the gruesome spectacle. The guy was hanging from a flagpole two stories above the ground, his face white with some kind of powder. When we hauled him down, we saw that it was cocaine that was smeared all over his face. Even his nostrils were stuffed with the drug. It was clear that he had either snorted too much, had some sort of reaction, or he had simply choked on it all. But upon closer inspection of his neck, we had seen two sets of prints, which indicated a struggle. That was when the cold realization hit me that he had been made to suffocate in the cocaine. This was murder. That was when one of the constables aimed his light upwards and saw words on the wall that made my heart plummet.

‘Sir, there’s something on the wall here. Some sort of message. And…it has your name…’ he said, giving me a look that bordered on concern and suspicion combined. I took the light from him and read the words on the alley wall.

‘Quite the last high, wouldn’t you say Captain Hawkins? In the literal sense. I just wanted to see how the drugs that he peddled among innocents would affect him. The slow death that he distributed among people just caught up with him today. The city is a bad place, Captain, an evil place. And you’re its reluctant protectors, defending the sinners. I’m your godsend; I will test your faith in your cause now, Captain. Follow my trail, and you shall get to me. I am waiting.

Signed, The Metaphor.’

Unbidden, my mind had wandered to what could have started all this. Two months ago, I had been awarded the Queen’s Police distinguished service award for my commanding role in the storming of an auditorium that had been hijacked by terrorists. The usual PR trip had followed, interviews, conferences, the whole ten yards.

I had been yanked back to the present by the constable’s grip on my jacket. There was more. A drawing of a drop of water, crude but unmistakable; and an arrow pointing to the right. I tried to make sense of what it meant. I knew it had something to do with water, his next victim. But being in a port city, there were too many fronts to cover and too many possibilities. I kept pondering over it, but two weeks later I did not need to ponder any more. The phone had rung, and I heard the words I dreaded. ‘There’s been another one Captain, here at the fisheries. And there’s another message for you, so it’s the same guy.’

The fisheries is dark and filthy, an overwhelming stench of fish pervading the place. It was in one of the tubs used to melt the ice that we had found the body. I remembered seeing that face somewhere before. He was a businessman of some sort. All the physiological appearances pointed towards death by drowning, but there was also something else. Somehow the water looked funny. And of course, there was another message addressed to me.

‘Countless fishes and animals have died because of the pollutants this man’s company dumped in our seas. Therefore I drowned him in water laden with his own pollutants, surrounded by the beings that he himself helped kill. Probably this way he might be more accountable to the souls he extinguished. You are not catching up soon enough, Captain. And there will be a price to pay, there shall be more murders. Until then, this is yours truly,

The Metaphor.’

Indeed there had been. For the next two months, there had been five more murders. Clues, subtle hints really, had been left behind at every scene, accompanying a taunting message. The manner of death was always connected to the person’s life. The papers didn’t really write about much else. The Metaphor killer was gaining favor with the romantics, who were supporting him wholeheartedly. Rational people were scared out of their wits, and the police was under unprecedented pressure, especially me, as I’d been singled out by the murderer. It had been a gut-wrenchingly torrid past three months.

And so today the prospect of facing off with my nemesis had me salivating; I wanted to end this once and for all. But I did not want to make the mistake of underestimating my enemy. Not after being outfoxed by him repeatedly. I read the note once again, memorizing the address, conditioning my mind for the impending showdown only two days away. The next two days were spent going once again through all my tactical, physical and mental training. The plans of the building at 28, Yardley Street were studied thoroughly; it was an abandoned office building. Our strategy was in place for the night. But I could not rest easy; something told me the Metaphor knew exactly what we were expected to do and he would be ready for that somehow. And it was in such a mood that the 17^th arrived.

17^th May 2006, 2.48 am, 28^th Yardley Street

In hushed whispers my team and I rehearsed our strategy, forming a 100-yard perimeter around the building. Eleven members of the Elite Urban Forward Action team were with me, forming a squad, and I felt confident tonight. Decked up in all combat gear, save helmets, we looked like we were in waiting to storm the building. The area was vacant in the radius of a few blocks; it was one of the old, abandoned parts of the city. The citizens need not have to know about the happenings here tonight. That was when a voice boomed over a loudspeaker that crushed my blossoming hope with indulgent cruelty.

‘Tut tut, Captain. No cheating! If anyone other than you enters the building, my special guest here will be subjected to a very painful death. Look up’ he said flatly. We all looked up and stared in horror at the distinctive figure of the city mayor hanging on a TV antenna, six stories above the ground. He was hanging onto a metal wire that extended from the antenna over the side of the building. A foot upwards from where his hands were grasping it, the wire was barbed, forbidding him to climb his way out of there. His feet were perched gingerly on a narrow half foot ledge jutting out of the building just enough so he could put his feet on it.

‘I have rigged up the antenna to act like an electrical conductor,’ the voice boomed on. ‘One button to press and 440 volts will give our mayor the shock of his life; just as his suspect landslide victories in the elections have shocked his many detractors. That is if he holds on for dear life. There is always the option of letting go and taking his chances with gravity. It’s about time our high-flying mayor took account of the ground realities, don’t you think?’ The voice chuckled at the joke, and then got very serious again.

‘I advise you not to tempt me into pressing the button. Tell your comrades to get in their van and go away. You can give them your radio set. The only conversation tonight shall be between us. Once that’s done, enter unarmed through the front door, and we shall begin.’

I gave a long look to the people assembled around me and nodded. Silently, the men jogged into a van waiting a quarter of a mile away. In two minutes, they had left and I was alone again. I knew this was to be expected. I walked slowly to the front door, empty hands in the air and turned the brass knob. The door opened soundlessly and was locked shut after me. Metaphor probably had the whole place rigged up to his senile requirements. The lock’s thud resonated through the dark, empty room. I was in.

For a moment the room was soundless, save for my beating heart. Then Metaphor’s layered, velvety and heartless voice rang out again.

‘Welcome captain. It was a wise decision to listen to me. Now, our game is simple. I am in the same building as you are. The windows are barred and the doors electronically locked. Don’t try breaking either of them; you’ll only be wasting your time. You have till sunrise to catch me. You can see a sundial in front of you. Make sure you and the mayor are not in the building when the sunlight strikes a straight line on the dial. Because then two things will happen; it will detonate the bomb I have planted in the building, hopefully after I will have escaped through the secret exit that only I know of. And of course, our dear mayor will be getting an appointment with his maker. There are trip mechanisms surrounding the sundial; try to touch it and the shotguns toted at you will blow you to kingdom come.’

I looked around the room. It was a large square room, with a side exit leading to a flight of stairs. An empty fireplace sat in a corner, its polished grate and silver floor sparkling. Indeed, there was a sundial right in front of me, sandy in color, about four feet in diameter. The outer ring was embedded with photovoltaic cell chips that would produce the voltage needed to blast the bomb using the sunlight. The window above the door behind me would bathe the dial in light come sunrise. There were seven 12-gauge shotguns trained at the approximate region around the sundial, covering all angles.

‘So you see, I’m not lying. Now, being the organizer of the game here, obviously I have a few advantages. Unlike you, I will not be unarmed and you better have a good prayer on your lips, if you can find me and face me. Also there are traps set up at various locations, and your actions could trigger them at any time. Also, the remote to unlock all the doors and to haul up the mayor’s tether is in my pocket. But, if you try to stop the bomb before saving him, he will be electrocuted. You have to save him before you save yourself. So effectively, you will not get out of here before going through me.’

Right then, as if on cue, a clock struck three, the sound amplified by the speakers, resonating throughout the empty building.

‘My clock has struck three, Captain. So then, let the games begin.’

3-2

I unsheathed the bowie knife from my hip holster. I was not going to lay all my cards on the table yet; I had some surprises for him yet. The mayor was on the top floor, so it was logical that Metaphor would want to be somewhere close to his quarry. It made sense to stake out the top floors first. I sprinted for the stairs, only to trip over a near invisible wire, falling face-front a second later, ice cold water splashing all over my face.

‘That was a wake-up call. Your predictable logic will not help you here. Nothing is normal here; neither should be your thought. I will give you no more chances, no more warnings. Over and out’ the voice resonated for the last time.

I pushed myself up, promising Metaphor a lingering death if and when I would get the chance. I was thinking what to do next, when a thud from three floors above me caught my attention. Carefully eyeing the staircase for any more traps, I made my way up. On the third landing, lay a knife, brown with old blood stains. Curious, I bent down to pick it up, thereby applying pressure on the floorboard beneath my feet. The hitherto unseen cord that I had placed my right leg in, was released as a result, and retracted, yanking me bodily off the ground, inverting me two feet above the ground. Below me was a mat of dull spikes two by two feet, the nails an inch long. Frustrated, I whirled and looked around me. On the east side wall, there was inverted writing on the wall, which I could now in my position, read upright.

‘Repeating the same mistakes, are we Captain? Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I thought you would be some better. Obviously, the lure of a knife proved too much for you. However, this time there shall be a penalty. Use that knife to cut through the cord and free yourself. But, decide which part of your body you would like to impale on those spikes. They are not deep enough to kill you, but they will hurt. Oh, and do not try to swing out of the way of the mat when you cut. The cord has been adjusted just enough to take your weight. Any acrobatics and you’ll go down.’

I shut my eyes in anguish. It was foolish of me to reach for the knife when I had my own anyways. This mistake was going to cost me. For the next ten minutes I reasoned on which part of my body to land upon. I would need my legs to run. My upper torso had the vital organs that I could not risk; I didn’t want to take Metaphor’s word on the potency of those nails. Anything above my shoulders was ruled out. So it came down to my arms, of which I needed my right one more. I decided upon the left forearm, as my bicep was of greater use. I slowly positioned myself thus, expecting the cord to snap any minute. Once in position, I reached up to cut the cord, but hesitated. It is hard to lead yourself to deliberate pain. After about another five minutes of convincing myself, I cut the cord.

THUD! SPLAT!

The spikes did run deep, and a bolt of pain shot through my forearm. They had pierced and come out the other side. I roared in agony for a few seconds, after which I mentally tried to alienate myself from that part. In a few moments, the pain dulled down to a throbbing jolt in the background of my mind. Quickly taking out my shirt from within my bulletproof vest I ripped a shred from it and tied it around my profusely bleeding arm. In the blink of an eye the cloth turned crimson, and I hoped I wasn’t losing blood too quickly. However, it settled down soon and besides feeling a little weak and slightly dizzy, I was okay.

I got up and sheathed the old, bloody knife in a spare holster. It could be of use later. I tried to be as silent as possible when I walked. I got past the landing, a room to my right and left. A slight sound to my left caught my ear. It was a short, breathing sound, like a muffled panting sound. Someone was there! Slowly, extra careful this time, I made my way into the room. I traced the sound to the ventilator shaft above me, right in the centre of the room; that’s where he was. Taking my knife in my good arm, I stood atop a nearby table and reached up to the shaft opening. In one sharp motion I pulled away the cover and took several frenzied stabs within using my knife, but it only found air. Then suddenly, my hands found fell upon something, and I pulled it out. It was a tape player and it was still running, emitting the panting sound that I had heard. Then all of a sudden, it emanated a high, cold and demonic laugh that froze my blood.

‘Gotcha…’ was all it whispered malevolently, and then fell silent. I ground my teeth in anger. Metaphor was playing games with my mind. He was in control of the situation, and that was I circumstance I loathed. All of a sudden then, Richard Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ blared out from the other room, a chilling accompaniment to our ongoing fight. I did not budge, convinced that it was another trick to lure me to the room.

That was when I saw a black hooded figure walk out of the room, its face concealed. It was tall, wiry and its gait exuded strength. It walked quick, stood in front of the stairs for a moment, looking right at me. I was staring, trying to get a look at the face. That was then the figure tore up the stairs, its body language showing alarm. I followed in pursuit, taking my knife as I did so. Just as I was about to pass by the room he had come out from, a blast from within lifted me off my feet and hurled me five feet away. I let myself fall, and almost welcomed the blackness that followed...