My Waters

I waited in the dark.

No light shone from the company cleaning van that I regularly requisitioned for these little excursions of mine. Some might say it was a hobby...but it was so much more to me.

In the city, there weren’t very many true parks and even fewer nature preserves, but the preserve lovingly dubbed the swamp by the city’s inhabitants...

It was a wild thing of beauty, but still carefully cared for and well maintained. And it had a stunning river that snaked through the entire preserve, accompanied by an asphalt path. Used mostly by joggers, speed walkers, and the like, it was quite busy most days. There were mothers who took their children on picnics, and families and couples...oh, how I enjoyed seeing them.

But these nights...

These belonged to the lone runners.

It made me smile to think on it. I had to give a certain amount of time between my little excursions. The waiting always built inside of me until I could bear it no longer and I had to come out here.

Seven times this year. Seven individuals. Seven concentrated bursts of relief from the pressure in my skull.

I didn’t hate these delightful people. I looked at them more as a gift...for holding back. All the times that I didn’t relieve this horrible pressure...

As far back as I could remember, it had been this way.

The first time was at my 5th birthday party. Little Kenny Rawlins—he had just been standing away from the crowd all alone, and the desire came over me so fast and fierce. My grandmother had found me before I could grab for that big cake knife that Mother had so carelessly left out on the table by the cake and presents. A kid could get hurt.

Gran took me aside and took my measure. Then she nodded and began training me. She said that my mother and father weren’t like us. Sometimes it skips a few generations...but it always resurfaces.

That instinct. That need. And the pressure in the skull that feels as though one’s head is about to burst in two.

Gran said that I was ambitious. She had started on the local pets. She was currently on her 12th mailman in 3 years. They all kept disappearing under mysterious circumstances.

The quieter the person, the more the drive intensified. It was the way of it.

Gran taught me so much before she passed. How to hunt, hide, skin, preserve...how to hold it off and how to mitigate the pressure in other ways.

Good old Gran.

She had been losing herself to dementia when I finally took her. It was mercy versus true desire, but it still quelled the pressure all the same.

Footfalls pulled me back to the present.

That was another thing...we had better hearing than most. And vision, with a little added strength thrown in.

Then I saw her.

She was a living work of art. Perfect pale skin, sun-colored blonde hair, jewel-green eyes...tall and slender, healthy. She had slight freckling across her nose and cheeks, but the best part was that frown...the haunted look in her eyes.

I heard the strains of Melissa Etheridge’s Into the Dark filtering out from the pale pink headphones she wore as she ran. And she ran as though she was escaping something that lived only in her own mind.

I could almost smell the unhappiness, the aloneness...

She reeked of unhappiness, and it was intoxicating.

She was almost close enough, just a few more steps...

I slid lower in the van seat and opened the door quietly.

She ran right past me and didn’t even see what hit her as I picked her up by the midsection and sprayed her with the mixture that knocked her out. It would wear off in 5 minutes.

I made swift work during those 5 minutes.

When she groggily opened those jade-colored eyes, she was dazed until she focused on me.

I could see it register how much trouble she was in as she took into account her being tied up and stripped to her panties.

She tried to scream...they all did.

I sat back and smiled. The mix that I used rendered the recipient mute for 3 hours following inhalation. She tried and tried to scream. The pressure spiked sharply in my skull as her terror rolled off of her in waves. She tried so hard to fight...my knotwork was impeccable.

I would take time to savor this one. She was, after all, artwork in human form. As an afterthought, I switched her music on softly, put Into the Dark on repeat.

Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. They grew and trailed down her cheeks to gather on her jawline.

I laid out my tools, unrolling my leather scroll of pockets, and began to move with the music. I debated and then decided on the tried and true hunting knife. I kept it razor sharp. She wouldn’t even feel the first few cuts. It should go in as though it were a hot knife through butter.

I turned toward her, blade extended off to my left. When I enjoyed myself, I always used my left hand, even though I was right-handed normally. Didn’t know why, it just had always been that way.

Her eyes widened in terror.

That was good. It felt good. So good.

It was the smell that hit me first. I didn’t even see it coming—the minty smell of my very own mixture, as the van floor came up to meet me.

I woke to the sound of water dripping somewhere.

My vocal cords were still paralyzed, so the three-hour window hadn’t expired yet. Hmmmm.

I was bound and hanging from the ceiling by my feet. Hanging upside down was not pleasant, but it also struck me as an odd choice.

I slitted my eyes open and surveyed my surroundings. The sounds and smells spoke of being under the earth, but visually it was clear that someone had been living here—and for quite some time. Hmmm again.

The room was more darkness than light.

The earth had been hollowed out by someone. I could perceive no machining markings. Shelves of books and magazines lined the cave walls...a television, a VCR, a stack of videotapes as well...all things that had been scavenged from the looks of their condition and the multiple different names on the items written on pieces of worn and fading masking tape here and there.

Then I spied what seemed almost like an altar...

It held a small rock-like dish for the stick of incense that burned in it, another for a white emergency candle, a bell from a child’s bike, and a set of crude and obviously handmade...prayer beads?

I squinted.

Yes, prayer beads.

The altar of sorts was beside a carved oval opening in the earthen wall.

There was also an odd amount of Ninja Turtles bric-a-brac—posters, a few toys, the quartet of plastic colorful eyemasks that Pizza Haven gave out to little kids, and so many magazines and videotapes with the colorful cartoon images of the turtles emblazoned across them.

Hmmm.

“You may open your eyes fully. I know that you are awake.”

The sound reverberated from the doorway by the makeshift altar.

The voice was unforgettable. I didn’t know anyone could sound like that. I tried to wriggle to see the speaker, but couldn’t quite get myself turned enough to see him, for it was definitely male, as he stood off in the shadows.

I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out.

“Your chemical is quite effective...cruel, but effective. I have not seen the like.”

The voice was closer now.

Then a large pair of...hands? The oddest feeling hands I had ever encountered—they felt deformed in a way—began to pull me from the ceiling and then sat me upright on a large mound of earth that had been packed down into a normal-sized chair.

Even from the shadows I could tell that this man bore some sort of monstrous deformity. The Hunchback of Notre Dame wouldn’t even be in the same league.

When he stepped into the light for me to be able to see him, I blinked.

This was impossible.

I looked for seams or foam or rubber or something that spoke of a costume or some type of suit.

There was nothing.

The creature that stood before me was a 7-foot-tall, talking snapping turtle. Greenish in color, he wore a reddish-brown garment meant to be a kesa robe. It draped over his left shoulder and went under his right arm, which had a climbing pattern of designs scarred into the outer forearm.

The designs were scrollwork and circular patterns.

Those scars were made by burns.

“My scars surprise you, taker of life?”

Slight amusement colored his tone.

Everything about him was a shock to me, but the scars made me curious.

He walked over to his altar and rang the bell, taking the beads and letting them slip through his fingers as he chanted a bit.

He was a Buddhist, or at least a facsimile of it.

“I see you watching me.”

His head turned all the way around to look at me.

“Yes, I studied Buddhism. I do what I can here. And to that notion...I save those that I can here.”

His tone grew deeper on that last note. He was angry. It was obvious that I had gotten on the wrong side of this thing.

But I was curious about him...

Fear didn’t enter the equation.

I wondered for a moment what it would be like to use my knife on him.

He gave a great sigh.

“You come to my home, my waters, and you take the lives of innocents. You are not the first that I have brought here. Sadly, I know that you will not be the last. I will not have you kill when I can save. I must preserve life...and it brings me no joy that I will need to end yours to save others.”

He withdrew a pair of taped glasses from his robes and then lifted a small plastic ID card.

“Natalie Sommers. 5 foot 4 inches, 192 lbs.”

I felt my eyes widen...where had he found that? I had lost it two potential victims ago. I had been frantic.

He smiled.

“Both Enya and Timothy are perfectly safe. She was the tall young woman from Africa that you had hoped to catch. He was the little brown-haired boy who strayed too far from his mother. I am still searching for Timothy’s mother. Enya is helping me.”

My face must have betrayed my irritation.

“Yes, Natalie, I save those I can. It is almost time now.”

He watched me passively. I wondered what he referred to when I felt the tingling that told me my voice would be back in short order.

He nodded.

I made a sound and then another. Finally I choked out, “You waited for the spray to wear off...why?”

He gave a half smile.

“Good. No lying or bargaining. I can respect that, female.”

I gave him a quizzical look.

“None of the things that you are interested in nor follow kill. You can’t kill me by your philosophy.”

I said it matter-of-factly.

“The Ninja Turtles do not kill. Buddhism teaches non-interference. The turtles are a child’s cartoon and Buddhism is my spiritual practice. You must end today, as the others of your type have before you.”

As he moved forward, for the first time in my life I felt fear.

“You cannot do this...you will not live with yourself! Your name will be forever marred by taking a life!”

I felt the desperation that my victims must have felt.

“My name is Hamato, but you may call me Slasher.”

He held up his clawed hands and extended the right set. He slashed downward with a strong sweeping motion—

—and it all went black.

.......

“Tell it again! Tell it again, Uncle Hamo!!”

Little Larry squealed excitedly as he bounced on his cot.

He was one of the growing number of children that I had saved from different serial killers, abductors, traffickers, abusers, rapists, and abandoners over the past 17 years.

There were many elderly and varying ages of adults as well. Some homeless and some veterans.

All of the predators had been dispatched in various ways and dropped off in the river to float along with the current until they washed up on the rocks at the end. The law was stumped, but by the time the bloated bodies found their way to discovery...all evidence was washed from them.

I had found so many souls that I had had to move the children to the abandoned underground city nearby. We currently resided in an old-style mall. The kids all slept in beds in the main area. I had help tapping into the city power and water supply.

Enya turned out to be a medical student and then went on to become a bright-minded doctor. She has done so much good, and yet she still finds time to help the kids out.

We never found little Timothy’s mother or father, and so he stayed with me. He is currently off at college studying marine life. He has put his training in martial arts to use at a local charity self-defense studio. He is an amazing boy, and I am proud that he still calls me Uncle Hamo.

Beth, the blonde woman that Natalie lost her life attempting to kill, turned out to be heiress to one of the largest tech companies in two states. She kept my secret...they all have—even Ed, the homeless veteran who narrowly escaped the River Strangler, and Marla, the elderly woman who thrashed her would-be killer with her handbag so thoroughly she actually softened him up for me—and a few stayed to assist me in my work.

Beth has contributed funding and so much more. She is our interface with the world above ground, making sure that these kids get schooling and papers and documents, while Enya takes care of their medical needs and Vic does no-cost dental work.

All almost-victims.

Ed took over helping with security, and Marla became the cook and teacher for these kids. She had taught school for decades before this.

I was grateful for them...and for the children who I took care of.

And I would never tell them how Natalie actually died.

I patted Larry’s head and smiled at him.

“Now off to bed. School in the morning, and if Ms. Marla gets word that I kept you up with another story...she might make turtle soup, youngling! Rest well and dream of adventure!”

He smiled and rolled over to sleep. He was out before I turned off the lights.

I looked over the sleeping babes from the doorway and retired to my storefront home.

I made sure no one was looking and slipped into the back of the store to a door with a keypad lock on it. I punched in the series of unlock numbers and stepped inside.

It was warm and humid in the earthen room. Incubation heaters kept it well warmed.

In a pile of rocks nestled in the center of the room rested several eggs...one egg in the middle being the largest of all.

My children.

They would carry on my legacy of saving people and preserving life when I was no more. There was one for each mating season that I had begun this journey.

But Natalie’s egg was the fastest growing and the largest, even though it was not the oldest. That had been Vanessa.

I remembered each of their mothers well.

I stood and contemplated their progenation.

When the police had found Natalie’s body, it had been torn in two down the center. Humans and turtles were not meant to mate. It was lethal for the human if it was a female.

I felt no remorse, only concern regarding my children’s parentage. I hoped they would not inherit their mothers’ predilections.

But I couldn’t in good conscience take an innocent human woman for my breeding partner.

Ah well.

Time would tell all.

And soon there would be another egg. I had observed a new predator hunting my waters, and she was indeed eye-catching.

Soon, my children. Soon you will have another sibling...

...and life will be preserved.