The Fugitive

Preface:

What compels the average man to kill another human being? Is it the tragic past of a poor, tortured soul? Is it the actions of another person? Could it perhaps, be as simple as mere intoxication that might cause a misguided murder? Nonetheless, after the first kill, a forgotten human instinct sets in, and unless they’re caught in time, that instinct will drive them to kill again. That’s how we get serial killers. Serial killers become more in touch with their natural instinct. They eventually find this instinct to be a comfort. More often than not, mental illness can contribute to this build up to murder. This was the case for young Eric Sanders.

From an outside eye, Eric could look like an average child with a happy childhood. But from the inside, he was anything but happy. Shortly after he was born, Eric’s mother died in the hospital. This trauma had taken a toll on Eric’s father, who had to witness this ordeal. Being the sheriff of the small town he lived in, you’d think that he’d be used to seeing death, or at least prepared in such case that he’d have to witness it. But this wasn’t just some death he would see on the job. This was the love of his life laying lifeless in a hospital bed.

He loved this woman more than life itself. It took everything he had not to scream right in the room he was standing in. Several months before her death, he was fighting with her to keep her alive.

“We are not having this discussion. This baby will be born.”

“Tara, the doctor said your body couldn’t bare the birthing process. You will die if you don’t!”

“Well we’re sure as hell not killing it! This is our child. He is a living, breathing being, even this early on. Jack, we’re keeping this baby.”

Tara Sanders had always been a passionate and stubborn woman. She cared for all living beings, big and small. No matter how hard he would try, he could never convince the love of his life to change her mind. Abortion was not a word in her dictionary. She carried Eric up until his birth and her death.

On that day, Eric’s father held his newborn son in his arms. He stared at him in disgust, and thus began Eric’s tragic childhood. As years passed, the hate from his father was the only love he had known. Often times, Eric’s father would be at work all day, so the young boy was left to fend for himself. When his father was home, he was drunk, almost all the time. With his drunkenness, he carried a high level of stress and anger from his work.

He took this anger out on young Eric. In his drunken state, he would always tell his son that he loved him. This grew to be a twisted truth for him. He had begun to believe that this was how love was expressed. The scars, welts, and bruises were a pain, but a comfort all the while.

These feelings that Eric was experiencing eventually developed into Stockholm syndrome. It was this disorder that drove this innocent young boy into a murderous adulthood. It was this disorder, that eventually drove him to kill the man he thought loved him.

At age 22, Eric’s mental health was declining, and he had yet to realize it. He could never keep a relationship, as all the women ran away from his abusive nature. Eric was always confused and upset that they always ran away. All he was doing was showing love. That’s all he ever wanted to do.

The young man grew depressed and often went to local bars to drink the pain away. But one night, his drunkenness caused his entire life to be changed forever.

“Hey…” a tall woman in a blue dress approached Eric at the bar counter. “You’re pretty cute. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thank you, but I think I’ve had enough to drink for one night,” Eric burped.

“Come on, can’t you stomach just one more?” The lady came up close and rubbed against Eric’s body, giving him a chill.

“I said, no thank you…” Eric glared.

The young lady was taken aback by Eric’s tone. But that quickly changed. She got up close to him and whispered in his ear, rubbing his leg lightly.

“Then how about we have a different kind of fun, if you’re up for it.” She kissed his cheek and purred softly. This was something new to Eric, and it scared him. Acting on drunken impulse, he quickly turned and punched the lady in the face, startling her and knocking her to the floor.

“Hey, man! What the hell is your problem?!” A bigger guy stood up and approached him. “What makes you think you can hit a woman like that? Huh?!” The man shoved Eric off his barstool, knocking him to the floor. Now Eric’s thoughts were racing. He didn’t understand anything that was going on.

“Well? Answer the damn question!” The man kicked Eric hard in the side. Eric’s breathing sped up significantly. Suddenly, his eyes looked at the man’s belt and noticed a gun at his hip. He knew what that meant. If he tried anything to defend himself, he would get shot. He had to disarm the attacking man.

Eric quickly stood up and faced the man. He didn’t speak a word. He was only thinking about one thing: the gun. The man saw Eric’s eyes shifting towards the gun at his hip. He raised his eyebrows and moved his hand towards the firearm. Acting fast, Eric pounced onto the man and brought them both to the floor. He began wailing on the man, punching his face as hard and as quick as possible, barely leaving time for the man to react. Then, Eric quickly reached back and snatched the gun out of the man’s holster. Before a single second of time could pass, he shot the man point blank in the forehead.

Screams rang out in the bar as people ran for cover. Eric looked around in a panic then glanced down at the man who now lay dead on the bar floor. He watched the blood pour out of his forehead and onto the floor, creating a large, crimson puddle. Eric’s heart was pounding as he stared longer.

“What have I done?”

Right then, he heard footsteps behind him, he turned to see the bartender holding a taser. The taser looked like a gun, and startled Eric to the point of shooting again. The bartender collapsed to the floor, clutching his chest. Eric began hyperventilating, looking around at the bar to see a cowering crowd. They stared at him in fear.

Police sirens blared in the distance. Eric’s eyes darted around the room. Completely overwhelmed, only one thought came into his head.

Run…

Before another moment could pass, Eric darted out the back entrance of the bar, beginning his life as a fugitive.

Chapter 1

I haven't done anything wrong...

Okay, so I've killed people. So what? They all had it coming anyhow. With all I had done, I had a hope that I'd only be called a vigilante. Unfortunately, to my dismay, people had written off my actions as psychotic and murderous. In spite of how my former, weaker self used to think, I'm not a psychopath. I have only killed those who needed killing, like it was back in the good old days.

Back before our stupid laws suppressed our natural human instincts, man was law. Each individual person was their own judge, jury, and executioner. It was great. Our society had order within the chaos. Hardly anybody stepped out of line unless they didn't know any better.

There were no “psychopaths”. Just those who followed the order. Not known to many, a lot of those people still exist. The supposed killers you see on the news? They are few of many who have awoken. They aren't bad people. They are just following their instincts. I found that hard to believe until I was awoken.

It took a little push for that to happen, of course. This was the case for many of those who had awoken. In my case, it took some time. I needed to get used to the bloodlust. It's hard to believe now, that I used to fear it.

I am one of the many “psychopaths” you will see on the news throughout your day. “Eric Sanders Still at Large” would be the headline. The police had yet to catch me. Though it should have been fairly easy. They had so many chances. But their naïvety had led to their untimely demise. They still fail to realize something: it takes more than a few cops to catch me.

Killing a few cops at a time got boring after a while anyway. Damn. What was it gonna take for someone to send the coast guard or something of that caliber? I needed an actual challenge.

All sense of morality had been lost to me. That was proven to me on the day I killed my father. The day I truly became an orphan. My mother died shortly after my birth, so I had never met her. I barely had anyone there to raise me. My Dad was always out for work. He was the town sheriff. His job was stressful, so he would always come home angry. It also didn't help that he was a drunk. My father’s anger and impaired judgment were not a good combination. Especially since I was the outlet for his anger.

Even now, I never knew why I killed him. I didn't hate him. I wasn't angry at him. I knew it wasn't his fault for abusing me in my childhood. Yet I felt nothing for him at his death. I can still vividly recall the events leading up to my father's death.

The police sirens wailed in the heated car chase. The smell of burnt rubber and gunpowder filled the air. There wasn't any traffic, save for the three cop cars chasing me. We were speeding through one of the many backroads in this Oregon town.

My back window was shattered from the impact of the bullets. My shoulder was also bleeding, as it had been shot earlier that day. To any normal person, this pain would be sharp and excruciating. But I have trained myself to not focus on the pain, but on the task at hand. As blood poured out of my shoulder and down my arm, I tightened my grip on the wheel and pulled strongly to the right. As I suspected, a few of the police cars collided with the side of my car. I saw this as my chance to escape, got out of the car and bolted.

As I looked back, I noticed a few of the cops (my father included) hopping over my car and chasing after me. They had their guns trained on me, shooting and missing every time.

Looking back, I had to think, were they missing me on purpose? It sure as hell seemed like it. Had my Dad ordered them to take warning shots? There was no way of knowing. Nonetheless, he should have known better; it was that very behavior that led to his demise. I hadn't even thought that they were warning shots. All I thought was that I had to run or fight back.

My father didn't raise a coward.

I made a turn into the woods and ran behind one of the many trees. The gunshots stopped, and I could only hear yelling echoing through the area.

“You look over there—and you look down there. We have to find him. If you find him, don't shoot to kill. Just subdue him. I'll try to talk some sense into him. He's my son. He is sure to listen to me. Maybe if I talk to him, he will turn himself in.”

Oh hell no. I wasn't about to get captured. Not without a fight.

I heard footsteps near where I was. I pulled my handgun out from my pocket and readied it. The footsteps grew closer still, and eventually stopped right behind the tree. I heard a radio crackling, and the voice of the footsteps spoke up.

“Sheriff Sanders to search party: anything yet?” Voices on the radio all said “negative” in a certain order. “Damn.” He sighed.

I slowed my breathing a bit. He was right here. All he had to do was walk around the tree, and he had me. Then I heard a handgun being cocked.

That freaking hypocrite! He was going to shoot and kill me himself!

My thoughts were racing. My fight or flight instincts came into my head, and one word seemed to repeat: Kill… kill… kill…

I cocked my own gun and jumped out from behind the tree. I pointed my weapon at my father's forehead. He jumped in surprise and looked at me with wide eyes. He had his gun pointed at the ground. That was probably for his best benefit.

“Eric? Son? It's me. Your father. You're not right in the head, son. You're doing a lot of crazy things. Things you wouldn't normally do. That's okay now. If you come with me, we can get you the help you need.”

“Oh, you're so full of crap. The only help the government wants to give me, is the electric chair. You're no different, Dad.”

“No. You misunderstand. I can work with them. I can get you a plea deal. Something we can work with.”

“Save it. Do you honestly think the government wants someone like me out on the streets? A supposed killer? Nice conversation starter, but I'm not coming with you.” I turned my back and began walking away. He wasn't going to shoot me. If he was, he would have already.

“Eric. You're coming with me. Whether it's your choice or not.”

“Oh? And what gives you that idea?” I said, turning back around to face him. As soon as I turned, I noticed his gun was pointed at me. My thoughts raced out of control and my fight instincts kicked into overdrive.

Everything seemed to go by in slow motion, from aiming at my father's forehead to pulling the trigger. It seemed as if time had slowed down, just so I could watch the bullet dramatically pierce the skull of the man who created me.

In the next instant, his body was laying lifeless on the ground. I stood there and stared. I didn't feel any regret. I didn't feel any sadness. I felt absolutely nothing. All I could do was stare at my dead father. His eyes were still wide open and his mouth was still agape. I looked calmly at my own gun, then back at my father. I should have felt something, but I didn't. My father was just another kill.

I heard shouting off in the distance. I guessed that the others must have heard the gunshots. That was my cue to leave. I sprinted off further into the woods. I heard one of the cops speak up on the radio.

“This is Peter Jameson from squad 17 requesting immediate backup. The sheriff has been shot and killed! We need an ambulance, stat.”

“Lucky the deputy wasn't around. I would have shot that poor bastard as well.” I chuckled at my little joke and continued running. I eventually came out the other side of the heavily wooded area and onto another backroad.

A car came up the road after a while, and I waved it down. I needed another ride, since mine was blocking the other road. As the car came to a stop, I pointed my gun and executed the driver. Then I pulled out the corpse and threw it to the side. I hopped into the car and took off again.

The only emotion that insists on staying in my mind these days, is confusion. Confusion about one thing in specific: why I felt no emotion at my father's death.

It was this thought and this thought alone that plagued me for many months to follow. I'm still on the run. Switching cars every few days. There was one day I drove a smart car as a getaway car. That was a huge mistake. The damn thing caught fire after it got hit with a few bullets.

I can't complain too much. Living a life on the run does have its ups and downs. It's always pretty thrilling to say the least. Though, simple murders are starting to get boring. I may need to step it up a notch. But how?

My mind pondered on my next move as I drove down the busy Seattle street. It had been a month since my father died. I had managed to stay under the radar (for the most part) as I made my way through Washington. In spite of the FBI placing me on the most wanted list, the Washington state troopers paid me no attention. Boring, useless bastards. I even killed a few families in their cars. I led a trail directly to me. But, it was to no avail.

I eventually gave up on the state troopers and began making my way to Canada. My plan was to get out of the U.S.’s jurisdiction. I was gonna find somewhere and live a new, peaceful life in Canada. It seemed nice enough.

A while later, I had to make a stop to switch to a new car. I parked at a gas station on the outskirts of Seattle. I noticed a nice Ford Mustang across the parking lot. I was tempted to go after it, but held back. I needed to maintain a low profile. That wasn't gonna do it. Then I noticed a Volkswagen Beetle in the parking spot next to me.

“I honestly would have preferred the godforsaken smart car over this. But, this is a low profile car. I guess it will have to do.”

I pulled out my lock picking kit from my back pocket and approached the car. I kept looking around, checking for cops or witnesses. So far, I was good to go. I fixated on the car lock and went to work. It took a few minutes, but eventually I got it open. I hopped in and began hot-wiring the car. After a few minutes, the car’s engine jumped to life.

I may as well go inside and get some food. I haven’t eaten in a while. I raised the hood on the grey Yankees hoodie I had stolen from a park a while back and put on a pair of aviators sunglasses. I casually walked inside the gas station store. I grabbed a few bags of chips and some soda. I also got a couple hot dogs from the rolling hot dog grill.

Stepping up to the counter, I pulled out some cash from a wallet I had stolen from a past victim. I didn’t dare use my debit card. My father’s posse was most likely still on my tail.

As I had the wallet facing open, the cashier caught sight of the ID inside. He looked up at me with a puzzled face.

“Yes?” I questioned.

“You don’t look anything like your ID photo, Mr. Paul Lang. Come to think of it, there was some one in the news a few weeks back who did. He even had the same name as you supposedly have. But he was murdered in cold blood. So tell me… who the hell are you? And what are you doing with that ID?”

“I think it would be for your best benefit if you just kept your mouth shut.” I pushed down my glasses and narrowed my eyes at him.

Suddenly, his face took on a horrified expression. “Oh my god. You’re him… you’re Eric Sanders!” Then he quickly darted out from behind the counter. Swearing under my breath, I chased after him. He and I ran through the isles. All the while, he attempted to get me off of his tail by knocking things over and throwing things. I had been through this kind of crap before. This was nothing. The cashier made his way out the front door to the open road.

Oh no you don’t. I thought.

I pulled out my gun and aimed at him. I shot, but missed. He got closer and closer to the road. The bastard was gonna flag someone down! I shot again but unfortunately missed.

Dammit. Someone is going to notice my gunshots. I need to kill him quick before–

My thoughts were stopped when a semi truck sped through the road. The cashier wasn’t paying attention, and by the time he made it to the road, the truck smashed into him. I swore I could see the blood splatter for hundreds of feet.

I ran back inside and grabbed my food. Then I went back into my car. I didn’t waste any time getting out of there.

The road seemed stretch on forever.

I had to get to Canada soon. That was almost too close of a call. Surely the cops would have known where I was if that man had escaped. I was done playing cat and mouse. I just wanted to settle down. I had hoped that starting a new life in Canada would be my ticket to serenity.

For a while, all I wanted was a challenge. Maybe even to get caught. After a while, my life on the run got boring and I wanted to live a simple life again. My ultimate goal had flipped upside down within several months. It’s funny how life works that way.

Some time had passed and the afternoon had turned to evening. I began to grow tired. I pulled out a phone that I had previously stolen a few days back and I checked the GPS. I was nearing the Washington and Canada border. I decided to stay at a nearby motel for the time being.