Sample: Artifice of Flesh, by John Baltisberger and Reed Alexander (2020)

Follow the case files of the Unnatural Perpetrators Department, division of the FBI. The UPD is a special task force charge with hunting down and stopping serial killers of 'unnatural origins.'

Artifice of Flesh: Dianna has worked hard to integrate into the Unnatural Perpetrators Department, it isn’t what she was expecting to do with her life when she joined the FBI, but chasing down supernatural serial killers was certainly interesting work. Now a series of incredibly grisly killings has everyone on edge, and the team’s supervisory agents Miranda and Ronny are no exception. Forced to bring in a consultant to deal with a killer that flays its victims and then poses the skeletal remains to mirror classical art, the UPD must work fast or be shut down by their own internal struggles.

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Grand Pines Lodge

Agent Ronny stood in the lobby of the Grand Pines Lodge, Spa, and Resort. Everywhere he looked, there were signs of murder. One didn’t have to be a trained tracker to see it. Trails of dried blood ran from room to room.

Ronny looked a bit out of place with all of the uniformed units swarming about. He wore a simple leather jacket over a white t-shirt and black slacks. He was older than a lot of the field teams there, but his indigenous bloodline kept him looking young. He raised one tanned hand then brushed back his high and tight, before tracing the carnage with his eyes.

One trail for both the bar-back and chef on duty, which lead from the kitchen, through the bar, and into the beer cellar. Caucasian male, 32, six-foot, 195lbs. African male 54, five foot ten, 365lbs. A trail of blood led to the emergency stairs past the elevators and went all the way to the room of a lone businesswoman, there for a meeting. Spanish female, 35, five foot eight, 145lbs. Chad, Brett, Derek, three frat boys hunting snipe. Found by following a trail of blood from the main lounge by the bar, through the game room, to the utility shack outside. Caucasian Male, 23, five foot ten, 168lbs. Narragansett male, 23, six-foot, 204lbs. African male, 22, six foot six, 281lbs. The night maintenance and groundskeeper found at the end of a trail of blood that led from the side exit, through the lobby and into a display gallery for fine wood arts. Korean male, 62, six foot two, 167lbs. Finally, the last victim, Penny, the night manager. Found in the cold storage of the kitchen. Lock from the inside. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, otherwise perfectly preserved. Caucasian female, 28, five foot eight, 162lbs.

The rest had their bones methodically removed, leaving flesh, meat, and tendons. Piles of messy little offal that only vaguely resembled the people they once were. Whatever it was removed the bones. Ronny had never heard of anything like it.

“Ho-ly shit,” Joe-Jack stepped out from where he’d been hiding behind the front desk. If Ron looked out of place, then Joe-Jack looked absurd. He wore a Dolly Parton t-shirt under a moth-eaten navy blue blazer and blue jeans. While Ronny could be described as tall, dark, and handsome by anyone who had a taste for that sort of thing, Joe-Jack was scrawny, pasty, and gangly. “Looks like they fought like hell. Molotov cocktails, a homemade flame-thrower that dun blowed up, all sorts of hack’n and slash’n tools. Took all three fire axes in the building.”

“Not the killer, though. These were for defense,” Ronny nodded; he was sure of it. He was familiar with at least that much from other slashers. “At one point, they even barricaded themselves in the kitchen. It slipped down the vents. Judging by the scuff marks, there must have been at least four survivors in there, all wellarmed. But rather than try to fight it, someone actually cut their way back out of the kitchen and tried to make a run for it. The night manager just locked herself in the cooler and blew her own brains out.”

“No recordings from security,” Joe-Jack shrugged. “Whatever it was knew ta wipe the hard drives and destroy all the cameras.”

Ronny cued up his phone as forensics did their thing. “Yeah... Chief, we got another one. Yeah... I’m sure of it.”

“Excuse me, who the hell do you think you are?” From behind Ronny came an annoyed masculine voice.

He turned to see a younger agent. Combed back, blond, slick top, aviators, even a manicure. Dressed to impress and likely fresh out of the academy. In Ronny’s experience, bucks like that were out to make a name for themselves; get noticed. A collar like the massacre at Grand Pines could make a young agent’s career. UPD had authority, but a greenhorn likely wouldn’t have heard of them, and just as likely wouldn’t easily give up a collar of this magnitude.

“Where’s your senior, son,” Ronny was blunt and brushed off the agent’s offense.

“Oh, real fucking cute pal, I’ve been off the leash for half the damn year,” the agent explained. It was clear he was going to be a problem. “You can’t just walk in and take a man’s scene without following procedure!”

“Can and did,” Ronny produced his card with his ID. “This falls under the UPD jurisdiction. I don’t need to call and ask, and you definitely don’t want me to.”

Ronny stared down the agent. He stared back for a moment, but eventually took the card and left to call his CO.

At that moment, Joe-Jack spoke up. “Ronny, I normally trust yer instincts, but you sure this is UPD business? Weird as some of the circumstances were, they’re all pretty much rationally explainable.”

“Then you wanna tell me how a normal killer squeezed themselves down a vent pipe no more than a foot in diameter? How four well-armed individuals were overcome to the point one literally cut themselves out of safety?”

“Cabin fever,” Joe-Jack nodded. “I ain’t saying it’s a normal thing, but one time my uncle Jimmy and his buddy Carl, they went out on this fishing trip, and, well, I think they may have eaten some of them mushrooms that grow out by the lake, but anywa…”

At that moment, a uni ran out of the far stairwell, down the hall past the two agents, then out the front of the lobby, where he started vomiting. Ronny just gave Joe-Jack a look. The two of them drew weapons and proceeded up the stairs.

“I want units on every exit!” the young agent called out, following the two.

Ronny followed a trail of size 12 standard issue boot prints in blood. They led up the steps, through the door to the top suits, then quickly turned into and under the first door of the suite next to the stairs. The door was slightly ajar, a rank smell emanated from beyond. Ronny took up the right, the rookie took up the left, and Joe-Jack raised his silver filigree widow-maker. With the signal of a single clenched fist from Ronny, Joe-Jack kicked in the door. What lay beyond stopped all three agents flat. The rookie quickly turned the corner and started retching.

Seven skeletons, still dripping gore and starting to stink of carrion, were carefully posed, standing up, adorned with all manner of garments. They’d been reassembled and fixed with wire coat hangers. Around them, suitcases were unloaded, and matching outfits were laid out. The UP had been playing dress-up. The floor had puddled with blood, yet there were no footprints other than the uni’s, and no handprints on any of the garments or surfaces.

Ronny turned to Joe-Jack. “You wanna try explaining that?”

~

UPD, a series by Reed Alexander and John Baltisberger.

John Baltisberger

The Mad Austin Poet, when not writing Kaiju Horror poetry, John can be found reading through the slush piles and submissions as the editor of Madness Heart Press. He spends his time squirreled away fervently working on the next book, only taking breaks to record episodes of Madness Heart Radio and Wandering Monster, or to eat, or to play with puppies. John lives with his patient and gorgeous wife Desiree, and maniacal and powerful daughter Aziza.

Check out Johns collection of poetry at Madness Heart Press, and look for him on Facebook.

Reed Alexander

A horror writer from the Capital Region, NY with multiple books and short stories published. He specialize in the terrifying, macabre, and the bizarre...

Reed Alexander is a political scientist who uses his studies of modern society to—as he puts it—"peal back the scabs and see what makes us tick." This influences the majority of his horror writing. Reed writes with the assumption that once confronted by real horror, most people will devolved to their primitive instincts. He believes this makes every glimmer of real human sacrifice seem precious.

You can find Reed on his Facebook, or his Twitter, or support him on his Patreon.