| |
I suddenly regretting not catching Smith all those years ago. If only I had. It would’ve prevented so much goddamned heartache and death, and I wouldn’t’ve been trapped in the wrong universe by falling into the time vortex. Or whatever that damned thing was. Transdimensional conduit bullshit.
Jill.
Sam.
Regan.
Dead, damn it.
They’d still be alive if it wasn’t for my failures. Smith, my Smith, wouldn’t be here now, trying to bend the laws of physics to suit his needs, to enact his crazy plan of bringing through multiple versions of himself from other worlds, if it wasn’t for me.
Goddammit.
If only I’d stopped him, caught him.
But I’d been a different person then.
I didn’t chase after Augustus Smith for the right reasons; I’d chased him to save my own skin, to distract my superiors from my misdemeanours and make myself look like competent. I’d been a bad cop back then. An even worse person.
I’d changed.
At least, I hoped I’d changed.
Now was too late for any regret about not stopping him a decade ago; Augustus Smith, the Emerald Killer, had won. His plan had come to fruition, and I was powerless to stop him. To stop any more damned death. Smith’s excited eyes darted around the room, looking at me, Dionne Bex, his counterpart at the controls, and the capsule that stood within the machinery. He was vibrating on the spot with glee.
White and grey clouds of smoke billowed and rolled across the floor from the open capsule, and I could smell electrical fizz in the air.
Silence.
It felt like everyone was holding their breath, me included, and then the shadow emerged from the machine. Another Smith, dressed in a similar white suit to Greene/Smith but with his original face, stumbled from the capsule.
Augustus Smith had done it.
He’d goddamned done it.
No, wait.
Something wasn’t right.
The man limped forward and cried out. He was in pain. Agony. His tortured face greyed, he clutched at his chest and collapsed.
Dead. The third Smith was dead.
I almost laughed at Smith’s failure but stopped myself.
Dionne Bex, on the other hand, didn’t hold back. She cackled. “I told you!” she screamed. “I told you that’s what would happen, but you didn’t listen, did you?” She laughed, louder this time, and Smith shot her a glower. So did Emmerson.
Smith stood. “It’s not funny, Ms Bex,” he said. He clicked his fingers and pointed at the corpse. Two cultists rushed forward. “Move it out the way.” He turned to Emmerson while his followers picked up the body and dragged it to the corner. “You,” he pointed, “try again.”
“It won’t work,” giggled the woman. “No matter how many times you try. You’re presence in this universe is nothing but a fluke. They’ll all die. All of them!”
I stayed silent as she continued to laugh. What else could I do? I’d tried already to pull myself free from the bindings, the injuries on my wrist from the warehouse flared up in protest, but the ties were too tight this time, and there was no chance I’d be able to bend the chair quick enough to snap the ties before one of the goddamned nutcases stopped me.
Smith stepped toward the woman and slapped her to shut her up; she recoiled but quickly recovered with a defiant glare and a grin.
“Go on,” she said. “Hit me again. Do it. You almost killed me before, but I survived. I survived!” She laughed. “You can’t hurt me.”
“And what about your son?”
Ms Bex’s face dropped. “Bastard. You damned bastard.”
“An unfortunate accident,” said Smith. He was smiling.
For a moment there was silence as Ms Bex contemplated Regan’s death, but it was soon replaced by the return of her laugh, quiet at first. It grew louder and louder. “You incompetent, impotent man!” she howled. “You’ve failed. Ha! You kill and you kill, but what does it amount to? Nothing! Ha! Nothing but failure!”
He raised his hand to strike her again but was interrupted.
“It’s ready for another go,” blurted Emmerson. Had he spoken to prevent another slap to the woman’s face?
Smith lowered his hand. “Do it,” he said; he didn’t break eye contact with Ms Bex. “Do it.”
The machine chugged to life once again, buzzing and beeping, whirring and twittering. The glass of the capsule glowed.
I watched from the corner of my eye as Bex’s smile grew.
Smith turned away, moved closer to the infernal machine, and the door opened.
Smoke and dust flooded the floor and another Smith staggered into the world. He wore a police uniform, a very different visage to the previous man. This Smith choked and fell to his knees, just like the previous Smith had.
And died.
“No!” yelled Smith. “No! No, no, no!” He pointed to Emmerson. “Again! Do it, again! Do it!”
The body was pulled away by the man’s followers and put near the first at the edges of the room. Bex was still grinning.
Emmerson dutifully, but reluctantly and with a sigh, started up the machine again and it sang its mournful electronic elegy once more.
Another body emerged.
A vicar this time.
The machine fired up again and again. Smith after Smith materialised, one after another emerged from the capsule and stumbled into this universe. Flashing lights. Smoke and dust. Cops, vicars, businessmen, tramps and hookers; there was a plethora of professions and personalities. But they all met the same fate. Damn it. And the machine kept churning. Man after man. Dead. Abandoned. A pile of dead bodies being dragged to the corners of the room by the deranged Smith’s lackeys.
I didn’t know whether they’d deserved their fates, whether they were the same as my Augustus Smith, whether they’d committed evil acts or held evil thoughts, or whether they’d been pinnacles of decency. Each one met the same end. A death without justice.
The body count reached around thirty before the nightmare stopped.
Augustus Smith, Emmett Greene, had truly failed in his plans.
“Stop!” he screamed. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” He grabbed Emmerson and pulled him out of his seat. “Stop it!” Smith’s face was enraged, and he was breathless, his eyes were wet as if he were about to cry. “Stop...” He let the other man go; Gary slumped back into the chair. “I don’t understand...”
“I told you so,” said Ms Bex. Her laughter filled the room once more; it was almost maniacal in its tone. It was a laugh borne of revenge and grief.
Smith glared.
“I warned you,” she said smugly. “You’re nothing, Mr Smith. Nothing.”
He stomped forward and, towering over her, slapped her hard. She laughed. He punched her.
The room fell silent, and a gun cocked.
“Get away from her.”