The Scribbles Are Showing Me Very Bad Things

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My arms feel like they are going to be yanked out of their sockets when he hauls me upright. Pain radiates everywhere. My face bleeds. The cuffs are on my wrists before I can say a word. Not like I will say a word. Words are not my friends. And what would I say anyway? This? Sorry, officer. You have the wrong guy. Or this? Messages? What messages? Maybe this? 23 people dead? I know nothing about that. I could go on and on. But it'd be all bullshit in one way or another. I know about the messages. Except I call them scribbles. And I know about all the dead people. And if there is a wrong guy, it's not me. I have been deep in this shit for a long while. The cop drags me back to his partner, who is leaning against a lamppost. His chest heaving up and down as he struggles to catch his breath. You gonna make it? The cop stops at the lamppost. My arms pulled halfway up my back, pain telling me that if he lifts even an inch more, then things in me that shouldn't tear will tear. The heavy breathing cop nods and keeps a hand pressed to his chest. I'll be fine. Then he sees me watching him in glares. What the fuck are you grinning at? Bitch! I don't want to answer. I want to stay quiet and let it play out. But it's all just so perfect. I'm practically ready to leap out of my skin in anticipation. Your name? I aim my chin at the tag above his badge. Is it really M. Kershaw? Yeah, his name is Kershaw, so what? The cop holding me growls in my ear. Come on, you sick fuck. We're gonna have fun with you back at the precinct. No one will know you're even there, except for 30 cops, all with a heart on top. Fuck you up. I bet. I try to look over my shoulder, but the cop grips my neck and keeps me facing forward. I'd also bet that your name is B. Asan. I didn't get a look at your name tag before you tackled me. I liked you better when you were quiet. He snarls, shoving me toward the cruiser part, diagonally across the cracked and broken sidewalk. So how about you shut the fuck up, sicko? Is that your name, officer? B. Asan. I fucking said to shut up. Because if it is, then I have bad news for you, for both of you. Cold steel presses against the nape of my neck. Keep talking and see who gets the bad news, asshole. I feel him shift behind me and can tell he's shouting over his shoulder. Right, Mikey? It looks like this guy may be trying to escape custody and run. That, so, looks like I think he has a gun to. Oh, shit, you're right. OK, I get it. I'll shut the fuck up. The gun barrel presses down harder. And for a moment, I wonder if I am wrong. If all of this fucking nightmare is just in my head, maybe it finally ends here. We reach the cruiser and the cop opens the back door, throwing me in without even the courtesy of ducking my head first. Good thing I'm not tall. Or I could be in a world of hurt. Or a world of worse hurt, at least. Like I said, I got pain everywhere. The cop slams the door and I wriggle my way into a sitting position, trying to make my arms as comfortable as possible while the cuffs cut into my wrists. It's a losing proposition, getting comfortable. By my count, I have at least three broken bones, a festering gunshot wound in my right thigh, the after-effects of more than one concussion, and a knife wound in my lower back that came very close to hitting a kidney. I can't even inventory all the bruises and cuts and scrapes and burns that coat my skin. Officer Asan, and I know that's his name without even having to see his name tag, climbs into the driver's seat while the heavy breather, Officer Kershaw, makes his way to the cruiser finally and slides his bulk into the passenger's seat. The two cops sit there for a moment, sharing a look. I don't like that look. I can show you something, something you both should see. Shut the fuck up. It'll help clear this all up. I'm treading dangerous waters by continuing. I'm usually not quite this involved. I prefer to be more of a witness than active participant, although my broken bones and ravaged body tell a different story. Clear what up? His breathing is close to normal again, and he grins at me. Not sure anything needs clearing up. There's more than enough evidence that you're involved in all of this. 27 deaths, and you, Mr. Keith Banya, seem to be in the middle of all of them. Periphery at best. Periphery? Periphery. You hear that, Bruce? He's only on the periphery. He twists further in his seat and glares at me through the steel mesh, separating the back seat from the front. People in the periphery of over two dozen deaths don't appear in surveillance footage taken from almost every crime scene now, do they? So I'm being charged with murder? 27 counts? The officers share that look again, I sigh. Right. I'm a suspect, I get that. But what am I suspected of? Murder? Neither of you has said murder. You keep saying deaths, and I know why. I wait for them to respond, but neither does. And you two know why also? Because the medical examiner hasn't determined if any of the deaths are homicides or accidents. 27 people dead in eight different locations, and you tied to each place doesn't sound like a bunch of fucking accidents to me. Fuck this guy. Let's get him to the precinct. He reverses the cruiser off the sidewalk and points us toward the center of town. And it's definitely a town, not a city. Well, not a big city. If all of this had happened in some place like New York, or Chicago, or Seattle, or Atlanta, or wherever, then no one would have noticed. The scribbles would have just been more graffiti marring the walls of the city. The dead would probably have never been linked. But this isn't New York or Chicago. This is Crossfield, Virginia, a little burg on the border of North Carolina, a sleepy town, as the locals like to say, which was completely true, until the scribbles started appearing. I don't know if I'm the only one who saw them in the beginning. There's no way for me to know that. Others might have spotted them and thought nothing of it. But I don't think I was ever given that chance. Not considering how the first name appeared, I shiver, thinking about it. You cold? Too fucking bad. Kershaw's body is still turned my way, his eyes on me. Listen, you got me. You did. I'm cuffed and in the back of your cruiser. There is nothing that I can do to either of you. No shit, Sherlock. Hassan Grunts ought to chuckle in agreement. So it won't hurt either of you to take a quick detour before we get to the precinct. It's actually on the way. I'm walking a thin line, taking a big risk. I haven't ever directly involved myself like this before, not to this extent at least. Hey, I'm the guy who needs medical attention, not you two. So if I'm willing to delay that help, don't you think what I need to show you is important? Who fucking knows what goes to the head of a psycho like you? Hassan takes a right at the next intersection. Hey, if you two do this, then everything will be explained. Trust me. They laugh hysterically. A little too hysterically if you ask me. These two think they've hit the jackpot with me. One what they've actually hit is one serious bad break. Really, I should do as they want and shut up. Just sit back and let everything take its course. But this time feels different. This time I won't be on the periphery. OK, OK, don't trust me. I wait for them to finish laughing. But how about a deal? Are you shitting me? Why would we make a deal with you? Because you want answers, and I have answers. We'll get those answers when we get to the precinct. But you don't have to go to the precinct. All you have to do is take me to Burgess Road, where it goes under the Highway 213 overpass. You know what I'm talking about, right? Yeah, we know. But we aren't driving you there, so shut the fuck up. Last warning, asshole. Here's the deal. I double down on the wrist and press on. As long as we are driving in that direction, I'll tell you everything I know about the scribbles and the deaths. We're where? Collier Avenue? That's plenty of time. You'll know all that I know. And when we arrive under the overpass, the answer to it all will be right there. I swear to fucking God. That's so? You'll swear to God? Oh, OK then. Kershaw turns back around to face the front. Fucking psycho. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving Quince lately. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design without the luxury markup. I picked up one of their linen shirts and immediately noticed the quality. Light, comfortable, and not flimsy like cheaper linen. The shoes were the same deal. 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Get started today and see how you can avoid the void and reach the right buyers with LinkedIn ads. Spend 200 pounds on your first campaign and get a 200 pound credit for the next one. Go to LinkedIn.com slash lead to claim your offer. Terms and conditions apply. There's a headache forming between my eyes and to take a few deep breaths. These two aren't going to go for it by me just asking. I need to give them a reason. This is a new scribble. One none of you have discovered. It's the last one. At least I think it is. God, I hope it is. When did you write it? Today? Yesterday? I didn't write it. I didn't write any of them. They're all in your handwriting. Explain that. They only look like they're in my handwriting. But they aren't. Oh, whose handwriting is it then? It's more of an eye of the beholder sort of thing. All you cops see it as my handwriting. I see it as my mother's handwriting, which is messed up because of how she died. They share another look. Is that interest I see? I bounce. Think of what your captain will say when you have my full statement. I'll tell you everything. I even waive my rights. Really? You'll say that on the record? I'll say everything on the record. I look about the backseat. The cruiser is miked, right? And there are cameras? It'll all be there when the footage is downloaded at the precinct. You two will have broken the case, wiped it open. Another look shared. Then Kershaw glares back at me. If you're trying to play us, then all the footage might end up being accidentally deleted. It won't show what really happens to you if you get what I mean. How can I play you? I'm back here in handcuffs. You two are up there with guns and badges. The power dynamic is pretty clear. They don't even bother sharing another look. Hassan cranks the wheel and does a U-turn in the middle of the road. Fuck it. We'll take Plemeth. It's faster. So we're going to the overpass on Burgess Road? Looks like. And you better start fucking talking. I nod a few times and clear my throat. It's a little hard to believe, so bear with me. Just tell us why you did it all. And how? How the fuck did you drain all of the blood from your victims without missing or spilling a drop? They ME wants to know how you pulled off that trick. I think about where to start. The beginning, yeah. But which beginning? Mine or the Scribbles? Which victim do you think was first? The two cops shake their heads. Man, he's just going to play games. Take us to the precinct, Bruce. You think it's the couple with the dog, right? You think it's those two bodies found under the bridge by the jogging path, right? Where the dog was leashed to the woman and barked forever until someone came and found them? You mean you? You found them, freak. What a surprise. OK, OK. That wasn't me being totally truthful. I know. I didn't find them per se because I was already there when it happened. When what happened? What did you do to them? No, no, no. I shake my head. You're making me get ahead of myself. I want to tell you about the first Scribble and the first victim where it all started. And that couple wasn't where it all started. Nassan takes the next left, and I know my time is short. The house smelled like bacon and cheap coffee. I try to ease back into the seat, still hunting for some semblance of comfort. And menthols. That was our morning, every morning. Mother would make bacon and eggs and a pot of weak coffee from a can. Then we would sit at the kitchen table and read the morning newspaper. Newspaper? Shit, Bruce. I can't remember the last time I actually picked up a newspaper. Can you? Only when I need to make a fire. Well, it was our routine. Read the paper while we eat breakfast and drink our coffee. How the fuck old are you? You still live with your mother? Not any longer, no. You'll both understand why if you let me finish my story. Yeah, Mikey. Let him finish his story. Nassan laughs as he takes a right onto Holland. I ignore the interruption and push on. We were reading the paper like usual when I glanced up and saw the Scribbles for the first time. In your house? Kershaw's mood changes. He's suddenly a little more interested. Yes, in mother's house. OK, what did the Scribbles say? Nassan takes a left onto Concord. We're halfway there. Good morning. Good morning? That's it? At first, yeah. Just good morning. I thought I was seeing things. Yeah, think? Nassan keeps the cruiser pointed straight on Concord. Yes, well. Then mother saw me staring at the wall and turned to look over her shoulder. She was not pleased. Did you write that on the wall, Keith? Why would you do that? She shouted at me, standing so quickly that her chair fell over with a horrible clatter. I was stunned, didn't know what to say. I didn't do it. And the writing hadn't been there when we sat down to eat. I swear it. I look out of the cruiser's side window and watch the rain-soaked street drift by. Yeah? Then what? Oh, wait. Let me guess. I'm sure it's a real plot twist. Kershaw laughs and slaps Assan's shoulder. Can you guess, Bruce? What do you think happened? Oh, shit, Mikey. That's a tough one. I don't think I'm smart enough to figure it out. I better make a guess, then. Kershaw twists in his seat and stares at me. Keith, did you kill your mother? Not me, no. I shake my head over and over and over. The scribbles did, though. Killed her right there in the kitchen, but after, of course. Oh, of course. After what, Sicko? After the scribbles changed. Changed? How? They always have a message in the beginning, something like, good morning, or hi, how are you? Or want to hear a joke? A joke? What fucking joke? I wave a hand. Doesn't matter. The words are there to get attention, my attention. Then once they have my attention, they change, mostly into the same request. Street lights glint off of the raindrops on the cruiser's window, and I watch two race to the bottom. Hey! Kershaw snaps, smacking the mesh with the flat of his hand. We're going to be there soon, freak. Finish your fucking story. Sorry. I breathe deep. He's right. We will be there soon. The phrase is always some version of bring me so and so, or bring me the person named so and so, or the person whose name is so and so is who I want and shit like that. That's not what the messages say when the bodies are found. Kershaw shakes his head and looks at his son. This fucking guy is so full of shit, Bruce. I say we forget taking him to his overpass, or even back to the precinct. Let's pull over into that alley and just waste the fucker and toss him in a dumpster. The case will go cold, but there won't be any more fucking killings at the hands of this fucking freak. Not a bad idea. Killing me won't stop anything. I'm not the killer. The scribbles are. Just listen to me, all right? Can you listen? It'll all make sense. How far we got? A mile or so. Hassan turns on the Monroe. Better hurry the fuck up, asshole. Yeah, yeah, I will. I swallow, trying to get what little spit I have to wet my dry mouth. The first phrase is a greeting. The second is a demand, a demand I have to follow or. Phantom pain rags me and I'm own. Just the thought of what the scribbles do to me, if I don't do as they ask, is enough to make me want to curl into a ball. Kershaw bangs the mesh again. Talk, fucker! If I don't do as the scribbles ask, it gets very uncomfortable for me. And they asked for mother. The two cops wait for once, so I quickly continue. The exact phrase was bring Mrs. Garambanya. And for a second, I didn't know what it meant. But then mother began to shout at me and point at the words. And I sort of got mad. And I might have shoved her. And I didn't mean to. And she stumbled back. And her hand touched the words. And then I take a deep breath and force myself to think of that morning. The scribbles came alive. My voice is quiet. My heart breaking all over again. The words turned into, I don't know what to call them, tentacles, ropes. I swallow hard. My mouth is so dry. Veins? Whatever they become, they are fast and strong. They had mother wrapped in their embrace. And then, well, you know. No, Keith. We don't know. That's why we need to hear you say it. And better make it fast, asshole. We're almost there. Yeah, OK. Right. Yeah. So they grabbed her. The veins that the words had turned into. They just grabbed her. And she screamed. And she fought. And she called out for me. And I couldn't. I couldn't help her. I shiver all over. All I could do was watch as those veins didn't just wrap around her. But they slid inside her, under her skin, in through her eyes and nose and ears and mouth. Coughing a little. I gag as I think of mother. The noises are the worst part. I rub it my ears and the side of my head, wincing when I nudge my shredded cheek. The sucking sound as it drinks. And that's what it does. All it does is drink. It drinks them dry, down to the very last drop. Then it lets them go and fades into its last message. Thank you and have a delicious day. I nod. The tension in the car builds as the two officers remain quiet. Those words are all I see when I close my eyes. They're all I've seen since the veins took mother. Hassan makes one more turn. And I know we're only blocks away now. I have to pick up the pace. I have to push through the pain. When it was done, drinking, it just let go. The veins unwrapped themselves. And what was left of mother was only a husk. She was so small and white and shriveled. Her body floated to the floor more than it fell. There was just nothing left. The officers listen as the rain patterns against the windshield. The wipers keeping the view clear. I stare forward and see the edge of the overpass up ahead. I didn't know what to do as I stood there and looked for mother's body to the words on the wall. I must have stood there for hours before I just ran. I turned and ran out the kitchen door and ran through our backyard and ran into the back alleyway and ran and ran until I reached the park. Where the couple and their dog were found. Yeah, there. I ran and the words were there under the bridge. And then this couple came by and I just asked them if their names were Lily and Mark Plow and they were. Then they saw the words and the woman said they should leave. And the guy asked me what my deal was. And then the veins, so many veins, just wrapped them up and held them to the wall and drank and drank and drank and drank and we're here. Kershaw looks thankful for the interruption. We all face forward. The cruisers headlights illuminating the words on the overpass is thick concrete wall. Are you shitting me with this? How the fuck did you know our names before we found you? I read the words on the wall to myself. Bring me M. Kershaw and be a son. The two officers turn in their seats and glare at me. You better start talking because I don't know what pain you think you're in now. But it's about to be a whole lot worse if I have to come get you out of that back seat. Do you stalk all your victims first? That it freak? The son glares at me with hatred I've rarely seen and fully deserve. You been following us, watching us? Then you write our names on a wall and do what? Set it up so we find you and arrest you? Jesus fuck, you are sick. You are just fucking. The windshield cracks into small hole forms where a thin tendril of vein has pierced it. The vein has also pierced the back of Asan's head and is sticking out of his left eye. It wriggles a bit, swaying this way, then the other way. Bruce? Kershaw gasps as the vein slips down further and wraps about Asan's neck. What the actual fuck? I know what's going to happen and would rather not watch, but I know the punishment if I look away. My bones know the punishment if I look away. Officer Asan's head pops off like a dandelion. The vein cinches tight and then is yanked back out of that small hole in the windshield, slicing completely through Asan's neck. Blood geysers up against the cruiser's headliner, spraying and splattering Kershaw than me. Kershaw screeches and roars and yelps and scrambles for his door handle. He slaps at it over and over again, trying to get himself free from this Charnel car, this automotive abattoir. But before he can get his door open, the windshield explodes and 100 veins reach in and snatch Asan's body from the driver's seat, nearly tearing him in half as it rips him free of his seat belt. Oh fuck, oh god, get me out of here, get me the fuck out of here. Asan's body is dragged across the cruiser's hood, then along the wet pavement, until it is finally lifted up into the air and pulled flat against the wall while the veins constrict tighter and tighter and tighter. Can you let me go? Kershaw finally manages to get his door handle working. He gives me a confused look before he shoves the door open and erupts from the cruiser, collapsing onto his hands and knees. I completely lose sight of him. Then I see his ass appear as he literally tries to crawl away. I shake my head. He's not the first one who has tried a hands and knees escape. The veins are having none of Kershaw's cowardly BS and they attack with a ferocity that I've only seen a handful of times. Every limb is pierced through by a half dozen different veins. Then they erupt from his side as 20, 30, maybe 40 veins, stab in one way and come out the other. I watch as they wrap and wrap and wrap until his torso is only a wriggling, writhing mass of bloody tendrils. I duck my head just before what I know is about to happen, happens. The veins squeeze with all of their might and Kershaw pops like a balloon. His head goes one direction. His torso, less legs go a different direction. His middle goes everywhere. All I can do is sit and wait. The veins can't be bothered with me until they are finished feeding and feed they do. The bodies are sucked dry as veins explore every inch of every cavity. Then once those mutilated and dismembered corpses have had every possible bit of blood removed from them, the veins come for the mess. For this, they don't need me to watch. It's only the killing I must endure. My eyes are closed as the veins lick and lap and absorb all of the blood. And I mean all of it. I hear them scraping the pavement, scrubbing the outside of the cruiser. I hear them slapping at the inside of the car, removing the blood that is already soaked into the upholstery, the dashboard, the steering wheel, the headliner. All of it is gone over by greedy, hungry veins. When the noise is slow, then cease. I open my eyes and am not surprised to see a police cruiser that is cleaner than it was when I was shoved into the back seat. The veins never miss even a platelet. My eyes go to the new scribbles on the overpass wall. Thank you and have a delicious day. Sure, no problem. I shake myself a few times. Oh wait, big problem. I shake myself again. I'm fucking handcuffed in the back of a police car. Surprised, since this is all new territory, I see a tendril detach itself from the words on the wall and slowly slither itself across the pavement to the cruiser up over the hood, past the broken windshield through the steel mesh and then hover in front of my face for a moment. Before I can say anything or do anything, it zips past me and I feel it moving around my hands. Click, click, and I'm free. The vein withdraws out of the windshield and is lost from sight again. The door to my right clicks and opens. I scramble out without hesitation. Everywhere are bits of drained body parts and I try to avoid looking at them, but everywhere means everywhere, so they are impossible to avoid. Thanks. I mumble the word to the scribbles before wrapping my arms around my body as I set off into the night. See you next time. It's what I always say, even though I pray so hard that there isn't a next time, but there always is, always, like now. I come around a corner and emblazoned in red on the side of a white brick wall or the words. Good evening. Ready to say goodbye? What does that mean? I'm more than confused, having never seen them say anything like this before. The words shift and morph, and I piss myself when I witness what they become. Then an acceptance washes over me. Bring me Keith Banya, is right there in four foot high lettering, and the handwriting is different. Excuse me? A young woman walks up to me. The hoodie she's wearing soaked all the way through from the rain. Are you Keith Banya? I sure hope so, because I have been waiting here for hours. I don't even get to ask my replacement's name before the veins explode from the wall and wrap me in their ravenous embrace. My fear and acceptance become relief as I'm drained dry. No more scribbles for me. It's finally over. Thanks for tuning in. 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