Gross Domestic Product :20

Chapter 20.

Buer had been aware that Morton would send people to follow him. He did not have high expectations for the meeting but it was over, time to progress with the original plan, though the agents of Morton would have to be dealt with before he arrived at his next destination. An amusing diversion no doubt but in the meantime he would have to keep driving.

He enjoyed the motorway, enjoyed the huge lorries that rumbled beside him, each one a massive risk, threatening to suck his little vehicle under their great deadly wheels. He wondered what such sensations would be like, how long it would take for Bryce’s body to eject him and for a glorious return to non-existence. He imagined the mangled flesh and screeching nerve endings, the panicked pumping of the dying heart, the scent of Bryce’s innards steaming in the cold morning, the agony of shattered bone piercing muscle, the weight of thirty odd tonnes of metal crushing the body. It was tempting, an allure which was intoxicating, having being instantiated, he wanted nothing more than to experience the extremities of it.

He could delay such satisfaction, there were humans to meet, exploit and send them down the path towards total destruction, eradication of this foul species, it was what he was created for, to prove a point. To ruin the ineffable plan, to spit in the face of The Word, to defy The Creator, to show it that the creation was a failure.

And what a failure. Every living thing had to kill to endure, had to devour every other living thing. It was all a procedure of brutality, a monstrosity that the Creator ignored, preferring pride and adoration. It had made sacred the ultimate profanity, a horror to which even the illusory dreams of human Hell could not compare. Given that, why should The Fallen not have some fun at its expense, to delete its ferocious unyielding cruelty with some of their own?

Ahead, upon the horizon he could make out a small copse of motorway services. He decided to pull in, to have some fun. As he arrived he noticed several lorries parked in the large bays, as well as a smaller van which were filled with cultists of the Creator, black clothed women, mostly elderly. Nuns, he remembered they were called. He chuckled to himself, parked up beside their van and then walked towards the front establishment, an eatery.

It was large but mostly empty. A tired truck driver sat reading a newspaper at one of the tables, the ugly remnants of his meal cooling on his plate. Behind the counter, a fat woman leant against a tiled wall and spied him approaching. He perused the food, it looked unhealthy, greying sausages, jaundiced potatoes, bacon that looked more like soggy tree-bark than pig shavings. It was not enticing at all. He passed it and an array of limp, frail looking sandwiches until he reached the condiments, small packets of salt and pepper and sauce. Buer put his hand into the salt packets and took his fill, which he stuffed into his pockets, twice. The woman behind the counter gave him a suspicious look, but he winked at her and left the premises.

Finding himself on the hard shoulder beside the motorway, next to the curved road that led to the services he waited, crouching down, becoming rigid and concentrating on becoming imperceptible. He did not have to wait long until the car containing Morton’s henchmen turned in, passing him, oblivious to him standing there. Buer unfolded himself from the position and, once they were parking up, took the little bags of salt from his pockets and began to scatter the contents right across the road, until a thin line bisected it, cutting off the motorway from the entrance.

Once done, he headed towards an exit ramp and repeated the procedure. After that was finished he headed towards the public toilets. Swinging open the door he saw a fat man pissing into a urinal, whistling some imbecilic and repetitive ditty. He would do.

Buer raced towards the man, who was caught unawares. A strong beast who put up a good fight for a second, before realising his brute strength could do nothing against his assailant. Buer heard the man’s spine crack down its entire length as he twisted the head round and round like it was a cap on a bottle. The noise sounded like that of a tree branch breaking off in a strong wind. For a few seconds the body spasmed, feet flopping like fish on a trawlers deck, then he was still. It was time to remove his heart.

Tearing off the man’s greasy football top, Buer located the solar plexus and, with his fingers, dug right in finding purchase on the rib cage, which he snapped open with ease. Using his fingernails he sliced through the arteries and removed the heart. It was heavy, already congealing, he would need to be quick.

He left the toilets and strode out to the entrance again. Muttering an incantation he squeezed the heart, which seeped blood. It dribbled down his fingers and spattered on the thin line of salt, which ignited into a luminous fog for a moment. Once he had done this, at both ends of the services, he simply threw the drained heart away. The ritual was done, he had separated the services from the world. It was now a small hidden pocket in which he could enact his will and his will was cruelty.

Buer went back into the cafeteria and ordered a cup of tea. The woman behind the counter sighed and poured the liquid into a plastic cup from a dull metal kettle. He paid for it and then sat over by the corner, near a window, and waited. It did not take long before the henchmen came in, followed by the five nuns who were all chatting excitedly and holding plastic bags filled with rubbish they had purchased from the newsagents across from the cafe.

One of the henchmen looked over at him, casually, as if taking in the view. Buer smiled and waited. The three burly men took their purchases and sat over by the main exit as one of the nuns let out a fragment of song. A hymn of some kind. Buer’s patience wore thin. He began to stir his tea with the small plastic spoon, to focus on the swirling, the agitated atoms, the wisps of steam escaping and let his mind spill out across the room. It was time for some fun.

At first a teenage cook, a spotty lad, thin and haunted looking came out from the kitchen. He was holding a large pan, which he gripped like it was a sword. Having the least mental fortitude of all in the room, he was the easiest to manipulate. He walked over to the woman who scolded him, but the boy was no longer in control of himself. Buer was using him like a puppet. The lad took the pan and smashed the woman in the face with the underside. It make the sound of a dulled gong, which resonated through the room along with her scream. Everyone took notice of that. There were gasps from the nuns, the truck driver took to his feet to protest and began running towards the boy, who was now smashing the woman with the edge of the pan, while she shrieked and begged for help.

The henchmen looked concerned but did nothing. Buer was in no doubt that Morton had warned them that they might be dealing with strangeness. He cared not, they would be playing soon enough. By the time the trucker launched over the counter, the boy had grabbed a sharp carving knife and was swinging it in the trucker’s direction. The nuns, panicking like nervous birds decided to make for the exit. Buer shifted a shard of his consciousness to make sure the door was locked. The nuns shook at it, began banging on it and shouting for help. He took pleasure at that. The boy behind the counter had now given the truck driver several large gashes. The trucker, already half- crazed with adrenaline and testosterone provided little difficulty for Buer to control. Despite the attacks he grabbed the kid by the throat and began to crush it. The woman, neither dead nor unconscious, grabbed the large kettle and flung it’s scalding contents towards the lad, who despite being throttled managed to let out a delectable squeal as his skin blistered and bubbled.

A second later the trucker grabbed the knife and forced it right into the boy’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall with it.

The nuns were screaming, the lad was shouting obscenities and the trucker turned to the woman, put his hand round the back of her disfigured head as if in a caress, then using all his weight slammed her smashed face against the counter, laughing. She was unconscious, doubled over and so the trucker began to pull her skirt up over her waist while unbuckling his trousers. It was then the henchmen began to react.

They glared at Buer who offered them a wink in return. The eldest, a bruiser of a skinhead in his late forties stood up and said “enough.”

Even through the din of terror, agony and lust Buer heard his words. He tried to scrabble around in the man’s mind but there was no give, nothing he could grab. The man stood up. His second in command was much the same age, but taller, more physically impressive, and wore his greying hair in a pony-tail. He followed and both began to walk towards Buer. Both had removed guns from their long coats. The third, younger, shifty-looking and nervous didn’t seem able to comprehend what was happening, kept looking over at the trucker, now raping the unconscious woman like some slavering animal, roaring and babbling incoherently. The uncertainty gave Buer an opportunity and so he also stood up, pulled his gun out and shouted. “Hey lads! Check this out!”

Both men turned just in time to receive the bullets from the gun the youngest was firing at them. The eldest man dropped like a sack of potatoes as the slug smashed through his forehead, tore through his brain and escaped out the back in a display of blood and meat. The second fired instinctively but the shot was nowhere near the youngest of the three, who managed to aim and fire. The bullet hit the other man in the top lip and exploded out the back of his neck. He also fell.

Problem solved, thought Buer. Now he could have some real fun. He got up from his chair as the young man stared at the gun in his hands and the comrades he’d murdered and then looked at Buer and nodded. He strode over to the door where the terrified nuns were now praying and crossing themselves. He pointed the gun at them and said “right you old cunts, strip.”

Buer thought he’d allow himself another hour or two, just to see what the limits of these adherents of the creator were before they would renounce him.

It was going to be a good evening.