Damnation Code (William Massa) - William Massa Page 0,1

drawing a thin line of blood.

“Lady, I don’t carry any money on me,” he stammered.

“I said to keep your fucking mouth shut!”

This time the knife’s edge cut deeper and Steve received the message loud and clear. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his mind on the flow of traffic. What did this psycho bitch want from him?

“Do exactly as I say and you’ll be okay. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now lean forward and replace the phone on your dash with mine. Make sure the camera is pointing directly at you. Nod if you understand.”

Steve nodded once more. Like an automaton, he swapped the phones on his dashboard with one hand while the other steered the car. If he lost control of the wheel, he knew his last sensation would be the bite of the blade sawing through the soft meat of his throat.

Steve’s horrified features flickered onto the screen of the newly mounted iPhone. The camera was on, recording his fear.

“What are you going to do?” he asked the knife-wielding passenger.

“Did I give you permission to talk?”

The blade dug deeper and Steve bit his tongue before letting another sound escape from his lips. The image on the phone split into two smaller screens. The faces of another man and a woman appeared. Their circumstances were identical to his own. Behind them, someone’s hand pressed a knife to each of their jugular veins. Steve saw his terror mirrored in their haunted gazes.

Who were these people? This stuff happened in movies but not in the real world.

A fourth person joined the video call. The newcomer wasn’t another victim but appeared to be the mastermind behind the nightmare. He wore a robotic death mask straight out of some apocalyptic sci-fi horror film. A tangled web of transistors, cables and circuits pockmarked the mask’s texture like cybernetic acne. The figure’s bass rumbling, electronically distorted voice boomed through the moving car, reciting words in an ancient, alien tongue.

For a frozen moment, the victims onscreen exchanged haunted glances. They must be seeing me on their own screens, Steve thought. Then the knives drew their blade-edges across the other drivers’ throats.

Steve’s eyes widened as pulsating heat washed down his neck. His hands went for his gushing throat in a desperate attempt to quell the bleeding.

The other victims fought similarly hopeless battles on the phone’s screen. Tortured death rattles resounded through the Camry, underscored by the masked man’s singsong chant. This had turned into a videoconference from hell.

Steve’s foot grew heavy and mashed the gas. The Camry hurtled forward, out of control now. The car caught up with the trolley and crumpled into its back end with a ferocious shriek of twisted metal and panicked tourists. A couple of hapless cable-car riders lost their grip and were sent flying like ragdolls.

Smoke and steam plumed from the contorted hood of the Camry. Pitiful screams pierced the air and the stench of burning oil became overpowering. Steve’s head slumped against the steering wheel, his shirt and jeans drenched a dark scarlet. His dying, crimson-spattered face stared back at him from the cellphone mounted on his dash.

While his life poured out in a stream of red, a hand reached from the back of the car to collect her mobile. There was a metallic snap as the passenger unfastened her seat belt, followed by the screech of a car door being kicked open.

Steve shifted his dimming gaze, lips bubbling crimson, the people outside his spiderwebbed windshield now reduced to blurry outlines. Like ghosts they hovered in his fading field of vision until the darkness consumed them and the world turned black.

***

Less than an hour later, Steve Delaney’s murderer arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge. Head held high, her gait steady and purposeful, she crossed the majestic red bridge until she reached its center.

She tilted her head toward the railing, gusts of wind buffeting her hair. Cars whipped by, a pulsing flow of traffic between San Francisco and Oakland.

Soon two men joined her. They were dressed more casually — jeans, flannel shirts and Converse sneakers — but their blank expressions mirrored her own. One other damning detail linked these three individuals. Each carried a blade caked with a dead person’s blood. They’d made the sacrifice required of them but one final offering remained to prove their devotion.

Without even trading glances, the three killers scaled the steel railing together, their movements eerily synchronized. Before anyone could stop them, the trio had vanished from view, plunging to their deaths in the Bay below.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ROAR