Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted Read Free
Author: Arlene Hunt
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.’
They fled.
Jessie crawled across the floor to where the boy had fallen.
He lay on his back, panting. The shotgun was off to his right, out of range. One arm rested across his chest, the other curled by his side. The front of his shirt was slick with blood. His eyes were open and as she moved closer they clicked around to her.
‘Oh,’ Jessie whispered when she saw the damage she had inflicted.
He smiled, in reality a terrible grimace. A bubble of frothy blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, popped, and was replaced by another. Jessie leaned all her weight on her right hand and took his left hand in hers.
‘Why did you do this?’
But he did not answer and after a moment his eyes lost focus, his chest stopped moving and he was gone.
Jessie stared at him. She tried to stay upright, but could not summon the strength. She sank to the floor beside the dead boy and wiped the blood from her eyes. She saw Tracy Flowers lying by the drinks machine. She had lost a shoe and the back of her yellow sundress was drenched in blood.
Jessie wanted to go to her but could not. She vomited, closed her eyes and finally darkness took her.
2
H is given name was Caleb Switch, although it had been so long since he had used it he scarcely thought of himself as such.
Caleb unpacked his few things and laid them out carefully on the table. He opened a plastic box and from it ate a light protein-rich meal he had prepared the night before at the apartment. While he waited for his food to digest, he flicked through the latest magazine on traditional hunting, scoffing at the wilder stories printed within. The magazine was a luxury. It was delivered to his apartment in the city once a month. The name on the mailing list was Arthur Weils. The same name was on the deeds to the apartment and all the utility bills. Arthur Weils was who he was now, Arthur Samuel Weils. His friends might call him Art, if he had any friends of whom to speak.
The real Arthur S Weils was buried in the scrub behind the cabin in which Caleb was seated, free at last from the self-loathing and disgust he had passively endured during his miserable thirty-six years on the planet. Whenever Caleb thought of the real Arthur Weils – which was seldom – he reasoned he had done the man a favour. Certainly, Arthur had not put up much of a struggle once Caleb’s intentions became clear. Caleb had not expected him to do so; Category B types did not have the will to survive. They were beta, weak, content to wander through life following the herd blindly, stoically accepting their fate. Hell, they were hardly much more than meat shells. But they had their uses, and indeed Art had performed his.
When he was finished reading, Caleb removed his clothing and stood naked before a full-length mirror. He studied his refection in the speckled glass. He was twenty-eight years old. He wore his dark hair just so, not too short or too long. He had a beard, closely cropped against his skin. People said it looked distinguished. Conveniently, it disguised a large scar that ran from the left side of his lip to below his jawline, one of many childhood presents he had received from his father. He was six foot two inches tall and at one hundred and ninety pounds was lean and muscular, preferring to eschew showy gym muscles for actual physical strength. He carried no traces of excess fat and shared none of the softness many men his age displayed. People who did not look after themselves disgusted him. Soft, doughy, pasty-faced men, with their paunches and sagging tits, women with swollen bellies and thunder thighs, all were repugnant. His body would never be like that. He would not allow it. His body was a machine, a tool. To that end he maintained it to perfection.
He warmed up slowly, taking time to stretch his hamstrings and loosen his calf muscles with a series of timed stretches and twists. As he moved, he felt the blood course through his body and savoured the tension in his
They fled.
Jessie crawled across the floor to where the boy had fallen.
He lay on his back, panting. The shotgun was off to his right, out of range. One arm rested across his chest, the other curled by his side. The front of his shirt was slick with blood. His eyes were open and as she moved closer they clicked around to her.
‘Oh,’ Jessie whispered when she saw the damage she had inflicted.
He smiled, in reality a terrible grimace. A bubble of frothy blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, popped, and was replaced by another. Jessie leaned all her weight on her right hand and took his left hand in hers.
‘Why did you do this?’
But he did not answer and after a moment his eyes lost focus, his chest stopped moving and he was gone.
Jessie stared at him. She tried to stay upright, but could not summon the strength. She sank to the floor beside the dead boy and wiped the blood from her eyes. She saw Tracy Flowers lying by the drinks machine. She had lost a shoe and the back of her yellow sundress was drenched in blood.
Jessie wanted to go to her but could not. She vomited, closed her eyes and finally darkness took her.
2
H is given name was Caleb Switch, although it had been so long since he had used it he scarcely thought of himself as such.
Caleb unpacked his few things and laid them out carefully on the table. He opened a plastic box and from it ate a light protein-rich meal he had prepared the night before at the apartment. While he waited for his food to digest, he flicked through the latest magazine on traditional hunting, scoffing at the wilder stories printed within. The magazine was a luxury. It was delivered to his apartment in the city once a month. The name on the mailing list was Arthur Weils. The same name was on the deeds to the apartment and all the utility bills. Arthur Weils was who he was now, Arthur Samuel Weils. His friends might call him Art, if he had any friends of whom to speak.
The real Arthur S Weils was buried in the scrub behind the cabin in which Caleb was seated, free at last from the self-loathing and disgust he had passively endured during his miserable thirty-six years on the planet. Whenever Caleb thought of the real Arthur Weils – which was seldom – he reasoned he had done the man a favour. Certainly, Arthur had not put up much of a struggle once Caleb’s intentions became clear. Caleb had not expected him to do so; Category B types did not have the will to survive. They were beta, weak, content to wander through life following the herd blindly, stoically accepting their fate. Hell, they were hardly much more than meat shells. But they had their uses, and indeed Art had performed his.
When he was finished reading, Caleb removed his clothing and stood naked before a full-length mirror. He studied his refection in the speckled glass. He was twenty-eight years old. He wore his dark hair just so, not too short or too long. He had a beard, closely cropped against his skin. People said it looked distinguished. Conveniently, it disguised a large scar that ran from the left side of his lip to below his jawline, one of many childhood presents he had received from his father. He was six foot two inches tall and at one hundred and ninety pounds was lean and muscular, preferring to eschew showy gym muscles for actual physical strength. He carried no traces of excess fat and shared none of the softness many men his age displayed. People who did not look after themselves disgusted him. Soft, doughy, pasty-faced men, with their paunches and sagging tits, women with swollen bellies and thunder thighs, all were repugnant. His body would never be like that. He would not allow it. His body was a machine, a tool. To that end he maintained it to perfection.
He warmed up slowly, taking time to stretch his hamstrings and loosen his calf muscles with a series of timed stretches and twists. As he moved, he felt the blood course through his body and savoured the tension in his