The Dead and the Dying

  The Dead and the Dying

  (A Joanna Mason Novel)

  by Amy Cross

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by Dark Season Books

  First published: November 2013

  Originally published in serial form as

  Male / Female between September and November 2013

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  BOOKS IN THE JOANNA MASON SERIES

  The Dead and the Dying

  The Company of Angels (coming in early 2014)

  ALSO BY AMY CROSS

  Horror

  Darper Danver series 1

  Asylum

  American Coven

  The Night Girl

  Devil's Briar

  The Vampire's Grave

  Fantasy / Horror

  Dark Season series 1, 2 & 3

  The Hollow Church (Abby Hart)

  Lupine Howl series 1, 2 & 3

  Grave Girl

  Ghosts

  The Library

  Romance / Thriller

  Other People's Bodies (The Heights book 1)

  Dystopia

  The Shades

  Mass Extinction Event series 1

  Erotica

  Broken Blue

  Broken White

  Table of Contents

  Silk part I

  Silk part II

  The Doll part I

  The Doll part II

  Sacrifice part I

  Sacrifice part II

  Into Darkness part I

  Into Darkness part II

  Bonus

  Excerpt from Darper Danver

  The Dead and the Dying

  (A Joanna Mason Novel)

  Silk part I

  Prologue

  God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself. He looks like he thinks he's won the lottery, or struck lucky for the night. It's pathetic, really. That shit-eating grin of slimy expectation, and the way his hands are running all over my body, giving me a few little squeezes here and there... He thinks he's going to get some good action tonight. He thinks he's achieved the dream of going out for a drink and dragging a hot bit of action back to his apartment. I guess he's right, in a way, but not quite how he thinks.

  "Why have you still got your clothes on?" he asks, pawing at the top of my shirt. His speech is slurring and he's too drunk to undo my buttons. "Come on. Let me see what you've got."

  "Patience," I whisper, forcing myself to smile. I figure it won't hurt to wind him up a little, to really get him going. I can already feel his manhood getting bigger and bigger in his trousers, but I'm in no hurry to let that disgusting thing out into the open just yet. I know I'm going to have to see it eventually, but I'd rather delay the moment of nausea for as long as possible. I need to focus on the bigger picture; I need to remember why I'm here.

  Glancing over at the clock by the bed, I see that it's 23:31. I just need to wait two more minutes.

  "Let me feel that ass," he moans, reaching around and grabbing the back of my jeans. God, he's got all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop; he's just squeezing my buttocks as tight as he can. What ever happened to the days when a guy knew how to be a little more tender? Are we really back to the era of big, hairy cavemen who just want to rut and paw at some fleshy mounds for a few minutes?

  "Patience," I say again, fighting the urge to laugh in his face. He's really the most ridiculous human being I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. This whole encounter is a hundred times worse than I expected.

  "That's what you've been saying since we were in the bar," he mutters, slurring his speech. "It's always patience this, patience that. Is Patience your fucking name?" He stares at me, but it's clear that he's struggling to stay conscious. "I didn't invite you back here to sit around being patient," he continues eventually. "I invited you back here so you could fuck my brains out, and then I'll fuck your brains out, and then I guess we'll both have no brains left 'cause they'll all have been fucked out." He pauses. "Doesn't that sound good?"

  I smile.

  "You've got nice teeth," he says, staring at me as if he's momentarily dazzled. "Really pretty. Nice and white. I like white teeth."

  "Why's that?" I ask, determined to tease him a little longer.

  "I only like my dick to be sucked by people who have good dental hygiene," he says with a grin. "You know what I'm saying? And good pussy hygiene. You got a clean pussy?"

  I nod.

  "You sure?"

  "I've got a very clean pussy."

  "You wanna see something cool?" he asks, suddenly reaching down and unzipping the front of his trousers, before slipping his penis out for me to see. He runs his hand along its stiff, ugly shaft, before pressing a thumb against the bulbous head. As I expected, it's one of the most disgusting, offensive things in the world, and I just want to make it go away. Still, even though I hate the damn thing, I figure this is a small price to pay. Everyone has to look at something ugly occasionally.

  "I don't suppose you can think of anything to do with that, can you?" he continues. "Maybe you might want to slip it in your mouth and just see what happens. I don't know if that sounds like something that you might find fun, but it's definitely on my agenda, if you know what I mean."

  "Patience," I say, reaching down to the side of the bed and carefully wrapping my fingers around the handle of the knife. "Why don't you close your eyes?" I add, looking at the clock again and seeing that it's now 22:32. Just one more minute. God, time has never dragged by so slowly. It's as if every second is grinding past at half-speed. "I'd like that," I continue. "Just close your eyes and let me do everything. You deserve some really good attention. Someone who knows what they're doing. You know I can be good at this, right? Trust me. You've never felt anything like it. Every guy I've ever been with has told me that I'm good at giving head."

  "Had a lot of practice, huh?"

  "Something like that."

  "You don't mind if I finish in your mouth, do you?" he asks. "If you're as good as you claim, I might just do it without any planning."

  "I hope you do," I reply. "I love the taste, and the feeling as it slips down my throat. Don't worry. I always swallow. It's the highlight."

  Resting his head on the pillow, he closes his eyes and smiles. His erect penis is sticking up proudly, waiting for me to pleasure him. "I can't wait," he mutters. "Come on. Give it to me. I swear to God, you're driving me wild."

  I look at the clock again. Still 22:32. Damn it. The diary was very clear. It has to be 22:33.

  "Okay," I say. "Here I come. Ready?"

  "Like a volcano."

  Still 22:32. Still 22:32. Still... Suddenly the display changes to 22:33. Without saying a word, I hold the tip of the blade over his chest, directly above the heart. With my other hand, I run a finger down his chest, feeling the ribs, counting them in order to make sure that I get the right spot. I've been waiting for this moment, running through it a million times in my mind, and now I just have to make sure I plunge the knife down hard, with no hesitation. So that's what I do: I slam the blade into his chest, closing my eyes at the same time and trying to ignore his gasp of pain. Keeping my eyes closed, I wait, counting out the seconds in my head. I guess I need to wait until at least three minutes have passed before I dare to open my eyes and see what I've done, and then it'll be time to start on the most horrific part of all. Not yet, though. I can't look yet. I just hope there's no blood.

  Joanna Mason

  "
How many women did he kill again?"

  I open my mouth to answer, but for a moment I'm distracted as I watch the nurse slide a two-inch needle into a vein on my arm. After a muttered apology, he pulls it out and then tries again, and this time I can feel the tip going deep into the vein before the nurse lets a drop of blood out and then tapes the whole thing to my skin. Taking a deep breath, I look up at the small bag of white liquid hanging next to the chair, and I realize that it's time to get started again. I already feel nauseous, and the thought of that stuff coursing through my veins makes me want to run away from this place and never come back.

  "Wasn't it four?" he asks as he starts adjusting the feeder that sits halfway along the pipe that connects me to the bag. "I'm pretty sure I remember seeing four faces on the news. The evening news kept showing them in a kind of grid, like Celebrity Squares."

  "It was four," I reply, dreading the moment when he starts the infusion.

  "That they know of," the nurse adds with a faint smile. "I mean, with guys like that, you can never be sure. Did they dig up his garden?"

  "They did."

  "Did they dig up, like, the woods near his home? 'Cause he lived out on Sycamore, didn't he? There's a forest near there. If I was going to hide a bunch of bodies, that's where I'd do it." He pauses as he checks some figures. "I'd bury them out there, deep so wild animals can't dig them up, and I'd do it shortly before winter, so that when the snow comes, it completely covers everything up. Then, by the time everything thaws the following spring, the police would never be able to identify any areas that had been disturbed. If they wanted to find anything, they'd have to dig up the entire forest. Either that, or watch out for where the berries were looking particularly well-fed and juicy." He grins for a moment, before turning to me. "Too soon?"

  Biting the side of my tongue, I shake my head.

  "You want to know what I think?" he asks as he continues to fuss around with the equipment. "I think murder's easy. I think anyone who gets caught is just doing it wrong. I mean, I'd never do it myself, but I think if a person of average intelligence decided to kill someone, and planned it out properly, there's no reason why they'd ever get found out. Think about it. A human body isn't that big, and it rots down pretty fast in the right condition. As long as you've got the stomach for that kind of thing, you could grind the bones down, or bury them in a way that no-one could ever find them. Every time I hear about someone who's got caught, I always just think they must've been an idiot."

  "We ready to get going here?" I ask, looking up at the bag of drugs that's waiting to enter my system. I open and close my fists a couple of times, and although I feel a little out of breath, I try to focus on staying calm. I always get nervous at the start of a chemotherapy session; it's part of the ritual, and I know that the best bet is just to stay the course and wait for it to be over.

  "Yeah, sure," he replies. "Sorry. It's just, you know, everyone's talking about it today. Sometimes I wish..." He pauses, as if he's caught himself before he says something he might regret. Instead of continuing, he reaches out for the clipboard, which I know from experience means that he's only one step away from starting the flow of drugs.

  "What?" I ask, hoping to distract him for a few more seconds. Anything to delay the inevitable moment when he starts the infusion. Damn it, I want him to hurry up, but I also want him to take his time. I just want to get this whole thing over with. "What do you wish?"

  "Just..." He glances over his shoulder, to make sure that no-one can over hear us, and then he turns back to me. "Sometimes I just wish executions could be live-streamed. Like, in cases where the guy is a total monster. I think it'd be cathartic, not only for the families of the victims, but also for the community. I bet millions of people all over America, maybe even all over the world, would tune in to watch Sam Gazade being executed for what he did to those women. I mean, hell, how long has it been since he was caught? Twelve? That's a long wait for justice. And after everything he did to those poor women and to the cops who caught him, I just think enough's enough. People need to see justice being delivered." He pauses. "Does it make me a terrible person that I'd watch?"

  I shake my head.

  "I found this website," he continues, keeping his voice low, "where they had photos from the autopsy of one of the victims. Now, I'm not normally into shock stuff, but -"

  "Sorry," I say, taking a deep breath, "but do you mind if we get started? I have a busy day."

  "Yeah," he says, looking a little embarrassed, "sure. Sorry. Get me started on something like this, and I'll talk for hours. I just find the Sam Gazade murders fascinating." With that, he grabs the feeder and slides it open, and the white liquid starts to flow through the tube and into my veins. "This isn't your first time, is it?" he asks. "You know the drill?"

  "Two hours," I say, feeling my body start to tense up in anticipation of the inevitable nausea and drowsiness that's going to follow. "Two hours until that bag has finished going into me, and then I'm free to go. Until Monday, anyway, when I'll have to come back in and do the whole thing again. And then again next Friday, and then again the following Monday, and then..." I pause. "I know the drill."

  "You can get up and walk about," he replies, "and you should make sure you drink some water every so often. There's a small canteen in the -"

  "I'll just sit here," I tell him. "It's okay. You can get on with other stuff. I'd rather just sit here and wait."

  "Okay," he says, grabbing the clipboard and starting to fill in a few details. "You okay?" he asks after a moment. "You're breathing a little funny."

  "Just tense," I say, letting out a deep breath. "I'm fine. Honest. I just want to get it over with."

  "Okay," he replies, flicking back to the front page of my notes. "Cool. If you need anything, I can -" He stops speaking suddenly, as something on my notes catches his eye. For a moment, it's as if someone's just broad-sided him, and I swear I can see the color starting to drain from his face. "Joanna Mason?" he says to himself, as if the name has finally hit home, and finally he turns to me. "Joanna Mason? The Joanna Mason?"

  "I guess so," I reply tensely.

  His mouth hangs open for a moment, and he clearly has no idea what to say. "I'm really sorry," he stammers eventually. "I didn't... I didn't realize. I never would have mentioned the Sam Gazade murders if I'd realized. Or the execution. I'd never have brought it up at all. Oh God, you must think I'm -"

  "It's fine," I say, forcing a smile that I really don't feel. "No harm done."

  "I'm so, so sorry," he continues, the apologies continuing to flood from his lips. "I should have realized. I should have noticed, and I should never have even started talking to you about the whole Sam Gazade thing, I -"

  "Don't worry about it," I say, interrupting him. "Please, it's fine. I'm okay. I'll just sit here with my drugs and wait two hours, and then you can come and unhook me. No problem."

  He nods, but I can see that he's feeling desperately uncomfortable. Once he's hurried out of the room, I'm left to sit and wait for the effect of the drugs to kick in. I know how it works: after twenty minutes or so, I'll start to feel nauseous, and then eventually the drowsiness will kick in. I'll want to rip the needle out, and I'll probably even come close to doing it before, finally, I'll decide to just wait it out. This exact same routine happens twice a week, and the worst thing about all the discomfort and fear is that it's so goddamn repetitive. I have the same reactions every time. Hell, I think I even think the same things, in the same order, every time I have to spend two hours sitting in this chair while chemical poisons are pumped into my body. There's not much variety.

  Two hours later, a different nurse comes to unhook me. It's weird, but every other time I've been for chemotherapy, the nurse who hooks me up is the same nurse who unhooks me. I guess the nurse from earlier just didn't want to come back. He probably felt embarrassed. I guess I don't blame him. After all, I'm the last person who should ever be interested in making small talk about the Sam Gazade case, and the first p
erson who should be glad about his impending execution.

  Dr. Alice Huston

  "Paula!" I call out, as the students start filing out of the lecture theater. "Paula Clarke! Can I have a word for a moment?"

  Paula stops and turns to me, and I can see the fear in her eyes. As her classmates continue to shuffle to the door, Paula seems stunned for a moment, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, but finally she picks her way along the row of seats and the down the steps that lead to the front of the theater. As she approaches my desk, she looks just about as terrified as any girl could possibly be. From the look in her eyes, you'd think I'd called her over to be executed or tortured. I don't know if she was born like this, or if she suffered some kind of traumatic event, but the girl is borderline dysfunctional, at least on a social level. I don't know whether to pity her or... No, on second thoughts, pity is pretty much the only appropriate response.

  She's a pathetic excuse for a human being. A real sack of shit.

  "How are you doing?" I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible while I put some books into my bag. "Did you enjoy the lecture today?"

  She nods. A petite, diminutive girl with shoulder-length black hair and almost freakishly pale skin, Paula always seems terrified whenever I speak to her directly. It's as if she'd prefer to blend in with the crowd, never speaking to anyone unless it's absolutely necessary.

  "What did you think of this week's reading?" I continue as I close my bag. "Criminology can be one of those subjects that people think they know a lot about, but then when they actually get into the detail, they're often surprised. It can be a struggle sometimes to disregard your earlier expectations and see the text for what it really is. Did you find that difficult, Paula?"