CHAPTER FORTY

The man in the hoodie walked down the aisle of the church, daylight bouncing off the stained glass windows, the vibrant colors flaring with illumination. Bloody battles and clashing swords, flayed corpses and weeping mothers. Who needed to provide triggers when they were etched on every window? And the biggest trigger of all, that larger-than-life Jesus Christ, nails driven through his palms as he hung lifeless from a wooden cross.

Yes, indeed, this would be biblical.

His laughter echoed in the quiet space.

Mercy Cathedral had been built in 1898 and had miraculously survived the 1906 earthquake. Unfortunately, the congregation had eventually been lost to attrition—no surprise in a city that celebrated sin. The empty building had been purchased by a nonprofit group that rented it out for social functions, but in the last six months, it’d been acquired by the city and would be repurposed into housing units for 117 seniors who had experienced homelessness and were now living with health issues.

Or so said the website. The man didn’t talk that way. Experienced homelessness. Like if something was an experience , then you weren’t responsible for it. He supposed the disgusting, useless slobs who’d killed his mother had experienced homicide .

Well, he was experiencing homicide , too, and he was enjoying it immensely. And this, once a place of worship and dignity, now transforming into a smelly hovel for elderly riffraff dependent on taxpayers, seemed like the perfect location to continue what he’d started.

The DJ booth had already been set up, though the tables hadn’t been moved in yet. That would all happen later today. He’d perfected the drug. It’d only taken five live experiments and a notebook of formulas. Wouldn’t his professors be proud? He’d figured out how to access the trauma centers in the brain where all their nightmares already lived. And with a small trigger—boom! A homicidal maniac was born. The beauty of his improved concoction was that specific triggers were no longer necessary—merely general ones. Screeching sounds. Scary images. A jab or two. Then they’d fight to the death. He’d watched it happen himself just a few days before.

And he’d watch it tonight. And then he’d watch it again and again after that. He looked up to the smaller balcony on his right, even higher than the one once used for a choir or perhaps an organist. No, the place where he’d view this evening’s event had once been a lofty box seat reserved for the upper crust. His lips stretched. It seemed an apropos place from which to watch his plans unfold. Not only on video this time but in person as well. He deserved that. Not only to see what played out with his eyes but to hear the screams from below. To smell the tang of sweat and blood. Not only to stand in the aftermath but to be there for the slaughter.

It was his final experiment. A mass gathering. Not everyone would take the drug in the manner presented to them, but enough would. Enough to make his point, anyway. That these people were capable of anything, and that eventually, they’d strike. They always did. And hopefully they’d take a few of the activists present with them, especially the ones who used social programs as a way to line their own pockets, ensuring the problem never got fixed. Endless fundraising and, therefore, endless dregs.

If tonight went well, he’d give his drug to whole neighborhoods. They’d pop it like candy if they thought it’d get them high. Those parasites would sell their own babies for a hit. He’d clear out tent cities and open-air drug markets. He could see the piles of bodies now. Beautiful. The public would pretend to be horrified, but then they’d walk through the clean streets, and in their homes at night, they’d shut the shades and whisper to each other, Maybe it’s for the best.

The man stood at the altar, staring up at the statue of Mary. The mother. He wondered what his own mother would think about what he was doing and decided she’d probably try to talk him out of it. But that’s how she’d been—far too tenderhearted. She’d thought low-IQ scum could be helped. She’d been wrong. And it was why she was now dust in the ground.